Political Theologies in the Hebrew Bible 3506790838, 9783506790835

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Political Theologies in the Hebrew Bible

Journal of Ancient Judaism Supplements Edited by Armin Lange, Bernard M. Levinson, and Vered Noam Advisory Board Katell Berthelot (Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique (CNRS)), George Brooke (University of Manchester), Jonathan Ben Dov (Tel Aviv University), Beate Ego (University of Bochum), Esther Eshel (Bar-Ilan University), Heinz-Josef Fabry (University of Bonn), Steven Fraade (Yale University), Maxine L. Grossman (University of Maryland), Christine Hayes (Yale University), Catherine Hezser (University of London), Alex P. Jassen (New York University), James L. Kugel (Bar-Ilan University), Jodi Magness (University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill), Carol Meyers, (Duke University), Eric Meyers (Duke University), Hillel Newman (University of Haifa), Christophe Nihan (University of Münster), Lawrence H. Schiffman (New York University), Konrad Schmid (University of Zurich), Adiel Schremer (Bar-Ilan University), Michael Segal (Hebrew University of Jerusalem), Günter Stemberger (University of Vienna), Kristin De Troyer (University of Salzburg), Azzan Yadin (Rutgers University)

Volume 35

Political Theologies in the Hebrew Bible Edited by

Mark G. Brett and Rachelle Gilmour

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data available online: http://dnb.d-nb.de All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. © 2023 by Brill Schöningh, Wollmarktstraße 115, 33098 Paderborn, Germany, an imprint of the Brill-Group (Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands; Brill USA Inc., Boston MA, USA; Brill Asia Pte Ltd, Singapore; Brill Deutschland GmbH, Paderborn, Germany; Brill Österreich GmbH, Vienna, Austria) Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Hotei, Brill Schöningh, Brill Fink, Brill mentis, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, Böhlau, V&R unipress and Wageningen Academic. www.schoeningh.de Cover design: Anna Braungart, Tübingen Production: Brill Deutschland GmbH, Paderborn ISSN 2198-1361 ISBN 978-3-506-79083-5 (hardback) ISBN 978-3-657-79083-8 (e-book)

Table of Contents Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix Mark G. Brett and Rachelle Gilmour 1.

What is Political Theology? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Mark G. Brett

1

Part I Sovereignty 2. The Politics of Judahite Creation Theologies in the Persian Period . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Christine Mitchell 3.

Much More than Pilgrimage: A Materialist Reading of Zion Prophecies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 Petra Schmidtkunz

4.

Rejecting the pax persica: The Political Vision of the Book of Zechariah. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Jakob Wöhrle

5. The Politics of Beauty in the Books of Samuel-Kings and Esther  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 Rachelle Gilmour 6.

Enlarging Borders and Territory: Contrasting Texts from the Pentateuch, Amos, and Chronicles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 Samasoni Moleli Alama

Part II Nation, Migration and Cultural Politics 7. The Hidden Politics of Possession and Hereditary Property in Some Hexateuchal Traditions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109 Stephen C. Russell

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Does Deuteronomy Promote a Proto-Nationalist Agenda? . . . . . . . 130 Dominik Markl

9.

Political Poles Between Babylon-Persia in Ezekiel and Egypt in Jeremiah: Communicating Forced and Return Migrations . . . . . . . 145 John Ahn

10. Theopolitics in a Foreign Land: Approaches to Babylon(ia) in Ezekiel  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164 Dalit Rom-Shiloni 11.

Holiness Theology in Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah: A Comparison of Their Political Implications . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180 Louis C. Jonker

12. Job “Opened His Mouth and Cursed”: Job 3 as a Culturally Political Comedy Challenging Simplistic Attitudes to Retribution and Piety . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196 Katherine E. Southwood

Part III Leadership 13. “Are You Indeed to Reign over Us?”: The Politics of Genesis 37–50 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213 Megan Warner 14. The Power of Revelation in 1–2 Samuel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 227 Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer 15. The Political Theology of Ezra-Nehemiah  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 242 Tamara Cohn Eskenazi 16. Politics and Theology in Second Maccabees: Epiphanies, Prayers, and Deaths of Martyrs Revisited . . . . . . . . . . . 257 Julia Rhyder

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Part IV Response 17. What has Political Theology Ever Done for Us?  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275 Stephen C. Russell List of Contributors  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 284 Author Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289 Index of Primary Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 297 Topic Index  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 314

Foreword When the International Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature was scheduled to be held in Adelaide, Australia, in July 2020, it seemed the perfect opportunity to gather a group of scholars from around the world and invite them to nearby Melbourne for another gathering about the same time. We suggested to a number of established and emerging scholars that we might explore together some new horizons in the area of political theology and the Hebrew Bible. With the ISBL cancelled, and international travel ceasing, we decided to go ahead with the conference and meet online. This ironically opened the event to even more participants—from ten different countries and at least six different time zones, who met over two days, and also in the middle of the night for a few hardy souls. The vision was to work collaboratively to expand the contours of political theology in our discipline. The papers were circulated in advance, and nominated respondents took the lead in opening up a critical dialogue that led to some substantial revisions and also to a couple of new papers. The fruits of our labours are now collected in the present volume. Political theology is often linked to one main topic, the idea of sovereignty, but this focus is too narrow when it comes to the biblical literature. The opening chapters of the Hebrew Bible, for example, adopt the language of dominion and rule in relation to ecology (Gen 1:28) and to gender (3:16), rather than to kingship. Human societies are divided into “clans, languages, lands, and nations” (Gen 10:20) before any mention the arrival of monarchy in the political landscape, and indeed, before the arrival of priests and prophets. Of course, the rise and fall of the ancient Israelite and Judean states figure prominently in the books of Samuel and Kings, but not in the Pentateuch, where the theologizing of laws and constitutions come to the fore instead. And in the literature of exile, the new ideas that were born out of the the loss of state sovereignty underpinned the resilience of Jewish communities in subsequent generations. All these permutations of political theology need to be acknowledged in some way in biblical studies. Accordingly, the introductory essay in this volume sets out the relevant conceptual issues, and the concluding response ties the threads of the conversation together. The five essays grouped under the heading of “sovereignty” in Part One of the volume each introduce fresh perspectives on the familiar theme, indentifying interesections with a range of other topics—creation, material conditions, counter-imperial discourses, the politics of gender and beauty, and the making of territory and borders. Part Two broadens the discussion even further, providing analyses of landed property, ideas of nationhood, the forms of exilic and

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migrant community, politics of holiness, and cultural contestation. The discussion of leadership models in Part Three includes various forms of accommodation to empire, but also the alternative possibilities evident in prophetic assertions of power, and memories of militant revolt. The papers prepared for the conference focussed on ancient texts and cultures, but the online discussion almost inevitably turned to the “current political moment,” as Stephen Russell put it in his concluding response. It was recognized that questions of gender, race, and nationalism cannot be avoided, or perhaps positioned only in studies of the Bible’s prodigious influences in modern times, for better and for worse. Accordingly, a number of the essays explore the tensions between ancient and modern perspectives on these key topics, and hopefully these explorations will provide catalysts for more studies of this kind, willing to embrace the methodological challenges that they entail. We are grateful to the University of Divinity, Trinity College and Whitley College, for offering financial assistance for the proposed meeting in Melbourne, and then reconfiguring the nature of the support when the face-to-face conference could not go ahead. Thank you to Jonathan Thambyrajah for his excellent work conforming the many articles to the style guide, copyediting, and preparing indices. Thanks are also due to the editors of the series, Journal of Ancient Judaism—Supplements, for accepting this volume for publication, and especially to Bernard Levinson for his warm engagement with the project. Mark G. Brett and Rachelle Gilmour October 2022

What is Political Theology? Mark G. Brett Critical biblical scholars in modern Western contexts have often suffered from allergic responses to the idea of theology, for a range of very good reasons. The historic intervention of Baruch Spinoza Tractatus theologico-politicus (1670) notwithstanding, modern Old Testament theologies were often conceived with Christian assumptions, overtly aiming to reflect on the history of religion via organizing concepts derived from later doctrinal theology.1 In opposition to such conceptual studies, Romantic historicist approaches in the nineteenth century endowed “religion” with great cultural significance, in contrast with theology, which was diminished as a derivative and legalistic form of reflection.2 Biblical theology was partially revived for a time under the influence of the “dialectical” Christian theology initially formulated in the 1930s and ’40s and distinguished not only by its opposition to liberal theology but also to Nazism.3 Various attempts were made to revive the discipline of Old Testament theology in this mode, not least in the influential work of Gerhard von Rad, but even von Rad’s achievements remained entangled in underlying Christian assumptions.4 Any responses to this problematic history of Christian assumptions would need to tread carefully when attempting to reintroduce theology within studies

1 Jon  D.  Levenson, The Hebrew Bible, the Old Testament, and Historical Criticism: Jews and Christians in Biblical Studies (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1993), 33–61. 2 Regarding the influence of Romanticism, see for example Bernard M. Levinson, “The Impact of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s Discovery of the ‘Original’ Version of the Ten Commandments upon Biblical Scholarship: The Myth of Jewish Particularism and German Universalism,” in Confronting Antisemitism from the Perspectives of Christianity, Islam, and Judaism, ed. Armin Lange et  al. (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2020), 123–35. In addition, the neo-Kantian emphases on Gefühl and Ahnung in religion, rather than Begriff, yielded equally problematic attitudes to Judaism, notably in the work of W.M.L. de Wette. See Anders Gerdmar, Roots of Theological Anti-Semitism: German Biblical Interpretation and the Jews, From Herder and Semler to Kittel and Bultmann, Studies in Jewish History and Culture 20 (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 77–94. 3 Beginning in the 1930s, dialectical or kerygmatic theology yielded sustained critiques of religion and nationalism. On the impact of dialectical theology in resuscitating Old Testament theology, see Konrad Schmid, Is There Theology in the Hebrew Bible?, trans. Peter Altmann, Critical Studies of the Hebrew Bible 4 (Winona Lake,IN: Eisenbrauns, 2015), 33–38. 4 Bernard M. Levinson, “Reading the Bible in Nazi Germany: Gerhard von Rad’s Attempt to Reclaim the Old Testament for the Church,” Int 62 (2008): 238–54.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/978365

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of the Hebrew Bible.5 The category of “political theology” has come to the fore in recent interdisciplinary discussions, critically reflecting especially on the privatizing and secularizing tendencies of modernity, as well as on the Nazi legacies.6 The name of Carl Schmitt (“the German Hobbes”7) casts a very long shadow in this connection, and his argument that modern politics rests on secularized theological concepts is a view that needs to be understood in its own historical context. It is not that Schmitt was simply diagnosing the disenchantment of the modern world in a general and descriptive way; on the contrary, he was pursuing a critique of modern secular liberalism, which he regarded as a degeneration of politics, and recommending a return to transcendent sources of authority. The capacity of the sovereign to proclaim a “state of exception” (for example, to suspend a nation’s constitutional provisions) is indicative of the transcendent power that can be marshalled by a charismatic authoritarian leader. The analogies between Schmitt’s philosophy and Thomas Hobbes’ Leviathan are well known.8 Among the many discussions of Carl Schmitt, a recent essay by Yoav Schaeffer is illuminating for our purposes insofar as it provides an argument for thinking that Martin Buber’s Königtum Gottes (1932) was implicitly a reply to Schmitt. In the context of a declining faith in political liberalism, Buber sought an alternative foundation for Judaism while resisting the authoritarian alternative presented by Schmitt. Königtum Gottes advanced a reading of the Hebrew Bible that saw God as Israel’s exclusive sovereign, which by implication, diminishes

5 For an overview of specifically Jewish proposals, see especially Dalit Rom-Shiloni, “Hebrew Bible Theology: A Jewish Descriptive Approach,” JR 96 (2016): 165–84; ead., Voices from the Ruins: Theodicy and the Fall of Jerusalem in the Hebrew Bible (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2021), 43–67, defending once again a descriptive approach to the “talk to and about” God in the Hebrew Bible (Tanakh), and situating this emphasis within the distinctive contributions of Jon Levenson, Michael Fishbane, Benjamin Sommer, Marvin Sweeney, Marc Brettler, David Frankel, Matitiahu Tsevat, Moshe Goshen-Gottstein, and Isaac Kalimi. 6 For valuable overviews, see Peter Scott and William  T.  Cavanaugh, eds., The Blackwell Companion to Political Theology (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2004); Miguel Vatter, Living Law: Jewish Political Theology from Hermann Cohen to Hannah Arendt (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2021). 7 Heinrich Meier, The Lesson of Carl Schmitt, trans. Marcus Brainard (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998), 100. 8 See further, Joachim Krause, “Der Bund im Alten Testament Testament und bei Hobbes: Eine Perspektive auf den Leviathan,” Politisches Denken. Jahrbuch (2005): 9–39; Luke Glanville, Sovereignty and the Responsibility to Protect: A New History (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2014), 31–99; Jonathan Cole, Christian Political Theology in an Age of Discontent (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2019), 46–54.

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the claims of any human king.9 The anti-monarchic tendencies in the biblical texts are given priority on this reading, and the movement towards monarchy is seen as “the first step towards the secularization of politics.”10 Israel’s kings were thus open to the charge of usurping divine authority, and they could only ever enjoy a derived measure of sovereignty under the rule of God. Schmitt’s affirmation of transcendent leadership was thereby deconstructed in Buber’s theopolitics, along with any arbitrary forms of nationalism. Put positively, ethical nationalism was in his view characterized as a “Hebrew humanism” that rejected any attempt to “confine God to a circumscribed space or division of life, to ‘religion.’”11 On this point, Buber’s work intersects with the more recent research that interrogates the very category of religion, a task that has recently been undertaken by a number of influential philosophers and historians.12 Modern constructions of reality created the demarcations of economics, politics, science, law, as well as a secular space for civil society. In the ancient world, the dimensions of social life were tightly interwoven, and scholarly attempts to unpick the threads often reveal the unexamined modern assumptions of commentators. For example, many attempts to separate supposedly secular laws from covenant theology are vulnerable to this critique.13 One might also identify a similar problem with Michael Walzer’s argument that politics is largely missing from the Hebrew Bible if—as is commonly assumed in modern times—the concept of politics needs to include public deliberation, disagreement, negotiation, and compromise.14 On Walzer’s account in his major work, In God’s Shadow, the absence of “politics” can be 9 10 11 12

13 14

Martin Buber, Kingship of God, trans. Richard Sheimann (Amherst, MA: Humanity Books, 1967 [1932]), especially 15. Schaeffer, “Between Political Theology and Theopolitics: Martin Buber’s Kingship of God,” Modern Judaism 37 (2017): 231–55, at 240. Schaeffer, “Political Theology and Theopolitics,” 245–46; Martin Buber, “Hebrew Humanism,” in Israel and the World: Essays in a Time of Crisis, 2nd ed. (New York: Schocken Books, 1963 [1948]), 247. See, notably, Charles Taylor, A Secular Age (Cambridge, MA: Belknap, 2007); Giorgio Agamben, The Kingdom and the Glory: For a Theological Genealogy of Economy and Government, trans. Lorenzo Chiesa with Matteo Mandarini (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2011); Brent Nongbri, Before Religion: The History of a Modern Concept (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013); Sylvie Honigman, Tales of High Priests and Taxes: The Books of the Maccabees and the Judean Rebellion Against Antiochus IV (Oakland: University of California Press, 2014), 51–64. See, notably, Bernard  M.  Levinson, “Revisiting the ‘and’ in Law and Covenant in the Hebrew Bible: What the Evidence from Tell Tayinat Suggests about the Relationship between Law and Religion in the Ancient Near East,” Maarav 24 (2020): 27–43. Michael Walzer, In God’s Shadow: Politics in the Hebrew Bible (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012), 73–75, 210–211.

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explained by the biblical emphasis on divine sovereignty, which is shared in different ways across all the major traditions.15 Accordingly, one would have to admit that if the covenantal or apocalyptic genres of biblical literature were shaped historically by counter-imperial motivations (as they most likely were16), it does not follow that such motivations were political on this narrowed modern definition, i.e., shaped by negotiation and compromise between the leaders or representatives of social groups. Biblical theology would have been asserted over against imperial impositions, often regardless of any opportunity for negotiation. With due respect to Walzer’s remarkable work, however, I have elsewhere curated a number of arguments to the contrary, affirming, for example, that the making of the Pentateuch was indeed characterized by a long history of compromises.17 But biblical research on political theology can hardly exclude counter-imperial motivations, so I also argued in Locations of God for a wider definition of political theology that, at the same time, acknowledges Walzer’s concern to highlight multiple and mutable perspectives on political life. A very basic test for the presence of God-talk in the biblical texts (talk to, from and about God or the gods) is clearly relevant, and when bringing the intersection of theology and politics into focus, political theology or theopolitics in the broadest sense could be defined as: “God-talk located in the context of multiple, often competing, perspectives on social life.”18 This definition is deliberately vague in adopting the term “located,” since it means to include both explicit and implicit engagement with the multiple perspectives within sociopolitical life.19 15 Walzer, In God’s Shadow, 66, 202. 16 See, e.g., Eckart Otto, Das Deuteronomium: Politische Theologie und Rechtsreform in Juda und Assyrien (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999); Anathea Portier-Young, Apocalypse against Empire: Theologies of Resistance in Early Judaism (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2011). 17 Mark G. Brett, Locations of God: Political Theology in the Hebrew Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019), 98–120, reflecting on many earlier studies that highlight the compromises between Deuteronomic and Priestly traditions, as well as Judean and Samarian perspectives, in the making of the Pentateuch. 18 Brett, Locations of God, xix. This formulation resiles from a Christian tendency to look for thematic unities, overarching order, trajectories and metanarratives of salvation history. It implicitly disagrees with the earlier work of Walter Brueggemann when he identified an essentially binary opposition of socio-theological trajectories in the Hebrew Bible, a binary that has also been characteristic of class analysis in liberation exegesis. Instead, I affirm the greater measure of diversity described in Brueggemann’s major work, Theology of the Old Testament: Testimony, Dispute, Advocacy (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005). 19 The notion of “location” here does not however require scholars to construct a detailed social history of Israel and Judah, which in many cases is simply not possible to provide. In this respect, my approach differs from Norman Gottwald’s ambitious attempt in The

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The obvious threat in this definition is that it sets the parameters too wide, but the chapters in this volume arose from a conference in which there was a deliberate effort to keep the conceptual and methodological gates open and to approach our theme in a more inductive manner, examining the possible political implications in each case study. Naturally, the concern was expressed that while my own broad definition certainly covered the full scope of the topics discussed at the conference, it potentially leaves hardly any biblical text out of consideration. But precisely that concern might lead us to examine the possibility that the scope of political theology has been unhelpfully truncated in previous research, under the influence of the demarcations of modernity. Nevertheless, to mention one example, the book of Esther contains no God-talk, at least in its Hebrew version, and by implication no political theology—even on this broad definition. In her contribution to the volume, Rachelle Gilmour takes up this peculiarity in Esther by focusing on its politics of beauty in comparison with Samuel-Kings, where beauty is framed within a more explicit theopolitics expressed in narrative form. Konrad Schmid’s recent work Historical Theology of the Hebrew Bible illustrates in some ways the limiting assumption that our volume seeks to overcome. If “political theology” earns itself a brief separate chapter in Schmid’s book, it is because religion interacts with politics in the ancient world, but this view of interaction implicitly reaffirms the essential separateness of the two domains.20 Thus, for example, the religious idea of covenant is understood to be derived from political practices of treaty making. The earliest form of Deuteronomy, in particular, expresses resistance to the Assyrian treaty genre precisely by adapting it to Yahwist purposes, and this kind of adaptation is

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Tribes of Yawheh (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1979) to reduce (emic) theologies to their (etic) material base within a critically reconstructed history. The approach recommended here is closer to Walter Brueggemann’s tendency in his later work to affirm multiple possible histories, rather than purportedly secure results of historical criticism. Similarly, Roland Boer’s nuanced Neo-Marxist model of ideology, does not imagine a mechanical correlation of each political theology with its very own social group—whether a priestly family or a scribal school who can only ever advance their own interests. Roland Boer, Marxist Criticism of the Bible (London: T&T Clark, 2003), 24–26; Brett, Locations of God, 159–60. See also Jorge Pixley’s acknowledgment that liberation exegesis, especially in its lived engagement with the poor, needs to become less dependent on critical reconstructions of social history. Pixley, “Liberation Criticism,” in Methods for Exodus, ed. Thomas  B.  Dozeman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 131–62, especially 148. Konrad Schmid, A Historical Theology of the Hebrew Bible (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2019), 351–61; similarly, Mark W. Hamilton, A Kingdom for a Stage: Political and Theological Reflection in the Hebrew Bible, FAT 1/116 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2018).

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readily understood as political theology.21 The example reflects a widely-held view that Israel’s theological vocabulary can be seen to be simultaneously absorbing and resisting the language and literary genres of imperial politics, yet the very intersection of the theological and the political seems to leave the modern demarcations essentially in place: religion, politics, economy, and law remain largely discrete, so their intersections become noteworthy peculiarities worthy of research. One might still wonder, perhaps, why scholars should frame a more thoroughly interwoven dynamic as “political theology,” rather than say “political religion.” There are indeed conceptual problems here that need to be brought to the surface more explicitly, beginning with the concept of religion, as already noted. Most importantly, theopolitics can be concerned with a broad range of topics other than religion. But if the nature of divinity is indeed one of the potential topics, Hebrew Bible theology cannot be restricted to one version of religion, such as exclusive monotheism. The influential Egyptologist, Jan Assmann, has distinguished between religion and political theology on the grounds that theology is “reflective” in a very particular sense that is inimical to his preferred concept of religion. We must distinguish then between religion, which belongs to the basic conditions of human being, and theology, which came into existence as a reflexive form, claiming true worship in Israel and elsewhere, critical of other religions. Theology in this sense is the hallmark of secondary religion.22

At first glance, this distinction, reminiscent of Romantic attitudes, might also be thought compatible with similar formulations proposed by Christian theologians for whom doctrine embodies a secondary kind of reflection in comparison with the primary elements of faith, such as prayer, the reading of scripture, and embodied practice.23 But Assmann’s intention is not so much to clarify the separable status of theological reflection in this way. Rather, he wants to describe the fundamental character of theology as inherently 21

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See especially Eckart Otto, Das Deuteronomium; idem, “Mose und das Gesetz: Die Mose-Figur als Gegenentwurf Politischer Theologie zur neuassyrischen Königsideologie im 7. Jh. v. Chr.,” in Mose: Ägypten und das Alte Testament, ed. Eckart Otto, SBS  189 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2000), 43–83. Jan Assmann, “Politische Theologie zwischen Ägypten und Israel,” in Politische Theologie zwischen Ägypten und Israel, ed. Heinrich Meier, 3rd ed. (Munich: Carl Friedrich von Siemens, 2006), 23–114, 37; idem, Of God and Gods: Egypt, Israel and the Rise of Monotheism (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2008), 62, 75. Contrast the more nuanced view in Jan Assmann, Exodus: Die Revolution der Alten Welt (Munich: C.H. Beck, 2015). E.g., George Lindbeck, The Nature of Doctrine (London: SPCK, 1984).

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intolerant of alternative religious perspectives. Moreover, on Assmann’s account, it is primarily a “Mosaic distinction” that is ultimately responsible for the construction of religious violence. Among the many critical responses to Assmann’s sweeping argument about the origins of violence, several scholars have noted some ancient evidence to the contrary: the formation of much of the biblical literature took place when Israel’s life was sustained without the exercise of its own monarchic power, and accordingly, without the violence of its own military. This is the historical background that most likely accounts, for example, for the remarkable lack of focus on kingship within the Pentateuch: the Torah was finalized only after the demise of native kingship in Israel and Judah (which is generally not remembered for its monotheism). The state-sponsored violence at the time of the Pentateuch’s formation was generated by Persian and Hellenistic authorities, and not by the “Mosaic distinction” articulated in the Torah. So apart from examples like the Maccabean revolt in Hellenistic times, the nature of violence at issue in Assmann’s argument turns out to be apparently, at least in the ancient world, a discursive product of exclusive monotheism. The contributions in this volume from Christine Mitchell, Petra Schmidtkunz, and Louis Jonker all illustrate, in their different ways, how the biblical literature of the Persian period has in some respects been accommodated to Achaemenid power—long after the time of Israelite and Judean kings—often by mimicking imperial literature.24 The traces of resistance and mimicry that we find in the Priestly literature, Chronicles, and Isaiah, are conceived in very subtle terms, but Jakob Wöhrle’s essay on Zechariah identifies a stronger element of discursive resistance to Persian rule. The condemnation of earlier empires—Egyptian, Assyrian and Babylonian—could in this late period be remembered and articulated quite overtly without any fear of reprisals. In short, Assmann’s “Mosaic distinction” does not adequately describe the complexity of the theologies in the Hebrew Bible. 24

The mimicry came full circle not in Jewish history but in the modern history of Christendom, notably when Christopher Columbus found warrants in the book of Isaiah for Spanish imperial expansion. See Delno  C.  West and August Kling, eds., The Libro de las Profecías of Christopher Columbus (Gainesville, FL: University of Florida Press, 1991), 61–87; Jean-Pierre Ruiz, Readings from the Edges: The Bible and People on the Move (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2011), 123–35. For a broader historical account Christian imperial theology, James Muldoon, Popes, Lawyers, and Infidels: The Church and the Non-Christian World 1250–1550 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1979); Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra, “The ‘Iberian’ Justifications of Territorial Possession by Pilgrims and Puritans in the Colonization of America,” in Entangled Empires: The Anglo-Iberian Atlantic, 1500–1830, ed. Jorge Cañizares-Esguerra (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2018), 161–77.

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Political Theology Beyond Religion

The present volume seeks to expand the category of political theology in part because the idea of theology as a reflective “critique of religion” is too narrowly conceived. As already noted, the idea of religion, which is often regarded today as a much richer organic category than theology, is itself a truncation of the lifeworld that was invented by modernity—leaving religion to wither away in its tiny corner, sustained by little more than Romantic invocations of the human spirit, or perhaps by a fragile concept of culture. By locating historical criticism within its own historical setting, a more self-critical practice of interpretation becomes possible. Thus, if commentators had been more aware of the modern demarcations of the lifeworld, they need not have rushed to the conclusion that a history of Israelite religion is likely to be a more critical enterprise than a history of political theology (and, by implication, more worthy as an academic activity within biblical studies). It has long been recognized, for example, that the ownership and management of land in ancient Israel and Judah was understood in religious or theological terms,25 but discourses concerned with land do not easily fit within a “history of Israelite religion” when historians usually mean histories of cultic practices. Often far from any temple, allocations of land were construed in the biblical literature as gifts from the divine king, rather than from a Canaanite or imperial monarch. In Stephen Russell and Samasoni Moleli Alama’s contributions to this volume, the focus falls on the vocabulary of land tenure and borders, and they question whether distinctive patterns in the uses of such terminology might be correlated with particular schools of thought or social locations. Whatever the particular histories behind this terminology, however, it is clear that the economic realities of land use have been theologized. The effects of a truncated understanding of religion are well illustrated in Petra Schmidtkunz’s contribution. She shows how the idea of “pilgrimage” to Jerusalem in a range of prophetic texts is still commonly rendered in scholarly discussions as a matter of religion, narrowly conceived. With a fresh review of the relevant texts, she finds that Zion is imagined, in effect, to be the center 25

Katell Berthelot, Joseph E. David, and Marc G. Hirshman, eds., The Gift of the Land and the Fate of the Canaanites in Jewish Thought (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014); David Frankel, The Land of Canaan and the Destiny of Israel: Theologies of Territory in the Hebrew Bible, Siphrut 4 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011); idem, “Toward a Constructive Jewish Biblical Theology of the Land,” in Theology of the Hebrew Bible, Volume 1: Methodological Studies, ed. Marvin Sweeney (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2019), 153–83; Nili Wazana, All the Boundaries of the Land: The Promised Land in Biblical Thought in Light of the Ancient Near East, trans. Liat Qeren (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2013).

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of an empire. The activities envisaged in Jerusalem include trading, building, going to court, paying taxes or tribute, and worshipping at the temple—with YHWH presiding over all these activities and not just over the temple. In short, the God-talk in these so-called pilgrimage texts goes to all these areas of the lifeworld and not simply to matters narrowly conceived as religious under modern principles of social order.26 Similarly, Megan Warner examines the politics of the Joseph narrative in Genesis, which stretch across an astounding range of topics all permeated by God-talk: sibling rivalry, forced migration, sexual abuse, murder, intercultural marriage, ethnic prejudice, and imperial economics. Family life in Genesis is inherently political, and it has been so in most cultures before the modern invention of the Western individual. In short, it is clear that the concept of political theology should be extended beyond the confines of religion—at least, if religion continues to be conceived in modern Western terms.27 Nevertheless, the task of clarifying an adequate definition of political theology is certainly not straightforward, especially if we are looking for cues in the biblical texts to assist with the task. Rather than begin with a prefabricated definition in advance of actual exegesis, the contributors to this volume took a more inductive approach and developed their preliminary research in ways that could then be compared and contrasted in conversation. The following discussion organizes the topics that emerged, roughly speaking, “from the top to the bottom” of the formations of social power. We may begin as might be expected with an analysis of the idea of sovereignty—which commonly sits at the apex of any discussion of political theology—and then proceed through a list of key notions like empire, nationality, tribal kinship networks, leadership and peoplehood, before considering topics often considered less central to models of governance: gender and ethnicity (including the racialized receptions of biblical ethnoi). A comprehensive discussion would also need to include consideration of the inter-species

26

27

The political significance of pilgrimages is not, however, to be underestimated. See Peter Altmann’s comment on Deuteronomy’s festival traditions, “that they include all classes, genders, and ethnicities present in the society.” Peter Altmann, Festive Meals in Ancient Israel: Deuteronomy’s Identity Politics in Their Ancient Near Eastern Context, BZAW 424 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011), 153; more broadly, Mark R. Glanville, Adopting the Stranger as Kindred in Deuteronomy, AIL 33 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2017). See the critique in Richard King, Orientalism and Religion: Postcolonial Theory, India and “the Mystic East” (London: Routledge, 1999).

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relationships between humans and other animals, configured as “dominion” in Priestly tradition (Gen 1:28).28 2.

Sovereignty and Nationalism

It must also be acknowledged that some of the most influential accounts of political theology in the twentieth century have focused somewhat obsessively on the idea of sovereignty, and especially on the idea of monarchs who make the law and its exceptions. The work of Dominik Markl in this volume throws fresh light on the relationship between the legal constraints framed in political constitutions and the “proto-national” social vision of Deuteronomy. As a number of studies have shown, the remarkable law of the king in Deut 17:14–20 may be read as a long-considered response to the overreach of kings in the whole of Israelite and Judean history, with the theological result that the role of monarchy is reduced to a mere constitutional possibility under the Torah.29 No leviathan invented by Hobbes or Schmitt would survive such strictures. But then a key question emerges as to whether such a constitutional idea had any practical political effects beyond the utopian aspirations of religious communities after the demise of native kingship in Judah.30 The Hasmoneans, for example, were bold enough to implement the possibility of priest-kings for a time, and Julia Rhyder’s study of Second Maccabees illuminates the political implications of theological discourse in that book.31 Beyond that brief history, 28

29 30 31

Annette Schellenberg has argued that human dominion over the animals is revoked after the flood and effectively replaced by warfare, since the discourse of “fear and dread” on the part of the animals in Gen 9:2 points to conditions of holy war rather than dominion. This hypothesis effectively dissolves the indication of kinship in biblical literature and gives no normative value to the original utopian conditions. Annette Schellenberg, Der Mensch, das Bild Gottes? Zum Gedanken einer Sonderstellung des Menschen im Alten Testament und in weiteren altorientalischen Quellen (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2011), 37–68. For a detailed discussion, see Mark  G.  Brett and H.  Daniel  Zacharias, “To Serve Her and Conform to Her: An Intercultural Reading of Gen 2:15,” forthcoming. On Deuteronomy’s separation of powers, see especially Bernard M. Levinson, “The First Constitution: Rethinking the Origins of Rule of Law and Separation of Powers in Light of Deuteronomy,” Cardozo Law Review 27 (2006): 1853–88. On the enduring construction of nationhood, beyond the state, see Jacob L. Wright, War, Memory and National Identity in the Hebrew Bible (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020). For a wide-ranging discussion of Hellenistic politics, see also Katell Berthelot, In Search of the Promised Land: The Hasmonean Dynasty Between Biblical Models and Hellenistic Diplomacy, trans. Margaret Rigaud, JAJSup  24 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2018).

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the influence of Deuteronomy continued within communities that were not governed by kings. After two disastrous wars in 66–73 CE and 132–135 CE, most Jews embraced a life in diaspora.32 The history of Christendom, within which Deuteronomy also continued to be read, was characterized more by the overlapping sovereignties of popes and kings, rather than by constitutionalism.33 This was the case right up until the modern notion of sovereignty was reconceived as a social contract that binds the people as a whole. While many political theorists regard social contract theory as a secular enterprise, we find its beginnings already in the writings of Catholic lawyers in the seventeenth century.34 Around the same time, Protestant thinkers like John Milton were pondering the potential contributions of 1 Samuel  8 and Deuteronomy  17 to radically new conceptions of a republic.35 The description of this kind of comparative reception history now belongs squarely within the tasks of biblical scholarship. Hebrew Bible theology need not prescind from making comparisons with post-biblical times, and not just comparisons that fall narrowly within the history of religions. A comparison that notes similarities and differences is in no danger of imposing anachronisms on the biblical literature. 3.

Leadership and Sub-National Polities

Varieties of nationalism enjoyed global circulation in the twentieth century, often yielding pain and suffering for minority groups who did not fit within the dominant discourses that sought to contain them. Even allowing for its multiple varieties, nationalism is almost always an ideological projection that serves the interests of dominant groups by attempting to incorporate the lower strata of a society. Especially in settler colonial contexts like the USA, Canada, South Africa, Australia and Aotearoa New Zealand, the prior inhabitants of the land 32 33

34 35

Reuven Firestone, Holy War in Judaism: The Fall and Rise of a Controversial Idea (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). Thomas Aquinas, for example, reiterated the standard medieval view that found no difficulty in principle with papal intervention, as required, in secular (temporal) affairs. See, for example, Alasdair MacIntyre, Whose Justice? Which Rationality? (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1988), 201, citing the Summa Theologiae IIa-IIae (60.6) and Contra Errores Graecorum (2.32). Quentin Skinner, The Foundations of Modern Political Thought, Vol. 2: The Age of Reformation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 148–78. Liah Greenfeld, Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992); Eric Nelson, The Hebrew Republic: Jewish Sources and the Transformation of European Political Thought (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010).

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were excluded from the over-arching political narratives. In most of its formulations, the colonial “doctrine of discovery” implicitly or explicitly invoked the Hexateuchal plot that affirmed a right of conquest, and the older Curse of Ham was ubiquitous in its oppressive effects in the Anglo world.36 Even within the United Kingdom, the Welsh and the Irish experienced patterns of exclusion and legally enforced oppression.37 With modern experiences of nationalism in mind, some scholars have been provoked to re-examine the biblical and archaeological data in search of minority groups whose assimilation to the national vision remains incomplete. On the surface of the books of Samuel and Kings, it is not difficult to find evidence of inter-tribal conflicts and rivalries, not least in the stories that explain the succession of the Northern Kingdom from a so-called “united monarchy.” Nor should we assume that the power exercised by King Saul and King David could lay claim to a sovereignty that was higher than that claimed by the prophet/judge/priest named Samuel. We read in 1 Sam 16:13 that Samuel anointed David, while in 2 Sam 5:3 he is also anointed by the “elders of Israel” via negotiation of a covenant. Already in 2 Sam 2:4, David had been anointed by the “men of Judah” without need of covenant, perhaps because he belonged to that particular kinship group. These are the sorts of complexities that are explored in the contributions to this volume by Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer and Rachelle Gilmour, in which they trace interactions and tensions between the various roles—priest, prophet, king, queen—bearing in mind the backstories of distinct kinship groups, all under the shadow of the divine sovereign. When a sacred written law finally makes an appearance in 2 Kings 22, the “high priest” and the scribe, Shaphan, turn to consult a woman on its meaning, Huldah the prophetess, rather than seeking out the Levitical priests who

36

37

Among many other studies, Louis Rivera, A Violent Evangelism: The Political and Religious Conquest of the Americas (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1992); Steven T. Newcomb, Pagans in the Promised Land: Decoding the Doctrine of Christian Discovery (Golden, CO: Fulcrum, 2008); David  M.  Goldenberg, The Curse of Ham: Race and Slavery in Early Judaism, Christianity, and Islam (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003); Stephen R. Haynes, Noah’s Curse: The Biblical Justification of American Slavery (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002); Lindsay G. Robertson, Conquest by Law: How the Discovery of America Dispossessed Indigenous Peoples of Their Lands (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005); Margaret Ellen Newell, Brethren by Nature: New England Indians, Colonists, and the Origins of American Slavery (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2015); Nyasha Junior, Reimagining Hagar: Blackness and Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019). See, for example, Theodore Allen, The Invention of the White Race, Vol. 1: Racial Oppression and Social Control (London: Verso, 1994).

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are the proper authority on the law according to Deut 17:14–20.38 The Levites are indeed conspicuously absent from all the key transitional events in Samuel-Kings, and this is a telling indication that these books preserve an older narrative world, even when they have been touched by a “Deuteronomistic” brush here and there.39 When it comes to the literature of the Babylonian and Persian periods, matters of leadership are no less complex, although it is clear that the Levites have emerged in this later context as an influential group, reflecting Deuteronomy’s expectations. The memories of older tribal kinship groups are transformed within the newer polities constituted by waves of forced migration. The contributions from Dalit Rom-Shiloni, John Ahn and Tamara Cohn Eskenazi explore the profile of the communities in a variety of locations—Babylon, Samaria, Egypt and Judah—including the Yahwist communities on the move, each with prophets and scribes envisaging social boundaries in their own terms. The returnees to Judah are conceived as “children of the golah,” at the center of their own narrative, although this social vision apparently functioned over time as a kind of metanarrative for other groups as well.40 While the Samarians might well have been recognized as Yahwists, possessing their own temple already in the fifth century, from the point of view of the Judean leaders in the school of Ezra-Nehemiah, the northerners did not belong to the same ethnos.41 As Louis Jonker makes clear, Chronicles took a slightly different view, constructing its ethnos with more of an imperial logic of center and periphery,

38

39 40 41

The idea of a pre-exilic “high priest” may be anachronistic, belonging more to postmonarchic times. See especially, Deborah  W.  Rooke, Zadok’s Heirs: The Role and Development of the High Priesthood in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 76–78, 130. Significantly, Ezekiel envisages that a prince should preside over sanctuary offerings on the sabbath, without mentioning a high priest (Ezek 45:17; 46:12). In contrast, when Priestly literature describes the responsibilities of a high priest—but not of a prince or king—this may indeed reflect post-monarchic times. On the complaint concerning non-Levitical priests in 1 Kgs 12:31, for example, see Brett, Locations of God, 22, 158–59. Dalit Rom-Shiloni, Exclusive Inclusivity: Identity Conflicts Between the Exiles and the People who Remained (6th-5th Centuries BCE), LHBOTS 543 (London: Bloomsbury, 2013), 46–47. For illuminating discussions on this topic, see especially Tamara Cohn Eskenazi, “The Missions of Ezra and Nehemiah,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, ed. Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming (Winona Lake, IN.: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 509–29; Katherine Southwood, “An Ethnic Affair? Ezra’s Intermarriage Crisis against a Context of ‘Self-Ascription’ and ‘Ascription of Others,’” in Mixed Marriages: Intermarriage and Group Identity in the Second Temple Period, ed. Christian Frevel, LHBOTS 547 (London: T&T Clark, 2011), 46–59; Kristen Weingart, “What Makes an Israelite an Israelite? Judean Perspectives on the Samarians in the Persian Period,” JSOT 42 (2017): 155–75.

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repeatedly emphasizing the leadership of the Levites who are conspicuously absent from parallel narratives in Samuel-Kings.42 Standing at some distance from these complexities of leadership and substate polities, the book of Job adopts a remarkably skeptical perspective on social life, expressed through a pastiche of poetic and satirical genres. Against the suggestion that this book is “apolitical,”43 Katherine Southwood locates Job, along with some other literature, within a broader “cultural politics”—one that engages in debate at some distance from courts and temples. Adopting the foil of a foreign protagonist, Job offers an opportunity for robust debate. We find in this poetry a range of allusions to various traditions (Deuteronomic, Priestly and otherwise) and to the whole panoply of leadership models (Job 12 mentions counsellors, judges, kings, priests, elders, chiefs of the people of the land), all judged to be fallible in the long run. Any projection of moral order is found wanting, although the language seems to be avoiding a direct confrontation with particular religious groups. Nevertheless, this kind of literature can also be understood as a political theology in the broadest sense of “God-talk located in the context of multiple, often competing, perspectives on social life.”44 Indeed, it could be understood as theology in its boldest form: critique of divine governance.45 4.

Gender and Intersectional Studies

Some scholars may be alarmed at a definition of political theology that can stretch even into the circle of family groups, but once again, we can take our cue from the biblical discourse itself. A keystone text is clearly the Eden narrative in Genesis. Here a curse on arable land is preceded by the puzzling explanation 42

Similarly, a “federalist” model of centre-periphery relations is presented by Jonathan E. Dyck, “The Ideology of Identity in Chronicles,” in Ethnicity and the Bible, ed. Mark G. Brett, BibInt 19 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 89–116; Louis C. Jonker, “Being Both on the Periphery and in the Centre: The Jerusalem Temple in Late Persian Period Yehud from Postcolonial Perspective,” in Centres and Peripheries in the Early Second Temple Period, ed. Ehud Ben Zvi and Christoph Levin (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 243–67. 43 E.g., Walzer, In God’s Shadow, 163. 44 Brett, Locations of God, xix. 45 William S. Morrow, Protest against God: The Eclipse of a Biblical Tradition, Hebrew Bible Monographs  4 (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2006); Dalit Rom-Shiloni, “Psalm  44: The Powers of Protest,” CBQ 70 (2008): 683–98; ead., “Theodical Discourse: Theodicy and Protest in Sixth Century BCE Hebrew Bible Theology,” in Theodicy and Protest: Jewish and Christian Perspectives, ed. Beate Ego, Ute Gause, Ron Margolin, and Dalit Rom-Shiloni (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2018), 53–72.

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that the man has “listened to the voice” of his wife (Gen 3:17), when there is no mention in the prior narrative of the woman verbally persuading the man to eat. That particular problem disappears if we infer from Gen 3:6 that the man was “with her” in the sense that he was present for the conversation between Eve and the serpent, but contributed nothing to the argument about Elohim’s expectations.46 The punishment for the woman is couched in fully political language: although the woman will be devoted to her husband, he will “rule” over her (‫ משל‬in 3:16). Male dominance is thus a disruption in the gendered relationship, on a par with the disruption with the land, and both distorted relationships demonstrate the effects of alienation.47 Accordingly, readers of the Primary History are told to expect the rule of men in other biblical books, even if this was not part of the Edenic utopia. Nevertheless, the Song of Songs can be read as a riposte from the point of view of erotic love.48 Couched within the interstices of patriarchy, this poetry nurtures the possibility of private exceptions to the general rule. In the book of Esther, on the other hand, the affirmation that each man should be prince of his household is stated in an absurdly public way, appearing in an imperial edict in Esther 1:22, but this is such an extravagant display of threatened masculinity that a suspicion of satire hangs over the text. In a few other examples in the public domain, it remains possible for women prophets to take the stage. Without a hint of irony, that state of exception breaks the surface even 46

47

48

Julie Faith Parker, “Blaming Eve Alone: Translation, Omission, and Implications of ‫עמה‬ in Genesis 3:6b,” JBL 130 (2011): 227–46; Barbara Deutschmann, “Partners in Crime? The Partnership of the Woman and Man in the Garden of Eden Narrative,” Pacifica 30 (2017): 255–67. Cynthia R. Chapman has recently argued that gender hierarchy is constituted as the original norm in Eden, and it is simply reinforced in Gen 3:16. By implication, her argument suggests that only the man is divinely licensed to speak through the gift of the ‫נשמת חיים‬ in Gen 2:7. The implications of this textual detail resonate throughout the Hebrew Bible, on Chapman’s view, when she observes that in the canonical narratives women prophets are never explicitly commissioned to speak. Against such a wide-ranging inference, the curses or etiologies in Genesis 3 seem consistently focused on disrupted relationships, and elsewhere the ‫ נשמת חיים‬is shared with all creatures of flesh. In the immediate context, the creatures endowed with speech include the snake. See Chapman, “The Breath of Life: Speech, Gender and Authority in the Garden of Eden,” JBL 138 (2019): 241–62, especially 244. The absence of Huldah’s commissioning narrative in 2 Kings 22 does not seem to trouble the Deuteronomist. With a discussion of Phyllis Trible’s earlier studies, see Cheryl B. Anderson, “The Song of Songs: Redeeming Gender Constructions in the Age of AIDS,” in Womanist Interpretation of the Bible: Expanding the Discourse, ed. Gay L. Byron and Vanessa Lovelace, SemeiaSt 85 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2016), 73–92; ead., Women, Ideology, and Violence: Critical Theory and the Construction of Gender in the Book of the Covenant and the Deuteronomic Law, JSOTSup 394 (London: T&T Clark, 2004).

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at the apex of the so-called Deuteronomistic History, when in 2 Kings 22 the significance of the law book’s discovery is interpreted by a woman, Huldah the prophetess.49 Remarkably, the later scribes evidently restrained themselves from changing the text to include the Levitical priests required by Deut 17:18. Among the women who are actually named in the Hebrew Bible, the overwhelming majority are the mothers or daughters of powerful men, and only occasionally do we hear of a prophetess who speaks for God in her own voice. Regardless of these variations, the fact that these characters are named can be readily related to their high status. The question of social rank also plays a role in the laws covering the women who belong to priestly families, even if this legal genre has no need to name names. The wives of priests have a higher status than wives among the laity.50 The apparent exceptions to this, where low status women are named, are worth closer attention. For example, in the book of Ruth, we find that a foreign widow is expected by Boaz to be “a woman of valour” (‫ אשת חיל‬in 3:11), and this wording is repeated in the public speech in 4:11 with reference the actions of Boaz in building up the house of Israel. As Laura Quick has pointed out, in most of the other references to acting valiantly, the action has a masculine martial connotation or it describes the action of God.51 But a close parallel is also found in Prov 31:29, where we find this note of praise of the ‫אשת חיל‬: “Many daughters have done valiantly (‫)עשו חיל‬, but you surpass them all.” The somewhat subversive suggestion in Ruth, it seems, is that a foreign widow could match the capacity of the ideal Israelite wife. Quick argues that the particular power that is ascribed to Ruth relates ultimately to her genealogical capacity, which is revealed especially in 4:11. The people and the elders in the gate say: “We are witnesses. May YHWH make the woman who is entering your house like Rachel and like Leah, who together built up the house of Israel. May you (m.sg.) do ‫ חיל‬in Ephrathah and bestow a name in Bethlehem.” In effect, Ruth is absorbed into the story of Jacob’s two Aramean wives in Genesis, who also move across a social boundary from one kinship system to another. Remarkably, the wording associated with this boundary marking in Genesis invokes the rebel chants from 2 Sam 20:1 and 49 50 51

Francesca Stavrakopoulou, “The Prophet Huldah and the Stuff of State,” in Friends and Enemies of the State: Ancient Prophecy in Context, ed. Christopher A. Rollston (University Park, PA: Eisenbrauns, 2018), 277–96. Sarah Shectman, “The Social Status of Priestly and Levite Women,” in Levites and Priests in History and Tradition, ed. Mark A. Leuchter and Jeremy M. Hutton, AIL 9 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2011), 82–89. Laura Quick, “The Book of Ruth and the Limits of Proverbial Wisdom,” JBL 139 (2020): 47–66, at 55.

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1 Kgs 12:16, when Rachel and Leah say to Jacob: “Is there still a portion and inheritance for us in the house of our father?” (Gen 31:14).52 To cut a complex story short, although Ruth enters the narrative as a low status foreigner, she emerges as a high status woman in a royal Judean lineage, having severed her earlier kinship ties, as did the foremothers Rachel and Leah.53 This example in the book of Ruth may be compared with a number of other traditions within which units of kinship are defined along maternal lines, notably in the books of Genesis and Samuel.54 As we might expect from the overture in Eden, these kinship groups subsist mainly inside the larger political formations maintained by high status males. 5.

Ethnicity and Racialized Reception Histories

While Ruth stands as a potential example of successful integration into the ethnos of Israel, we have already noted a contrary example. The Samarians in the Persian period, whose Yahwist credentials were not sufficient to achieve full integration in the eyes of Ezra and Nehemiah, developed a parallel society over the subsequent centuries. The Samarians serve as a salutary example that ethnic plasticity may result in both ethnic fissure as well as ethnic fusion. It would be anachronistic to interpret such ancient antagonism in terms of race, but it will be necessary at this point to make some brief comments on the modern racialized ideologies that have drawn sanctions from the biblical discourses. We can infer from some of the texts in Ezra and Nehemiah that the northerners did not measure up to required Judean standards. Whatever the complexities of the Persian period, it cannot be denied that this exclusivism has had devastating effects in the modern history of colonialism. Even in the 52 53 54

Sarah Shectman, “Israel’s Matriarchs: Political Pawns or Powerbrokers?,” in The Politics of the Ancestors: Exegetical and Historical Perspectives on Genesis 12–36, ed. Mark G. Brett and Jakob Wöhrle, FAT 124 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2018), 151–65, at 154–55. See further Katherine Southwood, “Will Naomi’s Nation be Ruth’s Nation? Ethnic Translation as a Metaphor for Ruth’s Assimilation in Judah,” Humanities 3 (2014): 102–31, doi:10.3390/h3020102. See especially Cynthia R. Chapman, The House of the Mother: The Social Roles of Maternal Kin in Biblical Hebrew Narrative and Poetry (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2016). For example, the mother unit of Rachel-Joseph-Benjamin would have had particular relevance early in the Persian period if, as it seems, Judean leaders wanted to draw a sharp distinction between Benjamin and Samaria. Wolfgang Oswald, Staatstheorie im Alten Israel: Der politische Diskurs im Pentateuch und in den Geschichtsbüchern des Alten Testaments (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2009), 180–84.

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twentieth century, shortly after the end of the Second World War, it was possible for a biblical scholar in South Africa, Evert P. Groenewald, to write in support of apartheid policies: The Lord who willed the segregation of the nations, abundantly blessed the nations which respected His stipulation and also used them as a blessing to humanity in general … To Israel the Lord instructs that there should be no mixing with foreign nations … The Scripture views it generally as a deviation from the will of God when Israel allows that her sons and daughters marry with other nations. Such marriages let national differences grow faint and lead to undermining of the mother tongue. The result is a generation that does not honour or even know its own language, customs, religion and also nationality. So writes Nehemiah (13:23).55

While it might be tempting to draw a direct connection between this interpretation of Neh 13:23 and the ideology of whiteness, Ntozakhe Cezula notes that the interpretation of Nehemiah in South Africa has also been pulled in the opposite direction, in discussions of national reconstruction after apartheid. In short, histories of reception are rarely univocal and a homiletical tendency to skip from ancient texts to modern applications always needs to be informed by detailed historical research. The construction of blackness, for example, has an older history than the fabrication of whiteness. In his remarkable work The Christian Imagination: Theology and the Origins of Race, Willie James Jennings begins with an analysis of the theological vision of José de Acosta Porres, an influential Spanish Jesuit who first arrived in Peru in 1572.56 Jennings shows how indigenous and African peoples were configured on the basis of their skin color, rather than their attachments to particular cultures, languages and traditional territories—a severing of identities that clearly served colonial interests. But a number of historians have converged on the view that earlier hierarchies of difference 55

56

Ntozakhe Cezula, “A Comment on Ehud Ben Zvi’s ‘Total Exile, Empty Land and the General Intellectual Discourse in Yehud,’” OTE 30 (2017): 592–608, at 603, trans. from the original paper in Afrikaans by Evert P. Groenewald, “Apartheid en Voogdyskap in die Lig van die Heilige Skrif,” in Regverdige Rasse-Apartheid, ed. Geoffrey Cronjé, William Nicol and Evert P. Groenewald (Stellenbosch: Christen-Studentevereniging Boekhandel, 1947), 52–53. See also the discussion in Jacobus Kok and Anne-Catherine Pardon, “Drawing and Transcending Socio-Religious Boundaries: The Influence of Gerhard Kittel on Evert  P.  Groenewald: The Shaping of an Apartheid Theologian?” in Drawing and Transcending Boundaries in the New Testament and Early Christianity, ed. Jacobus Kok, Martin Webber, Jermo van Nes, Beiträge zum Verstehen der Bibel 38 (Zürich: Lit Verlag, 2019), 153–77. Willie James Jennings, The Christian Imagination: Theology and the Origins of Race (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010).

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were not crystalized into an explicit ideology of whiteness before the late seventeenth and eighteenth century.57 Race was constructed from a number of ingredients, most likely beginning with the idea of “purity of blood” (limpieza de sangre) that developed on the Iberian peninsula in the fifteenth century as part of a suspicious Christian response to conversions of Jews and Muslims.58 Early moderns developed the view that there were limits on the transformative potential of conversions and that those limits could be accounted for on the basis of genealogical histories. This view was then reiterated in settler colonial territories.59 In the course of time, racialized formations in the USA, South Africa, Canada, Australia and Aotearoa New Zealand created an imagined community of whiteness, which provided the lens for reinterpreting the Curse of Ham traditions. As W.E.B. DuBois wrote in 1910: “Wave upon wave, each with increasing virulence, is dashing this new religion of whiteness on the shores of our time.”60 The Australian wave of identity was decisively shaped not as a nation, at first, but as one of the units of the British Empire just five years after DuBois wrote “The Souls of White Folk.” In particular, a fateful military campaign waged at the time on the shores of Turkey by the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (the “Anzacs”) would become the focus of a white national memory in subsequent years.61 The fusion of originally quite separate ethnicities—notably English, Scottish, Irish, and Welsh—was performed in battle on foreign soil, first in the name of empire and later in the name of nationhood.62 And as in

57 Colin Kidd, The Forging of Races: Race and Scripture in the Protestant Atlantic World, 1600–2000 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), especially 67; Rebecca Goetz, The Baptism of Early Virginia: How Christianity created Race (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2012). 58 María Elena Martínes, Genealogical Fictions: Limpieza de Sangre, Religion and Gender in Colonial Mexico (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2008). 59 Heather Miyano Kopelson, Faithful Bodies: Performing Religion and Race in the Puritan Atlantic (New York: New York University Press, 2014). 60 W.E.B.  DuBois, “The Souls of White Folk,” Independent, 18  August, 1910, 339. Marilyn Lake and Henry Reynolds, Drawing the Global Colour Line: White Men’s Countries and the Question of Racial Equality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). 61 See already the newspaper report, “Mr Hughes on the Heroes of Anzac,” Bendigonian, April  25 (1917): 11, in which the Prime Minister, Billy Hughes, memorialized the 1915 Gallipoli campaign in Turkey, imbuing the Anzac virtues of empire and “pride of race” with religious feeling. Joan Beaumont, “‘Unitedly we have fought’: Imperial Loyalty and the Australian War Effort,” International Affairs 90 (2014): 397–412. 62 Hans Mol, Religion in Australia: A Sociological Investigation (Melbourne: Thomas Nelson, 1971), 4, on the dissolving of traditional ethnicities among white Australian soldiers during the First World War.

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the case of the rebel chants of 1 Kgs 12:16 and Gen 31:14, each of the British colonies would eventually cut their ties for the sake of a newly minted nation.63 The first pieces of legislation enacted by the newly federated Australian colonies in 1901 were overtly racialized, and a legally enshrined White Australia Policy persisted right up to 1973. This founding narrative has been minimized in the subsequent decades,64 and particularly in more recent decades, the legacies of whiteness have remained veiled in Australian biblical scholarship, as in other contexts. 6.

Conclusion

Some scholars may be alarmed at the expansiveness of my redefinition of political theology: “God-talk located in the context of multiple, often competing, perspectives on social life.” At the very least, this formulation might be considered heuristically as an invitation to consider the diversity of topics covered in the present volume through a particular lens, a much wider lens than the modern category of religion would permit. At the same time, the definition provides the required breadth that can stretch from the capillaries of tribal kinship systems in ancient Israel to the effects of whiteness ideology on the history of biblical interpretation. The volume is not, however, focally concerned with modern politics. Only an ill-conceived homiletics would jump straight from ancient texts to contemporary aspirations, neglecting the myriad complexities of the traditions that carry the Hebrew Bible, and the varieties of social constraints that belong to public space. The essays in this collection are primarily concerned with ancient texts, history and culture. If there are comparisons at points with post-biblical times and topics, these may actually serve to highlight some unconscious anachronisms and to catalyze self-critical scholarly reflections.

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The legacies of British rule in Asia have yielded quite different identity formations, as described for example by Lian  H.  Sakhong, “The Church after the Anglo–Chin War,” in In Search of Chin Identity: A Study in Religion, Politics and Ethnic Identity in Burma (Copenhagen: NIAS, 2003), 154–75. See, e.g., Ann Curthoys, “Whose Home? Expulsion, Exodus and Exile in White Australian Mythology,” Journal of Australian Studies 61 (1999): 1–18.

Part I Sovereignty

The Politics of Judahite Creation Theologies in the Persian Period Christine Mitchell Politics and creation theology is usually something that we think about with respect to the “creation versus evolution” debates about science education. Over the past century, teaching about the origins of the universe has been highly politicized in several places, most notably in the United States, but in other locations as well. As biblical scholars, we are probably used to deploring the simplistic assertions of those who start “creation museums,” but we do not often stop to consider the political implications of those creation theologies that ground themselves in the Bible. In Timothy Beal’s Roadside Religion, for example, these sorts of museums and attractions are considered as manifestations of religious practice, but not as political statements.1 The recent opening of the Museum of the Bible in Washington, DC, and the analyses undertaken by biblical scholars of its aims and methods do bring politics into conversation with a certain kind of Christian theology, but creation theology is not a large part of that analysis. One essay by James Linville in the volume The Museum of the Bible: A Critical Introduction explicitly deals with creation theology as expressed in so-called “creation museums,” but most of the essays are concerned with other topics.2 Yet when we turn to look at the ancient Near East, creation theologies are usually read as being integrally related to politics. Enuma Elish is read as legitimizing Marduk and thus Babylon as the center of the political order; the Memphite Theology is read as legitimizing the Cushite 25th Dynasty—to cite two well-known examples (both of these examples are also first millennium cases, at least in the form that we now have them). The creation theology of the Achaemenid Persians, to which I will shortly turn, is profoundly political, with Darius I being presented as the culmination of the creative act of Ahuramazda. Against this backdrop, the creation theologies of the Hebrew Bible are a curious mixture. On the one hand, the theology of the warrior-creator in Pss 74 and 89 1 Timothy K. Beal, Roadside Religion: In Search of the Sacred, the Strange, and the Substance of Faith (Boston: Beacon, 2006). 2 James  R.  Linville, “The Creationist Museum of the Bible,” in The Museum of the Bible: A Critical Introduction, ed. Jill Hicks-Keeton (Lanham, MD: Fortress Academic, 2019), 257–74; see also Candida R. Moss and Joel S. Baden, Bible Nation: The United States of Hobby Lobby (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2017).

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/978365

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is explicitly linked with the political situation of the Judahites—and in the case of Ps 89 with the Davidic king, even though this is unusual with respect to creation texts—while on the other hand, the theologies of Gen 1:1–2:3 and 2:4– 3:24 seem to be removed from ruminations about the political order. However, given the political nature of other creation theologies, both in the Hebrew Bible and the broader ancient eastern Mediterranean culture, should we be so quick to characterize the creation theologies in Genesis as being a-political? In this essay, I will explore the implications of Judahite creation theologies in the context of the Achaemenid Persian Empire (521–330 BCE). By doing so, I am not claiming that these theologies necessarily originated in that period: some (like Pss 74 and 89) draw extensively on Levantine creation theologies from centuries-old traditions; others may not have reached their final form or been placed in their final context until well into the Hellenistic period. However, by placing these theologies next to the well-documented Achaemenid creation theology, I will make the argument that the Priestly vision of creation is most consistent with and congenial to that context, and that fragments of other texts (e.g., Zech 12, Isa 42, Pss 115, 124) have echoes of the Achaemenid creation textformula itself. To make the argument, I will first examine the Achaemenid creation theology in its context, then turn to the Judahite theologies and textual fragments, and finally place these Judahite texts in the Achaemenid context. Before I do so, I would like to remark briefly on my methodological assumptions. Recently I have written extensively about the uses of comparison within biblical studies.3 In that essay I argue that comparison is misused when it bridges evidentiary gaps by assuming that because there are commonalities between corpora there must be equivalence. Instead, I argue that a comparative approach must first locate grounds for comparison while avoiding universalizing tendencies. Then we can do comparisons that are attuned to specific local details and attentive also to non-equivalences. Finally, the epistemological basis of the “comparative project” in the West as an imperializing and totalizing project must be considered. In the essay, I suggest that the “grounds for comparison” when looking at Achaemenid and biblical texts is the Achaemenid scribal education system (sometimes called the “chancellery”) that distributed a common Aramaic-language curriculum across the broad expanse of the Achaemenid empire. I have suggested elsewhere that part of that curriculum was Achaemenid imperializing texts such as the Bisitun inscription (DB).4 3 Christine Mitchell, “Commonalities without Equivalence,” in Gary Knoppers Memorial Volume, ed. Deirdre N. Fulton et al., forthcoming. 4 Christine Mitchell, “Berlin Papyrus  P. 13447 and the Library of the Yehudite Colony at Elephantine,” JNES 76 (2017): 139–47.

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However, the evidence from both Egypt and Bactria suggests that local cultural (and scribal) traditions had an impact on locally-produced texts as well.5 Thus it is not a matter of one-way imposition from the imperial center, but a broader interplay between imperial and local scribal and literary cultures. 1.

Achaemenid Creation Theology

There are three main bodies of evidence for reconstructing the Achaemenid creation theology. First is the corpus of Achaemenid royal inscriptions, particularly the creation formula that opens a great many of those inscriptions; second is the iconography from the period (coins, seals, bas-reliefs); third, and to be used with the greatest caution, are the Avestan texts. The Avestan texts, some of which were possibly in existence by the time of the Achaemenids, must be used cautiously because it is not at all settled as to whether the Achaemenids were “Zoroastrians,” the (religious) community responsible for the preservation of the texts, or more generally “Mazdaeans,” i.e. adherents of the deity Ahuramazda.6 In this contribution, therefore, I will be focusing 5 Lindsay Allen, “The Letter as Object: On the Experience of Achaemenid Letters,” Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 56.2 (2013): 21–36. The evidence from Bactria is problematic due to its lack of secure provenance: the ethics of the publication of the material has not to my knowledge been addressed. 6 For a brief summary of the issues pertaining to the use of the Avesta, see Albert de Jong, “Ahura Mazda the Creator,” in The World of Achaemenid Persia: History, Art and Society in Iran and the Ancient Near East, ed. John Curtis and St John Simpson (London: I.B.  Tauris, 2010), 85–89. A more optimistic view may be found in P. Oktor Skjærvø, “Avestan Quotations in Old Persian? Literary Sources of the Old Persian Inscriptions,” Irano-Judaica  4 (1999): 1–15. The literature on whether the Achaemenids were Zoroastrians is extensive: a summary with a positive answer may be found in P. Oktor Skjærvø, “Avesta and Zoroastrianism Under the Achaemenids and Early Sasanians,” in The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Iran, ed. Daniel T. Potts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 562–63. For a slightly different view that sees the Achaemenids as shapers of Zoroastrianism, see Albert de Jong, “Religion at the Achaemenid Court,” in Der Achaemenidenhof / The Achaemenid Court, ed. Bruno Jacobs and Robert Rollinger, Classica et Orientalia  2 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2010), 533–58. More recently, see this argument that rejects the hypothesis that the Achaemenids knew the Avesta but that then proposes that they may have known texts or traditions that we find also in the Avesta: Jean Kellens, “Les Achéménides entre textes et liturgie avestiques,” in Persian Religion in the Achaemenid Period / La religion perse à l’époque achéménide, ed. Wouter Henkelman and Celine Redard, Classica et Orientalia 16 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2017), 11–20; and Bruce Lincoln, “Happiness for Mankind”: Achaemenian Religion and the Imperial Project, Acta Iranica 53 (Leuven: Peeters, 2012), 16. Finally, for a good summary of all the issues, see Amélie Kuhrt, “Can We Understand How the Persians Perceived ‘Other’ Gods / ‘The Gods of Others’?,” Archiv Für Religionsgeschichte 15 (2014): 149–53.

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largely on what we can see from the royal inscriptions, with some additional evidence from the iconographic remains. The classic treatment of the creation formula in the Achaemenid royal inscriptions is Clarisse Herrenschmidt’s 1977 article, in which she deals with the inscriptions of Darius I.7 She defines the formula as having four features: 1. It begins the inscription in which it is found; 2. Its first phrase includes the deity Ahuramazda; 3. It has a particular structure in which the nature of Ahuramazda is described followed by dependent clauses enumerating Ahuramazda’s acts; 4. It ends after these clauses (meaning that if the inscription continues, a new section is marked). Using this definition of the formula, she finds ten examples, from Susa, Persepolis, Naqsh-i Rustam, Elvend, and Suez.8 Herrenschmidt does not deal with the occurrences subsequent to Darius, but there are at least another thirteen examples from inscriptions of Xerxes I at Persepolis, Elvend, and Van; Artaxerxes  I at Persepolis; Darius II at Hamadan; Artaxerxes II at Hamadan; Artaxerxes III at Persepolis.9 In all, there are at least twenty-three occurrences of the formula, making it one of the most common formulas in the inscriptions, along with the royal titulary formula and the prayer for protection formula.10 The creation formula occurs in the entire chronological range of the royal inscriptions, unlike the list of lands-peoples, for example, which only occurs in the inscriptions of Darius and Xerxes. As such, we may consider it a foundational piece of Achaemenid ideological expression. In its stereotypical form, it says: baga vazạrka Auramazdā A great god is Ahuramazda haya imām būmim adā Who established this earth haya avam asmānam adā Who established that sky haya martiyam adā Who established humanity haya šiyātim adā martiyahạyā Who established peace [or: happiness] for humanity haya Dārayavaum xšāyaθiyam akunauš Who made Darius king aivam parūvnām xšayaθiyam One king of many aivam parūvnām framātāram One commander of many11 7

8 9 10 11

Clarisse Herrenschmidt, “Les créations d’Ahuramazda,” Studia Iranica 6 (1977): 17–58. For abbreviations see Roland  G.  Kent, Old Persian: Grammar, Texts, Lexicon, 2nd ed. (New Haven, CT: American Oriental Society, 1953). For texts see Rüdiger Schmitt, Die altpersischen Inschriften der Achaimeniden (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2009). DSe, DSf, DSp, DSt, DSab; DPd; DNa, DNb, DE, DZc. XPa, XPb, XPc, XPd, XPf, XPh, XPl, XE, XV; A1Pa; D2Ha; A2Hc; A3Pa. See Clarisse Herrenschmidt, “Désignations de l’empire et concepts politiques de Darius 1er d’après ses inscriptions en vieux perse,” Studia Iranica 5 (1976): 34. My translation, from: Christine Mitchell, “A Note on the Creation Formula in Zechariah 12:1–8; Isaiah 42:5–6; and Old Persian Inscriptions,” JBL 133 (2014): 305. Slightly adapted. All other translations from Old Persian my own.

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It is worth closely reading the sequence of the formula. The initial statement of the greatness of the deity (in some of the examples, particularly the later ones, Ahuramazda is named as the “greatest of the gods”) leads into the four creative acts. These acts are usually in the sequence earth–sky–humanity–peace, with only one instance of the sequence sky-earth (DZc), and use the verb dā-, with its basic semantic range of “give.” The four creative acts are followed by Ahuramazda’s making of the Achaemenid king, using the verb kar-, with its basic semantic range of “do.” The making of the Achaemenid king, therefore, is qualitatively different from the creation of earth-sky-humanity-peace. It might be a historical event rather than a cosmogonic one. Yet even the cosmogonic event of the creation of the earth has political consequences. In her earlier article about the royal titulary, Herrenschmidt argued that būmi-, literally “earth,” should also be understood as referring to the Achaemenid kingdom upon that earth, namely the empire. The earth and the empire are coterminous.12 Similarly, the creation of šiyāti- has political implications: usually translated as “happiness,” it might fruitfully be translated as “peace.”13 Since the creation of šiyāti- for humanity is the final act of creation, followed immediately by the appointment of the Achaemenid king, the link is made between the cosmogonic act and the dynastic one, and the role of the Achaemenid king in maintaining creation. The creation formula is usually followed by the royal titulary formula, making even stronger the link between Ahuramazda’s cosmogonic creation and the Achaemenid dynasty. It has often been noted that the longest (and presumably earliest) of all the royal inscriptions, the Bisitun text, does not include the creation formula. Herrenschmidt’s suggestion was that the creation formula was itself created by Darius. However, notwithstanding the small variations that she notes in the inscriptions, which she then converts into a chronological sequence,14 there is no compelling reason to consider this absence in Bisitun as a matter of chronology or development. In other words, the creation formula, at least through the fourth act of creation of šiyāti- for humanity, may have derived from existing Iranian models. Perhaps the genius of Darius consisted, instead, in the combination of an existing creation formula with justification for his selection as king. In this way we can read the Bisitun inscription as the narration of the historical event that was then summarized in the last three lines of

12 13 14

Herrenschmidt, “Désignations de l’empire.” Clarisse Herrenschmidt, “Vieux-perse šiyâti-,” in La religion iranienne à l’époque achéménide: Actes du Colloque de Liège, 11 decembre 1987, ed. Jean Kellens, Iranica Antiqua Supplement 5 (Ghent: Peeters, 1991), 13–21; Lincoln, Happiness for Mankind, 17–18, 406–9. Herrenschmidt, “Les créations d’Ahuramazda,” 35–39.

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the creation formula as it came to be included in the later inscriptions.15 The Bisitun inscription is itself both a political act and an expression of a creation theology that places Darius himself as an integral part of Ahuramazda’s creation, thus, a cosmogonic act. The iconography of the Achaemenids is a large topic, and I will touch only briefly on a few aspects of what is evident at Persepolis as well as what is called the “Persepolitan Court Style” in the seals and seal impressions. As Mark Garrison has noted, even the Court Style seals show a wide variety of cultic practices that cannot all be subsumed into even a broad notion of Mazdaism, let alone Zoroastrianism.16 As we might expect, creation itself is not depicted in the iconography. Instead, we must look for imagery that is suggestive of the relationship between the deity and the created order, particularly as that order is manifested or maintained through ritual. Although strictly not an iconographic question, the site of Persepolis itself may show a conceptual orientation to both the empire and creation. While the idea of Persepolis as a ritual capital is not new, recent re-evaluation of the excavations at the site has shed light on the relationship between the site and the empire.17 In addition, comparison of the iconography at the tomb-site of Darius with the iconography on the seals has led to a re-assessment of the cultic imagery found in both corpora. First, with respect to the site of Persepolis, in an intriguing essay, Cindy Nimchuk argues that the foundation deposits found under two of the corners of the Persepolis Apadana, and presumably originally under all four corners, are key to understanding the orientation of the platform. In the deposit boxes there were four gold and two (perhaps three) silver coins, along with 15

16

17

By “historical event,” I mean an event that happened in historical (from a modern perspective) rather than cosmogonic time, following Lincoln, Happiness for Mankind, 15–16. The Bisitun inscription’s narrative shows significant patterning and shaping to conform to literary and epic conventions. See Jack Martin Balcer, “Ancient Epic Conventions in the Bisitun Text,” in Continuity and Change: Proceedings of the Last Achaemenid History Workshop, April 6–8 1990, Ann Arbor, Michigan, ed. Heleen Sancisi-Weerdenburg, Amélie Kuhrt, and Margaret Cool Root, Achaemenid History 8 (Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor Het Nabije Oosten, 1994), 257–64; Lincoln, Happiness for Mankind, 375–92. Mark B. Garrison, “Beyond Auramazdā and the Winged Symbol: Imagery of the Divine and Numinous at Persepolis,” in Persian Religion in the Achaemenid Period / La religion perse à l’époque achéménide, ed. Wouter Henkelman and Celine Redard, Classica et Orientalia 16 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2017), 224. See Pierfrancesco Callieri, “Achaemenid ‘Ritual Architecture’ vs. ‘Religious Architecture’: Reflections on the Elusive Archaeological Evidence of the Religion of the Achaemenids,” in Persian Religion in the Achaemenid Period / La religion perse à l’époque achéménide, ed. Wouter Henkelman and Celine Redard, Classica et Orientalia  16 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2017), 385–416.

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an identical trilingual inscription on both a silver and gold plate. The inscription itself (DPh) indicates the four corners of the empire: from Sogdiana to Kush, from India to Lydia; northeast to southwest, southeast to northwest, with Persepolis in the center. The corners of the Apadana are aligned similarly.18 What is intriguing to me is that the inscription does not begin with or contain the creation formula, but begins instead with the royal titulary. Yet I think creation is not absent from the inscription. While on the surface it may seem that the foundation deposits are purely an assertion of Darius’s political power, I think we can see them linked to the creation theology of the inscriptions. If, as Herrenschmidt argued, the earth and the empire are coterminous, then the expression of the extent of the kingdom in the inscription is an expression of the created earth. The structure of the inscription enfolds the description of the extent of the kingdom within an expression of Darius’s kingship: “This is the kingdom I hold—from the Scythians beyond Sogdiana to Kush, from India to Lydia—which Ahuramazda, the greatest of the gods, has given to me.” The phrase “Ahuramazda, the greatest of the gods” echoes the creation formula, and Ahuramazda explicitly gave the kingdom (coterminous with the earth) to Darius. Moreover, in the texts that include a list of all the lands-peoples of the empire (e.g. DNa), the text begins with the creation formula. The text of DPh (and DH), therefore, is an epitome. Turning to the site at Naqsh-i Rustam, which includes the text DNa mentioned above, the tomb has recently had its iconographic program reassessed. The tomb façade has three registers: a blank bottom register, a middle register consisting of four panels and the doorway to the burial chambers, and a top register with a scene of a royal figure (presumably Darius) facing a wingeddisc figure and a fire-altar, with a lunar crescent within a disc in the top right 18 Cindy L. Nimchuk, “Empire Encapsulated: The Persepolis Apadana Foundation Deposits,” in The World of Achaemenid Persia: History, Art and Society in Iran and the Ancient Near East, ed. John Curtis and St John Simpson (London: British Museum, 2010), 221–29. Nimchuk goes on to connect the items with symbolic meanings that derive from Avestan texts, and suggests that there is a link between the foundation deposits and the seven stages of creation in those texts, relying on the work of Mary Boyce. Boyce’s reading of Achaemenid-era “Zoroastrianism” has come under severe critique in the past two decades (see some of the references in n. 3 above). The alignment of the foundation deposits with their contained texts and the spatial orientation of the four named “corners” of the empire and the corners of the Apadana does seem sound. Another identical inscription (DH) is classified as coming from Hamadan (Ecbatana), but may have come from one of the other corners at Persepolis. See Margaret C. Root, “Palace to Temple—King to Cosmos: Achaemenid Foundation Texts in Iran,” in From the Foundations to the Crenellations: Essays on Temple Building in the Ancient Near East and Hebrew Bible, ed. Mark J. Boda and James Novotny, AOAT 366 (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2010), 200–204.

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(not visible in most photographs). Beneath Darius the platform is held up by two rows of figures in the Atlas position, and there are attendants on either side (figure 2.1). Jennifer Finn notes in relation to Bisitun that the relief there looks like an unrolled seal; a similar observation may be made about the tomb relief.19 Mark Garrison notes that the inscriptions do not clarify the meaning of the imagery in the reliefs, but as we will see below, that pertains only to the “religious” imagery.20 The two major inscriptions are usually treated in two parts, with DNa (located on the top panel) beginning with the creation formula, followed by the royal titulary, followed by the list of lands-peoples ruled by Darius. The rest of DNa refers very specifically to the relief it accompanies: it begins with a statement of Darius putting the dis-ordered lands into order, followed by the statement: “If you wonder how many lands-peoples Darius the king held, look at those bearing up the throne,” which seems a clear reference to the accompanying relief. The inscription continues with Darius’s proclamation of his deeds as a Persian man, a prayer to Ahuramazda for protection, and an injunction to not rebel. DNb is located in the middle register in one of three panels next to the door to the burial chambers and consists of a slightly different expression of the creation formula, followed by Darius’s enumeration of his qualities as a man and king.21 Reading the inscriptions in their physical positions on the façade leads to a correlation of the lands-peoples (and the earth being put into order from disorder) in DNa with the figures holding up the platform, the royal titulary in DNa with Darius, and the descriptions in DNa of the Persian man and the injunction to not rebel with Darius’s attendants. The statements of Darius’s qualities 19 20

21

Jennifer Finn, “Gods, Kings, Men: Trilingual Inscriptions and Tripartite Visualizations in the Achaemenid Empire,” ArsOr 41 (2011): 233–34. Mark  B.  Garrison, “By the Favor of Auramazda: Kingship and the Divine in the Early Achaemenid Period,” in More Than Men, Less Than Gods: Studies on Royal Cult and Imperial Worship, ed. Panagiotis P. Iossif, Andrzej S. Chankowski, and Catharine C. Lorber, Studia Hellenistica 51 (Leuven: Peeters, 2011), 40. He notes (p. 58) that text itself was iconographic in its placement and visibility even if it could not be read. Fig. 1 shows the blocks of text on the tomb face. Although not the focus of this essay, the highly gendered and performative nature of Darius’s masculinity in DNa-DNb should not be overlooked. Although often remarked upon, the complete absence of women from the monumental iconography (and Achaemenid coins) has not been adequately explained, especially since the Persepolis Fortification Tablets provide evidence for royal women participating in social and economic life. The Old Persian word martiya-, translated above as “humanity,” also has the meaning of “man,” as the English word “man” has both the meaning of “man” and “human(ity),” the latter now falling into disuse. Similarly, the highly “Persian” nature of Darius is emphasized in many of his inscriptions, in contrast to the non-Persians who bear the throne(-platform) in the tomb relief.

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as a man and king in DNb are correlated with the entrance to the chamber in which he presumably was buried. Of the major elements in the inscriptions, only the creation formula is seemingly uncorrelated with the reliefs. It is vital to recall that none of the inscriptions could have been read in their physical location (so too with Bisitun);22 but it is also important to recall that there is evidence for the circulation of both DB and DNb in other formats.23 Returning to the relief in the top register, Garrison’s recent analyses have shown that rather than depicting a particular event of worship, the relief is more generic (he calls it “emblematic”) and has the effect of associating the king with the divine: “link[ing] the king with sacred space, sacred power and imperial control.”24 Drawing on his analysis of Persepolitan seals and seal impressions, and focusing on the attendants and their gestures in the tomb relief scene, Garrison argues that we should not be looking only at the central figure of Darius facing the winged disc and fire altar (an act of individual worship) but also at how the attendants relate to the scene. As such, he concludes that the attendants are not standing before the king; they are processing towards the king. The king is the central figure of this religious ritual.25 A video, rather than a photograph. I think we can take this analysis one step further and return to the un-correlated creation formula. All of the elements of the creation formula may also be seen in the relief: the great god Ahuramazda (leaving aside the arguments about whether it is really Ahuramazda in the winged disc),26 the earth (into which the relief is carved), the sky (the lunar crescent and disc), humanity (the processing figures), peace-happiness (the fire altar), Darius. Creation, leading to the created order composed of the lands-peoples, is implied by the relief, in this reading. A final question to consider is the nature of the deity Ahuramazda within the Achaemenid theo-ideology. Herrenschmidt’s question of over thirty years ago is still pertinent: was Ahuramazda a universal deity within Achaemenid thought?27 Even at that time a careful distinction had to be made between local worship in Parsa and the theo-ideology of deity and kingship promulgated 22 23 24

Garrison, “By the Favor,” 57–58. See Mitchell, “Berlin Papyrus P. 13447.” Mark  B.  Garrison, The Ritual Landscape at Persepolis: The Glyptic Imagery from the Persepolis Fortification and Treasury Archives, SAOC  72 (Chicago: Oriental Institute, University of Chicago, 2017), 403; Garrison, “By the Favor,” 65. 25 Garrison, Ritual Landscape, 410–12. 26 Garrison, “Beyond Auramazdā” and the citations there. 27 Clarisse Herrenschmidt, “Aspects universalistes de la religion et de l’ideologie de Darius Ier,” in Orientalia Iosephi Tucci Memoriae Dicata, ed. Gherardo Gnoli and Lionello Lanciotti, Serie Orientale Roma 56 (Rome: Instituto Italiano per il Medio ed Estremo Oriente, 1987), 2:617–25.

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in the inscriptions and reliefs, and certainly more so now when the Persepolis Fortification and Treasury tablets have been studied in more detail. Note that what I term the “theo-ideology” of the Achaemenids is distinct from “religion,” which I see as relating to particular ethno-cultural groups. Since, as Herrenschmidt pointed out, even in the royal inscriptions Ahuramazda is occasionally called “the greatest of the gods,” the existence and potency of other deities is implied. Yet at the same time, she argued that Darius’s universal empire was justified by the nature of Ahuramazda as a universal deity.28 The universal deity of the universal king of the universal empire was Ahuramazda.29 The theo-ideology of the Achaemenids was imperializing and totalizing. 2.

Judahite Creation Theologies

What we know of Judahite creation theologies is only their refraction in biblical texts. We do not have epigraphic and iconographic materials similar to what is available for the Achaemenids—as scanty as they are! When approaching the biblical material, therefore, I think it is more fruitful first to focus on the models of creation rather than on specific texts. In the next section I will look at how various Judahite models of creation may relate to Achaemenid imperial creation theology, and then some specific texts. In this section I will be using the work of Mark Smith to outline three basic models of creation seen underlying a number of biblical texts and correlating these with four models of creation in the work of Othmar Keel and Sylvia Schroer.30 Using the criterion of verbs of creation (‫ )עשה יסר ברא‬Smith breaks down biblical texts that deal with creation into three groups: creation “texts” that describe creation using one of those verbs; creation “accounts” that include a narrative of creation; and creation “allusions” that mention creation only briefly. Drawing on these passages, he derives three models of creation: creation by divine power, creation by divine wisdom, and creation by divine presence. Creation by divine power may be seen in passages such as Pss 74:12–17 and 89:11–13, in which YHWH creates through victory over the forces of chaos. 28 Herrenschmidt, “Aspects,” 618 (n. 3), 621. 29 Amélie Kuhrt, “The Problem of Achaemenid ‘Religious Policy,’” in Die Welt der Götterbilder, ed. Brigitte Groneberg and Hermann Spieckermann, BZAW  376 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2007), 123. 30 Mark S. Smith, The Priestly Vision of Genesis 1 (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2009), 11–37; Othmar Keel and Sylvia Schroer, Creation: Biblical Theologies in the Context of the Ancient Near East (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2015), 77–107. Smith notes (p. 198, n. 4) that his scheme is close to that of Keel and Schroer in the original German version.

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Creation by divine wisdom may be seen in Ps 104 and Job 38:1–11, in which the deity functions as a divine craftsman. Creation by divine presence may be seen in Ps 8, in which the divine name or speech transforms a model of creation by divine power into creation of the cosmic temple through speech. While some of the above Psalms are usually dated to the period of the monarchy, and Ps 104 is broadly considered to be modelled on the Egyptian Hymn to the Aten, I am cautious about linking these creation models to particular times or places, or seeing them as part of a developmental scheme. There is even more reason to be cautious when we look at the four models that Keel and Schroer find across the broad span of ANE texts: creation by procreation; creation as handicraft; creation as battle; and creation as magic, command, and decree.31 Only the first is not seen in biblical texts, although Keel and Schroer do see reflexes of the first in some biblical texts (e.g. Gen 1:26–28; Ps 139).32 Creation as handicraft correlates with Smith’s creation by divine wisdom; creation as battle correlates with Smith’s creation by divine power; creation as magic, command, and decree correlates with Smith’s creation by divine presence. Since the ANE materials come from a range of times and places, we should consider the Judahite models to have commonalities with a broader eastern Mediterranean and Mesopotamian cultural milieu.33 Smith makes the argument that the Priestly vision of creation in Gen 1:1–2:3 is influenced by or participates most heavily in the model of creation by divine presence, although it also has elements of creation by divine power and slight hints of creation by divine wisdom. Importantly, “[t]he divine capacity to act is expressed not as power, for this God is God beyond all powers.”34 The acts that might have been expressed as acts of violence or power are instead expressed as acts of speech. There are no cosmic enemies. The cosmos is envisioned as the divine temple, mirrored by the human temple; priests play out their role as maintainers and sustainers of the cosmos.

31 32 33 34

Their analysis helpfully points to both differences and similarities between the cultural corpora and draws out similarities without being reductive to the similarities. Keel and Schroer, Creation, 84, 86. The usual comparison of Gen 1:1–2:3 with Mesopotamian texts such as Enuma Elish is summed up in David M. Carr, The Formation of Genesis 1–11: Biblical and Other Precursors (New York: Oxford University Press, 2020), 9–15. Smith, Priestly Vision, 109.

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Judahite Creation Theologies in an Achaemenid Context

First, I would like to recall my approach to comparison that I discussed briefly at the beginning of this essay. Comparison is local, messy, and attuned to differences just as much as to similarities. There do need to be grounds for comparison clearly expressed. The grounds for comparison in this case is the overarching political situation, where Yehud was a province of the Achaemenid Persian empire. As such, we might expect that there would be influence or impact of the imperial culture on the local culture, as post-colonial theory has posited. In the case of the Achaemenids, we have also to deal with the widespread notion in scholarship of a tolerant religious policy on the part of the Achaemenids. This is one of the instances where biblical scholarship—outside of the small group that has really engaged with the scholarship on the Achaemenids—has taken the claims of its own object of study at face value. A number of studies over the past twenty years on the part of Iranists and ancient historians have effectively demonstrated that the Achaemenids (or Persians more generally) were not any more or less tolerant of the cultic practices of their subject peoples than other large kingdoms or empires of the ancient world.35 It does seem to be the case that the Achaemenids did not promote or compel the worship of their deity Ahuramazda, but that may have had more to do with their notions of each land-people having its own cultural practices, including its own deity/ deities. One tiny piece of evidence that may suggest a kind of universalizing of the concept of deity in the Achaemenid empire is the use of the phrase “god of heaven” in the letter from the Judahite community in Elephantine to the Persian governor of Judah (TAD A4.7/8). That phrase could be interpreted by writers and recipients as appropriate for their own heavenly deity, however that deity might be named and understood. Further to the question of grounds for comparison, we have the problem that the Persian period lasted for two centuries, with conditions in Yehud changing during the period. As Louis Jonker has recently pointed out, it is problematic to treat the Persian period as an undifferentiated time frame for textual production in Yehud. He suggests that the later Persian period rather than earlier is more likely as a time when there could have been a more intensive text-production due to the increase in population.36 As I stated above, I 35 36

Kuhrt, “Problem”; see Bruce Lincoln, Religion, Empire, and Torture: The Case of Achaemenian Persia, with a Postscript on Abu Ghraib (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007) for a demonstration of how non-benevolent the Achaemenids were in their practices. Louis C. Jonker, “Chronicles in an (Un)Changing World: The ‘Persian Context’ in Biblical Studies,” JSOT 42 (2018): 277.

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do not think that we can develop a precise chronological framework for the models of creation lying behind biblical texts, but we should keep in mind that there could have been periods when a particular model was more politically palatable than another model. Returning to the Achaemenid creation formula, we can place it next to the biblical models of creation and to specific biblical texts. The different verbs used for the creation of earth-sky-humanity-peace as opposed to creation of Darius as king, I suggested above, might denote the difference between the cosmic act and the historical act.37 Looking at Gen 1:1–2:3, however, we see two verbs being used of God’s creative acts: ‫ ברא‬and ‫עשה‬, where ‫ ברא‬is used six times, and ‫ עשה‬is used eight times. The act of creating humanity, for example, uses both verbs, and so does the summary in 2:3. The two verbs clearly have different semantic ranges, because in the latter case the infinitive of ‫ ברא‬could have been used in a manner consistent with the repetitive use of the infinitive generally in Hebrew. Perhaps the two different verbs in the Achaemenid formula should not as easily be divided into “cosmic” and “historical” acts, and the entire formula be read instead as “cosmic.” This would be consistent with the iconography on the tomb reliefs, as recently re-interpreted. The commonplace dichotomy of “mythic” and “historical” thought in ANE studies has been problematized, among others, by Robert Kawashima. It is perhaps because of this commonplace that scholars have often seen a dichotomy between cosmogonic and historical acts as recounted in various ANE materials (including the Bible). Kawashima suggests that the P creation story in Gen 1 is an example of historicized creation (not his terms); he contrasts the Gen 1 story with Enuma Elish, although the Achaemenid creation formula is not like the Mesopotamian creation stories (see below).38 Of course, a major difference between the Achaemenid creation formula and Gen 1:1–2:3 is the length. The Achaemenid formula lists five creative acts, with only the creation of Darius as king being elaborated on; Gen 1:1–2:3 is considerably longer, with eight creative acts, most described in some detail, and most evaluated (as being “good” or, in the case of humanity, “very good”). The order and types of creation are also different: peace-for-humanity, for example, is not part of creation in Gen 1:1–2:3, and earth is created first in the Achaemenid formula. The major similarities are careful patterning or structure, and a “handsoff” approach. In these ways, the biblical model of creation through divine

37 38

See also Lincoln, Happiness for Mankind, 15. Robert  S.  Kawashima, “The Priestly Tent of Meeting and the Problem of Divine Transcendence: An ‘Archaeology’ of the Sacred,” JRel 86 (2006): 226–57.

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presence (or the broader ANE model of creation through magic, command, decree) is most consistent with the model in the Achaemenid formula.39 A second major difference between the Achaemenid creation formula and Gen 1:1–2:3 is genre. The Achaemenid formula is found in royal inscriptions, that is, in inscriptions that may begin with the creation formula but that then switch to the king himself speaking in the first person. The P creation text in Gen  1:1–2:3 is a literary account. However, we should consider that the Achaemenid formula is likely an epitome of longer, well-known, creation accounts, such as the kind found in Gen 1:1–2:3.40 A direct comparison between the two texts must take into consideration these differences and look at the model of creation that lies behind both of them. The model of creation by divine presence does seem to be applicable to both. The phrase at Elephantine that refers to a “god of heaven” may be related to the description of YHWH as “maker of heaven and earth” (‫)עשה שמים וארץ‬ in five places in Psalms, although the phrase at Elephantine is not necessarily cosmogonic, simply descriptive of the deity’s abode. All the occurrences in Psalms are in the last book of the Psalter (115:15, 121:2, 124:8, 134:3, 146:6). In these instances, YHWH’s creative power is linked with his ability to protect his people and bless them.41 Perhaps coincidentally, but still within our grounds for comparison, is the link between the Achaemenid creation formula and the protection formula usually found at the end of the same inscriptions; for example, “May Ahuramazda protect me and my house” at the end of DPh. The difference lies in what is protected: in the Achaemenid formula it is always the king and either his kingdom or his house (or both), but in the Psalms it is sometimes an individual (Pss 121, 134) and sometimes a collective (Pss 115, 124, 146). The phrase “heaven and earth” does not relate to kings when it does appear in the Hebrew Bible (39 times), but Dennis Tucker argues that this use of the phrase “maker of heaven and earth” is a political critique, placing YHWH as the most powerful entity (rather than the Achaemenid king), and as the one who has concern for the poor and oppressed.42 But it is critical to 39

40 41 42

See Jakob Wöhrle, “Abraham amidst the Nations: The Priestly Concept of Covenant and the Persian Imperial Ideology,” in Covenant in the Persian Period: From Genesis to Chronicles, ed. Richard J. Bautch and Gary N. Knoppers (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2015), 33–34. See Balcer, “Ancient Epic Conventions in the Bisitun Text” for an analysis of a different sort of epic conventions behind the Bisitun text. W. Dennis Tucker, Constructing and Deconstructing Power in Psalms 107–150 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014), 147–49. ‫ עזר‬is linked with the phrase in Pss 121, 124, 146, with ‫ ברך‬linked with Pss 115 and 134. Tucker, Constructing and Deconstructing, 194.

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note that YHWH and the Achaemenid king are not the analogues in a true comparative project (a mistake made in many of the analyses of biblical texts in an Achaemenid context), even if that is what it may look like from the perspective of the biblical text. That is, it is tempting to read biblical texts that place emphasis on YHWH’s mighty deeds and saving power as being a “writing back” against the power of the Achaemenid king. Instead, we should notice that in the Achaemenid formulas, it is the deity Ahuramazda who has the ultimate power to create and protect. That is what is similar. In an article in JBL in 2014, I suggested that there are two biblical texts that seem to reflect the Achaemenid creation formula: Zech 12:1–8 and Isa 42:5–6.43 Recently, Jason Silverman has extended that analysis in ways congruous with my analysis in this essay in order to examine creation in Isaiah 40–55 more broadly in an Achaemenid context.44 His analysis of the Achaemenid inscriptions comes to similar conclusions to my own; an important additional analysis places the Achaemenid creation formula in comparison with other creation texts of the ANE. He concludes that the Achaemenid creation formula is “rather unique in the manner of its formulation and emphases,” particularly as this vision of creation sees “creation for humanity rather than humanity for the gods … [s]omething new is going on in the Achaemenid creation prologues.”45 He goes on to argue that one of the dominating characteristics of YHWH in Isa 40–55 is his nature as a creator god rather than a warrior god. Because the warrior creator god is a preeminent feature of both Babylonian cosmogonies and older Judahite cosmogonies (as per certain Psalms, above), Isa 40–55 draws on and subverts that warrior god feature from the older Judahite traditions to contrast with Babylonian cosmogonies. At the same time as the contrast is made with the Babylonian traditions, the new Judahite creation theology “is remarkably similar to imperial [Achaemenid] presentations of the same.”46 43 44

45 46

Mitchell, “Creation Formula.” Jason  M.  Silverman, Persian Royal-Judaean Elite Engagements in the Early Teispid and Achaemenid Empire: The King’s Acolytes, LHBOTS 690 (London: T&T Clark, 2020), esp. 89–117. My thanks to Dr. Silverman for providing an advance copy of the monograph. We have been conversation partners for many years, and the reader of this essay who then reads his monograph (or vice versa) will find them congenial. Silverman, King’s Acolytes, 101, 107. Silverman, King’s Acolytes, 109. An article by Tina Nilsen compares Isa  40–48 with Zoroastrian and Babylonian creation theologies in an attempt (at least in part) to provide a context for the biblical passage. However, her equation of Achaemenid ideology with Zoroastrianism is not sufficiently nuanced (and relies too much on the scholarship of biblical scholars not adequately engaged with Achaemenid studies). So indeed Isa 40–48 may not have parallels with Zoroastrian thought, but that does not solve the question of whether it has parallels with Achaemenid thought. See Tina Dykesteen Nilsen, “Creation

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Silverman suggests that this similarity may be used to date Isa  40–55, but I am less sanguine about that possibility, or his argument that the text was created in Babylon. Importantly, Silverman does not suggest that this refraction of Achaemenid creation theology was a form of subversion or mimicry in the post-colonial sense. Instead, it is an adaptation, allowing Babylonian Judahite elites to accommodate their deity to the new Achaemenid order.47 Mark Brett argues that Isaiah’s depiction of YHWH’s rule is modeled on Achaemenid administration in a way that both co-opts that administrative structure and resists it.48 The contrast between Silverman’s and Brett’s approaches is representative of a larger problem within studies of postcolonial literature: when is an adaptation or mimicry an act of resistance, and when is it assimilation to imperial norms? In the case of the cosmogonies in Zechariah and Isaiah, this adaptation is an inherently political act, as were all cosmogonies in the ancient world. It does not matter if the warrior god rips apart the chaos-monster to create the cosmos or if he speaks that cosmos into existence: it is political. Turning to texts that are explicitly placed in the Persian period, Neh 9:6–8 provides an example of a creation text that is then linked to the choice of Abraham as the one who was led out from “Ur of the Chaldeans” and with whom YHWH made a covenant: “You yourself made the heavens, the highest heavens, and all their host; the earth and all that is upon it; the seas and all that is in them … You are YHWH, the god who chose Abraham …” The language here is the simple creational language of “make” (‫ )עשה‬rather than specialized creational language as we see in Isaiah or Zechariah, and the creation is tripartite: heavens, earth, and seas. The choice of Abraham (rather than, say, David) either makes Abraham into a royal figure, or de-links creation from kingship. At the same time, the choice of Abraham is framed in covenantal terms, a covenant that is then explicated and elaborated upon in the rest of the historical recital in Neh 9. These are all significant differences from the Achaemenid creation formula.49 in Collision? Isaiah 40–48 and Zoroastrianism, Babylonian Religion and Genesis 1,” JHS 13.8 (2013). 47 As I noted above, a similar kind of adaptation may be seen in the use of the phrase “God of heaven” at Elephantine, although it is not cosmogonic. 48 Mark G. Brett, Locations of God: Political Theology in the Hebrew Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019), 89–92. 49 It is possible to argue that a covenantal relationship is implied between Ahuramazda and Darius, but not on the basis of the creation formula alone. See Christine Mitchell, “Achaemenid Persian Concepts Pertaining to Covenant and Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi,” in Covenant in the Persian Period: From Genesis to Chronicles, ed. Richard J. Bautch and Gary N. Knoppers (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2015), 291–306.

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Other texts set in the Persian period (Chronicles, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, in particular) do not speak explicitly about creation. There are significant connections between these texts and other aspects of Achaemenid ideology and administrative practices, but creation is not explicitly stated as an important part of YHWH’s nature.50 These three texts are temple-centered. While creation theologies may lie behind these temple texts, in much the same way as the P creation text of Gen 1:1–2:3 describes the building of the heavenly temple as a mirror for the earthly one,51 those theologies are implicit, not explicit. 4.

Conclusion

If creation stories were political stories, and creation theologies political theologies in the ANE, then we should expect to see political theology in the creation texts of the Bible. I used a careful and nuanced comparative approach, one based on a “grounds for comparison” not just of a broad ANE background, but of a specific scribal education process that led to the interplay of imperial and local literary cultures. Although the possibility exists that texts such as Gen 1:1–2:3 and Isa 40–55 were originally produced in Babylonia and brought from there to Yehud, I think it more likely that these texts are products of a Jerusalem-based scribal culture (or perhaps, early on in the Persian period, a Ramat Raḥel-based scribal culture).52 The Jerusalem-oriented nature of Isa  40–55 and Zech  12 suggests interplay in Yehud, though both texts have strong overtones of the Achaemenid creation formula. In this context, the model of creation in Gen 1:1–2:3, the creation formulas of Zech 12 and Isa 42, and the use of the descriptive phrase “maker of heaven and earth” for YHWH in Book 5 of the Psalms, all have resonances with the Achaemenid creation theology. As that theology was intensely political, so its appearance in biblical texts should also be considered as political. The creation theology of a deity who speaks an ordered creation into existence depends on the last result of its creative actions. In the Achaemenid creation theology, this was Darius (and 50

51 52

See Christine Mitchell, “The Testament of Darius (DNa/DNb) and Constructions of Kings and Kingship in 1–2 Chronicles,” in Political Memory in and after the Persian Empire, ed. Jason M. Silverman and Caroline Waerzeggers, ANEM 13 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2015), 363– 80; Mitchell, “Achaemenid Persian Concepts.” In his discussion of Zech  1–8, Silverman shows strong links between other aspects of the text and Achaemenid ideologies, but not creation. Silverman, King’s Acolytes, 121–63. Smith, Priestly Vision, 90–93. Christine Mitchell, “A Paradeisos at Ramat Rahel and the Setting of Zechariah,” Transeu 48 (2016): 77–91; Silverman, King’s Acolytes, 59.

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his successors). In the biblical texts this was humanity (Gen 1) or the Judahite people. Many studies have pointed to the transfer of Davidic or other royal promises to the people in a variety of biblical texts. This type of creation theology may be a broader political movement and should not be seen as a purely religious phenomenon. Our biblical texts that explicitly situate themselves in the Persian period— Chronicles, Ezra-Nehemiah, Haggai, Zech  1–8—are more concerned with temple and community-building than they are with creation theology. It may well be that these texts take a certain creation theology for granted (as perhaps expressed in Neh 9). It could be that the Achaemenid creation formula found more traction in Hebrew poetic texts: as we saw, it is highly structured and patterned. This is a question that merits further study. One final remark. The theo-ideology of the Achaemenids was imperializing and totalizing. The insights of post-colonial theorists in studying European imperialism have shown us that colonized peoples have both resisted and appropriated such discourse. Perhaps this was also the case in the ancient world. Whatever the specific dynamics might have been, the study of political theologies of the Hebrew Bible must take the imperialized context into consideration. In this essay, I have not tried to argue that Judahite creation theologies were a “writing-back” against the Achaemenids, although that is certainly one possible interpretation (see Jakob Wöhrle’s essay in this volume). There are commonalities and differences between the Achaemenid creation theology and Judahite creation theologies, and each set has its own cultural history and context. In the long run, however, it was the Judahite creation theology (especially of Gen 1) that became imperializing and totalizing, regardless of whether it began as a response to imperialism itself.53

53

I thank Tamara Eskenazi for her response during the seminar, as well as the other seminar participants; these responses improved this essay immensely. All remaining errors are my own.

Politics of Judahite Creation Theologies

Figure 2.1

Tomb of Darius I. From George Rawlinson, Seven Great Monarchies of the Ancient Eastern World, vol. 2 (New York, 1885). Digitized by Project Gutenberg (www.gutenberg.org).

41

Much More than Pilgrimage: A Materialist Reading of Zion Prophecies Petra Schmidtkunz It has become an observable practice, mainly in European and North American (Christian) exegesis, to identify a selection of biblical prophecies as oracles about “the nations’ pilgrimage to Zion.” These are defined as comprising some, or all, of the following texts: Isa 2:2–4/Mic 4:1–3; Isa 45:14–25; 49:22–26; 56:1–7; 60; 66; Zeph 3:9–20; Hag 2:6–9; Zec 2:14–17; 8:20–23; 14:16–21. The passages in question represent relatively late strata in the books of Isaiah as well as the corpus of the twelve Minor Prophets, and they are usually dated at least to the Persian period. As regards their content, they do indeed depict foreign nations as flocking to Jerusalem. Since they include people and peoples of different origin among the followers of Israel’s god, they allegedly testify to the authors’ matured monotheistic outlook. According to this view, the prophecies were written to convey the idea (or the ideal!) of a multi-ethnic religious assembly in Jerusalem, a peaceful gathering in the name of YHWH that would transcend national boundaries for the sake of joint worship.1 It is, however, worthwhile noting that those coming to Jerusalem from different and faraway places are by no means only occupied with the veneration of YHWH. Reverence for the deity, who is said to be residing on Zion, is * My research for this article was supported by the Minerva Foundation. 1 See, e.g., Antonin Causse, “Le mythe de la nouvelle Jérusalem du Deutero-Esaie à la IIIe Sibylle,” Revue d’Histoire et de Philosophie religieuses 18 (1938): 377–414; Beate Ego, “Vom Völkerchaos zum Völkerkosmos. Zu einem Aspekt der Jerusalemer Kultkonzeption,” in Ich will dir danken unter den Völkern. Studien zur israelitischen und altorientalischen Gebetsliteratur, ed. Alexandra Grund, Bernd Krüger and Florian Lippke (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2013), 123–41; ead., “Jerusalem and the Nations. ‘Center and Periphery’ in the Zion Tradition,” in Centres and Peripheries in the Early Second Temple Period, FAT 108, ed. Ehud Ben Zvi and Christoph Levin (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 333–46; Volker Haarmann, JHWH-Verehrer der Völker. Die Hinwendung von Nichtisraeliten zum Gott Israels in alttestamentlichen Überlieferungen, ATANT 91 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag, 2008); Rüdiger Lux, Prophetie und Zweiter Tempel, FAT 65 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009); Michael P. Maier, Völkerwallfahrt im Jesajabuch, BZAW 474 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2006); Gerhard von Rad, “Die Stadt auf dem Berge,” EvTh 8 (1948/9): 439–47; Helmut Schmidt, Israel, Zion und die Völker. Eine motivgeschichtliche Untersuchung zum Verständnis des Universalismus im Alten Testament (Marburg: Görich & Weiershäuser, 1968); Jacques Vermeylen, Jérusalem centre du monde. Développements et contestations d’une tradition biblique (Paris: Cerf, 2007), 145–226; Hans Wildberger, “Die Völkerwallfahrt zum Zion. Jes. II 1–5,” VT 7 (1957): 62–81.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/978365

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43

a recurring and perhaps the most striking aspect in these texts. But the many nations are, in fact, engaged in a number of diverse activities. Thus, we are told that the foreigners will receive orders from YHWH, that they will be judged according to his law, that they shall bring tribute and serve the inhabitants as well as the city of Jerusalem with specific tasks and that they are meant to escort the children of Israel home from the dispersion. This plethora of actions can hardly be conceived of as a purely religious enterprise. Instead, a more nuanced treatment of the texts’ overall message is in order. To this end, in what follows, I will closely look at what the foreign peoples are supposed to do at Zion, and then demonstrate what these dealings can tell us about the biblical authors’ convictions and aspirations. Although it seems likely that the variety of themes in the pericopes is, at least partly, due to a more or less retrievable process of editing, I shall not be overly concerned with matters of textual growth here. This is a deliberate choice in order to focus on the clearly discernible overall pattern in the received prophecies, i.e., a specific constellation of themes and shared locutions. 1.

What the Nations are Expected to Do at Zion

Aiming at the full picture of what the prophetical texts expect the nations to do at Mt. Zion, we may still begin with the religious, or more accurately, the cultic behavior that is envisioned. As we shall see, this is in itself diverse, with a broad variety of actions taking place. Yet the scenario becomes even more intriguing when we move on to examining the more mundane occupations which are described alongside the devotional tasks. 1.1 Worship In all of the prophecies cited above, named and unnamed foreign nations are depicted not only as knowing (of) YHWH but as actively drawing near to him.2 Importantly, with regard to the classification of the texts, the place where YHWH is sought is invariably “Zion.” Although this name is not always used, directly or indirectly we are referred to Zion in its different geographical senses. Occasionally, the texts even personify Zion, yet without losing the notion of a toponym. That is to say, all the texts talk about either the Temple Mount or the 2 The identity of those nations seems to be irrelevant. If their names are given, they nearly always depend on earlier lists, compare Isa  60:6–7 with Gen  25:2–4, 13, or Isa  66:19 with Ezek 27:10–13, or Zeph 3:10 with Jer 46:9; Ezek 29:10; 30:4, 5, 9. In any case, the obvious goal is to create the impression of an all-embracing sphere of influence.

44

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city of Jerusalem,3 or both (often in parallelism),4 while “Zion,” when used, may signify either. Sometimes the temple (YHWH’s house or dwelling) is also explicitly mentioned.5 Only in Hag 2, neither the city nor the hill is denoted because the sole focus is on the temple, called “this house” (Hag 2:7, 9: ‫הבית‬ ‫)הזה‬, which is of course also located in Jerusalem. At first glance therefore, the term “pilgrimage to Zion” seems to be appropriate, and even more justified since almost in every passage, typical and unambiguous worship terminology is found: to go up to YHWH’s temple or to Jerusalem (Isa 2:3/Mic 4:2; Zec 14:16– 19: ‫)עלה אל‬, to turn to YHWH (Isa 45:22: ‫)פנה אל‬,6 to seek and to entreat YHWH (Zec 8:21–22: ‫ חלה‬piel, ‫ בקׁש‬piel), to call upon YHWH’s name (Zeph 3:9: ‫קרא‬ ‫)בׁשם יהוה‬, to join YHWH (Isa 56:3, 6; Zech 2:15: ‫ לוה אל\על־יהוה‬niphal), to love YHWH’s name (Isa 56:6: ‫)אהב את־ׁשם יהוה‬, (to say) prayer (Isa 56:7: ‫)תפלה‬, to bow down before YHWH (Isa 66:23; Zec 14:16–17: ‫)הׁשתחוה לפני\ל‬, (to have) every knee bend before YHWH (Isa 45:23: ‫)כרע כל־ברך ל‬, (to keep) silent before YHWH (Zec 2:17: ‫)הס מפני יהוה‬, (to offer) sacrifices (Isa 56:7: ‫ ; עולות וזבחים‬60:7: ‫ ;צאן ואילים‬Zec 14:21: ‫)זבח‬, to keep the Sabbath (Isa 56:2, 4, 6: ‫)ׁשמר ׁשבת‬, to celebrate the Festival of Booths (Zec 14:16. 18–19: ‫)חגג את־חג הסוכות‬, to serve YHWH (Isa 56:6: ‫ ׁשרת‬piel, ‫ ;היה לעבדים‬Zeph 3:9: ‫)עבד‬, to praise YHWH (Isa 60:6: ‫בׂשר‬ ‫ תהלת יהוה‬piel), to see and to proclaim (YHWH’s) glory (Isa 66:18–19: ‫;ראה כבוד‬ Isa 66:19: ‫ נגד כבוד‬hiphil). Curiously enough, none of these expressions appears in more than two distinct prophecies. And what is more, several times a similar idea is expressed in different terms, for example the different wording in Isa 56:6 and Zeph 3:9 for “to serve” YHWH. The terminology for sacrifices in Isa 56:7; Isa 60:7; and Zec 14:21 is even more diverse. This apparent lack of verbal uniformity seems noteworthy with respect to the common understanding of the nations’ “pilgrimage” as a motif. I shall come back to this problem in the concluding section (3. Re-evaluating Pilgrimage). 3 For Zion as the hill see Isa 2:3/Mic 4:2; for Zion as the city see Isa 49:14 (as a point of reference also for Isa 49:22–26); Isa 60:14; Isa 66:8; Zeph 3:14, 16; Zec 2:14; Zec 8:2–3 (as points of reference also for Zec 8:20–23). Without using the name “Zion,” the city Jerusalem is signified in Isa 45:13 (‫עירי‬: “my city,” as a point of reference also for Isa 45:14); Isa 60:10–11, 18 (mentioning walls and gates); Isa 66:6 (‫עיר‬: “city”); Zec 2:16; Zec 8:22; Zec 14:16–17, 21. The Temple Mount is mentioned in Isa 2:2/Mi 4:1 (‫הר בית יהוה‬: “mountain of the house of YHWH”); Isa 56:7 (‫הר קדׁשי‬: “mountain of my holiness”); Zeph 3:11 (‫הר קדׁשי‬: “mountain of my holiness”). 4 See Isa 2:3/Mic 4:2; Isa 60:14; Isa 66:20. 5 See Isa 2:2–3/Mic 4:1–2; Isa 56:5, 7; Isa 60:7, 13; Isa 66:6, 20; Hag 2:7, 9; Zec 2:17; Zec 14:20–21. 6 In Isa 60:5, ‫ הפך‬niphal is used to designate the same action but this verb is never used elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible in that sense.

Much More than Pilgrimage

45

Furthermore, in the above list of reverential deeds, Isa 49:22–26 and Hag 2:6–9 do not appear. Although what is said in Isa 49:22–26a apparently entails YHWH’s universal recognition by “all flesh” (Isa 49:26b: ‫)כל־בׂשר‬,7 foreign nations are not portrayed as paying homage to him, but to Zion. Isa 49:23 assumes that “kings” (‫ )מלכים‬and “noblewomen” (‫ )ׂשרות‬will “bow down before” her (‫ )הׁשתחוה ל‬and “lick the dust of [her] feet” (‫ לחך עפר רגלים‬piel) to the effect that, first of all, Zion will recognize YHWH’s power to bring about such marvelous things. It is important to point out how closely YHWH’s fame and Zion’s wellbeing are connected in this particular passage, as those have done who subsumed it under the heading of “pilgrimage” texts.8 Yet beyond that, it seems worthwhile pondering what this intricate relationship between Zion and YHWH implies for Zion’s footing vis-à-vis the nations. Below, we shall see more examples like this and dwell on the phenomenon for a little longer, when discussing Bringing gifts and tribute (1.2) and Other tasks on behalf of Zion and her children (1.4). The reason that Hag 2:6–9 is habitually counted among the “pilgrimage prophecies” is because “the treasure of all the nations” (‫חמדת כל־‬ ‫ )הגוים‬is mentioned and said to “come” (‫ )בוא‬to YHWH’s temple, according to Hag 2:7.9 However, this “treasure” is equated with silver and gold, and explicitly claimed by YHWH as his due share in the following verse (Hag 2:8) which reads: “Mine is the silver and mine is the gold, declaration of YHWH of hosts” (‫)לי הכסף ולי הזהב נאם יהוה צבאות‬. On these grounds, it makes more sense to file Hag 2:7–8 under a different heading: gifts and tributes to be brought to Jerusalem by foreign nations. 1.2 Bringing Gifts and Tribute Nearly half of our texts (five out of eleven) predict that foreign nations will bring gifts or tribute to Jerusalem, although not always to YHWH’s temple specifically. Like Hag 2:7, where YHWH makes a speech about the splendor 7 The half-verse, concluding the whole passage, reads in full: […] ‫וידעו כל־בׂשר כי אני יהוה‬ ‫ ]…[“( מוׁשיעך וגאלך אביר יעקב‬then all flesh will know that I am YHWH, your saviour and your redeemer, Jacob’s mighty one”). 8 See e.g., Hans-Jürgen Hermisson, Deuterojesaja  3. Teilband. Jes 49,14–55,13, BKAT XI/3 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2017), 57 (but note also ibid., 73!); Maier, Völkerwallfahrt, 304–16; Gary Stansell, “The Nations’ Journey to Zion: Pilgrimage and Tribute as Metaphor in the Book of Isaiah,” in The Desert Will Bloom. Poetic Visions in Isaiah, ed. A. Joseph Everson and Hyun Chul Paul Kim, AIL 4 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2009), 233–55. 9 See e.g., Martin Hallaschka, Haggai und Sacharja  1–8. Eine redaktionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung, BZAW 411 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011), 68; Carol L. Meyers and Eric M. Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, AB 25B (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1987), 53; Hans Walter Wolff, Haggai, BKAT XIV/6 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1986), 61.

46

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of his rebuilt temple, Zeph 3:10 in the shorter original version10 quotes YHWH as awaiting tribute for himself from afar (‫] יובלון מנחתי‬...[ ‫מעבר לנהרי־כוׁש‬: “From beyond the streams of Cush […] they will carry my tribute”). In contrast, three passages in Deutero-Isaiah put a lot of emphasis on the foreign goods and riches which a personified Zion shall benefit from: In Isa 45 and 60, YHWH speaks to Zion, addressing her in an encouraging way and promising her future glory. Isa 66 is mainly formulated as divine speech about Zion in the third person but occasionally turns to her inhabitants. It then likewise has YHWH assure them a bright and prosperous future, thanks to the assets to be transported thither from outside the land. Yet in each case, the prospect of the Jerusalemites getting wealthy is firmly tied to YHWH himself being present in their midst, residing in his city. In Isa 45:14, Egypt, Cush and Saba bring their fortunes to Jerusalem precisely because this is where they know YHWH to be.11 Isa 60 and 66, however, mostly alternate statements about Zion’s and YHWH’s profit. Isa 60:5–6, 11 allot Zion “the abundance of the sea” (Isa 60:5 :‫)המון ים‬, “the wealth of the nations” (Isa 60:5, 11: ‫ )חיל גוים‬and, more specifically, a multitude of camels, gold and frankincense from Midian, Ephah and Sheba (Isa 60:6), while Isa 60:9 points out how the islands and the ships of Tarshish are eager to offer their silver and gold to YHWH, the holy One of Israel. In contradistinction to this division between gifts for the city and gifts for the god, YHWH clarifies in Isa 60:13 that the different types of precious wood from Lebanon will arrive in Jerusalem only to serve as decoration for his temple.12 Likewise, in Isa 66:12 “the glory of nations” (‫ )כבוד גוים‬is foretold to be streaming to Jerusalem for the sake of her inhabitants, but when their brethren “from amongst all the nations” (‫ )מכל־הגוים‬will be taken home to Zion, on horseback, in chariots and per litter, this glorious procession will be a “tribute” (‫ )מנחה‬to YHWH, according to Isa 66:20. The idea that the children of Israel will be offered to YHWH as a gift is conceptually odd. Yet it is found several times in the so-called “pilgrimage prophecies” as we shall see next.

10

See LXX: ἐκ περάτων ποταμῶν Αἰθιοπίας οἴσουσιν θυσίας μοι (“From the boundaries of the rivers of Ethiopia they will carry my offerings”) and e.g., Hubert Irsigler, Zefanja, HThKAT (Freiburg i.Br.: Herder, 2002), 369–71, 376–81. I include this example in an otherwise synchronic discussion because the received Masoretic text does not seem to reflect a wholistic re-working vis-à-vis the version which LXX testifies to, but an insular gloss. 11 Isa 45:14b: ‫“( ואליך יׁשתחוו אליך יתפללו אך בך אל ואין עוד אפס אלהים‬and before you they shall bow down and supplicate: ‘Only with you is [a] god and there is no other, [the] gods are nothing’”). 12 Similarly, Isa 60:7 says that the animals gathering in Jerusalem will end up as sacrifices on YHWH’s altar.

Much More than Pilgrimage

47

1.3 Returning and Nursing the Children of Israel The expanded wording of Zeph 3:10 MT reads, somewhat awkwardly: ‫מעבר‬ ‫לנהרי־כוׁש עתרי בת־פוצי יובלון מנחתי‬. It might be translated as: “From beyond the streams of Cush, my worshippers, the daughter of my dispersed, shall carry my tribute.” Another possible translation is: “From beyond the streams of Cush, they shall carry my worshippers, the daughter of my dispersed as my tribute.” Quite obviously, the latter forms a close parallel to Isa 66:20: ‫והביאו‬ ‫“( את־כל־אחיכם מכל־הגוים מנחה ליהוה‬And they shall bring all your brothers from amongst all the nations as a tribute to YHWH”). But two other Deutero-Isaianic passages (in Isa 49; 60) also anticipate that Zion’s sons and daughters will be escorted home from the dispersion after YHWH has exerted his authority and impressed those nations who would formerly have oppressed Israel (see Isa 49:22; 60:4, 9). An additional task fulfilled by the foreign nations, at times through their kings (!) and queens, is to nurse the children of Israel, Zion’s children. In all three Isaianic prophecies cited (Isa  49:22–26; 60; 66), we come across this notion, once in direct combination with the return of the dispersed sons and daughters (see Isa 49:22–23). In the two other passages, nursing and holding Zion’s children (probably those who have been living in Jerusalem all along) seems like an ancillary service, imposed on those who do not originally belong there (see Isa 60:16; 66:12). 1.4 Other Tasks on Behalf of Zion and Her Children Other than providing childcare, the foreign nations coming to Zion in Isa 60 will also be demanded to help “build (her) walls” (Isa 60:10: ‫ )בנה חמת‬and to simply “serve” her (Isa 60:10: ‫ ׁשרת‬piel, of their “kings;” Isa 60:12: ‫עבד‬, of the “nation” and the “kingdom”).13 More than that, as we have seen in Isa 49:23, the nations are required “to bow down” (‫ )הׁשתחוה‬before a personified city also in Isa 60:14 and Isa 45:14. In this last verse, the foreigners from Egypt, Cush and Sheba are even pictured as “supplicating” before Jerusalem (Isa 45:14: ‫פלל‬ hithpael). Without any doubt, the language in all three passages is reminiscent of the terminology that is used, here and elsewhere, to describe appropriate worship before YHWH (‫ׁשרת‬, ‫ עבד‬piel: “to serve;” ‫הׁשתחוה‬: “to bow down;” ‫ פלל‬hithpael: “to supplicate”). This means that Zion/Jerusalem is presented as deserving of the nations’ reverence and awe, not only because it is the place where YHWH is residing, but as a subject in its own right. 13 Isa 60:12 is phrased in the negative: ‫כי־הגוי והממלכה אׁשר לא־יעבדוך יאבדו והגוים חרב‬ ‫“( יחרבו‬For the nation and the kingdom who will not serve you shall perish, and the nations, laid waste, they shall be laid waste”).

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1.5 Receiving Divine Order(s) The activities discussed so far were for the most part to be performed by the foreign nations without any concrete reference to the action or reaction of the other affected party (namely the deity, the people or the city of Jerusalem). But a veritable two-way dynamic can be detected in the sphere of law and order: nations turn to YHWH for instruction (and edification!)—and he sends forth his word/justice/orders. Or the other way round: because YHWH reaches out to the nations, they turn and appear before him, listening and being subject to his judgment. The majority of the prophetic passages under scrutiny truly deal with some sort of magisterial authority, executed by YHWH from Zion.14 In the “doubled prophecy”15 of Isa 2:2–4/Mic 4:1–3, “peoples” (‫ )עמים‬and “nations” (‫)גוים‬, apparently without being summoned, call on YHWH in order to receive from him general advice on how to lead their lives.16 And it is assumed that he will positively teach them godly behavior by sending out from Zion his “instruction and the word of YHWH” (Isa 2:3/Mic 4:2: ‫)תורה ודבר־יהוה‬. But his conduct, according to the following verse (Isa 2:4/Mic 4:3), also involves proper juridical action as he will “judge” (‫ )ׁשפט‬and “arbitrate” (‫ יכח‬hiphil) between those who initially came up to him. As a consequence, they will famously “beat their swords into plowshares” and “not learn war any more.”17 Whether the ending of warfare is the effect of YHWH’s verdict (i.e., his reining back the belligerent nations’ innate propensity)18 or rather follows from the insight gained by the nations thanks to YHWH’s teaching, peace is seen as conditional upon YHWH’s intervention. In other prophecies, YHWH is portrayed as holding sway in an overtly militant way. Isa 45:14–25; 49:22–26; 66 highlight his being a fair and powerful 14

There is a significant overlap between the spheres of “law and order” and “worship,” see e.g., Isa 49 where the devote behaviour of the nations (v.22b) seems to follow YHWH’s calling (v.22a) and thus to have overtones of a penalty, too (see the verdict in v.25–26). For further discussion see below 3. Re-evaluating Pilgrimage. 15 Thus in a paper by Reinhard Müller, “Doubled Prophecy: The Pilgrimage of the Nations in Mic 4:1–5 and Isa 2:1–5,” in Changes in Scripture, ed. Hanne von Weissenberg, Juha Pakkala and Marko Marttila, BZAW 419 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011), 177–91. 16 Isa 2:3 [Mic 4:2]: ‫“( וי[ו]רנו מדרכיו ונלכה בארחתיו‬that he may teach us of his ways and we shall walk in his paths”). 17 Isa 2:4: ‫וכתתו חרבותם לאתים וחניתותיהם למזמרות לא־יׂשא גוי אל־גוי חרב ולא־ילמדו עוד‬ ‫ …“( מלחמה‬and they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning knives, a nation shall not lift a sword against a nation and they shall not learn war any more”) and with minor spelling differences Mic 4:3: ‫וכתתו חרבתיהם לאתים וחניתתיהם‬ ‫למזמרות לא־יׂשאו גוי אל־גוי חרב ולא־ילמדון עוד מלחמה‬. 18 See below for a comparison with Isa 60:17 where peace seems to be achieved after YHWH has punished the formerly oppressing nations (Isa 60:12).

Much More than Pilgrimage

49

judge in conjunction with the punishment which awaits his adversaries. In these texts, the foreign nations do not seem to seek out YHWH on their own initiative, like they do in Isa 2/Mic 4, but to follow his calling. While Isa 45:22 quotes YHWH’s appeal to “all the ends of the earth” (‫)כל־אפסי־ארץ‬, both Isa 49 and Isa 66 use the imagery of a “signal” (Isa 49:22: ‫ )נס‬or a “sign” (Isa 66:19: ‫)אות‬ which is raised to the nations to make them aware of YHWH. But YHWH’s call effectively turns out to be a summons to court with harsh chastisements meted out to those who do not acknowledge his sovereignty. This sovereignty comprises his “justice” (Isa 45:19: ‫ ;צדק‬45:23: ‫ ;צדקה‬45:24: ‫)צדקות‬, “power” (Isa 45:24: ‫)עז‬,19 “glory” (Isa 66:18.19: ‫)כבוד‬, in short, his capacity to decide who must be “saved” (Isa 45:17.22: ‫ יׁשע‬niphal; 45:21; 49:25: ‫ יׁשע‬hiphil) and who is “put to shame” (Isa 45:16, 17, 24; 49:23; 66:5: ‫)בוש‬.20 ׁ Severe punishment is also announced in Isa 60; Zeph 3:9–20; and Zec 14:16– 21 to the nations who fail to approach Jerusalem with humility. This might be the case if they refused to “serve” Zion (see Isa 60:12: ‫ )עבד‬or even continued to “humble” her (see Zeph 3:19: ‫ ענה‬piel) or if they were unwilling to “go up” and join in the adoration of YHWH which was to take place at the temple in Jerusalem (see Zec 14:17–19: ‫)עלה‬. In contrast to this, Isa 56:1–7 puts all emphasis on those individuals “from foreign lands” (Isa 56:3: ‫ ;בן־הנכר‬56:6: ‫)בני הנכר‬ who do adhere to YHWH’s stipulations (of maintaining justice as well as keeping the Sabbath and the Covenant) and will therefore be well-received in his temple and among his people in Jerusalem (Isa 56:3, 7). One more aspect to be considered in this context, is the assumption in several prophecies that the impact of YHWH’s juridical agency will become widely discernible in Zion and even beyond. Isa 45:19 cites YHWH as someone who is literally not speaking “under cover” (‫ )בסתר‬but in the open for everyone to hear. In Isa 49 and Isa 66, the two passages which make mention of a “sign” or “signal” to the nations, it is also affirmed that YHWH’s deeds will eventually be known to “all flesh” (Isa 49:26; 66:24 ‫)כל־בׂשר‬. According to Isa 60, after the unruly nations have been punished (Isa 60:12), “peace” (‫ )ׁשלום‬and “justice” (‫ )צדקה‬shall reign in the city of Jerusalem (Isa 60:17) causing YHWH’s people to flourish (Isa 60:20–22). As in Isa 2:4/Mic 4:3, the ultimate goal of YHWH’s dealings with the foreign peoples seems to be to establish peace. In Isa 60, it is clear however, that the expectation to refrain from warfare specifically pertains to those who would previously have been attacking Zion. Similarly in Zeph 3:19–20, YHWH’s sentence against those who “humble” (Zeph 3:19: ‫ענה‬ 19 20

Compare the appellative “Jacob’s mighty one” (‫ )אביר יעקב‬in Isa 49:26. See also Isa 66:14: ‫“( ונודעה יד־יהוה את־עבדיו וזעם את־איביו‬And YHWH’s hand shall be known with his servants and he shall be indignant with his enemies”).

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piel) Zion will result in a form of well-being for Zion and her inhabitants being praised by “all peoples of the earth” (Zeph 3:20: ‫)כל עמי הארץ‬. 2.

The Place that Awaits the Nations

Contemplating what the foreign nations are expected to do at Zion, we are almost naturally led to (re)consider the significance of the place where it all happens—or is supposed to happen. In spite of the texts’ differing geographical references, which might be understood in the sense of concentric circles (the temple, YHWH’s mountain, the city of Jerusalem), a few recurrent aspects are notable. Most obviously in Isa 2:2–4/Mic 4:1–3, “YHWH’s mountain” (Isa 2:3/Mic 4:2: ‫ )הר־יהוה‬and the “house (of Jacob’s god)” that stands on it (Isa 2:3/Mic 4:2: ‫בית‬ ‫)אלהי יעקב‬21 are delineated as an exalted place of wisdom and judgment, towering above all other authority, both physically22 and morally.23 But in other passages, too, Zion (together with YHWH’s temple) is portrayed as a unique locality. Apart from Isa 2/Mic 4, two prophecies in the books of the Minor Prophets use particularly graphic language: in Hag 2:7–9, YHWH describes his old and new temple as a place of splendid pomp,24 where he shall “give peace/ welfare/prosperity” (Hag 2:9: ‫)אתן ׁשלום‬. The imagery in Zec 2:14–17 is hardly less spectacular, calling Judah’s soil “holy ground” (Zec 2:16: ‫ )אדמת הקדׁש‬on which YHWH has established his “dwelling” (Zec 2:17: ‫)מעון‬, the place whence he is about to “rise” (ibid.: ‫ עור‬niphal). At the beginning of Isa 66, the need and even the legitimacy of a worldly “house” for YHWH is denied,25 thereby seemingly contradicting the view that the temple in Jerusalem was a place of special interest. However, Isa 66:6 then refers to YHWH’s clamorous voice emanating from the temple and “rendering retribution to his enemies” (‫)מׁשלם גמול לאיביו‬. This verse thus confirms that YHWH himself is the only one to secure his 21 22 23 24

25

See also Isa 2:2/Mic 4:1: ‫“( הר בית־יהוה‬the mountain of the house of YHWH”). See Isa 2:2 [Mic 4:1]: ‫“( בראׁש ההרים ונׂשא [הוא] מגבעות‬at the top of the mountains and raised above the hills”). See Isa 2:3/Mic 4:2: ‫“( כי מציון תצא תורה‬for from Zion instruction goes out”). The word ‫“( כבוד‬honour”/“splendour”/“glory”) occurs twice (Hag 2:7, 9). Although it can otherwise denote an immaterial (divine) quality, here, in conjunction with the “treasure of all the nations” (Hag 2:7: ‫ )חמדת כל־הגוים‬and the “silver” and “gold” mentioned in Hag 2:8, it is surely to be understood in a very material sense. See Isa 66:1: ‫כה אמר יהוה הׁשמים כסאי והארץ הדם רגלי אי־זה בית אׁשר תבנו־לי ואי־זה‬ ‫“( מקום מנוחתי‬Thus has YHWH said: ‘The heavens are my throne and the earth is the stool of my feet. What kind of house is this which you would build for me and what kind of place for my rest?’”).

Much More than Pilgrimage

51

authority in his chosen city. In a less anthropomorphic manner, Isa 60 tells of Zion as being flooded by YHWH’s “light” (Isa 60:1.3.19.20: ‫ )אור‬and “glory” (Isa 60:1–2: ‫ )כבוד‬which will not only attract foreigners but also be enhanced precisely through the “glory” (Isa 60:13) they will bring to Jerusalem. Interestingly, this concept is also found in Isa 66 and Hag 2: all three texts stress the “glory”26 which YHWH has already instilled in Jerusalem and will sustain by his enduring presence, while at the same time presaging how Zion’s beauty and the temple’s splendor will be magnified by the gifts (also called “glory,” among other things)27 from foreign lands. Finally, the distinguished status of Zion/Jerusalem as a locality is twice underlined by identifying him who rules in, over and from it as “king,” see Zeph 3:15 (‫מלך יׂשראל יהוה‬: “the king of Israel, YHWH”); Zec 14:16.17 (‫מלך יהוה צבאות‬: “king YHWH of hosts”). 3.

Re-evaluating Pilgrimage, or: What the Audience is Expected to Think about Zion

It has turned out that the catch phrase “pilgrimage of the nations” is not the most appropriate way to express what the prophecies in Isa 2:2–4/Mic 4:1–3; Isa 45:14–25; 49:22–26; 56:1–7; 60; 66; Zeph 3:9–20; Hag 2:6–9; Zec 2:14–17; 8:20– 23; 14:16–21 have in common. Although it is true that they all picture how foreign nations will come to Zion/Jerusalem with positive (i.e., non-belligerent) intentions, none of the texts seems to have a particular interest in the foreign nations as such, nor even in their relationship with YHWH as (their) god. Instead, worshipping the deity is but one aspect of what happens in Jerusalem. It remains to understand what the ancient authors/editors wanted to communicate to their contemporary audience through this imagination. And here is where a materialist approach to the prophecies proves helpful: “As [a] form of ideological criticism, materialist or political criticism views texts principally as productions, as objects created, like other physical products, at a certain historical juncture within a social and economic matrix.”28 Significantly, materialist criticism does not only serve to reconstruct the writers’ material living conditions—a concern it obviously shares with historical criticism. Well 26 For ‫ כבוד‬in this sense see also Isa 66:11, 18–19. Besides, Hag 2:7, 9 even seems to admix the two kinds of “glory” (stemming from YHWH and the nations) which are still kept separate in Isa 60 and 66, only to be seen together in the reader’s mind. 27 See Isa 60:13; 66:12. For Haggai see the previous footnote. 28 David  J.A.  Clines, “Materialist/Political Criticism,” in Hebrew Bible/Old Testament. The History of Its Interpretation, ed. Magne Sæbø (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2015), 3.2:164.

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beyond this, it seeks to uncover the writers’ affiliation with power structures.29 In line with this, I do not think that the biblical writers were driven merely by abstract thoughts and ideals, like monotheism or universal peace. Even if they were determined to persuade their audience to give glory only to YHWH (rather than to anyone else, be it another deity or king), they were probably hoping to benefit from this in one way or another. Yet to uncover the living reality behind the prophecies we have to be careful first to ask what claims are made in the texts and who voices them according to the texts themselves. Only then can we begin to deliberate what might have influenced and inspired the authors to write what they wrote. On the textual level, Jerusalem is portrayed as a thriving capital, very much like an imperial residence. What is said to take place here is really what can be expected to have occurred in every ancient metropolis: trading, building and serving, legislating and going to court, paying taxes and worshipping the (national) deity.30 At the same time, some of the activities performed by the foreign nations in the biblical texts could not strictly be ascribed to one single domain. That is to say, Zion’s abundant glory comprises both the appearance of the temple and the city as such. Likewise, YHWH is seen as the receiver of pious reverence and as supreme lawgiver who also functions as the guarantor of justice. In sum, every possible aspect of human life appears to be tied to the city of Jerusalem. (It is worth noting that we hear nothing at all about any other city in Israel or Judah, not even in a dismissive way.) Yet no political powers or authorities are mentioned apart from YHWH as king and judge, nor do priests play any role. The glorious return of Zion’s children from the dispersion, escorted and equipped by the foreign nations, is particularly telling: as though there was no other place where YHWH’s adherents could possibly live 29

30

For an illuminating example, see Francesca Stavrakopoulou, “Materialist Reading. Materialism, Materiality, and Biblical Cults of Writing,” in Biblical Interpretation and Method. Essays in Honour of John Barton, ed. Katharine J. Dell and Paul M. Joyce (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 223–242, and especially, 225: “[…] ideological criticism argues that biblical texts are social products of power.” Interestingly, where parallels have been drawn between the biblical texts and extrabiblical evidence, previous scholarship has mostly pointed towards representations of foreign nations bringing tribute, as it is the case in the Apadana reliefs of Persepolis. See e.g., Ego, “Völkerchaos;” ead., “Jerusalem and the Nations;” Irsigler, Zefanja; Lux, Prophetie und Zweiter Tempel; Martin Schott, Sacharja 9–14. Eine kompositionsgeschichtliche Analyse, BZAW 521 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2020); Brent A. Strawn, “‘A World under Control:’ Isaiah 60 and the Apadana Reliefs from Persepolis,” in Approaching Yehud. New Approaches to the Study of the Persian Period, ed. Jon L. Berquist, SemeiaSt 50 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 85–116. I fully agree that the prophecies seem to be emulating this aspect of Achaemenid royal ideology, but I would argue that there is even more to be compared.

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in peace and prosperity, they are drawn towards Jerusalem. But no human figure is leading them. According to the texts, YHWH is the one who foretells all this and who will bring it about eventually. I suggest that these prophecies originated in the Persian period (6th– 4th c. BCE) with a group of Jerusalem based literati.31 In the face of continuing foreign rule and struggles for restricted local hegemony, it is plausible that they were afraid of losing their status as traditional authority. Although it would have been bizarre for anyone in the peripheral province of Yehud to entertain aspirations of real political power, there must have been room for a competition between local factions with regard to the status as keepers of tradition and morals. The writers of the prophecies which have been discussed here were thus eager to convince their audience to cling to Jerusalem—if not as the capital of an empire, then at least as the place which was ultimately deserving of this honor and which could still be a center of traditional values and spiritual guidance. To undergird their claims, they were mimicking imperial propaganda32 and borrowing YHWH’s voice: very much like the Achaemenid “Great Kings” who staged themselves as the center of gravity for all their subjects and tributaries, the biblical writers posited their own locality as the true seat of both worldly and heavenly power. Since there is no center without periphery, foreign nations had to become part of the picture. Instead of just formulating unrealistic phantasies, the Jerusalemites had YHWH assure them and their audience that they were right in their aspirations. The prophetical genre even allowed them to justify their acceptance of the political circumstances for the time being, because it implied that foreign dominion over Zion was but a temporary stage in history. By drafting this alternative scenario of Jerusalem/Zion as the true center of the world, those who were responsible for the texts will have instilled in their audience a sense of belonging to the right party—so long as they effectively 31

32

For Jerusalem as the place of composition and deliberations on the sociological implications of the prophecies, see already William  H.  Cobb, “Where Was Isaiah XL–LXVI Written?,” JBL 27 (1908): 48–64; and e.g., Ehud Ben Zvi, “Utopias, Multiple Utopias, and Why Utopias at All? The Social Roles of Utopian Visions in Prophetic Books within Their Historical Context,” in Utopia and Dystopia in Prophetic Literature, ed. Ehud Ben Zvi, Publications of the Finnish Exegetical Society  92 (Helsinki: Finnish Exegetical Society, 2006), 55–85; Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer, For the Comfort of Zion. The Geographical and Theological Location of Isaiah 40–55, VTSup  139 (Leiden: Brill, 2011); Jakob Wöhrle, Der Abschluss des Zwölfprophetenbuches. Buchübergreifende Redaktionsprozesse in den späten Sammlungen, BZAW 389 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008), 335–58. See footnote 29 and Mark G. Brett, “Mimicking Empire. Divine Administration in Isaiah,” in Locations of God. Political Theology in the Hebrew Bible (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), 86–97.

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were in Jerusalem themselves and/or, at least, accepted the Jerusalemite intellectual elite as their proper authority. This means, the so-called “pilgrimage prophecies” are really designed to strengthen the internal bonds of a Jerusalem-oriented Yahwistic community. In conclusion, talking about “pilgrimage” as a motif in this context might be misleading. As we have seen, the act of worshipping YHWH at Zion is worded very differently between the prophetical passages. It is therefore impossible to identify such a motif on formal grounds.33 What is more, even the idea of foreign peoples worshipping YHWH is but one element in the wider scenario which is evoked in all the prophecies. Singling out the notion of “pilgrimage” (even though there is something of it present) might cause one to see only the pious-religious aspect of the texts in question and to overlook the much more comprehensive overall layout.34 Yet only the full picture of what the biblical writers envisaged for Zion gives us an adequate idea of what they wanted for themselves.35

33

34

35

In order not to base the analysis of “motifs” solely on personal intuition as to where the same idea is prevailing in a given text, it is preferable to stick to strictly verifiable data. I have suggested the following basic definition: “A ‘motif’ is to be understood as a recognisable (i.e., distinct and recurring) phrase which signifies the same semantic content in several passages.” See Petra Schmidtkunz, Das Moselied des Deuteronomiums. Untersuchungen zu Text und Theologie von Dtn 32,1–43, FAT II 124 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2020), 102: “Unter ‘Motiv’ wird daher im Folgenden eine wiedererkennbare Wortverbindung verstanden, die an mehreren Belegstellen für den gleichen Inhalt steht […].” See also Wolfgang Richter, Exegese als Literaturwissenschaft. Entwurf einer alttestamentlichen Literaturtheorie und Methodologie (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1971); Jakob Wöhrle, “So Many Cross-References! Methodological Reflections on the Problem of Intertextual Relationships and their Significance for Redaction Critical Analysis,” in Perspectives on the Formation of the Book of the Twelve. Methodological Foundations—Redactional Processes—Historical Insights, ed. Rainer Albertz, James D. Nogalski and Jakob Wöhrle, BZAW 433 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2012), 3–20. Just to illustrate this point, I would like to stress that the writers could have represented the nations as worshipping YHWH in their respective homelands if the intention were simply to point out that he was (a) god for all the world. However, they evidently did not want their audience to laud YHWH for his wisdom to convert the nations to Yahwism. See Michael Rowlands, “A Materialist Approach to Materiality,” in Materiality, ed. Daniel Miller (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005), 72–87, at 73: “[…] under a proper materialist perspective we have to be deeply engaged in questions of power not as abstract but as intrinsic.”

Rejecting the pax persica: The Political Vision of the Book of Zechariah Jakob Wöhrle The book of Zechariah is an important document concerning the situation in Judah shortly after the time of the exile. It gives insights into the hopes and expectations of a certain group within the Judean society in this time. Especially the so-called night visions show this group’s expection that YHWH will soon intervene in history, that he will act for his people, eliminate outer and inner enemies and grievances, and lead the people to a new life in peace, independence, and justice. With this prospect of a radical change of the people’s current situation, the book of Zechariah is a highly political document. The group behind the book awaits nothing other than an overthrow of the current world-political and intra-societal circumstances. This group did not regard the end of the exile as such a radical change. For them, the downfall of the Babylonian empire and the advent of the new Persian dominion, which led to a partial return of exiles and to the rebuilding of Jerusalem and its temple, was not the awaited turn for the better. Rather, for them, such a turn was still to come. In previous research, of course, the political nature of the book of Zechariah has always been seen. However, the concrete scope of the book’s political vision and, especially, its world-political perspective has not been explained in detail. Commonly, and surprisingly, scholars interpret the political scope of the book as anti-Babylonian. Kurt Galling, Janet E. Tollington, Mark Boda, Al Wolters, and most recently Jason M. Silverman understand Babylon as the main enemy of the book and the Persians as an instrument of God’s judgment against this enemy.1 Others, like Wilhelm Rudolph or James Nogalski, regard more gen-

1 Kurt Galling, “Die Exilswende in der Sicht des Propheten Sacharja,” VT 2 (1952): 18–36; Janet  E.  Tollington, Tradition and Innovation in Haggai and Zechariah  1–8, JSOTSup  150 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993), 219–20; Mark  J.  Boda, “Terryfying the Horns: Persia and Babylon in Zechariah 1:7–6:15,” CBQ 67 (2005): 22–41; Al Wolters, Zechariah, HCOT (Leuven: Peeters, 2014), 63; Jason M. Silverman, Persian Royal-Judaean Elite Engagements in the Early Teispid and Achaemenid Empire: The King’s Acolytes, LHBOTS 690 (London: T&T Clark, 2020), 121–63.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/978365

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erally the nations as a whole as the target of YHWH’s judgement.2 Another group of scholars, from Julius Wellhausen to Hartmut Gese and Michael Floyd, deny any concrete allusions to specific historical enemies and read the book as a utopian vision of an eschatological turn.3 This article will show, however, that the book of Zechariah provides a decidedly anti-Persian position. It refers to central elements in the Persian imperial ideology and opposes this Persian self-perception. Different from other groups of the time, the group behind the book of Zechariah refuses the Persian claim for world-supremacy and awaits divine judgement against, and the downfall of, the Persian empire as a precondition for a real new era for the Judean community. To illustrate this dynamic within the book of Zechariah, a short review of Persian imperial ideology and its adoption in certain parts of the Hebrew Bible will be necessary. Against this background, the political concept of the book of Zechariah shall then be explained. 1.

The Persian Imperial Ideology and the Hebrew Bible

The rulers of the Persian empire developed a rather specific kind of imperial ideology that differs significantly from the ideology of the former Assyrian or Babylonian empires.4 To some extent, Persian imperial ideology is already 2 Wilhelm Rudolph, Haggai, Sacharja  1–8, Sacharja  9–14, Maleachi, KAT  13,4 (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1976), 83; James D. Nogalski, The Book of the Twelve, 2 vols., SHBC (Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys, 2011), 2:834. 3 Julius Wellhausen, Die kleinen Propheten: Übersetzt und erklärt, 3rd ed. (Berlin: Reimer, 1898), 178–84; Hartmut Gese, “Anfang und Ende der Apokalyptik, dargestellt am Sacharjabuch,” ZTK 70 (1973): 20–49; Michael  H.  Floyd, “Cosmos and History in Zechariah’s View of the Restoration (Zechariah  1:7–6:15),” in Problems in Biblical Theology: Essays in Honor of Rolf Knierim, ed. Henry T. Sun and Keith L. Eades (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 125–44. 4 See for the following Gregor Ahn, Religiöse Herrscherlegitimation im achämenidischen Iran: Die Voraussetzungen und die Struktur ihrer Argumentation, Acta Iranica 31 (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 255–77; Klaus Koch, “Weltordnung und Reichsidee im alten Iran und ihre Auswirkungen auf die Provinz Jehud,” in Reichsidee und Reichsorganisation im Perserreich, ed. Peter Frei and idem, 2nd ed., OBO 55 (Fribourg: Universitätsverlag and Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 133–337, 133–205; Pierre Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2002), 172–83; Maria Brosius, “Pax Persica: Königliche Ideologie und Kriegführung im Achämenidenreich,” in Krieg – Gesellschaft – Institutionen: Beiträge zu einer vergleichenden Kriegsgeschichte, ed. Burkhard Meißner et  al. (Berlin: Akademie, 2005), 135–61; eadem, The Persians: An Introduction (London: Routledge, 2006), esp. 32–72; Amélie Kuhrt, The Persian Empire: A Corpus of Sources from the Achaemenid Period (London: Routledge, 2007), 469–76.

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visible in the time of Cyrus. However, its specific form emerged in the reign of Darius. The inscriptions as well as the monumental reliefs from the time of Darius document the classic form of the Persian imperial ideology, which later kings of the empire took up nearly unchanged. Persian imperial ideology is based upon the idea of a cosmic world order.5 Darius’s inscriptions commonly begin with a confession to Ahuramazda, the God of the Achaemenid rulers, as creator of the earth. For example, Darius’s inscription from Susa reads as follows (DSe 1–7):6 A great god is Ahuramazda, who created this earth, who created yonder sky, who created man, who created happiness for man, who made Darius king, one king of many, one lord of many.

According to this opening statement of the Persian inscriptions, Ahuramazda created heaven and earth as well as humankind on earth. Additionally, Ahuramazda made Darius king of “many”—which in the end means nothing other than king of all humankind. The inscription thus closely connects creation and kingship. The one world and the one “man” created by Ahuramazda is set under the rulership of the one king. This worldview gets even clearer in the subsequent passage of the Susa inscription presenting a self-introduction of king Darius (DSe 7–14): I am Darius the Great King, King of Kings, King of countries containing all kinds of men, King in this great earth far and wide, son of Hystaspes, an Achaemenian, a Persian, son of a Persian, an Aryan, having Aryan lineage.

This passage even more pointedly states that Darius is king of the whole earth. Of course, such a claim for world domination was already part of the selfperception of the former Assyrian and Babylonian rulers. Remarkably, and beyond the Assyrian and Babylonian ideology, however, the Persians connect their claim for world domination with a specific world order. Darius is not only king of the earth. As such, he is “King of countries containing all kinds of men.” The Persian kings thus saw the world as structured in different countries

5 Koch, “Weltordnung und Reichsidee,” 143–44; Jenny Rose, Zoroastrianism: An Introduction (London: I.B. Tauris, 2011), 37–39. 6 The following translations of the Susa inscription are taken from Roland  G.  Kent, Old Persian: Grammar, Texts, Lexicon, AOS  33 (New Haven: American Oriental Society, 1950), 141–42; further editions of the Persian inscriptions can be found at Kuhrt, The Persian Empire; Rüdiger Schmitt, Die altpersischen Inschriften der Achaimeniden: Editio minor mit deutscher Übersetzung (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2009).

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with their respective people that are all under the common rulership of the Persians.7 It was exactly this worldview, this cosmic world order, that determined the manner of Persian governance.8 As is well known, the Persians respected local peculiarities among the different countries and people within their empire. They respected local languages. They installed locals, sometimes even members of the former local ruling elite, as provincial governors. They generally respected and supported local cults. They restored cultic institutions, for example by rebuilding sanctuaries that were destroyed by the Babylonians. They even presented themselves as adherents and supporters of such local cults, like Cyrus for the Babylonian Marduk cult, or Darius for the Greek Apollo cult.9 But even more: for the Persians, their view of a world structured in different countries and people was also seen as the key to create and maintain peace in the world.10 This becomes clear from the following passage of the Susa inscription (DSe 30–41): Saith Darius the King: Much which was ill-done, that I made good. Provinces were in commotion; one man was smiting the other. The following I brought about by the favor of Ahuramazda, that the one does not smite the other at all, each one is in his place. My law—of that they feel fear, so that the stronger does not smite nor destroy the weak.

The Susa inscription speaks about provinces in commotion. Darius’s Naqsh-i Rustam inscription, in many parts identical with the Susa inscription, even says that “the whole world” was in commotion (DNb 32). For Darius, it was his God-given role to end this commotion among the people of the world. And he did that by bringing the people “in their place,” i.e., by repatriating the members of the different people in their respective countries.11 The Persian imperial ideology is thus based upon a cosmic world order. Ahuramazda created the whole earth and set it under the rule of the Achaemenids. The world was seen as structured in different countries with their respective peoples. The Persians respected and even supported local 7 8 9 10 11

Ahn, Religiöse Herrscherlegitimation, 272–77; Koch, “Weltordnung und Reichsidee,” 159– 84; Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 173–78; Brosius, “Pax persica,” 140–42. See for the following Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 175–83; Brosius, The Persians, 47–51. Brosius, The Persians, 33, 64. Koch, “Weltordnung und Reichsidee,” 149–51; Brosius, “Pax persica,” 138. Koch “Weltordnung und Reichsidee,” 150: “Danach gibt es einen durch die Schöpfung vorherbestimmten Platz, d.h. eine dem Volkscharakter entsprechende Heimat … Solche gottgesetzte internationale Ordnung hat der Großkönig durch seine militärischen Aktionen wieder hergestellt.”

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differences. In case of turmoil within the empire, they reacted by separating the people and repatriating them to their home country. The overall aim of the Persian imperial ideology thus was peace within the empire, peace among the people of the empire—the pax persica.12 The so described Persian imperial ideology had great impact on different parts of the Hebrew Bible. At first, the book of Deutero-Isaiah presents specific hopes and expectations from the early time of the Persian king Cyrus, and already seems to be influenced by the Persian worldview and ideology. According to the Cyrus oracle, YHWH, the creator of heaven and earth, appoints Cyrus, his shepherd and his anointed one, that hostile people shall be subdued by him and that Jerusalem and the cities of Judah shall be rebuilt and repopulated (Isa 44:24–45:7). Thus, truly in line with the Persian imperial ideology, the book of Deutero-Isaiah presents Cyrus, the Persian king, as the God-given ruler of the world, who sets an end to hostilities among the people, respects and supports local groups, repatriates them and thus creates peace on earth.13 Comparably, the book of Ezra, starting with Cyrus’s edict, presents Cyrus as chosen and assigned by YHWH, the God of heaven, who made Cyrus the ruler of the whole earth. As such, Cyrus invites the exiled Judeans to return to their land and rebuild the Jerusalem temple (Ezra 1:2–4). Here again, in line with the Persian imperial ideology, the Persian king appears as God-given ruler, who respects and supports an individual people of his empire.14 Similar observations can be made in other parts of the Hebrew Bible. As shown elsewhere, the Priestly stratum of the Pentateuch seems to be strongly influenced by the Persian imperial ideology.15 At the end of the priestly primeval history, the table of the nations presents the whole world as structured in different people with their respective countries (Gen 10:1–32*). According to the priestly parts of the ancestral narratives, the ancestors and their relatives 12 13 14 15

Brosius, “Pax Persica,” 138: “In Wort und Bild, in könglichen Inschriften und in der Monumentalarchitektur der Achämeniden, wird das Bild eines Herrschers vermittelt, der durch die Unterstützung Ahuramazdas Frieden bringt und bewahrt.” For the Cyrus oracle see, for example, Ulrich Berges, Jesaja 40–48, HThKAT (Freiburg: Herder, 2008), 363–441. See Joseph Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah, OTL (London: SCM, 1989), 73–76. Jakob Wöhrle, “Frieden durch Trennung: Die priesterliche Darstellung des Exodus und die persische Reichsideologie,” in Wege der Freiheit: Zur Entstehung und Theologie des Exodusbuches: Die Beiträge eines Symposions zum 70. Geburtstag von Rainer Albertz, ed. Reinhard Achenbach et  al., ATANT  104 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2014), 87–111; idem, “Abraham amidst the Nations: The Priestly Concept of Covenant and the Persian Imperial Ideology,” in Covenant in the Persian Period: From Genesis to Chronicles, ed. Richard J. Bautch and Gary N. Knoppers (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2015), 23–39.

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separate themselves to their own territories, which is seen as fundamental for a peaceful coexistence (Gen 36:6–8; see also 13:6). In the priestly version of the exodus story, because of the hostilities in Egypt, the Israelites shall be repatriated to their own country (Exod 7:2). Thus, the priestly stratum of the Pentateuch shares the worldview of the Persian imperial ideology, the view of a cosmic world order according to which the people of the world live in their respective countries; and it shares the view that erecting, restoring, and preserving this world order is the key and the fundamental basis for peace on earth. As a last example, and on a smaller scale, a positive adoption of the Persian imperial ideology can be found in the chronological framework of the book of Haggai.16 While the prophetic words of the book present Zerubbabel, the grandson of the last Davidic king Jehoiachin, as a signet ring (reversing the judgment oracle against the Davidides in Jer 22:24) and as chosen by YHWH, thus expecting a new Davidic rulership over Judah (Hag 2:23), the chronological framework presents the Persian king Darius as the King (‫)המלך‬, while Zerubbabel just receives the title governor (‫ )פחה‬of Judah (Hag 1:1; see also 1:14, 15; 2:2, 21). Thus, the chronological framework is fully committed to the Persian hegemony and sees one’s own people and territory as part of the Persian world empire. All over the Hebrew Bible, in the Pentateuch, in the historical books and in prophecy, we find positive attitudes towards Persian hegemony and positive adoptions of the Persian imperial ideology. Thus, in large measure, the circles responsible for the scriptures of the Hebrew Bible from Persian times submit themselves to the Persian hegemony and share and promote the principal ideas of the Persian imperial ideology. Of course, for these circles, not Ahuramazda, the God of the Achaemenid rulers, but their God YHWH stands behind and promotes the Persian rule and its political activities. But this is still in line with the self-understanding of the Persian kings, who could, as mentioned before, present themselves as venerators and supporters of local Gods such as Marduk or Apollo. The circles behind the scriptures of the Hebrew Bible from Persian times not only have a generally positive opinion of the Persians, they also adopt the Persian worldview and ideology in a Yahwistic form and share the idea that this worldview leads to a peaceful coexistence of the different people in the empire and thus also to a peaceful and comfortable life for the Judean people.

16

On the chronological framework of the book of Haggai, see Jakob Wöhrle, Die frühen Sammlungen des Zwölfprophetenbuches: Entstehung und Komposition, BZAW 360 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2006), esp. 288–94, 317–20.

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However, on closer reading, the Hebrew Bible does not only document such positive, pro-Persian attitudes. It includes also opposing, decidedly antiPersian voices.17 This leads us to the book of Zechariah. 2.

The Political Vision of the Book of Zechariah

The book of Zechariah is the product of a long-term redactional development.18 The oldest parts of the book, to which the following considerations will be restricted, can be found in the collection of originally seven night visions in Zech 1:8–6:8*.19 These night visions stem from the early Persian period, the time of Darius.20 They present pictures and scenes from the heavenly sphere, which are first seen by the prophet and then explained by a messenger of YHWH. As the following chart shows, the night visions are arranged in a concentric structure: 17

18 19

20

Although the majority view among the Persian period scriptures in the Hebrew Bible seems to be pro-Persian, such anti-Persian tendencies are, of course, not restricted to the book of Zechariah, but can be seen also in other parts; see, for example, the important observations regarding the anti-Persian tendency of the Chronicler by Louis Jonker, Defining All-Israel in Chronicles, FAT 106 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), esp. 65–150. On the formation of the book of Zechariah, see Wöhrle, Die frühen Sammlungen, 323–66. The vision about the accusation against the high priest Joshua in Zech 3 is not an integral part of the original vision cycle. This becomes obvious already by the fact that this vision, different from all the other night visions, does not include a conversation between the prophet and the interpreting angel; even more, in this vision the prophet does not play an active role at all. For the secondary nature of Zech 3, see for example Christian Jeremias, Die Nachtgesichte des Sacharja: Untersuchungen zu ihrer Stellung im Zusammenhang der Visionsberichte im Alten Testament und zu ihrem Bildmaterial, FRLANT  117 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1977), 201–203; Henning Graf Reventlow, Die Propheten Haggai, Sacharja und Maleachi, ATD 25,2 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993), 52; Holger Delkurt, Sacharjas Nachtgesichte: Zur Aufnahme und Abwandlung prophetischer Traditionen, BZAW  302 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2000), 146–47; Rüdiger Lux, Sacharja  1–8, HThKAT (Freiburg: Herder, 2019), 254–55. Zech 1:7 dates the subsequent night vision to the second year of Darius and thus to the year of 519. Although the concrete date given in this verse traces back to a later redaction, which relates the message of the book of Zechariah to the dates of the preceding book of Haggai (see Jakob Wöhrle, “The Formation and Intention of the Haggai-Zechariah Corpus,” JHS 6.10 [2006]), it is more than likely that the night visions indeed stem from the early Persian period, in all likelihood the time of the rebuilding of the second temple and thus the time between 520 and 515. Two observations speak for this assumption: In Zech 1:11 the first night vision characterizes the current situation as quiet and peaceful, which fits very well to the reign of Darius. The two “sons of oil” mentioned in Zech 4:14 in all likelihood refer to Zerubbabel and Joshua, the governor and the high priest in Jerusalem in the time of Darius.

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Yhwh’s Worldwide Intervention Night Vision 1: The Horsemen

A 1:8–17*

Outer Restoration Night Vision 2: The Four Horns Night Vision 3: The Measuring of Jerusalem

B 2:1–4, 5–9

C 4:1–14*

B’ 5:1–4, 5–11

A’ 6:1–8

New Rulership Night Vision 4: The Two Sons of Oil Inner Restoration Night Vision 5: The Flying Scroll Night Vision 6: The Woman in the Epha

Yhwh’s Worldwide Intervention Night Vision 7: The Four Chariots

Figure 4.1

The outer night visions about the horsemen (Zech  1:8–17*) and the four chariots (6:1–8) reflect the current situation on earth and promise YHWH’s intervention. The middle parts of the composition about the four horns and the measuring of Jerusalem (2:1–4, 5–9), as well as the flying scroll and the woman in the ephah (5:1–4, 5–11), promise a restoration of the current conditions both outside and inside the community. The central vision with the two sons of oil (4:1–14*) promises a new kind of rulership for the people. Thus, the night visions of the book of Zechariah comprehensively describe and envision how YHWH will intervene and radically change the situation of the people in world-, extra- and intra-political, social, and cultic terms. To begin with the first night-vision in Zech  1:8–17*, this vision presents a group of horsemen on horses of different colors, who have patrolled the earth and now describe the situation on earth as follows (Zech 1:11): The whole earth (‫ )כל הארץ‬is still and pacified (‫)ׁשקט‬.

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The first night vision describes the situation on earth as quiet and peaceful. Remarkably, the term ‫ ׁשקט‬used in this context often applies to the time and conditions after military actions.21 This term is found, for example, in the conquest narratives and describes the conditions after the capture of Canaan (Josh 11:23; 14:15).22 Thus, in Zech 1:11 the term ‫ ׁשקט‬refers not just, in a more general sense, to a situation of quiet and peace. It rather refers to a situation after a time of war; it aims at a situation of newly achieved pacification. With this description of the current situation, the first night vision refers to nothing other than the conditions in the Persian empire in the time of Darius. After the struggles around his assumption of power, Darius was indeed successful at creating peace in the empire.23 In the first years of his reign, he cut off several revolts that occurred in Babylon and other regions and thus finally pacified the whole empire. The first night vision presupposes and reflects exactly this situation.24 It states that the conditions under the reign of Darius were quiet and peaceful, 21

22 23 24

Eberhard Bons, “‫ׁשקט‬,” ThWAT 8:449–54; additionally, see David L. Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8: A Commentary, OTL (London: SCM, 1985), 145; Carol L. Meyers and Eric M. Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, AB 25B (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987), 115; Delkurt, Sacharjas Nachtgesichte, 53; Mark J. Boda, The Book of Zechariah, NICOT (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2016), 132; Lux, Sacharja 1–8, 151. See also Judg 3:11, 30; 8:28; Isa 14:7; 32:17; Jer 30:10; 46:27; 2 Chr 13:23; 14:4–5; 20:30. See the detailed presentation in Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander, 107–38; additionally, see J. Maxwell Miller and John H. Hayes, A History of Ancient Israel and Judah, 2nd ed. (London: SCM, 2006), 515–18. See, among many, Rudolph, Haggai, Sacharja  1–8, 78; Meyers and Meyers, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 130; Reventlow, Die Propheten Haggai, Sacharja und Maleachi, 42; Rüdiger Lux, Sacharja 1–8, 152; Anselm C. Hagedorn, “Die Perser im Zwölfprophetenbuch,” ZAW 127 (2015): 587–606 (599). Some scholars, however, oppose this common view. Al Wolters, “‘The Whole Earth Remains at Peace’ (Zechariah 1:11): The Problem and an Intertextual Clue,” in Tradition in Transition: Haggai and Zechariah  1–8 in the Trajectory of Hebrew Theology, ed. Mark J. Boda and Michael H. Floyd, LHBOTS 475 (New York: T&T Clark, 2008), 128–43; idem, Zechariah, 57–63, argues that in the year of 519, to which the dating formula in Zech 1:7 refers the subsequent vision cycle, the Persian empire was still affected by upheavals and war; see the end of the Behistun inscription, which in col. V mentions conflicts with the Elamites and the Scythians (Kent, Old Persian, 132–34; Kuhrt, The Persian Empire, 149–51). Thus, according to Wolters, stemming from the year of 519 the first night vision cannot refer to the peace of the time of Darius. Rather, in a more general sense, it refers to the new circumstances after the rise of the Persians, who conquered and destroyed the Babylonian empire and thus freed the nations from the Babylonian oppression. Others, like Galling, “Die Exilswende,” esp. 22–23, 33; Peter R. Ackroyd, “The

64

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that the Persian king indeed pacified his empire. Moreover, in line with the Persian imperial ideology, the first night vision exaggerates the current conditions in that it states that “the whole earth” (‫ )כל הארץ‬is still and pacified. It thus adopts the Persian idea of a worldwide peace created by the Persian ruler—the pax persica.25 However, the circles behind the night visions did not regard this situation as positive by any means.26 On the contrary, as the subsequent verse Zech 1:12 shows: The messenger of YHWH spoke and said: YHWH Sabaoth, how long will you have no compassion for Jerusalem and the cities of Judah, with which you have been angry these seventy years?

25 26

Book of Haggai and Zechariah I–VIII,” JJS 3 (1952): 151–56 (151–52); Rex Mason, The Books of Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi, CBC (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 35–37; Boda, The Book of Zechariah, 109–11, strike a different path. They date the first vision (or even the whole vision cycle) to an earlier time than that mentioned in Zech 1:7, be it the early time of Darius, the time of Cyrus, or an even earlier time. Thus, also for them, the first night vision does not refer to the peaceful situation after Darius’s seizure of power, but, in a more general sense, to the peace before or after the Persian takeover of the Babylonian empire. All such considerations are, however, hardly convincing. The upheavals in the year of 519 happened at the periphery of the Persian empire and do not speak against the assumption that the Judeans saw the situation of the early time of Darius as peaceful. Additionally, the concrete year mentioned in Zech 1:7 traces back to a later redaction relating the book of Zechariah to the older dates of the book of Haggai; see Wöhrle, “The Formation and Intention of the Haggai-Zechariah Corpus.” Thus, it may well be that the night visions stem from a slightly different, particularly a slightly later time, after Darius’s last struggles against rebellious people. It is, however, not possible to date the first night vision to a considerably earlier time. Since the whole vision cycle presupposes the time of Darius (see above note 20), the first night vision should also be dated to this time. All this leads to the conclusion that the quiet and peace mentioned in this first night vision refers to the time and situation shortly after Darius’s seizure of power. Already Hagedorn, “Die Perser im Zwölfprophetenbuch,” 599, argued that the statement about quiet and peace in the world in the first night vision adopts “die imperiale Propaganda des Perserreiches.” See, however, the further discussion in note 26. Hagedorn, “Die Perser im Zwölfprophetenbuch,” 599, reads the first night vision as a positive adaptation of the Persian imperial ideology. He even speaks of this text as “Sprachrohr der neuen Autorität” integrating the province of Yehud into the Persian world order. Hagedorn’s view is, however, only possible based on his literary historical theory according to which the first night vision originally ended with Zech 1:11; ibid., 595, following Martin Hallaschka, Haggai und Sacharja 1–8: Eine redaktionsgeschichtliche Studie, BZAW  411 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011), 153–66. This consideration is highly problematic. There is strictly no literary critical argument for such a theory. The lament in Zech 1:12 can easily be understood as original continuation of and response to 1:11.

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65

The messenger of YHWH reacts to the horsemen’s description of the current situation in the world with a lament. According to this verse, the current situation, the situation of quiet and peace and thus the pacification of the world by the Persians, the pax persica, is a negative situation.27 It is a sign of YHWH’s ongoing wrath. It is a sign that the 70 years of anger, which were seen as the time after the Babylonian conquest of Judah and Jerusalem, are not yet over. However, the first night vision does not end with this negative evaluation of the current situation. According to Zech  1:13, YHWH himself speaks to the messenger good and comforting words and (after the secondary parts in Zech 1:14aβ–17aα)28 the vision ends in 1:17aβb with the promise that the cities of Judah will overflow with prosperity and YHWH will comfort Zion and again choose Jerusalem. Though cautious and reserved, the vision thus ends with the promise that YHWH will overcome the current situation, the situation of quiet and peace in the Persian empire, the pax persica.29 Against this background, the seventh and final night vision, building a frame with the first vision around the whole vision cycle, is noteworthy. This vision presents four chariots, which again, like the horsemen, patrol the earth in the four directions. This vision ends with the following statement (Zech 6:8):

27

28 29

Already Rudolph, Haggai, Sacharja  1–8, 78, and Lux, Sacharja  1–8, 153, who relate the situation of quiet and peace to the early time of Darius, saw that the lament in Zech 1:12 describes this situation as negative. However, they do not draw further consequences out of this insight. Especially, they do not see the anti-Persian tendency of such a description. For the secondary nature of Zech 1:14aβ–17aα, which different from the preceding night vision is oriented only on the fate of Jerusalem and different from all other night visions offers a direct speech of YHWH, see Wöhrle, Die frühen Sammlungen, 326–29. Astonishingly, in previous research, scholars did not see the anti-Persian tendency of the first night vision. According to a larger group of scholars the first night vision is directed against the Babylonians and promises YHWH’s judgment on the Babylonians; see Galling, “Die Exilswende,” 23; Boda, “Terrifying the Horns,” 23–24; idem, The Book of Zechariah, 132; Wolters, Zechariah, 61–62; Silverman, Persian Royal-Judaean Elite Engagements, 136. Some scholars believe that this night vision promises judgment on world powers in general; thus Jeremias, Die Nachtgesichte des Sacharja, 154. Others are convinced that the first night vision is directed against the foreign nations as a whole; see Rudolph, Haggai, Sacharja  1–8, 79; Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah  1–8, 155. However, all these assumptions cannot explain the concrete outline of the first night vision, which describes a very specific situation, a situation of quiet and peace, as negative and promises the overcoming of this situation. This cannot be read as an expectation of judgement against the Babylonians, which makes no sense in early Persian times anyway. But this cannot be read as an expectation of judgement against the world powers or the nations in general either, since only one very concrete world power stands behind the rest and peace described in the first night vision—the Persians.

66

Jakob Wöhrle Look, those who go to the land of the north lay down my spirit in the land of the north (‫)ארץ צפון‬.

Coming from the book of Jeremiah, “the land of the north” (‫ )ארץ צפון‬is a fixed phrase for Babylonia used in contexts describing the hostile and offensive character of the Babylonian empire.30 In early Persian times, however, after the downfall of the Babylonian empire and the rise of the Persians, this phrase can only refer to the Persians.31 Thus, the seventh night vision, and with it the whole vision cycle, ends with the promise that YHWH now turns to the centre of the Persian empire, which after the preceding night visions can only be understood as a hostile act.32 The vision cycle thus ends with the promise that YHWH will destroy the power of the Persian empire.33 Considering the two outer visions (the first and seventh), the night visions thus reflect the situation of the early Persian period. They reflect the situation of a pacified Persian empire being quiet and in peace. For the circles behind the night visions, this situation of the pax persica—the declared aim of the Persian rulers and positively adopted in many parts of the Hebrew Bible—is presented as a negative situation, even a sign of YHWH’s ongoing wrath. The 30 31 32

33

Jer  3:18; 6:22; 10:22; 16:15; 23:8; 31:8; 46:10; 50:9; see, for example, Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 330; Boda, “Terrifying the Horns,” 29–30. Thus already Wellhausen, Die kleinen Propheten, 184: “Das Nordland ist  … Babylonien, der Mittelpunkt auch der persischen Weltmacht.” See also Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 330. Boda, “Terrifying the Horns,” 29–30; idem, The Book of Zechariah, 379–80; Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer, “A Busy Night at the Heavenly Court,” SEÅ 71 (2006): 187–207 (198); Wolters, Zechariah, 178–79. Against this view, however, Galling, “Die Exilswende,” 31; Rudolph, Haggai, Sacharja  1–8, 125; Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah  1–8, 330–31; Lux, Sacharja 1–8, 475, read Zech  6:8 as an oracle of salvation. According to these scholars, YHWH’s spirit is laid down in the north not in order to punish a foreign enemy, but either to awake the spirit of the exiles (Galling; Rudolph; Lux) or to support the politics of the Persian rulers (Meyers and Meyers). However, since the preceding night visions aim to judgement against a foreign enemy—in all likelihood, the Persians—and since the individual motives of this final night vision, the chariots and the term “land of the north,” point to a hostile military act, it is much more likely that this night vision predicts judgment rather than salvation. In previous research, those scholars who read this final night vision as judgement oracle relate the judgment announced in this vision to the Babylonian empire; see Boda, “Terrifying the Horns,” 29–30; idem, The Book of Zechariah, 379–80; Wolters, Zechariah, 178–79, or they relate the judgement to the enemies of God’s people as a whole, thus Tiemeyer, “A Busy Night,” 198. However, in early Persian times, after the downfall of the Babylonian empire, the political enemy behind the phrase “land of the north” cannot be the Babylonians. This phrase is also too specific to refer to the people’s enemies in general. Thus, it can only refer to the Persians.

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67

circles behind the night visions thus express their hope for a radical change of this situation. They do not share the idea of a pax persica; they do not submit themselves to the Persian hegemony and ideology. They rather hope that YHWH will intervene, set an end to the pax persica, and act against the Persians and overthrow their empire. The subversive, anti-Persian attitude of the night visions can also be seen in other parts of the vision cycle. The second night vision presents the picture of four horns, which the messenger interprets in Zech 2:2 as “the horns which have scattered Judah  …34 and Jerusalem.” The rest of the night vision then describes the occurrence of craftsmen who came to terrify and strike down the horns. It is a much-discussed issue, to whom the horns may refer. Unconvincing is the interpretation common in older literature and occasionally in recent times according to which the four horns refer to a sequence of four successive world powers.35 The second night vision gives no hint that the horns and the political power(s) behind these horns appeared one after the other. Equally unconvincing, however, is the interpretation common in current research according to which the horns who have scattered Judah stand for the Babylonian empire so that the emphasis of the second night vision would be “on the breaking of Babylonian power.”36 Such a reading of the second night vision not only fails to explain why in early Persian times, after the downfall of the Babylonian 34

35

36

For the secondary nature of the term ‫“ את יׂשראל‬Israel” in Zech 2:2, which strikingly stands between Judah and Jerusalem and which is not taken up again in Zech 2:4, see, among many, Wellhausen, Die kleinen Propheten, 179; Rudolph, Haggai, Sacharja 1–8, 81; Hallaschka, Haggai und Sacharja 1–8, 167. See the overview of older interpretations in Lars Gösta Rignell, Die Nachtgesichte des Sacharja: Eine exegetische Studie (Lund: Gleerup, 1950), 61–62; in more recent times, such an approach is advocated by Robert Hanhart, Sacharja 1–8, BKAT 14,7.1 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1998), 108–11. Boda, “Terrifying the Horns,” 26; see also Galling, “Die Exilswende,” 21; Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 139–40; Silverman, Persian Royal-Judaean Elite Engagements, 138. A slightly different, but ultimately comparable approach is taken by Boda, The Book of Zechariah, 160; Kenneth  A.  Ristau, “Rebuilding Jerusalem: Zechariah’s Vision within Visions,” in Exile and Restoration Revisited: Essays on the Babylonian and Persian Periods in Memory of Peter R. Ackroyd, ed. Gary N. Knoppers et al., LSTS 73 (London: T&T Clark, 2009), 195–214 (199). They think that the four horns represent two oxen and relate this to the Assyrian and Babylonian empires as the world powers responsible for the scattering of the Israelites and the Judahites. Wellhausen, Die kleinen Propheten, 179; Rudolph, Haggai, Sacharja  1–8, 83; Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah  1–8, 163; Reventlow, Die Propheten Haggai, Sacharja und Maleachi, 45; Lux, Sacharja 1–8, 179, refer the scattering of the people mentioned in the second night vision to the world powers or even the nations as a whole.

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empire, the vision should still await judgment against the Babylonians. This common reading also fails to account for the vision’s concluding statement regarding the craftsmen (Zech 2:4): These came to terrify them, to strike down the horns of the nations who lift up the horn against the land of Judah to scatter it (‫)הנׂשאים קרן אל ארץ יהודה לזרותה‬.

Usually, scholars translate the statement about the nations’ behavior in Zech 2:4 in the perfect or past tense.37 According to this common reading Zech 2:4 would announce judgement against those nations who have lifted their horn to scatter Judah. The scattering of Judah thus would lie in the past—which indeed could well be related to the former Babylonian assaults. However, the Hebrew text uses the active participle ‫ הנׂשאים‬and thus does not refer to a previous, past event, but rather to a present, actual process. It speaks about nations who lift their horn to scatter Judah. Although the scattering of Judah and Jerusalem began in former times, as Zech 2:2 with the perfect form ‫“ זרו‬they have scattered” states, according to Zech 2:4 the scattering of Judah is still an ongoing fact. Thus, the second night vision sees current powers as responsible for the ongoing scattering of Judah. At the time of the night visions, these current powers can only or at least mainly be seen in the Persian empire. The second night vision thus considers the Persian empire responsible for the persistent dispersion of the Judeans. With this view, the second night vision again strongly contradicts the selfperception of the Persian imperial ideology. Based upon the Persian world view, with a world structured in different countries with their respective people, it was the declared aim of the Persians to repatriate the individual people within their empire to their ancestral territories. The Persians even saw the repatriation of the people into their territories as key for peace in their empire, as fundamental for the pax persica. Different from the circles behind other scriptures of the Hebrew Bible from early Persian times, who hope for and even praise the Persians for exactly this policy (especially Deutero-Isaiah, Ezra), the circles behind the book of Zechariah strictly deny this self-perception of the Persians. They deny that the Persians act against the people’s scattering. On the contrary, they hold them

37

See, among many, Petersen, Haggai and Zechariah 1–8, 161; Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 135; Reventlow, Die Propheten Haggai, Sacharja und Maleachi, 45; Boda, The Book of Zechariah, 161; Lux, Sacharja 1–8, 170.

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responsible for the people still scattered across the empire. For this reason, they wait and hope for divine judgement against the Persians. The third night vision can be read along the same lines. This vision describes the measuring of Jerusalem. In this context, the night vision promises that Jerusalem will be without walls, because of the multitude of men and cattle in its midst. In previous research, scholars often explain the expectation of an unwalled city as inspired by the Persian city of Pasargadae, Cyrus’s capital of the Persian empire, which was built as a city without walls.38 The third night vision would thus adopt this concept of an open city and ultimately also the concept of the pax persica, which can be seen as a basic condition and reason for such open cities.39 However, the following statement at the end of the vision is noteworthy (Zech 2:9): For I, declares YHWH, will be a wall of fire (‫ )חומת אׁש‬around her, and I will be the glory in her midst.

According to Zech 2:9, Jerusalem, though unwalled, will not be unprotected. On the contrary, YHWH himself will protect Jerusalem as a “wall of fire” (‫חומת‬ ‫)אׁש‬. Thus, in line with the older Zion theology, YHWH, who dwells in the midst of Jerusalem, will defend the city and its inhabitants against enemies.40 The third night vision thus does not present the picture of a city unwalled because of the peaceful surrounding conditions. This vision is by no means based on the idea of a pax persica, which enables the people of the empire to live in peace. On the contrary, the third night vision rather states that Jerusalem, though unwalled, needs protection—in all likelihood, because of 38

39

40

Thus for the first time David L. Petersen, “Zechariah’s Visions: A Theological Perspective,” VT 34 (1984), 195–206 (201); idem, Haggai and Zechariah  1–8, 171; see also Ristau, “Rebuilding Jerusalem,” 201; Hans-Peter Mathys, “Anmerkungen zur dritten Vision des Sacharja (Sacharja 2,5–9),” TZ 66 (2010): 103–118 (107–108); Wolters, Zechariah, 77; Lux, Sacharja 1–8, 203. See Peter Marinković, “Stadt ohne Mauern: Die Neukonstitution Jerusalems nach Sacharja 1–8” (PhD diss., Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München, 1996), 121, according to whom the Pasargadaean concept of a city without walls requires “nicht nur eine nach außen, sondern auch eine nach innen gesicherte und befriedete Stellung der Machthaber,” and can thus be understood as an outward expression of the Persian rulers’ self-image as pacifiers of the world. For the ideological concept behind the architectural design of Pasargadae see also David Stronach, Pasargadae: A Report on the Excavations Conducted by the British Institute of Persian Studies from 1961 to 1963 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978), 295; Mathys, “Anmerkungen zur dritten Vision,” 108; Lux, Sacharja 1–8, 200–201. For the presentation of YHWH as a wall of fire in Zech 2:9 see Mathys, “Anmerkungen zur dritten Vision,” 111–13.

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coming upheavals awaited by the circles behind the night visions. Thus, the third night vision also does not adopt the Persian imperial ideology which claims peace in the empire. Like the other night visions, it rather waits and hopes for the downfall of the empire. Finally, a quick review of the fourth night vision will be sufficient for our purposes. This night vision presents a lampstand and two olive trees, along with other details. At the end of the vision, the messenger explains the olive trees as follows (Zech 4:14): These are the two sons of oil (‫)בני היצהר‬, who stand by the Lord of the whole earth (‫)אדון כל הארץ‬.

The interpretation of “the two sons of oil” (‫ )בני היצהר‬is much discussed. The most probable solution, however, still seems to be that “the two sons of oil” represent Zerubbabel, the governor of Judah and descendant of the former Davidic kings, and Joshua, the high priest.41 The term “sons of oil” then 41

See, among many, Wellhausen, Die kleinen Propheten, 183; Rudolph, Haggai, Sacharja 1–8, 108; Jeremias, Die Nachtgesichte des Sacharja, 183–84; Mason, The Books of Haggai, Zechariah and Malachi, 48; Reventlow, Die Propheten Haggai, Sacharja und Maleachi, 59–60; Tollington, Tradition and Innovation, 175–78; Nogalski, The Book of the Twelve, 2:858; Lux, Sacharja 1–8, 371–73. Mainly because the term ‫ יצהר‬is nowhere else used for the anointing of a king, some scholars oppose this common view and opt for alternative solutions: Mark J. Boda, “Oil, Crowns and Thrones: Prophet, Priest and King in Zechariah 1:7– 6:15,” JHS 3.10 (2001): 3, thinks of Haggai and Zechariah (but see also his more cautious considerations in The Book of Zechariah, 313–19), Hallaschka, Haggai und Sacharja 1–8, 235–37, refers the two “sons of oil” to Zerubbabel and Darius, Wolters, Zechariah, 154–55, to two unidentified priests, Delkurt, Sacharjas Nachtgesichte, 213–23, relates the “sons of oil” to the people as a whole, and Wolter H. Rose, Zemah and Zerubbabel: Messianic Expectations in the Early Postexilic Period, JSOTSup 304 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 202–205, and comparably Silverman, Persian Royal-Judaean Elite Engagements, 146, with heavenly beings. However, although the term ‫ יצהר‬is not the usual term for the annointing of a king, against the background of the early post-exilic time, when both Zerubbabel, the governor of Yehud, and Joshua, the high priest, led the Judeans, organized the rebuilding of the temple as well as the further restoration of the post-exilic community, the most probable solution still seems to be that the fourth night vision in Zech 4:14 refers to these two persons. All alternative solutions are highly problematic. Since in the fourth night vision the two “sons of oil” are shown to the prophet, these figures have to be distinguished from himself and thus cannot be referred to Haggai and Zechariah. The identification with Zerubbabel and Darius seems even more farfetched and already fails because according to Zech 4:14 the two “sons of oil” stand side by side by the Lord of the whole earth and thus seem to have an equal status. That the two “sons of oil” should refer to two unidentified priests does not meet the conditions of the post-exilic temple cult with one priest, the high priest, leading the Jerusalem cult. Finally, all attempts to identify the two “sons of oil” with a larger group of persons, be it the people

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describes Zerubbabel and Joshua as two anointed ones and thus as entrusted with regal duties. With this depiction, the fourth night vision presents a very specific political vision, a vision of a dyarchy: leadership of the Judean community by a royal and a priestly leader.42 This expectation, of course, strongly contradicts the Persian hegemony. It contradicts the idea, supported in the books of Deutero-Isaiah, Ezra, or the chronological framework of the book of Haggai, that the Persian king could be accepted as a world ruler, whose reign includes also the land of Judah. The fourth night vision rather opts for an independent Judean people under its own rulership—here under the dyarchic rulership of a Davidic royal leader and a high priestly leader. However, it is not only the mere expectation of such a dyarchic leadership of an independent Judean community that is interesting. The end of Zech 4:14, according to which these two leaders stand by “the Lord of the whole earth” (‫)אדון כל הארץ‬, is also remarkable. With this statement, the rulership of the two sons of oil is virtually placed in a cosmological framework. YHWH, the God of the Judeans, is the Lord of the whole earth. As such, he gives the rulership over the Judeans into the hands of the two sons of oil, Zerubbabel and Joshua. This, again, can be understood as a direct critique and counter concept to the Persian imperial ideology. According to the Persian imperial ideology, Ahuramazda is the God of the whole earth, who enthrones the Persian king as king over the earth. In a Yahwistic form, exactly this concept is adopted by Deutero-Isaiah or Ezra. For the circles behind these scriptures, YHWH is the God of the whole earth, who appoints and supports the Persian king. The fourth night vision decidedly takes up the perception of YHWH as a universal God. In a rarely documented formulation, it calls YHWH “the Lord of the whole earth.”43 But different from the Persian imperial ideology and its Yahwistic adoptions within the Hebrew Bible, the fourth night vision does not present the Persian ruler, but rather Zerubbabel and Joshua, a royal and a priestly figure from within the community, as the legitimate regents of Judah.

42

43

as a whole or heavenly beings, fail because the vision speaks about exactly two “sons of oil.” Such a dyarchic concept also stands behind Zech 6:9–15, a text that now speaks about the coronation of the high priest Joshua, but probably in an older version presented the coronation of two figures, a high priestly and a royal leader, and thus Joshua and Zerubbabel; see for the details Jakob Wöhrle, “On the Way to Hierocracy: Secular and Priestly Rule in the Books of Haggai and Zechariah,” in Priests and Cults in the Book of the Twelve, ed. Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer, ANEM 14 (Atlanta, GA: SBL Press, 2016), 173–89 (180–84). The phrase “the Lord of the whole earth” (‫ )אדון כל הארץ‬is documented elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible only in Josh 3:11, 13; Ps 97:5; Mic 4:13; Zech 6:5.

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Thus, the fourth night vision too has a subversive, anti-Persian focus. Presenting YHWH as the universal God, as the God of the whole earth, who installs Zerubbabel and Joshua as ruler over the Judean people, the fourth night vision delegitimizes the self-conception of the Persian kings, who saw themselves as authorized and supported by their God as well as the Gods of their vassals to rule over the whole earth. 3.

Conclusion

Different from other parts of the Hebrew Bible stemming from post-exilic times, the book of Zechariah thoroughly shows an anti-Persian tendency. In its visions, the book of Zechariah takes up and alludes to central elements of the Persian imperial ideology and contradicts this self-conception of the Persian rulers. The Persian imperial ideology understood the world as structured in different countries with their respective people. For the Persians, respecting this cosmic world order was the fundament for peace in their empire—the pax persica. They allowed or even forced the repatriation of the different people into their ancestral territories. Additionally, they respected ethnic, cultural, or religious peculiarities of the individual people in their empire and even supported such local peculiarities. In Judah, several groups appreciated this Persian governance. The groups behind Deutero-Isaiah, Ezra, the priestly stratum of the Pentateuch, or the chronological framework of Haggai accepted and even promoted the Persian supremacy and their political action. They presented the Persian ruler as appointed by YHWH. They adopted the Persian imperial ideology with its view of the world as structured in different countries and peoples. They shared the belief that on this basis the Persian governance created and maintained peace on earth, also for the Judean people. Different from this majority view of the scriptures from Persian times, the book of Zechariah vigorously opposes the idea of a pax persica. For the circles behind the book of Zechariah, the pax persica was not the solution, but rather the problem of the time. They saw the situation of the early Persian times, the situation of Persian supremacy and Persian pacification of the world as a desolate situation, which had to be overcome. For the circles behind the book of Zechariah, the Persians were responsible for the ongoing scattering of the Judean people and they were responsible for Judah’s political subordination.

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Thus, they waited and hoped for YHWH’s intervention, a world-wide upheaval, which would lead to the fall of the Persian empire. For the circles behind the book of Zechariah, it is the end of the pax persica that is seen as the precondition of a new era, a life in peace, independence, and justice.

The Politics of Beauty in the Books of Samuel-Kings and Esther Rachelle Gilmour The effect of beauty on social and political capital is not stable across cultures and time periods.1 Nevertheless, that beauty and power interrelate, and that the politics of beauty differ between genders, are widespread dynamics that can also be found embedded in the literary portrayals of biblical books. This article focuses on the politics of beauty and examines two dynamics related to beauty and power in their literary portrayal in the texts of Samuel-Kings and Esther. The first is a question of sex and gender, how do the politics of beauty differ between male and female characters? The second is a question of transformations over time, how are the politics of beauty portrayed differently in monarchic and diaspora literature? The latter question will be explored in relation to the politics of monarchic and divine sovereignty and the differing ways in which kings and God respond to beauty in the narratives. In doing so, I highlight a limit to the scope of political theology in the Hebrew Bible: the thoroughly theopolitical formulation of beauty in Samuel–Kings can be compared to the conspicuous absence of God-talk in the politics in the book of Esther. 1.

The Language and Texts of Beauty

The primary terms used to describe beauty in the texts under focus are the adjective “beautiful,” ‫יפה‬, and the related noun “beauty,” ‫ ;יפי‬and the adjective “good,” ‫טוב‬, when applied explicitly to appearance, often in conjunction with the terms “appearance,” ‫מראה‬, or “form,” ‫תאר‬. To these, A. Brenner2 adds “lovely,” ‫נאה‬, which is not found in Samuel-Kings or Esther, and, in some contexts, “pleasant,” ‫נעם‬, which is used verbally to describe Jonathan in 2 Sam 1:23, 26. However, in this text there are no indicators that it refers to appearance, and it is placed in parallel with “beloved” (‫ )הנאהבים‬in v. 23 and “your love 1 See for example, Allan  D.  Cooper, Patriarchy and the Politics of Beauty (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2020), on changing beauty politics from Antiquity to modern times. 2 Athalya Brenner, The Intercourse of Knowledge: On Gendering Desire and ‘Sexuality’ in the Hebrew Bible, BibInt 26 (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 44–45.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/978365

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was wonderful to me” (‫ )נפלאתה אהבתך לי‬in v. 26, rather than a description of a physical attribute.3 The forms “beautiful,” ‫יפה‬, and “good,” ‫טוב‬, are used of both men and women, and the characteristics associated with male and female beauty contain considerable overlap. Both male and female beauty are associated with a body without flaw, beautiful hair, and beautiful eyes. In addition, male beauty is associated with height, strength, beard, smooth skin (rather than wrinkles), and athletic ability; and female beauty with skin colour, voice, garments and jewelry, and washing, makeup, and perfume.4 Examples of beauty in this essay will be limited to descriptions of characters using the vocabulary “beautiful,” ‫יפה‬, and “good,” ‫טוב‬, where it is used explicitly in relation to a person’s appearance. However, these descriptions conveniently coincide with all references to other features associated with beauty, for example height or hair, applied to characters throughout the texts of 1 Sam 1–1 Kgs 2 and Esther. A concentration of texts that include descriptions of beauty can be found in the books of Genesis, Samuel, and 1 Kings 1–2.5 The restriction of the descriptions to 1 Sam  1–1 Kgs  2 within the former prophets6 suggests that there is some level of redactional thematic intentionality in the recurrence of beauty throughout these texts. Although the social and political significance of beauty is closely related to broader cultural conventions, theological and political dimensions of beauty may also be specific to each text, in this case, the formulation for concepts of monarchic and divine sovereignty.7 Recent studies on beauty in the Hebrew Bible largely consider the significance of beauty as a consistent concept across biblical texts.8 However, 3 See especially David Penchansky, “Beauty, Power, and Attraction: Aesthetics and the Hebrew Bible,” in Beauty and the Bible: Toward a Hermeneutics of Biblical Aesthetics, ed. Richard  J.  Bautch and Jean-François Racine (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2013), 47–66 (54). Penchansky suggests that the use of this term for Jonathan is demeaning, using a word for feminine beauty. 4 See Michael Avioz, “The Motif of Beauty in the Books of Samuel and Kings,” VT 59 (2009): 341–59 (344–45), who adapts the list from Brenner, Intercourse of Knowledge, 45–47. 5 Note that the Lucianic edition of the Septuagint continues 1–2 Reigns (1–2 Samuel) to include the narrative until 1 Kgs 2:11. 6 Avioz (“Motif of Beauty,” 359) points out that Judges does not mention the beauty of Yael or Delilah; nor does the book of Kings mention the beauty of Hezekiah or Josiah who effectively hold male monarchic power. In the interests of space, the texts of Genesis will not be explored in detail in this essay. 7 On “independent” motifs as cultural conventions that cross authorship boundaries, see Rachelle Gilmour, “Reading a Biblical Motif: Gifts of Listed Food Provisions in the Books of Samuel,” ABR 61 (2013): 30–43. 8 E.g. Brenner, Intercourse of Knowledge; Avioz, “Motif of Beauty”; and Penchansky, “Beauty, Power and Attraction.”

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particularly when the focus is on the politics of beauty, attention to transformations in the use of the concept will prove enlightening. Intertextual connections between the book of Samuel and Esther are well established and include allusions related to the concept of beauty.9 For this reason, the selection of 1 Sam 1–1 Kgs 2 and the story of Esther offers a cross-section for one way in which the politics of beauty is transformed from the monarchic period to the diaspora. 2.

Male and Female Beauty in the Monarchy of Samuel-Kings

Whilst the story of 1 Sam 1–1 Kgs 2 is set during the early monarchy, there is evidence to suggest that significant portions of these narratives were also authored during the monarchic period, including the stretches of narrative that are relevant for a discussion of male and female beauty. The integration of stories of Saul and stories of David’s rise is commonly dated to a pre-exilic period.10 These stretches of narrative include the beauty of Saul (1 Sam 9:2), David (1 Sam 16:12; 1 Sam 17:42), and Abigail (1 Sam 25:3); and contain stories of Jonathan, Michal, and Rizpah, but omit any mention of their appearance. Other indications of beauty are concentrated in the so-called Succession Narrative, a largely pre-exilic section of text that includes the beauty of Bathsheba (2 Sam 11:2), Tamar (2 Sam 13:1), Absalom (2 Sam 14:25), Absalom’s daughter (2 Sam  14:27), Abishag (1 Kgs  1:4), and Adonijah (1 Kgs  1:6), and 9

10

On the probability of intentional intertextual allusions to the book of Samuel in the book of Esther, see Rachelle Gilmour, “Overturning Sovereignty: Esther in Dialogue with the Book of Samuel,” in Reading Esther Intertextually, ed. David Firth and Brittany Melton (London: T & T Clark, 2022), 57–67; Yitzhak Berger, “Esther and Benjaminite Royalty: A Study in Inner-Biblical Allusion,” JBL 129 (2010): 625–44; David G. Firth, “When Samuel Met Esther: Narrative Focalisation, Intertextuality, and Theology,” STR 1 (2010): 15–28. See Jeremy M. Hutton, The Transjordanian Palimpsest: The Overwritten Texts of Personal Exile and Transformation in the Deuteronomistic History, BZAW 396 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009), especially 284–88, 300–307. Both Dietrich and Veijola consider these sections of narrative present in a monarchic redaction DtrH of Samuel. Later redactional material from DtrP and DtrN do not include any of these references to beauty (Walter Dietrich, “The Layer Model of the Deuteronomistic History and the Book of Samuel,” in Is Samuel among the Deuteronomists? Current Views on the Place of Samuel in a Deuteronomistic History, ed. Cynthia Edenburg and Juha Pakkala, AIL  16 [Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014], 39–65; Timo Veijola, Die ewige Dynastie: David und die Entstehung seiner Dynastie nach der deuteronomistischen Darstellung, Suomalaisen Tiedeakatemian Toimituksia, Sarja B 193 [Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1975]). See also P. Kyle McCarter, I Samuel: A New Translation with Introduction, Notes, and Commentary, AB 8 (New York: Double Day, 1980), 27–30.

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material concerning Mephibosheth (2 Sam  9, 16)11 and the concubines of David (2 Sam 16, 20), omitting any mention of beauty. This stretch of text contains sections that may be exilic or postexilic additions, but the descriptions of beauty do not fall in these additions.12 Although the composition of the Book of Samuel as a whole extended into the postexilic periods, the narratives of male and female beauty can be dated with some confidence to a monarchic, pre-exilic period.13 Firstly, considering male beauty, a common feature for all males who are described as attractive in Samuel-Kings is that they are able to obtain monarchic power. Saul is the first described as attractive in 1 Sam 9:2, although the term ‫ יפה‬is not used: “a choice and ‘good’ man, there was no one from the children of Israel better than he; he was from his shoulders and upwards taller than all of the people” (‫בחור וטוב ואין איש מבני ישראל טוב ממנו משכמו ומעלה גבה מכל‬ ‫)העם‬. Saul is tall (‫ )גבה‬and the inclusion of the description “good” ‫ טוב‬in proximity to his height suggests that “good” describes his appearance, even if it may also have implications of moral good.14 David’s eyes are described as “beautiful” and appearance as “good” in 1 Sam 16:12 (‫)עם יפה עינים וטוב ראי‬, and his appearance again as “beautiful” in 1 Sam 17:42 (‫)עם יפה מראה‬. Absalom’s beauty is extolled in 2 Sam 14:25: “no man’s beauty in all of Israel was like Absalom, to be praised greatly; from the sole of his foot to his crown, there was no blemish” (‫וכאבשלום לא היה איש יפה בכל ישראל להלל מאד מכף רגלו ועד קדקדו לא היה בו‬ ‫ ;)מום‬this is followed by a description of his plentiful hair in 2 Sam 14:26. Finally, Adonijah is “very ‘good’ in appearance” (‫ )טוב תאר מאד‬in 1 Kgs 1:6. Crucially, all four of these men will also be “made king” or given the title “king” (‫)מלך‬: Saul in 1 Sam 10:24 and 11:15; David over Judah in 2 Sam 2:4, 11 and over Israel in 2 Sam 5:3; Absalom in Hebron in 2 Sam 15:10; and Adonijah in 1 Kgs 1:25, albeit only reportedly in the speech of Bathsheba. All four men, who are described as beautiful, are made king. Moreover, other contenders for the throne, who are not at any stage made king (or reported to be king), are not described as having 11 12 13

14

2 Sam 9 is included in the so-called Succession Narrative by most scholars. See Hutton Transjordanian Palimpsest, 195–200. See, for example Walter Dietrich, Prophetie und Geschichte: Eine redaktionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zum deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerk (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1972), 127–32, who assigns 2 Sam 12:1–15a to the exilic prophetic editor DtrP. Dissenters are few, but there are some who propose a postexilic dating, see John Van Seters, The Biblical Saga of King David (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009); Steven L. McKenzie, “The So-Called Succession Narrative in the Deuteronomistic History,” in Die sogenannte Thronfolgegeschichte Davids: Neue Einsichten und Anfragen, ed. Albert de Pury and Thomas Römer, OBC 176 (Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 2000), 123–35. See Avioz, “Motif of Beauty,” 347.

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beauty, namely David’s brothers,15 Jonathan, Mephibosheth, and Amnon.16 Male beauty is associated with attaining monarchic power. Although all of the men described as beautiful are, without exception, made king, the reverse does not hold, and not all men made king have beauty. Within the narrative circumscribed here in Samuel-Kings, Ishbosheth (2 Sam 2:9, 10) and Solomon (1 Kgs 1:39, 43, 45) are both made king (‫ )מלך‬but not described as attractive. Interestingly too, the power negotiations for both of these kings are performed by agents other than themselves, suggesting that where beauty is absent, monarchic power is attained by means outside of the king himself. Ishbosheth is made king by Abner (2 Sam 2:9), and Solomon is made king through the machinations of Nathan and Bathsheba (1 Kgs 1). There are other indications, both within Samuel and other biblical literature, of the relationship between male beauty and royal power. In the rejection of Saul, a key phrase in the transition from Saul to David in 1 Sam 15:28 is that the neighbor who will succeed Saul will be “better than you” (‫)הטוב ממך‬. Although the term is far broader than just beauty, the allusion to Saul’s appearance as “good” ‫ טוב‬in 1 Sam 9:2, and the juxtaposition of Saul’s rejection in 1 Samuel 15 with the description of David’s appearance as “good” (‫ )וטוב ראי‬in 1 Sam 16:12, point to this factor. David’s appearance, and other qualities, are “better” than those of Saul, making him successful at gaining monarchic power. This verse will again be significant when considering the intertextual allusions to Samuel in the story of Esther. Moreover, beyond the book of Samuel, the association between male beauty and royal power is made, for example, in Isa 33:17, “your eyes will see the king in his beauty”; and in Psalm 45, a poem extolling the king including features such as the king’s military prowess, and including the praise in 45:3[2], “you are the most beautiful of men” (‫)יפיפית מבני אדם‬.17 Female beauty in Samuel-Kings, although described similarly to male beauty, functions differently, especially in terms of power negotiation. Two political

15

Admittedly, the impressive appearance of Eliab is implied. I will return to the non-choice of Eliab shortly. In terms of the motif of beauty in Samuel-Kings, it is significant that the narrator does not explicitly describe Eliab as beautiful, but that Eliab is implied to be beautiful, and Samuel the prophet considers him appropriate for attaining monarchic power. 16 To these might be added the sons of Saul in 2 Sam 21:8, who are only identified by their mothers, and the other sons of David in 2 Sam 3:2–3 and 2 Sam 5:14, who appear only as names in the narrative. 17 Brenner (Intercourse of Knowledge, 49) notes also that Moses is an attractive baby (Exod 2:2; ‫כי טוב הוא‬, “for he was handsome”) and will later be described in monarchic terms.

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aspects of female beauty in Samuel can be identified: firstly, the possession18 of beautiful wives is associated with the maintenance of male monarchic power and so female beauty is primarily related to male power; and secondly, female beauty has unpredictable effects in establishing female political power, but this power is never monarchic power. Although female beauty often leads to an elevation of status for a woman, this status is not necessarily linked to political power, and female beauty can equally lead to shame and danger. There is a consistent pattern of intersection between male power and female beauty throughout the book of Samuel. It was argued that male beauty is necessary for obtaining monarchic power, but the possession of a beautiful female as wife (although not as daughter or sister) is necessary for retaining power, once achieved. Saul does not have any wives described as beautiful, and the only wife or concubine who features in a narrative, Rizpah, is not described as beautiful. Names and descriptions are not given for any wives of Ishbosheth, Absalom, or Adonijah. Adonijah seeks a beautiful wife, Abishag (“the young woman was very beautiful” ‫ ;והנערה יפה עד מאד‬1 Kgs 1:4), after he has lost power; his failure to marry her brings about danger rather than the maintenance of power. By contrast, David is effective at retaining power, even when threatened by Absalom, and he is also notable for his marriage to wives described as beautiful: Abigail is both clever and beautiful (“the woman was good of understanding and beautiful in appearance,” ‫ ;והאשה טובת שכל ויפת תאר‬1 Sam 25:3); and Bathsheba has a very beautiful appearance (“the woman was very ‘good’ in appearance,” ‫ ;והאשה טובת מראה מאד‬2 Sam 11:2). Historically, and sociologically, the practice appears to have been for a successor to marry the previous king’s wives to gain power19 and, more generally, sexual appropriation of wives was a way of showing dominance over another man.20 However, in the book of Samuel, this tactic universally fails, and leads to a diminishment of monarchic power, because in each case the former 18

19 20

This is not to imply women were legally possessions of their husbands (see T.M. Lemos, Violence and Personhood in Ancient Israel and Comparative Texts [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017], 72–78). However, as these beautiful women are treated as political capital, and in light of the motif of David “taking” these women (see Regina M. Schwartz, “The Histories of David: Biblical Scholarship and Biblical Stories,” in Not in Heaven: Coherence and Complexity in Biblical Narrative, ed. Jason  P.  Rosenblatt and Joseph  C.  Sitterson [Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1991], 192–209), the term “possession” is apt. On marriage of the previous king’s wives see Matitiahu Tsevat, “Marriage and Monarchical Legitimacy in Ugarit and Israel,” JSS 3 (1958): 237–43. John Kessler, “Sexuality and Politics: The Motif of the Displaced Husband in the Books of Samuel,” CBQ 62 (2000): 409–23 (421–22).

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king’s wives are not described as beautiful.21 Abner, chief political negotiator for Ishbosheth, and so holding monarchic power of a sort, is accused of going into Rizpah (2 Sam  3:7), who is not described as beautiful, leading to his defection to David and murder by Joab. Absalom rapes ten concubines of David (2 Sam 16:22), who are also not described as beautiful, and Absalom will shortly thereafter lose civil war. Indeed, this pattern may explain an anomalous feature in the narrative, that divine intervention to frustrate the advice of Ahithophel (2 Sam 17:14) does not come about until after Absalom has taken Ahithophel’s initial advice regarding the rape of the concubines (2 Sam 16:23). Because the concubines are not described as beautiful, the act is doomed, and the advice is poor. Only Ahithophel’s good advice needs to be frustrated by Hushai. Throughout the book of Samuel, there is a peculiar motif where taking beautiful wives, not the previous king’s wives, is the more effective means of power. Female beauty can be closely associated with erotic capital, and the initial taking of Bathsheba by David while her husband is still alive, and rape of Tamar by Amnon attests to the role that female beauty plays narrativally as a motivation for male desire.22 However, the correlation between the possession of beautiful wives, and the maintenance of monarchic power, suggests that another political dimension, not primarily based upon male erotic desire, is discernible. In both of these cases, erotic desire is initially satisfied, and later actions are arguably politically motivated by the advantage of possessing beautiful wives. David in 2 Sam 11 is initially motivated by sexual desire, not politics, and so maneuvers to bring Uriah back to his wife Bathsheba as an initial strategy to avoid detection for his actions; only once that fails does he arrange Uriah’s murder and take Bathsheba to be his wife in an act of political significance, without any explicit narrative indication that this is driven by love or desire for her. In the case of Amnon, his erotic desire for Tamar is satisfied and in 2 Sam 13:15, he hates her (‫ )וישנאה אמנון שנאה גדולה‬with greater 21 In  2 Sam  12:8, “I gave you  … your master’s wives into your bosom,” it is implied that David has indeed married Saul’s wives. However, the identity of these wives remains a narrative mystery. It has been suggested that from an historical perspective David’s wife Ahinoam was formerly the wife of Saul, and this was the foundation for 1 Sam 12:8 (see Jon  D.  Levenson, “1 Samuel  25 as Literature and as History,” CBQ 40 [1978]: 11–28; Jon D. Levenson and Baruch Halpern, “The Political Import of David’s Marriages,” JBL 99 [1980]: 507–18); however David marries Ahinoam prior to the death of Saul in 1 Sam 25:43; whilst this is potentially important in his ascent to power historically, it is curious that the narrative omits mention that Ahinoam has been divorced from Saul and taken by David. 22 So argues Brenner (Intercourse of Knowledge, 49) that the motivation of male desire is a central characteristic of female beauty in biblical narrative.

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intensity than his earlier lust (‫)אהבה‬. Amnon is the eldest son,23 and therefore in line to gain monarchic power; but instead of taking Tamar, a woman described as beautiful, to be his wife, he refuses (2 Sam 13:13), and as expected according to the motif, loses his position in line to be king. He does not possess a beautiful wife and so does not maintain his potential for monarchic power. Erotic desire is not named explicitly in David’s marriage to Abigail (1  Sam  25:39–42), and instead the marriage is juxtaposed with his marriage to another wife Ahinoam of Jezreel (1 Sam 25:43). Moreover, the delineation of beauty over against erotic capital is demonstrated by the exceptions provided by Rizpah and David’s concubines to the motif of beauty. Presumably concubines are implicitly attractive and desirable; but the importance of the motif is literary: the explicit literary description of a woman as beautiful, not merely the implication that she is beautiful, is associated with the maintenance of monarchic power. Moreover, the attempts of Abner through Rizpah, and Absalom through the concubines, to gain power suggest that the delineation of erotic and beauty capital is often oblique to the characters in the story, constituting a motif that stretches across different authors. In contrast to male beauty, female beauty is not directly linked with successful power negotiation for women in Samuel-Kings, although in many cases it leads to a rise in status owing to marriage to a king. It is often dangerous to be a beautiful woman, and to be associated with a beautiful woman if not holding monarchic power.24 Abigail experiences immediate danger with the sudden death of her husband Nabal (1 Sam 25:38); but she successfully negotiates to placate David’s threat against her household. At the time of her marriage to David, David is an outlaw and her husband Nabal a rich landowner (1 Sam 25:39–42); but as David will soon become king, she gains status through her marriage to him. Yet, after her marriage to David, she is not mentioned again. She is the mother of David’s second eldest son Chileab (2 Sam 3:3), who is older than Absalom, but who is conspicuously absent in the power struggle between Amnon and Absalom in 2 Sam 13–14.25 Abigail is therefore never a 23 24

25

Note, in the LXX reading of 2 Sam 13:21, Amnon is also much loved by David. Less explicitly, in MT, David’s grief in 2 Sam 13:36–37 indicates that Amnon was beloved by David. E.g., Stuart McWilliam, “Ideologies of Male Beauty and the Hebrew Bible,” BI 17 (2009): 265–87 (269–70); see also Gunn on the motif of “the woman who brings death,” D. M. Gunn, “Traditional Composition in the ‘Succession Narrative’,” VT 26 (1976): 214–19 (222–23). Note, Kessler (“Sexuality and Politics”) points out that David displaces three husbands: Nabal, Paltiel, and Uriah. The inclusion of Paltiel, the second husband of Michal, demonstrates that there is danger to husbands where David is concerned, not just husbands with wives described as beautiful. See Gillian Keys, The Wages of Sin: A Reappraisal of the ‘Succession Narrative’, JSOTSup 221 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 46–48. Keys points out the possibility that

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potential mother of the king, a powerful political position in the kingdom.26 In summary, Abigail’s beauty brings little political power to her beyond her initial negotiation with David. The beauty of Tamar and Abishag brings danger to men surrounding them, and no political advantage to these women. Tamar, the daughter of David described as “beautiful” (‫ ;יפה‬2 Sam 13:1), becomes prey to the violence of her brother Amnon, and suffers a considerable loss of status from being a marriageable daughter of a king to being shut up in the house of her brother Absalom (2 Sam 13:20). It has been argued that Abishag may hold a prominent place in the kingdom as “attendant” (‫ ;סכנת‬1 Kgs 1:4),27 but as her primary task is described as “to keep him warm,” it seems unlikely that she gained political power through this position; moreover, she is given no direct speech in the narrative and there is no mention that she is involved in political negotiation. Abishag will also be at the center of Adonijah’s downfall in 1 Kgs 2, events that will be determined entirely by others. The mixed success of Bathsheba’s beauty from a political point of view is portrayed through her contrasting characterization in two different parts of the narrative: 2 Sam 11–12 and 1 Kgs 1–2. In 2 Sam 11–12, she is in danger and grief herself, becoming pregnant to a man she is not married to (2 Sam 11:5), raising lamentation at losing her husband (2 Sam 11:26), and requiring comfort at losing her newborn (2 Sam 12:24) because of David’s actions. The murder of her husband Uriah conforms also to the motif of danger to men surrounding a woman described as beautiful. Bathsheba herself has no direct speech in the narrative of 2 Sam 11–12, indicative of her lack of political influence, despite the status elevation of becoming a royal wife. The only glimpse of political power is that God favors her son Solomon (2 Sam  12:24), important for her future position as mother of the king. However, later in 1 Kgs 1–2, Bathsheba has considerable clout in political negotiation. Although her beauty is not mentioned, her position and access to the king is a result of her position as his wife; and she maneuvers politically into the powerful position of queen

26 27

Chileab has died, but also that primogeniture for the early monarchic period cannot be proven. On queen mothers, see Carol Smith, “Queenship’ in Israel? The Cases of Bathsheba, Jezebel and Athaliah” in King and Messiah in Israel and the Ancient Near East, ed. John Day, JSOT Sup 270 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 142–62. Martin Jan Mulder, “Versuch Zur Deutung Von Sokènèt in 1. Kön. 1 2, 4,” VT 22 (1972): 43–54. “Attendant” (‫ )סכנת‬may be equivalent to the masculine form “governor” (‫)סכן‬, which is in turn cognate to sākinu “governor,” found in Ugaritic and used as a Canaanite gloss for Akkadian rābiṣu (“governor”) at Tel Amarna.

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mother, the influence of which is demonstrated in 1 Kgs 2 and the elimination of Adonijah.28 Bathsheba’s beauty is a source of detriment and loss, through the death of a husband and royal newborn, but will eventually be a means of political voice. Female beauty has mixed political success; but female characters not described as beautiful hold considerable more clout. Rizpah successfully negotiates with David for the proper burial of her sons in 2 Sam 21. The woman of Tekoa negotiates with David to bring back Absalom in 2 Sam 14. Indeed, the woman of Tekoa’s appearance is described in detail through Joab’s instructions to her in 2 Sam 14:2, “Be a mourner, clothe yourself in mourning clothes, do not anoint yourself with oil and be like a woman who has been mourning the dead for many days.” She is pointedly not beautiful, where beauty is characterised by anointing with perfumes and wearing fine clothes.29 Hannah is also not described as beautiful and she negotiates with God for a child, Samuel, who will enter the house of Eli and himself become politically powerful (1 Sam 1). One partial exception is Michal who has the clout to rebuke David in 2 Sam 6:20–23, but she does so unsuccessfully. She bears no more children and so loses possible political power of becoming queen mother. Although women, beautiful and unbeautiful, gain limited political negotiating power in 1 Sam 1–1 Kgs 2, these women do not gain any kind of monarchic power. Monarchic power in these texts is preserved for Israelite men and is assured by divine choice and promise for David and then Solomon. Throughout 1 Sam 1–1 Kgs 2, the wives and mothers of kings are never called “the queen” (‫ ;המלכה‬contrast Esth 2:22, 4:4) nor have the verbal root “to rule” (‫ )מלך‬applied to them, a contrast from the book of Esther.30 In summary, both male and female beauty are oriented towards male monarchic power in the monarchical presentation of 1 Sam 1–1 Kgs 1–2. Male beauty is associated with the attainment of monarchical power, and possession of a wife described with female beauty helps to maintain monarchical power. In contrast, a woman described as beautiful does not reliably gain political advantage for herself. 28 29 30

See Elna K. Solvang, A Woman’s Place Is in the House: Royal Women of Judah and Their Involvement in the House of David, JSOT Sup  349 (London: Sheffield Academic, 2003), 124–53. See 2 Kgs 9:30; Isa 3:18–24; Jer 4:30; Esth 2:12; Ezek 23:40; Prov 27:9; Song 4:14; Ruth 3:3 (Avioz, “Motif of Beauty,” 344). Note that the verb “to rule” (‫ )מלך‬is used of Athaliah in 2 Kgs 11:3 (“Athaliah ruled over the land” ‫)ועתליה מלכת על הארץ‬, outside the unit of text defined for this studied in 1 Sam 1– 1 Kgs 2, which contains a concentration of descriptions of beauty. Incidentally, Athaliah is also not described as beautiful.

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Male and Female Beauty in the Diaspora Text of Esther

A. Brenner argues that beauty is not only sexually relevant but politically and socially relevant. However, her claim is that female beauty determines private sexual behavior, bringing about political consequences; whereas male beauty is in and of itself political.31 In the monarchical texts of Samuel, this pattern was largely observed: male beauty allowed men to gain monarchical power; female beauty was possessed by men to maintain monarchical power; but women themselves gained little, and largely unpredictable, political power from beauty. Shifting focus to postexilic texts, these observations are overturned. In the location of the diaspora, Esther’s beauty is highly significant for her socio-political fortune, and it brings about a marked elevation in political power and negotiation. By contrast, Mordecai is portrayed as a limited monarchic figure, who is not beautiful nor does he possess beautiful women. The setting, and therefore composition, of the book of Esther during the postexilic period is undisputed, and most scholars posit composition in the Jewish diaspora of the Persian period.32 In the story of Esther, only two people, both women, are described as beautiful: in Esth 1:11, Vashti is said to possess “beauty” (‫ )יפיה‬and “she was ‘good’ in appearance” (‫ ;)טובת מראה היא‬and in Esth 2:7, Esther is described: “the young woman was beautiful in form and ‘good’ in appearance” (‫)ותיטב הנערה בעיניו‬. Esth 2:9 may also be a reference to Esther’s beauty when Esther wins the favor of Hegai, “the young woman was ‘good’ in his eyes” (‫)ותיטב הנערה בעיניו‬. The terminology of “good” is ambiguous, and “in his eyes” may be because of her appearance or may refer more generally to his subjective opinion.33 That Hegai is a eunuch (Esth 2:3) would 31 Brenner, Intercourse of Knowledge, 43, 50. 32 There is some debate whether the story is from the perspective of those who had a home in the Persian diaspora or was oriented towards the returnees to Jerusalem; and whether the composition derives from the Persian or Hellenistic periods. See Adele Berlin, The JPS Bible Commentary: Esther (Philadelphia: JPS, 2001), xxviii–xxxvi; Jonathan Grossman, Esther: The Outer Narrative and the Hidden Reading, Siphrut 6 (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011). 23–25; Timothy Laniak, “Esther’s Volkcentrism and the Reframing of Post-Exilic Judaism,” in The Book of Esther in Modern Research, ed. Leonard Greenspoon and Sidnie White Crawford (London: Bloomsbury, 2009), 77–90; Aaron Koller, Esther in Ancient Jewish Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 57–106; Sidnie Ann White, “Esther: A Feminine Model for Jewish Diaspora,” in Gender and Difference in Ancient Israel, ed. Peggy L. Day (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1989), 161–77. For a third century, Hellenistic date, see Michael Fox, Character and Ideology in the Book of Esther, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 139–140. Against Fox’s Hellenistic date, see Jon D. Levenson, Esther, OTL (London: SCM Press, 1997), 23–27. 33 Yael Avrahami, The Senses of Scripture: Sensory Perception in the Hebrew Bible, LHBOTS (New York: T&T Clark, 2012), 258–62, especially 260.

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suggest that Esther’s beauty is not only related to sexual capital. Similarly, in 2:15, Esther finds favor “in the eyes of all who saw her” (‫)בעיני כל ראיה‬. Although referring to all of the young women who will be brought to Ahasuerus, not just Esther, Esth 2:2–4 emphasizes that the young women who will be brought to the king should be beautiful and the woman who would become queen will be the one who “seems ‘good’ in the eyes of the king” (‫)תיטב בעיני המלך‬. It is not stated in the narrative that Ahasuerus considers Esther beautiful, rather simply that “he loved” (‫ )ויאהב‬her (Esth 2:17), a term pointing to her increased political power. “Love” is also used in this way when David is “loved” (‫ )אהב‬by all Israel and Judah (18:16), including Saul (1 Sam 16:21) and Saul’s children (1 Sam 18:1; 18:20; 18:28; 20:17), and Solomon is “loved” by God (2 Sam 12:24). Esther’s political elevation is expanded in the same verse, when Ahasuerus, “placed a royal crown on her head and made her queen in place of Vashti” (‫)וישם כתר מלכות בראשה וימליכה תחת ושתי‬. For Esther, her female beauty directly equates to an increase in political power, and the repeated use of the root “to be king/rule” ‫ מלך‬to describe Esther becoming queen emphasizes that she has gained monarchic power, not just social status. There is no change in male power, at least not in the short term for Mordecai who remains on the periphery at the king’s gate (Esth 2:21). Even Mordecai’s identification of a plot against the king, using Esther as his messenger, brings no immediate elevation in his own status (Esth 2:23), and it is juxtaposed with the promotion of Haman instead of Mordecai (Esth 3:1), rectified only sometime later in Esth 6:10–11. Ahasuerus’ power is also unchanged. Female beauty in the book of Esther is a means of female political negotiation and elevation, with little effect on male power. The beauty of Vashti further reinforces the close link between female beauty and female political agency. Vashti is beautiful, but she is ousted from her position as queen precisely because she refuses to appear and reveal her beauty (Esth 1:11–12). According to Esth 1:17, Vashti’s misdemeanor is also that she will cause other women “to despise their husbands in their eyes” (‫להבזות בעליהן‬ ‫)בעיניהן‬, subverting the male “right” to look upon female beauty and instead having contempt in their own “eyes.” Vashti’s beauty is hidden, she encourages women to despise men rather than her beauty being looked upon by men, and subsequently her royal power is diminished. Turning to male beauty and male power in the book of Esther, the narrative role of the character of Mordecai suggests that male beauty is unimportant in attaining male monarchic power. Mordecai is not described as beautiful but given something akin to a royal position in Esth 6:7–11, wearing “royal robes that the king has worn” (‫ ;לבוש מלכות אשר לבש בו המלך‬Esth 6:8) and riding a “horse that the king has ridden and with a royal crown on his/its head”

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(‫ ;וסוס אשר רכב עליו המלך ואשר נתן כתר מלכות בראשו‬Esth 6:8). Instead of beauty, Mordecai is promoted for his loyalty and usefulness to the king. Notably, even after Mordecai is honored by Ahasuerus in Esther 6, receiving royal honors, Esther’s political power remains greater. Esther not Mordecai maintains access to the king and petitions him to reverse the edict to murder the Jewish people. A number of intertextual connections between Samuel and Esther suggests that the book of Esther deliberately overturns the politics of beauty from the book of Samuel. Indeed, the most explicit references to the book of Samuel in Esther relate directly to an analogy between beautiful men with political agency in the monarchy, and beautiful women with political agency in the Persian court. Firstly, it has been widely observed that Esth 1:19, “let the king give [Vashti’s] royal position to a neighbor who is better than she” (‫ומלכותה יתן‬ ‫ )המלך לרעותה הטובה ממנה‬is a reformulation of 1 Sam 15:28, and the rejection of Saul, “[the Lord] has given [the kingdom of Israel] to your neighbor who is better than you” (‫)ונתנה לרעך הטוב ממך‬.34 As was argued above, 1 Sam 15:28 contains allusion to David’s “beauty” alongside other qualities being greater than that of Saul. In Esth 1:19, a similar connotation is conveyed that the neighbor will not just be morally better than Vashti, presumably obeying her husband, but will be more beautiful. The story of Esther shifts the succession of male monarchic power, kings Saul and David in the book of Samuel, to female monarchic power, queens Vashti and Esther. Secondly, reference to the book of Samuel in Esther is suggested by the genealogy of Mordecai as a descendent of Kish from the tribe of Benjamin (Esth 2:5; see 1 Sam 9:1).35 As Esther is Mordecai’s niece, she too is a Benjaminite descended from Kish. Whereas her male ancestor Saul held monarchic power, now the female Esther holds monarchic power. The link is tightened by the identification of Haman as an Agagite (Esth  3:1), evoking king Agag the Amalekite whom Saul spares in 1 Sam 15. Esther is more successful than her ancestor Saul at destroying the Agagite enemy, again an intimation of female political power, associated with beauty, for the Jews in the diaspora. Overall, ultimate monarchic power remains resolutely male in the diaspora context of the book of Esther, but now the power is foreign, held unquestionably by King Ahasuerus. For the Jewish people, there is a shift to female

34 35

On this intertextual link, see Esth. Rab. 4:9; Berger, “Esther and Benjaminite Royalty,” 628; Berlin, Esther, 19; Levenson, Esther, 52; Gilmour, “Overturning Sovereignty.” W. McKane, “A Note on Esther IX and 1 Samuel XV,” JTS 12 (1961): 260–61; Firth, “When Samuel Met Esther,” 26–27. On the significance of Esther’s Benjaminite background, see Gilmour, “Overturning Sovereignty.”

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monarchic power, and correspondingly, the political effectiveness of female beauty in a diaspora context. 4.

The Shifting Politics of Beauty: Monarchic and Divine Sovereignty

The politics of beauty shift markedly between Samuel-Kings and Esther. I propose that this shift can be traced to changes in monarchic and divine sovereignty in the political contexts of Samuel-Kings and Esther, because of the different ways that kings and God respond to beauty. The political context in Samuel-Kings is a self-governing monarchy ruling over a united kingdom of Israel and Judah. The books portray this monarchy as established by God and, crucially, subject to divine intervention. The political context in Esther entails rule by a foreign king. The intervention of God and explicit divine sovereignty are conspicuously absent from the narrative. The responses to beauty from monarchic sovereignty (and, to a lesser extent, popular favor) and from divine sovereignty remain relatively congruent across the texts, but the radical change in political context for the books governs the radical change in the politics of beauty. J.G. Williams has argued, in a study of conventions in the Genesis stories of women unable to have children, that beautiful women are understood as favored by God. For this reason, a woman is never described as both beautiful and childless in the same story, because being beautiful necessarily implies fertility.36 Such a correlation between beauty and divine favor is detectable in a Yahwistic redaction37 of the story of Joseph in Gen 39. In an earlier edition of the story, prior to the insertion of 39:2–3, 5, 21, 23, which introduced the divine name into the text, the beauty of Joseph in Gen 39:6 is associated with danger, similar to many women in the book of Samuel, and with Joseph’s morally upright behavior. The notice of his beauty is juxtaposed with the demand of Potiphar’s wife to lie with her (39:7) and Joseph’s refusal (39:8). However, in the text additions with the divine name, a number of notices are included describing God’s favor for Joseph: in v. 3, “the Lord caused all that he did to prosper 36

37

James G. Williams, “The Beautiful and the Barren: Conventions in Biblical Type–Scenes,” JSOT 17 (1980): 107–19. Williams argues erroneously that the term ‫ יפה‬is never used of someone not favored by God. Absalom and Tamar are both counter examples to this claim. See Stuart Macwilliam, “Ideologies of Male Beauty and the Hebrew Bible,” BI 17 (2009): 265–87. Macwilliam argues that there are exceptions to the notion that beauty and divine favour are always associated, pointing to the vulnerability of Joseph, and the tragedy of Absalom. See paper by Megan Warner in this volume.

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in his hands”; in v.5, “the Lord blessed the Egyptian’s house for Joseph’s sake”; in v. 21, “the Lord gave him favor” and v. 23, “the Lord was with him and whatever he did, the Lord made it prosper.” Yet, this association between beauty and divine favor is not universal throughout biblical texts. Indeed, the story of Rachel and Leah, suggests that such a correlation was also not uniform across redactions of Genesis.38 Rachel, but not Leah, is described as beautiful (Gen 29:17), but Leah will bear many children and acknowledge the accompanying divine favor (Gen 29:32; 33). Moreover, from a southern perspective, Rachel may be the mother of Joseph, but Leah is the mother of Judah, also suggesting divine favor.39 The inconsistency in the association between beauty and divine favor through these texts suggests that such an association should not be assumed in the book of Samuel. It is possible that this connection between divine favor and appearance is implied in the speech of one of Saul’s servants in 1 Sam 16:18, when he describes David “a man of form, and the Lord is with him” (‫ואיש תאר‬ ‫)ויהוה עמו‬. However, the servant’s assumption is overturned by the preceding scene, where the absence of divine favor for beauty is articulated at the selection of David in 1 Sam 16:1–13. As argued earlier, it is implied that Eliab is beautiful, and indeed Samuel the prophet considers Eliab suitable to be king. But it is not stated explicitly that Eliab is beautiful and in accordance with the motif, he does not attain monarchic power. The factor determining Eliab’s failure is that Eliab is rejected by God, an action accompanied by God’s statement in 1 Sam 16:7, “for the human looks to the eyes, and the Lord looks to the heart” (‫)כי האדם יראה לעינים ויהוה יראה ללבב‬. In this way, human favor for beauty, such as that of Samuel the prophet, and Saul’s servant, is pointedly contrasted with God’s lack of favor, or disfavor, for beauty. Where divine sovereignty directs events in Samuel-Kings, beauty has no effect in bringing about political or social elevation. The programmatic statement of 1 Sam 16:7 finds agreement throughout the passages with descriptions of beauty in Samuel-Kings, as I will demonstrate shortly. However, ironically, David will also have beautiful eyes and be handsome according to 1 Sam 16:12, even if 1 Sam 16:7 reveals that this is not why God has chosen him. This paradox highlights the dual factors of monarchic and divine sovereignty at work in the book of Samuel and their differing attitudes

38 39

Indeed, according to Warner (in this volume), this material is developed by the same redactor as the insertions in Genesis 39. Penchansky (“Beauty, Power, and Attraction,” 64) suggests that the Leah-Rachel story and the David stories call into question the justice of privileges given to the beautiful.

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to beauty explain some of the complexities of the politics of beauty in the book. By turning attention to divine sovereignty, and its unpredictable response to beauty in Samuel-Kings, a number of questions can be answered: why is the political success of women described as beautiful mixed? Why do some men who are not beautiful gain monarchic power, and some men who are beautiful ultimately lose their monarchic power? Regarding male beauty, the success of beautiful men attaining monarchic power can be attributed to monarchic and popular preference for the beautiful. Saul loves David (1 Sam 16:21), allowing David to gain a position in the royal court from which his position of power grows. David favors the beautiful Absalom, allowing him to return to Jerusalem even after murdering his brother Amnon (2 Sam 14:33), from where Absalom will establish his own monarchic power (2 Sam 15:1–6). The elevation of these male kings may also be attributed to popular support. Michal, Jonathan, and the people all love David; and the people respond to Absalom in his political machinations at the city gate, where he “stole the heart of the people of Israel” (‫ויגנב אבשלום את לב אנשי‬ ‫ ;ישראל‬2 Sam 15:16). However, not all beautiful men are able to maintain their monarchic power, and they are not able to marry beautiful wives, a factor that can be attributed to divine sovereignty. The failure of Saul as king is directly related to divine rejection in 1 Samuel  13 and 15. The failure of Absalom and Adonijah can also be attributed to God’s “love” for David and Solomon (2 Sam  12:24) respectively. Solomon is pointedly not described as beautiful and yet he is the only character in the narrative whom God explicitly loves. In each of these cases, divine disregard for promoting the beautiful causes complexity in the politics of male beauty. Monarchic and divine responses to female beauty are more complicated still. Kings, or aspirants to be king, favor beautiful women, undoubtedly motivated by the maintenance of male power that possessing beautiful wives brings. David favors Abigail, Bathsheba, and Abishag bringing them into his court. Female beauty is consistently associated with the elevation of status, with one exception, the abuse of Tamar by Amnon. However, as argued earlier, Amnon’s refusal to marry Tamar is part of his failure to attain monarchic power. Therefore, it can be concluded that monarchic power favors female beauty, but this favor may fail where the male protagonist’s hold on monarchic power is questionable. Monarchic favor for female beauty follows upon the utility of possessing beautiful female wives for maintaining male power, but, because of this motivation, it achieves little for women in terms for political power. God may bring political elevation for a woman, but, as God does not favor the beautiful,

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there is no clearly aligned pattern between female beauty and female political power. Furthermore, as mentioned earlier, there is no female monarchic power in 1 Sam 1–1 Kgs 2, and this is the primary form of political power bestowed by the divine throughout Samuel. A divine source of female political, but non-monarchical, power is illustrated in the story of Abigail. When she successfully negotiates with David to spare her house, David replies in 1 Sam 25:32, “blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel, who has sent you this day to meet me” (‫ברוך יהוה אלהי ישראל אשר שלחך היום‬ ‫)הזה לקראתי‬, and again in 1 Sam 25:34, he says that God “has restrained me from bringing evil on you” (‫)מנעני מהרע אתך‬.40 David attributes Abigail’s successful political negotiation to divine sovereignty. Similarly, Bathsheba’s successful political negotiation in 1 Kgs 1–2 is closely related to God’s favor for Solomon, although it may also point to a singular instance where monarchic favor for beauty brings Bathsheba political power. Apart from these two women, aided by unpredictable divine favor, unbeautiful women are more consistently successful politically, whether by divine or monarchic favor: Rizpah, Michal, and the woman of Tekoa. Turning to the transformation of the politics of beauty in the book of Esther, this analysis is suggestive for why beauty shifts from generating male to female monarchical power. Three political changes in the diaspora context of Esther are important: firstly, accumulation of power in a foreign king; secondly, the possibility of female Jewish monarchic power in conjunction with the foreign king; and thirdly, the absence of explicit divine intervention, and therefore the absence of unpredictability in the divine sovereign response to beauty. The concentration of power in a foreign king annuls any possibility of the succession of a Jewish male king. If male beauty in Samuel-Kings is a means of attaining monarchic power, it follows that an imperial king will show no favor to the male beauty, or elevate the male beauty, of foreign exiles because they are not contenders to the imperial rule. Rather, men are promoted because of their wisdom and usefulness, but not beauty. Mordecai is given a kind of monarchic power because of his loyalty, and therefore utility, in reporting a plot against the king. If this utility is conceived as bringing hidden things to light, a close connection can be made to the diaspora rise of both Daniel and Joseph through dream interpretation.41 Daniel, Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego are described in 40 41

Danger to Nabal associated with female beauty is attributed to God also, as in 1 Sam 25:38, Nabal dies through direct divine intervention. On the motif of success of the wise courtier in diaspora court narratives, see W.  Lee Humphreys, “A Lifestyle for Diaspora: A Study of the Tales of Esther and Daniel,” JBL 94

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Dan 1:4 as “beautiful of appearance” (‫ )וטובי מראה‬and so their beauty is an aspect of the selection for the royal court. Similarly, Joseph is also described in Gen 39:6 as beautiful. However, Daniel and Joseph both ultimately find a politically powerful position in the court of a foreign king through dream interpretation. In Dan 2, Daniel interprets Nebuchadnezzar’s dreams and in Dan 2:48, Daniel is promoted being made “to rule” (‫ )והשלטה‬over Babylon. Joseph interprets the dreams of Pharaoh in Gen 41 and Joseph is given authority over all Egypt (Gen 41:40–45), albeit second to the throne (Gen 41:45). Although positioned by male beauty, male political elevation comes about through utility to the foreign king whom the male courtier can never supplant. In contrast to the diminished male Jewish monarchical power in the diaspora, there is now a possibility of female monarchical power through marriage to the foreign king. Just as the Israelite monarchy consistently favors beautiful women, so also the foreign king consistently favors beautiful women, replacing the hidden Vashti with the one “better than her” as queen. In this way, Esther’s beauty brings about social elevation consistent with the elevation of beautiful women in Samuel. However, unlike Samuel, Esther’s elevation to queen brings with it monarchical power, as she takes the place of Saul and David in the intertextual links to Samuel. Thus, in the politics of beauty in the book of Esther, monarchical power comes to a beautiful woman.42 Finally, the success of female beauty in Esther for gaining monarchical power can be attributed to the absence of explicit divine sovereignty. In Samuel-Kings, monarchic power is maintained only through divine sovereignty; and divine sovereignty does not privilege the beautiful. However, in Esther, Esther’s elevation is dependent solely on the favor of King Ahasuerus, who, like Israelite monarchs, favors beauty. In the book of Esther, the politics of beauty are entirely dependent upon human response to beauty, not the unpredictable effect of divine sovereignty that shows no favor to beauty.

42

(1973): 218–34; Susan Niditch and Robert Doran, “The Success Story of the Wise Courtier: A Formal Approach,” JBL 96 (1977): 179–93. Note that Humphreys includes Esther among the wise courtiers. However, Esther gains her monarchical power prior to exercising wisdom, whereas Mordecai, Daniel and Joseph gain power after exercising their wisdom. The possibility of greater monarchical power for a Jewish woman than a Jewish man in the diaspora context of Esther is part of a broader pattern of the “feminization” of Jewish political action in Esther (see Gilmour, “Overturning Sovereignty”). In place of military action, Esther uses so called “feminine” attributes of deceit and responsiveness to opportunity (see also White, “Esther,” 161–77; Rachel  E.  Adelman, The Female Ruse: Women’s Deception and Divine Sanction in the Hebrew Bible, Hebrew Bible Monographs 74, [Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2015], 198–30). Esther’s passivity is consistently more effective than Mordecai’s aggressive tactics, including his antagonism with Haman which leads to danger rather than success.

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Conclusions on the Politics of Beauty

This study has highlighted that within biblical texts there is transformation and change in the politics of beauty, as the political context shifts from dual Israelite monarchic and divine sovereignty to foreign monarchic sovereignty and the absence of explicit divine intervention. The absence of explicit divine sovereignty is essentially the absence of God-talk. Therefore, the transformation in the politics of beauty from Samuel to Esther is also a shift from political theology to political pragmatics for life in the diaspora. In Samuel–Kings, both male and female beauty are oriented towards male monarchic power: male beauty attains power, and the possession of female beauty helps to maintain power. Kings favor female beauty but God shows no preference, bringing an unpredictability to the politics of beauty. The book of Esther overturns the politics of beauty in the text of SamuelKings, in conjunction with intertextual links to the book of Samuel relating directly to the themes of beauty and the succession of monarchical power. In the book of Esther, male power becomes invested in a woman: Esther is paralleled to David’s succession to Saul and is successful where her ancestor Saul was not. As a result, the benefits of both male and female beauty converge: Esther’s beauty is favored by foreign monarchic power; and Esther attains monarchic power as queen through her beauty like kings in Samuel–Kings. Finally, in the book of Esther, the unpredictable effect of divine sovereignty, that shows no favor for the beautiful, is either hidden or absent. Without the intervention of God, Esther’s beauty is a reliable and stable asset for monarchic power, and therefore appropriate to life in the diaspora as portrayed in the book of Esther.

Enlarging Borders and Territory: Contrasting Texts from the Pentateuch, Amos, and Chronicles Samasoni Moleli Alama This paper aims to compare and contrast the employment of border-related terminologies in the Hebrew Bible, focusing on Deut 12:20, 19:8–9, Amos 1:13 and 1 Chr 4:9–10. The discussion includes a detailed examination of these selected texts that speak about the expansion of territory. In relation to the issue of ancestral inheritance, the paper will briefly describe other related texts, such as Prov 22:28 and 1 Kings 21. With the discussion of the prayer of Jabez in 1 Chronicles 4, it will be necessary to include comparisons with the theology of land in the Priestly traditions of Genesis and Leviticus. While the differences between the characteristic terminology for landholdings in Deuteronomy (‫ )נחלה‬and Priestly traditions in Genesis and Leviticus (‫)אחזה‬ are well known, I will also seek to describe a different set of tensions between competing political theologies—on the one hand, divinely given land allocations framed by covenantal law in the Pentateuchal traditions, and, on the other hand, the attitude to land allocations in Amos, which can be understood more in terms of natural law.1 In 1 Chr 4:9–10, the author has selected elements from the earlier texts, and combined them in subtle ways. The combination of a verbal form of ‫ רחב‬with the noun ‫( גבול‬enlarge/ expand border or territory) occurs nine times in the Hebrew Bible, and this is the most common lexical choice for speaking about expanding borders.2 Out of these occurrences, the examples in the book of Deuteronomy and Amos are the central focus of this paper.3 Another example in 1 Chr 4:10 is interesting 1 See especially John Barton, Understanding Old Testament Ethics: Approaches and Explorations (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2003), 32–34; Reinhard Achenbach, “Mishpat Haggoyim, Mishpat Laggoyim and the Early Development of Measures for International Human Rights in the Hebrew Bible,” Transversalités 133 (2015): 9–21. 2 The first example in the canonical order, Exod 34:24, is often taken to be Deuteronomistic, as argued for example by John Van Seters, The Life of Moses: The Yahwist as Historian in Exodus-Numbers (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1994), 356. The nine examples are Exod 34:24; Deut 12:20; 19:8; Ezek 43:13, 17; 45:1; 48:8, 13; Amos 1:13; contrast 1 Chr 4:10, which will be discussed below. Note that Isaiah 26:15 also implies enlarged borders but uses another verb instead of ‫ רחב‬to speak about YHWH’s enlargement of Judah. Isaiah 26 deserves another discussion, since it presents a number of quite different exegetical problems. 3 Another five combinations of ‫ רחב‬and ‫ גבול‬appear in Ezekiel (43:13, 17; 45:1; and 48:8, 13), but in these cases both words are nouns. The implications of the noun ‫ רחב‬in Ezekiel are not

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for a number of reasons,4 and in this context I will show how its choice of another verb to speak about “enlarging” territory (‫ )רבה‬resonates more with the Priestly traditions. The very late date of the material in Chronicles implies that the scribes were reflecting on the wide range of inherited land theologies, Deuteronomic and Priestly, and synthesizing them in the context of new challenges. 1.

Deuteronomy

The most common term for land allocation in Deuteronomy is “inheritance” (‫ )נחלה‬which appears no less than twenty-five times in the book. YHWH is depicted as the original owner of the land, with Israelites themselves also being a part of YHWH’s own ‫נחלה‬.5 Deut 4:20 But YHWH has taken you and brought you out of the ironsmelter, out of Egypt, to become a people of his very own possession (‫)להיות לו לעם נחלה‬, as you are now.

The majority of the uses of ‫ נחלה‬in Deuteronomy, however, refer to land rather than people, often in a sequence of words along the lines of “the land that YHWH your God is giving you as a ‫( ”נחלה‬e.g., Deut 4:21, 38; 12:9; 15:4; 19:10, 14; 20:16; 21:23; 24:4; 25:19; 26:1). The combination of a verbal form of ‫“( רחב‬enlarge, expand”) along with the noun ‫“( גבול‬border, territory”) appears twice in Deuteronomy, when referring to expected behavior within the borders of the promised land: Deut 12:20 When YHWH your God enlarges your territory (‫כי־ירחיב יהוה‬ ‫)אלהיך את־גבולך‬, as he has promised you, and you say, ‘I am going to eat some meat’, because you wish to eat meat, you may eat meat whenever you have the desire. Deut 19:8–9 If YHWH your God enlarges your territory (‫ואם־ירחיב יהוה אלהיך‬ ‫ )את־גבלך‬as he swore to your ancestors—and he will give you all the land that he promised your ancestors to give you,9 provided you diligently observe this entire commandment that I command directly relevant to the verbal forms discussed in this paper, although Ezek 45:1 suggests a very large land allocation for the temple. 4 Samasoni Moleli Alama, “Jabez in Context: A Multidimensional Approach to Identity and Landholdings in Chronicles” (PhD diss., University of Divinity, 2018). 5 Although the word ‫ נחלה‬in Deut 4:20 is translated as “possession” (NRSV), “inheritance” is the semantic dimension of this word.

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you today, by loving YHWH your God and walking always in his ways—then you shall add three more cities to these three.

Both examples indicate the singular hiphil form of the verb “enlarge” (‫)רחב‬, followed by the singular noun “territory” (‫ )גבול‬with a direct object marker (‫)את‬.6 The rendering of ‫ גבול‬as “territory” (as in the NRSV) is less common than “border” or “boundary” according to John Rogerson, but this translation issue is not crucial to our argument.7 In this context, Deuteronomy 19 considers the number of cities of refuge that should be allocated within the borders of the promised territory, and vv. 8–9 indicate at least two different possibilities for the extent of the land promised to the ancestors. The point is made that the divine’s enlargement of borders is dependent on Israel’s loving YHWH and obedience by walking ever in YHWH’s ways. The key word here is “if” (‫)אם‬ which implies a conditional deal, and v. 9 makes the covenantal commands explicit. The cities of refuge are provided so as to prevent the shedding of innocent blood, which would defile the land (v. 10). Ancestors and ancestral land (‫ )נחלה‬are associated with concepts of sacredness and taboos not only in Deuteronomy (e.g., Deut 19:14) but also in other parts of the Old Testament such as Prov 22:28. From these texts, we find landmarks (‫ )גבול‬set up by ancestors for protection of their lands from strangers. The story of Naboth’s refusal to give his vineyard (‫ )כרם‬to Ahab refers to land as an inheritance (‫ )נחלה‬from YHWH or God.8 However, Deut 4:19–20 and 6:4 clarify that YHWH is our/your God. Perhaps, Deuteronomy presents Israel with a new understanding of their land as a gift from YHWH God through their ancestors, rather than a direct inheritance from ancestors (Deut 6:10). I will return to this point later. The eastern border is usually not clarified in Deuteronomy, although the Euphrates is mentioned in Deut 1:7 and 11:24, a very large border indeed. Once Israel’s promised lands are taken into Israel’s possession, and the many different settlements are widely dispersed, it would be quite legitimate to eat meat wherever and whenever the people like (Deut 12:15–16, 20).9 Thus, instead of coming to the central place to sacrifice, meat can be consumed away from the central place where YHWH dwells. But if the people want to make a sacrifice, 6 This is similar to the construction in the case of Chronicles (1 Chr 4:10). 7 John W. Rogerson, “Frontiers and Borders in the Old Testament,” in In Search of True Wisdom: Essays in Old Testament Interpretation in Honour of Ronald E Clements, ed. Edward Ball (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999), 116–26 (117). 8 Note that the LXX version of 1 Kgs 21:3 uses the word “God” (παρὰ θεοῦ μου) instead of “Lord.” 9 Contrast the law of sacrifice at the tent of meeting in Lev 17:3–7 and the timing of consumption in Lev 19:5–8.

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they are still required to come to that one place.10 Such an activity reinforces the fact that Deuteronomy addresses the significance of cultic centralization within YHWH’s land allocation.11 Yet the allowance of meat consumption away from the central place is still permitted as long as the people remain as servants of YHWH through prayer, worship and law observance. Locating these texts within the national imagination of Deuteronomy,12 scholars seem to put weight on the importance of ‫ גבול‬as a device to establish the Israelites’ uniformity and identity within territory given by YHWH. A divine contribution will be explicitly reflected in Israel’s military success, which is conditional on general obedience to covenant stipulations.13 This military ideology is presented in a number of different ways throughout the Deuteronomistic history, where the prior inhabitants of the land are to be utterly destroyed (‫)חרם‬.14 Deuteronomy’s use of ‫ חרם‬is different, for example, from Exod 23:27–30 (‫ )גרש‬and Lev 18:25–28 (‫)קיא‬. The enlargement of territory in Deuteronomy 19 seems to assume an observance of the law in 20:16–17, where “everything that breathes” (‫ )כל נשמה‬must be destroyed. Without ‫חרם‬, the land cannot be possessed (‫)ירשׁ‬. Deuteronomy also offers an interpretation on ‫ חרם‬which suggests that even Israelites who are proven disloyal to YHWH shall be punished (Deut 13:16). In line with such an exclusivist tendency within Deuteronomistic tradition, the verb ‫ ירשׁ‬is mentioned more than thirty times throughout the book of Deuteronomy, and in many cases, this verb is associated with violence.15 The martial element is a distinctive part of Deuteronomistic theology, which is also implied in Deut 12:20 and 19:8–9, but it is not shared with Priestly theology of

10 Peter  C.  Craigie, The Book of Deuteronomy, NICOT (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1976), 218–19. 11 Note that YHWH’s land allocation in Ezekiel (45:1; 48:8, 13) seems to assume the same motive behind Deuteronomy’s land allocation (12:20; 19:8) for YHWH. Both Deuteronomy’s and Ezekiel’s references for land allocation emphasize the sacred land allocation for the temple. 12 See Samasoni Moleli, “Deuteronomy’s National Imagination—Yhwh the Landowner as reflecting the Samoan Pulega a Alii ma Faipule,” paper given at a meeting of the Oceania Biblical Studies Association (OBSA) in Suva (2013). Here, I considered four concepts under the heading of “national imagination”: centralization, ancestral inheritance, limitations on the monarchy, and the ban. 13 As is also the case in Exod  34:24. See Walter Brueggemann, “The Book of Exodus,” in The New Interpreter’s Bible One Volume Commentary, ed. Beverly R. Gaventa and David Peterson (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2010), 677–981, 950. 14 For instance, see Deut 7:1–7; 20:16–17; Josh 7:21–26; 11:10–15; Judg 7:25; 1 Sam 15. 15 See particularly Deut 4:26; 7:1; 9:1–6; 12:1–29; 15:4; 28:21–63.

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land in Genesis and Leviticus.16 The uniformity and identity of the cultic community, as well as the relationships with the promised territory, are formed in different ways in in the Priestly traditions, as we shall see.17 2.

Amos

The combination of verbal form of ‫ רחב‬with the noun ‫ גבול‬in Amos 1:13 presents a very different set of issues. Amos 1:13 Thus says the YHWH: ‘For three transgressions of the Ammonites, and for four,I will not revoke the punishment; because they have ripped open pregnant women in Gilead in order to enlarge their territory (‫)למען הרחיב את־גבולם‬.’

This time, the hiphil infinitive form of the verbal root “enlarge” appears for the first time after the preposition ‫“ למען‬in order to.” The preposition stands in between the disgraceful action of “ripped open,” and the motivation of that action “to enlarge their territory.” The text alludes to war between the Ammonites and the people of Gilead with the explicit purpose of expropriating land. Thus, Amos 1:13 suggests the possibility of enlarging borders by means of wrongful violence as a result of greed. By contrast, enlarging borders in Deuteronomy is linked with “right” violence as the means of entering the divinely promised land.18 Another contrasting point, of course, is that Deuteronomy’s conception is embedded within a covenant that specifically regulates the relationship between YHWH and the people of Israel. Amos  1:13 on the other hand, is located within the oracles against the surrounding nations of Israel (Amos 1:3– 2:16).19 Within these oracles, the indictments of foreign “war crimes” provide 16

17

18 19

Victor P. Hamilton, Exodus: An Exegetical Commentary (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2011), 582. The theme of warfare returns in the later Priestly traditions of Numbers, as argued by Reinhard Achenbach, “Divine Warfare and Yhwh’s Wars: Religious Ideologies of War in the Ancient Near East and in the Old Testament,” in The Ancient Near East in the 12th–10th Centuries BCE: Culture and History, ed. Gershon Galil et al., AOAT 392 (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2012), 1–26. See especially Nili Wazana, All the Boundaries of the Land: The Promised Land in Biblical Thought in Light of the Ancient Near East, trans. Liat Qeren (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2013), 11–57, 85–96; Julia Rhyder, Centralizing the Cult: The Holiness Legislation in Leviticus 17–36, FAT 134 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2019). For instance, see Deut 7:1–3; 20:16–17. M.  Daniel  Carroll Rodas, “Amos,” in The Prophets, ed. Gale  A.  Yee, Hugh  R.  Page and Matthew J.M. Coomber (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2016): 845–56 (846–47).

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no challenge to Israel at all.20 In fact, they may have had the function of lulling Amos’ audience into a false sense of security before Amos turns his attention to Israel.21 While Daniel Carroll admits that it is difficult to identify the specific events that lie behind these indictments by foreign nations, as no specifics are given,22 Houston notes that they do at least refer to the various kinds of violence: the selling of entire populations into slavery (1:6, 9); breach of covenant (1:9); violence against pregnant women (1:13); and the treatment of the dead with indignity (2:1). For Ammon particularly, the crime indicated in v. 13 is not detailed here, but commentaries suggest that such assaults on pregnant women are often featured in ancient warfare, “especially when an army wanted to terrorize and decimate the local residents.”23 The crimes of these foreign nations were not assessed by Israel’s covenant laws, since these nations had no covenant with YHWH, but rather on the basis of broader moral expectations. So we need to reflect further on the ethical foundations implied by the prophetic critiques in Amos 1.24 Considering the wider literary context of Amos, there are some analogies to notice: the judgement against Damascus in 1:5 (“and the people of Aram shall go into exile to Kir”) corresponds with Amos 9:7 where the Arameans had their own “exodus” from Kir. There is also a judgement on Gaza (1:6–8), an old Philistine city, and the Philistine “exodus” is also mentioned in 9:7—with even more shocking effect, since the Philistines were apparently given their land on the western edge of Israel’s own territory, with the blessing of YHWH. The judgement against Tyre presumes that a “covenant of kinship” has been broken (1:9), perhaps implying kinship obligations rather than a legal covenant. Carroll argues that the Ammonite barbarity of ripping open pregnant women in 1:13 corresponds to events described in the books of Kings (2 Kgs 8:12; 15:16).25 The reference to Judah’s torah in Amos 2:4–5 seems to be out of place in the oracles against the foreign nations in Amos 1:3–2:16. The reference directly

20 Walter J. Houston, Amos: An Introduction and Study Guide: Justice and Violence (London: T&T Clark, 2017), 38. 21 There are three other Old Testament references to this kind of God’s judgement, all in the 9th and 8th centuries BCE. Elisha and Hosea have predicted this fate for Israel itself (2 Kgs 8:12; Hos 13:16) and Menahem does this to a town that resisted his rule (2 Kgs 15:16). 22 Carroll, “Amos,” 847. 23 For example, see Craig S. Keener and John H. Walton (eds.), NIV Cultural Backgrounds Study Bible: Bringing to Life the Ancient World of Scripture (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2016), 1482. See also Carroll, “Amos,” 848. 24 Houston, Amos: An Introduction, 36–38. 25 Carroll, “Amos,” 848.

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alludes to the laws of Moses, even though Moses’ name is not mentioned.26 Along with many other scholars, John Barton argues that this oracle against Judah was added after the fall of the Northern Kingdom, towards the end of the eighth century, and it anticipates the new position of Deuteronomy in seventh century Judah. Accordingly, Amos 2:4–5 is often said to be “Deuteronomistic” redaction, while the earlier prophetic material of the eighth century arguably contains ethical assumptions that could be better characterized in terms of natural law.27 Amos assumed that his audience knew the “natural order of things.”28 When he introduces his dramatic focus on social justice, he wants his audience to see that exploitation of the poor is as evil as the war crimes committed by surrounding nations.29 In sum, the acquisition of territory is fraught with tension: when measured against “natural” or intercultural norms, taking territory by violence is unambiguously wrong. On the other hand, YHWH can define the fundamental exception in Deuteronomy: violence is mandated when taking possession of divinely given lands. 3.

Chronicles and Priestly Theology

The prayer of Jabez in 1 Chr 4:10 speaks specifically about the enlargement of borders using language that is reminiscent of Deuteronomy: “Jabez called on the God of Israel, saying, ‘Oh that you would bless me and enlarge my border, and that your hand might be with me.’” But there is a different verb form here, and perhaps even a wordplay: ‫ רבה‬rather than ‫רחב‬.30 Even though this sounds 26

Many scholars have noted the absence of citations of Mosaic law from the book of Amos. For instance, Houston argues that Amos never quotes a law or accuses people of breaking the law. See Houston, Amos, 41. See the alternative view in Gene M. Tucker, “The Law in the Eighth-Century Prophets” in Canon, Theology, and Old Testament Interpretation, ed. Gene M. Tucker, David L. Petersen, and Robert R. Wilson (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988), 202. 27 Barton, Understanding Old Testament Ethics, 32–34. 28 Houston, Amos: An Introduction, 34. 29 Generally speaking, it seems that the 8th century prophets did presuppose traditional law and were concerned with upholding social justice (e.g., Amos 5:15; Isa 5:23), but it was not their socio-religious role to enforce it. Also, some of the prophetic words are directed against foreign nations (e.g., Amos 1) with whom there was no covenant, while some are judgements against Israel (e.g., Amos 2:4–5). In this case, Amos sometimes focused on Israel’s special responsibilities before YHWH, while at other times he assumed what we might call “natural law” which was binding on all nations. 30 The similarity between the consonants in these two verbs might be taken as a wordplay that trades on familiarity with the Deuteronomic phrase. If so, the Chronicler would be

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like Deuteronomic idea, the wording of the prayer has a curious combination of the terminology of blessing and “multiplying” (‫ )רבה‬more familiar from the book of Genesis.31 In Genesis, the combination of blessing and multiplying comes without the covenantal obligations familiar in Deuteronomy. But why would the Chronicler fail at this point to invoke law observance as possible grounds for the petition? Interestingly, Jabez appears in this genealogical chapter without genealogical links, and commentators have suggested therefore that he may be a foreigner. This would make the invocation of Genesis material in 1 Chr 4:9–10 especially relevant. The universal Priestly blessing in Genesis  1 is directed firstly to all humanity (1:28), a point which is restated after the flood in the address to Noah and his descendants in Gen 9:1, 7.32 Gen 1:22 God blessed them, saying (‫)לאמר‬, “Be fruitful and multiply and fill (‫ )פרו ורבו ומלאו‬the waters in the seas, and let birds multiply on the earth.” Gen 1:28 God blessed them and God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply and fill (‫ )פרו ורבו ומלאו‬the earth and subdue it …” Gen 9:1 Then God blessed Noah and his sons, saying to them, “Be fruitful and multiply and fill (‫ )פרו ורבו ומלאו‬the earth.”

According to Claus Westermann, the imperative language in these texts “has the effect of conferring something” rather than being just a command.33 Here, the blessing of multiplication and fruitfulness becomes effective at the same time when God pronounces it. So the insertion of ‫ לאמר‬followed by the blessing in the imperative in the Priestly formula, describes the universal blessing

31 32 33

twisting Deuteronomy’s terminology for a purpose. Jabez could not aspire to an enlarged territory by warfare, as assumed in D theology. He is entirely reliant on the divine “hand,” i.e., “power,” “strength,” and “authority” (BDB, s.v. “‫)”יָ ד‬. But this reference to “hand” might also be something of a wordplay. Jabez’s direct prayer to God is perhaps an attempt to bypass the expected ancestral bond to land, reflected in the “hand” monuments mentioned in 2 Sam 18:18 and Isa 56:5. See Francesca Stavrakopoulou, Land of Our Fathers: The Roles of Ancestors Veneration in Biblical Land Claims (New York: T&T Clark, 2010), 16–17. On “hand land” in the Murashu texts, see Matthew W. Stolper, Entrepreneurs and Empire: The Musašȗ Archive, the Musašȗ Firm and Persian Rule in Babylonia (Leiden: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut te Istanbul, 1985), 24–26. From the many occurrences of ‫ רבה‬in Genesis, I refer specifically to Gen 1:22, 28; 8:17; 9:1, 7; 16:10; 22:17; 26:4; 26:24; and 35:11. See, e.g., Christophe Nihan, From Priestly Torah to Pentateuch: A Study in the Composition of the Book of Leviticus, FAT 2 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 62. Claus Westermann, Genesis 1–11: A Commentary (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1984), 138.

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that has already been conferred by God. The two verbs for “multiply” and “be fruitful” usually occur in the context of blessing, and in these particular texts, the verb to “fill” (‫ )ומלאו‬seems to imply that the land was not yet occupied; it was not yet full. It is perhaps worth noting here that when these traditions were edited in the Persian period, the population of Yehud was dramatically reduced from the levels in pre-exilic times,34 so an expansion of the population was evidently a key element in theologies of hope. But the Priestly vision of blessing seems not to be focused exclusively on the life of a single nation. In Genesis 17, all the descendants of Abraham are blessed. The Priestly promise of increase in Genesis 17 appears twice (17:2a, 20), and for P this implies that Abraham will be the father of many nations (‫ המון גוים‬in Gen 17:4, 5). The use of ‫ המון‬is particularly relevant to our discussion. It denotes the inclusive extension of the promise from the seed of Abraham (Gen 17:7a) to nations outside of Israel including the descendants of Ishmael who was also the “father of twelve princes” (Gen 17:20). Gen 17:8 raises a question, however, about the extent of land allocations among Abraham’s descendants: a promise of “all the land of Canaan as an eternal holding” (‫ )כל־ארץ כנען לאחזת עולם‬is very different from a vision of all the land extending to the Euphrates mentioned in Deut 1:7 and 11:24. (The Euphrates map does appear in Gen 15:18, however, evidently stemming from a non-Priestly tradition.35) To sum up the discussion so far, we have seen that Genesis regards land allocations as a matter of divine blessing for humanity as a whole, within which Israel is of course included, but so are non-Israelites (like Jabez, according to the Chronicler). In Genesis 17, when the land is given to Israel as a “landholding” (‫ )אחזה‬there is no focus on covenantal obligations as we find in Deuteronomy. Within the Priestly traditions, the covenantal obligations arise especially in the Holiness Code, where traditional landholding as an ‫ אחזה‬is mentioned many

34

35

Avraham Faust, “Settlement Dynamics and Demographic Fluctuations in Judah from the Late Iron Age to the Hellenistic Period and the Archaeology of Persian-Period Yehud,” in A Time of Change: Judah and Its Neighbours in the Persian and Early Hellenistic Periods, ed. Yigal Levin (London: Continuum, 2007), 23–51. John W. Wright, “Remapping Yehud: The Borders of Yehud and the Genealogies of Chronicles,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, ed. Obed Lipschits and Manfred Oeming (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 67–89. Building on a number of earlier studies, Mark Brett attributes these three texts to hexateuchal redactions in Brett, “Yhwh among the Nations: The Politics of Divine Names in Genesis 15 and 24,” in The Politics of the Ancestors: Exegetical and Historical Perspectives on Genesis 12–36, ed. Mark G. Brett and Jakob Wöhrle, FAT 124 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2018), 113–30. Contrast Rachel Havrelock, River Jordan: The Mythology of a Dividing Line (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011), 17–39.

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times.36 One could therefore raise a specifically Priestly version of the question already articulated: why would the petition of Jabez not make reference to covenantal observance as it is understood in the Holiness material? In Genesis, we find the idea that an ‫ אחזה‬is a “landholding,” rather than a matter of outright land ownership.37 This is explicitly articulated in Lev 25:23 as well, within the Holiness Code: “The land shall not be sold in perpetuity, for the land is mine; with me you are but aliens and tenants.” Accordingly, within the Priestly traditions of Genesis, the ancestors are seen as sojourners, a point to which we will need to return.38 But in order to understand the conception of ‫ אחזה‬landholding, it is important to include some consideration of the story of Joseph and his family in Genesis 47. In Gen 47:11, we read that Joseph “granted them a holding (‫ )אחזה‬in the best part of Egypt.”39 The Priestly note in Gen 47:27b says that Israel “gained possession (‫ )ויאחזו‬in it, and were fruitful and multiplied exceedingly,” reiterating the very familiar terminology for blessing and multiplying. Nevertheless, the Israelites had claimed only that “they have come to reside as aliens in the land” (Gen 47:4a). They were able to reside there without the need to conquer or colonize the land. Philippe Guillaume argues that wherever the Genesis narratives seem to describe a land purchase, as in Gen 33:19–20 and 34:10, this implies a use of money to secure rental and cultivation rights, rather than outright purchase. Accordingly, any grant of an ‫ אחזה‬to Jacob’s sons allows them tenure and usufruct.40 The economic conditions that obviously apply in Egypt are extrapolated in the Priestly texts of Genesis and Leviticus to apply even to the descendants of Abraham who live in the promised land. Regardless however, of the differences among the land theologies in Deuteronomistic and Priestly literature—and regardless of whether the 36

37 38

39 40

This specific terminology for landholding occurs 20 times in Leviticus, overwhelmingly in the HC: Lev  14:34 (twice); 25:10, 13, 24, 25, 27, 28, 32, 33 (twice), 34, 41, 45, 46; 27:16, 21, 22, 24, 28. Both Genesis and Numbers have 9 references, while Deuteronomy has one (Deut 32:49). Note that the words “landholding” and “possession” are used interchangeably by the NRSV throughout Genesis for the Hebrew word ‫אחזה‬. See especially Nili Wazana, “Natives, Immigrants and the Biblical Perception of Origins in Historical Times,” Journal of the Institute of Archaeology of Tel Aviv University 32 (2005): 220–45. Here, Wazana has mentioned particularly some of the Priestly texts such as Gen 17:8; Num 34:2 describing Israel as “non-indigenous people” or “outsiders” from the beginning. See David M. Carr, Reading the Fractures of Genesis: Historical and Literary Approaches (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1961), 112. Philippe Guillaume, Land, Credit and Crisis: Agrarian Finance in the Hebrew Bible (Sheffield: Equinox, 2012), 19.

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preferred terminology is ‫ נחלה‬or ‫—אחזה‬Guillaume argues that these covenantal streams of tradition converge on the idea of “possession” rather than on outright ownership.41 Deuteronomistic texts suggest that inherited land is possessed conditionally, but never owned in a way that would make the land alienable.42 Priestly texts (especially the Holiness Code in Lev 25:23) suggest that the sole owner of the land is God and that the Israelites are only tenants. In contemporary terms, this kind of landholding might perhaps be closer to a leasehold tenure. Regardless of the theological nuances, however, there seems to be a substantial measure of agreement between the two main traditions. Parenthetically, we might also note an overlap between Deuteronomistic and Priestly traditions even in the story of Naboth’s vineyard in 1 Kings 21. This text has been another focus of recent debates about land, and there is no consensus either on the date of the text or its theological influences.43 Against an older presumption for dating the Naboth story to the pre-exilic period,44 Knauf and others argue for the Persian period.45 Also advancing a later date, Alexander Rofé discusses the connection between Naboth’s ‫ נחלה‬and the Priestly tradition, rather than Deuteronomistic literature.46 Rofé suggests that Naboth’s claim to an ancestral ‫ נחלה‬in 1 Kgs 21:3b alludes to Num 36:7–9 where the same terminology is found in the context of a late Priestly law prohibiting transfer of land from one tribe to another.47 There is no need to adjudicate here between the various approaches the Naboth story, but we might take this ongoing debate as potentially supporting the idea that many of the later texts seem to be mixing both Deuteronomistic and Priestly concepts and terminology. This is what I have argued in relation to the Jabez prayer in 1 Chr 4:9– 10, where the wordplay between ‫ גבל‬+ ‫רבה‬/‫( רחב‬enlarge/multiply + border)

41 42 43 44

45

46 47

Guillaume, Land, Credit and Crisis, 9–13. For instance, see Deut 4:21, 38; 12:9; 15:4; 19:10, 14; 20:16; 21:23; 24:4; 25:19; 26:1. See especially, Stephen  C.  Russell, “The Hierarchy of Estates in Land and Naboth’s Vineyard,” JSOT 38.4 (2014): 453–61. For instance, see Dagmar Pruin, “What Is in a Text? Searching for Jezebel,” in Ahab Agonistes: The Rise and Fall of the Omri Dynasty, ed. Lester L. Grabbe (London: T&T Clark, 2007), 208–35 (212); Nadav Na’aman, “Naboth’s Vineyard and the Foundation of Jezreel,” JSOT 33.2 (2008): 197–218 (199–200). Ernst Axel Knauf, “Inside the Walls of Nehemiah’s Jerusalem: Naboth’s Vineyard,” in The Fire Signals of Lachish: Studies in the Archaeology and History of Israel in the Late Bronze Age, Iron Age, and Persian Period in Honor of David Ussishkin, ed. Nadav Na’aman and Israel Finkelstein (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 185–94. Alexander Rofé, “The Vineyard of Naboth: The Origin and Message of the Story,” VT 38.1 (1988): 89–104. Rofé, “The Vineyard of Naboth,” 89–104, esp. 101.

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initially sounds Deuteronomic, but the “extending border” in 1 Chr 4:9–10 also appears to have resonances with Genesis. 4.

Concluding Reflections

The idea of expanding borders found in Deut 12:20 and 19:8 sits inside the larger national vision of that book, which requires the conquest of previously occupied lands (as does the Deuteronomistic addition in Exod 34:24). From Deuteronomy’s point of view, this is violence sanctified by YHWH’s command, and it can override any previous existing rights of occupation.48 While Deuteronomy is clearly more militaristic than the Priestly traditions of Genesis, all the Pentateuchal traditions share a conviction that ‫ אחזה‬is more a matter of landholding than outright ownership. And YHWH retains the landowner’s right to evict the tenants, a point that is emphasized in Priestly theology by configuring Israelites as sojourners rather than landowners. The expansion of territory within the covenantal traditions assumes the jurisdiction of a divine sovereignty (rather than a human king), whether that divine sovereignty is conceived in Deuteronomistic or Priestly terms. One possible implication of these shared assumptions in the Pentateuch was drawn out quite explicitly in modern European history when the Priestly command to subdue the earth in Gen 1:28 was commonly taken as a warrant for colonialism—regardless of whether the land was previously occupied or not.49 The expansion of borders spoken about in Amos 1:13, on the other hand, is taken to be a breach of natural law or intercultural norms that respect previously established borders. It is associated with the heinous crime of ripping open pregnant women. The ethical and political assumptions of the oracles against the nations in Amos have the character of a natural or intercultural law.50 In this respect, Amos foreshadows later developments in international 48

49 50

Such an over-riding of natural rights was commonly endorsed in the history of colonialism. See, e.g., John Cotton, God’s Promise to His Plantations (London: William Jones, 1634), 5: “Indeed no Nation is to drive out another without special Commission from Heaven, such as the Israelites had; unless the Natives do unjustly wrong them, and will not recompence the wrongs done in peaceable sort, and then they may right themselves by lawful War, and subdue the Countrey unto themselves.” See, e.g., Peter Harrison, “‘Fill the Earth and Subdue it’: Biblical Warrants for Colonization in Seventeenth Century England,” Journal of Religious History 29.1 (2005): 3–24. In addition to the works of Barton and Houston already cited, see H. G. M. Williamson, He Has Shown You What is Good: Old Testament Justice Then and Now (Cambridge: Lutterworth, 2012), 64–89.

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law.51 The judgment on Damascus in Amos 1:5 (“and the people of Aram shall go into exile to Kir”) corresponds with Amos  9:7, where the Arameans are said to have experienced their own “exodus” from Kir, so that the exile of the Arameans is a case of “poetic justice.” By analogy, Israel is threatened with exile in similar terms, except that it is the scale of their social injustice that is deserving of exile. Once again, divine sovereignty is preserved in this prophetic theology, but under conditions that are presumed to be understood interculturally. Many nations share the experience of exodus and exile, and Amos insists that Israel is not unique in this regard. There is a considerable tension between Deuteronomy and Amos on the issue of borders. Natural law would suggest that, once established, borders should not be moved.52 This point is made very clearly in Prov 22:28 where the traditional advice is: “Do not move an ancient boundary (‫)גבול עולם‬, which was established by your ancestors.” Interestingly, this text in Proverbs was repeatedly invoked by Bartholomé de las Casas when defending the natural rights of the Indians in the sixteenth century. It was also a favorite text of Eddie Mabo, the Australian Aboriginal land rights campaigner who took his case to the High Court of Australia, and who tragically passed away before its successful resolution in 1992.53 The Deuteronomic theologians seem to have been aware of the ancient advice given in other texts such as Proverbs 22, and they reframed it in specifically Yahwistic terms: “Do not move your neighbor’s boundary marker (‫)גבול‬, which was established by prior generations, on the ‫ נחלה‬that will be allotted to you in the land that YHWH your God is giving you to possess.” This is, once again, a covenantal vision that is characteristic of the Pentateuch’s traditions, but it stands in tension with the tradition of natural rights that can be found in Amos (contrast Prov 22:28). Finally, one could suggest that the prayer of Jabez in 1 Chr 4:10 has woven together some of the competing traditions that have been described in this paper. Most likely a foreigner, Jabez prays to the “Elohim of Israel” rather than to YHWH, adopting the universalistic terminology characteristic of the Priestly traditions in Genesis. In 1 Chr 4:9, the narrator offers a possible basis for the petition of Jabez: that he was “honored above his brothers.” A Samoan reader such as I could fill in the gaps here: honor is accrued on the basis of service 51 52 53

Achenbach, “Mishpat Haggoyim, Mishpat Laggoyim,” esp. 16–19. See, for example, Bartholomé de las Casas, In Defense of the Indians, trans. Stafford Poole (DeKalb, IL: Northern Illinois University Press, 1992), 47, 84. Graham Paulson and Mark Brett, “Five Smooth Stones: Reading the Bible through Aboriginal Eyes,” in Voices from the Margin: 25th Anniversary Edition, ed. R. S. Sugirtharajah (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2016), 61–76, (65).

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(tautua),54 whether or not this service is understood in the terms prescribed in the Pentateuch. We can infer that the service offered by a non-Israelite to the Creator would not be measured according to the specifics of Israelite covenants and laws. Nonetheless, it seems that this exemplary foreigner, Jabez, established a legitimate claim to land.

54

Moleli Alama, “Jabez in Context,” 230–64.

Part II Nation, Migration and Cultural Politics

The Hidden Politics of Possession and Hereditary Property in Some Hexateuchal Traditions Stephen C. Russell On December  10, 1992, former Prime Minister Paul Keating, addressing the crowds gathered at Redfern Park to celebrate the Year for the World’s Indigenous People, acknowledged the injustices in Australia’s past and hailed a recent decision by the High Court. Keating began with an “act of recognition. Recognition that it was we [non-Aboriginal Australians] who did the dispossessing. We took the traditional lands and smashed the traditional way of life…. By doing away with the bizarre conceit that this continent had no owners prior to the settlement of Europeans, Mabo establishes a fundamental truth and lays the basis for justice.”1 Indeed, Mabo vs. Queensland (1992) and the ensuing Native Title Act (1993) provided a legal framework for protecting native title to land in Australia.2 But this centerpiece of liberal multicultural justice has not been without controversy. In her interrogation of the act and a wide variety of legal cases related to land claims in Australia, Elizabeth A. Povinelli highlights what she calls the cunning of recognition.3 She argues that legislation guaranteeing native title and the ideology of liberal multiculturalism itself hold Aboriginal people to an impossible standard of ancestral authenticity. The law requires Aboriginal people to demonstrate an unbroken connection with traditional law, while giving preference to evidence from colonial archives over oral tradition and requiring that traditional law not violate modern sensibilities. Native title is thus made conditional on Aboriginal performance of a certain kind of Aboriginal culture deemed to be authentic. Whether one agrees with Povinelli’s critique or not, her work highlights the hidden politics of land tenure, especially the dynamics of power through which land rights are recognized. In the context of this conference on political theology in the Bible hosted, virtually, in Melbourne, I wish to explore the hidden politics of the theme of land in the first six books of the Bible. Whose interests are served by biblical 1 Keating’s speech is available at https://aso.gov.au/media/docs/Redfern_Speech10121992.pdf. 2 The Australia High Court’s decision in Mabo vs. Queensland (1992) is available at http:// www6.austlii.edu.au/cgi-bin/viewdoc/au/cases/cth/HCA/1992/23.html. The Native Title Act (1993) is available at https://www.legislation.gov.au/Series/C2004A04665. 3 Elizabeth A. Povinelli, The Cunning of Recognition: Indigenous Alterities and the Making of Australian Multiculturalism (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), 153–85.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/978365

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narratives and laws about land? The question has at least two parts. Whose rights to use land in particular ways are openly affirmed by the Bible? And, whose authority to recognize and administer others’ rights in land are implicitly legitimized by the Bible? I pay special attention here to the second of these questions as I examine two key terms that are used in the Hexateuch to refer to Israel’s land, both drawn from the realm of the household and applied to Israel as a whole: possession (‫ )אחזה‬and hereditary property (‫)נחלה‬. In my view, underpinning these two terms is a single legal practice, namely the hierarchy of rights in land I discuss below.4 As we will see, the terms have been used of Israel’s land in ways that disguise royal and priestly administrative interests in land. In thinking about the theme of land in the Bible and the practice of land tenure in the world that produced the text, I have been especially influenced by a critical trajectory that includes the work of anthropologists Bronislaw Malinowski, Raymond Firth, Max Gluckman, Caroline Humphrey, and Katherine Verdery. Malinowski and Firth both spent time in Australia, and Baldwin Spencer and Frank Gillen’s Native Tribes of Central Australia (1899) fundamentally shaped the discipline of anthropology, so that my thinking 4 On the semantic range of ‫נחלה‬, see Norman C. Habel, The Land Is Mine: Six Biblical Land Ideologies, OBT (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1995), 33–35. Some scholars draw a legal distinction between the two terms by taking ‫ אחזה‬to refer to usufruct and ‫ נחלה‬to refer to full ownership. Compare the use of one or the other, or both, of these terms in Matthias Köckert, “Das Land in der priesterlichen Komposition des Pentateuch,” in Von Gott reden: Beiträge zur Theologie und Exegese des Alten Testaments: Festschrift für Siegfried Wagner zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Dieter Vieweger and Ernst-Joachim Waschke (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1995), 155; Michaela Bauks, “Die Begriffe ‫מֹור ָׁשה‬ ָ und ‫ ֲא ֻחּזָ ה‬in Pg überlegungen zur Landkonzeption der Priestergrundschrift,” ZAW 116 (2004): 171–88; Christophe Nihan, From Priestly Torah to Pentateuch: A Study in the Composition of the Book of Leviticus, FAT 2/25 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 66, 68–69; Megan Warner, “The Holiness School in Genesis?” in Current Issues in Priestly and Related Literature: The Legacy of Jacob Milgrom and Beyond, ed. Roy Gane and Ada Taggar-Cohen, RBS 82 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2015), 170; Julia Rhyder, Centralizing the Cult: The Holiness Legislation in Leviticus 17–26, FAT 134 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2019), 373–4; Mark G. Brett, Locations of God: Political Theology in the Hebrew Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019), 68. In this view, God remains the real owner of Israel’s land in the Priestly tradition, and Israelite households only have tenancy, as made explicit in Leviticus 25. I agree with this analysis of Leviticus 25, but in my view, there is not an alternative tradition within the Hexateuch, coded in this or that legal terminology, that imagines someone other than God or Yahweh as holding ultimate administrative rights in Israel’s land. The terms ‫ אחזה‬and ‫ נחלה‬are sometimes found together in reference to the same property (e.g., Num 35:8; Ezek 44:28; Ps 2:8; see also Num 27:7; 32:32; Ezek 46:16, 18), making me hesitant to see a technical legal distinction between these terms in the sphere of family law from which the terminology is drawn. To be sure, the terms may carry distinct rhetorical emphases depending on their literary contexts.

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about land is deeply indebted to the Australian experience of land tenure and struggles for it.5 From a legal standpoint, this anthropological approach to land conceptualizes land tenure as a bundle of rights. Since ownership is a multi-referential concept, the tradition analyzes land tenure in terms of the right to use land in particular ways. Such use constitutes a right since it permits or excludes others from using the land in similar or different ways. A major insight of this approach, particularly as articulated by Gluckman, is that different social actors can enjoy different kinds of rights in the same land.6 Gluckman distinguishes between productive rights in land—for example, the right to farm, to pasture, to fish, to mine, to build, and so on—and administrative rights in land, which relate to land’s management—for example, the right to assign productive rights, to impose taxes, to restrict use, to limit transfer, to assume direct control in situations of default, and so on. In holding that certain statutory pastoral leases did not automatically extinguish native title to land in Australia, the Wik decision (1996) recognizes different kinds of productive and administrative rights in the same land, though without Gluckman’s terminology.7 For Gluckman, rights inhere in social status so that rights are accompanied by and are conditional upon performance of behaviors appropriate to status—for example, benevolence, or loyalty, or payment of taxes. Since status is itself a contested concept, I emphasize in my own work the connection between rights and responsibilities without specifying status as constituting that connection. Even if a biblical text emphasizes the rights held by one particular social actor, in the world that produced the text the productive rights held by a household in land existed in relationship to varying administrative rights in the same land held by tribes, cities, priests, or the royal administration.8 As we will see, the biblical text often elides royal and priestly administrative rights in land as it emphasizes the productive rights in land enjoyed by other social actors. Caroline Humphrey extends this anthropological approach to land tenure by pointing to the extralegal strategies social actors employ in relation to land.9 5 On the influence of Spencer and Gillen, see Povinelli, Cunning of Recognition, 76. 6 Max Gluckman, The Ideas in Barotse Jurisprudence (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1965), 75–112. 7 The Wik decision (1996) is available at http://www8.austlii.edu.au/cgi-bin/viewdoc/au/ cases/cth/HCA/1996/40.html. 8 Stephen C. Russell, “Abraham’s Purchase of Ephron’s Land in Anthropological Perspective,” BibInt 21 (2013): 153–70; Stephen  C.  Russell, The King and the Land: A Geography of Royal Power in the Biblical World (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016), 24–31. 9 Caroline Humphrey, Karl Marx Collective: Economy, Society and Religion in a Siberian Collective Farm, Cambridge Studies in Social Anthropology  40 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983).

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And Katherine Verdery observes how different social actors value land for different reasons and how realizing value from land involves strategies and practices not easily analyzed within a narrowly legal approach to thinking about land tenure.10 Humphrey and Verdery pay special attention to the role of ideology in asserting or undercutting the legitimacy of land claims, a theme to which Australian biblical scholar Norman C. Habel returned again and again in his seminal treatment of land in the Bible.11 Land ideologies embedded in biblical texts disguise royal and priestly administrative rights in land. And so, the key question to which I will return throughout is, “Whose interests are served by the biblical depiction of possession and hereditary property?” 1.

Joshua

Within the Bible, the image of Israel’s land as hereditary property is especially prominent in Joshua.12 The book is structured around two halves, with speeches and notices about death and burial framing the whole.13 Part one recounts Israel’s conquest of lands promised by Yahweh to Moses and sworn to Israel’s ancestors.14 Part two describes the allocation of conquered territory to Israel’s tribes by lot. Despite differences in style, both halves present an idealized vision of national unity in which Israel consists of twelve tribes who partake in the war of conquest for land and who subsequently divide the conquered territory. In part one, the conceit of national unity is particularly advanced through the concept of a military tribal coalition and in part two it is advanced through the concept of collective land rights. From the perspective of the book, all Israel fights for the land and all Israel possesses the land. Here, I wish to focus on Joshua 2–11, 14–19, i.e., a version of the book that included both conquest and land distribution. The language of hereditary property structures Joshua 14–19.15 Indeed, the verbal form nāḥǎlû is used in 14:1 in what reads like a title for an independent document about land 10

Katherine Verdery, The Vanishing Hectare: Property and Value in Postsocialist Transylvania (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2003). 11 Habel, The Land Is Mine, 11. 12 Stephen C. Russell, “The Legal Background of the Theme of Land in the Book of Joshua,” HS 59 (2018): 111–28. 13 Thomas B. Dozeman, Joshua 1–12: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, AB 6b (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2015), 22–24. 14 On the theological challenges posed by the conquest, see Anthony  F.  Campbell and Mark A. O’Brien, Unfolding the Deuteronomistic History: Origins, Upgrades, Present Text (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000), 102. 15 See Josh 14:1–3, 30; 15:20; 16:4; 16:5, 8–9; 17:14; 18:2, 20; 19:1, 10, 16, 23, 31, 39, 48, 49, 51.

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distribution.16 In my view, a scribe composed Joshua 2 and edited together a literary complex that included Joshua 2–6, 9–11 as a preface to a literary complex about land distribution in 14–19.17 Here, I will treat the concept of hereditary property in the second half of the book in the context of the conquest described in its first half. How is Israel’s land understood in Joshua 2–11, 14–19?18 These chapters depict events that are imagined as taking place in historical time. To be clear, I do not regard the events described as actually having transpired. Archaeological evidence does not corroborate the book’s description of a rapid invasion of the land by outsiders who displaced its occupants.19 When  I say the events described take place in historical time, I am using the term historical as Robert S. Kawashima does, in contrast to myth. For Kawashima, myth “does not precede reality in chronological fashion, but underlies it as its paradigm … mythical thought conceives of the cosmos as a static system, composed of various elements and relations that are eternal, necessary, and essential … but the properly historical event was not always already a fait accompli. Rather … it had to emerge at a certain ‘measurable’ moment.”20 In defining myth in this way, Kawashima draws on Mircea Eliade, who describes Aboriginal Dreaming

16 17

18 19

20

Such a document may very well have included other traditions about territory—cities of refuge and Levitical cities—in chapters 20 and 21, though the evidence is less than definitive. This larger literary complex did not include the death and burial notices in chapters 1 and 24, which function to situate Joshua in its current location between Deuteronomy and Judges. Compare Christophe Nihan, “The Literary Relationship between Deuteronomy and Joshua: A Reassessment,” in Deuteronomy in the Pentateuch, Hexateuch, and the Deuteronomistic History, ed. Konrad Schmid and Raymond  F.  Person, Jr., FAT  2/56 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 79–114. On reading chapters 1 and 2 in relation to one another, see Rachelle Gilmour, “Juxtaposition and reinterpretation in Joshua  1–2,” in Registers and Modes of Communication in the Ancient Near East: Getting the Message Across, ed. Kyle H. Keimer and Gillan Davis (London: Routledge, 2018), 143–55. For a fuller treatment, see Stephen C. Russell, “Enemies, Lands, and Borders in Biblical Crossing Traditions,” JANEH 4 (2018): 163–76. See also Habel, The Land is Mine, 54–74. Elizabeth Bloch-Smith, “Archaeology: What It Can Teach Us,” in The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Ancient Israel, ed. Susan Niditch (Oxford: Wiley, 2016), 13–27, esp. 24; Avraham Faust, “The Emergence of Israel and Theories of Ethnogenesis,” in The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Ancient Israel, ed. Susan Niditch (Oxford: Wiley, 2016), 155–73; William G. Dever, Beyond the Texts: An Archaeological Portrait of Ancient Israel and Judah (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2020), 119–257. Robert  S.  Kawashima, “Covenant and Contingence: The Historical Encounter between God and Israel,” in Myth and Scripture: Contemporary Perspectives on Religion, Language, and Imagination, ed. Dexter  E.  Callender, RBS  78 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2014), 51–70, here 52.

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in related terms.21 Joshua does not conceptualize the land as belonging to Israel since the mythological time of origins. Rather, it conceptualizes the land as becoming Israel’s through the contingent processes of history. These may not be schematized according to a system of regnal years, but they are nevertheless measurable in so far as they are located within a specific chronological framework (e.g., Josh 4:19; 5:10–12) tied to the ancient audience through bloodlines (Josh 6:25; 9:27; 13:13; 15:63; 16:10) and features of the landscape (Josh 4:9; 5:9; 7:26; 8:28, 29; 10:27). The book focuses on the north, on the territory that was occupied by the Israelite tribal collective. Egypt remains in the background as a world power, but the narrative focuses on local enemies, who are imagined as occupying the land that will become Israel’s. Some were destroyed and others were incorporated into Israel. Although Shechem is imagined as having special significance, the land does not have a single territorial center, but multiple centers. To the surprise of anyone who has read the book of Genesis, Josh 11:23 (see also Josh 1:3) connects the concept of land conquest and division to a divine promise made to Moses rather than to the ancestors, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.22 Indeed, although the twelve tribe system described in Joshua matches in certain respects the family tree depicted in Genesis, the theme of hereditary property connects Joshua 2–11, 14–19 to Exodus 15 and the Moses story, rather than to the ancestor stories of Genesis.23 Whose political interests are served by this depiction of Israel’s territory in Joshua? Strikingly absent from Joshua 2–11, 14–19 is any sense that the indigenous royal and urban landscape destroyed by Israel will be replaced by a centralized royal bureaucracy.24 Israel’s inheritance portion is imagined as being distributed among the tribes, whose collective leadership is not depicted with royal terminology (e.g., Josh 14:1; 19:51). A second striking feature of the depiction of hereditary property in the book is the notion of conquest itself, the sense that Israel had to displace the resident population in order to clear the

21 22 23

24

Kawashima cites Mircea Eliade, The Sacred and the Profane: The Nature of Religion (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1959). On Aboriginal Dreaming, see Mircea Eliade, “Australian Religions: An Introduction, Part I,” History of Religions 6 (1966): 108–34. On Josh 11:23, see Thomas Römer, “The Problem of the Hexateuch,” in The Formation of the Pentateuch, ed. Jan  C.  Gertz, Bernard  M.  Levinson, Dalit Rom-Shiloni, and Konrad Schmid, FAT 111 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 813–27, esp. 823–24. Within Joshua 2–11, 14–19, connections to the ancestors are made twice. Josh 5:6 mentions the land sworn to Israel’s ancestors, but the grammatical seams in the verse point to the secondary nature of this connection to the ancestor traditions. Josh  18:3 mentions the ancestors, but not the promise of land. Dozeman, Joshua 1–12, 25, 28.

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way for possession of its land.25 To my mind, these features of the depiction of land in the book could be interpreted sensibly in multiple historical contexts. If Joshua 2–11, 14–19 dates to the late monarchic period, then its presentation of a tribal collective that included northern and southern tribes could be interpreted in the context of Judah’s assertion of power within Israel’s former territory, admittedly perhaps only as far as Bethel (2 Kgs  23:15–18).26 And it could be understood in the context of Judahite efforts to embrace Israel’s cultural heritage.27 Read this way, Joshua elides the historical distinctions between Israel and Judah by drawing on concepts from the realm of kinship: household hereditary property and tribal military alliance. But it would have been the Judahite monarchy that ultimately benefited from Joshua’s presentation of a single family territory, despite the absence of a king in the text. In other words, the claim of a united tribal Israel in the distant past could serve to strengthen Judahite royal claims over Israel’s land and heritage in the present. But Joshua may date from a later period.28 If so, its literary construction of land clearance and non-royal repopulation can be read in the context of the conflict between exiles returning to Yehud and those whose families had never left (2 Kgs 25:22–23; Jer 40:7). Scholars disagree about the scale and timing of the forced migration of Judeans to Babylon, the viability of the population that remained in Judah, and the scope of the return of Judeans to their ancestral homeland in the Persian period.29 But it is clear that returnees would 25

At the same time there are concessions that reconcile an idealized sense of pure Israelite territory with a more complicated picture of diverse political affiliation within the land. 26 Bernd  U.  Schipper, A Concise History of Ancient Israel, trans. Michael Lesley, Critical Studies in the Hebrew Bible 11 (University Park, PA: Eisenbrauns, 2019), 64. 27 Nadav Na’aman, “The Israelite-Judahite Struggle for the Patrimony of Ancient Israel,” Bib 91 (2010): 1–23. On the invention of biblical Israel, compare Israel Finkelstein, The Forgotten Kingdom: The Archaeology and History of Northern Israel, ANEM 5 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2013), 155–58. On the concept of “All-Israel” at intersecting scales in the Persian period, see Louis Jonker, Defining All-Israel in Chronicles: Multi-Levelled Identity Negotiation in Late Persian-Period Yehud, FAT 106 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016). On the development of biblical historiography, in the context of Persian imperialism, see Christine Mitchell, “‘How Lonely Sits the City’: Identity and the Creation of History,” in Approaching Yehud: New Approaches to the Persian Period, ed. Jon L. Berquist, Semeia Studies (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2007), 77–89. 28 Dozeman, Joshua 1–12, 27–31. 29 Oded Lipschits outlines the archaeological evidence showing the continuation of material culture, economy, and administration in Judah after the destruction of Jerusalem as well as significant disruptions (“Shedding New Light on the Dark Years of the ‘Exilic Period’: New Studies, Further Elucidation, and Some Questions Regarding the Archaeology of Judah as an ‘Empty Land,’” in Interpreting Exile: Displacement and Deportation in Biblical and Modern Contexts, ed. Brad  E.  Kelle, Frank  R.  Ames, and Jacob  L.  Wright, AIL  10 [Atlanta: SBL Press, 2011], 57–90). John J. Ahn argues for three waves of migration in 597,

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have come into conflict with those who had never left.30 Read in this context, Joshua bolsters the claims of returnees. Such a reading of Joshua does not focus on the tribal boundaries outlined in the book, nor on the relationship between north and south, but on the underlying question of how rights in land were legitimately constituted. From the perspective of the book, a household’s residency on a particular plot within the boundaries of the promised land did not result in the household being regarded as a legitimate part of the Israelite tribal collective. Rather, membership in the tribal collective resulted in legitimate allotment of land. The book thus provided returnees to Yehud with historical and legal precedent for conceptualizing rights in land as inhering in their authorized status as part of the Israelite tribal collective rather than as being dependent on the continuity of their residence on or management of an allotment within the land. 2.

Deuteronomy

Deuteronomy uses the term hereditary property (‫ )נחלה‬to refer to Israel’s collective territory in its prologue (in 4:21, 38), in the description of the covenant at Horeb (in 10:9), in the immediate introduction to the Deuteronomic Code (in 12:9), in some individual laws, especially as part of the rhetoric justifying these laws (in 14:27, 29; 15:4; 18:1–2; 19:10, 14; 20:16; 21:23; 24:4; 25:19; 26:1), and in both supplements at the end of the book (in 29:7; 32:9).31 Deuteronomy is, of course, closely linked to the Deuteronomistic sections of Joshua I did not

30

31

587, and 582 and classifies these as derivative forced migration, purposive forced migration, and responsive forced migration (Exile as Forced Migrations: A Sociological, Literary, and Theological Approach on the Displacement and Resettlement of the Southern Kingdom of Judah, BZAW 417 [Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011]). On definitions of legitimacy and otherness among those who were exiled and those who remained in the land, see Dalit Rom-Shiloni, Exclusive Inclusivity: Identity Conflicts between the Exiles and the People who Remained (6th–5th Centuries BCE), LHBOTS 543 (New York: T&T Clark, 2013). On the theme of land in Deuteronomy, see Habel, The Land is Mine, 36–53. Possession (‫ )אחזה‬occurs in Deut 32:49, which helps situate Deuteronomy in its current narrative setting on the eve of the events to be narrated in Joshua. On Deuteronomy’s structure, see Reinhard G. Kratz, “The Headings of the Book of Deuteronomy,” in Deuteronomy in the Pentateuch, Hexateuch, and the Deuteronomistic History, ed. Konrad Schmid and Raymond F. Person, Jr., FAT 2/56 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 31–46; Dominik Markl, “Deuteronomy’s Frameworks in Service of the Law (Deut 1–11; 26–34),” in Deuteronomium – Tora für eine neue Generation, ed. Georg Fischer, Domink Markl, and Simone Paganini, BZABR 17 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2011), 271–83. See also Petra Schmidtkunz, “Auf der Schwelle des ‘Gelobten Landes’: Die Ermahnungen des Moseliedes

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discuss above, and in particular to the speech placed in the mouth of Joshua in chapter 24.32 Both Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic material in Joshua use the term hereditary property to refer to land given to Yahweh’s people through the contingent processes of history, at a definite moment in time.33 This historical contingency is applied to the narrative world’s future as much as to its past. In both texts, Israel’s relationship to its land is not a permanent part of the structure of the world and as such Israel could default on its territorial rights. While Joshua 2–11, 14–19 emphasizes the territorial boundaries of individual tribes, Deuteronomy and Joshua 24 emphasize collective territory held by Israel as a whole. Here, I wish to highlight two features of Deuteronomy’s presentation of Israel’s land as hereditary property. First, Deuteronomy, like Josh 13:14, 33; 14:3; 18:7; 21:3, shows a particular interest in reconciling the fact that the Levites are conceptualized as a tribe with the fact that they never possessed a single contiguous territorial block like other tribes did (Deut 10:9; 12:12; 14:27, 29; 18:1–2).34 Anthropologists sometimes regard ideologies of kinship as knitting together households whose occupancy of contiguous plots came about through a variety of historical processes.35 Deuteronomy leaves the historian with the impression that Levites were neither biologically related nor geographically contiguous. The ideology of Levitical kinship in Deuteronomy and Joshua strengthens Levitical claims to power and income within the larger tribal collective while also delegitimizing other priestly authorities. Although Levitical cities are presented as distributed throughout Israelite territory, then, the idea of a single Levitical tribe served to bolster centralization of priestly authority. The second feature of Israel’s hereditary property within Deuteronomic thought that I wish to highlight is the land’s susceptibility to defilement.36 This feature is brought to the fore in two sections of the Deuteronomic code. In

32 33 34

35 36

(Dtn 32) für ein gottgefälliges Leben,” in Limina: Natur—Politik, ed. Annika von Lüpke, Tabea Strohschneider, and Oliver Bach (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2019), 31–46. Compare Nihan, “The Literary Relationship between Deuteronomy and Joshua,”, 79–114. Deuteronomy also contains a trace of a mythological perspective in the LXX of 32:8–9. Compare Jeremy  M.  Hutton, “The Levitical Diaspora (II): Modern Perspectives on the Levitical Cities Lists (A Review of Opinions),” in Levites and Priests in Biblical History and Tradition, ed. Mark A. Leuchter and Jeremy M. Hutton, AIL 9 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2012), 45–81. On the possibility of Levitical editing of Deuteronomy, see Mark Leuchter, The Levites and the Boundaries of Israelite Identity (New York: Oxford University Press, 2017), 155–88. On the primacy of topography in shaping kinship patterns, see E.R. Leach, Pul Eliya, A Village in Ceylon: A Study of Land Tenure and Kinship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), esp. 7–9, 146. Compare Habel, The Land is Mine, 80–84.

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the first of these, taboo sex is presented as an abomination to the deity and as capable of making the land sinful (Deut 24:1–4). In the second, the impaled corpse of a criminal that is not buried before nightfall is capable of repulsing the deity and making the land taboo (Deut 21:21–23). Both texts share a sense that a single act related to a single human body could defile land. And in both, the concept of land defilement is embedded at points in the text where the typical grammatical structure we might expect in a list of case law breaks off in order to address a collective audience.37 The language of direct address in these laws echoes Deut 4:21, 38; 12:9; 15:4; 19:10, 14; 20:16; 26:1, which all contain variations of “the hereditary property that Yahweh your god gives you.”38 Whereas the term hereditary property in Joshua structures lists of territory held by individual tribes, the concept of hereditary property in this Deuteronomic phrase focuses on the land in its entirety. The formula draws on the old ancient Near Eastern practice of land in exchange for loyalty to the crown.39 When a king made a gift of land, he retained an administrative right in the land such that the grantee’s failure to remain loyal resulted in forfeiture.40 This implication is drawn out especially in the verses following Deut 4:21. Whose political interests are served by these land texts in Deuteronomy? Many scholars, especially in North America, still regard the core of Deuteronomy as emerging in the Neo-Assyrian period,41 with its cultic centralization reflecting 37 38 39

40

41

On law codes, see Raymond Westbrook, “Cuneiform Law Codes and the Origins of Legislation,” ZA 79 (1989): 201–22. Compare the gift of hereditary property in 1 Kgs 8:36; Jer 3:19; 17:4; Ps 105:11//1 Chr 16:18. Ignacio Márquez Rowe, “Royal Land Grants and ilku-Service in Ugarit: The Legal Mechanism,” in Landwirtschaft im Alten Orient: ausgewählte Vorträge der XLI. Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale Berlin, 4.–8.7.1994, ed. Horst Klengel and Johannes Renger, BBVO 18 (Berlin: Reimer, 1999): 171–78; Moshe Weinfeld, “The Covenant of Grant in the Old Testament and in the Ancient Near East,” JAOS 90 (1970): 184–203. Compare Samasoni Moleli Alama, “Deuteronomy’s ‘National Imagination’—YHWH the Landowner as Reflecting the Samoan Pulega a Alii ma Faipule” (paper presented at the The Oceana Biblical Studies Association, Suva, Fiji, 2 August, 2013). On land default, see Zafrira Ben-Barak, “The Confiscation of Lands in Israel and the Ancient Near East,” in Shnaton  5–6 (1981–82): 101–17 (in Hebrew); Daniel Oden, “Grapes from a Distant Vineyard: Power over Land in Ancient Syrian Legal Documents and Its Characterization in 1 Kings  21:1–16,” (PhD diss., New York University, 2012); Stephen C. Russell, “Monarchy and Law in the Pre-Exilic Period,” in The Oxford Handbook of Biblical Law, ed. Pamela Barmash (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019), 333–52, esp. 339–40. For example, see David M. Carr, The Formation of the Hebrew Bible: A New Reconstruction (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011), 307–10; Jeffrey Stackert, A Prophet Like Moses: Prophecy, Law, and Israelite Religion (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014), 31–32.

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Jerusalem’s preservation despite Neo-Assyrian destruction of much of the surrounding territory.42 The concept of hereditary property in these texts could be interpreted in a late-Monarchic context. Deuteronomy’s presentation of priests throughout the land as constituting a single Levitical tribe echoes, for a different geographical horizon, 2 Kings 23’s presentation of priests from Judah’s shrines as constituting a single brotherhood (2 Kgs 23:9).43 Similarly, warnings that the entire land could become defiled because of an individual, local legal case could help support attempts at the centralization of legal authority in the late monarchic period.44 In both cases, it would be the monarchy who ultimately benefited from this centralization of authority, even though no king is mentioned in these Deuteronomic texts. Deuteronomy underwent multiples stages of editorial development,45 however, and these invocations of Israel’s hereditary property as a gift from Yahweh may have been penned after 586 BCE. If so, the text’s presentation of the gift of land could be read within the context of a Persian period scribal project of constituting a people “Israel.”46 Insofar as Deuteronomy constitutes this people as those who received a royal gift of land and, therefore, those who lost the land through disloyalty, it excludes from “Israel” those who had never been exiled from the land. 3.

Numbers

In its depiction of Israel’s land as possession and as hereditary property, Numbers largely echoes the depiction of land in the other biblical books I 42 43 44

45

46

Elizabeth Bloch-Smith, “Assyrians Abet Israelite Cultic Reforms: Sennacherib and the Centralization of the Israelite Cult,” in Exploring the Long Durée: Essays in Honor of Lawrence E. Stager, ed. J. David Schloen (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009), 35–44. Compare Mark Leuchter, “‘The Prophets’ and ‘The Levites’ in Josiah’s Covenant Ceremony,” ZAW 121 (2009): 31–47, esp. 42. According to 2 Kgs 23:19–20, Josiah killed the priests of shrines in Samaria. Compare Naomi Steinberg, “The Deuteronomic Law Code and the Politics of State Centralization,” in The Bible and the Politics of Exegesis: Essays in Honor of Norman Gottwald, ed. David Jobling, Peggy Day and Gerald T. Sheppard (Cleveland: Pilgrim, 1991), 161–70, 336–38; Y. Suzuki, “Deuteronomic Reformation in View of the Centralization of the Administration of Justice,” Annual of the Japanese Bible Institute 13 (1987): 22–58. For example, see Konrad Schmid, “Deuteronomy within the ‘Deuteronomistic Histories’ in Genesis–2 Kings,” in Deuteronomy in the Pentateuch, Hexateuch, and the Deuteronomistic History, ed. Konrad Schmid and Raymond  F.  Person, Jr., FAT  2/56 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 8–30. On the rhetorical constitution of “Israel” in Deuteronomy, see Domink Markl, Gottes Volk im Deuteronomium, BZABR 18 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2012).

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discuss here. The book’s two halves, chapters 1–25 and chapters 26–36, mirror each other.47 The first half focuses on those who experience the exodus but who die in the wilderness before entering the land, while the second half focuses on those who are born in the wilderness and go on to occupy the land. Within the first half, the question of hereditary property is taken up in chapter 18. In this chapter, as in the texts in Deuteronomy and Joshua I mentioned above, Levitical income is presented as a divinely ordained substitute for land other tribes hold as hereditary property. The language of possession and hereditary property is much more pervasive in the second half of Numbers, occurring throughout chapters 26, 27, 32, 33, 34, 35, and 36. The presentation of land in these chapters largely echoes the presentation of land in Joshua.48 Among the themes that emerge, I would like to highlight one of them, the permanence of tribal boundaries. This theme is also explicit in Joshua’s presentation of tribal lands. But Numbers takes up a legal scenario Joshua leaves unaddressed: How are tribal boundaries to be maintained despite the lifecycle events of individual households? Or, ultimately, what restrictions on marriage follow from the preservation of tribal administrative rights in land within a patrilocal society? According to Num 26:33, Zelophehad, descendant of Manasseh, had daughters, but no sons. How should the division of the land according to listed names (Num 26:52–55) account for this fact? Numbers 27 presents in narrative form an answer to this legal question, which is also constituted as a legal precedent about inheritance in general (v. 8–11). Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah in particular, and daughters in general, were to be regarded as legal heirs in the absence of sons. In bringing their legal claim, the women present two main arguments. First, their father had committed no crime that would justify stripping him of rights to land (v. 3). Second, if the land were to enter receivership, the name of their father would needlessly be deleted, or perhaps diminished, from within his clan (v. 4). In the immediate literary context, this argument placed in the mouth of the characters relates to the assignment of land according to the names listed in the previous section, but the whole imagined courtroom scene carries the weight of legal precedent so that the legal argument must also have been recognizable to the ancient audience as generally valid. It was not only males of the wilderness generation who were perceived as being vulnerable to having their names lost. The narrative scene 47 48

Dennis T. Olson, Numbers, IBC (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996), 3–7. Rainer Albertz has argued that Numbers 25–36 was put together by a Pentateuchal redactor from existing material in order to keep some of the central themes of the Hexateuch in the newly created Pentateuch, i.e., in a collection that no longer included Joshua. Rainer Albertz, “A Pentateuchal Redaction in the Book of Numbers? The Late Priestly Layers of Numbers 25–36,” ZAW 125 (2013): 220–33.

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in chapter 27 is best interpreted together with Num  36:1–12, which further specifies that to maintain their inherited rights in land, Zelophehad’s daughters, and daughters in general, must marry their paternal cousins, so that their own heirs would remain within their tribe. Numbers thus shares with Joshua, Deuteronomy, and Leviticus a sense that Israelite tribal boundaries were permanent but vulnerable and in need of preservation. These texts imagine a world in which there is a hierarchy of rights in land, including rights held by the household, the tribe, and the tribal collective. Numbers takes up in particular the threat posed by lifecycle events at the level of the household that may have implications for the tribe. Whose political interests are served by this presentation of legal precedent? The narrative depicts women’s agency.49 Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah initiate legal proceedings, they present legal arguments recognizably compelling to the legal authorities within the narrative, and they secure a favorable legal ruling from God himself. From a certain perspective, then, the narrative benefits daughters. But the women here operate within the narrative’s patriarchy, with legal authorities constituted as male and legal arguments considered in relation to male rights. Ultimately, the narrative presents priests as the arbitrators of land rights—indeed, the narrative is usually regarded as Priestly. Inheritance by daughters in the absence of sons was a legal norm in the ancient Near East and so one wonders why this priestly legal ruling is given narrative elaboration.50 One effect of this elaboration, though it is hard to know if this was indeed the intent, is that the revelation at Sinai becomes within the biblical text itself an insufficient authority for the daily life of the community.51 Thus the narrative constitutes biblical law in general, and not just the adjudication of a particular inheritance case, as requiring the ongoing authority of priests. While openly affirming women’s rights, the narrative implicitly affirms male priestly authority to recognize rights and administer law. 49 50

51

On the ambiguity of the story’s gender politics, see Yael Shemesh, “A Gender Perspective on the Daughters of Zelophehad: Bible, Talmudic Midrash, and Modern Feminist Midrash,” BibInt 15 (2007): 80–109. Compare Zafira Ben-Barak, “Inheritance by Daughters in the Ancient Near East,” JSS 25 (1980) 22–33; S. Joy Osgood, “Women and the Inheritance of Land in Early Israel,” in Women in the Biblical Tradition, ed. George J. Brooke, Studies in Women and Religion 31 (New York: E. Mellen, 1983), 29–52; Hennie J. Marsman, Women in Ugarit and Israel: Their Social and Religious Position in the Context of the Ancient Near East, OTS 49 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 288–89. On the insufficiency of the revelation at Sinai, see Tal Ilan, “The Daughters of Zelophehad and Women’s Inheritance: The Biblical Injunction and Its Outcome,” in Exodus to Deuteronomy: A Feminist Companion to the Bible, ed. Athalya Brenner (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 2000), 176–86.

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Leviticus

The Jubilee legislation in Leviticus 25 addresses territory at three scales: the individual household, the individual tribe, and the tribal collective as a whole.52 The legislation uses the term possession (‫ )אחזה‬to refer to land at all three scales.53 It imagines a world in which land can never be sold, only leased until the next Jubilee year. In this way, it aims to curb the effects of historical processes on the structure of territoriality by returning it to a default state at regular intervals. The rhetoric of the text emphasizes God’s ultimate administrative rights in land. Some scholars understand Leviticus 25 as extending to Israel’s land as a whole—the ancient Near Eastern concept of a temple estate owned by the god.54 But in my view Leviticus 25 transfers to God a concept drawn from the realm of Near Eastern and biblical kingship, namely the king’s administrative rights in all land, separate and apart from his private, productive rights in some land.55 In this regard, Leviticus 25 is not unique in imagining God as the ultimate administrator of Israelite territory, though, of course, the text is much more explicit about this than are the other biblical traditions I examine here. What is distinctive here is that God, as the ultimate territorial 52 53 54 55

On the legal background of the chapter, compare Stephen  C.  Russell, “Biblical Jubilee Laws in Light of Neo-Babylonian and Achaemenid Period Contracts,” ZAW 130 (2018): 189–203. On territorial scale in Leviticus 25, compare Habel, The Land is Mine, 98–101. Leviticus 27:17–19, which echoes the Jubilee legislation in chapter 25, also uses the term possession (‫ )אחזה‬to refer to land. Nihan, From Priestly Torah, 535; Rhyder, Centralizing, 375–80. On the king’s administrative rights in all land, see Russell, “Monarchy and Law,” 339–40. On the presentation of God in royal terms in Priestly literature, see Jeffrey Stackert, “How the Priestly Sabbaths Work: Innovation in Pentateuchal Priestly Ritual,” in Ritual Innovation in the Hebrew Bible and Early Judaism, ed. Nathan MacDonald, BZAW  468 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2016), 79–111, esp. 82. To be sure, a bald statement such as, “God is king,” may have been too crass for Priestly and Holiness scribes, but, as Jeffrey Stackert writes, “Pentateuchal Priestly texts, like other biblical texts, employ a royal conceit in their characterization of the deity” (“How the Priestly Sabbath Works,” 82). On the royal background of the concept of God in P and H, compare Israel Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence: The Priestly Torah and the Holiness School (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 187–89; Mark S. Smith, The Priestly Vision of Genesis 1 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2010), 11–37; Jeremy Schipper and Jeffrey Stackert, “Blemishes, Camouflage, and Sanctuary Service: The Priestly Deity and His Attendants,” HBAI 4 (2013), 458–478, esp. 465–66. The Jubilee laws echo royal edicts cancelling debts on the king’s accession to the throne. See Moshe Weinfeld, “Sabbatical Year and Jubilee in the Pentateuchal Laws and Their Ancient Near Eastern Background,” in Law in the Bible and Its Environment, ed. Timo Viejola, Publications of the Finnish Exegetical Society 51 (Helsinki: Finnish Exegetical Society, 1990), 39–62; Raymond Westbrook, Property and the Family in Biblical Law, JSOTSup 113 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 36–57.

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administrator, prohibits households from permanently transferring their own rights in land to others. Whose political interests were served by such legislation? The law presents itself as protecting Israelite households from permanent debt. Its rhetoric emphasizes that the household’s land, from which it derives its livelihood, can never be taken away. But the law does not detail how it is to be administered. In particular, it elides situations of agrarian default. What happens if a household abandons its land, or if a household head dies without leaving an heir, or if a household head commits a serious crime such as blasphemy? In other biblical texts, as in ancient Near Eastern law more broadly, the king, or some other clearly defined authority holding ultimate administrative rights in land, would assume direct control of land in these situations of default.56 But within the legal world conjured by Leviticus  25, Yahweh’s representatives on earth, his priests, would have to perform administrative tasks related to default. And as Habel pointed out, priests would have managed the calendrical system to which the agrarian laws of Leviticus 25 are tied.57 The text thus disguises whom it benefits, priests in the postexilic period who would have to become administrators of land, those with the power to recognize a household’s rights in land. 5.

Exodus

The first part of the book of Exodus tells the story of Yahweh’s deliverance of his people from enslavement in Egypt.58 As the book imagines it, Yahweh inflicted a series of plagues on the Egyptians until they let his people go (Exod 7–10).59 The series culminated in the tenth plague, the death of every Egyptian firstborn (Exod 11–13). The narrative account of this final plague is interrupted by instructions for keeping a festival evidently known to the ancient story’s audience, Passover. Although the festival’s domestic context, spring timing, and ovine sacrifice point to its setting in a seasonal, family context, Exodus instructs 56

On death of a household head with no heir, compare 2 Sam 4:4; 9; 16:1–4; 19:24–30 and Zafrira Ben-Barak, “Meribaal and the System of Land Grants in Ancient Israel,” Bib 62 (1981): 73–91. On abandonment, compare 2 Kgs 8:1–6 and Russell, “Monarchy and Law,” 339–40. On serious crimes, compare 1 Kgs 21 and Stephen C. Russell, Space, Land, Territory and the Study of the Bible (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 34–45. 57 Habel, The Land is Mine, 111–12. On priestly administration of lands dedicated to God, see Benjamin D. Gordon, Land and Temple: Field Sacralization and the Agrarian Priesthood of Second Temple Judaism, SJ 87 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2020), 29–81. 58 On the redaction of the story, see Christoph Berner, Die Exoduserzählung: Das literarische Werden einer Ursprungslegende Israels, FAT 73 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010). 59 Ziony Zevit, “Three Ways to Look at the Ten Plagues,” BRev 6 (1990): 16–23.

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the people to celebrate Passover in commemoration of a national event, the deliverance from Egypt and the tenth plague in particular (12:26–27).60 And so the story climaxes with the departure of the Israelites from Egypt in chapter 13. Chapters  14–15 come as a surprise in so far as they present a second climax to the story of deliverance. In my view, a scribe has taken an existing old Judahite poem about Egypt’s defeat (Exod 15:1b–18) that originally had nothing to do with the Israelite exodus scheme and has incorporated it into a narrative (Exodus 14–15) about the drowning of the Egyptians at the sea that now serves as a fulcrum in the book as it pivots toward Sinai.61 The poem itself does not present an exodus from Egypt—it does not conceptualize Yahweh’s people as being freed from slavery in Egypt nor as journeying out of Egypt. Rather, the poem presents Yahweh as victorious over an expansionistic Egyptian military. The depiction of the Jordan crossing in Joshua that I mentioned above depends on the prose narrative in Exodus 14–15, including the incorporated Song of the Sea. Indeed, a cluster of structuring motifs in Joshua 2–11, 14–19 is found together in Exodus 14–15. These motifs include: enemies that hear and are afraid (Exod 15:15–16 and Josh 2:10–11; 5:1; 9:1, 9:3, 10:1, 11:1); water that serves as a boundary and dries up (Exod 14:21–22 and Josh 2:10; 3:17; 4:18, 23; 5:1); and Israel’s land conceptualized as hereditary property (Exod 15:17 and Josh 14:1–3, 30; 15:20; 16:4; 16:5, 8–9; 17:14; 18:2, 20; 19:1, 10, 16, 23, 31, 39, 48, 49, 51). Here, I wish to compare the concept of hereditary property in Joshua and the Song of the Sea itself. How is territory conceptualized in Exodus  15? Exodus  15 imagines the people as planted in their land in the mythological time of origins, in time

60 61

Mark S. Smith, with contributions by Elizabeth M. Bloch-Smith, The Pilgrimage Pattern in Exodus, JSOTSup 239 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1997), 61; Rainer Albertz, Exodus 1–18, ZBK (Zurich: Theologischer Bibelkommentare, 2012), 200–12. Stephen C Russell, Images of Egypt in Early Biblical Literature: Cisjordan-Israelite, Transjordan-Israelite, and Judahite Portrayals, BZAW  403 (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2009), 127–76. On the northern provenance of the exodus tradition, see Yair Hoffman, The Doctrine of the Exodus in the Bible (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, 1983) (in Hebrew); Israel Finkelstein, “The Wilderness Narratives and Itineraries and the Evolution of the Exodus Tradition,” in Israel’s Exodus in Transdisciplinary Perspective: Text, Archaeology, Culture, and Geoscience, ed. Thomas E. Levy, Thomas Schneider, and William H.C. Propp (Cham: Springer, 2015), 39–53. On the Song of the Sea as a fulcrum in the Priestly arrangement of Exodus, see Mark S. Smith, “The Poetics of Exodus 15 and Its Position in the Book,” in Imagery and Imagination in Biblical Literature: Essays in Honor of Aloysius Fitzgerald, F.S.C., ed. Lawrence Boadt and Mark S. Smith, CBQMS 32 (Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 2001), 23–34.

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immemorial.62 The poem does not describe a linear sequence of events transpiring in historical time, but it expresses the structure of the world in myth.63 The poetic images depicting the Egyptians drowning in deep waters, being burnt up like straw, and being swallowed alive into the underworld are not meant to indicate that the Egyptians died three times in some linear sequence of historical events.64 Rather, the three images give expression to a timeless reality: Egyptian power is defeated. Similarly, the poem’s image of Yahweh’s people being planted on Yahweh’s mountain depicts a timeless reality: Yahweh’s people belong to their land—eternally, necessarily, and essentially, in Kawashima’s terms. Where is this land? The Song of the Sea imagines the mount of Yahweh’s inheritance as being surrounded by traditional southern enemies—Philistia, Moab, Edom, and Canaan. Furthermore, the poem’s language echoes language used elsewhere in the bible for Jerusalem and its sanctuary.65 The poem, then, evidently conceptualizes the land where Yahweh’s people are planted as being in the south. The land has a single territorial center, and the poem does not mention smaller territorial units such as tribal divisions or cities or family plots. The land’s center is surrounded by enemies who remain subdued at the periphery. Whose political interests are served by the presentation of hereditary property in the Song of the Sea? Given its southern geographical horizon and royal language, it seems to me that Exodus 15 serves the interests of the monarchy centered at Jerusalem, even though the monarchy is never mentioned in the poem. The presentation of the land as having a single territorial center and the equation of that center with Yahweh’s special residence bolstered the centralized power of the Judaean monarchy. The depiction of Egypt as permanently defeated by Yahweh projects an image of the Judaean dynasty under Yahweh’s patronage as invincible to Egyptian incursions.

62

63 64 65

Compare Bernard  F.  Batto, “Mythic Dimensions of the Exodus Tradition,” in Israel’s Exodus in Transdisciplinary Perspective: Text, Archaeology, Culture, and Geoscience, ed. Thomas E. Levy, Thomas Schneider, and William H.C. Propp (Cham: Springer, 2015), 187– 95, esp. 192–93. Thomas Dozeman, “The Song of the Sea and Salvation History,” in On the Way to Nineveh: Studies in Honor of George M. Landes, ed. Stephen L. Cook and Sarah C. Winter (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1999), 94–113. Russell, Images of Egypt, 162–73. Russell, Images of Egypt, 145–48.

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Genesis

The book of Genesis refers to the land Israel and Judah will come to occupy as possession (‫ )אחזה‬rather than as hereditary property (‫)נחלה‬.66 According to Gen 17:8, God assigned the land of Abraham’s sojourning to him and to his descendants as an everlasting possession. According to Gen 48:4, God assigned the land to Jacob and his offspring as an everlasting possession. The many stories in Genesis are now hung on a genealogical framework that telescopes the reader from the moment of the world’s creation, through the many peoples that come to populate it, down to the story of the chosen family that eventually enters Egypt. But the book is not a bland lesson in chronology and geography. Rather, the book’s episodes and cycles are arranged to create narrative tension between promises God made to Israel’s ancestors and threats to their fulfillment.67 The land mentioned in 17:8 is one theme in the development of this narrative tension.68 I think we can distinguish the concept of Abraham’s land in Gen 17:8 and Jacob’s land in Gen 48:4 from the concept of tribal lands in Joshua 2–11, 14–19. The Hexateuchal narrative as it now stands presents this distinction as promise and fulfillment, as undivided inheritance and divided inheritance. But we can also discern here subtly differing perspectives on territory. The administrative, or pseudo-administrative, territorial lists in Joshua  14–19 conceptualize the fundamental unit of Israelite territory as tribal land, itself consisting of a concatenation of towns and their surrounding lands and settlements. In contrast, Gen 17:8; 48:4 conceptualizes land as part of a single holding. The focus is on the whole, rather than on its parts. In Joshua 2–11, 14–19, something of the unevenness of the history of territorial power has still left traces in its fictional, utopian account. Lists of tribal territory are sometimes phrased in subtly different ways; the text admits that some non-Israelites dwell in Israelite territory; and the text recognizes the distinction between Transjordan and Cisjordan.69 But in the divine speeches to Abraham (Gen 17:8) and Jacob (Gen 48:4), this 66 The term possession (‫ )אחזה‬also occurs in Gen 23:4, 9, 20 (and in Gen 49:30; 50:13) as a designation for the plot Abraham purchases from the Hittites to bury Sarah, but these texts deal with land at the scale of an individual household, rather than the land of Israel as a whole. The term hereditary property (‫ )נחלה‬is found in Gen 31:14 and Gen 48:6, but in neither case does it designate the land Israel and Judah will come to occupy. 67 Compare Joel S. Baden, The Promise to the Patriarchs (New York: Oxford University Press, 2013). 68 Marc Zvi Brettler, “The Promise of the Land of Israel to the Patriarchs in the Pentateuch,” Shnaton 5–6 (1981–1982): xvii–xxiv. 69 Compare Habel, The Land is Mine, 115–33, 147; Brett, Locations of God, 47–49, 53.

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unevenness has been elided and a single land is presented, even if its boundaries are not precisely specified. Scholars widely regard Genesis  17 and 48:3–7 as Priestly. They are closely connected to other promise texts in a Priestly style (Gen  28:3–4; 35:11–12; Exod 6:3–4, 8).70 But Genesis 17 shows signs of multiple stages of editorial development.71 Verse 23, which presents Abraham as circumcising his son Ishmael in obedience to God’s command, is in tension with verses 15–22, in which God states that Ishmael and his offspring are not to be included in the covenant. Indeed, some scholars see Gen 17:9–14, 23–27 as part of a Holiness revision to Genesis 17, 23, and 34.72 Although 17:3–8 and 17:15–22 parallel each other—both contain a change of an ancestor’s name accompanied by explanation—the former emphasizes the multitude of nations who will descend from Abraham while the latter emphasizes the special status of one descent line through Sarah. The references to offspring and to land in Genesis 17:8 carry different valences depending on whether they are read in the context of 17:3–8 alone, 17:3–8 and 17:15–22 together, or the chapter as it now stands, including 17:9–14, 23–27. Read in the context of 17:3–8, verse 8 broadly grounds land claims for all the nations who descend from Abraham in a promise from God himself. While Joshua emphasizes the land rights of individual tribes within the tribal collective Israel, Genesis 17:8, read in the context of vv. 3–8, emphasizes the land rights of many nations, including non-Israelites. The text borders on the ecumenical, though, of course, the literarily constructed Canaanites remain firmly outside any possible integration into the promise. Gen 17:15–22 repudiates any sense that other nations could share in the special cultic relationship Sarah’s descendants will enjoy with God. Insofar as the promise of land to Abraham’s offspring to come in v. 8 follows directly on the establishment of a covenant with his offspring to come in v. 7, the limitation of the covenant to one descent line in 17:15–22 also implies that only one descent line has a valid claim to the land. Likewise, Gen 48:4 affirms that the assignment of land as an everlasting possession applies to the community that will descend from Jacob, i.e., from the descent line through Sarah. Read in the context of the circumcision material in Gen 17:9–14, 23–27, Genesis 17:8 could once more be seen as inclusive 70 Baden, Promise, 104. 71 Jakob Wöhrle, “The Integrative Function of the Law of Circumcision,” in The Foreigner and the Law: Perspectives from the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East, ed. Reinhard Achenbach, Rainer Albertz, and Jakob Wöhrle, BZABR  16 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2011), 71–87; Mark Brett, “The Priestly Dissemination of Abraham,” HBAI 3 (2014): 87–107. 72 Wöhrle, “Integrative Function,” 71–87. Compare Brett, “Priestly Dissemination,” 87–107. On connections between Gen 17:3–8 and Lev 25, see Rhyder, Centralizing, 374.

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insofar as this material holds out the possibility that non-Israelites—here, Ishmael and his offspring—could be integrated into the covenant, and hence into the promise of land. Whose political interests are served by the portrayal of divine assignment of land to Abraham and his offspring in Gen 17:8 and Jacob and his offspring in Gen 48:4? The multiple perspectives in Genesis 17 and 48:3–7 appear to reflect a postexilic priestly debate about the relative status of various groups who claimed descent from Abraham, both with respect to cultic status and land claims.73 Indeed, as Isa 41:8; 51:2; 63:16; Ezek 11:15; 33:23; Neh 9:7–8 make clear, traditions about the ancestor Abraham provided one locus for conceptualizing community status and land claims in the exilic and postexilic periods.74 In the context of this essay, what I wish to highlight is not the nations whose land claims are variously affirmed or repudiated within Genesis 17; 48:3–7, but rather the role of priests in editing this material. We saw priestly legal authority disguised within the Jubilee legislation of Leviticus 25. Here, it is through storytelling, through the literary framing of Israel’s distant past, that priests exercised the cunning of recognition. 7.

Conclusion

In this brief survey, I have tried to distinguish between the legal practice of land rights in the world that produced the Bible and the theme of land within the text, and within earlier editions of the text scholars posit. Attention to the gap between these helps us see some of the hidden politics of the depiction of land in the Bible. In the realm of family law, possession and hereditary property have considerable semantic overlap. Even so, individual biblical texts apply these terms to Israel’s land with distinct rhetorical emphases. I have been cautious here about importing the rhetorical force of these terms from one context into another. Underlying the biblical presentation of land was the legal practice of a hierarchy of rights in land. In the ancient Near East, a variety of social actors held 73

Brett, “Priestly Dissemination of Abraham,” 106–7. On marriage in the postexilic period, compare Katherine Southwood, Marriage by Capture in the Book of Judges: An Anthropological Approach (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 189–231. 74 Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer “Abraham, a Judahite Prerogative,” ZAW 120 (2008): 49–66. On the postexilic debate about who was to be included in Israel, compare Tamara Cohn Eskenazi, “Imagining the Other in the Construction of Judahite Identity in Ezra–Nehemiah,” in Imagining the Other and Constructing Israelite Identity in the Early Second Temple Period, ed. Ehud Ben Zvi and Diana V. Edelman, LHBOTS 591 (London: T&T Clark, 2014), 230–56.

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different kinds of productive and administrative rights in the same land. In the monarchic period, the king held ultimate administrative rights in land. In later periods, whatever administrative roles imperial powers and their intermediary officials played, priests presented themselves as having the power to recognize claims to land. Both monarchic and later texts cast Yahweh, or God, as the individual with ultimate administrative rights in all of Israel’s land. In doing so, they present God as a benevolent ancient Near Eastern king. Like a good ancient Near Eastern king, God secures land for his people. But this presentation of divine territorial administration disguises the royal and priestly interests of those who produced the Bible. As Norman C. Habel demonstrated so clearly, the presentation of land in the Bible is ideological.

Does Deuteronomy Promote a Proto-Nationalist Agenda? Dominik Markl Nationalism is a hot political term. It has shaped global political history over the past two centuries, and its revived popularity characterizes many contemporary political debates. Whatever our attitudes towards nationalism, we all possess citizenship of at least one nation-state that determines to a large extent our legal rights and duties, while our national passports determine the extent of our freedom to travel internationally. It proves difficult, therefore, to employ the term “nationalism” in an ideologically detached historical discussion. Nationalism is, nevertheless, a useful term to address a central issue among the political ideas expressed in the Pentateuch and, in particular, in the book of Deuteronomy: do they promote a proto-nationalist agenda?1 To answer this question, I shall proceed in three steps, starting with a sketch of historical theory of nationalism, then briefly discussing the evolution of its political aspects in the redactional history of Deuteronomy before arriving at an evaluation.

* I thank Louis Jonker for his response to the earlier version of this paper presented at the conference organised by Mark Brett and Rachelle Gilmour. I am also grateful to colleagues at the Research Laboratory on “Redemption, Salvation, and the Return to the Land” held at the Cardinal Bea Centre for Judaic Studies (Gregorian University, 2018–2020), for discussion of diverse Jewish and Christian religious attitudes towards land and nation. 1 Deuteronomy’s specific relevance to discussing nationalism has been pointed out in Mark  G.  Brett, “Nation Dreaming: Deuteronomy and Joshua” in Locations of God: Political Theology in the Hebrew Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019), 34–53. See also Stuart D. E. Weeks, “Biblical Literature and the Emergence of Ancient Jewish Nationalism,” BibInt 10 (2002): 144–57, esp. 148: “biblical literature, from Deuteronomy onwards at least, … expresses an aspiration to political unity and exclusive occupation” of Israel’s biblical boundaries. Wolfgang Oswald, Staatstheorie im Alten Israel: Der politische Diskurs im Pentateuch und in den Geschichtsbüchern des Alten Testaments (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2009), one of few attempts at reconstructing political theory of the state in the Pentateuch and the historiographical works of the Hebrew Bible, interestingly, does not address the issue of nationalism and the “nation state.”

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/978365

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Modern Nationalism and Nation-States

In order to investigate the relationship between Deuteronomy and nationalism, we should take a brief look into the history of nationalism and a glimpse into theory of the modern nation-states. While historians of nationalism try to explain the sociological and political dynamics that led to the rise of nationstates, political theorists explicate their product: the basic ingredients of what constitutes a nation-state. According to a general description, the modern nation-state is a legally constituted community, related to a defined state territory, in which the state has sovereign power and authority that it exercises via its institutions.2 The legally constituted community—the nation—is ideally imagined as a group of people, a majority of whom share aspects of common identity based on ethnic, linguistic, cultural, or religious criteria.3 Such commonalities are frequently more construed than real; but they are still constitutive of imagined national identities and bear a significant political weight. National sovereignty is today complicated and undermined by globalization, supranational political entities with legislative powers such as the European Union, and the influence of agents such as transnational corporations.4 Still, nationalist ideologies show their force as the fringes of the European Union are breaking away or threatening to do so, and not few politicians prey on the sentiments of voters by claiming to make their nation “great again.” How did modern nation states emerge? Many, and certainly their classical prototypes such as France, Germany, and Italy, owe their existence to political movements that are summarized by the term “nationalism.” The word is attested since the late 18th century, primarily referring to the movement that brought about the French nation with revolutionary force.5 According to Gellner’s definition, nationalism is “a political principle, which holds that the

2 See, for example, Reinhold Zippelius, Allgemeine Staatslehre, Politikwissenschaft (Munich: C. H. Beck, 17th edition, 2017); Bob Jessop, “Redesigning the State, Reorienting State Power, and Rethinking the State,” in Handbook of Politics: State and Society in Global Perspective, ed. Kevin T. Leicht and J. Craig Jenkins (New York: Springer, 2009), 41–61. 3 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso, 1983). 4 For a discussion of developments that undermine the state see Keith Faulks, Political Sociology: A Critical Introduction (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1999), 53–104. 5 Reinhart Koselleck et al., “Volk, Nation,” in Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe: Historisches Lexikon zur politisch-sozialen Sprache in Deutschland, ed. Otto Brunner, Werner Conze and Reinhart Koselleck (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1992), 7:141–431, esp. 399: “Erst mit der seit 1789 revolutionären ‘Nation’ konnte ‘Nationalismus’ einen neuen Sachverhalt auf den Begriff bringen.”

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political and the national unit should be congruent.”6 Historians generally consider nationalism as a phenomenon that developed its specific characteristics in the late 18th and 19th centuries.7 Research into nationalism arose amidst the emergence of extreme forms of totalitarian nationalist ideologies in the first half of the 20th century.8 Carlton Hayes published The Historical Evolution of Nationalism, in which he discussed diverse forms of nationalism as political doctrine, in 1931.9 Hans Kohn’s The Idea of Nationalism appeared in 1944.10 His historical analysis facilitated the deconstruction of the ideas of race and Volksgeist as ideological ingredients of nationalism.11 In contrast to Hayes, Kohn was interested in tracing nationalism’s deep historical roots. In his view, the idea of nationalism

6

Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalisms (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1983); I quote the second edition: idem, Nations and Nationalisms, 2nd ed. (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2006), 1: “Nationalism as a sentiment, or as a movement, can best be defined in terms of this principle. Nationalist sentiment is the feeling of anger aroused by the violation of the principle, or the feeling of satisfaction aroused by its fulfilment. A nationalist movement is one actuated by a sentiment of this kind.” 7 See Eric  J.  Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism since 1780: Programme, Myth, Reality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), esp. 14–45; Ronald Grigor Suny, “History,” in Fundamental Themes, vol. 1 of Encyclopaedia of Nationalism, ed. Alexander J. Motyl (San Diego: Academic, 2000), 335–58. Only a few authors argue against the majority view that the origins of nationalism go back, at least, to the 16th century, e.g., Philip S. Gorski, “The Mosaic Moment: An Early Modernist Critique of Modernist Theories of Nationalism,” American Journal of Sociology 105 (2000): 1428–68; Herfried Münkler, “Nation als politische Idee im frühneuzeitlichen Europa,” in Nation und Literatur im Europa der Frühen Neuzeit: Akten des 1. Internationalen Osnabrücker Kongresses zur Kulturgeschichte der Frühen Neuzeit, ed. Klaus Garber (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1989), 56–86. 8 For an overview of the history of research see Andrew Vincent, “Nationalism,” in The Oxford Handbook of Political Ideologies, ed. Michael Freeden, Lyman Towner Sargent, and Marc Stears (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 452–73. 9 Carlton  J.  Hayes, The Historical Evolution of Nationalism (New York: R.R.  Smith, 1931). Hayes’ first response to the dangers of absolutistic nationalism is seen in his Essays on Nationalism (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1926). 10 Hans Kohn, The Idea of Nationalism: A Study on its Origins and Background (New York: Macmillan, 1944). 11 Kohn, The Idea of Nationalism, 8: “Nationality has been raised to an absolute by two fictitious concepts which have been accepted as having real substance. One holds that blood or race is the basis of nationality, and that it exists eternally and carries with it an unchangeable inheritance; the other sees the Volksgeist as an ever-welling source of nationality and all its manifestations. These theories offer no real explanation of the rise and the role of nationality: they refer us to mythical pre-historical pseudo-realities. Rather, they must be taken as characteristic elements of thought in the age of nationalism and are subject themselves to analysis by the historian of nationalism.”

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goes back to the ancient Hebrews and Greeks, and was revived in Europe at the time of the Renaissance and the Reformation. During the period of the Renaissance, the literati rediscovered Greco-Roman patriotism; but this new attitude never penetrated to the masses, and its secularism was soon swept away by the retheologization of Europe through the Reformation and Counter-Reformation. But the Reformation, especially in its Calvinistic form, revived the nationalism of the Old Testament. Under the favourable circumstances which had developed in England, a new national consciousness of the English as the godly people penetrated the whole nation in the revolution of the seventeenth century.12

Kohn thus saw the Hebrew Bible as one of the sources of modern nationalism, which was mediated to the early modern political discourse through the Reformation, especially in England.13 Kohn identified “three essential traits of nationalism” that “originated with the ancient Jews: the idea of the chosen people, the consciousness of national history, and national Messianism.”14 Moreover, he described the covenant between God and every member of the people “in complete equality” as “the root of modern nationalism and democracy”.15 The elements of the constitution through the covenant were “one God, one law, one people.”16 As a background to this view, Kohn quotes from Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities, “God is but one, and the stock of the Hebrews one” (Ant. 4).17 Josephus, on his part, here summarizes the polity instituted by Moses in the book of Deuteronomy, alluding to the Shema Yisrael.18 While Kohn tried to trace the roots of modern nationalism back to antiquity, including the Bible, more recent influential historians of nationalism have been less interested in the roots of nationalism in the history of ideas. Ernest 12 Kohn, The Idea of Nationalism, 19. 13 On the role of religion for national consciousness in early modern England see also Liah Greenfeld, Nationalism: Five Roads to Modernity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), esp. 27–87; Mark  G.  Brett, “Nationalism and the Hebrew Bible,” The Bible in Ethics: The Second Sheffield Colloquium, ed. John  W.  Rogerson, Margaret Davies, and M. Daniel Carroll R. (Sheffield: Academic Press, 1995) 136–63, esp. 142–43. 14 Kohn, The Idea of Nationalism, 36. 15 Kohn, The Idea of Nationalism, 37. 16 Kohn, The Idea of Nationalism, 39. 17 Josephus, Ant 4.201: θεὸς γὰρ εἷς καὶ τὸ Ἑβραίων γένος ἕν. Translation by Louis H. Feldman, Judean Antiquities 1–4, vol. 3 in Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, ed. Stephen Mason (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 400. Kohn, The Idea of Nationalism, 584 n.8 quotes the Greek text. The same passage is quoted in idem, Die politische Idee des Judentums (Munich: Meyer & Jessen, 1924), 29, where Kohn’s formulation “Ein Gott, Ein Volk” paraphrases Josephus’ line more closely. In The Idea of Nationalism, 39, Kohn added the element “one law”. 18 LXX Deut 6:4: ἄκουε Ισραηλ κύριος ὁ θεὸς ἡμῶν κύριος εἷς ἐστιν.

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Gellner unmasked the “pervasive false consciousness” of nationalist ideologies whose “myths invert reality.”19 He theorized the sociological dynamics that lead to nationalism: industrial society necessitated the development of a general high culture of literacy that requires an educational system no smaller than “national”20 and a centralization of power.21 At the end of his book, however, Gellner returns to Max Weber and emphasizes the role of Protestantism: Equal access to a scripturalist God paved the way to equal access to high culture  … In such a society, one’s prime loyalty is to the medium of our literacy, and to its political protector. The equal access of believers to God eventually becomes equal access of unbelievers to education and culture.22

Benedict Anderson discussed in greater detail how the interplay between book printing, capitalism, Protestantism, and the rise of the vernacular languages “created a new form of imagined community, which in its basic morphology set the stage for the modern nation.”23 Eric Hobsbawm analyzed ingredients of early modern “popular proto-nationalism” such as the notion of “holy land,” national language, ethnicity, icons of belonging, and “the consciousness of belonging or having belonged to a lasting political entity” and religion.24 Although a “well-tried method of establishing communion through common practice,” religion appears as “a paradoxical cement for proto-nationalism, and indeed for modern nationalism, which has usually … treated it with considerable reserve as a force which could challenge the ‘nation’s’ monopoly claim to its members’ loyalty.”25

19 Gellner, Nations and Nationalisms, 119: “it claims to defend folk culture while in fact it is forging a high culture; it claims to protect an old folk society while in fact helping to build up an anonymous mass society.” “It preaches and defends cultural diversity, when in fact it imposes homogeneity … Its self-image and its true nature are inversely related, with an ironic neatness seldom equalled even by other successful ideologies” (ibid., 120). 20 Gellner, Nations and Nationalisms, esp. 33. 21 Gellner, Nations and Nationalisms, esp. 85–86. 22 Gellner, Nations and Nationalisms, 136. On the importance of media for the emergence of nations see ibid., 121–22. Here, Gellner seems to be alluding to Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man, ed. Terrence Gordon (Corte Madera: Gingko, 2003); rev. critical ed. of Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man, 1st ed. (New York: McGraw Hill, 1964); see the chapter “The Printed Word: Architect of Nationalism” (231–42). 23 Anderson, Imagined Communities, 46, concluding the chapter “The Origins of National Consciousness” (37–46). 24 Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism, 46–79 (quotation: 73). 25 Hobsbawm, Nations and Nationalism, 68.

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As is the case with other ideologies of collective identity, nationalism has a complex relationship to war and other forms of violence. “Nationalism is not only linked to revolutions and wars but also to violent insurgency, terrorism, ethnic cleansing and genocide.”26 Siniša Malešević argues, however, that there is no simple causal relationship between nationalism and violence. Rather, long-term developments of bureaucratic organization and ideological power facilitate the conditions under which war and other forms of violence may occur under certain historical contingencies.27 Still, it deserves attention that wars occur frequently in connection with the formation of nation states.28 And violent conflict is a most effective means to intensify ideologies of collective—including nationalist—identity: it “opens the door of an oven.”29 The tendency of liberal theoreticians to deconstruct the fallacies of nationalist ideologies may have led some to underestimate, as Isaiah Berlin argued, their lasting influence.30 The exploration of the “cultural foundations” of nationalism is necessary to understand its ideological force more comprehensively.31 This task includes the reconstruction of the influence of biblical political ideas in early modern proto-nationalist ideas.32 In this line, Adrian Hastings suggested that 26

Siniša Malešević, Nation-States and Nationalisms: Organization, Ideology and Solidarity (Cambridge: Polity, 2013), 91. 27 See Malešević, Nation-States and Nationalisms, 89–119. 28 Andreas Wimmer, Waves of War: Nationalism, State Formation and Ethnic Exclusion in the Modern World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), esp. 108–42. Wimmer argues that “the transition from empire to nation-state increases the likelihood of both inter-state and civil wars because the institutional principles of legitimate government are at stake” (ibid., 120). On the “historiography of mass violence and national identity construction” see also Christian Gerlach, Extremely Violent Societies: Mass Violence in the Twentieth-Century World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 255–65. 29 Siniša Malešević, The Sociology of War and Violence (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 196. 30 Isaiah Berlin, Nationalismus: Seine frühere Vernachlässigung und gegenwärtige Macht, trans. Johannes Fritsche (Frankfurt a.M.: Anton Hain, 1990), esp. 69. 31 An attempt in this direction is Anthony D. Smith, The Cultural Foundations of Nations: Hierarchy, Covenant, and Republic (Hoboken, NJ: Wiley, 2008). Smith devotes a chapter to “Community in Antiquity” (ibid., 48–75), including a section on ancient Israel (62–66), with important caveats against identifying the idea of nationality in ancient Israel (65); against, Steven Grosby, Biblical Ideas of Nationality: Ancient and Modern (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2002). 32 See, e.g., Eran Shalev, “The Bible and the Founding of the Nation,” The Oxford Handbook of the Bible in America, ed. Paul Gutjahr (Oxford: University Press, 2017), 346–57; idem, American Zion: The Old Testament as a Political Text from the Revolution to the Civil War (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013); Graham Hamill, The Mosaic Constitution: Political Theology and Imagination from Machiavelli to Milton (Chicago: University of Chicago

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Dominik Markl [t]he Bible provided, for the Christian world at least, the original model of the nation. Without it and its Christian interpretation and implementation, it is arguable that nations and nationalism, as we know them, could never have existed.33

Indeed, the ethnically defined “chosen people” was conceptually a more apt model for developing the idea of “national identity” in early modern times than the Greek polis which was constituted by free men only. Anthony D. Smith even claimed that “to a large extent, the modern age owes to the Jewish Bible its fundamental vision of a world divided into distinctive and sovereign territorial nations.”34 In what follows, I shall explore the question as to how the book of Deuteronomy, one of the prime candidates for “nationalist” ideology in the Bible, relates to the modern notion of nationalism. While  I will proceed, in this second step, in a comparative perspective, I shall return to the question of reception and influence in the final evaluation. 2.

The Evolution of Deuteronomy’s Political Agendas

Deuteronomy is an eminently political book, primarily concerned with the identity and legal constitution of Israel. In its received forms, Deuteronomy portrays Moses delivering his farewell speeches in the land of Moab to the entire people of Israel, through which he shapes Israel’s historical, ethical and ethnic identity,35 promulgates the law according to which Israel is supposed Press, 2012); Eric Nelson, The Hebrew Republic. Jewish Sources and the Transformation of European Political Thought (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010); Gordon Schochet, Fania Oz-Salzberger, and Meirav Jones (eds.), Political Hebraism: Judaic Sources in Early Modern Political Thought (Jerusalem: Shalem Press, 2008); Gorski, “The Mosaic Moment”; Mary Anne Perkins, Nation and Word, 1770–1850: Religious and metaphysical language in European national consciousness (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing Limited, 1999). 33 Adrian Hastings, The Construction of Nationhood: Ethnicity, Religion and Nationalism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). 34 Anthony  D.  Smith, “Biblical beliefs in the shaping of modern nations,” Nations and Nationalism 21 (2015): 403–22; see also idem, Chosen Peoples: Sacred Sources of National Identity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). 35 On Deuteronomy’s strategies in shaping Israel’s collective identity see Carly L. Crouch, The Making of Israel: Cultural Diversity in the Southern Levant and the Formation of Ethnic Identity in Deuteronomy, VTSup 162 (Leiden: Brill, 2015); Ruth Ebach, Das Fremde und das Eigene. Die Fremdendarstellungen des Deuteronomiums im Kontext israelitischer Identitätskonstruktionen, BZAW  471 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2014); E.  Theodore  Mullen Jr.,

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to live in the promised land,36 and concludes the Moab covenant in which the people, including future generations, are bound to their God YHWH and his legislation (Deut 29–30).37 Through election and covenant, YHWH places Israel “high above all nations that he has made” (Deut 26:19; see also 4:6–8). Since even “strangers” are supposed to enter the covenant (Deut 29:10; 31:12), the polity envisioned by Deuteronomy is not exclusively defined in ethnic terms.38 Deuteronomy models the concept of the “stranger” (gēr) after the Israelites’ status in Egypt (e.g. Deut 23:8), which clearly implies ethnic difference.39 At the pilgrimage festivals, the entire people, including strangers, are supposed to feast together, thus experiencing the collectivity of the body politic in real communion (Deut 16:11, 14). Still, Israel’s identity is constructed in sharp contrast to the Canaanite “other” and, most problematically, Israel’s election is entangled with the command to annihilate the Canaanite population (Deut 7:1–6; 20:15–18)40 and to take their land into possession.41 It is important

36

37

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40 41

Narrative History and Ethnic Boundaries: The Deuteronomistic Historian and the Creation of Israelite National Identity (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993), esp. 55–85. On rhetorical strategies involved in shaping collective identity see Dominik Markl, Gottes Volk im Deuteronomium, BZAR 18 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2012), esp. 47–87. See Norbert Lohfink, “Dtn 12,1 und Gen 15,18: Das dem Samen Abrahams geschenkte Land als der Geltungsbereich der deuteronomischen Gesetze,” in Studien zum Deuteronomium und zur deuteronomistischen Literatur II, SBAB  12 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1991), 257–85 (= Die Väter Israels: Beiträge zur Theologie der Patriarchenüberlieferungen im Alten Testament: Festschrift  J.  Scharbert, ed. Manfred Görg (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1989), 183–210); Georg Braulik, “Deuteronomium  1–4 als Sprechakt,” in Studien zu den Methoden der Deuteronomiumsexegese, SBAB 42 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2006), 39–48 (= Bib 83 (2002): 249–57). Weeks, “Biblical Literature and the Emergence of Ancient Jewish Nationalism,” 153: “Israel is united by its obligations to obey those written laws.” On the complex pragmatics of the making of the Moab Covenant see Markl, Gottes Volk, 88–125; for a brief summary, idem, “Deuteronomy,” in The Paulist Biblical Commentary, ed. J. E. Aguilar Chiu et al. (New York: Paulist, 2018), 147–93, esp. 153–54 and 187–89. Gerhard von Rad, Das Gottesvolk im Deuteronomium, BWANT 47 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1929), 47, considered Deuteronomy’s ethnic conception of the homogeneity of Israel as naive and explained the friendly integration of the “stranger” (gēr) as an etiology of the factual integration of people of different origin. For the history of research and discussion see Mark A. Awabdy, Immigrants and Innovative Law: Deuteronomy’s Theological and Social Vision for the gēr, FAT 2/67 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014), 110–16. Brett, “Nationalism and the Hebrew Bible,” 153, therefore, suggests that “the laws concerning aliens associate Deuteronomy more with civic nationalism than with ethnic nationalism.” On the distinction see Greenfeld, Nationalism, esp. 10. See, e.g., Yair Hoffman, “The Deuteronomistic Concept of the Herem,” ZAW 111 (1999): 196–210. On the narrative of the conquest as legitimation of Israel’s claim to the land see Oswald, Staatstheorie im Alten Israel, 96–120.

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to note, however, that Deuteronomy does not envision any violence at Israel’s postexilic return to the land (Deut 30:1–10).42 Monotheism, introduced in Deuteronomy’s latest compositional stages in the programmatic chapter 4, defines Israel’s Torah as the law of the only God of the universe, thus lending unsurpassable authority to the law.43 Even the king is supposed to be subject to the Torah, which implies the idea of the “supremacy of the law.”44 Moreover, Deuteronomy’s constitutional laws of offices (Deut 16:18–18:22) introduce the separation of powers45 and define Israel as a people of “brothers” and sisters—thus establishing the principles of égalité and fraternité.46 Moses himself writes “this torah” down and hands it over to the Levites and the elders of Israel as his legacy (Deut 31:9–13). Moses is portrayed as the political founding father of Israel as a nation,47 who presents 42

Georg Braulik, “The Destruction of the Nations and the Promise of Return: Hermeneutical Observation on the Book of Deuteronomy,” Verbum et Ecclesia 25 (2004): 46–67. 43 See Dominik Markl, “Divine Law and the Emergence of Monotheism in Deuteronomy,” Israel and the Cosmological Empires of the Ancient Orient: Symbols of Order in Eric Voegelin’s Order and History, Vol. 1., ed. Ignacio Carbajosa and Nicoletta Scotti Muth (Leiden: Brill, 2021), 193–222, esp. 203–215; idem, “Gottes Gesetz und die Entstehung des Monotheismus,” in Ewige Ordnung in sich verändernder Gesellschaft? Das göttliche Recht im theologischen Diskurs, ed. Markus Graulich and Ralph Weimann, QD  287 (Freiburg i.Br.: Herder, 2018), 49–67, esp. 56–61. 44 Jean Louis Ska, “Biblical Law and the Origins of Democracy,” The Ten Commandments: The Reciprocity of Faithfulness, ed. William P. Brown (Louisville: John Knox, 2004), 146–58, esp. 148; Dominik Markl, “Deuteronomy’s ‘Anti King’: Historicized Etiology or Political Project?,” in Changing Faces of Kingship in Syria-Palestine 1500–500 BCE, ed. A. Gianto and P. Dubovský, AOAT 459 (Münster: Ugarit Verlag 2018), 165–86, esp. 175. 45 Bernard  M.  Levinson, “The First Constitution. Rethinking the Origins of Rule of Law and Separation of Powers in Light of Deuteronomy,” The Cardozo Law Review 27 (2006): 101–36; Norbert Lohfink, “Die Sicherung der Wirksamkeit des Gotteswortes durch das Prinzip der Schriftlichkeit der Tora und durch das Prinzip der Gewaltenteilung nach den Ämtergesetzen des Buches Deuteronomium (Dt  16, 18–18, 22),” in Studien zum Deuteronomium und zur deuteronomistischen Literatur I, SBAB 8 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1990), 305–23 (= Testimonium Veritati: Philosophische und theologische Studien zu kirchlichen Fragen der Gegenwart, Festschrift für Wilhelm Kempf, ed. Hans Wolter, FTS 7 (Frankfurt: Knecht, 1971), 143–55); idem, “Distribution of the Functions of Power: The Laws Concerning Public Offices in Deuteronomy 16:18–18:22,” in A Song of Power and the Power of Song: Essays on the Book of Deuteronomy, ed. Duane L. Christensen (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1993), 336–52. 46 Norbert Lohfink, “Das deuteronomische Gesetz in seiner Endgestalt—Entwurf einer Gesellschaft ohne marginale Gruppen,” Studien zum Deuteronomium und zur deuteronomistischen Literatur III, SBAB 20 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1995), 205–218 (= BN 51 (1990): 25–40). Brett, Locations of God, 37, suggests that Deuteronomy’s “discourse of sibling solidarity promotes a utopian ideal of equality.” 47 On Moses’s blessing of the twelve tribes of Israel in contrast to Jacob’s blessing of his sons see Jean-Pierre Sonnet, The Book within the Book: Writing in Deuteronomy, BibInt 14 (Leiden: Brill, 1997), esp. 211.

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the people’s historical identity and legal constitution as bound to the territory that is enshrined in his view of the land before his death (Deut 34:1–4). Deuteronomy promotes a political agenda of the collective identity of an ethnically defined people to be politically constituted on a specific territory,48 which entails several analogies with the modern nation state. This initial description of Deuteronomy’s received form, however, is complicated in two regards: first, Deuteronomy probably grew between the late monarchic and the Persian era; it went through historically turbulent times, in which the different redactional stages are likely to have implied diverse political agendas. Second, this diachronic growth resulted in ambiguities in the received form of Deuteronomy that render the book’s political agenda complex. It is necessary, therefore, to sketch the contours of the diachronic development of Deuteronomy’s political agendas in its late pre-exilic, exilic, and post-exilic phases of development to arrive at a refined view of the complicated shades of political meaning in Deuteronomy’s received form. 2.1 Late Pre-exilic Centralization Politics While most researchers assume that Deuteronomy goes back to a late preexilic version of Urdeuteronomium, opinions on how the pre-exilic version of Deuteronomy should be reconstructed differ greatly. Some consider all or nearly all of Deuteronomy pre-exilic,49 many expect a much shorter version expanded in exilic and post-exilic redactions,50 while a minority date Deuteronomy entirely to the exilic or post-exilic period.51 Most influential for a late pre-exilic date of Deuteronomy have been arguments on the link between Deuteronomy and the Josianic Reform.52 If indeed Deuteronomy’s program of

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See the summary of Deuteronomy’s program in Otto Kaiser, Introduction to the Old Testament: A Presentation of Its Results and Problems, trans. John Sturdy, (Oxford: Blackwell, 1975), 132: “one nation before the one God, who has chosen it for his property out of all nations; united in one cult at one place …; called to obedience … in the land which he has given them.” E.g., Jack  R.  Lundbom, Deuteronomy: A Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2013), esp. 16. An elaborate theory of Deuteronomy’s redactional history is presented in Eckart Otto, Deuteronomium, 4 vols. HThKAT (Freiburg i.Br.: Herder, 2012–2017). See the discussion in Juha Pakkala, “The Date of the Oldest Edition of Deuteronomy,” ZAW 121 (2009): 388–401; Nathan MacDonald, “Issues in the dating of Deuteronomy: A Response to Juha Pakkala,” ZAW 122 (2010): 431–35; Juha Pakkala, “The Dating of Deuteronomy: A Response to Nathan MacDonald,” ZAW 123 (2011): 431–36. On the history of research see Eckart Otto, Deuteronomium 1,1–4,43, HThKAT (Freiburg i.Br.: Herder, 2012), esp. 69–72.

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cult centralization goes back to a pre-exilic kernel,53 it enhanced, in political terms, the centralization of power in the capital, Jerusalem.54 Another strong argument in favor of a pre-exilic kernel of Deuteronomy is that some texts, such as the law against traitors in Deut 13 and a section of the curses of Deut 28, may have been influenced by Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty (EST).55 If it is true that 7th century Deuteronomy reacted against the imperialist agenda of EST, it is likely that it promoted the collective identity of Israel in conjunction with monolatry, and cultic and political centralization, which implied an anti-imperial agenda. The program “one God, one cult, one nation” may indeed apply to the pre-exilic kernel of Deuteronomy. It would thus be a document that promotes Israel’s collective identity and obliges the people to adhere loyally and exclusively to YHWH—as opposed to the Assyrian king and the Assyrian deities. This agenda could well be called, in modern terms, antiimperial and pro-national. 2.2 Exilic Identity Politics Concerning the exilic phase of Deuteronomy, Otto postulates two major redactions related to its literary setting at Horeb and in Moab.56 While the first presented Deuteronomy’s laws as divine revelation at Horeb, the latter transposed them into the voice of Moses in Moab. Both places of divine revelation and Mosaic interpretation are located outside the Cisjordanian promised land. Whether or not Otto’s hypotheses are correct in detail, Deuteronomy’s narrative staging in Moab provides, in allegoric terms, an “exilic” setting for Deuteronomy. The threat of losing the land, which is alluded to in many texts of Deuteronomy,57 may be motivated by the Assyrian conquests of the Northern 53 54 55

56 57

Eckart Otto, Deuteronomium 12,1–23,15, HThKAT (Freiburg i.Br.: Herder, 2016), esp. 1147–67. For comparative research see Reinhard G. Kratz and Hermann Spieckermann, eds., One God—One Cult—One Nation: Archaeological and Biblical Perspectives, BZAW 405 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010). See, e.g., Eckart Otto, Das Deuteronomium: Politische Theologie und Rechtsreform in Juda und Assyrien, BZAW  284 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999); Hans Ulrich Steymans, Deuteronomium 28 und die adê zur Thronfolgeregelung Asarhaddons: Segen und Fluch im Alten Orient und in Israel. OBO 145 (Freiburg, Schweiz: Universitätsverlag, 1995). See also Bernard M. Levinson, “Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty as the Source for the Canon Formula in Deuteronomy 13:1,” JAOS 130 (2010): 337–47. Otto, Deuteronomium 1,1–4,43, 238–48. Explicit references to exile are massive in the latter part of Deuteronomy, esp. in the curses of Deut 28:36–37, 41, 63–68 and in the Moab Covenant discourse (Deut 29:18–27; 30:1–4). Implicit references to the threat of loosing the land are related to the verbs ‘to exterminate’ (‫שמד‬: 6:14–15; 7:4) and ‘to perish’ (‫אבד‬: 8:19–20; 11:16–17; 30:17–18). See Norbert Lohfink, “Der Zorn Gottes und das Exil,” Studien zum Deuteronomium und zur deuteronomistischen Literatur V, SBAB 38 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2005), 37–55; repr. of Liebe und

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Kingdom and in the territory of Judah in the 8th and 7th centuries, but this motif is also applicable to the etiology of the Babylonian exile. The Levites’ duty of bearing the Ark that contains the central divine revelation, the tablets of the Decalogue, and of carrying the Torah scroll, is a symbolical representation of the Levitical priests’ role as the “carrier group” of the Torah (Deut 10:8; 31:9, 25–26), especially during the exilic period. It is they who rescued Israel’s religious heritage and who are responsible for bringing it back into the land.58 Since the Babylonian destruction of the temple, and the loss of the land and its political institutions, meant an existential crisis for the exiled Judeans, the continuity of their cultural identity depended strongly on the formation of cultural memory:59 the memorization of texts and their transmission in writing, a process that Jan Assmann called the “excarnation of tradition.”60 Deuteronomy’s emphasis on writing, learning and education, and its spread among the common people is, therefore, a specifically exilic trait of the book. Deuteronomy’s educational campaign (see esp. Deut 6:4–9, 20–25; 31:9–13) implies a move towards the democratization of knowledge. While the exilic redactions of the book strengthened the cultural identity of the Judean minority under Babylonian hegemony in the land of Babylonia, the exilic version of Deuteronomy still transmitted the pre-exilic kernel of Deuteronomy that spoke of the land of Israel, the centralized cult and other provisions related to Israel’s divinely predestined territory. Serving the identity politics of a diaspora minority through memories of their homeland, Deuteronomy may have enhanced a “nationalist” fervor61 and developed the

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Gebot: Studien zum Deuteronomium, ed. Reinhard G. Kratz and Hermann Spieckermann (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), 137–55; Dominik Markl, “The Efficacy of Moses’s Prophecies and the Scope of Deuteronomistic Historiography,” Collective Memory and Collective Identity: Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History in their Context, ed. Johannes Unsok Ro and Diana Edelman, BZAW 534 (Berlin: de Gruyter 2021), 121–147, esp. 128–132. See, more elaborately, Dominik Markl, “Media, Migration, and the Emergence of Scriptural Authority,” Zeitschrift für Theologie und Philosophie 143 (2021): 261–83; idem, “The Ambivalence of Authority in Deuteronomy: Reaction, Revision, Rewriting, Reception,” Cristianesimo nella storia 41 (2020): 427–61, esp. 432–35. This is specific to the exilic situation, while the need to define ethnic identity was already present in the “long seventh century”: Crouch, The Making of Israel. Jan Assmann, “Five Stages on the Road to the Canon: Tradition and Written Culture in Ancient Israel and Early Judaism,” Religion and Cultural Memory: Ten Studies (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2006), 63–80, esp. 69. On the association between exile and nationalism in contemporary literature see Doerte Bischoff and Jasmin Centner, “Rückkehr aus dem Exil: ein Paradigma transnationaler Literatur,” Handbuch Literatur und Transnationalität, ed. Doerte Bischoff and Susanne Komfort-Hein (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2019), 418–30, esp. 418.

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potential to promote national restoration in the land, which indeed is visible in its postexilic redaction. 2.3 Post-exilic Restoration Politics At the prospect of and after the return to the Persian province of Jehud, the carrier group of Deuteronomy redacted the book into a program of restoration. A terminus post quem of such redactions is 539 bce, but they may well have continued in the 5th and the 4th century. Since these redactions are related to the gradual formation of the Hexateuch and the Pentateuch,62 the political conception of Israel in the postexilic form of Deuteronomy is related to the overall conception of Israel in the Pentateuch.63 A crucial chapter for the post-exilic recension is Deuteronomy  30. This programmatic end of the extensive discourses of Moses envisions the return from exile and the restoration in the land. The chapter communicates a double message. On the one hand, Moses’ prophetic announcement of restoration by divine agency (30:1–10) pragmatically means a call to the Judean communities in the diaspora to return to the promised land. At the same time, however, the Mosaic voice concedes that “this word” is “very near” to Israel, regardless of geographical location: Israel does not need to ascend heaven nor to cross the sea, but the word is internalized “in your mouth and in your heart” (30:10–14). Those who are still outside the land are supposed to enter the Moab covenant by choosing life (30:19),64 while the fulfilment of life is ultimately supposed to happen “upon the land that YHWH swore to give to your ancestors” (30:20). In the legal hermeneutics of post-exilic Deuteronomy, the Decalogue, proclaimed in the divine voice at Horeb, is valid without geographical restriction (Deut  5), while the “statutes and ordinances” from Moab (Deut  12–26) are prescribed for Israel in the land alone: “These are the statutes and ordinances that you must diligently observe in the land …” (Deut 12:1).65 Although the early Jewish community actually lived under the conditions of the Persian empire, the postexilic form of Deuteronomy attributes to the priesthood, the local judges and the potential human king of Israel exclusive institutional authority.66 Israel’s supreme King is YHWH himself (Deut 33:5). By repressing 62 63 64 65 66

See, e.g., Otto, Deuteronomium 1,1–4,43, 248–57. On the Pentateuch and the conception of a “republic of the Torah” see Oswald, Staatstheorie im Alten Israel, 219–28. Markl, Gottes Volk, esp. 121. Lohfink, “Dtn 12,1 und Gen 15,18”. The question as to whether (some form of) the Pentateuch was approved through Persian imperial authorization is repressed from the Pentateuch’s internal ideology, but the role of Persian authority is prominently visible in Ezra-Nehemiah. See James Watts (ed.),

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the factual imperial contexts, Deuteronomy offers a “counter-assertion of dignity.”67 Postexilic Deuteronomy thus promotes an agenda of the restoration of a “nation-state” while, at the same time, offering “national identity” to minorities of early Jewish communities in the diaspora. 3.

Does Deuteronomy Promote a Proto-Nationalist Agenda?

The pre-exilic, exilic and postexilic phases of Deuteronomy’s emergence explain the ambiguity of the book’s political agenda in its proto-canonical shape in the postexilic era. Pre-exilic Deuteronomy, while aware of the threat of losing the land after the Assyrian deportations of Northern Israelites, addressed a situation in which life in the land and Judah’s institutions were considered foundational. In the exilic phase, in contrast, Deuteronomy’s specific task became to preserve “cultural identity” for the Judean diaspora minority. Since this cultural identity was constructed in ethnic terms, it could be termed a “national identity.” It was only in the Persian period that Deuteronomy could become a document of national restoration: a constitution for the people of Israel and their institutions of authority in the land of their destiny. The destruction of the central institutions of Jerusalem led to the cultivation of their memory with “exilic fervor,” which was the prerequisite for the strife to restore Israel politically to its territory in the postexilic period. Postexilic Deuteronomy thus provides the foundations for the creation of Israel as a “nation-state,” not limiting itself to its territorial realization, but offering, at the same time, ‘national’ identity to Judean minorities still living in the diaspora. Deuteronomy was written and transmitted by intellectual elites. It cannot be taken as evidence for a political movement by analogy with modern nationalism. Still, Deuteronomy envisions a political process of the making of the nation that involves the entire people (Deut  29:10–11) and requires the active participation in studying and living according to the legislation of Deuteronomy by the common people (6:6–9; 31:9–13) and, even more so, by the (expected) king (17:18–20). Deuteronomy provides the most systematic

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Persia and Torah: The Theory of Imperial Authorization of the Pentateuch, SBLSymS  17 (Atlanta: SBL, 2001); Gary N. Knoppers and Bernard M. Levinson (eds.), The Pentateuch as Torah: New Models for Understanding Its Promulgation and Acceptance (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2007). See Brett, “Nationalism and the Hebrew Bible,” 162, where Brett describes the “Deuteronomic constitution” as “half-created by Assyria.” Similarly, the contexts of the Babylonian and the Persian empires half-created Deuteronomy’s exilic and postexilic recensions.

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attempt to constitute Israel as a people politically and legally on the territory of its destiny, including the centralized institutions of governance. Several analogies can thus be seen with modern nationalism.68 Are these analogies mere products of historical coincidence or did biblical models influence the development of early modern proto-nationalism? The case for calling Deuteronomy’s agenda proto-nationalist would be strengthened if the factual reception of Deuteronomy played a role in the development of modern nationalism. A case in point is the foundation of the United States of America. In a quantitative analysis of political writings published there between 1760 and 1805, Donald Lutz found that the most frequently cited book was Deuteronomy.69 Deuteronomy’s political agenda, in conjunction with other political conceptions of Israel in the Hebrew Bible, may well be considered an important forerunner and model for early modern proto-nationalism—a chapter in the history of political ideas that still deserves more detailed investigation. Deuteronomy is a prime historical example of a text that may foster national identity with all its ambiguity: the powerful integrative force in forming collective identity and the concomitant idea of the destruction of the “other.”70 One of Deuteronomy’s prime merits is to have helped Judaism survive a long and difficult history not based solely on the hope of political sovereignty but bound together by the proximity of “the word”71—creating a collective identity that today transcends the realm of religion within the modern state of Israel as well as it transcends the state of Israel in the realm of contemporary Judaism.

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The resemblances between the construction of ancient Jewish collective identity and modern nationalism are emphasized in Weeks, “Biblical Literature and the Emergence of Ancient Jewish Nationalism,” 156. On the history of the term “nation” in biblical translations see Dominik Markl, “Die ‘Nation’ in der Bibel: Kosellecks Begriffsgeschichte und biblische Übersetzungsgeschichte,” Kritische Schriftgelehrsamkeit in priesterlichen und prophetischen Diskursen. Festschrift für Reinhard Achenbach zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Lars Maskow and Jonathan Robker, BZAR 27 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2022), 405–16. Donald S. Lutz, “The Relative Influence of European Writers on Late Eighteenth-Century American Political Thought,” American Political Science Review 78 (1984), 189–97, here 192; Eran Shalev, “The Bible and the Founding of the Nation,” 346. In the more recent past, Deuteronomy’s historically grown ambiguities in its attitude towards the promised land have lent themselves to diverse modes of reception in the context of modern Zionism and Israeli nationalism, including its dangerously violent motifs. See Dominik Markl, “Triumph and Trauma: Justifications of Mass Violence in Deuteronomistic Historiography”, Open Theology 8 (2022) 412–27. Open access at https:// doi.org/10.1515/opth-2022-0217. See Amos Oz and Fania Oz-Salzberger, Jews and Words (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012).

Political Poles Between Babylon-Persia in Ezekiel and Egypt in Jeremiah: Communicating Forced and Return Migrations John Ahn Texts communicate ideas. And more often than not, communities behind textual traditions produce and reproduce values through texts. Inasmuch as biblical textual communities communicate and reproduce culturally and religiously distinctive values, there are often competing political theological agendas1 that are safeguarded, negotiated, and expanded, which then, are passed down from generation to generation—for social and historical relevancy—communicating ideas. This essay opens with (1) the method and approach that is central to this piece—social construction of reality2 or competing realities. (2) What follows is an overview on the current state of forced and return migration studies—reframed in sixth and fifth centuries BCE contexts. (3) A careful examination of key issues from the diaspora centers of Babylon and Egypt are then highlighted through two biblical passages from the Books of Ezekiel and Jeremiah. (4) The essay closes with noticeable parallels and differences between key political-social-historical views as communication and reproduction. 1.

Method and Approach

The methodological undertaking in this piece is traditional, grounded in the sociological3 and historical4 approaches. In Economy and Society, Max Weber establishes grounds for social action. For him, economic action is intricately tied to multiple facets of norms and categories in society. For example, “war and migration” is responsible for radical changes to an economic system, notes 1 Mark  G.  Brett, Locations of God: Political Theology in the Hebrew Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019). 2 Peter Berger and Thomas Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality (Garden City, NY: Anchor Books, 1967). 3 Robert Wilson, Sociological Approaches to the Old Testament, GBS (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984). 4 John Barton, “Historical-critical Approaches,” in The Cambridge Companion to Biblical Interpretation, ed. John Barton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 9–20.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/978365

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Weber. To maintain sound governance, expansion, domination, suppression, or legitimacy in society, Weber defines and describes authority and actors that maintain such a system on (1) rational grounds—belief in the legality and purest form of legal authority that builds complex bureaucratic administrations, (2) traditional grounds—based on a belief of old traditions and lineages that give rights to govern or compromise politically, socially, and economically, and (3) charismatic grounds—an exemplary character, who is usually born out of subjective or internal suffering, conflict, or enthusiasm, one who may have been viewed as a legitimizer or radical alternative to centralization.5 For our purposes, all three grounds are relevant, offering important insights on “correct” governance—through indoctrinations, propagandas, or policies—with received or emended traditions, which includes prophecy and society6 advocating or resisting legitimate or illegitimate holders of power or authority. What is debatable and contested in modern or contemporary analysis of Weber’s original understanding of charismatic grounds is his reliance on hereditary control. That is, one must be born into a lineage of charismatic leadership for true leaders to take centerstage. For Weber, only those from a priestprophet lineage—such as Isaiah, Ezekiel, or Jeremiah, among others—can truly produce (in)coherence7 in ancient Jewish literature or for that matter, a legitimate priestly lineage who descends exclusively from Aaron and his sons, or Zadok. Without a direct or genuinely uncontested sanguine lineage, inheriting the office of the (high) priesthood or prophet would be questioned and contested (e.g., Jason the high priest). Weber’s prescription works well in analyzing ancient societies. In current or modern spheres of influences, however, by no means is heredity the only register or principal grounds for charismatic leadership—though there are still clear advantages to such lines even in contemporary forms of economy and society. In short, Weber’s social (and economic) action has made a lasting contribution, especially to the Frankfurt School.8 Since the 1980s, at the helm of this influential school of thought has been Jürgen Habermas and his work on

5 Max Weber, Economy and Society, ed. Guenther Roth and Claus Wittich, 2 vols. (Berkley: University of California Press, 1978), 1:4–301. 6 Robert Wilson, Prophecy and Society (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1980). 7 Andrew Teeter and William  A.  Tooman, “Standards of (In)coherence in Ancient Jewish Literature,” HBAI 9.2 (2020): 94–129. 8 Lambert Zuidervaart, Truth in Husserl, Heidegger, and the Frankfurt School (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2017); David Held, Introduction to Critical Theory: Horkheimer to Habermas (Berkley: University of California Press, 1980).

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communicative action9—the authoritative signifier in critical social theory. In critical social theory, all technical works focus on some form of “action” whereas others explore “people.” These two foci have been at the epicenter of sociology and critical social thought for decades. But also beginning in the 1980s, Niklas Luhmann, another dynamic and charismatic critical social theorist broke with tradition. He called for his field (of sociology) to stop citing past dead theorists. He rejected both “action” and “people” as the basis for critical social theory. To truly advance and move the field forward, he argued that critical theory must be innovative and open to transformation. He advanced systems theory that could cover not only diverse branches of learnings and studies, but also artificial intelligence. He sought to replace an outdated system, which was stuck on “action” and “people.” Luhmann brilliantly introduced and advanced “communication” and “reproduction.”10 Communication for the sake of communication and reproduction for the sake of reproduction—in a purely biological sense—autopoiesis.11 Luhmann’s theory has been one of the most dynamic innovative contributions in modern and postmodern constructions of realities since Weber. The following vignettes offer examples of Luhmann’s autopoiesis. Think of a cardiovascular stem cell that reproduces and eventually becomes a part of the larger cardiovascular system. In the early stage of the process, cardiovascular cells divide by communicating and reproducing with each other—within their own system. They constantly communicate with other cells and even other systems such as the central nervous system, pulmonary system, and etc. What is central is that these cardiovascular cells reproduce only cardiovascular cells. They do not become pulmonary or other cells. They communicate and reproduce to become a part of a specific system while being part of larger systems. This is a Luhmannian system. Here is another example. Think of a university. Each school or department in a university is independent of each other, although there are some joint degree programs or subject matters that truly overlap, producing inter-disciplinary fields. But a degree or program in religious studies or theology is discipline specific. It communicates and allows for cross-registration with various other disciplines like Near Eastern languages and civilization, sociology, anthropology, 9 10 11

Jürgen Habermas, The Theory of Communicative Action, 2 vols. (Boston: Beacon Press, 1984); Moral Consciousness and Communicative Action (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990). Niklas Luhmann, Funktion der Religion (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1977); ibid., Die Gesellschaft der Gesellschaft (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1997); Niklas Luhmann and Dirk Baecker, Einführung in die Systemtheorie (Heidelberg: Auer, 2017). Francois Durand, “Evolution, Reproduction and Autopoiesis,” HvTSt 73.3 (2017): art. 4726, doi: 10.4102/hts.v73i3.4726.

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history, or even economics. But a religious studies degree is a religious studies degree. The department does not grant a degree in economics or sociology. It communicates and reproduces its own area(s) of specialization(s). One system communicates with another, while maintaining a more complex system—the university. For us, this translates into a system for biblical text or texts communicating with other biblical texts. Biblical texts are multi-layered and redacted, across time and space, reaching various stages before reaching its penultimate stage, which then, is finally affixed to blocks of traditions before arriving at its final form. Each layer or interpolation is added communication and reproduction. For example, an Ezekiel text with P and various strata of P with echoes of the Holiness codes communicate Ezekielian and P constructs.12 In a parallel manner, in the Book of Jeremiah, Jeremianic and D issues carefully communicate and reproduce their own respective agendas by those in the Jeremianic school of thought.13 The point is that Ezekielian texts do not (re)produce Jeremianic texts and vice-versa. Within this system, distinctive communication and reproduction are clearly visible. This point is made clearer when critically examining or reconstructing the Hebrew Vorlage of Jeremiah’s LXX over against the MT of Jeremiah.14 Luhmann’s theory is one of the most dynamic and important social theories of the 20th and 21st centuries. In fact, Habermas and his followers have the most to lose. Luhmann’s emphasis on “communication” and “reproduction” is seminal for advancing new critical theories. In fact, his theories are so pervasive and systematic, inclusive and innovative, that they have penetrated and disrupted established authorities that have held on to power for the sake of maintaining power. Luhmann’s theories are in historical, sociological, legal, political, economics, education, religious, and now biblical studies. 12

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Moshe Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–20, AB 22 (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1983); Ezekiel 21–37, AB 22a (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1997); G.A.  Cooke, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Ezekiel, ICC (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1936); Richard Kraetzchmar, Das Buch Ezechiel, HKAT 3.1 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1900); Dale Launderville, “Ezekiel’s Priestly Imaginary: A Symbolic or Idolatrous Reality?,” CBQ 82 (2020): 1–16. William Holladay, Jeremiah  1 & 2, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1986/1990); Winfried Theil, Die deuteronomistische Redaktion von Jeremia 1–25, 26–45 WMANT 41, 52 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1973, 1981); William McKane, Jeremiah Vol 1: 1–25, Vol 2: 26–52, ICC (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000, 2014); Rachelle Gilmour, “Remembering the Future: The Topheth as Dystopia in Jeremiah 7 and 19,” JSOT 44.1 (2019): 64–78. Louis Stulman, The Other Text of Jeremiah: A Reconstruction of the Hebrew Text Underlying the Greek Version of the Prose Sections of Jeremiah, with English Translation (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1985).

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Forced and Return Migration Studies on the Sixth–Fifth Centuries BCE

2.1 Overview Before enumerating on current issues on forced and return migration studies, a brief overview on the recent history of scholarship may be helpful. In 2008 (Boston), the Exile (Forced Migrations) Group (Consultation then) was launched at the Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature (SBL). The purpose and goal of the Consultation was to better understand the historical, literary, and sociological implications of the Babylonian exile—more broadly, the sixth century BCE—reframed as forced migrations. At the time, there were two central problems: (1) The exile is a myth; a mythopoetic construct that materialized in the imagination of the biblical authors and tradents. In other words, the exile never happened! It is ahistorical! At best, the exile is a meta-myth. Headed by the late Robert Carroll and Philip Davies, with Thomas T. Thompson and others, the volume edited by Lester Grabbe15 captures the spirited debate. Their central argument was: Since there is no continuous narrative account in the HB/OT on the exile, it is at best a literary trope. Moreover, with only a minimal number of persons “deported” to Babylonia (the problematic and politically charged term “deported”16 would eventually be replaced by “displaced and resettled”), continuity persisted in the land of Judah. The precept that there is no continuous narrative on the exile is really mistaken.17 Contrarily, the entire Hebrew Bible is generational responses to the collapse of the Southern Kingdom of Judah18 with its experiences and dealings with forced and return migrations. The narratives in Genesis 1–11 begin in the sixth century BCE—as P and Non-P (or J; see Van Seters’s dating of the non-P (J) to the sixth century BCE) textual traditions. With the collapse of the nation, the king, skilled and religious leaders were displaced and resettled to Babylonia in 597 BCE, and the poor and non-skilled in 587 BCE would also 15 16

17 18

Lester Grabbe, ed., Leading Captivity Captive: “The Exile” as History and Ideology, LHBOTS (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1998). Scholarship that continues to advance this term for exile is misappropriating the term. In today’s politically and socially literate worlds, “to deport” or “deportation” actually refers to forcing a “return” of peoples. The correct nomenclature is “to displace” and/or “displace and resettle” offering some form of human dignity to those that were and continue to be forcibly displaced. See the entry on “Migration,” EBR 19 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2021), 65–72. Ralph Klein, Israel in Exile (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1979; repr. Mifflintown: Sigler, 2002).

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be displaced and resettled. These two classes of peoples that experienced ‫ תהו ובחו‬encountered darkness “‫ ”חׁשך‬that covered the deep, including their land. Uprooted and lives and families destroyed, in a new strange land, in due course, with remembrance and unresolved chaos and trauma, a segment of the community discovered “light” as canonical consciousness. With the authority of the Davidic monarchy stripped away (597) and the destruction of the temple (587), canonical consciousness was born through a creation epic. A parallel counter-narrative in Gen 2 would follow, from the Judeans in Egypt (or from those in the land). The second creation account would have a closer affinity with the land since the communities in Egypt were closer in geo-physical proximity than their Judeo-Babylonian counterparts. Both diaspora communities would agree that Gen 3 is a record about expulsion19 from the Southern Kingdom of Judah (Eden). Adam and Eve, the first generation, were indeed forced to migrate from Eden (Judah). In the ensuing story, Cain too would experience forced migration, as a second generation. Noah’s flood (Gen 5–10) is best read as an escape or another form of forced migration story. But this time, on the waters, bridging the events of 597 and 587 BCE. All the stories in Gen 1–11 are technically about forced migrations—exile—with the nation collapsed and its peoples displaced and resettled. Gen 11, a combined story about building and language concludes in ,‫ בבל‬Babylon, where the text began, in Gen 1.20 Gen  12–50, then, marks stories on return migrations—beginning with Abram from Ur in Babylonia. For the upper class, those whose lineage is traceable through acquired wealth, is “called” to return. They are never forced like the underclass. Subsequent narratives about Isaac and Jacob (Israel) are all technically additional stories about voluntary return migrations (in contrast to forced return migrations21). These continuous narratives conclude with Jacob and Joseph—third and fourth generation stories. Interestingly, the fourth generation novella is conjoined to the third generation’s Jacob cycle. The Joseph novella records a fourth generation experience in Egypt—the other epicenter 19 20 21

Saskia Sassen, Expulsions (Cambridge, MA: Belknap, 2014). John Ahn, “Forced and Return Migrations as the Mitte of the Hebrew Bible/Old Testament,” in Christian Theology in the Age of Migration, ed. Peter Phan (Lanham, MD: Lexington Book, 2020), 51–68. George Gmelch, “Return Migration,” Annual Review of Anthropology  9 (1980): 135–59; Heike Drotbohm, “On the Durability and the Decomposition of Citizenship: The Social Logics of Forced Return Migration in Cape Verde,” Citizenship Studies 15.3–4 (2011): 381–96; Jean-Pierre Cassarino, “Theorizing Return Migration: The Conceptual Approach to Return Migrants Revisited,” International Journal on Multicultural Science 6.2 (2004): 253–79.

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of the Judean diaspora community. The independent diaspora22 novella is eventually connected to Moses.23 Indeed, without the deeds of Joseph, the enslaver of his and other peoples, there is no need for Moses, the liberator.24 With continued generational consciousness, the Book of Exodus marks a completely different geographical and class distinction. This time, the return or exit is not about an exclusively rich or established family. It is about the people. And again, this time, it is not out of Babylon but out of Egypt (Africa). The stories in the Books of Exodus and Numbers are set between the hegemonic poles of Persia and Egypt. The exit (exodus) or return migration stories are best read in the historical contexts after the sixth–fifth centuries BCE, as a response to Second (and Third) Isaiah. To suggest that there are no continuous narratives on the exile is an error. In fact, this is the shortcoming of the previous generation of exilic scholars that placed grand theories on mythopoetic constructions of reality with “deportation” as their center. No matter how neutrally past or even current generations of scholars are using the term, “deportation,” in today’s highly conscious and well-read contexts, to state “the Judeans were deported” has intended or unintended political consequences bordering on the notion that they were “there” illegally. “To deport” has everything to do with “returning” a group of people to their port of origin or native country. Ironically, such confused terminology materialized from a very small circle of White Eurocentric male scholars. One of them, Bob Becking, warned of such potential consequences. His advice was never heeded. Errors are widespread, all over past and current publications on the exile and exilic period. The Pentateuch has a highly developed sense of migration consciousness. The same can be said about the Prophets, especially in the formation of the Book of the Twelve. The Writings, especially the wisdom tradition25 with Proverbs, Job, and Qohelet, collectively, may be read as a historical response to the collapse of the nation. The book of Ruth, and other Deuterocanonical and Apocalyptic literature, including the New Testament, all have some form of exile and return or forced and return migrations consciousness. It should be noted that during the late 1990s to 2009, critical scholarship on the exilic period shifted to the Judeans that were left behind. Hans Barstad’s 22 23 24 25

James Clifford, “Diasporas,” Current Anthropology 9.3 (1994): 302–38. Konrad Schmid, “Genesis and Exodus as Two Formerly Independent Traditions of Origins for Ancient Israel,” Bib 93 (2012): 187–208. John Ahn, “Joseph’s Hyper-Assimilation: A Fourth Generation’s Hidden Memory of Collapse,” JBRT 1.1 (2022): 3–21. John Ahn, “The Pervasiveness of Wisdom in (Con)texts,” in The Oxford Handbook of Wisdom and the Bible, ed. Will Kynes (New York: Oxford University Press, 2021), 301–18.

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“myth of the empty land” theory made headways.26 Scholars helped give rise to his historical reconstruction of a completely uninterrupted way of life—even after the collapses of all major institutions, including but not limited to the political, religious, economic, and social systems. Emphasis was placed on Bethel,27 Mitzpah, and Ramat Raḥel. European, British, and Israeli scholars jumped on the bandwagon arguing that because the Judean economy was agrarian (sixth century BCE), life went on as usual, without any interruption or disruptions (despite the threefold displacements and resettlements to Babylonia in 597, 587, and 582 BCE). It is truly difficult to imagine an uninterrupted society with all major institutions removed being “same-old.” Nevertheless, this caricature eventually led to a full-blown historical reconstruction of a fully viable and functional fifth century BCE, with a perfectly functional administrative post, a scribal system, all in a new center, Ramat Raḥel, which was surrounded by beautiful and incredibly lush gardens that included citrus trees, orchards, among others—in Yehud.28 (2) The second critical issue was: If there was an actual exile to Babylon, what did that look like? And why does the HB/OT record three separate events in 597, 587, and 582 with noticeably different responses (negative, mixed, and positive) to them? The Exile (Forced Migrations) Group was formed to address these and other critical issues by collectively bridging North American and European specialists on the exilic period. With nine major works identified between 1989 to 2009,29 from 2010 to 2020, the group’s goal was to advance exilic scholarship in 26 27 28 29

Hans Barstad, The Myth of the Empty Land: A Study in History and Archaeology of Judah During the “Exilic” Period, SO Supplements 28 (Oslo: Scandinavian University Press, 1996). Joseph Blenkinsopp, “Bethel in the Neo-Babylonian Period,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period, ed. Oded Lipschits and Joseph Blenkinsopp (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 93–108. Oded Lipschits, Yuval Gadot, Benjamin Arubas and Manfred Oeming, What Are the Stones Whispering? Ramat Rahel: 3000 Years of Forgotten History (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2017). Daniel Smith-Christopher, Religion of the Landless: The Social Context of the Babylonian Exile (Bloomington, IN: Meyer-Stone Books, 1989); David Stephen Vanderhooft, The Neo-Babylonian Empire and Babylon in the Latter Prophets, HSM  59 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1999); Hans Barstad, The Myth of the Empty Land; Lester Grabbe, ed., Leading Captivity Captive Ideology; Andrew Mein, Ezekiel and the Ethics of Exile (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); Rainer Albertz, Die Exilszeit, BE  7 (Stuttgart: W.  Kohlhammer, 2002); idem, Israel in Exile: The History and Literature of the Sixth Century  B.C.E., SBLStBL 3 (Atlanta: SBL, 2003); Daniel Smith-Christopher, Biblical Theology of Exile, OBT (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2002); Oded Lipschits and Joseph Blenkinsopp, eds., Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period (Winona Lake, IN, 2003); Jörn Kiefer, Exil und Diaspora, ABG 19 (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2005).

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half the time, a decade, with updates to all major dictionary and encyclopedia entries on: “exile,” “diaspora,” “migration,” “cultural memory,” “cultural trauma,” etc. (It should also be noted that the major dictionary of the time, the Anchor Bible Dictionary, edited by David Noel Freedman did not have an entry on the “exile.”) In short, the aforementioned goals have all been achieved.30 With John Ahn’s Exile as Forced Migration (sociological) and Laurie Pierce’s seminal work on the āl-Yāḫūdu texts31 (historical), the first problem was fully resolved. Scholars who had previously dismissed the historicity of the exile, as but a myth, ahistorical, needed to rectify and correct their original position or simply continue to maintain an inaccurate one. During the 2011 ISBL in London, Philip Davies, noted: “With the publication of the āl-Yāḫūdu text by Laurie Pierce and John Ahn’s work on forced migration, which offers new insights on the experience of forced migrations, I now view the exile as historic.”32 But long before Ahn’s and Pierce’s publications, and even before the formation of the Exile (Forced Migration) SBL Group, Laurie and I were graduate students in Near Eastern Languages and Cultures and Religious Studies at Yale. We knew of each other’s works and forthcoming projects. We both spent several years in Yale’s Babylonian Collection (under the tutelage of Bill Hallo,

30

31

32

John Ahn, Exile as Forced Migrations: A Sociological, Literary, and Theological Approach on the Displacement and Resettlement of the Southern Kingdom of Judah, BZAW  417 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010); Mark Leuchter, The Polemic of Exile in Jeremiah 26–45 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); Martien Halvorson-Taylor, Enduring Exile: The Metaphorization of Exile in the Hebrew Bible, VTSup 141 (Leiden: Brill, 2011); Jill Middlemas, Templeless Age: An Introduction to the History, Literature, and Theology of the “Exile” (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2007); Katherine Southwood, Ethnicity and the Mixed Marriage Crisis in Ezra 9–10: an Anthropological Approach, Oxford Theological Monographs (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012); John Ahn and Jill Middlemas, eds., By the Irrigation Canals of Babylon: Approaches to the Study of the Exile, LHBOTS (New York: T&T Clark, 2012); Mark Boda, Frank Ritchel Ames, John Ahn, and Mark Leuchter, eds., The Prophets Speak on Forced Migration, AIL (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2015); Katherine Southwood and Martien Halvorson-Taylor, Women and Exilic Identity in the Hebrew Bible, LHBOTS 631 (New York: Bloomsbury, 2019); John Ahn, ed., The Last of the Kings on Forced and Return Migrations (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming). Laurie E. Pearce, “‘Judean’: A Special Status,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context, ed. Oded Lipschits, Gary  N. Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 267–77; Laurie E. Pearce and Cornelia Wunsch, Documents of Judean Exiles and West Semites in Babylonia in the Collection of David Sofer, CUSAS 28 (Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2014). July  5, 2011 (London, UK, ISBL). Session’s theme: In Search of Captivity as Forced Migrations in the “Forced-Return Migrations (Exile-Return) in Biblical Literature Consultation.”

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Ben Foster, Harvey Weiss, and others33). We both realized and hoped early on in our respective careers that one day, we might help reshape the study of the exilic period. Progress has been made. But further work and research are needed to better understand the diverse communities in Babylon, Egypt, the coastlands, and the wilderness. But without the efforts of these and other recently published works, challenging the status quo of exilic scholarship that dominated the 1990–2010, current scholarship on the sixth century BCE would be in a very different place today. As for Ramat Raḥel’s popularity over the past few years, it has taken the study of the Persian period (or return migrations) in an interesting direction.34 The key issue confronting Ramat Raḥel’s reconstruction is “water.” Lipschits’s historical reconstruction of Ramat Raḥel simply does not work without figuring out where the water source is. Based on paleoclimatology and other records, the measurement of rainfall or aridification (which is undertaken by a triangulation of Lake Van (Turkey), the levels of the Dead Sea, and information gleaned from the stalactites in Soreq Cave measuring the delta/ratio of 16O and 18O with the global data of GISP 2) the entire Middle East’s climate from the sixth century BCE to the present has remained roughly the same. In fact, two abrupt climate changes, resulted in major droughts which are recorded from 2150 BCE to 550 BCE.35 At the regional and more direct level, examining stable carbon isotopes from plant remains like barley, measuring the ranges of ẟ13C offer pertinent information for past climate reconstruction.36 In other words, there is no way that Ramat Raḥel could be reconstructed in all its grandeur with fruit trees as purported by Lipschits without water. Even the recent 33

34 35

36

I received additional training from: Brevard Childs (his last student), Robert Wilson, John Collins, Michelle Dillion (sociology of religion), the late David Graeber (anthropology, a brilliant young scholar who trained under Marshall Sahlins; at the time of writing this piece, Professor of Anthropology at The London School of Economics, who died unexpectedly) and visiting professors: James Sanders, David Marcus, W. Randy Garr, and Herbert Huffman (student of George Mendenhall). Oded Lipschits, Manfred Oeming, Yuval Gadot, Ramat Rahel IV: The Renewed Excavations by the Tel Aviv–Heidelberg Expedition (2005–2010): Stratigraphy and Architecture, SMNIA 39 (University Park, PA: Eisenbrauns, 2020). D.  Kaniewski, E.  Paulissen, V.  Van  Campo, M.  Al-Maqdissi, J.  Bretschneider, and K. Van Lerberghe, “Middle East Coastal Ecosystem Response to Middle to Late Holocene Abrupt Climate Changes,” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 105.37 (2008): 13941–46. Simone Riehl, Konstantin E. Pustovoytov, Heike Weippert, Stefan Klett, and Frank Hole, “Drought Stress Variability in Ancient Near Eastern Agricultural Systems Evidenced by ẟ13C in Barley Grain,” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 111.34 (2014): 12348–53.

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attempts to show that Ramat Raḥel collected water does not do justice.37 The fact remains, that idyllic historical reconstruction is not possible. The precept that there was a fully functional vibrant society in Yehud, in full restoration in fifth century BCE with Ramat Raḥel as its center is highly questionable without resolving the problem of water first. Returning to the second problem, the threefold displacements and resettlements in 597, 587, and 582 BCE received treatment from forced migration studies (DFM, PFM, RFM) and displacement studies (DIDPs, IDPs, and Refugees).38 These new critical insights offered biblical scholars a better understanding of the ranges of social and political problems and their implications. Economics is always at the root cause for forced migration—be it ancient Judeans to Babylonia39 or anywhere else. The Babylonians used forced migration for regional economic stimulus and (re)development—beginning with the proper maintenance of the irrigation canals of Babylon, the hydraulic hypothesis.40 The problem that results from over irrigation is salinization. This is captured in Ps 137. The ten-year period between 597 BCE and 587 BCE is not arbitrary. In fact, in modern mass displacement theories of hundreds of thousands of persons, the estimated time to review the progress of a major project, is precisely ten years. The world’s leading center for keeping these KPIs and studies is the World Bank. The checklist is meticulous: who is taken, from where, to what new location, up to and including how many trees are cut down, how long until the completion of hydro-dam project—all factoring in at least two generations that would be born in those sites.41 Unlike the Assyrians that employed a large scale one-time forced migration of its conquered peoples or territories, the Babylonians implemented the opposite, displacing and resettling conquered peoples on a smaller repeated scale for gradual implementation. This would prevent unintended consequences from overwhelming its health, environmental, and population-ethnic infrastructure. The gradual implementation from the periphery to the center, in a controlled manner by taking its leaders and skilled persons first, would benefit the Babylonian economy and society, while allowing time to establish a new resettlement with old networks and 37

Dafna Langgut, Yuval Gadot, Naomi Porat, and Oded Lipschits, “Fossil Pollen Reveals the Secrets of the Royal Persian Garden at Ramat Rahel, Jerusalem,” Palynology (2013): doi: 10.1080/01916122.2012.736418. 38 See John Ahn, “Exile,” in Dictionary of the Old Testament: Prophets, ed. Mark J. Boda and J. Gordon McConville (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Press, 2012), 196–204. 39 Ahn, Exile as Forced Migrations, 40–66. 40 John Ahn, “Psalm 137: A Complex Communal Lament,” JBL 127 (2008): 267–89. 41 Ahn, Exile as Forced Migrations, 62–66.

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cultural appropriations for the Judeans. Inevitably, ethnic enclaves (with economic output) would result. In contrast to those that arrived in 587 and 582 BCE, the first wave in 597 endured hardships that only a first wave of (forced) (im)migrant experiences—new land, new culture, new language, new food, new gods, a new system. In the select biblical texts, the demarcation of class is represented by “Israel” (upper class) and “Jacob” (under class).42 The underclasses that arrive in 587 and 582 (mixed ethnic Judeans) would remain as underclasses for several generations while their 597 upper class counterparts would climb the ladders of socio-economic ascent through acculturation and assimilation (e.g., Daniel and his three friends or even Ezra and Nehemiah). Generational consciousness became an innovative solution and contributor toward advancements, arriving at a modicum of success. In the overall scheme of generational history, the Judeans in Babylon lived as Judeo-Babylonians for “three or four generations.” Studies on first, 1.5, second, and third generations of communities offer biblical scholars tremendous new insights on the exilic or forced migrations period. We can now demarcate and be precise, isolating generational issues or concerns as they relate to a specific exilic text or generation when discussing the Babylonian exile. It is no longer acceptable to generically call a text or community exilic, or for that matter, generalizations like ‫בית‬ ‫ יׁשראל‬in Ezekiel, without fully or accurately articulating which generation the phrase is actually referring to.43 The question in consideration should be: is the exilic text a first, 1.5, second, third, or fourth generation? By the fifth generation, cultural memory completely fades. In fact, ethno-history specialists like Jan Vansina have said in oral tradition, memory is normally sustained until the third generation.44 By the fourth generation, memory cedes. This may explain why the Joseph novella, a fourth-generation story, is affixed to a third generation’s Jacob cycle. The very fact that there are cultural memory stories of Daniel and his three friends45 (transitional figures, teenagers, neither born in the new land nor first generation, but actually 1.5 generation that integrated into society through education and assimilation) suggests that these stories are not survival literature. Moving into the upper echelon of society, as Babylonian government officials with access to the king, the court tales are telling—even if Hellenistic values are superimposed. Indeed, after two or three generations, 42 Ahn, Exile as Forced Migrations, 159–222. 43 Jean-Philippe Delorme, “‫ בית יׁשראל‬in Ezekiel and Identity Construction and the Exilic Period,” JBL 138.1 (2019): 121–41. 44 Jan Vansina, Oral Tradition as History (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985). 45 John Ahn, “Made in Babylon: Dan 1,” in T&T Clark Handbook of Asian American Biblical Hermeneutics, ed. Uriah Y. Kim and Seung Ai Yang (London: T&T Clark, 2019), 317–28.

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promissory notes of barley and other grain repayments were written down in the Judean towns of Babylonia—URUiá-ḫu-du itiGAN—during the reigns of Nebuchadnezzar (II) to Nabonidus.46 They describe a system for Judeans that rose socio-economically47 whereas other Judeo-Babylonians would assimilate to the underclass as forced laborers.48 With Second Isaiah’s call for a universal return migration, not only those in Babylon or Persia, but also those in other regions in the Mediterranean basin like Egypt may have heard the prophet’s message. An important variable that requires addressing is for those that made it in Babylon-Persia, why would they return? For the underclasses, this would be a fresh start, albeit as forced return migrants.49 For now, the reason for the upper class’s return appears to be “land,” to reclaim ancestral land, possibly lease it, and return to Persia, Egypt, or the coastlands. The publication of Katherine Southwood’s dissertation (2012), an important contribution, which addressed a segment of return migrants and intermarriage,50 for unknown reasons, outside select circles, has yet to gain full traction. Hopefully, within the next few years, return migration studies will emerge as the central subject matter for clarifying the fifth century BCE to the first century CE. To facilitate in this investigation, in 2019, a new ISBL Consultation on “Return Migrations in Biblical Literature” was launched.51

46 47

48 49

50 51

Pearce and Wunsch, Documents of Judean Exiles, 98–125. Matthew Stolper, Entrepreneurs and Empire: The Murašû Archives, the Murašû Firm, and Persian Rule in Babylonia (Leiden: Nederlands Historisch-Archaeologisch Instituut te Istanbul, 1985); Michael  D.  Coogan, “Life in the Diaspora: Jews at Nippur in the Fifth Century BC,” BA 37.1 (1974): 6–12; idem, “More Yahwistic Names in the Murashu Documents,” JSJ 7.2 (1976): 199–200. M.A.  Dandamayev, “Forced Labor in the Palace Economy in Achaemenid Iran,” AoF 2 (1975): 71–78. Council of Europe: Committee of Ministers, Forced Return: 20 Guidelines Adopted by the Committee of Ministers of the Council of Europe on 4  May  2005 and Commentaries (Strasbourg: Council of Europe Publishing, 2005); International Organization for Migration, Return Migration: Policies and Practices in Europe/Prepared by the Migration Management Services Department in Collaboration with the Research and Publication Division, International Organization for Migration, Geneva (Geneva: IOM International Organization for Migration, 2004); Biao Xiang, Brenda S. A. Yeoh, and Mika Toyota, ed., Return: Nationalizing Transnational Mobility in Asia (Durham: Duke University Press, 2013); William  F.  Stinner, Klaus de Albuquerque, and Roy  S.  Bryce-Laporte, ed., Return Migration and Remittances: Developing a Caribbean Perspective (Washington, DC: Research Institute on Immigration and Ethnic Studies, Smithsonian Institution, 1982). Southwood, Ethnicity and the Mixed Marriage Crisis. Steering Committee members are: John Ahn, Judith Gärtner, Dominik Markl, Abraham Faust, and Elizabeth Fried.

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2.2 Current State Throughout the past twelve years, exilic scholarship has primarily focused on the Judeo-Babylonians and those that were left behind. Three important subject matters are wanting, however. First, the “other” epicenter of the diaspora during the period of the exile, that is, Egypt. Biblical scholars need to be reminded that during the sixth century BCE to the first century CE, Judean communities were indeed scattered across the Mediterranean basin—as displaced and resettled peoples, forcibly to Babylon but voluntarily to Egypt. Other locations or places like the coastlands and the wilderness, and various other city-states or countries or neighboring regions like Moab (e.g., Ruth), Phoenician coastal cities, and other areas need to be factored. Second, return migration is a much more complex phenomenon than forced migration studies.52 Further work on forcibly returning thousands of peoples to a sovereign-less or nationless nation is truly problematic. Political, social, and cultural factors that shaped upon return a specific community’s values, precepts, and understandings of religiosity, being, and individual and collective transnationalism–down to four generations–require careful unpacking. When the two largest Judean communities, the Persians of Judean descent and the Egyptians of Judean descent, returned to their great-grandparents’ land, they were not only met by each “other,” but also those that never left the land, and other returnees. Yet, the two most powerful and dominant groups as the Persian Jews (Ezra-Nehemiah) and Egyptian Jews (Joseph-Moses) would clash due to competing values and ideals. The picture of the fifth century BCE is much more complex than initially described. These critical overviews and insights have been missing in critical scholarship since the days of C.C. Torrey, who problematically said the people never returned from Babylonia.53 Third, the wilderness wandering tradition requires a full re-examination and how those narratives function not only as a literary bridge between exiting Egypt and entrance into the arable land, but also as an important alternative literary space, moving into the Hellenistic periods of the Seleucids and Ptolemies. Between the physical, geographical, political, and cultural poles of Babylon-Persia and Egypt lie the wilderness, a third space. Whether real or imagined, the literary space requires a full re-examination of the entire Wilderness Wandering Tradition (WWT), going beyond the work of George 52 53

Ruerd Ruben, Marieke van Houte, and Tine Davids, “What Determines the Embeddedness of Forced-Return Migrants? Rethinking the Role of Pre-and Post-return Assistance,” International Migration Review 43.3 (2009): 908–37. C.C. Torrey, Ezra Studies (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1910; repr. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2007).

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Coats,54 re-defining Pre-Sinai and Post-Sinai traditions55 in relationship to Egypt. 3.

Ezekiel and Jeremiah on Egypt

3.1 Ezekiel In the Book of Ezekiel, there are clear differences between a generic polemic against the Egyptians (for harlotry or idolatry) (Ezek 16:26; 23:3, 8; 19; 20:8; 23:19, 27), handing Egypt or Pharaoh over to Nebuchadnezzar or the Babylonians (29:19; 30:4, 16, 19, 25, 26), and the oracles against Egypt (29:1–12). But the striking phrase: “At the end of the forty years, I will gather the Egyptians from the peoples among whom they were scattered” (Ezek 29:13) is very different than a passage like Ezek 20:5 “Say to them: ‘Thus says the Lord God: “On the day when I chose Israel and raise my hand in an oath to the descendants of the house of Jacob, and made myself known to them in the land of Egypt, I raised my hand in an oath to them saying, “I am the Lord your God,’” which refers to the cultural memory of an existing older tradition. Ezek 29:13 may be a direct reference to the Judeans that were in Egypt post 582 BCE. Moreover, the lament for Egypt in Ezek 32:16–18 is also out of place: “This is the lamentation with which they shall lament her; the daughters of the nations shall lament her; they shall lament for her, for Egypt, and for all her multitude,” says the Lord God … Son of man, wail over the multitude of Egypt … with those who go down to the Pit.” Scholars have been puzzled by such grievance toward Egypt, an enemy. In contrast to the celebration of defeated Egypt or in judgment for wrong-doing, Ezekiel and the community in Babylon lament for the Egyptians. As a particularly difficult text, without progress from commentators, perhaps the answer lies in those that died or went to the pit as a result of war fighting in the Egyptian army. That is, those defeated or killed Judean mercenaries from Elephantine/Syene. The text of Ezekiel 32 may be describing the historical events surrounding the destruction of the Jewish temple in Elephantine. By 419 BCE, the Judeans had fully assimilated in Egypt but retained their ethnic identity. It should be noted that Arameans were already present in Egypt; and “Judean and Aramean troops travelled between Elephantine and Abydos, Thebes, and Memphis, and upstream between Migdol and

54 George W. Coats, Rebellion in the Wilderness (Nashville: Abingdon, 1968). 55 Brevard Childs, Exodus, OTL (Louisville: Westminster, 1974).

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Elephantine or even between Memphis and Syene.”56 Although demotic and Greek letters and contracts from Elephantine offer more insights on administration, temple organization, and army structure, according to Bezalel Porten the Jedaniah communal archive holds inestimable historical significance.57 In TAD A4.1 (B13), an unknown Hananiah writes a letter to Arsames, informing Jedaniah son of Gamariah, a cousin of the two sons of Mibtahiah (who had two husbands, three houses, and four slaves), and his Jewish mercenaries on proper observance of Passover. What may be more significant is that this same Jedaniah and his four colleagues write to the same Arsames, twelve years later, offering a bribe to reconstruct the Jewish temple in Egypt. The letters in the archives reveal that when Hananiah arrived in Egypt, it caused such a serious conflict with the Khnum priests on the island of Elephantine, that the Jews in Egypt and the Egyptian priests presented their case before the Persians in Thebes and Memphis. The Egyptians reported that “the Jews took things into their own hands and pillaged Egyptian homes, for which they were imprisoned and forced to pay heavy reparations.”58 In the petition letter to Bagavahya, the governor of Judah, a plot between the Egyptian priests and the local governor Vidranga, who prearranged for his son, Naphaina, the troop commander to destroy the Jewish temple is made evident. The events and aftermath of those involved were executed. But the Jewish temple in Egypt was destroyed in 410 BCE. Perhaps, this destruction and loss of lives, which may have included Judeans, is the cause of Ezekiel’s lament. In Ezek 16:44–63, the text speaks about an abomination, “like mother like daughter.” Verse 45 says your mother was a Hittite and your father an Amorite. Your older sister is Samaria and your younger sister, Sodom with her daughters. The identity of the woman is never revealed. But in the end, there is restoration of Sodom, Samaria,59 and the woman. The woman’s identity is described as ethnically diverse or mixed. In other words, the Judeans in Egypt may have freely intermarried with such women in Egypt. A Judean man could have married a woman who could technically be half-Hittite and half-Amorite. A Judean man in Egyptian had no second thoughts of taking someone of such heritage as his wife. The priestly tradition of Ezekiel on the other hand would define such marriage as an abomination. 56 Bezalel Porten, The Elephantine Papyri in English: Three Millennia of Cross-Cultural Continuity and Change, DMOA 22 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 76. 57 Porten, Elephantine Papyri, 77. 58 TAD A.4.4 (B16), see Porten, Elephantine Papyri, 78. 59 Karl van der Toorn, Becoming Diaspora Jews: Behind the Story of Elephantine (New Haven: Yale, 2019).

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3.2 Jeremiah In the Book of Jeremiah, Egypt has a less caustic depiction. Egypt is the land from which the Lord brought the people out (Jer 2:6), into the wilderness. In contrast to the wilderness, deserts, and pits, Egypt is civilized, established, and urban. In Jer  9:26, Egypt, Judah, Edom, the people of Ammon, and Moab are described as people dwelling in the wilderness. From a broad Deuteronomistic point of view, the acceptance and treatment of forced migrants with dignity is well preserved (Deut 10:18, 19; 16:11, 14). An important reference to the diaspora Judean community in Egypt is also made in Jer 24:8 as bad figs—since the good primary community or figs are in Babylon: “‘And as the bad figs which cannot be eaten, they are so bad’—surely thus says the Lord—‘so will I give up Zedekiah the king of Judah, his princes, the residue of Jerusalem who remain in this land, and those who dwell in the land of Egypt.” The anti-Egyptian position is clear. But Johanan the son of Kareah, and others including Jeremiah, took flight to Egypt after Gedaliah’s murder. In fear of Babylonian come­uppance, the group voluntarily sought refuge in Egypt (Jer 42). Interestingly, passages like Jer 42:14 describe Egypt as a peaceful state, “where we shall see no war, nor hear the sound of the trumpet, nor be hungry for bread, and there we will dwell.” To be fair, throughout the Book of Jeremiah, there are pro- and anti-Egyptian texts (Jer 42:15–19), especially concerning the Judeans that went down to Egypt (Jer 44:12). The negative sentiments are almost always laden with the stereotypical formula of death by “sword, famine, and pestilence.” These texts are clearly pro-Babylonian, offering legitimization on rational, traditional, and even charismatic grounds for the authority that resided in Babylon or Persia. Jer 44:28 offers a unique point of view: “Yet a small number who escape the sword shall return from the land of Egypt to the land of Judah; and all the remnant of Judah, who have gone to the land of Egypt to dwell there, shall know whose words will stand, mine or theirs.” 4.

Conclusion

In closing, the following broad observations between the Judean diaspora communities in Egypt and Babylon-Persia are offered. First, on (1) intermarriage, there appears to be at least two positions. On the Egyptian side, as in the Joseph novella, Joseph takes an Egyptian wife. He marries Asenath, the daughter of an Egyptian priest, who gives birth to both Manasseh and Ephraim. The point is that the Northern Kingdom of Israel, the tribes of Ephraim and Manasseh have

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Egyptian bloodlines. Israelites or the Ephraimites are all Egyptians if motherhood truly determines ethnicity or nationality. Such a precept fits well with the Israelite or Samaritan community in Elephantine. In addition, to make the intermarriage claim even more socially and ethnically relevant, Moses, the law giver, takes a Midianite wife. And subsequently, after her death, his second wife is not a Hebrew or Judean, but an African, a Cushite. Intermarriage and integration by community leaders in Egypt made marriage to wives outside their own ethnicity legitimate. On the Babylonian or Persian side, Ezra 9–10 tells a different story. Based on some form of inherited coherence from the Book of Jeremiah, when Jeremiah wrote to the ‫( גלה‬golah) community in Babylon (Jer 29), from Jerusalem, his words spell out who they are to marry: ‫קחו נׁשים והלידו בנים ובנות וקחו לבניכם נׁשים‬ ‫“ ;ואת־בנותיכם תנו לאנׁשים ותלדנה בנים ובנות‬take wives and have children—sons and daughters—take for your sons wives and your daughters give as wives and have children—sons and daughters” (Jer 29:6). The kind of marriage that Jeremiah was proposing was within the confines of the ethnic Judeans—not intermarriages. The second person masculine plural pronominal suffix is suggestive of endogamous marriages. It should be further noted that within first and 1.5 generation (im)migrant communities, marriage outside the ethnic community is considered un-orthodox. Subsequent second and later generations reject such limitations. But the positions are clear—on the Egyptian side, exogamy is permissible. On the Babylonian or Persian side, according to Ezra 9—10, it is endogamy. (2) Monotheism as inclusive (henotheism) or exclusive is readily identifiable between the Egyptian Jews (Judeans of Egypt) and Persian Jews. Scholarly views on the syncretistic worship of Yahweh in Elephantine have led scholars to include (earlier) epigraphic evidence such as “Yahweh and his Asherah,” “Yahweh of Teman,” or others alongside the hypostatization of Yahwism with local Egyptian deities. A word of caution is needed. No one would ever use New York City’s subway graffiti (or street art) or “tagging” of the 1970s as normative or mainstream syntax and semantics to represent the establishment. Of course, there may be more truths in those colloquial phrases but to treat them as normative religious impetuses in high liturgy or politically correct Washington, D.C. is precisely the problem. The point is that phrases from a caravanserai, a pithos, or ewer from Kuntillet Ajrud, Khirbet el-Qom, or Lachish offer insights, but they should not be the determining de facto reason toward fully assessing what normative or non-normative religious customs or even practices are. The same can be said about onomastics. The broad observation with respect to monotheism between the two diaspora centers is that for the

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Egyptian Judeans, the practice of Yahwism appears to be more open and fluid than the Yahwism from Babylon-Persia. (3) Military service by Judeans in Egypt is well attested in the Elephantine papyri. Although a record of those in military service taken to Babylon is recorded in 2 Kings 24, whether any of them actually served in the Babylonian army requires more investigation. (4) The construct of generation is firmly embedded. The timeframe of twenty years constitutes one generation (according to the Book of Numbers, those capable of war are included in the census, twenty years and older; also, the same figure is found in the Damascus Document). For those in Egypt, the concept of approximately seventy years, representing three or four generations (a Babylonian concept) is reduced to two generations or forty years. (5) Jerusalem or the land of Judah with the temple holds prominence for those in Egypt. As noted in the Elephantine letter, requesting permission to rebuild the destroyed temple in Egypt required the approval or permission from Bagavahya, the governor of Judah and Delaiah, son of the governor of Samaria, Sanballat. The Judeans in Egypt recognized Jerusalem with respect to religious (re)sanctioning. With three temples—in Jerusalem, Egypt, and Babylon-Persia (Ezekiel’s temple, a spiritual or virtual one; likely for those that did not wish to return to Yehud)—the community in Egypt may have acknowledged the primacy of Jerusalem (Samaria) over against the community of Persian Jews or should the polemical request be understood as an attempt at consolidating power with those in land; to take side with the progressive Jews of Egypt? (6) And finally, the exodus out of Egypt may be best read and understood as a multi-layered cultural memory story of return migrations, describing the historical and social contexts of the fifth century BCE and beyond, as a response to Second Isaiah, by the communities that lived in Egypt as Judeans, Arameans, and others. Behind a systems approach to textual communities is communication and reproduction. The Judeo-Babylonians (Persian Jews) or Jews of Persian descent produced their form of communication and reproduction. The same is said for the Judeans of Egypt. They too have communicated and reproduced their culturally, politically, socially, and historically framed values through biblical texts. Indeed, biblical texts communicate and reproduce—communicating ideas.

Theopolitics in a Foreign Land: Approaches to Babylon(ia) in Ezekiel Dalit Rom-Shiloni 1.

Introduction

Yair Hoffman closed his formative 1994 article on Theopolitics, by addressing again his opening question, “what is theopolitics?” Hoffman realized that “there are hardly any borders” between its components, theos, or theology, and politics, and thus argued: This vagueness is embodied in the very nature of such a dialectical combination between religion, politics and human beings’ quest for certain, irrefutable formulae by which national life can be conducted.1

One clear emphasis in Hoffman’s discussion concerns the interaction between theology and politics. Biblical authors, including prophets, poets (e.g., Lam 2:17), and historiographers, presented historical circumstances as determined by the will of God, by his “plan.” Prophets proclaim that God determines political events in the international sphere (e.g., Isa 7:1–9; Jeremiah 27) as well as in the national sphere (e.g., Hag 2:23). Historiographers, or authors of “prophetic stories,” explain political events retrospectively as unrolling according to divine intent (e.g., 2 Kgs  18–19; Isa  36–37, esp. 37:6–7, 33–35, 36–38). But there is always the clear possibility that the biblical writers are manipulating religious conceptions to propagate, or retrospectively justify specific policies. I concur with Hoffman that the attempt to make distinctions between sincere theological convictions and manipulations of theological ideas for propagandic reasons will remain an ongoing topic of debate. However, the evidence set out below illustrates Ezekiel’s rhetorical skill in manipulating his sharp * My deepest thanks go to the editors, Mark Brett and Rachelle Gilmour, for their initial invitation and inspiring leadership that allowed a virtual academic gathering to assemble back in July 2020. This paper was not read at the conference, and was sent only afterwards for the volume. I thank Dr. Ruth Clements for her insightful comments and corrections. 1 Yair Hoffman, “Reflections on the Relationship between Theopolitics, Prophecy and Historiography,” in Politics and Theopolitics in the Bible and Postbiblical Literature, ed. Henning Graf Reventlow, Yair Hoffman, and Benjamin Uffenheimer, JSOTSup 171 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 85–99, at 99.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/978365

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theopolitical ideology concerning the Judean communities of his time and their expected fate.2 Ezekiel participates in the wider prophetic theo-political conceptual traditions, and independently develops them further.3 His conceptions of God are well versed in the traditions that may go back as far as Isaiah son of Amoz (the prophet, and his followers), which envisage YHWH’s control over the Neo-Assyrian emperor, using a foreign monarch as an instrument of judgment over sinful peoples, and particularly over God’s people (e.g., Isa 10:5–6; Ezek 7:20–27; 26:1–6, 7–14).4 The sovereignty of Judah’s God over international relationships was also clearly formulated in Jeremiah 27 (e.g., Jer 27:5–8; 46:25– 26).5 Quite surprising and daring, YHWH, the Lord of that small and weak vassal state in the Levant, controls the international affairs of the imperial Neo-Babylonian regime in the ancient Near East! Nebuchadrezzar II, the great emperor of the time, is none else but YHWH’s obedient vassal (‫נבוכדנאצר מלך‬ ‫ בבל עבדי‬in Jer 25:9; 27:6)!6 Independently and in repeating formulae, Ezekiel constructs what Paul M. Joyce termed “radical theocentricity.”7 There is no need to argue for any direct borrowing or dependency of the one on the other in order to see that, to a large extent, Ezekiel’s theopolitical conceptions are in line with these earlier or contemporaneous prophetic traditions. The commonality is well known, but one issue that awaits an explanation concerns the riddle of Babylon, which Jeremiah and Ezekiel present in very different ways.8 2 Hence this paper accepts Mark Brett’s definition of theopolitics, or political theology: “God-talk located in the context of multiple, often competing, perspectives on social life.” See Brett’s introductory discussion in this volume, which suggests a more nuanced and thus broad definition of this field. 3 Recognized by Ezekiel interpreters, e.g., Moshe Greenberg, Ezekiel 21–37, AB 22A (New York: Doubleday, 1989), 543; John Strong, “In Defense of the Great King: Ezekiel’s Oracles against Tyre,” in Concerning the Nations: Essays on the Oracles against the Nations in Isaiah, Jeremiah and Ezekiel, ed. Else K. Holt, Hyun Chul Paul Kim and Andrew Mein, LHBOTS 612 (London: T&T Clark, 2015), 179–94, especially 186–87, 189–93. 4 For theopolitics in Isaiah and its clear Neo-Assyrian political context, see Shawn Z. Aster Reflections of Empire in Isaiah 1–39: Responses to Assyrian Ideology, ANEM 10 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2017). The shared conceptions do not establish verbal parallels between Isaiah and Ezekiel on those passages (i.e., no references on the ‫ שבט‬/ ‫ מטה‬of Isa 10:5–6 in Ezekiel, nor in Jeremiah), hence there is no need to assume “direct” influence from one to the other. 5 Note that Jer 25:15–29 does not give too much credit to Babylon, mentioning it only as one among the nations, v. 26b. 6 Ziony Zevit (“The Use of ‫ עבד‬as a Diplomatic Term in Jeremiah,” JBL 88 [1969]: 74–77) aptly suggested an understanding of the epithet ‫ עבדי‬within the realm of sovereign-vassal relationship. 7 Paul M. Joyce, Ezekiel: A Commentary, LHBOTS 482 (London: T&T Clark, 2007), 27–31. 8 The quite complicated connections (and disconnections) between Jeremiah and Ezekiel (and their books) have been of great interest to scholars. See, e.g., Dalit Rom-Shiloni, “Ezekiel

166 2.

Dalit Rom-Shiloni

Babylon in Ezekiel’s Theopolitics

Seven nations are addressed in Ezekiel’s “prophecies against the nations” (hereafter, PaN): Amon, Moab, Edom, Philistia, Tyre, Sidon, and Egypt.9 In interpreting this list and the sequence of Ezekiel 25–32, scholars have pointed out the spatial organization. The opening prophecies deal with neighboring peoples to the east of Judah in Transjordan (ch 25: Amon, Moab and Seir, Edom), then move to the west (25:15–17, Philistia) and the northwest (chs 26–28: Tyre and Sidon), closing far to the south, with seven prophecies against Egypt (chs 29–32).10 The entire collection is thus set within the Levant (and its nearby surroundings), and it contains no proclamation against the major foe of Jerusalem and Judah, Babylon. The absence of a PaN against Babylon is glaring, certainly by comparison with the compilation of prophetic passages in Jeremiah 50–51. “The Babylonian Element in Ezekiel” was investigated in the very first issue of ZAW (1881), by Crawford H. Toy.11 For Toy, “Ezekiel is completely at one with Jeremiah” when it comes to Babylon, essentially for five reasons that he provides: (1) like Jeremiah, Ezekiel “is thoroughly friendly to Babylon”; (2) Ezekiel sides with Nebuchadrezzar in his prophecies against Egypt and Tyre; (3) the Gog and Magog prophecy portrays the allies of Tyre, Nebuchadrezzar’s enemy; (4) the King of Babylon is not denounced “for holding Israel in captivity”; (5) this “forbearance” is further extended also to the Babylonian religion; while there is great emphasis in Ezekiel upon the idolatry in Israel and the idols of Egypt, there is no denunciation of Bel, Nebo or Marduk.12 Toy concluded that for both prophets, active in the Neo-Babylonian period, Babylon was “the supreme political power of the world, victorious over all enemies, firmly established, and therefore the safest guardian of Israel.”13 Both prophets took a “national” approach (rather than an ethical or religious one) in their positive and Jeremiah: What Might Stand Behind the Silence?” HBAI 2 (2012): 203–30; and John Ahn, in this volume. 9 Seir (or Mt. Seir) is named with Moab in Ezek 25:8, though missing in LXX; but with Edom in Ezek 35 (vv. 2, 15), as often in the HB (e.g., Gen 32:4). Moshe Greenberg (Ezekiel 21–37, AB 22A [New York: Doubleday, 1997], 520) finds this a mystery. 10 For issues of structure, and the repeated use of the number seven in constructing this collection, see Rimon Kasher, Ezekiel 25–48, Mikra Le-Yisrael (Tel Aviv and Jerusalem: Am Oved and Magnes Press, 2004), 493–97. Kasher explains this selection as reflecting Ezekiel’s response to Zedekiah’s rebellious initiative against Babylon in 594/3 BCE (compare Jer 27:1–4), though he recognizes that the Philistines are not mentioned in Jer 27. 11 Crawford H. Toy, “The Babylonian Element in Ezekiel,” ZAW 1 (1881): 59–66. 12 Toy, “The Babylonian Element,” 59. 13 Toy, ibid., 60.

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treatments of Babylon, since they were “practical preachers and statesmen.”14 Ezekiel himself understood well that the best approach for the sake of Israel would be “keeping quiet and maintaining friendly relations with Babylon.” Hence, “Ezekiel is definitely on the side of Babylon.”15 Similarly, while Walther Zimmerli noted three points of difference between Ezekiel and Jeremiah,16 he also explained the lack of an oracle against Babylon as evidence that Ezekiel (and his school) “held fast to the line of Jeremiah’s own preaching with its view that Israel had to see in Nebuchadnezzar … the arm of Yahweh’s judgment and to acknowledge it without opposition.”17 The following discussion re-examines the prophet’s approach toward Babylon, pursuing some key questions: In what ways does Ezekiel’s affiliation with the Babylonian diaspora influence his approach to Babylon and its encompassing control over large parts of the ancient Near East? Should Ezekiel be treated as one with Jeremiah? Is there any significance to the major difference in life circumstances that distinguished these two prophets of God? Jeremiah remained in Judah during its destruction, and then stayed in Mizpah before being taken to Egypt (Jer 43:1–7),18 while Ezekiel was deported to the Babylonian periphery of Nippur by 597 BCE. He was commissioned to prophesy five years later (592 BCE, Ezek 1:1) and was active among his fellows exiles from the first decades of the Babylonian exile to at least 570 BCE (Ezek 29:17).19

14 15

16

17 18 19

Toy, ibid., 59. Toy, ibid., 61. According to Toy, the change of approach toward Babylon was in the days of Cyrus, when prophets started to “freely denounce it (i.e., Babylon, DR-S) on ethical and religious grounds” (ibid., 61), as may be seen in the prophecies against Babylon in Jeremiah  50–51 and in Second Isaiah. Toy adduces only minor “Babylonian ideas” that may reflect Babylonian influences on Ezekiel; without using the current terminology, he speaks of a “natural” acculturation undergone by Ezekiel during his approximately thirty years in Babylon. Zimmerli’s three points of difference between Ezekiel and Jeremiah were (Ezekiel 1, 61–62): (1) Ezekiel has no parallel overview to Jeremiah 25 (as also Isa 45:20), which proclaims “a general judgement upon the nations.” (2) Ezekiel lacks any PaN against Babylon, in contrast to both Isaiah (ch. 13) and Jeremiah (chs. 50–51). (3) Concerning Ezek 29:17–21, the latest of the oracles against Egypt, Zimmerli pointed out the emphasis on “the freedom of Yahweh” to change his message, unprecedented in Jeremiah’s approach to Babylon. Zimmerli (Ezekiel  1, 62) noted Ezek  21:33–34 as a possible “polemic against Babylon,” although Zimmerli argues that it “certainly does not derive from Ezekiel himself.” For Jeremiah’s migration to Egypt as forced, see David Reimer, “There—But Not Back Again: Forced Migration and the End of Jeremiah,” HBAI 7 (2019): 359–75. Dalit Rom-Shiloni, “Ezekiel as the Voice of the Exiles and Constructor of Exilic Ideology” HUCA 76 (2005): 1–45; eadem, “Ezekiel among the Exiles,” in Oxford Handbook of the Book of Ezekiel, ed. Corrine Carvalho (New York: Oxford University Press, 2022) [forthcoming].

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Ezekiel’s attitude toward Babylon, the major political force of his era, seems unique, and deserves special attention in this context. 2.1 Babylon in the Book of Ezekiel: A Survey A survey of the occurrences of Babylon in Ezekiel should take into consideration three terms: ‫בבל‬, ‫כשדים‬, and ‫אשור‬. (1) ‫ בבל‬stands for the kingdom or land of Babylonia in six verses (Ezek 12:13; 17:16, 20; 23:15, 17, 23); eight verses mention the king of Babylon, ‫מלך בבל‬ (Ezek 17:12; 19:9; 21:24, 26; 24:2; within the PaN 30:24, 26; 32:11); in another four verses the Babylonian king is named, ‫( נבוכדראצר מלך בבל‬PaN 26:7; 29:18, 19; 30:10), hence the terms occurs twelve times altogether. (2) ‫( כשדים‬Chaldeans) refers five times to the territory of the kingdom, ‫ארץ‬ ‫( כשדים‬Ezek 1:3; 12:13; ‫ כשדימה‬in 11:24; 16:29; and as ‫ כשדים ארץ מולדתם‬in 23:15). (3) ‫( אשור‬Assyrians) is mentioned among the peoples that trade with Tyre (PaN 27:23); likened to the great cedar to ridicule the pride of the Egyptian Pharaoh (PaN 31:3); and in the prophecy against Egypt, as the first of those who had previously been defeated (PaN 32:17–32, v. 22). Note, however, the unique constellation in Ezekiel 23 where all three ethnonyms occur together as those with whom Oholibah–Jerusalem partners for adultery: ‫“( בני אשור‬the Assyrians”), ‫[ צלמי כשדיים‬Qrei: ‫“( ]כשדים‬the idols of the Chaldeans”), ‫“( בני בבל כשדים ארץ מולדתם‬the Babylonians whose native land was Chaldea”), (Ezek 23:11–21, vv. 12–17, and 22–27, vv. 23–24).20 This distribution invites attention to several highly interesting elements of the treatment of Babylon in the book of Ezekiel. First, Ezekiel (the prophet/ his tradents) designates the geopolitical arena of his existence as the territorial region, ‫ ;ארץ כשדים‬the term ‫ בבל‬occurs primarily in references to its king.21 Second, there is no specific mention of the city of Babylon, the capital of the empire.22 Third, ‫( אשור‬Assyria) is either one among the list of nations (in

20 ‫ בני אשור‬occur also in Ezek 16:28–29; see Greenberg (Ezekiel 21–37, 481) for the possibility that the different ethnic groups accord with names engraved on Nebuchadrezzar’s prism. 21 Compare to Jeremiah (in poetic, prose, historiography, as well as non-Jeremian passages), where ‫( כשדים‬Chaldeans) as a people occur 38 times, often in parallel to the king of Babylon (Jer 21:4, 9; 22:25; 32:4, 5, 24, 25, 28, 29, 43; 33:5; 35:11; 37:5, 8, 9, 10, 11, 13, 14; 38:2, 18, 19, 23; 39:5, 8; 40:9, 10; 41:3, 18; 43:3; 52:7, 8, 14, 17; in PaN Babylon, 50:10, 35; 51:24, 35); and eight times more in reference to ‫( ארץ כשדים‬Jer 24:5; 25:12; 50:1, 8, 25, 45; 51:4, 54). 22 It is challenging to decipher whether ‫ בבל‬in its many occurrences in Jeremiah stands for the land/the empire (e.g., Jer 20:5; 29:15), or rather the capital city (e.g., Jer 50:42; but there are many ambiguous passages); see Dalit Rom-Shiloni, “Are the Figs Good?—Between

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the prophecy against Tyre 27:23); or the former, defeated imperial power in the Mesopotamian arena (within the prophecy against Egypt 31:3; 32:17–32, v. 22). Together, all these characteristics demonstrate a pan-Mesopotamian perspective, as well as a marked avoidance of focus on its major city, Babylon.23 Fourth, it is mainly Nebuchadrezzar the king of Babylon that captures Ezekiel’s interest, and he is mentioned in only two contexts: (1) In prophecies against Jerusalem that proclaim judgment carried out by the Babylonian king and his troops (23:15, 17, 23; 24:2), including the capture of Zedekiah, and his deportation to Babylon (12:13; 17:12, 16, 20; 19:9; 21:24, 26). The allegory in Ezekiel  17 distinguishes between Nebuchadrezzar’s treatment of Jehoiachin, the first Judean king deported by the king of Babylon (597 BCE), and Zedekiah, deported in 586 BCE. While Jehoiachin is likened to the high branches of the prestigious cedar (17:3–4, 12), Zedekiah is the “spreading vine of low stature” that is destined for total destruction (17:5–10, 13–21). Likewise, in the allegory of 19:1–9, Zedekiah is portrayed as a hunted lion, ideologically the emperor’s great enemy.24 (2) In five prophecies against the nations, one against Tyre (26:7–14); and four against Egypt (29:17–20; 30:10–12; 30:20–26; 32:11–14), Nebuchadrezzar King of Babylon is presented as waging fierce war against his enemy kings and their kingdoms. The common denominator of those prophecies is the praise of Nebuchadrezzar II as a warrior. Finally, and of no less significance, while Judean deportees were definitely living within Nebuchadrezzar’s homeland (Ezek 1:3; 11:24), the book of Ezekiel is silent about any interaction between the king of Babylon (or his entourage) and the Judean population he deported and resettled in the heartland of Babylonia.25 The theopolitical prism by which Ezekiel observes the empire and its emperor completely focuses on the political-international arena.

23 24 25

the Known and the Assumed on the Fate of the Judean Exiles in Babylonia (/Babylon), A Continued Conversation with Yair Hoffman,” Beit Mikra 65 (2020): 319–59, esp. 331 [Hebrew]. These observations provide an additional argument for the peripheral geographical context of Ezekiel within Babylonia. See Rom-Shiloni, “Ezekiel among the Exiles,” 10–14. Dalit Rom-Shiloni, “Nature Imagery in the Interplay between Different Metaphors in the Book of Ezekiel,” in Networks of Metaphors in the Hebrew Bible, ed. Danilo Verde and Antje Labahn, BETL 309 (Louvain: Peeters, 2020), 93–109. This silence may join the general void in Ezekiel of daily aspects in the lives of the deportees, see Rom-Shiloni, “Ezekiel among the Exiles,” 3–4; and beyond, eadem, “Exile in the Book of Isaiah,” in Oxford Handbook of the Book of Isaiah, ed. Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer (New York: Oxford University Press), 293–317, esp. 297–301.

170

Dalit Rom-Shiloni

Nebuchadrezzar King of Babylon, the Great Warrior, against the Nations and against Jerusalem Portrayed as the agent of YHWH, on the one hand—in historiography (2 Kgs  24–25) and in prophecy (Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Habakkuk)—and yet, as the great enemy responsible for the destruction of Jerusalem and Judah (e.g., Jer 50–51; Hab 1:5–11), on the other, the figure of Nebuchadrezzar in the Hebrew Bible and Second Temple literature, has intrigued scholars.26 Most portraits of this figure synthesize features across the biblical accounts.27 The present paper focuses on what is to be learned from Ezekiel on its own terms. I here suggest three aspects of Ezekiel’s portrayal of Nebuchadrezzar, and seek to identify the uniqueness of that portrait. (1) Concretization. Ezekiel’s theopolitical hierarchy establishes Nebu­ chadrezzar as the concrete human king summoned by YHWH to execute judgment upon the nations. Prophecies against Tyre and Egypt focus on Nebuchadrezzar as God’s agent: ‫“( הנני מביא אל צר נבוכדראצר מלך בבל‬I will bring against Tyre King Nebuchadrezzar of Babylon,” PaN Tyre, 26:7); ‫הנני נתן לנבוכד־‬ ‫“( ראצר מלך בבל את ארץ מצרים‬I will give the land of Egypt to Nebuchadrezzar, king of Babylon,” PaN Egypt, 29:19 [and note the empathy in v. 18]); ‫והשבתי את‬ ‫“( המון מצרים ביד נבוכדראצר מלך בבל‬I will put an end to the wealth of Egypt through King Nebuchadrezzar of Babylon,” PaN Egypt, 30:10); Moreover, we see 2.2

26

27

Jonathan Stökl studied the narrow evidence on Nebuchadnezzar in Daniel  4, MT-Jeremiah, and 2 Kings (thus ignoring the portraits of Nebuchadrezzar in Jeremiah and Ezekiel), see “Nebuchadnezzar: History, Memory, and Myth-Making in the Persian Period,” in Remembering Biblical Figures in the Late Persian and Early Hellenistic Periods, ed. Diana V. Edelman and Ehud Ben Zvi (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 257–69. David Vanderhooft presented a wider perspective in The Neo-Babylonian Empire and Babylon in the Latter Prophets, HSM 59 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1999), esp. 33–50, and on Ezekiel, 163–71; Vanderhooft focused on Jeremiah and Habakkuk in “‘Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon, My Servant’: Contrasting Prophetic Images of the Great King,” HBAI 7 (2018): 93–111. Jonathan Ben Dov (“Nebuchadnezzar: Seeing Twice Double in Babylonian and the Levant,” HBAI 7,1 [2018]: 3–16) drew comparative connections between Daniel  4 and Nebuchadrezzar’s Wadi Brisa rock-inscriptions, arguing that the two reliefs of the king, standing by a cedar of Lebanon and stabbing a lion, illustrate control over the most sublime wild flora and fauna (pp. 9–10). Ben Dov suggests that Daniel 4 illustrates “a secondary interpretation,” or “a new interpretation,” even a “surprising mode of interpretation” of those two scenes in transformative ways (e.g., the Babylonian king does not overpower the lion, but is sent to the wilderness, the lion’s territory, 14), adapting what has become only a blurred historical picture of Nebuchadrezzar, the Babylonian king of the sixth century, with the image of Nabonidus, in order to craft an analogy to the Seleucid kings of the Hellenistic period (p. 14). While this portrayal is of great interest to the history of reception, it does not take into account the information on Nebuchadrezzar in Jeremiah and Ezekiel.

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the contrast between the Pharaoh of Egypt, whose arm(s) YHWH breaks, and the Babylonian king, whose arms YHWH strengthens for victory (PaN 30:20– 26). In two prophetic clusters, this concretization is brought about through juxtaposition. Ezekiel 26:1–6 proclaim that ‫“( גוים רבים‬many nations”) will be brought against Tyre, whereas 26:7–14 specifies that YHWH’s agent will be Nebuchadrezzar;28 likewise, the lament over Pharaoh in 32:1–16 begins with God’s activation of ‫“( עמים רבים ומלכיהם‬many peoples and their kings,” v. 10), but then specifies that God’s actual agent is the Babylonian king (v. 11).29 (2) The divine sword put in the hands of Nebuchadrezzar. The motif of the divine weapon empowering the pious king is common in the Hebrew Bible and in ancient Near Eastern conceptions of war.30 Hence, as Daniel Bodi aptly emphasized, this motif is by no means unique to Ezekiel; nor its appearance in Ezekiel suggest a clear connection with the Babylonian Poem of Erra.31 The significant theological point is nevertheless beyond doubt: Hebrew Bible prophetic traditions (earlier than, contemporaneous with, and later than Ezekiel) adapted this theme and applied it to judgment prophecies against Israel and against the nations. Here again, however, the special contribution Ezekiel brings to this theme may be discerned. First, YHWH’s sword (‫ )חרבי‬causes widespread and indiscriminate death in the PaN (e.g., 21:8–9; 30: 24–25; 32:10). YHWH’s sword (PaN 29:8; 30:4–6) or use of human swords PaN 28:7; 30:11) illustrate God’s involvement in international affairs. In prophecies of judgment against Jerusalem, the sword often serves as a metonym for war, emphasizing YHWH’s own active role and responsibility 28

29

30

31

The apparent verbal and thematic relations between PaN Ezek  26:1–6 and 7–14 led Walther Zimmerli (Ezekiel 2, trans. Ronald E. Clements and James D. Martin, Hermeneia [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979], 33, 35, 36, 39–40) to suggest that vv. 7–14 are an “expansion oracle,” “a secondary process of further interpretation” of vv. 1–6. Greenberg (Ezekiel 21–37, 541–2) takes 26:7–14 to fill out the military information brought only partially in vv. 2–6, and argues that taken together these verses portray a complete sequence of a battle against Tyre, though only a literary one (see n. 40 below). Ezek 32:1–16 shows two concentric structures. The first inclusio opens and closes the dirge over Pharaoh (vv. 1–2, 16), the second portrays God as sole warrior against Pharaoh, vv. 3–8; as activating human agents, vv. 9–10, 11–12; and vv. 13–15, as the sole destroyer of Egypt. See Hennig Fredriksson, Jahwe als Krieger: Studien zum altestamentlichen Gottesbild (Lund: Gleerup, 1945), 95–97; Boustenai Oded, War, Peace, and Empire: Justifications for War in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1992), 18–20; A. R. George, “The Poem of Erra and Ishum: A Babylonian Poet’s View of War,” in Warfare and Poetry in the Middle East, ed. Hugh N. Kennedy (London: I.B. Tauris, 2013), 39–72. One major feature that Daniel Bodi (The Book of Ezekiel and the Poem of Erra, OBO 104 [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991], 250–54) did take as a shared theme in Ezekiel 21 and in Erra is the close connection between fire and sword (Ezek 21:1–12; 35–37).

172

Dalit Rom-Shiloni

for the fate of his people, e.g., ‫“( הנני אני מביא עליכם חרב‬See, I will bring a sword against you,” 6:3; 11:8, 10; 14:17), often in the triad: ‫“( בחרב ברעב ובדבר‬with sword, famine, and pestilence,” e.g., 6:12; 7:15; 12:16).32 God’s sword comprises a major component in Ezekiel’s theodical explanations for the destruction of Jerusalem and Judah (e.g., 11:8, in 11:1–13; or 14:17, in 14:12–23). Second, in PaN the prophet places the divine sword directly into the hands of the Babylonian king, e.g., ‫“( ונתתי את חרבי בידו‬and put My sword in his hand,” PaN Egypt 30:24–25). PaN Egypt 32:9–10 portrays YHWH brandishing his sword before (‫ )בעופפי חרבי על פניהם‬many nations and their kings; the image immediately becomes concrete, identified as the sword of the king of Babylon and his mighty men (‫“ חרב מלך בבל תבואך‬the sword of the king of Babylon shall come upon you” and ‫בחרבות גבורים אפיל המונך‬, “I will cause your multitude to fall by the swords of warriors,” vv. 11–12).33 This concretization occurs only once in a prophecy against Jerusalem, 21:23–32 (see below). Third, the prophet utilizes similar phrases of war in prophecies against Jerusalem and in PaN, though they have different functions in the two contexts.34 Take, for instance, the phrase ‫הריק חרב אחרי‬. In reference to the fate of Jerusalem, YHWH himself is the sole agent: ‫“( וחרב אריק אחריהם‬and unsheathe a sword after them,” 5:2, 12; 12:14), avoiding the obvious historical fact that Babylonian soldiers destroyed Jerusalem; whereas within PaN, this phrase designates human measures executed by Nebuchadrezzar’s troops: ‫והריקו חרבותם‬ (“They shall unsheathe their swords,” Tyre, 28:7; Egypt, 30:11).35 These features seem to stand behind the fifteen occurrences of the leitmotif “sword” in chapter 21, in its five sub-units (vv. 1–12, 13–22, 23–32, 33–34, 35–37). These independent sub-units are tied together by various roles of the sword, enclosed by a well-structured inclusio of fire and sword as divine judgments (vv. 1–12, 35–37).36 The sword is the divine weapon given into the hands 32

Sword occurs in Ezekiel in strings of three and more components; see, e.g., 14:21 (four components); 5:17 (five components). See Dalit Rom-Shiloni, Voices from the Ruins: Theodicy and the Fall of Jerusalem in the Hebrew Bible (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2021), 279–84. 33 See Kasher, Ezekiel 25–48, 611. 34 Lydia Lee (Mapping Judah’s Fate in Ezekiel’s Oracles Against the Nations [Atlanta: SBL Press, 2016], 4, 223–30) discusses lexical similarities and allusions that intentionally tie together PaN and prophecies of judgment against Judah, arguing for a subtext within the former that enhances the message of doom against Jerusalem (see 83, and passim). The discussion here is focused only on the arena of war and the portrayal of Nebuchadrezzar. 35 ‫ הריק חרב‬otherwise denotes a human deed, Exod 15:9; and a divine action against Israel, Lev 26:33. 36 For the five-part division of chapter 21, see Daniel I. Block, Ezekiel 1–24, NICOT (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 696; although Block does not see the inclusio in vv. 1–12, 35–37. Compare to Bernhard Lang (“A Neglected Method in Ezekiel Research: Editorial Criticism,”

Theopolitics in a Foreign Land

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of human enemies (v. 16b); it may act independently, as a hypostasis of the divine (vv.19–22, 33).37 In vv. 23–32, the sword stands metonymically for war (‫לבוא חרב מלך בבל‬, “a way for the sword of the king of Babylon to advance,” vv. 23, 25). This metonymic use climaxes in vv. 27–32, in Nebuchadrezzar’s choice to attack Jerusalem and capture its leader. This passage is another illustration of the concretization towards Nebuchadrezzar. Required to choose between two possible targets for his military campaign, Rabbat of the Ammonites and Jerusalem of Judah, Nebuchadrezzar utilizes various Judean and Mesopotamian magical and extispicy techniques and chooses Jerusalem first (vv. 25–28); only then he completes his mission attacking the Ammonites (vv. 33–34).38 Nebuchadrezzar’s war against Jerusalem is briefly described in 21:27 as including siege and submission39 (3) The functional synergy between YHWH and Nebuchadrezzar as warrior. Unique to Ezekiel’s PaN are the vivid (almost pictorial) portrayals of Nebuchadrezzar, agent of YHWH and a fierce warrior against the nations, in unprecedentedly detailed descriptions of his war maneuvers, as he fights

37 38 39

VT 29 [1979]: 39–44) who argues (pp. 41–42) that the Ammonites in Ezek 21:33–37 were secondarily interpolated (taken from 25:1–7) to avoid “[t]he shocking fact that Israel’s memory was to be destroyed” (see 21:37). There are at least two obstacles to Lang’s suggestion: (1) The theological “shocking fact” may indeed shock scholars, but is clearly substantiated in Ezekiel’s fierce judgment prophecies against Jerusalem (e.g., Ezek 24:1–15). (2) 21:35–37 wrap up this prophecy by bringing the sword and the fire back in a prophecy against Jerusalem. Also against Lang, note the use of ‫ שפט‬in Ezekiel, which is almost totally restricted to judgment prophecies against Jerusalem, with YHWH as agent (7:3, 8, 27; 11:10, 11; 16:38; 18:30; 22:2; 23:36); or judged by human enemies summoned by him (23:24, 36, ‫ ;ושפטוך במשפטיהם‬and 24:14), and once addressed against Zedekiah (17:20). ‫ שפט‬occurs once against the exiles’ leaders (20:4), and the people (20:35–36; 33:20; 34:17, 20, 22). In PaN ‫ שפט‬appears only once, in reference to Seir (35:11). Thus it is hard to connect this judgement in 21:35 to the Ammonites. In addition, other phrases in 21:35–37 suit well Ezekiel’s prophecies against Jerusalem: ‫“( ארץ מכרותיך‬the land of your origin,” v. 35; see 16:2); ‫“( ושפכתי עליך זעמי באש עברתי אפיח עליך‬I will pour out My indignation upon you, I will blow upon you with the fire of My wreath,” v. 36; see 22:31); ‫דמך יהיה בתוך הארץ‬ (“your blood shall sink into the earth,” v. 37; see 24:7). For a short passage of songs of the sword in Jeremiah, see Jer 47:6–7. Guy Darshan, “The Meaning of ‫( ברא‬Ez 21,24) and the Prophecy Concerning Nebuchadnezzar at the Crossroads (Ez 21,23–39 [18–24]),” ZAW 128 (2016): 83–95, esp. 86–91. Compare to Adam E. Miglio, (“Prophetic Polysemy and Polemic: The ‘Opened’ Sword of Babylon in Ezekiel 21:33–34a,” ZAW 130 [2018]: 616–24), who focuses on the ‫חרב פתוחה‬ (“drawn sword”) imagery (v. 33) to argue for a wordplay that establishes a polemic against Babylon in what he admits to be “the only anti-Babylonian oracle in the book of Ezekiel” (623). I do not see that line of argument.

174

Dalit Rom-Shiloni

and subdues rulers and kingdoms.40 A telling example is PaN Tyre 26:7–14: Nebuchadrezzar, “the king of kings” (‫מלך מלכים‬, Ezek 26:7; šar šarrāni), who in his swift war (‫ומחי קבלו‬, taken from the Akkadian meḫu qablu, “the storm of his battle/campaign”), is to bring vast ruin upon the city:41 7 Indeed thus said the Lord God: I am bringing against Tyre Nebuchadrezzar King of Babylon from the north, king of kings, with horse and chariot, and horsemen, and an assemblage of great army. 8 Your daughters in the country he will slay by the sword. He will set a siege-wall against you, and throw a ramp up against you and erect shields against you. 9 The storm of his battle he will direct at your walls, and your towers he will tear down with his swords. 10 From the multitude of his horses their dust will cover you; from the sounds of horseman and wheel and chariot, your walls will quake, when he enters through your gates, the entering of a breached city.

40

41

‫ כי כה אמר אדני יהוה‬ 7 ‫הנני מביא אל צר‬ ‫נבוכדראצר מלך בבל‬ ,‫מצפון מלך מלכים‬ ‫בסוס וברכב ובפרשים‬ .‫וקהל ועם רב‬ ,‫ בנותיך בשדה בחרב יהרג‬ 8 ‫ונתן עליך דיק‬ ‫ושפך עליך סללה‬ .‫והקים עליך צנה‬

9 ,‫ ומחי קבלו יתן בחמותיך‬ .‫ומגדלתיך יתץ בחרבותיו‬ ,‫ משפעת סוסיו יכסך אבקם‬10 ‫מקול פרש וגלגל ורכב‬ ‫תרעשנה חומותיך בבאו בשעריך‬ .‫כמבואי עיר מבקעה‬

The discrepancies between the prophecy against Tyre and the historical circumstances of its conquest, together with the formulaic nature of some phrases, led Greenberg (Ezekiel 21–37, 542) to suggest that the descriptions of Nebuchadrezzar and the military actions against Tyre depend on literary sources that contain “extracts from the Assyrian inscriptions.” But note that Greenberg also argued that those descriptions of war were “based on the repeated experience of victims of Assyrian and Babylonian attack” (ibid., 532–33). Similar rhetoric occurs also in reference to the Babylonian troops under Nebuchadrezzar that annihilate Egypt, see PaN Egypt, 30:10–12; 32:11–16. The translation follows Greenberg, Ezekiel 21–37, 528–29. Ezek 26:7–14 is one of the seven prophetic passages against Tyre, which proclaim judgment against the city (26:1–6, 7–14, 19–21) or lament its fate (26:15–18; 27), and subsequently proclaim the fate of and lament its ruler (28:1–10, 11–19). Scholars divide chapters 26:1–28:19 in diverse ways, see Greenberg (Ezekiel 21–37, 540) and Kasher (Ezekiel 25–48, 508) for four prophetic units; Hoffman (The Prophecies against the Nations in the Bible [Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University and HaKibbutz HaMeuchad, 1977], 137 [Hebrew]) designates seven. The long Babylonian siege of Tyre (585–572) seems to be the setting for those prophecies.

Theopolitics in a Foreign Land 11 With the hoofs of his steeds he will trample all your streets; your people he will slay with the sword and your mighty stelae will descend to the ground. 12 They will plunder your wealth and make spoil of your merchandise, and tear down your walls and demolish your lovely houses, Your stones, timber and rubble they will throw into the water 13 I will put an end to the noise of your songs, and the sound of your lyres shall be heard no more. 14 I will leave you a glaring rock; a spreading-place for nets she shall be, never to be rebuilt, for I YHWH have spoken, declares Lord YHWH.

175 ‫ בפרסות סוסיו ירמס את כל‬ 11 ‫ עמך בחרב יהרג‬,‫חוצותיך‬ .‫ומצבות עזך לארץ תרד‬ ‫ ושללו חילך‬12 ‫ובזזו רחלתך‬ ‫והרסו חומותיך‬ ,‫ובתי חמדתך יתצו‬ ‫ואבניך ועציך ועפרך‬ .‫בתוך מים ישימו‬ ,‫ והשבתי המון שיריך‬13 .‫וקול כנוריך לא ישמע עוד‬ ‫ ונתתיך לצחיח סלע‬14 ‫משטח חרמים תהיה‬ ,‫לא תבנה עוד‬ ‫כי אני יהוה דברתי נאם אדני‬ .‫יהוה‬

Moreover, several shared phrases in Ezekiel’s prophecies against Jerusalem and against the nations illustrate contrasting functions: in PaN these phrases portray Nebuchadrezzar as fierce warrior against the nations, whereas in judgement prophecies against Jerusalem they are applied to YHWH either as the sole warrior, or as the One who summons the Babylonian king against his city and its king.42 In addition to the divine sword motif, I call attention to two other examples: (i) Nebuchadrezzar’s strategies for besieging Tyre, ‫ונתן עליך דיק‬ ‫“( ושפך עליך סללה‬He will set a siege-wall against you, and throw a ramp up against you,” 26:8), otherwise appear as the fate Jerusalem will suffer at the hands of God’s agent, the Babylonian king (4:2; 17:17; 21:27).43 (ii) The capture of the Judean king is twice described by the phrase: ‫ופרשתי את רשתי עליו ונתפש‬ ‫“( במצודתי‬I will spread My net over him, and he shall be caught in My snare”). This phrase occurs three times in Ezekiel as divine act of war, twice directed against Zedekiah (12:13; 17:20) and once it is YHWH’s net (‫ )חרמי‬by which the many peoples will haul the Egyptian Pharaoh (PaN Egypt 32:3).44 Depicting 42

43 44

Greenberg (Ezekiel 21–37, 541–2) points out the shifting of agents between Nebuchadrezzar (26:8–11), his soldiers (v. 12), and God (vv. 13–14). For a thorough discussion of the formulations within Ezekiel’s (and generally in Hebrew Bible) conceptions of war, see Rom-Shiloni, Voices, 179–87; figure 6.1: “God and human roles in war: seven options for victory and defeat,” 180; and 251–59, 267–311. Ezek 17:17 has ‫ פרעה‬as an interpolation into the context. See Moshe Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–20, AB 22 (New York: Doubleday, 1983), 314–5, 323. For the net as an image of a divine weapon at the hands of gods and kings, see Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–20, 214; Bodi, Erra, 162–82.

176

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Zedekiah’s rebellion against the Babylonian king as disobedience to YHWH, the God of Judah (17:19–21), has been recognized as a transformation of the vassaldom treaty relationships between Nebuchadrezzar and Zedekiah into the theological arena.45 More broadly, it seems that all those passages that focus on Zedekiah (12:12–16; 17:19–21; 21:30–32) assert that warlike measures were executed against Zedekiah by YHWH alone, using first person singular verbal phrases. The only exception is the allegory in 19:1–9, where the hunted lion, Zedekiah, is captured and brought by human hunters/foreign enemies to the Babylonian king (vv. 8–9). This functional distinction between the role of YHWH against Zedekiah (and Jerusalem) and Nebucahdrezzar against Tyre (and Egypt, e.g., 30:10–12) in Ezekiel is thus behind the descriptions of the chase, capture, and trial of Zedekiah that appear in chapters 12,46 17, 19, 21.47 This portrayal of Nebuchadrezzar in Ezekiel as the great warrior seems to be another example of the unique ways in which this prophet carries further the element of power given to the king of Babylon in Jeremiah.48 Ezekiel concretizes in Nebuchadrezzar descriptions of human agents of destruction, and broadens the role of the Babylonian king in relation to Tyre, Egypt, and in Ezek 21 to Jerusalem and Zedekiah as well. Yet, the evidence of Nebuchadrezzar’s portrayal as warrior from royal inscriptions and official sources is relatively minimal. This portrait is known from rock inscriptions in Lebanon, mainly the images of Wadi Brisa and Wadi es-Saba, which present the king stabbing a standing lion and standing by a cedar of Lebanon, and otherwise restricted to the Babylonian Chronicle V that

45 46 47 48

Matitiahu Tsevat, “The Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian Vassal Oaths and the Prophet Ezekiel,” JBL 78 (1959): 199–204; and Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–20, 317–24. Ezek 12:1–16 is another prophecy focused on Zedekiah and his capture, but that passage positions God as the sole executor of the king’s fate (vv. 13–15); see further the use of ‫פרש‬ ‫( רשת ונתפס במצודה‬12:13; 17:20), where YHWH is the agent. Another phrase that connects PaN Tyre and its fate with that of Jerusalem concerns the descriptions of total annihilation ‫“( ונתתיך לצחיח סלע‬I will make you a naked rock,” 26:4, 14; and 24:6, 8 in reference to Jerusalem). Compare Ezek 26:7–14 (and other passages mentioned above) to very few direct references in Jeremiah where Nebuchadrezzar actively conducts war. Nebuchadrezzar, summoned by YHWH, is given the leadership role, as either conducting the Babylonian forces to Jerusalem (e.g., Jer 21:2, 7 [war]; 24:1 [deportation]; 32:2 [siege]; 34:1, 7 [war]; 35:11 [war]; 39:1–14 [siege]); or smiting individuals (or nations, ‫ ;הכה‬see Jer 20:21; PaN Egypt 46:2). In this context, ‫“( אכלה חרב‬the sword will devour”) designates the conduct of war in PaN Egypt 46:10, 14; in other instances, it is the king’s officials who conduct the siege and the war under his commands, e.g., 38:17–23; 39:11–14; 40:1–4.

Theopolitics in a Foreign Land

177

certainly reports Nebuchadrezzar’s annual military campaigns.49 As Rocío Da Riva argues, these publicly directed images send a clear propagandistic message of military and political control to the subjugated peoples on the western peripheries.50 David Vanderhooft observed that Babylonian royal scribes and artists utilized “two discursive strategies” in the inscriptions of Nebuchadrezzar, distinguished according to their target audiences. The king’s building inscriptions, aimed at his domestic audience, emphasized Nebuchadrezzar’s piety and worship, whereas the warrior portrayal was aimed at external populations and potential enemies on the periphery.51 Similarly, Nebuchadrezzar’s warrior portrayal is emphasized in Ezekiel’s prophecies against the external enemies on the western periphery, Tyre and Egypt (and its Pharaoh); the connections (and synergy) with YHWH’s actions against Jerusalem–Zedekiah are thus quite suggestive. Is Jerusalem, by implication, also in some sense a “peripheral” enemy? One must ask: to what extent we can presume Ezekiel’s familiarity with these aspects of Babylonian culture? Should the prophet be understood as part of the “domestic” audience of Babylonia? Or, does the deportee community, the prophet among them, continue to be defined by self and others through their ties to the Jerusalem–Judah homeland? Not least challenging is the question of how Ezekiel became familiar with the externally directed portrayal of Nebuchadrezzar as warrior. However we seek to answer such questions, Ezekiel seems to have adopted Nebuchadrezzar’s warlike portrayal not only within his PaN. Furthermore, quite remarkably, this warlike portrayal of the Babylonian king, has been transferred also to YHWH in the pursuit of Zedekiah, which by implication presents Jerusalem (/Judah) as a peripheral enemy of YHWH.

49

50

51

Rocío Da Riva, The Twin Inscriptions of Nebuchadnezzar at Brisa (Wadi Esh-Sharbin, Lebanon): A Historical and Philological Study, AfOB 32 (Vienna: Institut für Orientalistik, 2012), 42–82, 94–96; and see Vanderhooft, “Nebuchadnezzar,” 96–97. For the Babylonian Chronicles, see Albert K. Grayson, Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles (Locust Valley, NY: Augustin, 1970),19–20, 99–103; Vanderhooft, The Neo-Babylonian Empire, 41–45. One of the major points of interest is the fact that the king killing a lion is an image unknown from the Babylonian interior; the Wadi Brisa and Wadi es-Saba inscriptions are the only two references to this Mesopotamian royal imagery and ideology in Neo-Babylonian sources. Nonetheless, Ezekiel in his allegory of the hunted lions uses this same imagery, see Rom-Shiloni, “Nature Imagery,” 102–9. Vanderhooft, “Nebuchadnezzar,” 97–98.

178 3.

Dalit Rom-Shiloni

Summary: Manipulation of Theos/Theology for the Sake of Politics in Ezekiel

Nebuchadrezzar’s portrayal as warrior at YHWH’s service is by no means Ezekiel’s innovation. Nor could the close theological connections of divine judgment brought to intensify political relationships between kings and their nations be attributed solely to Ezekiel.52 Rather, Ezekiel joins Judean (Israelite) prophetic conceptions and adds Mesopotamian literary and possibly pictographic data to which he could have been exposed in exile.53 Located in Babylonia, Ezekiel manipulates those well-known themes in the service of a very clear theopolitical view of the status of the Jerusalem-Judean community far in the west. At the close of his discussion of ‫“ פרש רשת‬throwing a net” in Ezekiel and in the Poem of Erra, Daniel Bodi concludes:54 In using themes and motifs from the Poem of Erra, the author or redactor of the Book of Ezekiel seems to have given an emphasis of his own. While in the Poem of Erra the net is directed against the disloyal population from various Mesopotamian cities, in the Book of Ezekiel the leader of the straying Israelites is directly threatened.

This focus on the last Judean leader, Zedekiah, is indeed a cardinal issue for Ezekiel, and I suggest that we can take Bodi’s observation a step further. This study highlights the representative status of Zedekiah in Ezekiel, whose fate symbolizes the fate of the entire Judean community that remained in Judah after 597 BCE. Ezekiel’s focus on Nebuchadrezzar king of Babylon as YHWH’s warrior-agent against all the nations, clusters together Zedekiah/Jerusalem with Tyre and Egypt as the major national foes of the empire and its king, and not least, as foes of God. Nebuchadrezzar’s wars against the kings of Egypt and Tyre are joined to YHWH’s war against the ruling king of Judah, Zedekiah; in all cases the war will end in total annihilation, of the king, his city, and his people. Within the broad borders of the prophetic traditions, and possibly acquainted with Jeremiah’s theopolitical perspectives, Ezekiel makes a functional distinction between YHWH and the Babylonian king. The latter is YHWH’s agent against the nations and leaders, including Zedekiah. In this 52 Bodi, Erra, 179–82. 53 Bodi, ibid., 171–79. Such a collation of Judean-Israelite traditions with Mesopotamian ones is the most common trait of Ezekiel’s prophecies, see Rom-Shiloni, “Ezekiel among the Exiles,” 4–7. 54 Bodi, Erra, 182; and already noted by Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–16, 214.

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way, YHWH maintains honor and sovereignty in the sight of the nations (e.g., Ezek 5:8; 28:25). Ezekiel further manipulates his theopolitical message by limiting his focus on the empire and its emperor, to the international arena. Ezekiel is not simply pro-Babylonian.55 First, the prophet limits Nebuchadrezzar’s initiative and power in war to other nations (mainly Tyre and Egypt); the fate of Jerusalem and Zedekiah are determined solely by God himself. Second, speaking to his audience, his fellow Jehoiachin exiles in Babylonia, Ezekiel shares their interest in the fortunes of Jerusalem (and Zedekiah, chapters 1–24).56 In this sociological context, it is remarkable that Ezekiel disconnects the fate of Jerusalem from that of the Judean-Jehoiachin exiles already in Babylonia. The exiles are not at all threatened by Nebuchadrezzar’s war on Judah. In fact, they appear almost untouched by the imperial realities that (probably had) governed their lives in their new Babylonian location(s). These observations on Ezekiel’s treatment of Babylon thus provide another example of the prophet’s extreme exclusivity against Jerusalem and those who remained there during the exile. Theo-politics is here manipulated in the service of rebuilding a Judean-exilic ideology.57

55

56

57

Pace Toy, “The Babylonian Element,” 61. For possible sociological reflections of dislocation, as individuals or communities, in Hebrew Bible literature, see Daniel Smith-Christopher, The Religion of the Landless: The Social Context of the Babylonian Exile (Bloomington, IN: Meyer Stone Books, 1989), 1–15; idem, A Biblical Theology of Exile, OBT (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 2002), 75–104. This distinction between audience (the exiles) and the prophetic targets (Jerusalem, Judah, Zedekiah) is crucial for the study of Ezekiel, see Dalit Rom-Shiloni, Exclusive Inclusivity: Identity Conflicts between the Exiles and the People who Remained (6th– 5th Centuries BCE), LHBOTS 543 (New York-London: T&T Clark, 2013), 140–44. See Rom-Shiloni, Exclusive Inclusivity, 253–76.

Holiness Theology in Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah: A Comparison of Their Political Implications Louis C. Jonker 1.

Introduction

The Persian period (539–332 BCE) was a time of intense and variegated Israelite discourses in the contexts of ancient Yehud, Samaria and diaspora communities. A melting pot of differing traditions were renegotiated in the shadow of the empire.1 In particular, there were debates about the role of the temple in Jerusalem within the context of the multiformity of Yahwism (with sanctuaries on Mount Gerizim, and most-probably also at other sites like Khirbet el-Qom), and within the political, military and economic spheres of the Achaemenid empire. Contributing to recent studies of the Holiness material (H) in this period (and taking H to be an expansion of Priestly material [P] in the second half of the fifth century), this essay will focus on H’s possible influences on the book of Chronicles and the literary formation of Ezra-Nehemiah. 2.

Theological and Political Tendencies in H

Scholarship on the so-called Holiness legislation is well-documented and summarized in various publications.2 While there is broad agreement that 1 Louis  C.  Jonker, Defining All-Israel in Chronicles: Multi-Levelled Identity Negotiation in Late Persian Period Yehud, FAT I/106 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016); Louis C. Jonker, “Melting Pots and Rejoinders? The Interplay among Literature Formation Processes during the Late Persian and Early Hellenistic Periods,” VT 70.1 (2020): 42–54. 2 August Klostermann, “Beiträge zur Entstehungsgeschichte des Pentateuchs,” Zeitschrift für die gesammte lutherische Theologie und Kirche 38.3 (1877): 401–45; Israel Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence: The Priestly Torah and the Holiness School (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995); Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, AB  3 (New York: Doubleday, 1991); Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus 17–22: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, AB 3A (New York: Doubleday, 2000); Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus 23–27: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, AB 3B (New York: Doubleday, 2001); Eckart Otto, “Forschungen zum nachpriesterschriftlichen Pentateuch,” TRu 67.2 (2002): 125–55; Christophe Nihan, “The Holiness Code between D and P: Some Comments

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/978365

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H expanded on P, Eckart Otto and Christophe Nihan, in particular, place this development in the second half of the fifth century BCE.3 For our present purposes, it will be important to highlight some of the key characteristics of H. Most importantly, H reflects theological ideas from both the Priestly material and the Deuteronomic corpus (D).4 This tendency to combine P and D theological views into H during the Persian period, was of special political significance for the various Israelite communities at the time. Another feature of H is that in its expansion of the Priestly material, H broadens P’s horizons to include what could be called “community ethics.”5 Whereas holiness is mainly related to cultic matters in Leviticus 1–16, in H the call is that all community life should be holy, “because Yahweh your God is holy” (Lev 19:2; 20:7–8; and the H insertion in Lev 11:44–45). Already in earlier Pentateuchal traditions, such as in the Covenant Code (Exod 22:30) and in Deuteronomy (see 7:6; 14:1–2, 21), Israel is portrayed as holy. However, nowhere in the Priestly corpus or Ezekiel do we see similar portrayals. P rather attributes holiness exclusively to the cult, with a focus on cultic places, personnel and rituals. The development in H to include the community as a whole therefore seems to be an attempt to negotiate between the Priestly and non-Priestly (especially Deuteronomic) traditions on the conception of holiness.

on the Function and Significance of Leviticus 17–26 in the Composition of the Torah,” in Das Deuteronomium zwischen Pentateuch und Deuteronomistischem Geschichtswerk, ed. Eckart Otto and Reinhard Achenbach, FRLANT 206 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004), 81–122; Christophe Nihan, From Priestly Torah to Pentateuch: A Study in the Composition of the Book of Leviticus, FAT/II 25 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007); Christophe Nihan, “The Priestly Laws of Numbers, the Holiness Legislation, and the Pentateuch,” in Torah and the Book of Numbers, ed. Christian Frevel, Thomas Pola, and Aaron Schart, FAT/II 62 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 109–37; Thomas Hieke, Levitikus: Erster Teilband, 1–15 (Freiburg: Herder, 2014); Thomas Hieke, Levitikus: Zweiter Teilband, 16–27 (Freiburg: Herder, 2014); Esias  E.  Meyer, “From Cult to Community: The Two Halves of Leviticus,” Verbum et Ecclesia 34.2 (2013): 1–7; Esias E. Meyer, “Leviticus 17, Where P, H and D Meet: Priorities and Presuppositions of Jacob Milgrom and Eckart Otto,” in Current Issues in Priestly and Related Literature: The Legacy of Jacob Milgrom and Beyond, ed. Roy E. Gane and Ada Taggar-Cohen (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2015), 349–68. 3 Nihan, Priestly Torah, 548. 4 Nihan, “Holiness Code,” 102–3. 5 Meyer, “From Cult to Community,” 1; Esias E. Meyer, “The Reinterpretation of the Decalogue in Leviticus 19 and the Centrality of the Cult,” SJOT 30.2 (2016): 204.

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Accordingly, H could be taken as an excellent example of inner-biblical exegesis6 or Fortschreibung,7 but one might also speculate on whether there were any external influences that played a role in the H developments. Thomas Kazen, for example, finds some similar ideas about purity and impurity in parts of the Avesta traditions (particularly in the Vendidad/Videvdad which forms part of the so-called law material of this Zoroastrian collection of manuscripts).8 The chronological relationship between H and the Avesta is very difficult to determine, however, because the composition stretches over many centuries, with the available manuscripts only from the 12th century CE.9 Recently, I have also suggested that the so-called Darius Testament—the trilingual inscription engraved on the tomb face of Darius  I at Naqsh i-Rustam—could have had an influence on the formation of H.10 The second part of this inscription (DNb), the so-called Fürstenspiegel, reflects a similar “ethical turn” to the shift in focus that we observe from P to H. It is likely, historically, that the writers of H would have known about the ideology expressed in the Darius Testament.11 6

7 8

9

10 11

Konrad Schmid, “Innerbiblische Schriftauslegung: Aspekte der Forschungsgeschichte,” in Schriftauslegung in der Schrift: Festschrift für Odil Hannes Steck zu seinem 65. Geburtstag, ed. Reinhard  G.  Kratz, Thomas Krüger, and Konrad Schmid, BZAW  300 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2000), 1–22. Reinhard Müller, Juha Pakkala, and Urmas Nõmmik, eds., Fortgeschriebenes Gotteswort. Studien zu Geschichte, Theologie und Auslegung des Alten Testaments. Festschrift für Christoph Levin zum 70. Geburtstag (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2020). Thomas Kazen, “Dirt and Disgust: Body and Morality in Biblical Purity Laws,” in Perspectives on Purity and Purification in the Bible, ed. Baruch  J.  Schwartz et  al. (New York: Bloomsbury, 2008), 457–59; Thomas Kazen, “Purity and Persia,” in Current Issues in Priestly and Related Literature: The Legacy of Jacob Milgrom and Beyond, ed. Roy  E.  Gane and Ada Taggar-Cohen (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2015), 435–62. See also Yishai Kiel, “Reinventing Mosaic Torah in Ezra-Nehemiah in the Light of the Law (dāta) of Ahura Mazda and Zarathustra,” JBL 136 (2017): 323–45; Idan Dershowitz, “Revealing Nakedness and Concealing Homosexual Intercourse: Legal and Lexical Evolution in Leviticus  18,” HBAI 6 (2017): 510–526, especially 523–525. I am less optimistic about the chronological relationship between the Avesta and H than Dershowitz who states: “Of the ancient Near Eastern material discovered to date, H’s MSS-intercourse prohibitions in Leviticus 18 and 20 have the most in common with the Videvdad. Given the consensus that the Holiness Code was redacted during the Achaemenid period, first-millennium Zoroastrianism is a suitable candidate for cultural, religious, and literary influence” (Dershowitz, “Revealing Nakedness,” 525). Louis  C.  Jonker, “Achaemenid Understanding of Law and Justice in Darius I’s Tomb Inscriptions: Any Connections with Hebrew Bible Pentateuchal Conceptions?” SJOT 33.1 (2019): 23–40. With Ramat Raḥel being such a prominent Persian administrative centre on the doorstep of Jerusalem, the possibility of these ideas from the Darius Testament filtering through to the temple literati in Jerusalem is plausible.

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The debate about external (Persian) influence in the formation of H is far from concluded, and some of the arguments below will return to this issue. 3.

Holiness in Chronicles

Without offering full motivations here,12 I begin from the following assumptions when dealing with Chronicles: The book is a unity (with only minor parts being the result of Fortschreibung) which was composed by literati in Jerusalem—most probably closely affiliated to the Levitical priesthood—sometime during the middle to the end of the fourth century BCE.13 Its main source was a proto-form of the Deuteronomistic history (particularly Samuel-Kings), but the writers also had a proto-form of all the major Pentateuchal traditions, and even some prophetic texts, available.14 The Chronicler’s work was meant to stand “in-between the times,” that is, between their past traditions and the new imperial socio-political and socio-religious circumstances, in order to facilitate and encourage a new self-understanding of All-Israel (‫)כל־ישׂראל‬, the post-exilic restoration community.15 In this way, Chronicles acted as “reforming history.”16 On the one hand, the historical traditions from the past were reformulated from the perspective of the new Achaemenid reality, but on the other, this “history” was also meant to reform the social identity of the restoration community. One very prominent feature that Chronicles shares with H is its proclivity to merge Deuteronomic and Priestly theological thought. Most scholars agree with Gary Knoppers when he says: 12

The major Chronicles commentaries (Japhet, Klein, McKenzie, Knoppers) can be consulted on the issue of unity, authorship, and dating. See also ch 3 in Jonker, Defining All-Israel. 13 Since the effect of Hellenism became prominent on the highlands of the Levant only towards the end of the fourth century BCE, the date of Alexander’s invasion in 332 BCE should not be treated as a watershed moment. Chronicles attests to the experiences of the late Achaemenid period, even if the book originated sometime into the Hellenistic period. 14 Ehud Ben Zvi and Diana  V.  Edelman, What Was Authoritative for Chronicles? (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011); Louis  C.  Jonker, “The Chronicler and the Prophets. Who Were His Authoritative Sources?” in What Was Authoritative for the Chronicler?, ed. Ehud Ben Zvi and Diana V. Edelman (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 145–64. 15 Gary N. Knoppers and Kenneth A. Ristau, eds., Community Identity in Judean Historiography (Winona Lake,IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009); Jonker, Defining All-Israel. 16 Louis  C.  Jonker, “Reforming History: The Hermeneutical Significance of the Books of Chronicles,” VT 57.1 (2007): 21–44.

184

Louis C. Jonker There is no question that one encounters both pro-Priestly and pro-Levitical passages in Chronicles. Nor is there any doubt that the work draws from Priestly tradition in certain contexts, but from Deuteronomic tradition in others. Rather than an indelible mark of literary disunity, these passages evince the author’s concern to mediate different perspectives within the context of the late Persian period or early Hellenistic age.17

Our discussion below will deal with the issue whether Chronicles has a proPriestly or pro-Levitical attitude. For the moment, it is important to note that Chronicles—like H—paid allegiance to both the Deuteronomic and Priestly traditions. This is not done mechanically, by merely quoting from both traditions; the Chronicler rather merges these traditions creatively into his own narrative in order to portray a unique understanding of how the various theological traditions of the past have shaped (or, should shape) the new selfunderstanding of All-Israel during the Persian imperial existence.18 It is exactly the same predilection that we have noticed in H. The authors of the Holiness legislation also did not quote mechanically from the earlier traditions, but used theological ideas from both to redefine and widen the priestly understanding of holiness (as discussed above). Particularly the Chronicler’s description of the Levites in terms of holiness indicates that the Chronicler deliberately worked with a wider understanding of holiness. The concept “holiness” occurs frequently in Chronicles (32 times as verb, mostly in hiphil or hithpael; 47 times as noun, and once as adjective). There is a development in the narrative line of Chronicles which employs the issue of consecration and holiness as a Leitmotif.19 Where David’s organization of the temple cult is narrated (1 Chr  23–27), a Priestly understanding about the Levites still dominates (1 Chr 23:13 is programmatic in this regard). Also, in 2 Chronicles 5 it is clear that the Levites were merely lending support to the consecrated priests. In 2 Chronicles 23, in the Joash narrative, the tone starts changing, however. The Levites are here included among those who were consecrated. And from 17 Gary N. Knoppers, I Chronicles 1–9: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, AB (New York: Doubleday, 2003), 92. 18 Ehud Ben Zvi, “Are There Any Bridges Out There? How Wide Was the Conceptual Gap between the Deuternomistic History and Chronicles?” in Community Identity in Judean Historiography, ed. Gary N. Knoppers and Kenneth A. Ristau (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009), 59–86; Gary N. Knoppers, “The Relationship of the Deuteronomistic History to Chronicles: Was the Chronicler a Deuteronomist?,” in Congress Volume Helsinki 2010, ed. Martti Nissinen (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 307–41. 19 Jonker, “Holiness and the Levites.”

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2 Chronicles 29 where King Hezekiah’s reign is described, the tide clearly turns. Now, the term ‫( קדשׁ‬as verb and noun) occurs frequently, with 26 instances in the Hezekiah narrative (2 Chr 29–32), and four in the Josiah narrative (2 Chr 34–35). More than once (2 Chr 29:5–36; 35:6), it is said that the king commanded the Levites to consecrate themselves to perform certain cultic rites, including the slaughtering of the Passover lambs. 2 Chr 29:34 is very overt: it contrasts the Levites to the priests by indicating that the former were more conscientious in consecrating themselves than the priests. This portrayal continues into the narrative of Hezekiah’s Passover which had to be postponed till the second month due to the fact that not enough priests consecrated themselves to perform the offerings (2 Chr 30:3). In the Josiah narrative (2 Chr 34–36) it is said that the Levites performed the slaughtering of the Passover lambs for those in the crowd who were not consecrated (2 Chr 30:17). Interestingly, the Chronicler not only strengthens the cultic profile of the Levites throughout the book, but in 2 Chr 31:18 “all their little children, their wives, their sons, and their daughters, the whole assembly” are included among those who were faithful in keeping themselves holy. This is a unique element in Chronicles. Levites are never called “holy” in the Priestly literature and in Ezekiel.20 Whereas the book of Chronicles reflects in its earlier parts a Priestly understanding of who could (and should) be consecrated, and the Levites are still portrayed as those personnel who had to play a supporting role, the perspective changes particularly from the Hezekiah narrative where the Levites become the primary consecrated clergy who assist in the slaughtering and offering of the Passover lambs. There are even glimpses (in 2 Chr 30:15 and 31:18) of community members being viewed as holy. Where did the Chronicler get his cue to widen the understanding of the Levites (and community) in terms of holiness? The Deuteronomic tradition has a wider understanding of the concept, but—as we have seen above—it is particularly H who creatively combined the D and P traditions in order to redefine “holiness.” It is therefore more likely that the Chronicler latched onto H when describing the Levite profile.

20 Gary  N.  Knoppers, “Hierodules, Priests, or Janitors? The Levites in Chronicles and the History of the Israelite Priesthood,” JBL 118.1 (1999): 49–72, at 71.

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Holiness in Ezra-Nehemiah

The composition history of Ezra-Nehemiah is much more complex than that of Chronicles,21 and the range of dates of origin suggested in scholarship for this book, is much wider. The traditional view is that Ezra-Nehemiah originated shortly after the events it narrates, that is, at the end of the sixth and beginning of the fifth century BCE. However, recent historical-critical scholarship has established that the book grew over a period of time (two centuries or more, from around 400–200 BCE),22 and that the different parts of the book were each expanded through Fortschreibung. There is no space in this contribution to go into all the detailed arguments, and the literature can be consulted for more information (Williamson, Blenkinsopp, Pakkala, Wright, Heckl).23 However, for the present purpose, it remains important to mention from the diachronic studies of the book that the time of origin of Ezra-Nehemiah overlaps with that of Chronicles, with some parts of Ezra-Nehemiah pre-Chronistic, others contemporaneous, and still others post-Chronistic. When one studies the occurrence of terminology related to holiness in Ezra-Nehemiah, and particularly how the terminology is related to the role and status of the priests and the Levites,24 one observes the following: 21

22

23

24

Since it is now generally accepted that Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah are separate works with different authorships, I do not go into any detail about the (dis)unity of the books here. See Mark  J.  Boda and Paul  L.  Redditt, eds., Unity and Disunity in Ezra-Nehemiah: Redaction, Rhetoric, and Reader (Sheffield: Phoenix Press, 2008). For a more extreme view that both Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah could not have originated before the Hasmonean era, see Israel Finkelstein, Hasmonean Realities behind Ezra, Nehemiah, and Chronicles: Archaeological and Historical Perspectives, AIL (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2018). Hugh  G.  M.  Williamson, “The Composition of Ezra i-vi,” JTS 34 (1983): 1–30; Hugh  G.  M.  Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah, WBC  16 (Dallas: Word Books, 1985); Joseph Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah, OTL (London: SCM Press, 1988); Juha Pakkala, Ezra the Scribe: The Development of Ezra  7–10 and Nehemiah  8, BZAW  347 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004); Jacob  L.  Wright, Rebuilding Identity: The Nehemiah-Memoir and Its Earliest Readers, BZAW 348 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004); Raik Heckl, Neuanfang und Kontinuität in Jerusalem, FAT 104 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016); Raik Heckl, “The Composition of Ezra-Nehemiah as a Testimony for the Competition between the Temples in Jerusalem and on Mt. Gerizim in the Early Years of the Seleucid Rule over Judah,” in The Bible, Qumran, and the Samaritans, ed. Magnar Kartveit and Gary N. Knoppers, SJ 104 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2018), 115–32. For this analysis, see Louis  C.  Jonker, “Levites, Holiness and Late Achaemenid / Early Hellenistic Literature Formation: Where Does Ezra-Nehemiah Fit into the Discourse?” in Chronicles and the Priestly Literature, ed. Louis C. Jonker and Jeon Jaeyoung, BZAW 528 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2021), 391–416.

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The majority of texts in Ezra-Nehemiah, where the theme of holiness and consecration appears in connection to priests and Levites, reveal a “democratized” understanding in line with what we have observed in H. For example, the texts in Nehemiah 11 and 12—being earlier than Chronicles according to the diachronic reconstruction that we accept here—most probably latched onto the Holiness material directly, shortly after the emergence of H as a reinterpretation of the priestly and Deuteronomic traditions. Furthermore, it is not exactly clear how the Levites are viewed in the duplicated list of returnees in Nehemiah 7 and Ezra 2. Rausche argues that these texts wanted to push back against some “wannabe” priests, not referring here to the Levites, but to some descendants of priestly families who also aspired to be priests.25 The duplicated list probably reflects the same position as the (in my view, post-Chronistic) theocratic redaction in Numbers  16–18 which we have identified in earlier publications.26 However, here in the list the theocratic “push back” is against priestly descendants and not against the Levites. This is different than in Numbers 16–18. The fact that the polemic is clearly not against the Levites here makes it very difficult to decide where Nehemiah 7 and Ezra 2 fit into the discourse, both thematically and chronologically. The occurrences of holiness terminology in relation to priests and Levites in Ezra 8–10 also leave us with an unclear picture, although an association with H seems likely, despite the strong exclusive views reflected in these texts. The accusation of the defilement of the “holy seed” (‫ )זרע הקדשׁ‬in Ezra 9:2 illustrates this well. The people of Israel, together with the priests and the Levites (9:1) are accused of not having separated themselves (‫ )לא בדל‬from the peoples of the lands (‫)מעמי הארצות‬, and thereby have caused the mixing of the “holy seed,” which was considered to be “faithlessness” (‫)מעל‬. It is noteworthy that the accusation is against “the people of Israel, the priests, and the Levites” in equal measure. Although the strong idea of separation from the peoples of the lands is characteristic of P ideology, the inclusion of all people of Israel and the

25

26

Benedikt Rausche, “The Relevance of Purity in Second Temple Judaism According to Ezra-Nehemiah,” in Purity and the Forming of Religious Traditions in the Ancient Mediterranean World and Ancient Judaism, ed. Christian Frevel and Christophe Nihan (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 457–75. Jonker, “Holiness and the Levites”; Jonker, “Melting Pots and Rejoinders?” Also see Reinhard Achenbach, Die Vollendung der Tora: Studien zur Redaktionsgeschichte des Numeribuches im Kontext von Hexateuch und Pentateuch, BZABR  3 (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 2003); Reinhard Achenbach, “Das Heiligkeitsgesetz und die Sakralen Ordnungen des Numeribuches im Horizont der Pentateuchredaktion,” in The Books of Leviticus and Numbers, ed. Thomas Römer, BETL 215 (Leuven: Peeters, 2008), 145–75.

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Levites in the list of accused, betrays something of the democratized understanding of holiness.27 Where the clear influence of the “democratized” understanding of H is indeed attested, is Ezra 6:20. This text latches onto the Chronicler’s description of Hezekiah’s and Josiah’s Passover celebrations, which form the climax of the Chronicler’s development of the Levite profile, as explained above. Ezra 6:20, as part of Ezra 1–6 (chapters that originated later in order to connect the Ezra Material and Nehemiah Memoir to Chronicles), supports the same position on the Levites as Chronicles.28 In texts like Nehemiah  10:29 and chapter 13 of the Nehemiah Memoir (which are normally seen as some of the latest material in the composition of Ezra-Nehemiah), the positive portrayal of the Levites reaches a level unprecedented compared to the earlier parts of the book. These texts were most likely Fortschreibungen of the narrative development of the Levite profile that we have witnessed in Chronicles (see above). These texts in Nehemiah  10 and 13 are clearly post-Chronistic, and they support the same position in the discourse on the Levites as the final form of Chronicles.29 The above discussion shows that, as far as the diachronic reconstruction of Ezra-Nehemiah allows us, we can observe that the different parts of the book engage—albeit in a variety of ways—with the more “democratized” understandings of holiness, consecration, and the Levites’ position in the cult. It seems as if there are parts of Ezra-Nehemiah that directly interact with H, while others seem to engage with the “democratized” tendency of H via the narrative constructions in the book of Chronicles. At least the following strategies can be identified in the different parts of Ezra-Nehemiah: The holiness and the consecrated status of the Levites are definitely emphasized, particularly in key passages such as the narrative on the dedication of the rebuilt Temple, the celebration of the Passover, and the 27 28

29

Contra Mark G. Brett, Locations of God: Political Theology in the Hebrew Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019), 103. See also Heckl, Neuanfang und Kontinuität in Jerusalem, 392. Here, I agree with Mark Brett when he indicates the following with reference to the combination of different theological traditions in the Persian period to form the Pentateuch: “[M]y argument … points to the possibility that Ezra 1–6 reflects compromises with Holiness theology, and this suggests that the later development of the Ezra tradition may have been compatible with an archival combination of the Priestly Triteuch with Deuteronomy.” Brett, Locations of God, 111. Although I agree with Pakkala that clear Levitical editorial activity can be observed in the mentioned texts, I would not go as far as Kyung-Jin Min who sees a Levitical authorship behind the whole book. See Kyung-Jin Min, The Levitical Authorship of Ezra-Nehemiah, JSOTSup 409 (London: T&T Clark, 2004), 141.

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dedication of the rebuilt wall. Furthermore, some texts (like the duplicated list in Neh 7 and Ezra 2) show a push back against “wannabe” priests. And, lastly, further interpretations of Pentateuchal materials, namely the D, P, and H traditions, can clearly be observed in the book. Ezra-Nehemiah therefore stands in all its multivocality as another beacon in the lively discourse in the post-exilic period on who (and what) could be considered “holy.” The legacy of H continued in Ezra-Nehemiah. 5.

Political Implications

Having compared the views on holiness in Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah, we may now advance to a clearer articulation of the political implications of what we have observed in these books. The discussion below identifies a number of prominent themes. 5.1 Holiness and the Persian Imperial Influence Sphere As already mentioned, the literature formation processes of the post-exilic period, particularly in the late Achaemenid era, took place within the context of Yehud’s colonial existence under Persian imperial rule.30 Elsewhere,31 I have distinguished between at least four levels of socio-historical existence in this period, and have considered a fifth level in a further publication.32 The overarching umbrella was the imperial level, and all other levels of socio-historic existence played out under this umbrella. These were (i) the level of provincial interaction (particularly with Samaria), (ii) the level of old tribal rivalries between Judah and Benjamin, (iii) the level of cultic factionalism at the Second Temple in Jerusalem, and (iv) the level of diaspora-homeland relationships with those Jewish communities in the Babylonian and Egyptian areas. This distinction is important because these levels of existence clearly influenced the rhetoric of communication, also the political rhetoric, in Yehud. Although there were all kinds of self-categorizations and identity negotiations playing out in Yehud in this period (Yehudites vs Samarians; Judahites vs Benjaminites; remainee clergy vs returnee clergy; Jerusalem-based Yahwism vs Gerizim- or diaspora-based Yahwism; returned exiles vs diaspora Jews; etc.), 30 Brett, Locations of God, chap. 7. 31 Jonker, Defining All-Israel, chap. 3. 32 Louis C. Jonker, “Achaemenid Language Politics and Ezra-Nehemiah,” in The Formation of Biblical Texts: Chronicling the Legacy of Gary Knoppers, ed. Deirdre  N.  Fulton, Kenneth  A.  Ristau, and Jonathan Greer, FAT/I (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2022), (to be published).

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these processes remained part of the “inner” discourse, and could never spill over into the open of the imperial existence. Rivalries and factionalisms could continue, but in the overarching imperial environment an image of being united as Yahwists and Yehudites was imperative. The Achaemenid royal ideology of peace and order (as reflected in the Bisitun and royal tomb inscriptions—amongst others—but also in the impressive iconography of the Apadanas in the Persian centers such as Persepolis, Susa, and Ecbatana)33 had to be respected and honored. Those literati in Yehud would know well that the Persians employed a “carrot-and-stick” model of ruling over the empire. Loyalty was rewarded, but any signs of disorder or rebellion would be punished by the imperial overlords. These overlapping contexts—under the umbrella of the imperial existence—bred hybridity among the Yehudite literati, and mimicry became a useful, and even crucial, strategy of communicating within the empire.34 It is within this context that some scholars see a process of imperial authorization of the Torah taking place.35 According to this theory, the satrapies and provinces of the Persian empire were required to submit to the imperial government some sort of a constitution for approval before it could form the basis of life (and religion) in the subjugated areas. This theory assumes that the formation of the Torah from disparate theological traditions (non-P, D and P) was prompted by the requirement of imperial authorization, and that the reading of the Torah after the return from exile (Neh 8) signifies that the authorized Torah formed the constitutional basis of the returned community. This theory was never accepted in scholarship, but some more nuanced versions have gained some acceptance.36 Accordingly, one should rather assume that the more open policy of the Persians compared to their imperial predecessors the 33

Margaret Cool Root, “Defining the Divine in Achaemenid Persian Kingship: The View from Bisitun,” in Every Inch a King (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 23–65; Matthew Lynch, Monotheism and Institutions in the Book of Chronicles: Temple, Priesthood, and Kingship in Post-Exilic Perspective, FAT/II 64 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014). 34 Brett, Locations of God, 114–19. 35 Peter Frei and Klaus Koch, Reichsidee und Reichsorganisation im Perserreich, 2nd ed., OBO 55 (Fribourg: Universitätsverlag Freiburg, 1996). For a critical view on this theory, see Josef Wiesehöfer, “‘Reichsgesetz’ oder ‘Einzelfallgerechtigkeit’: Bemerkungen zu Peter Freis These von der Achaimenidischen ‘Reichsautorisation,’” ZABR 1 (1995): 36–46. 36 Jean-Louis Ska, Introduction to Reading the Pentateuch (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006); Konrad Schmid, “The Persian Imperial Authorization as a Historical Problem and as a Biblical Construct: A Plea for Distinctions in the Current Debate,” in The Pentateuch as Torah: New Models for Understanding Its Promulgation and Acceptance, ed. Gary N. Knoppers and Bernard M. Levinson (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 23–38; Brett, Locations of God, 111.

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Babylonians and Assyrians, allowed local communities to come up with their own configurations of religious and theological understandings (as witnessed, e.g., in the Elephantine correspondence). The Persian context therefore did not supply an external political force to amalgamate different theological traditions in Yehud into the Torah; it rather allowed an internal context to develop in Yehud (and elsewhere) where intense discourses among the different transmitted theological traditions became possible, but with the prerequisite that it will not upset the imperial peace and order. Within this context of hybridity and mimicry, it is surely understandable that some priestly factions would continue their debates about who, and what, could be considered holy. The emergence of H as a post-priestly Fortschreibung, in dialogue with Deuteronomic understandings that also became important again in the context of provincial rivalry (with the temple community in Samaria on Mount Gerizim, who also claimed that their sanctuary represented true Yahwism), prompted a broader discourse that resonated in other literary developments of the time, such as Ezra-Nehemiah and Chronicles. However, the renewed interest in holiness was not only relevant in the contexts of provincial and inner-cultic rivalries; it was also a subtle polemic in the direction of the imperial center (via the imperial officials at Ramat Raḥel) that the royal Achaemenid ideology of peace and order did not form their ultimate focus, but rather the holiness of Yahweh, their God, who expects All-Israel to be holy as well. We have seen above that external imperial impulses such as the so-called Fürstenspiegel on Darius’ tomb (DNa and DNb) could even have contributed towards the democratized understanding of holiness as expressed in H and further writings. Holiness is not a quality limited to the clergy, cult and temple in Jerusalem; holiness is rather a quality of All-Israel, as a distinct religious community in the Persian imperial context. 5.2 Holiness as Qualifier of (Levite) Priesthood While holiness became a distinct qualification of All-Israel in the imperial context, it also served as a focal point for the inner-cultic power negotiations. Whereas the P tradition allowed the Levites (who probably fled from regional sanctuaries to Jerusalem after the Assyrian conquest in 722 BCE, and who were not taken into the Babylonian exile) only a minor status and position within the religion of Israel, the democratized understanding of holiness in H prompted the post-exilic historiographic writers (of Chronicles and the various parts of Ezra-Nehemiah) to argue for at least an equal position for the Levites in the Second Temple cult. There was no doubt that priests from the Aaronite line were the designated clergy who had to be consecrated in order to handle the holy objects and rituals. However, the writers of Chronicles and

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the different parts of Ezra-Nehemiah argued on the basis of the democratized understanding of holiness that the Levites could also perform key rituals in the Jerusalem cult. Except the sin offering, that remained the sole responsibility of the priests, all other offerings and festivals could be performed and enacted by the Levites as well. The discourse on holiness therefore had strong political overtones in the Jerusalem cult, while it contributed towards the negotiating of power among the different factions of the priesthood. 5.3 Holiness in the Yehudite Cult In both Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah the theme of holiness features most prominently in the narratives about the Passover celebrations and the dedication of the temple (the First Temple in Chronicles and the Second Temple in Ezra-Nehemiah). In Chronicles, as pointed out elsewhere,37 the “proper” celebration of the Passover in Josiah’s time marks the completion of the templebuilding under Solomon. Passover, as culmination of the religious ideology of the post-exilic Yahwistic community, highlights the centrality and value of the temple in Jerusalem. Thereby, Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah not only use the theme of holiness to emphasize over and against the northern sanctuary on Mount Gerizim that All-Israel’s cultic center is Jerusalem, but they also subtly put the Jerusalem temple in parallel to the royal audience halls of the Persian empire. As discussed elsewhere,38 there is no archaeological evidence that the Achaemenids built any monumental temples (like other ancient empires did). Yehud, on the other hand, had no king except the Persian imperial ruler, and there was thus no need to build a palace. As argued by Matthew Lynch and Margaret Cool Root,39 the Apadanas (or, audience halls) of the great Achaemenid centers not only served political purposes, but were also imbued with religious overtones. The Persian king on his throne, with the iconography

37 38

39

Louis C. Jonker, “Completing the Temple with the Celebration of Josiah’s Passover?” OTE 15.2 (2002): 381–97; Louis C. Jonker, Reflections of King Josiah in Chronicles: Late Stages of the Josiah Reception in II Chr. 34f (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2003). Jonker, Defining All-Israel, chap. 3; Louis  C.  Jonker, “A Conflation of Divine and Royal Imagery? The Case of the Winged Symbol in Achaemenid Persia,” in Stone Age to Stellenbosch: Studies on the Ancient Near East in Honour of Izak (Sakkie) Cornelius, ed. Gideon  R.  Kotzé, Renate  M.  van  Dijk-Coombes, and Liani  C.  Swanepoel, ÄAT  107 (Münster: Zaphon, 2021), 153–161. Root, “Defining the Divine in Achaemenid Persian Kingship”; Lynch, Monotheism and Institutions.

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of the winged symbol almost always hovering above his head, symbolized a “theology of kingship” (as Silverman puts it).40 The analogy drawn by literature such as Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah is therefore not to equal the great kings of their past with the Achaemenid kings, but rather to put Yahweh in his temple in opposition to the Persian king in his audience hall. Yahweh is the holy one who brings peace and order, and the temple in Jerusalem with the celebration of the Passover symbolizes his holiness. This suggestion of Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah thereby not only distinguishes the All-Israelite religious community from the imperial environment, but it also polemicizes subtly in the direction of the imperial center (via Ramat Raḥel) that Yahweh stands above their king as the Holy One. This accent does indeed form the conclusion to the Chronicler’s work and the opening of Ezra-Nehemiah when the writers emphasize that Yahweh gave Cyrus, the Persian king, the assignment to let Israel return to Jerusalem to rebuild their temple. Thereby, the Chronicler and the writer of Ezra 1–6 indicate that even the great Persian king Cyrus acknowledged the supremacy of Yahweh over the Persian kings, of Jerusalem over the imperial centers, and of the Jerusalem temple over the Achaemenid audience halls (and the temple on Gerizim). Holiness in the Self-understanding of Returned and Diaspora Communities Latching onto H, both the Chronicler and the writers of Ezra-Nehemiah suggested that All-Israel is a holy community. Holiness is not restricted to the cult and temple in Jerusalem, but is the characteristic quality of All-Israel, in all its geographical and tribal variety. Both Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah emphasize that all the people participated in the dedication of the (First and Second) temple and in the celebration of Passover. The people are even included in those who were consecrated and who could slaughter the Passover offerings. However, Ezra-Nehemiah also gives ample evidence of what happens when the priests, Levites and people do not separate themselves from the “peoples of the land”—they mix “the holy seed.” Although this very exclusive understanding reflected in various sections in Ezra-Nehemiah is foreign to the more inclusive stance of Chronicles, both these books reflect the understanding that the people are also called to be holy (like in H). It seems that Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah represented different positions in the debate about the mixing

5.4

40

Jason M. Silverman, “Was There an Achaemenid ‘Theology’ of Kingship? The Intersections of Mythology, Religion, and Imperial Religious Policy,” in Religion in the Achaemenid Persian Empire, ed. Diana  V.  Edelman, Anne Fitzpatrick-McKinley, and Philippe Guillaume, ORA 17 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 172–96.

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with foreign nations, without surrendering the democratized understanding of holiness in the process. This, again, is a clear indication of the hybridity in the identities that were negotiated in the multi-levelled socio-historic existence of the post-exilic era. It witnesses strongly that the negotiation of an All-Israelite identity manifested in the cultic environment in Jerusalem, but also in interaction with the other nations of the surrounding provinces. However, the claims of holiness for the Yahwistic community stretched further than the immediate geographical environment. It most probably also included the diaspora communities in the Mesopotamian regions and Egypt. The former were descendants of the exiles of Israel and Judah who remained in Mesopotamia after the release under Cyrus the Great (as reflected in the conclusion of Chronicles and opening of Ezra-Nehemiah), while the latter were part of a Jewish military community on the Nile island Elephantine. Both these Diaspora communities had their own Yahweh sanctuaries, and both considered their relationship with the homelands, Yehud and Samaria, as important to sustain (as witnessed, inter alia, in some of the Elephantine papyri). The democratized understanding of holiness as a characteristic of All-Israel therefore also served the purpose of strengthening the relationship with the Diaspora communities. It seems, particularly from Ezra-Nehemiah, that the Babylonian Diaspora community played an important role in sustaining the homeland in Yehud financially. When the diaspora communities are included in the late post-exilic understanding of the holy All-Israel, the writers of Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah make the political statement to the imperial center that these communities are also Yahwists. However, this rhetorical move also endorses the continued and close relationship with the diaspora communities for the economic benefit of the community in Jerusalem. 6.

Conclusion

There should be no doubt that both Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah are good examples of political theological literature stemming from the late Persian period in Yehud. Although the surface structure of these books’ narratives and lists seems to be dealing exclusively with the religious community in Jerusalem, these books communicated on various socio-historical levels which each reflected a unique configuration of political power as well. Religious selfunderstanding and political discourses go hand-in-hand in this literature. Furthermore, the diachronic study of how Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah fit into the discourses of the Persian and early Hellenistic period revealed that theirs were not lonely and isolated voices. The writers of these literary works

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were participating fully in the broader religious and political discourses of the time. In both Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah it is clear that the tendency to merge different theological traditions of the past, as witnessed in H, also had a distinct influence in these books. It is clear that these discourses formed part of the development of a theocratic understanding of political power in Yehud.41 An imperial context, such as Achaemenid Persia, necessitates careful and strategic communication in subjugated areas such as Yehud, due to the asymetrical power relations at play.42 In this respect, Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah are very good examples of how to speak in an imperium!

41 42

Reinhard Müller, Königtum und Gottesherrschaft: Untersuchungen zur alttestamentlichen Monarchiekritik, FAT II/3 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004); Reinhard Müller, “Theologie jenseits der Königsherrschaft,” ZTK 104.1 (2007): 1–24. See Jonker, Defining All-Israel, ch. 4.

Job “Opened His Mouth and Cursed”: Job 3 as a Culturally Political Comedy Challenging Simplistic Attitudes to Retribution and Piety Katherine E. Southwood Job is introduced to audiences as a prominent foreigner who rises early in the mornings to make whole burnt offerings on the off-chance that one of his many children might inadvertently sin by “blessing” God in their hearts (Job  1:5).1 Through the foil of a foreign protagonist, audiences glimpse at a character who is, in fact, a wildly exaggerated form of conventional Yahwistic piety and whose wealth allows him to go through the motions of such elaborate daily displays of ritual virtue. As Job’s entire body is unexpectedly struck by the Satan with boils, he sits amongst the ashes. Suddenly, this foreigner from Uz becomes the windy epicenter around which the problems associated with Yahwistic conventional piety and, in particular, simplistic ideas about retribution are debated. The term comedy is preferable to parody in this article because the latter implies a specific target of attack. Vacuous conventional piety and simplistic ideas about retribution are cast comically in Job to give audiences at the time of writing pause for thought about whether a more nuanced form of Yahwism that is better equipped to deal with suffering may be needed. The underlying purpose of the comedy is, therefore, far from frivolous.2 Comedy is an excellent tool for this type of challenge since, as Whedbee argues, it “can be

1 As is well known, the repeated term ‘bless’ is euphemistic, meaning directly the opposite (‘curse’ at the beginning of Job (Job. 1:5, 11; 2:5, 11)). This euphemism is unmasked in Job 3 when it becomes abundantly clear that Job is no longer “blessing” God. 2 Understanding Job as comedy is not unique to this article. For example, Fry labelled Job “the great reservoir of comedy.” Christopher Fry, “Comedy,” in  Comedy: Meaning and Form, ed. Robert W. Corrigan (San Francisco: Chandler, 1965), 15–18, 15. Similarly, Whedbee has made a case for Job as comedy. William J. Whedbee, “The Comedy of Job,” Semeia 7 (1977): 1–39. Keller also argued that Job is a “tehomic” comedy (or creation comedy). Catherine Keller, The Face of the Deep: A Theology of Becoming (London: Routledge, 2003), 124–25. This idea is explored through surveying the contrast between Job’s understanding of his bodily misfortunes and his friends’ one-dimensional attitudes towards his suffering, as betrayed by the judgmental and incriminating advice the friends offer. Katherine E. Southwood, Job’s Body and the Dramatised Comedy of Moralising, Routledge Studies in the Biblical World (London: Routledge, 2021).

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/978365

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profoundly serious; in fact, it has often served as one of the most compelling strategies for dealing with chaos and suffering.”3 Three key devices here function to give nuance and sophistication to the discussion of Job 3 as culturally political comedy. The first is dramatic irony, which “throbs beneath the poetry because the audience knows, as none of the human characters in the book do, that everything that has befallen Job has been the result of a capricious heavenly wager.”4 Through this, the notion of simplistic retribution—that all the characters including Job grapple with—is undermined in the discussions.5 Secondly, casting Job as a foreigner gives the character license to explore aspects of traditional Yahwism in a somewhat iconoclastic way without it being explicitly blasphemous. Thirdly, through restricting the tetragrammaton to the prologue and epilogue and instead using other names for the deity—such as ‫ֹלהים‬ ִ ‫‘( ָה ֱא‬the deity’), ‫‘( ֵאל‬El/God’), ‫לֹוה‬ ַ ‫ֱא‬ (“Eloah/God”), ‫ֹלהים‬ ִ ‫‘( ֱא‬God’), ‫‘( ַשׁ ַדּי‬Shaddai/the Almighty’) and ‫‘( ֲאד ֺנָ י‬Lord’)6— Job’s often violent and explicit language narrowly avoids slipping into profanity. This article, therefore, argues that Job 3 is part of the book’s larger cultural 3 Whedbee, “The Comedy of Job,” 4. 4 Carolyn  J.  Sharp,  Irony and Meaning in the Hebrew Bible, ISBL (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2009), 190. 5 The ironic way in which the struggle with the idea of retribution is depicted regularly focuses on the question of innocence and guilt. Job’s guilt is implicated by his body being covered with “boils” (‫“ )שחין‬from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head,” a merismus indicating the entirety of the human body (see also Deut 28:35; 2 Sam 14:25). The term ‫ שחין‬is mentioned in Lev 13:18–23 as the first sign of the anomalous condition known as ‫צרעת‬, however the word ‫ צרעת‬does not occur in Job and retrospectively attempting to diagnose Job does not assist us in our examination of cultural politics. More interestingly, although Job is declared in the prologue to be “blameless” (‫ )תם‬and “upright” (‫)ישר‬, ironically these are the very words and concepts that the friends use to accuse Job of responsibility for his bodily condition (Job 1:1; Eliphaz’s accusation: Job 4:7; Bildad’s accusation: Job 8:6, 20; Zophar’s accusation: Job 11:4, 13). To Job’s friends, his body is all the proof they need of his guilt. In their simplistic and mechanistic estimations of how Yahweh works, all Job needs to do is to be pure and upright, given that “God will not reject a blameless (‫ )תם‬man” (Job 8:6, 20). But, of course, the audience knows what none of the characters do, making the central paradox of Job’s innocence the core tension upon which cultural politics can be played out. 6 The only time the tetragrammaton appears is in Job 12:9, however, is sometimes understood to be an interpolation. David J. A. Clines, Job 1–20. (Dallas: Word Books, 1989), 294. Witte notes that the nearly all the terms used for the deity in the Old Greek Job, which is significantly shorter than the Masoretic Text, are translated as ὁ κύριος or κύριος with the “twofold result” that “Job and his friends are now seen as worshippers of the one single God of Israel” but, paradoxically, “Job is from now on a part of Hellenistic literature which also uses the term (ὁ) κύριος for different gods.” Markus Witte, “Job in Conversation with the Torah,” in Wisdom and Torah: The Reception of “Torah” in the Wisdom Literature of the Second Temple Period, ed. Bernd Ulrich Schipper and D. Andrew Teeter (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 81–100, 50.

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politics through its tragic and shocking, but regularly comical, treatment of well-established Yahwistic ideas like retribution, which are sometimes unhelpful when suffering is encountered. The notion of “cultural politics” emerges through Newsom’s articulation of the idea in relation to Job.7 While Newsom does not define cultural politics, since the publication of her article nearly thirty years ago there has been an increasing focus in humanities and social sciences research on the concept. In cultural studies, for example, the notion of “cultural politics” addresses relationships between culture, ideology, and power, and a key concern is with marginalized subcultures.8 This is because people’s attitudes, beliefs, and feelings shape society and political opinions and, as such, can generate legal, social, and economic realities. Job 3 aligns well with the category “political theology” given the cultural politics at play in the text, as well as in the entire book, as a contest between dominant wisdom of the friends and more cynical forms of Yahwism, with the latter (including the character Job’s satirical barbs) possibly representing the opinions of a marginalized subculture. The wisdom of Job’s friends often uses simplistic ideas about retribution, where there is a close connection between act and consequence (e.g., Prov 26:27).9 Therefore, in the estimation of Job’s friends, the changes to his bodily and social condition illustrate his sinfulness. The friends “rarely … quote a tradition” directly but their viewpoints are expressed in a self-assured and confident manner “populated with the commonplaces of Israelite moral discourse” betraying their perspective as the more dominant one.10 Job, in contrast, appeals to his own somatic experience alongside his innocence, rather than to traditional wisdom. In maintaining this appeal, the character Job is representative of an emerging movement within Yahwism that sought to challenge and 7 8 9

10

Carol  A.  Newsom, “Cultural Politics and the Reading of Job,”  BibInt  1.2 (1993): 119–38, 128–29. For a detailed survey of the emergence of the research field named cultural politics refer to John Armitage, Ryan Bishop, Mark Featherstone, and Douglas Kellner, “Cultural Politics Now” Cultural Politics: An International Journal 13.3 (2017): 267–76. Concerning simplistic notions of retribution refer to Kiel and Weeks who both critique the idea that Tobit is designed to undermine the idea of Deuteronomic retribution owing to their confusing and reductive caricatures of Deuteronomy. Micah D. Kiel, The “Whole Truth”: Rethinking Retribution in the Book of Tobit (London: T&T Clark, 2012); Stuart Weeks, “A Deuteronomistic Heritage in Tobit?” in Changes in Scripture: Rewriting and Interpreting Authoritative Traditions in the Second Temple Period, ed. Hanne von Weissenberg, Juha Pakkala and Marko Marttila, BZAW 419 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011), 389–404. Like Tobit, Job is not specifically critiquing Deuteronomic ideas, but a more generalized form of simplistic notions of rewards and punishments. Newsom, Cultural Politics, 128.

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rework areas within Yahwistic theology. Effectively, from chapter 3 onward, the dialogues in Job are more political than a disagreement between friends. The characters represent different perspectives, and perhaps even different groups of Yahwists competing for power in the realms of religious authority and tradition.11 Therefore, if political theology can be defined by Brett as a type of “God-talk located in the context of multiple, often competing, perspectives on social life” then it is important simultaneously to recognize, through the notion of cultural politics, the power dynamics inherent in, and at the epicenter of, the creation and contestation of values, meanings, and ideas about Yahweh.12 Job is usually dated somewhere between the sixth and the fourth centuries BCE.13 It may be a Persian period or even a Hellenistic text, therefore. This immediately lends the main protagonist a culturally political edge, given the negative attitudes towards foreigners expressed in several post-exilic and Hellenistic texts. For example, Ezra-Nehemiah, Tobit, and Jonah all advocate for a type of Yahwism where strict boundaries must be drawn, whether through ethnic and religious endogamy or through restrictions on Yahweh’s grace (Ezra 9–10; Neh 13:23–30; Tob 4:12–13; 6:10–16; 7:10–16; Jonah 4:1–4, 9–11). However, through being cast as a foreigner from Uz, the author or authors are able to make Job into a type of “sceptic” whose knowledge of the world does not come from “wisdom”14 traditions, such as might be found in Proverbs or some of the Psalms for example, or from ideas about retribution such as are demonstrated in Deuteronomy (Deut 28:21–22, 27–28), or even from covenantal traditions that take up themes of creation and ethics (Lev 26:40–45).15 Instead, Job’s knowledge of how the world works seems regularly to spring from his own somatic experience of the created world (Job 6:4–14; 16:7–15; 30:11–31). Rather than adhering to neatly narrated traditional ideas, such as Job’s friends offer, 11

It is difficult, however, to pinpoint specifically who, or what groups, the characters are representative of. Nevertheless, there is evidence of internal pushes for dominance in other texts. Compare, for example, the different perspectives offered by Isa 56:1–8 and Ezek  44:5–14. Nathan MacDonald,  Priestly Rule: Polemic and Biblical Interpretation in Ezekiel 44, BZAW 476 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2015). 12 Mark G. Brett, Locations of God: Political Theology in the Hebrew Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019), xix. 13 Katharine  J.  Dell,  Job: An Introduction and Study Guide. Where Shall Wisdom be found? (London: T&T Clark, 2017), 5. 14 The notion of the genre ‘wisdom’ is widely debated. Refer to Will Kynes, An Obituary for “Wisdom Literature”: The Birth, Death, and Intertextual Reintegration of a Biblical Corpus (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019). Also refer to the essays in Mark R. Sneed, Was there a Wisdom Tradition?: New Prospects in Israelite Wisdom Studies, AIL 23 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2015). 15 Refer also to Brett, Locations of God, 135.

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his own language often has a more “present moment” quality about it that simply refuses to downplay the reality of suffering by looking to other Yahwistic texts and traditions in order to construct meanings and narratives.16 Therefore, audiences watching the play17 must confront the problem of arbitrary suffering directly. Casting Job as a foreigner also means that the character sometimes, rather comically, breaks away from norms and expectations. This is the case in chapter 3, for example. After the friends ritualistically sit mourning in liminal silence with Job for a week, we expect him to begin a period of reintegration into society.18 Instead, however, Job has what Newsom describes as a “culturally inappropriate outburst” and launches off into a strangely exaggerated form of the traditional lament.19 This is rather awkward, exposing the fact that the “comfort that the friends intend to offer is foiled since they only expected a brief period of mourning.”20 However, alongside being incredibly tragic it also betrays a comical edge because of its alignment with incongruence theory.21 16 17

Newsom, “Cultural Politics,” 128–29. In this article, Job is imagined as a play to be performed, perhaps with some similarities to Aristophanes and the Athenian theatre. While there is no direct evidence to support this theory, it should not be impossible to imagine the performative aspects to Job, especially if we note the importance of orality. Jacqueline Vayntrub,  Beyond Orality: Biblical Poetry on its Own Terms (London: Routledge, 2019). It should also be noted that many commentators have observed the similarities between Job and Greek tragedy. For example, “Theodore of Mopsuestia … observed affinities of Job with Greek drama” (Whedbee, “Comedy”, 2). Kallen took the rather extreme position of suggesting an explicit dependence of the Joban poet on Euripides. Horace Meyer Kallen, The Book of Job as a Greek Tragedy: Restored with an Introductory Essay on the Original Form and Philosophic Meaning of Job (New York: Moffat, 1918). 18 Regarding mourning rituals refer to Saul M. Olyan, Biblical Mourning: Ritual and Social Dimensions (Oxford: Oxford University Press 2004). Habel suggests that by throwing the dust upon their heads, the friends “perform a rite which symbolically calls forth the same sickness on themselves as an act of total empathy” (Norman C. Habel, The Book of Job: A Commentary, OTL [London: SCM, 1985], 97). The friends’ empathy, however, soon dwindles and is replaced by increasing irritation when Job fails to acknowledge their advice. 19 Carol A. Newsom, The Book of Job: A Contest of Moral Imaginations (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 351. 20 James Aitken, “The Inevitability of Reading Job through Lamentations,” in Reading Job Intertextually, ed Katharine Dell and Will Kynes (New York: Bloomsbury, 2013), 204–15, 214. 21 Incongruence in comedy theory is laughter in response to the unexpected. The idea goes back at least as far as Aristophanes. It is sometimes detected by scholars in Biblical material. Refer to Benjamin M. Lazarus, Humanist Comic Elements in Aristophanes and the Old Testament (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2014); John Jarick, “Ecclesiastes among the comedians,” in Reading Ecclesiastes Intertextually, ed. Katherine Dell and Will Kynes, LHBOTS 587 (London: T&T Clark, 2014), 176–88. Refer also to the contributions to the

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This comical edge is political because it reduces the friends’ solemn comfort in the previous chapter to misdirection and points towards the need for a better Yahwistic theology than the friends (and the group they are representative of) possess. The literary device of the character opening his mouth to speak slows down the pace of action and draws the audience’s attention to his words (Job 3:1). We expect the god-fearing Job to respond as he did formerly (“blessed be the name of the Lord”), as the model of traditional piety (Job 1:21). Instead, Job begins with “perish the day when I was born / and the night that said: ‘a man has been conceived’” (Job 3:3). Job has a radical change of character and responds in a shocking and incongruous way with a curse that is nigh-on diametrically opposed to his original piety. Therefore, the pedagogical character, Job, is used as a device. The character illustrates to audiences that when faced with genuine suffering, traditional Yahwistic piety and simplistic notions of causation are not enough to provide any real consolation. The curse itself is generally divided into three cantos: vv. 3–10 (cursing), vv. 11–19 and 20–26 (two lamentations, introduced with ‫)למה‬. While the first section is highly structured, the lament loses structure, “as if the poem is already performing the deconstruction of the cosmic order that Job desires.”22 The curse is a form of the death-wish most closely akin to Jeremiah’s wish for death (Jer 20:14–18; see also Jonah 4:3, 9; Tob 3:6).23 The connections between the curse and creation are widely recognized. As Perdue argues, “the disorienting reversal of creation language” and “destabilization of metaphors which had shaped the mythological wisdom texts of origins and maintenance” is particularly striking.24 Likewise, Fishbane has suggested that the sequence of excellent edited collection: Athalya Brenner-Idan and Thomas Radday Yehuda, eds., On Humour and the Comic in the Hebrew Bible, JSOTSup  92 (Sheffield: Almond, 1990). For a lengthy discussion of comedy refer to Frye’s classic essays: Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000). However, it is worth noting that incongruence has been critiqued by Eagleton as something that merely describes a reaction rather than telling us why we laugh in response to incongruence. Terry Eagleton, Humour (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2019). 22 C. L. Seow, Job 1–21: Interpretation and Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2013), 315; refer also to G. Barbiero, “The Structure of Job 3,” ZAW 127.1 (2015): 43–62. Some suggest that Eliphaz’s vision originally belonged to Job and formed the conclusion of chapter 3, having been inserted by a later redactor into Eliphaz’s speech. Ken Brown, The Vision in Job 4 and its Role in the Book: Reframing the Development of the Joban Dialogues, FAT II/ 75 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015). 23 Edward L. Greenstein, “Jeremiah as an Inspiration to the Poet of Job,” in Inspired speech: Prophecy in the Ancient Near East. Essays in Honor of Herbert B. Huffmon, eds John Kaltner, Louis Stulman, JSOTSup 378 (London: T&T Clark, 2004), 98–110. 24 Leo G. Perdue, Wisdom in Revolt: Metaphorical Theology in the Book of Job, LHBOTS 112 (Sheffield: Almond Press, 1991), 95.

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Job’s curses approximates and reverses the structure of the priestly creation account so that the character calls for a systematic reversal of the cosmic order (Gen 1).25 This is most explicit through Job’s loaded, satirical phrase ‫יהי חשך‬ (“let there be darkness” Job 3:4; Gen 1:3).26 Balentine suggests this “has the rhetorical effect of nullifying the hopes and promises attached to each day.”27 Instead of the tightly ordered account of creation that lacks drama, mythology, and suspense that we find in Genesis 1, Job’s language betrays a return to a primordial battle with forces of chaos as betrayed by the mention of “leviathan”: “let them condemn it—the cursers of Day28 / the ones prepared to rouse Leviathan” (Job 3:8).29 Herein, the character Job portrays himself as a microcosm for the entire created order. This is an incongruous comparison for a character sitting in the ashes. As Balentine questions, “how can one who sits on the ash heap, where no person of status would normally be found, command attention and respect?”30 The scene is tragic through Job’s disintegration of meaning at a personal level, but also comic through the hyperbolic way that his curse arguably distorts the traditional language of lamentation, in a manner familiar with the rest of Job.31 Here a powerless character, reduced to scraping himself with broken pottery 25

Michael Fishbane, “Jeremiah IV 23–26 and Job III 3–13: A Recovered Use of the Creation Pattern,” VT 21.2 (1971): 151–67. 26 Wälchli suggests that the motif of darkness serves “as a keyword in the chapter and also in the entire book.” S. Wälchli, “Job 3: Metaphors Turned into their Contrary,” in Conceptual Metaphors in Poetic Texts: Proceedings of the Metaphor Research Group of the European Association of Biblical Studies in Lincoln 2009, ed. A.  Labahn (Pistcataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2013), 63–68, 64. 27 Samuel  E.  Balentine, Have You Considered My Servant Job?: Understanding the Biblical Archetype of Patience (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2015), 114. 28 Some commentators emend ‫“( יוֹם‬day”) to ‫“( יָ ם‬sea”), thus concretizing the reference to Leviathan through the association with the sea, and perhaps suggesting the Ugaritic deity Yam. Habel, The Book of Job, 30. Given the overall playfully polysemous nature of the Hebrew in Job, it is entirely possible that there is a veiled reference here through deliberate ambiguity. 29 John Day, God’s Conflict with the Dragon and the Sea: Echoes of a Canaanite Myth in the Old Testament (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985). 30 Balentine, Have You Considered, 115. 31 For a classic example of this technique in Job, refer to Job’s sarcastic reworking of lament language in Job 7:7–17 (distorted from Ps 8:4–6). Newsom notices this reworking of traditional prayer in Job, suggesting that on Job’s lips: motifs of psalmic prayer become disarticulated. No longer are they governed by the form of prayer that establishes their meaning. Consequently, Job inflects them with new and disturbing meanings. Carol A. Newsom, “Job and his Friends—A Conflict of Moral Imaginations (an Examination of a Scriptural Model of Divine Moral Answerability),” Int 53/3 (1999): 239–53.

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amongst the ashes takes on the entire created order as if he had the authority to challenge it.32 At a fundamental level though, the scene is culturally political: it is a challenge confronting the idea of simplistic retribution that his friends insist, later in the dialogues, must help explain his plight. As Melcher observes, “the speeches of Job’s friends strive to maintain a world in which one can expect an orderly and reliable system of reward and retribution.”33 Rather than continuing to suffer in silence, this foreigner from Uz loudly protests against the idea that the created order is fair and just. Keller’s suggestion that Job is a “tehomic” comedy (or creation comedy) is interesting to note as a possibility here. Keller suggests that the Job is comic not in the sense of “a joke but a laughter of resistance … as an uncommonly sophisticated challenge to the dominant piety.”34 Rather than politely accepting his lot, Job draws attention to the obvious, yet perhaps taboo, culturally political problem. Neatly ordered, and probably more dominant, versions of Yahwism with simplistic ideas about retribution fail to provide empathy when it comes to human suffering through their attempts to explain away how the world works or is designed. The idea that there might be a created order means, by implication, that Job’s rightful current place in that order is sitting amongst the ashes, an indignity that the character cannot bear given his former piety (Job 3:25; see also Job 29:1–25). Job sarcastically protests against the injustice of the situation, therefore, by using the language of heartfelt lament, such as can be found in some of the darkest and most tragic laments in the Hebrew Bible,35 in such an exaggerated and incongruent way that it topples over into comedy.36 Reworking traditional material in a loaded and double-edged way such as this is commonplace in Job, 32

It is worth noting Lambert’s interesting argument here. Lambert suggests that Job’s physical state of suffering is closely conjoined with his ritually enacted one. Therefore, Job “dwells on the ground and uses a potsherd, not just to ‘scratch himself,’ as some translations would have it, but most likely to lacerate himself, a common mourning practice.” David  A.  Lambert, “The Book of Job in Ritual Perspective,”  JBL  134.3 (2015): 557–75, 559–60. 33 Sarah  J.  Melcher, “Job, Proverbs, and Ecclesiastes,” in  The Bible and Disability: A Commentary, ed. Sarah  J.  Melcher, Mikeal  C.  Parsons and Amos Young (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2017), 159–87, 181. 34 Keller, The Face of the Deep, 124–25. 35 For example, Psalm 88, which is unique in its lack of resolution or in Lamentations which describes the depths of human trauma. 36 The genre of Job is debated. Newsom’s suggestion regarding genre for the book as a whole is also very helpful, texts do not ‘belong’ to genres so much as participate in them, invoke them, gesture to them, play in and out of them, and in so doing continually change them. Texts may participate in more than one genre, just as they may be marked in an exaggerated or in a deliberately subtle fashion. The point is not simply to identify a genre in which a

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with one well-recognized example being Job’s sarcastic reworking of Psalm 8 (Job 7:17–18; Ps 8:4–6).37 Instead of a neat and ordered variety of Yahwism, here the character Job illustrates that sometimes life is unresolvable, complex, and chaotic. As such, a major failing in ideas about how the world functions in relation to Yahweh is dramatically exposed. This is culturally political: more dominant forms of Yahwistic piety and traditional conceptions of retribution, which the character Job originally adhered to, are seriously brought into doubt here. The curse that Job places on the day of his own birth, in the form of a retroactive death wish, introduces the motif of death which runs throughout the play to the extent that Mathewson calls Job “the most death-orientated book in the entire Bible.”38 Throughout the curse, the character Job fervently protests against “that night”39 of his conception and his birth and this is sometimes compared with Mesopotamian incantations and maledictions on account of the motif of shutting the womb. For example, Paul cites several Akkadian examples of the gods shutting the womb including Atrahasis, where “the birth goddess Nintu is instructed by Enki to ‘stop the childbirth’ … of certain classes of priestesses.”40 Likewise, Shalom helpfully cites the Poem of Erra, wherein it is stated: “He/she will stop childbirth” as well as the Vassal Treaties of Esarhaddon, which states: “May Belet-ili, the mistress of Creation, stop childbirth … in our land.”41 It is widely recognized that the curse in Job 3 on the



37 38 39 40

41

text participates, but to analyze that participation in terms of rhetorical strategies of the text. (Newsom, The Book of Job, 12) For Job  3 in particular, Habel calls it an individual lament, or “self–lament (Ichklage).” Habel, The Book of Job, 104. Seow suggests it is a parody of a lament, perhaps more akin to a soliloquy. Seow, Job, 336; See Will Kynes, “Beat Your Parodies into Swords, and Your Parodied Books into Spears: A New Paradigm for Parody in the Hebrew Bible,” BibInt 19/3 (2011): 276–310. Refer to note 31. Dan Mathewson, Death and Survival in the Book of Job: Desymbolization and Traumatic Experience, LHBOTS 450 (New York: T&T Clark, 2006), 4. It is interesting to note that by chapter 10 Job explicitly asks why he was even born (Job 10:18). Lunn suggests that “that night” in Job  3:6 is an example of “extraposed construction.” Nicholas  P. Lunn, Word-Order Variation in Biblical Hebrew Poetry: Differentiating Pragmatics and Poetics (Bletchley: Paternoster, 2006), 83. Shalom M. Paul, “Vain Imprecations on having been Born in Job 3 and Mesopotamian Literature,” in Marbeh Ḥokmah: Studies in the Bible and the Ancient Near East in Loving Memory of Victor Avigdor Hurowitz, ed. Shamir Yonah et al. (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2015), 401–6, 403. Paul, “Vain Imprecations,” 403. Note also Sumerian Lament of the Mother of Dumuzi that curses the day of birth. As Paul documents, “I am the mother who gave birth. Woe to that day, that day! Woe to that night!” Paul, “Vain Imprecations,” 402. Hays also suggests an Egyptian connection between the death and the womb in Job  1:21 arguing

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main character’s days of conception and birth is a kind of magical incantation, perhaps evoked as an attempt to regain control in a situation that is not controllable. For example, Jones describes Job 3 as “a series of magic spells.”42 Likewise, Habel argues that Job’s words are “not merely the everyday moaning and groaning of a person in pain” but instead must be understood as “incantations to summon forces of darkness against his origin.”43 Similarly, Fokkelman describes the poetry in Job  3 as “magic” designed to bring “the impossible” into reality.44 One particularly interesting take on this is Langton, who argues that Job 3:1–10 is a satirical reversal of an Akkadian birth incantation, perhaps with similarities to the incantation, A Cow of Sîn. The incantation is designed, according to Langton, to reveal “the limits of human capabilities” and of the “ability to control the future” a limit supposedly surpassed through the use of “magic.”45 For example, in the ancient Near East “in general women would recite incantations for ease of childbirth and the health of the newborn.”46 The evidence suggests that incantations are usually a way of regaining power and confidence in situations that are stressful or high-risk. Although on the face of things it is tragic, the idea of the character Job employing the genre of incantation to curse the day of his birth is also very incongruous, and as such, may be considered comical. On one level, this is because of the fact that what he asks for is absurd and impossible given that incantations are usually attempts to control future, rather than past, events.47 Langton argues that, “it is humorous to think of Job calling on the experts to undo his birth” since that is “something even a very skilled magician would see immediately as impossible.”48 Perhaps the incongruence of Job embracing a role usually performed by women may be intended to amuse? This connection that it “makes better sense when understood in light of the Egyptian idea of death as a return to the womb of the mother goddess.” Christopher  B.  Hays, “‘My Beloved Son, Come and Rest in Me’: Job’s Return to His Mother’s Womb (Job 1:21a) in Light of Egyptian Mythology,” VT 62.4 (2012): 607–21, 607. 42 Scott C. Jones, “Corporeal Discourse in the Book of Job,” JBL 132.4 (2013): 845–63, 848. 43 Habel, The Book of Job, 102. 44 J. P. Fokkelman, The Book of Job in Form: A Literary Translation with Commentary (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 207. 45 Karen Langton, “Job’s Attempt to Regain Control: Traces of a Babylonian Birth Incantation in Job 3,” JSOT 36.4 (2012): 459–69, 463. 46 Edward L. Greenstein, Job: A New Translation (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2019), 12. 47 Absurdity and improbability are part of comedy through being related to the ‘farce’ mode of comedy, as Jackson outlines. In farcical comedy, characters are ‘thrust into ludicrous and impossible situations.’ Melissa A. Jackson, Comedy and Feminist Interpretation of the Hebrew Bible: A Subversive Collaboration (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 20. 48 Langton, “Job’s Attempt,” 467. An added irony here is the fact that the forces that Job now calls on to curse the day of his birth and conception become, later in the same chapter, the

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is perhaps made closer by the fact that Job refers to “the doors of my womb (‫ ”)בטני‬not being shut (Job 3:10).49 Another incongruence here is the way Job refers to his birth. Job wishes to “destroy the day when I was born” and the “night that said: ‘a man (‫ )גבר‬has been conceived!’” (Job 3:3). The choice of the word ‫ גבר‬here is anomalous, and perhaps designed to undermine Job’s curse. As Seow comments “elsewhere in the Bible, the term never refers to children” and “the incongruity is reflected in the awkwardness of traditional translation of the term as ‘man child.’”50 Also peculiar is the swift change of character, which makes a mockery of all the piety and sacrifices of the previous chapters. As Habel comments Job “had castigated his wife for her counsel to ‘curse God and die’” but the hypocrisy of his words becomes obvious as he “unloads a string of incantations that approximate her advice.”51 Indeed, by the end of the chapter only polysemy on the term “Lord” (‫ )אדון‬veils the fact that Job comes dangerously close to actually cursing God.52 Here, again, the poem is culturally political: through the overly exaggerated and somewhat ridiculous nature of the curse, the insincere piety of Job’s original characterization is replaced by the exposure of Job’s true character, pointing towards flaws in the Yahwism of the time. All of Job’s former piety is now revealed as religiously insufficient, and severely lacking profundity and authenticity when challenged by misfortune. In many ways, it justifies the Satan’s original challenge that Job’s wealth enabled him to make extravagant shows of piety that, it turns out, were vacuous. The character is portrayed as having expected the world to work in a simplistic, mechanical way (a way that the friends still imagine it works) wherein he could simply sacrifice enough burnt offerings and things would go well. Those watching (or reading) Job who understand the world through the lens “same forces he now paints in glowing terms as appealing and comfortable.” Habel, The Book of Job, 110; Job 3:13–15. 49 Greenstein comments here that “Job sees his mother’s womb as his own.” Greenstein, Job, 14. Unfortunately, many translations insert something approximating “my mother’s womb” or simply add the definite article “the womb” which distorts the meaning and cancels out the comedy. 50 Seow, Job, 339–40. 51 Habel, The Book of Job, 106. 52 As Seow argues, On the surface, Job seems to idealize the netherworld as a place where all earthly inequalities are eliminated (vv. 18–19).… By the time one gets to v. 19b, however, it becomes clear that the poet means more than it seems on the surface: Yea, the servant is free from his lord!” On the one hand, the slave will be emancipated from the oppressor, ‘his lord,’ his master…. Hence, ‘his lord’ may be an allusion both to the earthly taskmaster and to the deity as an oppressive presence. (Seow, Job, 331) Later in the dialogues, Job’s language explicitly hurls responsibility for his situation back on to the deity using the key metaphor of “deity attack” (Job 16:12–14; 30:11–31).

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of simplistic piety will be challenged by his conundrum, and this adds a further culturally political edge to the drama. If we suppose, with Keller, that Job is challenging a dominant party of religiously devout Yahwists then what we have in Job is an irresolvable power struggle that seeks permanently to replace self-righteous and two-dimensional forms of Yahwism with something more robust and meaningful. Another aspect of Job’s curse in chapter three that is culturally political is the role played by Job’s body and the space it occupies. Job sits amongst the “ashes” (‫)אפר‬, or, if we read the Old Greek, on the “dunghill outside the city” (κοπρίας ἔξω τῆς πόλεως). While the Old Greek makes Job’s location more explicit, the Hebrew “ashes” certainly implies a place set apart from the general functioning of society wherein mourners would cover themselves with dirt (Ezek 27:30; Jer 25:34; Esth 4:1).53 Douglas commented on the relationship between the physical body and society emphasizing the importance of boundaries, and suggesting that for the ancient Israelites “the threatened boundaries of their body politic are mirrored in their care for the integrity, unity and purity of the physical body.”54 Berquist makes a similar case, arguing that “bodies that leak or ooze violate the sense of firm boundaries, and so these bodies are not whole”; therefore, “contact with other bodies is strictly limited.”55 In other words, the way humans attach meanings to bodies has a culturally political edge because bodies that are in pain or visibly impaired have an impact on public relationships, rather than simply being private experiences. Bodies, 53

54 55

Note also that Job compares himself to “dust and ashes” on account of God’s violence against him. Ironically, the motif “dust and ashes” returns in Job’s second response to the Yahweh’s whirlwind speeches (Job 42:6). The latter is a famous crux owing to the lack of object with the verb ‫מאס‬, “reject,” a term usually negative on Job’s lips (Job 7:5; 9:21; 10:3; 19:18; 31:1; 31:13). Southwood has translated this crux as being strategically defiant, a “sardonic nod to orthodoxy.” Southwood, Job’s Body, 173. Southwood suggests a translation of “therefore I ‘submit!’ And I console myself concerning dust and ashes,” with the term “submit” being intentionally polysemous and double-edged, ending but also rejecting the outcome of the lawsuit. Another, similar possibility is Greenstein’s rather loose translation “this is why I am fed up; I take pity on ‘dust and ashes!’” Greenstein, Job, 185. The character is petulant and comic here and even when faced with the grandest theophany in the entire Hebrew Bible, he seems disappointed. Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (London: Routledge, 1966), 124. Jon  L.  Berquist,  Controlling Corporeality: The Body and the Household in Ancient Israel (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 2002), 19. Refer also on the same point to Pelham, Abigail.  Contested Creations in the Book of Job: The-World-as-it-Ought-andOught-Not-to-Be (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 138; and to Yosefa Raz, “Reading Pain in the Book of Job,” in The Book of Job: Aesthetics, Ethics, Hermeneutics, ed. Leora Batnitzke and Ilana Pardes (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2014), 77–98, 84.

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therefore, become a form of measuring conformity to, or lack of compliance with, the social order. As a foreigner whose body is marked by boils, Job is doubly unapproachable. However, it is his body that is specifically singled out for attention (Job 2:4–7). Effectively, for Job’s friends his body acts as a kind of visualized expression of sinfulness. However, Job’s physical suffering and refusal quietly to accept the norms of collective judgement inevitably mean that his voice is culturally political. As Balentine argues, “settled religious or cultural orthodoxies must not, cannot, erase the voice of the first-person singular.”56 Job’s words subversively undermine the Priestly literature’s focus on purity as an ordering system.57 Likewise, the character undermines ideas found in Proverbs. As Melcher argues, Proverbs makes the case that achieving wisdom plays a role in the body’s health and wellbeing. Long life and good health are seen as the inevitable consequence of following wisdom’s path.58

Similarly, Job destabilizes ideas related to simplistic Torah obedience. As Witte argues, Job might be understood as a “critical discourse on the Torah” that “sharply questions … the correspondence between Torah obedience and a successful life.”59 Effectively, against a dominant weight of established Yahwistic traditions the character Job, cast as an outsider, participates in a type of culturally political theology that questions a range of traditions that lead to the idea of simplistic retribution, perhaps a notion that took a central role in Yahwistic ideas of early audiences. Job’s case is made stronger before audiences given the dramatic irony in the prologue, wherein audiences are aware of the fact that Job’s bodily condition is not connected with any moral failings on his part. For post-exilic or diaspora audiences adjusting to a new way of living in or away from the land, perhaps the various explanations for the crisis of exile available through established forms of Yahwism, such as ancestral sin and punishment, were not enough (Nehemiah 9; Psalm 105)? Perhaps, through the example of Job, a culturally political theology that puts the question of arbitrary suffering center-stage, began to emerge rather forcefully? This type of culturally political theology, which gently mocks the devout characterization of the main protagonist can also be traced in the books of Jonah, Tobit, and the Testament of Job. Job’s original overstated piety with 56 Balentine, Have You Considered, 115. 57 Amy Erickson, “‘Without My Flesh I Will See God’: Job’s Rhetoric of the Body,” JBL 132.2 (2013): 295–313, 298. 58 Melcher, “Job, Proverbs, and Ecclesiastes,” 159. 59 Witte, “Job in Conversation,” 98.

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daily sacrifices for all his children is gently mocked as the experience of pain and misfortune open his eyes to an alternative way of thinking about the way that Yahweh operates (Job 1:5). The original characterization of Job is betrayed by the later characterization of Job as vacuously pious (like the friends), therefore. Likewise, in Jonah, the main character’s exclusive way of thinking about Yahwism is ridiculed by the insignificance of the plant versus the size of Nineveh (Jonah 4:9–11). Jonah claims that he is a god-fearing Hebrew, yet when Yahweh acts graciously in accordance with the creedal description of him by using Jonah to save Nineveh, Jonah is petulant and irritable (Jonah  1:9, 4:2; Exod 34:6–7). A closer comparison with Job is the book of Tobit which raises similar problems. Tobit’s blindness was not caused by any wrongdoing but an arbitrary instance of misfortune that all his exaggerated piety in the form of acts of charity and emphasis on endogamy could not protect him against.60 The comparison between the characters Job and Tobit is even tighter in the Old Greek version of Job, wherein Job’s charity is explicitly emphasized (OG Job  31:31–37). The charity of Job is emphasized in the Testament of Job but satirized by the character’s exaggerated abundance with mountains of butter, and insistence on adhering to his fate (Testament of Job  13:1–6; 20:9). If we consider the possibility that Qohelet may be performative we can also add it to our examples of cultural politics operating using comedy. As Weeks argues, it may be … helpful to think of the material as dramatic or performative. Qohelet is not a comedian, but his monologue resembles many modern stand-up routines, moving as they do through different topics with a mixture of anecdotes, one-liners, and maybe even poems.61

One interesting commonality with Job here is the idea of living life in the present moment rather than piously worrying about the future. This is expressed through the suggestion to “eat, drink, and be merry” and the advice that “a good name is better than fine oil” but only if the body is less important than the reputation after death: “and the day of death [better than] the day of life” 60 Anathea Portier-Young, “‘Eyes to the blind’: A Dialogue between Tobit and Job,” in Intertextual Studies in Ben Sira and Tobit: Essays in Honor of Alexander  A.  di  Lella., ed. Jeremy Corley, Vincent T. M. Skemp and Alexander A. Di Lella (Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 2004), 14–23. 61 Stuart Weeks, Ecclesiastes 1–5: A Critical and Exegetical Commentary, ICC (London: T&T Clark, 2020), 13. Heim’s recent commentary also illustrates the politically engaged, yet humorous nature of Ecclesiastes. Knut Martin Heim, Ecclesiastes: An Introduction and Commentary, TOTC (Downers Grove, IL: Inter-Varsity, 2019). Refer also to John Jarick, “Ecclesiastes among the Comedians,” in Reading Ecclesiastes Intertextually, ed. Katharine Dell and Will Kynes, LHBOTS 587 (London: T&T Clark, 2014), 176–88.

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(Qoh 2:14; 8:15; see also Isa 22:13; Tob 7:10). This culturally political tradition, emerging first with Job, was especially necessary in light of the uncertainties raised by post-exilic or diaspora contexts wherein life’s irresolvable complexities, voids, and ‫הבל‬-like problems could not be explained away without seriously rethinking the way previous traditions might be reworked. In conclusion, this article has argued, using Job  3 as a specific example, that Job has a very strong culturally political edge to it. The comical depiction of Job’s immediate reactions to his bodily misfortunes highlights his original one-dimensional piety and expectations of simplistic retribution, attitudes that his friends later in the dialogues also exhibit. At the heart of the culturally political comedy, though, is a challenge to those Yahwists at the time of writing with power and authority. The article suggested that those in positions of power at the time held ideas about Yahweh and about how the world works revolving around the same type of simplistic fundamental assumptions that Job originally displays and that the friends continually display. The article also suggested the possibility that the culturally political challenge to simplistic notions of Yahwism at the time may have started with Job but also continued in other texts such as Tobit, Jonah, and the Testament of Job. This type of culturally political modification of previous Yahwistic ideas may have been important for post-exilic or diaspora audiences adjusting to a new way of living in or away from the land. The article highlighted the importance of the way irony was used as a key device to communicate this challenge to audiences, who are privy to information that the characters themselves are unaware of. Likewise, we suggested that casting the character Job as a foreigner allowed for a significant license when challenging more traditional forms of Yahwism and also accentuated the character’s otherness.

Part III Leadership

“Are You Indeed to Reign over Us?”: The Politics of Genesis 37–50 Megan Warner Possibly my favorite novelist, Susan Howatch, wrote, in her heyday, intergenerational family sagas that were loosely based on monarchic histories, with ancestral family homes assuming the role of the crown, to be fought over, won and lost, by successive generations of the family and their usurpers.1 Novels such as Penmarric, Cashelmara and The Wheel of Fortune trace Plantagenet histories, while The Rich are Different and Sins of the Fathers take Julius Caesar, Cleopatra, Marc Anthony and Octavian as their models. Although Howatch signaled the background sources to her novels with quotations at the beginning of chapters or sections, readers unschooled in the relevant histories could read them unburdened by any appreciation of the historical framework that Howatch had appropriated.2 I have come to read Genesis in the light of Howatch’s family sagas. Genesis, no less than Penmarric, is profoundly influenced by monarchic history—mostly that of Judah and Israel, but also of their neighbors.3 I have argued elsewhere that the Abraham materials, for example, do not merely borrow stories and motifs from those histories, but rather take the history of the reign of David as a framework for telling the story of Abraham’s life and his relationship with YHWH,4 and that this adoption of monarchic models is not the particular province of a single source, redaction layer or “horizon.” Different traditions adapt their monarchic influences in different ways. P is generally the most overt in its use of royal language and themes (e.g., Gen 17:6, 20) although some 1 See Susan Howatch, Bruce Johnson, and Charles Adolph Huttar, Scandalous Truths: Essays by and about Susan Howatch (Selinsgrove, PA: Susquehanna University Press, 2006). 2 Shakespeare adopted similar strategies, although his history plays are far more overt in their adaption of monarchic histories. Today, theatre directors do something akin to Howatch, by situating the Shakespearian history plays in contemporary, or period, settings, sometimes making pointed political observations in the process. 3 For example, many commentators have pointed to ‘The Tale of Two Brothers’ and ‘Sinuhe’ as Egyptian models for Genesis 37–50. Bernd U. Schipper, “The Egyptian Background of the Joseph Story,” HBAI 8 (2019): 6–23, additionally points to parallels in the later Egyptian narrative, ‘Ahiqar’ to support an argument for a late dating of the Joseph story. 4 Megan Warner, Re-Imagining Abraham: A Re-Assessment of the Influence of Deuteronomism in Genesis, OTS  72 (Leiden: Brill, 2018); ead., “Back to the Future: Reading the Abraham Narratives as Prequel,” BibInt 25 (2017): 479–96.

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allusions in P are less so (e.g., Gen 17:1, compare 1 Kgs 2:4; 8:23, 25; 9:4). Covert royal allusions are also to be found in a variety of non-P material in Genesis, such as in the instruction in Gen  18:19 to Abraham to teach righteousness and justice.5 The incredulous questions of Joseph’s brothers, “Are you indeed to reign over us? Are you indeed to have dominion over us?” (Gen 37:8) fall somewhere in between—while the royal language is unmistakable, the deeper significance to which it points is easily missed.6 Non-royal traditions also serve as models for Genesis narrative,7 so that arguments that characters in Genesis are “the new X” or a “prolepsis of Y” abound.8 Bearing the inevitable difficulties and complexities in mind, it is my intention in this essay to pay particular attention to allusions to royal histories in the various layers or horizons of the Joseph story (Genesis 37–50) as a way into understanding their narrative programs, likely geographic provenance, and political outlook. 1.

Horizons of the Joseph Story

It is well-known that Genesis 37–50 does not lend itself to simple application of source-critical approaches,9 and recent scholarship dealing with the Joseph 5 An inversion of the hendiadys “justice and righteousness” that, in the monarchic narratives, is the prerogative of the king, and its exercise marks the commencement of his reign, e.g., 2 Sam 8:15. See Richard G. Smith, The Fate of Justice and Righteousness during David’s Reign: Narrative Ethics and Re-Reading the Court History (2 Sam 8:15–20:26) (London: T&T Clark, 2009); Walter Houston, “Doing Justice: The Ideology, Theology and Distribution in the Hebrew Bible of ‫מׁשפט וצדקה‬,” ZABR 22 (2016): 75–99. 6 Adopting royal language, motifs etc. can be helpful to the author of a narrative in a variety of ways. It may both limit and suggest narrative options in a creative manner. It can operate as a kind of shorthand, allowing a narrator to convey substantial background information economically. It can help an author to clothe a new story or new characters in authority. It may be a way of communicating selectively and it may be politically suggestive; associating a character in a domestic story with a specific royal figure might indicate that a reader should expect a certain outcome or fortune for the domestic character that either mirrors or inverts the fate of the royal figure. 7 The obvious example is Torah. See my Re-imagining Abraham; ead., “What if They’re Foreign?: Inner-Legal Exegesis in the Ancestral Narratives,” in Politics of the Ancestors, ed. Mark G. Brett and Jakob Wöhrle (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2018), 67–92. 8 Joseph, for example, is regularly said to be a prolepsis of figures as diverse as Moses, David and Ezra. Mark G. Brett, Locations of God: Political Theology in the Hebrew Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019), 69, suggests that Joseph is an inversion of Abraham. 9 Many scholars look back to Von Rad’s observation, Gerhard von Rad, Genesis: A Commentary, trans. John Marks (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1961), 342, that the Joseph Story is distinctly different from the other literature in Genesis.

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story, of which there is a great deal,10 is divided. In a 2021 monograph,11 Rainer Albertz addresses two primary approaches to understanding the origins of Genesis 37–50. A first approach, that can be associated with recent commentary by Erhard Blum and Kirsten Weingart,12 identifies an original, pre-exilic, coherent, northern core narrative that has been subjected to relatively limited editorial intervention. A second approach, developed over the last thirty or so years, and which has been championed recently by Konrad Schmid,13 sees the Joseph story as a post-exilic diaspora novella. Meanwhile, the work of Andrew Tobolowsky, not cited by Albertz, but who argues that P “organised” a pre-existing, northern, non-P Joseph story, focuses more on reception of the Joseph story in the south.14 Tobolowsky’s intriguing, albeit counter-intuitive, argument offers support to the proposal to be made here, that a southern hand appropriated and revised an independent northern narrative as part of a postexilic project to promote, simultaneously, panisraelitism and Judahite priority. More will be said about this below, following textual analysis that will consider both the appropriated narrative and its larger editorial incursions,15 with particular focus on the presence of monarchic themes.

10

11 12 13

14 15

In addition to the particular works discussed below, see Thomas Römer, Konrad Schmid and Axel Bührer, eds., The Joseph Story Between Egypt and Israel Archaeology and the Bible 5 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2021); Thomas Römer, “The Joseph Story in the Book of Genesis: Pre-P or Post-P,” in The Post-Priestly Pentateuch: New Perspectives on its Redactional Development and Theological Profile, ed. Franco Giuntioli and Konrad Schmid, FAT 101 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), 185–202; David  M.  Carr, “Joseph Between Ancestors and Exodus: A Gradual Process of Connection,” in Book Seams in the Hexateuch  I, ed. Christoph Berner, FAT  120 (Göttingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2018), 85–103; Franziska Ede, Die Josefsgeschichte: literarkritische und redaktionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zur Entstehung von Gen 37–50, BZAW 485 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2016). Rainer Albertz, Die Josephsgeschichte im Pentateuch: ein Beitrag zur Überwindung einer anhaltenden Forschungskontroverse, FAT 153 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2021). Erhard Blum and Kristen Weingart, “The Joseph Story: Diaspora Novella or North-Israelite Narrative?,” ZAW 129.4 (2017):501–21, 520. Konrad Schmid, “Die Datierung der Josephsgeschichte: ein Gespräch mit Erhard Blum und Kristen Weingart,” in Eigensinn und Entstehung der Hebräischen Bibel: Erhard Blum zum Siebzigsten Geburtstag, ed. Joachim Krause, Wolfgang Oswald and Kristin Weingart, FAT 136 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2020). Andrew Tobolowsky, The Sons of Jacob and the Sons of Heracles, FAT  2/96 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2017), 110. Primarily Genesis 38–39 and 49 and their smaller, associated, additions.

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A Northern Joseph Story: Genesis 37–50

Royal language and imagery is to be found already in Genesis  37, in which Joseph unwisely reveals his pretensions as ruler through the relating of his dreams (Gen 37:7, 9) and in which his brothers taunt him in the explicitly royal language that I have adopted as the title for this essay (Gen 37:8). The special coat with sleeves (Gen  37:3), too, has royal overtones; as explicitly noted in 2 Sam 13:18 it was the traditional garb of the King’s virgin daughter.16 More generally, Joseph is presented as a prolepsis of David, by means of an impressive collection of parallels. In each case the hero is the younger of many sons and somehow separate from his brothers. Both are hated by, or anger, their brothers (all of them in the case of Joseph [Gen 37:4–5, 8], and in David’s case, his eldest brother, Eliab [1 Sam 17:28]). Both Joseph and David are said to be ‫( יפה מראה‬Gen 39:6; 1 Sam 17:42), two of only six characters in the Hebrew Bible to be so described, all associated with Joseph, David or Egypt.17 There are at least suggestions in both the Joseph and David stories that these two are God’s chosen (Gen 30:22; 37:7, 9; 1 Sam 16:12). Both are presented as shepherds, and in both stories the hero’s father sends him out to check on his brothers (Gen 37:14; 1 Sam 17:17–18). A further thematic link is that of parental favoritism. David’s favoritism of his firstborn, Amnon, and consequent refusal to punish him for his rape of Tamar (2 Sam 13:21) creates catastrophic disquiet between Amnon and his brother Absalom, leading to Amnon’s murder and Absalom’s self-imposed exile and subsequent violence against David, while Jacob’s preference for Joseph is symbolized by his gift of the coat and his coopting of David as spy. Finally, there is a strong parallel between Joseph’s brothers’ “incredulous question,” “Are you indeed to reign over us? Are you indeed to have dominion over us?” (Gen 37:8) and the emphatic statement of Saul to David in 1 Sam 24:20, “Now I know that you shall surely be king!” The doubling of the verb mlk is not found elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible.18 The cumulative effect of these myriad parallels is to signal to the reader that Joseph is a David figure, who will one day rule over his brothers, and over the twelve tribes that they represent. This same reader might imagine that after a long adventure and many hardships Joseph’s dreams would come true and 16 17 18

Language describing the two garments is unique within the HB. Of the other four, one is Joseph’s mother, Rachel (Gen 29:17) and another David’s daughter, Tamar (2 Sam 14:27). Another is Abraham’s wife, Sarai (Gen 12:11), and the final group of characters to be so described are the cows from the time of plenty in Gen 41:2(!). See the discussion in Graeme Auld, “Reading Genesis After Samuel,” in The Pentateuch: International Perspectives on Current Research, ed. Thomas B. Dozeman, Konrad Schmid, and Baruch J. Schwartz (Göttingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), 459–69, 459.

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that his leadership of his brothers, and of the tribes, would be proclaimed. The dreams, of course, are duly realized, more or less, when Joseph’s brothers bow before him—sometimes without knowledge of Joseph’s identity (Gen  42:6; 43:26; 43:28) and once with it (Gen 50:18). However, when the blessings of Jacob are spoken over his sons in Genesis 49 there is a shock for the reader. Joseph, although accorded a lengthy and complimentary blessing, is not proclaimed as leader. Instead, Judah receives the acclaim expected for Joseph. Judah, and not Joseph, is told that his brothers shall bow down to him (Gen 49:8) and Judah, not Joseph is promised the scepter, tribute and the “obedience of his peoples” (Gen 49:10). How is this change to be explained? 3.

A “Judah Edition” of a Northern Story

The two clearest interventions into the Joseph story are to be found in chapters 38 and 49—in both cases whole chapters that have, it is widely conceded, been inserted into the primary Joseph story. Genesis  38 appears to depart entirely from the surrounding context to tell an unrelated story about Judah.19 Genesis 49 is the chapter in which Judah’s blessing functions to eclipse Joseph and his famous dreams. These two chapters are the second and second-last of the Joseph story. Michael Fishbane observed that the second and secondlast chapters of the Jacob Cycle, Genesis 26 and 34, are also whole chapters inserted into a new context and mostly independent of it, although sharing common themes and language. He gave those chapters the title ‘interlude’.20 Fishbane noted that Genesis  38 fits the same pattern, although he did not address Genesis 49. The pattern noted by Fishbane arguably suggests a carefully and deliberately structured editorial intervention into Genesis as a whole and not merely into the Joseph story as an independent document.21 Some scholars additionally consider Genesis 39 to have been inserted into the Joseph story,22 often observing that Genesis 39 is the only chapter in which 19 20

21 22

So Tobolowsky, Sons, 105, writes, “There seems … no significant reason to suppose that the story of Judah and Tamar in Genesis 38 has much to do with the rest of the text.” Michael Fishbane, Text and Texture: Studies in Biblical Literature (New York: Shocken Books, 1979), 153; see also Gary Rendsburg, The Redaction of Genesis (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1986), 56–57; Gordon Wenham, Genesis 16–50 (Dallas: Word Books, 1994) 186–87. Jonathan  A.  Kruschwitz, Interludes and Irony in the Ancestral Narratives (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2021) also adopts Fishbane’s language of “interlude,” picking out these same two chapters in the Joseph story. For example, Albertz, Die Josephsgeschichte im Pentateuch, 22, argues that Chapters 40–41 are clearly older than 39.

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the divine name YHWH is used.23 In fact, this is not the case; YHWH appears also in Genesis 38 (vv.7, 10) and 49 (v.18). There is, however, an important difference between the instances of YHWH in Genesis 38 and 39. In Genesis 39 the verses that mention YHWH can be excised from the surrounding story without damaging it. Removal of verses 7 and 10, or parts of them, from Genesis 38 would damage the narrative. Further, Genesis 39 is essential to the story—Joseph’s fate in Potiphar’s household is the necessary narrative development that places him in the king’s prison, from which Joseph gains access to Pharaoh. Genesis 39, therefore, cannot be additional, although elements of it can be. Overall, the two chapters engage with one another extensively, suggesting that a single hand was likely responsible for both 38 and the additions to 39. We begin by considering the relationship between these two chapters. 4.

Genesis 38 and 39

Here the two “contenders for the crown” become sexual targets of non-Israelite women. In Judah’s case, Tamar acts in response to Judah’s failure to observe the rules of levirate marriage. Mrs Potiphar’s actions are probably not the result of anything that Joseph did or did not do,24 but highlight the vulnerability of Joseph’s apparently privileged position in Potiphar’s household.25 The juxtaposition of the two stories calls for comparison between them. On the surface, Joseph appears to come out of his sexual “test” the better of the two (even if imprisonment is the outcome). He resists Mrs Potiphar’s advances, makes some pious speeches, and is assured of YHWH’s presence with him. He goes on to become the favorite of the chief jailer, just as he had previously been the favorite of Potiphar and of Jacob.26 Judah, meanwhile, fails to observe levirate norms,27 submits to seduction by a wayside prostitute, ostentatiously and 23 24 25 26

27

For example, Römer, “The Joseph Story,” 187–88; Brett, Locations, 71. Reinhard Achenbach, “How to Speak about GOD with Non-Israelites,” in Post-Priestly Pentateuch, 44, also notes Gen 49:18. Some commentators have wanted to argue that Joseph should have taken greater care not to be alone in the house with his employer’s wife, but the textual information is limited. See, for example, Wöhrle, “Joseph in Egypt,” 57–59. This chapter highlights not only the vulnerability, but also the opportunity, inherent in the identity of “stranger” and the tensions that arise between those two things. See Dominik Markl and Alexander Ezechukwu, “‘For You Know the Soul of a Stranger’ (Exod 23:9): The Role of the Joseph Story in the Legal Hermeneutics of the Pentateuch” ZABR 21 (2015): 215–32, 223. The Torah of levirate marriage is not referenced explicitly, but it is generally recognized to be the background to the story. Having said that, it is intriguing that Genesis 38 begins

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hypocritically condemns Tamar for prostitution, and is comprehensively and publicly wrong-footed. First round to Joseph. Under the surface of the text, in the “counter-narrative,”28 things look different.29 Whereas Joseph carries on, after the events of Genesis 39, collecting father-figures as he had always done, Judah changes. The man who had previously proposed selling his brother for profit (Gen 37:26–27) recognizes that he is in the wrong and that his scandalously resourceful non-Israelite daughter-inlaw is in the right, and his words acknowledging this (Gen 38:26) are the climax of the story. They also allude to another story. 1 Samuel 24, already noted above, marks the crucial turning-point in the relationship, and reigns, of Saul and David. After David repays Saul’s enmity by sparing Saul’s life, Saul says to him, “You are more righteous than I; for you have repaid me good whereas I have repaid you evil” (1 Sam 24:17). This is the second allusion we have seen to this crucial turning point in the reigns of Saul and David. I noted above a parallel with Saul’s further words: “Now I know that you shall surely be king, and that the kingdom of Israel shall surely be established in your hand” (1 Sam 24:20; see Gen 37:8). In the first two chapters of the saga its curator has hidden two clues that all will not be as Genesis 37 leads the reader to expect. There is one further feature of Genesis 38 to note before moving on. In its closing verses Tamar gives birth to two boys. The narrative gives Judah two (additional) sons to match the two sons of Joseph, and in an economical four verses (27–30), sets up their very own primogeniture crisis. In other words, Judah is furnished with what is needed for him to replace Joseph as the ancestral forebear of Israel and of the nation that bears his name. The adoption of this tradition in Ruth 4:12 serves to connect these two progeny with the House of David explicitly.

28

29

with a note that “Judah went down from his brothers” Contrast Deut  25:5–10, which opens “When brothers reside together …” Of course, a parallel is also in this way built with Joseph, who also “went” down from his brothers. Jonathan Sacks, Not in God’s Name: Confronting Religious Violence (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 2015), 172, suggests this language: “On the surface Genesis is a series of stories in which the elder is supplanted by the younger. Beneath the surface, in a series of counter-narratives, it tells the opposite story, subverting the whole frame of mind that says, ‘Either you or me. If you win, I lose. If  I win, you lose.’” Mark  G.  Brett, Genesis: Procreation and the Politics of Identity (London: Routledge, 2000), suggests a similar idea with the language “sub-text.” So, Diana Lipton, Longing for Egypt and Other Unexpected Tales (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2008), 245, writes, “Far from being a straightforward opposition of good versus evil manifested in the triumph over adultery, Genesis 39 raises complex questions about society and identity … it falls under an umbrella we might term ‘international relations in biblical bedrooms.’”

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What about Joseph, meanwhile? The additions to Chapter 39 (vv. 2–3, 5, 21, 23) can be identified by a distinctive constellation of features. They use the divine name YHWH in connection with observations about YHWH’s presence with Joseph and Joseph’s consequent flourishing (albeit in contexts of enslavement or imprisonment). They claim that YHWH blessed Potiphar’s house for Joseph’s sake (Gen 39:5). Remarkably, in two cases, that of Potiphar and the chief jailor, a non-Israelite sees that YHWH is present with Joseph and causing him to prosper (Gen 39:3, 21). Apparently these two non-Israelites recognize YHWH by YHWH’s special name. This distinctive constellation of features has been observed in other places in the Hebrew Bible also. In “How to Speak about GOD with non-Israelites,” Reinhard Achenbach identifies, first, a “post-P Elohim theology” that “serves to establish the concept of the universality of Yhwh’s divine justice,”30 and then a pattern of confessions of the Name of YHWH by “pagans.”31 The most prominent of the examples discussed by Achenbach are found in Genesis 26, 34 and 39 (all chapters labelled “interludes” by Fishbane). Perhaps the closest parallel occurs in Genesis 26. Just as Potiphar and the chief jailor in Genesis 39 see the impact of YHWH’s presence upon Joseph’s prosperity, so in Gen 26:28–29 the King of the Philistines, Abimelech, and his retinue, say to Isaac “we see plainly that YHWH has been with you, … you are now the blessed of YHWH.” There is a further important aspect of Genesis 26. The chapter begins with a famous crux—YHWH waxes lyrical to Isaac about Abraham’s Torah observance, despite the fact that in the story world there is yet no Torah. I have argued in detail elsewhere that the reason why the editor responsible for Gen 26:3–5, 24 is prepared to break with the ordinary conventions about not reflecting the world of Mosaic Yahwism in Genesis is that he is borrowing the distinctive language used to mark the transfer of divine promises from a monarch to his heir.32 Torah language (Gen 26:5), promises of YHWH’s presence and associated prospering (Gen 26:3, 24 see also 39:2–3, 21, 2 Sam 18:14), and of the blessing of one person for the sake of another (Gen 26:24; see also 39:5) are found together in 1 Kings 2, 8 and 11, as the Davidic promises are transferred to Solomon. Gen 26:3–5 is the place where the Abrahamic promises are transferred to Isaac. The fact that an editor has intervened in Genesis 39, in order to add text that shares a distinctive constellation of features with additions in Genesis 26 that function to document Isaac’s “accession” to Abraham’s statutes and 30 Achenbach, “How to Speak,” 35–51, 42. 31 Achenbach, “How to Speak,” 46–50. 32 Warner, Re-Imagining Abraham, 68–70; ead. “Back to the Future.”

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promises, indicates a wish to bring issues of royal succession into the mind of the reader, just as Genesis 38, with its allusion to the transfer of the crown from Saul to David, does. Genesis 38 and 39 (as edited) are two carefully juxtaposed chapters—involving tests of sexuality, and allusions to David, his reign and his successors. These two chapters are not unlike the similarly juxtaposed chapters Genesis 21 and 22, in which the lives of Abraham’s two sons and potential heirs are threatened in turn.33 It might perhaps seem strange to argue that succession allusions are added to Genesis 39 when the overall logic of my reading of the editorial intervention in the Joseph saga as a whole is that it is intended to undermine the supposition of Genesis 37 that Joseph is to be the chosen son of Jacob. But Genesis 39, as edited, raises the specter of the scepter without the clear indication of its transfer to Joseph, who is instead set on his path to the center of Egyptian royal power. Together Genesis 38 and 39 unsettle Chapter 37’s presentation of Joseph as the chosen of Jacob’s 12 sons, and announce Judah as his challenger. 5.

Genesis 49

Having addressed the additions at the beginning of the Joseph saga, I now move my attention to the additions at the end. In between, the reader has been given the opportunity to observe the actions of the competing brothers.34 Judah’s rehabilitation, begun with his recognition of the righteousness of his daughterin-law and his own shortcomings, has continued. He has assumed the role of leader of the brothers and it is Judah’s impassioned speech in Genesis 44 that prompts reunion and reconciliation. Joseph, meanwhile, has become the second-most important man in Egypt, having added Pharaoh to his collection of father figures. Joseph is at the same time the hero of the piece—saving not only the Egyptians but also their neighbors from starvation through extended famine—and its villain, achieving this 33 34

See Brett, Genesis, 72–75; Warner, Re-Imagining, 88–127. There are important questions to be asked about whether the portrayals of Judah’s growth towards Torah faithfulness and Joseph’s away from it were already a feature of the non-P Joseph story, or whether they have been added. Römer, “The Joseph Story,” 187, for example, takes it almost for granted that the “passage where Joseph invents capitalism and makes the Egyptians into slaves of Pharaoh (47:13–26) is also an addition.” Francis Watson, on the other hand, argued in 1994 that the passage had been moved to its current location by a redactor in order to detract attention from it, see Francis Watson, Text, Church and World: Biblical Interpretation in Theological Perspective (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994), 70. A detailed discussion of additions to the non-P material between Chapters 38 and 49 is, unfortunately, beyond the scope of this essay.

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salvific feat by means of the perpetual enslavement of the Egyptians (and taking every opportunity to ingratiate himself further with Pharaoh) while his own family enjoys the exemptions allowed to his Priestly father-in-law.35 His treatment of his brothers—he moves them around like pieces on a chessboard of his own devising—is bizarre and cruel.36 He also repeats the errors of his father, offering his favorite brother, Benjamin, five portions when they dine in Gen 43:34 and five sets of garments (along with much silver) in Gen 45:22.37 Perhaps most worrying is his apparent enthusiasm for Egyptian assimilation.38 Joseph adopts Egyptian styles of dress, takes an Egyptian name and an Egyptian wife, and practices divination (Gen 44:5, 15).39 In 1 Sam 15:23, at the point at which Saul is rejected as king, Samuel says to him, “For rebellion is no less a sin than divination, …. Because you have rejected the word of the Lord, he has also rejected you from being king.” In other words, Joseph’s sin was as great as the sin that caused Saul to lose the monarchy (possibly even the “gold standard” of such sins). Genesis  49 itself is rich with monarchic language, imagery and allusion. Because Genesis is a domestic, rather than a royal, story, however, its “symbols” of succession are different from those of monarchic narrative; instead of crown and throne, Genesis 49 is concerned with inheritance and blessing, as are indeed the ancestral narratives in every generation. 6.

Inheritance

Genesis 49 is preceded by a brief, odd, addition (Gen 48:21–22). In it, a dying Jacob gives to Joseph one portion of inheritance more than to each of his brothers. Round two to Joseph? Again there are counter-narrative clues that round two has not gone to Joseph at all. Deut 21:15–17 provides that when a man has children by two mothers, one of whom is loved and the other hated, where the firstborn is the son of the hated mother, the man may not give the double portion to a son of the loved mother. Gen 48:21–22 is one of multiple, small, 35 36 37 38 39

See Gen 47:26b. Although he recognizes them, he treats them as strangers (as he himself had been a stranger when he found himself in Egypt–this is based on a neat word-play, see Gen 42:7). See Markl and Ezechukwu, “For You Know the Soul of a Stranger,” 220. The close relationship between Joseph and Benjamin is one of the tactics that is used to build “panisraelitism.” See Aaron Wildavsky, Assimilation versus Separation: Joseph the Assimilator and the Politics of Religion in Biblical Israel (London: Routledge, 2001). Contrast Deut 13:1–5; 18:10, 14.

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additions that build cumulative allusion to Deut 21:15–17. Joseph was the son of Jacob’s ‘loved’ (‫ )אהב‬wife Rachel, not his ‘hated’ (‫ )שנא‬wife Leah (Gen 29:30–31, compare Deut 21:15) and in Gen 49:3 Jacob calls Reuben his firstborn (‫)בכר‬ and “the first fruits of his vigor” (‫ ראשית אוני‬compare Deut 21:17). The effect of all this quotation is that readers versed in Torah are reminded that Jacob was wrong to give Joseph the double inheritance due to the firstborn. Gen 48:21–22 has still further mysteries. Jacob tells Joseph, “I now give to you one portion more than to your brothers, the portion that I took from the hand of the Amorites with my sword and my bow.” In each case the Hebrew word that is here translated “portion” is ‫שכם‬, meaning something like “mountain slope.” The Hebrew Bible contains no story in which Jacob took land by force; to the contrary, Jacob purchased a piece of land in or near Shechem in Gen 33:18–20. In the following chapter, Genesis 34, Jacob’s peaceful outlook is contrasted with the xenophobic violence of his sons Simeon and Levi,40 and it is this violence that causes Jacob, in Gen 49:5–7, to discount them as possible candidates for “firstborn” status, thus leaving the way free for Jacob to award that honor to Judah.41 The result of this mess of red-herrings is that while a reader expecting to see Joseph being given the pre-eminent inheritance would have seen exactly that in Gen 48:21–22, a reader well-versed in Israel’s traditions, and not expecting Joseph to be the victor in his own story, would be more likely to have seen in these verses an indication precisely that Jacob did not give Joseph the inheritance due to the firstborn. 7.

Blessing

A reader coming fresh to Jacob’s “blessings” upon his sons would likely be confused. Both Joseph and Judah receive lengthy and fulsome blessings. Has either son been preferred? For a clearer perspective the blessings must be read in the light of Genesis 37. The royal language—of prostration, scepter, tribute, obedience and robes of red—matches the royal language of Genesis 37, except that now it is used of Judah instead of Joseph. “Your brothers shall bow down before you” Jacob tells Judah (Gen 49:8)—Joseph’s childhood dreams will be realized, but by his brother. In this manner Judah’s blessing eclipses that of Joseph.

40 Warner, Foreign, 70–74. 41 The situation is further complicated by a passage in Josh 24:12, “I sent the hornet ahead of you, which drove out before you the two kings of the Amorites; it was not by your sword or by your bow.”

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What of Joseph’s blessing? It is no less fulsome, but it is not royal, at least in the MT. The LXX version of Joseph’s blessing is more fulsome and supportive of a notion of Joseph as chosen. In v. 22 Joseph is not represented as a vine; instead, he is presented as Jacob’s youngest son, his loved son,42 who is increased. In v. 24 God does not strengthen Joseph’s bow arm, but instead weakens the arms of his adversaries. In v. 26 Joseph is not presented as one set apart from his brothers, as in the MT, but as their leader. In MT Gen 49:22–26 Joseph is not represented as a leader. The final line of Joseph’s blessing is typically translated into English with the sense that Joseph was “set apart” from his brothers, reflecting the noun “nazirite” (there is no verb). The likely inspiration is Deut 33:16 MT, where ‫ נזיר‬is typically translated in English as “prince.”43 The royal imagery continues in Deut 33:17, in which the words “firstborn” and “majesty” are both used of Joseph. Although MT Gen 49:22–26 appears to owe a great deal to Joseph’s blessing in MT Deut 33:13– 17, it leaves out this final verse, with its allusion to royal accession, entirely. 8.

The Politics of the Judah Edition

This analysis points to an earlier tradition of the Joseph saga, still preserved by the LXX to some extent, in which the predictions of Joseph as the chosen, “royal,” son in Genesis 37 were eventually confirmed and celebrated by Jacob. The MT still preserves much of the original northern, non-P, Joseph story, but its arc has been altered so that Judah and not Joseph emerges as the chosen son, and by extension, as the chosen nation. It seems almost self-evident that such a project of redaction, promoting a southern hero over a hero of the north, must have been the work of a southern hand. What is less self-evident, even counter-intuitive, is that a southern hand would have promoted, in any sense, an originally northern work legitimizing a northern son. In “The Problem of Reubenite Primacy,”44 Tobolowsky argues that ancient authors often borrowed the stories of their adversaries, only to amend them to suit their own politics. It seems to me that Tobolowsky’s argument (which did not itself foresee the argument I make here)45 encapsulates what we now 42 43 44 45

Compare Isaac (Gen 22:2). Deut 33:16 does not use this noun, but has the sense of Joseph having been glorified above his brothers. Andrew Tobolowsky, “The Problem of Reubenite Primacy: New Paradigms, New Answers,” JBL 139.1 (2020): 27–45. Tobolowsky’s focus is the problem of the pre-eminence of Reuben—a tribe with no remembered history of greatness or leadership. He argues that the key to understanding

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see in Genesis  37–50—an originally northern tradition was borrowed and amended so as to promote, albeit covertly the political agenda of the south. Essentially, this is the same process that Blum identifies in his discussion of the incorporation of stories or other elements from foreign traditions within a “composition” or “edition.”46 Two additional observations can be made about my identification of a Judah Edition. First, an attitude of acceptance or tolerance of non-Israelites can be observed in it. Potiphar and the chief jailer see and acknowledge the effect of YHWH’s presence with Joseph. Judah marries a Canaanite woman without narrative censure. Tamar displays righteousness in taking steps to ensure that her father-in-law meets his Torah obligations.47 The violence done by Levi and Simeon to the Shechemites in Genesis 34 is denounced (Gen 49:5–7), and the idea that Jacob might have taken the land of foreigners by force is not supposed to be understood literally, but rather as a clue that not all is as it seems. At the same time, the Judah Edition appears to have a negative view of Joseph’s opportunism and self-serving assimilation. Secondly, I have not attempted to align the Judah Edition with a particular tradition or school, or with Hexateuchal or Pentateuchal horizons. Generally, it could be observed that the Judah Edition exhibits a greater interest in monarchic than Mosaic histories, and no great appetite for conquest is apparent here. Perhaps the horizon, if there is one, could best be described as “enneateuchal.” There is engagement with Deuteronomy, to be sure, but not in a manner that seems, particularly, to indicate an affinity with D.48 There are broadly Priestly elements and touches—especially in Genesis 26 and 3449—but also elements that are not clearly Priestly.

46

47 48 49

Reubenite primacy is to grasp that the very unremarkable-ness of Reuben’s history made Reuben an ideal candidate to perform the role of “smokescreen” for a southern project to promote the more prominent southern tribes, Judah, Simeon and Levi. Erhard Blum, Studien zur Komposition des Pentateuch, BZAW  189 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1990), 229–85; idem, “The Jacob Tradition,” in The Book of Genesis: Composition, Reception and Interpretation, ed. Craig A. Evans, Joel N. Lohr and David L. Peterson (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 181–211, 191–92. See also Brett, Locations, Chapters Two and Four. Some caution needs to be exercised here. It is possible that the outlook towards foreign women here is not especially benign, but rather that a foreign woman is being held up as righteous precisely as a foil for Judah’s lack of righteousness. See Warner, Re-Imagining Abraham, passim, for discussion of this pattern in the Abraham narratives. As to the former, see Warner, Re-Imagining Abraham, 31–76, and as to the latter, Yairah Amit, “The Lost Honour of Dinah, Daughter of Jacob,” in In Praise of Editing in the Hebrew Bible: Collected Essays in Retrospect (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2012); Mark  G.  Brett, “The Priestly Dissemination of Abraham,” HBAI (2014): 87–107.

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Conclusions

In this essay I have read the Joseph story with a particular focus on the employment of monarchic language, themes and models, and argued that a monarchic lens is one that can shed light on the politics of the story in ways that classical source theory has been unable to do. I have proposed that a southern hand appropriated or “curated” a northern text or tradition about a northern hero in order to achieve two apparently antithetical goals simultaneously: to contribute to a sense of shared Israelite/Judahite identity and to substitute its own, southern, hero for the purpose of establishing the pre-eminence of the south within the larger entity. The Judah edition accepts and adopts the use of monarchic allusion in the northern story, only to subvert it by identifying its own hero, Judah, with David, and Joseph not with that great king, but rather with Saul, whom David replaced. There remains more work to be done, in terms of working through Genesis 37–50 in greater detail, and in bringing these insights to other contemporary conversations about, inter alia, an hypothesized northern, inclusive, hexateuchal editorial layer present especially in Genesis and Exodus, to which the findings here might be seen as presenting a challenge.50 Finally, I have aimed to demonstrate that although the Joseph story can be understood and enjoyed by readers unburdened by awareness of its monarchic referents, as I once enjoyed the inter-generational family sagas of Susan Howatch, an eye to those referents can be instructive when it comes to untangling its politics.

50

For example, Brett, Locations of God; Achenbach, “How to Speak.”

The Power of Revelation in 1–2 Samuel Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer 1.

Introduction

Who has power over whom in 1–2 Samuel?1 In this essay, I shall explore the power structures inherent in the descriptions of the relationships between priest and king. 1–2 Samuel tells of men and women who serve as intermediaries (prophet, priest, necromancer) and how they convey future intelligence to monarchs (Saul, David). The focus of the present investigation is the Eliade priests’ sphere of influence: what are their tasks and how do they assert their power? The investigation is centered around three concepts: agency, authority, and efficacy. I shall explore who initiates the relationship (agency), who has the most power in the proceedings (authority), and how well the matter is accomplished (efficacy). My study investigates the depictions of the Eliade priests in the final form of the MT of 1–2 Samuel. It is a well-known fact that any study of this priestly house is impeded by issues of redaction. In short, to what degree is the portrayal of the Eliade priests influenced by the final DtrH redactors and their claim that the Eliades have been rejected by God (1 Sam 2:30–36)? It is, in my view, impossible to answer this question. First, we only have access to the current depictions in the DtrH. Second, we have insufficient analogous data about another priestly house to enable any kind of comparison. It is possible that the marginalization of the Eliades’ priestly power in 1–2 Samuel is the result of the political formulation of the final text. Yet, as my analysis refrains from making any historical claims about the priestly roles in monarchic Israel, this issue does not impact my study. The priests in 1–2 Samuel are presented as inductive intermediaries, i.e., they approach the deity, in contrast to spontaneous intermediaries who channel the deity’s communication. They are further described as operating predominantly in military contexts where they seek, using divinatory tools, to discern the likely outcome of a planned battle. In this advisory role, the priests serve political leaders who use their ability to ascertain future intelligence. In themselves, however, the priests wield little political power. 1 I am very grateful to Dr Rachelle Gilmour who responded to an earlier draft of this paper and provided constructive feedback. I am also indebted to Dorothy Plummer who weeded out multiple typos and infelicitous English constructions.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/978365

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The Eliades: Ahijah, Ahimelech, and Abiathar

The Eliades’ military advisory role comes to the forefront in the description of Eli’s great-grand-son Ahijah, his brother Ahimelech, and his nephew Abiathar. We shall observe how 1–2 Samuel depicts all three men as being dependent on divinatory tools, either the ephod or the Ark of the Covenant, to carry out their tasks. We shall further note that the priests’ success is not dependent on themselves; rather they only have efficacy when God supports the leader whom they serve. 2.1 The Priests’ Divination Tools: The Ephod and the Ark of the Covenant The priests in 1–2 Samuel are consistently portrayed as using a variety of cultic tools of divination to perform their inquiries: either an/the ephod, the Ark of the Covenant, or Urim and Thummim. The resulting inquiries are notably binary in their character. A divination instrument cannot provide an oracle; it can yield only a positive or a negative answer. Ahijah, Ahimelech, and Abiathar all use an/the2 ephod. Ahijah (1 Sam 14) uses an ephod (v. 3) and the Ark of the Covenant of God (MT ‫ארון האלהים‬, v. 18aβ–b)3 as divinatory instruments to obtain intelligence for Saul.4 The anonymous priest in 1 Sam 14:37 may likewise employ such a tool, judging from Saul’s two binary questions to God: ‫“( הארד אחרי פלׁשתים‬Should I go after the Philistines?”) and ‫“( התתנם ביד יׂשראל‬Will you give them into the hand of Israel?”). Ahimelech (1 Sam 21–22), alongside his fellow priests at Nob, likewise provides intelligence and wields divinatory tools. The college of priests at Nob is portrayed, at least superficially, as men operating in the ritual realm, as exemplified by Ahimelech’s concern with proper ritual purity (21:5–7, contrast Ahijah in 1 Sam 14:36).5 Yet two aspects suggest that their authority also 2 See further below. 3 The GT refers to an ephod (εφουδ). Many scholars, e.g., William R. Arnold, Ephod and Ark: A Study in the Records and Religion of the Ancient Hebrews, HTS 3 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1917), 16–17, emend the MT in accordance with the GT and argue that the MT’s ‫“ =( ארון‬Ark”) originally said ‫אפוד‬. Yet, as Karel van der Toorn and Cees Houtman, “David and the Ark,” JBL 113 (1994): 209–31 (210–11), point out, the GT of v. 18 appears to be a later reinterpretation of the MT, with the aim of harmonizing v. 18 with v. 3. 4 Van der Toorn and Houtman, “David and the Ark,” 216–17; Rannfrid L. Thelle, “Reflections of Ancient Israelite Divination in the Former Prophets,” in Israelite Prophecy and the Deuteronomistic History: Portrait, Reality, and the Formation of History, ed. Mignon R. Jacobs and Raymond F. Person, SBLAIL 14 (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2013), 7–33 (19 n. 32). 5 See Keith Bodner, 1 Samuel: A Narrative Commentary, HBM 19 (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2008), 226.

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stems from their military advisory capacity: the existence of weapons at Nob (Goliath’s sword), and the reference to an ephod (21:9–10). Although there is no direct evidence in ch. 21 that Ahimelech uses the latter to divine something for David, Saul’s later accusation that he has done so (22:13, ‫ )וׁשאול לו באלהים‬points in that direction, as does Ahimelech’s ambiguous response (v. 15a, ‫היום החלתי‬ ‫“ = לׁשאל־לו באלהים חלילה לי‬Is it today that I began to inquire on his behalf from God? Far be it from me!”).6 Saul’s suspicion, although a facet of his paranoia, corroborates the view that the priests at Nob were known for their military advice. Ahimelech’s son Abiathar also utilizes an ephod to obtain military intelligence. Having managed to survive the massacre at Nob, he is offered a home by David (22:21, 23). The fact that David, the refugee, has the authority to offer hospitality to a priest sets the tone for their future relationship: David is in command and the priest serves him in an advisory capacity. Abiathar does not come empty handed to David, however, but brings an ephod with him (1 Sam 23:4). There is no reason to doubt David’s compassion, yet Abiathar’s divinatory role constitutes a useful (military) asset. The priest has enough power to negotiate his survival and David has the required insight to benefit from this trade-off. It is unclear whether the text is speaking about a single ephod (the ephod) or one ephod among many (an ephod). Unless we assume that Ahijah had given the ephod to his brother or, possibly more likely, that Ahijah was part of the priestly collegium at Nob, it is reasonable to assume that more than one ephod existed (see 22:18). Yet, the alternative, i.e., a single ephod, is tantalizing insofar as it paints a picture where, henceforth, David will have superior access to military intelligence. Not only has God decided not to answer Saul (contrast 1 Sam 14), Saul has also lost a key tool of divination (see further below). Ahijah’s Military Role 2.2 The priest Ahijah appears in 1 Sam 14 in the context of King Saul’s battle against the Philistines. The king is presented as having more power than the priest, yet the balance of power is not always straight-forward. In 1 Sam 14:3, 18–19, Ahijah provides military intelligence by using an ephod. In this encounter, Ahijah is clearly subordinate to the king in every respect. This power structure can be observed from three angles. First, in terms of agency, the king rather 6 Whereas many commentators read this statement in the negative, e.g., Diana Vikander Edelman, King Saul in the Historiography of Judah, JSOTSup 121 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991), 178–79, I take it to mean the opposite, namely that this is not the first time that Ahimelech has asked God about David (see the Swedish translation in Bibel 2000).

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than the priest initiates the conversations (v. 18a). Second, in terms of authority, Saul terminates Ahijah’s divination. Ahijah carries out his divination using a form of hand movement,7 but Saul tells him to “stop” his hand (v. 19b, ‫אסף‬ ‫)ידך‬.8 Third, in terms of efficacy, although the battle is not lost,9 Saul’s interruption prevents a divinatory result. The issue here is not whether Ahijah was responsible for the lack of military success.10 Rather, the matter is Saul’s impatience (1 Sam 13:8–9)11 and its consequences: Saul is a leader who does not ascertain intelligence prior to battle, with the result that the outcome of the battle is suboptimal. Later in 14:36, an anonymous priest (probably the aforementioned Ahijah) appears in a similar military, divinatory role.12 The balance of power between priest and king here is more complex. Saul wants to continue the plundering and the killing (v. 36) and/but13 the priest asks him to consult God before going ahead. From Saul’s perspective, asking God appears to be more of an afterthought than a prerequisite, yet the king ultimately concedes to the priest’s advice (v. 37a).14 Despite the combined effort of priest and monarch, however, the plan goes wrong as God fails to respond (v. 37b).15 In this instance, we observe how the priest advises rather than commands Saul, although some form of power-play cannot be ruled out. Either the priest is seeking to bolster Saul’s authority by assuring him that he has divine backing for his plundering, or he is subtly correcting what he sees as Saul’s failure to observe proper

7

V. Philips Long, The Reign and Rejection of King Saul: A Case for Literary and Theological Coherence, SBLDS 118 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), 112, suggests that a hand movement may fit the use of Urim and Thummim (see v. 41); see P. Kyle. McCarter, I Samuel: A New Translation, AB 8 (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1964), 240, who reads v. 41 back into vv. 18–19. 8 A. Graeme Auld, I & II Samuel: A Commentary, OTL (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2011), 154–55. 9 See McCarter, Samuel, 240; Bodner, 1 Samuel, 137. 10 David Jobling, “Saul’s Fall and Jonathan’s Rise: Tradition and Redaction in 1 Sam 14:1–46,” JBL 95 (1976): 367–76 (368–69); Hans Wilhelm Hertzberg, I & II Samuel: A Commentary, trans. John Bowden, OTL (London: SCM Press, 1964), 114. 11 Long, Reign and Rejection, 113; McCarter, Samuel, 240. 12 See, e.g., Bodner, Samuel, 143. 13 Auld, Samuel, 163, points out that there is no “but” in either the MT or the GT. 14 Kenneth M. Craig, “Rhetorical Aspects of Questions,” CBQ 56 (1994): 221–39 (222); Long, Reign and Rejection, 123. 15 As Robert Alter, The David Story: A Translation with Commentary of 1 and 2 Samuel (New York: W.W. Norton, 1999), 83, points out, Saul’s failed inquiry is part of the wider pattern of the Saul narrative, where Saul is constantly seeking to know what is going to happen and to obtain divine affirmation of his plans.

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ritual.16 Neither alternative is fully satisfactory, however, given Saul’s meticulous concern for cultic correctness in the preceding vv. 31–3517 where he reprimands his men for their cultic impropriety, and where he promptly builds the required altar. This encounter between priest and king assigns agency to the priest, as well as some, but limited, authority, but no efficacy. Summing up, 1 Sam 14 offers a relatively consistent depiction of the balance of power between the priest and the monarch. The priest has the agency to initiate a divinatory process and the authority to offer advice that is compelling enough for Saul to change his course of action, yet the king has the upper hand and is free to ignore the priest’s input. In contrast, the issue of the priest’s efficacy is open to debate. The priest’s overarching limited efficacy, hinted at in vv. 18–19 and expressed more fully in v. 37b, is not presented as being due to any ritual fault of his own. The reader is free to speculate whether it is the result of God’s decision not to allow Saul’s house to endure (13:13–14), the soldiers’ sins of eating the meat with the blood still in it (14:31–35), or Jonathan’s breaking of the ban (14:27–30). Saul himself opts for the last interpretation (14:40–45), yet the reader may lean towards the first one when reading 1 Sam 14 against the background of 1–2 Samuel: a priest’s efficacy is intrinsically connected with God’s favor of the monarch whom he serves. 2.3 Abiathar’s Military Role Ahijah’s nephew Abiathar interacts with David in four narratives in the DtrH (1 Sam 23:1–13; 30:7–8; 2 Sam 15:24, 29, 35; 1 Kgs 1:7, 19, 25) and on an additional occasion in 1 Chr 15:11–15. In all cases, Abiathar uses a tool of divination to provide military intelligence, and on all occasions he is successful. His success, however, appears to have less to do with his own mastery of divination than with the monarch whom he serves: God works through the priest when the subject of the inquiry has his favor. 2.3.1 1 Samuel 23:1–13 The account of David’s dealings with the city of Keilah in 1 Sam 23:1–13 contains three instances of military intelligence. David, after partaking of his spy’s report (v. 1), “asks Yhwh” (vv. 2, 4). At this point in the narrative, David has access to two intermediaries: a prophet (Gad, 22:5) and a priest (Abiathar, 23:6). It is likely that one of these men asks God on David’s behalf, in view of 16 Bodner, Samuel, 143. 17 McCarter, Samuel, 249, emphasizes that although vv. 31–35 read like an interpolation given Jonathan’s absence, they are relatively well integrated in the present form of the text.

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the comparable statements in 1 Sam 14:36–37 where Saul, despite being the subject of the verb, employs a priest to carry out the technical aspects of the inquiry. Later in 1 Sam 23:11aα, Abiathar uses the ephod to provide David with military foreknowledge regarding two interconnected questions: whether the people in Keilah will hand him and his men over (‫)היסגרני בעלי קעילה בידו‬, whether Saul will march on Keilah (‫)הירד ׁשאול כאׁשר ׁשמע עבדך‬.18 The careful reader notes the quality-difference between God’s response in vv. 2 and 4 and God’s response via Abiathar in vv. 11 and 12. Although both sets of questions are binary, the answers differ. In the first instance, God responds in an articulate manner and gives David more information than he asked for; in the second instance, God responds in purely binary terms to David’s specific question.19 Rather than seeing this difference as a matter of divergent textual sources,20 I suggest that it reflects two distinct modes of divine communication. Following Polzin, the first mode is prophetic (free flowing) communication, and the second mode is priestly (binary) communication.21 As such, we may speculate as to whether the prophet Gad (1 Sam 22:5) poses the first question whereas Abiathar, being restricted to the use of an ephod, poses the second. The account in 1 Sam  23:1–13 contrasts Saul with David. McCarter aptly summarizes the narrative as being about “the value of a priest.” For all Saul’s “dogged pursuit,” David will not come to harm because he has a priest at his side, whose advice will guide him to safety.22 In fact, David had recourse to two different kinds of divine inquiry: he could wait for an instance of spontaneous mediation (e.g., 1 Sam 22:5, Gad); or he could take the initiative himself and request an inductive mediation, either through some unspecified means (23:1– 5) or by employing a priest and his ephod to give him a clear procedure and a lucid binary outcome. In contrast, Saul stands without help.23 In one sense, 1 Sam 21–23 is all about the power of information. Whereas David saves the single priest “carrying the ephod” (23:6) and thus improves his abilities to consult God, Saul massacres a whole village of priests “carrying the ephod” (22:18) and thus lessens his chances to gather intelligence.24 Saul’s priest Ahijah has 18 19

See also the similar question in v. 12aβ. Robert Polzin, Samuel and the Deuteronomist: A Literary Study of the Deuteronomic History. Part 2: 1 Samuel (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1989), 201. 20 McCarter, Samuel, 372. 21 Polzin, Samuel, 201. 22 McCarter, Samuel, 371. 23 Polzin, Samuel, 202; Johanna  W.  H.  van  Wijk-Bos, Reading Samuel: A Literary and Theological Commentary, Reading the Old Testament (Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys, 2011), 123. 24 See Jan P. Fokkelman, Crossing Fates: (I Sam. 13–31 & II Sam. 1), Narrative Art and Poetry in the Books of Samuel II, SSN 23 (Leiden: Brill, 1986), 426–27; Bodner, Samuel, 242; contrast McCarter, Samuel, 367.

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not been heard of since 1 Sam 14, and the reader may deduce from this silence that he was among those priests slaughtered at Nob. 2.3.2 1 Samuel 30:7–8 (versus 28:6) In 1 Sam 30:7–8, Abiathar likewise uses the ephod to help David decide (whether or not to chase after the Amalekites). As in the incident at Keilah in 23:11b and 12b, Abiathar manages successfully to obtain intelligence from Yhwh via the ephod. We again observe a marked contrast between David and Saul in terms of access to military intelligence, this time by comparing Abiathar’s success in 1 Sam 30:7–8 with Saul’s failure in the contemporaneous account in 1 Sam 28. On the eve of the battle, Saul, as a responsible military commander, is unsuccessfully trying to receive information about his chances of success against the Philistines. His problems are self-inflicted as Saul has rid himself of intermediaries across the board. Saul falls out with Samuel (15:33– 35), then he kills the priests of Nob (22:16–19), and finally expels all necromancers (‫ )האבות‬and spirit workers (‫ )הידענים‬from the land (28:3b). As a result, Saul is left without access to professionals who can divine the future for him, a situation aptly summarized by 28:6b which states that Yhwh responds neither through dreams, nor Urim, nor prophets (‫)גם בחלמות גם באורים גם בנביאם‬. In the end, Saul’s only resource is the necromancer in Endor. The final text of 1 Samuel 28–30 thus offers a poignant comparison between David and Saul. First, David operates within the realm of orthodoxy and seeks guidance from God either directly or via the accepted forms of cleromancy. In contrast, Saul obtains information via the unacceptable modes of necromancy.25 Second, David acquires sufficient information while Saul lacks prudence. David seeks priestly advice, listens to it carefully, and acts upon it wisely, even in cases of non-affirmative intelligence (1 Sam 23:13). In contrast, Saul’s predicament in 1 Samuel  28 reflects his lack of wisdom and leadership abilities.26 Saul fails to heed the offered foresight in 28:19 and, rather than calling off the battle to save himself and his sons, goes instead towards his death (31:6).27

25 Bill T. Arnold, “Necromancy and Cleromancy in 1 and 2 Samuel,” CBQ 66 (2004): 199–213 (207–13); see also Esther  J.  Hamori, Women’s Divination in Biblical Literature: Prophecy, Necromancy, and Other Arts of Knowledge, AYBRL (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2015), 116–17. 26 Hamori, Women’s Divination, 116. 27 J.  H.  Price, “The Conceptual Transfer of Human Agency to the Divine in the Second Temple Period: The Case of Saul’s Suicide,” Shofar 34 (2015): 107–30 (112–15).

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2.3.3 2 Samuel 15:24, 29, 35 We encounter Abiathar on a third occasion in 2 Sam 15:24, 29, 35 during Absalom’s rebellion, where he and Zadok, another priest, carry the Ark of the Covenant (v. 24aα, ‫)נׂשאים את־ארון ברית האלהים‬. Like the ephod, the Ark was often used a tool of divination (see above, the MT of 1 Sam 14:3). The text does not state explicitly that Zadok and Abiathar function in their divinatory role here, yet the binary quality of David’s queries in vv. 25–26, where he weighs two options against one another—whether he will find favor in God’s eyes (v. 25) or whether God will take no pleasure in him (v. 26)—suggests this.28 This reading is further supported by the verbal interchange between David and his two priests, where David asks Zadok if “he is a seer” (v. 27a, ‫)הרואה אתה‬. Several scholars treat this statement as a way of saying “behold,” i.e., the term ‫ הרואה‬is understood not as a participle but as having imperatival force that draws attention to David’s following words (e.g., NRSV).29 In my view, however, an affirmative statement that emphasizes Zadok’s divinatory skills fits the context better. After carrying the Ark of the Covenant, v. 24aβ claims that the two priests “poured out” the Ark of the Covenant (‫)ויצקו את־ארון האלהים‬30 and that Abiathar “went up” (‫)ויעל אביתר‬.31 The meaning of these actions is debated, and no fully satisfactory solution is in sight. Herzberg understands both verbs as references to sacrifices,32 in line with 2 Sam 6:17 where the Ark of the Covenant is “set down” (‫ )ויצגו‬and where “David offers sacrifices” (‫)ויעל דוד עלות‬. This reading requires amending the first verb from ‫ ויצקו‬to ‫ויצגו‬, in line with the GT καὶ ἔστησαν, and repointing the second verb from a qal to a hiphil. Alternatively, keeping the MT’s ‫ויצקו‬, a verb which normally involves pouring out a libation, I propose treating the phrase ‫ את־ארון האלהים‬as a dittography and to assume an original text ‫“ = נׂשאים את־ארון ברית האלהים ויצקו ויעל אביתר‬they were carrying the Ark of the Covenant of God and they poured out [libations] and Abiathar offered [sacrifices].” This proposed reading suggests a combined ritual action involving sacrifices and divination. On seeing the two priests with the Ark of the Covenant, David surprisingly commands that they return with it to the city (vv. 25, 29), ostensibly allowing the Ark to fall into the hands of Absalom. Yet all is not what it seems. Rather than giving Absalom the divination tool, David 28

See Baruch Halpern, David’s Secret Demons: Messiah, Murderer, Traitor, King, Bible in Its World (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans Publishing, 2001), 43–44. 29 See especially Jacob Hoftijzer, “A Peculiar Question: A Note on 2 Sam. XV 27,” VT 21 (1997): 606–9. 30 Contra GT καὶ ἔστησαν = “they set down” which appears to read the Hebrew text as ‫ויצגו‬. 31 Note, GT καὶ ἀνέβη Αβιαθαρ. 32 Hertzberg, I & II Samuel, 339, 343.

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maintains his access to it through the priests who now serve as his spies.33 The priests and the tool of divination belong in Jerusalem, but they still provide David with intelligence (v. 36b, ‫)וׁשלחתם בידם אלי כל־דבר אׁשר תׁשמעו‬. 2.3.4 1 Kings 1:7, 19, 25 Abiathar has yet one last role to play during David’s reign. In the succession narrative, Abiathar finds himself on the losing side with Adonijah (1 Kgs 1:7, 19, 25), whereas his fellow priest Zadok, accompanied by the prophet Nathan and Bathsheba, side with Solomon’s winning party. In 1 Kgs 2:26 (see v. 22), having succeeded to the throne, Solomon banishes Abiathar to his home in Anathoth, yet he does not kill him because “he had carried the Ark of the Covenant” (‫)כי־נׂשאת את־ארון אדני ה’ לפני דוד אבי‬. This statement recalls the similar statement in 1 Sam 22:18 about the priests who carry (‫ )ׁשמנים וחמׁשה איׁש נׂשא‬the “ephod of divination” (‫)אפוד בד‬. As I have argued elsewhere, there is no reason to treat the expression ‫ אפוד בד‬as a piece of clothing; instead, it is preferable to see it as a reference to a tool of divination.34 Abiathar, like the priests at Nob, are remembered for their divinatory role. This statement also contrasts Solomon’s behavior with that of Saul: Saul is willing to kill priests who have carried the ephod whereas Solomon is unwilling to kill a priest who has carried the Ark of the Covenant. These two instances show the sacrosanct character of carrying a tool of divination: killing such a man should not be done lightly. 2.3.5 1 Chronicles 15:11–15 Finally, Abiathar, again alongside Zadok, appears in 1 Chr 15:11–15 in the context of the Ark of the Covenant. In this passage, part of the longer section that deals with the entry of the Ark into Jerusalem (2 Sam 6), David summons the priests Zadok and Abiathar, together with six Levites, and asks them to sanctify themselves before bringing the Ark of the Covenant to its place in the tent, which David has prepared for it. As in 2 Sam 15:24, 29, 35, both priests are associated with a tool of divination, as is David when he dances before the Ark carrying an ephod (2 Sam 6:14b, ‫)ודוד חגור אפוד בד‬.35

33 See Alter, David Story, 289. 34 Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer, “The Seer and the Priest: The Case of the So-called Linen Ephod,” Prophecy and Its Cultic Dimensions, ed. Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer, JAJSup  31 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2019), 135–51 (146–47). 35 Tiemeyer, “The Seer and the Priest,” 147–50.

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2.3.6 Summary The power relationship between David and Abiathar in these narratives in 1–2 Samuel is relatively straight-forward. At all times, David has the greatest authority; the priests obey David without questions or hesitation (e.g., 2 Sam 15:27– 29). In return, David trusts the priests to offer good advice and to be loyal to him rather than to Saul (1 Sam  21) or Absalom (2 Sam  15:34–36).36 Further, David has all the agency: David consults the priests who respond by doing their job. The same balance of power is also evident during Solomon’s reign. Solomon has no problems banishing Abiathar, even though he chooses not to kill him due to his sacrosanct status in having carried the Ark (1 Kgs 2:26bα). The priests have advisory power but very little executive power, which always remains with the monarch. The Priests’ Divination Tools: Urim and Thummim 2.4 So far, we have looked at the priests’ use of the ephod and the Ark of the Covenant. A third set of inductive divination tools exists, namely the Urim and Thummim. In 1 Sam 14:40–42, Saul commands the Urim and Thummim to be used to determine Jonathan’s guilt. Although the text does not mention a priest, instead presenting Saul as communicating directly with God (v. 41), it is likely that a priest wielded the tool, in view of Saul’s dependency on priestly advice and performances on two earlier occasions in the same chapter. Looking at the divination in 14:40–42 within its larger literary context, its efficacy is surprising. In the rest of the chapter, there is a downhill trend: God’s refusal to respond to Saul’s military question in v. 37 results in Saul not pursuing the Philistines in v. 46. God does not respond to Saul’s query and as a result Saul refrains from further military action. Against this background, 14:40–42 becomes a curious parenthesis in which God does respond, although 14:40–42, and the matter of Jonathan’s eating of the honey, is presented as having caused God’s silence in 14:37.37 In 14:40–42, the priest has no agency and no authority: his technical, inductive action is all that is required. The priest fades away as a practitioner, and 36 37

See Rachelle  L.  Gilmour, Representing the Past: A Literary Analysis of Narrative Historiography in the Book of Samuel, VTSup 143 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 207–8. This parenthesis is unlikely to be the result of gradual textual growth. Notably, most historical-critical schemes argue that vv. 37 and 45 belong to the same textual layer as vv. 40–42. See, e.g., Nadav Na’aman, “The Pre-Deuteronomistic Story of King Saul and Its Historical Significance,” CBQ 54 (1992): 638–58 (649–52). Looking at the final form of the text, the reader can suspect that God’s silence in v. 37 could equally well have been caused by the people’s eating of blood in vv. 31–35, yet that interpretation is not supported by Saul’s statement in v. 39 and his subsequent actions in vv. 40–45.

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all that is left is the technical process itself. In terms of outcome, this divination is effective insofar as it reveals the culprit (v. 42). On a deeper, human level, however, the outcome is catastrophic: it exposes not only Saul’s willingness to kill his son (v. 44), but also Jonathan’s (subtle) defiance of his father (v. 43, see also vv. 29–30), and the people’s refusal to accept Saul’s verdict (v. 45), causing the king to lose face.38 Verse 45b may hint at the cost of the folly, as it states that the people “ransomed” Jonathan (‫)ויפדו העם את־יונתן ולא־מת‬, where the verb ‫ פדה‬has clear cultic nuances of substitution. The GT paraphrases that the people interceded on behalf of Jonathan (καὶ προσηύξατο ὁ λαὸς περὶ Ιωναθαν), a notion that is known from the MT 1 Sam 12:19, 23,39 yet this interpretation creates a cultic problem insofar as it leaves the oath unfulfilled. It is preferable to assume that Saul’s soldiers redeemed Jonathan by paying money (see Exod 21:30; Num 3:46–51; 18:15–17), or provided an animal (Exod 13:13, 15; 34:20), or even another man.40 If this reading is correct, this subsection attests again to the disappearing priest: just as the priest’s inductive divinatory role was invisible in vv. 40–42, here in v. 45 the priest’s cultic role is likewise unseen. In sum, a priest presumably plays two roles, one divinatory and one sacrificial, in 1 Sam 14:40–45. This near invisible priest has no authority and no agency, yet his actions have surprising efficacy in that they not only reveal Jonathan’s guilt but also redeem him from having to pay the price. 3.

The Eliades: Eli, Hophni, and Phineas

1 Sam 1–4 which tells about the priests Eli, Hophni, and Phineas confirms the picture that we have painted so far. In this text, the priests function predominantly in the realm of military intelligence and their efficacy is connected to their use of divinatory tools. Eli, Hophni, Phineas and the Instruments of Divination 3.1 1 Sam  1:17 presents Eli’s knowledge as binary and partial. Eli foretells that Hannah will receive what she has asked for, yet his knowledge is restricted to binary inquiries. Hannah has not given Eli any details about her sorrows, and Eli is accordingly unable to tell Hannah that she will bear a son. Instead, his 38 39 40

See, e.g., Otto Kaiser, “Der historische und der biblische König Saul (Teil II),” ZAW 123 (2011): 1–14 (5); David Jobling, 1 Samuel, Berit Olam (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical, 1998), 95. McCarter, Samuel, 248. See, e.g., Fokkelman, Crossing Fates, 76. Less convincingly, Bodner, Samuel, 146, argues that there may be no ransom; instead, the cultic term is used ironically to highlight the need for common sense.

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answer is binary: yes, God will give her what she desires. Eli’s lack of specific knowledge is confirmed in v. 26 when Hannah presents her son Samuel before Eli and explains that he was the object of her prayer. Eli’s limited knowledge is later borne out by his failure to recognize God’s call to Samuel (3:1–9). In both cases, Eli is presented as a clueless man who fails to see what is right in front of him. Eli and his sons are never described as handling any instrument of divination. Notably, it is Samuel, rather than Eli, who is first described as carrying an ephod (2:18b, ‫ )נער חגור אפוד בד‬when serving before Yhwh (2:18a).41 Later in the same chapter, the “man of God” (‫ )איׁש־אלהים‬speaks of Eli’s father’s house and how God chose it to carry an ephod before him (2:28aβ, ‫לׂשאת אפוד‬ ‫)לפני‬, yet the text carefully refrains from stating explicitly that Eli and his son ever did. This impression continues in 1 Sam  4, a text which emphasizes the military significance of the Ark of the Covenant of Yhwh. The people send for the Ark (v. 4), yet it does not bring victory to Israel. Instead, it is captured by the Philistines (v. 11a) and Eli’s sons are killed (v. 11b). Eli’s sons Hophni and Phineas are not recorded as having used the Ark as a divinatory tool. Arguing from silence, this lack of precaution may have contributed to the Israelites’ defeat: had the Israelites taken care to gather intelligence, they may have been in a better position to choose to withdraw rather than to engage in battle. Eli’s sons’ decision to accompany the Ark to war (4:4), despite the prediction regarding their death by the “man of God” in 2:33, offers a poignant parallel to Saul’s folly to fight the same foe despite the prediction in 1 Sam 28:19 regarding his and his sons’ death. Despite their lack of explicit engagement with divinatory instruments, the death of Eli and his sons and the loss of the Ark of the Covenant are nonetheless intrinsically connected. First, it is possible to read 2:11a and 11b as cause and effect. Eli’s sons died because they lost the chief tool of their trade (but see the reverse order in 2:17b). Second, as already noted, the death of Eli’s sons was predicted by the “man of God” due to their sins against God (2:29; see also 2:12–17). This prediction points forward to 4:12–18, where Eli is waiting back in Shiloh, full of concern for the Ark (v. 13aβ, ‫)כי־היה לבו חרד על ארון האלהים‬, and where the news about the lost Ark causes him to fall backwards and die (v. 18). Whereas the “man of God” focuses on the death of the sons, Eli’s concern is centered on the Ark of the Covenant. Yet, rather than interpreting Eli’s focus on the Ark as a sign of paternal callousness, he may have connected the fate of Ark with his sons’ deaths. The Ark has been captured and therefore the priestly 41

Tiemeyer, “The Seer and the Priest,” 150.

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power of Eli’s house in Shiloh has come to an end. The divinatory power of Eli’s house was but an illusion; the Philistines have the Ark and Samuel has an ephod, whereas Eli and his sons failed to use either when they had access to them. 4.

The Eliades and their Limited Power

Looking beyond the priests’ divinatory power and exploring their power more generally, 1 Samuel emphasizes time and again the Eliades’ limited authority, agency, and efficacy. 1 Sam 1–4 labels Eli not only as the chief priest enthroned at the sanctuary in Shiloh (1:9b) but also as a “judge” (4:18b), thus purportedly suggesting that he wielded significant clerical and political/military power, yet the narratives in 1 Sam 1–4 belie this impression. In 1 Sam 1:17, Eli is described as having only limited power and limited authority. He confronts Hannah and accuses her of drunkenness, yet Hannah stands up to him without apparent fear. Eli’s (lack of) power is further emphasized by his failure to control his two sons, and by the fact that the “man of God” in 1 Sam 2:27–36 can tell him off. His sons Hophni and Phineas appear to wield more power. They are described as wicked people who did not know Yhwh (2:12), and as priests who sinned against Yhwh in their sacrificial duties (vv. 13–17). Further, they wielded power against all of Israel (2:22bα) and against the women in Shiloh (2:22bβ); rumors of these acts were circulating in Israel (v. 24). A comparison with Samuel’s sons, whose later acts of injustice caused the elders of Israel to confront Samuel (1 Sam 8:1–5), is fruitful. The fact that Eli’s sons were not opposed in the same way as Samuel’s sons were, may indicate that Eli and his sons were relatively more powerful or held in higher esteem than Samuel and his sons. Yet, I suspect that the difference reflects the elders’ views regarding the severity of the crimes rather than the power of the culprits. Whereas Eli’s sons committed crimes against God and women, Samuel’s sons committed crimes against their fellow men by taking bribes and perverting justice (v. 3b). In  1 Sam  21–22, the Eliade priest Ahimelech has limited power. First, visà-vis Saul, the presence of Saul’s spy Doeg at Nob reveals that the priests have less authority than Saul. Saul has the authority to position his spy at Nob and Ahimelech has no power to throw him out. The same impression of the power dynamic continues in 1 Sam 22. It is the king who “summons” the priests to Gibeah and they obey (v. 11). Saul continues to question them, and they respond to his accusations (vv. 12–15). Ultimately, the king have them executed (vv. 17–19). Ahimelech’s relationship with David betrays the same power structure: David’s attitude and choice of words, displayed in his interaction

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with Ahimelech, reveals authority and agency. David and Ahimelech may be allies—suggested by the presence of Goliath’s sword at Nob (vv. 9–10, see also 17:54)—yet the discussion between David and Ahimelech reveals that their alliance is not equal. Lurking under the surface of the whole 1 Sam 16–31 is the sense that David, despite his precarious status under Saul’s reign, wields the real power. 5.

Conclusion

In this essay, I have sought to show that the priests’ power, expressed in terms of agency, authority, and efficacy, was intrinsically connected to their advisory role in a military context. In this role, they had agency insofar as they could initiate the conversation, but they had limited authority since their inductive divinatory process could be interrupted and their advice overruled. In my view, these depictions reflect a wider practice where foreknowledge predominantly played a role in military contexts. This conclusion gains credence by the military role of the Ark of the Covenant in 1 Sam 4. It further recalls 1 Sam 21, as well as the fact that Goliath’s sword was placed near the ephod for safe keeping with the priests, and possibly also by the presence of Eli’s sons in the battle in 1 Sam 4. It may lastly be supported by the list of mighty men in 1 Chr 27:34, where the priest Abiathar appears alongside Ahithophet the counsellor, Hushai the friend, Jehoiada (the son of Benaiah), and Joab the commander. This insight regarding the priests’ main activity within the military realm may explain why David asks the prophet Nathan about the building of the temple in 2 Sam 7. Although the temple clearly is a cultic artefact and the question whether to build it thus ought to concern the priests, it is ultimately not a military matter. Therefore, David asks a prophet whose sphere of intelligence is wider and extends beyond military intelligence.42 The priests relied heavily on tools of divination to perform their advisory duties. When they lost the tools, they lost their power. Further, the priests’ intelligence appears to be limited to binary answers. The priests were unable to provide the monarch with information beyond a yes or a no. For more elaborate oracular matters, the monarch needed to consult a prophet. This restriction may be a direct result of their reliance on technical tools, although, at least in theory, such tools should not have any innate binary restriction. The priests’ efficacy is innately connected to the monarch whom they serve. A comparison between Ahijah, Saul’s priest, and Abiathar, David’s priest, 42

Rachelle Gilmour, Private Communication.

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reveals that the latter had significantly more efficacy. Both men performed similar military tasks for their ruler, yet Abiathar was considerably more successful in obtaining useful answers. The difference is not in kind but in efficacy: whereas Ahijah failed because of God’s views of Saul, Abiathar succeeded because of God’s views of David. Thus, when a priest serves a person whom God has rejected, their divinatory procedures yield little result; when he serves a person in whom God delights, their divinatory procedures succeed. As such, the priestly efficacy is portrayed as curtailed. The priestly rituals have no independent value but are presented as dependent on God. They have efficacy only when God allows. Finally, this study highlights the significance that the DtrH attributes to divine foreknowledge. Wise leaders should seek intelligence before engaging in military conflict. Israel does not use the Ark of the Covenant to consult God before fighting the Philistines, with disastrous consequences. Saul interrupts the divinatory process in 1 Sam 14:18–19, with a non-optimal military victory as the result. He also fails to use the foreknowledge obtained in 1 Sam 28:19 to refrain from engaging the Philistines in battle, paying a fatal price. Only David prudently seeks God’s will before battle, adheres to the priests’ military advice, and thus ensures military success over his enemies.

The Political Theology of Ezra-Nehemiah Tamara Cohn Eskenazi Like most biblical books, Ezra-Nehemiah (EN) expresses its messages in theological language and frames of reference. God is in charge of world events and God is particularly invested in Israel’s well-being. Empires are God’s instruments. The sentiment made explicit in Isa 45:1–7 suffuses as well EN’s theological stance: the Persian empire is such an instrument for Israel’s benefit. Yet EN also demarcates a distinctive perspective on how such theological presuppositions play out on the stage of history. Its very mode of narration is part of this new political theology. Furthermore, politics is its explicit focus as it traces (and promotes) the creation of a new type of Judean social order or polity. God initiates the process by commissioning Cyrus. But Cyrus commissions the people (Ezra 1:3). The book then unfolds as a response to the command to rebuild God’s house in Jerusalem. Ezra  2–Nehemiah  7 describes building that house as a three-stage process. The people in Stage One build the temple under Zerubbabel and Jeshua (Ezra  3–6). In Stage Two they build the community under Ezra (Ezra 7–10). Finally, in Stage Three they build Jerusalem’s walls under Nehemiah (Nehemiah  1–7). The three stages are held together by a repeated list of builders (Ezra 2 and Neh 7:6–72/73). These people sub­ sequently celebrate their success (Nehemiah 8–13). In so formulating its story, EN expresses the notion of God’s house extending beyond that of the temple. It encompasses also the people and the city. Consequently, in Neh 11:1 and 18, the city is designated as a consecrated city, ir haqodesh. It is guarded by cult personnel and subject to Judean (not Persian) laws/traditions. What emerges is not a restoration but a reconstruction. The people then celebrate their success by gathering around the book of the torah and undertaking responsibility for their community and cult.1 1 Needless to say, I am describing the book’s presentation of a history; it is not to be conflated with historicity. The historical backdrop for EN’s construction of its narrative has received many valuable analyses but remains opaque. As Louis Jonker notes, however, one can identify a number of contemporary tensions in the Persian and early Hellenistic periods. Jonker distinguishes four levels of socio-historic existence at work. “(i) the level of provincial interaction (particularly with Samaria), (ii) the level of old tribal rivalries between Judah and Benjamin, (iii) the level of cultic factionalism at the second temple in Jerusalem, and (iv) the level of diaspora-homeland relationships with those Jewish communities in the Babylonian and Egyptian areas.” Louis Jonker, “Holiness Theology in Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah: A Comparison of Their Political Implications” in this volume. Raik Heckl, however, considers EN primarily as “a programmatic text in the conflict between Jerusalem and Samaria” (Raik

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As I have shown elsewhere by tracing literary features, EN’s distinctive narration of these events emphasizes three themes: (1) The authoritative power of documents. (2) The role of the people, not merely their leaders, as central protagonists. (3) The expansion of God’s house beyond the temple to the people and the city itself.2 In what follows I will examine and illustrate the political (not merely literary) implications of these themes, and highlight the sometimes subtle ways in which EN communicates—and seeks to implement—its political agenda. I will focus on the role of the people. EN accommodates to what it posits as an enduring structure of imperial domination. Unlike Haggai, it does not anticipate an overthrow of it. Unlike Zechariah, it does not engage eschatology. Instead, it gradually and emphatically develops, enlarges, and puts into place an infrastructure that grants political, religious and economic agency to the Judeans, even under imperial rule. Accommodation and restructuring/refashioning are embedded in the very opening verses, Cyrus’s decree and the response to it (Ezra 1:1–6). In Cyrus’s decree, God’s words and actions are mediated, first by Jeremiah, then King Cyrus. Importantly, however, commission is immediately transferred to the people themselves, not any particular leaders. And in the first year of King Cyrus of Persia, in order that the word of YHWH by the mouth of Jeremiah might be accomplished, YHWH stirred up the spirit of King Cyrus of Persia so that he sent a herald throughout all his kingdom, and also in a written edict declared: Thus says Cyrus, King of Persia: YHWH, the God of heaven, has given me all the kingdoms of the earth, and he has charged me to build him a house at Jerusalem in Judah. Whoever is among you of his people—may his God be with him!—let him go up to Jerusalem in Judah, and build the house of YHWH, the God of Israel—he is the God who is in Jerusalem (Ezra 1:1–3).3

Scholars have noted the practice of mimicry undertaken by those colonized under imperial rule.4 Mimicking in EN is evident in the form and language of

Heckl, “The Composition of Ezra-Nehemiah as a Testimony for the Competition between the Temples in Jerusalem and on Mt. Gerizim in the early Years of the Seleucid Rule over Judah,” in The Bible, Qumran, and the Samaritans, ed. Magnar Kartveit and Gary N. Knoppers [Berlin: de Gruyter, 2018] 115–32, 128). 2 For details, see Tamara Cohn Eskenazi, In an Age of Prose: A Literary Approach to EzraNehemiah, SBLMS 36 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988). 3 The translations follow the NRSV except for substituting God’s name for “the Lord”. 4 Specifically regarding EN, see Christopher Jones, “Embedded Written Documents as Colonial Mimicry in Ezra-Nehemiah,” BibInt 26 (2018): 158–81, and bibliography there. See

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the decree, which, as Christine Mitchell illustrates, echo royal inscriptions.5 Mitchell regards it as a theological appropriation.6 Mimicking is also displayed in the very notion of layered delegation of power that echoes the bureaucratic structures of Achaemenid imperial rule. As Mark G. Brett observes, the book “is heavy with officialdom” and “archiving imperial decrees”7 that typify the Achaemenid administration. Accommodation is apparent from the credit bestowed upon Cyrus as God’s emissary. However, refashioning of dynamics, even resistance, appears as well, both within the edict and in the response to it. First, Cyrus is the instrument of Israel’s God, a perspective that is to be expected (given biblical theologies). But Cyrus then commissions the people themselves to build God’s house. He thereby transfers agency to them to carry out God’s command. This temple and house of God are going to be the people’s temple. That is unique. It is the case that the all temples in the ancient world were the actual work of “the people.” But credit elsewhere consistently goes to the king. All other ancient accounts herald royal achievements. That is true of the Bible and of the ANE in general. Solomon’s temple is just that, Solomon’s (see, e.g., 1 Kgs 6:2, and also Ezra 5:11 which credits him without naming him). But building the new house of God in EN is specifically the work of the people. They pay workers, they choose supervisors from among themselves (Ezra 3); it is emphatically “the house of our God” (Neh 10:32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 38, 39). Every step is explicitly depicted as the concerted effort by the community (see below). Refashioning and redirecting are apparent as well by the response to the edict. “And the heads of the families of Judah and Benjamin, and the priests and the Levites—everyone whose spirit God had stirred up—rose up to go up to build the house of YHWH in Jerusalem” (Ezra 1:5). The people indeed rise up and go up to build God’s house. But they take their marching orders from God, not Cyrus: the God who awakened Cyrus’s spirit now awakens theirs. Their task is building God’s house. The proleptic summary in Ezra  1:5–6 sums up the events recorded in Ezra  2–Nehemiah  7. It refers not merely to building the temple in Ezra 3–6, but to all that is encompassed by the repeated list of builders (Ezra 7 and Neh 7:6–72/73). This extensive and repeated list of persons in Ezra 2 and Nehemiah 7 is crucial for understanding EN’s message. Like a vise, the repeated list clamps all the intermediate events together into also Mark G. Brett, Locations of God: Political Theology of the Hebrew Bible (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), especially 75–85, but also 86–89. 5 “The Politics of Judahite Creation Theologies in the Persian Period” in this volume. 6 Ibid. 7 Brett, Locations of God, 75.

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a single, unified action with stages unfolding through time and across generations. The list and its repetition highlight those who build God’s house, whose story this is. It is not a generalization (“the people”) but gives specificity, names and numbers for the 42,360 who undertake the task. Ezra 2 and Nehemiah 7 give full credit to the builders of God’s house. While Ezra  2:1 refers to the list as of returnees from the Babylonian captivity, the names themselves and other features indicate later figures, as well as persons who most likely never had gone into exile. References, for example, to leading figures such as Nehemiah, Bagohi and Mordecai in Ezra 2:2 indicate persons decades after Cyrus, in mid-5th century. References to men from Benjaminite towns (e.g., Ezra 2:23) indicate persons not likely to have been exiled but who join the builders in this renewed enterprise.8 Nehemiah’s depiction of the list as that of those who came first (Neh 7:5) invites reading the material as the accumulative list of community members from the beginning to, and including, those of Nehemiah’s time.9 1.

Stage One: The Temple (Ezra 3–6)

Having been commissioned to build God’s house, the people (Ezra 2) undertake the task with gusto. Ezra  3–6 describes their enthusiastic commitment to building (Ezra 3), delayed only because outsiders undermined their efforts (Ezra 4). But by the 2nd year of King Darius, thanks to the inspiration and guidance by Judean leaders, they resume (Ezra 5:1) and complete the job (Ezra 6:14). Credit for success is bestowed upon the elders of the Judeans not any of their leaders. God’s prophets this time inspire a renewal of efforts (Ezra  5:1–2), Zerubbabel and Jeshua begin to lead, but the elders soon take up the mantle of leadership in successful negotiating with Persian officials (Ezra 5:9–16). The elders also lead the project to its satisfactory conclusion: “So the elders of the Judeans built and prospered, through the prophesying of the prophet Haggai and Zechariah son of Iddo. They finished their building by command of the

8 The strategic emphasis on Benjamin in EN (Ezra  1:5–6 and elsewhere) is noteworthy. EN takes steps to ensure that Benjamin remains part of Judah and to highlight its enthusiastic commitment to the centrality of Jerusalem. Neither of these would have been simple matters of fact in the early Persian period, given the different histories of the two territories and groups. 9 So also Mark G. Brett who notes that the list in Ezra 2 includes repatriates and those who have never been exiled (Brett, Locations of God, 79).

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God of Israel and by decree of Cyrus, Darius, and King Artaxerxes of Persia” (Ezra 6:14).10 For Lisbeth Fried, Ezra  1–6 reflects building inscriptions comparable to those of the ANE.11 Hurowitz illustrates in detail, on the basis of ANE building or foundation inscriptions, the features that typify such rituals.12 A consistent element in all these is the role of the king in every stage. The same can be seen in biblical accounts as well. Solomon is chief organizer in 1 Kings 6–8 and it is his achievement according to the long prayer that culminates the building ritual. David in Chronicles usurps some of the role as builder, but the process remains in royal hands, as it were. EN is the opposite. Every step is governed by community members, and initiated by God or Judeans, with Persian kings as their instrument. The people hire craftspeople and supply (Ezra  3:7–8). Levites then supervise the rest (Ezra 3:8–9). The festivities mention no single leader (Ezra 3:8–13). When the building of the temple reaches conclusion, it is the elders (as noted) who are in charge, confirmed but not managed by royal authorities. Ezra 6:6–7 is particularly significant in this connection. It records a pivotal moment in this stage of building in which jurisdiction in EN is turned over entirely to the Judeans. We read that Darius issues the following instructions to Tattenai, his satrap: “Now you, Tattenai, governor of the province Beyond the River, Shethar-bozenai, and you, their associates, the envoys in the province Beyond the River, keep away; let the work on this house of God alone; let the governor of the Jews and the elders of the Jews rebuild this house of God on its site” (Ezra 6:6–7; NRSV translation) What the NRSV translates as “keep away” is ‫רחיקין הוו מן תמה‬, literally, “be far away from there.” The verb ‫ רחיקין‬is key. This verb (we see in the Elephantine papyri) is a legal term with the sense of “quit claim.” The verb r.ḥ.q, followed by 10

The role of the elders deserves a comment. Mark G. Brett highlights the political significance of elders in the Bible as the representatives who engage in deliberation and negotiation. Brett builds on Michael Walzer for whom tribal elders count as evidence of political deliberation (Michael Walzer, In God’s Shadow: Politics in the Hebrew Bible [New Haven: Yale University Press, 2012], 73–75; 210–11). Brett illustrates the ways elders in 1 Samuel, for example, shape the political landscape (Brett, Locations of God, 1–13; esp. 1–3), contesting Walzer’s claim that elders play no significant role in the Bible (Walzer In God’s Shadow, 197). The elders in EN represent political engagement. Ezra 6 exemplifies this role and supports Brett’s interpretation of the nature of biblical political understanding. So does Ezra 9–10. 11 Lisbeth S. Fried, Ezra: A Commentary (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2015), 19–20. 12 Victor (Avigdor) Hurowitz, I Have Built You an Exalted House: Temple Building in the Bible in light of Mesopotamian and Northwest Semitic Writings, JSOTSup 115 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1992), 84–90.

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the preposition m, to “distance oneself,” appears several times in the Aramaic papyri from Elephantine, typically in the context of renouncing property: TAD B 2.7.6–7//C13 (dated 446 BCE); TAD B 2.8.6, 11//C 14 (dated 440 BCE); TAD B 2.9.9–11//C 20 (dated 420 BCE); see also mrḥq “deed of renunciation” in TAD B 2.22//C 6:22 and TAD B 2.8.1.14//C 14. The expression functions legally there as a “quit claim,” and probably means the same here, as Frithiof Rundgren notes.13 The importance of such a conclusion cannot be overestimated. Blenkinsopp indirectly (and inadvertently, perhaps) underscores the force of this instruction when he challenges the comparison with Elephantine. He notes that “it was clearly Tattenai’s responsibility to monitor what was going on anywhere within his jurisdiction, and the central government would be highly unlikely to exempt any part of it from supervision.”14 Yet, the letter specifically prescribes just such an exemption. 1 Esdras is different, which serves to highlight EN’s distinctiveness. It begins this section largely like the EN (although adding Zerubbabel who is not named at this point in EN). Darius orders the Persian governor “to keep away from the place, and to permit Zerubbabel, the servant of the Lord and governor of Judea, and the elders of the Jews to build this house of the Lord … ” (1 Esdr 6:27). This is followed, however, by: “Then Sisinnes the governor of Coelesyria and Phoenicia, and Sathrabuzanes, and their associates, following the orders of King Darius, supervised the holy work with very great care, assisting the elders of the Jews and the chief officers of the temple” (1 Esdr 7:1–2). One would naturally expect continued supervision, as Blenkinsopp and Williamson also suppose. But Ezra  6:6–7, in contrast to 1 Esdras, insists on the independence of Judean control of the temple. The rest of EN illustrates such independent control, despite royal funding. With these royal instructions, which Tattenai hastens to implement (Ezra 6:13), EN establishes the disjunction between the authority of the Persian empire and Jerusalem’s temple. Authority over the latter is passed over entirely and exclusively to the hands 13

14

Frithiof Rundgren, “Über einen juristischen Terminus bei Esra  6:6,” ZAW 70 (1958): 209–15. Hugh  G.  M.  Williamson, however, doubts that legal renouncing is meant here, given what he considers the ambiguity of the term in the Elephantine papyri (see Hugh  G.  M.  Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah, WBC  16 [Waco: Word Books, 1985], 81). Blenkinsopp, as well, believes that the analogy does not fit well because “Tattenai was neither making an accusation nor staking a claim; he was simply seeking confirmation of a building permit” (Joseph Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah: A Commentary, OTL [Philadelphia: Westminster, 1988], 127). But the similarity in terminology and context are too striking to ignore, especially since v. 7 also turns over responsibility for building to the Judeans. Hence, one has to conclude that the expression signals the transfer of some jurisdiction, even if we cannot identify the extent of it. Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah, 127.

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of the Judean elders and their (presumably Judean) governor. What Ezra 3–6 illustrates, then, is the emergence of a distinct Judean infrastructure to build and manage the temple while under Persian control. 2.

Stage Two: The Community (Ezra 7–10)

The formation of a Judean infrastructure with God in charge and Judeans as God’s emissaries is especially pronounced in the next stage of rebuilding. So too the decisive voice of the people as those who shape this development. I will focus on two examples: the portrait of Ezra and the legislating of endogamy. 2.1 Ezra’s Portrait An illustrative example of Judean control is the portrait of Ezra and his actions. Ezra  7–10 depicts the building of the community itself in accordance with God’s teaching. The narrator reports that, thanks to Israel’s God, Ezra received from the Persian king whatever he, Ezra, requested (Ezra 7:6). Ezra aimed to do, study and teach God’s law in/to Israel (Ezra 7:10). Initiative, in EN’s portrayal, comes from Ezra.15 Artaxerxes’ letter in Ezra 7:12–26 spells out Ezra’s virtually unlimited authority, including the distribution of extravagant funds to the cult, to be uses as Ezra and cult personnel see fit (see especially Ezra 7:18). Ezra’s authority includes implementing the law of his God, appointing judges, and dispersing funds. The king, furthermore, authorizes punishment for those who violate the law of Ezra’s God and the law of the king (Ezra 7:26).16 Surprisingly, Ezra in EN never invokes this royal authority in dealing with what he perceives as violations. Batten notes the striking contrast. In his comment on Artaxerxes’ letter to Ezra, Batten writes “Ezra is here clothed with all the power of the Persian king in the whole of Syria, yet he is unable to effect a single divorce

15

16

Like several details in EN, this one is historically plausible in that courtiers in the Persian court often approached the king with requests that were consequently granted as laws. See Peter Frei, “Persian Imperial Authorization: A Summary,” in Persia and Torah: The Theory of Imperial Authorization of the Pentateuch, ed. James  W.  Watts. SBL SymS  17 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 2001), 5–40; trans. “Die persische Reichsorganisation: Ein Überblick,” ZABR 1 (1995): 1–35. The gifts that Ezra 7–8 lists, however, defy credibility. But the historical reliability is not the issue that this paper seeks to establish. Rather, the goal is to discern EN’s presentation of its political theology. It is not clear who is authorized to enforce such punishment.

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except by a pathetic appeal to the people.”17 To Batten, this justifies dismissing the letter and Ezra as fiction (see also Torrey’s influential studies).18 Batten’s observation is to the point; Ezra indeed appeals to the people. But Batten’s conclusion misses that point. EN casts Ezra as a leader who indeed receives virtually a royal carte blanche. However, EN illustrates that Ezra never uses his imperial credentials. Instead, Ezra responds in Judah consistently and solely to the people. Ezra is approached by leaders who report the marriage “scandals” (Ezra 9:1–2). He does not, like Nehemiah, discover it (Neh 13:23–27). Although authorized to implement the law and punish violators, Ezra does none of these things. His response is prayer to God expositing the nature of what he regards as violation of God’s commands. He then lets the community take charge. Ezra only undertakes leadership in the matter when commissioned by the people to do so (10:1–6). Even then, he issues one general instruction and then works with the community’s proposal on the process, joining a committee (Ezra 10:10–17). This pattern persists throughout the book. While authorized to implement, even enforce, the law that is in his hands, implicitly the Torah, Ezra does not present it in EN until the people ask him to (Neh 8:1). Even then, when they gather around him to learn more, he facilitates their finding the teachings for themselves, rather than imposing it upon them. Neh 8:14 does not say: “He told them.” It says, instead, “And they found it written in the law, which YHWH had commanded by Moses, that the people of Israel should live in booths during the festival of the seventh month …” They found the teaching and went out to carry it out.19 The people from then onward take charge. Ezra, the appointed leader, fades entirely from sight as the community gathers and rehearses its story in the great prayer (Nehemiah 9).20 The people then make a commitment to undertake managing their house of God (Nehemiah 10). In eschewing the use of Persian authorization, Ezra models and establishes a mechanism for self-regulation while under the umbrella of imperial rule, regulations that conform to royal guidelines but generated by specific Judean sources. These practices now are governed by the teachings of the Torah, not royal decrees. 17 Loring W. Batten, The Books of Ezra and Nehemiah: A Critical and Exegetical Commentary, ICC (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1913; repr. 1949), 308. 18 Charles Cutler Torrey, Ezra Studies. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1910. 19 See Tamara Cohn Eskenazi, “Ezra-Nehemiah: From Text to Actuality,” in Signs and Wonder: Biblical Texts in Literary Focus, ed. J. Cheryl Exum, SemeiaSt (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), 165–97. 20 The LXX 9:5 adds Ezra’s name as leader but the MT does not, assigning the prayer to the Levites only.

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2.2 Legislating Endogamy Ezra’s story does more than illustrate Ezra’s eschewing royal authority. It demonstrates a process in which the community undertakes its own governance. The handling of the marriages that Ezra considers disastrous (Ezra 9–10) models this new form of communal organization. As already noted, the action in Ezra 9–10 is initiated by community leaders who complain to Ezra (Ezra 9:1–2) and solicit him to act (Ezra 10:1–6).21 They, apparently, issue a demand for a gathering with the threat of ḥerem (Ezra 10:7– 8). Surprisingly, no punishment is ascribed to those who marry “foreign wives” or to those who might refuse to divorce them. The threat is strictly confined to those who do not come to the assembly. Endogamy often features in discussion of accommodation vs. resistance. Regarding EN, some, like Smith-Christopher, considers it resistance to Persian rule.22 Others, like Hoglund, argue the reverse and see it as implementing Persian policies.23 In my view, it is not likely to be Persian policy given the evidence from the Persian empire. The Elephantine Papyri which document intermarriages (e.g., TAD B 3.3//Kraeling 2) demonstrate sufficiently that the Persian authorities did not interfere with such matters as marriages, even when they involved soldiers under direct Persian command. Yet endogamy can be construed as an indirect form of resistance, even if not undertaken with that in mind. It establishes communal control over members’ familial life and sets boundaries that help curtail foreign influences. Ezra 10:9–17 describes the assembly in detail—and the details are important. Now Ezra finally issues a demand: he calls for separating from foreign wives, but without spelling out consequences (Ezra 10:10–11). The people consent but propose a process in which the matter be relegated to committees to adjudicate case by case with local representation: “Let our officials represent the whole assembly, and let all in our towns who have taken foreign wives come at appointed times, and with them the elders and judges of every town, until the fierce wrath of our God on this account is averted from us” (Ezra 10:14). And so they do (10:16).

21

For a close reading of these passages, see NOTES in Tamara Cohn Eskenazi, Ezra, AB (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2023). 22 Daniel Smith-Christopher, “The Mixed Marriage Crisis in Ezra  9–10 and Nehemiah  13: A Study of the Sociology of Post-Exilic Judean Community,” in Temple Studies 2: Temple Community in the Persian Period, ed. Tamara Cohn Eskenazi and Kent  H.  Richards, JSOTSup 175 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), 243–63. 23 Kenneth  G.  Hoglund, Achaemenid Imperial Administration in Syria-Palestine and the Missions of Ezra and Nehemiah, SBLDS 125 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992).

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Ezra 10:18–44 records the results. It establishes that 111 men were intermarried.24 Four of them—priests from the leading priestly house (Ezra  10:18– 19)—consent to remove their foreign wives.25 The fate of the others, in EN, is unspecified.26 As is well known, the final verse of this episode in Ezra 10:44 is opaque.27 24

In my interpretation, deciding what constituted genuine intermarriage was one of the issues. Various claims or definitions of “intermarriage” may have been subject to debate (was Tobiah’s son in Neh 6:17–18 intermarried? Or is it Nehemiah’s definition of Tobiah as an Ammonite servant in Neh 2:10 that renders him thus?). The men in the list, however, are officially declared as intermarried. 25 For EN, the fate of priestly marriages matters a great deal. Enforcing communal consensus regarding endogamy upon the priests (who in biblical traditions are authoritative sources for God’s teachings) is an accomplishment that EN may wish to highlight. It is the case that while the Bible is inconsistent on the subject of endogamy, Lev 21:1–15 spells out specific marriage rules for priests. Lev 21:13–15 prohibits exogamy only to the high priest. This is relevant when noting that the only specific men who agree to send away their foreign wives in Ezra (Ezra 10:18–19) belong to the family of Jeshua son of Jozadak, the high priest according to Haggai and Zechariah (see, e.g., Haggai 1:1). 26 Unfortunately, some translations, uncritically, replace Ezra 10:44 with the definitive statement in 1 Esdr 9:36, which claims that all these men divorced their wives. NRSV justifies this by stating in its note that “the Hebrew is uncertain.” The MT, is awkward but comprehensible, and is adequately translated by the KJV and NJPS, for example. KJV has “All these had taken strange wives: and some of them had wives by whom they had children.” NJPS has “All these had married foreign women, among whom were some women who had borne children.” The difficulty lies in interpreting the implications. But it specifically does NOT mention expulsion of either women or children. If anything, it may imply that there were established offspring which precluded a simple solution. In my view something of the sorts seems likely. In any case, EN does not depict “a mass divorce” (contra, e.g., Fried, Ezra, 404–5). For a detailed discussion, see Eskenazi, Ezra, 421–3. 27 The literature on the crisis of marriage in Ezra 9–10 is too voluminous to cite in full. Recent publications include: Yonina Dor, “The Composition of the Episode of the Foreign Women in Ezra IX-X,” VT 53 (2003): 26–47; Christian Frevel, ed., Mixed Marriages: Intermarriage and Group Identity in the Second Temple Period (New York: T&T Clark, 2011); Benedikt Hensel, “Ethnic Fiction and Identity-Formation: A New Explanation for the Background of the Question of Intermarriage in Ezra-Nehemiah,” in The Bible, Qumran and the Samaritans, ed. Magnar Kartveit and Gary N. Knoppers (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2018), 133–50; Sara Japhet, “The Expulsion of the Foreign Women (Ezra 9–10): The Legal Basis, Precedents, and Consequences for the Definition of Jewish Identity,” in “Sieben Augen auf einem Stein” (Sach 3,9): Studien zur Literatur des Zweiten Tempels. Festscrhift für Ina Willi-Plein zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. F. Hartenstein and M. Pietsch (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2007), 141–61; Willa Johnson, The Holy Seed Has Been Defiled: The Interethnic Dilemma in Ezra 9–10, Hebrew Bible Monograph 33 (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2011). Csilla Saysell, “According to the Law”: Reading Ezra 9–10 as Christian Scripture, Journal of Theological Interpretation Supplement (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2012); Katherine Southwood, Ethnicity and the Mixed Marriage Crisis in Ezra  9–10: An Anthropological Approach (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). Scholars interpret the conclusion in various ways.

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Whatever the actual literary or historical backdrop to this conclusion, EN’s silence about the full consequences keeps the focus on the process itself, diverting attention from the final results. Conceivably the process itself, and what it establishes, may have been the most important goal.28 As several scholars note, Athens is the only other ancient society on record thus far to have legislated endogamy.29 It did so in 451 BCE with what is known as the law of Pericles.30 The parallels with Athens should lay to rest claims that endogamy in Judah points to distinct Persian imperial policies. In my interpretation, it highlights parallel orientation between Judah and Athens with regard to communal participation in governance. While not a democracy, EN’s model of community engages “all the people” in its decision making, and delegates responsibility to all. This becomes most explicit in Nehemiah 10 when members sign the pledge to follow the Torah, and specifically also oppose exogamy, avoid financial exploitation, and take charge of supporting and maintaining their house of God. Ezra 10 models the process by which decisions are made and the manner with which the community organizes itself. Lisbeth Fried, who also notes parallels with Athens, takes a different view, however. According to her, no options of self-governance under Persian rule existed. Thus in Ezra 10, “Men were assembled to hear decrees and to witness the decisions of imperial officials. That is all.”31 They had no role in making those decisions. Many, perhaps most, conclude that mass divorce took place even though EN does not specify that (Fried, Frevel, Saysell). Others conclude conversely that the silence implies that such steps did not take place, either because they proved impractical and unenforceable (e.g., Japhet) or because the separation was something other than divorce, and families returned home intact after a ritual (Dor). Williamson, who supposes a divorce, credits the silence to the writer(s)’ sensitivity to the human cost. 28 Josephus understands the situation that way (Ant. XI.5.3). 29 See Tamara Cohn Eskenazi, “The Missions of Ezra and Nehemiah,” in Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming, ed., Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 509–29; Lisbeth S. Fried, “The Concept of ‘Impure Birth’ in Fifth Century Athens and Judah,” in In the Wake of Tikva Frymer Kensky: Tikva Frymer-Kensky Memoiral Volume, ed. Richard H. Beal, Steven Holloway, and Joann Scurlock (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2009), 121–41; Lisbeth S. Fried, “No King in Judah? Mass Divorce in Judah and in Athens,” in Political Memory in and After the Persian Empire, ed. Jason M. Silverman and Caroline Waerzeggers, ANEM (Atlanta: SBL Press, 2015), 381–401; Wolfgang Oswald, “Foreign Marriages and Citizenship in Persian Period Judah,” JHS 12 (2012), Article 6. 30 The very name bears an interesting relation to EN. In democratic Athens, the law in extant sources is attached to a specific individual. In EN, while Ezra’s name continues to be highlighted by subsequent interpreters in this connection, the law, in fact, comes initially from Shecaniah, one of the people, in response to Ezra’s prayer (Ezra 10:1–4). Ezra had issued no commands or offered no solution earlier. 31 Fried, Ezra, 404.

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What Fried describes may conceivably reflect the actual backstory or historical situation behind EN’s account. We have no way of knowing. However, EN makes the opposite point, and it is EN’s perspective (rather than the historical “facts” behind it) that represents this biblical position. In this account, pace Fried, the voice of the people carries the day. They are presented as empowered to implement their decisions. Their authoritative role develops even further as the book unfolds. They are the ones who invite Ezra to bring the Torah; they gather; they pray and they subscribe in writing to a joint pledge and to certain reforms (Nehemiah 8–13; see below). Fried further holds that the Athenian law aimed to prevent foreigners from accessing, public offices and public funds.32 In her view, this could not explain legislating endogamy in Judah because Judeans “did not control either the temple or public funds.”33 Only Persians controlled such funds. Judean intermarriages, then (claims Fried), would not have mattered unless they included Persian spouses. Fried’s interpretation, in my view, is problematic on two grounds: literary and historical. From a literary perspective it ignores EN’s claim that Judeans did precisely that: control the temple and the distribution of its fund (see Ezra 6:6–7 and Artaxerxes’ letter in Ezra 7:12–26, esp. 7:18). EN’s literary representation is clear and contradicts her view of Persian presence. Second, the historical likelihood that the Persian managed temple funds is contradicted by the information from Elephantine. Funds dedicated to the temple of YHW in Elephantine (TAD C 3.15//Cowley 22) are placed at the hands of the Judean priest Jedaniah. There is no Persian involvement. I therefore conclude the opposite: concern with intermarriage in both Jerusalem and Athens stems from the greater roles bestowed upon the community in these two communities. More participation by community members in EN results in stricter criteria as to who may be counted as a member (or a “citizen” in Athens), and who thus can access power and resources. 3.

Nehemiah 1–7

The Nehemiah Memoir, which constitutes most of Nehemiah  1–7, keeps Nehemiah at the center. Here as well, however, Judean initiative and implementation make an appearance. Nehemiah initiates his mission by asking, in fear and trembling, for royal permission (Neh 2:1–8). His memoir lauds him for 32 Fried, Ezra, 391–97. 33 Ibid., 396–97.

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the courage and vigor with which he carried out his plans. Yet the book, even here, underscores the role of the people in Nehemiah’s success. His crowning achievement, building Jerusalem’s wall, is not his alone in EN. Although Nehemiah credits himself (“Now when it was reported … that I had built the wall …” in Neh 6:1), EN makes unmistakably clear the crucial roles of others whose actions (and presumably funds) made the building possible. Nehemiah  3:1–32 lists dozens of them, showing the participatory nature of building the so-called “Nehemiah’s” wall. It is no more his wall than the temple is Cyrus’s. While Nehemiah contemplates the paucity of inhabitants in Jersualem (Neh 7:4), EN establishes that the people chose volunteers to settle Jerusalem (Neh  11:1–2). EN concludes with reforms that Nehemiah ascribes to himself (Neh 13:4–31). But EN is organized so as to present Nehemiah as one who is implementing communal decisions recorded in Nehemiah 10 (see below). This portrait, notwithstanding Nehemiah’s emphasis on himself, casts Nehemiah as the people’s servant. 4.

The (Repeated) List of Builders (Neh 7:6–72[73])

The repetition of the list of persons in Ezra 2 and Nehemiah 7 is one of the most striking features of EN. It is a major organizing principle, and a key to its interpretation of the era it depicts. As already suggested, the repetition in Neh 7:6–72[73] communicates to the reader the utmost importance of those listed who are responsible for what has transpired. They built God’s house and now they join the celebration of its dedication. The list leads directly, seamlessly, to the celebration of the completion of the project that began with Cyrus’s edict in Ezra 1:1–4. With this list, all earlier builders are recalled textually. Embedded, they stand symbolically with those who now summon Ezra and who jointly receive the Torah. 5.

Celebrating the Completion of God’s House (Nehemiah 8–13)

The grand celebrations that follow the completion of the wall and that mark the dedication ceremonies (Neh 12:27) are entirely the work of the community as a whole, with Ezra and Nehemiah at its service. It is the people who gather and invite Ezra to bring the book of the Torah (Neh 8:1). They pursue their study of it with Ezra, then carry out the teachings

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that they found by celebrating Sukkot throughout the land (Neh 8:13–18). Ezra’s role, if he is meant in Neh 8:18, is confined to reading the Torah daily during the feast. From that point onward, the people are in charge. They gather for the prayer (Nehemiah 9) which is led by Levites in the MT. Most importantly, they sign a pledge to abide by God’s Torah and in particular, take full responsibility for the care and maintenance of their temple (Nehemiah 10). As noted earlier, “the temple of our God” is repeated in Neh 10:32, 33, 34, 35, 37, 38, 40. It would be hard to find a stronger statement for asserting self-governance. This pledge, beginning in Neh 9:37, extends through to Neh 10:40. The events that follow can be described as the creation of a self-imposed constitution based on the principles of the received Torah. The similarity of such steps to modern political models, including the American Constitution, cannot be ignored. The book of the Torah, as the book of Moses in Ezra  3:2, governed the people’s building activities from the start, alongside other authoritative documents such as the letters to and from the Persian kings (e.g., Ezra 4–6 and 7:12– 26). “The Torah of God that was given by the hand of Moses, God’s servant” (Neh 10:30) now supersedes other documents as the most authoritative and the one by which the community conducts its life henceforth. The era itself is no longer demarcated by the dates and names of Persian kings. Instead, it is the time from Zerubabbel and Jeshua (Neh 12:1) to Nehemiah, Jehoiakim and Ezra (Neh 12:26), or from Zerubbabel to Nehemiah (Neh 12:47), and the landmark dates are linked by means of priestly, not royal, names (Neh 12:1–26). The people themselves remain in the foreground throughout Nehemiah 8–12.34 Nehemiah moves to center stage with his report about the reforms that he implemented (Neh 13:4–31). But since the community itself in Nehemiah 10 determined to impose such reforms (see Neh 10:31 about intermarriage; 10:32 about the Sabbath; 10:39 about provisions for Levites), EN’s plotline casts Nehemiah as the people’s emissary, implementing their decisions.35

34

35

The reference to the command of the king in Neh 11:23 could refer to the Persian king or to David, who in Neh 12:24 commands certain rituals (see also Neh 13:36 and Ezra 3:10 which refer to King David). But it may also be reference to provisions such as those in Artaxerxes’ letter in Ezra 7:12–26. As David J. A. Clines had already shown in “Nehemiah 10 as an Example of Early Jewish Biblical Exegesis,” JSOT 21 (1981): 111–17, there are reasons to see Neh  13:4–31 as earlier than the pledge in Nehemiah 10. EN’s authors chose the place the sequence as we have it, recasting thereby Nehemiah and his mission.

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Conclusion

By the end, EN has displayed before the reader the gradual formation a civic society unlike any in the ANE or elsewhere in the Bible. The distant analogy is Classical Athens. But that distance between the two is great. EN is bound by what we might call today a written constitution, not simply the will of the people. In form and content, it resembles most the polity36 that Deuteronomy prescribes37, but adapted to the reality of imperial rule that has benefits and liabilities.38 Nevertheless (“And with all this …” in Neh 10:1), the people create a system and an infrastructure to allow them to govern their own internal affairs. Their lives are to be shaped by laws that they collectively accepted and have begun to implement. In EN, Israel puts the received Torah into practice. The book of Torah is now communicated via a publicly available document, subject to scrutiny and interpretation. It is to be expected that some in a society under foreign rule will seek to establish modus vivendi with ruling powers. EN represents such a group, and in doing so there is nothing remarkable. What is noteworthy is what EN constructs by means of theological and political ideas within this larger imperial context. Whereas Carl Schmitt brought political theology to the fore as a means to privilege the absolute power of the sovereign, EN’s description of the reconstruction transfers power to the community and a broad spectrum of its representatives. Authority comes from God and is embodied in the book of the Torah, for all to study. The people interpret and implement it, even when under foreign sovereign rule. I trust that the readers of this essay understand that I am not claiming that EN created such a society or reflects an actual, historical, society. The historical reality behind the text can be discerned only sketchily, if at all. But the model of society that EN envisions and constructs, and that I have delineated, is itself a historical datum by virtue of having become a sanctioned version of the community.39

36 37 38 39

The term is one Dean McBride uses on the basis of Josephus. See Dean McBride, “Polity of the Covenant People,” Int 41 (1987): 229–44. Ezra 9:11–12 echoes Deut 7:3 and Neh 13:1–3 virtually quotes Deut 23:4–7. Statements in Ezra 9:9 and Neh 9:36–37 disclose liabilities even as the book largely shows the benefits. Authorization and funds coexist with economic exploitation. For more details, see also Eskenazi, Ezra.

Politics and Theology in Second Maccabees: Epiphanies, Prayers, and Deaths of Martyrs Revisited Julia Rhyder It is the sixth year of Maccabean conflict with Seleucid forces in Judea, and, according to 2 Macc 15, Judas Maccabeus is preparing for his most important battle yet. The Seleucid general Nicanor is mounting a campaign to kill Judas and other pious members of the community, with the intention of destroying the Jerusalem temple (2 Macc  14:31–33). At this critical moment of the Maccabean revolt, as Judas rallies his forces to meet Nicanor on the battlefield, the epitomator responsible for compiling 2 Maccabees assures the reader of Judas’s confidence that God will grant him victory, irrespective of the strength of Nicanor’s army. συνιδὼν ὁ Μακκαβαῖος τὴν τῶν πληθῶν παρουσίαν καὶ τῶν ὅπλων τὴν ποικίλην παρασκευὴν τήν τε τῶν θηρίων ἀγριότητα ἀνατείνας τὰς χεῖρας εἰς τὸν οὐρανὸν ἐπεκαλέσατο τὸν τερατοποιὸν κύριον γινώσκων ὅτι οὐκ ἔστιν δι᾿ ὅπλων, καθὼς δὲ ἐὰν αὐτῷ κριθῇ, τοῖς ἀξίοις περιποιεῖται τὴν νίκην. Maccabeus, observing the presence of masses, the diversity of weapons that were prepared, and the wildness of the beasts, raised up his hands towards heaven and called upon the wonder-working Lord, for he knew that it is not through weapons, but, rather, according to how he decides, that he brings about victory for the deserving. (2 Macc 15:21)

In this short description of the moments that immediately precede Nicanor’s downfall, several of the key themes that shape the book of 2 Maccabees are brought into sharp relief. These include the book’s emphasis on the importance of divine intervention for protecting the temple and community, as well as the piety of Jews who pray and rely on God in times of mortal danger. This * I wish to thank the participants at the St Andrews Online Biblical Studies Seminar for their helpful comments on a penultimate version of this essay. Unless otherwise stated, all translations are my own. While preparing this essay, I worked closely with the commentaries of Daniel  R.  Schwartz, 2 Maccabees, Commentaries on Early Jewish Literature (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008) and Robert Doran, 2 Maccabees: A Critical Commentary, Hermeneia (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2012). My translations may therefore be influenced by their treatments of the text.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/978365

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passage also highlights the book’s heavy focus on Judas Maccabeus—his piety, military strength, and special capacity to protect the temple and community against their various enemies. These key themes of 2 Maccabees, in turn, play an integral role in shaping how scholars reconstruct the character and purpose of the book, as well as the possible context of its composition. 1.

Debates Concerning the Political Character of 2 Maccabees

For the majority of scholars, the emphasis in 2 Maccabees on divine intervention, prayer, and pious devotion to God reveals the thoroughly theological nature of the book and its disinterest in the political affairs of the Hasmonean dynasty that claimed descent from Judas and his brothers.1 Despite Judas featuring heavily in the account, this figure supposedly receives “a demotion from his status in First Maccabees,” because the success of the revolt no longer depends on his military strength but rather on divine intervention and the devotion of ordinary Jews.2 To explain why the epitomator chose to depict the founder of the Hasmonean dynasty in this way, a growing number of scholars propose that the book might have been compiled in the diaspora, and therefore at a considerable distance from the inner circles of the Hasmonean court.3 Others go so far as to suggest that the book was compiled by someone who hoped to discredit the Hasmonean dynasty by denying its right to claim responsibility for the success of the Maccabean revolt.4 An important minority, however, question the idea that the theological themes of 2 Maccabees reveal the book’s disinterest in legitimating the Hasmonean dynasty. Sylvie Honigman argues that 2 Maccabees’ focus on divine deliverance of the temple conforms to the “narrative pattern of temple 1 See, e.g., George W. E. Nickelsburg, “1 and 2 Maccabees—Same Story, Different Meaning,” CTM 42 (1971): 515–26; Jonathan A. Goldstein, I Maccabees, AB 41 (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1976); idem, II Maccabees, AB 41A (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1983); Robert  M.  Doran, Temple Propaganda: The Purpose and Character of 2 Maccabees, CBQMS  12 (Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1981); James A. Kelhoffer, “The Maccabees at Prayer: Pro- and Anti-Hasmonean Tendencies in the Prayers of First and Second Maccabees,” Early Christianity 2 (2011): 198–218. 2 Direct quote from Kelhoffer, “Maccabees at Prayer,” 211. 3 See, e.g., Schwartz, 2 Maccabees, 45–55 and Doran, 2 Maccabees, 15–17; contrast Bertram Herr, “Der Standpunkt des Epitomators: Perspektivenwechsel in der Forschung am Zweiten Makkabäerbuch,” Bib 90 (2009): 1–31, here 21–25. 4 See, e.g., Goldstein, I Maccabees, 64–89; Doran, Temple Propaganda, 114; Jan Willem van Henten, The Maccabean Martyrs as Saviours of the Jewish People: A Study of 2 and 4 Maccabees, JSJSup 57 (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 54; Kelhoffer, “Maccabees at Prayer,” 211.

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foundation (or refoundation) that, in the Judean political tradition, was instrumental to any claim to political legitimacy.”5 By depicting Judas as a pious leader who staged a rebellion to save the temple and restore its cultic functioning, 2 Maccabees appropriates well-established cultural codes about righteous kings to provide sophisticated support for the Hasmoneans’ claim to royal and cultic agency in Judea. Honigman therefore concludes that 2 Maccabees was most likely composed by a Hasmonean court historian in the city of Jerusalem. Jonathan R. Trotter likewise argues that the focus on the temple in 2 Maccabees is difficult to reconcile with the view that the book was intended to discredit the Hasmoneans, given that the Hasmonean dynasty controlled the temple institution at the time the book was written (mid- to late-second century BCE). Yet, while Trotter agrees that 2 Maccabees is intended to “support the legitimacy of the restored temple and Hasmonean priesthood,” he finds little evidence with which to determine whether the book was written in Palestine or in a diasporic setting.6 The differences in how scholars interpret the main themes of 2 Maccabees provide a striking illustration of the difficulties that continue to plague scholars’ attempts to articulate so-called “theological” and “political” themes in the study of ancient Jewish traditions. In the minds of most interpreters, a focus on theological topics, such as divine deliverance, prayer, and the piety of martyrs, remains somehow incompatible with the idea that 2 Maccabees was intended to affirm particular leaders or political dynasties in Judea. However, as Honigman and Katell Berthelot have argued with particular clarity, this assumption seems to rely on a modern distinction between “religious” and “political” spheres that is misplaced when describing the cultural patterns that inform ancient texts.7 In what follows, I explore the relationship between theology and politics in 2 Maccabees by examining how the book’s depiction of divine epiphanies, battle prayers, and the deaths of pious Jews together serve to reinforce the narrative depiction of Judas as God’s chosen means of ensuring that the people and temple are defended against harm. Each of these aspects of 2 Maccabees, this essay contends, advances a sophisticated “political theology” that serves to legitimize the military and cultic agency of the Hasmonean dynasty in Judea. A

5 Sylvie Honigman, Tales of High Priests and Taxes: The Books of the Maccabees and the Judean Rebellion against Antiochos IV, HCS 56 (Oakland: University of California Press, 2014), 2. 6 Jonathan R. Trotter, The Jerusalem Temple in Diaspora: Jewish Practice and Thought during the Second Temple Period, JSJSup 192 (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 138. 7 Honigman, Tales of High Priests and Taxes, 51–64 and Katell Berthelot, In Search of the Promised Land: The Hasmonean Dynasty Between Biblical Models and Hellenistic Diplomacy, trans. Margaret Rigaud, JAJSup 24 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2018), 59–62.

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brief conclusion then outlines the significance of the essay’s main findings for the study of 2 Maccabees and its possible context of composition. 2.

Epiphanies and Visions

The narrative of 2 Maccabees begins in chapter 3 with a dramatic tale of how Heliodorus, a senior official of Seleucus IV Philopator, attempts to plunder the temple in Jerusalem after receiving misleading information about its funds from the scheming temple administrator, Simon the Benjamite.8 When Heliodorus tries to enter the temple treasury with his bodyguard, he experiences an epiphany τῶν πνευμάτων καὶ πάσης ἐξουσίας δυνάστης (“of the lord of spirits and of all powers”; 2 Macc 3:24), in which God manifests himself as a heavenly horseman brandishing gold weapons, followed by two handsome young men who flog the Seleucid official until he is close to death.9 When narrating this episode of divine defense of the temple treasury, the epitomator places considerable emphasis on the importance of the high priest Onias III in determining the fate of the sanctuary and of Heliodorus himself. The narrative begins in 2 Macc 3:1 by stating that Jerusalem is enjoying a period of πάσης εἰρήνης (“complete peace”) and widespread law observance, owing to τὴν Ονιου τοῦ ἀρχιερέως εὐσέβειάν τε καὶ μισοπονηρίαν (“the piety of Onias the high priest and hatred of wickedness”). When Heliodorus arrives in Jerusalem, Onias is a cordial host who shows utmost respect for the temple funds, which, unlike the wicked Simon, he proudly guards on behalf of χηρῶν τε καὶ ὀρφανῶν (“widows and orphans”) and those who have entrusted their money to the 8 Second Maccabees  1–2 preface the main narrative with two festal letters (1:1–9; 1:10–2:18), followed by the epitomator’s prologue (2:19–32). 9 Concerning τῶν πνευμάτων καὶ πάσης ἐξουσίας δυνάστης and the similar epithet “lord of the spirits” found over 100 times in 1 Enoch, see Matthew Black, The Book of Enoch or I Enoch: A New English Edition, SVTP 7 (Leiden: Brill, 1985), 189–91 and Anna Angelini, L’imaginaire du démoniaque dans la Septante. Une analyse comparée de la notion de “démon” dans la LXX et dans la Bible Hébraïque, JSJSup 197 (Leiden: Brill, 2021), 270–71. As argued by Robert Doran (Temple Propaganda, 49–50) and Aleksander R. Michalak (Angels as Warriors in Late Second Temple Jewish Literature, WUNT 2/330 [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012], 196–97), this episode shows significant parallels with Greek inscriptions that describe divine defense of threatened temples, such as the stone stele of the Lindians from 99 BCE that details the most important apparitions of their goddess Athena in defense of her temple on the island of Lindos. It also shares Western-Asian parallels, such as with the Neo-Babylonian account of Enil’s expulsion of Kuturnaḫḫunte, the king of Elam, from the temple at Nippur; on this account, see further Niels Stockholm, “Zur Überlieferung von Heliodor (2 Makk 3), Kuturnaḫḫunte, und anderen missglückten Tempelräubern,” ST 22 (1968): 1–22.

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sanctuary (vv. 10–11). When Heliodorus reveals his intention to confiscate these monies, the account focuses primarily on Onias’s intense grief at the thought that he is powerless to stop the Seleucid official from carrying out his plan (vv. 16–17, 21b). Then, after God miraculously intervenes to defend the temple treasury, Heliodorus is said to survive his injuries only because Onias makes a sacrifice on his behalf, which prompts the two divine messengers to again appear to Heliodorus and explain that he owes Onias his life (vv. 31–34). The epiphany account of 2 Macc 3:1–4:6 therefore serves to demonstrate not only God’s capacity to defend his temple against foreign interference, but also the importance of pious high priestly leadership for ensuring its proper protection. Significantly, after this initial episode of divine intervention, we must wait for the emergence of Judas Maccabeus as the leader of the rebellion before God will again manifest himself in defense of the sanctuary. With the removal of Onias from the high priesthood by his brother Jason (2 Macc 4:7–10), and his brutal murder by Andronicus at the urging of the corrupt high priest Menelaus (2 Macc 4:30–34), the community descends into a state of lawlessness that provokes God’s wrath, and therefore leaves the temple utterly defenseless. This change of affairs is dramatically signaled by the second divine epiphany of the book, narrated at 2 Macc 5:2–4. Here we read how, during Antiochus IV’s second siege in Egypt in 168 BCE, an ἐπιφάνεια (“apparition”) appears above the city of Jerusalem, in which golden-clad calvary and battle horses engage in combat for forty days (2 Macc 5:2–3). The people of Jerusalem wonder whether this might be a good omen (2 Macc 5:4), but the subsequent account leaves little doubt that it is a portent for destruction. After Jason foolishly attacks Jerusalem (2 Macc  5:5–10), Antiochus concludes that Jerusalem must be rebelling against him and so marches on the city with horrific force, entering the Jerusalem temple and pillaging it with the help of the wicked Menelaus (2 Macc 5:11–16). The epitomator explains that this terrible turn of events, so dramatically foreshadowed by the divine apparition above the city, proves that God is no longer willing to intervene in defense of the temple, owing to the iniquitous behavior of the people of Judea under the leadership of Jason and Menelaus (2 Macc 5:17–20). Once Judas restores the temple to a state of cultic purity (2 Macc 10:1–10), however, two epiphanies occur in quick succession that affirm his status as God’s chosen defender of the rededicated sanctuary. The first epiphany occurs at 2 Macc 10:24–38 during a massive offensive led by a certain Seleucid commander named Timothy against Judas and his forces. When they see Timothy’s army approaching, Judas and his men throw themselves ἐπὶ τὴν ἀπέναντι τοῦ θυσιαστηρίου κρηπῖδα (“upon the foundation facing the altar”) and beg God to intervene. By turning the narrative focus onto the space of the temple, the

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epitomator ensures that Timothy’s invasion is seen to directly endanger the newly-dedicated shrine, thereby heightening the stakes of the ensuing battle. God’s intervention comes in the form of five heavenly figures who appear on horseback, and who enable Judas and his men to rout Timothy’s army and force the Seleucid commander to flee in disgrace (vv. 29–32). Significantly, the epitomator states that two of the angelic figures surround Judas and create a divine shield ταῖς ἑαυτῶν πανοπλίαις ἄτρωτον διεφύλαττον (“with their own armor, keeping him unwounded”; v. 30).10 This action clearly signals the privileged status of Judas as the leader of the temple defense, and confirms the importance of his personal survival in the eyes of the divinity.11 The second epiphany occurs almost immediately after Judas has repelled Timothy and faces an attack by Lysias, the guardian of the young king Antiochus V Eupator (2 Macc 11:1–12).12 According to 2 Macc 11:6–7, as soon as Judas and his followers learn of Lysias’s planned assault they pray to God for angelic assistance. Judas then takes up arms and encourages his troops to meet the enemy on the battlefield. Almost immediately a divine horseman ἐν λευκῇ ἐσθῆτι πανοπλίαν χρυσῆν κραδαίνων (“in white clothing, brandishing golden armor”) appears, inspiring Judas’s forces to fight λεοντηδὸν (“like lions”), thereby reducing Lysias’s army to naked men running for their lives (vv. 8–11). Of crucial significance to this episode are the threats made by Lysias against the people and temple cult prior to the battle. Not only does Lysias threaten to replace the local population with Greeks (v. 2), but he makes an explicit threat against the sanctuary and high priesthood, revealing his plans to levy taxes on the Jerusalem temple and put the high priesthood up for sale each year (v. 3). This emphasis on the temple finances creates a clear parallel between Lysias’s attack and Heliodorus’s attempt to plunder the temple treasury in 2 Macc 3, 10

Several witnesses, including Codex Venetus and the Vetus Latina, omit οἱ δύο from v. 30, suggesting that all five angels shielded Judas. However, it seems most likely that the original text contained οἱ δύο and was later amended to clarify what the other three angels were doing when two of their companions formed a shield around Judas; see further Christian Habicht, 2. Makkabäerbuch, JSHRZ 1/3 (Gütersloh: Mohn, 1976), 253 and Schwartz, 2 Maccabees, 388–89. 11 As pointed out by Doran, 2 Maccabees, 210, the image of divine warriors coming to Judas’s aid is reminiscent of episodes in which deities intervene in defense of their preferred figures in the Iliad, such as Apollo’s defense of Aeneas from Diomedes (5.436–37). It is also reminiscent of 2 Kgs 6:17–18, where YHWH sends a divine army to protect Elisha from Aram’s forces; see further Michalak, Angels as Warriors, 200. 12 Contrast 1 Macc 4:26–27, where Lysias is said to make his first attack during the reign of Antiochus IV. The epitomator’s decision to time the action so it occurs after the rededication of the temple may be intended to present Lysias’s threats against the temple as “undoing the results of Judas’s victory” and therefore risking the newly-rededicated temple; see further Goldstein, II Maccabees, 404.

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while also recalling the misconduct of Jason and Menelaus, who both used money to improperly gain access to the high priesthood (see 2 Macc 4:8, 24). The ensuing battle therefore highlights the vast differences between Judas and the shrewd Jason and Menelaus; Judas fights to protect the temple from financial extortion, while the latter iniquitous figures exploit the temple and high priesthood for their own gain. It also positions Judas as assuming the mantle of the pious Onias in defending the sanctuary against financial interference. This parallel between Judas and Onias is given even stronger affirmation in the final battle narrated in 2 Macc 15, which pits Judas against Nicanor following the latter’s threats against the people and the temple. In 2 Macc 15:11–16, Judas encourages his troops by recounting a ὄνειρον (“dream”) in which the deceased Onias appears before him, stretches out his hands, and prays τῷ παντὶ τῶν Ιουδαίων συστήματι (“for the whole body of the Jews”; v. 12). Onias is then accompanied by the prophet Jeremiah, who gives Judas a golden sword with the command to use it to crush his opponents. The appearance of Onias before Judas is highly significant, as it effectively confirms Judas’s divine charge to assume Onias’s mantle as “the new protector of the temple.”13 Meanwhile, the image of Judas receiving a heavenly sword has strong apocalyptic tones, thereby positioning Judas’s military campaign against Nicanor as effectively establishing God’s kingdom on earth.14 It is therefore little wonder that the battle results in a resounding victory for Judas, which ushers in the same state of peace and stability in Jerusalem that had been the norm under Onias (v. 37). The overall effect of the epiphanies and visions of 2 Maccabees is therefore to firmly position Judas as God’s chosen defender of the restored cult and community, and to present his righteous leadership as enabling both to return to the same ideal conditions with which the account began in 2 Macc 3:1. No aspect of the epiphanies in 2 Maccabees serves to cast Judas in a negative light. To the contrary, in a manner similar to other Hellenistic epiphany accounts from the eastern Mediterranean, “[t]he representation of divine miracles” in 2 Maccabees ultimately “turns out to be a self-asserting representation of human success.”15

13 Honigman, Tales of High Priests and Taxes, 154; see further Julia Rhyder, “Festivals and Violence in 1 and 2 Maccabees: Hanukkah and Nicanor’s Day,” HBAI 10 (2021): 63–76. 14 It particularly echoes the description in Animal Apocalypse  90.10 of the sheep receiving a sword. On this imagery see further Patrick A. Tiller, A Commentary on the Animal Apocalypse of I Enoch (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993). 15 Angelos Chaniotis, War in the Hellenistic World: A Social and Cultural History, Ancient World at War (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2005), 160.

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Battle Prayers

Closely related to 2 Maccabees’ interest in epiphanies is its focus on prayer as a key component of Judas’s military campaigns. According to James A. Kelhoffer, the prayers in 2 Maccabees are significant because they provide us with the strongest evidence that the book diminishes Judas’s standing; they “have the effect of lessening Judas’s stature” by emphasizing that Judas’s troops depend on the divinity, and not on Judas’s special ability to lead the Jews to victory.16 However, a far more cogent interpretation is that the emphasis on prayer serves to reinforce Judas’s depiction as a pious leader, and to confirm God’s divine approval of his warring tactics. The first prayer in a battle context occurs at 2 Macc  8:1–20, when Judas gathers his guerilla force to overthrow the Seleucids in Judea. According to vv. 2–3, Judas assembles approximately 6,000 steadfast Jews who pray to God to remember the violence perpetrated by the Seleucids against innocent Jews, to deliver the city of Jerusalem, and to have pity on the temple.17 This prayer is immediately followed by a series of rapid military victories that, far from signaling Judas’s incapacity to deliver the Jews, immediately cause him to gain widespread fame as a valiant warrior (λαλιὰ τῆς εὐανδρίας αὐτοῦ διηχεῖτο πανταχῇ [“talk of his valor spread everywhere”; v. 7]). Indeed, news of his military successes soon reaches the ears of the Seleucid official in charge of Jerusalem, Philip the Phrygian, who in turn informs Ptolemy, the governor of Coele-Syria, who then promptly sends a high-ranking official named Nicanor τὸ σύμπαν τῆς Ιουδαίας ἐξᾶραι γένος (“to wipe out the entirety of Judea”; v. 9).18 Faced with such a catastrophic military threat, many of Judas’s companions run away in fear (v. 13). Judas, however, stands firm. Using a mix of direct and indirect speech, the epitomator reports how Judas encourages those Jews who remain behind to face the enemy with confidence, using the battle signal θεοῦ βοηθείας “God’s help” (v. 23) to effectively ensure that they go into battle “with prayers on their lips.”19 The result is a resounding victory, which the epitomator attributes to the fact that God stands with Judas and his forces as their συμμάχου (“ally”; v. 24). The epitomator’s additional remarks concerning Judas’s concern to avoid fighting on the sabbath (vv. 26–27) and to share the victory 16 17 18

Kelhoffer, “Maccabees at Prayer,” 218. On the vocabulary of this prayer, see further §4 below. While this figure shares the same name as the character mentioned in 2 Macc 14–15, it is unclear whether this is purely coincidental, owing to the popularity of the name Nicanor, or whether the same figure appears twice in the book. 19 Bezalel Bar-Kochva, Judas Maccabaeus: The Jewish Struggle against the Seleucids (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 220.

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spoils with widows, orphans, and those who had been tortured (v. 28), further enhances the depiction of him as a pious warrior who is faithful to ancestral customs. Second Maccabees 12:32–45 likewise use prayer to emphasize Judas’s piety as a military leader and to highlight the divine support he enjoys during his various campaigns. After celebrating the Festival of Weeks, Judas is faced with a new military threat from the forces led by Gorgias, the governor of Idumea first introduced in 2 Macc 10:14. In recounting the ensuing battle, the epitomator makes the unusual observation that the Jews suffer a high number of casualties during the confrontation (v. 34), the first such comment in the book. In addition, v. 36 mentions that the Jews fighting under the charge of a certain Esdris, an otherwise unknown Jewish warrior, are growing increasingly exhausted as the battle drags on. In the face of these unprecedented challenges, Judas turns to prayer. Using indirect speech, the epitomator narrates how Judas implores the divinity σύμμαχον φανῆναι καὶ προοδηγὸν τοῦ πολέμου (“to appear as ally and leader of the war”; v. 36), echoing the language of 2 Macc 8:24 where God is likewise described as a σύμμαχος (although without being paired with the unusual term προοδηγός). Judas then raises a battle cry and hymns to God τῇ πατρίῳ φωνῇ (“in the language of the ancestors”; v. 37), before charging Gorgias’s troops and decisively winning the battle. This emphasis on Judas’s use of Hebrew when crying out to God “is another way of saying that he addressed Him in accordance with the tradition: that is, faithfully.”20 It therefore serves to further underscore his piety, while also affirming that his devotion and fidelity are what enable the Jews to overcome the particularly difficult circumstances of this battle. A similarly positive image of Judas emerges from the battle prayers in 2 Macc 13:9–17, when Antiochus V marches brazenly against the Jews. Judas responds to this threat by not only offering up his own prayers, but by ordering the entire community to implore the divinity to intervene on their behalf (vv. 10–11). Judas’s dependence on God is also explicitly noted in v. 14, which states that, after consulting the elders about how to respond to Antiochus V’s assault, Judas commits τὴν ἐπιτροπὴν τῷ κτίστῃ τοῦ κόσμου (“the decision to the creator of the world”) before launching a surprise attack on the king’s forces at Modein. Judas again gives his troops a battle cry, θεοῦ νίκης “God’s victory,” so as to affirm that his ensuing triumph is a victory secured by divine favor. Crucially, the epitomator concludes the account by attributing the mission’s entire success to God’s particular commitment to protecting Judas, closing the narration in v. 17 with the statement ὑποφαινούσης δὲ ἤδη τῆς ἡμέρας τοῦτο ἐγεγόνει διὰ 20 Honigman, Tales of High Priests and Taxes, 153.

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τὴν ἐπαρήγουσαν αὐτῷ τοῦ κυρίου σκέπην (“this [i.e., the victory] happened as the day was already breaking, because the Lord’s sheltering protected him [i.e., Judas]”). Hence, far from undermining the image of Judas as a capable leader, this episode reinforces his unique ability to motivate the divinity to intervene on the battlefield to secure the Jews’ triumph. Finally, Judas’s privileged status in the eyes of the divinity is affirmed in the battle prayers of 2 Macc  15:6–11, 20–24, when Judas is preparing to lead his troops against Nicanor. Here we find similar motifs to those found in Judas’s earlier prayers and battle speeches, but with an important development in v. 21. Judas’s prayer before the battle, recounted in indirect speech, describes his certainty that military victories are not determined by arms alone, but rather by a divine assessment of which leader deserves to emerge triumphant (γινώσκων ὅτι οὐκ ἔστιν δι᾿ ὅπλων, καθὼς δὲ ἐὰν αὐτῷ κριθῇ, τοῖς ἀξίοις περιποιεῖται τὴν νίκην [“for he knew that it is not through weapons, but, rather, according to how he decides, that he brings about victory for the deserving”]. This statement effectively positions the success of the various battles of the Maccabean revolt as clear proof that God endorses Judas’s leadership, because military victory is the concrete sign that a warrior is considered worthy in the eyes of the divinity. The epitomator then employs direct speech to recount the continuation of Judas’s prayer, in which he implores God to intervene in the battle against Nicanor in the same way in which he enabled King Hezekiah to route the army of Sennacherib (v. 22).21 The resounding victory against Nicanor that ensues (vv. 25–35) thus effectively positions Judas as continuing the military legacy of Judah’s greatest kings, and therefore as enjoying the same divine favor as the royal leaders of the foundational past. Again, there is little in this prayer that diminishes the importance or piety of Judas. Rather, it closes the book with clear affirmation of Judas’s privileged status before God, which enables him to lead the Jews to military glory that is worthy of comparison with the most esteemed kings of Judah. 4.

The Deaths of the Martyrs and Other Pious Figures

What, then, of the book’s emphasis on the deaths of martyrs and other pious figures when recounting the Maccabean rebellion? Do these compromise the agency of Judas in the success of the revolt? This is the view defended by George Nickelsburg, who argues that the focus on martyrdom in 2 Maccabees 21

For the story of Sennacherib’s repulsion from Jerusalem during the reign of King Hezekiah, see 2 Kgs 18:17–19:36; 2 Chr 32:1–22.

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undermines any notion that Judas was seen as responsible for delivering the Jews and their temple in the eyes of the epitomator. Rather, “[t]he real heroes of the piece are the … martyrs.”22 It is their extreme dedication to ancestral custom and to avoiding cultic defilement that turns God’s wrath to mercy and that causes him to deliver the Jews and the sanctuary from Seleucid control. The epitomator does indeed place considerable emphasis on the deaths of pious Jews when explaining key turning points in the Maccabean rebellion. When describing the ταλαιπωρίαν (“misery”) that has overtaken the Jews during the reign of Antiochus IV, 2 Macc 6:10 recounts the stories of two women who circumcise their babies and are punished by having them hung around their necks before they are thrown headfirst from a wall. This is promptly followed by a brief description of how those who secretly gather in caves to keep the sabbath are betrayed to the Seleucids and subsequently burned alive (2 Macc 6:11). Then, in 2 Macc 6:18–7:42, we find two lengthy stories of how an elderly scribe named Eleazar, as well seven unnamed brothers and their mother, all face torturous deaths because they refuse to consume the meat of sacrificed pig.23 These gruesome accounts of the violent suffering of pious Jews are critical to the overarching narrative of 2 Maccabees: they represent the climax of Antiochus IV’s persecution of the Jews—the final, and most horrific hardship experienced by the faithful in Judea—which is immediately followed by the divinity’s decision to abate his anger against the community and instead show them mercy (see 2 Macc 8:5b).24 After these persecution accounts, the focus of the narrative immediately shifts to how God delivers the community from Seleucid hegemony and brings about the untimely death of Antiochus IV, whose end is similarly torturous to the deaths of the innocent Jews he persecuted (see 2 Macc  9:1–29). The martyr episodes therefore represent a major turning point in the story of the revolt that helps explain why the divinity had such a profound change of heart towards the Jews and their sufferings. A similar phenomenon can be observed in the Nicanor episode of 2 Macc 14–15. After Nicanor’s grievous threats against Judas and the temple in 2 Macc 14:31–33, the epitomator narrates the grizzly fate of a Jewish elder named Razis, whose reputation as an upstanding Jew, faithful to ancestral custom, 22 23 24

Nickelsburg, “1 and 2 Maccabees,” 525; see also, with some caveats, Katell Berthelot, “The Maccabean Victory Explained: Between 1 and 2 Maccabees” TheTorah.com (2022). https:// thetorah.com/article/the-maccabean-victory-explained-between-1-and-2-maccabees. On the source-critical issues concerning 2 Macc 6:18–7:42, as well as the significance of the command to consume sacrificed pork, see Julia Rhyder, “Le porc dans les interactions d’Antiochos IV avec les Juifs: un réexamen des sources,” RTP 154 (2022): 383–49. See further van Henten, Maccabean Martyrs, 298–99.

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provokes Nicanor to send 500 hundred soldiers to arrest him (vv. 37–40). To avoid capture, Razis attempts to kill himself by falling on his sword, εὐγενῶς θέλων ἀποθανεῖν ἤπερ τοῖς ἀλιτηρίοις ὑποχείριος γενέσθαι καὶ τῆς ἰδίας εὐγενείας ἀναξίως ὑβρισθῆναι (“willing to die nobly rather than to be subjected to sinners and maltreated in a manner unworthy of his own noble birth”; v. 42).25 The sword unfortunately misses his vital organs, and so Razis throws himself from a wall, and then, still alive, rips out his intestines and hurls them before the crowd before finally dying (vv. 43–46). In a similar way to how Antiochus IV’s attacks on pious Jews precipitate his own humiliating downfall, Razis’ death “initiates Nicanor’s defeat” on the battlefield; the general is violently dismembered, and his head and arm displayed opposite the temple that he had so arrogantly threatened to destroy.26 When recounting these gruesome tales, the epitomator makes no suggestion that the pious deaths of Jews at the hands of the Seleucids diminish the importance of Judas’s role in the Maccabean rebellion. To the contrary, these tales present Judas as not only protecting the temple and community against Seleucid aggression, but also as achieving justice for those who were wrongfully killed by the Seleucids on account of their faithfulness to ancestral custom. As insightfully seen by Doran, the repetition of key vocabulary from the martyrs’ stories of 2 Macc 6–7 in the description of Judas’s campaigns casts this figure as God’s chosen means of enacting his mercy towards the community.27 The first prayer of Judas in 2 Macc 8:2–4 contains many similar terms and concepts to those found in the gruesome tales of the previous chapters: the manner in which Judas and his followers ἐπεκαλοῦντο (“call on”) the divinity to take pity on the Jews (v. 2) echoes the prayer of the seventh brother just a few verses prior, where the young man is said to be ἐπικαλούμενος (“calling on”) God to show mercy; Judas’s supplication to God in v. 2 ἐπιδεῖν τὸν ὑπὸ πάντων καταπατούμενον λαόν (“to look upon the people trampled on by all”) echoes the reassurance of the brothers and their mother that ὁ κύριος ὁ θεὸς ἐφορᾷ … ἐφ᾿ ἡμῖν (“the Lord God looks … upon us”; 2 Macc 7:6); and Judas’s reference, in his prayer, to τῶν καταβοώντων πρὸς αὐτὸν αἱμάτων (“the blood that cried out to him [i.e., God]”; v. 3) and τῆς τῶν ἀναμαρτήτων νηπίων παρανόμου ἀπωλείας (“the illicit destruction of the innocent infants”; v. 4) explicitly brings the various sufferings of 2 Macc 6–7 to the divinity’s attention. This repetition of key vocabulary ensures that the rise of Judas and his forces is clearly linked to the 25 26 27

See van Henten, Maccabean Martyrs, 144–50 regarding the similarities between Razis’ noble death and Greek and Roman stories of noble deaths for the salvation of cities. Direct quote from van Henten, Maccabean Martyrs, 150. Doran, 2 Maccabees, 170–71.

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accounts of the pious deaths in the two chapters just prior, and effectively positions Judas’s military leadership as the fulfilment of the martyrs’ prayers that God would mercifully spare the Jews any further torment at the hands of the Seleucids. The account of Razis’ untimely death works to similar effect in the story of Judas’s clash with Nicanor in 2 Macc 14–15. It heightens the emotional impact of Judas’s campaign against the general by casting the battle as achieving justice for the faithful, who were so violently persecuted by the Seleucids in Judea, despite the fact that Antiochus IV’s torturous reign is long since over. This interpretation gains weight from the wording of 2 Macc 15:30, the final reference to Judas in the book after he emerges victorious from the battle. Here the epitomator praises Judas in the strongest terms, as ὁ καθ᾿ ἅπαν σώματι καὶ ψυχῇ πρωταγωνιστὴς ὑπὲρ τῶν πολιτῶν ὁ τὴν τῆς ἡλικίας εὔνοιαν εἰς ὁμοεθνεῖς (“he who was entirely in body and soul the leader of the fight on behalf of the citizens and who maintained at each time of life goodwill toward his kinsfolk”). This description of Judas as struggling σώματι καὶ ψυχῇ again echoes the prayer of the seventh martyred son in 2 Macc 7:37, where it is said that he and his brothers give up σῶμα καὶ ψυχὴν in order to defend the ancestral customs. Hence, the epitomator closes his account with a clear affirmation of Judas as sharing the same pious traits and fearless nature as the martyrs, and as having taken up their righteous cause throughout his military campaigns against the Seleucid powers. 5.

Second Maccabees and the Hasmonean Dynasty

In conclusion, rather than diminishing the importance of Judas and his military successes, the epiphanies, battle prayers, and tales of pious deaths in 2 Maccabees together advance a sophisticated political theology, in which “the God of Israel is intensely engaged with questions of power” and uses his chosen agents to achieve his purposes for his cult and community.28 In retelling the events of the Maccabean revolt, the epitomator responsible for 2 Maccabees leaves no doubt that Judas is the figure whom God uses to defend his temple and restore his people after the iniquitous reign of Antiochus IV and the wickedness wrought by the high priests Jason and Menelaus. Judas is consistently depicted as a pious figure who earns the right to both cultic 28

Direct quote Walter Brueggemann, “Scripture: Old Testament,” in The Blackwell Companion to Political Theology, ed. Peter Scott and William T. Cavanaugh (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2004), 7–20, here 9.

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and military leadership. He rededicates the temple so that it might be again defended by the divinity via epiphanies, thereby assuring the same cultic order as was the norm during the time of Onias III; he acts as a righteous warrior whose gallant defense of both temple and community warrants comparison with Judah’s most pious kings; and he achieves God’s desire to show mercy to his people and achieve justice for those who faced death for their adherence to ancestral customs. The religious and the political are therefore inseparable in 2 Maccabees’ account of the Maccabean rebellion and its depiction of Judas as the leader of the revolt. Crucially, the epitomator closes the book of 2 Maccabees by clearly stating that the mantle of pious leadership under Judas did not cease in his lifetime. In  2 Macc  15:37, the epitomator explains that the state of peace established by Judas after the battle against Nicanor remains in place to the present day (ἀπ᾿ ἐκείνων τῶν καιρῶν κρατηθείσης τῆς πόλεως ὑπὸ τῶν Εβραίων [“from that time the city has been in the possession of the Hebrews”]). This statement strongly suggests that those who are currently in charge of the city and temple of Jerusalem are seen by the epitomator to enjoy the same divine favor as that which was bestowed on Judas. This suggests, in turn, that 2 Maccabees, far from advancing an anti-Hasmonean discourse, is actually intended to affirm the Hasmoneans’ claim to political and cultic legitimacy in Judea. The book recounts how the foundational leader of the dynasty (namely, Judas) gained divine approval to restore the temple, to assume the mantle of the last legitimate Oniad high priest, and to militarily defend the community. These rights given to Judas closely match the Hasmoneans’ own claim to serve as high priests and kings in Judea, who simultaneously manage the temple cult (along with all its finances) while also exerting military control over their territory. This finding does not prove that the book of 2 Maccabees was compiled in Jerusalem. Indeed, it is highly doubtful whether the issue of the epitomator’s location can be resolved on the basis of the book’s political theology alone; other issues, such as the language and style of the work, would also need to be taken into account. However, the analysis offered in this essay strongly suggests that 2 Maccabees was compiled by someone who sought to affirm the Hasmonean dynasty, and who considered the Hasmoneans’ unusual form of dual agency as high priests and kings with military power to enjoy divine approval. Such an individual could have been a Hasmonean sympathizer located in the diaspora. But it is also possible that he was a member of the Hasmonean court in Jerusalem. Second Maccabees therefore serves as a helpful case study of the political potential of theological themes such as epiphany, prayer, and martyrdom. The book’s interest in piety and devotion to God does not make it any less political

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than the drier dynastic account of 1 Maccabees, for which the themes of epiphanic deliverance and the deaths of martyrs figure less prominently when recounting the Maccabean revolt. Rather, 2 Maccabees speaks to the variety of ways in which ancient narratives could be used to legitimate political leaders and their particular forms of power—in the case of the Hasmoneans, their claim to both priestly and military functions in Judea in the wake of the Maccabean revolt.

Part IV Response

What has Political Theology Ever Done for Us? Stephen C. Russell “And what did the Romans ever do for us anyway?” Australian lawyer and activist Noel Pearson asked satirically as he put these words drawn from Monty Python’s Life of Brian into the mouths of the critics of one particular “Roman,” former Prime Minister Gough Whitlam.1 In 1972 Whitlam brought the Australian Labor Party to power for the first time in 23 years only to be removed from office by the Queen’s representative, Governor General John Kerr, in 1975. What did Whitlam achieve in three short years? Eulogizing him at the state memorial service on 5 November, 2014, Pearson continued: Apart from Medibank and the Trade Practices Act, cutting tariff protections and no-fault divorce in the Family Law Act, the Australia Council, the Federal Court, the Order of Australia, federal legal aid, the Racial Discrimination Act, needs-based schools funding, the recognition of China, the abolition of conscription, the law reform commission, student financial assistance, the Heritage Commission, non-discriminatory immigration rules, community health clinics, Aboriginal land rights, paid maternity leave for public servants, lowering the minimum voting age to 18 years and fair electoral boundaries and Senate representation for the territories. Apart from all of this, what did this Roman ever do for us?

The eulogy was hailed as one of the most important political speeches in modern Australian history.2 Its rhythms and ability to inspire reminded some listeners of the oratory of American civil rights leader Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.3 What strikes me is Pearson’s effortless movement between major themes in the political history of Australia and the former British Empire and the deeply personal story he tells of how he benefited from the policies brought about by, 1 A transcript of the speech is available at Noel Pearson, “Noel Pearson’s Eulogy for Gough Whitlam in Full,” The Sunday Herald, 5 November 2014, https://www.smh.com.au/opinion/ noel-pearsons-eulogy-for-gough-whitlam-in-full-20141105-11haeu.html. 2 See the analysis by Tom Clark, “A Closer Look at Noel Pearson’s Eulogy for Gough Whitlam,” The Conversation, 7  November  2014, https://theconversation.com/a-closer-look-at-noelpearsons-eulogy-for-gough-whitlam-33932. Compare his more formal analysis in Tom Clark, “Anxieties of Influence: Recursion and Occlusion in Noel Pearson’s ‘Eulogy’ for Gough Whitlam,” Journal of Language, Literature and Culture 65 (2018): 102–16. 3 For example, see the opinion of Robert Thorton cited by Lisa Visentin, “Gough Whitlam Memorial: Noel Pearson Delivers Grand Eulogy,” The Sunday Herald, 6  November  2014, https://www.smh.com.au/national/gough-whitlam-memorial-noel-pearson-delivers-grandeulogy-20141105-11hcwh.html.

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“this old man.” Raised on an Aboriginal reserve administered through a succession of discriminatory Queensland laws, Pearson charts the opportunities that opened to him because of the reform policies enacted by Whitlam. And not just his story, but that of John Koowarta, and Vincent Lingiari, “and millions of my fellow Australians whose experiences speak in some way or another to the great power of distributed opportunity,” brought about by Whitlam’s reforms. Whatever one’s opinion of Whitlam’s politics or Pearson’s assessment of his legacy, Pearson’s eulogy highlights the intimate connections between politics conceptualized in terms of sovereignty and governance at the center of national life and politics at other scales and in other domains. These connections echo through the history of Western reflection on political life. To cite but two examples, consider Aristotle and Michel Foucault. For Aristotle, humans are distinguished from animals by their use of speech (Pol. 1.2.10) and therefore, by their very nature, humans form associations (Pol. 1.2.15). Aristotle’s view that, “the city belongs among the things that exist by nature, and that man is by nature a political animal” (Pol. 1.2.9)4 is intimately connected with his views on an association formed at a different scale from the city, namely the household, including his views on natural slavery and on sexual custom (Pol. 1.3–1.7, 2.2–2.3). For Aristotle, scales of political life are linked by human nature. Foucault, in his lectures at the Collége de France in 1975–1976, analyzed politics through the grid of war, investigating the possibility that Carl von Clausewitz’s proposition should be inverted so that politics should be understood as the continuation of war by other means.5 Foucault’s attention to the various scales and domains of political life is seen throughout these lectures as he tries to answer the question, “What is power? … what are, in their mechanisms, effects, their relations, the various power-apparatuses that operate for various levels of society, in such very different domains and with so many different extensions?”6 Elsewhere, he writes, “Where there is power, there is resistance, and yet, or rather consequently, this resistance is never in a position of exteriority in relation to power.”7 His oeuvre traces the history of power relations in several domains—psychiatry; medicine; law; sexuality; and 4 Here cited according to Lord’s translation. See Carnes Lord, Aristotle’s Politics: Translated and with an Introduction, Notes, and Glossary, 2nd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2013). 5 Michel Foucault, ‘Society Must be Defended’: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1975–1976, trans. David Macey (New York: Picador, 2003), here 15. Foucault alludes to Carl von Clausewitz, Vom Kriege, book 1, chapter 1, xxiv. 6 Foucault, “Society Must be Defended,” 13. 7 Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality: Volume  1, An Introduction, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Vintage Books, 1990), 95.

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knowledge as such. For Foucault, scales and domains of political life are linked by the nature of power relations and by the fact that these relations have a history, or more precisely, an archaeology.8 Like Pearson, Aristotle, and Foucault, I embrace a broad definition of politics that includes, as Robert Dahl put it, “any persistent pattern of human relationships that involves, to a significant extent, power, rule, or authority.”9 Mark Brett’s working definition of theology as, “God-talk located in the context of multiple, often competing, perspectives on social life,” embeds within it the possibility of interacting scales and domains.10 Political theology has sometimes focused on sovereignty and governance at the center of political life.11 But the long tradition of political thought I hinted at and Brett’s definition of theology allow us to include within a discussion of political theology 8

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Jean-Claude Milner writes, “Foucault does keep the word ‘history’ but it is banalized and subjugated to the genitives that follow it: history of madness, history of bodies, history of sexuality … Foucault preferred to give the name archaeology to his method, which was at once clarifying and risky. Clarifying because this word is precisely not that of history, which would say more than is permissible; risky because it closely connects the general theory of the break to a theory of layers and overlaps” (A Search for Clarity: Science and Philosophy in Lacan’s Oeuvre, trans. Ed Pluth [Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2021], 48). Robert Dahl, Modern Political Analysis (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall), 6. Other scholars define politics more narrowly. For a helpful introduction to both broad and narrow definitions, see Cees van der Eijk, The Essence of Politics (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2019), 9–19. Aiming at a taxonomy, some scholars distinguish between micropolitics, mesopolitics, and macropolitics. For example, see Leonardo Morlino, Dirk Berg-Schlosser, and Bertrand Badie, Political Science: A Global Perspective (London: SAGE, 2015). Catherine  H.  Palczewski, Victoria Pruin DeFrancisco, and Danielle McGeough offer a concise definition, “Micropolitics refers to the negotiations over power in everyday interactions between people. Mesopolitics, meso meaning middle range, refers to the power exerted by groups within institutions (e.g., specific families, schools, workplaces, religions, or media sources) to ensure that individuals follow the institutions’ rules or to challenge those rules … Macropolitics refers to laws’, policies’, and culture’s power to enforce social norms. Researchers talk about the micro-, meso-, and macropolitics as theoretically distinct, but they overlap in practice” (Gender in Communication: A Critical Introduction, 3rd ed. [London: SAGE, 2019], 130). Mark G. Brett, Locations of God: Political Theology in the Hebrew Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019), xix. In working towards a definition of political philosophy, Leo Strauss writes, “By political theology we understand political teachings which are based on divine revelation. Political philosophy is limited to what is accessible to the unassisted human mind” (What is Political Philosophy? And Other Studies [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988 (orig. 1955)], 13). For example, see Elizabeth Phillips, Political Theology: A Guide for the Perplexed (London: T&T Clark, 2012); Saul Newman, Political Theology: A Critical Introduction (Cambridge: Polity, 2019).

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not only sovereignty, but also, in the current political moment, such themes as healthcare access, race and ethnicity, gender, sexuality, disability, class, citizenship, native land rights, and the environment. But what has political theology ever done for us? The Monty Python sketch to which this question alludes is meant to be funny. It acknowledges but places in the background the political and martial violence of Roman rule. Distance from this violence allows the audience to share in the joke. But it is harder to elide the more recent violence that some strands of political theology have supported. To cite but one example, Carl Schmitt sided with the Nazi regime from 1933 onwards.12 His Political Theology, published in 1922, argued for the necessity of sovereign power in restoring social order. It is impossible to read it now without awareness of his support for Nazi violence, especially against Jews.13 But Schmitt’s is hardly the only political theology. His contemporary, Lutheran pastor and theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer firmly opposed the Nazis.14 Within Christian tradition, God-talk’s competing perspectives on political life at various scales include voices as diverse as Savas Agourides, Allan Boesak, Katie  G.  Cannon, James  H.  Cone, Jean-Marc Éla, Gustavo Gutiérrez, Stanley Hauerwas, Johann Baptist Metz, John Milbank, Aloysius Pieris, Valerie Saiving, Dorothee Sölle.15 Within Jewish tradition, we could mention Hannah Arendt, Walter Benjamin, Martin Buber, Gershom Scholem, and Leo Strauss without even skimming the surface.16 As I write this, today’s news headlines here in 12 13

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Bernd Rüthers, Carl Schmitt im Dritten Reich: Wissenschaft als Zeitgeistverstärkung? (Munich: C.H.  Beck, 1990); Reinhard Mehring, Carl Schmitt: Aufstieg und Fall (Munich: C.H. Beck, 2009), 304–436. Raphael Gross, Carl Schmitt and the Jews: The “Jewish Question,” the Holocaust, and German Legal Theory (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2007). For a comparison of Walter Benjamin and Carl Schmitt in their approaches to violence and the state of exception, see Giorgio Agamben, State of Exception, trans. Kevin Attell (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 52–64. On the politics of Bonhoeffer’s The Cost of Discipleship, see Stanley Hauerwas, “Dietrich Bonhoeffer,” in The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Political Theology, ed. William  T. Cavanaugh and Peter Manley Scott, 2nd ed. (Chichester: Wiley & Sons, 2018), 137–50. See also the several essays in Lori Brandt Hale and W. David Hall, eds., Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Theology, and Political Resistance (London: Lexington Books, 2020). On these scholars and many others, see the essays in William  T.  Cavanaugh and Peter Manley Scott, eds., The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Political Theology, 2nd ed (Chichester: Wiley & Sons, 2018). Compare also the many essays in William T. Cavanaugh, Jeffrey  W.  Bailey, and Craig Hovey, eds., An Eerdmans Reader in Contemporary Political Theology (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2012); Craig Hovey and Elizabeth Phillips, eds., The Cambridge Companion to Christian Political Theology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015). On Hannah Arendt, see Eric Jacobson, “The Zionism of Hannah Arendt: 1941–1948,” in Judaism, Liberalism, and Political Theology, ed. Randi Rashkover and Martin Kavka

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America include startling inequality in healthcare access amid the raging COVID-19 pandemic, state-sanctioned violence against African Americans, encroachment on native land rights, the global climate crisis, and systemic misogyny in an entire industry. Political theology, as these writers and many others show, gives us ways to think and talk about the issues of power that confront us each day at so many scales. What do we contribute here to the ongoing conversation about God and politics? All the essays in this volume take up the task of political theology by reading biblical literature. But the Bible contains no treatise on political theology written by a clearly-identifiable scribe in a political context we can definitively reconstruct. As readers we make inferences about political theology from an anthology—comprised of narratives, prophetic oracles, law codes, psalms, and other literary forms—that has been copied and boldly reshaped by generations of anonymous scribes working over hundreds of years. To judge by their interventions in the literary tradition as it took shape, these scribes by no means agreed in their theology nor in their politics. The inferences we make depend in part on the interpretive horizons within which we read the biblical text. Scribal interventions may carry different valences depending on the political context in which we imagine them to be written. And so our engagement with political theology here runs the risk of leaving the reader who is not a professional biblical scholar perplexed as we zoom in and out between clauses and sentences and their hypothesized literary, historical, and political contexts, with their scholarly short-hands. But for us there is no other meaningful way to take the Bible seriously and engage in God-talk and political reflection. Our work here on ancient politics and ancient God-talk is important in its own right and is also a necessary preliminary step towards thinking about how the theological and political themes we trace later emerge in the medieval and modern periods. If the Bible carries any theological authority for thinking about contemporary political life it is certainly not (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2014), 127–52. On Benjamin and Scholem, see Udi E. Greenberg, “Orthodox Violence: ‘Critique of Violence’ and Walter Benjamin’s Jewish Political Theology,” History of European Ideas 34 (2008): 324–33; Eric Jacobson, Metaphysics of the Profane: The Political Theology of Walter Benjamin and Gershom Scholem (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003). For a comparison of Benjamin and Schmitt, see Giorgio Agamben, State of Exception, trans. Kevin Attell (Chicago: University of Chicago, 2005), 52–64. On Buber, see Gregory Kaplan, “Power and Israel in Martin Buber’s Critique of Carl Schmitt’s Political Theology,” in Judaism, Liberalism, and Political Theology, ed. Randi Rashkover and Martin Kavka (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2014), 155–77. On Leo Strauss, see Beau Shaw, “Ultra-Modern Thoughts: Political Theology in Leo Strauss’s Philosophy and Law,” History of European Ideas 43 (2017): 791–807.

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the kind of authority that is univocal. Rather, it is an authority that welcomes the reader into a conversation. Elizabeth Phillips summarizes the biblical background of much contemporary political theology. She writes, “The Scriptural themes which have been most prominent in political theology include creation, liberation and exodus, sovereignty and kingship, peace and justice, diaspora and sojourning, salvation and redemption, church and empire, the end of time and the last things.”17 These themes run through this volume. Christine Mitchell reads biblical creation theologies, especially those reflected in Gen 1:1–2:3, Zech 12, and Isa 42, in the context of Achaemenid creation theology, which intimately links the king’s office with Ahuramazda’s establishment of the earth, sky, humanity, and peace. Mitchell’s emphasis on the distinctive ways in which Achaemenid ideology linked monarchic power and a peaceful world order consisting of peoples and their lands is taken up in Jakob Wöhrle’s essay on Zechariah’s night visions. Wöhrle argues that while some biblical texts—for example, the oracle about Cyrus in Isa 44:24–45:7—embrace Persian imperial ideology’s vision of a cosmic order, the seven night visions in Zech 1:8–6:8 flatly reject it. For Zechariah, the pax persica is in fact a sign of Yahweh’s wrath and the book holds out hope for the overthrow of the Persian imperial order. The theme of sovereignty and kingship is especially prominent in the essays by Rachelle Gilmour, Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer, Megan Warner, and Julia Rhyder. Together, they show how a wide variety of themes, scenes, and characters—for example, beauty and clothing, dreams and epiphanies, priests and martyrs—serve to bolster or interrogate the legitimacy of royal power in various periods. Rachelle Gilmour examines the gendered depiction of beauty in Samuel-Kings and Esther. Samuel-Kings presents male beauty as a common feature of royal figures that provides evidence of their divine election. In these books, female beauty operates primarily in relation to male royal power rather than to consistently establish female power. In Esther, by contrast, female beauty correlates with female socio-political fortune. Gilmour interprets this difference in light of the different political contexts of these books and relates them to different depictions of divine intervention. Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer investigates the agency, authority and efficacy of the Eliade priests in the Books of Samuel. Rather than wielding their own political power, these priests are portrayed as supporting royal power by inquiring of the deity using special tools—the ephod and the ark—especially in the context of war. Priests are advisors to kings. Implicitly, the narratives affirm that wise kings seek divine guidance, particularly military intelligence. Attending 17

Phillips, Political Theology, 13.

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to royal language and themes—for example, dream messages, special attire, sibling rivalry—Megan Warner reads the Joseph story as a southern, Judahite edition of an originally northern, Israelite story. The original story presented Joseph as a royal figure like David. But the southern edition promoted its own hero, Judah, so that Joseph became a mere Saul waiting to be replaced. Julia Rhyder examines divine epiphanies, battle prayers, and the deaths of the pious Judeans in 2 Maccabees. She shows how these consistently advance the theme of God’s choice of Judas Maccabeus to protect the temple and community. In turn, the peace established by Judas is presented as remaining until the present day so that the book ultimately serves to support the reigning Hasmonean dynasty, who exercised both military and cultic power in Judea. At this political scale, there is not only the question of royal power but the question of national identity. Dominik Markl explores the extent to which precursors to modern nationalism can be found in the book of Deuteronomy. He reads preexilic, exilic, and postexilic phases of the book within Assyrian, Babylonian, and Persian imperial contexts. Markl finds analogues between Deuteronomy’s presentation of Israel, legally and politically constituted on its land, and modern nationalism from the eighteenth century onwards. Several of the essays in this volume touch on the theme of diaspora, sojourning, and homeland. John Ahn contrasts and compares two political poles, Babylon-Ezekiel and Egypt-Jeremiah. Drawing on Niklas Luhmann’s work on how social systems involve communication and reproduction, Ahn examines forced and return migrations in the sixth–fifth centuries BCE. He points out that in addition to the comparatively well-documented communities of Judean descent in Babylonia and Egypt, there likely were smaller communities in the coastlands, the wilderness, and neighboring Moab. Interactions between these communities, especially around issues of migration, marriage, and the importance of Jerusalem have led to the multi-layered cultural memories embedded in the biblical text. Dalit Rom-Shiloni examines the portrayal of Babylon and its king, Nebuchadrezzar II, in the book of Ezekiel, comparing Ezekiel’s presentation with that of Jeremiah. Rom-Shiloni shows that Ezekiel’s status as part of the diaspora in Babylon influences his portrayal of the Neo-Babylon empire, which is understood as a safe and reliable guardian for Israel. Nebuchadrezzar is presented as a warrior who serves Yahweh, including even in his opposition to Zedekiah. In this way, Ezekiel elevates the diaspora above the homeland. Indeed, the themes of diaspora and sojourning are closely connected to the theme of homeland. In our essays, Samasoni Moleli Alama and I examine the theme of land in biblical literature from this imperial period, as well as from an earlier period when the Judahite monarchy still ruled from Jerusalem. I focus on legal concepts borrowed from the realm of family law—possession and

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hereditary property—and applied to Israel’s homeland in some Hexateuchal traditions and Moleli Alama focusses on the image of the homeland’s expanding borders in Deut  12:20; 19:8, Amos  1:3, and 1 Chr  4:9–10. We share a conviction that despite varying terminology, both Deuteronomistic and Priestly literature imagine Yahweh or God as the ultimate holder of administrative rights in Israel’s land. The people’s continued rights in the land is conditional upon their loyalty and obedience and God, who is also perfectly within his rights to impose restrictions on land use and transfer. Tamara Cohn Eskenazi and Louis Jonker both also treat the theme of empire while connecting international politics with politics at other scales and in other domains. Eskenazi shows how Ezra-Nehemiah advances a vision of the world in which empires are merely God’s instruments. These documents carve out a role for Judeans, who are conceptualized as enjoying a degree of agency with the imperial system. In this way, Ezra-Nehemiah accommodates to structures of imperialism while also resisting them. Eskenazi highlights the special role played by endogamous marriage in Ezra-Nehemiah’s political vision. She thus connects the family with politics at other scales. Louis Jonker compares expanding concepts of holiness in Chronicles and in Ezra-Nehemiah and how they can be used to describe particular groups of priests or the nation as a whole. For Jonker, the literary portrayal of holiness in these books must be understood in the context of overarching Persian imperial rule, provincial interaction between Yehud and Samaria, tribal rivalries between Judah and Benjamin, cultic factions associated with the temple in Jerusalem, and diaspora-homeland relations between Yehud and communities in Egypt and Babylonia. His essay thus likewise illustrates the relations between domains and levels of political life. Phillips does not name suffering in her single-sentence summary of scriptural themes taken up within contemporary political theology, but suffering lies in the background to other themes she mentions, including liberation, exodus, salvation, and redemption. Katherine Southwood addresses the theme of suffering directly. She reads Job 3 as political comedy that gave its ancient audience the opportunity to develop a different approach to human suffering than some strands of Yahwistic piety. The story’s use of dramatic irony, Job’s casting as a foreigner, and the book’s restriction of the name Yahweh to the prologue and epilogue together draw the audience into a debate about the nature of the world and the place of arbitrary human suffering within it. Finally, the theme of the end of time and the last things is taken up by Petra Schmidtkunz, who examines the role of Zion in the Hebrew Bible’s vision of the future. She identifies a series of texts dealing with the nations’ future pilgrimage to Zion as imperial utopias. These texts—Isa 2:2–4/Mic 4:1–3; Isa 45:14–25;

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49:22–26; 56:1–7; 60; 66; Zeph 3:9–20; Hag 2:6–9; Zech 2:14–17; 8:20–23; 14:16– 21—are modeled on the concept of a thriving imperial capital and share the conviction that there is no place that Yahweh’s people can prosper other than Zion. In discussing Joseph Stalin’s reflections on Russian nationhood, published in 1950 as Marxism and the Problems of Linguistics, Jacques Lacan was characteristically provocative: “It is very unusual for anything that happens in the university to have repercussions, because the university is designed to ensure that thought never has any repercussions.”18 Lacan’s critique carries the force of prophetic truth. But political theology opens to academics like us the possibility of squeezing through Lacan’s little word unusual towards repercussion. Participating in this volume and the conference underlying it has been one of the best academic experiences of my life. Rachelle Gilmour, Mark Brett, and all our Australian colleagues who organized and supported the conference and this volume have extended to us the opportunity to be academic biblical scholars and theologians who are engaged in God-talk and politics, with repercussions. It is a heavy responsibility. But one brimming with possibility.

18

Jacques Lacan, My Teaching, trans. David Macey (London: Verso, 2008), 26.

List of Contributors John Ahn is Associate Professor of Hebrew Bible at Howard University (Washington, DC). He specializes in the historical, literary, and social contexts of the sixth and fifth centuries BCE. He has authored/edited Exile as Forced Migrations (de Gruyter, 2010), The Prophets Speak on Forced Migration (SBL Press, 2015), By the Irrigation Canals of Babylon (T&T Clark, 2012), Thus Says the LORD: Essays in Honor of Robert R. Wilson (T&T Clark, 2009), and Landscapes of Korean and Korean American Biblical Interpretation (SBL Press, 2019). He is the editor-inchief of the Journal of Black Religious Thought (Brill). Mark G. Brett is a Fellow of the Australian Academy of the Humanities (FAHA), and a Professor of Hebrew Bible and ethics at Whitley College in Melbourne, within the University of Divinity. He was raised in Papua New Guinea, which has yielded a lifelong interest in the cultural contexts of education. His research has focused on the book of Genesis, postcolonial studies, ethnicity, and political theology. He has served on the editorial boards of several scholarly journals, including three years as the General Editor of the Journal of Biblical Literature. He is currently writing on the history of Indigenous rights in international law. His most recent book is Locations of God: Political Theology in the Hebrew Bible (New York: Oxford University Press, 2019). Tamara Cohn Eskenazi is The Effie Wise Ochs Professor of Biblical Literature and History at Hebrew Union College—Jewish Institute of Religion, LA. She received her Ph.D. at the University of Denver and the Iliff School of Theology and her ordination from HUC-JIR. Eskenazi is co-author of the award-winning JPS Bible Commentary: Ruth and co-editor of the award-winning The Torah: A Women’s Commentary. Her major work on the book of Ezra is forthcoming in the Anchor Yale Bible Commentary Series. Rachelle Gilmour is Bromby Associate Professor of Old Testament at Trinity College, University of Divinity (Melbourne, Australia). She is the author of Divine Violence in the Book of Samuel (OUP, 2021), Juxtaposition and the Elisha Cycle (T&T Clark, 2014) and Representing the Past: A Literary Study of Narrative Historiography

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285

in the Book of Samuel (Brill, 2011). She is currently preparing a commentary on 1 Samuel 1–15 for the IECOT/IEKAT series published by Kohlhammer. Louis C. Jonker is Distinguished Professor in Old Testament at Stellenbosch University. He specializes in literature from the Persian and Hellenistic periods, particularly Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah. Presently he is writing a Chronicles commentary for the OTL series. He has authored  Defining All-Israel in Chronicles (FAT 106, Mohr Siebeck, 2016) for which he received the Andrew Murray-Desmond Tutu Prize in 2018. He advocates that Pentateuch and Chronicles scholarship be brought nearer to one another, as illustrated in the co-edited volume (with Jaeyoung Jeon) Chronicles and the Priestly Literature of the Hebrew Bible (BZAW 528, de Gruyter, 2021). Dominik Markl is a Professor at the Pontifical Biblical Institute in Rome and currently Visiting Professor and Jesuit Chair at Georgetown University in Washington, DC. He had previously taught at Heythrop College in London, Hekima College in Nairobi, and Jesuit School of Theology in Berkeley, CA. He has published widely on the exegesis of the Pentateuch, the emergence of monotheism, and the Bible in the history of political ideas. He is contributing to interdisciplinary research on discourses of mass violence at Ludwig-Maximilians-University of Munich. Christine Mitchell is Academic Dean and Professor of Hebrew Bible at Knox College, Toronto School of Theology at the University of Toronto. With a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature, she has worked at the intersection of biblical studies, classics, and ancient Near Eastern studies, with articles and essays on Achaemenid texts and ideology, literary culture at fifth century BCE Elephantine, 1–2 Chronicles, and Haggai-Zechariah-Malachi. She is currently preparing a commentary on 1–2 Chronicles for Oxford University Press. Samasoni Moleli Alama is an Old Testament Lecturer at Malua Theological College in Samoa and Coordinator of the Samoa Journal of Theology. He has published articles in books and journals including a forthcoming article with SBL Press titled “Cultic worship with a ‫ נכרי‬according to 1 Kings 8:41–43.” His doctoral dissertation completed with the University of Divinity in 2018 is “Jabez in Context:

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A Multidimensional Approach to Identity and Landholdings in Chronicles.” Moleli has also presented papers at regional and international conferences such as the Oceania Biblical Studies Association (OBSA) and the SBL. Julia Rhyder is Assistant Professor of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations at Harvard University. She specializes in the composition of the Hebrew Bible and its transmission and reception in ancient Judaism. Her book Centralizing the Cult: The Holiness Legislation in Leviticus 17–26 (Mohr Siebeck, 2019) was awarded the 2021 Manfred Lautenschlaeger Award for Theological Promise. Rhyder also received the 2021 David Noel Freedman Award for Excellence and Creativity in Hebrew Bible Scholarship for her research on the pig prohibition in ancient Judaism. Dalit Rom-Shiloni serves as Professor at the Department of Biblical Studies in Tel Aviv University.  She focuses on Hebrew Bible theology, group-identity conflicts, inner-biblical allusion and interpretation, the formation of sixth-century BCE prophetic and poetic literatures. Among her publications are  Exclusive Inclusivity: Identity Conflicts between the Exiles and the People Who Remained (6th–5th Centuries BCE) (2013); Voices from the Ruins: Theodicy and the Fall of Jerusalem in the Hebrew Bible (2021). She is the General Editor of Beit Mikra, founder and leader of the DNI Bible project (https://dni.tau.ac.il/), DNI Bible Supplements series (Bloomsbury), and the Orit Guardians program. Stephen C. Russell is Associate Professor of History at John Jay College, City University of New York. He is interested in the social, political, and legal world that produced the Bible and in the politics of the Bible’s reception in the nineteenth century. He is the author of Images of Egypt in Early Biblical Literature (de Gruyter, 2009), The King and the Land (Oxford, 2016), and Space, Land, Territory and the Study of the Bible (Brill, 2017). With Esther J. Hamori, he is the editor of Mighty Baal: Essays in Honor of Mark S. Smith (Brill, 2020). Petra Schmidtkunz is a Postdoctoral Researcher at Humboldt University of Berlin, Germany. In the framework of the project DEMBIB (funded by the European Research Council), she is currently working on scribal techniques in Third Isaiah, with a focus on notions of the future in biblical and Demotic Egyptian literature. She has been a Minerva fellow at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, researching

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287

Achaemenid influence on biblical literature, and received a PhD from the Westfälische Wilhelms-Universität Münster, Germany, in 2019. Her study on the Song of Moses (Deut 32) was published with Mohr Siebeck in 2020 as Das Moselied des Deuteronomiums. Katherine E. Southwood is Associate Professor at the University of Oxford, St John’s College, specializing in Hebrew Bible. She is passionate about interdisciplinary engagement with material from antiquity and has published several monographs including  Job’s Body and the Dramatised Comedy of Moralising  (2021); Marriage by Capture in the book of Judges (2017); and Ethnicity and the Mixed Marriage Crisis in Ezra 9–10 (2012). She has also published several articles and edited volumes and enjoys the privilege of teaching students. Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer is Professor of Old Testament Exegesis at Örebro School of Theology, Örebro, Sweden, and Research Associate at the Department of Old Testament and Hebrew Scriptures, Faculty of Theology and Religion, University of Pretoria, South Africa. She specializes in the Prophetic Literature, a topic on which she has authored many works, for example,  For the Comfort of Zion  (Brill, 2011),  Zechariah and His Visions  (T&T Clark, 2015), and  Jonah through the Centuries  (Wiley-Blackwell, 2022). She is also the author of  In Search of Jonathan (OUP, 2023) which explores the portrayal of Jonathan in the book of Samuel and modern fiction, and the editor of a wide range of collections of articles, among them The Oxford Handbook of Isaiah (Oxford University Press, 2020). Megan Warner is Tutor in Old Testament and Biblical Hebrew at Northern College/Luther King Centre for Theology and Ministry in Manchester. She specializes in Pentateuchal Studies, with special foci on Genesis and trauma-informed approaches. She is the author of three monographs, Re-Imagining Abraham: A Re-Assessment of the Influence of Deuteronomism on Genesis (Brill, 2018), Reading Genesis Through the Lens of Resilience (Sheffield Phoenix, forthcoming 2023) and Genesis: A Past for a People in Need of a Future (T&T Clark, forthcoming 2023), lead editor of Tragedies and Christian Congregations: The Practical Theology of Trauma (Routledge, 2020), and co-editor, with Richard A. Burridge and Jonathan Sacks, of Confronting Religious Violence: A Counternarrative (Baylor, 2019).

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List of Contributors

Jakob Wöhrle is Professor of Hebrew Bible at Eberhard Karls Universität Tübingen, Germany. He earned his PhD in 2006 and his Habilitation in 2008, both at Westfälische Wilhelms-Universität Münster. Since 2014, he had been Professor of Hebrew Bible at Carl von Ossietzky Universität Oldenburg, before he came to Tübingen in 2019. His main field of research is the formation of the Hebrew Bible, especially of the Pentateuch and the prophetic books, with a strong focus on the social, political and religious discourses that stand behind the formation of the Hebrew Bible. He has published on biblical monotheism, anthropology, cult, the promised land or the Hebrew Bible’s different views on the relationship between Israel and its neighbors. Jakob Wöhrle serves on various editorial boards including the Journal of Biblical Literature (SBL). He is the managing editor of Hebrew Bible and Ancient Israel (Mohr Siebeck).

Author Index Achenbach, Reinhard 93n1, 97n16, 105n51, 187n26, 218n23, 220n30, 220n31, 226n50 Ackroyd, Peter R. 64n24 Adelman, Rachel E. 91n42 Agamben, Giorgio 3n12, 279n16 Agourides, Savas 278 Ahn, Gregor 56n4, 58n7 Ahn, John J. 13, 115n29, 150n20, 151n24, 153, 153n30, 153n30, 155n38, 155n39, 155n40, 155n41, 156n42, 156n45, 166n8, 281 Aitken, James 200n20 Albertz, Rainer 120n48, 124n60, 152n29, 215, 215n11, 217 Albuquerque, Klaus de 157n49 Allen, Lindsay 25n5 Allen, Theodore 12n37 Al-Maqdissi, M. 154n35 Alter, Robert 230n15, 235n33 Altmann, Peter 9n26 Ames, Frank Ritchel 153n30 Amit, Yairah 225n49 Anderson, Benedict 131n3, 134, 134n23 Anderson, Cheryl B. 15n48 Angelini, Anna 260n9 Aquinas, Thomas 11n33 Arendt, Hannah 278, 278n16 Armitage, John 198n8 Arnold, Bill T. 233n25 Arnold, William R. 228n3 Arubas, Benjamin 152n28, 278n16 Assmann, Jan 6, 6n22, 7, 141, 141n60 Aster, Shawn Z. 165n4 Auld, Graeme 216n18, 230n8, 230n13 Avioz, Michael  75n4, 75n6, 75n8, 77n14, 83n29 Avrahami, Yael 84n31 Awabdy, Mark A. 137n39 Baden, Joel S. 23n2, 126n67, 127n70 Badie, Bertrand 277n9 Baecker, Dirk 147n10 Bailey, Jeffrey W. 278n15 Balcer, Jack Martin 28n15, 36n40

Balentine, Samuel E. 202n27, 202n30, 208, 208n56 Bar-Kochva, Bezalel 264n19 Barbiero, G. 201n22 Barstad, Hans 151, 152n26, 152n29 Barton, John 93n1, 99n27, 104n50, 145n4 Batten, Loring W. 249, 249n17 Batto, Bernard F. 125n62 Bauks, Michaela 110n4 Beal, Timothy K. 23, 23n1 Beaumont, Joan 19n61 Becking, Bob 151 Ben-Barak, Zafira 118n40, 121n50, 123n56 Ben Dov, Jonathan 170n27 Ben Zvi, Ehud 53n31, 183n14, 184n18 Benjamin, Walter 278, 278n13, 278n16, 279n16 Berger, Peter 145n2 Berger, Yitzhaq 76n9, 86n34 Berges, Ulrich 59n13 Berg-Schlosser, Dirk 277n9 Berlin, Adele 84n31, 86n34 Berlin, Isaiah 135, 135n30 Berner, Christoph 123n58 Berquist, Jon L. 207n55 Berthelot, Katell 8n25, 10n31, 259, 259n7 Bischoff, Doerte 141n61 Bishop, Ryan 198n8 Black, Matthew 260n9 Blenkinsopp, Joseph 59n14, 152n27, 152n29, 186, 186n23, 247, 247n13, 247n14 Bloch-Smith, Elizabeth 113n19, 119n42, 124n69 Block, Daniel I. 172n36 Blum, Erhard 215, 215n12, 225, 225n46 Boda, Mark J. 55, 55n1, 63n21, 65n29, 66n30, 66n32, 66n33, 67n36, 68n37, 70n41, 153n30, 186n21 Bodi, Daniel 171, 171n31, 175n44, 178, 178n52, 178n53, 178n54 Bodner, Keith 228n5, 230n9, 230n12, 231n16, 232n24, 237n40 Boer, Roland 5n19 Boesak, Allan 278

290 Bonhoeffer, Dietrich 278, 278n14 Bons, Eberhard 63n21 Boyce, Mary 29n18 Braulik, Georg 137n36, 138n42 Brenner, Athalya 74, 74n2, 75n4, 75n8, 78n17, 80n22, 84, 84n31, 201 Bretschneider, J. 154n35 Brett, Mark G. 4n17, 4n18, 5n19, 10n28, 13n39, 14n44, 38, 38n48, 53n32, 101n35, 105n53, 110n4, 126n69, 127n71, 127n72, 128n73, 130n1, 133n13, 138n46, 143n67, 145n1, 188n27, 189n30, 190n34, 190n36, 199n12, 199, 199n12, 199n15, 214n8, 218n23, 219n28, 221n33, 225n49, 226n50, 244, 244n4, 244n7, 245n9, 246n10, 277, 277n10, 283 Brettler, Marc Z. 2n5, 126n68 Briant, Pierre 56n4, 58n7, 58n8, 63n23 Brosius, Maria 56n4, 58n7, 58n8, 58n9, 58n10, 59n14 Brown, Ken 201n22 Brueggemann, Walter 4n18, 5n19, 96n13, 269n28 Bryce-Laporte, Roy S. 157n49 Buber, Martin 2, 3, 3n9, 3n11, 278, 279n16 Bührer, Axel 215n10 Callieri, Pierfrancesco 28n17 Campbell, Anthony F. 112n14 Cañizares-Esguerra, Jorge 7n24 Cannon, Katie G. 278 Carr, David M. 33n33, 102n39, 118n41, 215n10 Carroll, Robert 149 Carroll Rodas, M. Daniel 97n19, 98, 98n22, 98n23, 98n25 Casas, Bartholomé de las 105, 105n52 Cassarino, Jean-Pierre 150n21 Causse, Antonin 42n1 Cavanaugh, William T. 2n6, 278 Centner, Jasmin 141n61 Cezula, Ntozakhe 18n55 Chaniotis, Angelos 263n15 Chapman, Cynthia R. 15n47, 17n54 Childs, Brevard 159n55 Clark, Tom 275n2 Clausewitz, Carl von 276, 276n5 Clifford, James 151n22 Clines, David J.A. 51n28, 197n6, 255n35

Author Index Coats, George W. 159n54 Cobb, William H. 53n31 Cole, Jonathan 2n8 Cone, James H. 278 Coogan, Michael D. 157n47 Cooke, G.A. 148n12 Cooper, Allan D. 74n1 Cotton, John 104n48 Craig, Kenneth M. 230n14 Craigie, Peter C. 96n10 Crouch, Carly L. 136n35, 141n59 Curthoys, Ann 20n64 Da Riva, Rocío 177, 177n49 Dahl, Robert 277, 277n9 Dandamayev, M.A. 157n48 Darshan, Guy 173n38 David, Joseph E. 8n25 Davids, Tine 158n52 Davies, Philip 149, 153 DeFrancisco, Victoria Pruin 277n9 Delkurt, Holger 61n19, 63n21, 70n41 Dell, Katharine J. 199n13 Delorme, Jean-Philippe 156n43 Dershowitz, Idan 182n8, 182n9 Deutschmann, Barbara 15n46 Dever, William G. 113n19 Dietrich, Walter 76n10, 77n12 Dor, Yonina 251n27, 252n27 Doran, Robert 91n41, 257, 258n1, 258n3, 258n4, 260n9, 262n11, 268n27 Douglas, Mary 207n54 Dozeman, Thomas B. 112n13, 114n24, 115b28, 125n63 Drotbohm, Heike 150n21 DuBois, W.E.B. 19, 19n60 Durand, Francois 147n11 Dyck, Jonathan E. 14n42 Eagleton, Terry 201n21 Ebach, Ruth 136n35 Ede, Franziska 215n10 Edelman, Diana V. 183n14, 229n6 Ego, Beate 42n1, 52n30 Eijk, Cees van der 277n9 Éla, Jean-Marc 278 Eliade, Mircea 113, 114n21 Erikson, Amy 208n57

Author Index Eskenazi, Tamara Cohn 13, 13n41, 40n53, 128n74, 243n2, 249n19, 250n21, 252n29, 282 Ezechukwu, Alexander 218n23, 222n36 Faulks, Keith 131n4 Faust, Avraham 101n34, 113n19 Featherstone, Mark 198n8 Finkelstein, Israel 124n61, 186n22 Finn, Jennifer 30, 20n19 Firestone, Reuven 11n32 Firth, David G. 76n9, 86n35 Firth, Raymond 110 Fishbane, Michael 2n5, 202n25, 217, 217n20 Floyd, Michael H. 56, 56n3 Fokkelman, J.P. 205n44, 232n24, 237n40 Foucault, Michel 276, 276n5, 276n6, 276n7, 277 Fox, Michael  84n31 Frankel, David 2n5, 8n25 Fredriksson, Hennig 171n30 Freedman, David Noel 153 Frei, Peter 190n35, 248n15 Frevel, Christian 251n27, 252n27 Fried, Lisbeth S. 246, 246n11, 251n26, 252, 252n27, 252n29, 252n31, 253, 253n32, 253n33 Fry, Christopher 196n2 Frye, Northrop 201n21 Gadot, Yuval 152n28, 154n34, 155n37 Galling, Kurt 55, 55n1, 63n24, 65n29, 66n32, 67n36 Garrison, Mark 28, 28n16, 30, 30n20, 31, 31n22, 31n24, 31n24, 31n26 Gellner, Ernest 132n6, 134, 134n19, 134n20, 134n21, 134n22 Gerdmar, Anders 1n2 Gerlach, Christian 135n28 Gese, Hartmut 56, 56n3 George, A.R. 171n30 Gillen, Frank 110, 111n5 Gilmour, Rachelle 5, 12, 75n7, 76n9, 86n34, 86n35, 91n42, 113n17, 148n13, 236n36, 240n42, 280, 283 Glanville, Luke 2n8 Glanville, Mark R. 9n26 Gluckman, Max 110, 111, 111n6

291 Gmelch, George 150n21 Goetz, Rebecca 19n57 Goldenberg, David M. 12n36 Goldstein, Jonathan A. 258n1, 258n4, 262n12 Gordon, Benjamin D. 123n57 Gorski, Philip S. 132n7, 136n32 Goshen-Gottstein, Moshe 2n5 Gottwald, Norman 4n19 Grabbe, Lester 149, 149n15, 152n29 Grayson, Albert K. 177n49 Greenberg, Moshe 148n12, 165n3, 166n9, 168n20, 171n28, 174n40, 178n41, 175n42, 174n43, 175n44, 176n45 Greenberg, Udi E. 279n16 Greenfeld, Liah 11n35, 133n13, 137n39 Greenstein, Edward L. 201n23, 205n46, 206n49, 207n53 Groenewald, Evert P. 18, 18n55 Grosby, Steven 135n31 Gross, Raphael 278n13 Grossman, Jonathan 84n31 Guillaume, Philippe 102, 102n40, 103, 103n42 Gunn, D.M. 81n24 Gutiérrez, Gustavo 278 Haarmann, Volker 42n1 Habel, Norman C. 110n4, 112, 112n11, 116n31, 117n36, 122n52, 123n57, 126n69, 129, 200n18, 202n28, 204n36, 205, 205n43, 206, 206n48, 206n51 Habermas, Jürgen 146, 147n9 Habicht, Christian 262n10 Hagedorn, Anselm C. 63n24, 64n25, 64n26 Hallaschka, Martin 45n9, 64n26, 67n34, 70n41 Halpern, Baruch 80n21, 234n28 Halvorson-Taylor, Martien 153n30 Hamill, Graham 135n32 Hamilton, Mark W. 5n20 Hamilton, Victor P. 97n16 Hamori, Esther J. 233n25, 233n26 Hanhart, Robert 67n35 Harrison, Peter 104n49 Hastings, Adrian  135, 136n33 Hauerwas, Stanley 278, 278n14 Havrelock, Rachel 101n35

292 Hayes, Carlton J. 132, 132n9 Hayes, John H. 63n23 Haynes, Stephen R.  12n36 Hays, Christopher B. 204n41, 205n41 Heckl, Raik 186n23, 188n28, 242n1 Held, David 146n8 Hensel, Benedikt 251n27 Henten, Jan Willem van 258n4, 267n24, 268n25, 268n26 Hermisson, Hans-Jürgen 45n8 Herr, Bertram 258n3 Herrenschmidt, Clarisse 26, 26n7, 26n9, 27, 27n12, 27n13, 27n14, 29, 31, 31n27, 32n28 Hertzberg, Hans Wilhelm 230n10, 234, 234n32 Hieke, Thomas 181n2 Hirshman, Marc G. 8n25 Hobbes, Thomas 2, 10 Hobsbawm, Eric J. 132n7, 134n24, 134n25 Hoffman, Yair 124n61, 137n40, 164, 164n1, 174n41 Hoftijzer, Jacob 234n29 Hoglund, Kenneth G. 250, 250n23 Hole, Frank 154n36 Holladay, William 148n13 Honigman, Sylvie 3n12, 258, 259, 259n5, 259n7, 263n13, 265n20 Houston, Walter J. 98, 98n20, 98n24, 99n26, 99n28, 104n50, 214n5 Houte, Marieke van 158n52 Houtman, Cees 228n3, 228n4 Hovey, Craig 278n15 Howatch, Susan 213, 213n1, 213n2 Humphrey, Caroline 110, 111, 111n9, 112 Humphreys, W. Lee 90n41 Hurowitz, Victor 246, 246n12 Huttar, Charles Adolph 213n1 Hutton, Jeremy M. 76n10, 77n11, 117n34 Ilan, Tal 121n51 Irsigler, Hubert 46n10, 52n30 Jackson, Melissa A. 205n47 Jacobson, Eric 279n16 Japhet, Sara 183n12, 251n27, 252n27 Jarick, John 200n21, 209n61 Jennings, Willie James 18, 18n56 Jeremias, Christian 61n19, 65n29, 70n41

Author Index Jessop, Bob 131n2 Jobling, David 230n10, 237n38 Johnson, Bruce 213n1 Johnson, Willa 251n27 Jones, Christopher 243n4 Jones, Meirav 136n32 Jones, Scott C. 205n42 Jong, Albert de 25n6 Jonker, Louis C. 7, 13, 14n42, 34, 34n36, 61n17, 115n27, 180n1, 182n10, 183n12, 183n14, 183n15, 183n16, 184n19, 186n24, 187n26, 189n31, 189n32, 192n37, 192n38, 195n42, 242n1, 282 Joyce, Paul M. 165, 165n7 Junior, Nyasha 12n36 Kaiser, Otto 139n48, 237n38 Kalimi, Isaac 2n5 Kallen, Horace Meyer 200n17 Kaniewski, D. 154n35 Kaplan, Gregory 279n16 Kasher, Rimon 166n10, 172n33, 174n41 Kazen, Thomas 182n8 Kawashima, Robert S. 35, 35n38, 113, 113n20, 114n21, 125 Keating, Paul 109, 109n1 Keel, Othmar 32, 32n30, 33, 33n32 Keener, Craig S. 98n23 Kellens, Jean 25n6 Keller, Catherine 196n2, 203, 203n34, 207 Kellhoffer, James A. 258n1, 258n2, 258n4, 264n16 Kellner, Douglas 198n8 Kent, Roland G. 57n6, 64n24 Kessler, John 79n20, 81n24 Keys, Gillian 81n25 Kidd, Colin 19n57 Kiefler, Jörn 152n29 Kiel, Micah D. 198n9 Kiel, Yishai 182n8 King, Richard 9n27 Klein, Ralph 149n18, 183n12 Klett, Stefan 154n36 Kling, August 7n24 Klostermann, August 180n2 Knauf, Ernst Axel 103, 103n45 Knohl, Israel 122n55, 180n2 Knoppers, Gary N. 143n66, 183, 183n12, 183n15, 184n17, 184n18, 185n20

Author Index Koch, Klaus 56n4, 57n5, 58n7, 58n10, 58n11, 190n35 Köckert, Matthias 110n4 Kohn, Hans 132, 132n10, 132n11, 133, 133n12, 133n14, 133n15, 133n16, 133n17 Kok, Jacobus 18n55 Koller, Aaron 84n31 Kopelson, Heather Miyano 19n59 Koselleck, Reinhart 131n5 Kraetzchmar, Richard 148n12 Kratz, Reinhard G. 116n31, 140n54 Krause, Joachim 2n8 Kruschwitz, Jonathan A. 217n21 Kuhrt, Amélie 25n6, 32n29, 34n35, 56n4, 57n6, 64n24 Kynes, Will 199n14, 204n36 Lacan, Jacques 283 Lake, Marilyn 19n60 Lambert, David A. 203n32 Lang, Bernhard 172n36 Langgut, Dafna 155n37 Langton, Karen 205, 205n45, 205n48 Laniak, Timothy 84n31 Launderville, Dale 148n12 Lazarus, Benjamin M. 200n21 Leach, E.R. 117n35 Lee, Lydia 172n34 Lemos, T.M. 79n18 Leuchter, Mark A. 117n34, 119n43, 153n30 Levenson, Jon D. 1n1, 2n5, 80n21, 84n31, 86n34 Levinson, Bernard M. 1n2, 1n4, 3n13, 10n29, 138n45, 140n55, 143n66 Lincoln, Bruce 25n6, 28n15, 35n37 Lindbeck, George 6n23 Linville, James R. 23, 23n2 Lipschits, Oded 115n29, 152n28, 152n29, 154, 154n34, 155n37 Lipton, Diana 219n29 Lohfink, Norbert 137n36, 138n45, 138n46, 140n57, 142n65 Long, V. Philips 230n7, 230n11, 230n14 Lord, Carnes 276n4 Luckmann, Thomas 145n2 Luhmann, Niklas 147, 147n10, 148, 281 Lundbom, Jack R. 139n49 Lunn, Nicholas P. 204n39 Luther King, Martin, Jr 275

293 Lutz, Donald S. 144n69 Lux, Rüdiger 42n1, 52n30, 61n19, 63n21, 63n24, 65n27, 66n32, 67n36, 68n37, 69n39, 70n41 Lynch, Matthew 190n33, 192, 192n39 MacDonald, Nathan 139n51, 199n11, 199n11 MacIntyre, Alasdair 11n33 Macwilliam, Stuart 87n36 Maier, Michael P. 42n1, 45n8 Malešević, Siniša 135, 135n26, 135n27, 135n29 Malinowski, Bronislaw 110 Marinković, Peter 69n39 Markl, Dominik 10, 116n31, 119n46, 137n35, 138n43, 138n44, 141n57, 141n58, 142n64, 144n68, 144n40, 218n26, 222n36, 281 Martínes, María Elena 19n58 Márquez Rowe, Ignacio 118n39 Marsman, Hennie J. 121n50 Mason, Rex 64n24, 70n41 Mathewson, Dan 204, 204n38 Mathys, Hans-Peter 69n38, 69n39, 69n40 McBride, Dean 256n36 McCarter, P. Kyle 76n10, 230n7, 230n9, 230n11, 231n17, 232, 232n20, 232n22, 232n24, 237n39 McGeough, Danielle 277n9 McKane, William 86n35, 148n13 McKenzie, Steven L. 77n13, 183n12 McWilliam, Stuart 81n24 Meier, Heinrich 2n7 Mein, Andrew 152n29 Melcher, Sarah J. 203, 203n33, 208, 208n58 Metz, Johann Baptist 278 Meyer, Esias E. 181n2, 181n5 Meyers, Carol K. 45n9, 63n21, 63n24, 66n30, 66n31, 66n32, 67n36, 68n37 Meyers, Eric M. 45n9, 63n21, 63n24, 66n30, 66n31, 66n32, 67n36, 68n37 Michalak, Aleksander R. 260n9, 262n11 Middlemas, Jill 153n30 Miglio, Adam E. 173n39 Milbank, John 278 Milgrom, Jacob 180n2 Miller, J. Maxwell 63n23 Milner, Jean-Claude 277n8 Milton, John 11 Min, Kyung-Jin 188n29

294 Mitchell, Christine 7, 24n3, 24n4, 26n12, 31n23, 37n43, 38n49, 39n50, 39n52, 115n27, 244, 244n6, 280 Mol, Hans 19n62 Moleli Alama, Samasoni 8, 94n4, 96n12, 106n54, 118n39, 281, 282 Morlino, Leonardo 277 Morrow, William S. 14n45 Moss, Candida R. 23n2 Mulder, Martin Jan 82n27 Muldoon, James 7n24 Mullen, E. Theodore, Jr. 136n35 Müller, Reinhard 48n15, 182n7, 195n41 Münkler, Herfried 132n7 Na’aman, Nadav 103n44, 115n27, 236n37 Nelson, Eric 11n35, 136n32 Newcomb, Steven T. 12n36 Newman, Saul 277n11 Newsom, Carol A. 198n7, 198, 198n10, 200, 200n16, 200n19, 202n31, 204m36 Newell, Margaret Ellen 12n36 Nickelsburg, George W.E. 258n1, 267n22 Niditch, Susan 91n41 Nihan, Christophe 100n33, 110n4, 113, 117n32, 122n54, 180n2, 181, 181n2, 181n3, 181n4 Nilsen, Tina Dykesteen 37n46 Nimchuk, Cindy L. 28, 29n18 Nogalski, James N. 55, 56n2, 70n41 Nõmmik, Urmas 182n7 Nongbri, Brent 3n12 O’Brien, Mark A. 112n14 Oded, Boustenai 171n30 Oden, Daniel 118n40 Oeming, Manfred 152n28, 154n34 Olson, Dennis T.  120n47 Olyan, Saul M. 200n18 Osgood, S. Joy 121n50 Oswald, Wolfgang 17n54, 130n1, 137n41, 142n63, 252n29 Otto, Eckart 4n16, 6n21, 139n50, 139n52, 140n53, 140n55, 140n56, 142n62, 180n2, 181 Oz, Amos 144n71 Oz-Salzberger, Fania 136n32, 144n71 Pakkala, Juha 139n51, 182n7, 186, 186n23, 188n29

Author Index Palczewski, Catherine H. 277n9 Pardon, Anne-Catherine 18n55 Parker, Julia Faith 15n46 Paul, Shalom M. 204n40, 204n41 Paulissen, E. 154n35 Paulson, Graham 105n53 Pearce, Laurie F. 153, 153n31, 157n46 Pearson, Noel 275, 275n1, 276, 277 Pelham, Abigail 207n55 Penchansky, David 75n3, 75n8, 88n39 Perdue, Leo G. 201, 201n24 Perkins, Mary Anne 136n32 Peterson, David L. 63n21, 65n29, 67n36, 68n37, 69n38 Phillips, Elizabeth 277n11, 278n15, 280, 282 Pieris, Aloysius 278 Pixley, Jorge 5n19 Polzin, Robert 232, 232n19, 232n21, 232n24 Porat, Naomi 155n37 Porten, Bezalel 160n56, 160n57, 160n58 Portier-Young, Anathea 4n16, 209n60 Povinelli, Elizabeth A. 109n3, 111n5 Price, J.H. 233n27 Pruin, Dagmar 103n44 Pustovoytov, Konstantin E. 154n36 Quick, Laura  16, 16n51 Rad, Gerhard von 1, 42n1, 137n38, 214n9 Rausche, Benedikt 187n25 Rawlinson, George 41 Raz, Yosefa 207n55 Redditt, Paul L. 186n21 Reimer, David 167n18 Rendsburg, Gary 217n20 Reventlow, Henning Graf 61n19, 63n24, 67n36, 68n37, 70n41 Reynolds, Henry 19n60 Rhyder, Julia 10, 97n17, 110n4, 122n54, 127n72, 263n13, 267n23, 280 Richter, Wolfgang 54n33 Riehl, Simone 154n36 Rignell, Lars Gösta 67n35 Ristau, Kenneth A. 67n36, 69n38, 183n15 Rivera, Louis 12n36 Robertson, Lindsay G. 12n36 Rofé, Alexander 103, 103n46, 103n47 Rogerson, John W. 95n7 Römer, Thomas 114n22, 215n10, 218n23, 221n34

295

Author Index Rom-Shiloni, Dalit 2n5, 13, 13n40, 14n45, 116n30, 167n19, 168n22, 169n23, 169n24, 169n25, 172n32, 175n42, 177n50, 178n53, 179n56, 179n57, 281 Rooke, Deborah W. 13n38 Root, Margaret Cool 29n18, 190n33, 192, 192n39 Rose, Jenny 57n5 Rose, Wolter H. 70n41 Rowlands, Michael 54n35 Ruben, Ruerd 158n52 Rudolph, Wilhelm 55, 56n2, 63n24, 65n27, 65n29, 66n32, 67n34, 67n36, 70n41 Ruíz, Jean-Pierre 7n24 Rundgren, Frithiof 247, 247n13 Russell, Stephen C. 8, 103n43, 111n8, 112n12, 113n18, 118n40, 122n52, 122n55, 124n61, 125n64, 125n65 Rüthers, Bernd 278n12 Sacks, Jonathan 219n28 Saiving, Valerie 278 Sakhong, Lian H. 20n63 Sassen, Saskia 150n19 Saysell, Csilla 251n27, 252n27 Schaeffer, Yoav 2, 3n10, 3n11 Schectman, Sarah 16n50, 17b52 Schellenberg, Annette 10n28 Schipper, Bernd U. 115n26, 213n3 Schipper, Jeremy 122n55 Schmid, Konrad 1n3, 5, 5n20, 119n45, 151n23, 182n6, 190n36, 215, 215n10, 215n13 Schmidt, Helmut 42n1 Schmidtkunz, Petra 7, 8, 54n33, 116n31, 282 Schmitt, Carl 2, 3, 10, 256, 278, 278n13 Schmitt, Rüdiger 26n7, 57n6 Schochet, Gordon  136n32 Scholem, Gershom 278, 278n16 Schroer, Sylvia 32, 32n30, 33, 33n32 Schwartz, Daniel R. 257, 258n3, 262n10 Schwartz, Regina M. 79n18 Scott, Peter 2n6, 278 Seow, C.L. 201n22, 206, 206n50, 206n52 Shakespeare, William 213n2 Shalev, Eran 135n32, 144n69 Sharp, Carolyn J. 197n4 Shaw, Beau 279n16 Shemesh, Yael 121n49

Silverman, Jason M. 37, 37n44, 37n45, 37n46, 38, 39n50, 39m52, 55, 55n1, 65n29, 67n36, 70n41, 193, 193n40 Ska, Jean Louis 138n44, 190n36 Skinner, Quentin 11n34 Skjærvø, P. Oktor 25n6 Smith, Anthony D, 135n31, 136n34 Smith, Carol 82n26 Smith, Mark S. 32, 32n30, 33n34, 39n51, 124n60, 124n61 Smith, Richard G. 214n5 Smith-Christopher, Daniel 152n29, 179n55, 250, 250n22 Sneed, Mark R. 199n14 Solvang, Elna K. 83n28 Sommer, Benjamin 2n5 Sonnet, Jean-Pierre 138n47 Southwood, Katherine 13n41, 14, 17n53, 128n73, 153n30, 157, 157n50, 196n2, 207n53, 251n27, 282 Spencer, Baldwin 110, 111n5 Spieckermann, Hermann 140n54 Spinoza, Baruch 1 Stackert, Jeffrey 118n41, 122n55 Stalin, Joseph 283 Stansell, Gary 25n8 Stavrakopoulou, Francesca 16n49, 52n29, 100n30 Steinberg, Naomi 119n44 Steymans, Hans Ulrich 140n55 Stinner, William F. 157n49 Stockholm, Niels 260n9 Stökl, Jonathan 170n26 Stolper, Matthew W. 100n30, 157n47 Strauss, Leo 277n10, 279n16 Strawn, Brent A. 52n30 Stronach, David 69n39 Strong, John 165n3 Stulman, Louis 148n14 Suny, Ronald Grigor 132n7 Suzuki, Y. 119n44 Sweeney, Marvin 2n5 Taylor, Charles 3n12 Teeter, Andrew 146n7 Theil, Winfried 148n13 Thelle, Rannfrid L. 228n4 Thompson, Thomas T. 149

296 Thorton, Robert 275n3 Tiemeyer, Lena-Sofia 12, 15n47, 53n31, 66n32, 66n33, 128n74, 235n34, 235n35, 238n41, 280 Tiller, Patrick A. 263n14 Tobolowsky, Andrew 215, 215n14, 217n19, 224, 224n44, 224n45 Tollington, Janet E. 55, 55n1, 70n41 Tooman, William A. 146n7 Toorn, Karel van der 160n59, 228n3, 228n4 Torrey, C.C. 158n53, 249, 249n18 Toy, Crawford H. 166, 166n11, 166n12, 166n13, 167n14, 167n15, 179n55 Toyota, Mika 157n49 Trible, Phyllis 15n48 Trotter, Jonathan R. 259, 259n6 Tsevat, Matitiahu 2n5, 79n19, 176n45 Tucker, Gene M. 99n26 Tucker, W. Dennis 36, 36n41, 36n42 Van Campo, V. 154n35 Van Lerberghe 154n35 Van Seters, John 77n13, 93n2, 149 Vanderhooft, David Stephen 152n29, 170n26, 177, 177n49, 177n51 Vansina, Jan 156, 156n44 Vatter, Miguel 2n6 Vayntrub, Jacqueline 200n17 Veijola, Timo 76n10 Verdery, Katherine 110, 112, 112n10 Vermeylen, Jacques 42n1 Vincent, Andrew 132n8 Visentin, Lisa 275n3 Wälchli, S. 202n26 Walton, John W. 98n23 Walzer, Michael 3, 3n14, 4, 4n15, 14n43, 246n10 Warner, Megan 9, 87n37, 88n38, 110n4, 213n4, 214n7, 220n32, 221n33, 223n40, 225n48, 225n49, 280 Watson, Francis 221n34 Watts, James 142n66 Wazana, Nili 8n25, 97n17, 102n38 Weber, Max 134, 145, 146, 146n5, 147 Weeks, Stuart D.E. 130n1, 137n37, 144n68, 198n9, 209n61

Author Index Weingart, Kristen 13n41, 215, 215n12 Weinfeld, Moshe 118n39, 122n55 Weippert, Heike 154n36 Wellhausen, Julius 56, 56n3, 66n31, 67n34, 70n41 Wenham, Gordon 217n20 West, Delno 7n24 Westbrook, Raymond 118n37, 122n55 Westermann, Claus 100, 100n33 Wette, W.M.L. de 1n2 Whedbee, William J. 196n2, 197b3, 200n17 White, Sidnie Ann 84n31, 91 Whitlam, Gough 275, 276 Wiesehöfer, Josef 190n35 Wijk-Bos, Johanna W.H. van 232n23 Wildavsky, Aaron 222n36 Wildberger, Hans 42n1 Williams, James G. 87, 87n36 Williamson, H.G.M. 104n50, 186, 186n23, 147, 147n13 Wilson, Robert 145n3, 146n6 Wimmer, Andreas 135n28 Witte, Markus 197n6, 208, 208n59 Wöhrle, Jakob 7, 36n39, 40, 53n31, 54n33, 59n15, 60, 61n18, 61n20, 65n28, 67n36, 71n42, 127n71, 127n72, 218n25, 280 Wolff, Hans Walter 45n9 Wolters, Al 55, 55n1, 63n24, 65n29, 66n32, 66n33, 69n38, 70n41 Wright, Jacob L. 10n30, 186, 186n23 Wright, John W. 101n34 Wunsch, Cornelia 153n30, 157n47 Xiang, Biao 157n49 Yehuda, Thomas Radday 201n21 Yeoh, Brenda S.A. 157n49 Zacharias, H. Daniel 10n28 Zevit, Ziony 123n59, 165n6 Zimmerli, Walther 177, 177n16, 177n17, 171n28 Zippelius, Reinhold 131n2 Zuidervart, Lambert 146n8

Index of Primary Sources Genesis 1 35, 40, 100, 150, 202 1–11 149 24, 33, 33n33, 35, 1:1–2:3 36, 39, 280 1:3 202 100, 100n31 1:22 1:26–28 33 1:28 10, 100, 100n31, 104 2 150 2:3 35 2:4–3:24 24 2:7 15n47 3 15n47, 150 3:6 15 3:16 15, 15n47 3:17 15 5–10 150 8:17 100n31 9:1 100, 100n31 9:7 100, 100n31 10:1–32 59 11 150 12–50 150 12:11 216n17 13:6 60 15:18 101 16:10 100n31 17 101, 127, 128 17:1 214 17:2 101 17:3–8 127 17:4 101 17:5 101 17:6 213 17:7 101, 127 17:8 101, 102n38, 126, 127, 128 17:9–14 127 17:15–22 127 17:20 101, 213 17:23 127 17:23–27 127 18:19 214 21 221

22 221 22:2 224n42 22:17 100n31 23 127 23:4 126n66 23:9 126n66 126n66 23:20 25:2–4 43n2 25:13 43n2 26 217, 220, 225 26:3 220 26:3–5 220 26:4 100n31 26:5 220 26:24 100n31, 220 26:28–29 220 28:3–4 127 29:17 88, 216n17 29:30–31 223 29:32 87 29:33 87 30:22 216 31:14 17, 20 32:4 166n9 33:18–20 223 33:19–20 102 34 127, 220, 223, 225 34:10 102 35:11 100n31 35:11–12 127 36:6–8 60 37 216, 219, 221, 223 37–50 213n3, 214, 215, 216, 225, 226 37:3 216 37:4–5 216 37:7 216 37:8 214, 216, 219 37:9 216 37:14 216 37:26–27 219 38 217, 218, 218n27, 219, 221 38–39 215n15 38:7 218

298 Genesis (cont.) 38:10 218 219 38:26 38:27–30 219 87, 88n38, 217, 39 217n22, 218, 219, 220, 221 87, 220 39:2–3 39:3 87, 220 39:5 87, 88, 220 39:6 87, 91, 216 39:7 87 39:8 87 39:21 87, 88, 220 39:23 87, 88, 220 40–41 217n22 41 91 41:2 216n17 41:40–45 91 41:45 91 42:6 217 42:7 222n36 43:26 217 43:28 217 43:34 222 44 221 44:5 222 44:15 222 45:22 222 47 103 47:4 102 47:11 102 47:26 222n35 47:27 102 48:3–7 127, 128 48:4 126, 127, 128 48:21–22 222, 223 215n15, 217, 221 49 49:3 223 49:5–7 223, 225 49:8 217, 223 49:10 217 49:18 218n23 49:22 (LXX) 224 49:22–26 224 49:24 (LXX) 224 49:26 (LXX) 224 49:30 126n66

Index of Primary Sources 50:13 50:18

126n66 217

Exodus 2:2 78 6:3–4 127 127 6:8 7–10 123 7:2 60 11–13 123 12:26–27 124 13 124 13:13 237 13:14 237 14–15 124 14:21–22 124 15 114, 124, 125 15:1–18 124 15:9 172 15:15–16 124 15:17 124 22:30 181 23:27–30 96 34:6–7 209 34:20 237 34:24 93n2, 96n13, 104 Leviticus 1–16 11:44–45 13:18–23 14:34 17:3–7 18:25–28 19:2 19:5–8 20:7–8 21:1–15 21:13–15 25 25:10 25:13 25:23 25:24 25:25 25:27 25:28 25:32

181 181 197 102n36 95n9 96 181 95n9 181 251n25 251n25 122, 133n53, 123, 128 102n36 102n36 102, 103 102n36 102n36 102n36 102n36 102n36

Index of Primary Sources 25:33 25:34 25:41 25:45 25:46 26:33 26:40–45 27:16 27:17–19 27:21 27:22 27:24 27:28

102n36 102n36 102n36 102n36 102n36 172n35 199 102n36 122n55 102n36 102n36 102n36 102n36

Numbers 120 1–25 3:46–51 237 16–18 187 18 120 18:15–17 237 26 120 26:33 120 26:52–55 120 26–36 120 27 120, 121 24:3 120 24:4 120 27:7 110n4 27:8–11 120 32 120 33 120 34 120 34:2 102n38 35 120 35:8 110n4 36 120 36:1–12 121 36:7–9 103 Deuteronomy 95, 101 1:7 4 138 4:6–8 137 4:19 95 4:20 94, 94n5 4:21 94, 103n42, 116, 118 4:26 96n15 4:38 94, 103n42, 116, 118

299 5 142 95 6:4 6:4 (LXX) 133n18 141 6:4–9 6:6–9 143 6:10 95 140n57 6:14–15 6:20–25 141 7:1 96n15 7:1–3 97n18 7:1–6 137 7:1–7 96n14 7:3 256n37 7:4 140n57 181 7:6 8:19–20 140n57 9:1–6 96n15 10:8 141 10:9 116, 117 10:18 161 10:19 161 11:16–17 140n57 11:24 95, 101 12–26 142 12:1 142 12:1–29 96n15 12:2 117 12:9 94, 103n42, 116, 118 12:15–16 95 12:20 93, 93n2, 94, 95, 96, 96n11, 104, 282 13 140 13:1–5 222n39 13:16 96 14:1–2 181 14:21 181 14:27 116, 117 14:29 116, 117 15:4 94, 96n15, 103n42, 116, 118 16:11 137, 161 16:14 137, 161 16:18–18:22 138 17 11 17:14–20 10, 13 17:18 16 17:18–20 143 18:1–2 116, 117

300 Deuteronomy (cont.) 18:10 222n39 222n39 18:14 19 95, 96 93n2, 96n11, 104, 19:8 282 19:8–9 93, 94, 95, 96 95 19:9 19:10 94, 95, 103n42, 116, 118 19:14 94, 95, 103n42, 116, 118 20:15–18 137 20:16 94, 103n42, 118 20:16–17 96, 96n14, 97n18 21:15 223 21:15–17 223 21:21–23 118 21:23 94, 103n42, 116 23:4–7 256n37 23:8 137 24:1–4 118 24:4 94, 103n42, 116 25:5–10 218n27 25:19 94, 103n42, 116 94, 103n42, 116, 118 26:1 26:19 137 28 140 28:21–22 199 28:21–63 96n11 28:27–28 199 28:35 197 28:36–37 140n57 28:41 140n57 28:63–68 140n57 29:7 116 29:10 137 29:10–11 143 29:18–27 140n57 29–30 137 30 142 30:1–4 137n57 30:1–10 138, 142 142 30:10–14 30:17–18 140 30:19 142 30:20 142 31:9 141

Index of Primary Sources 31:9–13 138, 141, 143 141 31:25–26 31:12 137 32:8–9 (LXX) 117 116 32:9 32:49 102n36 142 33:5 33:13–17 224 33:16 224, 224n43 33:17 224 34:1–4 139 Joshua 1 113n17 1:3 114 2 113n17 2:10 124 2:10–11 124 2–6 113 2–11 112, 114, 115, 117, 124, 126 3:11 71n43 3:13 71n43 3:17 124 4:9 114 4:18 124 4:19 114 4:23 124 5:1 125 5:9 114 5:10–12 114 6:25 114 7:21–26 96n14 7:26 114 8:28 114 8:29 114 9–11 113 9:1 124 9:3 1244 9:27 114 10:1 124 10:27 114 11:1 124 96n14 11:10–15 11:23 63, 114 13:13 114 13:14 117 13:33 117

Index of Primary Sources 14–19 112, 113, 114, 115, 117, 124, 126 14:1 112, 114 112n15, 124 14:1–3 14:3 117 14:15 63 112n15, 124 14:30 15:20 112n15, 124 114 15:63 124 16:4 16:5 112n15, 124 16:8–9 112n15, 124 16:10 114 17:14 112n15, 124 18:2 124 18:7 117 18:12 112n15 18:20 112n15, 124 19:1 112n15, 124 19:10 112n15, 124 19:16 112n15, 124 19:23 112n15, 124 19:31 112n15, 124 19:39 112n15, 124 19:48 112n15, 124 19:49 112n15, 124 19:51 112n15, 114, 124 20 113n16 21 113n16 21:3 117 24 113n17, 117 223n41 24:12 Judges 3:11 7:25

63n22 96n14

1 Samuel 1 83 1–4 237, 239 1–1 Kgs 2 75, 76, 83, 83n30, 90 1:9 239 1:17 237, 239 1:26 238 2:11 238 2:12 239 2:12–17 238

301 2:13–17 239 238 2:17 2:18 238 239 2:22 2:24 239 2:27–36 239 238 2:28 2:29 238 2:30–36 227 2:33 238 3:1–9 238 4 238, 240 4:4 238 4:11 238 239 4:18 8 11 8:1–5 239 8:3 239 9:1 86 9:2 76, 77, 78 77 10:24 11:15 77 12:19 237 12:23 237 13 89 13:8–9 230 13:13–14 231 14 228, 229, 231, 233 228, 229, 234 14:3 228, 230 14:18 14:18 (GT) 228, 228n3 14:18–19 229, 230n7, 231, 241 230 14:19 14:27–30 231 14:31–35 231, 236n37 14:36 228, 230, 230n13 14:36 (GT) 230n13 232 14:36–37 14:37 228, 230, 231, 236, 236n37 14:40–42 236, 237 14:40–45 231, 236n37, 237 230n7, 236 14:41 14:42 237 14:43 237 14:44 237 14:45 236n37, 237 14:45 (GT) 237

302 1 Samuel (cont.) 15 78, 86, 89, 96n14 222 15:23 15:28 78, 86 233 15:33–35 16–31 240 16:1–13 88 88 16:7 16:12 76, 77, 78, 216 16:13 12 16:18 88 16:21 85, 89 17:17–18 216 17:28 216 17:42 76, 77, 216 17:54 240 18:1 85 18:16 85 18:20 85 18:28 85 20:17 85 21 236, 240 21–22 228, 239 21–23 232 21:5–7 228 229, 240 21:9–10 22 239 22:5 231, 232 22:11 239 22:12–15 239 22:13 229 22:15 229 22:16–19 233 22:17–19 239 22:18 229, 232, 235 22:22 229 22:23 229 23:1–5 232 23:1–13 231, 232 23:1 231 23:2 231, 232 23:4 229, 231, 232 23:6 231, 232 232 23:11 23:12 232, 232n18 23:13 233 24 219 24:17 219

Index of Primary Sources 24:20 216, 219 76, 79 25:3 25:32 90 25:34 90 81, 90n40 25:38 25:39–42 81 81 25:43 28 233 28–30 233 28:3 233 28:6 233 28:19 233, 238, 241 30:7–8 231, 233 31:6 233 2 Samuel 1:23 74 1:26 74, 75 2:4 12, 77 2:9 78 2:10 78 2:11 77 3:2–3 78n16 3:3 81 3:7 80 4:4 123n56 4:9 123n56 12, 77 5:3 5:14 78n16 6:14 235 6:17 234 6:20–23 83 7 240 8:15 214n5 9 77, 77n11 11–12 82 11:2 76, 79 11:5 82 11:26 82 12:1–15a 77n12 12:8 80n21 12:24 82, 85, 89 13–14 81 13:1 76, 82 13:13 81 13:15 80 13:20 82 13:21 216

303

Index of Primary Sources 13:21 (LXX) 81n23 81n23 13:36–37 14 83 83 14:2 14:25 76, 77, 197 14:26 77 76, 216n17 14:27 89 14:33 15:1–6 89 15:10 77 15:16 89 15:24 231, 234, 235 234, 234n30, 15:24 (GT) 234n31 15:25 234 15:25–26 234 15:26 234 15:27–29 236 15:27 234 15:29 231, 234, 235 236 15:34–36 15:35 231, 234, 235 235 15:36 16 77 16:1–4 123n56 16:22 80 16:23 80 17:14 80 18:14 220 18:18 100n30 19:24–30 123n56 20 77 20:1 17 21 83 21:8 78n16 1 Kings 1 78 1–2 75, 82, 90 1:4 76, 79, 82 76, 77 1:6 1:7 231, 235 1:19 231, 235 77, 231, 235 1:25 78 1:39 1:43 78 1:45 78 2 82, 83

2:4 214 75n5 2:11 2:22 235 235 2:26 6–8 246 6:2 244 214 8:23 8:25 214 8:36 118n38 9:4 214 12:16 17, 20 12:31 13n39 21 93, 103, 123n56 103 21:3 21:3 (LXX) 95n8 2 Kings 6:17–18 262n11 8:1–6 123n56 8:12 98 9:30 83n29 15:16 98 18–19 164 22 12, 16 23 119 23:9 119 23:15–18 115 24 163 24–25 170 25:22–23 115 Isaiah 2 49, 50 2:2 44n3, 50n21, 50n22 2:2–3 44n5 2:2–4 42, 48, 50, 51, 282 2:3 44, 44n3, 44n4, 48, 48n16, 50, 50n23 2:4 48, 48n17, 49 3:18–24 83n29 5:23 99n29 7:1–9 164 10:5–6 165, 165n4 13 167 14:7 63n22 22:13 210 26 93n2 26:15 93n2

304 Isaiah (cont.) 32:17 33:17 36–37 37:6–7 37:33–35 37:36–38 40–48 40–55 41:8 42 42:5–6 44:24–45:7 45:1–7 45:13 45:14 45:14–25 45:16 45:17 45:19 45:20 45:21 45:22 45:23 45:24 49 49:14 49:22 49:22–23 49:22–26 49:23 49:24 49:25 49:25–26 49:26 51:2 56:1–7 56:1–8 56:2 56:3 56:4 56:5 56:6 56:7 60 60:1–2

Index of Primary Sources 63n22 78 164 164 164 164 37n46 37, 38, 39 128 24, 280 37 59, 280 242 44n3 44n3, 46, 46n11, 47 42, 48, 51, 282 49 49 49 167n16 49 49 44, 45, 49 49 47, 48n14, 49 44n3 47, 48n14, 49 47 42, 44n3, 45, 47, 48, 51, 283 47, 49 49 49 48n14 45, 49, 49n19 128 42, 49, 51, 283 199n11 44 44, 49 44 44n5, 100n30 44, 49 44, 44n3, 49 42, 46, 47, 49, 51, 51n26, 283 51

60:5 60:5–6 60:6 60:6–7 60:7 60:9 60:10 60:10–11 60:11 60:12 60:13 60:14 60:16 60:17 60:18 63:16 66 66:1 66:5 66:6 66:8 66:11 66:12 66:14 66:18 66:18–19 66:19 66:20 66:20–22 66:23 66:24 Jeremiah 2:6 3:18 3:19 4:30 6:22 9:26 10:22 16:15 17:4 20:5 20:14–18 20:21 21:2 21:4

44n6 46 44 43n2 44, 44n5, 46n12 46 47 44n3 46 47, 47n13, 48n18, 49 44n5, 46, 51, 51n27 44n3, 44n4, 47 47 48n18, 49 44n3 128 42, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 51n26, 283 50n25 49 44n3, 44n5, 50 44n3 51n26 46, 47, 51n27 49n20 49 44, 51n26 43n2, 44, 49 44n4, 44n5, 46, 47 49 44 49 161 66n30 118n38 83n29 66n30 161 66n30 66n30 118n38 168n22 201 176n48 176n48 168n21

305

Index of Primary Sources 21:9 168n21 40 22:24 22:25 168n21 66n30 23:8 24:1 176n48 24:5 168n21 161 24:8 25 167n16 165 25:9 168n21 25:12 25:15–19 165n5 25:34 207 27 164, 165, 166n10 27:1–4 166n10 27:5–8 165 27:6 165 29 162 29:6 162 29:15 168n22 30:10 63n22 31:8 66n30 32:2 176n48 32:4 168n21 32:5 168n21 32:24 168n21 32:25 168n21 32:28 168n21 32:29 168n21 32:43 168n21 33:5 168n21 34:1 176n48 34:7 176n48 35:11 168n21, 176n48 37:5 168n21 37:8 168n21 37:9 168n21 37:10 168n21 37:11 168n21 37:13 168n21 37:14 168n21 38:2 168n21 38:17–23 176n48 38:18 168n21 38:19 168n21 38:23 168n21 39:1–14 176n48 39:5 168n21 39:8 168n21

39:11–14 176n48 176n48 40:1–4 40:7 115 168n21 40:9 40:10 168n21 41:3 168n21 168n21 41:18 42 161 42:14 161 42:15–19 161 43:1–7 167 43:3 168n21 44:12 161 44:28 161 176n48 46:2 46:10 66n30, 176n48 46:14 176n48 46:25–26 165 46:27 63n22 47:6–7 173n27 166, 167n16, 170 50–51 168n21 50:1 50:8 168n21 50:9 66n30 50:10 168n21 50:25 168n21 50:35 168n21 50:42 168n22 50:45 168n21 51:4 168n21 51:24 168n21 51:35 168n21 51:54 168n21 52:7 168n21 52:8 168n21 52:14 168n21 52:17 168n21 Ezekiel 1–24 1:3 4:2 5:2 5:8 5:12 5:17 6:3 6:12

179 168, 169 175 172 179 172 172n32 172 172

306 Ezekiel (cont.) 7:3 173n36 173n36 7:8 7:15 172 165 7:20–27 7:27 173n36 11:1–13 172 172 11:8 11:10 172, 173n36 11:11 173n36 11:15 128 11:24 168, 169 12 176 12:1–16 176n46 12:12–16 176 12:13 168, 169, 175, 176n46 12:14 172 12:16 172 14:12–23 172 14:17 172 14:21 172n32 16:2 173n36 16:26 159 16:28–29 168n20 168 16:29 16:38 173n36 16:44–63 160 16:45 160 17 169, 176 17:3–4 169 17:5–10 169 17:12 168, 169 17:13–21 169 17:16 168, 169 17:17 175 17:19–21 176 17:20 168, 169, 173n36, 175, 176n46 18:30 173n36 19 159, 176 19:1–9 169, 176 19:8–9 176 168, 169 19:9 20:4 173n36 20:5 159 20:8 159 20:35–36 173n36

Index of Primary Sources 21 171n31, 176 21:1–12 171n31, 172, 172n36 21:8–9 171 21:13–22 172 173 21:16 21:19–22 173 173 21:23 21:23–32 172, 173 21:24 168, 169 21:25 173 21:25–28 173 21:26 168, 169 21:27 173, 175 21:27–32 173 21:30–32 176 21:32–33 172 21:33 173 21:33–34 167n17, 172, 173 21:33–37 173n36 21:35 173n36 21:35–37 171n31, 172, 172n36, 173n36 21:36 173n36 21:37 173n36 22:2 173n36 22:31 173n36 23 168 159 23:3 23:8 159 23:11–21 168 23:15 168, 169 23:17 168, 169 23:19 159 23:22–27 168 23:23 168, 169 23:24 173n36 23:36 173n36 23:40 83n29 24:1–15 173n36 24:2 168, 169 24:6 176n47 24:7 173n36 24:8 176n47 24:14 173n36 25 166 25–32 166 25:1–7 173n36 25:8 166n9

Index of Primary Sources 25:15–17 166 166 26–28 26:1–6 165, 171, 171n28, 174n41 26:1–28:19 174n41 26:2–6 171n28 176n47 26:4 168, 170 26:7 26:7–14 165, 169, 171, 171n28, 174, 174n41, 176n48 175 26:8 26:8–11 175n42 26:12 175n42 26:13–14 175n42 26:14 176n47 26:15–18 174n41 26:19–21 174n41 26:27 174n41 27:23 169 27:30 207 28:1–10 174n41 28:7 171, 172 174n41 28:11–19 28:25 179 29–32 166 29:1–12 159 29:8 171 29:10 43n2 29:13 159 29:17–20 169 29:17–21 167 29:18 168, 170 29:19 159, 168, 170 30:4 43n2, 159 30:4–6 171 30:5 43n2 30:9 43n2 30:10 168, 170 30:10–12 169, 174n40, 176 171, 172 30:11 30:16 159 30:19 159 169, 171 30:20–26 30:24 168 30:24–25 171, 172 159 30:25 30:26 159, 168

307 31:3 168, 169 32 159 32:1–2 171n29 171, 171n29 32:1–16 32:3 175 32:3–8 171n29 171n29, 172 32:9–10 32:10 171 32:11 168, 171 32:11–12 171n29, 172 169 32:11–14 32:11–16 174n40 32:13–15 171n29 32:16 171n29 32:16–18 159 32:17–32 168, 169 33:20 173n36 33:23 128 34:17 173n36 34:20 173n36 34:22 173n36 35:2 166n9 35:15 166n9 43:13 93n2, 93n3 43:17 93n2, 93n3 44:5–14 199n11 44:28 110n4 45:1 93n2, 93n3, 94n3, 96n11 45:17 13n38 46:12 13n38 46:16 110n4 46:18 110n4 48:8 93n2, 93n3, 96n11 48:13 93n2, 93n3, 96n11 Amos 1 98, 99n29 1:3 282 1:3–2:16 97, 98 1:5 98, 105 1:6–8 98 1:9 98 1:13 93, 93n2, 97, 98, 104 2:4–5 98, 99, 99n29 5:15 99n29 9:7 98, 105

308

Index of Primary Sources

Jonah 1:9 4:1–4 4:2 4:3 4:9–11

209 199 209 201 199, 209

Micah 4 4:1 4:1–2 4:1–3 4:2 4:3 4:13

49, 50 44n3, 50n21, 50n22 44n5 42, 49, 50, 51, 282 44, 44n3, 44n4, 48, 48n16, 50, 50n23 48, 48n17, 49 71n43

Habakkuk 1:5–11

170

Zephaniah 3:9 44 3:9–20 42, 49, 51, 283 3:10 46, 47 3:10 (LXX) 46n10 3:11 44n3 3:14 44n3 3:15 51 3:16 44n3 3:19 49 3:19–20 49 3:20 50 Haggai 1:1 60, 251n25 1:14 60 1:15 60 2 44, 51 2:2 60 2:6–9 42, 45, 51, 283 2:7 44, 44n5, 45, 50n24, 51n26 2:7–8 45 2:7–9 50 2:8 50n24 2:9 44, 44n5, 50n24, 51n26

2:21 2:23

60 60, 164

Zechariah 1–8 39, 40 1:7 61n20, 64n24 62 1:8–17 1:8–6:8 61, 280 1:11 61n20, 63, 64n26 1:12 64, 64n26, 65n27 65 1:13 1:14–17 65, 65n28 1:17 65 2:1–4 62 67, 67n34, 68 2:2 2:4 68 2:5–9 62 2:9 69, 69n40 2:14 44n3 2:14–17 42, 50, 51, 283 2:15 44 2:16 44n3, 50 2:17 44, 44n5, 50 3 61n19 4:1–14 62 4:14 61n20, 70, 70n41, 71 5:1–4 62 5:5–11 62 6:1–8 62 6:5 71n43 6:8 66, 66n32 6:9–15 71n42 8:2–3 44n3 8:20–23 42, 44n3, 51, 283 8:21–22 42 8:22 44n3 12 24, 39, 280 12:1–8 37 14:16 44, 51 14:16–17 44, 44n3 14:16–19 42 14:16–21 42, 49, 51, 283 14:17 51 14:17–19 49 14:18–19 44 14:20–21 44n5 14:21 44, 44n3

309

Index of Primary Sources Psalms 110n4 2:8 8 33, 204 202n31, 204 8:4–6 45 78 45:3[2] 78 23, 24 74 74:12–17 32 88 203n35 23, 24 89 89:11–13 32 97:5 71n43 104 33 105 208 105:11 118n38 115 24, 36, 36n41 115:15 36 121 36, 36n41 121:12 36 124 24, 36, 36n41 124:8 36 134 36, 36n41 134:3 36 139 33 146 36, 36n41 146:6 36 Proverbs 22 105 22:28 93, 95, 105 26:27 198 27:9 83n29 31:29 16 Job

1:1 1:5 1:11 1:21 2:4–7 2:5 2:11 3 3:1 3:1–10 3:3

197n5 196, 196n1, 209 196n1 201, 204n41 208 196n1 196n11 196n1, 197, 198, 199, 200, 204, 204n36, 205, 210, 282 201 205 201, 206

3:3–10 201 202 3:4 3:6 204n39 202 3:8 3:10 206 3:11–19 201 206 3:13–15 3:20–26 201 3:25 203 4:7 197n5 6:4–14 199 7:5 207n53 7:7–17 202n31 7:17–18 204 197n5 8:6 8:20 197n5 9:21 207n53 10:3 207n53 10:18 204n38 11:4 197 11:13 197 12 14 12:9 197 16:7–15 199 16:12–14 206 19:18 207n53 29:1–25 203 30:11–31 199, 206 31:1 207n53 31:13 207n53 31:31–37 (OG) 209 38:1–11 33 42:6 207n53 Song of Songs 4:14

83n29

Ruth 3:3 3:11 4:11 4:12

83n29 16 16 219

Lamentations 2:17

164

Qohelet 2:14

210

310 Qohelet (cont.) 8:15

Index of Primary Sources 210

Esther 84 1:11 1:11–12 85 1:17 85 86 1:19 1:22 15 2:2–4 85 2:3 84 2:5 86 2:7 84 2:9 84 2:12 83n29 2:15 85 2:17 85 2:21 85 2:22 83 2:23 85 3:1 85, 86 4:1 207 4:4 83 6 86 6:7–11 85 85, 86 6:8 6:10–11 85 Daniel 1:4 91 2 91 2:48 91 4 170n27 Ezra 1–6 188, 193, 246 1:1–3 243 1:1–4 254 1:1–6 243 1:2–4 59 1:3 242 1:5 244 2 187, 189, 242, 244, 245 2–Neh 7 242, 244 2:1 245 2:2 245 2:23 245 3 244, 245

3–6 242, 244 3:2 255 246 3:7–8 3:8–9 246 246 3:8–13 3:10 255n34 4 245 255 4–6 5:1 245 5:1–2 245 245 5:9–16 5:11 244 6:6–7 246, 247, 253 6:13 247 6:14 245, 246 6:20 188 7 254 7–10 242, 248 7:6 248 7:10 148 7:12–26 248, 253, 255, 255n34 7:18 246, 253 7:26 248 8–10 187 9–10 162, 199, 246n10, 250, 251n27 9:1 187 9:1–2 249, 250 9:2 187 9:9 256n38 256n37 9:11–12 10 252n30 10:1–4 252n30 10:1–6 249, 250 10:7–8 250 10:8–19 251 10:9–17 250 10:10–11 250 10:10–17 249 10:14 250 10:16 250 10:18–19 251n25 10:18–44 251 10:44 251, 251n26 Nehemiah 1–7 2:1–8

242, 153 253

311

Index of Primary Sources 2:10 251n24 254 3:1–32 6:1 254 251n24 6:17–18 7 187, 189, 244, 245 7:4 254 245 7:5 7:6–72[73] 242, 254 8 190 255 8–12 8–13 242, 253, 254 8:1 249, 254 8:13–18 255 8:14 249 8:18 255 9 38, 40, 208, 249, 255 9:6–8 38 9:7–8 128 9:36–37 256n38 9:37 255 10 188, 249, 252, 254 10:1 256 10:29 188 10:30 255 10:31 255 10:32 244, 255 10:33 244, 255 10:34 244, 255 10:35 244, 255 10:36 244 10:37 255 10:38 244, 255 10:39 244, 255 10:40 255 11 187 11:1 242 11:1–2 254 11:18 242 11:23 255n34 12 187 12:1 255 12:1–26 255 12:24 255n34 12:26 255 12:27 254 12:47 255 13 188 13:1–3 256n37

13:4–31 13:23 13:23–27 13:23–30 13:36

254, 255 18 249 199 255n34

1 Chronicles 4 93 4:9 105 4:9–10 93, 100, 103, 104, 282 4:10 93, 93n2, 95n6, 99, 105 15:11–15 231, 235 16:18 118n38 23–27 184 23:13 184 27:34 240 2 Chronicles 5 184 13:23 63n22 14:4–5 63n22 20:30 63n22 23 184 29 185 29–32 185 29:5–36 185 29:34 185 30:3 185 30:15 185 30:17 185 31:18 185 34–35 185 34–36 185 35:6 185 Tobit 3:6 4:12–13 6:10–16 7:10 7:10–16

201 199 199 210 199

1 Maccabees 4:26–27

262n12

2 Maccabees 1–2

260n8

312 2 Maccabees (cont.) 1:1–9 1:10–2:18 3 3:1 3:1–4:6 3:10–11 3:16–17 3:21 3:24 3:31–34 4:7–10 4:8 4:20–34 4:24 5:2–3 5:2–4 5:4 5:5–10 5:11–16 5:17–20 6–7 6:10 6:11 6:18–7:42 7:6 7:37 8:1–20 8:2 8:2–3 8:2–4 8:3 8:4 8:5 8:7 8:9 8:13 8:23 8:24 8:26–27 8:28 9:1–29 10:1–10 10:14 10:24–38 10:29–32 10:30 11:1–12

Index of Primary Sources 260n8 269b8 260, 262 260, 263 261 261 261 261 260 261 261 263 261 263 261 261 261 261 261 261 268 267 267 267, 267n23 268 169 264 268 264 268 268 268 267 264 264 264 264 264, 265 264 265 267 261 265 261 262 262, 262n10 262

11:2 11:3 11:6–7 11:8–11 12:32–45 12:34 12:36 12:37 13:9–17 13:10–11 13:14 13:17 14–15 14:31–33 14:37–40 14:42 14:43–46 15 15:6–11 15:11–16 15:12 15:20–24 15:21 15:22 15:25–35 15:30 15:37

262 262 262 262 265 265 265 265 265 265 265 265 264n18, 267, 269 257, 267 267 268 268 257, 263 266 263 263 266 257 266 266 169 263, 270

1 Esdras 6:27 7:1–2 9:36

247 247 251n26

Pseudepigraphal Works Animal Apocalypse 90.10 T.Job 13:1–6 T.Job 20:9

263 209 209

Rabbinic Literature Esther Rabbah 4:9

86n34

Aramaic Sources Ahiqar TAD A4.7/8 TAD A4.1(B13)

213n3 34 160

313

Index of Primary Sources TAD A4.4 (B16) 160n57 TAD B2.7.6–7 (C13) 247 TAD B2.8.1.14 (C14) 247 TAD B2.8.6, 11 (C14) 247 TAD B2.9.9–11 (C20) 247 TAD B2.22 (C6:22) 247 TAD B3.3 (Kraeling 2) 250 TAD C 3.15 (Cowley 22) 253 Greek Sources Aristotle, Politics 1.2.9 276 1.2.10 276 1.2.15 276 276 1.3–1.7 2.2–2.3 276 Homer, Iliad 5.436–37

242n12

Josephus, Jewish Antiquities 133, 133n17 4.201 (4.8.5) 252n28 11.139–43 (11.5.3) Persian Sources DB DSe DSe 1–7 DSe 7–14 DSe 30–41 DSf DSp DSt DSab DPd DPh DNa DNb

24, 27, 28, 31 26n8, 57 57 57 58 26n8 26n8 26n8 26n8 26n8 29, 36 26n8, 29, 30, 30n21, 41, 191 26n8, 30, 30n21, 31, 41, 58, 182, 191

DE 26n8 DZc 26n8, 27 DH 29 26n9 XPa XPb 26n9 26n9 XPc XPd 26n9 XPf 26n9 26n9 XPh XPL 26n9 XE 26n9 XV 26n9 A1Pa 26n9 D2Ha 26n9 A2Hc 26n9 A3Pa 26n9 Avesta 25n6, 182 Cuneiform Sources Atrahasis 204 Cow of Sîn 205 Babylonian Chronicle V 176 23, 33 Enuma Elish Erra 171, 171n31, 178, 204 Murashu Archive 100n30 Sumerian Lament of the Mother of Dumuzi 204n41 Vassal Treaties 204 of Esarhaddon Egyptian Sources Hymn to the Aten Memphite Theology Sinuhe Tale of Two Brothers

33 23 213n3 213n3

Topic Index Aaron 146 Abednego 90, 156 Abiathar 228, 229, 231–236, 240, 241 Abigail 76, 89, 90 Abimelech 220 Abishag 76, 79, 82, 89 Abner 78, 80, 81 Abraham 38, 101, 102, 114, 126, 127, 128, 150, 213, 214, 216n17, 220, 221 promises to 101, 127, 128, 220 Abram see Abraham Absalom 76, 77, 79, 80, 81, 83, 89, 216 daughter of 76 abuse, sexual 9, 80, 89, 216 Achaemenid 7, 23–32, 34–40, 52n30, 53, 57, 58, 60, 180, 183, 183n13, 189–193, 195, 244, 280 see also ideology, imperial; inscription, Achaemenid Adam 150 Adonijah 76, 77, 79, 83, 89 Agag 86 agency 49, 85, 86, 121, 142, 227, 229, 231, 233, 236, 237, 239, 240, 243, 244, 259, 266, 270, 280, 282 Ahasuerus 85, 86, 91 see also Xerxes Ahijah 228–232, 240, 241 Ahimelech 228, 229, 239, 240 Ahinoam 80n21, 81 Ahithophel 80 āl-Yāḫūdu 153, 157 All-Israel 112, 183, 184, 191–194 see also Israel; panisraelite allusion see intertextuality Amalek 86, 233 Ammon 97, 98, 161, 166, 173, 173n36 Amnon 78, 80, 81n23, 82, 89, 216 Amorite 160, 223, 223n41 Amos 97–99, 104–105 Andronicus 261 anointing 12, 59, 70–71, 83 anthropology 51, 110, 111, 117, 147, 154n32, 288 Antiochus IV Epiphanes 261, 262n12, 267–269

Antiochus V Eupator 262, 265 apocalyptic 4, 151, 263, 263n14 Aram 16, 98, 105, 159, 163, 262n11 Aramaic 24, 247 Arsames 160 Asenath 161 Assyria 7, 56, 57, 67n36, 119, 140, 143, 155, 165, 168, 174n40, 191, 281 see also Mesopotamia Artaxerxes I 26, 246, 248, 253, 253n34 Artaxerxes II 26 Artaxerxes III 26 Athens 252, 252n30, 253, 256 authority 2, 3, 13, 15, 47, 48, 50, 51, 53, 54, 91, 100n30, 110, 117, 119, 121, 123, 128, 131, 138, 142, 143, 146, 150, 161, 199, 203, 210, 214n6, 227–231, 236, 237, 239, 240, 247, 248, 250, 256, 277, 279, 280 Babylon 7, 13, 23, 37–39, 55–58, 63–68, 91, 115, 141, 145, 149, 150, 151, 152, 154–159, 161–179, 189, 191, 194, 242n1, 245, 281, 282 Babylonian conquest 65 Babylonian period 13 see also Chaldea; Mesopotamia Bactria 25, 25n5 Bagavahya 160, 163 Bagohi 245 Bathsheba 76–80, 82, 83, 89, 90, 235 beauty 5, 74–92 female 75, 76, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 89, 90, 92 male 75, 76, 77, 78, 81, 83, 84, 85, 89, 91, 92 Benjamin (person) 17n54, 222, 222n37 Benjamin (tribe) 17n54, 86, 189, 242n1, 244, 245, 245n8, 282 Bethel 115, 152 Bisitun 30–31, 190 blessing 18, 36, 99–102, 138n47, 196, 196n1, 217, 222, 223–234 Booths, Festival of see Sukkot border, enlargement of 93–99, 100n30, 103, 104

Topic Index Cain 150 Canaan 125, 127, 137 captivity, Babylonian 166, 245 see also deportation; exile; migration centralization 7, 13, 23, 25, 29, 53, 96, 96n12, 114, 117–119, 125, 134, 139, 140, 141, 144, 146, 184, 191–194, 221, 245n8 Chaldea 168, 168n21 see also Babylon Chileab 81, 82n25 Chronicles 7, 40, 99–104, 183–185, 188, 189, 191, 194 colonialism 11, 12, 18–20, 40, 102, 104, 104n48, 109, 189, 243 collective identity see Identity, Collective comedy 196, 196n2, 197, 200–203, 205n47, 206n49, 209, 210, 282 see also parody communication 145, 147, 148, 163, 227 concretization 170, 171 conquest Assyrian 140, 191 Babylonian 65 of Canaan 12, 63, 96, 104, 112–114, 137, 137n41 constitution 2, 10, 11, 133, 136, 138, 139, 143, 143n67, 190, 255, 256 control 31, 111, 123, 146, 155, 165, 167, 170, 177, 205, 239, 247, 248, 250, 253, 259, 267, 270 covenant 4, 5, 12, 38, 38n49, 49, 59, 93, 95–106, 116, 127, 128, 133, 137, 137n37, 140n57, 142, 199 ark of 228, 234–236, 238, 240, 241 code 181 see also theology, covenant creation 23, 35, 57, 126, 150, 199, 201–204, 280 formula 24–31, 35, 36, 37, 38n49, 40 models of 32–33, 35–36, 39 see also theology, creation criticism historical 5n19, 8, 51, 145, 186, 236n37 ideological 51, 52n29 literary 64n26 materialist 51–54 political 51 sociological 145, 147

315 source 214, 267n23 curse 12, 14, 15n47, 140, 140n57, 196n1, 201, 202, 204, 204n41, 205, 206, 207 Cush 23, 46, 47, 162 Cyrus II 57, 58, 59, 64n24, 69, 167n15, 193, 194, 242–246, 280 Damascus 98, 105, 163 Daniel 90, 91, 156 Darius I 23, 26–32, 35, 38n49, 39, 39n50, 41, 57, 58, 60, 61, 63, 64n24, 65n27, 70n41, 182, 182n10, 191, 245, 246, 247 David 12, 38, 40, 76–83, 85, 86, 88–90, 92, 184, 213, 214n8, 216, 216n17, 219, 221, 226, 227, 229–236, 239, 240, 241, 246, 255n34, 281 brothers of 78 concubines of 77, 81 dynasty of 24, 60, 70, 71, 125, 150, 219 promises to 40, 83, 220 sons of 78n16 Davidic see David, dynasty of defilement 95, 117–119, 182, 187, 254, 267 democratization 133, 141, 187, 188, 191, 192, 194, 244, 249, 252 deportation 143, 149, 149n16, 151, 169, 176n48, 177 see also captivity, Babylonian; exile; migration Deuteronomy 5, 9n26, 10n29, 11, 94–97, 99, 100, 101, 102n36, 104, 105, 116–119, 130–133, 136–144 Deuteronomic 4n17, 14, 94, 99n30, 100, 116, 118, 119, 184, 185, 187, 191, 198n9 Deuteronomistic (literature, traditions) 13, 15n47, 16, 76n10, 77n12, 96, 99, 102, 103–105, 116, 117, 148, 161, 181, 183, 185, 189, 190, 225, 227, 231, 241, 282 diaspora 11, 74, 76, 84, 84n32, 86, 87, 90–92, 141, 142, 143, 145, 150, 153, 158, 162, 167, 177, 189, 208, 210, 215, 258, 259, 270, 280, 281, 282 diaspora communities 141, 142, 143, 150, 151, 161, 180, 193, 194, 242n1 divination 173, 222, 227–231, 233, 234–241, 242 dominance 10, 11, 12, 15, 37, 57, 79, 146, 154, 158, 198, 199n11, 203, 204, 207, 208

316 dream 90, 91, 216, 217, 223, 233, 263, 280, 281 Ecbatana 26, 29n18, 190 economics 3, 6, 8, 9, 30n21, 61, 102, 115n29, 145–148, 152, 155–157, 180, 194, 198, 243, 256n38 Eden narrative 14, 15, 150 Edom 125, 161, 166 efficacy 227, 228, 230, 231, 237, 239, 240, 241, 280 Egypt 7, 13, 25, 46, 47, 60, 88, 91, 94, 102, 104, 123–126, 137, 145, 150, 154, 157–163, 166–172, 174–179, 189, 194, 204n41, 205, 213n3, 216, 221, 221n34, 222, 222n36, 242n1, 261, 281, 282 Elam 64n24, 260n9 elders 12, 14, 16, 138, 219n28, 239, 245–248, 250, 265, 267 Eleazar 267 election 59, 60, 88, 126, 133, 136, 137, 280, 216, 221, 224, 259, 261, 263, 268, 269 Elephantine 34, 36, 38n47, 159–163, 191, 194, 246, 247, 250, 263 Eli 237–239 sons of see Eliade Eliab 78n15, 88 Eliade 83, 227–241 Elvend 26 empire 9, 59, 242 see also ideology, anti-imperial; ideology, imperial; Persian empire endogamy see intermarriage ephod 228, 229, 232–236, 238–240, 280 Ephraim (person) 161 Ephraim (tribe) 161, 162 epiphany 260–263 Esris 265 Esther 84–86, 91–92 Book of 5, 15, 74, 76, 84–87, 91, 92 ethnicity 9, 9n26, 13, 17–20, 32, 42, 72, 131, 134–137, 139, 141n59, 143, 155, 156, 159, 160, 162, 168, 168n20, 199, 278 ethnos see ethnicity Eve 150 exclusivism 17, 96, 187, 193 exegesis 9 Christian 42, 136 inner-biblical 182 liberation 4n18

Topic Index exile 55, 59, 66n32, 90, 98, 105, 115, 119, 141, 142, 143, 149–153, 156, 158, 167, 178, 179, 189–191, 208, 245 see also captivity, Babylonian; deportation; migration exilic period 77, 77n12, 128, 129, 140–143, 151, 152, 154, 156, 158, 179, 281 Exodus (book) 123–125, 151 exodus (event) 120, 151, 163 exogamy see intermarriage Ezekiel (book) 145, 146, 148, 156, 159, 160, 169–179 Ezekiel (person) 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 172, 177–179 Ezra (book) 59, 69, 71 Ezra (person) 156, 248–250, 253–255 Ezra-Nehemiah 40, 186–189, 191, 192, 194, 199, 242–256 factionalism 53, 189–192, 242n1, 282 femininity 91n42 see also gender; masculinity; women favor 84, 85, 87, 218, 222 divine 58, 82, 87, 88, 90, 91, 92, 231, 234, 265, 266, 270 parental 216, 218 royal 87, 89, 90, 91, 92 foreign nations see nation, foreign foreigner 14, 16, 17, 18, 47, 511, 54, 87, 90, 91, 100, 105, 106, 165, 176, 177, 179, 180, 183, 188, 190, 220, 225, 225n47, 250, 251, 251n25, 251n26, 251n27, 253, 256, 282 Fürstenspiegel 182, 191 Gad (prophet) 231, 232 Gaza 98 Gedaliah 161 gender 14–17, 15n47 see also beauty; men; masculinity; women Genesis 9, 75, 88, 97, 100, 102, 126–128 generation 18, 105, 120, 137, 145, 149, 150, 151, 155, 156, 158, 162, 163, 213, 222, 226, 245, 279 Gerizim 180, 186n23, 189, 191, 192, 243n1 glory 44, 46, 49–52, 69, 266 Habakkuk (book) 170 Hamadan see Ecbatana

Topic Index Haman 85, 86, 91n42 Hananiah 160 Hannah 83, 239 Haggai (book) 40, 60, 71, 72, 243 Haggai (person) 245 Hasmonean Dynasty 10, 186n22, 258, 259, 269–271, 281 Hegai 84 Heliodorus 260–262 Hellenistic period 7, 10n31, 24, 84n32, 158, 170n27, 183n13, 184, 194, 197n6, 199, 242n1 Hexateuch 12, 101n35, 109–129, 142, 225, 226, 282 Hezekiah 188, 266 narrative of 185 Hittite 160 Holgah 120 holiness 183–195, 282 code 101, 102, 103, 122n55, 127, 148, 180–185, 187–189, 191, 193, 195 Hophni 237–239 Horeb 140, 142 household 15, 81, 110, 110n4, 111, 115–117, 120–123, 126n66, 218, 276 hybridity 190, 191, 194 identity 20n63, 136 collective, national 19, 96, 97, 131, 135, 135n28, 136, 136n35, 137n35, 139, 140, 141, 143, 144, 144n68, 183, 194, 226, 281 cultural 141, 143 ethnic 136, 141n59, 159 negotiation 189, 194 politics 141 ideology 112, 198 agrarian 117 anti-Babylonian 55, 173n39 anti-Egyptian 161 anti-Hasmonean 270 anti-imperial 4, 56, 61, 61n17, 65n27, 65n29, 67, 72, 140 anti-monarchic 3 imperial 13, 24, 31, 37n46, 40, 53, 56, 57, 58, 60, 61n17, 64, 67, 68, 71, 72, 182, 190, 191 Judean-exilic 179 kinship 117 land 117

317 neo-Marxist 5n19 theo-ideology 31–32 Persian see ideology, imperial post-exilic, Yahwistic 192 pro-Babylonian 179 pro-Egyptian 161 pro-Levitical 184 pro-national 140 pro-Persian 61, 61n17 of whiteness 19 zionist 144n69 see also nationalism inheritance 17, 93–96, 103, 110, 112–121, 124–128, 132n11, 136, 146, 222, 223, 282 inscriptions Achaemenid 25–26, 37, 57, 59, 182, 190, 244 Babylonian royal 176 intermarriage 157, 160–162, 199, 209, 248, 250–253, 255, 282 intertextuality 14, 32, 56, 76, 76n9, 78, 86, 91, 172n34, 214, 219, 221–224, 226 irony, dramatic 197, 205n48, 208, 210, 282 Isaac 114, 150, 220, 221, 224n42 promises to 220 Isaiah (book) 7, 146 Deutero- 59, 69, 71, 72, 151, 157, 163 Trito- 151 Isaiah (person) 165 Ishbosheth 78, 79, 80 Ishmael 101, 127, 128 Israel 2, 3, 7, 8, 10, 16, 17, 20, 42, 43, 46, 47, 52, 60, 67n34, 67n36, 87, 95–99, 101–106, 110, 112–117, 119, 122–124, 126, 128, 129, 136–138, 140–144, 156, 159, 162, 166, 167, 171, 173n36, 178, 180, 181, 187, 191–194, 198, 207, 213, 219, 220, 223, 225, 226, 227, 238, 239, 241, 242, 244, 246, 248, 249, 256, 269, 281, 282 see also All-Israel; Northern Kingdom; panisraelite; monarchy, united Jabez 99, 100n30, 101, 103 Jacob 16, 17, 50, 102, 114, 126, 127, 128, 138n47, 150, 156, 159, 216–218, 221–225 Jason 146, 261, 263, 269 Jedaniah 160 Jehoiachin 60, 169, 179 Jeremiah (book) 145, 146, 148, 161, 165n8, 170, 176, 176n48

318 Jeremiah (person) 165, 165n8, 167, 167n16, 167n18, 168n21, 168n22, 178, 201 Jerusalem 8, 9, 11, 42–55, 59, 61n20, 62, 65, 67–71, 84n32, 89, 115n29, 119, 125, 140, 143, 161, 162, 163, 166, 168–173, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 182n11, 183, 189, 191–194, 235, 242–245, 247, 253, 254, 257, 259–264, 266, 270, 281, 282, 283 see also temple, Jerusalem Jeshua 61n19, 61n20, 70–72, 242, 245, 251n25, 255 Joash 184 Job 14, 196–210 Johanan (son of Kareah) 161 Jonah (book) 199, 208, 210 Jonah (person) 209 Jonathan 74, 75n3, 76, 78, 89, 231, 231n17, 236, 237 Joseph 9, 17n54, 87, 88, 90, 91, 102, 150, 151, 156, 158, 161, 214–226, 281 Joshua (high priest) see Jeshua Joshua (book) 112–116, 127 Josiah 185, 188, 192 see also reform, Josianic Josianic reform see reform, Josianic Jubilee 122, 122n53, 122n55, 128 Judah (kingdom/province) 3, 4n17, 7, 8, 10, 13, 17, 32–50, 55, 56, 59, 60, 64n24, 65, 67, 67n34, 68, 67n36, 70–73, 77, 87, 93n2, 98, 99, 115, 119, 126, 141–143, 149, 150, 155–163, 165, 169, 169n22, 170, 172, 173, 175, 177–179, 194, 213, 215, 217, 226, 242, 243, 245–249, 252, 253, 259, 263, 266, 270, 281, 282 see also Southern Kingdom; Yehud Judah (person) 88, 217, 218, 219, 221, 223, 224, 281 promises to 217 Judah (tribe)  189, 242n1, 244, 282 Judas Maccabeus 257–259, 261–270, 281 see also Revolt, Maccabean judge 12, 14, 20, 48, 49, 52, 142, 239 king 3, 7, 8, 10–12, 14, 24, 26, 27, 29–32, 35–38, 40, 45, 47, 51–53, 57–60, 64, 70, 70n41, 71, 72, 77, 78, 81, 82, 85–92, 104, 105, 108, 110–112, 115, 118, 119, 122, 123,

Topic Index 129, 138, 140, 142, 143, 149, 156, 161, 166, 168–179, 185, 192, 193, 213, 214, 214n5, 214n6, 216, 218–224, 226, 227, 229–231, 237, 239, 243–248, 250, 255, 255n37, 259, 260n9, 262, 265, 266, 266n21, 270, 280, 281 as divine agent 169–178, 244, 269 wives of the 79–82, 89 see also Achaemenid; Ahasuerus; Artaxerxes; Cyrus; Darius; David; monarchy; Saul; sovereignty, monarchic; Xerxes Keilah 231–233 Khirbet el-Qom 162, 180 kinship 9, 10n28, 12, 13, 15–17, 20, 98, 115, 117, 117n35 Kuntillet Ajrud 162 Lachish 162 lament 65, 65n26, 65n27, 82, 159–161, 174n41, 200–204 land  8, 93–106, 109–129, 137–144, 149, 150, 152, 157, 158, 159, 208, 223, 225, 233, 255, 281, 282 rights 109, 110–112, 116, 117, 120–123, 127, 128, 129, 275, 278, 279, 282 tenure 8, 93, 101–104 landholding 93, 101–104 law 6, 48, 48n14, 52, 99, 100, 103, 104, 105, 106, 109, 110, 110n4, 116, 118, 121, 123, 128, 138, 140, 182, 242, 248, 249, 250–253, 256, 260, 275, 276, 279, 281 leadership 2, 3, 4, 9–14, 17n54, 71, 71n42, 114, 146, 149, 155, 162, 173, 173n36, 176n48, 178, 217, 221, 224, 224n45, 227, 228, 230, 233, 241, 243, 245, 246, 249, 249n20, 250, 259, 261–266, 269–271, 275 Leah 16, 17, 88, 88n39, 223 Leviathan (bible) 202 Leviathan (philosophy) 2, 10 Levite 12–14, 16, 113n16, 117–121, 141, 183–188, 191–193, 235, 244, 246, 249n20, 255 see also priest Leviticus 97, 122–123 liberalism 2 Lysias 262, 262n12 Mabo 105, 109

Topic Index Maccabees Second Book of 10, 257–271 magic 33, 36, 173, 205 see also divination Mahlah 120, 121 marriage 9, 16, 79–82, 89, 91, 120, 121, 128n73, 157, 160, 161, 162, 218, 218n27, 225, 249–253, 255, 281, 282 see also intermarriage martyrdom 266–269 men 30n21 see also gender; masculinity Manasseh (person) 120, 161 Manasseh (tribe) 161 masculinity 15, 16, 30n21 see also beauty, male; femininity; gender; men Mazdaism 25 see Zoroastrianism Memphis 160 Menelaus 261, 263, 269 Mephibosheth 77, 78 Meshach 90, 156 messianism 133 Mesopotamia 33, 33n13, 35, 169, 173, 177n50, 178, 178n53, 194, 204 see also Assyria; Babylon Michal 81n24, 89, 90 Midian 46, 162 Milcah 120, 121 migration 151 forced 9, 13, 115, 149–159 forced-return 13, 72, 145, 149–159 see also conquest; deportation; exile; return mirror for princes see Fürstenspiegel Mizpah 152, 167 Moab 125, 136, 137, 137n37, 140, 142, 158, 161, 166, 166n9, 281 Modein 265 modernity 1, 2, 5, 8, 19, 131–133, 148, 281 monarchy period of 77, 115, 139 united 12, 87 see also ideology, anti-monarchic; king; power, monarchic; queen; sovereignty, monarchic monotheism 6–7, 52, 138, 162, 190 see also Yahwism

319 Mordecai (Esther) 84, 85 Mordecai (Nehemiah) 245 Moses 78n17, 99, 112, 114, 133, 136, 138, 140, 142, 151, 158, 162, 214n8, 249, 255 promises to 112, 114 Mrs Potiphar 87, 218 multi-levelled socio-historical existence  189, 194, 242n1 Nabal 81, 81n24, 90n49 Nabonidus 157, 170n27 Naboth 103 Naphaina 160 Nathan 78, 235, 240 nationality 9 nation foreign 42–54, 65n29, 66n32, 86, 98, 99n29, 194 see also foreigner -state 19, 130–136, 139, 143 nationalism 2, 10–11, 19, 130–136, 137n39, 141, 143, 144 Naqsh-i Rustam 29–31, 41, 182 Nazism 1–2, 278 Nebuchadnezzar see Nebuchadrezzar Nebuchadrezzar 91, 157, 159, 165–179, 281 negotiation 3, 4, 12, 78, 80–85, 90, 192, 229, 245, 246n10, 277n9 Nehemiah (person) 156, 245, 249, 251n24, 253–255 Nicanor 257, 263–270 night vision 61–72 Nippur 167 Noah (Numbers) 120, 121 Nob 228, 229, 233, 235, 239, 240 non-P 149, 190, 214, 215, 221n34, 224 North, Land of the 66, 66n33 Northern Kingdom 12, 99, 161 see also Israel; northern northern 18, 114, 115, 124, 140, 143, 192, 215–218, 224–226, 281 see also Israel; Northern Kingdom Numbers 151, 163 Oholibah 168 omen 261 Onias III 260, 261, 263, 270 oracle, against the nations see prophecy, against the nations

320 Paltiel 81n24 panisraelite 112, 215, 222n37 see also All-Israel parody 196, 204n36 see also comedy Pasagardae 69, 69n39 Passover see Pesach pax persica 27, 31, 35, 55, 59, 60, 63, 64, 65, 67, 68, 69, 70, 72, 73 Pentateuch 4, 7, 59, 60, 72, 93, 105, 130, 142, 151 see also torah periphery 13, 14n42, 53, 64n24, 125, 155, 167, 177 see also ideology, imperial Persepolis 28–29, 190 Persian empire 24, 30, 34, 55–61, 63–69, 71–73, 84n32, 86, 142, 151, 157, 158, 160–163, 182n11, 183, 184, 189–193, 242, 243, 245–250, 252, 253, 255, 280, 282 context of 34–39, 115n27, 194, 195, 281 see also Achaemenid; ideology, imperial; pax persica; Persian period Persian period 7, 13, 17, 17n54, 34, 38, 39, 40, 42, 53, 59–61, 65–69, 72, 73, 84, 84n32 101, 103, 115, 119, 139, 142, 180, 181, 183n13, 184, 188n28, 189, 199 see also Achaemenid; Persian empire Pesach 160, 185, 188, 192, 193 Pharaoh 91, 159, 168, 171, 171n29, 175, 177, 218, 221, 221n34, 222 Philip (the Phrygian) 264 Philistia 98, 125, 166, 166n10, 220, 228, 229, 233, 236, 238, 239, 241 Phineas (Elide) 237, 239, piety 52, 54, 171, 177, 196, 201, 203, 204, 206–210, 218, 257–260, 261, 263–271, 282 see also worship pilgrimage 9n26, 42–54, 137 politics 2–6, 9, 10n31, 20, 23, 66n32, 85, 92, 109, 128, 139–143, 164, 178, 179, 224–226, 242, 259, 276, 277–279, 282, 283 of beauty 74, 76, 80, 86–92 cultural 14, 196–199, 209 gender 121n49 political theology see theology, political  political theory 11, 130n1, 131

Topic Index postcolonialism 34, 38, 40 postexilic period 70n41, 72, 77, 84, 123, 128, 138, 139, 142, 143, 183, 189, 191, 192, 194, 199, 208, 210, 215, 281 Potiphar 218, 220, 225 wife of see Mrs Potiphar power 7, 9, 12, 16, 29, 37, 48, 49, 52–54, 63, 64n24, 66, 67, 74, 78–92, 100n30, 109, 115, 117, 123, 125, 126, 129, 134, 135, 140, 146, 148, 158, 163, 169, 176, 179, 194, 195, 198, 205, 207, 210, 227, 229, 232, 236, 240, 243, 244, 253, 256, 271, 276, 277, 277n9, 279 cultic, priestly, sacred 31, 191, 192, 199, 229, 230, 231, 239, 240, 281 divine 32, 33, 36, 37, 45, 100n30 female 79, 83, 85, 86, 87, 89, 90, 91 monarchic 75–81, 83–87, 90–92, 131, 221, 229–231, 248, 278, 280, 281 prayer 6, 26, 30, 44, 93, 96, 99, 100, 105, 202n31, 238, 246, 249, 249n20, 252n30, 253, 255, 257–259, 262–266, 268–270, 281 battle 259, 264–266, 269, 281 pre-exilic period 13n38, 76–77, 101, 103, 139–140, 143 priest 10, 12, 13n39, 14, 16, 33, 52, 70n41, 71, 72, 110–112, 117, 119, 121, 123, 123n57, 128, 129, 141, 142, 146, 184–187, 189, 191, 192, 193, 204, 222, 227–241, 244, 251, 251n25, 253, 255, 259, 271 Egyptian 160, 161 High 12, 13n38, 61n19, 61n20, 70, 70n41, 71, 71n42, 146, 260–263, 269, 270, 280, 282 see also Levites Priestly (literature, traditions) 7, 10, 14, 24, 33, 35, 36, 39, 59, 60, 72, 93, 94, 96, 97, 99–105, 121, 122n55, 124n61, 127, 128, 148, 149, 180–185, 187–191, 202, 208, 213, 214, 215, 225, 282 see also Holiness Code; non-P prophecy 42–54, 60, 99, 146, 157, 164, 165, 168, 170–172, 173n36, 175, 177, 178, 183, 279, 283, 228, 240, 279, 280 against the nations 42, 97, 98, 104, 159, 166, 167, 167n16, 169, 170, 173n39, 174n40, 174n41

321

Topic Index see also night vision prophet(ess) 12, 13, 15, 15n47, 16, 61, 61n19, 78n15, 88, 99n29, 142, 146, 164–167, 172, 176, 177, 179, 227, 231–233, 235, 240, 245, 263 prophets (canonical division) 151 prophets, minor 42, 50, 151 Ptolemy (governor) 264 punishment 15, 48n14, 48n18, 49, 66n32, 96, 97, 190, 198n9, 208, 216, 248, 248n16, 249, 250, 267 Qohelet 209 queen 12, 47, 86 mother 82, 83 see also Esther; monarchy; sovereignty, monarchic; Vashti Rabbat 173 race 9, 17–20, 132, 132n11, 275, 278 Rachel 16, 17, 17n54, 88, 88n39, 216n17, 223 Razis 267, 268 Ramat Raḥel 152, 154, 191 reception history 136, 144 redaction 61, 61n20, 64n24, 75, 76n10, 77, 88, 88n38, 99, 101n35, 120n48, 123n58, 130, 139, 139n50, 140, 141, 142, 148, 178, 182n9, 187, 201n22, 213, 221n34, 224, 227 reform, Josianic 139 see also Josiah Reformation, Protestant 133, 134 rejection, divine 78, 88, 89, 222, 227, 241 religion 6, 8–10, 29 resistance  see ideology, anti-imperial restoration 58, 62, 70n41, 142, 143, 155, 160, 183, 242, 259, 261, 263, 269, 270 retribution 50, 196–199, 203, 204, 208, 210 return 13, 47, 52, 55, 59, 84n32, 115, 116, 138, 142, 161, 163, 187, 189, 190, 193, 245, 281 see also migration, forced-return Reuben (person) 223 Reuben (tribe) 224, 224n45, 225n45 revolt, Maccabean 7, 257, 258, 266, 267–271  see also Judas Maccabeus rhetoric 110n4, 116, 119n46, 122, 123, 128, 137n35, 164, 174n40, 189, 194, 202, 204n36

rivalry, tribal 9, 189, 242n1, 281, 282 Rizpah 80, 81, 83, 90 royal see king rulership 57, 58, 60, 62, 71 Ruth 16, 151 Sabbath 13n38, 44, 49, 255, 264, 267 Samaria 4n17, 13, 17, 17n54, 119n43, 160, 162, 163, 180, 189, 191, 194, 242n1, 282 see also Northern Kingdom; northerners Samuel (books) 227 Samuel-Kings 12, 14, 74–83, 87–92, 183 Sanballat 163 Sarah 126n66, 127, 216n17 Sarai see Sarah Satan, the 196, 206 Sathrabuzanes 247 satire 14, 15, 198, 202, 205, 209, 275 Saul 12, 76–80, 85, 86, 88, 89, 91, 216, 219, 221, 222, 226–233, 235–241, 281 sons of 78n16 scribe 12, 13, 16, 39, 94, 113, 119, 122n55, 124, 152, 177, 267, 279 scribal education 5n19, 24, 25, 39 Scythia 64n24 Seir 166, 173n36 Seleucids 158, 170n27, 257, 260–262, 264, 267–269 Seleucus IV Philopator 260 Sennacherib 266 Shadrach 90, 156 Shavuot 265 Sheba 46, 47 Shethar-Bozenai 246 Shiloh 238, 239 Sidon 166 Simon 260 Sisinnes 247 Sodom 160 Solomon 78, 82, 83, 85, 89, 90, 192, 220, 235, 236, 244, 246 promises to 220 Song of the Sea 125 Song of Songs 15 Southern Kingdom 149, 150 see also Judah; Yehud sovereignty 2, 9–11, 131, 136, 144, 158, 256, 276, 277, 278

322 divine 2, 3, 4, 8, 12, 48, 49, 74, 75, 87–92, 104, 105, 122n55, 129, 142, 165, 179, 263 monarchic 12, 74, 75, 87–92, 111, 118, 119, 129, 280 see also power speech 16, 33, 45, 46, 65n28, 77, 82, 88, 109n1, 112, 117, 126, 136, 201n22, 203, 207n53, 218, 221, 264, 265, 266, 275, 275n1, 276 sword, divine 171–173, 175, 263, 263n14 Sukkot 255 Susa 26, 57, 58, 190 Tamar (Genesis) 219 Tamar (2 Samuel) 76, 80, 82, 89, 216 Tarshish 46 Tattenai 246, 247, 247n13 tautua 106 taxation 9, 52, 111, 262 Tekoa, woman of 83, 90 temple 8, 14, 39, 40, 122, 160, 163, 260n9 cosmic 33, 39 Elephantine 159, 160, 163, 253 Ezekiel’s 13n38, 163 Jerusalem 9, 43, 44–46, 49–52, 55, 59, 61n20, 70n41, 94n3, 96n11, 141, 150, 163, 180, 184, 188, 189, 191–193, 240, 242–249, 253–255, 257–264, 267–271 Samarian 13, 191–193 Shiloh 239 territoriality 60, 68, 72, 93–105, 112–119, 122, 124–126, 129, 136, 139, 141, 143, 168, 270 Testament of Job 208–210 Thebes 160 theology  biblical 1, 3 Christian 1, 4n18, 6, 23, 278 creation 23–41, 280 covenant 2 Deuteronomistic 94, 96, 100n30, 105, 183 divine warrior 23, 37, 38, 171n29, 175, 261, 262, 262n11, 265 Elohim 220 Hebrew Bible 1, 6, 11 holiness 180–189 of kingship 193 of land 93, 102 liberal 1

Topic Index political 1–20, 39, 74, 92, 109, 164, 165, 165n2, 178, 179, 198, 199, 208, 242, 248n15, 256, 259, 269, 270, 275–283 Priestly 94, 96, 99–104 prophetic 105 Yahwistic 199, 201, 208 Zion 69 theopolitics see theology, political Timothy 261, 262 Tirzah 120, 121 Tobit (book) 199, 208, 209, 210 Tobit (person) 209 torah 7, 10, 98, 138, 141, 191, 208, 214n7, 218n27, 220, 221n34, 223, 225, 242, 249, 252–256 community 248–256 imperial authorization of 190, 191 see also Pentateuch tradition treaty Assyrian 5 succession 140 tribal collective 9, 20, 112, 114–117, 121, 122, 127 tribute 45–46 Tyre 166, 169, 174, 174n40, 174n41, 176, 178, 179 Urdeuteronomium 139 Uriah 80, 81n24, 82 Urim and Thummim 228, 230n7, 233, 236 Uz 196, 199, 203 Van 26, 154 Vashti 84–85, 91 Vidranga 160 violence 7, 33, 82, 96–99, 104, 135, 135n28, 137, 138, 197, 207n53, 216, 223, 225, 232, 238, 264, 267, 268, 269, 278, 279 warfare 7, 10n28, 11, 23, 18, 19, 37, 38, 48, 48n17, 49, 63, 64n24, 66n32, 78, 80, 91n42, 96–100, 104n48, 112, 115, 124, 135, 135n28, 145, 159–161, 163, 169, 171–180, 194, 227–233, 236–241, 257–271, 276, 280, 281 see also conquest Weeks, Festival of see Shavuot

Topic Index White Australia Policy 19n62, 20 wilderness 120, 154, 158, 161, 281 wisdom 32, 33, 50, 54n34, 90, 91n41, 151, 198, 199, 199n14, 201, 208, 233 women 16, 121 see also beauty, female; gender; power, female worship 6, 9, 31, 34, 42–45, 47, 48n14, 51, 52, 54, 54n34, 96, 162, 177, 177n6 see also piety writings, the (canonical division) 151 Xerxes I 26 see also Ahasuerus Yahwism 17, 54, 54n34, 60, 72, 162, 163, 180, 189, 191, 192, 196–199, 203, 204, 206–210

323 see also monotheism; theology, Yahwistic Yehud 34, 39, 53, 70n41, 101, 105, 106, 142, 152, 155, 163, 180, 189–195, 282 see also Judah; Southern Kingdom Zadok 146, 234, 235 Zechariah (book) 40, 55, 56, 61–73, 243 Zechariah (person) 245 Zedekiah 161, 169, 173n36, 176, 178 Zelophehad 120 Zerubbabel 60, 61n20, 70–72, 242, 245, 247, 255 Zion see Jerusalem Zoroastrianism 25, 25n6, 29n18, 37n46 see also Mazdaism