Remembering and Forgetting in Early Second Temple Judah (Forschungen Zum Alten Testament) 9783161519093, 9783161521348, 3161519094

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Forschungen zum Alten Testament Edited by Bernd Janowski (Tübingen) · Mark S. Smith (New York) Hermann Spieckermann (Göttingen)

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Remembering and Forgetting in Early Second Temple Judah Edited by

Ehud Ben Zvi and Christoph Levin

Mohr Siebeck

Ehud Ben Zvi, born 1951; Professor (History & Classics) at the University of Alberta; has served and serves as chair of program units/research programmes at the Society of Biblical Literature and the European Association of Biblical Studies; founder and general editor of the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures and former president of the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies. Christoph Levin, born 1950; Professor of Old Testament Studies at the University of Munich; corresponding member of the Göttingen Academy of Sciences and Humanities; 2010–13 President of the International Organization for the Study of the Old Testament (IOSOT).

e-ISBN 978-3-16-152134-8 ISBN 978-3-16-151909-3 ISSN 0940-4155 (Forschungen zum Alten Testament) Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2012 by Mohr Siebeck Tübingen. www.mohr.de This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was printed on non-aging paper by Gulde-Druck in Tübingen and bound by Großbuchbinderei Spinner in Ottersweier. Printed in Germany.

Preface This volume emerged out of a workshop held at the Ludwig-MaximiliansUniversity (LMU) in Munich from June 27 to July 1, 2011. The workshop was convened by Ben Zvi and Levin and was part of a long-term collaboration between the LMU Munich and the University of Alberta on ancient Israel. During the workshop, each paper was energetically discussed by the group. We thank all participants for these discussions. We also hope that this volume will serve to continue that conversation. We gratefully acknowledge the generous support of the Fritz Thyssen Foundation that made the workshop possible. We also thank various granting agencies and institutions that facilitated the research of many of the participants. We wish to extend our gratitude towards the editors of this series for accepting the volume for publication. We would like to thank Dr. Henning Ziebritzki, Editorial Director, Theology and Jewish Studies at Mohr Siebeck. We want to express our sincere appreciation for the editorial staff at Mohr Siebeck for their help in preparing this volume, for their professionalism and for the support they have provided us. Finally, we wish to thank Ms. Ellen Sabo and Anna Ammon for editing it. September, 2012

Ehud Ben Zvi and Christoph Levin

Table of Contents Preface ..................................................................................................... V List of Abbreviations .............................................................................. XI Ehud Ben Zvi Introduction .............................................................................................. 1 A. Remembering and Forgetting in the Collection of Prophetic Books Ehud Ben Zvi Remembering the Prophets through the Reading and Rereading of a Collection of Prophetic Books in Yehud Methodological Considerations and Explorations .................................... 17 Jörg Jeremias Remembering and Forgetting “True” and “False” Prophecy .................................................................. 45 Sonya Kostamo Remembering Interactions Between Ahaz and Isaiah in the Late Persian Period ....................................................................... 55 Friedhelm Hartenstein YHWH’s Ways and New Creation in Deutero-Isaiah .............................. 73 Christina Ehring YHWH’s Return in Isaiah 40:1–11* and 52:7–10 Pre-exilic Cultic Traditions of Jerusalem and Babylonian Influence ........ 91 Christoph Levin “Days Are Coming, When It Shall No Longer Be Said” Remembering and Forgetting in the Book of Jeremiah .......................... 105

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William Morrow Memory and Socialization in Malachi 2:17–3:5 and 3:13–21 ................ 125 B. Remembering and Forgetting in Other Ancient Israelite Corpora Kåre Berge The Anti-Hero as a Figure of Memory and Didacticism in Exodus The Case of Pharaoh and Moses ............................................................ 145 Diana Edelman Exodus and Pesach-Massot as Evolving Social Memory ....................... 161 Urmas Nõmmik Remembering a Memorable Conversation Genesis 18:22b–33 and the Righteous in the Persian Period .................. 195 Michael Hundley The Way Forward is Back to the Beginning Reflections on the Priestly Texts ........................................................... 209 Hermann-Josef Stipp Remembering Josiah’s Reforms in Kings .............................................. 225 Juha Pakkala Selective Transmission of the Past in Chronicles Jehoiada’s Rebellion in 2 Kings 11 and 2 Chronicles 22:10–23:21 ........ 239 Zhenhua (Jeremiah) Meng Remembering Ancestors A Levitical Genealogy in Yehud and the Bohai Gaos Genealogy of Gao Huan ......................................................................................... 257 Judith Gärtner From Generation to Generation Remembered History in Psalm 78 ......................................................... 269 Bob Becking Memory and Forgetting in and on the Exile Remarks on Psalm 137 .......................................................................... 279

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Reinhard Müller “Forgotten” by Yahweh A Mental Image of Human Suffering and Its Function in “Exilic” Laments .............................................................................. 301 James R. Linville Lest We Forget Our Sins Lamentations, Exilicism and the Sanctification of Disjunction .............. 315 C. Further Methodological Conclusions Francis Landy Notes Towards a Poetics of Memory in Ancient Israel .......................... 331 List of Contributors ............................................................................... 347 Source Index ......................................................................................... 349 Author Index ......................................................................................... 355

List of Abbreviations AB ABG AfOB AHw AJT AnBib ANET AOAT AOTC ArOr ASA ASV ATANT ATD BaghF BBB BBVO BCOT BCSMS BE BEATAJ BETL BFCT BHS Bib BibInt BKAT BN BTB BThSt BWA(N)T BZAR BZAW CAT

Anchor Bible Archiv für Begriffsgeschichte Archiv für Orientforschung: Beiheft Akkadisches Handwörterbuch. W. von Soden. 3 vols. Wiesbaden, 1965–1981 Asia Journal of Theology Analecta biblica Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament. Edited by J. B. Pritchard. 3d ed. Princeton, 1969 Alter Orient und Altes Testament Abingdon Old Testament Commentaries Archiv Orientální Association of Social Anthropologists American Standard Version Abhandlungen zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments Das Alte Testament Deutsch Baghdader Forschungen. Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Abteilung Baghdad Bonner biblische Beiträge Berliner Beiträge zum Vorderen Orient Baker Commentary on the Old Testament Wisdom and Psalms Bulletin of the Canadian Society for Mesopotamian Studies Biblische Enzyklopädie Beiträge zur Erforschung des Alten Testaments und des antiken Judentums Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium Beiträge zur Förderung Christlicher Theologie Biblia Hebraica Stuttgartensia. Edited by K. Elliger and W. Rudolph. Stuttgart, 1983 Biblica Biblical Interpretation Biblischer Kommentar, Altes Testament. Edited by M. Noth and H. W. Wolff Biblische Notizen Biblical Theology Bulletin Biblisch-theologische Studien Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten (und Neuen) Testament Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Commentaire de l’Ancien Testament

XII CBET CBQ CBR CDOG ConBOT CRINT CThM DCLY ECC EThL ETSMS EvTh FAT FOTL FRLANT GHAT HAT HBS HKAT HR HSM HThKAT HUCA ICC JANES JAOS JBL JHS JJS JNES JPSTC JPSV JQR JSOT JSOTSup KAT KEHAT KHAT KHC KJV LAPO LCL LHBOTS LOS LSAWS NCB NEchtB NIV NRSV

List of Abbreviations Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology Catholic Biblical Quarterly Christian Brethren review Colloquium der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft Coniectanea biblica: Old Testament Series Compendia rerum iudaicarum ad Novum Testamentum Calwer Theologische Monographien Deuterocanonical and Cognate Literature Yearbook Eerdmans Critical Commentary Ephemerides theologicae Lovanienses Evangelical Theological Society Monograph Series Evangelische Theologie Forschungen zum Alten Testament Forms of the Old Testament Literature Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments Göttinger Handkommentar zum Alten Testament Handbuch zum Alten Testament Herders Biblische Studien Handkommentar zum Alten Testament History of Religions Harvard Semitic Monographs Herders Theologischer Kommentar zum Alten Testament Hebrew Union College Annual International Critical Commentary Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society Journal of the American Oriental Society Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of Hebrew Scriptures Journal of Jewish Studies Journal of Near Eastern Studies Jewish Publication Society Torah Commentary Jewish Publication Society Version Jewish Quarterly Review Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Journal for the Study of the Old Testament: Supplement Kommentar zum Alten Testament Kurzgefasstes exegetisches Handbuch zum Alten Testament Kurzer Handkommentar zum Alten Testament Kurzer Hand-Commentar zum Alten Testament King James Version Littératures anciennes du Proche-Orient Loeb Classical Library Library of Hebrew Bible / Old Testament Studies London Oriental Series Linguistic Studies in Ancient West Semitic New Century Bible Neue Echter Bibel New International Version New Revised Standard Version

List of Abbreviations NTOA NWB OBO ÖBS OLB Or OTG OTL PFES POT QD RA REJ RIMA RIMB SAACT SBLABS SBLAIL SBLDS SBLEJL SBLMS SBS SBT SDPI SHCANE SJLA SJOT SSN STAR SubBi TDOT

THAT

ThWAT TOBITH TQ TUAT TWOT TZ VAB VAS VF VT VTSup

XIII

Novum Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus Noah Webster Bible Orbis biblicus et orientalis Österreichische biblische Studien Orte und Landschaften der Bibel Orientalia (NS) Old Testament Guides Old Testament Library Publications of the Finnish Exegetical Society Princeton Oriental Texts Quaestiones disputatae Revue d’assyriologie et d’archéologie orientale Revue des études juives The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia, Assyrian Periods The Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia, Babylonian Periods State Archives of Assyria Cuneiform Texts Society of Biblical Literature Archaeology and Biblical Studies Society of Biblical Literature Ancient Israel and its Literature Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series Society of Biblical Literature Early Judaism and Its Literature Society of Biblical Literature Monograph Series Stuttgarter Bibelstudien Studies in Biblical Theology Schriften des Deutschen Palästina-Instituts Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East Studies in Judaism in Late Antiquity Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament Studia semitica neerlandica Studies in Theology and Religion Subsidia biblica Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament. Edited by G. J. Botterweck and H. Ringgren. Translated by J. T. Willis, G. W. Bromiley, and D. E. Green. 8 vols. Grand Rapids, 1974–2006 Theologisches Handwörterbuch zum Alten Testament. Edited by E. Jenni, with assistance from C. Westermann. 2 vols., Stuttgart, 1971– 1976 Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Alten Testament. Edited by G. J. Botterweck and H. Ringgren. Stuttgart, 1970–2000 Topoi Biblischer Theologie / Topics of Biblical Theology Theologische Quartalschrift Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testaments. Edited by Otto Kaiser. Gütersloh, 1982–2001 Theological Wordbook of the Old Testament. Edited by R. L. Harris, G. L. Archer Jr. 2 vols. Chicago, 1980 Theologische Zeitschrift Vorderasiatische Bibliothek Vorderasiatische Schriftdenkmäler Verkündigung und Forschung Vetus Testamentum Vetus Testamentum Supplements

XIV VWGTh WBC WMANT WUNT ZAR ZAW ZBK ZNW ZTK

List of Abbreviations Veröffentlichungen der Wissenschaftlichen Gesellschaft für Theologie Word Biblical Commentary Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Zürcher Bibelkommentare Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der älteren Kirche Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche

Introduction EHUD BEN ZVI Constructing and activating memories played an important role in ancient Near Eastern societies, including ancient Israel. Indeed, this holds true of any historical period. We have selected the early Second Temple period for the workshop, because it is often considered to be the foundational period for the development of the books that eventually constituted the Hebrew Bible. 1 These books contain explicit, multiple exhortations to “remember” and refer to spaces, times, items and behaviors meant to “remind” people of particular events (e.g., Exod 12:14; 13:8–10; 28:12; Num 10:10; Josh 4:7; Zech 6:14). Even the deity is often asked to “remember” within the discourse of ancient Israel (e.g., Exod 32:13; Deut 9:27; 2 Kgs 20:3; Neh 5:19; Ps 74:2; 137:7, Lam 5:1; passim). But above all, it is the repertoire of authoritative books that evolved during the Persian (and early Hellenistic) period that served to construct a memory of the past that was central for self-identity and social reproduction within the community. Of course, this general social memory was actually an ever shifting array of various social memories. No workshop (and no volume) can deal with all aspects of social memory in ancient Israel even within a relatively narrow period. Thus the conveners decided to focus the workshop on a particular set of issues, namely processes of “remembering and forgetting” and partial “memory and forgetfulness.” The combination of “remembering” and “forgetting” was particularly stressed at the workshop, because although it is wellknown that remembering cannot take place without forgetting and viceversa, and likewise, that memories construe and advance forgetfulness and vice-versa, studies tend to focus on one or the other. The workshop was a place to explore the potential contribution of memory studies to historical knowledge about the early Second Temple period in Judah. Memory studies approaches and insights are beginning to make inroads in this regard, but are still “new” to many colleagues, including readers of this volume. The participants in the workshop were encouraged 1 For obvious reasons we have included also contributions that deal with closelyrelated periods, such as the so-called “exilic” period.

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to walk their own journeys in the light of Social Memory studies or at least in the light of considerations about “Remembering and Forgetting” and each took her or his own path. The result is a volume that represents the attempt by a range of scholars to explore the implications of this new perspective, so that readers will see a variety of results and approaches. Thus, for instance, for some contributors asking questions of remembering and forgetting represents a productive way to further advance more or less “traditional” approaches; for others, however, it offers a way to trailblaze new approaches, and still others stand in the middle. The “rainbow” character of this volume (and the original workshop) is fully intentional and fully consistent with the premise that interaction and conversation among scholars representing a wide variety of approaches and perspectives is one of the most fruitful ways to construe new knowledge in the field. The volume opens with my own contribution. It is meant to provide a substantive introduction to the potential of approaches informed by Memory Studies for the study of ancient Israel and its social mindscape, as well as to the implications associated with the use of these approaches. Following the section on methodological considerations, readers find some concrete, illustrative explorations of this methodological approach. This section of the essay focuses on how fifteen prophets (Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel and those evoked in each of the twelve other books) were remembered through the reading and rereading of a collection of prophetic books. The chapter also discusses, among others things, matters of forgetting and counter-factual realities in relation to the prophetic books and the issue of how particular, social-historical locations relate to systems of preferences and dis-preferences for particular mnemonic topoi and narratives, which in turn shaped the memory of the prophets that emerges from reading and rereading prophetic books within a late Persian Yehud context. Jörg Jeremias contributed the second chapter. He relates remembering and forgetting to categories of “true” and “false” prophecy. He maintains that “[t]he best example of remembering a ‘true’ prophet is the book of Amos, which more than any other prophetic book essentially is an exilic book.” 2 He discusses, among other texts, Zech 13:2–6, Deut 18:16–19, and texts from the book of Jeremiah. He concludes by stating: “Remembering” and “forgetting” take on two different aspects when related to “true” and “false” prophecy. On the one hand, “false” prophecy of pre-exilic times was indeed forgotten; only “true” prophecy was remembered in the way the message of Amos was remembered by praising God for his righteousness in bringing judgment upon his people. But on the other hand, structurally “false” prophecy should by no means be forgotten, because it was a danger inherent in all kinds of prophecy. It was the merit of the prophet 2

According to Jeremias the book contains also a number of post-exilic additions.

Introduction

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Jeremiah and of his traditionists to define clear criteria of “true” prophecy, by which prophecy could even enter the realm of revelation in Deut 18. But the danger of “false” prophecy did not end by that, until all “true” prophecy was gathered in the canon around the time of Zech 13.

Sonya Kostamo brings to the forefront a clear case in which “remembering” and “forgetting” are clearly and deeply intertwined. Her contribution focuses on “remembering” and “forgetting” in relation to the construction of memories about interactions between Ahaz and Isaiah and the importance of these memories for shaping images of these two personages. Kostamo’s approach to these matters is strongly influenced by Memory Studies and by related cognitive studies. Among other matters, she proposes mnemonic trajectories linking and separating Isaiah and Ahaz, discusses how and why these trajectories were influenced by the way in which Hezekiah was remembered, and explores ways in which the memories about Ahaz, Hezekiah and Isaiah in the books of Isaiah, Kings and Chronicles interacted with each other within the mnemonic landscape in early Second Temple Judah. In addition, her chapter furthers “a better understanding of the relationship between the collective memory of the early Second Temple period and historiography in the Hebrew Bible,” even if, from the standpoint of only some aspects of the memories of three main sites of memory (Isaiah, Ahaz and Hezekiah). While Kostamo deals with general memories of the prophet Isaiah (and those with whom the prophet interacted), Friedhelm Hartenstein’s study on Deutero-Isaiah (particularly Isa 43:14–15 and 43:16–21) addresses a very different kind of remembering (and forgetting). Hartenstein advances a fruitful and detailed comparative study of Deutero-Isaianic texts and the Enuma Elish. Among his conclusions, Marduk is “creator of the people of this land” or “of all people” – not unlike YHWH in Isa 43:21. And, as it is stated in the explanation of the second name, because he created and guides the people “They shall tell of his ways (alaktu), without forgetting.” So the final aim of Enuma Elish is to remember Marduk’s ways as an unequaled warrior and supreme king, and one who establishes watering places and life by keeping Tiamat (and chaos as a whole) subdued. The explanation of the important 49th Neberu-name (probably Jupiter, Marduk’s star, the sign of heavenly order) finally gives a hint that the forces of chaos – even after Tiamat became part of the world’s structure – must be subdued forever: “he shall keep her life cut short.” Maybe this opens an even deeper insight into the interpretation of the “laying down” of the host in Isa 43:17. It should be understood then in the light of the primeval keeping out of any chaotic force: All actual and possible events of history play within an ordered world from the very beginning. There is no place for chaos outside YHWH’s will (cf. the later creation theology of wisdom like in Ps 104:5–9 or Job 38:8–11).

While Enuma Elish is about remembering Marduk’s greatness, DeuteroIsaiah in Isa 43:19 aims at something more: “YHWH’s new things” that

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can only be perceived when Israel learns to interrupt remembering and focus on YHWH’s imminent works of new creation. This is described in more detail in the deepest reflection on YHWH’s ways in the book of Deutero-Isaiah [in Isa 55:6–11]. Hartenstein’s chapter reminds us of the importance of the ancient Near Eastern context in which ancient Israel existed and within which it developed its literature and social memories. It reminds us that social memory involves and requires many types of memories and that some of them help to shape and structure others. Still in Isaiah and the ancient Near East, Christina Ehring addresses YHWH’s Return in Isaiah 40:1–11* and 52:7–10 and as she does so, she deals with matters of pre-exilic, Jerusalemite traditions and ones of Babylonian influence. Ehring studies social memories of past calamities construed and understood in terms of divine exile and of “historical” turning points leading to prosperity construed in terms of divine return and also their interrelations in Mesopotamian traditions and in Second Isaiah. Her essay points, inter alia, at remarkable “parallels between this depiction of Marduk’s return [from Elam during the time of Nebuchadnezzar I] and that of YHWH’s return in Isa 40:1–11* and Isa 52:7–10.” She notes in particular (a) the visual perceptibility of the return, (b) the directional movement from the periphery to the centre, (c) the role of the deity as king, (d) the rejoicing witnesses of the deity’s return, and (e) the positive consequences of the return for the city and the world. Ehring’s essay shows how patterns and topoi shaping and reflected in Mesopotamian memories may have served to shape Israel’s memories. The relation between remembering and forgetting was, of course, known in ancient Israel. One of the biblical texts in which it is clearly expressed is Jer 16:14–. Christoph Levin, who organized and hosted the workshop, focuses his contribution on the triad Jer 16:14–15, 31:27–30, and 31:31–34. These texts attest to an “established form: a promise of a future era of salvation that is contrasted with the experience of the present. The contrast between disastrous history and a favourable future is marked in each of the three cases by a particular manner of speech, which is taken up in order to be refuted.” Of course, references to a disastrous history involve and require remembering. The same holds true for the proverb about the teeth in Jer 31:29 that are set on edge, “which already indicates the way the crisis was to be surmounted in the context of a theology of history … [t]he reference to the sour grapes that the fathers have eaten contains in a nutshell the theologumenon about the ‘sins of the fathers’ which for the following generations became the key to their understanding of history, beginning with Sinai down to Judah’s catastrophe.”

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Remembering is crucial for the community because it helps make sense of its present, plays a crucial role in their theological thinking, and, not surprisingly, also evokes a future in which some form of forgetting will take place. Levin’s redactional-critical study of these texts and of “the tradition history of the formula       ”  raises, by implication, another significant question: which roles did remembering and forgetting played in the development of redactional, textual trajectories? Memory and redactional studies are not alien to each other. William Morrow addresses the question of “how earlier prophetic discourse was both remembered and adapted in the Persian era.” According to Morrow, “part of the intellectual patrimony of the scribes producing books of prophecy in Yehud was the memory of earlier forms of prophetic speech acts … [t]hese included both the genres of disputation and the proclamation of salvation.” Morrow relates the marginalization or expulsion of lament from liturgical expression with some of the results of recent scholarship on the emergence of prophetic books in Persian-era Yehud. He focuses on Mal 2:17–3:5 and 3:13–21 and concludes that their form represents an “innovative synthesis of the genres of disputation and proclamation of salvation remembered from previous prophetic activity.” He then discusses why they were combined in Malachi and concludes that “[b]y synthesizing the genres of disputation and proclamation of salvation in a written form (), as a memorial () for the prophetic party’s support group (), an innovative tool combining the motives of recollection and socialization was created for the community. Among his conclusions, Malachi 2:17–3:5 and 3:13–21 indicate how earlier prophetic discourse was both remembered and adapted in the Persian era. Their allusions to lament show that communal complaint prayer continued in the early post-exilic period. This liturgical expression fell into abeyance, however, not only because the theological climate was unfavourable, but also because active attempts were made on the part of Yehud’s literati to control it and create substitutes for it. … [T]he innovative combination of disputation and proclamation of salvation in Mal 2:17–3:5 and 3:13–21 provided a way for members of a Second Temple community to find a resonance with their own experiences while socializing them into the scripture writer’s worldview.

Morrow’s contribution exemplifies how social memory goes together with socialization and vice versa. Kåre Berge draws first the attention of the readers back to methodological considerations about social memory. His own work is informed, among others, by that of Wertsch. The latter appropriately emphasizes the importance of narrative templates over specific narratives for the formation and reproduction of “national mnemonic communities.” Berge also notes in this section that

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From his studies of the Russian and Georgian war narratives, and other scholars’ studies of similar constructs, Wertsch presents a number of characteristics of such narrative templates: 1. A narcissistic ethnocentrism that is characteristic of national narratives. 2. A collapse of temporal and spatial distance, with the tendency to collapse the distinction among several events. 3. A disproportionate mnemonic preoccupation with certain periods of the past to the exclusion of the others. A brief look at the Israelite ethnic/national myth in the Pentateuch reveals features of each of these categories.

Then Berge focuses on “Pharaoh” as a cipher, code or site of memory within the community of literati in the Persian period and particularly the Pharaoh evoked by the literary contexts of Exodus. He addresses the didactic use of Pharaoh as a memorial figure and then focuses on the educative roles of Exodus related rituals (Pesah, Massot) and the role of Pharaoh in them. He notes that “Pharaoh and the Egyptians appear in the narrative as a means by which ‘Israel’ as a social entity provides itself with a mythos and ethos” and further that “the ritual of the narrative [can be seen] as a demarcation against the chaos created by Pharaoh’s resistance to obey the command of Yahweh.” Among his conclusions, “[t]he story of Pharaoh and the plagues appears as a means of moral and religious demarcation and this is also what is commemorated in the Pesach ritual ‘for generations.’” Towards the end of his contribution, Berge addresses matters of “refugee identity” and of the “text’s special aesthetic and pragmatic effect” and explores this effect through “a combination of aesthetic and ritual theory.” Diana Edelman also focus on Pesah and Massot, though from a somewhat different perspective. She brings together myth, ritual and memory. She shows how the common myth of the ritual battle preceding the creation of the ordered world is transformed into a myth of YHWH’s victory over Pharaoh/watery adversary that leads now to the creation of “Israel,” and discusses how this “event” was ritually commemorated. When did this commemoration begin? Which social roles did it serve? How did it relate to other ritual commemorations (e.g., the Festival of Weeks)? Why did this ritual commemoration that emerged in Jerusalem so greatly stress the motif of pilgrimage? Diana Edelman addresses these and related questions. Among her conclusions: Pesah-massot become a commemorative pilgrimage festival associated with the Exodus … after the rebuilding of the temple in Jerusalem, when its priesthood was in a position to develop the commemorative ritual that provided a social schema to help structure the cognitive social world of the golah and non-golah communities … who celebrated it at the newly rebuilt central temple … the ritual would have provided a shared abstract symbolic system for the widely dispersed diasporic communities who either observed it at home on the same day throughout the Persian Empire in solidarity with their coreligionists or made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem…

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The participants annually repeat a ritual that is concrete and image-provoking, which triggers emotional responses from them and which makes a common experience proximate in a sensory, temporal, and spatial manner that discourages critical thinking… Participation signals a public acceptance of the social schema, where any private “disbelief” is subordinated to the public liturgical performance that creates social solidarity… The need for a commemorative national festival that provided a sense of common origin and membership in a community established and led directly by Yahweh and his Torah, without recourse to an intermediary human leader, be that a Davidide or an empire ruler, did not arise until the demise of the kingdom of Judah. There was not an authoritative group associated with a centralized temple in the Neo-Babylonian period that could have developed the commemorative annual hag. The first opportunity for such a situation arose after the move of the provincial seat from Mizpah to Jerusalem under Artaxerxes I, when the rebuilt temple could become one of two symbolic religious centers for emerging Judaism in addition to serving as a vital instrument in imperial bureaucracy…

Urmas Nõmmik focuses not on ritual commemorations, but rather on a single yet very memorable conversation, namely that of YHWH and Abraham in Gen 18:22b–33. He studies the text, the historical context in which it emerged, the ongoing discussion on righteousness and the righteous at the end of the Persian period. Among his conclusions, In the post-monarchic era several destinies are discussed at once – the fate of an individual, of a nation, of the congregation of the pious, etc. On the one hand, the destinies of the righteous individuals were handled separately from the wicked individuals who were “pagans” or members of Israel, or sometimes both. On the other hand, a collective of the righteous was also seen as an entity. This was the true congregation of God which should have had a destiny differing from the fate of the larger group of the wicked. Furthermore, like the people of God, Israel, were the light for the world in eschatological understandings, the group of the righteous individuals was the light for the surrounding society. Against this background the question of an influence of the righteous on the destiny of the whole society could be raised. The value of a righteous person or of a group of the righteous could compensate for the wickedness of hundreds of people. It is a further attestation that the righteous having a personal relationship to God have understood themselves as the special “us.” As seen in our dialogue, in the time of the patriarchs, there were only few exemplary individuals not yet constituting a group but grounding the identity for the group in the Second Temple era.

Michael Hundley’s contribution begins with an overview of “the preoccupation with the past in the ancient Near East,” which emphasizes that “one did not often simply remember the past for its own sake; rather, one remembered it so that it could be applied profitably to the present,” that is, every past is a “present past.” He then moves to study “remembering and forgetting” in Priestly texts. He concludes that “the Priestly account is both backward- and forward-looking … [i]t establishes the greatness of YHWH, his system, and his priesthood in the past, thereby creating an ideal prototype to aspire to and a powerful shared identity for present and future readers … its primary innovation is cast as a restoration, giving Israel a shared past with powerful present and future implications.” Likewise, “the Priest-

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ly texts in the Persian period chose to remember the past in such a way that it convinced the people with powerful rhetoric that the only way forward was back to the beginning, in the form of the cult modeled on the ancient prototype.” Hundley stresses that “the Priestly account gives the Israelites a proud heritage that creates a collective memory, brings solidarity to the group, sets them apart from (and in some ways over) other cultures, offers them hope for the future, and provides a pattern to follow to actualize that hope,” while at the same time elevating the roles of the Aaronids, who, “put themselves forward as the purveyors of an ideal but forgotten past” and are construed as “capable of instituting similar monumental change for the better.” The next contribution by Hermann-Josef Stipp is about “Remembering Josiah’s Reforms in Kings.” Stipp makes the point that the “remarkable feat of commemorative politics” of “2 Kings – or rather the Deuteronomistic History – [is that it] managed to convince its audience for the most part that Hezekiah’s and Josiah’s reforms were a good idea instead of a way of driving Judah into the abyss”, a position that according to him was shared by “a substantial number” of Judahites after the fall of Jerusalem. This feat is even more remarkable given that “the course of events lent itself much more easily to proving the detractors of the [Josianic] reforms right” than proving that Yhwh was pleased with the Josianic reform. He notes that it is “astounding … how successfully the Deuteronomists convinced the Judeans that slashing the number of sacrificial sites devoted to Yhwh – as the reforming kings did – was fulfilling Yhwh’s wishes rather than upsetting him.” It is against this background that Stipp constructs the Dtr History as an exceptionally successful attempt by the deuteronomists to persuade the population of their cause and interpretation of history. To do this, they could not claim that post-Josianic kings abolished his reforms, but they could blame Manasseh for the destruction, and above all they could (and had to) lionize their champion, Josiah. Remembering Josiah as portrayed in 2 Kings was necessary to persuade the population of the correctness of the deuteronomistic program and theology. Among his conclusions: … the portrayal of Judah’s last kings in the DtrH illustrates particular modes of remembering – first by writing, then by rewriting literature. Already in Josiah’s days, when the Deuteronomists compiled their work and drew on history to make a case for their cultic ideals, the recent past did not sit comfortably with the propagandistic ends of the editors. Hezekiah’s mixed political balance sheet was a fact, as was the extraordinary length of Manasseh’s reign. At the time, however, the redactors apparently felt that their reading of the past all the same carried enough plausibility to be credible. Given the high hopes attached to the reforms, the deuteronomistic concept of Judah’s cultic history was utilized as a call to tackle the task, and conversely, the hopes attached to the reforms also

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colored the deuteronomistic concept of history. When this amalgamation was shattered in 587 and another crop of editors revised the work, the discrepancies between what they wanted to demonstrate and the course of events had risen immensely. Caused by the emergence of new and totally unexpected recollections, memories that seemed to embody a solution – Hezekiah’s and Josiah’s reforms – had themselves turned into problems in need of solutions. To make matters worse, the redactors were now working on a document which for whatever reason could neither be discarded, nor manipulated at will. So they had to put up with serious constraints on how the memories could be refashioned. Consequently, the memories were preserved, even though supported by explanations that modern readers may find less than satisfying. When surveying the finished work, one may wonder how it managed to convince at all. In the final analysis, we cannot avoid the conclusion that in the process of remembering there were strategies at work which could move far away from what was written in the text. This is why we should not be too confident in assuring ourselves that we are able to tell how the biblical books were read in Yehud.

Juha Pakkala writes about the “Selective Transmission of the Past in Chronicles: Jehoiada’s Rebellion in 2 Kings 11 and 2 Chronicles 22:10– 23:21.” He deals with 2 Chr 22:10–23:21 as an example of the Chronicler’s use of sources. His detailed analysis of 2 Kgs 11 and 2 Chr 22:10– 23:21 demonstrates that the Chronicler “had a high regard of 1–2 Kings,” but could rewrite or omit “anything which did not correspond to his own views of the past or conflicted with his theological conceptions.” And yet, “[d]espite considerable freedoms to omit, add, and rewrite, the Chronicler did not invent the past freely. He was evidently convinced that the text in 2 Kgs 11 preserved important and even authoritative information about Jehoiada’s rebellion.” Finally, “(a)lthough the source was assumed to have considerable historical authority, it had to be corrected theologically.” Pakkala’s analysis is important for redactional criticism, but also for studying the development of memories about events and characters as he traces numerous cases of “remembering” or better, “re-remembering” and “forgetting” involved in the constructions of the past generated by Kings and Chronicles. Zhenhua (Jeremiah) Meng, from Nanjing University, brings a comparative dimension to our volume with his essay “Remembering Ancestors: A Levitical Genealogy in Yehud and the Bohai Gaos Genealogy of Gao Huan.” In particular, he studies how and why the memories of ancestors encoded in the genealogies of the gatekeepers were shaped into their present forms. His analysis of these genealogies and the roles of the gatekeepers leads him to conclude that … regardless of where the gatekeepers were from or who their ancestors were, associating them with some honorable ancestors serving the temple during the Second Temple Period was important for establishing a memory which showed the continuity of pre- and post-exilic periods and in elevating their status. However, their real origin was neglected

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and forgotten. As a result, the gatekeepers’ significant role and high status became somewhat historical and therefore, natural and self-evident.

Then he offers a cross-textual reading of a similar case in ancient China. He explains why “Gao Huan and his family claimed themselves to be the Gaos of Bohai ... [f]irst, they played important roles in the political life of three dynasties, just as the gatekeepers did in Persian Yehud … as the most powerful family in the state, they [Gao Huan and his family] would still seek to associate themselves with noble ancestors to let people remember that they were not of unknown origin and did have an honorable past … [t]his claim would further legitimize their governance.” He then advances a cross-textual hermeneutics that “bears a task similar to comparative literature” and leads to “an enrichment of experience and knowledge through a mutual engagement of the self and the other.” Approaching matters from this perspective leads him to conclude that “from the case study of Gao Huan, reasons exist to infer that the real Levites were ready to embrace the gatekeepers as part of their clan because this act would benefit both sides … Gatekeepers would have notable ancestors, whereas the Levites in turn became more powerful … [t]he formation of this alliance and the writing of history further enhanced the memory of ancestors.” Judith Gärtner’s essay brings us to methodological approaches on cultural memory associated with the concept of “remembered history” advanced by J. and A. Assmann. She is interested in the ways in which “events” are remembered in such a manner that renders them “constitutive for the collective’s identity and legitimizes the individual’s belonging to that specific community of remembering.” Her case study is Ps 78:1–11. Following an analysis of the text and of how it addresses (and construes) remembering and forgetting, she concludes, inter alia, …the worshiper [who reads this text] becomes aware of the paradigmatic significance of these events [i.e., those told with praise in the Psalm] for his or her own time, in order that the individual may be reaffirmed in belonging to the people of God. Thus, the collective perspective of the remembered history in Ps 78 is permeable from the perspective of the individual worshiper. Second, the collective perspective is emphasized by the transposition of the deuteronomic-deuteronomistic ideal of the transmission of tradition spanning three generations within the family to the level of the entire people of God. Third, the representation of forgetting is part of Ps 78’s specific theology of memory. The guilt of the ancestor should remain in lively remembrance so that the worshiper is kept from forgetting and therefore kept from abandoning the cultic thanksgiving.

Bob Becking deals with another psalm in which “remembering” and “forgetting” are very salient, namely Ps 137. His approach, however, is not Gärtner’s; His contribution is informed, unlike the preceding one, by studies of “topical songs” in which “a reflection on recent political or social events is given in an epic form” and “aim at convincing the audience –

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through ways of identification – to share the view on reality depicted in the song.” Significantly, Becking and Gärtner, each on his and her own path, approach matters of identity. Becking advances a detailed annotated translation and a study of the structure and historical contexts of Ps 137. These serve him as departure points for his ensuing study on the Psalm in terms of a construction of exilic identity and from the perspective of a post-exilic community. He discusses four roles that could be played “in and around every hymn or song,” namely the commissioner, the composer, the performer and the hearer as they relate to Ps 137 both in an exilic and in a post-exilic context. Becking concludes that “Psalm 137 talks about two kinds of remembrance. In its exilic setting, the text displays a dynamic dialectics of the acts of memory and forgetting in which the divine and the human acts are intertwined. The community is urged to not give in and to not forget the good things.” At the same time: In the first reading (in which the Psalm was composed after the exile) the act of remembrance receives an ideological dimension. The “others” should never forget that they had not been in the pit of the exile. In this context the Psalm functions very much like a topical song. The ballad reflects on recent political events. Psalm 137 contains both narrative and commentary. The anthem aims at convincing its audience to share the view on reality as enveloped in the song – by identification and implicitly making a division between “us” and the “other.” The performance of this song transmits the idea that the benê golah are the “holy seed.”

Some final considerations about present readings of the psalm close the chapter. Reinhard Müller’s contribution is about “forgetting” and in particular YHWH’s forgetting. According Müller, “being ‘forgotten’ by Yahweh is a qualification of human suffering that is in most cases related to the concept of divine kingship. This mental image originates in individual lamentation and plays a considerable role in collective laments that are directly or indirectly related to experiences of the ‘exilic’ period.” He studies semantic and pragmatic meanings of , individual and communal laments in which the motif of being forgotten by the divine king occurs, and the ideological and literary topos of the deity who does not forget, which at least on the surface stands in tension with the previous motif. He discerns “a constant sociomorphic meaning,” namely, “If Yahweh is said to ‘forget’ human beings, there is always a deliberate act of excluding them from the divine presence imagined … [t]his act is recurrently related to the imagery of divine kingship.” James Linville’s chapter attests to a different research agenda and, not surprisingly, approach. His goal is “to think around the edges of Lamentation in terms of the interplay between personal and socially transmitted memories of the fall of Jerusalem and to explore the notion of exilicism.”

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Linville’s approach is informed by studies by scholars as varied as P. L. Berger and T. Luckmann, P. C. Saltzman, J. Z. Smith, and B. Mack, G. Ebersole, M. Houseman, and F. Landy, as well as by recent scholarship in Lamentations. According to Linville “Lamentations offers one set of memories about the fall of Judah that is often inconsistent, shifting and sometimes at odds with other aspects of ancient Judah’s symbolic universe and accepted truths.” Among his conclusions: The painful memories contained in Lamentations speak of identity, as do many memories. So, to whom then belong these voices of anger and resistance? Perhaps to those who live in defiance of memory, as if to say, we are the people who remember and mourn Jerusalem. To stop is to become the dead left unmourned. And yet they found a way to commune with their god, too, and to rejoice.

The volume opens with a programmatic chapter on social memory, on remembering and forgetting, and concludes with another programmatic chapter. Francis Landy brings the entire volume to a conclusion by drawing attention to that which is not stressed in the opening chapter and thus complementing it and by doing so, re-opens and complements the conversation. Focusing on “poetics” rather than “history” he writes, For the historian of memory, history is not primarily about facts and data, few and insecure as they may be, but how people internalized and propagated those facts. The historian is thus rather close to the literary critic, attentive to the rhetorical strategies, the tropes and the posited intentions of the communities that created and were created by these texts. Poetics, as I use it here, is the study of how a term, a theme, a complex, becomes the object of thought and imagination. How did ancient Israelites, and those who composed biblical texts, think about memory? How are words like “memory” and “remember” used in literature, what associations and emotional valences do they carry? How do they interact with other words, and thus become metaphorical? How does memory, for instance of other texts, participate in the creation of poetry? How does a book, like Qohelet, in which memory is thematized, comment on others?

Landy provides practical examples showing how an approach that stresses “poetics” differs and supplements the works of historians, such as myself. In addition, he draws attention to the relevance of studies on memory carried out by scholars such as Pascal Boyer, Roy Rappaport, Harvey Whitehouse, and psychoanalytical-oriented biblical scholars (e.g., Ilana Pardes, Danna Fewell and Hugh Pyper). He shows how their research may contribute to a development of “Poetics of Memory in Ancient Israel,” which for Landy should address, among others, – the thematics of memory – when does the Bible talk about memory, and why? – the slippage between the Bible, as a mneomic device, and the represented world, with its own, non-literary, systems of memory. A complication is the autonomy and interrelation of the poetics of the text and of the world, e.g., the mnemonic effects of a ritual and an account of the ritual.

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– the techniques of memorization of the text, its strategies for self-preservation, as well as those of the scribal community. Under this rubric I would place matters of style, formality, claims to authority, etc. – the relation between semantic and episodic memory systems, doctrinal and imagistic religion, both in the Bible and the represented world. – the repertoire of sensory and emotive affects and their correlation with intimate, and frequently pre- or non-verbal experiences, wherewith memories acquire a sense of profundity. – the interaction between individual and collective memories, especially those of poets and audiences.

Scholarly exchange is at its best when it involves significant diversity, when each individual scholar brings something that is substantially – not just marginally – different from the other. We gathered scholars who work on ancient Israel, but who conduct their research in different academic settings both in terms of geography (this is not only a transatlantic but also a transpacific conversation, as it involves a scholar from China), and also in terms of institutional settings (e.g., faculties of theology, departments of religious studies, departments of history), and thus who interact and teach with colleagues who tend to raise different questions. We purposefully gathered scholars who work within various methodological approaches. Some of the participants define themselves as historians, others as literary critics; some would consider their work to be within the general area of “cultural studies” and others would emphasize their ancient Near East (or in one case, ancient China) expertise. Yet all of them had much to say and contribute on matters of remembering and forgetting in early Second Temple Judah.

A. Remembering and Forgetting in the Collection of Prophetic Books



Remembering the Prophets through the Reading and Rereading of a Collection of Prophetic Books in Yehud: Methodological Considerations and Explorations EHUD BEN ZVI This essay consists of two sections. The first discusses how and why to explore the matter of remembering the prophets through the prophetic books. It deals with general issues concerning the use of approaches informed by Memory Studies for a better understanding of the memoryscape and social mindscape of the literati in Yehud (and those who followed them), and the implications associated with the use of these approaches. The second section explores some results that emerge from using these approaches to better understand how and why fifteen prophetic characters (Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel and twelve others) were remembered, and remembered in particular ways. This second section is not and cannot be comprehensive, but rather illustrative. 1 Moreover, its focus is not on the 1 This essay is part of larger project I am undertaking on matters of Social Memory and Ancient Israel. I have written about remembering particular characters (Abraham, Moses, Isaiah) in Remembering Biblical Figures in the Late Persian and Early Hellenistic Periods: Social Memory and Imagination (ed. Diana V. Edelman and E. Ben Zvi, Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, forthcoming 2013) and in separate chapters/articles that will appear elsewhere (Hosea, the Manasseh of Chronicles) as well as, inter alia, on issues of social memory and identity formation, memories of exile in Chronicles, memories of prophetic figures in Chronicles, issues of social mindshare of purity in Chronicles, and questions of social memory and historiography in ancient Israel. Most of these essays have been recently published or are forthcoming in different venues; for instance, “On Social Memory and Identity Formation in Late Persian Yehud: A Historian’s Viewpoint with a Focus on Prophetic Literature, Chronicles and the Dtr. Historical Collection,” in Texts, Contexts and Readings in Postexilic Literature Explorations into Historiography and Identity Negotiation in Hebrew Bible and Related Texts (ed. L. Jonker; FAT II/53; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011) 95–148; “The Memory of Abraham in Late Persian/Early Hellenistic Yehud/Judah” in The Reception and Remembrance of Abraham (ed. P. Carstens and N.-P. Lemche; Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures and its Contexts 13; Piscataway, N.J.: Gorgias Press, 2011) 13–60; “Purity Matters in the Book of Chronicles: A Kind of Prolegomenon,” in Purity and Holiness in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity: Essays in Memory of Susan Haber (ed. Carl Ehrlich, Adele Reinhartz, Anders Runesson, and Eileen Schuller; WUNT; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, forthcoming, 2012); “Chronicles and its Reshaping of Memories of Monarchic Period Prophets: Some Observations,”

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particular memories associated with this or that prophet – which would each demand a separate study – but on the general, systemic features of this particular group of remembered characters of the past and what explorations of their memories at that time might contribute to a better understanding of the mindscape of the literati of the period.

Section I: How to Explore These Matters, and Why? 1. Introduction The prophetic books 2 were didactic, meant to socialize their intended readers into a general, shared mindscape. One of the main ways in which they did so was to shape and evoke social memory. This shared social memory contributed much to the process of constant formation of communal identity. At the same time the particular shared social memory instilled in the remembering group ways of thinking, organizing knowledge, construing questions and ways to address them – in other words, an ideological, comprehensive viewpoint that we may call social mindscape. 3 It is worth noting that the majority of books within the authoritative repertoire of the literati in Yehud were, among many other things, pastin Prophets and Prophecy in Ancient Israelite Historiography (ed. Mark Boda and Lissa Wray Beale; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, forthcoming, 2012); “Toward a Sense of Balance: Remembering the Catastrophe of Monarchic Judah/(Ideological) Israel and Exile through Reading Chronicles in late Yehud” and “Reading Chronicles and Reshaping the Memory of Manasseh” in The Book of Chronicles and Early Second Temple Historiography (ed. P. Evans and T. Williams; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, forthcoming); “Late Historical Books and Rewritten History” in The Cambridge Companion to the Hebrew Bible-Old Testament (ed. S. B. Chapman and M. A. Sweeney; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, forthcoming); “The Study of Forgetting and the Forgotten in Ancient Israelite Discourse/s: Observations and Test Cases,” in Cultural Memory in Biblical Exegesis (ed. P. Carstens and N.-P. Lemche; Gorgias Press, forthcoming, 2012); “Prophetic Memories in the Deuteronomistic Historical & the Prophetic Collections of Books,” in Israelite Prophecy and the Deuteronomistic History (ed. M. Jacobs and R. Person Jr.; SBLAIL; Atlanta: SBL Press, forthcoming); “How ‘Historical’ is Ancient Israel?” in The Wiley-Blackwell Companion to the History of Jews and Judaism (ed. Alan T. Levenson; Malden, Mass.: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), 25–34. This project is supported by a grant from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. 2 By “prophetic books” I refer here to works that belong to a particular literary genre that existed in the repertoire of the Yehudite literati. These books are those that eventually and much later were referred to as “the Latter Prophets.” 3 On the concept of social mindscapes, see, for instance, E. Zerubavel, Social Mindscapes: An Invitation to Cognitive Sociology (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1997). See also, idem, Time Maps: Collective Memory and the Social Shape of the Past (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003).

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construing works. These include the prophetic books, the dtr. historical collection, the primary historical collection, Chronicles, and some Psalms (e.g., Pss 78, 105, 106). The strong social preference towards pastconstruing texts also manifests itself in notes that turned, at least in part, non-past construing into past-construing texts, either in the Persian or Hellenistic period (e.g., Prov 1:1; 25:1; Ps 51:1; Qoh 1:1; Song 1:1). The observation that most of the books that eventually ended up in the Hebrew Bible are, among others things, about memories of a past, and about memories of images of a future that, though it is still to come, can be engaged and visited through the power of imagination and which, most significantly, are learned within the community as memories of words uttered in the past is particularly significant in and by itself. This observation may seem, to a large extent, a reformulation of characterizations of the HB as a kind of “history book,” that which by themselves have a very long history. 4 The reformulation here, however, carries important heuristic and hermeneutical implications. For the present purposes, it suffices to state that it directly and explicitly raises the issue of social memory, and thus, the question of whether contemporary studies on social memory and some of the concepts used in this kind of research may be heuristically helpful for historical studies that focus on the construed/imagined past that was brought to the present of the literati (and those who were influenced by them) in Yehud through their reading and rereading of their authoritative literature. Certainly, it is this socially shared past that constantly shaped the way in which they understood the world, their deity and they themselves, i.e., “Israel” as they conceived it. 2. The Heuristic Potential and Implications of Approaches Informed by Memory Studies To ask whether approaches informed by Memory Studies may be heuristically helpful to understand the past that communities of readers (and mainly rereaders) constantly construed for themselves in Yehud as they read and reread the books in their authoritative repertoire in general and the prophetic books in particular, is to ask whether approaches informed by Memory Studies can help us to reconstruct approximations not only to their social memory but also to their social mindscape. Social memories are constantly shaped within a certain social mindscape, exemplify aspects of it time and again, and illuminate its fabric; for instance, the memories 4 Cf. G. von Rad, Old Testament Theology, vol. 2 (tr. D. M. G. Stalker; Edinburgh: Oliver and Boyd, 1962), 356; and there is, of course, the pre-critical characterization of “Torah” as a   “book of records/memories.” See Tg Neofiti, Tg Pseudo Jonathan, and Frag. Tg to Exod 12:42.

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point at assumptions so ingrained that they are never questioned or tested (i.e., “transparent” and unnoticed assumptions), including those at work in the organization of knowledge within the community and matters such as the differentiation between what is worthy of being remembered and what is not, what is reasonable and what is unreasonable. This being so, to ask whether approaches informed by Memory Studies can be helpful to reconstruct memories of prophets, kings, events or places is basically to ask a very fundamental methodological question for studies of how at least some ancient Israelites, namely the literati of Yehud, thought. In practical terms, asking whether these approaches can be heuristically helpful involves two related questions: (a) are these memory-studies informed approaches able to help us to formulate questions, heuristic frameworks, and explanatory hypotheses that may not have been raised otherwise, and thus substantially contribute to our historical knowledge of the period and of the books as they were read and understood at that time – in other words, do these approaches provide far more than a new “lingo” that just rephrases what has been already known? 5 and (b) do approaches common to Memory Studies today require some “fine-tuning” to become heuristically helpful for the study of ancient Israel in general and prophetic literature in particular? At present, studies on ancient Israelite books have not been influenced much by work in the field of Memory Studies. This is hardly surprising, since most studies in social or cultural memory have focused on modern societies or communities. But social memories are obviously not a uniquely contemporary phenomenon. Even the most cursory look at ancient Near Eastern texts demonstrates that ancient societies and their ruling elites and associated groups constructed images of the community’s past, remembered heroes, fools and villains, crucial events, symbolic objects, and sacred spaces. Moreover, the social act of collectively remembering memories about a shared past served important roles in polities and communities in terms of identity shaping, which is always a dynamic and continuous process of self-legitimization and social cohesion. In fact, there could not have been any sense of social continuity through time (whether short or long) without some form of shared memory, and there could not be any way of social, communal reproduction or even poli5

As in other guilds in the humanities and social sciences, the development of subgroups within the guild of ancient Israelite historians or academic biblical researchers is a normal process. It is anticipated that in many of these cases, each group will display its own lingo and tend to refer to a set of foundational (methodological) heroes and a set of texts in order to provide “authority” to methodological approaches. Moreover, each subgroup will often create connections to subgroups in other guilds. The study of these processes is within the realm of sociology of knowledge/academic research and as such stands outside the scope of this essay.

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ty maintenance without some form of shared memory. All historical communities – even at the basic level of family and kin – are to a large extent imagined communities based on a shared memory. All this said, a simple transfer of concepts that work well for the study of contemporary societies or generalizing claims about “social memory” that pay no serious attention to particular historical circumstances is extremely problematic. Certainly, there is a very substantial difference between the number and the kinds of sources available for the study of present-day memories and those of ancient Yehud. To illustrate, let’s think about the sources available for the study of the social memory of Reagan’s or JFK’s days among the myriad of diverse groups that exist within the USA, never mind outside it. While the same holds true for sources about Canadian social memories of Trudeau’s days, there is certainly nothing comparable for ancient Yehud. Another issue: studies on contemporary memories focus on the construed past, for obvious reasons. Yet, in ancient Israel, and particularly, but not exclusively, in relation to the prophetic books, the communally shared memories of places and events developed through reading these books involved events, spaces and characters set in both the past and future of the reading community. In fact, one of the important functions of these books was to provide mental memories and vicarious experiences (or taste of experiences) of utopian futures – even if set in the past – often alongside dystopian pasts. While social memory in contemporary societies is all about the past, in ancient Yehud it encompassed vicarious experiences of the future as well as the past. One may say that ancient Israel remembered its future in Yehud. There are also significant differences among ancient societies that impacted their shaping of social memories, even if the relevant communities existed more or less at the same time. I have already pointed to one of them. Not all ancient societies placed so much emphasis on memories of the future, and particularly the distant future, as Yehud did. There are many other differences. For instance, constructions of the past were not legitimized in the same way in the Greek and ancient Israelite historiography – a point that Erhard Blum recently stressed. 6 Moreover, the creation and re-enactment of the central collective memory (and of counter memories or partial reconfigurations of that collective memory by some subgroups) involved matters of power within a society and actual or perceived power relations of that society with other societies. It involved social 6 Erhard Blum, “Historiography or Poetry? The Peculiarities of the Hebrew Prose Tradition,” in Memory in the Bible and Antiquity: The Fifth Durham-Tübingen Research Symposium (Durham, September 2004) (ed. L. T. Stuckenbruck, S. C. Barton, and B. G. Wold; WUNT, 212; Tübingen: Mohr, 2007), 25–45.

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structures – issues of self-definition most often in the form of claimed continuity and the setting of boundaries separating in and out-group, those who share and don’t share a particular collective memory. This being so, issues of structure, resources, and the size of a society, as well as matters of center and periphery, hybridity, resistance, and hegemony are all involved in the production and reproduction of social memories. All these considerations require us to take seriously the particular historical circumstances of each community of shared remembrance and be very cautions of over-generalizations. Thus, while it is true that studying the ancient social memory of the literati and those influenced by them in Persian Yehud draws attention away from questions about the “historicity” – in our terms – of what is reported or evoked in their books (e.g., questions such as: “Did Isaiah say such and such?” “Did Hezekiah defeat King Sennacherib?” “Who precisely was Shalman [Hos 10:14]?”), it is also true that social memory approaches demand that we pay much more attention to the historical circumstances of the remembering community. In fact, it is the focus on the remembering community and what it imagined that calls us to pay less attention to whether the narrated events historically happened or not. What counts within this approach is what the historical community “remembered.” On the surface, the most cautious approach of the study of memory in ancient Israel seems to be to focus on explicit notes about remembering at the level of the world portrayed in biblical texts. To be sure, there is a very substantial number of texts in which explicit calls to remember are advanced. In many of them, it is Israel or some subgroup within it which is called to remember (e.g., Exod 13:3; 20:8; Deut 7:18; 9:7; 24:9; 25:17; Josh 1:13; Isa 44:21; 46:8, 9; Mic 6:5; Mal 3:22; Qoh 12:1; Neh 4:14; 1 Chr 16:12, 15); in many others, it is the deity who is asked to remember (e.g., Exod 32:13; Deut 9:27; 2 Kgs 20:3; Neh 5:19; Ps 74:2; 137:7, Lam 5:1; 2 Chr 6:42; 13:22). There are texts that include references to a particular day to be remembered yearly from generation to generation (e.g., Exod 12:14), to “monuments” that were supposed to serve as material sites of memory within the world of the text (e.g., Gen 31:52; 35:20; Josh 4:20–24; 5:3; 22:26–28; 2 Sam 18:18; Zech 6:14), and explicit references to ways of maintaining memory (e.g., Exod 13:8–10). There are many texts in the prophetic books that explicitly evoke and shape memories of a past (e.g., Hos 2:17; 9:10; 11:1; Zech 1: 4–5). To be sure, the fact that books containing all these references to memory emerged and were read and reread within Persian Yehud is proof positive that memory was central to the discourse and life of that society (cf. Ps 78). But numerous as these texts are, and as important as they are, they shed only a very narrow ray of light on the social memory of the

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community and, as it will be argued below, they do not provide the most promising path for historical reconstructions of social memory or the social mindscape that it reflects. As mentioned above, the intended readership of most of the books that eventually ended up in the HB deeply involved themselves in a project of imagining and remembering a past, in fact, multiple related pasts, all of which together constituted the general, comprehensive social memory of the community. The main contribution of approaches informed by Memory Studies to research in ancient Israel and its prophetic books is not circumscribed or even, in the main, directly related to their heuristic role for understanding some particular references to remembering that are explicitly reported in the world portrayed in the books that were read by the community. It is the books themselves, not a few scenes here or there, that serve as the main source for reconstructing social memory in Yehud. Moreover, it is not necessarily a question of exploring explicit constructions of the past, i.e., what the text says about this or that event in the past, but of why the text construes the past in the way it does, or what makes some characters or periods more memorable than others. One may begin by asking seemingly simple questions: which social roles were fulfilled by collective/social acts of imagination of the past that resulted from reading a shared set of texts, within a particular historical context? Why did the community develop some images of the past (or future) and not others? Why did certain memories appear again and again, while others did not? What made some memories preferred and some dis-preferred and did that ever change, and if so, why? These questions already point at the emphasis on the social and systemic engendered by that approaches informed by Memory Studies. In addition, books, prophetic or not, may embody memory, but they do not remember. Social memory does not equal a book, a section thereof, or a collection of books. As members of the Jerusalemite community in Yehud read and reread, or had others read to them, the books that the community agreed that carried authority, that is, their authoritative books, they imagined, configured and reconfigured sites in their minds. They brought to life characters, events, material objects, and buildings and the like, whether set in the past or the future. As these readers went through their repertoire of authoritative books and other relevant sources they may have had, they shaped a shared, central social memory through multiple particular memories. Even individual characters of the past came to embody and integrate multiple memories, which at times were seemingly at tension with one another. For instance, the remembering community imagined Isaiah and his political counterparts (e.g., Ahaz, Hezekiah), Manasseh, David, and Moses

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in ways informed by multiple books. To be sure, even when a prophetic character, e.g., Hosea, is imagined on the basis of one single book, there are still multiple viewpoints. 7 These observations indicate that approaches to prophetic literature substantially informed by Memory Studies will shift the emphasis away from the work of proposed individual authors and redactors that is so predominant in historical studies of the prophetic books, and towards the read text, and thus, towards readers, society, general discourse and what we may call systemic, social, and ideological preferences and dis-preferences, for, as it is well known, readings are strongly influenced by the world of knowledge, ideology and general discourse of the readers – that is, all the things that made readers competent to read particular books in a given society and thus able to partake in the project of imagining it into being – which is another way of saying, of participating in the project of ideologically construing their present community by construing/imagining its pasts and futures through the reading of socially approved books. 8 These considerations have substantial implications. In fact, they call for a serious study of the Sitz im Diskurs of each of the authoritative books of ancient Israel. In other words, these considerations indicate that to understand how books were read, and therefore, how they contributed to the configuration and communication of social memory, we have to understand them in terms of their place and function within the general discourse of the period. 9 7

See my “Remembering Hosea: The Prophet Hosea as a Site of Memory in Persian Period Yehud,” to be published in a collected essays volume in honour of a colleague. 8 I address directly matters of literary competence in Yehud elsewhere; see my “Would Ancient Readers of the Books of Hosea or Micah be ‘Competent’ to Read the Book of Jeremiah?” in Jeremiah (Dis)Placed. New Directions in Writing/Reading Jeremiah (ed. A. R. Pete Diamond and L. Stulman; LHBOTS 529; London: T&T Clark, 2010), 80–98. It goes without saying that reading and remembering the past and the future was an activity carried out by socially located people, within a particular historical group (Yehud’s literati) and as members of that group. The construction and maintenance of central social memory required social support, resources, and ability to channel these resources. Above all, social memory was a social construction and the outcome of social processes, not the work of solitary, segregated authors/geniuses. It involved social institutions and served to legitimize them. Of course, as in any society there might be counter memories, or social memories of segments in a general society, but these are also emerge out social processes and institutions, even if the latter are “peripheral.” 9 By “discourse” here I mean the vast realm that includes the ways of thinking, webs of images, texts, “common” knowledge and linguistic registers that shaped (a) which issues or set of issues were likely to come up in a community, and (b) the ways in which the community went about thinking about these issues when they arose and the range of possible responses and interactions within these responses.

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To illustrate this matter in practical terms, this means that if we work within this social memory framework for historical research, when we find a reference to, for instance, Exile or the Exodus in a particular prophetic book, we must continue analyzing the reference within the inner context of the book (Sitz im Buch) and search for allusions and references to other texts that existed in the same repertoire. But we should also analyze the reference to Exile and Exodus within the context of the meanings that these two sites of memory or ciphers came to embody in the discourse of the community, along with the multiple functions that these two concepts played, and reasons for the kind of obsession with these two memories in the repertoire of Yehud. Moreover, these memories were not isolated. They were interwoven with a number of connective ciphers/sites of memory (e.g., the wilderness; Israel’s sin; land; Egypt, Babylon, torah) and only along with them shaped comprehensive memory. Central, comprehensive social memory was not what happened when someone in ancient Yehud read a particular book (see above), but rather an integrative system that included memories evoked and relived through multiple readings of multiple books. Within this multivocal system (though not without boundaries) every reading informed every other reading in some way or another. Literati had to be competent to read these highly sophisticated books, but this competence means that they were supposed to bring their previous social and socially agreed knowledge to bear on their readings, and in a text centered community, this implies many other authoritative texts. Thus this research framework leads us to the conclusion that we cannot study the meaning of a prophetic book in a particular society, including Persian Yehud, by focusing on the book only as a stand-alone historical entity. Instead we must look at it in terms of the general discourse (which includes more than a simple repertoire of books) of the period. In other words, we must pay attention to the book’s Sitz im Diskurs. Let me illustrate with a further example: the prophetic books shaped images of the late monarchic past. However, Persian period literati reading them imagined this period not only by reading the prophetic books, but also by reading Kings and, in the late Persian period (perhaps earlyHellenistic), by reading Chronicles as well. Looking at the Sitz im Diskurs of the prophetic books and at the memories that they evoked draws attention to questions such as: how did the same community of readers deal with the multiple and, at times, substantially different, partial memories? How did these readers “integrate” all these memories into a more or less central, comprehensive social memory, and at what price to what we today may call “historicity” or “external referentiality”? Above all, which systemic advantages offered the complex system of seemingly partially contradictory images of the past over its potentially more simple counterparts

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in such a small group as that of the literati in Yehud? Moreover, why is there such a density of references to memories of the monarchic period compared to other periods? Memory obsession is an important piece of information for historical reconstructions of historical discourses. It goes without saying that an approach that focuses on social memory and takes matters of Sitz im Diskurs into account necessarily draws attention to the multiple images of what a prophet in the monarchic period was or was supposed to be or do that are evoked by the prophetic and historiographical books. It will raise not only the question of how these images informed each other, but also the related, but independent question of what a prophetic book was meant to be and how that may relate to the multiple images of prophets of the past. One of the most heuristically helpful concepts for historians dealing with prophetic literature (and the historiographical books) that seems to emerge from Memory Studies frameworks and for studies of their Sitz im Diskurs is a version of the concept of “site of memory.” 10 As a working definition most appropriate for the present goals, “site of memory” refers here to any constructed space, place, event, figure, text or the like – whether it exists “materially” or only in the minds of members of a social group – whose presence in the relevant socio-cultural milieu evokes or was meant to evoke core images or aspects of images of the past held by the social group living in that socio-cultural milieu. Most of these sites act as ciphers to be activated within a particular social discourse, and as places to be (mentally) visited and revisited as part of a self-supportive mechanism of socialization and social reproduction. The process of reading prophetic literature necessarily involved the creation of multiple mental spaces/sites of memory that were associated with particular times, characters, and events. In a way akin to modern and contemporary common physical memorials, these mental spaces served to celebrate, mourn and, above all, construct events and spaces and imbue them with meaning. For instance, the temple that the intended readers imagined when they read Ezekiel 40–43 (or the larger unit, 40–48) served as such a

10

The term “site of memory” goes back to the work of Pierre Nora, who wrote: “If the expression lieu de mémoire must have an official definition, it should be this: a lieu de mémoire is any significant entity, whether material or non-material in nature, which by dint of human will or the work of time has become a symbolic element of the memorial heritage of any community.” See his “General Introduction: Between Memory and History,” Realms of Memory Volume 1: Conflicts and Divisions (New York: Columbia Univ. Press, 1996), 1–20 (xvii). Nora, however, advanced a relatively restrictive understanding of the term; op. cit., 14–19. Nora’s essay appears also, with a slightly different English translation as P. Nora, “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire,” Representations 26 (1989): 7–24.

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site of memory, 11 but so did many other references to the temple in other prophetic books and, needless to say, Kings and Chronicles, and some Psalms. The imagined monarchic temple was one and many at the same time. It was associated with both celebration and abomination. It was both destroyed and eternal, as it could exist forever in the minds of the readers. 12 Of course, the imagined, monarchic temple of social memory always stood in close association to other imagined Jerusalemite temples, including temples of the future (Ezek 40–48, Hag 2:6–9) and those associated with the beginning of the Second Temple (e.g., Hag 2:2–3), and, of course, was imagined in close association with the tabernacle. All these temples interacted with the actual temple of the community. The site of memory (or array of sites of memory) embodied and signified by “temple” contributed much toward organizing, structuring and shaping meaningful memory. It is one of the sites that bound multiple texts and images together and, by attracting attention to itself in the process, it conveyed a strong sense of identification with the past and future of the community; “temple” helped to tell the community its own narrative about itself and thus contributed much to its self-identity. In addition, this particular site of memory facilitated the integration of multiple viewpoints, hopes, worries, didactic messages and the like by anchoring them into a particular space, even as it leaves the imagination to flow unanchored through all remembered/ imagined times. In other words, temporally-related temples, all of which serve as sites of memory, become illustrations of a comprehensive crosstemporal site of memory, namely the “cross-temporal” and to some extent “trans-temporal” temple. Before I move to another type of site of memory, I would like to underscore that there are plenty of references to the Temple in prophetic litera11

On this issue see H. Liss, “‘Describe the Temple to the House of Israel’: Preliminary Remarks on the Temple Vision in the Book of Ezekiel and the Question of Fictionality in Priestly Literatures,” in Utopia and Dystopia in Prophetic Literature (ed. E. Ben Zvi; PFES 92; Helsinki: Finnish Exegetical Society, 2006), 122–143. Her concluding paragraph is worth citing in full: The literary account in Ezek 40–43 (or the larger unit, 40–48) is thus far more than a written testimony of prophetic visionary experience. It replaces reality, taking place in the realm of history, by a reality in the “realm of the text.” Moreover, the threedimensional “U-Topia” of a temple that does not have a spatial existence becomes a “literary utopia”, having the  dwell in Israel’s literature forever, the literary fiction being a realization of the temple and the presence of the  among Israel. It is the only way to keep the divine promise   [“I will dwell among them forever”] upright, and, at the same time, create a new “place” for Israel to turn to (143). 12 The latter could visit it as they recreated in their mind the descriptions in 1 Kgs 6–7 and 2 Chr 3–4, which in a sense served a role similar to m. Middot after the destruction of the second temple – or as they vicariously relived the many events that occurred in that temple according to the prophetic and historiographic books.

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ture. This is again a reflection of an important aspect of the social memory of the period and of its discourse. Not all sites of memory show the same level of mindshare, that is, not all sites are allocated the same “mental space” in the community. Much more “mental space” was allocated to the Temple than to any other space related concepts, with the possible exception of “the land.” This reflects the centrality of the Jerusalemite Temple in the social memory of Israel during the Persian period, and indirectly in the self-identity of Israel as construed by Jerusalemite-centered literati. Mindshare is expressed in terms of the relative amount of references to particular sites of memory, but mindshare is a central reason for the development of more and more stories about particular sites, including prophetic characters, each with their own mindshare.

Section II: Remembering Prophets in Persian Yehud 1. Some Observations on Sites of Memory and Social Mindshare The literati in Yehud, as members of a reading community, read the prophetic books, and as they read, they construed and imaginatively encountered and interacted not with the books themselves, but with characters such as Isaiah, Jeremiah, Hosea, Micah and the like. Each prophetic book was associated with a single prophet and each carried a particular voice, because the books were supposed to make the prophets of old present in the community. The prophetic books thus became memorials for the prophets, who in turn, as sites of social memory, accrued and broadcasted meaning. Sirach, illustrates the case as he remembers and glorifies prophets, not the prophetic books (see Sir 48:23–25 [Isaiah]; 40:6–7 [Jeremiah]; 49:8 [Ezekiel]; 49:10 [the twelve prophets]). In other words, the prophetic books served to bring the prophets to the community, not the other way around. As I discussed elsewhere, this role of the prophetic books explains not only why each of them is associated with a single prophetic character and carries a individual voice marked by a particular idiolect 13 that served to characterize him as an individual personage, but why the twelve prophetic books remained independent, each with their own opening and closing notes, even if they were written on one single scroll. No single prophet could have been imagined or construed to embody “the Twelve.” Had the 13 Of course, all these idiolects are part of the general sociolect of the community, or in Yehud and far more precisely to the main sociolect that the community of readers of authoritative books, that is, the remembering community attributed to the past societies within which these prophets were imagined to speak.

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scroll been read as one book, it would have failed to make present any particular prophet from the past within the reading community. But when the scroll was read as constituting twelve prophetic books, it raised twelve prophets and their voices within the community. 14 Of course, all fifteen prophets were remembered, but the relative weight that the different prophets held in the imagination and, accordingly, in discourse of Yehud, was not uniform. It stands to reason that there was a connection between mindshare and the size of the book associated with the prophet; if people made Isaiah present in their midst far more than Obadiah, for instance, it is more likely that the book associated with the former will develop much more than the book associated with the latter and conversely, the more they read about a prophet, the larger his mindshare. In general terms, we are dealing with well-known processes of positive feedback: the more a person is recognized within a group as memorable, the more s/he will tend to attract new memories and conceptual associations, which in turn make the person even more memorable. 15 In sum, it is reasonable to think in terms of a relation between the social mindshare of a prophet and the textual space allocated in the repertoire of the community to that prophet. (Of course, the same applies to kings and other types of figures.) The collection of prophetic books shaped a set of three main prophetic characters and twelve others to remember. To be sure, these numbers indicate a process of remembering some and forgetting others. Even if one were to take into account only the selected periods and spaces to which these characters are associated (I will deal later on with matters of space and time), there were surely many more historical prophets, but social processes of remembering and forgetting led to the construction of a set of three and twelve. 14

E. Ben Zvi and J. D. Nogalski (with an introduction by T. C. Römer), Two Sides of a Coin: Juxtaposing Views on Interpreting the Book of the Twelve/the Twelve Prophetic Books (Analecta Gorgiana 201; Piscataway, N.J.: Gorgias Press, 2009). 15 There are multiple examples of the application of the principle of positive feedback in Memory Studies. For instance, scientists who were awarded a Nobel Prize tend to be much more remembered and their achievements much more emphasized, celebrated and funded than the runners up and their work, even if in ‘objective’ terms their differences may be minimal and could have been easily evaluated by the Nobel committee (and were at the time evaluated by other members of the scientific community) the other way around. This effect is often called the “Matthew Effect” (“for to all those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away,” Matt 25:29) and has been proven to be at work in numerous fields. See D. Rigney, The Matthew Effect: How Advantage Begets Further Advantage (New York: Columbia University Press, 2010). This principle has often been used to study why some people and events became memorable and others of (clearly “historically”) similar or even higher importance were not.

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Memory studies show the existence of tendencies towards oneness, that is, trends favoring the construction of a single main great hero/site of memory that embodies central images, ideas, events, processes and the like. This is a common way to shape knowledge and symbolize knowledge (e.g., Bolivar, as “El Libertador” of the Americas – but not in Argentina, where San Martín takes that role; Lincoln as the “Great Emancipator;” and close to our field, Moses as the “Lawgiver” and “Foundational Prophet,” and David as the “Foundational Yhwistic King”). 16 To be sure, one may claim that there was at least some tendency towards “oneness” at work in the present case, as there was only one major prophet associated with the deliverance of Jerusalem from Sennacherib (Isaiah) and one with its destruction at the hands of Nebuchadnezzar (Jeremiah) – that is, one for each of the two crucial events that shaped much of the memory of the late monarchic period (on this see below). 17 But one still has to account for Ezekiel. This may not be difficult since Ezekiel was a site of memory that embodied and communicated messages and images with which neither Isaiah nor Jeremiah could be associated (e.g., ideal temple and land, life within the diasporic community in Babylon, etc.), but this observation is already helpful since it draws attention to important aspects within the social mindscape of late Persian Yehud that constrained tendencies towards “oneness.” In addition, there were twelve other prophetic characters. To be sure, their mindshare was less than Isaiah, Jeremiah and Ezekiel, but they were still part and parcel of the social mindscape of the period. The plurality of prophetic characters (even if constrained and perhaps not by chance eventually including the notion of a group of twelve prophets) reflects and rein16 For a study providing a discussion of the underlying reasons for this tendency towards “oneness” and a good case study, within the frame of contemporary Memory Studies, see B. Schwartz, “Collective Forgetting and the Symbolic Power of Oneness: The Strange Apotheosis of Rosa Parks,” Social Psychology Quarterly 72 (2009): 123–142 and bibliography. At times, the tendency towards the construction of one main site of memory cannot lead to a single site, but still leads to a condensation of sites that to a large extent complement each other (e.g., Pearl Harbor and D-Day as main sites of memory for WWII in America; Sir John A. Macdonald [Conservative] and Sir Wilfrid Laurier [Liberal] as main founding figures of today’s Canada). Turning the gaze to our area, Abraham and Jacob, David and Solomon, Hezekiah and Josiah, and most relevant to this essay, Isaiah and Jeremiah. 17 I wrote elsewhere on remembering Isaiah in the late Persian period and the importance of the pairs deliverance/destruction, Sennacherib/Nebuchadnezzar (and their respective subordinate representatives, Rabshakeh and Nebuzaradan) and, of course, Isaiah/Jeremiah; Hezekiah/Zedekiah elsewhere. See my “Isaiah, a Memorable Prophet: Why Was Isaiah So Memorable in Persian/Early Hellenistic Period? Some Observations,” forthcoming in Remembering Biblical Figures.

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forces a tendency to set them apart from the great and exemplar prophet: Moses. There was only one Moses, but fifteen late prophets, even if some of them were Isaiah, Jeremiah and Ezekiel. 18 It is particularly worth noting that the community could and did construe a memory-scape in which no prophetic figure with mindshare similar to that of Isaiah, Jeremiah or Ezekiel, and certainly none of the stature of Moses, occupies the time of the actual building of the “Second Temple,” as the example of Haggai and Zechariah – who not coincidentally is construed only partially in terms of the actual establishment of the Yehudite temple in Jerusalem – clearly show. This mnemonic situation reflects and communicates a worldview and social memory in which the temple was in fact established through the divine instruction given to Moses 19 and thus is anchored in the foundational period of Israel. 20 Building the Jerusalem temple in Persian Yehud is important, but not on par with what transpired in Moses’ period. Moreover, Isaiah and especially Ezekiel take much more mindshare than Haggai on Temple matters. The future, utopian temple that existed in their minds and their memories of the future/s takes a far more central role within the social mindscape of this literati than the one they could actually visit, despite the fact that this temple was the social institution that made their work and works possible. 21 This very same aspect of the social mindscape of the literati is responsible for the tendency to focus on either the past or the future but not their present, and for their consistent self-effacement within their literary output/repertoire. Another important observation: even the twelve prophetic personages who did not draw as much mindshare as Isaiah, Jeremiah and Ezekiel were construed in this community as complex sites of memory. As the case of Obadiah (the prophet associated with the briefest book in the collection) clearly shows, each prophet embodied multiple perspectives and evoked numerous core concepts, images and the revisiting/reimagination of memories of crucial past and future events among the remembering community. After all, remembering Obadiah was, inter alia, remembering the fall of Jerusalem and its future glory, advancing an image of a future Return that differs considerably from and balances the most common in the discourse 18

I wrote on Moses the Prophet in my “Exploring The Memory of Moses the Prophet in Late Persian/Early Hellenistic Period Yehud/Judah,” forthcoming in Remembering Biblical Figures. 19 Cf. with the portrayal in Chronicles of the temple as based on the instructions of Moses and David and the image of David as founding the temple in every important aspects, even if Solomon is the builder, a godly activity, but still secondary in importance. 20 And vice versa that their temple is the true manifestation of YHWH’s only legitimate cultic centre. See below. 21 See, among others, K. van der Toorn, Scribal Culture and the Making of the Hebrew Bible (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2007).

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of the period, re-imagining and positively re-signifying the period of the judges (cf. Ruth), and balancing out images of an utopian future in which Davides play an important role that appear in other texts within the repertoire of the community. Remembering Obadiah involved exploring the “brotherhood” between Israel and the nations represented by Edom/Esau and organizing memories about them. Encountering the imagined Obadiah meant dealing with constraints on human wisdom and power, and therefore on the ability to act. In addition, as the text was read and reread, it evoked echoes of Jeremiah while at the same time distanced Obadiah from him (and the book of Jeremiah) and let the remembering community wonder whether this Obadiah could have been the Obadiah they remembered as a prophet during the reign of Ahab. Encountering Obadiah through reading also reminded the reading/remembering community that construing images of the prophets of the past involved careful reading and awareness of multiple meanings, ambiguities, and networks of meanings; above all it required the presence of highly sophisticated readers – the literati responsible for these works and those who could conjure the figures from the past and bring them to the present along with the instance of YHWH’s word that was associated with them and which provides hope for the future and meaning for the past. 22 As much as the prophets were the main sites of memory that emerged out of the reading and rereading of the prophetic books among the literati, at some point, some of the utterances associated with them became sites of memory in and of themselves. The process probably started as phrases appearing in texts within the sea of texts to which the authors and redactors of books in Yehud had access were reused and completely resignified in another text, with or without much attention to their original association with particular speakers from the past. These texts carried a meaning directly related to their new literary context, but at the same time, at least from the perspective of the readers, evoked or echoed other texts that were within their repertoire. By the time of Chronicles, at least, some phrases clearly had become sites that evoked memory by themselves not only outside their original context but in sets that reportedly preceded the putative time of the prophetic character with whom they were associated in their 22 Cf. Jerome’s often quoted words, quanto brevius est, tanto difficilius (Commentary on Obadiah, on v. 1). I addressed these issues in Obadiah in my A Historical-Critical Study of The Book of Obadiah, (BZAW 242; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1996). For other works on Obadiah see, among others, B. Dicou, Edom, Israel’s Brother and Antagonist: The Role of Edom in Biblical Prophecy and Story (JSOTSup 169; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994); J. Renkema, Obadiah (Historical Commentary on the Old Testament; Leuven: Peeters, 2003) and P. R. Raabe, Obadiah (AB 24D; New York: Doubleday, 1996); J. Barton, Joel and Obadiah: A Commentary (OTL; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001).

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original context. 23 Prophetic words came to have a life of their own, as it were, and might then apply to future and past events, 24 in ways that might be and at times were construed as unbeknownst to those speaking them. Thus these prophetic expressions became multi-temporal and could then be imagined as being fulfilled and yet to be fulfilled numerous times. Later Qumran pesher exegesis, the exegetical approach underlying, for instance, the praise of Simon in 1 Macc 14:4–15, and concepts about a pre-existing torah are later and far more developed expressions of this tendency, but it existed already by the late Persian period, at least. 25 Of course, imagining a prophet is also imagining space, or better, spaces. Encountering the prophetic figures through the reading and rereading of the prophetic texts meant to encounter, that is, to imagine places. The concept of mindshare seems heuristically helpful in this context as well. It goes beyond the obvious, e.g., remembering the prophets is remembering that none of them was born or grew up outside the land, that the space of Exile is very important symbolically, but less mindshare is given to it as a space populated by Israelites who live their own lives there, as expected within a general mindscape in which life in Exile is far less worth remembering than life on the land, which, if at all, is remembered mainly in terms of a process leading to the end of the Exile (cf. the textual allocation to Israel in Egypt from the time of Joseph to the raising of the “new Pharaoh”). 26 Finally, using the concept of mindshare we may ask what the primary readers of primary readers imagined themselves as watching when they virtually visited places that came to life as they read the prophetic books. 23

See, for instance, in Azariah’s speech, during the time of King Asa: 2 Chr 15:3 (cf. Hos 3:4), 5 (cf. Zech 8:10 and Amos 3:9), 6 (cf. Zech 11:6), 7 (cf. Jer 31:16; Zeph 3:16); in king Jehoshaphat’s prayer: 2 Chr 16:9 (cf. Zech 4:10); 20:20 (cf. Isa 7:9). See E. Ben Zvi, “Who Knew What? The Construction of the Monarchic Past in Chronicles and Implications for the Intellectual Setting of Chronicles,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Fourth Century B.C.E. (ed. O. Lipschits, G. N. Knoppers and R. Albertz; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 349–360. 24 E.g., A. Warhurst notices, for instance, that some of “Isaiah’s descriptions of a future restoration after exile are read back into the account of Hezekiah’s reign” in Chronicles, but still these descriptions remain as prophecies for the future. See A. Warhurst, “The Chronicler’s Use of the Prophets,” in What is Authoritative in Chronicles (ed. E. Ben Zvi and D. V. Edelman; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 165–181. 25 It goes without saying that even within the repertoire of the prophetic books there were clear cases of reversals of meanings as well, informing each other, see, for instance, Joel 4:10 and cf. Isa 2:4 and Mic 4:3. 26 K. Stott, “A Comparative study of the Exilic Gap in Ancient Israelite, Messenian, and Zionist Collective Memory” in Community Identity in Judean Historiography: Biblical and Comparative Perspectives (ed. G. N. Knoppers and K. A. Ristau; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2009), 41–58.

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To use again the example of the Temple: what did the same readers see in the House of YHWH that they imagined as they read the prophetic books and imagined the prophets speaking? Did they see mainly vessels, priests, animals, matters of purity and impurity, prophets making speeches, song, and praise? What about present, past and future temples? An exploration of these matters within the framework of the entire set of memories associated with the fifteen prophets is clearly beyond the scope of this essay, but obviously there is a very substantial diversity (cf. Isaiah, Ezekiel and Haggai). 27 One may conceive of the comprehensive, central, collective memory of Yehud concerning these matters as a multivalent, shifting array of multiple sites of memory, each bringing attention to certain images and away from others, and each influencing social mindshare in different ways and up to its capabilities within the discourse of the community. 28 In any event, this research path carries much potential for a better understanding of the ways in which the literati in Yehud, who read and reread all this literature and imagined all these prophets, conceived and imagined “their” past, present and future, including central institutions/spaces such as the Temple. 2. Some Observations on Memorable Prophetic Narratives Social memories tend to be organized as narratives, but prophetic books are not (with the exception of Jonah, which is, in fact, a meta-prophetic book). Remembering the prophets contributed much to the shaping of a mnemonic narrative (or a set of related narratives) about the past and future of the community. Since no site of memory was or could serve as a singular, stand-alone site, imagining a prophet was often imagining a period too. To think of Isaiah is to think of Hezekiah and his days and of Cyrus; to think of Jeremiah is to revisit the last days of monarchic Judah, and to bring to them to the present of the remembering community, which also 27

I began to explore these questions in the case of the memories of the past that Chronicles evoked in late Persian Yehud or early Hellenistic period in my “Purity Matters.” 28 The capability of a text and the characters whose memory it evoked to influence mindshare was directly proportional to how much the text was read. Some texts were more influential than others. Of course, it is impossible to develop any kind of scale of “reception.” How can a historian today know whether Amos was more or less read than Micah in Persian Yehud? This said, it is clear that some books and their respective characters were most likely very influential. For instance, given the number of allusions to the work, the lengthy editorial history, and suggestive data from the late(r) Hellenistic period, one may assume that Isaiah was a substantial character with much mindshare. A similar argument may be made for Jeremiah, and needless to say, for Moses. I discuss these matters elsewhere insofar as they relate to memories of Isaiah and Moses (see my “Exploring the Memory of Moses the Prophet” and “Isaiah, A Memorable Prophet.”)

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imagines, remembers and vicariously experiences the same period differently when they remember and interact with Ezekiel. To think of Zephaniah is to evoke some images of Josiah’s reign that cast a shadow on glorious memories of the period evoked by Kings and Chronicles; and to think of Haggai is to think of Zerubabbel and Joshua son of Jehozadak and of the Persian period Jerusalem temple. I discussed elsewhere at some length the main contours of this narrative in terms of plot and starting and end points, and the existence of a kind of preface or pre-history to that main narrative. It suffices here to say that the main narrative moves from the Assyrian crisis and Jerusalem’s deliverance, to the catastrophe of the fall of the monarchic polity in Judah, then to the beginning of the return and the building of the temple, and finally to the utopian future. The main characters are always YHWH and Israel, with the nations other than Israel as secondary characters. Monarchic Israel is sinful and tends to reject prophets and certainly deserves divine punishment, but YHWH will bring Israel to an utopian future and in fact, YHWH announced it in the midst of sinful Israel during the monarchic period. Obviously, the mindshare of particular prophets is directly associated with that of certain periods within the social mindscape of the community. This is not surprising, but also points at a more general feature of the remembered prophets. Prophets as successful sites of memory must be unique and carry their own voice, but they must also reflect and to, at least some extent, embody, integrate in one personage and communicate concepts, ways of thinking, core discursive issues, and images at the core of the general mindscape of the community, which as such tend to be encoded in additional sites of memory. In fact, had this not been the case, the prophetic figures would not have been of much significance for the community and would not have been remembered to begin with. Thus it is not mere chance that the memory-scape created by the prophetic figures shows so much density around the fall of Jerusalem to the Babylonians and its counterpart, the “salvation” of Jerusalem during Hezekiah’s time, and their preludes and aftermath, or that it deals constantly with the catastrophe of 586 B.C.E., directly and indirectly, and hammers down the motif of Exile, all from multiple perspectives. All these issues and tendencies are well attested elsewhere within the repertoire of the community and reflected what the Jerusalem-centered literati of the period thought worth thinking and imagining, and their ways of structuring knowledge. It is not by chance either that imagining the fifteen prophetic books meant bringing strong messages of hope, and certitude of the deity’s plans for Israel to the present, both in spite of and against the background of ubiquitous memories of Israel’s sinful past and its well-deserved punishment. Similar messages are conveyed in pentateuchal texts and not sur-

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prisingly the Return from Exile was imagined in terms evocative of the Exodus from Egypt, as is very often noted. Perhaps it is as important to note some less obvious generative tendencies at work in the ways in which prophetic and other books shaped memory and implied mnemonic narratives which reflect sets of preferences within the mindscape of the community. To illustrate, the Hexateuch ends with the conquest of the land and does not describe the ongoing life of the community in the land; the same general attitude to stop the mnemonic narrative at the beginning of the “new world” is also at work in the Pentateuch. 29 The world of memories of the past evoked by prophetic figures tends to stop with the “new temple” (cf. Chronicles, which shows the same tendency). Of course, when remembering prophetic figures brings memories of future events, a similar tendency is apparent. Reaching the “new utopian world” tends to be the preferred boundary, though in this case, at times, there might be boundaries to the imagination as well. Constructions of time are often intertwined with constructions of space. Thus, for instance, one may notice similar (implied) generative grammars shaping similar systems of preferences at work in the processes that led to (a) an image of Joshua reaching the “new world” and establishing it as he proceeds to re-organize/Israelitize the land and allocating it to the tribes, and (b) a book such as Ezekiel that brings to memory the image of a (future) divine “conquest” of the land, and its re-organization/reIsraelitization. Of course, memory studies may contribute to an explanation of these tendencies. They may point out that constructed glorious beginnings tend to be more memorable than more mundane and at times heavily disappointing following periods, but it is worth noting that while this reasoning may explain well the case of Joshua, there is more at work in the case of analogical constructions involving both the Second Temple and the utopian future. The building of the Jerusalemite temple in Persian Yehud was hardly imagined by the community as “the most glorious beginning” and even in Isaiah, the focus is on a/the utopian future, which at least, according to most prophetic books would not and could not lead to disappointing results. (Future utopia is not utopia at all if it is understood as unstable and leading by necessity to dystopia or to an eternal cycle of recurrent “utopias” and “dystopias”; this matter raises concerns that are explicitly addressed in, for instance, Jer 31:31–34; Ezek 36:26; Hos 2:21–22.)

29 Similar tendencies to prefer future potential and key turning points that would lead to new beginnings rather than the actual beginning is at work in, for instance, the emphatic association of (the promise of) the land to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob rather than to Joshua. (The land is never referred to as Joshua’s.)

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Although, similar sets of (implied) preferences were at work in all types of past construing books/collections, because they were grounded on preferences set at the level of a common social mindscape, the prophetic books were not like any other past-construing books/collections in the repertoire of the community. For one, prophetic books lead their readers much more easily to vicariously experience utopian futures and to increase the social mindshare of these futures. Remembering the prophets provided an opportunity for the community to imagine both a past and future in ways that are not so easily realized while imagining other characters (cf. remembering Isaiah with remembering Hezekiah; Zephaniah and Josiah; Jeremiah and Zedakiah). But as important, since prophetic books provide the community with (a) particular manifestations of YHWH’s word whose meaning was construed as relevant to the past community that the remembering community imagined as interacting with the prophetic character they were also imagining as they read these books, and (b) particular manifestations of YHWH’s word with direct significance to them, that is, the imagining/remembering community, and not only to them, but also to a future Israel which stands in continuity with them and which was supposed to continue reading the prophetic books, these factors lead to (c) a strong tendency to understand the words of the prophets and of YHWH to them as carrying a multi-temporal dimension. Associating prophetic characters with multi-temporality allows for the possibility of imagining them as less temporally bound than other characters populating the memory-scape of the community. Thus, one notices partial de-historicizing tendencies especially among the twelve prophetic characters, with the exception of Haggai. For example, there exists the possibility of imagining a prophet such as Joel, who is not clearly associated with a period and lacks any clear temporal reference. The same holds true, though, within the boundaries of the Persian period and after the rebuilding of the temple, for Malachi. 30 In other words, remembering the prophets involved construing a past and imagining the world of the prophet, but also, at times, structuring meaningful knowledge about the past in ways far less focused on particular events and far more interested in social attitudes, behaviors, and beliefs. Remembering the prophets does not require the remembering community to forget about kings and political events, but brings some mindshare to images of the past at whose center 30 For the full argument supporting the preceding statements, see my “De-historicizing and Historicizing Tendencies in the Twelve Prophetic Books: A Case Study of the Heuristic Value of a Historically Anchored Systemic Approach to the Corpus of Prophetic Literature” in Israel’s Prophets And Israel’s Past: Essays on the Relationship of Prophetic Texts And Israelite History in Honor of John H. Hayes (ed. Brad E. Kelle and Megan Moore; LHBOTS 446; London: T&T Clark, 2006) 37–56.

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stood societies; as such it balances the more (and necessarily so) political/king-oriented constructions of the other past-construing texts in the community. Remembering the prophets and construing “historical narratives” also facilitated the formulation of symbolic, metaphorical and highly memorable condensations of a long “history” of the past (and future) in ways that were not as feasible within the worlds evoked through the readings of books such as Kings and Chronicles. To illustrate, the entire gamut of experiences in the “history” of YHWH and Israel, past and future, is reformulated and made memorable in Hosea (1–2) as the story of the transformation of a woman who by nature tends to sin/to engage in illegitimate sex ( ), into one whose attributes are divinely given righteousness, justice, steadfast love, mercy and faithfulness. The entire story is a variant of the Chaoskampf motif in which the struggle is over a woman in which Chaos (i.e., sin/promiscuity) took hold, but is defeated by YHWH, resulting in a permanent orderly world. Most significantly, Israel/the woman takes the structural slot of the Cosmos, thus promoting a sense of cosmic centrality for Israel and guaranteeing a sense of “ontological security” in the world imagined and populated (vicariously) by the literati, and also in the world of all those who accepted these memorable stories, be they literati or not. Although the language and the details are different – as they should be, since now the readership brings Jeremiah and not Hosea from the past to their present – a similar pattern is at work in Jer 31:31–34. The entire story of Israel past and future is condensed as the story of Israel/a woman (the gendered image is saliently marked by     !  "    in 31:32) 31 who is transformed as her deficient “heart/mind” is replaced with a new “heart/ mind” that is “wired,” as it were, with YHWH’s teachings/torah. (Note that these teachings do not have to be taught anymore, that is, brought from outside to bear into the “heart/mind”.) The agent that leads to Chaos, in this case, a deficient heart, is utterly removed and Chaos made impossible. 32 32F

3F

31

The image of husband and wife is, of course, one of the common and most memorable ways to symbolize hierarchical patron-client relations. Husband-wife imagery tends to appear along with that of father-son and other related semantic pairs that served so well to pragmatically condense the gamut of relations associated with (male) deity and hispeople in ancient Israel. 32 YHWH is the hero who defeats Chaos and leads to the creation of a stable, proper world/Israel, but YHWH achieves victory through YHWH’s torah. From the perspective of the literati in late Persian Yehud and at a general conceptual level, YHWH’s torah was associated with Hosea’s divinely given righteousness, justice, steadfast love, mercy and faithfulness.

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These basic schemas organize the whole past, present and future experience. They remove all the gamut of “unnecessary” details that may “hamper” understanding or remembering of the meaning of all past, present and future history. They also reflect cognitive tendencies that favor similar, condensed and (over)simplified, symbolic and mythological narratives with very few central characters (most often only one or two) that tend to influence much how different groups construct and remember the past, and even how some media today shapes memories of current events. 33 It is within this context that a sense of proportion in Yehud comes to the forefront. On the one hand, remembering prophetic characters went hand in hand with and facilitated these schematic, very memorable, metanarratives; on the other hand, prophetic literature and the other pastconstructing literature that existed in Yehud was abundant with detail, multiple meanings, complex networks of meaning balancing each other, and the like. Just as the former lessened cognitive demands, the latter much heightened them. The collective, social memory of the literati, that is, the mentioned array of multiple and ever-shifting sites of memory is not an easily transmittable socio-cultural complex. 34 It can only be the social memory of a very sophisticated and highly educated cadre, which certainly did not consist of many members at any given time in Persian period Jerusalem. It is not surprising, however, that this cadre would also include types of (mythological) narratives and constructions of the past whose reception did not involve such high cognitive demands. 3. Yehud and Samaria The Persian period literati of Yehud imagined time and again various worlds, but they also lived in one: Yehud, a small and poor province, with a small and poor temple in Jerusalem, with Samarian neighbors who worshiped YHWH but did not share the Jerusalem-centered ideology of these 33

Cf., among others, B. Schwartz, “Collective Forgetting”; S. E. Bird and R. W. Dardenne, “Myth, Chronicle and Story: Exploring the Narrative Quality of News” in Myths, and Narratives: Television and the Press (ed. J. W. Carey; London: Sage, 1988), 67–85; M. Coman, “New Stories and Myth – The Impossible Reunion?” in Media Anthropology (ed. E. W. Rothenbuhler and M. Coman; Thousand Oaks, Calif.: Sage, 2005), 111–120. 34 This raises the question of the benefits that may have accrued to the literati and those who supported them from developing and maintaining such a system. A discussion on these issues stands well beyond the scope of this essay. It suffices here to state that there were benefits beyond the quite obvious issues of perceived social/cultural capital and also involved matters such as a social mindscape that placed much value on a sense of continuity and strongly favored fuzziness and discursive integration, within limits. I discussed these issues elsewhere and in particular in my “Social Memory and Identity Formation in Late Persian Yehud.”

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literati and their temple, which, in any event, had to first establish itself in Yehud. The comprehensive, central, collective memory of Yehudite literati may be conceived as a multivalent, shifting array of multiple “sites of memory” that as a whole provided a mechanism for socialization and social reproduction consistent with and supportive of the general goals and worldview of the institutions and sectors at the center of a particular community. After all, matters of power and institutions are always involved in the production of central, comprehensive memories. Of course, this means that similar types of arrays for external/internal counter-groups with the ability to create social memories (e.g., Samarians). Both Yehud and Samaria shared a Pentateuch 35 and the memory of Moses, the Lawgiver and Prophet. We have no access to texts that may suggest to us how Samarians in the Persian period imagined their past, 36 which prophets they remembered (Elijah? Elisha?) or, even more important, how they remembered them. 37 Remembering the prophetic characters evoked by the Yehudite prophetic books was tantamount to appropriating Moses and the Pentateuch for the Jerusalem-centered ideology of the literati. The tabernacle as a site of memory blurs with the Jerusalemite temple as it establishes an exclusive line of continuity. Moses leads to Mosaic prophets who are those remembered in Judah/Yehud and conversely some of the latter (most notably, Jeremiah) evoke Moses and shape him as superior. Even northern prophets are construed so as to share the discourse of Jerusalem (see the Davidic and therefore Jerusalem-centered Hosea), and Malachi, likely imagined as the last of the great prophets of the past, brings to

35 Cf. C. Nihan, “The Torah between Samaria and Judah: Shechem and Gerizim in Deuteronomy and Joshua,” in The Pentateuch as Torah: New Models for Understanding Its Promulgation and Acceptance (ed. G. N. Knoppers and B. M. Levinson; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 187–223. Samarian-Yehudite issues have been the focus of much recent research. See, for instance, G. N. Knoppers, “Aspects of Samaria’s Religious Culture During the Early Hellenistic Period” in The Historian and the Bible. Essays in Honour of Lester L. Grabbe (ed. P. R. Davies and D. V. Edelman; LHBOTS 530; London: T&T Clark, 2010), 159–174, and earlier, idem, “Revisiting the Samarian question in the Persian period” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (ed. O. Lipschits and M. Oeming; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006) 265–289. 36 It is impossible to know whether Samaria had a strong cadre of (relatively few) literati as those centered (at least ideologically) and probably supported by the Jerusalemite temple. In addition, one can always wonder what would have happened if the Samarian leadership would have dealt with Alexander’s armies as Yehudites did and vice versa. 37 Significantly, even if they remembered an Elijah, it is very unlikely that their Elijah would have been similar to the one evoked in Chronicles, or that they would have imagined a Hosea who strongly advances an ideological Yehudatization of northern Israel and prophecies about a new Davidic kingdom including both North and South.

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memory both Moses and Elijah in Yehud and as they were imagined in Yehud. One may maintain, of course, that there was no need to imagine the prophetic characters to appropriate Moses and the Pentateuch and to turn them into unshareable characters and texts respectively through this appropriation. Clearly, the deuteronomistic historical collection did this job admirably. 38 But, as mentioned above, sites of memory evolved and became more and more memorable as they embodied, integrated and communicated that which stood at the core of the general mindscape of the community. Conversely, there was a strong tendency to attach that which was considered central within the community to central characters of the past. As a result, these matters tend to be embodied and broadcasted in different ways in multiple sites of memory. That the two, non-pentateuchal, main collections within the authoritative repertoire of the community in late Persian Yehud (and one should add to them also Psalms, Lamentations, and Chronicles) address the issues mentioned above only show their centrality for the community. Of course, different sites of memory and types of sites of memory may carry similar and converging messages, but sites of memory are never simply copies of each other. (If they were, they would lose their appeal to imagination and their hold in the memory-scape of the community.) Making pentateuchal books and the memories and places they evoke Jerusalemite-centered through reading prophetic books and imagining their prophets is transforming them by means of YHWH’s word. The prophetic books and their characters bear YHWH’s word in a way that the book of Kings, for instance, could not claim, at least not directly. This is not a minor claim, which is amplified by conceptually, partially porous boundaries between (Jerusalem-centered construed) YHWH’s word and (Jerusalemcentered construed) YHWH’s teaching (see Isa 2:3; Mic 4:2) and their associations with memories of the Mosaic prophets and Moses respectively. 4. Yehud, Jerusalem, Strong Sets of Preference and Social Reality The literati were ideologically centered on Jerusalem and its temple, but were still focused, as reality would have forced them, on Yehud (and in terms of memory, Judah) as a whole. The Jerusalem temple worldview had to be construed as inclusive of Yehud (and including Benjamin). 39 38

To some extent the same is also achieved by the book of Psalms as well. Benjamin was the demographic, economic and even political center of early Yehud. It remained the most populated area within the province throughout the period. The incipient temple in Yehud could have never succeeded if it had excluded Benjamin. For bibliography on demographic data and above all on the inclusion of Benjamin in Jerusalem-centered Yehud and from a different perspective, see my “Total Exile, Empty Land 39

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The system of preferences (and dis-preferences) that generated prophets who were worthy (or unworthy) of being remembered as part the group associated with prophetic books ended up including only male prophets, despite the fact that memories of them were evoked in the deuteronomistic historical collection. No prophet who was born or grew up outside the land was included; there was only one prophet clearly assigned to the monarchic North and none to the North after the fall of its monarchic polity. It is also clear that certain periods were preferred over others at significant costs (e.g., there was no prophet during the time of Manasseh, despite its characterization in Kings and Jeremiah; see 2 Kgs 21:1–20; 23:12, 26; 24:3; Jer 15:14 and the common motif of YHWH’s prophets as warning voices calling for repentance; none from the putative time of David and Solomon despite its foundational role in images of the past). But it included prophets from Judah (and Benjamin) and relatively few prophets who were from Jerusalem. 40 5. Forgetting, Remembering, and Counterfactual Memories Approaches informed by memory studies can be particularly helpful in terms of understanding processes of forgetting. Sites or sets of sites of collective memory evoke and shape particular memories; as they do so, they cannot but urge their visitors to forget or render dormant, or reduce the mindscape of some images, memories, associations and the like. But that which is remembered and forgotten stands at times interwoven in particular and significant ways. To illustrate, Exile is a central ideological concept in Yehud and remembering the prophets was remembering their warnings and announcements of Exile. 41 At the same time actual life under Exile is something whose mindshare is minimized, though as whole imagined in negative terms of alienations for YHWH and YHWH’s land (cf. Hos 9:3) but this happened in a community that often imagined itself as constiand the General Intellectual Discourse in Yehud” in The Concept of Exile in Ancient Israel and its Historical Contexts (ed. E. Ben Zvi and Christoph Levin BZAW 404; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), 155–168. 40 Does this distribution have something to do, directly or indirectly with the demographic and political situation in Yehud? Did it play a role on or reflected local politics of memory in Yehud or in processes of socialization, appropriation and incorporation of Yehudite local elites and their traditions into a Jerusalem-centered discourse and the social institutions that embodied and propagated it? These matters are beyond the scope of this essay, but deserve analysis. 41 Cf. M. A. Halvorson-Taylor, Enduring Exile: The Metaphorization of Exile in the Hebrew Bible (VTSup 141; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2011). Whether some of the text were originally as earlier as she proposes or not, all the crucial texts she discusses were simultaneously part and parcel of the repertoire of late Persian (or early Hellenistic) Yehud/Judah and I would claim informed each other at the time.

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tuted only by those who returned from Exile (see the motif of empty land) and at times imagined in particular exiles to Babylon in a positive light (e.g., Jer 24; Ezek 11:14–21; 33:21–29). On the whole, the group in Yehud construed itself in terms of a close cultural relation with a construed/ remembered group that existed outside its borders, in a place outside the land and in alienation from YHWH, but with whom they imagined to be directly related and as ideologically close, 42 while at the same time they bracketed out the memory of this group. In other words, they both evoked and bracketed them out, at the same time. 43 Of course, there are other cases of memories that are both recalled and forgotten through the process of remembering and vicariously encountering the prophets of old. Literati who encountered their Hosea were both reminded and asked to bracket out the future Davide (compare the messages of Hos 2:2 and 3:4–5 with those of 2:16–25, esp. vv. 20–22, and 14:2– 9). At times, however, matters are more definite (e.g., the necessary forgetting of Aram in Hosea in accordance with a social mindscape that preferred a consolidated schema of dyads [Assyria-Egypt; Babylon-Egypt], which served to construe and evoke lands of exile and exilic events and communities associated with them) but even there, one finds the minor reference to Hos 12:13 that creates a kind of pre-history to the main implied narrative. 44 Reading and rereading a particular text meant that the community recalled some sites or sets of sites and that as it did so, it bracketed, made dormant or temporarily forgot other sites or sets of sites. When reading either another portion of the very same text or other texts that existed within the very same cultural milieu, the process reversed. I would argue – especially in the case of very small communities – that this situation does not necessary involve the creation of “sectarian memories” or “counter cultural memories” opposed to the collective memory developed by and at the center of the society. Instead, the situation may reflect a state in which a collective memory that shapes social identity and enhances social integration 42

Incidentally, process of identity formation in which a group adopts as markers of its identity features that they associate with an external group they construe as particularly close to them (in a quite counterfactual way, one may add) are not so rare or unique to antiquity. See the case of the Garifuna of Honduras and US African American rap music; that of the Sepharadic converso community of Holland and external and quite removed, sociologically, geographically and ideologically, rabbinic leadership. 43 For similar processes, note that Ezra and Nehemiah do not dwell much on the community within which they were socialized; later on in rabbinic literature, much is made of Hillel who came from Babylon and brought back Torah to Israel, but almost nothing is said/remembered of Hillel in Babylon. 44 See my “Remembering Hosea” and to some extent, my previous, “Study of Forgetting and the Forgotten in Ancient Israelite Discourse.”

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includes shifting arrays of memories, of matters forgotten or dormant, all interacting with one another and, at times, seemingly oblivious of each other. This system does not have to be logically consistent, since it has to bring about socially shared acts of imagining the past that contribute much to a shared imagining of the community, or in the case of Yehud, “the nation” (i.e., transtemporal Israel). Thus, polyphony often characterizes the system, even if it is, by necessity, restricted to that which is consistent with group’s core beliefs. 45 Moreover this polyphony is a dynamic one, in which mindshare can be balanced, according to, for instance, particular rhetorical needs and specific settings, only to rebalanced again and again. 46 6. A Final Observation The Persian period literati of Yehud lived in small, poor province with a small, poor temple in Jerusalem – a city in which remains of past “grandeur” and of past “defeat” were most likely abundant. Thus it is not surprising that the prophets they chose to remember were for the most part ones who explained the past catastrophe and used it as a powerful didactic tool for the community. This said, remembering the prophets was not only remembering a painful, almost dystopian past, it was also remembering that YHWH proclaimed a great, utopian future precisely in the midst of that sinful period; thus, these memories reaffirmed a social mindscape within which YHWH’s decision to bring the promised future was not the result of, or dependent on human actions, and as such unreliable. Remembering the prophets was an exercise in comforting and instilling hope for a future (cf. Sir 48:24–25; 49:10), and it was a didactic enterprise whose goal was to learn about YHWH and what is godly, so as to develop the best possible (human) Israel and perhaps avoid another catastrophe, until YHWH changes their hearts, endows them with divine attributes, or in other words elevates them above common human existence, so they may become an appropriate wife/son to the deity. Of course, at that time, the entire world will change, but matters of utopian worlds in Yehud and YHWH’s empire must be the subject of a separate essay.

45

Cf. P. R. Davies, Memories of Ancient Israel: An Introduction to Biblical History – Ancient and Modern (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox; 2008), 113. 46 Cf. “Study of Forgetting and the Forgotten in Ancient Israelite Discourse.”

Remembering and Forgetting: “True” and “False” Prophecy JÖRG JEREMIAS At first glance, the subject of “true” and “false” prophecy seems to be a pre-exilic problem. In pre-exilic times, of course, prophets often were of different opinions: Would God bring judgment over his people, or would he prevent his people from suffering disaster? After the destruction of Jerusalem this quarrel seems to have been solved; “true” prophets were remembered, while “false” prophets were forgotten for future times.

A. The Book of Amos as a Model for “True” Prophecy in Exilic Times Though the previous statement undoubtedly oversimplifies our problem, there is much truth in it. The best example of remembering a “true” prophet is the book of Amos, which more than any other prophetic book essentially is an exilic book (though there is quite a number of postexilic utterances in it). Two layers of typically exilic (and early postexilic) words in Amos determine the mood of the reader from the beginning to the former end of the book (in 9:6 or 9:10). One of these layers consists of the socalled doxologies praising Yahweh’s judgment over Jerusalem and Judah as a sign of his sovereignty over creation and history and of his power to rule the world. These hymnic pieces once introduced the book of Amos (1:2, the “motto” of the book) and marked its end (9:5–6, the last doxology). 1 Thus, the book of Amos was framed by hymnic texts in exilic times.

1 The reasons for this assumption are presented by Klaus Koch, “Die Rolle der hymnischen Abschnitte in der Komposition des Amosbuches,” ZAW 86 (1974): 504–537 (528–537), and Jörg Jeremias, The Book of Amos (OTL; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1998), 76–79 (Excursus: The Doxologies of Amos).

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The other layer of exilic interpretations consists of the deuteronomistic (dtr) words of Amos 2; the most relevant utterance introduces the collection of words of Amos (3–6) by stating that there is no future event of importance that Yahweh would not reveal in advance to “his servants” the prophets (3:7). Listening to the words of the prophets is the only way to come to know God’s will in history, and listening to the prophets according to Amos 3:7 means reading the book of Amos. This is shown by the last dtr utterance in the book of Amos – probably again a former ending of the book – saying that all those who survived the catastrophe of the destruction of Jerusalem and still do not listen to the words of Amos will die (9:10). In other words, reading the book of Amos and following its instructions is the only means of survival. The book of Amos is an ideal case of remembering a “true” prophet in exilic times, because the few words of strong hope in the book come as a kind of appendix (9:11–15) to a former book whose perpetuation is proof in itself of the truth of the words of the prophet. These words, having come true, could therefore serve as an orientation for the generations living after the catastrophe despite the main orientation having been directed to the past, not to the future (comparable to the dtr history).

B. Zechariah 13:2–6 as a (Late) Example for the Remaining Problem of “False” Prophecy There is, of course, no remembrance of this kind in the case of those prophets who were proven “false” by the destruction of Jerusalem. It is improbable that any of them were transmitted in written form anyway. But be that as it may, the problem of “false” prophecy by no means ended with the exile; on the contrary, experiencing God’s judgment on Israel made it more difficult for future prophets to characterize “true” prophecy. The question for “true” prophecy became urgent again and the quarrel among different kinds of prophets became a matter of life and death as never before. In Zech 13:2–6, the latest text pertaining to our subject in the Old Testament, the writing prophet calls for an end of the current kind of prophecy and warns the prophets of violent deaths if they continue to prophesy: 3

2

The first author who treated these dtr words of the book of Amos systematically was Werner H. Schmidt, “Die deuteronomistische Redaktion des Amosbuches,” ZAW 77 (1965): 168–193 (168–193). Nearly all modern commentaries took up his observances. 3 Translation taken from David L. Petersen, Zechariah 9–14 and Malachi (OTL; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1995), 106–7.

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“On that day,” saying of Yahweh of Hosts, “I will cut off the names of the idols from the land. They shall be remembered no more. Also, I will remove the prophets and the unclean spirit from the land. If anyone again attempts to prophesy, his father and his mother who bore him will say to him: ‘You shall not live, because you have spoken falsely in Yahweh’s name.’ His father and his mother who bore him will stab him when he prophesies. (Zech 13:2–3.)

For Zech 13:2 false prophecy is as devastating as venerating idols (an allusion to Hos 2:18–19). Idols and prophecy are the main obstacles to a peaceful relationship between God and his people. Prophecy is worse than idols, because it is identified with “the unclean spirit.” This phrase appears only here, but “uncleanness” is never caused by contact with foreign gods. Since prophecy prevents Judah from contact with God, prophets have to be eliminated. Verse 3 alludes to Deut 21:18–21, where the stubborn and rebellious son is judged. But the parents of Zech 13:3 need not go to the elders, as the parents of Deut 21 do for the condemnation of their son. The guilt of prophesying is so obvious – prophesying is identical with deceit – that they will stab their son themselves. On that day every prophet will be ashamed of his visions when he prophesies. He will not wear a hairy cloak, A cloak made of skins in order to deceive. He will say: “I was no prophet, I was a tiller of the ground, but a man seduced me 4 from my youth.” (vv. 4–5)

Zech 13:4–6 presents three cases in which prophets condemn themselves and stop prophesying while denying their former profession (I cite only two). Verse 4 alludes to Jer 23:16 and Micah 3:6–7, two important passages on our subject which we will look at later on. The “cloak” mentioned in v. 4b, still a topic of debate, is either an allusion to Elijah’s mantle (2 Kgs 2) or to the “cloak” worn by Jacob in order to trick his father Isaac Gen 27). Verse 5 is a combination of Amos 7:14 and Jer 20:7. Jeremiah felt seduced by God and the prophet of v. 5 was influenced (lit. “bought”) by men. Zech 13:2–6 is the most negative text on “false” prophecy in the whole Old Testament. To act as a prophet is identical with lying (to speak , v. Lit. “bought me.” The text is uncertain here, because # “to buy” is used in the Hif. only here. But the versions do not give reasons to alter the text, as many commentators propose. 4

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3); its only aim is “to deceive” ( pi.). Both terms belong to the traditional characterizations of “false” prophecy from older texts, but they are now valid for prophecy as a whole; all prophecy is “false” prophecy. There has been extensive research on what special kind of prophecy is condemned here so enthusiastically. 5 The answer is rather simple: the danger threatening God’s people when listening to prophets is related to all speaking prophets because all “true” prophecy is already sealed in the developing canon. 6 Whoever now rises to speak as a prophet claims to know more and better than the prophets in the book. More important than this difference between written and oral prophecy for our subject, however, is that Zech 13:4–6 is full of allusions to former quarrels between “true” and “false” prophecy. Apparently the readers are expected to be informed of these quarrels and their outcomes. Zech 13 shows that “false” prophets should not simply be forgotten – then “true” and “false” prophecy could no longer be differentiated. Before Zech 13 could state that all “true” prophecy is sealed in a book, a prophet had to demonstrate his/her “truth” by referring to criteria which could serve to differentiate between “true” and “false” prophets. This differentiation belongs to the very essence of prophecy, especially biblical prophecy. Prophecy always was in danger of being “false.” Yet, step by step biblical prophecy detected essential criteria which guided listeners of prophecy – and even more so, readers of prophecy – to judge “true” prophecy – criteria which had to be remembered under all circumstances. Let me lead you on a short detour to demonstrate this. 52F

53F

C. In Search for Criteria of “True” Prophecy: The Difference between the Era of Isaiah and the Era of Jeremiah Priests or wise men in a quarrel would refer to the tradition in which they were trained: liturgy and Torah on the one side, experience and its mastering on the other. But we never meet prophets referring to their education, though some of them will have receieved an education, such as the pupils

5

See, for example, Bernard Otzen, Studien über Deuterosacharja (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1964), 194–198. 6 This is the interpretation of many commentaries, among them Karl Elliger, Das Buch der zwölf kleinen Propheten II (ATD 25/2; 7th ed; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1975), 172–174; Petersen, Zechariah 9–14, 128; Ina Willi-Plein, Haggai, Sacharja, Maleachi (ZBK 24/4; Zürich: Theologischer Verlag, 2007), 204–210; and especially the exegesis of Nicholas Ho Fai Tai, Prophetie als Schriftauslegung in Sacharja 9–14 (CThM 17; Stuttgart: Calwer, 1996), 192–220.

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of Elisha. Prophets usually claim immediate contact with God, which nobody other than themselves was able to judge. Therefore, the problem of “true” and “false” prophecy is as old as prophecy itself. In the Letters of Mari we can watch how the problem was handled during time of the great Hammurabi. There were three means by which the king of Mari was assured that the prophetic message which reached him in written form was reliable 7: 1. The king of Mari used to send officials for a tour of inspection of his property throughout the land. The officials wrote down the results of their excursion and sometimes also made notes of prophetic messages if a prophet on their tour asked them for this favor. These officials usually recorded not only the prophetic message but also their impression of the reliability of the prophet in order to either warn or assure the king. 2. Every prophet delivering his message to the king was asked by the official for a curl of his hair and a hem of his gown. Though we do not know which kind of practices were used at the court to handle these instruments, we can say for sure that they enabled the king to use power over the prophet; curl and hem were thought to be part of their personality. Thus each prophet was liable for his message. 8 3. In the case of important messages from a god the word of the prophet was tested by technical means, usually by the inspection of the entrails of a sacrificial animal. A technical oracle was judged more reliable than a prophetic word. 9 The problem of “true” prophecy could hardly be stated more evidently. If we turn to Israel I would like to stress the difference between the era of Isaiah and the era of Jeremiah, between the late eighth and the early sixth century. In the era of the so-called classical prophets the phenomenon of “false” prophecy still remains a kind of riddle, hardly to be handled by the texts. The texts show a definite skeptical attitude to any kind of multitude of prophets, in the case of Micah ben Imlah (1 Kgs 22) as well as in Elijah’s fight with the prophets of Baal (1 Kgs 18). The single prophet who is not present with the king of Israel but has to be fetched from afar, is much more trustworthy than the prophets at the king’s court (1 Kgs 22). 7

For the Mari letters containing prophetic messages see, among others: Friedrich Ellermeier, Prophetie in Mari und Israel (Herzberg: Erwin Jungfer, 1968), 24–75; William Lambert Moran, “New Evidence from Mari on the History of Prophecy,” Bib 50 (1969): 15–56; Moran, ANET³, 623–632; Manfried Dietrich, “Prophetenbriefe aus Mari,” in Religiöse Texte: Deutungen der Zukunft in Briefen (vol. 2 of TUAT; ed. Otto Kaiser et al.; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlag, 1986), 83–93. 8 See Abraham Malamat, Mari and the Early Israelite Experience (The Schweich Lectures 1984; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989), 94–96 (“prophetic credibility”). 9 Moran, “New Evidence from Mari,” 22–23; Malamat, Mari and the Early Israelite Experience, 95–96.

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But when the text (in its later layer) tries to explain what makes “false” prophecy “false,” it just declares it is God’s will; God sends “the spirit” (  ) to beguile prophets (vv. 19–22), which means that these prophets are subjectively “true” but objectively “false”; Ordinary people are unable to judge. 10 The difference between the eighth and the seventh/sixth century becomes evident when we compare the other Micah, Micah of Moreshet, with Jeremiah. Micah of Moreshet accuses his opponents among the prophets of abusing their authority: 57F

When they have something to chew on, they proclaim peace. But if somebody fails to put something in their mouth, they sanctify war against him. (Micah 3:9)

For Micah, prophets are no tape–recorders of God’s words, they are involved in the formulation of his word. There is no divine word which is not mediated by humans. His opponents modify the message they received to suit their own welfare and their own advantage. 11 As punishment for this misuse of the divine word, God robs the prophets of future revelation. They will stand ashamed, without further profession. Micah does not doubt his opponents have indeed received God’s message, but they have perverted it. One and a half centuries later the situation has changed dramatically. For the first time in the history of prophecy we are informed that two opposing parties – Jeremiah and his adversaries among the prophets – not only condemn each other, but contest each other mutually (!) that Yahweh has spoken to them (Jer 23:16–18, 21–22, 26–27; 43:2–3). In an extremely critical situation the problem of “true” and “false” prophecy was brought to such a point that new answers had to be found. How could a contemporary hearer of the words of a prophet or a later reader of the words of Jeremiah know it was a “true” word, i.e., a word of Yahweh. The longing for criteria to differentiate between “true” and “false” prophecy grew as it never did before. Some evidence of this is the reworking of the answers of the historical Jeremiah – gathered in 23:9–32 – by later hands of exilic and 58F

10

See recently Ehud Ben Zvi, “A Contribution to the Intellectual History of Yehud: The Story of Micaiah and its Function within the Discourse of Persian-Period Literati,” in The Historian and the Bible (ed. P. R. Davies and D. V. Edelman; New York: T&T Clark, 2010), 89–102 (95–102). 11 The text alludes to the gifts which the people who wanted to use the special power of a prophet as a mediator between God and man would bring to the prophet; see the commentaries of, for instance, James Luther Mays, Hans Walter Wolff, or Jörg Jeremias, ad loc.

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postexilic times to a great extent. 12 Apparently, the problem of how to define “true” prophecy for them was no question of the past. The scope of this essay does not include a detailed analysis of the criteria of “true” prophecy given by the book of Jeremiah, but I will state here those two which seem to me the most important. 1. Jeremiah seems to have started by contesting his opponents who proclaimed Yahweh’s everlasting patience with his people. Their proclamation in a situation of utmost guilt of Israel meant that they were unable to differentiate God’s word and “the vision of their heart” ( ). Their hope for their people becomes their source of revelation. Their word actually is # (self-deceit and deceit of their listeners), because it is wishful thinking. But how can such a  be avoided? In their collection of words against the prophets the traditionists of the words of Jeremiah consciously put v. 9 first: My heart is broken within me, all my bones shake; I am like a drunken man, like a man overcome by wine, because of Yahweh, because of his holy words.

Here a prophet describes how his own will is broken and a foreign power takes its place, whether he agrees or not. 13 Jeremiah refers to the experience of feeling compelled to speak words he did not want to speak, which he even rejected vigorously (see the so-called confessions). The   , the “broken heart,” is his counterpartto the    of his opponents. In this he stands in a line of tradition which leads from Amos 3:8 (“the lion roars …”    "# $%#$#'#+ Cor. 9:16). God’s word is not only unpleasant to Jeremiah’s listeners, but it is unpleasant foremost to the prophet himself. He is not asked by his instructor. It is this element which later authors formulate in the report of Jeremiah’s call using God’s instruction: “I put my words into your mouth.” 2. Jeremiah for the first time dares to give a definition to this kind of compelling word of God: 60F

Is not my word like fire, says Yahweh, And like a hammer which breaks the rock in pieces? (23:29) 12

See especially Hans-Jürgen Hermisson, “Kriterien ‘wahrer’ und ‘falscher’ Prophetie im Alten Testament: Zur Auslegung von Jer 23,16–22 und Jer 28,8–9,” ZTK 92 (1995): 121–139; repr. in Studien zu Prophetie und Weisheit (FAT 23; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 59–76 (63–71). 13 See recently Werner H. Schmidt, “‘Über die Propheten’: Streit um das rechte Wort Jer 23,9–32,” in Geschichte Israels und deuteronomistisches Geschichtsdenken. (AOAT 380; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2010), 241–258 (244).

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The notion of fire possesses two main connotations in the book of Jeremiah. One is the force that does not allow the prophet to quit his proclamation, as he has tried to do (20:7–9). The other is the symbol for God’s wrath. God has made his prophet an agent of wrath on those who are unwilling to listen to God’s word through Jeremiah: Behold, I am making my words in your mouth a fire And this people wood, and it [the fire] shall devour them. (5:14)

Compare the saying of the prophet one chapter later: Therefore, I am full of the wrath of Yahweh, I am weary of holding in: “Pour it out upon the children in the street, and upon the gatherings of young men…” (6:11)

“The wrath of Yhwh” is a dimension of God that is virtually unknown to Jeremiah’s opponents who know God only as helper and shelter. In the end, the different image of God separates Jeremiah from his opponents more than anything else: Am I a God who is near, says Yahweh, and not a God far off? (23:23)

D. “True” and “False” Prophets in Deut 18:16–19 The criteria of Jeremiah for differentiating “true” prophecy from “false” became the guideline for prophecy in exilic and early postexilic times. One could show this by the growth of the text of Jer 23:9–32, but I prefer Deut 18, because this chapter views prophecy from the outside. Deut 18 is the final chapter of the “outline of constitution” (“Verfassungsentwurf”) in Deuteronomy, which deals with the four most influential offices: judge, king, priest, prophet. Among them the office of the prophet is by far the most important – not just because of its final position, but also because only the prophet is installed by God directly, only he is derived directly from Moses, and finally because only the passage on the prophet has received a long exilic and postexilic actualization. 14 The older deuteronomic passage (vv. 9–15) had tried to demonstrate that biblical Israel does not need to go to future specialists of any kind like soothsayers, diviners, sorcerers and the like because of Moses’ promise: 14

Cf. the reasons given by Udo Rüterswörden, Von der politischen Gemeinschaft zur Gemeinde: Studien zu Dt 16,18 – 18,22 (BBB 65; Bonn: P. Hanstein, 1987), 106–111; Schmidt, “Das Prophetengesetz Dtn 18,9–22 im Kontext erzählender Literatur,” in Deuteronomy and Deuteronomic Literature (ed. M. Vervenne and J. Lust; BETL 133; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1997), 55–69 (56–58).

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Yahweh, your God, will raise up a prophet among you like myself: To him you shall listen! (v.15)

Israel possessing prophets in the continuation of Moses does not need other means of orientation in their request for the future. The exilic or early post-exilic actualization moves this Mosaic promise into a new horizon by two citations: 1) The report of the revelation at Sinai/Horeb as a proof of scripture; 2) The report of the call of Jeremiah: 16

All this follows from your request to Yahweh, your God, on Horeb on the day of the assembly. There you said: ‘Let us not hear again the voice of Yahweh, our God, nor see this great fire again, or we shall die.’ 17 Then Yahweh said to me: ‘What they have said is right. 18 I will raise up for them a prophet like you, one of their brothers, and I will put my words into his mouth. 19 He shall convey all my commands to them, and if anyone does not listen to the words which he will speak in my name I will require satisfaction from him.

Deuteronomy 5, cited in the beginning of the passage, differentiates between the Decalogue as the basic revelation spoken by God to the whole people and the other prescriptions of God mediated by Moses. Of course, these prescriptions are the word of God from Horeb as well, but the word of God which comes through the mouth of Moses. Exactly this function of Moses is continued by the prophets according to Deut 18:16–19. These prophets by no means are exegetes of the words of Moses (as they were thought to be in the whole early Jewish and early Christian tradition), but they continue the function of Moses because later Israel needed as much orientation as early Israel. The prophets belong to the same hour of revelation as Moses does. As there is no revelation of God without Moses, there is no revelation of God without the prophets after Moses. Moses comes first; this is his only prerogative. But the word of God by means of his prophets is a different kind of word compared to the word of God through Moses. Our text demonstrates this difference by citing two verses from the report of the call of Jeremiah. 15 Jeremiah finally has become the model of a “true” prophet, especially 15

Fomer scholars often thought Jer 1 was citing Deut 18; see for instance William L. Holladay, “The Background of Jeremiah’s Self-Understanding: Moses, Samuel, and Psalm 22,” JBL 83 (1964): 153–164; Winfried Thiel, Die deuteronomistische Redaktion von Jeremia 1–25 (WMANT 41; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1973), 66–72; Christopher R Seitz, “The Prophet Moses and the Canonical Shape of Jeremiah,” ZAW 101 (1989): 3–27; but recent scholarship has shown convincingly that the dependence is on the site of Deut 18; see Christoph Levin, Die Verheißung des neuen Bundes in ihrem theologiegeschichtlichen Zusammenhang ausgelegt (FRLANT 137; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1985), 149–152; Georg Braulik, Deuteronomium II: 16,18–34,12 (NEchtB; Würzburg: Echter, 1992), 136–7; Schmidt, “Das Prophetengesetz Dtn 18,9– 22”, 61–63. The most complete reasoning is presented by Matthias Köckert, “Zum literargeschichtlichen Ort des Prophetengesetzes Dtn 18 zwischen dem Jeremiabuch und

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in the respect that he will speak Yahweh’s word independent of his own appraisal of its content. In other words, Jeremiah’s most important criterion for a “true” prophet has become the prerequisite for the prophets’ promotion to the realm of the basic revelation of God at Sinai/Horeb. God ensures the continuity of his divine truth by positioning the timeless words of Moses beside the words of his current prophets. I know of no other text in the Old Testament putting Moses and the prophets on an equal level, without any prerogative of Moses, as Deut 18:16–18 does. But this apparent harmony is disturbed suddenly: But the prophet who presumes to utter in my name what I have not commanded him or who speaks in the name of other gods – that prophet shall die. (v. 20)

In the preceding verses, prophecy had been given the dignity of belonging to God’s basic revelation. For the first time it had been raised to the level of revelation, when the phenomenon of “false” prophecy again raises its head. “False” prophecy, also for the first time, is threatened by death penalty (though the reader is not informed as to how he is to conclude upon such a penalty, since the “false” nature of prophecy is detected only in retrospect). Evidently the danger of “false” prophecy remains – even after Jeremiah, the new model of “true” prophecy.

E. Conclusion What I wanted to show is that “remembering” and “forgetting” take on two different aspects when related to “true” and “false” prophecy. On the one hand, “false” prophecy of pre-exilic times was indeed forgotten; only “true” prophecy was remembered in the way the message of Amos was remembered by praising God for his righteousness in bringing judgment upon his people. But on the other hand, structurally “false” prophecy should by no means be forgotten, because it was a danger inherent in all kinds of prophecy. It was the merit of the prophet Jeremiah and of his traditionists to define clear criteria of “true” prophecy, by which prophecy could even enter the realm of revelation in Deut 18. But the danger of “false” prophecy did not end by that, until all “true” prophecy was gathered in the canon around the time of Zech 13.

Dtn 13,” in Liebe und Gebot: Studien zum Deuteronomium (ed. R. G. Kratz and H. Spieckermann; FRLANT 190; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), 80–100 (85– 93).

Remembering Interactions Between Ahaz and Isaiah in the Late Persian Period SONYA KOSTAMO The following study will focus on the matrix of memories related to the relationship between Ahaz and the prophet Isaiah as found in the books of Isaiah, Kings, and Chronicles. By applying the cognitive model of associative networks in human memory, this study explores some of the aspects in these accounts, as well as collective mnemonic trajectories of these two figures, in order to address how each of these narratives contributed to the monarchic period discourse as these texts were read in late Persian Yehud. 1 The prophet Isaiah is associated with King Ahaz already in the introduction to the book of Isaiah. Isaiah 1:1 delineates the temporal span of the prophet’s career as being, “in the days of Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz, and Hezekiah, kings of Judah.” Several texts contribute to the shaping of the memory of the prophet Isaiah with Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz, and Hezekiah. However, the size and frequency of traditions related to Isaiah’s involvement with each of these rulers is not evenly distributed, raising the issue of the nature of the discursive preferences behind the emphasis of certain

1 This study builds upon evidence of a small population living in late Persian Yehud (ca. 450 B.C.E.–332 B.C.E.), who possessed the texts of Kings, Isaiah, and Chronicles in forms more or less the same as those which we now have. A date in the early Hellenistic period is also possible, but does not significantly impact the results of the present study. For more on the demographic character of Persian Yehud, see Oded Lipschits, “Achaemenid Imperial Policy, Settlement Processes in Palestine, and the Status of Jerusalem in the Middle of the Fifth Century B.C.E.” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (ed. Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 19–52 and “Persian Period Finds from Jerusalem: Facts and Interpretations,” JHS 9 (2009). Accessed 23 June 2011. Online at: http://www.arts.ualberta.ca/JHS/Articles/article_122.pdf; Charles E. Carter, The Emergence of Yehud in the Persian Period: A Social and Demographic Study (JSOTSup 294; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999; Israel Finkelstein, “Persian Period Jerusalem and Yehud: A Rejoinder,” JHS 9.24 (2009). Accessed 23 June 2011. Online at: http://www.arts.ualberta.ca/JHS/Articles/article_126.pdf.

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kings over others. 2 Although a lesser amount of narrative space is devoted to Isaiah’s relationship to Ahaz in comparison to Hezekiah, the memories of Ahaz and Isaiah in texts that both associate and dissociate these two figures reveal how different mnemonic traditions of the monarchic period contribute to a shifting discourse in Late Persian Yehud – a small and socially homogenous group that read and reread the texts of the Pentateuch, Deuteronomistic History, Prophets, and at least some of the Writings in a form more or less similar to the one we now have. 3 Cognitive research in memory tells us that humans tend to organize memory through categories that are socially mediated. 4 Eviatar Zerubavel writes regarding the organizations of information in memory: … [T]he social nature of human memory is evident not only in the actual content of our recollections but also in the way they are mentally packaged. After all, remembering involves more than just the recall of facts, as various mental filters that are quite independent of those facts nevertheless affect the way we process them in our minds …, thus

2

While the most extensive amount of text is devoted to Isaiah’s relationship with Hezekiah (Isa 37–39, 2 Kgs 19–20, 2 Chr 32:20, 32), Azariah/Uzziah and Jotham are figures that have a very limited connection to Isaiah (cf. traditions related to Azariah/Uzziah in Isa 6:1; 2 Kgs 15:1–7; 2 Chr 26:1–23 [esp. 26:22] and Jotham in Isa 1:1; 2 Kgs 15:32–38; 2 Chr 27). The limited nature of traditions for these two kings raises important issues related to forgetting, but is beyond the scope of the present discussion. 3 For discussion on the evidence of biblical texts existing during this period see Ehud Ben Zvi, “One Size Does Not Fit All: Observations on the Different Ways in Which Chronicles Dealt with the Authoritative Literature of Its Time,” in What Was Authoritative for Chronicles? (ed. Ehud Ben Zvi and Diana V. Edelman; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 13–35; Sara Japhet, I & II Chronicles: A Commentary (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1993), esp. 23–28. For evidence that Chronicles was aware of and used the text of Isaiah see Amber Warhurst, “The Chronicler’s Use of the Prophets,” in What Was Authoritative for Chronicles?, 165–81. See also Ehud Ben Zvi, “Who Knew What? The Construction of the Monarchic Past in Chronicles and Implications for the Intellectual Setting of Chronicles,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Fourth Century B.C.E. (ed. O. Lipschits, G. N. Knoppers and R. Albertz; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 349–60 and William M. Schniedewind, “Prophets and Prophecy in the Books of Chronicles,” in The Chronicler as Historian (ed. M. Patrick Graham, Kenneth G. Hoglund, and Steven L. McKenzie; Sheffield: Sheffield, 1997), 204–24. 4 Eviatar Zerubavel, Time Maps: Collective Memory and the Social Shape of the Past (Chicago: University of Chicago, 2003). See also Eviatar Zerubavel, Social Mindscapes: An Invitation to Cognitive Sociology (Cambridge, Mass.: First Harvard University, 1999); Barbara A. Misztal, Theories of Social Remembering (Berkshire: Open University/McGraw Hill, 2003); H. L. Roediger III, “Reflections on the Intersections Between Cognitive and Social Psychology: A Personal Exploration,” European Journal of Social Psychology 40.2 (2010): 189–205; Bertram Gawronski and B. Keith Payne, eds., Handbook of Implicit Social Cognition: Measurement, Theory, and Applications (New York: Guilford Press, 2010).

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leading us to remember some more than others. Such filters are highly impersonal, as 5 they are rarely ever grounded in individuals’ own experience.

The concept of mental categories or “filters” mentioned here by Zerubavel is supported by work in cognitive psychology on memory that has proposed different organizational schemata, or structures, of human memory that allow for the retrieval of information from long-term memory. One of the cognitive models for explaining the way the human brain organizes and stores information in memory is the associative network model, also called the connectivity model. 6 According to this theory, a piece of information is called a “node,” and the relationship between these pieces of information is called a “link.” Within the associative node-link structure, each time a node is activated the links connected to that node are also activated. A key aspect of this model is the principle that the degree to which an idea is remembered is related not only to how often the node is activated, but also to the number of separate links that are connected to the idea. 7 According to this model, the degree of memorability of an idea is related to the number of links or alternative retrieval routes, which increase the likelihood that the idea will be retained in long-term memory. 8 Retrieval of information stored within this structure is achieved when the activation of one idea, which is already stored in the long-term memory, is re-activated (e.g., when reading a text), and this leads to the activation of other ideas 5

Zerubavel, Time Maps, 4. See Susan T. Fiske and Shelley E. Taylor, Social Cognition: From Brains to Culture (New York: McGraw-Hill, 2008): esp. 75–92; Wolfgang Klimesch, The Structure of Long-term Memory: A Connectivity Model of Semantic Processing (Hillsdale, New Jersey: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1994), esp. 43–50; Roger W. Schvaneveldt, “Coding Processes: Organization of Memory,” in Learning and Memory (ed. John H. Byrne; New York: Macmillan, 2004): 82–84. See also Alan Baddeley, Essentials of Human Memory (Hove, UK: Psychology Press, 1999), esp. 193–96; Johannes Engelkamp and Hubert D. Zimmer, The Human Memory: A Multi-Modal Approach (Seattle/Toronto: Hogrefe & Huber, 1994); Rainer H. Kluwe, Gerd Lüer, and Frank Rosler, eds., Principles of Learning and Memory (Basel: Birkhäuser Verlag, 2003). 7 Klimesch identifies this process in memory as “the capacity of spreading activation.” See Klimesch, Long-term Memory, 98–129. See Axel Buchner and Martin Brandt, “The Principle of Multiple Memory Systems,” in Principles of Learning and Memory (ed. Rainer H. Kluwe et al.; Basel: Birkhäuser Verlag, 2003), 223–40 (100–7). 8 Fiske and Taylor, Social Cognition, 78. Klimesch, Long-term Memory, 60–63. See Ulrich Mayr, “Towards Principles of Executive Control: How Mental Sets are Selected,” in Principles of Learning and Memory (ed. Rainer H. Kluwe et al.; Basel: Birkhäuser Verlag, 2003), 223–40. See also Don Carlston, “Models of Implicit and Explicit Mental Representation,” in Handbook of Implicit Social Cognition: Measurement, Theory, and Applications (ed. Bertram Gawronski and B. Keith Payne; New York: Guilford Press, 2010), 38–61. 6

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linked to it through established associations. The socially mediated character of associative links and the larger node-link networks reveal some discursive influences guiding the shared interpretation of various pieces of information about the past within a mnemonic community. 9 This cognitive structure is especially relevant to the present study in which the reading of different texts evokes and activates certain memories of the same temporal period. Aspects of the accounts which are similar, as well as those elements of the memory distinctive to only one account, contribute nodes and associative links to the developing network of the memory of the relationship between Ahaz and Isaiah. To analyze mnemonic networks of association, terminology related to the concept of grounding is helpful to address how similar and dissimilar elements of various accounts contribute to the larger network of memory of the interaction between Ahaz and Isaiah. The placement of elements (nodes) of a story in a certain kind of relation (link) to other elements evokes a certain interpretation of how these elements are to be understood. The terms background and foreground are useful in representing how the intentional placement of ideas or pieces of information within a story can activate the remembering of other associated schemata of information. The background elements are the consistently reinforced aspects of the memory. In this case, the setting of the Syro-Ephraimite crisis in all accounts demonstrates a consistent association of the temporal placement of Isaiah and Ahaz within a certain period in the narrative plotlines of the monarchic past. 10 Thus, pieces of background information could be described within this cognitive structure as the most established nodes and links that together create a sort of mnemonic hub where the most frequently activated associations allow for the meaningful recollection of knowledge that has already been learned and retained in long-term memory, as well as the potential to build upon these established memories with additional information.

9 Zerubavel describes the interconnectedness of socially mediated categories of memory and community in the following way: “Needless to say, the schematic mental structures on which mnemonic traditions typically rest are neither ‘logical’ nor natural. Most of them are either culture-specific or subculture-specific, and therefore something we acquire as part of our mnemonic socialization. Thus, if we tend to remember so much better situational details that are salient in our own culture or subculture, it is mostly because so many of our pre-existing expectations are based on conventionalized, social typifications…. In fact, since most of the schematic mental structures that help us organize and access our memories are part of our unmistakably social ‘stock of knowledge,’ much of what we seem to recall is only socially, rather than personally, familiar to us! Indeed, it is what we come to ‘remember’ as members of particular thought communities.” (Zerubavel, Social Mindscapes, 89). 10 Zerubavel, Time Maps, 11–36.

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In contrast to the background information, foregrounded aspects of the narrative present distinctive nodes of information that stand out in the larger established context. This emphasized information contributes to the shaping of the memory by elevating some aspect of the account alongside the background information already stored in long-term memory. 11 Foregrounded information can be distinguished from the background through literary characteristics such as: narrative space and location, direct speech, or extensive detail. The placement of foregrounded information after the background initiates the activation of previously established associative networks of memories, while also contributing to the creation of associative links between new information with previously established memories – ultimately increasing the size and complexity of the mnemonic structure. 12 The memorability of foregrounded information is enhanced by a cognitive principle called the “inconsistency advantage”: … [E]valuative inconsistent behaviors are considered thoughtfully in comparison to other behaviors. This consideration strengthens links between inconsistent behavior and the remaining behaviors (compared to the links between each evaluatively consistent or neutral behavior and the remaining behaviors). The inconsistency advantage presumably occurs as people think about the inconsistencies, relating them to each other and to the 13 consistent behaviors, creating associative links among them.

According to this principle, the distinctiveness engages the reader to contemplate the difference between this information and the larger network of memory evoked. The passages devoted to Ahaz and Isaiah in the present study demonstrate this principle and explain how dissimilar elements of collective memories related to the same period are meaningfully held together. The inconsistency advantage also supports how mnemonic links can associate both similar and dissimilar elements into the larger networks, and that this distinctiveness is didactically important for re-evaluating the established associations. This characteristic of memory reflects something of the rhetorical effectiveness of blending of old and new information about the past.

11

Baddeley, Human Memory, 160–64. This concept fits what cognitive studies call “context-dependent memory.” See Baddeley, Human Memory, 182–84. See also Engelkamp and Zimmer, Human Memory, 191–201. 13 Fiske and Taylor, 82. For more on this concept from a literary perspective of the relationship between backgrounded and foregrounded information and memory see Wolfgang Iser, The Implied Reader: Patterns in Communication in Prose Fiction from Bunyan to Beckett (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974), 274–94. See also Nicolae Babuts Memory, Metaphors, and Meaning: Reading Literary Texts (New Brunswick, New Jersey: Transaction Publishers, 2009), esp. 1–45. 12

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Information associated with the relationship between Ahaz and Isaiah in the foreground and background of the biblical texts can help to identify the activation and expansion of the node-link structures related to these figures for a mnemonic community who read Isaiah, Kings, and Chronicles. The background of each account points to the shared discourse while foregrounded elements indicate possible distinctive interpretative shifts that rebalance or refocus the shape of the collective memory. 14 The present study selects only a few of the foregrounded aspects of the passages in Isaiah, Kings, and Chronicles related to Isaiah and Ahaz, but even this short discussion on the variations of retellings of this period present a modest case study for how collective memory shifts over time. Memory studies contribute to our understanding of the influence of social cognition in the integration of information, similar and dissimilar, into coherent discourse. The narratives related to Ahaz and Isaiah in the Hebrew Bible provide interesting case such evidencing how mnemonic processes, which occur when communities read various authoritative accounts, influenced the expansion and adjustment of memories, or shared reconstructions, of the monarchic past.

A. Ahaz and the Prophet Isaiah in the Book of Isaiah For the memory of the interactions of the prophet Isaiah and King Ahaz in the Hebrew Bible, only the book of Isaiah presents a scene of physical interaction between these two figures. The opening of the scene in Isa 7:1–2 establishes a temporal location of Ahaz and Isaiah within the events of the so-called Syro-Ephraimite crisis. The setting of Isa 7:1–2, which is also found in Kings (2 Kgs 16:5), and Chronicles (2 Chr 28:5–6), strengthens the temporal aspect of the memory of Ahaz and the prophet Isaiah as placed within an established shared background. Another aspect of the background information relevant to Ahaz in the book of Isaiah is his men14

This manipulation of emphasis reflects what Ben Zvi discusses as the malleability of shared information. See Ehud Ben Zvi, “Shifting the Gaze: Historiographic Constraints in Chronicles and Their Implications,” in History, Literature and Theology in the Book of Chronicles (London: Equinox, 2006), 79–99. Such an approach could be comparable to Römer’s reconstruction of the progression in which communities in different historical contexts shaped and contributed to the formation of the Deuteronomy to 2 Kings. See Thomas Römer, The So-Called Deuteronomistic History: A Sociological, Historical and Literary Introduction (New York: T&T Clark, 2005). See also Ehud Ben Zvi, “Malleability and its Limits: Sennacherib’s Campaign Against Judah as a Case Study,” in ‘Bird in a Cage’: The Invasion of Sennacherib in 701 BCE (ed. L. L. Grabbe; JSOTSup 363; European Seminar in Historical Methodology 4; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press/Continuum, 2003), 73–105.

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tion in Isa 1:1 where Ahaz is the third king ruling during the prophetic career of Isaiah. 15 After the scene that brings these two figures together in Isa 7, Ahaz is included in the narrative of Isaiah explicitly except for the brief mention of his death in Isa 14:28. Apart from the opening verses in Isa 7, the following scene (Isa 7:3–13) depicts the interaction of the prophet Isaiah with Ahaz that consists of a brief conversation. 16 While the narrative presents the prophet Isaiah as sent by YHWH to speak to Ahaz (Isa 7:3–4), ambiguity in the language of their exchange creates the possibility for reading a closer proximity between YHWH and Ahaz than between Isaiah and Ahaz. 17 After YHWH directs Isaiah to give predictions of the failure of Pekah and Rezin’s campaign (Isa 7:4–9), the narrative continues: “and the LORD again spoke to Ahaz saying, (      $)” (Isa 7:10). After Ahaz refuses to select a sign (Isa 7:12), the response does not have a named speaker in Isa 7:13a ( ), 18 eliciting ambiguity that intensifies the potential gravity of 78F

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15 For more on reconstruction of the Syro-Ephraimite Crisis, see Stuart A. Irvine, Isaiah Ahaz, and the Syro-Ephraimitic Crisis (Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1990); Michael E. W. Thompson, Situation and Theology: Old Testament Interpretations of the Syro-Ephraimite War (Sheffield: Almond Press, 1982); Brevard Childs, Isaiah and the Assyrian Crisis (SBT 2.3; London: SCM Press, 1967). While significant for reconstruction of the 8th c. B.C.E., the present study focuses on the way in which the accounts of the events of this period contributed to the collective memory of these events for those living in the much later context. 16 There is a long debate regarding the third-person language of Isa 7 within the surrounding chapters that are in the first-person. While significant for studies on related to the so-called Denkschrift of Isaiah (Isa 6:1–9:6) as termed by Karl Budde, this linguistic shift does not significantly impact the present discussion on memory making as mnemonic associations are created in both third and first-person discourse. For critique of Budde’s theogy, see Hugh G. M. Williamson, Variations On A Theme: King, Messiah, and Servant in the Book of Isaiah (Carlisle: Paternoster, 1998): esp. 73–112. Williamson (following Kaiser and Clements) traces a pre-history of Isa 7 as inserted into its present context in Isaiah during the exilic period to address the fall of the Judean monarchy (see phrase “house of David” in Isa 7:2, 13, 17). Joseph Blenkinsopp argues that Isa 7 shows evidence of being composed with the events of 701 B.C.E. in mind in order to act as companion text to those narratives regarding Hezekiah. See Joseph Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 1–39, 173–74, 231–32. See also Irvine, Isaiah and Ahaz, 3–18. 17 Compare the similar syntactic structure of Isa 7:10a with Isa 8:5a. Brevard Childs remarks that this reference in v. 10a to YHWH speaking directly having a different function: “the reference to Yahweh as the subject functions to emphasize the divine authority of the offer that follows. It is not merely a suggestion from the prophet, but an invitation from God himself to request a sign” (Brevard Childs, Isaiah [OTL; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 2001]: 65). 18 The inclusion of  in Isa 7:13b does imply that the speaker is the prophet, but neither YHWH nor Isaiah is named within the response.

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the entire exchange in the scene. 19 The emphasis upon YHWH speaking directly to Ahaz in this scene elevates the response of Ahaz as not only one who refuses of a prophet, but refuses YHWH himself. 20 The aspect of interchangeability of speech attributed to Isaiah and YHWH in Isa 7 is significant for the present study in that memory of this king in Chronicles shows a selective preference for the interaction of Ahaz with YHWH only, with the complete exclusion of the prophet Isaiah. 21 The potential interpretations, with regard to the interaction of these three figures in Isa 7, is reduced in Chronicles through the selective preference for YHWH to deal directly with Ahaz rather through the mediation of the prophet Isaiah, who is completely absent in the account of the same period in 2 Chr 28. Within the account of the interaction of Isaiah and Ahaz in Isa 7, the moral appraisal of Ahaz is largely implied. 22 The only explicitly negative statement is found in Isa 7:13 after Ahaz refuses to select a confirming

19

The switching of speakers in Isa 7:10–13 reflects the possibility for different interpretation of the nature of the exchange between Isaiah and Ahaz and YHWH. The construct in Isa 7:10a of $ followed by a piel infinitive construct of  is found elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible, but is not a phrase used in prophetic discourse except here in Isa 7:10 and Isa 8:5 (cf. Abraham’s exchange with YHWH in Gen 18:29 and possibly the occurrence in Num 22:19). Other occurrences are in Deut 3:26; 20:8; Judg 9:37, and 2 Sam 7:20 (cf. Job 27:1; 29:1). Hans Wildberger argues that   in Isa 7:11 makes the subject of v. 10a likely Isaiah and not YHWH (Isaiah 1–12: A Commentary [trans. Thomas H. Trapp; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991], 285), but this demonstrates the ambiguity of the rhetoric. Blenkinsopp opts for the speaker being Isaiah speaking for YHWH and comments on Isa 7:10a, “Since Yahveh speaks through the prophet there is no need to replace ‘Yahveh’ with ‘Isaiah’” (Isaiah 1–39, 229). 20 This divine proximity with Ahaz is unique in accounts of Isaiah’s interactions with kings in which YHWH always speaks to the king through the mediation of the prophet to in Isa 37–39. Although this is fitting within a prophetic book like Isaiah, the account related to Hezekiah in Kings maintains a mediated exchange between YHWH and Hezekiah (2 Kgs 19–20). Chronicles de-emphasizes the mediation of Isaiah in the account of Hezekiah (2 Chr 32:20–22, 24, 31–32), but still does not contain the sort of direct interaction between YHWH and Hezekiah as found with Ahaz in Isa 7:10–11. 21 See for example the references in 2 Chr 28:5, 19, 22, 25 where the interaction between Ahaz and YHWH is unmediated and directly effectual. 22 One such suggestively negative aspect of Ahaz’s character is his reaction to the foreign threat in Isa 7:2b, the narrator states, “and his [Ahaz] heart and the heart of the people shook like the trees of the forest shake before the wind.” Ackroyd notes the implicitly negative portrayal of Ahaz as being only characterized clearly in Isa 7:2, 4. See Peter Ackroyd, “The Biblical Interpretation of the Reigns of Ahaz and Hezekiah,” in In the Shelter of Elyon: Essays on Ancient Palestinian Life and Literature in Honor of G.W. Ahlstrom (ed. W. Boyd Barrick and John R. Spencer; JSOTSup 31; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1984): 247–59 (248). Interestingly, 1QIsaa lacks , removing direct indictment of Ahaz and limiting the fearful response to the people only.

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sign 23: “And he [Isaiah] said: ‘Hear then, O house of David! Is it too little for you to weary mortals, that you weary my God also?’” By referring to Ahaz as “the house of David,” the activation of associations is made whereby Ahaz and David, as well as other Judean kings, are evoked. The use of the setting and explicit employment of the phrase “house of David” in Isa 7:2, 13 (cf. Isa 7:17) reinforces a comparative interpretation between Ahaz, David, and Davidic kings. Thus, the integrated networks that associate Ahaz with these kings in the book of Isaiah result in a negative characterization of Ahaz. In this way, the associated memory of which Hezekiah’s success in Isa 36–39 evokes, and thus informs, Ahaz’s failure in Isa 7. 24 It is the connection of Ahaz to ideas of kingship in the larger discourse of the book of Isaiah, rather than explicit characterization in the scene of Isa 7, that produces the lackluster characterization of Ahaz. While information related to kingship forms part of the mnemonic background to the episode in Isa 7 within the discourse of the book of Isaiah, the distinctive elements of the nature of their interaction in Isa 7:3–12 within the collective memory of other accounts of the so-called SyroEphraimite crisis is noteworthy for understanding the integration of Isaiah’s memories with those of other books. Kings and Chronicles do not present the exchange of Ahaz and the prophet Isaiah in their accounts of the same events nor any of the accompanying pronouncement of oracles in Isa 7:4–9 and Isa 7:13–25. Within the larger associated memories of this event, the foregrounded exchange in Isa 7 is connected in the associative 23 It should also be noted that in addition to the above evidence for a negative image of Ahaz in Isa 7, the Ahaz of Isaiah is not necessarily sinful within a Deuteronomic discourse related to testing. According to Deut 6:16 and Deut 13:1–5, Ahaz’s refusal to test YHWH could be interpreted as pious. For a community in Yehud, the other networks of memories associated to the idea (node) of testing presents a variety of interpretative links to Ahaz’s response in Isa 7:12 that could be either positive or negative. Other traditions in the Hebrew Bible evoke an orientation towards testing in which YHWH can and does test people and individuals (e.g., Gen 22:1; Exod 15:25; 16:4; 20:20; Deut 4:32; 8:2, 16; Ps 26:2; *2 Chr 32:31), but testing YHWH is presented as unfaithfulness and rebellion against YHWH (e.g., Exod 17:2; Num 14:22; Deut 6:16; 33:8; Ps 78:18, 41, 56; 95:9; 106:14). Outside of these two discourses related to testing there is an example of a successful “testing” in the story of Gideon who seeks a sign three times (Judg 6:17–21, 36– 40, esp. v. 39) to confirm divine directives to him. Even though there is a tradition in Gideon that does not condemn testing YHWH, there is more within the discourse of this concept that would interpret Ahaz’s refusal as appropriate. Ackroyd suggests that Ahaz’s response in Isa 7:12 fits this discourse but functions as a façade stating, “His show of false piety conceals his lack of faith,” (Peter R. Ackroyd, et al., The Major Prophets: A Commentary on Isaiah, Jeremiah, Lamentations, Ezekiel, Daniel (Interpreter’s Concise Commentary; ed. Charles M. Laymon; Nashville, Tenn.: Abingdon Press, 1971)), esp. 1– 123 (25). 24 Scholars have long noted the comparison of these two kings. See, for example, Ackroyd, “Ahaz and Hezekiah,” 247–59 and Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 1–39, 173–74, 231–32.

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network of the same event, but also stands out from the other accounts. If collective memory of the interactions between Ahaz and Isaiah were limited to the account in Isa 7, the characterization of this king would have been more ambiguous. Yet, when the account of Isaiah was mnemonically linked to the accounts of the same period in Kings and Chronicles, the implicitly negative elements of the Isa 7 account were reinforced. In this way, the image and negative associations of Ahaz were more the result of his association to David and Hezekiah in the larger context, than by the account in Isa 7.

B. Ahaz and Isaiah in Kings and Chronicles In the accounts of Ahaz’s reign in 2 Kgs 16 and 2 Chr 28, the prophet Isaiah is not present. This absence of the prophet Isaiah in these two accounts make the memory of Ahaz’s reign distinctive to the one presented in Isa 7. For those reading all three accounts of Ahaz’s reign, the absence of the prophet Isaiah in Kings and Chronicles contributes to the shaping of the larger mnemonic image of the king. While Isaiah and Ahaz not in presented in proximity with each other in these two texts, there are shared elements consistent aspects of Isa 7, such as the shared temporal background of the Syro-Ephraimite crisis. Strong association of this temporal information is demonstrated in the similar language between 2 Kgs 16:5 and Isa 7:1, as well as the references to the same antagonists in 2 Chr 28:5–6. 25 The account of Ahaz’s reign in Kings (2 Kgs 16) introduces distinctive information regarding a new altar and alterations of the temple through Ahaz’s initiation. This scene is foregrounded in the reign account through significant narrative space and extensive detail in 2 Kgs 16:10–18. 26 The 25

While much of the language is shared in Isa 7:1 and 2 Kgs 16:5, the few differences have been the source of much debate. One example is the singular form of  in Isa 7:1. This verb is plural in 2 Kgs 16:5 causing many translations to adjust Isa 7:1. 1QIsa a, LXX, Syriac Peshitta, and Vulgate all have this verb as the expected plural in Isa 7:1, but Wildberger and others have argued that the reference in Isaiah is earlier and suggests the leadership of Rezin within the alliance (Wildberger, Isaiah 1–12, 283). For the present study, the repetition of the language in Kings and Isaiah related to this event serves to strengthen a certain construction of the past. The amount of similar text among these two verses links the accounts in the books of Isaiah and Kings together reinforcing certain memories about the temporal setting and important events of Ahaz’s reign. 26 2 Kgs 16:10–18 likely represents another source utilized within the account of Ahaz in Kings. The source critical aspect is significant for the present study in that it evidences the ambiguity of the memory regarding Ahaz over time in the collective memories about the monarchy. Christoph Levin argues for a complex redactional history of 2 Kgs 16:10– 18 in which different characterizations of Ahaz were presented over time suggesting that this figure was remembered differently over time even though the final form of his reign

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priestly language employed (e.g., 2 Kgs 16:13, 15 cf. Leviticus 1–3 and Num 15:5) and the lack of reference to foreign deities (or their worship) within the temple suggests that Ahaz’s reforms may have functioned within established Yahwistic practice according to the foregrounded information of 2 Kgs 16:10–18. 27 In addition, the involvement of the priest Uriah and the other examples in Samuel and Kings where kings were directly involved in offering upon new altars, within new temples, or privately, suggests that Ahaz’s activity in 2 Kgs 16:10–18 would not have necessarily elicited condemnation within the cultic discourse of Samuel–Kings. 28 However, the clearly negative assessment of Ahaz in the introduction (2 Kgs 16:3–4) 29 initiates networks of memories associated with rebellious kings that in turn raise suspicion regarding the acceptability of his cultic alterations through the narratival proximity. The present narrative location of 2 Kgs 16:10–18 following narrative noting Ahaz’s pursuit of foreign favor and aid suggests an association between political and religious allegiance whereby his cultic reformations in 2 Kgs 16:10–18 become nonYahwistic by association. 30 The account of Ahaz’s reign in Kings, as a account is negative. See Christoph Levin, “Der neue Altar unter Ahaz von Juda,” in Herz (Würzburg: Echter; 2008), 55–72. For a different reconstruction of the sources behind this passage contra Levin, see Nadav Na’aman, “Royal Inscriptions and the Histories of Joash and Ahaz, Kings of Judah,” VT 48.3 (1998), 333–349 (344–348); The Priestly language employed as noted by Moshe Weinfeld (Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School [Oxford: Oxford University, 1972]:182) as well as the lack of reference to foreign deities or their worship within the temple as a result of Ahaz’s reforms supports a reading that Ahaz’s reforms maintained a Yahwistic character. See Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Oxford University, 1972), 182; Richard D. Nelson, 1 and 2 Kings (IBC; Louisville, Ky.: John Knox, 1987): esp. 225–227; Burke O. Long, 2 Kings (FOTL 10; Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans, 1991; cf. Marvin A. Sweeney, I & II Kings (OTL; Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 2007): esp. 384– 86 and Thomas Römer who argue for suggestion that there is evidence in 2 Kings 16 of Assyrian cultic practice being introduced into the temple under Ahaz. See Thomas Römer, The So-called Deuteronomistic History, 158, see also esp. n. 116. See also Nadav Na’aman, “The Deuteronomist and Voluntary Servitude to Foreign Powers,” JSOT 65 (1997), 37–53. 27 Ahaz’s new altar is only described as “the great altar” (%  in v. 15) once in 2 Kgs 16:15. The other references in the passage only use the definite noun  . 28 E.g., 2 Sam 2:1; 6:17–18; 1 Kgs 8:63; 12:32; 13:1–10; 14:1–18; 22; 2 Kgs 19:1–7; 22:11–20. 29 Nelson points out that even the negative behaviors in 2 Kgs 16:3–4 are explicitly Canaanite and thus do not add any further associations between Ahaz’s and Assyrian religious practices. See Richard D. Nelson, I & II Kings, 224. 30 This discursive focus is evident in the narrative prior to 2 Kgs 16:10–18 and in that which follows Ahaz’s account in 2 Kgs 17. Later, the focus upon Ahaz’s cultic reformation is reiterated in the description of Josiah’s restoration that names Ahaz alongside other apostate “kings of Judah” whose non-Yahwistic cultic sites and/or altars were destroyed by Josiah. These two references to Ahaz after his reign account demonstrate the

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whole, contributes to a complex, but nonetheless negative, image of Ahaz, even though certain nodes of information in the foregrounded text suggest possibly positive, or at least neutral, mnemonic footprints. Outside of 2 Kgs 16, other references to Ahaz in 2 Kgs 20:11 and Isa 38:8 are relevant to the analysis of the network of memories of Ahaz and Isaiah found in the account of Hezekiah. Hezekiah’s request for a sign is divinely answered through the location linked to Ahaz ( ). 31 Here, the situation involving Hezekiah asking for a sign is mediated through the same prophet activating several associative links between Hezekiah and Ahaz in the accounts of Kings and Isaiah, including also the foregrounded aspects of their interaction in Isa 7. The mention of Ahaz in relation to a successful confirming sign for Hezekiah, suggests an interpretation, or reinforcement, of associations between Ahaz and the discourse related to signs within the memories about these two figures. 32 This brief mention of Ahaz in 2 Kgs 20:11 and Isa 38:8, thus, demonstrates the capacity of mnemonic associations to bring separate temporal contexts into interpretational proximity with each other. 33 93F

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prominent characteristics of this king within the larger interpretational “frame”-work of the monarchy in Kings. His sinfulness, especially in relation to his reorganization of the temple, is a significant concern of the discourse of Kings. Smelik concludes that 2 Kgs 16:10–16 has no “obvious condemnation of Ahaz’s initiative,” and later concludes that the inclusion of this passage was inserted to add support for the condemnation of 2 Kgs 16:3 by creating a parallel of Ahaz’s altar with Jeroboam’s altar and calf images in 1 Kgs 12:25–13:6. See Klaas A. D. Smelik, “The New Altar of King Ahaz (2 Kings 16): Deuteronomistic Re-interpretation of a Cult Reform,” in Deuteronomy and Deuteronomic Literature: Festschrift C. H. W. Brekelmans (ed. M. Vervenne and J. Lust; Leuven: Leuven University Press/Uitgeverij Peeters, 1997), 263–278 (275–278). 31 Cf. 2 Kgs 20:8–9. 32 Sweeney notes the evoking of Isa 7 in 2 Kgs 20:11//Isa 38:8 commenting, “the reference to the ‘Dial of Ahaz’ in Isa 38:8 accentuates the contrast between the faithful Hezekiah who looks to God for his cure and the faithless Ahaz who refuses God’s offer of deliverance to turn to the Assyrian’s instead.” Marvin A. Sweeney, Isaiah 1–4 and the Post-Exilic Understanding of the Isaianic Tradition (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1988), 13. Blenkinsopp sees Hezekiah’s healing in Isa 38:1–22 as written, “with the purpose of highlighting the piety of the king by contrast with the faithless Ahaz (7:10–16) and therefore represents a further stage in the religious rehabilitation of Hezekiah.” Joseph Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 1–39: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB19; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 482. For more on   in 2 Kgs 20:11 see Jaap van Dorp, “The Prayer of Isaiah and the Sundial of Ahaz (2 Kgs 20:11),” in Prayers and Psalms (eds. Bob Becking and Eric Peels; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 253–65. 33 For comparison of accounts of confirming signs involving Isaiah, and Ahaz and Hezekiah see Isa 7:10–13, 2 Kgs 20:8–11, and Isa 38:7–8, 21–22.While Isaiah and Ahaz are never brought into proximity within Chronicles, there is one further mention relevant to Ahaz that may elicit an indirect association to Isa 7. The context of this reference in 2 Chr 32:24 is again within the account of Hezekiah’s sign thus maintaining, or reiterating, the image of Hezekiah as one who received a confirming sign from YHWH.

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These references and Ahaz’s reign account contribute to the collective memory of Ahaz and Isaiah through activating and contributing information to the nexus of memories established in the reading community, but what about the information that is missing in these accounts as compared to other accounts? In the case of these two figures, the absence of Isaiah in Kings and Chronicles account of Ahaz is one such example. While this study proposes that Chronicles reflects certain preferences for associations between Isaiah and Hezekiah over Isaiah and Ahaz, discursive frameworks can also partially address the absence of some information within accounts of the same event. While elements are shared, the distinctive discourses of Isaiah, Kings, and Chronicles do constrain the inclusion of certain memories in order to emphasize others. Within the discourse of the prophetic figures in Kings, for example, the presence of Isaiah with Ahaz would be counter-productive to the larger narrative discourse related to prophetic figures who are primarily associated with their roles in bringing accountability to kings and pronouncing judgment for false worship (e.g., 2 Kgs 17:19). In 1–2 Kings, only Hezekiah and Josiah are given positive appraisal and have prophets included in their reign accounts. Isaiah’s interaction with Hezekiah (2 Kgs 19–20) and Huldah’s interaction with Josiah (2 Kgs 22:14–20) are the only two examples of prophets functioning in Judah in the divided monarchy. The role and function of prophecy in Kings reflects the impact of discourse upon the inclusion or exclusion of information in retelling accounts of the past. The absence of Isaiah account of Ahaz in Kings, when considered in light of the relationships between kings and prophets in this narrative, communicates a negative interpretation of Ahaz. This interpretation is preferred by Chronicles who maintains Isaiah’s absence in Kings. Within the account of Ahaz in 2 Chr 28, the background of the SyroEphraimite event is shared with the account in 2 Kgs 16 and Isa 7, but the foreground introduces distinctive information linked to this event. The portion of the story that is highlighted relates the story of a devastating defeat by Syria and deportation of Judah by Israel (2 Chr 28:5–15) prior to the Assyrian intervention. 34 This dramatic scene in Chronicles presents not Isaiah, but a northern prophet, Oded, 35 who rebukes the Israelite captors 34

Japhet, 1 & II Chronicles, 895–97, 899–904. Japhet points out the emphasis within 2 Chr 28:6–15 upon the brotherhood of Judah and Israel as well as the ambivalent view towards the northern kingdom in Chronicles. See Sara Japhet, The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles and Its Place in Biblical Thought (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2009): esp. 246–61. Williamson argues that this passage is meant to elicit a reversal of the divided kingdom in 2 Chronicles 13 and a precursor to Hezekiah’s role in reunification in his Passover in 2 Chronicles 30. See Hugh G. M. Williamson, Israel in the Books of Chronicles (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), esp. 114–18. 35

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and brings about a repentant restoration and return of Judean captives (2 Chr 28:8, 11, 15). The reformation of the Israelites in this scene is significant in the larger discourse related to repentance in Chronicles and establishes an engaging contrastive associative link between the Israelites and Ahaz not found in the accounts of Kings or Isaiah. 36 The background of the unfaithful northern kingdom in Kings that repeatedly failed to heed Yahwistic prophets initiates an expectation that is upset in this scene in Chronicles. In this way, the story of the prophet Oded and the Israelites in 2 Chr 28:5–15 functions well within “inconsistency advantage” of a memory that would engage the reader by standing apart as different from the expected discourse. 37 The prophetic role of Oded, rather than Isaiah, in Chronicles’ account of Ahaz, is suggestive for the present study of the associative character of memory. Chronicles introduces prophetic intervention into the reign of Ahaz in the foregrounded events of 2 Chr 28:5–15, but does not bring the prophetic figure into proximity with Ahaz. Instead, the narrative presents a different prophet to perform a mediating role on behalf of the Judeans. For a collective memory that integrates all three accounts of Ahaz’s reign, the absence of the prophet Isaiah in the story of Ahaz is distinctive and suggestive of a mnemonic dissociation of Ahaz with any Yahwistic prophetic presence or influence. The scene of Oded intervention emphasizes the distance between Ahaz and Yahwistic mediation, and thus, develops the negative associations with this king. Not only in his dissociation from prophetic intervention, but also in the uniformity of his sinfulness, Ahaz stands out among other kings in Chronicles. Japhet points out that aside from kings whose reigns and/or narratives are brief within Chronicles, the predominant feature the remaining reign accounts is some sort of transformation in

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One of the strongest examples of this idea is the example of Manasseh in Chronicles. See Ehud Ben Zvi, “Reading Chronicles and Reshaping the Memory of Manasseh,” paper presented at the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies annual meeting in Fredericton, New Brunswick. May 30, 2011. 37 Ben Zvi points out that this episode involving Oded and the Israelites in 2 Chr 28:5–15 communicates a discourse of Chronicles in which the criteria of faithfulness is achievable by obeying YHWH’s prophets rather than through dynastic affiliation with David. Positive associative networks surrounding the Davidic kingship and the unfaithful behavior are simultaneously activated in the memory of Ahaz raising the need for engagement and mediate the tension emerging through the strain of holding contradictory ideas together. This additional criterion for faithfulness – heeding the words of the prophets – allows for the reformation of even the most negative figures (e.g., 2 Chr 28:8– 15; 33:1–20) and yet upholds the promise of the Davidic dynasty. See E. Ben Zvi, “A Gateway to the Chronicler’s Teaching: The Account of the Reign of Ahaz in 2 Chronicles 28.1–27” in History, Literature and Theology in the Book of Chronicles (London: Equinox, 2006), esp. 223–28.

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the character of the king. 38Ahaz is unique among the kings in Chronicles in that he undergoes no personal transformation. The ambiguity or complexity of his memory from Kings is significantly reduced while negative nodes are amplified and developed depicting Ahaz as persistently choosing sinful behaviors (see 2 Chr 28:1b–4, 16, 21–25) reflecting a mnemonic preference for one memory of Ahaz over others preserved in Kings and Isaiah. 39 Ahaz’s dissociation from Isaiah in Chronicles fosters a reduction of mnemonic activation of certain memories of Ahaz with the prophet Isaiah. The discursive shift in Chronicles to emphasize Hezekiah’s reign, which is given extensive narrative emphasis in 2 Chronicles 29–32, also impacts the shaping of the memory of Ahaz and Isaiah. While the mention of Isaiah in the account of Hezekiah could be interpreted as significantly less than Isaiah’s involvement in Hezekiah’s reign as presented in Kings and Isaiah, references to Isaiah in Sennacherib’s invasion in 2 Chr 32:20, 32 do suggest the importance of this prophet by naming this prophet in a scene where the majority of the characters are designated generically. The presentation of that prophet Isaiah interceded in partnership with Hezekiah in 2 Chr 32:20 elevates and associates the prophetic function of Isaiah with that of Hezekiah. 40

C. Conclusion: Mnemonic Trajectories of the Prophet Isaiah and King Ahaz The present study has concluded that the event of the Syro-Ephraimite crisis served as a sort of mnemonic anchor, or memory center, which was activated in all accounts related to Isaiah and Ahaz. With regard to the distinctive elements in these accounts of this event, the following characteristics were discussed. First, in Isa 7, the brief and unique interaction between Isaiah and Ahaz does not characterize Ahaz in an overtly negative manner. 38 Japhet notes, “…each of the remaining kings undergoes changes or transformations and is appraised in more complex terms. Rehoboam, Asa, Jehoshaphat, Joash, Amaziah, Uzziah, Hezekiah, Manasseh, and Josiah all change in some way.” Japhet, Ideology of Chronicles, 382. 39 In addition to Ahaz, only Jehoram and Zedekiah are completely wicked in Chronicles except for minor monarchs: Athaliah, Amon, Jehoiakim, and Jehoiachin. Japhet, Ideology of Chronicles, 382. This totalizing trend in characterization conveys certain rigidity or possibly advocacy of an important view or message that such a figure or his time(?) is meant to communicate to a certain community. See Nadav Na’aman, “The Deuteronomist and Voluntary Servitude to Foreign Powers,“ JSOT 65 (1997) 37–53. 40 See the prophetic language of Hezekiah’s speech in 2 Chr 32:7–8. See also Sonya Kostamo, “The Prophet Isaiah of Chronicles” (paper presented at the annual meeting of the European Association of Biblical Studies, Thessaloniki, Greece, 9 August 2011).

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The ambiguity of the speaker as YHWH or Isaiah in this exchange does suggest an enhanced gravity of Ahaz’s refusal to select a sign, but it has been concluded that it is largely from the context of this scene in the text of Isaiah that certain language in Isa 7 elicits condemnation of Ahaz. Through such comparative association with David and Hezekiah, the memory of Ahaz in this passage becomes negatively appraised. In 2 Kgs 16, the reign account of Ahaz contains distinctive associations mainly oriented around his cultic activities. While the opening of the Kings account reinforces negative character associations with Ahaz, the foregrounded episode (2 Kgs 16:10–18) preserves traces of possible previous neutral appraisals of his actions that suggest mnemonic complexity of Ahaz’s cultic alterations when read together with the entire account of his reign. In addition, the absence of Isaiah could stem from discursive frameworks in Kings related to prophecy in Judah communicating a negative interpretation of Ahaz. Second Chronicles 28 activates and contributes to the memory of Ahaz and Isaiah through the absence of Isaiah and the contrastive comparison elicited in the distinctive episode of 2 Chr 28:5–16. The elements of this scene bring the unrepentant King Ahaz into a comparative proximity with the repentant northern Israelite community who heed the Yahwistic prophet Oded contributing more negative nodes of information and association surrounding the memory of Ahaz. Overall, in Chronicles, the memories that associated Ahaz with the prophet Isaiah were not reinforced, or developed. Instead, Chronicles creates a memory of this same period that emphasizes the lack of a Yahwistic prophet functioning in Judah during the time of Ahaz and a direct divine dealing with this consistently rebellious figure. The interconnectedness of various memories of the relationship between Ahaz and Isaiah suggests an increasing complexity in the formation and expansion of the memory of Ahaz and Isaiah. For a community that integrated these images, certain foundational mnemonic nodes of information were strengthened. Distinctive information, preserved in only one the narratives, also contributed to the discourse by creating alternative retrieval routes in which new associations linked the memories of various networks. 41 As these texts were read together within the mnemonic community of Yehud, multiple networks of information retained in memory were collectively activated. When reading the book of Isaiah, for example, memories of the relationship between Ahaz and Isaiah in the various elements from Kings and Chronicles would have been activated when reading the book of Isaiah and vice versa. For readers of these texts in Yehud, the 41

See for example: Isa 1:1, 2 Kgs 20:11; 2 Chr 29:19.

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highly negative characterization of Ahaz in Chronicles, for instance, would have influenced their subsequent interpretation of Isa 7. While the unique aspects of these accounts represent a diverse image of the same event, it is important to note that the accounts do not attempt to contradict each other. Chronicles’ account of the Syro-Ephraimite crisis does not negate the accounts in Kings or Isaiah. Chronicles, does not propose, for example, that the prophet Isaiah was not present in Judah during the time of Ahaz. It works to shift the emphasis of this king upon another episode or memory that fits within the existing network of memories known from Kings and Isaiah, thus refocusing the mental gaze of the reader. The outcome of such a shift does not mean that the memory of the prophet Isaiah as a figure present in Ahaz’s time would have been forgotten. The texts of Kings and Isaiah continued to be read and reread alongside Chronicles thereby preserving these memories of their interaction. However, the presentation of the same period in Chronicles suggests that for subsequent reading communities certain collective associations between the prophet Isaiah and Ahaz were not revisited and as discursive needs of the community preferred other associations, such as the association of the prophet Isaiah with Hezekiah. A mnemonic preference in Chronicles associating of the prophet Isaiah with deliverance from Sennacherib during Hezekiah’s reign reveals a trajectory towards the dissociation of the prophet Isaiah with Ahaz. This associative strengthening of the links between Isaiah and Hezekiah is further supported in which the polarity of the characterization of Hezekiah as righteous and Ahaz as wicked increases further in the accounts of these kings in Chronicles. In this way, both similar and dissimilar nodes of information from the other traditions in the accounts of Isaiah and Kings were maintained, but emerging preferences were emphasized, thus producing a trajectory towards forgetting Ahaz with Isaiah, or at least relegation of their interaction to a more minor part of the larger shared memory. The mention of Ahaz within the accounts of Hezekiah in confirming sign of 2 Kgs 20:11 and the mention of the sign without Ahaz in the same event in 2 Chr 32:24 also support this mnemonic preference and shared interpretation of figures. The mention of Ahaz in 2 Kgs 23:12 and in 2 Chr 29:19 demonstrate that a dominant memory network related Ahaz to cultic infidelity. The association of this king with sinful behaviors was strengthened over time as demonstrated in accounts of Kings and Chronicles and contributed to the impetus for a dissociation of Ahaz with the prophet Isaiah, which did become a prominent aspect of the collective memory of Ahaz. The preference of certain associative links between Isaiah with Hezekiah along with mnemonic emphasis upon Ahaz’s sinfulness suggest a possible explanation for a diminished association of the prophet Isaiah

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with King Ahaz in comparison to other kings within Isaiah’s prophetic career. Comparative analysis of similar and dissimilar elements in the narratives related to Ahaz and Isaiah reveals how cognitive associative structures contributed to the shaping of the collective memory of the monarchic past. The present study, which has engaged only a few of the characteristics in the texts related to these two figures – the study of which requires monograph length discussions devoted to each of these figures – seeks to contribute to a better understanding of the relationship between the collective memory of the early Second Temple period and historiography in the Hebrew Bible.

YHWH’s Ways and New Creation in Deutero-Isaiah FRIEDHELM HARTENSTEIN

A. Preliminary Remarks First I would like to state some important presuppositions for my considerations: YHWH’s “ways” in the title are to be understood as part of the core message of Deutero-Isaiah. The dominant issue of the book is YHWH’s deeds, elaborated in his names which are emphasized and multiplied in Isa 40–55. A lot of new “epitheta,” hymnic participles summarizing the acts of YHWH, can be found especially in the so-called “oracles of salvation,” – better described as pronouncements of God’s answer to the people’s laments (cf. Isa 40:27–28 one of the rare examples of quotations of laments; see further Isa 45:9–10). As we will see, such an abundance of names is also characteristic for the Enuma Elish, which may have been a kind of a “dialogue partner” of Deutero-Isaiah 1 – at least this seems true for the basic literary layer of the book in Isaiah *40–46(48), which, in my opinion, is situated in Babylonia in the last decades of the sixth century B . C. E . So, the term YHWH’s “ways” was chosen for the title because, as we shall see, the Hebrew words for “road,” “path,” “way,” and “street” used in Isa 40–55, especially in the oldest texts of this corpus (Isa *40–46[48], but compare 55:8–9), have not only a concrete but also a metaphorical signifi-

1

Having said that, I do not think the author(s) of Deutero-Isaiah necessarily had the text of the Babylonian Creation Epic at hand, but they probably knew the main narrative events and the overall intentions of the Enuma Elish as well as outstanding formulations of the epic. These contents were widespread and well-known in the Babylonian culture at that time, expecially with regard to the akitu-ceremony (cf. Beate Pongratz-Leisten, Ina    : Die kulttopographische und ideologische Programmatik der   -Prozession in Babylonien und Assyrien im I. Jahrtausend v. Chr. BaghF 16. [Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 1994]; Annette Zgoll, “Königslauf und Götterrat: Struktur und Deutung des babylonischen Neujahrsfestes,” in Festtraditionen in Israel und im Alten Orient [ed. E. Blum and R. Lux; VWGTh 28; Gütersloh: Gütersloher, 2006], 11–80). For a religiohistorical comparison on the broader level of motifs, it is not necessary then to focus only on exact lexical Hebrew equivalents for Akkadian words.

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cance. 2 It is by his ways that YHWH is proclaimed as the one and only God whose plans are beyond any human comprehension. In respect to the “ways,” most scholars researching Deutero-Isaiah think first of all of the Exodus-tradition and its transformation within the book: the announced second Exodus of the Judaeans from Babylonia, guided by YHWH personally. 3 Beginning with the prologue of Isa 40, the common view is that the return of the people from exile seems to be a predominant theme of the prophetic composition. But some scholars like Odil Hannes Steck and Rudolf Kilian rightly suggested that Exodus should be evaluated as of secondary importance compared with another even more basic theme of the book: 4 the “return” of YHWH himself, which could be interpreted twofold: a) YHWH’s complete change of mind towards Jerusalem/Israel after a long period of hiding his “face” in anger (cf. Isa 52:7–10; from the latter part of the book Isa 54:8; and the prologue Isa 40:1–11, especially Isa 40:1–5 with reference back to the inaugural vision of Isa 6 5). b) YHWH’s return as a “mental image” formed against the background of similar images of Marduk in a sample of Babylonian royal inscriptions from the twelfth to the sixth century B.C.E. These texts depict Marduk’s cult-statue, coming back in splendor from different historical exiles (in Elam or Assyria). As Christina Ehring has elaborated in detail in her dis-

2

For the concrete and the metaphorical use of the words for “way” in Biblical Hebrew as well as in other semitic languages cf. G. Sauer, “&,” THAT 1:456–460; J. Bergman et al., “&,” ThWAT 2:288–312; Markus Philipp Zehnder, Wegmetaphorik im Alten Testament: Eine semantische Untersuchung der alttestamentlichen und altorientalischen Weg-Lexeme mit besonderer Berücksichtigung ihrer metaphorischen Verwendung (BZAW 268; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999). 3 Usually the following texts from Deutero-Isaiah and from later stages of the book are identified to bear Exodus-references aiming at a “new Exodus” from Babylonia that surpasses the “old” one from Egypt: Isa 40:1–11; 43:16–21; 49:7–12; 51:9–10; 52:7–12; 55:12–13; 62:10–12. Cf. Klaus Kiesow, Exodustexte im Jesajabuch: Literarkritische und Motivgeschichtliche Analysen (OBO 24; Fribourg: University Press, 1979). 4 Odil Hannes Steck, “Israel und Zion: Zum Problem konzeptioneller Einheit und literarischer Schichtung in Deuterojesaja,” in idem, Gottesknecht und Zion: Gesammelte Aufsätze zu Deuterojesaja (FAT 4; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992), 173–207 (177); Rudolf Kilian, “‘Baut eine Straße für unseren Gott!’: Überlegungen zu Jes 40,3–5,” in Künder des Wortes: Beiträge zur Theologie der Propheten (ed. L. Ruppert et al.; Würzburg: Echter, 1982), 53–60. 5 With regard to the relecture of Isa 6 in Isa 40:1–11 cf. Friedhelm Hartenstein, “‘… dass erfüllt ist ihr Frondienst’ (Jesaja 40,2): Die Geschichtshermeneutik Deuterojesajas im Licht der Rezeption von Jesaja 6 in Jesaja 40,1–11,” in idem, Das Archiv des verborgenen Gottes: Studien zur Unheilsprophetie Jesajas und zur Zionstheologie der Psalmen in assyrischer Zeit (BThSt 74; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2011), 97–125.

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sertation “Die Rückkehr JHWHs” 6 (“The Return of YHWH”), it is important to understand the theology of Deutero-Isaiah to a certain degree as a product of a critical reception of Babylonian traditions – a reception that sharpened the cultural and religious identity of the Judaeans in exile. So, for example, the older cult-traditions of Jerusalem without any anthropomorphic symbol of God (I know this is a matter of dispute 7) helped the exiles work out the markers of their new self-understanding (cf. also rituals like the Sabbath and circumcision 8). In this contribution I want to discuss an important and difficult text from Deutero-Isaiah: Isaiah 43:16–21, the famous salvation speech, where we find not only an outstanding reprise of the Exodus-theme but also the paradoxical instruction to not remember the “former things.” Instead, all attention should be given at the “new things” that YHWH is about to create at this very moment. I want to show that both the unusual allusions to the Exodus in this text as well as the link between “forgetting” and “perception” (v. 18–19), should be understood not only as an inner-Israelite reformulation of older traditions but also as a part of a discussion with the elaborate Marduk-theology of the Neo-babylonians with the Enuma Elish at the centre. 9 Stefan M. Maul in particular has deepened our understanding of this text recently, 10 and one should not underestimate the possible 6

Christina Ehring, Die Rückkehr JHWHs: Traditions- und religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zu Jesaja 40,1–11, Jesaja 52,7–10 und verwandten Texten (WMANT 116; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2007), see also her contribution in this volume. 7 For the ongoing discussion on images of YHWH and the biblical image ban, see, e.g., Karel van der Toorn, ed., The Image and the Book: Iconic Cults, Aniconism, and the Rise of Book Religion in Israel and the Ancient Near East (CBETh 21; Leuven: Peeters, 1997); Tallay Ornan, The Triumph of the Symbol: Pictorial Representation of Deities in Mesopotamia and the Biblical Image Ban (OBO 213; Fribourg: University Press/ Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005); Friedhelm Hartenstein, Das Angesicht JHWHs: Studien zu seinem höfischen und kultischen Bedeutungshintergrund in den Psalmen und in Exodus 32–34 (FAT 55; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 26–52, and, with special focus on Isa 40:3–5, Ehring, Rückkehr, 48–50, 168–169, 252–255. 8 Cf., for example, Klaus Grünwaldt, Exil und Identität: Beschneidung, Passa und Sabbat in der Priesterschrift (BBB 85; Frankfurt a. M.: Anton Hain, 1992). 9 The impact of the “Marduk-theology” on Deutero-Isaiah was stressed, for example, by Matthias Albani, Der eine Gott und die himmlischen Heerscharen: Zur Begründung des Monotheismus bei Deuterojesaja im Horizont der Astralisierung des Gottesverständnisses im Alten Orient (ABG 1; Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2000); Martin Leuenberger, “Ich bin Jhwh und keiner sonst”: Der exklusive Monotheismus des Kyros-Orakels Jes 45,1–7 (SBS 224. Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2010). 10 Cf. Stefan M Maul, “Altorientalische Schöpfungsmythen,” in Mythos und Mythologie (ed. R. Brandt and S. Schmidt; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2004), 43–53; Maul, “Der Eine und die Vielen: Überlegungen zum latenten Monotheismus im Alten Orient” (Unpublished lecture, 2009).

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impact on exilic and early-post-exilic Judaean theology. The Enuma Elish aims at the supremacy of a god who encompasses the capabilities of all others. This claim of the myth so closely connected with the state cult of Babylon was presumably a challenge for yahwistic faith. My following discussion has three parts: firstly, I will present some observations on the structure of Isa 43:16–21 (B. 1–2). Secondly, a comparison with some significant parallels from the Old Testament will help characterize the peculiarity of the text (B. 3), and thirdly, a comparison with the Enuma Elish will lead to a better understanding of YHWH’s ways in Deutero-Isaiah as a possible counterpart of the ways of Marduk (C. 1–4).

B. Observations on Isaiah 43:14–15 and 43:16–21 1. Translation and Annotations Isaiah 43:14–15 14 Thus said YHWH, your Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel: “For your sake I have sent to Babylon and I will bring down all (the) fugitives, (the) Babylonians in the ships of their rejoicing. 15 I (am) YHWH, your Holy One, the creator of Israel, your king!”

This unit deliberately precedes Isa 43:16–21 in the (redactional) composition. 11 It pronounces the downfall of Babylon in an image that corresponds on a certain level with v. 17b (both have downward movement in common). It seems not to be a historical report but imaginatively shows how the former (ceremonial?) ships are changed to vessels for fugitives obviously leaving the city. Isaiah 43:16–21 16 Thus said YHWH, who gives in the sea a road and in (the) tumultous/mighty waters a path, 17 who brings out chariot and horse, army and mighty hero together.

11

Cf. Ulrich Berges, Jesaja 40–48: Übersetzt und ausgelegt (HThKAT; Freiburg: Herder, 2008), 293; Joseph Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 40–55: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 19A; New York: Doubleday, 2002), 226–228.

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20

21

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They lay down, they cannot rise, they have flickered away, like a wick they are quenched: “Do not remember former things and earlier events do not meditate! Behold, I am about to make/create a new thing, it is now that it sprouts! Don’t you recognize it? Yes, I will set in the desert a road, in the wasteland paths (with 4QIsaa). They will pay reverence to me – the beast of the field, jackals and ostriches; for I give in the desert water, streams in the wasteland, to water my people, my chosen. The people I formed for me, my praise they shall tell!”

There is no consensus as to what form of speech is used in this unit, but note as an important factor that the addressees are in the second person plural; in v. 20 the perspective moves to the third person plural like in Westermann’s “Heilsankündigungen” 12 (“Pronouncements of Salvation,” cf. Isa 41:17–20). 2. Some Observations on the Individual Unit Many aspects of vv. 16–17 have a counterpart (corresponding or antithetic) in vv. 19b–21. Note especially the parallel of “road” (&) and “path(s)” (/) in sea and desert in vv. 16 and 19b (with 4QIsaa; MT has  “streams”). Note further that YHWH “gives” () the road or the “water” in the desert (vv. 16, 20): Isa 43:16 // 19b: Road, path(s) // Road, path(s) Isa 43:16 // 20: YHWH gives a road in the sea // YHWH gives in the desert water

Note further the peculiar and somewhat strange depiction of the end of the military power symbolized in v. 17 by chariot, horse, army, and mighty hero: “They lay down, they cannot rise.” The Hebrew Verb  in the imperfect 13 and the negative expression with  + imperfect of # hint at a permanent state of being unable to any further activity, but not necessarily at death (which is certainly not excluded with the following perfect-forms in v. 17bE): 16F

12

Cf. Claus Westermann, Sprache und Struktur der Prophetie Deuterojesajas (CThM 11; Stuttgart: Calwer, 1981), 37–41. 13 Cf. Wilhelm Gesenius, Hebräisches und Aramäisches Handwörterbuch über das Alte Testament (ed. R. Meyer and H. Donner; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1987–2010), 1350– 1351.

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Isa 43:17 // 20–21: Army and hero lay down in silence vs. beast and chosen people pay respect/praise Isa 43:17 // 20: Army and hero cannot rise // have flickered away vs. chosen people are watered = revitalized

The beginning of the speech of YHWH (vv. 18–19a) is the centre of the unit: “Do not remember the former things // Behold, I create something new”: Isa 43:18 // 19a: Former things // earlier events vs. a new thing // it sprouts Isa 43:18 // 19a: Not remember // not meditate vs. (don’t) you recognize

In a linear reading, v. 21 is the final aim of the unit: The revival of YHWH’s chosen people (and the non-human world, cf. v. 20, and Isa 40:5) by watering the desert (a keen hyperbole compared to the narratives of water in the desert in Exodus and Numbers). The sentence “the people I formed for me, my praise they shall tell!” makes finally clear that YHWH has created his people for one purpose: to tell his praise, which is (of course) the praise of his deeds, of the new things at stake. In the near future, when YHWH has realized his pronouncements of salvation, Israel will sing about YHWH’s greatness (cf. the somewhat similar concept of Exod 15:15–17; Ps 100). 3. Significant Old Testament Parallels to Isaiah 43:16–21 with Focus on Deutero-Isaiah It is only by comparison with other texts that the profile of an individual unit becomes significant in its context. So, the following subdivision of the article focuses on some key words and concepts in Isaiah 43:16–21 and demonstrates how these could be judged in light of parallel occurrences with respect to semantics and history of tradition. 3.1 Isaiah 43:16 // 19b YHWH’s Ways (His “Road” and “Path”) There are three significant Old Testament parallels for the imagery of “road” and “path” in Isaiah 43:16, 19b 14 which shed further light on the specific meaning of these words in their context: Isa 40:3; Neh 9:11; and Isa 42:13, 14–16:

14

For this imagery in Isa 43:16, 19b see Berges, Jesaja 40–48, 297–298.

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a) Isaiah 40:3 Isa 43:16 Thus said YHWH, who gives in the sea () a road (&) and in (the) tumultous/mighty waters (  ) a path ()

Isa 40:3 A voice proclaims: “In the desert ( ) clear YHWH’s road ( &), make smooth in the wilderness a street ( ) for our god!”

There is a connection to the prologue of the book as stated above (cf. A). YHWH returns on a road with supernatural features (40:3–5), a detail which aims at the renewal of his visibility. It is not a cult statue which returns, but his “glory” (), a term from the Jerusalem temple tradition which is always open for reciprocity. 15 See in Isa 43:20 how the inhabitants of desert regions (corresponding to “all flesh” in Isa 40:5?), pay their reverence to YHWH (verb ). Note that the desert, undeniably a realm of chaos, seems to be transformed into a cosmos responding to YHWH’s deeds (Isa 43:19–20). 18F

b) Nehemiah 9:11 Isa 43:16 Thus said YHWH, who gives in the sea () a road (&) and in (the) tumultuous/mighty waters (  ) a path ()

Neh 9:11 And the sea () you divided before them, and they went through the midst of the sea on dry land, and their persecutors you threw into (the) deeps like a stone into tumultuous/mighty waters ( )

Of the many possible references to the Exodus-theme 16 I took only one, and not from the Pentateuch: Neh 9:11, the only occurrence of the term  “tumultous/migthy waters” apart from Isa 43:16. The text exemplifies that with respect to the Exodus-traditions Isa 43:16–17 is really something special. 17 Not only is an explicit division of the waters missing, there is 19F

120F

15

Cf. Moshe Weinfeld, “” ThWAT 4:23–40; Friedhelm Hartenstein, Die Unzugänglichkeit Gottes im Heiligtum: Jesaja 6 und der Wohnort JHWHs in der Jerusalemer Kulttradition (WMANT 75; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1997), 66– 82; Thomas Wagner, Gottes Herrlichkeit: Bedeutung und Verwend 

  

im Alten Testament (VTSup 151; Leiden: Brill, 2012), 168–193. 16 Cf. the contribution of Diana Edelman in this volume. 17 Berges, Jesaja 40–48, notes this peculiarity and concludes that the Exodus-motif is transformed here to illustrate YHWH’s creative force (297–298): “Im Kontext des Schilfmeerwunders ist die Parallelisierung in Jes 43,16 von & ‘Weg’ und  ‘Pfad’ ungewöhnlich, denn das zweite Nomen begegnet sonst nie in diesem Zusammenhang, wohl aber in der maskulinen Form in Ijob 41,24, zusammen mit dem Chaosmotiv, wo der Leviathan einen leuchtenden Pfad hinter sich herzieht. Stehen beide Worte zusammen, so bezeichnen sie den menschlichen Lebenswandel (Jes 42,16; 59,8; Jer 6,16; 18,15; Hos 2,8; Ijob 24,13; Spr 1,15; 3,17; 7,25; 8,2; 12,28; Klgl 3,9). Der Bezug zu Jes 42,16, wo JHWH Blinde auf einem Weg und Pfad gehen lässt, den sie nicht kennen, ist besonders eng. Auch dort steht dies im Zusammenhang einer radikalen Naturverwandlung (Jes

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also no hint that the “laying down” of the “host” in v. 17 is to be imagined in the waters at all. The “flickering away” as well as the simile of the quenched wick supports this impression. c) Isaiah 42:14–16 Isa 43:16 Thus said YHWH, who gives in the sea () a road (&) and in (the) tumultuous/mighty waters (  ) a path ()

Isa 43:19b Yes, I will set in the desert ( ) a road (&), in the wasteland paths ( with 4QIsaa; MT:  streams).

Isa 42:13 YHWH – like a hero (%) he goes forth (' Qal)

Isa 42:14–16 14 I have been silent since a very long time, was still, restrained myself – (but) like a woman giving birth I (now) cry out loud […] 15 I will make waste mountains and hills […], I will turn streams () into islands and dry up lakes. 16 And I will lead (the) blind on a road (& ) they do not know, on paths () they do not know, I make them walk. I turn darkness before them into light, rugged places into a plain.

In the salvation speech of Isa 42:14–16 we find the only occurrence of both “road” (&) and “paths” () in Deutero-Isaiah other than Isa 43:16, 19. Like in wisdom traditions, both words are used here as metaphors for ways of life and for human behaviour. 18 It seems therefore that the ways of YHWH in Isa 43:16, 19 (in sea and desert) should be considered as comparable extensive expressions for his special ways of acting which characterize him as the one and only God. They are not only references to the Exodus; with respect to the previous verses, YHWH’s ways in Isa 42:14–16 are also like the ways of a hero in battle (Isa 42:13), who as victorious king transforms chaos into cosmos, and sometimes vice versa (Isa 42:15–16). 12F

42,15). Die spezielle Ausgestaltung des Exodusmotivs an dieser Stelle weist darauf hin, dass es nicht nur um die Reminiszenz an das einstige Geschehen geht, sondern um die umfassende Ermöglichung neuen Lebens durch den befreienden Gott […].” 18 Bergman et al., ThWAT 2:308–309.

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3.2 Isaiah 43:17 “Who brings out chariot and horse” a) Isaiah 40:26 Isa 43:17 who brings out (' ) chariot and horse, army () and mighty hero () together. They lay down (), they cannot rise, they have flickered away, like a wick they are quenched:

Isa 40:26 Lift up your eyes on high, and see: who has created these? He who brings out (' ) by number their host ('), calls them all by name; among the many mighty ones (  ), strong with power, no one is missing.

As often recognized, there is just one parallel to the participle '  (“The one who brings out/leads out”) in Deutero-Isaiah; it is found in the long disputation-speech of Isa 40:12–31, which is, for most scholars, an introductory part of the first literary layer of the book. It is important to note that we find here YHWH as the creator of the heavens and all its “host” of stars and heavenly bodies. This serves as an actual evidence of his capabilities to rescue und revive his lamenting people (cf. Isa 40:27– 31). The parallel shows that likewise in Isa 43:17, YHWH, the creator, is in control of every aspect of the world, even the mighty forces of “chariot and horse” on the level of history. Thus the image of the enemies in v. 17 has the double connotation of political and military power and of mythic adversaries, but they lack any capability to act on their own (they are “brought out” [' Hif.] by YHWH as a demonstration of his unrivaled rule over the whole earth). b) Psalm 24:8 Isa 43:17 who brings out (' ) chariot and horse, army () and mighty hero () together. They lay down (), they cannot rise, they have flickered away, like a wick they are quenched:

Ps 24:8 “Who is this King of Glory?” “YHWH mighty hero () and warrior (%) YHWH, warrior of battle (  %)!”

There is also only one other instance of the term  in the Old Testament, which I translated as “mighty hero” in Isa 43:17. In Ps 24:8, a part of an old fragment of the pre-exilic Jerusalem temple tradition (Ps 24:7–10 19), it is YHWH himself who is called , and, in parallel, “warrior of battle” 12F

19

Cf. Frank-Lothar Hossfeld and Erich Zenger, Die Psalmen: Psalmen 1–50 (NEchtB. Würzburg: Echter, 1993), 156–161; Hartenstein, Die Unzugänglichkeit, 91–99; Hartenstein, “Wettergott – Schöpfergott – Einziger: Kosmologie und Monotheismus in den Psalmen,” in JHWH und die Götter der Völker (ed. F. Hartenstein and M. Rösel; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2009), 77–97 (89); Reinhard Müller, Jahwe als Wettergott: Studien zur althebräischen Kultlyrik anhand ausgewählter Psalmen (BZAW 387; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008), 147–167.

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(  %). In my opinion there can be little doubt that this symbolism of military power – which in Ps 24 is attributed to YHWH, the “king of glory” ( & ) – should be understood in Isa 43:17 as a transparent reference not only to the military prowess of Egypt and Babylonia, but to the figure of a “divine warrior,” – presumably Marduk – as well. If this is true, the passage in Isa 43:17 is not at all referring to an actual chaos battle, but, on the contrary, it is an image of YHWH’s world domination and monotheism. Using metaphors not only from Old Testament traditions but from Babylonian praises of Marduk’s greatness as well, Isa 43:17 seems to contradict the fascination some of the Judaean addressees might have felt in this respect. The final comparison with the Enuma Elish will shed further light on the possibility of such an interpretation (C). 3.3 Isaiah 43:18 “Do not remember former things” Isaiah 46:8–11 Isa 43:18 “Do not remember () former things () and earlier events ( #) do not meditate (Hitpol.)!”

Isa 46:8–11 8 Remember this () and stand firm (?), take it to heart, you rebellious ones! 9 Remember () former things () from very long time ago ( ): that I am God, and no one else, Deity, and absolutely none like me. 10 Proclaiming last things ( with 4QIsaa/c; MT: ) from (the) beginning ( ), and from ancient time (# ) what has not (yet) made, saying: “My counsel shall stand, and all my good pleasure I carry out!” 11 Calling from the east a bird of prey, from a distant land the man of my counsel. Yes, I have spoken, yes, I bring it. I formed it, I will make it.

The problem of understanding the paradoxical instruction “Do not remember former things” in Isa 43:18 is enhanced if one recalls the contradictory expressions in Isa 46:8–11, where v. 9 invites the reader to “Remember former things,” referring to YHWH as the incomparable and only God since the most distant times ( ). Reading the contexts leads to the conclusion that in Isa 43:18 the focus is not on forgetting the past once and for all. Also, the common interpretation that the object the people shall not remember is the catastrophic events which led to exile, is only partly convincing. Rather, the act of not remembering in Isa 43:18 seems – in addition and without excluding the sense of “getting rid of the past” – to aim at the full capacity of perception: “Don’t you recognize?” The people shall turn their undivided attention towards the “new things” (cf. further Isa

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42:9; 48:6). Isaiah 46:11 shows that these “new things” first of all aim at the rise of Cyrus, which Deutero-Isaiah claims to be the work of YHWH alone (cf. Isa 44:24–45:7[8]). How are YHWH’s abilities to create something new and to keep down chaotic forces further connected? To answer this question it is promising to compare Isa 43:16–21 with some aspects of the Enuma Elish.

C. Isaiah 43:16–21, Isaiah 40:26, and Marduk’s Ways according to the Enuma Elish The Enuma Elish, presumably from the time of Nebuchadnezzar I (12th century B.C.E.), was the “state myth” of Babylonia (and also of Assyria since Sennacherib) during the 1st millenium B.C.E. 20 It was closely connected at that time with the akitu-festival, the New Year’s ceremony. 21 The complex poem incorporates many Mesopotamian mythic traditions. 22 It aims at the supremacy of Marduk as the one god who is able to respond to every need of gods and men. The poem starts and ends with the concept of naming. Tablets VI–VII contain the final list of Marduk’s Fifty Names which as a whole summarize his heroic deeds of battle and creation and demonstrate thereby that Marduk encompasses many features and personalities of other important gods of Mesopotamia. If one reads the poem from Tablets IV–VI, there are some outstanding elements in the sequence of actions which seem to coincide with Isa 43:16–17: 23

20

See Thorkild Jacobsen, The Treasures of Darkness: A History of Mesopotamian Religion (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976), 167–191; Wilfred G. Lambert, “Enuma elisch,” in TUAT 3 (ed. O. Kaiser; Gütersloh: Gütersloher, 1994), 565–602; Benjamin Robert Foster, Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature (Bethesda, Md.: CDL Press, ³2005), 436–486; Philippe Talon, . The Standard Babylonian Creation Myth: Introduction, Cuneiform Text, Transliteration, and Sign List with a Translation and Glossary in French (SAACT IV. Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2005). 21 Cf. Pongratz-Leisten,   , and Zgoll, “Königslauf.” 22 Cf. Lambert, “Ninurta Mythology in the Babylonian Epic of Creation,” in Keilschriftliche Literaturen: Ausgewählte Vorträge der XXXII. Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Münster, July 8–12, 1985 (ed. K. Hecker and W. Sommerfeld; BBVO 6; Berlin: Dietrich Reimer, 1986), 55–60. 23 The following quotations of the Enuma Elish are always taken from the translation by Foster, Before the Muses; the Akkadian words in brackets follow the transliteration by Talon,  (line-numbers after Talon; italics in the quotations by FH).

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1 Isaiah 43:17 “Who brings out chariot and horse” Isa 43:16–17 16 Thus said YHWH, who gives in the sea a road and in (the) tumultous/mighty waters a path, who brings out (' ) chariot and horse, army () and mighty hero () together.

Enuma Elish Tablet IV: The battle against Tiamat, her army and allies 33–34: “The gods, his fathers, ordained the Lord’s destiny, On the path ( ) to success and authority did they set him marching ( ).” (Foster, 458) 50–54: “He mounted the terrible chariot (the storm chariot …, the terrible one), the unopposable Storm Demon, He hitched to it the four-steed team, he tied them at his side: ‘Slaughterer,’ ‘Merciless,’ ‘Overwhelmer,’ ‘Soaring.’ Their lips are curled back, their teeth bear venom, They know not fatigue, they are trained to trample down.” (Foster, 458) 59–60: “The Lord made straight and pursued his way ( um), Toward raging Tiamat he set his face.” (Foster, 459)

17 They lay down (), they cannot rise, they have flickered away, like a wick they are quenched:

111–114 (the gods, her allies): “He drew them in and smashed their weapons. They were cast in the net and sat in a heap, They were heaped up in the corners, full of woe, They were bearing punishment, to prison confined.” (Foster, 461)

Tablet IV tells how Marduk proved his ability to be king by acting as a victorious divine warrior. The gods, in preparation, “set him marching … on the path ( um) to success and authority.” He mounted his “terrible (Storm-) chariot” with the unstoppable four horses and “made straight and pursued his way ( ) toward raging Tiamat.” After he had killed Tiamat, he caught her divine allies with his net and there “they sat in a heap.” Note that afterwards Marduk pardoned them, but the image of the motionless adversaries on the ground could very well be an equivalent to Isa 43:17: “They lay down and cannot rise.” And further, it seems that the author of Isa 43:16–17 imagined YHWH as a divine warrior even more skillful than Marduk; when YHWH “brings out chariot and horse” in Isa 43:17 (cf. Isa 40:26) he is the lord of history of all mankind (nothing happens without his domination, note again the word  “mighty hero” in Isa 43:17, used otherwise only in Ps 24:8 for YHWH himself, see B. 3.2b).

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2 Isaiah 40:26 “He who brings out by number their host” Isa 40:26 Lift up your eyes on high, and see: who has created these? He who brings out (' ) by number their host ('), calls them all by name; among the many mighty ones (  ), strong with power, no one is missing.

Enuma Elish Tablet V: The creation of the world order 5–8: “After he had patterned the days of the year, He fixed the position of Neberu (= Marduk’s star [Jupiter?]) to mark the (stars’) relationships Lest any make an error or go astray, He established the position(s) of Enlil and Ea in relation to it.” (Foster, 463) Enuma Elish Tablet VII: The names of Marduk 15–18 (Name 14: Ziukkenna, second Tutuname): “ZIUKKENNA, life of [his] masses, Who established the holy heavens for the gods, Who took control of where they went, assigned their stations, He shall not be forgotten by teeming humankind, [let them hold fast to] his [deeds].” (Foster, 476f)

Isaiah 40:26, the only other instance where the participle '  “He who brings out” is used in Deutero-Isaiah, has the heavenly bodies/beings (the “host”) as the object of YHWH’s inspection. On Tablet V of Enuma Elish, Marduk establishes the cosmic order by making the firm bond between heaven and earth and installing the heavenly stations of the gods (reassured as “not [to] be forgotten” by humankind in the explanation of the 14th name on Tablet VII). Marduk’s own star, Neberu (Jupiter?), is the mark of this eternal order. It is stated that no star could “go astray” – an impressive counterpart to “no one is missing” (of the stars) in Isa 40:26. 3 Isaiah 43:19 “Behold, I am about to make/create a new thing” Isa 43:19 19 Behold, I am about to make/create a new thing

Enuma Elish Tablet VI: The final works of creation 1–2: “When [Mar]duk heard the speech of the gods (= end of Tablet V [152]: “‘Our king’ … [shall be your name]”), He was resolving to make artful things (= creation of mankind)” (Foster, 469). Enuma Elish Tablet VII: The names of Marduk 115–118 (Name 46): “GIBIL, who maintained the … of the weapon, Who because of the battle with Tiamat can create artful things, Profound of wisdom, ingenious in perception, Whose heart is so

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it is now that it sprouts! Don’t you recognize it?

1–2 (Name 10: Asari): “ASARI, bestower of cultivation, who established surveys, Creator of grain and fibrous plants, who causes vegetation to sprout […]” (Foster, 476)

At the beginning of Tablet VI, Marduk is the acclaimed and successful king of the gods (see the end of Tablet V: “Our king … [shall be your name]”). He is free to do whatever comes to mind. The following works of creation are not prescribed by the events like before, but they are his own decision in his royal heart: “When [Mar]duk heard the speech of the gods, he was resolving to make artful things” (= creation of humankind). The explanation of the 46th name on Tablet VII resumes this with more clarity: “Who because of the battle with Tiamat can create artful things, profound of wisdom, ingenious in perception, whose heart is so deep that none of the gods can comprehend it.” 24 The same sequence of domination of enemies and consequently the will to create “something new” seems to be true for Isa 43:16–19, but with the significant difference that YHWH is victorious king from the very beginning of creation and does not have to prove his abilities in any actual battle. Note further that Marduk also encompasses elements of weather- and vegetation-gods; he is the one “who causes vegetation to sprout” (explanation of the tenth name, Tablet VII), cf. “it is now that it sprouts” for the “new things” in Isa 43:19. 4. The Fifty Names of Marduk (Tablet VI–VII): “They shall tell of his ways, without forgetting” 4.1 The Function of the Fifty Names Frame of Tablet VI and VII

24

VI:121–122: “Let us pronounce his fifty names, That his ways ( ) shall be (thereby) manifest, his deeds likewise (?):” (Foster, 473)

See for this topic of Marduk’s greatness also the hymn at the beginning of the Babylonian Poem of the Righteous Sufferer (I:29–32), cf. Amar Annus, and Alan Lenzi,  . The Standard Babylonian Poem of the Righteous Sufferer: Introduction, Cuneiform Text, and Transliteration with a Translation and Glossary (SAACT VII; Helsinki: The Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2010), 16 (transliteration), 31–32 (translation): “The Lord, he sees [eve]rything in the heart of the gods, But no on[e among the god]s knows his way ( ). Marduk, he sees [eve]rything in the heart of the gods, But no god can learn his counsel” (italics in the Original).

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Marduk encompasses all gods

VII:143–144: “The great gods called his fifty names, ‘The Fifty’, they made his position supreme.” (Foster, 484)

Marduk’s ways make his position supreme

VI:119–120: (on the different offerings to the gods and Marduk’s role): “Let the people of this land be divided as to gods, (But) by whatever name we call him, let him be our god.” (Foster, 473) VII: 97–98 (Name 39): “ARANUNNA, counsellor of Ea, fairest (?) of the gods [his] fathers, Whose noble ways ( ) no god whatever could equal.” (Foster, 481)

The overall function of “pronouncing the Fifty Names” at the end of Enuma Elish is “That his ways ( ) shall be (thereby) manifest, his deeds likewise (?).” (Tablet VI:122). By calling Marduk by all his names, the gods “made his position supreme.” And the calling of all his names by “the people of this land,” “who are divided as to gods,” means that Marduk is one: “(But) by whatever name we call him, let him be our god.” And at last it is king Marduk “whose noble ways ( ) no god whatever could equal.” 4.2 Explanations of Names Corresponding to Isaiah 43:16–21

Isa 43:21 The people I formed for me, my praise they shall tell!” (cf. Isa 43:15 Creator of Israel)

Praise of the people, whom Marduk created VI:106–108 (The second name, Asalluhi, given by Anshar): “His lordship shall be supreme, he shall have no rival, He shall be the shepherd of the people of this land, his creatures. They shall tell of his ways (alaktu), without forgetting, in the future.” (Foster, 473) VII:30–32 (Name 16: Agaku, fourth Tutu-name): “AGAKU […], The merciful (= through his healing sacral spell), whose power is to revive, Word of him shall endure, not to be forgotten, In the mouth of the people of this land, whom his hands have created.” (Foster, 477) VII:89 (Name 35): “GISHNUMUNAB, creator of all people, who made the world regions” (Foster, 481)

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Isa 43:20 for I give in the desert water, streams in the wasteland,

Establisher of watering places VI:123–124 (Name 1: Marduk): “MARDUK! Who, from his birth, was named by his forefather Anu, Establisher of pasture, and watering place […]” (Foster, 474) VII:57–60 (Name 24: Enbilulu, first Enbilulu-name): “ENBILULU, lord who made them flourish, is he, The mighty one who named them, who instituted offerings, Who established grazing and watering places for the land, Who opened channels, apportioned abundant waters.” (Foster, 479) VII:61–63 (Name 25: Epadun, second Enbilulu-name): “EPADUN, lord of open country and flood (?), Irrigator of heaven and earth, former of furrows, who formed the sacred (?) plowland in the steppe, Who regulated dike and ditch, who delimited the plowed land.” (Foster, 479)

Isa 43:17 They lay down, they cannot rise, they have flickered away, like a wick they are quenched:

Keeping Tiamat subdued VII:130–134 (Name 49): “NEBERU […] He shall maintain the motions of the stars of heaven, He shall herd all the gods like sheep. He shall keep Tiamat subdued, he shall keep her life cut short, In the future of humankind, with the passing of time, She shall always be far off, she shall be distant forever.” (Foster, 483)

Marduk is “creator of the people of this land” or “of all people” – not unlike YHWH in Isa 43:21. And, as it is stated in the explanation of the second name, because he created and guides the people “They shall tell of his ways ( ), without forgetting.” So the final aim of Enuma Elish is to remember Marduk’s ways as an unequaled warrior and supreme king, and one who establishes watering places and life by keeping Tiamat (and chaos as a whole) subdued. The explanation of the important 49th Neberuname (probably Jupiter, Marduk’s star, the sign of heavenly order) finally gives a hint that the forces of chaos – even after Tiamat became part of the world’s structure – must be subdued forever: “he shall keep her life cut short.” Maybe this opens an even deeper insight into the interpretation of the “laying down” of the host in Isa 43:17. It should be understood then in the light of the primeval keeping out of any chaotic force: All actual and

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possible events of history play within an ordered world from the very beginning. There is no place for chaos outside YHWH’s will (cf. the later creation theology of wisdom like in Ps 104:5–9 or Job 38:8–11). While Enuma Elish is about remembering Marduk’s greatness, DeuteroIsaiah in Isa 43:19 aims at something more: “YHWH’s new things” that can only be perceived when Israel learns to interrupt remembering and focus on YHWH’s imminent works of new creation. This is described in more detail in the deepest reflection on YHWH’s ways in the book of Deutero-Isaiah (Isa 55:6–11, the later epilogue of the book): 8 For my thoughts are not your thoughts, and your ways (&) are not my ways (&), – a word of YHWH – 9 For, as heaven is high above the earth, so high are my ways (&) above your ways (&), and my thoughts above your thoughts. 10 For as the rain comes down, and the snow from heaven and returns not there without having watered the earth and fertilized it, and let it sprout giving seed for the sower and bread for the eater; 11 so will my word be which goes out of my mouth: it will not return to me empty, until it has accomplished what I purpose and carried out what I sent it to do.

YHWH’s Return in Isaiah 40:1–11* and 52:7–10: Pre-exilic Cultic Traditions of Jerusalem and Babylonian Influence CHRISTINA EHRING

A. Introduction Times of crisis can be times of exceptional intellectual productiveness. When accustomed patterns of thought no longer work, new strategies and concepts have to be developed. For ancient Israel the destruction of Jerusalem and its temple in 587 B.C.E. was such a crisis which stimulated theological activity. This essay deals with one of the many aspects of how ancient Israel’s religious concepts changed during the Babylonian exile: Which role did the physical distance from Jerusalem play in the transformation process of Israel’s religious traditions during the Babylonian exile? And how important was the role which Zion/Jerusalem continued to play during the exile? As we know from early exilic texts such as Lam 5 or Ps 74, the Babylonian destruction of the city of Jerusalem and especially the loss of the temple were a great challenge for those whose belief and cultic traditions had been focused on the temple on Mount Zion as the residence of their God. 1 What was the situation at the end of the exile? Did the memory of God’s place of residence survive? When we are searching for biblical texts from the late-exilic time in which Jerusalem as YHWH’s residence plays an important role, we think of Ezekiel’s famous vision of the   leaving Jerusalem. Furthermore, there is Isa 40–55, which not only in the latter chapters 2 but already 129F

1

See, e.g., Friedhelm Hartenstein, Die Unzugänglichkeit Gottes im Heiligtum: Jesaja 6 und der Wohnort JHWHs in der Jerusalemer Kulttradition (WMANT 75; NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1997), 229–50; Michael Emmendörffer, Der ferne Gott: Eine Untersuchung der alttestamentlichen Volksklagelieder vor dem Hintergrund der mesopotamischen Literatur (FAT 21; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 64 and following. 2 In Isa 49–55 the text particularly addresses Zion, who is depicted as an abandoned and childless woman and whose fate will presently change when YHWH comes back to her.

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right in the beginning focuses on Zion/Jerusalem as YHWH’s place of residence in a special way, which makes a closer look worthwhile. It is not by accident that right in the beginning of Second Isaiah, in Isa 40:1–11*, YHWH’s return to Zion is proclaimed. For some scholars this “prologue” and its corresponding “epilogue” in Isaiah 52:7–10 form the frame of Second Isaiah’s core layer 3 – in my opinion not a frame that was added secondarily but that already formed an essential part of Second Isaiah’s message from the beginning. In the following, this chapter will show that the idea of YHWH’s return to Zion is fundamental for understanding of Second Isaiah’s core layer. Thereby, we will see how exilic theology in Babylon could be exclusively centered on Jerusalem while at the same time influenced by Babylonian culture and traditions.

B. YHWH’s return in Isaiah 40:1–11* and Isaiah 52:7–10 It has long been noticed that Isa 40:1–5.9–11* 4 and Isa 52:7–10 are related to each other. Both texts describe YHWH’s return as a king to Zion/Jerusalem. In Isa 40, the kingly return is described with two images: YHWH is the victorious warrior whose “arm rules for him” (v. 10) and he is the caring shepherd (v. 11). 5 Isaiah 52:7–10 explicitly speaks of YHWH 3 Cf. Reinhard Gregor Kratz, Kyros im Deuterojesaja-Buch: Redaktionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zu Entstehung und Theologie von Jes 40–55 (FAT 1; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1991), 148–9; Jürgen van Oorschot, Von Babel zum Zion: Eine literarkritische und redaktionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung (BZAW 206; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1993), 106–27. 4 Different solutions have been proposed with regard to the literary unity of Isa 40:1–11. The only point at which a consensus seems to be achieved is that v. 6–8 are regarded as a later addition to its context (relating to Isa 55:6–13). For a summary of the discussion, see Christina Ehring, Die Rückkehr JHWHs: Traditions- und religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zu Jesaja 40,1–11, Jesaja 52,7–10 und verwandten Texten (WMANT 116; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2007), 11–18. In the following discussion, Isa 40:1–5, 9–11 is regarded as a literary unity. 5 “Shepherd” is one of the most common titles for a ruler in the ancient Near East. The inscriptions of Nabonidus use it particularly frequently, see, e.g., the Imgur-Ellil-Cylinder, ex. 2, col. I, l. 2; col. II, l. 16.18; the Emašdari-Cylinder, ex. 1, col. I, l. 19, the EbabbarEkurra-Cylinder, ex. 1, col. I, l. 2; the E’igikalamma-Cylinder, ex. 1, col. I, l. 6f.12.20; the E’amaškuga-Cylinder, col. I, l. 8; the En-nigaldi-Nanna-Cylinder, col. I, l. 11; the EbabbarCylinder, ex. 1, col. I, l. 5, etc. For transliteration and German translation of all texts see Hanspeter Schaudig, Die Inschriften Nabonids von Babylon und Kyros’ des Großen samt den in ihrem Umfeld entstandenen Tendenzschriften (AOAT 256; Münster: UgaritVerlag, 2001). Also cf. for H ‘û(m) AHw, 977, B, no. 1; for ‘û  AHw, 978, no. 2; and the evidence listed by Marie-Joseph Seux, Épithètes Royales Akkadiennes et Suméri-

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being/becoming king (52:7b) and describes his return as the return of a king to his city of residence. Both texts are focused on Zion/Jerusalem as the central place of YHWH’s kingly presence, and their structure clearly shows that they presume a concept of the world that is based on the distinction between centre and periphery. 6 In Isa 40, the way of YHWH’s return runs from the desert, the utmost periphery (see Isa 40:3–5), to the centre, Mount Zion. From there, the text turns its view away from the centre again as Zion/Jerusalem is asked to spread the good news as a messenger to the surrounding cities of Judah. The same structure can be found in Isa 52:7–10. The text starts with the depiction of a messenger coming across the mountains towards Zion to proclaim to her the message of YHWH’s return (v. 7). Subsequently, this return is described as an action watched from Zion (by its watchmen) and also running from the periphery towards Zion (v. 7b–9). Finally, the view turns around towards the worldwide audience again, “all the ends of the earth,” which are obviously situated in the periphery (v. 10). In both texts, YHWH’s return to Zion/Jerusalem, his former place of residence, marks the turning point from the past time of hardship to the new era of salvation. Isa 40:1–2 looks back at the time of distress, calling it YHWH’s punishment for Jerusalem’s sins. 7 Isa 52:7–10 also looks at the catastrophe in retrospect, but its allusion to it is even more subtle: the ruins of Jerusalem are asked to rejoice in response to the city’s redemption and the comfort for God’s people (v. 9). Here, we see another indication for the connection between Isa 40:1–11* and Isa 52:7–10 as “prologue” and “epilogue” of Second Isaiah’s oldest layer: while in Isa 40:1 the prophets 8 are summoned to comfort YHWH’s people, Isa 52:9 already looks back on this comfort. The most interesting parallel between Isa 40:1–5, 9–11 and Isa 52:7–10 is that both texts accentuate the visual perceptibility of YHWH’s return. Isa 40:5 speaks of YHWH’s “splendor” () being revealed in front of ennes (Paris: Letouzey & Ané, 1967), 244 and following (  ‘û) and 441 and following (sipa). 6 For the “symbolism of the centre” in ancient Near Eastern concepts of the world see Hartenstein, Unzugänglichkeit, 21–23, and Bernd Janowski, “Die heilige Wohnung des Höchsten: Kosmologische Implikationen der Jerusalemer Tempeltheologie,” in Gottesstadt und Gottesgarten: Zu Geschichte und Theologie des Jerusalemer Tempels (QD 191; ed. Othmar Keel, and Erich Zenger. Freiburg: Herder, 2002), 24–68 (36–37). 7 “Jerusalem” and “my people” in Isa 40:1–2 seem to be used as parallel terms. 8 The question of the addressees of Isa 40:1 still remains unanswered. To me it seems most plausible to think of Israel’s prophets as the addressees of YHWH’s order to comfort his people. Joseph Blenkinsopp argues similarly, Isaiah 40–55: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 19A; New York: Doubleday, 2002), 179.

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all flesh. And the three exclamations of the messenger, opened three times with , invite the cities of Judah to watch YHWH as he returns (Isa 40:9b–10). In Isa 52:7–10, Zion’s watchmen see “eye to eye” ( ) how YHWH returns to Zion (v. 8) and the peoples as well as all the ends of the earth see the positive impact of YHWH’s exposed arm and his acts of salvation for his people (v. 10). It is noteworthy that in spite of this accumulation of terms of visual perception there is no concrete description of the figure of the returning YHWH. Instead, the texts use mental images – the kingly warrior, the shepherd, the returning king – and otherwise focus on the circumstances and consequences of God’s return, namely, the audience (i.e., Jerusalem, its ruins, its watchmen, the cities of Judah, all flesh, all peoples, all the ends of the earth), and the splendor () that accompanies the return and the rejoicing of those who are affected by it. Why do Isa 40:1–11* and Isa 52:7–10 describe the return of YHWH primarily as a visible event but do not say anything about what exactly Zion’s watchmen observed when they saw – “eye to eye” – how YWHW returned? In order to answer this question, it can help to have a look at how the return of a temporarily absent god to his place of residence is described in Second Isaiah’s Babylonian environment.

C. The Return of a God to his Residence in Mesopotamian Royal Inscriptions The presence of the gods in their temples played an important role in the ancient Near Eastern concept of the world. 9 When a god was present in his temple, peace, safety and prosperity were guaranteed to the place and its surrounding. Contrariwise, when an angry god left his residence, the consequence was a situation of crisis. The usual pattern found in many Assyrian and Babylonian royal inscriptions can be described as follows: 10 The god becomes angry with his city and its inhabitants, turns away from his sanctuary and decides to temporarily reside at a different place. Consequently, the city left unprotected is conquered and plundered by enemies. Thereby, the cultic image of the angry god, of whom the enemy acts as an instrument, is carried away. 136F

137F

9 This concept is also shared by the cultic traditions of Jerusalem, see, e.g., the importance of YHWH’s presence and accessibility in his temple on Mount Zion in Isa 6. On this subject see Hartenstein, Unzugänglichkeit. 10 For our purpose it is useful to focus on royal inscriptions which look back at a situation in which the population has been abandoned by their own god. Texts which report on the defeat of an enemy have to be distinguished.

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At a later point of time, usually coinciding with the beginning of the reign of a new ruler, the god mercifully decides to return to his original place of residence. This decision results in the order given to the new king to bring back the god’s cultic image, be it by getting it back from the enemy, restoring it, or constructing a new one. Finally the god – in the shape of his cultic image – returns to his sanctuary in a splendid procession. The positive consequences of this return – peace, stability, prosperity – have cosmic dimensions. As the short summary shows, on the one hand the idea of absence and restored presence of a god explains a historical catastrophe as the consequence of an angry god’s absence. On the other hand, it is mostly connected with a new ruler’s accession to power, and gives divine legitimacy to the new reign as a turning point from a time of crisis towards a new era of peace and prosperity. 11 1. The Babylon-Inscription of Nabonidus A survey of Assyrian and Babylonian royal inscriptions shows that among rulers of all times it was popular to show their own accession to power as the point of return of a formerly absent god. Accordingly, Second Isaiah’s contemporary Nabonidus 12 connects his reign to the return of Marduk or, in later inscriptions, the god Sîn. In his Babylon-Inscription 13, Nabonidus gives a historical review from Sennacherib’s destruction of Babylon in 689 B.C.E. (col. I) and the Medes’ destruction of Harran including the Sîn-temple Ehulhul (col. II) up to the reconstruction of this temple by himself (col. X). A common element of all reported episodes is the connection between the destruction of cities and temples and the absence of the gods, and also the connection between the reconstruction of temples and the renewed presence of the gods. What makes this Babylon-Inscription special is that it apparently refers to older inscriptions in which the predecessors of Nabonidus made use of the same connection between their own accession to power and the return 11

For further details, see Daniel Isaac Block, The Gods of the Nations: Studies in Ancient Near Eastern National Theology (ETSMS 2; Jackson, Miss.: Evang. Theological Society, 1988), 125–161; Morton Cogan, Imperialism and Religion: Assyria, Judah and Israel in the Eighth and Seventh Centuries B.C.E. (Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press, 1974); Bertil Albrektson, History and the Gods: An Essay on the Idea of Historical Events as Divine Manifestations in the Ancient Near East and in Israel (ConBOT 1; Lund: Gleerup, 1967); and Ehring, Rückkehr, 99–156. 12 The reference to Nabonidus as Second Isaiah’s “contemporary” is based on the assumption that the oldest parts of Isa 40–55 date back to about 539 B.C.E. See also n. 27. 13 For transliteration and German translation see Schaudig, Inschriften, 514–29. In this inscription (possibly dating from the 13th year of Nabonidus’ reign, shortly after his return from Arabia, cf. Schaudig, 515) the god Marduk still plays an important role.

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of an absent god in order to legitimize their kingship and establish it as the beginning of a new era of prosperity. The first texts to which Nabonidus’ Babylon-Inscription refers are the inscriptions, in which Esarhaddon interprets the destruction of Babylon – by his father Sennacherib (consciously not mentioned in the inscriptions) – as the result of Marduk’s anger and absence from Babylon. 14 The Babylon-Inscription of Nabonidus (I, 1’–3’) begins with a quotation of Esarhaddon 15: “[ik]- -pu-ud - ì  ]a- ùg šà- -šu i- -ma-a >-- i@.” 16 (“He contrived evil, he who wanted to lead away the people, his heart spoke sin.”) The same phrase “ik- -pu-- ” (“he contrived evil”) can be found in Esarhaddon’s inscriptions: “i-gu-ug-ma d-líl(-la5) ilâni d !   -na sa-pan "  -lu- (ša) ik- -pu- 

 #$ % 17 (“The enlil of the gods, Marduk, got angry; he contrived evil to turn down the land and destroy its inhabitants.”) 18 While in Esarhaddon’s inscription it is Marduk who “contrives evil” against Babylon and its inhabitants, for Nabonidus Sennacherib becomes the subject of the sentence. 19 Another parallel is the expression [i]m-lu-ú u (“the days became com14

Esarhaddon’s Babylon-Inscriptions have been edited by Rykle Borger, Die Inschriften Asarhaddons: Königs von Assyrien (AfOB 9; Graz: Weidner, 1956), §11. Also see J. A. Brinkman, “Through a Glass Darkly: Esarhaddon’s Retrospects on the Downfall of Babylon,” JAOS 103 (1983): 35–42. 15 This has already been observed by Schaudig, Inschriften, 515, n. 765. 16 The transliteration is quoted from Schaudig, Inschriften, 515. Cf. his German translation: “Böses [sa]nn, der die Menschen [fort]führen wollte, sein Herz sprach Verfehlung.” (523) 17 Borger, Inschriften Asarhaddons, §11, esp. 5a (text A [Babylon] and D [Niniveh]), l. 34–37. Also compare Ep. 5b (text B and G from Niniveh), l. 9. Further see the phrase “u d\^ana \`\{{| ki ú-šak-pi-du le-mun-tum” (“And Bel let evil be plotted against Babylon.”) in one of the so called “Kedor-Laomer-Texts” (BM 34026, rev. l. 5); for transliteration and translation, see W. G. Lambert, “The Fall of the Kassite Dynasty to the Elamites: An Historical Epic,” in Cinquante-deux réflexions sur le Proche-Orient offertes en hommage à Léon de Meyer (Mesopotamian History and Environment (Occasional Publications 2; ed. H. Gasche et al.; Leuven: Peeters, 1994), 67–72. This text probably describes the Elamite conquest of Babylon at the end of the dynasty of the Kassites. As will be shown below, in the Babylonian literary tradition this event was understood as a catastrophe parallel to the destruction of Babylon by Sennacherib in 689 B.C.E. 18 Cf. Borger’s translation: “Da ergrimmte der Enlil (Herr) der Götter, Marduk; um das Land niederzuwerfen und seine Bewohnerschaft zu verderben, sann er Böses.” (13) 19 Nabonidus intends to depict Sennacherib as a negative figure (he speaks of his “`i˜itum”/“sin”). From the perspective of the defeated Babylonians this negative perspective on Sennacherib seems logical and forms no contradiction with the idea of him being the instrument of Marduk’s anger. See, e.g., the phrase “ki-ma uz-zi dingir-ma i- -pu-uš kur” (“according to the god’s anger he treated the country”, I, 18’f.) and “šá i-na uz-za d amar.utu ša-al-pu- -  kur iš-ku-nu” (“who by the anger of Marduk had caused the destruction of the country”, I, 36’–38’).

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pleted/fulfilled,” I, 26’), which is used in both inscriptions to describe the moment when Marduks’s anger turns into mercy 20 and the god is calming down ("). 21 The second event depicted in Nabonidus’ Babylon-Inscription is the destruction of Harran and other northern cities by the king of the Medes. 22 The destruction is described with the metaphor of a flood. This is not exceedingly exceptional, as the flood metaphor is repeatedly used especially in Assyrian royal inscriptions to depict their own military power. It also plays a prominent role in Esarhaddon’s Babylon-Inscriptions. 23 Noteworthy is the fact that the Babylon-Inscription of Nabonidus quotes a passage from a (probably) much older inscription written in the name of Nebuchadnezzar I. which describes the Elamite defeat of Babylon at the end of the Kassite dynasty in the twelfth century B.C.E.: 24 [x] x &' -liV@ u V@ap-liV@ im-na ù šu--la pa- *  -ku-uš- - a- - -niš-ma 6+ $,$ a- $,$/-i-  -ma-a- šá--um-ma- 0-šam-li-ma ú-ša-li-ka na-mu-iš He (the god Marduk) caused […] to pass above and below (the land), to the right and the left, in front and behind, like the (very) flood. He filled the inner city, the suburbs, the steppe, (and) the plain with deathly silence and turned it into a desert.

In Nabonidus’ Babylon-Inscription it reads (II, 8’–10’): 25 (8’)

>-li@-iš u šap-liš (9’) >im-nu@ù šu--lu (10’) >a- @- -niš is-pu-un

20 In Esarhaddon’s Babylon-Inscriptions, version b (text B [Ninive]), we read: “a-di ûmêmeš im-[lû]” (ep. 10b, l. 19). 21 Cf. Nabonidus’ Babylon-Inscription I, 28’ff. (Schaudig, Inschriften, 516), and Borger, Inschriften Asarhaddons, §11, ep. 10a, l. 6; ep. 10b, l. 19 and ep. 10c, l. 24. 22 Unfortunately parts of the text are missing. Therefore we can only assume that the Babylonian king mentioned in col. II, l. 32’ is Nabopolassar. According to the chronicles (see Albert Kirk Grayson, Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles [Texts from Cuneiform Sources 5; Locust Valley, N.Y.: Augustin, 1975], 95, l. 63–65), it was Nabopolassar himself who destroyed Harran in 610 B.C.E. 23 It is likely that Sennacherib in fact did use water to complete the destruction of Babylon. See his Bavian-Inscription, II R 14,53 (Daniel David Luckenbill, The Annals of Sennacherib [The University of Chicago Oriental Institute Publications 2; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1924], 84). 24 Published by H. C. Rawlinson, et al., A Selection from the Miscellaneous Inscriptions of Assyria Prepared for Publication under the Direction of the Trustees of the British Museum (RawlCu 4; 2d ed; London: Trustees of the British Museum, 1891), as IV R² 20 no. 1. Transliteration and translation cited from Grant Frame, Rulers of Babylonia from the Second Dynasty of Isin to the End of Assyrian Domination (1157–612 BC) (RIMB 2; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1995), B.2.4.9. The bilingual text is written in Akkadian and Sumerian. The quotation is from the Akkadian, line 4. 25 Transliteration cited from Schaudig, Inschriften, 516. Cf. Schaudig’s translation: “Oben und unten, rechts und links walzte er wie eine Flut (alles) nieder.” (523)

98 (8’)

Above and below, thing).

Christina Ehring (9’)

to the right and the left,

(10’)

like a flood he overflew (every-

There are three arguments that support the idea that Nabonidus is indeed quoting from Nebuchadnezzar I. 26 First, as far as we know the parallel is unique; there are no other documents for this same formulation. Second, one of the four copies of Nebuchadnezzar’s text is written in late Babylonian script, which means that it was known at least among scribes of that time. Third, as we can see from the preserved texts, the Elamite defeat of Babylon, especially the loss of the cultic image of Marduk, in the twelfth century B.C.E. was interpreted as a catastrophe equally severe as Sennacherib’s destruction of Babylon. Both gained the status of an exemplary catastrophe. Therefore, it is only logical that Nabonidus refers to these two earlier catastrophes in order to accentuate the relevance of the destruction – and the following reconstruction – of Harran. We have learned two things from the study of Nabonidus’ BabylonInscription: first, we have seen that at the time of Second Isaiah the concepts of absence and renewed presence of a god marking a time of crisis and the turning point towards a new era of salvation respectively were very much alive. 27 Second, we have seen that the inscription of Nabonidus refers to at least two older inscriptions: (1) the group of Esarhaddon’s Babylon-Inscriptions, and (2) one of the inscriptions ascribed to Nebuchadnezzar I. dealing with the loss and the return of the statue of Marduk in the twelfth century. The fact that this latter inscription was still actively known in the sixth century B.C.E. is of great importance for our purpose, as we will see in the following sections. 2. Marduk’s return from Elam under Nebuchadnezzar I. If we can trust the inscriptions written in the name of Nebuchadnezzar I., 28 Babylon was in a desolate situation when the king ascended the throne 26 This conclusion has already been made by Elena Cassin, La splendeur divine: Introduction à l’étude de la mentalité mesopotamienne (Civilisations et Sociétés 8; Paris, La Haye: Mouton, 1968), 38, n. 35. 27 There is still no consensus among scholars either on the dating of Isa 40–55 or its oldest layer or on the question of whether its origins are in Babylon or in Judah. For a recent monograph on this subject see Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer, For the Comfort of Zion: The Geographical and Theological Location of Isaiah 40–55 (VTSup 139; Leiden: Brill, 2011). It seems to me that Second Isaiah’s fundamental conflict with the Babylonian religion and culture still fits best in a Babylonian environment. However it might also be possible that the author(s) of Isa 40–55 gained their knowledge of Babylonian culture and religion in exilic and post-exilic Judah. 28 All preserved texts are either from Assurbanipal’s library or from Neo-Babylonian times. Therefore it might at least be possible that the production of literature processing

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between 1132 and 1122 B.C.E. 29 In the course of the fall of the Kassite dynasty, the Elamites had conquered and plundered the city of Babylon and removed the cultic image of Marduk. According to the texts, this situation resulted from Marduk’s anger and his absence from his residence in the time of Nebuchadnezzar’s predecessor. Consequently, the texts describe the king’s successful military campaign against Elam and the subsequent return of the statue of Marduk as a command of the god himself. The contrast between the past and the present clearly shows that the main purpose of the inscriptions again was to praise the new era of prosperity that started with Nebuchadnezzar I. Four different texts dealing with these events have been preserved: (1) The shortest text, of Babylonian origin and written in Neo-Babylonian script, has the form of a letter of Nebuchadnezzar to the inhabitants of Babylon. It summarizes the military campaign against Elam and the return of the statue of Marduk. 30 (2) A second text, written in Neo-Assyrian script and belonging to the Kuyunjik collection, describes in narrative style how Nebuchadnezzar, in reaction to his intense prayers, is commanded by Marduk to bring back his statue from Elam. 31 (3) A third text opens with a hymn to Marduk and to the present king. Then it looks back to the time of Nebuchadnezzar’s predecessor when the angry god Marduk turned away and Babylon was conquered by the Elamites. This text might have been part of a composition consisting of several tablets (see catchline and colophon). 32 (4) The most interesting text for this study is a fragmentary bilinthe Elamite catastrophe had its climax only during this period. Was it possibly a reaction to the catastrophe of 689 B.C.E.? 29 For the chronology see J. A. Brinkman, A Political History of Post-Kassite Babylonia 1158–722 B.C. (AnOr 43; Rome: Pontificium Inst. Biblicum, 1968), 104. 30 The text consists of two fragments and has been published by Jan van Dijk, Literarische Texte aus Babylon. (VAS 24) N.F. 8 (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1987), 24, 87. For transliteration and translation see Frame, RIMB 2, B.2.4.7. The name of Nebuchadnezzar I. is not mentioned in the text, but from parallels with BBSt 6 (see L. W. King, Babylonian Boundary-Stones and Memorial-Tablets in the British Museum, with an Atlas of Plates [London: Longmans, 1912], 29–36) it can be concluded that VAS 24,87 is also dealing with Nebuchadnezzar’s Elamite campaign, see A. R. George, “Review of Jan van Dijk: Literarische Texte aus Babylon (VAS 24) N.F. 8. Berlin 1987.” BO 46 (1989): 378–384 (382–3). 31 According to its colophon (rev. 2’–3’) the text is a copy of a text from Babylon made for the Assyrian king. It has been published by L. W. King, Cuneiform Texts from Babylonian Tablets in the British Museum (London: Harrison and Sons, 1901), 13, 48. For transliteration and translation see Frame, RIMB 2, B.2.4.5. 32 There are four fragmentary exemplars of the text. Two copies in Assyrian script belong to the Kuyunjik collection, exemplar 3 has been found in Babylon, the origin of exemplar 4, written in Babylonian script, is unknown. For transliteration and translation see Frame, RIMB 2, B.2.4.8.

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gual Sumerian-Akkadian text that, after a missing beginning, describes a devastating military defeat (probably the Elamite conquest of Babylon), followed by extensive prayers of the king which finally cause Marduk to take pity and return to his city. In contrast to the other texts, no military campaign is described here. Instead, Marduk returns without Nebuchadnezzar’s involvement. 33 This last text is of special importance for our purpose, as it contains an extensive depiction of Marduk’s return from Elam that has much in common with the depiction of YHWH’s return to Zion in Isa 40:1–11* and Isa 52:7–10. In the inscription, the turn of events begins with an obedient “servant” of Marduk – most likely the king Nebuchadnezzar I. – constantly praying for the god’s return: (5–6)

[(…)], the servant who reveres him, prayerful, obedient, who is constantly attentive for his (Marduk’s) appearance, did not cease praying until he (Marduk) had made him obtain his heart’s desire. (7–8) Until I had regarded his lofty figure, so long as dejectedness of heart – (which afflicted me) daily without end – had not left my body, I did not get enough sleep in the sweet lap of night. (9–11) Upon my piteous entreaties, my ardent prayers, my supplication(s), and my expression(s) of humility by which I daily besought him (and) prayed to him, in his generous heart he had pity and turned back unto the holy city. 34

The first step towards restoration for Babylon is Marduk’s pity, described by the god turning his neck and facing Babylon again. 35 In the same way

33 Four fragmentary exemplars of the text are preserved. Ex. 1–3 belong to the Kuyunjik collection. Ex. 1 and 2 probably are from Assurbanipal’s library (see the colophon). Ex. 4 is of unknown origin, written in late Babylonian script. See the publication by Rawlinson, IV R² 20, no. 1. For transliteration and translation see Frame, RIMB 2, B.2.4.9. 34 The translation is cited from Frame, RIMB 2, B.2.4.9. The Akkadian lines read: (6) [(x) 1--ši pa-li-- --nu-ú mu-un-dag- 2 - - -šú kak-da-a pu- -ma a-di ú-šam-/-šú ma- - -uš la ik-la-a un--ni (8) [(x)] >a@-di  - 3-la-su la-an-šu la-a u 4-mi-šam la na-3 -ka-/ - -da-a- 6-um- -ia la ip-3 -su-ú- -lu mu-a- 0- - - -  (10) [ina u]n--ni-ia šum- -/-  - - -ía šu-nu-- - -ia ù la- 3-pi-ia ša u 4-mi-šam a- -lu- --nu-šú (11) [/u] - -7- -- ši-ma ki-šad-su ú--- 8-  $,$9:;8@-[s]ag-= 2 - -mu šu-us->? -  3-ni-ka”

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that Marduk had turned away in two steps – at first angrily turning away his face, then letting the enemy remove his cultic image – his return, too, happens in two steps: Marduk’s pity is followed by his visible return in a splendid procession from Elam to Babylon: (12–14) Having made up his mind, when he went out from the wickedness in Elam, going by (way of) city (and) steppe, he took a road of jubilation, a path of rejoicing, a route (indicating his) attention (to) and acceptance (of my prayers), unto Šuanna (Babylon). (15–16) The people of the land regarded his lofty, fitting, majestic, bright (and) joyful appearance; all of them paid attention to him. (17–18) The lord entered and took up his peaceful abode. (19–20) Kasulim (“Gate of Radiance”), his lordly shrine, became bright, filled with rejoicing. (21–22) The heavens (brought him) their abundance, the earth its yield, the sea its wealth, (and) the mountain its gift. (23–24) (People) of all different languages bless him who has no rival. (25) They brought their weighty tribute to the lord of lords. (26–27) Fine sheep were slaughtered (and) prime bulls (provided) in abundance. Food offerings were lavish (and) incense was burnt. (28–29) The  -aromatic gave off a sweet fragrance. (30–31) A sacrifice […] was made; (the place) was full of rejoicing. (32–33) […] … a celebration took place. (34–35) [The gods of hea]ven and earth were looking at the valiant god Marduk with joyful pleasure. (36–37) […] the praise of (his) valour (38–39) […] makes brilliant the alû-drum and the lilissu-drum. 36

The parallels between this depiction of Marduk’s return and that of YHWH’s return in Isa 40:1–11* and Isa 52:7–10 are remarkable. We have already observed the main characteristics of JHWH’s return: the visual perceptibility of the return (Isa 40:5 and Isa 52:8b), directional movement from the periphery to the centre, and YHWH in the role of a king. Further characteristic aspects are the rejoicing witnesses of YHWH’s return (especially in Isa 52:7–10), the positive consequences of the return, i.e., renewed peace and prosperity for the place of YHWH’s residence and its surrounding (Isa 40:10 and Isa 52:7), and the whole world as witnesses (Isa 40:5 and Isa 52:10). All of these aspects can also be found in Nebuchadnezzar’s inscrip(“May beautiful Babylon be remembered by you! Turn your face back to Esagila (‘House Whose Top Is High’), which you love!”) 36 Translation quoted from Frame, RIMB 2, B.2.4.9. The Akkadian lines of the text read: (13) [x] š2 - - -šú a- $,$ EDIN ki i-ku-šam-ma iš- 8-  -8- -lam-   - -an šu-lu-lu(*) ú- - -šá-  (14) []u-da-  --*-ga- /- -  8-  šuan-;9 (16)  -  - -a ni-iš ma-a- -an-šú -la-a šu-su-- -la na-3 -da-a šu-lu-la kul -si-na pu- --šu (18) i- -um- -lu 4  -> @- šu-  -su ni--  (20) ká-su-lim pa-3

-lu- -šú im--  - -šá-a-  (22) šá-mu-0 8--gál-la-šú-  -/- 4 -/ -šá - 4 mi- - -šá šá-du-ú i-  -šú (24)  - - -áš-šú šu-   -  -la šu-un-na-a li-šá-a-nu (25B) ka-  -  - -su-nu na- šu-ú a- - -lu 4 (27) as- - - - ->uš@-šu-ú /@-[ni]m(?) i- ->@ a- ->ú(?)@ (31) ni-8-[…] x- -=[m]a(?)- -šá-a-  (33) […] @A$$ --šil-  -na (35) [A'iš i@-[n]a(?)--lu d&!&,;$C$ -du (37) […]

[a]- -  4  -di (39) […] ú-nam-ma- ->lu@-ú >u@ [l]i-li-si. (Quoted from Frame, RIMB 2, B.2.4.9.)

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tion. 37 The visual perceptibility of the return of Marduk, whose appearance (lanum) is described as “lofty, fitting, majestic, bright (and) joyful” (l. 16), forms an important characteristic of the description. The most important quality of Marduk’s appearance – next to and connected with his kingly, “majestic” ( , l. 16) dignity – is the splendor and brightness that affects his surroundings in a similar way to YHWH’s  in Isa 40:5. Here, it fills the shrine of the temple when Marduk enters it (l. 20). As we know from Elena Cassin’s study of the divine splendor in Mesopotamia, this splendor is an important attribute of divine presence and power. In most contexts, the divine splendor is associated with positive effects such as vitality and prosperity for the place that is filled by it. 38 A second parallel is the path of the returning god; in Nebuchadnezzar’s inscription, too, the god’s journey proceeds from the periphery to the centre: “from the wickedness in Elam”, passing by city and steppe, he enters Babylon – from a Babylonian perspective, the centre of the world. After the god has entered the temple, the view turns towards the cosmic effects of the renewed divine presence: heaven and earth, sea and mountains, bring abundant gifts (l. 22). Not only is the whole cosmos affected by Marduk’s return to his place of residence, but also the witnesses of this event are of cosmic dimensions: “[The gods of hea]ven and earth were looking at the valiant god Marduk with joyful pleasure” (l. 35). As we can see, the joy and rejoicing that characterize Isa 40:1–11* and Isa 52:7–10, can be found in Nebuchadnezzar’s inscription, too. In addition to the gods, the shrine in the temple (l. 20) and the place of the sacrifice (l. 31) are rejoicing. 164F

165F

D. Conclusion: YHWH’s Return to Zion/Jerusalem in Isaiah 40:1–11* and Isaiah 52:7–10 as a Combination of Pre-exilic Cultic Traditions of Jerusalem and Babylonian Influence As we have seen from the previous brief comparison between the return of YHWH in Isa 40:1–11* and Isa 52:7–10 and the return of Marduk in Nebuchadnezzar’s inscription, there are fundamental parallels between both portrayals. This result is remarkable, especially when we consider that the Mesopotamian inscriptions always imply that a cultic image is involved in the process of return, while the author(s) of Second Isaiah – committed to 37 Some similarities between Isa 40:3–5 and the procession in Nebuchadnezzar’s inscription, l. 13–16, have already been seen by Friedrich Stummer, “Einige keilschriftliche Parallelen zu Jes. 40–66,” JBL 45 (1926): 171–89 (172–3). 38 Cf. Cassin, La splendeur divine, 121–2.

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the aniconic YHWH-worship of Jerusalem – can only base his/their depiction on mental images. The most noticeable characteristic of Isa 40:1–11* and Isa 52:7–10 is the implied visual perceptibility of YHWH’s return. Perhaps this can be explained by Babylonian influence. The whole of Isa 40–55 tells us that its authors are promoting the belief in YHWH and defending their religious traditions against the attractiveness of the Babylonian religion. Another relevant passage in this respect is Isa 46:1–2, an image that exactly contrasts the deportation of Marduk and Nabû with the return of YHWH in Isa 40:1–11* and Isa 52:7–10. (Nota bene: this is no voluntary departure of the gods but a consequence of their powerlessness. 39) Would it not be a good idea to combine the content of one’s own belief with a “modern” representation influenced by the Babylonian culture? It seems that this is what Isa 40:1–11* and Isa 52:7–10 do. These texts base their depiction of YHWH’s return on the Babylonian concept of the procession in which a god returns to his residence after a period of absence. It was well-known at least to those who knew the contemporary inscriptions of Nabonidus and maybe even the older inscriptions to which they refer. In addition, the function which this concept had in the Mesopotamian inscriptions was not much different from the function it had to fulfill in Second Isaiah, that is, to mark a turning point in history from a desolate past caused by divine anger towards an era of prosperity. 40 At the same time, Second Isaiah does not give up the core contents of the belief that had been brought from Jerusalem: Isa 40:1–11* and Isa 52:7–10 retain the aniconic YHWH-worship of pre-exilic Jerusalem. This is why YHWH’s return is only described in mental images: the king, the warrior, the shepherd. And this is why the texts give much more attention to the circumstances and the consequences of YHWH’s return than to what exactly can be seen when YHWH returns to Zion. 41 39

Cf. Ehring, Rückkehr, 220–62. More could be said about the role which the king plays in the Mesopotamian royal inscriptions and in Isa 40–55, where it is Cyrus whose reign is connected to the turning point in history. In the Mesopotamian royal inscriptions the new ruler’s accession to power is retrospectively interpreted as the beginning of a new era. Likewise it can be assumed that Second Isaiah deduced the knowledge of YHWH’s merciful return to his residence in Jerusalem from the knowledge he had about Cyrus’ achievements. In the theological concept of the biblical book (as in the Mesopotamian inscriptions) the events are presented in reverse order: YHWH’s return, his will and his order form the precondition of Cyrus’ accession to power with all its consequences. 41 It has been discussed whether the visible return of YHWH in Isa 52:8 refers to the return of the temple vessels mentioned in Isa 52:11–12, cf. Lisbeth S. Fried, “The Land Lay Desolate: Conquest and Restoration in the Ancient Near East,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period (ed. Oded Lipschits and Joseph Blenkinsopp; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 21–54 (51–2), and Bob Becking, “The Return of 40

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Furthermore the “symbolism of the centre,” the concept that YHWH’s presence in Jerusalem was of essential importance for the stability of the cosmos and the prosperity of the city and its surroundings, was not new to Second Isaiah. It had already been an important component in the concept of the world of the pre-exilic cultic traditions of Jerusalem, as we can see from texts such as Isa 6, Ps 46 or Ps 48. 42 The transformation into the elaborate concept of YHWH leaving from and returning to his place of residence, however seems to be a specific result of exilic-postexilic conditions. This is also shown by the important role it plays in the books of Ezekiel 43 and Zechariah 44. 45

the Deity: Iconic or Aniconic?” in Essays on Ancient Israel in Its Near Eastern Context (ed. Yairah Amit et al.; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 53–62 (58). In my opinion Isa 52:11–12 forms a later addition to and an interpretation of the original unit of Isa 52:7–10. As such it indeed seems to fit into the picture of the early Second Temple period very well. One argument for Isa 52:7–10 as the original unit is the parallel structure of Isa 40:1–11* and Isa 52:7–10. 42 A comparison between Isa 6 and Isa 40 shows that there are remarkable parallels in structure and terminology, see Friedhelm Hartenstein, “‘… dass erfüllt ist ihr Frondienst’ (Jesaja 40,2): Die Geschichtshermeneutik Deuterojesajas im Licht der Rezeption von Jesaja 6 in Jesaja 40,1–11,” in “Sieben Augen auf einem Stein” (Sach 3,9): Studien zur Literatur des Zweiten Tempels (ed. Friedhelm Hartenstein and Michael Pietsch; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2007), 101–19 (114–19). 43 Cf. Block, Gods, 125–161; Daniel Bodi, The Book of Ezekiel and the Poem of Erra. (OBO 104; Fribourg: Academic Press; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991), 183 and following; Ehring, Rückkehr, 191–203. 44 Cf. Rüdiger Lux, Prophetie und Zweiter Tempel: Studien zu Haggai und Sacharja (FAT 65; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 193–222. 45 As Becking, “Return,” 53–62, has shown Jer 31:21, too, can be understood as referring to YHWH’s return.

“Days Are Coming, When It Shall No Longer Be Said”: Remembering and Forgetting in the Book of Jeremiah CHRISTOPH LEVIN In few places is the essential relation between remembering and forgetting in the Old Testament clearer than in the antithetical promise in Jer 16:14– 15a: Behold, days are coming, says Yahweh, when it shall no longer be said, “As Yahweh lives who brought up the Israelites out of the land of Egypt,” but “As Yahweh lives who brought up the Israelites out of the north country.” 1

A favourable future which is going to stand in a precise but antithetical correspondence to the history that has gone before is prophesied. The future exodus out of the north country is based on the foundational fact of the early period, the exodus from Egypt. The reason is paradoxical: the history is recalled because it is no longer to be recalled. What shall be new requires its foundation in what is old, yet at the same time it is supposed to make the old forgotten: “it shall no longer be said.”

I In order to discover the tradition-history context of this prophetic saying, we must first look at its form. It is based on an already established speech pattern, for which there are other examples, as will be shown below. 2 It consists of an temporal designation, “Behold, days are coming, says Yah1 Verse 15b was added in order to apply the original promise explicitly to the Babylonian Golah: “and I will bring them back to their land which I gave to their fathers” (see 24:6). The addition is easily recognized in the change from prophetic speech to divine speech. Later v. 15a was inserted in regard to the Jewish diaspora “out of all the countries where he had driven them.” This was probably added first in 23:7–8 (that is, in 23:8a) where the promise occurs a second time. 2 The following argument was first presented in my Die Verheißung des neuen Bundes in ihrem theologiegeschichtlichen Zusammenhang ausgelegt (FRLANT 137; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1985), 22–31.

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weh” (    (         ),  followed by a double quotation, which amounts to an antithesis between what was said earlier and what will be said in the future, “when it shall no more be said … but …” ()   "   …  * …). The particular character of the pattern emerges in the temporal designation. The word   “behold” occurs frequently at the beginning in prophetic speech. It is usually followed by a participle, so that the result is a temporally indefinite participial clause (so-called Futurum instans). As a rule this clause signals disaster, for a clear reason:   i “behold” does not promise the future. The nature of the judgment is a threatening present, the dimension of time being its first victim. In contrast to these cases, the introductory formula        “Behold, days are coming” explicitly comprises a temporal designation. Moreover, the nominal clause has as its subject “coming days,” that is the future itself. But the future is liberating for the present, and can therefore only be favourable. We can define the expression     (          as an introductory formula for a prophecy of salvation. 3 This becomes even clearer if we compare it with other similar formulas. None of the adverbial expressions    !   “at that time,” +  ), “in that day,” and       , “in those days” are independent indications of time. As a rule they serve as a redactional link with the preceding text. Even the most frequent formula of this kind, + ),  : “And it shall come to pass in that day,” never loses its ancillary, dependent character. 4 On the other hand, a temporal indication such as  ,  -  “in  the latter days” is clear and can therefore stand for itself. 5 In Isa 2:2 (par. Mic 4:1) and Jer 49:39 it does occur in the introductory formula which reads as   ,  -       “And it shall come to pass in the latter days,” and it is not by chance that this is followed by a promise of salvation. When it is compared with the formula   ,  -      , the meaning of the introduction       becomes  evident. In the formulas opened by    “the latter days” (or “that day”) constitute the temporal determination for what is to come, whereas the formula        introduces the “coming days” themselves as the subject of the expectation. The formula “And it shall come to pass in the latter days” opens the prediction of com175F

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3 Barbara A. Bozak, Life “Anew”: A Literary-Theological Study of Jer 30–31 (AnBib 122; Rome: Pontifico Istituto Biblico, 1991), 29, agrees with this definition of the formula, though she programmatically restricts her analysis to the surface level of the present text. 4 Isa 7:18, 21, 23; 10:20, 27; 11:10, 11; 17:4; 22:20; 23:15; 24:21; 27:12, 13; Jer 4:9; 30:8; Ezek 38:10, 18; 39:11; Hos 1:5; 2:18, 23; Joel 4:18; Amos 8:9; Mic 5:9; Zeph 1:10; Zech 12:3, 9; 13:2, 4; 14:6, 8, 13. 5 Gen 49:1; Num 24:14; Deut 4:30; 31:29; Isa 2:2 par. Mic 4:1; Jer 23:20 par. 30:24; 48:47; 49:39; Ezek 38:16; Hos 3:5; Dan 10:14.

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ing events, while the formula “Behold, days are coming,” on the other hand, initiates a description of circumstances in a time to come. So we finally come to the conclusion: the original meaning of          is to introduce the promise of a coming era of salvation.

II The original meaning tallies only in part with the real use of the formula to be observed in the different texts, however. There are twenty-one passages introduced by the formula        ,  and of these, nine are salvation promises (Jer 16:14 par. 23:7; 23:5; 30:3; 31:27, 30, 38; 33:14; Amos 9:13), but there are also seven judgment sayings (1 Sam 2:31; 2 Kgs 20:17 par. Isa 39:6; Jer 7:32 par. 19:6; Amos 4:2; 8:11) and five sayings against the nations (Jer 9:24; 48:12; 49:2; 51:47, 52). And the future can also be promised as an event, so that the “coming days” are not the subject of the prophecy but only its temporal determination. At the same time, it can be shown that this usage is secondary. In the course of time the formula has faded and become ossified. 6 The difference between the usage that fits the meaning and the borrowed usage can be shown through a comparison of the description of the future era of salvation in Amos 9:13 with the threatening oracle to Eli and his house in 1 Sam 2:31. In the promise of salvation the formula and the content match exactly, describing a coming time of prosperity: 178F

Behold, days are coming, says Yahweh, when the plowman shall overtake the reaper and the treader of grapes him who sows the seed; the mountains shall drip sweet wine, and all the hills shall flow with it.

In contrast, it is only indirectly that the judgment saying against Eli includes a vista of coming conditions: Behold, days are coming, when I will cut off your strength and the strength of your father’s house, so that there will not be an old man in your house.

Here the designation of the time acts like a ritardando which inadequately moves the punishment into the future.

6

Mark E. Biddle, A Redaction History of Jeremiah 2:1–4:2 (ATANT 77; Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 1990), 99, holds: “There is nothing which prohibits the expression from functioning as an admittedly heightened reference to any future day. In this regard, it may better be seen as an ‘eschatological’ formula, rather than as a ‘salvation-oriented’ formula. It announces a day in which some extraordinary event will transpire; whether for good or ill must be supplied by the content of the saying which it introduces.” This judgment, however, is not based on the semantics of the formula itself.

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The threatening oracle against Eli has only the introductory formula in common with Jer 16:14–15. The rest of the saying goes its own way. This is different with the polemic against the Topheth in Jer 7:32: Behold, days are coming, says Yahweh, when it shall no more be said “Topheth,” or “The valley of the son of Hinnom,” but “The valley of Slaughter.”

The structure is precisely the same as in 16:14–15a. It includes the pattern of the contrast between what is said today and what will be said in the future. But it is not original in this case. The announcement of a time when the valley of the son of Hinnom will be called “the valley of Slaughter” is only indirectly a threat, because it indicates the coming judgment by way of an after-effect that is of minor importance: the change of the name of the place where the false offerings have been performed. Moreover the language is inconsistent. The antithesis has to do with a name, the term for Topheth, not a saying as in 16:14–15. So instead of   ni. “to be said” the phrase should be # ni. “to be called.” It is in this sense that the wording was corrected on the occasion when the threat was repeated later in 19:6. 7 That is to say, the form does not match the content. The reason is that the judgment saying about the Topheth in 7:32 was modelled on 16:14–15. This is assured by the following text: 7:33a follows the pattern of 16:4b, while v. 34a follows 16:9. The whole passage in 7:32–34 depends on the borrowing from Jer 16. 179F

III Nevertheless, there are two other examples in which form and content harmonize. In Jer 31:29–30 we have the following antithesis: They shall no longer say: “The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge,” but every one shall die for his own sin.

In the way the passage now runs, this saying is introduced by the temporal designation     ,“in those days” which connects it with the preceding text. But the introductory formula     (           occurs two verses previously, in order to introduce the promise of the new seed of Israel and Judah: Behold, days are coming, says Yahweh, when I will sow the house of Israel and the house of Judah with the seed of man and the seed of beast. 7 For the evidence that Jer 19:5–6 is quoting 7:31–32 see Bernhard Duhm, Das Buch Jeremia (KHC 11; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1901), 161; Christoph Levin, “Das Kinderopfer im Jeremiabuch,” in idem, Fortschreibungen: Gesammelte Studien zum Alten Testament (BZAW 316; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2003), 227–41, esp. 230–32.

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It is possible that here the formula was the basis, and that it has been torn apart by a subsequent addition. In that case the connection with     , would not be a new beginning but would have to be interpreted as a resumptive repetition. 8 In the same way the introduction: 180F

Behold, days are coming, says Yahweh …

which follows in 31:31, could continue with the antithesis in v. 34: … when no longer shall each man teach his neighbour and each his brother, saying, “Know Yahweh,” for they shall all know me.

The possibility that the formula underlies both these instances is obvious. It becomes probable if it can be shown that in each case the intervening text has been interpolated at a later point. 9 18F

(27) Behold, days are coming, says Yahweh, when I will sow [the house of] Israel and [the house of] Judah } 11:10) with the seed of man and the seed of beast. (28) And it shall come to pass that as I have watched over } 1:12) them [to pluck up and to break down and] to overthrow [and to destroy] } 1:10) and to bring evil, so I will watch over } 1:12) them to build and to plant } 1:10), says Yahweh. (29) In those days they shall no [longer] say: “The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge,” (30) but every one shall die for his own sin. [Each man] 10 who eats sour grapes, his teeth shall be set on edge. 11 182F

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(31) Behold, days are coming, says Yahweh, when I will make with the house of Israel and the house of Judah } 11:10) a new covenant. (32) Not like the covenant which I made with their fathers } 11:10), when I took them by the hand to bring them out of the land of Egypt } 11:4), my covenant which they broke } 11:10). But I myself, I am the lord of them, says Yahweh. (33) Because this is the covenant which I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says Yahweh: I will put my law within them, and I will write it upon their hearts. And I will be their God, and they shall be my people } 11:4). (34) No [longer] shall each man teach his neighbour and each his brother, saying, “Know Yahweh,” for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest } 6:13), [says Yahweh]; for I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more.

8

See for this frequent editorial technique Curt Kuhl, “Die ‘Wiederaufnahme’ – ein literarkritisches Prinzip?” ZAW 64 (1952): 1–11. 9 In the following translation the original sayings are marked by bold types. Italics show the allusions borrowed from other texts of the book of Jeremiah, the origin of which is noted in brackets. Masoretic pluses are given in square brackets. 10 Probably      * was added in the later transmission of the Hebrew text. 11 This phrase – trying to balance the saying of the sour grapes by word – takes the metaphor literally. It is probably a late addition.

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Today the formula “Behold, days are coming, says Yahweh” in both 31:27 and 31:31 is the prophecy not of an era of salvation but of a favourable event. Both sayings are constructed similarly. The announcement  !    “I will sow” and     “I will make” is followed in both instances by the same reference +      .    /      . “the house of Israel and the house of Judah” and at the end by the object       .     . “the seed of man and the seed of beast” and    -    “a new covenant.” Both promises are then explained through a reminiscence of past history: 0   +  -  + "  -   1)    )    .  ! -   #   . - *    “And it shall come to pass that as I have watched over them to pluck up and to break down and to overthrow and to destroy and to bring evil,” and )    -  .   *  .  -     "  “not like the covenant which I made with their fathers.” For this the author refers back to already existing texts out of the wider range of the book of Jeremiah. Where 31:28 is concerned, this was already recognized by Bernhard Duhm. Watching for evil and good is related to the vision of the branch of the almond tree in 1:11–12, which Jeremiah experienced immediately after Yahweh had called him to be his prophet: And the word of Yahweh came to me, saying, “What do you see?” And I said, “A rod of almond.” Then Yahweh said to me, “You have seen well, for I am watching (#" ) over my word to perform it.”

“For without 1:12 the ‘watching’ would be incomprehensible.” 12 The series of infinitives on the other hand has been taken over from the prophecy to the nations in 1:10: 184F

See, I have set you this day over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck up and to break down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant ( ) -    -  + 1)    )   0)2   )  ).

The wording is almost exactly the same in both instances. 13 For the promise of 31:28, however, the negative and positive verbs no longer build up one single series but constitute an alternative, as they originally did in the theorem 18:7–10 about God’s justice in history from which the prophecy to the nations in 1:10 is borrowed. 14 This model is still effective in 31:28 in 185F

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Duhm, Das Buch Jeremia, 253. However, in the Greek text of 1:10 ) -   “to overthrow” is missing, whereas in 31:28, on the other hand, the Greek text presents only the equivalent of ) -   and omits  -  + 1)    )  . It may well be that the shorter Greek text is original in both instances. This means that in the Hebrew text both sayings influenced each other in order to get the complete. However, the basic dependency of 31:28 on 1:10 is obvious in any case. 14 See Christoph Levin, “The ‘Word of Yahweh’: A Theological Concept in the Book of Jeremiah,” in Prophets, Prophecy, and Prophetic Texts in Second Temple Judaism (ed. 13

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the form of the infinitive 0  + “and to bring evil” which is missing in 1:10 but alludes to 18:8: “I will repent of the evil (!  )  that I intended to do to it.” The editor concludes his insertion through the oracle formula     ( , before he returns in v. 29 to the interrupted promise of the “coming days” (    ) by means of     , “in those days.” In 31:32 the reference to an earlier text is also clear. The disobedience which is referred to here is mentioned in 11:10 as the occasion for the punishment, with the same words: The house of Israel and the house of Judah have broken my covenant which I made with their fathers ( ‰ ˜ ~ € ‚ „ ‡† ‰ˆ Š ‹ ‚ ~ „ † „ Œ† ‘€ ‚  ’‰ “ Œ „„” “ ” ‰ • Œ † „€„” “”– ” ).

This statement agrees with 31:32 to such a degree that only a direct literary relationship is conceivable: not like the covenant which I made with their fathers ()    -  .   *  . ), - my covenant which they broke (      + .  ). 15 187F

Compared to 11:10, all that has been added is the historical place of the broken covenant: when I took them by the hand to bring them out of the land of Egypt (  ' 1  . .    ')       #   3 ) . ). 

This temporal determination has been borrowed again, in this case from 11:4: (3) You shall say to them, Thus says Yahweh, the God of Israel: Cursed be the man who does not heed the words of this covenant (4) which I commanded your fathers when I brought them out of the land of Egypt (   ' 1  . .  )     '))  ),  from the iron furnace, saying, Listen to my voice, and do all that I command you. So shall you be my people, and I will be your God (4   .  .   . "    !    .   ).

Interpolated into the quotation of 11:10, it bursts apart the framework of the Vorlage, which the author holds together by way of . . - The patchwork makes it obvious that 31:32 has been put together from texts that have been taken from elsewhere. It is only on the basis of 11:10 that . can be seen to be related to   .  The author wrote for readers who were in a position to pick up allusions of this kind. Now we see that it is not by chance that the promise of the new seed in v. 27 is also related to “the house of Israel and the house of Judah” ( +      .     /      :. ), again taken from 11:10. 16 This makes it obvious that the present version of 18F

Michael H. Floyd and Robert D. Haak; LHBOTS 427; New York: T&T Clark, 2006), 42– 62, esp. 45. 15 The Greek text reads             “for they did not stay in my covenant.” This reading is secondary because it deviates from the quotation of Jer 11:10. 16 This shows that the twofold omission of  in the Greek text is secondary.

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the two salvation promises in 31:27–34 goes back to the work of one and the same editor. 17 The positive statement of the second saying follows in v. 32, as it did in v. 28:     (     !   "   “But I myself, I am the lord of them, says Yahweh.” As the text now stands, it is no longer evident that this statement begins the positive description of the new covenant. 18 This is due to the fact that the new covenant is explicitly defined a second time in v. 33a, but now in the sense that Yahweh      ,   -  “after those days,” i.e., in the eschatological era, will write the Torah on Israel’s heart. This section of the text has been inserted at a later stage. This is clearly be seen (1) from the broad and explicit introduction "    . .    " *“because  this is the covenant which I will make,” (2) because it is related to    .   /  “with the house of Israel” instead of  +      .    /     . “with the house of Israel and the house of Judah” as in v. 31, (3) from the fact that the temporal designation has changed from the “coming days” (     ) to the eschaton     ,  -  “after those days,” (4) from the oracle formula     (  “says Yahweh” which usually marks a caesura within the textual flow, and (5) by the poetic form of the inserted logion   . -   .    !   #    )    .    “I will put my law within them, and I will write it upon their hearts,” which differs from the prose of vv. 31– 34. 19 The covenant promise is completed in v. 33b with the covenant formula !   +   5  4   .     “and I will be their God, and they shall be my people,” which was familiar to the editor from, e.g., Jer 11:4. In v. 34 the basic formula of the section is continued. 190F

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17 The twin term  +     +    /    is to be found only in Jer 5:11; 11:10, 17; 13:11; 31:27, 31; 33:14; see also 2 Sam 12:8; Jer 3:18; Ezek 9:9; Zech 8:13. 18 My former suggestion that   !  should be read as Perfectum propheticum “I will be their lord” (Levin, Verheißung, 57) was rightly criticized. The phrase may better be understood in the sense that, though the Israelites broke the covenant, Yahweh still kept it. 19 See Levin, Verheißung, 58–9, followed by Erik Aurelius, Der Fürbitter Israels: Eine Studie zum Mosebild im Alten Testament (ConBOT 27; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1988), 123; Hermann M. Niemann, Herrschaft, Königtum und Staat: Skizzen zur soziokulturellen Entwicklung im monarchischen Israel (FAT 6; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1993), 223; and others. However, the majority of scholars hold (for obvious theological reasons) that the new covenant is not only the restoration of the relationship between Yahweh and his people, but moreover that it owns a distinct “new” quality. In this case v. 33a becomes indispensable because the supposed new quality of the new covenant is described only here. See (among many others) Walter Groß, Zukunft für Israel: Alttestamentliche Bundeskonzepte und die aktuelle Debatte um den Neuen Bund (SBS 176; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1998), 138; and my review of Groß in ZAR 5 (1999): 318–27.

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The covenant promise finds its conclusion in the second half of v. 34. The editor has added a reason for the salvation promised in the previous saying. The caesura is again shown by the oracle formula     (  “says Yahweh” that opens the speech, so that  ) 6 !    2 #   “from the least of them to the greatest” can be seen to be the beginning of the addition. Again there is a reference to an older text in the book of Jeremiah: (11) … Both husband and wife shall be taken, the old folk and the very aged. (12) Their houses shall be turned over to others, their fields and wives together. … (13) For from the least to the greatest of them ( ) 6 !    2 7 ),  every one is greedy for unjust gain. (6:11b–12a, 13a).

The expression  ) 6  !   2 7  with a third person masculine plural pronominal suffix occurs only in Jer 6:13 and 31:34. With this reference, the history of guilt and punishment is recalled a third time, again in order to be replaced by the promise: “for I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more.” The editor was an exegete who added a reason to the formerly unconditional promises of a favourable future by means of quotations from the judgment speeches in the parts of the book of Jeremiah that already existed at his time. This exegetical working method sets his interventions clearly apart from the underlying pattern. A comparison shows that the oldest textual basis of Jer 16:14–15, 31:27–30, and 31:31–34 consists of an already established form: a promise of a future era of salvation that is contrasted with the experience of the present. The contrast between disastrous history and a favourable future is marked in each of the three cases by a particular manner of speech, which is taken up in order to be refuted. 20 192F

20 Biddle, A Redaction History, 99–100, rejects this conclusion with emphasis. This is mainly due to the fact, that Biddle in his unpublished ThM-Thesis on Israel in the Book of Jeremiah: A Study in Denotation and Connotation (Rüschlikon Baptist Theological Seminary, 1985), which he wrote while my book was not yet published, developed the hypothesis that the “eschatological” texts introduced by the formula  8    9    “behold, days are coming” are the work of a single redactional undertaking. In his A Redaction History, he added the hypothesis that an editor had framed the Book of Consolation in Jer 30–31 by the “‘Behold’ introduction” Jer 30:1–3 and the “‘Behold’ coda” 31:27– 34, and that at a later stage the Jerusalem-centered salvation prophecy of Jer 32 was framed through the “Behold” texts Jer 31:38–40 and 33:14–18 in the same way in order to join it to the Book of Consolation. See also his article “The Literary Frame Surrounding Jeremiah 31,1–33,26,” ZAW 100 (1988): 409–13. Biddle’s hypothesis was adopted and enlarged by Konrad Schmid, Buchgestalten des Jeremiabuches: Untersuchungen zur Redaktions- und Rezeptionsgeschichte von Jer 30–33 im Kontext des Buches (WMANT 72; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1996). Schmid’s hypothesis is weak as can be seen from his tortuous argumentation about 33:14–26. Though missing in the Greek text, this section is indispensable for the shaping of Jer 29–33 as it is conceived by him (pp. 55–66).

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IV No more than these three instances of the formula have been passed down. 21 This is again to be seen from the introduction        .  Except for Amos 9:13, it is only in the three cases of Jer 16:14, 31:27, and 31:39 that it initiates a description of a coming era of salvation, which we have reconstructed as being the literal meaning of the formula. Since the prophecy of salvation at the end of the book of Amos has to be given a late date, it would seem clear that with this genre of prophecy of salvation we have also found the genre in which the introductory formula        had its original place. It is noticeable at first glance that with six exceptions the instances of the formula are confined to the book of Jeremiah. Moshe Weinfeld already noted that “The formula    … occurs with surprising regularity in Jeremiah (15 times) as compared to the rare occurrence of this introductory phrase in other biblical books.” 22 The promise of the new exodus occurs a second time in 23:7–8 at the end of the sayings to the kings in order to underline Yahweh’s promise in 23:3–4: “I will gather the remnant of my flock out of all the countries where I have driven them,” which on its part serves to balance the threat of v. 2 against the bad shepherds who “have scattered my flock.” This is emphasized by repeating the promise of return from 16:14–15a, which for the same purpose was applied to the Jewish diaspora in general in v. 8a: “and of all the countries where I had driven them, and they shall dwell in their land.” 23 In the Greek text 23:7–8 is to be found after 23:40 where it serves to introduce the vision of the two baskets of figs, which argues for the prerogative of the Babylonian Golah. The application to the Babylonian Golah is stressed: “As Yahweh lives who brought home (  . ) - 24 25 the offspring of Israel out of the north country.” Compared to 16:14–15a the application to the offspring (  .) in 23:7–8a presents the later stage. 193F

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21 Schmid, Buchgestalten, 70, raises the objection: “It is absolutely inadmissible to assume a genre based on one single clear specimen only (16:14–15a).” This may be true; however, the two other instances are based on evident reasons. The argument is not circular. 22 Moshe Weinfeld, “Jeremiah and the Spiritual Metamorphosis of Israel,” ZAW 88 (1976): 17–56, esp. 18. 23 The phrase was still missing when the saying of 16:14–15 par. 23:7–8 was alluded to in 30:3. 24 Later in the Hebrew text the original   !3  . . “who brought up” was also added. 25 The Greek text reads: “the whole offspring of Israel.” The Hebrew text reads: “the offspring of the house of Israel.”

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The three remaining salvation sayings, which begin with the formula          all promise a saving event. The promise in 31:38–40 26 that Jerusalem will be rebuilt is, in its continuation of 31:27–34, a subsequently added application of the promise of the new seed of Israel and Judah: “The city shall never again be uprooted or overthrown” (v. 40b, taken from v. 28). The salvation saying in 30:3 constitutes a summary “preface,” which was later put before the Book of Consolation. It serves to apply the salvation prophecy of Jer 30–31 to the Babylonian Golah exclusively. 27 The promise “And I will bring them back to the land that I gave to their fathers,” touches on 16:15b, so that the introduction was probably borrowed from 16:14. 28 The Davidic promise in Jer 23:5–6 does not exemplify an independent use of the formula. The announcement “I will raise up for David a righteous branch” gives concrete form to the preceding promise “I will set shepherds over them who will care for them” in 23:4. In its form, this promise links up with 23:7–8 (par. 16:14–15). 29 In the oracles to the nations in the book of Jeremiah, and in a number of judgment speeches, the introductory formula       is  used without an individual Vorlage that could be identified. However, these instances are without exception very late. This is obvious when the formula occurs in the oracles to the nations (48:12; 49:2; 51:47, 52; including also 9:24). Outside the book of Jeremiah, we meet the formula in the already mentioned pronouncement of judgment against Eli in 1 Sam 2:27–36. The threat of the anonymous prophet is an interpolation, which clumsily antici198F

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In the Hebrew text of 31:38    is omitted by haplography. Read with the Greek text and Qere. 27 See Karl-Friedrich Pohlmann, Studien zum Jeremiabuch: Ein Beitrag zur Frage nach der Entstehung des Jeremiabuches (FRLANT 118; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1978), 46: “It is obvious that … by the heading in Jer 30:1–3 (see esp. v. 3) all salvation oracles in Jer 30:4ff. are applied to the Golah.” Also Levin, Verheißung, 165– 69. This secondary interpretation applies also to 31:27–34 in the annexe to the book of consolation, because the promises of the new seed and of the new covenant do obviously not relate to the Golah. This shows that Biddle, “The Literary Frame,” followed by Schmid, Buchgestalten, 49–50 and 71–85, is wrong, who attributes 30:1–3 and 31:27–34 to the same literary level. Winfried Thiel, Die deuteronomistische Redaktion von Jeremia 26–45 (WMANT 52; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1981), 20–28, puts 30:1– 3 and 31:27–34 on one and the same editorial level (“D”), simply for linguistic reasons. He was followed by a number of scholars. 28 Jer 32:44b as well as 31:27, 31 may also have had some influence on 30:3. 29 Jer 23:5–6 is again quoted in Jer 33:14–16 in the frame of the youngest section of the salvation prophecy of Jer 29–33 which is still missing in the Greek text. “I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and the house of Judah,” refers to 23:5–6, see Duhm, Das Buch Jeremia, 274; Robert P. Carroll, Jeremiah: A Commentary (OTL; London: SCM Press, 1986), 637; Gunther Wanke, Jeremia: Teilband 2 (ZBK.AT 20.2; Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 2003), 315. 26

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pates the content of the divine revelation to Samuel in 1 Sam 3:2–18. 30 Isaiah’s proclamation of the Babylonian exile in 2 Kgs 20:17 (par. Isa 39:6) is a late prophecy after the event. “The real Isaiah would of course have threatened the people with the Assyrians, not with the Babylonian exile.” 31 The announcement in Amos 8:11 that a time will come when the people will hunger for Yahweh’s word is also late. This theological category of the “word of Yahweh” is as alien to the proclamation of Amos as it is common in the book of Jeremiah. 32 The threat against the cows of Bashan of Samaria in Amos 4:2 has also been shown to be a late addition. 33 The tradition history of the formula       as  far as we can follow it, confirms that the particular form of the prophecy of salvation as it has been preserved in the three examples of Jer 16:14–15, 31:27–30, and 31:31–34, is not merely the appropriate place for this introduction in light of its wording but is also its place of origin. Its widespread influence shows on the one hand that the original instances are relatively early, and on the other that the prophecy of salvation which appears here was of no small importance for the further development of the theology of the Old Testament.

V Moshe Weinfeld already recognized that the three prophetic sayings belong together. 34 Probably they were once directly connected in the literary sense as is still the case for 31:27–30 and 31:31–34. The separate position of 16:14–15 could be conditioned by the redactional intervention that has gathered together the prophecies of salvation of the book of Jeremiah into chs. 29–33. In the course of this procedure, 31:27–34 has strayed into the coda to the Book of Consolation, Jer 30–31. 206F

30 See Julius Wellhausen, Die Composition des Hexateuchs (4th ed.; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1963), 237–38, and many others. 31 Bernhard Duhm, Das Buch Jesaja (2d ed.; HKAT III,1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1902), 253. 32 Jörg Jeremias, Der Prophet Amos (ATD 24/2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995), 119–20, identifies the date of Amos 8:11–12 in exilic time. 33 See Christoph Levin, “Das Amosbuch der Anawim,” ZTK 94 (1997): 407–36, esp. 425; repr. in idem, Fortschreibungen, 265–290, esp. 281. 34 Weinfeld, “Jeremiah and the Spiritual Metamorphosis of Israel.” Weinfeld includes 3:16–17 as a fourth instance, but this saying is obviously late, its form depending on 23:7.

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Behold, days are coming, says Yahweh, when it shall no longer be said, “As Yahweh lives who brought up the Israelites out of the land of Egypt,” but “As Yahweh lives who brought up the Israelites out of the north country.” Behold, days are coming, says Yahweh, when they shall no longer say: “The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge.” But every one shall die for his own sin. Behold, days are coming, says Yahweh, when no longer shall each man teach his neighbour and each his brother, saying, “Know Yahweh,” for they shall all know me.

We can assume that the matching form is the result of a common Sitz im Leben. But anyone who looks for the occasion of these sayings runs up against difficulties. The three salvation promises are rounded off units. They show no signs of ever having belonged within a wider framework. The prophetic saying of this form looks instead for its starting point itself, by citing its addressees. It carries the dialogue with the listener into the prophet’s monologue. The “quotation in the prophetic saying” makes it independent of any particular occasion. 35 The prophetic saying is not a reaction to its listeners; it refers to them, and in this way has its occasion within itself. It does not have a Sitz im Leben but assumes one wherever it is uttered. Unsatisfactory though this result is from the aspect of the sociology of literature, from a theological point of view it is nevertheless appropriate. The message of salvation would not be truly liberating if it were derived from the situation into which it was spoken. Admittedly, it would contradict the promise just as much if the recipient’s situation were not to find a place in it. The liberty of the proclamation proves itself in its relatedness to the situation. Although it is independent of the occasion and the need, the prophetic saying is spoken in response to a particular contemporary social, political, and religious situation. As can easily be seen, the three cited types of speech that establish this reference to the situation presuppose the experience of the Babylonian conquest of Jerusalem. The deportation has taken place, for otherwise it would be impossible to expect the new exodus from the northern country. The saying about the teeth that are set on edge reflects the impression of the catastrophe, and the promise that responds to the lament does not yet know the pattern of disobedience and judgment which was to be dominant

35 See Hans Walter Wolff, “Das Zitat im Prophetenspruch” (1937), in idem, Gesammelte Studien zum Alten Testament (2d ed.; TB 22; Munich: Chr. Kaiser, 1973), 36–129.

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in later theology. Since the new exodus is seen from the perspective of Judah, the salvation promise probably originated there, and not in Babylon.

VI For the religious history of Judah, the fall of Jerusalem meant the most profound caesura that it had ever experienced. The change can be read from the three salvation promises. Paradoxically, the radical alteration is shown at the very point where nothing had altered; both before the catastrophe and afterwards, knowledge of Yahweh was lacking: Every one deceives his neighbour, and no one speaks the truth; they have taught their tongue to speak lies; they commit iniquity and are too weary to repent. Heaping oppression upon oppression, and deceit upon deceit, they refuse to know me, says Yahweh. (Jer 9:4–5)

What the Judeans refused earlier proves to be a painful lack at the time when the teeth are set on edge. 36 The neglected duty has changed into an urgent need. Now “each man teaches his neighbour and each his brother, saying, ‘Know Yahweh!’” But it is too late. The self-chosen distance from God has been followed by the eclipse of God. Jeremiah 31:34 allows us to assume that the knowledge of Yahweh could generally be taught. Hans Walter Wolff termed 4   3 ! :(“knowledge of God”) as “the primal form of theology.” 37 This is appropriate provided that it is taken into account that, if theology is what it should be, it is as practical a science as it is a theoretical one. For the Hebrew’s sense of truth, which with good reason makes no fundamental distinction between the knowing of the right and the doing of it, the knowledge of Yahweh is indissolubly one with the knowledge of Yahweh’s nature as he made it known in his saving acts from Egypt onwards, and with the doing of his will. This is not confuted by the fact that in the time before the judgment had fallen, it is above all the lack of social justice and truth that is the subject of complaint as a result of a lack of the knowledge of Yahweh, 209F

36 We must admit, however, that the theme “missing knowledge of Yahweh” was conceived only in retrospect after Jerusalem fell. Each of the four instances Jer 4:22; 9:2, 5; 22:16 is added to prophetic speech in the form of divine speech. The statement in 9:8 at the end of the passage 9:1–8 is indicative of the situation: “Shall I not punish them for these things? says Yahweh, and shall I not avenge myself on a nation such as this?” Yahweh no longer announces the punishment, but justifies it – after it had arrived. The other instances 2:8; 9:23; 10:25; 22:16 are still later. 37 Hans Walter Wolff, “‘Wissen um Gott’ bei Hosea als Urform von Theologie” (1953), in idem, Gesammelte Studien zum Alten Testament, 182–205.

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whereas afterwards the longing for the religious interpretation of the catastrophe has come to be seen as a lack of the knowledge of Yahweh. Jeremiah 31:34 also shows that instruction in the knowledge of God was mutual. Everyone teaches his neighbour, everyone his brother. 38 There is no other way, for a religion whose focus is on history needs to be transmitted by instruction. One main occasion for that is upbringing and education. “When your son asks you” (Deut 6:20–25; Exod 13:14; Ps 78; etc.), the father is the instructor in the things relating to God. He does so by means of the short confessions of faith and the series of elementary commandments, whose most important examples, such as the Shema’ and the Decalogue, are used as elements in instruction down to the present day. Knowledge of God (4   3 ! :) is the simplest intellectual pursuit of faith: that Israel knows to whom it is indebted from Egypt onwards, and before whom it has to live responsibly. Because without this knowledge faith is dead, 4   3 ! : stands for the conscious and responsibly accepted relationship to God. 210F

VII Now we come back to our leading question of remembering and forgetting. Faith of this kind does not rest only on the creed passed down by the fathers. It arises from the fact that the learned formulas and stories fuse with the experience of the present, so that on the basis of the creed the present is experienced as God-in-action, and God-in-action is experienced as present: “Know Yahweh!” This learning process can break down, as it has done according to Jer 31:34. For this there are two conceivable reasons. For one thing, awareness of the self and awareness of the world of the following generations may have grown away from the order of living in which the faith of the fathers acquired its form. Whereas earlier experience appealed to the creed – to the confession of faith – the present remains mute. Additionally, God’s activity at that earlier time and at present may appear to conflict, so that the present crassly contradicts the confession of faith. The two reasons generally go hand in hand. The events that one vainly tries to interpret as God’s action are the same events that led to the change of awareness. In 38 There is generally speaking no semantic difference between the pronominal clauses  +    “someone and his brother” (about 44 instances) and  + + !  “someone and his neighbour” (about 72 instances). This can be seen from Gen 26:31; Exod 10:23; Deut 25:11; 2 Kgs 7:6; Jer 25:26; Ezek 38:21; Joel 2:8. The double expression in Jer 31:34 (also in Exod 32:27; Isa 3:5–6; 19:2; Jer 23:35; 34:17; cf. Jer 9:3) simply stresses the emphasis.

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both cases the creed that has been passed down becomes an empty formula. The demand “Know Yahweh!” no longer has any meaning. The irritation that has replaced the knowledge of Yahweh is drastically expressed in the saying: “The fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children’s teeth are set on edge.” 39 The meaning of ".  as “sour grapes” is secured by Isa 18:5 and Job 15:33. The simple mashal is a double threestress line in synthetic parallelism. It can say more about the catastrophe than a detailed account of the conquest. The biblical saying “The sins of the fathers are visited on the children” has entered the English language as a proverb. In German the same idea is expressed rather differently: “Was die Väter eingebrockt haben, müssen die Kinder auslöffeln.” The facts behind both sayings are the same. The sons suffer vicariously for the errors, mistakes and misdeeds of the fathers. But if we look more carefully, we see that between the Hebrew and the German saying there is a remarkable difference. The German proverb takes the form of a rule. It teaches an experience that continually determines history. Accordingly the metaphor is something that can be experienced: the spoilt soup is left for the children to eat. In the Hebrew on the other hand the metaphor deliberately tends to the absurd. It denies causality. At the same time the saying is given the form of an established fact. It does not name what is a possible experience for all time, but relates to the present time, which has just been experienced. In this way, it does not appeal for assent, but passionately rejects the attempt to make the present reasonable “by ironically linking together a cause and an effect that have nothing to do with each other.” 40 This, in despairing rebellion, is the contradiction against the law of history itself, against the inescapable sequence of cause and effect, which is blind to guilt or innocence. It is “the convulsive effort … to deny that most firmly established of all the lessons of history, that the sons suffer for the sins of the fathers.” 41 It is, in short, the rebellion against God as the Lord of a history in which there is evidently no justice. Instead the proverb declares the logic of history to be nonsensical. The attempt to master the crisis by declaring that disorder is a component of the world order, so as in this way to preserve order, is abandoned in wilful protest. 21F

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The proverb is found a second time in Ezek 18:2. This is probably taken from Jer 31:29, since the context of Ezek 18:2–4 mirrors the saying of Jer 31:27–30: “As I live, says the Lord Yahweh, this proverb shall no more be used by you in Israel. … The soul that sins shall die (+    2"  . .    ).” So Ezek 18 as a whole is an exposition of Jer 31:27–30. This is not unique in Ezekiel (Compare Ezek 7 with Amos 8:1–2.). 40 Duhm, Das Buch Jeremia, 253. 41 Julius Wellhausen, Prolegomena to the History of Ancient Israel (trans. J.S. Black and Allan Menzies; Edinburgh: A. & C. Black, 1885), 307.

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The despair that finds expression in the proverb about the teeth that are set on edge allows the real catastrophe of pre-exilic Judah, which is the religious one, to be recognized. Among all the consequences of the downfall the deeply felt eclipse of God was the most threatening. Yahweh had hidden himself in his wrath – or, as Israel’s helper, had failed: If Yahweh is with us, why then has all this befallen us? And where are all his wonderful deeds that our fathers recounted to us, saying, “Did not Yahweh bring us up from Egypt?” But now Yahweh has cast us off. (Judg 6:13)

Gideon’s complaint about the oppression by the Midianites reflects the mood that reigned in the face of the ruins of Jerusalem. 42 From the sombre present, thoughts took wing to the early era of salvation when Yahweh proved himself to be Israel’s mighty God. The main assertion of the credo became crucial as never before: “As Yahweh lives who brought up the Israelites out of the land of Egypt.” And yet the remembrance of God’s power and faithfulness was no longer a source of consolation but made the despair even greater. So it bursts from Gideon, as representative of the exilic generation. How could the great deeds of Yahweh in history be reconciled with the disaster that had been experienced? Had Yahweh lost his power, or had he turned his back on his people?

VIII One can understand how, under these circumstances, the knowledge of Yahweh became the dominant theme of one of the two great exilic prophets: Ezekiel. It was a matter of nothing less than to live his faith in the conditions of God’s hiddenness in judgment. Ezekiel’s answer to the exilic question about God was paradoxical: Yahweh had imposed his judgment for a single reason alone: “That you shall know that I am Yahweh!” Admittedly, such theological acuteness, which found the solution of the problem by turning experience upside down, could only flourish in the enforced leisure of the exile. In Jerusalem people were far removed from it, and not merely geographically. Rubble is no breeding ground for dogmatics. What was dominant here, if not speechlessness, was complaint. The lack of 42 Timo Veijola, “Das Klagegebet in Literatur und Leben der Exilsgeneration am Beispiel einiger Prosatexte,” in Congress Volume Salamanca 1983 (ed. John Emerton; VTSup 36; Leiden: Brill, 1985), 286–307; repr. in idem, Moses Erben: Studien zum Dekalog, zum Deuteronomismus und zum Schriftgelehrtentum (BWANT 149; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2000), 176–91, has shown that Judg 6:13 follows the genre of exilic lament.

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knowledge of Yahweh touched prophecy too, and prophecy especially (see Ps 74:9; Lam 2:9). The three salvation promises in the book of Jeremiah witness to the uttermost that which could be said under these circumstances. And that was very little, hardly more than the inevitable attempt at prophetic “first aid” in a situation that was absolutely unendurable. The prophet did not stand apart from the desolation of his contemporaries. Like them, he was trapped in the midst of it. Consequently the starting point of his thinking is not God’s promise but his own human need. He starts not with a liberating new thing but with the “no more” of the oppressive present. He almost yearns for days to come, rather than promises them. And the blueprint for the future is only the negation of the negative which he sees before him. A time for which the traditional exodus credo has become empty, longs for a new beginning from Yahweh’s side, and the prophet proclaims the new exodus “out of the north country.” A generation, in despair over a stroke of fate that imposes on it the faults and neglects of several decades – indeed ultimately the sum of a whole national history that has gone astray – demands justice, and the prophet promises a time “when everyone shall die for his own sin.” A people whose relationship to God has become hopelessly destroyed, waits for a future when God proves himself to be the self-same God as ever, when the meaning of what he does and the community between Yahweh and Israel will once again become manifest, and the prophet promises a time “when they shall all know Yahweh.” So this prophecy gives expression to little more than what is in every heart. Its words are a hope that has become a promise, but the hope is fed by complaint. The prophet “offers us really no more than this wish clothed in a promise, without being able to tell us what right he has to promise it. … The mere assertion that Yahweh will bring it about – which is always confronted by the question why he has not long since done so – is sufficient for him.” 43 It seems appropriate that the speech does not begin with the messenger formula, “Thus says Yahweh,” and does not talk about God’s coming acts, but contents itself with invoking a different time. Nevertheless the prophecy of “the leaden time” 44 was also spoken and heard as Yahweh’s word. Bound up with it is the assurance:    (  “Yahweh has said it.” That is not merely the usual formula. Here, in the face of everything that is tied up with the situation, something is at work that is beyond the time, which out of the hope for better times allows this to become the message about God’s new time. True, this is not palpable 216F

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from the content, but it is detectible in the decisive freedom with which it holds out the prospect of something different from present conditions. And in fact these words awakened faith among the hearers of the message. They have remained interwoven in the wide web of remembrance, were written down and have been passed on ever since.

IX Finally, it is noticeable how in these few lines the great themes of later theology are already discernible, creating (1) a new picture of salvation history, (2) as well as one of divine justice in history, and (3) a new concept of the relationship of the Judeans to their deity Yahweh. (1) Except for the nucleus of the stories of the book of Exodus, it seems that Jer 16:14 is the oldest textual witness of the tradition of the exodus from Egypt to be found in the Old Testament. 45 The exodus gained its importance for the self-understanding of the Judeans as the “new exodus” only late. The memory of salvation history was “new” right from the start. It is in that shape that the motive returns in the book of Deutero-Isaiah (see esp. Isa 43:16–21; 49:9–12). There too the promise is introduced with the words: “Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing” (Isa 43:18). Thus speaks Yahweh, whom the prophet has beforehand called to the mind of his listeners as the God of the exodus of old. The former history is recalled to memory and at the same time is dismissed. So here too the recollecting reference to salvation history thrusts forward to the emphatically exclusive vista of the future. Salvation history serves as the blueprint of the future. (2) In a similar way the proverb about the teeth that are set on edge already indicates the way the crisis was to be surmounted in the context of a theology of history. The reference to the sour grapes that the fathers have eaten contains in a nutshell the theologumenon about the “sins of the fathers” which for the following generations became the key to their understanding of history, beginning with Sinai down to Judah’s catastrophe. In fact, the Old Testament’s narrative shows the yearning for God’s justice nearly on every page, in many cases added by later editors dealing again and again with this fundamental theological issue. Furthermore, the promise of 31:30 “every one shall die for his own sin” turns the justification of the divine judgment into the indictment and admonition of the present generation, a move that can be seen repeatedly in the later prose speeches in the book of Jeremiah: the contemporaries, who 45

See Levin, Verheißung, 48–50.

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were subjected to the consequences of the judgment and to the challenges that were bound up with them, had reverted to the sins of the fathers (11:10), and had sinned as their fathers had taught them (9:13), indeed worse than them (7:26; 16:12). The way the later theology of history shattered the subjective innocence of the generation of the given present is still not in sight. But by setting Yahweh’s promise over against the dissension, the self-righteousness of those affected by the disaster is severely shaken. It is of decisive importance for the future religious history of Israel that the sins of the fathers were no longer pushed aside, but were accepted and acknowledged as their own history (3:25; 14:20). In this way the confrontation with history could become fruitful for the future. (3) What is still missing, however, is that the sin should be interpreted as an infringement of the First Commandment, as was later to become the rule: “Because your fathers have forsaken me, says Yahweh, and have gone after other gods and have served and worshipped them” (Jer 16:11). The claim for monolatry, which is the mark of the Old Testament, was introduced only later. It got its shape from the (originally political) concept of the covenant, i.e., the vassal treaty between Yahweh and Israel whose subject is the divine demand to be worshipped exclusively. Applied to the religious practice of everybody, it served to continue the relationship between Yahweh and his people after the loss of the monarchy that until then guaranteed and enabled the connection with the divine. The metaphor of Yahweh’s covenant became the most important theological term coined in the Old Testament. Substantially this is nothing other than that which in its own way the earlier prophecy wanted to express when in Jer 31:34 it offered the prospect of an era when the knowledge of Yahweh will be attainable for everyone.

Memory and Socialization in Malachi 2:17–3:5 and 3:13–21 WILLIAM MORROW Characteristic of Second Temple Judaism is the marginalization or expulsion of lament from liturgical expression. 1 I have documented a number of reasons for making this claim in Protest Against God: The Eclipse of a Biblical Tradition. 2 The primary goal of the present essay is to synthesize that thesis with scholarship on the emergence of prophetic books in Persian-era Yehud. To that end, the claims made in Protest Against God can be reinforced by the perception that the prophetic books reveal a program for socializing the Second Temple community towards a particular mindset, one that (among other things) discouraged complaint prayer. A second goal of this essay is to discuss allusions to collective lament in the book of Malachi that I overlooked when writing Protest Against God. This essay has two sections. It will begin with an investigation of two passages in the book of Malachi with strong links to the language of complaint prayer: Mal 2:17–3:5 and 3:13–21. These texts owe their form to an innovative synthesis of the genres of disputation and proclamation of salvation remembered from previous prophetic activity. This observation has not been sufficiently documented in previous scholarship. The second section will discuss the wider ramifications of this form of literary prophecy with respect to the management of dissent in Second Temple biblical and extra-biblical texts.

1 William S. Morrow, “The Expulsion of Complaint from Early Jewish Worship,” in Sacrifice, Scripture, & Substitution: Readings in Ancient Judaism and Christianity (ed. A. W. Astell and S. Goodhart; Christianity and Judaism in Antiquity 18; Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame, 2011), 311–28. 2 William S. Morrow, Protest Against God: The Eclipse of a Biblical Tradition (Hebrew Bible Monographs 4; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2006), 201–206.

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A. The Form and Function of Malachi 2:17–3:5 and 3:12–21 1. Malachi 2:17–3:5 1.1 Literary Integrity The beginning of this text is marked by a shift in content from the concerns of 2:10–16. Its conclusion is more difficult to discern; scholars have made a case for both v. 5 and v. 6 as the end of this section. One problem is the interpretation of the particle „ at the beginning of v. 6; is it causal (and, therefore, connected with what precedes) or is asseverative? 3 There is a case for thinking that v. 6 possesses both resumptive and anticipatory characteristics. This connection is suggested not only by its ambiguous syntax but also by the organization of the Masoretic Text (MT) whose system of text divisions regards 2:17–3:12 as a single unit of discourse. While 3:6–12 focus on cultic infractions, similar concerns are implied in vv. 3–4 and the condemnation of sorcery and false swearing in v. 5. Nevertheless, v. 6 has kataphoric features that justify distinguishing 2:17–3:5 as a discreet unit for analysis. First, there is a string of second masculine plural references beginning in v. 6 that proceeds into vv. 7–8. Second, the epithet “sons of Jacob” in v. 6b anticipates the use of the root # in vv. 8–9. There is little support in the ancient versions for restoring a better text than the MT. The probability of secondary interpolations in vv. 1b–4, however, is widely recognized. 4 Major problems include the unexpected reference to YHWH in the third person in v. 1b and the fact that Mal 3:3–4 address the status of the Levites, while 2:17 seems addressed more broadly to the laity. 5 Here I follow the opinion of Jakob Wöhrle. Given its uses elsewhere in biblical Hebrew, it is hard to avoid the inference that ’ in v. 1b refers to YHWH – but the continuation of the text in v. 2 seems to identify an actor other than YHWH. If v. 1b is removed, there is a plausible syntactic relationship between v. 1a and v. 2. The shift from the first to the third person, which bothers some commentators, can be explained by the fact that v. 2 explains the function of the messenger promised in v. 1a. It seems unlikely that vv. 3–4 were part of the original text as the frame of this passage (2:17; 3:5) has a different focus than the purification of the 20F

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3 See the discussion and survey of opinions in Karl W. Weyde, Prophecy and Teaching: Prophetic Authority, Form Problems, and the Use of Traditions in the Book of Malachi (BZAW 288; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2000), 314–16. 4 See the discussions and survey of opinions in David L. Petersen, Zechariah 9–14 and Malachi: A Commentary (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1995), 211–21 and Weyde, Prophecy and Teaching, 284–291. 5 Gerhard Wallis, “Wesen und Struktur der Botshaft Maleachis,” in Das Ferne und Nahe Wort. FS Leonhard Rost (ed. F. Maass; BZAW 105; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1967), 229–37 (232–233).

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cult and the Levities. Therefore, a more original form of Mal 2:17–3:5 probably consisted of Mal 2:17; 3:1a, 2, 5. 6 In addition, there may be some small glosses in Mal 2:17–3:5, 7 however their identification does not substantially affect the analysis here. 1.2 Structure and Genre Analysis of the form of Mal 2:17–3:5 inevitably involves investigation into generic patterns of speech. Questions of genre include parallels to the complaints in 2:17b and the relationship of this text as a whole to the rhetoric of disputation. In both connections, it is important to recognize the connection between the complaints registered in 2:17 and lament language. This will help to clarify the speech form of the passage. ™š| ›œž{Ÿ {Ÿ  ¡ ¢\, “All who do evil are good in the sight of YHWH, and he delights in them” (cf. NRSV) recalls criticisms of God recorded elsewhere in biblical literature (e.g., Jer 12:1–2; Job 9:24). 8 But this statement appears, more particularly, to echo deuteronomic (Dtn) formulas that use the phrases “to do good/evil in the eyes of YHWH” (cf. Deut 4:25; 6:18; 9:18; 12:25, 28; 13:19; 17:2; 21:9; 31:29). 9 The people’s complaint, therefore, represents an objection raised against the Dtn perspective by which obedience to the law is rewarded and covenant infractions are punished. It is not, however, Deuteronomy’s theology to which they object, but its lack of applicability to their own situation of distress: YHWH is not acting in the way the community had been taught to expect. “Where is the God of Justice?”  ¡ ¢\£) has a number of parallels in biblical literature. Put into the mouths of Israel’s enemies, “Where is their/your God?” is a taunt directed by its enemies at the community in distress (Joel 2:17; Mic 7:10; Pss 79:10; 115:2). Similar expressions are attributed to the opponents of Jeremiah (Jer 17:15) and the speaker of the individual lament in Ps 42:4, 11; moreover, Jeremiah himself can use the question “Where are your gods?” to taunt idolaters (Jer 2:28). “Where is God?” however, can also be used by faithful Israelites. In this respect, Jeremiah indicts the people of Judah for not using the prayer, “Where is YHWH?” in Jer 2:6, 8. As an implied call for divine help, the 6 Jakob Wöhrle, Der Abschluss des Zwölfprophetenbuches: Buchübergreifende Redaktionsprozesse in den späten Sammlungen (BZAW 389; Berlin: De Gruyter, 2008), 240–42. 7 See, e.g., Theodor Lescow, Das Buch Maleachi: Texttheorie – Auslegung – Kanontheorie; Mit einen Exkurs über Jeremia 8,8–9 (Arbeiten zur Theologie 75; Stuttgart: Calwer, 1993), 118–19. 8 Weyde, Prophecy and Teaching, 281–282. 9 Petersen, Zechariah 9–14 and Malachi, 208; Andrew E. Hill, Malachi (AB 25D; New York: Doubleday, 1998), 263.

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interrogative “where?” often occurs in personal names. Biblical Hebrew examples include Ayyah (Gen 36:24; 2 Sam 3:7), Ithamar (Exod 6:23), Iezer (Num 26:30), Ehud (Judg 3:15), and Ichabod (1 Sam 4:21). There are parallels to this usage in other West Semitic languages. 10 Typically, these names recall a lament that is considered answered by a child’s birth and serves as a reminder of the divine response to a human predicament. 11 Analogues to the complaint, “Where is the God of justice?” are found in: – 2 Kgs 2:14, “Where is YHWH, the god of Elijah?” – Ps 89:50, “Where is your former covenant-faithfulness, O Lord?” – Job 35:10, in which Elihu indicts the oppressed for not praying, “Where is God, my maker…?”

Other complaints about divine presence using the interrogative particle „ occur in Judg 6:13 and Isa 63:11, 15. Determination of the function of “Where is the God of justice?” in Mal 2:17 can benefit from a number of observations. First, as noted above, the use of the interrogative “where?” recalls the language of complaint. Second, the repetition of 2 in 2:17 and 3:5 helps to structure the text. 12 Verse 5 contains a promise of judgment against members of the community who work against covenant values including sorcerers, adulterers, those who swear false oaths, and oppressors of the most socially vulnerable. It acts, therefore, as a response to the complaint in v. 17. Third, there are three intertextual references that also underscore the importance of the theme of divine justice. The importance of Dtn thinking has already been noted, ¤{{¤¥|¦|›|¨{Ÿš|››¤{Ÿ©{Ÿ¤ª¨{Ÿ ¡¢\. A second point of reference is the phrase ¬–«[ ] „  which occurs only in one other place in Scripture: Isa 30:18, “For YHWH is a God of justice, blessed are all those who wait for him” (cf. NRSV). 13 By implication, this is a blessing š¤| ­š ¥| ¥{›{Ÿ© š|{¥ Ÿšžž{Ÿ|¤¤ ­{š ª¨ {Ÿ  ¡ ¢\£ are not experiencing. Finally, Theodor Lescow has noted a number of points of contact between Mal 3:5 and Ps 50, which also celebrates YHWH as a God of justice (Ps 50:6). As in Mal 3:5, the psalm anticipates a theophany in which God will act as a witness (Ps 50:7, cf. Mal 3:5a) against a list of covenant malingers that includes the unusual mention of adulterers (Ps 29F

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10 Joel S. Burnett, “The Question of Divine Absence in Israelite and West Semitic Religion”, CBQ 67 (2005): 215–35 (221–26). 11 Morrow, Protest Against God, 28. 12 Theodor Lescow, “Dialogische Struktur in den Streitreden des Buches Maleachi,” ZAW 102 (1990): 194–212 (203); Hill, Malachi, 265. 13 Weyde, Prophecy and Teaching, 283.

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50:16–20, cf. Mal 3:5b). 14 Both questions and expectations of divine justice are intimately connected to the logic of complaint prayer. 15 In addition to the points made above, another connection to lament suggests itself because of the relationship between the complaints in 2:17 and the promise of divine intervention in 3:1–5. The classical identification of the genre of this text was made by Egon Pfeiffer, who classified it as a Disputationswort, one of six contained in Malachi. 16 This structure has three elements: Behauptung (2:17a), Einrede (2:17a), and Begründung (2:17b–3:5). Since the publication of his article, much has been written about the appropriateness of this generic terminology or the formal constituents of the text; both the name of the genre and its characteristic structure have been debated. 17 Recently, discussion on this issue has been summarized and clarified by Stephan Lauber. Using speech-act theory and discourse analysis, Lauber has observed that the units in Malachi fall into two categories based on the function of their questions. One group consists of Mal 2:17–3:5 and 3:13– 21 (Type A). This form is to be differentiated from that of Mal 1:2–5; 2:10–16; and 3:6–12 (Type B). 18 Mal 2:17–3:5 and 3:13–21 distinguish themselves because they alone have a true tripartite structure, and this because the questions cited in these texts have a different pragmatic function from those in Type B. The questions in Type B actually belong to a kind of monologic discourse and do not mean to suggest dialogue with another interlocutor. Consequently, there are grounds for reserving the generic designation “disputation” for the texts in Type A, which both in form and content reflect an argument with another party. 19 In his discussion of Mal 2:17–3:5*, Lauber basically supports the structural analysis of Pfeiffer while dismissing the view of Theodor Lescow that the text is organized on another tripartite pattern consisting of:

14

Lescow, Maleachi, 117–18; Lescow’s connection of Ps 50 and Mal 2:17–3:5 is followed by Weyde, Prophecy and Teaching, 313–14. 15 Morrow, Protest Against God, 48. 16 Egon Pfeiffer, “Die Disputationsworte im Buch Maleachi (Ein Beitrag zu formgeschichtlichen Struktur),” EvTh 19 (1959): 546–68 (554). The six units are: Mal 1:2–5; 1:6–2:9; 2:10–16; 2:17–3:5; 3:6–12; and 3:13–21. 17 For surveys of the literature on this subject, see Julia M. O’Brien, Priest and Levite in Malachi (SBLDS 121; Atlanta: Scholars, 1990), 57–63; Hill, Malachi, 34–37; and Stephan Lauber, “Euch aber wird aufgehen die Sonne der Gerechtigkeit”: Eine Exegese von Mal 3,13–21 (Arbeiten zu Text und Sprache im Alten Testament 78; St. Ottilien: EOS, 2006), 403–409. 18 Lauber, Mal 3,13–21, 409–23. He regards Mal 1:6–2:9 is a mixed form, which combines features of Type A and Type B. 19 Lauber, Mal 3, 13–21, 432–34.

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(A) Redeeröffnung + Einrede/These + Gegenfrage (v. 17) (B) Tora/Beweisführung (v. 1) (C) Schlusswort/Bekräftigung (v. 5) 20

Lauber’s major argument is on thematic grounds. He resists the proposal of Lescow that the dialogical pattern in 2:17 can be reduced to the implicit claims that YHWH has salvation in mind for his people. Therefore, 3:1*, 5 cannot be considered as argument and confirmation. 21 However, the matter is not that simple. Already, Pfeiffer observed in his seminal description of the form of 2:17–3:5* that what he designated as the Begründung in 3:1 and 5 resolved itself into two sections: a divine speech in v.1 and another speech in v. 5. 22 From this perspective, the structure of Mal 2:17–3:5 is reminiscent of the form of the proclamation of salvation commonly found in Second Isaiah. As described by Anton Schoors, the proclamation of salvation also has three sections: I. a citation or allusion to a collective lament; II. the proclamation of salvation itself which contains motifs of God’s turning towards Israel and divine intervention; III. a statement about the goal or intended outcome of the saving act. 23

The clearest examples can be divided into two groups: 24 Those that contain a quotation of the people’s laments include Isa 49:14–26 (v. 14), 25 and 51:9–16 (vv. 9–11). 26 The majority, however, allude to a lamenting situation rather than cite the collective complaint explicitly: Isa 41:17–20 (v. 17a); 27 42:14–17 (v. 14a); 28 43:16–21 (v. 18); 29 49:7–12 (v. 7); 30 51:17–23 (vv. 17–20); 31 and 54:7–10 (vv. 7–8). 32 The basic layer of Mal 2:17–3:5 conforms to this pattern. Mal 2:17 resembles section I of the most common form of the proclamation of salvation in Second Isaiah¡™š|››¤{Ÿ{Ÿ ¡¢\ does not have parallels in 20

Lescow, Maleachi, 119, 144. Lauber, Mal 3, 13–21, 407–408. 22 Pfeiffer, “Disputationsworte im Buch Maleachi,” 567. 23 Anton Schoors, I Am God Your Saviour: A Form-Critical Study of the Main Genres in Is. XL–LV (VTSup 24; Leiden: Brill, 1973), 44. 24 Excluding Isa 46:12–13; 51:1–8; 54:11–17; and 55:1–5 because of their structural difficulties. 25 Schoors, I Am God Your Saviour, 106. 26 Schoors, I Am God Your Saviour, 122. 27 Schoors, I Am God Your Saviour, 86. 28 Schoors, I Am God Your Saviour, 90. 29 Schoors, I Am God Your Saviour, 96. 30 Schoors, I Am God Your Saviour, 100. 31 Schoors, I Am God Your Saviour, 129. 32 Schoors, I Am God Your Saviour, 132. 21

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well-¦¥œ|¨ œ|Ÿ ž¤œ¤ Ÿ¨š| ›œž{Ÿ{Ÿ© ®|¤{Ÿ{Ÿ ¡¢\£ is in the third person. This is unexpected in terms of complaint rhetoric in the psalms, where second person address to God is the rule. Therefore, v. 17 contains an allusion to rather than a citation of a lament. 33 The statement in 3:1a is a promise of divine intervention; therefore, it may be identified with section II of the form described by Schoors. Its syntax can be compared to Isa 43:19a, whose second section also begins a proclamation of salvation after the lament: 34 Mal 3:1a   Isa 43:19a   

Both texts use a form of the particle  modified by the first person singular pronoun to mark the subject of a participial clause that governs a direct object. A similar use of the particle  but predicated by the Imperfect occurs in Isa 49:22. 35 Section III of the proclamations of salvation often begins with statements of purpose or results. The purpose of YHWH’s intervention in Mal 3:5 is marked by the inseparable preposition ; it is for justice: 2 . Explicit purpose clauses introduce conclusions to the oracle of salvation in Isa 41:20 and 49:7b; result clauses occur in Isa 49:23b and 26b. 36 The parallels between Mal 3:5 and analogous material in Second Isaiah are more semantic than formal, however.  Adrian Graffy sought to distance the form of disputation he found in Second Isaiah from the pericopes of Malachi identified by Pfeiffer. 37 Although more recent scholarship has continued to designate the compositions of Malachi as disputational speech, 38 his observation was not without merit. Texts of disputation and proclamations of salvation do not overlap in Second Isaiah. The hybridization or confluence of these two forms of speech is an innovation of the book of Malachi. As such, it represents a particular tactic aimed at addressing dissenting elements of the community. Discussion of the role this hybrid form played in socializing them will be reserved until the parallel structure of Mal 3:13–21 has been examined. 25F

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See also Weyde, Prophecy and Teaching, 354. Following the chart of Schoors, I Am God Your Saviour, 85. 35 Following the chart of Schoors, I Am God Your Saviour, 85. 36 Following the chart of Schoors, I Am God Your Saviour, 85. 37 Adrian Graffy, A Prophet Confronts his People: The Disputation Speech in the Prophets (AnaBib 104; Rome: Biblical Institute, 1984), 15–17. 38 See the survey and discussion in Hill, Malachi, 37. 34

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2. Malachi 3:13–21 2.1 Literary Integrity The most significant problem in the cohesion of Mal 3:13–21 is the status of v. 16. Scholars are divided over whether the passage should be regarded as a small unit that includes this verse (and its continuation in vv. 17–18) or not. Arguments against the literary integrity of this pericope turn on perceptions that v. 16 introduces an unexpected narrative motif into the text and that those who fear God cannot be the same as those who articulated the complaint in vv. 14–15. 39 However, neither of these arguments is conclusive. First, narrative junctures can occur in prophetic oracles; Karl Weyde calls attention to both Joel 2:18 and Hag 1:12. 40 The case of Joel is instructive because it also follows a call to lament and indicates a decisive turning of God towards the community. Just as important, however, is to observe (as was noted above) that part of the creativity of Malachi involves the combination of genres that tend to remain separate in earlier prophetic works. Moreover, the turn to prose becomes somewhat less problematic once it is granted that Malachi represents a type of written prophecy at some remove from oral delivery. 41 Second, §2.2 will point to parallels between the complaints of the people recorded in Mal 3:14–15 and lament. It is customary for those who lament to present themselves as faithful worshippers of God, i.e., those who fear YHWH. For these reasons, I follow those scholars who regard analyze 3:13–21 without reference to redactional layers. 42 2.2 Structure and Genre As with Mal 2:17–3:5, it is best to begin with noting parallels between the speech of the people in Mal 3:13–15 and motifs common to complaint prayers. The context of complaint is already suggested by the description of the people’s speech in v. 13: these are hard (#) words spoken against () God. 43 The complaint itself can be broken into three sections: 260F

a) there is no point in worshipping God (v. 14a); b) there is no profit for us in adopting the ritual posture of lament (v. 14b); c) the arrogant and wicked prosper because they test God yet escape punishment (v. 15).

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For example, Wöhrle (Abschluss des Zwölfprophetenbuches, 247–48) with references to previous scholarship. 40 Weyde, Prophecy and Teaching, 354–59. 41 See Lescow, Maleachi, 149–50; Weyde, Prophecy and Teaching, 9. 42 For example, Pfeiffer, “Disputationsworte,” 562–64; Hill, Malachi, 322; Weyde, Prophecy and Teaching, 384–86. 43 Weyde, Prophecy and Teaching, 351.

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It is possible to map each of these sections onto one of the three themes that characterize lamenting prayer: accusations against God, descriptions of personal/collective suffering, and complaint about enemy actions. 44 The charge that there is no point in worshipping God is shocking; this is the kind of thing that one expects to find on the lips of the wicked (cf. Job 21:15), not the worshipping community. 45 There is, however, some precedent for the use of  in an accusation against God in community lament. In an extensive section of complaint against God (vv. 39–50) Ps 89:48 asks, “For what vanity () have you created all mortals?” (cf. JPSV). Behind the sentiments in Mal 3:14a there is an indictment of the divine economy: the wicked go unpunished and the righteous go unrewarded. 46 The interrogative formula that opens 3:14b is '  “What profit is there …?” A parallel occurs in Gen 37:26 where the phrase is put into the mouth of Judah who is pleading with his brothers not to murder Joseph. The question motivates a request that they sell him into slavery instead. In Ps 30:10 the question, “What profit is there …?” motivates a petition for salvation in a citation of a lament now contained in a psalm of thanksgiving. There is a close relationship between the use of questions to motivate requests between human beings and the same speech pattern to motivated petitions to God in prayer. 47 The lamenting context of v. 14b is reinforced by the characterization of the speakers as those who “go about as mourners before YHWH of Hosts” (cf. NRSV). While the noun # is hapax legomenon, its use is illuminated by its proximity to the formula #…& found in Pss 35:14; 38:7; 42:10; and 43:2. These are the only instances of this formula in the Hebrew Bible; all are in the context of individual lament. This formulaic wording is associated with self-debasement and mourning, and implies ritual actions appropriate to supplication in times of distress. However, suggestions that these actions imply some kind of deficient spirituality are to be resisted. 48 First, lamenting prayer depends on an argument that typically represents the petitioner(s) as faithful servants of YHWH and upright members of the community. 49 Second, it is likely that services of collective lament involved practices related to mourning, including fasting and self-abasement. 50 Such services seem to have conducted in the exilic period and perhaps in the early post-exilic period as well (cf. Zech 7:3; 8:19). 26F

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See Morrow, Protest Against God, 9. Weyde, Prophecy and Teaching, 351. 46 Hill, Malachi, 332. 47 Morrow, Protest Against God, 36. 48 See, e.g, Hill, Malachi, 333. 49 Morrow, Protest Against God, 47. 50 Morrow, Protest Against God, 99, 101. 45

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A particular motif of collective lament in the post-exilic period has to do with community conflicts: a number of complaints are made about the godless conduct of the rich and arrogant who were oppressing the poor and faithful (e.g., Pss 10 and 94). 51 The use of the adjective  in parallel with  that characterizes Mal 3:15 is rare in complaint psalms, but it is attested in Ps 119, a late psalm which has close affinities with both torah-piety and the lament tradition. 52 As with Mal 2:17, the complaints registered in Mal 3:13–15 are probably better characterized as allusions to lament rather than exact citations. 53 Recognition of the presence of allusions to lament in Mal 3:13–15 suggests that the Mal 3:13–21 may also reflect the same kind of hybrid structure found in 2:17–3:5. Pfeiffer identified a three-stage rhetorical schema in Mal 3:13–21 that consisted of Behauptung (v.13a), Einrede (vv. 13b–15), and Begründung (vv. 16–21). 54 Lauber largely agrees with these divisions, although unlike Pfeiffer he regards vv. 16–17 as a secondary insertion in the text. 55 Again, Lauber rejects Lescow’s perception of a tripartite scheme as a form of torah. 56 Lescow reconstructs the original form of 3:13–21 as (A) These (vv. 13, 14, 15a); (B) Beweisführung (v. 18); and (C) Bekräftigung   ¡¯°¡¯¡ 57 As in the case of Mal 2:17–3:5, however, there is an overlap between the work of Pfeiffer and Lescow. Both note that the divine response falls into two sections (vv. 16–18 and 19–21). 58 This division is apparent in Lescow even after his literary-critical work. Therefore, as in the case of Mal 2:17–3:5, one can analyze the form of 3:13–21 in terms of the proclamation of salvation described by Schoors. An allusion to the people’s lament (vv. 13–15) leads to God’s turning to them (vv. 16–18). Syntactically, the results of this divine initiative are indicated by the particles   at the beginning of v. 19. There is no reason to think that those who fear YHWH, a group mentioned in both vv. 16 and 20 should be distinguished from those whose lament is alluded to in vv. 13–15. The proclamation of salvation assures the lamenting community that Y HWH has heard their prayers and intends to intervene on their behalf. 268F

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Morrow, Protest Against God, 102–104. See Morrow, Protest Against God, 50.  is used in Ps 119:51, 69, 78, 122;  appears in Ps 119:53, 61, 155. 53 Weyde, Prophecy and Teaching, 354. 54 Pfeiffer, “Disputationsworte,” 562–64. 55 Lauber, Mal 3,13–21, 409–12. 56 Lauber, Mal 3,13–21, 406–408. 57 Lescow, “Dialogische Strukturen,” 200–202. 58 Pfeiffer, “Disputationsworte,” 564; Lescow, “Dialogische Strukturen,” 201. 52

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B. Managing Dissent in Post-Exilic Yehud In Protest Against God I noted key theological shifts in the post-exilic period that created an intellectual climate that was not favourable to the continuity of lament. This entailed the development of a more transcendent and comprehensive monotheism, which was reinforced by forms of both Dtn and holiness thinking. 59 Recent work on the production of prophetic books in Persian-era Yehud can complement that perspective by showing that this new theological perspective was actively promoted by a small but influential group of literati, whose literary productions were intended to socialize the community into acceptance of their ideological perspective. These literati identified themselves with Israel’s prophetic heritage, a patrimony whose genuine representatives (as represented in the scriptural tradition) resisted the articulation of collective lament as a legitimate response to the destruction of Judah by Babylon. 60 In this section, I indicate two ways in which the composition of Mal 2:17–3:5 and 3:13–21 participated in attempts to manage dissent by Yehud’s literati. First, and most importantly, the divine response to the people’s complaints involves the composition of a prophetic book that intended to control the lament by representing it as the first phase of an imminent saving act of God (§1). Second, these passages from Malachi also cast some light on the dynamics involved in the replacement of lament by penitential prayer in the Persian era (§2). 276F

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1. Complaint and the Book of Remembrance Previous commentators have noted the close relationship between Mal 2:17–3:5 and 3:13–21. 61 Their proximity is further indicated by the exegetical work above: both texts reflect a conflation of the forms of disputation and proclamation of salvation. The goal of this literary innovation is partly illuminated by considering the meaning of the  mentioned in Mal 3:16. I follow the arguments of Patricia Scalise in dismissing the assertion of some commentators that this memorial document is written about those who fear YHWH, and represents some kind of record of either the names or deeds of those who will be rewarded when the day of the Lord dawns. Scalise points out the close syntactical relationship between the formula in Mal 3:16 and Deut 24:1, 3: just as the record of divorce ( ) is written () for the woman (), the book of remembrance () is 278F

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Morrow, Protest Against God, 162–63. Morrow, Protest Against God, 127. 61 Wallis, “Botschaft Maleachis,” 232; Weyde, Prophecy and Teaching, 354; Lauber, Mal 3,13–21, 409–412. 60

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written () for those who fear YHWH (   ). Moreover, various cultic objects are installed in the presence of YHWH or his temple (cf.   in Mal 3:16) as a memorial () for () members of the worshipping community; cf. Exod 28:12; Num 31:54; and Zech 6:14. Finally, several prophets are said to have written documents at the command of YHWH (Isa 8:1, 16; Jer 30:2; 36:2, 28; 51:60; Hab 2:2). These were intended for either their disciples or the larger community. For these reasons, Scalise supports James Nogalski in his argument that the book of remembrance mentioned in Mal 3:16 refers to some version of Malachi itself if not to the book of the Twelve in its entirety. 62 Indications that the book of remembrance was written for those who fear YHWH and not simply about them underscore recent claims about the nature of written prophecy in the post-exilic period. As Michael Floyd observes, “The emergence of [the genre of prophetic books] entailed a particular way of prophecy’s reaching its public audience.” 63 Through their writings, the literati of Persian-era Yehud discerned how patterns of divinehuman interaction identified by their prophetic predecessors were being repeated in their own situation. 64 Such acts of writing were intended to inculcate a particular worldview among those who heard these books read. As Ehud Ben Zvi notes, 279 F

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The comprehensive, central, collective memory of Yehudite literati may be conceived as a multivalent, shifting array of multiple “sites of memory” that as a whole provided a mechanism for socialization and social reproduction consistent with and supportive of the general goals and the worldview of the institutions and sectors at the center of a particular community. 65 28F

Part of the intellectual patrimony of the scribes producing books of prophecy in Yehud was the memory of earlier forms of prophetic speech acts. These included both the genres of disputation and the proclamation of salvation. What is the point of combining them in Malachi? Both passages discussed above raise the question of theodicy and represent the complaints of a discouraged populace. The delay of YHWH’s expected salvation 62

Patricia Scalise, “Malachi 3:13–4:3: A Book of Remembrance for God Fearers,” Review and Expositor 95 (1998): 571–81 (577–79); citing James Nogalski, Redactional Processes in the Book of the Twelve (BZAW 218; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1993), 209. 63 Michael H. Floyd, “The Production of Prophetic Books in the Early Second Temple Period,” in Prophets, Prophecy, and Prophetic Texts in Second Temple Judaism (ed. M. H. Floyd and R. D. Haak; Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 427; New York: T&T Clark, 2006), 276–97 (290). 64 Floyd, “Production of Prophetic Books,” 289. 65 Ehud Ben Zvi, “Remembering the Prophets through the Reading and Rereading of a Collection of Written Prophetic Books in Yehud: Methodological Considerations and Explorations” (paper presented at the conference on “Remembering and Forgetting in the Persian Period” in Munich, Germany, June 27–July 1, 2011).

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(2:17; 3:14) and the prosperity of the impious wicked were both significant problems (2:17; 3:15). There was probably a relationship between the community’s disillusionment with their God and the debased cult that the prophetic writing was also concerned to see reformed (cf. Mal 1:6–2:9; 3:3–4; 3:6–12). 66 The writer of Malachi needed his addressees to support these reforms, but that required some means of responding to their complaints. By synthesising the genres of disputation and proclamation of salvation in a written form (), as a memorial () for the prophetic party’s support group (  ), an innovative tool combining the motives of recollection and socialization was created for the community. Refutation of the people’s critique (the purpose of the disputation) was ensured by associating it with a proclamation of YHWH’s salvation. The writer of Malachi did not simply dismiss the complaints of the community out of hand, but contained them and to some degree discounted them by contextualizing them in terms of a future expectation. In this connection, the oracles of Malachi recall the function of prophetic intermediaries as those who deliver a divine response to the community’s complaints. This is a function well represented in the activity of Second Isaiah. 67 Complaint always precedes salvation, as the memory of the form used by Second Isaiah implies. In combining disputation and proclamation of salvation, the author of Mal 2:17– 3:5 and 13–21 subtly transformed the community’s laments from doubts about the coming of divine intervention into a proof of its imminence. The attempt in Mal 2:17–3:5 and 3:13–21 to manage the articulation of complaints against God by reframing them with a rhetoric promoting the expectation of divine intervention has both precedents and later manifestations in Second Temple Judaism. As noted above, the precedent had already been set in the prophetic activity attested in Isa 40–55. There, one finds a concerted effort to discount the complaints of the people by proclaiming that a dawning era of salvation effectively answered their laments and rendered their continuation unnecessary. 68 This tactic is also reflected in developments in the canonical form of prophetic books. Here, only three will be mentioned. The first is the addition of Mal 3:23–24 in a later revision of the book. The second involves compositional processes that followed the complaining material in Isa 63–64 with Isa 65–66. Third, a similar tactic can be discerned in later apocalyptic literature. There is widespread agreement that Mal 3:23–24 is secondary to the composition of the main part of the book. 69 While scholars actively debate 284F

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Scalise, “Malachi 3:13–4:3,” 571. Morrow, Protest Against God, 100. 68 Morrow, Protest Against God, 125. 69 Wöhrle, Abschluss des Zwölfprophetenbuches, 251–53. 67

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the status of these verses as an ending to some form of the prophetic corpus or even a larger span of biblical literature, that is not my interest here. Rather, it is to observe that the attempt to control dissenting voices in the Second Temple community continued to manifest itself as the canonical form of Malachi evolved. Elijah’s appearance is mentioned in a way that alludes to Mal 3:1. 70 Readers are assured that the coming of Elijah as YHWH’s messenger will bring to an end a conflict characterized as that between “fathers and sons.” Alternate accounts of the meaning of this conflict have been proposed, although there seems to be a general consensus that the reference is to some sort of disturbed social order. 71 The anticipation of the arrival of Elijah to herald the “great and terrible day of YHWH” fits into a rhetoric that belongs to apocalyptic literature. 72 One of the main concerns of apocalyptic literature is give its readers hope for the future in a time of considerable social duress. In the case of Mal 3:23–24, its insertion stands in some kind of continuity with the motivations that lead to the composition of Mal 2:17–3:5 and 3:13–21. Community distress is recognized, but attempts are made to relativize it by directing the addressees’ gaze to a coming, decisive divine intervention. While such a perspective is common in apocalyptic literature, particular reference can be made to the processes that led to the canonical form of Isa 56–66, which also shows (proto-)apocalyptic influences. 73 Isa 63:7–64:11 is a lengthy lament of the community that, in its canonical form, follows the oracles of salvation in Isa 60–62 and the assurance that Y HWH would punish the Edomites (Isa 63:1–6; cf. Mal 1:2–5). This lament is followed in turn by promises of salvation in Isa 65–66. These chapters have a history of transmission and development that cannot be reconstructed here. Recently, however, Judith Gärtner has noted a number of ways in which the final chapters of Isaiah constitute a response to the lament in Isa 63–64. These include: refutations of the claim that YHWH has acted arbitrarily (cf. 63:17 and 65:1–7), promises for those who truly are his servants (cf. 63:15–19 and 65:8–12), and the anticipation of a new cosmic order with a renewed city and temple (cf. 64:9–11 and 65:17–25; 66:18–21). 74 Conse70

Petersen, Zechariah 9–14 and Malachi, 230. Weyde, Prophecy and Teaching, 390–91. 72 Hill, Malachi, 385; Alexander Rofé, Introduction to the Literature of the Hebrew Bible (Jerusalem Biblical Studies 9; Jerusalem: Simor, 2009), 402–403. 73 Research on the relationship of Isa 56–66 to the rise of apocalyptic in biblical tradition has been summarized in Brian R. Doak, “Legalists, Visionaries, and New Names: Sectarianism and the Search for Apocalyptic Origins in Isaiah 56–66,” BTB 40 (2010): 9– 26. 74 Judith Gärtner, “‘…Why Do You Let Us Stray from Your Paths…’ (Isa 63:17): The Concept of Guilt in the Communal Lament Isa 63:7–64:11,” in Seeking the Favour of 71

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quently, the community’s complaints are both contained and controlled in this section of Isaiah by following them with extensive sections predicting salvation and judgment against evildoers. As in the case of Malachi (cf. 3:19–21), coming judgment involves a differentiation within the community itself. 75 Those loyal to YHWH will be rewarded while those in the community who have not followed his ways will be punished. A similar strategy of managing lament appears in extra-biblical literature associated with the destruction of the Second Temple. Noteworthy in this regard is 2 Esdras, in which the complaints of Ezra are discounted in a series of responses by Uriel, who reveals the role of the current distress as part of a larger cosmic drama. 76 Unlike 2 Esdras, the theology of the base layer of Malachi is not apocalyptic, 77 but Floyd’s work on the continuity between the motives found in the composition of late prophetic books and the writing of apocalyptic literature indicates a continuity of social interests that link these two genres of literature. 78 2. Malachi and the Eclipse of Lament in the Persian Period Recently, Dalit Rom-Shiloni has challenged the view that penitential prayer represents a transformation of an earlier lament tradition. 79 While both community lament and penitential prayers share several formal elements, including complaint, petition, and confession of sin, these are weighted quite differently in the two text-types. In fact, complaint against God is eliminated in penitential prayer and the element of confession is prominent in an unprecedented way. Moreover, biblical penitential prayers align themselves with a prophetic theology that rejected the laments of the peo-

God: Volume 1, The Origins of Penitential Prayer in Second Temple Judaism (ed. M. J. Boda, D. K. Falk, R. A. Werline; SBLEJL 21; Atlanta: Scholars, 2006), 145–63 (151– 56). 75 Doak, “Legalists, Visionaries, and New Names,” 20–21. 76 Morrow, Protest Against God, 171–73. 77 See Simon J. De Vries, “Futurism in the Pre–exilic Minor Prophets Compared with the That of the Postexilic Minor Prophets,” in Thematic Threads in the Book of the Twelve (ed. P. L. Redditt and A. Schart; BZAW 325; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2003), 251–72 (260). 78 Floyd, “Production of Prophetic Books,” 293–97. 79 The prayers in Dan 9:4–19; Neh 1:5–11; 9:6–37; and Ezra 9:6–15 are examples of penitential prayer. Scholars who regard penitential prayer as a transformation or development of the lament tradition include Claus Westermann, Praise and Lament in the Psalms (Atlanta: John Knox, 1981), 206; Mark Boda, Praying the Tradition: The Origin and Use of Tradition in Nehemiah 9 (BZAW 277; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999), 25–27; and Richard Bautch, Developments in Genre between Post–Exilic Penitential Prayers and the Psalms of Communal Lament (Academia Biblica 7; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 137–38.

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ple during the exilic period. These features suggest to Rom-Shiloni that one ought to regard the origins of penitential prayer as the expression of a group of thinkers at odds with the theology of communal lament and those responsible for articulating it. 80 According to Rom-Shiloni, …not only were the authors of penitential prayers highly knowledgeable of the genre of communal laments, but they also intentionally constructed an “orthodox” counterpart to these laments that “cleaned up” inappropriate concepts, yet left enough traces to allow us to discern a complicated dialogue between prayer and lament. 81

My major interest in bringing the analysis of Mal 2:17–3:5 and 3:13–21 into conversations about the development of penitential prayer is to support the position of Rom-Shiloni that one should regard the emergence of penitential prayer as the result of a movement that sought to marginalize the tradition of lament rather than continue it in an altered form. Although the book of Malachi does not contain any well-formed complaint prayer, there is no indication that a penitential stance was characteristic of those addressed by Malachi’s units of discourse. On the contrary, it is the prophetic voice that attempts to arouse the people’s consciousness of sin through threats (1:6–2:9; 2:10–16), warnings (3:6–12), and promises of salvation to those who fear YHWH (1:2–5; 2:17–3:5; 3:13–21). 82 The allusions to communal lament in Malachi suggest that the practice of communal complaint prayer continued in the Persian period without being controlled by confession of sin. Therefore, the book of Malachi does not support a perspective that holds that lament was gradually developing into penitential prayer during this time period. Unfortunately, the book of Malachi does not allow modern scholarship to date it with much precision, so it is difficult to determine when the laments it alludes to were articulated. 83 But at some point (in its canonical context, the emergence of a distinct genre of penitential prayer is connected to the time of Ezra and Nehemiah), active steps were taken to substitute penitential prayer for communal complaint. With the emergence of penitential prayer one encounters a different strategy of socialization than that used by the book of Malachi. What links 80 Dalit Rom-Shiloni, “Socio–Ideological Setting or Settings for Penitential Prayer,” in Seeking the Favor of God: Volume 1, The Origins of Penitential Prayer in Second Temple Judaism (ed. M. J. Boda, D. K. Falk, R. A. Werline; SBLEJL 21; Atlanta: Scholars, 2006), 51–68. 81 Rom-Shiloni, “Socio–Ideological Setting or Settings for Penitential Prayer,” 67. 82 See Lauber, Mal 3, 13–21, 434. 83 Many scholars believe that the prophetic activity attested by Malachi can be located in the time between the dedication of the Second Temple and the reforms of Nehemiah and Ezra (the first half of the 5th cent. B.C.E.). This consensus has not gone unchallenged, however, because the criteria for dating the units in Malachi are imprecise; see Robert J. Coggins, Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987), 74–75.

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them, however, is a concern by Yehud’s literati to manage dissent in the community and their author’s identification with the prophetic heritage. Evidently, however, these intellectuals could not marginalize the lament tradition simply by offering a substitute for it. The tradition of collective protest against God possessed a resilience that those identified with the prophetic perspective could not completely override. Later epochs in Jewish history will confirm this claim. While protest prayers against divine absences and actions are largely absent from Hellenistic Jewish literature, informal complaint prayer (without confession of sin) emerged again during the desecration of the Second Temple (cf. 1 Macc 2:7–13 and 3:50–53) by Antiochus Epiphanes and after its destruction by the Romans (cf. 2 Esr. 3:4–36; 5:23–30; 6:38–59; 2 Bar 3:1–9). 84 It is noteworthy, that in all the cases just cited, the arguing with God tradition is placed on the lips of persons who represent the epitome of orthodoxy (including Mattathias, Ezra, and Baruch). This observation casts light on the fact that those who articulated their complaints about God in Malachi can also be described as those who fear YHWH (3:16). The prophet’s support group was grappling with real concerns. Even if the writer of Malachi promoted a penitential stance with respect to the cult and social practices that he disapproved of (cf. Mal 2:10–16), the fact that those who feared YHWH were subject to social injustice from other segments of the community had to be addressed (cf. 2:17; 3:5, 15, 19–21). This was done by responding to their complaints through an innovative synthesis of speech forms drawn from the prophetic heritage in order to gain assent to the worldview of the literati.

C. Summary and Conclusions Malachi 2:17–3:5 and 3:13–21 indicate how earlier prophetic discourse was both remembered and adapted in the Persian era. Their allusions to lament show that communal complaint prayer continued in the early postexilic period. This liturgical expression fell into abeyance, however, not only because the theological climate was unfavourable, but also because active attempts were made on the part of Yehud’s literati to control it and create substitutes for it. This involved both the generation of penitential prayer as an alternative to complaint and processes of deprecating the present in favour of a coming salvation. As written prophecies, Mal 2:17–3:5 and 3:13–21 provided a response to readers discouraged because God appeared to be absent in the distressful situations they faced. They did so by adopting prophetic precedents for diffusing lament in order to prepare the 84

Morrow, Protest Against God, 154–156, 168–175.

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community for a significant intervention by God. This tactic served to reinforce the writer of Malachi’s call for cultic and social reforms. Therefore, the innovative combination of disputation and proclamation of salvation in Mal 2:17–3:5 and 3:13–21 provided a way for members of a Second Temple community to find a resonance with their own experiences while socializing them into the scripture writer’s worldview.

B. Remembering and Forgetting in Other Ancient Israelite Corpora

The Anti-Hero as a Figure of Memory and Didacticism in Exodus: The Case of Pharaoh and Moses KÅRE BERGE In terms of cultural memory, “Pharaoh” appears as a cipher, code or site of memory within the community of literati in the Persian period. (The memory terms are taken over from articles by Ehud Ben Zvi.) Redaction analyses also argue that the notion of Pharaoh and concepts connected to him play a formative role especially in the late stages of the development of the Pentateuch. This applies to the exodus story, the Joseph narrative, and occurrences of “Pharaoh” in Deuteronomy. This essay will be about Pharaoh in the literary contexts of Exodus.

Theoretical Introduction “The literary creation of the narrative texts composing the Tetrateuch/Pentateuch is directly related to the formation of a distinctive Judahite ethnic identity that was recreated during the Second Temple period.” 1

I will deal with this notion of ethnic identity in the Persian period in this chapter. The literary creation of the Pentateuch as an ethnic or even a national myth (a charter myth) evokes the idea of different schemas, scripts, cognitive structures, or templates for the narratives. Thus, J. V. Wertsch has demonstrated how WWII and other wars are retold in Russian and Georgian memories. The war is put into an underlying plot line of what is called the “Fatherland War,” a template that also governs the narratives of other wars in the history of the countries. Wertsch even states that narra1 E. Theodore Mullen Jr., Ethnic Myths and Pentateuchal Foundations: A New Approach to the Formation of the Pentateuch (SBL Semeia Studies; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1997). For the term “charter myth,” see, e.g., Karel van der Toorn, “The Exodus as Charter Myth,” in Jan W. van Henten and Anton Houtepen, eds., Religious Identity and the Invention of Tradition: Papers read at a NOSTER conference in Soesterberg, January 4–6, 1999 (STAR 3; Assen, the Netherlands: Royal van Gorcum, 2001), 113. See also Karel van der Toorn, Family Religion in Babylonia, Syria and Israel: Continuity and Change in the Forms of Religious Life (SHCANE 7; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 182, 287.

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tive templates, rather than specific narratives, are the site at which national mnemonic communities are formed and reproduced. 2 One implication is that collective ethnic/national memory is more dependent on the group’s self-understanding and present interests than historical evidence and archival information. While historical studies tend to emphasize the difference between present and past, memory recalls the past so as to point to the relationship between “how we are” and the past, the similarity of past and present. From his studies of the Russian and Georgian war narratives, and other scholars’ studies of similar constructs, Wertsch presents a number of characteristics of such narrative templates: 1) A narcissistic ethnocentrism that is characteristic of national narratives. 2) A collapse of temporal and spatial distance, with the tendency to collapse the distinction among several events. 3) A disproportionate mnemonic preoccupation with certain periods of the past to the exclusion of the others. A brief look at the Israelite ethnic/national myth in the Pentateuch reveals features of each of these categories: there is a disproportionate preoccupation with the exodus from Egypt with barely any mention of the long period in Egypt, according to the myth’s own chronology. The narcissistic element is evident in the exodus myth, which appears as a reversed “expulsion myth,” from the point of view of the Israelites. The collapse of time and place is represented in the Deuteronomic retelling of the exodus story, which, notwithstanding the time difference between “then” and “now,” stresses the principal likeness in situation and its demand on the listeners (e.g., 11:2–3). Another example is the hymn in Exod 15, which collapses the exodus and the succeeding events of history into one singular chain of events, all to be celebrated right there at the shore of the Reed Sea. So it seems clear that Egypt plays an important part in the construction of the past in Israelite memory presented in the Pentateuch. This does not mean however, that we can predict what kind of templates will be used for presenting a national or ethnic consciousness; neither can we predict the social setting into which such narratives come into being. Another aspect, also noted by Wertsch, is that such narrative patterns do not necessarily reflect a top-down or an elite understanding of the group’s ethnicity. While the national perspective mostly is seen as an elite concept, one may also argue that ethnicity is sometimes regarded as a notion possessed by those 2 James V. Wertsch and Zurab Karumidze, “Spinning the past: Russian and Georgian accounts of the war of August 2008,” Memory Studies 2, no. 3 (2009): 377–91. Also James V. Wertsch at a conference at the University of Oslo, September 2009: “The Formative Past and the Formation of the Future,” lead by Terje Stordalen.

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who are politically or geographically marginal. Ethnicity may be linked to egalitarian politics. 3 The elite origin of the Pentateuch story notwithstanding, and the fact that there was probably very little interest in “the populace” among the elites, the elite group(s) who produced this story was probably constrained by some common ideas about the past. It is the task of this essay to investigate what role “Pharaoh” plays in the mnemonic construction of the past in Exodus. As a guideline I will use Wertsch’s ideas and other studies of how people groups construct a common memory of their past. One objection to this essay may be that there is no such thing as collective or cultural memory. The first answer to this is that cultural memory is memory institutionalized and constructed. It is embodied in texts and rituals. 4 As Barbara A. Misztal notes, the importance of cultural memory lies in the identity that it shapes. It also affects relationships between people groups, since it opens and closes boundaries of ethnic and national identities. The Heidelberg theory of cultural memory too, regards kulturelles Gedächtnis as a formalized and institutionalized concept, which exists in the forms of narratives, songs, dances, rituals, masks, and symbols. 5 Studies of cultural memory in the bible can at best demonstrate how the texts build up identity and borders through reference to the past. The past serves as building blocks of present identities.

Pharaoh in Teaching One of the most significant traits of the reference to Pharaoh in the Pentateuch is its didactic or catechetical use. This is clear from Deut 6:21–22; it is also in Deut 11:1–21, and Pharaoh plays the central role in the didactic passages of the Pesach/Massot rituals in Exod 12:24–26; 13:3–10, 14–16. (The context shows that there is no difference between Pharaoh and all

3

Eric Kaufmann and Oliver Zimmer, “‘Dominant ethnicity’ and the ‘ethnic-civic’ dichotomy in the work of Anthony D. Smith,” in History and National Destiny: Ethnosymbolism and its Critics (ed. M. Guibernau and J. Hutchinson; Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), 63–78. 4 See, for instance, Barbara A. Misztal, Theories of Social Remembering (Maidenhead, Berkshire, England: Open University Press, 2003), 12–15. 5 The Heidelberg cultural theory, with Jan Assmann and Aleida Assmann as the most prominent representatives, is discussed by Dietrich Harth in his chapter “The Invention of Cultural Memory” in A Companion to Cultural Memory Studies (ed. Astrid Erll, Ansgar Nünning, and Sara B. Young; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), 85–95, and in Jan Assmann’s article, “Communicative and Cultural Memory,” 109–118 in the same volume.

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other Egyptians in this regard.) The connection between Pharaoh and mnemonic rituals is also of importance. The easiest access to the didactical function of Pharaoh is through a study of the plague narrative. I have argued previously that there are genre elements of sapiential didactic tale in the exodus narrative. 6 This refers in particular to the non-P text of chs. 7–11. Pharaoh appears in this part of the text as the wisdom-didactic anti-hero. In sapiential didactic tales, as presented by H.-P. Müller, all characters and events relate to the hero and not to a remarkable event or incident. In Exodus, this is not the case, because it leads up to the remarkable exodus event and the episode at the sea. However, in the plague narrative, the plot is at a near standstill. Everything circles around the anti-hero, his refusal to let the people leave, and the hardening of his heart. Pharaoh remains consistently recalcitrant throughout the entire plague sequence. Repetition of plagues that are “tests” of a character’s personality occur in the Job frame, in the “testing” of Joseph’s brothers, and in the Daniel story, where a number of events may be read as trials that demonstrate the religious virtue of Daniel and his friends. Exodus 10:2 commands that the Israelites shall tell () their sons and grandsons about what happened to Pharaoh. So, there is a clear lesson to be learned from Pharaoh’s resistance and God’s acts against him. The most explicit evidence of a law-didactical interpretation of the picture of Pharaoh and the Egyptians is Exod 15:22–26: 307F

“If you will listen carefully to the voice of the LORD your God, and do what is right in his sight; and give heed to his commandments and keep all his statutes, I will not bring upon you any of the diseases that I brought upon the Egyptians; for I am the LORD who heals you.”

The “diseases” have a double reference; it refers to the plagues, but also to the standard curses following treaties and legal obligations put on kings’ vassals and servants (see Deut 28:27, 60 and 7:15). I have also argued that the history psalms (Pss 78; 105; 106; 135) use the topos “the plagues of Egypt” for a didactic purpose. The plague story presents Pharaoh as the recalcitrant vassal and anti-hero, the stupid and wicked person whose “wise” plan turns back on him. What happened to Pharaoh also teaches the audience about God’s steadfast mercy despite the people’s constant disobedience. Thus Ps 78 (so also Ps 49:5) presents a parable (  ) and riddles ()) in its retelling of the exodus story; there is something about God and the moral order, and about God’s steadfastness that only the wise can interpret.

6 Kåre Berge, “Didacticism in Exodus? Elements of Didactic Genre in Ex 1–15,” SJOT 22 (2008): 3–28.

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The didactic use of Pharaoh as a memorial figure is linked to the ritual texts of Pesach and Massot, but with regard to this connection with ritual, the picture is more complicated.

Pharaoh in the Ritual Texts in Exodus 12–13 In cultural memory, the past is largely embodied in, inter alia, narratives and rituals. Redaction criticism regards the major part of the Pesach ritual (i.e., ch. 12) as Priestly (P), yet there is no agreement on details. The ethnic concern in vv. 43–51 collides with the non-ethnic perspective of the P source of Leviticus (however, it could have originated from authors of the Holiness Code [H]). Elements in vv. 14–20 seem to be dependent on Lev 23:41 (H). A possible solution is to regard the P text as a later reworking of the Priestly code of Leviticus, maybe even by the authors of H (because of the ethnic concern). This may also account for the similarities in terminology yet conceptual divergences from P. The figure of speech in 12:24– 27 and 13:14–16 seems to have its conceptual and formal origin in Deut 4:9–10; 6:7; 11:2, 19; 32:7, 46. 7 If so, these catechetical passages belong to the latest stages in the formation of the Pentateuch in the Persian period. Accordingly, the Persian period seems to have been more explicit about the torah-didactical interpretation of Pharaoh as a figure of memory, which is hardly surprising. We may distinguish between the Pesach ritual as a social act in the history told by the text, and as the textual product of the priestly tradition and later, which manipulates the mytho-historical time by moving back and forth between a historical “report” and didactic interruptions about the “future,” which is really the authors’ own time. 8 William Propp makes a similar divide between the prescriptive and the historical ritual, with the former also called “Pesach of Generations.” I follow this distinction. There are different opinions about the genre of the celebration in Exod 12. Rolf Rendtorff calls this a ritual. Other scholars who reject this classification call it a family celebration with apotropaic function, and see no cultic or ritual elements in it. 9 The apotropaic function is regarded as cen7

Jan C. Gertz, Tradition und Redaktion in der Exoduserzählung: Untersuchungen zur Endredaktion des Pentateuch (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), 44. 8 Jorunn Jacobsen Buckley, “A Matter of Urgency: A Response to ‘The Passover Supper in Exodus 12:1–20,’” Semeia 67 (1995): 63–71. 9 Peter Laaf, Die Pascha-Feier Israels: Eine literarkritische und überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studie (BBB 36. Bonn: 1970,) 79; Klaus Grünwaldt, Exil und Identität: Beschneidung, Passa und Sabbat in der Priesterschrift (BBB 85; Frankfurt a.M.: Hain, 1992), 81.

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tral to ritual in recent studies like the commentaries by W. Propp and J. Milgrom (from his study of Leviticus), who point to similarities with Arab and Mesopotamian parallels of rituals that keep the daemons away from the homes. The Pesach ritual is a non-cultic ritual meal (takes place in the home, no temple, no priests, no altar). The threshold is explicit and central in the Pesach – its time (the full moon, “between the two evenings”) and the celebrants’ readiness to leave indicate liminality – but there is no passing over this threshold; the Israelites have to stay inside, protected from the outdoor destruction. It is a ritual of separation and demarcation. The Israelites have to eat with their loins girded, their sandals on their feet, and their staff in their hand (see 1 Kgs 18:46; 2 Kgs 4:29; 9:1). Through the ritual in the narrative (the ritual for the exodus generation), Israel is about to accomplish (or change) its identity through separation. This corresponds to the notion of ethnic identity-making as a border phenomenon, gained through contact with other social groups, as described by the social anthropologist Fredrik Barth. 10 Whether this is an initiation ritual or a rite of affliction (in Victor Turner’s sense) remains unimportant. In any case, it is a ritual of transition and transformation (again in Turner’s sense). 11 Both in its protecting function and its locality of performance, Pesach resembles circumcision in Exod 4:26. Both rituals create immunity against the deity’s lethal presence, and circumcision is a condition for taking part in the Pesach meal. I think that ritual liminality is more closely linked to the preceding Massot than to Pesach, which puts an end to liminality. Massot, however, is more closely linked to “rituals for generations” than ritual in narrative. 12 My point is that these rituals testify to social identity (social symbolism, social power, social group identification, “us” and “the others,” political ideology), and they promise or convey religious salvation as well. Pharaoh and the Egyptians appear in the narrative as a means by which “Israel” as a social entity provides itself with a mythos and ethos. Returning to Turner, one would expect participants of the Pesach ritual of the narrative to act out the basic conflicts regarded by the origin milieu of these ritual texts, and the values they celebrate as ones that hold the society together. 13 Val10

See Fredrik Barth, ed., Ethnic Groups and Bondaries: The Social Organization of Cultural Difference (Boston: Little, Brown & Co, 1969). 11 Susan Niditch, Folklore and the Hebrew Bible (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993), 56, 62. 12 So also William H. C. Propp, Exodus 1–18: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 2; N.Y.: Doubleday, 1999). The unexpected position of Massot after the P instruction of “Pesach in narrated time” might indicate its post-P character, so a number of source critics. 13 See Cathrine Bell, Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions (N.Y.: Oxford University Press, 1997), 40–41, for a general description, and specifically with regard to a “moral

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ues and conflicts are combined. Thus we may consider the acts of Pharaoh as the moral counterpart to the values expected to be esteemed in Israel. The rationale of the conflict with Pharaoh may even be the values celebrated in Israel. We can also see the ritual of the narrative as a demarcation against the chaos created by Pharaoh’s resistance to obey the command of Yahweh. The Danish scholar H. J. Lundager Jensen is right in stating that the participants have to leave a place of disorder so as to undergo a status transformation. As such, the Pesach ritual in the narrative heals, rectifies or protects against a state of affairs that has been disordered. We will call this a “liminal” situation. When Moses returned to Egypt, the land was not simply a secular area any more: God is “in the middle of the land” (Exod 8:18). The signs of this are the magical and horrible acts of God and Moses, and Aaron, which destroy the country. The appearance of magicians, who practice sorcery in competition with Moses and Aaron the Priest, may point in the direction of liminal rituals. 14 Victor Turner noticed that in the African Ndembu ritual, there appear bizarre and monstrous figures, “such as frequently appear in the liminal period of initiations.” 15 In the plague story, we do not meet bizarre figures of this kind. However, the plagues may appear as a visualization of terrible and monstrous phenomena. Hence, the notion of the land of Egypt seems to have changed from Exod 1–2 to 7–11. In these later chapters it is furnished with features to be expected in liminal phases. When monstrous features like these appear in an episode in the mytho-history of Exodus, they may have a pedagogical function to teach about the consequences of disobedience to God. One may describe the difference between “the ritual of history” and “the ritual for generations” (i.e., the ritual prescribed for succeeding generations) in terms of transformation: 16 the ancestors’ ritual took place as a part of their transformation and change of identity, from slavery under Pharaoh in Egypt to a societas ruled by the institutions and the mitzvot given by the escape from Egypt (i.e., the rituals themselves in Exod 12–13), and the obligations they were put under during their wandering in the desert, (i.e., the Torah). The time of the ancestors is movement; the ritual time is static and atemporal. The act of status transformation in the Exodus narrative is pole” of a ritual symbol, see Victor Turner, The Forest of Symbols: Aspects of Ndembu Ritual (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1967), 54–55, 108. 14 See, for instance, the examples in Arnold van Gennep, The Rites of Passage (trans. Erik Ringen; Oslo: Pax, 1999); trans. of Les Rites de Passage (London: Routledge, 1960). 15 Victor Turner, The Forest of Symbols, 104–105. See also William G. Doty, Mythography: The Study of Myths and Rituals (Alabama: The University of Alabama Press, 1986), 92. 16 At this point, see Jonathan Z. Smith, To Take Place: Toward Theory in Ritual.

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accessible to the generations to come through the ritual: it takes place within the four walls of their homes. The ritual transforms this movement and change of status into an identity-marker of the people of Israel. For the generations to come there is no access to the time of the ancestors. Liminal space, from which they were rescued (i.e., Pharaoh’s Egypt), cannot function socially; it is the space of chaos. The ritual belongs to the social space of the family. For later generations, the ritual is a memory of how the ancestors separated from Pharaoh and how they were liberated from Egypt. Furthermore, what creates this memory – in the final redaction – is probably not only the practice of the prescription of the rituals in Exod 12–13, but the whole ethos of the Torah as presented at Sinai. Just as the ancestors’ time is movement, the Pesach for generations is stability and rest. In short, it presupposes an Israelite societas of laws and institutions. The symbolism of movement (readiness to break up) only re-creates and celebrates the movement of the ancestors. For “Israel of Generations,” the memory of the liminality in Egypt during the plagues is an element of religious and ethnical education for future Israel. The content of this teaching appears most explicitly in the expressions about the meaning and significance of the plagues in Egypt. Let me start from the le=ma’an-expressions in the exodus narrative. Because most of these also contain the yada’/teda’-expressions, I combine these (the le=ma’an-expressions in cursive; the cases in parentheses have no significant impact on the problem discussed here): Exod (1:11); 4:5; 5:2; 7:5, 17; 8:6, 18; 9:14, 16, 29; 10:1, 2; 10:7; 11:7; 13:9; (14:4, 18; 16:6, 12). Most of these relate to Pharaoh. There is a progression in the knowledge motif in the following expressions, beginning in 5:2: “Who is Yahweh that I should listen to his voice … I do not know Yahweh … “ The “knowledgemotif” reappears in 7:5, 17. Succeeding this, the following sequence appears: 8:6 (“that you may know that nobody is like Yahweh our God”); 8:18 (“that you may know that I, Yahweh, am in the middle of the land 1 .   ”); 9:14 (“that you may know that nobody is like me in the whole land 1.       ”); 9:29 (“that you may know that to Yahweh is the land 1.   ”); 9:16 (“and that my name be proclaimed  in the whole land 1.       ”); 10:7 (“how long will this [man] be to us a snare  #) ? … Do you not yet know  that Egypt perishes   ?”); 11:7 (“that you may know that Yahweh makes a distinction between Egypt and Israel”). Finally, we may add 12:12: “and against all the gods of Egypt I will make judgments, I am Yahweh.” The expressions related to Israel are different. While the Pharaoh-cases evoke the impression of judgment and doom, the Israel-cases are related to faith in God, teaching, and cultic practice: 4:5 (“that they may believe  !=  + -  that Yahweh … appeared to you [=Moses]”), see also 4:31; 14:31;



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19:9. Other cases are 10:2 (“and that you may proclaim  in the ears of your son and your grandson … that you may know that I am Yahweh”); 10:26 (“and as to us, we do not know what to sacrifice  to Yahweh until we arrive there”); 13:9 (“and it shall be to you a sign )  on your hand and a reminder ) *   between your eyes, that the torah of Yahweh )   will be on your mouth”). The best way to interpret the Israel-addresses is through the “rituals for generations” and their connected didactic elements (12:24–27; 13:8–9; and 13:14–16). The Pesach ritual for generations in Exod 12–13 is not about initiation, nor rites of passage, but first and foremost a commemorative ritual of teaching and demarcation of ethnic boundaries. Let me again describe how this appears in the plague narrative.

Ritual and its Didactic Function A study of the cultural symbolism of the exodus narrative reveals a mixed picture of its didactic function. To begin with, the Exodus narrative appears as a mytho-history or a sacred tale. 17 The scholars normally regard 318F

17 The term mytho-history is used by Edmund Leach in Humanizing America’s Iconic Book: Society of Biblical Literature Centennial Addresses 1980 (ed. Gene M. Tucker and Douglas A. Knight; Chico, Calif.: Scholars Press, 1982) = Edmund Leach and D. Alan Aycock, Structuralist Interpretations of Biblical Myths (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983) together with the terms “myth” and “sacred tale.” The whole Bible is myth, he says, and “the whole of the Bible has the characteristics of mytho-history of the sort that anthropologists regularly encounter when they engage in present-day field research” (87). Leach also seems to equate the biblical narratives with “mythical” sagas such as the Gilgamesh epic. In an earlier study, Genesis as Myth and Other Essays, Leach had treated the story of Solomon as a Lévi-Straussian “myth” by applying the structuralist opposition-analysis to it so as to clarify its “mythical” outcome. In the chapter “Why did Moses have a sister?” in Structuralist Interpretations, he continues to use the same terminology. The Bible is a body of mythology, but he is even more specific with regard to the texts of our study. According to Leach, the pattern and motifs of Exod 2–3 parallel Egyptian mythology of the divine king, and the contests between Moses and Pharaoh with the plagues are strongly reminiscent of the Egyptian story The Contendings of Horus and Seth, seeing the story from Exod 2 even as a transformation of the OsirisIsis-Horus pattern. He also assigns the notions of the magical crossing of a water boundary on dry land (Exod 14), the intermediate region of wilderness as a zone of liminality, and the structural-symbolic opposition between Palestine (which represents Plenty) and Egypt (which represents Suffering) to this mythical context. Michael P. Carroll (“Leach, Genesis, and Structural Analysis: A Structural Evaluation,” American Anthropologist 4, no. 4 (1977): 663–77), criticizes some of Leach’s structural analyses of Genesis, but he does keep the notion of myth and mythological structure as relevant not only to the tales of Cain and Abel but also to Esau, Jacob, and Joseph. On the other hand, Jan Assmann, who applies the word “Mythos” to the Exodus and Conquest narratives as the founding

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such tales and rituals as conjunct, which also enables us to use theories of rituals to illuminate the social symbolic potential of sacred myths. According to the two main theories of ritual and myth – the intellectualist and the functionalist tradition – ritual and myth may be regarded either as a proposition (i.e., a statement of ritual’s symbolic significance, its semantic or referential meaning, and how it represents the cosmos), or as an act, (i.e., a performative approach that focuses ritual’s indexicality, its pragmatic meaning, and how it legitimates social hierarchies). 18 There is a propositional force in ritual, which legitimates the social act it produces. According to a socio-functionalist approach, myths and rituals have a multifunctional character, which means that they make the audience experience both the authority and flexibility of a social order. Rites and myths act out and give form to both conflicts and the dominant values holding the group together. We may expect rituals to have a moral power; it will create the frame for how people act, and provide it with an ideological or normative value. 19 Clearly this is a didactic function. history of ancient Israel, refuses to regard them as “myths” in the meaning of Eliade as recurring events in the world of the gods (Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen [2d. ed. München: Beck, 1997], 78). Percy S. Cohen distinguished between myth and history, but accepted the term “vestigial myth” to a history or pseudo-history when it allows some scope to fantasy, tends to interpret the past in such a way as to anchor the present in a series of significant events, and acquires a sacred character, which is his definition of myth (“Theories of Myth” [Man, New Series 4 no. 3, 1969]: 337–53 (352)). Cohen also stresses the multi-functionality and multi-significance of myths. Finally, Hans M. Barstad in Can a “History of Israel” Be Written? (ed. Lester. L. Grabbe; JSOTSup 245; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997) applies John Hutchinson’s typology of a nation’s myths to the biblical history, thus extending the term to a wide frame; Exodus and wilderness is the nation’s myth of migration, conquest of Canaan is their myth of origins and settlement, the Davidic empire is the myth of a golden age, and so on. The mytho-logical approach of Leach, Eliade and others can be justifiably applied to the Exodus story, even though there is a difference between this story and the “stories of the gods” and even the Urgeschichte in Genesis. 18 Tambiah especially has argued that the two functions are intertwined. According to him, ritual as a locutionary act is embedded within the illocutionary act. Stanley J. Tambiah, “A Performative Approach to Ritual,” Proceedings of the British Academy 65 (1979): 113–69; see also Tambiah, Culture, Thought, and Social Action: An Anthropological Perspective (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1985). 19 Turner speaks of dominant ritual symbols as carrying an “ideological pole” of meaning, signifying the norms and values of the society’s structural relationships Ritual, he says, “converts the obligatory into the desirable,” also stating that “[n]orms and values … become saturated with emotion. … The irksomeness of moral constraint is transformed into the ‘love of virtue.’” (The Forest of Symbols, 28–30); see also Victor Turner, ed. Dramas, Fields, and Metaphors: Symbolic Action in Human Sociology (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1974), 55. At this point we refer to “ideology” in a more general sense than that which appears in José G. Merquior, The Veil and the Mask: Essays on culture and ideology (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1979), who defines it in

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However, the ritual symbols also act out separation and tension in the society. It is especially within the state of liminality that the societal conflicts are acted out. 20 Different explanations have been given to this “protest” in rituals. It may be regarded as a cathartic function: the ritual is a mechanism that highlights conflicts of interest and eliminates the threat of disunity. Like a valve, it relieves the tensions of a static society. In this regard, we may see a didacticism in ritual and myth, which aims at a group’s unity, its status quo, and a unified assent to the one set of societal and moral values expressed in the ritual or myth. It does so by letting the participants/audience also experience the tensions and conflicts in social principles. But the “protest” of myths and rituals may also be regarded as a source for change in an ongoing process in a continually unbalanced society. Rituals and myths have a double function of both constituting (and teaching) a system of social values and providing a template for reshaping or redirecting the social situation. 21 J. Campbell’s model of myth and ritual includes four functions (with special reference to the origin myths). The third function is to validate, support, and imprint the norms of a given, specific moral order, and, according to Doty’s presentation of Campbell, “to authorize ‘its moral code as a construct beyond criticism or human emendation’”; the fourth is to shape individuals to the aims and ideals of their various social groups. 22 Again, this is clearly a didactic function. It is also important to note that myths and rituals, when acted out and used to express societal values, do not necessarily represent consensus about values. The myth or ritual may represent one particular, authoritarian terms of both group interest in a given social order (sectionalism, refractionalism), and as a part of the empirical mechanisms of power. It may be relevant to ask for particular group interests in the Exodus text. However, this is not the subject of our investigation. 20 For a general presentation of Turner, see Cathrine Bell, Ritual, especially 40. See also John J. MacAloon, ed. Rite, Drama, Festival, Spectacle: Rehearsals Toward a Theory of Cultural Performance (Philadelphia: ISHI, 1984), and especially the article by Turner in this volume. MacAloon concludes that cultural performances (including myths and rituals) “are more than … didactic or persuasive formulations, and more than cathartic indulgences. They are occasions in which as a culture or society we reflect upon and define ourselves … present ourselves with alternatives, and eventually change in some ways while remaining the same in others.” 21 Clifford Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures (N.Y.: Basic Books, 1973), 90, 112. David Janzen, The Social Meanings of Sacrifice in the Hebrew Bible, (BZAW 344; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004), 12, in reference to the functionalist approach to ritual, makes the point that rituals not only advance social unity and moral order but can also mask social disunity and even actively encourage it. However, his main point is that rituals “will have to convince the members of the social body that the society, its structures, morality, and its unity are things for which they should strive” (17). 22 Referred in William G. Doty, Mythography, 54.

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way of viewing the society. Ritual and myth may enact a mobilization of one group’s interests at the cost of other groups and other value systems. Thus, we may find that the overstated images of the myth or ritual silence diverse opinions. This we may call a hegemonic discourse, which, however, can still be dialogic and not monolithic. Values could be defined by opposition even when the antagonistic voices are suppressed into silence. 23 So, what about Pharaoh? It seems reasonable to read this foundation myth, especially with the plague narrative included in it, for its indexicality; it legitimates the social and religious code it produces, and this code is presented basically by describing what is not “our” moral code and the consequences of following this foreign moral code. The story of Pharaoh and the plagues appears as a means of moral and religious demarcation and this is also what is commemorated in the Pesach ritual “for generations.” It is impossible to move from the cultural symbols to social structure. We may reasonably think that this represents one group’s interest at the cost of other value systems, a hegemonic mobilization by a Persian time elite that suppressed antagonistic voices. We cannot read more out of the texts through these methods. We may conclude, however, that Pharaoh is used as a cultural symbol that serves as a didactical example and as an ethnic marker.

“Refugee Identity”: Boundary as an Identity Marker I have noted that the exodus story and Pesach appear as an (inverted) elimination myth. It is not only about a people’s liberation from captivity; it is also the story of the larger nation’s elimination of plagues that hit them (or the reason for these plagues, i.e., the Israelites) – but told from the other 23 Cathrine Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 190. Kenneth Thompson, Beliefs and Ideology (Chichester: Ellis Horwood Ltd., 1986), discusses the dominant ideology thesis. In a reference to Antonio Gramsci, he points to the necessity of a ruling class in a society to take account of and making concessions to ideas and interests of the subordinate classes. A hegemonic ideological effect results according to Gramsci, from that articulating principle which manages to resonate with the widest range of elements of popular culture (100), which may be called a cultural negotiation and exchange between classes. Some scholars even saw folklore as “a concept of the world and of life … in contraposition … to the ‘official’ conceptions of the world” (118). He also notes that “[t]he most useful contribution that Gramsci made to folklore studies was to dispel the idea that folklore consisted solely of cultural ‘fossils’ and survivals, and he did this by identifying folklore as part of the cultural complex lying outside the institutionalized norms and official conceptions propagated by the organized sectors of society.” The degree to which such elements are constitutive is a matter of individual studies, though.

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side, from the side of those that are eliminated: 24 Moses is a moqets “snare” to the Egyptians (10:7). Israel in Egypt appears as a liminal group under conditions not very different from refugees and deported peoples, as a group somehow outside the nation as a social order. The expressions about a zebah sacrifice in the desert (Exod 3:18; 5:3, 8, 17; 8:4, 21–25; 10:25; 12:27; 13:15) fit this situation. A possible offering in Egypt would represent cultural identity building by these outcasts. In national ideology, this would appear as a to´eba “abomination,” that is, “ritual impurity,” to the Egyptians. Israel as a national-cultural entity would make this national order unclean. In her study of refugees, Lisa Malkki notes that nation is more than ideology; one should regard it as a large cultural system of signification including the rituals. 25 Malkki, with reference to Mary Douglas, notes that it is the breaking of borders that is the problem: “[the refugees] blur national (read: natural) boundaries, and challenge ‘time-honoured distinctions between nationals and foreigners.’” In the plot, the request to go three days into the desert to sacrifice appears as a deception. In its landscape mythology however, travel into the desert indicates state of holiness and ritual purity. The holy space where sacrifice can take place is outside Egypt in the desert. There is a lot of separation in the plague story. God “will make a difference” between Egypt and the Israelites (8:18–19; 9:4, 26; 10:23; 11:7). The notion of “the gifts” from the Egyptian women (3:21–22 and 11:2–3), may also indicate a rite of separation. These examples demonstrate the creation of boundaries. The sacrifice “rectifies” the blurring of boundaries when Israel breaks up. Refugees are structurally invisible in relation to the order of categories. 26 Malkki notes, with reference to an extensive literature, that the refugees face a serious problem in the means by which the governing nations keep them in this invisibility; they are kept outside “the determining weight of History.” 27 The way to break out of this structural invisibility is for the refugees to anchor themselves in history, that is, to give themselves a history. In a proper sense, Exodus presents us with a “mythical24

Hans J. Lundager Jensen, Den fortærende ild: Strukturelle analyser af narrative og rituelle tekster i Det Gamle Testamente (Århus: Århus Universitetsforlag, 2000), 239–41 (in Danish). 25 Lisa Malkki, Purity and Exile: Violence, Memory, and National Cosmology Among Hutu Refugees in Tanzania (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995). 26 For “refugee mentality” of biblical texts, based on social anthropologically oriented studies of refugees and deported peoples, see Daniel L. Smith, The Religion of the Landless: The Social Context of the Babylonian Exile (Bloomington, Ind.: Meyer-Stone Books, 1989). 27 Malkki, Purity and Exile, 13.

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historical” designation of Israel’s identity. The Exodus text presents the Israelites in Egypt as a group that once lived under similar conditions. By building their identity as a people in Egypt, they did this not only by forming a genuinely Israelite ritual, but also by furnishing this ritual with history. What is remarkable about this identity-forming process is, however, that it is heavily shaped by the mental formation of a mythical topography, which demands a standard of sacred, religious duties on Israel’s side. All the liminal features point in that direction: the Pesach ritual, the desert, and even the events at the mountain of the deity.

A Final Note about the Aesthetic and Pragmatic Function of the Text: Catharsis and Moral Apprehension There is a hero story in Exodus, but there is also a tragedy which concerns the rise and fall of Pharaoh. The tragedy presents the fate of a king that acts faultily because he does not recognize his own situation in regard to Yahweh. Aspects of didacticism and moral apprehension are included in theories of esthetic experience and affects of literary works. Some of these theories are rooted in Greek literature and especially in the classical tragedies as discussed by Aristotle. There is no peripeteia and no clear anagnorisis in this story as there is in the Oedipus. There is an irony though. The audience knows who the real power is in this struggle, and they know its final outcome in advance. Pharaoh is ignorant of both. He cannot do anything to alter the result; this is clear from the very beginning. There are structural analogies between the Greek tragedies and the exodus story. The chorus, which sums up the story and at least in some cases relates the fate of the character to an existing norm, has a resemblance in Exod 15:21: 28 Miriam the prophetess, Aaron’s sister, took the tambourine in her hand, and all the women went out after her with tambourines and with dancing. And Miriam answered them, “Sing to Yahweh, for he is highly exalted! Horse and his rider he threw into the sea.”

The Aristotelian catharsis (purging of the mind through the aesthetic experience) – an obscure term by Aristotle – appears in modern models of aes-

28 At this point, see for example, the concluding remarks of the chorus in Euripides’ Medea: “Zeus on Olympus, dispenses many things. Gods often contradict our fondest expectations. What we anticipate does not come to pass. What we don’t expect some god finds a way to make it happen. So with this story.”

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thetic apprehension of (hero) narratives, for instance by H. R. Jauss, which is basically a reception theory of communication. 29 In a way, aesthetic experience (reading the hero narrative) functions like the dream, religion, or science, says Jauss, in making the reader “experience himself in the discontinuity between the everyday and the other provinces of meaning … as a role-independent self.” 30 This is also what he calls an experience of social role distance, or more generally, the aesthetic experience permits us to “see anew,” something he links to the reflective level of aesthetic experience (as opposed to the pre-reflective one). Jauss thinks that aesthetic experience takes the reader beyond the possibilities of, say, religious experience, by freeing him “of the constraints and the routine of his normal role performance.” 31 In this, he seems to distinguish religious and aesthetic experience, indicating that (art in) cult establishes the norms governing ways of life. 32 Our biblical text is special in its combination of the narrative and “pragmatic explicity” about ritual performance among the readers. As a religious text that combines narrative about the founding hero and the fate of an anti-hero with the prescription of later ritual practice, it connects what Jauss initially separates: the performance of ritual and cult, and “the playful aesthetic experience of narrative art.” 33 It is this combination that 29

Hans Robert Jauss, Aesthetic Experience and Literary Hermeneutics (trans. M. Shaw; Theory and History of Literature 3; Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1982); for the hero motif, see pp. 4–5 and 152. For the general model, see also Jauss, Literaturgeschichte als Provokation (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1970). The meaning of the Aristotelian catharsis is far from clear. It is not even clear whether it refers to effects on the audience or to something internal to the plot. One may also discuss the effects of phobos and eleos. In any case, Aristotle focuses how the plot-structure affects the audience when speaking about the most important thing of a tragedy. 30 Jauss, Aesthetic Experience, 93. 31 Jauss, Aesthetic Experience, 5. 32 Jauss, Aesthetic Experience, 14. Ritual is, in his view, obligatory (13) while aesthetic experience is optional/voluntary. See also p. 94. However, Jauss also seems to blur, in a way, this distinction between religion and aesthetic experience, by joining preautonomous (religious) art with autonomous in his talk about the social function of aesthetic experience. See, for instance, p. 21. 33 Jauss, Aesthetic Experience, 155. As to some Old Testament stories, e.g., Isaac’s sacrifice, Jauss says that it runs counter to all aesthetic experience (67), because it lacks any description for its own sake, and the intentions and affects remain only guessable. We think these arguments are less valid for the Exodus-Pharaoh-narrative, which appears more like an epic. Jauss refers to Elias Auerbach’s Mimesis. According to Auerbach, the strict focus on the event, with no additional description of elements or any reference to other events, deprives us of our spiritual liberty to direct our concentration on our inner abilities. If this is the requirement of an aesthetic experience, we will argue that the exodus narrative does exactly this: The prophecies at the beginning (3:19–20; 4:21–22) removes the overall narrative tension and enables the reader to focus on other elements,

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creates the text’s special aesthetic and pragmatic effect, which also necessitates a combination of aesthetic and ritual theory. According to Jauss, catharsis liberates the mind through the pleasure taken in the imaginary destiny of the hero, and conveys insight into what is exemplary in human action and suffering. 34 Thus, the cathartic experience may have a transformational function. As just mentioned, Jauss thinks that there is a functional difference between aesthetic experience (of a hero narrative) and ritual participation in terms of aesthetic distance, representation vs. participation, and celebration. 35 This view presupposes that performance/representation is not present in ritual performance. We do not think that there are clear-cut boundaries. 36 Performance in ritual is at least quasi-theatrical. The display element does have an aesthetic aspect, and the ritual does not simply express preexistent ideas. The didactic commentaries in the text play on the narrative’s rituals. By exposing the text to ritual theory, I think that it should be possible to explicate the didactic function in a way similar to the explications of Jauss’ theory of aesthetic effects.

like the reaction of Pharaoh. In addition, the speeches do reveal the speakers’ intention and meaning – what Auerbach misses in the Isaac narrative but finds in the epics of Homer. 34 Of importance in this study is the threefold ambivalence that Jauss finds in the notion of catharsis: “[I]t may break the hold of the real world but in so doing, it can either bring the spectator to a free, moral identification with an exemplary action or let him remain in a state of pure curiosity. And finally, it can draw him into manipulated collective behavior through his emotional identification” (96). 35 Jauss, Aesthetic Experience, 155–160. 36 See the model of Tom F. Driver, Liberating Rites: Understanding the Transformative Power of Ritual (Boulder, Colo.: Westwiew, 1998), xiv, and 79.

Exodus and Pesach-Massot as Evolving Social Memory DIANA EDELMAN

A. Introduction The likely collapse of native Judahite Yahwism, headed by Yahweh Sebaot, king of heaven and earth, and his wife Asherah, in favour of the emergence of forms of Judaism in which Yahweh Elohim was acknowledged as the only divinity in heaven and earth, inevitably would have required the altering of prior ritual and its supporting myth. Ritual is one of the means by which social memory is encoded in a culture, reinforcing a sense of shared distinctive practices and creating the impression that the associations they evoke are special. 1 Through its symbols, which make up its content, 2 ritual grounds common interests in an understanding of the hegemonic order, empowering those who participate in limited and highly negotiated ways. 3 While rituals have standardized forms, a single symbol within a ritual can be multi-vocal; it represents diverse ideas that interact and become associated in a new synthesis in the minds of individual participants; meaning condenses. At the same time, however, its multi-vocality leads to the situation that it can be understood in different ways by individuals, so that the symbol is by nature ambiguous 4 – unless a particular meaning is specified by pronouncement during the ritual. Those creating and maintaining emergent forms of Judaism would have ensured that the inherited rituals and myths would have been reshaped to evoke associative “memories” consistent with the new understanding of Yahweh Elohim and his association with his people, Israel, within the setting of empire. While there tends to be a conservative bias in rites, they do change in their form, symbolic meaning, and social effects according to the needs of the people 1 Catherine Bell, Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 220. 2 David I. Kertzer, Ritual, Politics, and Power (New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 1988), 11. 3 Bell, Ritual Theory, 222. 4 Kertzer, Ritual, 11.

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using them in order to link the past to the present and the present to the future. 5 The festival of Pesah with its commemoration of Yahweh’s rescue and constitution of his people at his holy mountain of Sinai seems to offer an excellent example of an adjusted social memory and likely adapted ritual. The older myth primarily consisted of the warrior god who is made king of heaven after killing a rival god and who establishes cosmic order, part of which involved creating human law and justice. The newer version, which is reflected in the book of Exodus, has two notable adaptations required by the changed circumstances of the community. First, as the only god, Yahweh could no longer fight a rival god but instead fights Pharaoh, a human falsely claiming to be a living god. Secondly, the loss of political independence and identity after the end of the rule of the Davidic line of kings led to the covenant tradition in which Yahweh establishes his people via a formal pact. In this pact Yahweh serves as their lord and sovereign and reveals the principles of law and justice that are to govern social interactions and transactions. In this essay I will explore the predominant mythology of the Semitic ancient Near East that forms the basis of the exodus story as it is told in the book of Exodus, how the exodus story is recalled in various biblical books, what can be known from the biblical text about the commemorative, ritual dimension of the exodus myth in Pesah (= Passover)/Massot (' =the Festival of Unleavened Bread) and finally, the thorny question as to when pesah-massot gained its commemorative dimension.

B. The Myth of the Ritual Battle Leading to Kingship and the Establishment of Order In Semitic tradition, the Ba’al cycle from Ugarit and the Enuma Elish provide evidence of an underlying mythic complex of thought concerning the establishment of kingship in heaven and cosmic order that was likely shared by surrounding cultures. 6 It can be expressed in two ways: as a 34F

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Kertzer, Ritual, 9–10, 12. There are Sumerian versions of a combat myth that lead to creation, so this is not necessarily a Semitic invention. See conveniently, Leonard W. King, Legends of Babylon and Egypt in Relation to Hebrew Tradition (British Academy Schweich Lectures for 1916; London: H. Milford, 1918), 116–117, 125. A similar mythic complex is reflected in the battle between Horus and Seth in Egyptian tradition. While this mythic complex might have been introduced into Egypt under the Semitic Hyksos kings in the Middle Bronze period (ca. 1674–1567 B.C.E.), there are aspects of the myth that reflect the yearly growing cycle, so its format might be cross-cultural. 6

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foundational form and as a re-assertive form. In the foundational form, two gods battle and the victor becomes king of heaven, from whom order and justice are established. In the second, re-assertive form, chaotic forces disrupt the established order and require the divine king to manifest again as a warrior, defeat his human or divine enemies, and re-establish order. 7 The Ba’al cycle exemplifies the foundational form of the myth; it recounts the successful contest of the storm god to occupy the throne of the gods, dislodging Yam, the god of the sea. After his triumph, he is affirmed by the assembly of gods as their champion, which gives him the right to rule the cosmos and be “lord of the Earth.” With the help of his sister Anat and the wifely persuasions of their mother, Asherah, he demands that his father El authorize the building of a palace for him to reflect his new status as king of the gods. It is from this palace that he executes judgment. 8 As the new king of heaven and earth, Ba’al must subsequently confront his brother Mot, because Mot refuses to acknowledge his kingship. Mot, who is king in his own right in the underworld, also controls the earth. Ba’al surrenders to Mot, goes to the underworld with his fertilitycontrolling attendants, and is swallowed and killed there by Mot. However, his sister Anat revives him after she defeats Mot in battle and then dismembers him, scattering his parched, ground, and winnowed remains. As a result, Ba’al is able to reign part of the year from heaven but must be imprisoned in the underworld by his brother for another part of the year, during which Mot reigns. 9 7 See Diana Edelman, “Earthquakes in the Ancient Southern Levant: A Literary Topos and a Problem Requiring Architectural Solutions,” in Disaster and Relief Management in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. A. Berlejung; FAT 81; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 205–238. For a recognition of two versions of the myth characterized as cosmogonic conflict leading to the establishment of the dominion of the victorious deity and periodic renewed conflicts in the post-cosmogonic world, see Samuel E. Loewenstamm, The Evolution of the Exodus Tradition (trans. B. J. Schwartz; Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1992), 236–257, esp. 244–246. I prefer to refer to native Judahite mythic tradition than to suggest monarchic Judah “borrowed” this view from the Canaanites, as Loewenstamm has suggested. 8 The existence of a fixed order amongst the first six tablets assigned to the Ba’al cycle remains a point of contention; see Alberto R.W. Green, The Storm-God in the Ancient Near East (Biblical and Judaic Studies from the University of California, San Diego 8; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 178. Nevertheless, it is agreed they belong together. 9 Hans Gottlieb, “Myth in the Psalms,” in Myths in the Old Testament (ed. B. Otzen, H. Gottlieband K. Jeppesen; trans. F. Cryer; London: SCM, 1980), 62–93 (77), fails to incorporate the defeat of Yam in his reduction of the Ba’al cycle to three steps: the death and resurrection of the fertility god, the sacred marriage with the goddess Anat, and his enthronement as king over gods and men. His working with only one part of the Ba’al cycle obscures the organic connection between the warrior god defeating his enemy, becoming king, and rendering order/justice.

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The Enuma Elish reflects a similar story line. When initially chosen by the gods as their champion who will fight the rebellious Tiamat, Marduk is placed on a throne facing his elders though he presides among them. They proclaim, You are the most honoured of the great gods, your decree is unrivalled; from this day unchangeable will be your pronouncement. To raise or bring low will be in your hand. Your utterance will be true, your command unimpeachable; no one among the gods will transgress your bounds. We have granted you kingship over the entire universe (tablet IV). 10

The reward for defeating Tiamat is stated clearly: kingship in heaven. After his victory, he creates and establishes order in the universe (tablet V). One of his first acts is to relieve the gods of further work by creating humankind. In gratitude and homage, the gods build him the shrine called Esagila in Babylon, and construct their own shrines nearby. Then, by solemn oath, they grant him the kingship of the gods and kingship over heaven and earth, which includes shepherding his human creatures, “the blackheaded ones,” who are to attend to the gods (tablet VI). Traces seem to exist in biblical tradition of a foundational myth that had existed in monarchic-era Judah. In the myth, Yahweh defeated Rahab (Isa 51:9–10; Ps 89:10–11; Job 9:13; 26:12–13), Yam (Hab 3:8; Job 3:8; 7:12; 26:12; Ps 66:6; 74:13), Lotan (Isa 27:1; Ps 74:13; Job 40:25–30), or Tannin/Tannim (Ezek 29:3–6; 32:2–8; Job 7:12; Ps 44:20). This victory led to his elevation to the status of king of heaven by the divine assembly (e.g., Ps 89:6, 8, 82:1; 1 Kgs 22; Job 15:8), and he was subsequently enthroned in his temple on his holy mountain. From there he established and oversaw the maintenance of cosmic order and human justice as part of the ordering of the universe. Many scholars have postulated that such a myth was part of an autumnal New Year’s festival, though they do not agree on the structure or constituent elements of the festival. 11 10

Ephraim A. Speiser, “The Creation Epic,” in Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament (ed. J. B. Pritchard; 2d ed; Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1955), 60–72 (66). For the text of other tablets, see this translation as well. 11 The classical formulation was made by Sigmund Mowinckel, The Psalms in Israel’s Worship (trans. D. R. Ap-Thomas. Oxford: Blackwell, 1962); however, he was preceded by Paul Volz, Das Neujahrsfest Jahwes: (Laubhüttenfest) (Sammlung Gemeinverständlicher Vorträge und Schriften aus dem Gebiet der Theologie und Religionsgeschichte 67; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1912). Subsequent studies include those by Hans Schmidt, Die Thronfahrt Jahves am Fest der Jahreswende im Alten Israel (Sammlung gemeinverständlicher Vorträge und Schriften aus dem Gebiet der Theologie und Religionsgeschichte 122; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1927); Artur Weiser, Die Psalmen übersetzt und erklärt (ATD 14 and 15; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1959); Gerhard von Rad, The Problem of the Hexateuch and Other Essays (trans. E. W. Trueman Dicken; London: Oliver and Boyd, 1965), 18–22; Hans-Joachim Kraus, Gottesdienst in Israel: Grundriss

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This mythic complex was adapted to reflect the changed world-view of the religious community calling itself Israel as monotheism became more dominant. Gen 1 reflects the reworking of the foundational form of the myth, while the book of Exodus (with its summary recapitulation in the book of Deuteronomy) appears to present a use of the second form of the myth. The prophetic tradition of the final battle at Mt. Zion on the day of Yahweh, where Yahweh will defeat the nations once and for all and demonstrate his status as the sole, sovereign divinity of heaven (e.g., Zech 14), is a further expression of the second form of the myth, as is the ironic application of that tradition to Yahweh’s own people, Israel (e.g., Isa 13:6, 9; Joel 1:15; 2:1, 11; 3:14; Amos 5:18, 20). Genesis 1 has eliminated the battle between the gods and converts the divine watery deity to inert, primordial water. In addition, there is no reported investiture of Yahweh Elohim as king of heaven, though he clearly functions in that capacity as he establishes the cosmos by his command. Nor is Yahweh alone in heaven; humanity is made in the image of Yahweh and other created orders of being that function as his servants and messengers. These beings replace the former heavenly assembly and heavenly council. The book of Exodus seems to adapt the alternate form of the myth in which chaotic forces disrupt the established order and require the king of heaven once more to manifest as a warrior, defeat human or divine enemies, and re-establish order. Yahweh’s supremacy and status as the only god in heaven is challenged by a false god, Pharaoh. Pharaoh’s human nature is confirmed by his death by drowning at the hand of Yahweh (Exod 15:1, 4–5), who controls the waters of the Sea of Ending 12 and can part or gather them at will (Exod 14:16, 21; 15:8). 13 When Yahweh makes a new einer Geschichte des alttestamentlichen Gottesdienstes (2d rev. ed.; Munich: Chr. Kaiser, 1962); Aubrey R. Johnson, Sacral Kingship in Ancient Israel (2d ed.; Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1967); Ronald E. Clements, God and Temple (Oxford: Blackwell, 1965); Jörg Jeremias, Theophanie: Die Geschichte einer alttestamentlichen Gattung (WMANT 10; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1965); John H. Eaton, Kingship and the Psalms. (SBT 2/32; London: SCM, 1976); Tryggve N. D. Mettinger, The Dethronement of Sabaot: Studies in the Shem and Kabod Theologies (trans. F. H. Cryer; ConBOT 18; Lund: CWK Gleerup, 1982). 12 For this meaning of yam suf, see Gösta W. Ahlström, “Judges 5:20f. and History,” JNES 36 (1977): 287–88. 13 Loewenstamm, Evolution of Exodus, 115–117, 127–128, has noted how the Exodus narrative contains a motif of the battle between Israel’s god and the gods of Egypt in the last plague that is foreign to the didactic passages in the book that otherwise reflect a different theology (12:12, alluded to in 18:11 and also mentioned in Num 33:4). He concludes it must represent an early tradition with independent authority, which also is reflected in modified form in Jub. 48:5, where they are made idols, and in the Wisdom of Solomon, where the gods are represented in animal form (12:23–27; 16:1).

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beginning as dry land emerges from the water (Exod 14:21–22), his people can cross over to his holy mountain. There, he becomes their sovereign king and enters into a formal, binding pact that establishes law, justice and loyalty as the basis of their special relationship. The terms are a particularizing of the existing universal order. 14 This form of the myth becomes THE foundational memory of the people. In a worldview that presumes the existence of a single god, it is unclear how that god could not have served as king of heaven from time immemorial. Either lesser orders of created beings formally enthroned the god, or the god, as the only occupant of heaven, created the cosmos and all life forms inhabiting it. Regardless, Gen 1 has devised a way to portray the creator god as sovereign creator of the cosmos, life, and order at a distant point in the past, prior to the events in the story world of Exodus. In addition, the creation imagery of the dry ground emerging from the parted waters of the Sea of Ending symbolizes a new beginning, similar to the dry ground appearing after the flood in Gen 7. However, this beginning is only for the Hebrews, who are about to become Yahweh’s “special people” (‘am segullah; Exod 19:5; also Deut 7:6; 14:2; 16:18; Ps 135:4).

C. References to the Exodus in the Hebrew Bible The centrality of the Exodus as the foundational memory of the religious community of Israel is evident in a survey of direct references to it throughout the collection of books. It is called to mind in most books after Exodus: in Leviticus, 15 Numbers, 16 Deuteronomy, 17 Joshua, 18 Judges, 19 1 14 While I concur with Alan Cooper and Bernard R. Goldstein, “Exodus and Massot in History and Tradition,” Maarav 8 (1992): 15–37 (18), that “the Exodus from Egypt is a myth of national origin, and   serves as its cultic commemoration or re-enactment” that need not contain a historical kernal (20–24), I am proposing a different underlying pattern for its origin. They identify a typological pattern of enslavement, liberation characterized by an act of “bringing up” by Elohim, and hag that underlies both Exod 32 and the foundational story for the northern Kingdom in 1 Kgs 12 (26, 28). My understanding is closer to that of Johannes Pedersen, Israel: Its Life and Culture, III–IV (trans. A. I. Faulbøll; London: Oxford University Press, 1959), 728–30, whom they quote approvingly: “the purpose is to describe the mythical fight between Yahweh and his enemies.” 15 Lev 11:45; 18:3; 19:34, 36; 22:33; 23:43; 25:38, 42, 55; 26:13, 45. 16 Num 1:1; 3:13; 8:17; 9:1; 11:5, 18, 20; 14:2–4, 13, 19, 22; 15:41; 20:15–16; 21:5; 22:5, 11; 23:22; 24:8; 26:4, 59 [?]; 32:11; 33:1,3–4, 38. 17 Deut 1:27, 30; 4:20, 34, 37, 45–46; 5:6, 15; 6:12, 21–22; 7:8, 15, 18; 8:14; 9:7, 12, 26; 10:19, 22; 11:3–4, 10; 13:5, 10; 15:15; 16:1, 3, 6, 12; 17:16; 20:1; 23:4; 24:9, 18, 22; 25:17; 28:27, 60, 68; 29:2, 16, 25; 34:11. 18 Josh 2:10; 5:4–6, 9; 9:9; 24:4–7, 14, 17, 32. 19 Judg 2:1, 12; 6:8–9,13; 10:11, 13, 16; 19:30.

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Samuel, 20 2 Samuel, 21 1 Kings, 22 2 Kings, 23 Isaiah, 24 Jeremiah, 25 Ezekiel, 26 Hosea, 27 Amos, 28 Micah, 29 Haggai, 30 Psalms, 31 Daniel, 32 Nehemiah, 33 1 Chronicles, 34 and 2 Chronicles. 35 A review of references to the Exodus in the Hebrew Bible shows its importance within the Torah/Pentateuch, the prophetic books, and in the psalms amongst the Writings. It also reveals more than one meaning associated with the memory. The most common form of recollection is a statement about Israel going out of Egypt. While some passages do not specify who brought Israel out of Egypt, 36 there are a number of third person declarations that Yahweh brought Israel out of Egypt 37 as well as a number of second-person formulations, 38 first person plural ones, 39 and even firstperson statements by Yahweh directly, e.g., “I am Yahweh, who brought you up from the land of Egypt.” 40 A few passages mention Yahweh’s messenger as the agent, 41 or alternatively Moses and Aaron. 42 Implicit divine

20

1 Sam 2:27; 4:8; 6:6; 8:8; 10:18; 12:6, 8; 15:2, 6, 7. 2 Sam 7:6, and 23(?). 22 1 Kgs 8:9, 16, 21, 51, 53; 9:9; 12:28. 23 2 Kgs 17:7, 36; 21:15. 24 Isa 10:24, 26; 11:15–16; 52:4 [?]. 25 Jer 2:6; 7:22, 25; 11:4, 7; 16:4; 23:7; 31:32; 32:20–21; 34:13. 26 Ezek 20:5, 6–10, 36. 27 Hos 2:15; 8:13; 9:3; 11:1, 5, 11 [?]; 12:9, 13; 13:4. 28 Amos 2:10; 3:1; 4:10; 9:7. 29 Mic 6:4; 7:15. 30 Hag 2:5. 31 Pss 78:12, 43, 51; 80:8; 81:5, 10; 105:23, 38; 106:7, 21; 114:1; 135:8, 9; 136:10. 32 Dan 9:15. 33 Neh 9:9, 18. 34 1 Chr 17:21. 35 2 Chr 5:10; 6:5; 7:22; 20:10. 36 Num 1:1; 9:1; 22:5, 11; 26:4; 32:11; 33:3, 38; Deut 4:45, 46; 9:7; 16:3, 6; 24:9; 25:17; 29:16; Josh 2:10; 5:4–6; 24:32; Judg 11:13, 16; 19:30; 1 Sam 15:2, 6; 1 Kgs 6:1; 8:9; 2 Kgs 21:15; Isa 11:16; Jer 7:25; Hos 2:15; Mic 7:15; Hag 2:5; Ps 105:38; 114:1; 2 Chr 5:10; 20:10. 37 This exact phrase, or variations on it, are found in Num 20:16; 23:22; 24:8; Deut 1:27; 5:15; 6:12; 29:25; Judg 2:12; 1 Kgs 8:21; 9:9; 2 Kgs 17:7; Jer 16:14; 23:7; Hos 12:13; 2 Chr 7:22. 38 Num 14:13; 20:5; 21:5; Deut 4:20; 6:12; 7:8; 8:14; 9:26; 13:5, 10; 16:1; 20:1; 1 Sam 12:6; 1 Kgs 8:51, 53; 2 Kgs 17:36; Jer 32:21; Ps 80:8; Dan 9:15. 39 Num 20:5, 16; 21:5; Deut 6:21; 26:8; Josh 24:17; Judg 6:13; 1 Kgs 8:21; Jer 2:6. 40 Lev 11:45; 26:45; Num 15:41; Deut 5:6; Josh 24:6; Judg 2:1 (via his messenger); 6:8; 1 Sam 8:8; 10:18; 2 Sam 7:6; 1 Kgs 8:16; Jer 7:22; 11:7; 31:32; 34:13; Ezek 20:6, 9, 10; Hos 12:9; 13:4; Amos 2:10; 3:1; 9:7; Mic 6:4; Ps 81:10; 2 Chr 6:5. 41 Num 20:16; Judg 2:1. 42 Num 33:1; Deut 9:12 (Moses alone); 1 Sam 12:8. 21

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agency is always present in the statements that do not specify Yahweh’s involvement. The impression gained from these passages is they reflect forms of liturgical affirmation that identified Yahweh as the one who brought Israel out of Egypt. This affirmation appears to have been a central tenet in the belief system of the community of Israel, which formed the basis of their identity as Yahweh’s people. Another group of passages provides this generic form of remembering with divine motivations that reinforce this initial impression. Yahweh removed Israel from Egypt so he could be their god (Lev 11:45; 26:45; Hos 13:4) and they could become a people of his own possession (Deut 4:20; 9:26), his heritage separated from the peoples of the earth (1 Kgs 8:51, 53), a nation for himself (Deut 4:34), a people redeemed by Yahweh for his reputation (2 Sam 7:23; Jer 32:20; Ezek 20:9; Dan 9:15; 1 Chr 17:31), and his people (Jer 11:4; 32:21). Thus, the exodus calls to mind foundational events by which Israel became Yahweh’s people. More specific details of the foundational events are highlighted in various books. Yahweh’s killing of the Egyptian firstborn is emphasized in Num 3:13; 8:17; 33:18; probably in Deut 7:18; and in Ps 78:51; 135:8; 136:10, and this serves as the basis of Yahweh’s claim to all human and animal firstborns in Israel (Num 3:13; 8:17). The plagues upon Egypt are remembered in Josh. 24:5 and Amos 4:10, while Deuteronomy prefers to remember diseases experienced in Egypt (7:15; 28:27, 60). Deuteronomy, Kings, and Jeremiah remember the exodus as Israel’s emergence from the iron-smelter (kur habbarzel; Deut 4:20; 1 Kgs 8:51; Jer 11:4). The predominant memory recalls Israel’s status as slaves in Egypt 43 whom Yahweh ransomed (root padah, Deut 9:26; 13:6 [Engl. 5]; 15:15; 24:18; 2 Sam 7:23; Mic 6:4; 1 Chr 17:21). However, a minority memory recalls they were resident aliens there, not slaves (Lev 19:34; Deut 26:5; Isa 52:4; Ps 105:23). The latter memory emphasizes the temporary nature of their residency and that their homeland was elsewhere; it does not preclude their status during that time as slaves, especially since prisoners-of-war were the primary source of slaves, which would also suggest a foreign origin for Israel. A number of passages remember Yahweh’s “strong/mighty arm,” (Deut 4:34, 37; 5:15; 26:8), “outstretched arm” (Deut 4:34; 2 Kgs 17:36; Jer 32:21), “mighty hand” (Deut 9:26; 26:8; Jer 32:21; Dan 9:15), or “great power” (2 Kgs 17:36) that was manifested when he brought Israel out of Egypt. These forms of metonymy refer to his engaging in battle on their behalf (Deut 1:30). The same idea of military undertakings is also remem43 Deut 5:6, 15; 6:12, 21; 7:8; 8:14; 13:5, 10; 15:15; 16:12; 24:18, 22; 28:68; Josh 24:17; Judg 6:8; 1 Sam 2:27; Isa 10:24; Jer 34:13.

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bered via the idiom of Yahweh’s “doing” (root ‘asah Deut 29:2; Josh 9:9; 24:7) and his deliverance (yasha’, Judg 6:9; 10:11; 1 Sam 10:18). Direct recountings of the details provided in Exod 14–15 about the drowning of the Egyptians in the sea are found in Deut 11:4 and Josh 24:6–7, while future actions of Yahweh are modeled on his past key battle remembered in Isa 11:15 and Zech 10:11. Summarily, the extended Exodus story is recalled as Yahweh’s performance of signs, wonders, and miracles (Num 14:22; Deut 4:34; 6:22; 11:3; 26:8; 34:11; Josh 24:17; Judg 6:13; 2 Sam 7:23; Jer 32:20; Mic 7:15; Ps 78:12, 43; 106:7, 21; 135:9). Here we find the tendency to pattern the past in a way that provides meaning for the present. The ability to recall the specific or individual signs, wonders, or miracles is not as important as knowing that Yahweh performed them in the past for the ancestors when he freed them from slavery in Egypt and made them his possession and people. This memory is a shorthand means of referring to the seminal beginnings of Israel as Yahweh’s people alongside the liturgical description of Yahweh as the one who brought Israel out of Egypt, possibly including their entry into the land. 44 A final memory connected with the exodus is the covenant or giving of statues and ordinances (Deut 4:45; 29:25; Judg 2:1; 1 Kgs 8:9, 21; Jer 31:32; 34:13; 2 Chr 5:10). For some, this was an integral part of the memory of Yahweh’s creation of his people, Israel. As seen in the previous section, it is also an integral part of the mythic complex, so its inclusion is particularly logical for someone embracing the ancient worldview. A further development evident in biblical tradition is the equation of Pharaoh or Egypt, Yahweh’s adversary in the reworking of the mythic complex, with the older watery adversary he defeated as a precursor to being made king of heaven and earth. Instances appear in two prophetic books: Isa 30:7 and Ezek 29:3; 32:2. 45 In Isa 30:7, Yahweh says Egypt’s help is worthless and empty, which then leads to the statement, “therefore, I have called her ‘Rahab who sits still.’” Isaiah 31:3 asserts that the Egyptians, collectively, are human, not divine, which might be an allusion to the exodus story; in the very least, it presupposes some knowledge of the 44

In Exod 34:10, when the terms of the covenant are renewed after the people make the golden calf and Moses breaks the first set of tablets, Yahweh promises to “do” (‘asah) marvels (nifla’ot) so that all the people amongst whom Israel lives shall see “the doing” (ma’aseh) of Yahweh. This reference cannot be to the exodus, which has already occurred. 45 In Zech 10:11 there is an allusion to the exodus in the reference to the drying up of the depths of the Nile in parallel to the smiting of the rolling waves of the Sea of Distress. This is in the context of an anticipated return from Assyria and the land of Egypt of the scattered members of Israel to Yahweh, presumably in his homeland, in vv. 9–10. Pharaoh is not mentioned specifically.

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claim of the king of the Egypt to be a living god. Ezekiel 29:1–6 is an oracle against Pharaoh, king of Egypt. He is described as “the great tannim (‘dragon’) sprawling in the midst of its channels,” who says, “My Nile is my own; I made it for myself” (v. 3). In vv. 4–6 Yahweh describes how he will put hooks in the jaws of “the dragon” and haul it out of the water and fling it into the wilderness, where it will become food for the animals of the earth. Here, Pharaoh is equated with a watery monster that will be subdued by Yahweh, an image that recalls the divine warrior motif of the larger mythic complex. These provide examples of how the memory of the community has been reshaped to remember the version of the myth inscribed in the books of Exodus and Deuteronomy in place of older, inherited forms.

D. Exodus and Ritual In light of the centrality of the exodus in the Hebrew Bible and the emphasis on remembering it and its significance for the community found in Deuteronomy in particular, it is not surprising that the event came to be ritually commemorated in the social memory of Israel annually at pesahmassot. Fixed ritual actions accompanied the telling of the story of the signs and wonders and military deeds Yahweh performed in Egypt to free Israel from its slavery to pharaoh in Egypt and make it his possession instead. Those who participated in pesah-massot gave the remembered event, in Connerton’s words, “ceremonially embodied form.” 46 Connerton continues, “The transfigured reality of the myth was again and again re-presented when those who took part in the cult became so to speak contemporaries with the mythic event.” 47 As noted by Myerhoff, “By stating enduring and underlying patterns, ritual connects past, present, and future, by abrogating history and time.” 48 The success of ritual is due to its ability to provide an occasion for an individual’s personal, subjective experience to interact with and simultaneously, to be molded by social forces. 49 The frequently dramatic character of ritual means that individual participation involves the 46 Paul Connerton, How Societies Remember (Themes in the Social Sciences; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 43. 47 Connerton, How Societies Remember, 43. 48 Barbara Myerhoff, “A Death in Due Time: Construction of Self and Culture in Ritual Drama,” in Rite, Drama, Festival, Spectacle: Rehearsals toward a Theory of Culture (ed. J. J. MacAloon; Philadelphia: Institute for the Study of Human Issues, 1984), 149– 78 (152). 49 Roy A. Rappaport, Ecology, Meaning and Religion (Richmond, Calif.: North Atlantic Books, 1979), 188.

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arousal of emotion and physiological stimuli, allowing the ritual to structure one’s sense of reality and world-view. 50 The ensuing discussion will work through the prescriptive texts concerning pesah and massot in the order in which they occur in the canon of the Hebrew Bible. I will not include the initial exodus story in Exod 12–13 in my review because the date when this aetiological legend that commemorates the Exodus was first developed and then subsequently committed to its present form is unknown. It is also uncertain if it was told or recited as part of the festival celebration or not prior to the creation of the first Haggadah after the destruction of the temple in 70 C.E. 51 I also make no presumption that the order of occurrence of the prescriptive texts corresponds to the chronological development of the festival regulations. In the canon, the statutes and customs in both Exodus and Deuteronomy are presented as having been given at Mt. Sinai/Horeb. Those in Deuteronomy were intended to be in enforced once Israel entered the Promised Land and settled, while those in Exodus were to be used while Israel was still outside the land. For the later religious community, Deuteronomistic legislation need not have been understood to supercede legislation in Exodus; instead, it might have been seen to appertain to those residing in Yehud and Samaria, while that in Exodus might have been thought to have applied to those in the Diaspora. 52 Most regulations in Leviticus and Numbers seem to pertain to the central sanctuary. It is interesting that massot is the only one of the three mandatory annual festivals (Exod 23:14–19; Lev 23:4–44; Deut 16:1–16 53) that is regarded 50

Kertzer, Ritual, 10. For the development of the current seder and Haggadah, see Baruch M. Bokser, The Origins of the Seder: The Passover Rite and Early Rabbinic Judaism (Berkeley/London: University of California Press, 1984) and Joshua Kulp, “The Origin of the Seder and Haggadah,” CBR 4/1 (2005): 109–34. 52 It is noteworthy that William Johnstone, “The Revision of Festivals in Exodus 1–24 in the Persian Period and the Preservation of Jewish Identity in the Diaspora,” in Yahwism after the Exile: Perspectives on Israelite Religion in the Persian Era (ed. R. Albertz and B. Becking; Studies in Theology and Religion 5; Assen: Royal Van Gorcum, 2003), 99–114 (102–104), argues that the preservation of Jewish identity in the Diaspora, already beginning in the Babylonian period, included, in addition to Sabbath and circumcision, the historicized triennial festival calendar, which loosened these festivals from the Palestinian agricultural season and allowed their simultaneous celebration throughout the known world. 53 Bernard M. Levinson, Deuteronomy and the Hermeneutics of Legal Innovation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 80, has highlighted the failure of the PassoverUnleavened Bread regulations in Deut 16:1–8 to contain the term hag, “festival,” in contrast to the ensuing two occasions, shavuot (Weeks) and sukkot (Booths). However, in the summary section of the festival regulations in 16:16, Passover-Unleavened Bread is called the hag of massot, so the failure of the celebration in the month of the ripened 51

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in the book of Exodus as commemorative in nature, while in Deuteronomy both massot and shavuot (Weeks) are commemorative festivals. 54 These festivals were clearly long-standing celebrations of the agricultural cycle, taking place at the barley harvest, 55 the wheat harvest, and the ingathering

barley ears to be designated a hag may not be as significant as Levinson seems to think it is; 16:1–8 involves a seven–day festival at the central sanctuary clearly describing a hag. While Levinson believes the people are only required to be in Jerusalem for the first of the seven days (80), nevertheless, it would require a physical pilgrimage and so must have had the status of a hag. 54 The commemorative meaning of sukkot (Booths) is only given in Lev 23:43; yet no meaning is given for pesah-massot or for shavuot (Weeks) in the preceding verses; does this suggest the extension of the commemorative function to all three festivals finally then, with Booths, the last to gain this function? The suggestion of Eckhart Otto, Das Mazzotfest in Gilgal (BWANT 107; Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1975), 26–28, 167–169, 191–93, that Massot was originally commemorative of the occupation of the land, as reflected in the narrative in Josh 3–5, ignores the fact that in Deut 26:3, 5–10, Shavuot (Weeks) commemorates the gift of the Promised Land. 55 If massot had originally celebrated the barley harvest, it would have taken place later than the first month of a calendrical year that began in spring; as noted by Gustaf Dalman, Arbeit und Sitte in Palästina1/2: Jahreslauf und Tageslauf: Frühling und Sommer (SDPI 3.2; BFCT 2/17; Gütersloh: Bertelsmann, 1928), 415, the barley was not ripe in that month; see also Oded Borowski, Agriculture in Iron Age Israel (Boston: ASOR, 2002), 91–92. Dalman’s observation has been duly registered, for example, by Otto, Mazzotfest, 173; Jörn Halbe, “Erwägungen zu Ursprung und Wesen des Massotfestes,” ZAW 87 (1975): 324–46 (326–27); Levinson, Deuteronomy and Innovation, 92; John Van Seters, The Life of Moses: The Yahwist as Historian in Exodus–Numbers (CBET 10; Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1994), 119; Timo Veijola, “The History of the Passover,” ZAR 2 (1996): 53–75 (60). Veijola, 61, however, notes that Dalman, Arbeit und Sitte, 457, reverses himself and concludes there would always have been half ripe barely sheaves available for the ‘omer ceremony that, according to Lev 23:9–15, took place at the time of Passover. ±š{| œ¤ ¤›š¥¤ š | ¤¤œ|¨ ´µ\{\ {¤ n old Canaanite month name, Jan A. Wagenaar, Origin and Transformation of the Ancient Israelite Festival Calendar (BZAR 6; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2005), 25–32, has mounted a strong argument against this view, concluding instead that it refers to barley ears and noting that it never appears alone but always in construct with hodesh (“new moon” or “month”) and with the definite article, making it a common noun. Thus, the dating of massot is determined in Deut 16:1 by the month when the barley ears are ripe, which tends to take place in the second calendar month of a year that begins in spring. The festival does not yet have a fixed date but one determined annually by when the barley is ripe and ready for harvest. When the celebration of pesah is fixed on the 14th day of the first month, however, as in Lev 23:5 and Num 28:16, where it is followed immediately by seven days of massot from the 15th–21st, and in Num 9:1–3, 5 where pesah stands on its own, the transformation to a commemorative festival is fully complete. Pesah-massot has lost its close tie to the fluctuating agricultural season in favor of a fixed annual celebration beginning at the full moon of the first calendrical month, running eight days. The dates in Exod 23:15 and 34:18, which still mention Abib but know of an appointed time, presupposes, in my opin-

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of fruits in the autumn. Thus, they would have been occasions to thank Yahweh for his blessings of fertility and abundance and perhaps occasions to recount myths associated with the seasonal ebb and flow of life. 56 However, in Exod 23:15, the seven-day festival of massot is linked to the commemoration of the exodus from Egypt in the month of ripened barley ears, and the eating of unleavened bread is the ritual act that recalls the story or event being remembered. 57 The remaining two festivals in Exod 23 celebrate the harvest (qatsir) of what is sown and the ingathering (‘asif) of the final fruits of labor from the field (v. 16), with no commemorative associations. Pesah is not mentioned, only massot. However, v. 18 may allude to it in its regulation concerning “the fat of my festival.” 58 The import of Exod 23:18 is disputed and the literary structure of 23:14–19 supports different views. On the one hand, it is possible to see vv. 14 and 17 to frame the detailing of the three pilgrimage festivals, with vv. 18 and 19 being a coda section 59 that might relate to the festivals’ ob-

ion, the fixing of pesah-massot from the 14th–21st day of the first month but is carrying over the older harvest terminology. 56 So, for example, Roland de Vaux, Ancient Israel: Its Life and Institutions (trans. J. McHugh; London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1961), 484–502. 57 Exod 12:24 specifies that the slaying of a one-year old lamb annually and the dipping of a bunch of hyssop into its blood collected in a basin, which is then to be touched on the lintel and doorposts of houses, is to be kept as a hoq in perpetuity. It is not an independent hag festival, then, but an ordinance that is an integral part of the hag of massot. 58 Bernard R. Goldstein and Alan Cooper, “The Festivals of Israel and Judah and the Literary History of the Pentateuch,” JAOS 110/1 (1990): 19–31 (29), argue the sacrifices referenced in v. 18 originally belonged to a north Israelite massot festival tied to the exodus. I find their argument too speculative to be useful and question their uncritical acceptance of the testimony of Amos and Hosea, both of which reference exodus tradition (Amos 2:10; 3:1; 4:10; 9:7; Hos 2:15; 8:13; 9:3; 11:1, 5, 11 [?]; 12:9, 13; 13:4), as an accurate northern tradition. These two prophetic books were written in the south, probably accessing records from the temple of Bethel once it became part of Judean jurisdiction. Why assume the exodus theme was part of the original, prophetic oracles rather than part of the authorial contribution to the book? The same tradition occurs in many other prophetic books. 59 The literary structure of 23:14–19 is not generally part of the larger discussion, so it is not possible to determine in most cases if a given scholar considers vv. 18–19 to be a coda, an independent unit, or part of a unit comprised of vv. 17–19 that parallels vv. 14– 16, giving further festival details. However, Heinrich Holzinger, Exodus (KHAT 2; Tübingen: Mohr, 1900), 96, describes vv. 18–19 as a compilation of sacrificial instructions and Van Seters, Life of Moses, 124, considers vv. 14–17 to contain an older law code. Levinson, Deuteronomy and Innovation, 67, 69, states clearly he considers v. 18 to be a coda pertaining to the festival calendar in which v. 18 “has no original connection to the Passover” (83) but instead, is a general prescription applying to all the festivals (83, n. 93; 86–87).

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servance in some way 60 or they might simply be a new unit detailing additional cultic regulations. 61 Verse 18a could refer to the pesah sacrifice, to most sacrifices in general, or to the sacrifices made during the festivals. Verse 18b refers either to the pesah or to other sacrifices that were made during these festivals. 62 Verse 19a refers to the tithes on produce to be taken to the temple during the festivals 63 or afterwards. Finally, v. 19b refers either to a form of cooking the flesh of a firstborn sacrifice or of a sacrifice either made during the festivals or at any point while participating in the

60 For the view that v. 18 alludes to the pesah sacrifice, see for example, Mek. Kaspa 4; b. Pesah 64a; Targum Onkelos; Holzinger, Exodus, 97; Bruno Baentsch, Exodus, Leviticus, Numeri (HAT 2/1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1903), 208–209; Albert Vincent, La religion des judéo-araméens d’Éléphantine (Paris: Paul Geuthner, 1937), 284; Georg Beer, Exodus (HAT 1/3; Tübingen: Mohr, 1939), 120; Elias Auerbach, “Die Feste im alten Israel,” VT 8/1 (1958): 1–18 (8); de Vaux, Studies in Old Testament Sacrifice (Elizabeth James Lectures for 1961; Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1964), 1; Frank Michaeli, Le livre de l’Exode (CAT 2; Neuchâtel: Delachaux et Niestlé, 1974), 15; Nahum M. Sarna, Exodus (JPSTC; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1991), 146; Menahem Haran, Temples and Temple-Service in Ancient Israel: An Inquiry into the Character of Cult Phenomena and the Historical Setting of the Priestly School (Oxford: Clarendon, 1978), 317, 327–33; Benno Jacob, Das Buch Exodus (Stuttgart: Calwer, 1997), 732; Van Seters, Life of Moses, 124, and William H. C. Propp, Exodus 19–40: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 2A; New York: Doubleday, 2006), 284, 617, who says it is a “possibly correct interpretation” but also hedges his bets and suggests it might refer to festival offerings more generally. 61 For those who consider vv. 18–19 to contain individual cultic instructions not limited to the festivals, who consequently tend not to see v. 18 to refer specifically to the pesah offering, see for example, William R. Arnold, “The Passover Papyrus from Elephantine,” JBL 31/1 (1912): 1–33 (9); Alan H. McNeile, The Book of Exodus (rev. ed.; Westminster Commentaries; London: Methuen, 1917), 143; Martin Noth, Exodus: A Commentary (trans. J. S. Bowden; OTL; London: SCM, 1962), 192; Umberto Cassuto, A Commentary on the Book of Exodus (trans. I. Abraham; Jerusalem: Hebrew University Magnes Press, 1967), 304; J. Philip Hyatt, Commentary on Exodus (NCB; London: Oliphants, 1971), 249; Brevard S. Childs, Exodus: A Commentary (OTL; London: SCM, 1974), 485; John I. Durham, Exodus (WBC 3; Waco, Tex.: Word Books, 1987), 333–34; William S. Morrow, Scribing the Center: Organization and Redaction in Deuteronomy 14:1–17:13 (SBLMS 49; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995), 147; Veijola, “History of Passover,” 65; Levinson, Deuteronomy and Innovation, 83; Wagenaar, Origin and Transformation, 40, 72. 62 The fact that in Exod 34:25 “the fat of my festival” is changed to refer to “the sacrifice of the festival of pesah” is not determinative of the intended meaning in 23:18. It could be making explicit what was implicit, but equally, it could be altering the intended meaning to include a specific reference to the pesah in the festival regulations that was lacking in 23:14–19. 63 Sarna, Exodus, 147 and Menahem Haran, “Seething a Kid in its Mother’s Milk,” JJS 30 (1979): 23–35 (34–35), both associate it with the autumnal festival of Ingathering/First Fruits.

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cult, or possibly, to the pesah offering 64 before the stipulation that the victim was to be a yearling was adopted. On the other hand, it is possible to see two parallel sections, each of which is introduced by the references to the need for the people to appear three times a year before Yahweh in vv. 14 and 17. Then, each is followed by two verses that give further information pertaining to the pilgrimage festivals: a description of what they are (vv. 15–16) and regulations concerning their observance (vv. 18–19; for the relevant options, see above in this paragraph). 65 In Exod 34:18–26, which recounts the covenantal terms after Moses breaks the first set of tablets in response to discovering the golden calf, there is a repetition of Exod 23:14–18 that lacks the initial command that the Israelites shall celebrate a festival for Yahweh via three pilgrimages a year (23:14), but which includes new expansions. The first, placed immediately after the massot section, concerns redemption of first-born animals and humans. Human first-borns are to be “redeemed” (padah), the same verb that recalls the references to Yahweh’s redeeming of Israel in the exodus memory. Shabbat observance is now inserted in the midst of the festival regulations (34:21) instead of standing before it, as in 23:12. There is an expansion after the command for males to appear three times a year before Yahweh: “I will cast out nations before you, and enlarge your borders; no one shall covet your land when you go up to appear before Yahweh your god, three times in the year.” Here, the festivals are clearly seen to be centralized celebrations, whereas before, this was only implied in 64

So, for example, Goldstein and Cooper, “Festivals,” 29. This seems more likely to me; vv. 14–16 appear to contain an old, monarchic-era calendar containing three festivals: massot for the barley harvest, qatsir for the wheat harvest, and ‘asif for the ingathering of autumnal fruits. It has been “updated” to add the commemorative meaning to massot and to state no one is to appear empty-handed. Vv. 17–19 then supply more details pertaining to the celebration of the triennial cycle in the Persian period, after the temple was rebuilt and the cult was centralized. While there is a certain logic to the suggestion that the cereal harvest was seen to be a single event that began at the cutting of the first barley and ended with the completion of the wheat harvest so that originally there were only two annual agricultural festivals celebrating the completion of harvest of cereals and the ingathering of the autumnal fruits, it is not compelling enough to rule out the marking of the completion of the barley harvest. For two original agricultural festivals, see for example, Nicolaj M. Nicolsky, “Pascha im Kulte des Jerusalemischen Tempels,” ZAW 45 (1927): 171–90 (182); Halbe, Erwägungen, 344; Benjamin N. Wambacq, “Les Massôt.” Bib 61 (1980): 31–54 (38, 41); Cooper and Goldstein, “Exodus and Massot,” 18; Wagenaar, Origin and Transformation, 16–17, 56–58, 60, 69. The two harvests took place one to two weeks apart, which would have allowed for a one-day celebration after the barley harvest and a longer celebration after the wheat harvest. Psychologically, it makes sense to bring closure to each harvest. I would agree, however, that the eating of massot for seven days is likely to be a secondary development when the commemorative pesah-massot festival was developed. 65

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23:14, where there is to be a pilgrimage, and in 23:17, where the males are to appear before Yahweh Elohim – although 23:17 might still have allowed for celebrations at local shrines if they had existed. 66 The final change occurs in the specification that “the sacrifice of my festival of pesah shall not be left until the morning” (23:18); here, the former “fat” becomes a sacrifice, and the festival is specified as pesah (34:25). Even so, pesah is not given a commemorative function; only massot is, as in Exod 23. Leviticus 23:4–44 gives the most complete account of the three festivals. 67 Here we learn the pesah offering is to be made at twilight on the 14th day of the first month, with the festival of massot beginning on the 15th, during which unleavened bread is to be eaten for seven days. The opening and closing days featured convocations and every day offerings by fire were to be made. A centralized observance is indicated. No commemorative explanation is included, however, for the eating of the unleavened bread or for the meaning of the pesah offering. It is noteworthy that the one-day Festival of Weeks (qatsir) includes a convocation as well as “proclamation” (23:21). In Deut 16:1–8, pesah is said to commemorate Yahweh’s bringing of his people out of Egypt in the month of the barley ripening, at night. 68 Here is a clear change from Exod 23:15, where massot, not pesah, commemorated the departure from Egypt, with no mention of Yahweh’s agency or of the nighttime setting. We also learn the animal to be sacrificed can be from Others who consider Exod 23:14 and 17 to presume cultic centralization include, for example, Wambacq, “Massôt,” 37; Wagenaar, Origin and Transformation, 72. 67 This set of rules for the observance of the three standard festivals includes two additional occasions added to the calendar: the offering of the sheaf of first-fruits of the wheat harvest (23:9–14) and the Day of Atonement on the 10th day of the 7th month (23:26–32). Levinson, Deuteronomy and Innovation, 81, n. 88, considers v. 19 to refer to local temples of Yahweh but this is unlikely; it specifies the house of Yahweh your God, not “any place Yahweh will cause his name to be remembered” or “any house of Yahweh.” It should also be noted that “Yahweh your God” is typically Deuteronomic ideology. 68 The reference to Yahweh taking his people out of Egypt at night has been found problematic; for a discussion, see, for example, Loewenstamm, Evolution of Exodus, 222–25; Israel Knohl, “The Priestly Torah versus the Holiness School: Sabbath and the Festivals,” HUCA 58 (1987): 65–117 (77–81). Elsewhere, the narrative tradition states clearly that the Israelites departed in daylight (Num 33:3) or implies they could not have left until daybreak (Exod 12:22), when they were first to exit their houses after the nocturnal activity of the destroyer. However, it is consistent with the narrative tradition in Exod 12:30–34, where the Israelites leave the same night that the plague on the first-born occurs. Loewenstamm, Evolution of Exodus, 223, notes that early Jewish exegetes interpreted the reference to “at night” to refer to the paschal sacrifice rather than the time of departure (Pseudo-Jonathan Deut 1:1) or to the performance of divine wonders (Tg Onqelos Deut 16:1). This is taken up by Levinson, Deuteronomy and Innovation, 77, n. 78.

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the flock or the herd, and it must be sacrificed at the central sanctuary, not in the towns, at sunset, the time of day when the people departed from Egypt (vv. 2, 6). It is to be boiled there as well, and none of its meat is to remain until morning (vv. 4, 7). It is not to be eaten with anything leavened – in fact, no leaven is to be seen for seven days throughout the territory (vv. 3–4). After the pesah the people are to return to their tents for six days, 69 during which they are to continue to eat unleavened bread, the bread of affliction (vv. 7–8), because “you came out of Egypt in great haste, so that your entire life you may remember the day of you departure from the land of Egypt” (v. 3, cf. Exod 23:18). On the seventh day a solemn assembly, ‘atseret, is to be held. 70 Numbers 9:1–14 talks of the first observance of pesah after leaving Egypt, in the wilderness of Sinai, at twilight, according to its statues and regulations. It then provides a ruling that allows anyone who is unclean from touching a corpse or who is away traveling to keep pesah at twilight on the 14th day of the second month. 71 They are to eat it with unleavened 69

There is no reason to translate this idiomatically here as “return home,” as has been done, for example, by Wambacq, “Massôt,” 45 n. 33; Haran, Temples, 335; Van Seters, Life of Moses, 120; Levinson, Deuteronomy and Innovation, 79–80; Wagenaar, Origin and Transformation, 42; Morrow, Scribing the Center, 143–45 and Veijola, “History of Passover,” 70–71, n. 89, also allow as an alternative the more literal meaning proposed here. Some may well have been influenced by the proposal of such an idiom by Klaus Koch, “ohel,” TDOT 1:118–30 (120–21). However, an examination of the contexts where the idiom allegedly appears confirms that a tent as a form of temporary shelter would have been used: during military campaigns, pilgrimage festivals, and traveling more generally. The destination is not always “home.” Here I would agree with the discussion of Judah B. Segal, The Hebrew Passover: From the Earliest Times to A.D. 70 (LOS 12; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1963), 210–211. 70 The tendency of a number of scholars to argue that ‘atseret does not carry the more prominent meaning of “gathering, assembly” in the context of the pesah-massot celebration but instead, refers to “abstention from work” seems to be special pleading. They do not extend the same meaning to the ritual on the eighth day of the festival of Booths (Lev 23:26; Num 29:35; Neh 8:18) or deny during that festival the people gathered and remained in Jerusalem for 8 days. They assert this for the first pilgrimage festival alone because they argue the pilgrims only had to spend the 14th overnight in Jerusalem. Those who limit the meaning of ‘atseret and reconstruct pesah-massot as a one-day pilgrimage festival include, for example, Wambacq, “Massôt,” 38, 45, n. 33, 50; Haran, Temples, 296; and Wagenaar, Origin and Transformation, 42–43. For the semantic range of ‘   , see conveniently, Wright and Milgrom, “‘ / ” TDOT 11: 310–315 (314–15). Levinson, Deuteronomy and Innovation, 80, accepts the meaning “public assembly” but is unsure of whether it took place in Jerusalem or in local towns. Morrow, Scribing the Center, 145, allows for both meanings in Deut 16:8; those in and near Jerusalem attend a solemn assembly and those elsewhere mark the day by not working. 71 Philo extends this regulation, allowing the stipulation concerning those away traveling to observe in the second month to apply to those who are in a distant country, including those who settle abroad and inhabit other nations (Moses, 2:224–232; Francis H.

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bread and bitter herbs; they cannot break any bones of the lamb, nor leave any of it until morning; these all seem to be the standard rules. Also, resident aliens who wish to can keep pesah but must observe the same rules as Israelites. Observance of this rite is so crucial that anyone who fails to do so will be cut off from the people. While we learn much more about ritual procedures than in the previous passage, we do not learn directly what is being commemorated. 72 It is interesting to note that the Festival of Weeks is also tied in this immediate set of festival regulations to the memory of the exodus: “Remember you were a slave in Egypt, and diligently observe these statutes” (16:12), but Booths is not (16:13–15). This tie is made even more explicit in the regulations for the offering of the first of all the yield of the ground that is brought into the central sanctuary. When the basket containing the produce is handed to the officiating priest, the one who gives the offering makes the first of two declarations: “Today I declare to Yahweh your God that I have come into the land that Yahweh swore to our ancestors to give to us” (Deut 26:3). Then, when the produce is set before the altar, a second declaration is made: A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; he went down into Egypt and he sojourned there as a resident alien, few in number, and there he became a great nation, mighty and populous. When the Egyptians treated us harshly and afflicted us, by imposing hard labour on us, we cried to Yahweh, the ‘elohim of our ancestors; Yahweh heard our voice and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression. Yahweh brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with a terrifying display of power, and with signs

Colson, Philo, Volume VI: With an English Translation by F. H. Colson (LCL; London: Heinemann, 1935), 560–65. 72 Other references to the celebration of pesah occur in various texts. In 2 Kgs 23:21, the occasion is celebrated in Jerusalem and is the climax of Josiah’s reforms, prompted by the finding of the Book of the Covenant. It is said it had not been kept this way in the time of the Judges or the kings of Israel and Judah; the novelty seems to be its celebration in Jerusalem, centrally, if not also its commemorative aspect. The Chronicler attributes a celebration of the festival of pesah in Jerusalem to Hezekiah (2 Chr 30:15–18), breaking the close tie between centralization of the celebration and the Book of the Covenant found in Kings. Neither text is likely to reflect actual pesah-massot celebrations that took place in the monarchic era in accordance with the current regulations but rather, are likely to be later retrojections added once the commemorative meaning was developed in the Persian period, to provide a sense of continuity with the past where there was, in fact, none. This is one common way to deal with discontinuity/innovation in a traditional society. In Ezek 45:21 [Eng. 22], the first hag is called pesah and includes seven days of eating unleavened bread. Finally, in Ezra 6:19–22, after the dedication of the rebuilt temple in Jerusalem, the golah (returnees to Yehud from exile) community keeps the pesah and the Festival of Unleavened Bread.

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and wonders; 73 and he brought us into this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. So now I bring the first of the fruit of the ground that you, O Yahweh, have given me” (Deut 26: 5–10).

These two liturgical recitals seem to be the “proclamation” mentioned in Lev 23:21, where no further specifics were given. Significantly, the confession summarizes the contents of the books of Genesis, Exodus, and then, perhaps, Leviticus-Deuteronomy, or Leviticus-Joshua – that is, the Pentateuch or Hexateuch. While the exodus “event” is still prominent, here it is sandwiched between the promise of land to Abraham and Jacob and his descendants, and its fulfillment. The first confession in particular ceremonially embodies the occupation of the Promised Land. In principle, the Festival of Weeks commemorates the promise of land to Abraham and Jacob as an equally central constitutive event as the exodus for the social identity of Israel, reinterpreting the exodus to be a necessary step toward the fulfillment of the promise of land. 74 It is curious that later Jewish tradition abandoned this link of the Festival of Weeks with the promise of land to Abraham and Jacob and instead, had it commemorate the giving the law at Sinai. 75 It is possible that the 73

It should be noted that the summary references to terrifying displays of power, signs and wonders could include not only the events in Exod 1–15 but to the subsequent encounter with God at his holy mountain in Exod 19–24. 74 There has been much debate over whether the ancestors mentioned in Deut 26:3 and the “wandering Aramean” in Deut 26:5 refer back to the patriarchal traditions in Genesis or to the Exodus generation. See, for example, John Van Seters, “Confessional Reformulation in the Exilic Period,” VT 22 (1972): 448–59; Dieter E. Skweres, Die Rückverweise im Buch Deuteronomium (AnBib 79; Rome: Biblical Institute, 1979); Thomas Römer, Israels Väter: Untersuchungen zur Väterthematik im Deuteronomium und in der deuteronomistischen Tradition (OBO 99; Fribourg: University Press/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1990); Norbert Lohfink, Die Väter Israels im Deuteronomium: Mit einer Stellungnahme von Thomas Römer (OBO 111; Fribourg: University Press/ Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991); Konrad Schmid, Genesis and the Moses Story: Israel’s Dual Origins in the Hebrew Bible (trans. J. D. Nogalski; Siphrut 3; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2010), 67–69, 274–79. I am dealing with the final form of the text as an embodied social memory; its redactional history is of little relevance for such a perspective. 75 In his argument that 2 Chr 15:8–15 may reflect an association of the festival with the law and that the chronology in Exod 19:1–24:8 has the Israelites arrive at Sinai on the first day of the third month, implying Shavuot would commemorate the theophany and law-giving there, Johnstone, “Revision of Festivals,” 106–108, overlooks the clear association with the Promised Land in Deut 26:5–11. The earliest written reference to this later association with the law-giving besides possibly 2 Chr 15:8–15 is either in the Talmud (b. Pes. 68b) or in Jub. 6:17: “Therefore it is ordained and written in the heavenly tablets that they should observe the feast of Shavuot in this month, once a year, in order to renew the covenant in all [respects], year by year” and 6:19: “in your days the children of Israel forgot it until you renewed it for them on this mountain.” According to Samuel

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reference to “a terrifying display of power and with signs and wonders” in the liturgical confession alludes to Sinai and Yahweh’s theophany there, given its placement at the end of the summary of the exodus story, before the entry into the land or before events en route to the Promised Land. However, as a summary statement, it may well refer to events prior to the arrival at Sinai or perhaps might include both. The Festival of Booths was eventually turned into the commemoration of the wilderness wandering (Lev 23:43; Neh 8:13–18; 2 Macc 10), 76 completing the conversion of the older agricultural cycle to commemorate events narrated in the Pentateuch and reinforcing the central place of these five books in the social memory of the community of Israel. When did the commemorative layer come to be added to pesah-massot?

E. Pesah-Massot at Elephantine A ritual called , pasha, was celebrated among the Jews manning the military garrison on the island of Elephantine or Yeb in the Nile River just north of the first cataract. Two Aramaic ostraca that mention the ritual have been found. One says, in a very broken context, “if you can pass [ ] for the pesah or if you can perfor[m] on/concerning the pesah” (Berlin P. 10679), 77 while the other has the clear request, “send me (word) when you 41F

Safrai, “The Calendar,” in The Jewish People in the First Century: Historical Geography, Political History, Social, Cultural and Religious Life and Institutions, Vol. 2 (ed. S. Safrai and M. Stern; CRINT, Section 12; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1976), 834–64 (860), the Rabbinic identification took place no later than the beginning of the third cent. C.E. (T. Megillah 3:5; T.B. Megillah 31a; P.T. Megillah III, 74b; cf. T.B. Pesahim 68b and the amidah prayer of Shavuot). It might be that current biblical tradition offers two memories for the commemorative aspect of this festival: the Promised Land in Deut 26 and lawgiving at Sinai by implication in Exod 19:1–2. For the latter, see for example, David Hoffmann, Das Buch Leviticus übersetzt und erklärt, Vol. 2 (Berlin: M. Doppelauer, 1906), 224–40; Mark S. Smith, The Pilgrimage Pattern in Exodus (JSOTSup 239; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 62–65; Johnstone, “Revisions of Festivals,” 106. 76 In Jub 23:6, it commemorates the booth Jacob built after he fled from Laban (Gen 33:17). In Bamidbar Rabba 14, on the other hand, it commemorates the sukkah (booth) Abraham built when visited by the three angels. 77 Eduard Sachau, Aramäische Papyrus und Ostraka aus einer jüdischen MilitärKolonie zu Elephantine: altorientalische Sprachdenkmäler des 5. Jahrhunderts vor Chr. 2 vols. (General Director of the Royal Museums of Berlin; Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1911), 237–38 and pl. 64:2; Mark Lidzbarski, Ephemeris für semitische Epigraphik, Vol. 2 (Giessen: J. Ricker, 1908), 229–33 (H); III, 257, n. 1; Halevy, Nouveaux papyrus, 487– 88; Charles Clermont-Ganneau, “Papyrus et ostraca araméens juifs,” Recueil d’Archéologie orientale 8 (1924): 128–141 (133–34); Bezalel Porten, Archives from Elephantine: The Life of an Ancient Military Colony (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968),

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will perform (root , ‘-v-d) the Passover” (P. 10680). 78 A third ostracon might refer to Passover: “Now, concerning that bread, eat until tomorrow eve. An ardab of flour remains here” (Berlin P. 11383). 79 B. Porten correctly observes this likely refers to the eve of Passover rather than to the eve of Sabbath. 80 E. L. Sukenik and J. Kutscher have dated the second ostracon on palaeographic grounds to ca. 500 B.C.E. – well before the famous papyrus AP 21 to be discussed, which gives provision for the celebration of massot in 419 C.E. but may or may not include pesah as well. 81 One needs to be aware, however, that such dating is only accurate within a span of some 100 years. If they are correct, the ritual occasion would have been practiced for a long time already in the colony, unless it had come to be neglected and was only recently reintroduced in the 400s. Regardless of the date of any of these ostraca, it is unclear if pesah commemorated the exodus at this point in time or not. Not a single allusion to a biblical text exists amongst the papyri or ostraca that have survived. This might be due to chance, or to the fact that most papyri were legal documents, where it would be unlikely to use such references. Nevertheless arguing from negative evidence that the Pentateuch did not yet exist or had not yet reached the Diaspora would be unwise, even in light of the known correspondence between the representatives of this Jewish community, civil and temple officials in Jerusalem, and officials in Samerina. One might have thought with such connections in place, references might have surfaced had any biblical books gained authority within either community. It can be noted that the memorandum agreeing to help seek permission to get the altar house in Yeb rebuilt does not cite Deuteronomy’s cult centralization when specifying that there could be no animal sacrifice in the rebuilt altar house. Again, however, one should not read too much into this; 415F

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130; Pierre Grelot, Documents araméens d’Égypte (LAPO 5; Paris: Cerf, 1972), 374– 375. 78 Sachau, Aramäische Papyrus, 239, and pl. 65:2; Lidzbarski, Ephemeris, Vol. 2, 234–36 (J); Grelot, Documents, 376–77. For various proposed readings of both ostraca, see Archibald H. Sayce, “An Aramaic Ostracon from Elephantine,” Proceedings of the Society of Biblical Archaeology 33 (1911): 183–85; Arnold, “Passover Papyrus,” 13 n. 19; André Dupont-Sommer, “Sur la fête de la Pâque dans les documents araméens d’Eléphantine,” REJ 7 (1946–1947): 39–51 (43–50). The first ostracon was a gift of Dr. O. Rubensohn to the Berlin Museum and is believed to have originated in Elephantine. The second was reportedly found by locals at Elephantine and was purchased by H. Sayce, who donated it to the Bodleian Library at Oxford. 79 This ostracon was excavated at Elephantine by the Berlin Museum Expedition. For the text, see Sachau, Aramäische Papyrus, 233–34 and pl. 63:1. 80 Archives from Elephantine, 132. He is followed by Grelot, Documents araméens, 377–78; Bokser, Origin of Seder, 20. 81 Eleazer L. Sukenik and Yehezkiel Kutscher, “A Passover Ostracon from Elephantine,” Kedem 1 (1942): 53–56 (Heb.).

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the provisions in Lev 23 for celebrating pesah and massot are detailed about what to do but make no mention of the commemorative rationale. Most scholars do not conclude from this that Lev 23 reflects a period before the commemorative associations and function had arisen. 82 AP 21, dated 419 B.C.E., the 5th year of Darius (II), gives directions for the observance of massot, though no name of the specific festival occurs in the extant portion of the text. 83 The papyrus is missing half of its lines, and as always, in critical places. The letter is from an official named Hananiah, who is known from another, undated papyrus to have been sent to Egypt on official business that prompted the anger of the local god Khnum (AP 38:7). There is insufficient information to be certain if AP 38 predates or postdates AP 21, but the reference to a time lapse from the visit “until now” might tend to suggest that Hananiah had visited the garrison, perhaps had explained new festival regulations during that visit, and had then returned to his home post, where he consulted others about the delicate situation in Elephantine due to sheep being sacred to the local deity KhNum. 84 He had subsequently sent AP 21 that rendered an official decision. 85 The reported anger of the local ram-god suggests that pesah offerings had been made in conjunction with the observance of massot in 419 B.C.E. Hananiah addresses Yedoniah and his brethren [at the fortress Yeb] and states that word has been sent from the king to Ar[sames]; unfortunately, 82 I am not suggesting here that the Pentateuch already was in existence or had reached the Diaspora; I am merely pointing out that one should not try to establish a date for its appearance on the basis of negative evidence. I am making a point of methodological principle. 83 Arthur E. Cowley, Aramaic Papyri of the Fifth Century B.C. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1923), 60–65. The papyrus, Berlin P. 13.464, was published as #6 by Sachau, Aramäische Papyrus, 36–40 and pl. 6. 84 It seems that goats could have been used for the pesah sacrifice, or even cattle, if the biblical regulations now present were options even at this time, so technically, sheep need not have been used. But perhaps the possibility of sheep being sacrificed, raised during the initial visit by Hananiah, led to active hostility by the priesthood of Khnum that continued after the observance of the festival, whether sheep were involved or not and whether or not a pesah sacrifice was included as an integral aspect or not. For the proposed dating of AP 38 after AP 21, see Arnold, “Passover Papyrus,” 27. He construes the reference in AP 38 “since Hananiah came to Egypt until now” to mean that Hananiah is now resident in Egypt as an envoy and official of Darius II, while AP 21 was written either en route, perhaps during his postulated stop in Jerusalem, or immediately after his arrival. This is not the only plausible reconstruction based on the meager evidence at hand. 85 Similarly, Pierre Grelot, “Le Papyrus pascal d’Éléphantine et le problème du Pentateuque,” VT 5/3 (1955): 250–65 (264, n. 2); Grelot, Documents araméens, 380. On the other hand, Vincent, Religion, 236, 255 suggests that AP 21 is a response sent to a previous written query made by the colony concerning the celebration of Passover and Unleavened Bread because of the offence the sacrifices would cause locally.

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the text is broken at this point so the royal command is unknown. Hananiah then provides an explanation that must relate to the command. They are to count (l.4) … and from the 15th day to the 21st day (l.5) … be clean and take heed … [do no] work (l.6) … drink no [beer] … and anything at all with leaven (l.7) … sunset until the 21st day of Ni[san](l.8) … [do not bri]ng [it] into dwellings, but seal [it] up during … days (l. 9). 86 There has been much discussion as to whether the command from the king was for the celebration of the seven-day Festival of massot only, or if it was to include the pesah as well. Many feel there is inadequate space in the missing lines to detail the regulations for the pesah, 87 although this would not rule out its mention. The reference to sunset in line 8, which reads    (m-’-r-v sh-m-sh-’), suggests it was to be included, without extensive instruction, since pesah is always to be offered at twilight when the sun sets (ba’erev kevo’ shemesh – Deut 16:[4], 6) or after sunset and before sunrise (ben ha’arbayim – Lev 23:5; Num 9:3). However, without having the preceding words that likely specified the sunset of which day of the month of Nisan is intended, the 14th or the 15th, nothing can be confirmed. The ostraca confirm that pesah was known and practiced at some point, though without dates, both references to it could postdate AP 21. Some scholars believe Hananiah’s outlining of the rules for the celebration of massot at least could be taken to indicate that the festival was unfamiliar to the Jewish mercenaries and was just being introduced in 419 B.C.E. 88 In this case, if it contained mention of pesah, the ostraca would refer either to preparations for the first or a subsequent pesah. Within the biblical regulations concerning the pesah and accounts of its celebration, the timing is not consistent. While the majority of the passages place it on the eve of the seven days of massot when both are mentioned explicitly, Deuteronomy places it on the evening of the first day of the massot celebration. Leviticus 23:5, Num 9:3 and Ezek 45:21 specify it is to take place on the evening of the 14th of Nisan, and in the accounts of the celebration of the ritual in 2 Chr 30:13–21 and Ezra 6:19–22, it takes place on the 14th, ahead of, or as the opening to, the hag of massot. Numbers 33:3 has the same date in its notice that the people left Egypt on the 15th day of the first month, the day after pesah, and Josh 5:10 specifies they 42F

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Cowley, Aramaic Papyri, 62–63. So, for example, Arnold, “Passover Papyrus,” 9; Cowley, Aramaic Papyri, xxv; Emil G. Kraeling, The Brooklyn Museum Aramaic Papyri: New Documents of the Fifth Century B.C. from the Jewish Colony at Elephantine (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1953), 95; Segal, Hebrew Passover, 9–10. 88 So, for example, Wambacq, “Origines de Pesah,” 221. 87

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kept pesah on the evening of the 14th day of the month, after which they ate the produce of the land, massot and parched grain. Deuteronomy 16:1–8 alone specifies that the pesah sacrifice is to take place in the month of Abib on the evening of the first of seven days during which no leaven will be found in the territory (gevul). There will be six additional days of eating unleavened bread, after which there will be a holy convocation (vv. 4, 8). In this instance then, pesah seems to coincide with the first day of massot, and the festival runs seven or possibly eight days in its entirety, depending on whether one thinks the final assembly is on the seventh day or an additional eighth day. 89 Exodus 23:14–19 and 34:18–26 mention only that the Festival of Massot is to be celebrated “at the appointed time in Abib,” seeming to indicate that either there were specified dates or that the dates would be announced annually by a priestly authority. The likely reference to the pesah in the stipulation not to leave “the fat of my festival” until morning in 23:1 and the specific reference to not leaving “the sacrifice of the hag of pesah until morning” in 34:25 and not offering the “blood of my sacrifice with anything leavened” in both of these passages have no specified time frame, but the latter clearly assigns pesah the status of a hag. Exodus 23:1 could be referring to it as a component of the hag of massot, which is what is calls the first hag, or as an independent hag. The designation of pesah as the name of the hag rather than massot in Exod 34:25 is consistent with Ezek 45:21 [Eng. 22], where the first festival also is called pesah, not massot. Elsewhere, however, the hag is called massot, even when it includes the pesah (2 Kgs 23:21; 2 Chr 30:15–18, and Ezra 6:19–22), and when referred to in 2 Kgs 23:21, it is not designated as a hag, even when it appears on its own without any mention of the keeping of massot afterwards. Why is a royal decree ordering the Jewish community at Elephantine to keep massot, and possibly with it, pesah? Since the festival required seven days of release from work, it may have required official approval to go ahead. 90 It is clear from the detailed instructions Hananiah gives that the

89 Veijola, “History of Passover,” 70, for example, argues it takes place on an eighth day, harmonizing with the priestly calendar in Lev 23:5–8 and Num 28:16–25. He also notes (68) there are some texts of priestly origin that set the pesah on the first night of Massot: Exod 12:15–20 and Ezek 45:21. He is mistaken about Ezek 45:21. 90 Argued earlier, for example, by Lidzbarski, Ephemeris III, 243–44. In contrast, Eduard Meyer, Der Papyrusfund von Elephantine: Dokument einer jüdischen Gemeinde aus der Perserzeit und das älteste erhaltene Buch der Weltliteratur (2nd ed; Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1912), 92, n. 1, argues the instructions of Hananiah have no organic relation to the contents of the royal edict; rather, they are an appended private message in reply to a question asked by the colonists. Arnold, “Passover Papyrus,” 30, argues the Passover is Hananiah’s “private concern,” while Segal, Hebrew Passover, 222, concludes it is a pri-

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seven-day festival is to take place in Yeb, with the prohibition of taking anything with leaven into the houses; all leaven is to be sealed up somewhere. But why do the Elephantine Jews need such instructions? Are they mere reminders for those who will oversee the celebration, or are they directions for something unfamiliar to the community? And why is Hananiah, a non-local Jewish official, issuing them? There is an implication that he is working in an official capacity to oversee religious affairs relating to Jews, or perhaps Judeans, within the western part of the Persian Empire, if not the entire Persian Empire. 91 Here our lack of documentation about how legal and religious affairs were administered puts us at a disadvantage. Old Babylonian trading colonies established amongst the Hittites had specific provisions made between the two governing kings that members of the Babylonian karum resident in Hittite towns were under the legal jurisdiction of their Babylonian king, not the local king or courts. 92 It is possible, therefore, that a similar arrangement was applied more widely where the affairs of “diasporic” communities were to be governed from the homeland. However, in a provincial situation, where there no longer was an independent political unit headed by a king who could officially claim “ownership” of such diasporae, it would have made more sense either to establish a single law system throughout the empire, or to establish legal practice by the majority group in an area, to be enforced by authorities there. The book of Deuteronomy seems to presume the latter view, making specific provisions for the inclusion of the ger (resident alien) in certain situations, which might be based

vate or semi-official vs. an official letter, sent by a Jew of Persia who knows the contents of an edict issued in Persia. 91 Bezalel Porten, Archives from Elephantine: The Life of an Ancient Military Colony (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968), 132, infers too much when he argues the letter “would have been written under the impact of the canonization of the Torah, its proclamation at Jerusalem, and the elaboration of some eighteen interpretative statutes.” So does Grelot, Documents araméens, 381, when he suggests in a similar vein that the royal chancellery decided to unify customary practice amongst all Jews in the empire by fixing in writing their charter thanks to the activity of Ezra. The move to create a commemorative spring festival may well have preceded the final form of the regulations in Exodus–Deuteronomy and the aetiological narrative in Exod 12–13. We know nothing about when Torah was made “official” and binding, nor when it would have been disseminated beyond the small circle of literate priests and scribes who could read it. It is not clear if the books were written for a restricted audience and secondarily disseminated to the wider, largely illiterate Jewish population secondarily, or if one or more were framed from the beginning with a larger audience in mind. 92 See conveniently, Diana Edelman, “Tyrian Trade in Yehud under Artaxerxes I: Real or Fictional? Independent or Crown- Endorsed?” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (ed. O. Lipschits; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 207–46.

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on a wider Persian policy of establishing regional legal affairs that were to be inclusive of all area residents. The regulation of religious affairs, on the other hand, might have been handled differently, particularly in the case of the Jews once Jerusalem was re-established and a policy of cultic centralization came into play. Once other local Yahwistic shrines and temples were closed down in Yehud, 93 the priestly authorities might have tried to extend their authority to diasporic communities by claiming that all religious affairs needed to be conducted at, and regulated by, the single temple in Jerusalem. The Persian officials may well have gone along with such claims and given authorization for Jerusalemite temple officials to consolidate and regulate the religious affairs of Judean communities. The Persian crown would have benefited from the revenues the three annual pilgrimage festivals now in place would have generated at the temple in Jerusalem, and also along the way, as those traveling from Egypt and Babylonia purchased provisions en route at authorized way-stations. For those who think AP 21 included a reference to observance of the pesah as well as to the seven days of massot, some conclude that the novelty is the addition of the seven-day celebration of massot immediately after the pesah, 94 while others think the inclusion of the pesah alongside the regularly celebrated annual massot festival is an innovation. 95 Another proposal is that the eating of unleavened bread was lengthened from the older practice of six days in Deut 16 to seven days, as in the Priestly Code. 96 Still others think it was the first mandating that the regulations in Lev 23, 97 Exod 12:15, 18 + Num 28:16 98 or Lev 23:5–6 + Num 28:16–17 99 were to be observed by Jews throughout the Diaspora. A more cautious approach advocates seeing the announcement of customary practices that would eventually crystallize in Lev 23 but which contain stipulations that were not ultimately included in the written texts. The practices include the

93 For the likely closing down of the temple in Gibeon in the 5th cent. B.C.E., see Diana Edelman, “Gibeon and the Gibeonites Revisited,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period. (ed. O. Lipschits and J. Blenkinsopp; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 153–68. 94 So, for example, Meyer, Papyrusfund, 93–94; Wambacq, “Origines de Pesah,” 221. 95 So, for example, Cowley, Aramaic Papyri, xxiv, 60–62. 96 So, for example, Auerbach, “Feste,” 7. 97 So for example, Arnold, “Passover Papyrus,” 12–13, arguing pesah and massot are independent feasts so one could observe the latter without the former; Grelot, Documents araméens, 384, arguing for influence also from Exod 12:15–20. 98 So, for example, Vincent, Religion, 286–88. He notes the novelty would be in the added ritual meal of pesah and the ritual assembly. 99 So, for example, Dupont-Sommer, “Fête de la Pâque,” 41.

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attitude of ritual purity that would come to be expressed in Lev 11–15. Hananiah is setting the date of Passover according to priestly regulation. 100 Others have argued that the likely failure to include Passover in the edict reflects an enforcement of the Deuteronomistic regulations for observing Passover in Deut 16:2, which specify that the paschal victim must be slaughtered “in the place Yahweh will choose to make his name dwell.” This would mean that Jews in the Diaspora could not keep Passover before massot unless they were to travel to Jerusalem to do so. 101 In fact, this position would not preclude a mention of pesah in AP 21 in order to stipulate that it was not be observed at the altar house in Yeb, but that massot alone could be and was expected to be. In this case, Hananiah would be introducing the new centralized pilgrimage festival regulations, which were either totally new or modified prior practice. 102 This understanding would also presume that the Jerusalemite temple officials had decided that they would bend the rules for the holy convocation that was to take place on the final day at the central temple and they would do this in order to accomplish the more central task of building a sense of common identity and membership in the religious community of Israel. They wanted diasporic communities to participate in the three annual festivals, to develop a sense of solidarity and identity. At the same time, new regulations converting them to pilgrimage festivals, ideally to be celebrated in Jerusalem, would have laid the groundwork for eventual compliance and centralized participation at some points during a given lifetime by these diasporic communities. Thus, 100 So Grelot, “Papyrus pascal,” 250–53, 257, 259. He leaves open whether the observation of massot is something new, something that had fallen into disuse, or something that was considered problematic that needed clarification (260–261). His position is cited approvingly by Veijola, “History of Passover,” 72, n. 99. 101 So, e.g., Albin van Hoonacker, Une Communauté Judéo-Araméenne à Éléphantine, en Égypte, aux VIe et Ve siècles av. J.-C. (British Academy Schweich Lectures for 1914; London: H. Milford, 1915), 17–18; Cowley, Aramaic Papyri, 61; Kraeling, Brooklyn Museum Papyri, 95; Segal, Hebrew Passover, 224–25; Ahlström, History of Palestine, 870–71. Otto, Mazzotfest, 39, argues the Elephantine Jews did not celebrate the Passover festival because they did not need to do so; either such a festival generally was not known to them, or Hananiah notified the Jewish colonists not to observe the pesah in conjunction with the biblical regulations. 102 It is interesting that no one who assumes this letter lacked any reference to the pesah offering seems to have proposed that regulations similar to what came to be codified in Exod 23:14–16 were being presumed by Hananiah. Of course, such a view would also require one to assume that 23:18 refers to sacrifices other than the pesah, unless one took the minority view that the regulations in 23:14–19 presume cultic centralization, in which case the same argument could be made as has been for seeing the regulations that came to be codified in Deut 16. However, Carl Steuernagel, “Zum Passa-Massotfest,” ZAW 31 (1911): 310, has argued that the northern Israelite Massot festival of Exod 23:15 was first being introduced into practice in Yehud by Darius (II); it had existed on paper in Exod 34 and Deut 16 since the exile but had not yet been made a reality.

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to allow those outside the land to perform some but not all of the rituals built bridges that, it was hoped, would eventually win these groups over. 103 The two undated ostraca that mention pesah indicate it had been known and celebrated at Elephantine at some point; it is not known whether it was considered an integral part of a larger massot festival or was an independent ritual celebration. They also give no clue about the purpose of the pesah, which raises the larger question as to when the commemorative dimension came to be attached to one or possibly two springtime festivals that traditionally had celebrated the barley harvest and perhaps the new year or half-year. 104 Even without possible knowledge of written Torah, the rituals and their accompanying explanations could have been associated with Yahweh’s past central saving acts, which were to be recounted during the celebrations. This is especially the case after 419 B.C.E., when the Jewish community at Yeb had experienced an official visit from Hananiah for some purpose, and he had subsequently sent word about how to celebrate the spring festival. I want raise the chicken or the egg question: which came first, the adapted, commemorative festival, or the book of Exodus, whether in part or in whole? Did the ritualistic, commemorative adaptation of the festival celebrating the annual barley harvest and possibly another spring new year or half-year observance eventually lead to the main ritual acts and their agreed meanings becoming fixed in written form in some or all of the text of Exodus? 105 Or, was some or all of Exodus composed as the manual to be 103 It is worth considering whether the unusual secular slaughter of the pesah animal and its roasting rather than boiling depicted in Exod 12:8 –9 is a deliberate accommodation made for diasporic Jews who were not able to travel to the central sanctuary but were to be included in the observance of rite annually. Is the usual explanation that this was an ancient nomadic rite in origin conducted without the benefit of a developed priesthood or sanctuary the only plausible one? It might be significant that amongst the regulations given for the festival of pesah-massot, only Deut 16 mentions the specific mode of cooking the meat; nothing is said in Exod 23, 34, or Lev 23. Auerbach, “Feste,” 5, argues, for example, that the roasting in Exod 12:8–9 is a polemic in the Priestly Code against Deut 16. 104 My purpose here is not to rehearse the history of the pesah to determine its possible roots. If one were to focus on the use of the blood of the pesah for apotropaic purposes in the current exodus legend, it could be argued that an apotropaic ritual would have been deemed desirable at the turning of the year or possibly even the half-year. If the generally held view that ancient Israel and Judah began their year in the autumn is correct, then this explanation would mean the rite would only have arisen after the change of the calendar to reflect a vernal New Year, unless one wants to argue for an older ritual that marked the half-year. Since lambs are born year round, not just in the spring, it is less likely that the rite traces back to an annual lambing celebration, as some have proposed. 105 Although Exod 12–13 contains the core of the teaching relating to the festival, Exod 1–15 includes the plagues and serve as the basis of the current Passover Haggadah,

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used by the priests and Levites who were to officiate at the newly centralized first annual pilgrimage festival, which was to provide a story of origins for the religious community by recalling the foundational moment in the past when their god Yahweh brought them up out of Egypt and made them formally into his people? The book of Exodus seems to present the “party line” version of the story to be told at the Festival of pesah-massot, including instructions about how central ritualistic and liturgical acts involving the paschal lamb (12:3–10, 13, 21–24, 27, 46), unleavened bread (12:8, 15–20, 34, 39; 13:7–9), bitter herbs (12:8), the night vigil (12:42), eating the meal dressed for travel (12:11–12), the presentation of offerings by sacrifice or the redemption of all first-born human and animal males (13:12–16), and a possible sign upon the hand and a reminder on the forehead (13:9, 16) were to be linked to the foundational events recounted in the book. As such, it seems to have been directed in part at an elite, scribal and priestly audience, who were to present the story and interpret its meaning to the pilgrims during the festival. However, there are first person confessional statements in Exod 12:27 and 13:8, 14, 15 to be made by the participants at large, and in chs. 12–13, which serve as the commemorative story for pesah-massot, the third person narrative is punctuated with second plural instructions and explanations, which can be aimed equally at the general public on the assumption these two chapters would have been read out directly to them by the scribes and priests. Exodus 12–13 could be understood to be providing explicit, fixed commemorative meaning for a number of older, inherited ritual acts and gestures whose meaning no longer was certain but which were deemed valuable to the community at large, or some segments of it. Deference to the authority of unspecified others like “the forefathers” to guarantee the meaning and value of ritual acts of repetition or quotation can account for the perpetuation of rituals in a society where a clear sense of meaning is not held by any living, participating member. 106 If such a situation had developed, the association of inherited pesah-massot rituals with the story of the exodus by the priesthoods in control of the temples of Jerusalem and Mt. Gerizim could have provided a new commemorative meaning that would have aided in developing social cohesion and group identitythought to date from after 70 C.E. (see n. 52). However, a case could also be made for including the entire book, if we bear in mind the mythic pattern underlying it, which includes the establishment of justice as part of the larger universal order. Since we do not know what was spoken during the pesah ritual or during the massot festival pre-70 C.E., we have no basis for knowing how much of the book’s contents would have been integral to these two celebrations. 106 Maurice Bloch, “Ritual and Deference,” in Ritual and Memory: Toward a Comparative Anthropology of Religion (ed. H. Whitehouse and J. Laidlaw; Cognitive Science of Religion Series; Walnut Creek, Calif.: AltaMira, 2004), 65–78 (69–71, 73–77).

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building. Alternatively, even if meaning had existed for a number of the symbolic ritual actions and gestures, their multivocality would have allowed a new layer of association to be added by associating them with the exodus story.

F. Tentative Synthesis Finally, when did pesah-massot become a commemorative pilgrimage festival associated with the Exodus? 107 I would like to suggest it was after the rebuilding of the temple in Jerusalem, when its priesthood was in a position to develop the commemorative ritual that provided a social schema to help structure the cognitive social world of the golah and non-golah communities living within the province of Yehud who celebrated it at the newly rebuilt central temple. At the same time, the ritual would have provided a shared abstract symbolic system 108 for the widely dispersed diasporic communities who either observed it at home on the same day throughout the Persian Empire in solidarity with their co-religionists or made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem to join in the centralized celebrations there. By creating a prominent schema (organized knowledge structure) with striking or intense features that was simultaneously distinctive due to its unusual features, the priests provided an effective means of negotiating and reinforcing social identity. The participants annually repeat a ritual that is concrete and imageprovoking, which triggers emotional responses from them and which makes a common experience proximate in a sensory, temporal, and spatial manner that discourages critical thinking. 109 In performing the ritual, “the 107

I am translating the term hag as “festival,” which does not necessarily include pilgrimage as a component. However, use of the term regalim alongside hag in the current regulations in Exod 23:14 and the clear requirement that all three festivals are to celebrated at the central temple in Deut 16 indicate that pilgrimage was an intended component, where practical or at some point during one’s lifetime, like the hajj in Islam. 108 For the logical and psychological aspects of symbols, see Susanne Langer, Philosophy in a New Key: A Study in the Symbolism of Reason, Rite and Art (3d ed. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1967), 53–78. 109 Richard E. Nisbett and Lee Ross, Human Inference: Strategies and Shortcomings of Social Judgment (The Century Psychology Series; Englewood Cliffs N.J.: PrenticeHall, 1980), 43; Kertzer, Ritual, 82, 85. The festival’s ritual can perhaps be classified primarily as belonging to Harvey Whitehouse’s proposed universal “imagistic mode” of memory in the transmission of ritual actions, though there may have been some elements of the “doctrinal” mode of memory included, depending on what might have been said and explained during the celebration. See his Arguments and Icons: Divergent Modes of Religiosity (Oxford Studies in Social and Cultural Anthropology; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000) and subsequent refinements in his Modes of Religiosity: A Cognitive

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participants indicate to themselves and others that they accept whatever is encoded in the canon of that order … The self-referential and the canonical are united in the acceptance of the canon.” 110 Participation signals a public acceptance of the social schema, where any private “disbelief” is subordinated to the public liturgical performance that creates social solidarity. 111 By rousing their emotions, the range of the participants’ attention is narrowed, resulting in the use of fewer categories or schemae to interpret their experience, 112 and the formalized communication presents a well-defined course of action or sense of world order that the participants believe belongs to the external world itself rather than being a cultural construction. 113 Myths and metaphors permit men to live in a world in which the causes are simple and neat and remedies are apparent. In place of a complicated empirical world, men hold to a relatively few, simple archetypal myths, of which the conspiratorial enemy and the omnicompetent hero-savior are the central ones. In consequence, people feel assured by guidance, certainty, and trust rather than paralyzed by threat, bewilderment, and unwanted personal responsibility for making judgments. 114

The need for a commemorative national festival that provided a sense of common origin and membership in a community established and led directly by Yahweh and his Torah, without recourse to an intermediary human leader, be that a Davidide or an empire ruler, did not arise until the demise of the kingdom of Judah. 115 There was not an authoritative group associated with a centralized temple in the Neo-Babylonian period that could have developed the commemorative annual hag. The first opportunity for such a situation arose after the move of the provincial seat from Theory of Religious Transmission (Cognitive Science of Religion Series; Walnut Creek, Calif.: AltaMira, 2004). For examples of how the two can be mixed in actual ritual transmission and for how less “traumatic, painful, or ecstatic” yet still vivid, emotional memories can constitute “episodic memory” after ritual participation, see the essays in Whitehouse and James Laidlaw, eds., Ritual and Memory: Toward a Comparative Anthropology of Religion (Cognitive Science of Religion Series; Walnut Creek, Calif.: AltaMira, 2004). 110 Rappaport, Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity (Cambridge Studies in Social and Cultural Anthropology 110; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 119. 111 Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 121. 112 So Kertzer, Ritual, 82. 113 So Kertzer, Ritual, 85. 114 Murray J. Edelman, Politics as Symbolic Action: Mass Arousal and Quiescence (Wisconsin University Institute for Research on Poverty Monograph Series; Chicago: Markham, 1971), 83. 115 For the minority view that suggests (pesah-)massot arose as a commemorative festival in the northern kingdom of Israel rather than in Judah, a date after 721 B.C.E. would need to be contemplated.

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Mizpah to Jerusalem under Artaxerxes I, when the rebuilt temple could become one of two symbolic religious centers for emerging Judaism 116 in addition to serving as a vital instrument in imperial bureaucracy. It is important to realize that rituals often foster beliefs about the outside world that misrepresent reality and encourage forgetting or ignoring certain things in favor of highlighting and remembering others that reinforce a particular view or understanding. 117 The new commemorative pesah-massot ritual appears to have replaced any former, monarchic-era New Year’s festival celebration, where the role of the king as the earthly vice-regent was to be forgotten while Yahweh’s kingship was to be highlighted as he played the role of the hero-savior who defeated the conspiratorial enemy, pharaoh. At the same time, the disappearance of the kingdoms of Israel and Judah and existence within the Persian Empire as one of many conquered groups could be temporarily forgotten as well in emphasizing Yahweh’s creation of his people, “Israel.” The rescue from the oppressive demands of a foreign ruler assured the religious community that any time in the present or future the political regime in power might mistreat them, their divine king would rescue them, as he had in the past. The priests undoubtedly saw financial as well as identity-building benefits to be gained from three annual pilgrimage festivals to be celebrated at Yahweh’s chosen place. 118 They would bind diasporic communities in Egypt and Babylonia more closely to what the Jerusalemite priests intended would become accepted as the sole place of legitimate sacrifice for all Jews: Yahweh’s temple on the holy mountain of Zion. By using the same mythic complex that underlay the Akitu festival to the god Marduk and celebrating the Jewish festival in the same month as the Akitu in Babylonia (it took place on days five to twelve), a pilgrimage to Jerusalem could re116

It served as the religious center within Yehud, just as the temple on Mt. Gerizim served as the religious center for Samerina. 117 So Kertzer, Ritual, 87. For studies about cognitive processes and behavior, see, for example, Ulric Neisser, Cognition and Reality: Principles and Implications of Cognitive Psychology (Series of Books in Psychology; San Francisco: W. H. Freeman, 1976); Nancy Cantor and John F. Kihlstrom, Personality, Cognition, and Social Interaction (Hillsdale, N.J.: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates, 1981); Miles Hewstone, Causal attribution: From Cognitive Processes to Collective Beliefs (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1989); Jerome H. Barkow, Leda Cosmides, and John Tooby, The Adapted Mind: Evolutionary Psychology and the Generation of Culture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992); Mark Rowlands, The Body in Mind: Understanding Cognitive Processes (Cambridge Studies in Philosophy; Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1999); Abraham Tesser, Diederik A. Stapel, and Joanne V. Wood, eds., Self and Motivation: Emerging Psychological Perspectives (Washington, D.C.: American Psychological Association, 2002); see conveniently, Kertzer, Ritual, 79–87. 118 The concept of pilgrimage as a means of raising revenues for the rebuilt temple was proposed to me by P. Davies in conversation.

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move Jews there from participation in a rival activity while strengthening their Jewish identity and generating income for the temple, suppliers along the way, local vendors, and the Persian crown. 119 At the same time, those who opted not to make the pilgrimage would be reminded that they had their own religious festival that defined who they were so they should not identify with those celebrating Marduk’s kingship. By situating the story in Egypt, a monotheistic god could demonstrate his status as the only true god in a battle against a human Pharaoh claiming to be an incarnate living god. A message could be given that those living in the Diaspora in Egypt and Babylonia who served the imperial power were slaves to the wrong leader; they should be serving Yahweh back in Yehud at his chosen spot to place his name to dwell: Jerusalem. Jews belonged in the Promised Land, and if they did not choose to return permanently, they could visit as often as they could manage to participate in these annual festivals and provide valuable financial support for the centralized temple, as well as for those who ran the way-stations en route and local vendors in Jerusalem, with the Persian crown getting a percentage of the net profits of the first and second. Finally, it should be noted that the story as framed in the book of Exodus asks permission for Israel to make a pilgrimage to the divine mountain of Yahweh to offer sacrifice and worship. 120 This is exactly what they do eventually, being distinguished as a separate people from the Egyptians via the plagues. Then, after crossing through the Sea of Termination/Ending, in a new beginning they go to Yahweh’s divine mountain, which in some ways represents Mt. Zion, where they become a formally constituted community via the covenant. Pilgrimage is at the heart of Exodus, modeling this new aspect of Jewish identity by the ancestors as the correct future means of once more encountering Yahweh.

119 Johnstone, “Revision of Festivals,” 114, has argued that the encounter of the Judean exiles in Babylonia with the local calendar that began the year in the spring “led to a new emphasis placed on the spring rite as the most important of the year, rather than the autumnal rite, as formerly.” He adds there were also “aggressive, polemical overtones to that reinterpretation as well, no doubt.” While he is not as explicit as I have been, he seems to imply something along the same lines. 120 In conversation, K. Berge reminded me of the use of pilgrimage within the exodus story as a central means by which to worship Yahweh, serving as an example for the pilgrimage festival of pesah-massot.

Remembering a Memorable Conversation: Genesis 18:22b–33 and the Righteous in the Persian Period URMAS NÕMMIK 1 In the case of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the authors of biblical texts remembered and recorded many episodes. Especially memorable was a conversation between God and Abraham on the eve of Sodom’s destruction in Gen 18:22b–33. Despite its unpretentious form, the dialogue is theologically complicated and together with its location in the patriarch narratives raises the question of why it was so memorable.

A. Arguments to Extract 18:22b–33 For a long time, the dialogue between God and Abraham has been understood as a larger secondary text in the framework of Gen 18–19, or rather Gen 13+18–19. 2 This is maintained in the following study as well. The main reasons to extract the dialogue as an addition are the literary critical ones. In the dialogue, Abraham is aware of the destruction of Sodom despite its missing forecast in preceding verses. In 18:17–19 (verses which bear the character of a very late addition 3 by idealistically reflecting the 1 I am grateful to Alexander-von-Humboldt Foundation for research fellowship granted for a stay in Munich, and for enabling the time to research the patriarch narratives. The article is produced with the aid of the Estonian Science Foundation research grant no. ETF8665. 2 On the Abraham-Lot cycle Gen 13+18–19* as the oldest layer among Abraham stories, see Rudolf Kilian, Die vorpriesterlichen Abrahamsüberlieferungen: Literarkritisch und traditionsgeschichtlich untersucht (BBB 24; Bonn: Peter Hanstein, 1966); Christoph Levin, Der Jahwist (FRLANT 157; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993), 143–4, 153–6, 159–67; and cf. Erhard Blum, Die Komposition der Vätergeschichte (WMANT 57; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1984), 282–286. 3 V. 16b begins with wPN+qotel-syntax and vv. 17 and 18 both with wPN+qatal syntax (even if v. 18 is part of a larger syntactical construction in a direct speech) – the accumulation of such syntax in a context of originally pure narrative text is remarkable and cannot attest either the intention of the first author nor only one author (against Claus Westermann, Genesis 12–36: A Commentary (trans. John J. Scullion S. J. Minneapolis:

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piousness and role of Abraham) only Yahweh’s intention to reveal his plan to Abraham is mentioned, not the plan itself. In a literary critical sense, these verses seem to react to the following dialogue which is situated in the context quite loosely and needed some help from later editors, e.g., by emphasizing the legendary piousness of Abraham which in turn justifies his almost prophetic foreknowledge of what is going to happen in Sodom. 4 The literary case is similar to Gen 20, a very young text, where Abraham is a prophet (v. 7) and only the prayer of such an appropriate person can influence God to heal Abimelech and his house (vv. 7 and 17–18). 5 In Gen 18:20–21, only the sin and outcry of Sodom (and Gomorrah 6) and the need to inspect it is stated, not the plan to destroy it. 7 Beyond that, parts of vv. 16, 22 and 33b must affirm literary operations of younger scribes, since in the actual shape of the text, Abraham’s guests leave for Sodom twice, and the spatiotemporal situation of Abraham clearly reacts accordingly. If in the oldest version the men left only once, then v. 22a is likely original, and both halves of v. 16 depend on it. 8 After a later editor changed the original Augsburg, 1985), 285, 287–8, and Blum, Die Komposition der Vätergeschichte, 400–5). V. 16 with both its halves is older than vv. 17–19. 4 Vv. 17–18(19) are secondary already according to Julius Wellhausen, Die Composition des Hexateuchs und der historischen Bücher des Alten Testaments (3d ed; Berlin: Georg Reimer, 1899), 26, and Hermann Gunkel, Genesis (trans. Mark E. Biddle. Mercer Library of Biblical Studies; Macon, Ga.: Mercer University Press, 1997), 201–2, cf. also Levin, Der Jahwist, 170; Karin Schöpflin, “Abrahams Unterredung mit Gott und die schriftgelehrte Stilisierung der Abrahamgestalt in Gen 18,16b–33,” in Die Erzväter in der biblischen Tradition (ed. Anselm C. Hagedorn and Henrik Pfeiffer; BZAW 400. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2009), 93–113 (108). And they can by all means be separated from the dialogue (but cf. Mattias Köckert, “Divine Messengers and Mysterious Men in the Patriarchal Narratives of the Book of Genesis,” in Angels: The Concept of Celestial Beings – Origins, Development and Reception [ed. Friedrich V. Reiterer, Tobias Nicklas, Karin Schöpflin; Deuterocanonical and Cognate Literature; Yearbook 2007; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2007], 51–78 [64, note 54]) because they are already separated – why should the author of the dialogue insert those verses before v. 20 and not before v. 23? – and do not disclose the plan of destruction itself; hence, only Abraham’s piousness is accentuated here. 5 Cf. Blum, Die Komposition der Vätergeschichte, 405–419, and Levin, Der Jahwist, 173–80. 6 Since the motif of Sodom’s destruction was seemingly popular in the Second Temple Hebrew tradition and had many facets including several seconding legendary cities in the Dead Sea area, the name of Gomorrah in v. 20 can be a gloss added later. 7 Cf. Wellhausen, Die Composition des Hexateuchs, 26, and Gunkel, Genesis, 202. 8 At least the verb & in v. 22a accords with the style of older narrative technique without problems, whereas the verb $# in v. 16 is rather rare and often combined with the “window” (cf. Gen 26:8; Judg 5:28; 2 Sam 6:16; Prov 7:6; 2 Kgs 9:30), and above all can be met in a likely secondary context Gen 19:28 (see Levin, Der Jahwist, 170), in accordance with some Psalm passages about God looking down from heaven (14:2 = 53:3; 102:20). Cf. Wellhausen, Die Composition des Hexateuchs, 25; Gunkel, Genesis,

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wording of vv. 20–21 into Yahweh’s words about Sodom, 9 significantly in v. 22b, immediately preceding the dialogue, Abraham stays before Yahweh, or vice versa, without the tiqqun sopherim, Yahweh stands before Abraham. It was probably the intention of the author of the conversation as well to let Abraham speak with Yahweh somewhere other than his dwelling place; so in v. 16, Abraham together with his guests has to be moved away from his home, and at the end of the dialogue he goes back home (v. 33). In conclusion, in 18:16–33, before their re-working, vv. 20–21*+22a or something they replace belonged to the original story of Abraham and Lot, then alongside of them the dialogue of vv. 23–32, vv. 16 (syntactically separating two scenes in vv. 1–16a and 16b–33), 22b and 33 was added; finally, vv. 17–18(19) were attached to the chapter. Furthermore, the dialogue does not have any connection to the chapters before Gen 18 or after Gen 19; this unique text which stands alone needs some tradition critical explanation. Even if vv. 22b–33 have been handled as part of the Yahwistic source or redaction, its character as a text sui generis has been acknowledged. 10 Thus the conversation between Yahweh and Abraham does not directly relate to the context in Gen 18, and it is more the incident in Sodom in Gen 19 which explains it. Since its relation to the older shape of Gen 19 11 is

200–1, and Levin, “Gerechtigkeit Gottes in der Genesis,” in Fortschreibungen Gesammelte Studien zum Alten Testament (BZAW 316; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2003), 40–48 (41), that vv. 22a and 33b belonged originally together, but it is not needed if Abraham did not go to set the guests on their way originally at all (whole v. 16 is an addition); v. 22a can be continued with 19:1* as well. 9 The original aim of the visit of the three men could be looked for in these verses, but then, like in Gen 19:24–25, the wording has been changed drastically because now, the younger character Yahweh probably became the active part (cf. ·¸| Krašovec, “Der Ruf nach Gerechtigkeit in Gen 18,16–33,” in Die Väter Israels: Beiträge zur Theologie der Patriarchenüberlieferungen im Alten Testament (ed. Manfred Görg; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1989), 169–182 [172]), and Levin, Der Jahwist, 159–60; Levin, “Gerechtigkeit Gottes,” 41). The fact that the visiting men leave only after Yahweh’s words in vv. 20–21 confirms the suspicion. Despite his claim that vv. 17–33 have been added as a unit to Gen 18, Westermann (Genesis 12–36, 289–90) presupposes that vv. 20–21(22a) have been taken over from an older narrative (cf. also Ludwig Schmidt, “De Deo”: Studien zur Literarkritik und Theologie des Buches Jona, des Gesprächs zwischen Abraham und Jahwe in Gen 18,22ff. und von Hi 1 [BZAW 143; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1976], 134; Blum, Die Komposition der Vätergeschichte, 282–3). 10 E.g., Rudolf Kilian, Die vorpriesterlichen Abrahamsüberlieferungen, 109. He views the passage as far too theological to not to be part of the “theologian” Yahwist. 11 Gen 19 has a complicated literary history as well, and some of its parts (e.g., 18:16a and 19:28) certainly originate from the same hand as our conversation, see Levin, Der Jahwist, 168–170.

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only theoretical as well, it happens to represent a younger 12 discussion on an issue somehow relevant to the readers of the patriarch stories. The authority of the earlier text in Gen 18–19* with something problematic affecting the faith of those who passed on the text of Genesis was surely strong enough to leave the problematic yet authoritative earlier text unchanged, but they did supply it with a further episode. Hence, the questions are when and why Sodom’s destruction was seen as a problem, since for the earlier authors it had not been one. Furthermore, was it really the destruction of Sodom with which they were concerned, or was there something else in the story that fascinated the readers or hearers?

B. The Problem of Contents of the Conversation Abraham’s questions addressed to God in his introductory monologue in Gen 18:23–25, 27–28 clearly formulate the critical issue of the dialogue: “Will you really sweep away the righteous with the wicked?” and “Shall not the Judge of all the earth act with justice?” In six rounds of dialogue (vv. 23–26, 27–28, 29, 30, 31, 32), the number of righteous needed to save the city is negotiated, from fifty to forty-five, from forty-five to forty, from forty to thirty, from thirty to twenty, and from twenty to ten. In contrast to the background of those extensive words of Abraham at the beginning, the dialogue has a rather unspectacular and formal end: after Yahweh’s last short answer Yahweh simply went away and Abraham returned to his place (v. 33). What is then the point of the conversation? Why does God not announce his decision on Sodom, since the readers or hearers of Gen 18–19 already know that ten righteous were not enough to save the city? Why is Lot along with his family not mentioned in the dialogue? Why is such a critical debate finished like a conversation on weather between two peasants?

12

Already Wellhausen, Die Composition des Hexateuchs, 26; Gunkel, Genesis, 202–3 (perhaps the youngest element in the whole complex); Eva Gillischewski, “Zur Literarkritik von Gen 18 und 19” ZAW 41 (1923): 76–83 (78); Schmidt, “De Deo”, 164 (between 500 and 350); Westermann, Genesis 12–36, 286–90 (postexilic); Blum, Die Komposition der Vätergeschichte, 404 (because of assigning 18:17–33 to D-layer exilic or post-exilic); Ben Zvi, “The Dialogue Between Abraham and Yhwh in Gen 18.23–32: A Historical-Critical Analysis” JSOT 53 (1992): 27–46 (31–2) (post-monarchic; here also, note 1, list of biblical references to support it); Levin, Der Jahwist, 170; Levin, “Gerechtigkeit Gottes,” 41 (“post-Yahwistic” and “nachendredaktionell”); Schöpflin, “Abrahams Unterredung mit Gott,” 111 (late post-exilic scribal production), etc.

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Of course, many answers and solutions to these questions have been proposed. 13 For example, there is a possibility that a special figure, a truly pious and righteous person like Abraham tries to avoid the worst scenario. He has been understood as an intercessor whose word is weighty. Especially in the light of the younger vv. 17–19, Abraham is styled to be a prophetic intercessor. 14 There is a possibility that the justice of the “Judge of the earth” is meant to be underlined. 15 Really, since the whole city of Sodom will be destroyed and only one man with his closest family will be saved, God will stay and, hence, is always righteous and just. There were not even ten righteous in Sodom, and therefore the city had to be destroyed; the problem of sweeping away the righteous together with the wicked is solved as well because the host of the divine messengers is brought out of the city. There is a further possibility that Jerusalem’s destruction is discussed here theoretically 16 and thus the godly revenge to the city of sin hidden behind Sodom episode. But God’s final, seemingly unpretentious words “I will not destroy it for the sake of ten” potentially imply a further solution. It has been noticed that the dialogue opens with a question about sweeping away the righteous together with the wicked and that ten “righteous” at the end of the dialogue should be of some significance. It has been stated that number ten in Gen 18:32, as in other biblical passages, is referring to minyan, the quorum of ten male adults required for certain religious acts. 17 But what has not been discussed is that beside the number ten, the righteous themselves could be of crucial importance for the passage, especially in the light of newer studies on younger biblical texts. In Hebrew, the righteous are called #' and this concept is far from being second-rate in the Hebrew Bible. The whole conversation can be put in another perspective supposing that its 47F

13

As a summary of several theological viewpoints on Gen 18b and relevant literature up to 1992, see Ben Zvi, “The Dialogue Between Abraham and Yhwh,” 27–9. 14 Schöpflin, “Abrahams Unterredung mit Gott,” 103, and about vv. 17–19 also 105– 6. Cf. against such explanations Schmidt, “De Deo”, 143–5, and Westermann, Genesis 12–36, 291. 15 Westermann, Genesis 12–36, 292–3; cf. Schöpflin, “Abrahams Unterredung mit Gott,” 98. 16 Cf., e.g., J. Alberto Soggin, Das Buch Genesis: Kommentar (trans. Thomas Frauenlob; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1997), 277–278, and Schöpflin, “Abrahams Unterredung mit Gott,” 95–96, 107. 17 See Blum, Die Komposition der Vätergeschichte, 402–3; Soggin, “Abraham hadert mit Gott. Beobachtungen zu Genesis 18,16–32,” in “Wer ist wie du, Herr, unter den Göttern?”: Studien zur Theologie und Religionsgeschichte Israels (ed. Ingo Kottsieper et al.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994), 214–218 (217), and Soggin, Das Buch Genesis, 279; cf. Schmidt, “De Deo”, 154–155, and Westermann, Genesis 12–36, 292. Ten is the minimum requirement for a group; fewer than ten is just a number of individuals.

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authors understood themselves as the righteous. If we could imagine a minor group of the #' among a vast majority of the wicked, then such a dialogue between an exemplary patriarch (patriarch for all the righteous) and God (who else could speak with God?) which suggests certainty and confidence for this group would be definitely an option for understanding the origin of such an insertion. This option can be further underlined by the idea that the monotonous character of the conversation does not necessarily attest the purely theological and theoretical character of the dialogue 18 but can have a suggestive effect on the hearers – the righteous. 475F

C. Some Observations Regarding the Relative Date of the Dialogue Before continuing the discussion on the contents of the dialogue, one should ask about its relation to some other texts in the Hebrew Bible, and its date. We already mentioned the secondary character of the dialogue in the context of Gen 18 and 19. A closer, traditional historical look at Abraham stories allows the conclusion that the dialogue is a witness of successive growth of Abraham’s significance and decrease of Lot’s role in tradition. Lot is not mentioned at all during the conversation, and only the process of increasingly forgetting his original role in tradition could explain this. It has to be brought to mind that many literary critical studies come to the conclusion, explicitly or implicitly, that the original function of Lot in the Abraham-Lot cycle or in its constituent older legends was more significant than the function of Abraham. 19 In the younger shape of the text, Lot is only a forefather of Ammonites and Moabites (Gen 19:29–38), and is mentioned seldom elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible (cf. typically in Deut 2:9, 19). On the contrary, Abraham is designed to be a prophetic, pious intercessor, especially underlined in vv. 17–19, which were added later than our conversation. As a legendary hero, Abraham appears once more in a very late text, Gen 14, significantly rescuing the totally passive figure of Lot. Most likely, the dialogue and vv. 17–19 presuppose the process already emerging in the Priestly texts. Furthermore, the process parallels the development of the book of Job, where similarly, the role of the friends becomes less important through the time, and they are evaluated more and more negatively; the function of Job, in contrast, becomes ever more sig476F

18

The theoretical character has been underlined by Gunkel, Genesis, 204; Schmidt, “De Deo”, 161–4; Harald Schweizer, “Das seltsame Gespräch von Abraham und Jahwe (Gen 18, 22–33),” TQ 164 (1984): 121–139 (135–138), and others. 19 Cf. Kilian, Die vorpriesterlichen Abrahamsüberlieferungen; Levin, Der Jahwist, 390, and Blum, Die Komposition der Vätergeschichte, 287–289.

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nificant and positive. 20 By the end of the traditional process, Job is not only a pious servant of Yahweh but evaluated in a similar way to Abraham – as a legendary pious patriarch. 21 We can only speculate as to how fast Abraham became one of the most popular persons to gather tradition around him, comparable with cases like Moses, David or Solomon. 22 It is not surprising that Gen 18:22b–33 presupposes the stylization of Moses as a prophet as well. 23 Not far from our dialogue in a traditional historical sense are some texts, additions and glosses in the book of Isaiah. The sin and destruction of Sodom by Yahweh is a well known theologoumenon for the Isaianic tradition, probably in its younger layers. The great composition on the destiny of Babel in Isa 13–14 includes a sub-composition (13:14–16, 19–22 24) which refers to the overthrow of Sodom and Gomorrah by God (v. 19b «¹  ’º // „   – « , and v. 15b with the verb , as in Gen 18:23–24 and 19:15, 17). 25 It is rather complicated to determine the literary and chronological relation of this particular Isaianic text to our dialogue, but a literary interdependence likely exists. 26 Redactors interested in pre481F

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20 Cf. Urmas Nõmmik, Die Freundesreden des ursprünglichen Hiobdialogs: Eine form- und traditionsgeschichtliche Studie (BZAW 410; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2010), 280–5, 299–301. 21 Cf. the congruencies observed by Timo Veijola, “Abraham und Hiob: Das literarische und theologische Verhältnis von Gen 22 und der Hiob-Novelle” in Vergegenwärtigung des Alten Testaments: Beiträge zur biblischen Hermeneutik (ed. Christoph Bultmann, Walter Dietrich and Christoph Levin; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002), 127–144, in Gen 22 and the book of Job. 22 On the tradition process around Abraham and the reception history see Anke Mühling, Blickt auf Abraham, euren Vater: Abraham als Identifikationsfigur des Judentums in der Zeit des Exils und des Zweiten Tempels (FRLANT 236; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011). 23 Schöpflin, “Abrahams Unterredung mit Gott,” 110. 24 These two parts have several poetic characteristics common and seem both to be later added to the descriptions of Yahweh’s army in vv. 2–5 and Yahweh’s Day in vv. 6– 13. Vv. 17–18 are probably once more added later since represent contents and poetry of another kind. Cf. an overview of several solutions by Peter Höffken, Jesaja: Der Stand der theologischen Diskussion (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2004), 126. 25 Especially in the prophetic tradition, the terminus technicus  characterizes the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah without exception, Jer 49:18; 50:40; Amos 4:11 (cf. Bernard Gosse, Isaïe 13,1–14, 23 dans la tradition littéraire du livre d’Isaïe et dans la tradition des oracles contre les nations [OBO 78; University of Freiburg Press; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1988], 161–163), but also Deut 29:22. The verb & appears in Gen 18–19 only in 19:21, 25, and 29. 26 It cannot be excluded that vv. 19–22 have grown, especially by vv. 19b and 22b; cf. Bernhard Duhm, Das Buch Jesaja (4th new rev. ed.; GHAT 3; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1922), 115. Cf. also the verb  which appears only here, in Isa 13:20, and in the Abraham-Lot cycle, Gen 13:12, and 28 (cf. Gosse, Isaïe 13,1–14,23, 163–164).

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senting the key-word “Sodom” in strategically important passages, such as the beginnings of the first and second larger parts of Proto-Isaiah (chs. 1– 12; 13–39) have introduced a passage also in 1:10–15* 27 and inserted two bicola in 1:9 28 ¥|¤ž|›{ |»+ ž¥\\» ¤ ¤  ©¤¤ {Ÿ ¼¢\£ 29. In 1:9 a total absence of remnant is underlined, analogous to Sodom’s destruction: “If Yahweh of hosts // had not left us < … > 30 survivors, // we would have been like Sodom, // Gomorrah we would have resembled.” Particularly interesting are late additions in Isa 3:8–11, not only because a comparison with Sodom is present in v. 9, but also because it is followed by a contrasting proclamation about the destiny of the righteous (#') and the wicked () in vv. 10–11. 31 If Sodom was so important for the authors of the Isaianic tradition a century or two after the exile, it is not surprising that the Abraham-Lot-Sodom story in Gen 18–19 itself was subject to active editing process approximately the same time. 48F

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D. Discussion on Righteousness and the Righteous at the End of the Persian Period After having dealt with text passages from the book of Isaiah where the key-word “Sodom” and the contrasting of the righteous and the wicked stand so close to one another, we can discuss a further exemplary text which presupposes a close relation to our conversation. Psalm 11 is one of the most prominent texts in the Hebrew Bible concerning the opposite destinies of the righteous and the wicked. 32 In v. 6 it is said that “Upon the 489F

27 Because of Torah, at least the introduction in its present form is late; the whole section 1:10–17 is post-exilic according to Otto Kaiser, Isaiah 1–12 (2d ed; OTL; London: SCM Press, 1983), 28. 28 V. 9 is probably an addition which depends on v. 10; cf. also Ps 94:17. 29 In support of a conjecture from  to º’here, the observation in regard of the use of  (see note 22 above) can be provided. Anyhow, the colon is a gloss, since disturbing a series of bicola in vv. 5–9. Cf. Duhm, Das Buch Jesaja, 27; Hans Wildberger, Jesaja 1–12 (vol. 1 of Jesaja; 2d rev. ed.; BKAT 10; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1980), 19, 30, and Kaiser, Isaiah 1–12, 17. 30 See BHS. 31 Vv. 8–11, perhaps added in two rounds (cf. Kaiser, Isaiah 1–12, 67–74; on vv. 9b– 11 cf. also Duhm, Das Buch Jesaja, 46–7, and Wildberger, Jesaja 1–12, 117, 126–127), interrupt the woe oracle against Jerusalem and Judah in vv. 1–7 and 12–15 where the key-word ‘people’() dominates and the poetry is more balanced. 32 On the psalm and its relation to the so-called redactions of the righteous see Nõmmik, “Die Gerechtigkeitsbearbeitungen in den Psalmen,” 507–508, and on the psalm as a collection of citations together with comments, see Loretz, Psalmstudien: Kolometrie, Strophik und Theologie ausgewählter Psalmen (BZAW 309; Berlin: Walter de

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wicked he [i.e., God] will rain coals of fire and sulphur; // a heavy gale shall be the portion of their cup.” It is impossible to read the expression %  …  2  without remembering Gen 19:24, 33 just as it is impossible to miss the reference in the saying “In Yahweh I take refuge; // how can you say to my soul, // ‘Flee to the mountain, like a bird’” in Ps 11:1 as a free motif play regarding the order of Lot’s guests to flee to the mountain in Gen 19:17. 34 One cannot underestimate the connection between Gen 18–19 and Ps 11 considering that fire and sulphur fall unto the wicked () as described in Gen 19:24 and prefigured in the conversation between Abraham and God. Another connection is found in the ultimate thesis in Ps 11, which reads: “For Yahweh is righteous; // he loves righteous deeds; // the upright 35 shall behold his face.” The final verse of Ps 11 is the answer to the first of Abraham’s crucial questions in Gen 18. Abraham himself is the upright () equal to the #', he is able to stand before Yahweh and speak to him. And so believed those who called themselves #' – they were under God’s protection, in contrast to the numerous wicked people, and they alone were authorized to have a special relationship with God. Such texts as Ps 11 help us understand that the use of the terms for the righteous and the wicked have shifted from the pre-exilic to the post-exilic time. The #' has changed from object to subject, from a legal term “not guilty”, “inappropriate”, i.e., living in harmony with the society, to a theological term “righteous”, i.e., someone whose righteousness is evaluated only by God and who follows the purely religious codex. Gradually the righteous has become the one who is speaking or writing, he is the one, from whose point of view all other parties, especially the  are handled. Such a perspective has formed the Psalmic literature to a considerable extent: cf. e.g., Pss 7:10a; 11; 31:18–19; 32:10–11; 33:1; 34(?); 37*; 52:8–9; 58; 64:11; 68:3–4; 75:5–6, 11; 94; 97:11–12; 109:6–20*; 112; 118:20; 125; 140; 141; 142:7b; 146:9b. 36 Already at the beginning of the Psalter, Ps 1 gives a guideline for how to read the Psalter: as a “prayer490F

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Gruyter, 2002), 115–9. The psalm is late post-exilic according to Klaus Seybold, Die Psalmen (HAT 1; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 60. 33 Direct relation, e.g., according to Oswald Loretz, Psalmstudien: Kolometrie, Strophik und Theologie ausgewählter Psalmen (BZAW 309; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2002), 114. 34 Of course, allusion is possible only if the last corrupt colon in v. 1 can be understood and changed according to Septuagint and BHS; but cf. Loretz, Psalmstudien, 111. 35  should be read in plural, see Loretz, Psalmstudien, 114. 36 Many of the passages listed have been discussed by Levin, “Das Gebetbuch der Gerechten”; Nõmmik, “Die Gerechtigkeitsbearbeitungen in den Psalmen”; Loretz, Psalmstudien, and cf. Marttila, Collective Reinterpretation in the Psalms: A Study of the Redaction History of the Psalter (FAT 2; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 157, 168–169.

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book of the righteous.” 37 These righteous were greatly responsible for editing and passing on Psalmic literature, parts of Wisdom literature, and for influencing Prophetic literature. The righteous were well aware of the Jewish religious tradition, and as the instance in Gen 18:22b–33 demonstrates, their influence reached even the patriarchal stories in their late stage of development. The Abraham-Abimelech episode in Gen 20 in particular, where Abraham is presented as a prophet and intercessor, presupposes an advanced level of discussion on righteousness and sin; cf. especially vv. 4– 7. 38 Even the question of Abimelech in v. 4, if the Lord will destroy innocent people % #' % % 39 due to a sin of one person (and one falsely accused at that), brings Gen 18:22b–33 to mind. The conversation between Abraham and God should be seen chronologically and theologically next to Gen 20 and probably also Gen 22. In the texts handled so far, the nature of the righteous is not discussed. While in Gen 19 Sodom’s inhabitants clearly act wickedly against Lot and his guests, in Gen 18:22b–33 both #' and the  are used as technical terms known to everyone, and hence, without clarification. A short excursus on the book of Job must be delivered here. In it a similar situation occurs: the nature of the righteous and the wicked is discussed remarkably seldom in contrast to the extent of this great poem. 40 Thus, not only the form of dialogue and the designing of chief characters as legendary patriarchs bring Gen 18:22b–33 close to the dialogue of Job, but the way terminology is used as well. Indeed, the original layer of the dialogue of Job differs in that it does not contrast the righteous and the wicked as sharply and formally as Gen 18:22b–33 or the psalms of the righteous; this happens in later layers (cf. Job 22:18–19 where v. 18 is added later, or 36:6–7 in the secondary Elihu speeches). 41 This suggests that the author of the dialogue of Abraham and God knew the dialogue of Job and all the discussion on the righteous and the wicked and, due to the sharp contrasting, he was very close to the circle of the righteous itself. In regard to the date and circumstances of Gen 18:22b–33, everything points to the end of the Persian 49F

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So Levin, “Das Gebetbuch der Gerechten: Literargeschichtliche Beobachtungen am Psalter” in Fortschreibungen: Gesammelte Studien zum Alten Testament (BZAW 316; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2003), 291–313. 38 In addition to our dialogue in Genesis, the term #' is used in relation to humans (not God or justice) in 6:9; 7:1; 20:4; furthermore in the Pentateuch, Exod 23:7; Deut 16:19; 25:1.  in Exod 2:13; 9:27; 23:1, 7; Num 16:26; 35:31; Deut 25:1, 2. 39 See also BHS. 40 On the phenomenon in the speeches of the friends see Nõmmik, Die Freundesreden des ursprünglichen Hiobdialogs, 192–203. 41 See Markus Witte, Vom Leiden zur Lehre: Der dritte Redegang (Hiob 21–27) und die Redaktionsgeschichte des Hiobbuches (BZAW 230; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1994), 215–220; Nõmmik, Die Freundesreden des ursprünglichen Hiobdialogs, 50–51, 167.

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and the beginning of the Hellenistic period. The original layer of the dialogue of Job should not be placed earlier than the fourth century B.C.E., but due to its influence on other Hebrew Bible texts no later than the end of the Persian period. The #' additions and interpretations of the older sacred texts probably began during or immediately after the first draft of the Dialogue of Job was written down. The discussion itself seems to be mostly concentrated on the complicated problem of exceptions in the supposed fortune of the righteous and the doom of the wicked. As discussed in the book of Job (Job’s situation contradicts the principle of retribution), in Psalms like Ps 73 (the fortune of the wicked is only temporary), or in Ezek 14:12–20 (cf. only Noah, Job and Daniel are saved through their own righteousness) and Ezek 18 (one’s offspring does not share one’s destiny but is responsible for its own destiny), 42 it was sometimes hard to explain the fortune of the wicked or the doom of the righteous. In some time in the Hellenistic period this discussion seems to level out due to a shift in argumentation: if one does what is just and righteous, then one stays under godly protection. Critical questions about one’s destiny recede, and new aspects are discussed, as in the Wisdom of Solomon where personified Wisdom saves the righteous from a destruction like the one of Sodom (Wis 10:6–9), or as in the Qumran literature where predestination becomes part of the certainty of one’s own righteousness. Finally, it is characteristic to most of the texts affected by the righteous that they discuss only the theoretical possibility of inappropriate fate, while practically the outcome is always in accordance with the positive program. It happens in an exemplary way in our conversation between Abraham and God; the wicked will get their part and the righteous will be saved. The discussion on the righteous and the wicked and its literary footprint attest a longer process, having their more partial and more influential episodes. Considerable shaping of Psalms and Wisdom literature together with some influence on Pentateuch and other scripts could be explained through proximity of the righteous to the temple in Jerusalem, as passages such as Pss 11:4–5 and 92:13–16 themselves suggest. Midrash-like rereadings of long known texts like Gen 12 and 26, as the one appearing in Gen 20 could find their way into the canon of most significant scripts. In addition to Gen 20, Gen 18:22b–33 or its original wider form has also been a text reflected on and passed on for longer than and separately from “canonical” Genesis. 43 Only after being acknowledged (i.e., remembered) by 49F

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42 Schöpflin, “Abrahams Unterredung mit Gott,” 110, is right in maintaining that the conversation in Gen 18 presupposes Ezek 14 and 18. 43 Ben Zvi, “The Dialogue Between Abraham and Yhwh,” 30, n. 1, is right in stating that vv. 23–32 could not have existed separately (cf. also Wellhausen, Die Composition

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the majority of scribes as a traditional text, as something that was not only worth of remembering but worth of being contextualized in the Abraham stories, could the passage be added to the scripts. The authority of such texts grows with time; the longer they are remembered and the more important the chief actor, especially Abraham, with whom one could identify oneself as the righteous, the more significant those texts become.

E. Some Remarks from the History of Religion Perspective The conversation between Abraham and God saves two important theological principles. First, the righteousness of God is emphasized, since in the wicked city there are not even ten righteous and only Lot and his family are to be rescued. Second, the conviction that God destroys only the wicked and not the righteous is maintained. But above all Gen 18:22b–33 serves as a text meant to strengthen the faith of the righteous against the wicked. In addition, at the end of this article, two aspects of the history of religion in the province of Judea which are reflected implicitly in Gen 18:22b–33 can be sketched. As shown above, God’s justice and the fate of the righteous should be understood through the lens of the righteous authors of the text. Since the number of the righteous persons is discussed, one can not overlook the paradox of collectivized individualization. 44 Also, in the pre-exilic proverbs the fate of an individual was explained but it was mostly aimed at a member of the royal court and it was not opposed to the fate of the nation. In the post-monarchic era several destinies are discussed at once – the fate of an individual, of a nation, of the congregation of the pious, etc. On the one hand, the destinies of the righteous individuals were handled separatedes Hexateuchs, 26, and Gunkel, Genesis, 203), but the possibility that the dialogue is adopted in chapter 18 without beginning and ending cannot be excluded. Furthermore, principally, it is not excluded that the conversation is added to Gen 18 in two rounds like maintained by Levin, “Gerechtigkeit Gottes”, 42 (first vv. 23–24a, 25a, 26, and then vv. 24b, 25b, 27–32), but I would rather hold vv. 24b and 25b for smaller extrapolations, six (original) rounds of questions and answers still aimed at a smaller, somehow critical number (cf. Schmidt, “De Deo”, 155) of the righteous, and above all, the self-assuredness of the righteous dominating the theoretical question of God’s righteousness. 44 The appraisals of the dialogue in Gen 18 have been accordingly different, cf. Gillischewski, “Zur Literarkritik von Gen 18 und 19,” 78: “Jene Durchbrechung des Solidaritätsprinzipes aber zugunsten einer Minorität verrät eine individualisierende Tendenz, und zwar hier in bezug auf die Gottbezogenheit des Menschen, wie sie erst die Wirksamkeit der Propheten und die Frömmigkeitsübung der Deuteronomisten zuwege gebracht haben”, and in contrast, Kilian, Die vorpriesterlichen Abrahamsüberlieferungen, 109, who holds the individualization not existing here since the righteousness of God is discussed.

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ly from the wicked individuals who were “pagans” or members of Israel, or sometimes both. On the other hand, a collective of the righteous was also seen as an entity. 45 This was the true congregation of God which should have had a destiny differing from the fate of the larger group of the wicked. Furthermore, like the people of God, Israel, were the light for the world in eschatological understandings, the group of the righteous individuals was the light for the surrounding society. Against this background the question of an influence of the righteous on the destiny of the whole society could be raised. 46 The value of a righteous person or of a group of the righteous could compensate for the wickedness of hundreds of people. It is a further attestation that the righteous having a personal relationship to God have understood themselves as the special “us.” 47 As seen in our dialogue, in the time of the patriarchs, there were only few exemplary individuals not yet constituting a group but grounding the identity for the group in the Second Temple era. 48 A question connected to it is the problem of God as a personal God as well as a universal God. Already in earlier times and in the literature of the ancient Near East, discrepancy between a personal god as a tutelary god and some higher god, e.g., the god of Justice Shamash, has been acute. For several Psalms and the original dialogue of Job in the post-monarchic time, the problem became rather severe, since Yahweh was a personal deity for every individual and at the same time God and Judge of all the earth. Everyone could hope on Yahweh to arrange their individual destinies according to each one’s pious deeds. In the case of an inappropriate fate (like Job’s) the judge to whom to appeal to was the only God Yahweh as well. But the problem becomes more crucial when considering the growing distance to the universal God “in the heavens,” the God who created the world and should therefore be responsible for everything happening in it, yet who is too far for an individual among hundreds of thousands of people. In the Persian period, a kind of communication revolution happened: never before had infrastructural connections between various parts of the empire functioned so well and never before had information moved so fast. 49 The widening horizon meant that the mythical world stepped back. 45

Cf. Marko Marttila, Collective Reinterpretation in the Psalms: A Study of the Redaction History of the Psalter (FAT II/13. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 205–217. 46 Cf. Westermann, Genesis 12–36, 293, and Schöpflin, “Abrahams Unterredung mit Gott,” 99: “Insofern könnte Gen 18 eine Modifikation oder Korrektur von Ez 14 anstreben.” 47 Cf. Soggin, “Abraham hadert mit Gott,” 217, and Soggin, Das Buch Genesis, 279. 48 Cf. especially Ben Zvi, “The Dialogue Between Abraham and Yhwh,” 40. 49 Cf. the description of communication and trade in the Persian Empire by Pierre Briant, From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire (trans. Peter T. Daniels. Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2002), 357–387.

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God was far away, losing oversight and letting the wicked prosper. For the first authors of the book of Job, there was a contradiction, 50 but for the authors of the dialogue between Abraham and God in Gen 18:22b–33, the problem was solved, since the personal God is as just as the universal God, and the righteous can always hope on the universal God. This is exactly the point worth remembering from the time of the patriarchs and this is something to be brought to mind wherever there are the righteous readers or hearers of those texts.

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The Way Forward is Back to the Beginning: Reflections on the Priestly Texts 1 MICHAEL HUNDLEY Remembering and forgetting form an inherent part of recounting any event, whether the event is fact or fiction, and whether its recounting is oral or written. With their selective exposition of Israelite beginnings, the Priestly writers are no exception to this trend. The following chapter explores the possible rhetorical strategies behind the Priestly writers’ “selective memory.” After a sketch of the complexities of textualizing an event, evidence will be garnered from the Ancient Near Eastern (ANE) world and then applied to the Priestly texts in order to examine the Priestly methods and purposes of persuasion.

A. Textualizing an Event Every storyteller, whether a historian or comedian, shapes his story into a narrative by “remembering” those elements that serve his rhetorical purposes and “forgetting” others which do not. In textualizing an event, one cannot simply record the facts. Even if it were possible to amass all the data, including that which seems irrelevant, it would be too much to document, and such a record would be boring and incomprehensible. Rather, a storyteller must synthesize and summarize, collecting and expressing the material in a comprehensible manner, often as a narrative. In the process one necessarily remembers some material while dismissing other information, all for the purpose of recording history, that is, interpreting events through a particular socio-cultural lens for rhetorical purposes. Thus, whether fact or fiction, any narrative is a collection of the author’s con-

1 Thanks are especially due to the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation for giving me the time and resources to research in Munich, to Christoph Levin and Ehud Ben Zvi for inviting me to participate in the conference, and to all of the participants for a stimulating and helpful discussion.

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scious and unconscious choice to include or dismiss details, to selectively remember or forget. The forming of a text or story then cannot simply be equated with reality. In fact, merely by putting the details of an event into words, one leaves the realm of real events, using approximate descriptors – i.e., words – that can only partially represent the real events being described. Indeed, any specific action or event in itself arises from a nearly infinite array of possibilities, especially in complex situations such as the onset or conclusion of war. When attempting to describe such situations, the data must be put into some coherent framework, which involves both remembering what is relevant and forgetting the rest, picking one among many interpretive strands that runs through “history.” With so many options, one can find “evidence” for most any theory, such that contradictory claims could have their basis in “facts.” As remarked by Frederick William Maitland, the great historian of English law, “The essential matter of history is not what happened but what people thought or said about it.” 2

B. Preoccupation with the Past in the Ancient Near East The present analysis begins with the peculiar preoccupation with the past in the ANE, with special reference to Mesopotamia and Egypt, and their rhetorical appropriations of it. 1. Preoccupation with Creation and the Idealized Past in Mesopotamia In Mesopotamia, creation was often viewed as the ideal, as the time when the gods ordered the world and established their terrestrial temples, a time lost to subsequent generations. 3 From the Mesopotamian perspective, it 2 Paul-Alain Beaulieu, “The Abduction of Ištar from the Inanna Temple: The Changing Memories of an Event,” in Historiography in the Cuneiform World (ed. T. Abusch, et al.; Proceedings of the XLV Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale; Bethesda, Md.: CDL, 2001), 29. 3 This is especially true in Mesopotamia mythology (Karel van der Toorn, “The Iconic Book: Analogies between the Babylonian Cult of Images and the Veneration of the Torah,” in The Image and the Book: Iconic Cults, Aniconism, and the Rise of Book Religion in Israel and the Ancient Near East [ed. K. van der Toorn; Leuven: Peeters, 1997], 238). This of course is not to speak of a monolithic Mesopotamian concept, one which was shared by all “Mesopotamians” at all times. Rather, the Mesopotamian preoccupation with the past, especially with the distant past, was a prominent viewpoint that can be backed by multiple strands of evidence, some of which will be enumerated below. The most prominent counterexamples come from the Neo-Assyrian kings, who, with their imperialistic tendencies, generally sought to make everything bigger and better than their predecessors, often including the temples. However, such aggrandizements did not as

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seemed nothing essential had been added since that time, including all of the cultural achievements inherited by the modern west. Because this idyllic beginning was out of reach, one might only hope to preserve it as much as possible. 4 Thus, rather than placing value on innovation, Mesopotamians generally sought to preserve the idealized old ways, to move forward by moving backward to the beginning. The language used for the past and the future are particularly striking in this regard. 5 In Akkadian, 3, 3; 3(m); 3; 3F(m) (all terms for the past meaning “earlier”), and 3 ; 3 (m), 3 (meaning “former times, past”) are related to the term for “front” (3), or “face” (3 [plural]). Likewise, G , G , G  (all terms for the future in the sense of “later, afterward”), (w) F(m) (in the sense of “future” [adj.]), and (w)  (m) (in the sense of “something later, later days, future”) are all related to the word (w)  (m), meaning “reverse (side), behind.” 6 Thus, whereas from a modern perspective we face the future and put the past behind us, it seems from linguistic evidence that Mesopotamians adopted the opposite perspective: the individual faced the past, while the future lay behind him. In other words, ancient Mesopotamians conceptually walked backward into the future. 7 easily extend to the cult, where keeping the god happy according to the ancient pattern that had always worked remained prominent. Regarding the Mesopotamian view of the past, see further Blahoslav Hruschka, “Das Verhältnis zur Vergangenheit im alten Mesopotamien,” ArOr 47 (1979): 4–14; Claus Wilcke, “Zum Geschichtsbewusstsein im Alten Mesopotamien,” in Archäologie und Geschichtsbewusstsein (ed. H. Müller-Karpe; Munich: Beck, 1982), 31–52; Dietz Otto Edzard, “La vision du passé et de l’avenir en Mésopotamie: Période paléobabylonienne,” in Histoire et Conscience dans les Civilizations du Proche-Orient ancien: Actes du Colloque de Cartigny 1986 (ed. A. de Pury; Les Cahiers du CEPOA 5; Leuven: Peeters, 1989), 157–166; Beaulieu, “Antiquarianism and the Concern for the Past in the Neo-Babylonian Period,” BCSMS 28 (1994): 37–42. 4 Van der Toorn, “Book,” 238. Although one could not simply return to the idyllic past, one might access it and its derivative benefits through the cult. The gods who were present at and indeed the powers behind creation were the only remaining soluble link. Thus, the divine presence in the temple and the human interaction with that presence were the primary means of keeping the connection alive. 5 Stefan M. Maul, “Walking Backward into the Future: The Conception of Time in the Ancient Near East,” in Given World and Time: Temporalities in Context (ed. T. Miller; Budapest: CEU, 2008), 15; cf. Dominik Bonatz, “Die Macht der Erinnerung: Ein Beitrag zur zeitgenössischen Rezeption altorientalischer Bildwerke,” in Bild – Macht – Geschichte: Visuelle Kommunikation im Alten Orient (ed. M. Heinz and D. Donatz; Berlin: Reimer, 2002), 202. 6 The equivalent Sumerian terms (H ;  H;  ) similarly had the original meanings “behind” and “reverse (side)” (Maul, “Walking,” 15). 7 Maul, “Walking.” This linguistic phenomenon may not be as uncommon as it first appears. In Hebrew, the root  refers to the past and front or face, while the root  refers to the future and behind. Even in English, “before” refers to the past and to a per-

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This interesting linguistic phenomenon finds expression in several other ways in Mesopotamian culture. This viewpoint is especially prevalent in the cultic realm, with special reference to temples and divine cult images. Because they were built of mud-brick, a more perishable substance than the stone of ancient Egypt, Mesopotamian temples were often in need of renovation, so much so that rebuilding rituals are more commonly preserved than rituals for the initial building process. 8 In the course of the renovation process, rather than updating or expanding upon the previous model, builders often sought to rebuild the temples according to the exact original specifications, “not deviating even a finger’s width” (  [ana]  a/ê [u]   ) from the original, ideal prototype. 9 This was especially important since the gods were credited with constructing the original temples that served as the prototypes for all future temples. 10 The people believed son’s standing in front of and facing another person, while “after” refers to both the future and something that is behind an individual. In English, however, there is more variability, such that “ahead” conversely refers both to the direction an individual faces and to the future. This shared phenomenon may stem from the fact that the past is what an individual can see, while the future refers to what he cannot yet see. Despite the commonality across cultures, the peculiar focus on the past in Mesopotamia will emerge more clearly in the following examples. 8 Claus Ambos, “Building Rituals from the First Millennium BC: The Evidence from the Ritual Texts,” in From the Foundations to the Crenellations (ed. M. Boda and J. Novotny; AOAT 366; Münuster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2009), 224, with reference to the first millennium. 9 When a new temple was constructed or an ancient model altered, the kings often were careful to indicate that their innovations were made at the divine behest. For example, “when Tukulti-Ninurta I rebuilt temple of Ishtar in Assur according to completely different ground plan, he stressed that the goddess had asked him for this new temple” (Ambos, “Rituals,” 225; RIMA 1 pp. 255–6 A.0.78.11:82–4). The phrase “not deviating even a finger’s width” concerning the exactness of temple restoration became especially prominent in the reign of Nabonidus (Hanspeter Schaudig, Die Inschriften Nabonids von Babylon und Kyros’ des Grossen samt den in ihrem Umfeld enstandenen Tendenzschriften: Textausgabe und Grammatik (AOAT 256; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2001), 688 s.v. ; Schaudig, “The Restoration of Temples in the Neo- and Late-Babylonian Periods: A Royal Prerogative as the Setting for Political Argument,” in Foundations, 149–150). 10 Jan J. A. van Dijk, “Inanna raubt den ‘grossen Himmel’: Ein Mythos,” in Eine Festschrift für Rykle Borger zu seinem 65. Geburtstag am 24. Mai 1994: C 3 J   Mala Bašmu (ed. Stefan M. Maul; Cuneiform Monographs 10; Groningen: Styx, 1998), 9– 38; Ambos, “Rituals,” 223–224. In fact, many Mesopotamian temples were explicitly connected with the moment of creation, and included a pedestal lined with bricks (Sumerian DUKU, “pure” or “sacred hill”) that served as the sacred mound upon which creation emerged from the primeval waters (Maul, “Die altorientalische Hauptstadt: Abbild und Nabel der Welt,” in Die Orientalische Stadt: Kontinuität, Wandel, Bruch. 1. Internationales Colloquium der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft, 9.–10. Mai 1996 in Halle/ Saale [ed. G. Wilhelm, CDOG 1; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1997], 116; see also Edzard,

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that deviating from this divine prototype in turn often invited divine disfavor. Indeed, it was not uncommon to attribute the collapse of a temple to the deity’s dissatisfaction with renovations. 11 To ensure accuracy, kings searched the foundations of the dilapidated temple for evidence of the former structure in such forms as inscriptions and clay tablets, in a manner akin to modern archaeological excavations. 12 The same conservatism was true of divine images. As Tallay Ornan notes, The characteristics of art valued by modern onlookers, such as change, innovation, expressiveness and creativity, were probably not appreciated by the ancient beholders. On the contrary, an artisan who would fashion the god’s image or even his accessories in a new form or shape, unknown to previous renderings, would be considered as having committed a cultic offense – not unlike a scribe making a sudden, unexplained alteration in the words of a prayer. 13

In other words, any deviation from the original was considered a distortion. Instead, each new image had to be a “renewal” (  ) of the original. 14 Any alteration or improvement, even one for the better, was rarely allowed. For example, there is a story in which Nabonidus sought to make a larger and more elaborate crown for the statue of the sun-god, Shamash. However, the people would not accept it, arguing that the crown had to be “exactly like the old one” (   ) 15; if it were changed, the statue would no longer be Shamash. This beholdenness to the prototype proved especially problematic when the divine image was captured or destroyed. When an enemy plundered a “Deep-Rooted Skyscrapers and Bricks: Ancient Mesopotamian Architecture and its Imagery,” in Figurative Language in the Ancient Near East (ed. M. Mindlin, et al.; London: School of Oriental and African Studies, 1987), 13–24. 11 Ambos, “Rituals,” 224–226. 12 Maul, “Walking,” 18–19. Another prominent method of ensuring continuity with the original attested in first millennium ritual texts was the use of the first brick ( 

 ma  ), which was removed from a damaged temple, was associated with the original temple built by the gods, and figured prominently in the rebuilding of the temple (Ambos, “Rituals,” 227–228). 13 Tallay Ornan, The Triumph of the Symbol: Pictoral Representation of Deities in Mesopotamia and the Biblical Image Ban (OBO 213; Fribourg: Academic Press, 2005), 9. 14 Van der Toorn, “Book,” 236. 15 Stephen Langdon, Die neubabylonischen Königsinschriften (VAB 4; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1912), 264 I 41-ii 1; van der Toorn, “Book,” 238. We should, however, handle this Nabonidus example with care, since it may be a polemic against him, i.e., his inability to make the crown the right size stresses his incompetence. However, such a polemic is nonetheless suggestive, since a change in the size of the cult statue or its paraphernalia (in this case making it bigger rather than smaller) demonstrated his incompetence. In other words, he tried to do something that simply was not done, at least in an official capacity.

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statue, one could not simply make a new one without having an exact model of the original and divine approval to form it. For example, on the well-known Sippar tablet of Nabû-apla-iddina, the Babylonian king indicated that his predecessors could not replace Shamash’s cult statue after its capture because they had no appropriate model and Shamash did not reveal his face to them (  ). 16 Instead, they constructed a sun disc as a cultic stand-in, which was presented as inferior to the anthropomorphic prototype. 17 During Nabû-apla-iddina’s reign, however, Shamash was said to have revealed a clay model of the divine image with its insignia, giving Nabû-apla-iddina a model and divine license to make a renewed divine statue – that is, to fashion a new one. 18 However, the Mesopotamian preoccupation with the past does not mean that their culture was impervious to change. Rather, in order to be acceptable, change was often presented as a return to the glorious past, a renewal of what had been lost, and/or made at the divine behest. For example, a change in the form of the divine image had to be presented as a renewal of the original divine image, forged, it would seem, at the beginning of time. Although the form of a divine image likely did not remain static, it was essential that the divine image always be presented officially as unchanging – the same as the original, divinely-authorized prototype – in order for it to be palatable. 19 In the case mentioned above of the discovery of a clay model of Shamash, it seems unlikely, though not impossible, that a priest conveniently found the image of the original. Perhaps more likely, Nabûapla-iddina simply wanted to replace the sun disc in the sanctuary with an anthropomorphic model and justified the innovation by labeling it a divinely sanctioned return to the ideal, original state. He further suggested that only with the reinstitution of the anthropomorphic Shamash statue was Shamash really present. 16

Leonard W. King, Babylonian Boundary Stones and Memorial Tablets in the British Museum (London: Trustees of the British Museum, 1912), no. 36 i 8–17. 17 There is some debate over whether Nabonidus’ preference for an anthropomorphic image was the norm or a rhetorically driven anomaly, whether Mesopotamians generally viewed anthropomorphic cult images as superior to non-anthropomorphic cult images (for an argument in favor of the supremacy of the anthropomorphic image, see Ornan, Triumph; Ornan, “In the Likeness of Man: Reflections on the Anthropocentric Perception of the Divine in Mesopotamian Art,” in What is a God? Anthropomorphic and NonAnthropomorphic Aspects of Deity in Ancient Mesopotamia, [ed. B. N. Porter; Transactions of the Casco Bay Archaeological Institute 2; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2009], 93–151). 18 King, Stones, no. 36; Christopher Walker and Michael B. Dick, “The Induction of the Cult Image in Ancient Mesopotamia: The Mesopotamian   Ritual,” in Born in Heaven, Made on Earth: The Making of the Cult Image in the Ancient Near East (ed. M. B. Dick; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1999), 58–63. 19 Van der Toorn, “Book,” 238.

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In fact, the preoccupation with the past was so strong that the king’s god-given role consisted of “preserving, defending and renewing the world as [it] had been ordered in the act of creation. Thus reforms in Mesopotamia were fundamentally seen as restoration of this order, which had flagged over time.” 20 In fact, the Mesopotamians’ numerous cultural achievements were rarely described as progress. Instead, they were cast as restorations of the created order, since utopia lay in the past, not in the future. 21 2. Preoccupation with Creation and the Idealized Past in Egypt Though perhaps not to the same extent as in Mesopotamia, Egypt too displays a preoccupation with creation and, more particularly, the establishment of the ordered cosmos. Rather than having established order once and for all at creation, the world was characterized by the cyclical 22 push and pull between maat and isfet, roughly understood to be order and chaos. 23 This finds particular expression in the daily journey of the sun-god through the sky from east to west during the daylight hours and from west to east through the underworld at night, where he must overcome chaotic forces arrayed against him, one of the most prominent being the serpent Apep (Apophis). 24 The sun’s failure to rise or the cessation of other ordered rhythms would signal a “virtual apocalypse,” a dissolution of the ordered world. 25 In a world with an ever-present, real danger of system failure, every sunrise was an event to be greeted with rejoicing. 26 Rather than helplessly watching the endless cosmic spiral, humans had a role to play. In order to explain the condition of the earth, Egyptian mythology asserts that, although human and divine originally dwelt together, evil in creation (attributed to human rebellion or Seth) brought about separation. 27 However, this separation was mitigated by divine presence and supervision in the form of the royal ka-spirit, most commonly associated 20

Maul, “Walking,” 20. Maul, “Walking,” 20–21. 22 Cyclical time, neheh, is associated with “the never-ending recurrence of the same,” while non-cyclical time, djet, refers to a suspension of time (Jan Assmann, The Mind of Egypt: History and Meaning in the Time of the Pharaohs [Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2003], 18; Assmann, The Search for God in Ancient Egypt [Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2001], 74–75). 23 See, e.g., Assmann, Search, 3–5; cf. Michael V. Fox, “World Order and Ma’at: A Crooked Parallel,” JNES 23 (1995): 37–48, for qualifications on the use of maat as order. 24 Vincent A. Tobin, “Myths,” in The Ancient Gods Speak: A Guide to Egyptian Religion (ed. D. Redford; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 242–243, 245. 25 Assmann, Search, 69. 26 Assmann, Search, 69. 27 Dimitri Meeks, The Daily Life of the Egyptian Gods (London: Pimlico, 1999), 120; Assmann, Search, 6, 17–19, 113–116. 21

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with Horus. 28 Humans, and especially the pharaoh, participated in the cosmic struggle by upholding maat, i.e., truth and justice, in the terrestrial realm 29 and by presenting the gods with offerings in the temple. The offerings were in some way related to maat and the Eye of Horus, both representing what is “sound and perfect.” 30 The ultimate purpose of the king and the people was to aid the gods in preserving the ordered world so that the ordered cycles – like the annual flooding of the Nile that brings life – may continue unhindered. Embroiled in the constant and predictable struggle to preserve the ordered universe, there was little room for innovation or deviation from the established pattern, i.e., for progress. Rather, as in Mesopotamia, people existed to follow the patterns established at creation and, in the case of the king, at the separation of the gods from humanity. 31 In other words, in such a cyclical world, the solution was not something new and better, but what had worked before, patterned on the divine prototype at creation. 32 To the ancient Egyptian, the way forward was to look backward, to restore the “original plenitude of meaning.” 33 As was the case in Mesopotamia, Egyptians were not impervious to change, yet they too sanctioned “any actual change by stating that continuity was being preserved or an older, and therefore better item or way of doing things was being restored.” 34 3. Royal Apologetic Autobiographies Thus far, we have amassed evidence indicating a prominent orientation backward in Mesopotamia and Egypt, with a particular focus on the pat28 Lanny Bell, “Luxor Temple and the Cult of the Royal Ka,” JNES 44 (1985): 251– 294; Bell “The New Kingdom ‘Divine’ Temple: The Example of Luxor,” in Temples of Ancient Egypt (ed. B. Shafer; London: Tauris, 1998), 137–144. 29 In more imperial times, the king might also extend order by conquering foreign lands and by extending the temple complex further out into the mundane world. 30 Gertie Englund, “Offerings,” in Gods Speak, 279–280; see, e.g., S. Quirke, Ancient Egyptian Religion (NY: Dover, 1992), chapter 3, entitled “Preserving the Universe: Kingship and Cult.” 31 As in Mesopotamia, the temple itself harkened back to creation, mimicking the initial emergence of creation from the primordial swamp, the initial victory of order over chaos, and the rituals conducted therein were intended to maintain or cyclically attain this original order. 32 The act of creation represented the initial establishment of maat and the pattern for future cycles of time (Byron Shafer “Temples, Priests, and Rituals: An Overview” in Temples, 2–4). 33 Assmann, Search, 3–5. 34 Sheldon Lee Gosline, review of Assmann, Mind, Bryn Mawr Classical Review; Online: http://bmcr.brynmawr.edu/2004/2004-06-51.html.

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terns set at creation. ANE royal apologetic autobiographies, which defended a king’s rule when his assumption of the throne was less than straightforward, form another category that similarly and creatively appeals to the past. 35 When a king usurped the throne, either by replacing an existing royal line or circumventing the succession order, he naturally sought to justify his rule. This was done in three primary ways. First, as in the Hittite apologies of Telepinu and Hattušili III, the usurper suggested that by assuming control he was simply restoring the kingdom to its glorious past from which his predecessors had deviated. 36 As in the cult, he casted his innovation – in this case, his usurpation – as a necessary change in response to his predecessor(s), who had abandoned the traditional, successful ways established in the distant past. Second, as with Mesopotamian cultic innovations, the king appealed to divine approval. For example, likely because he circumvented primogeniture, Esarhaddon of Assyria referred to his divine election from his youth instead of referring to the stereotypical royal lineage in his apology. 37 Esarhaddon called himself “the true shepherd, favorite of the great gods, whom Aššur, Šamaš, Bel and Nabû, Ištar of Nineveh (and) Ištar of Arbela have pronounced king of Assyria since he was a youth.” 38 His claim was further supported by a divine oracle, given to his father by Šamaš and Adad, which approved of him as the appropriate successor. 39 Third, kings associated themselves with their heroic forebears – in Mesopotamia especially the old Akkadian kings, Sargon and Naram-Sin, who remained the primary paragons of kingship for the next 1500 years. 40 The king could connect his actions with theirs, making himself as much a hero as they are and thus capable of bringing equally good fortune to the land. Even when they did not explicitly mention a connection to their heroic 35

See, e.g., Hayim Tadmor, “Autobiographical Apology in the Royal Assyrian Literature,” in History, Historiography and Interpretation (ed. H. Tadmor and M. Weinfeld; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1983), 36–57. 36 See, e.g., Harry A. Hoffner, “Propaganda and Political Justification,” in Unity and Diversity: Essays in History, Literature, and Religion of the Ancient Near East (ed. H. Goedicke and J. J. M. Roberts; Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1975), 51–53; Tomoo Ishida, “The Succession Narrative and Esarhaddon’s Apology: A Comparison,” in Ah Assyria …: Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor (ed. M. Cogan and I. Eph’al; Scripta Hierosolymitana 33; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1991), 166–167. 37 Nin A i 5–7; Ishida, “Succession,” 167. 38 Nin A i 4–7; Ishida, “Succession,” 169. 39 Nin A i 13–14; Ishida, “Succession,” 169. 40 Timothy Potts, “Reading the Sargonic ‘Historical-Literary’ Tradition: Is there a Middle Course?” in Historiography, 391; Anna Maria G. Capomacchia, “Heroic Dimension and Historical Perspective in the Ancient Near East,” in Historiography, 91–97.

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predecessors, kings often associated themselves with the ancient heroic pattern. For example, although they did not emphasize their connection to their ancient predecessors, the letters of the Mitannian King Tashratta (especially EA 17) and the inscription of Idrimi of Alalakh appealed to their own fairytale-like heroic behavior, esteemed by their aristocratic audience and understood to continue the pattern of the heroes of yore. 41 Such autobiographical apologies thus “remembered” these three important elements, while “forgetting” or marginalizing others that painted the king in a less positive light, such as his coup d’état. 42 In the case of Idrimi, his inscription presented his heroic behavior in such a way that it served as a “justification for Idrimi’s rule over a city with which he had no previous connections, and was manufactured in order to make the king look especially qualified for the task.” 43 In addition, in situations where the current monarch was weak, he often stressed his connection to his more successful predecessors. For example, Egyptian pharaohs in post-New Kingdom times were careful to attach themselves to tradition and their more powerful forebears in order to strengthen their positions. 44

C. Modern Analogues, Purpose and Plausibility From the evidence presented, especially in the cultic realm and in Egyptian ethics, there seems to be a strong emphasis placed on remembering the past, particularly the past associated with the created order. Thus, associating with the past, appealing to divine support, and aligning with heroic forebears are particularly powerful rhetorical strategies to bolster one’s legitimacy and/or to introduce change. Even in the modern West, where newer is almost always perceived to be better, tradition is far from impotent. For example, many Americans revere the Founding Fathers and presidents like Abraham Lincoln who served in times of significant change. There is a tendency to idealize and take pride in these epochs and to view them as a time of creation, new beginnings, and monumental change. By connecting oneself to this “golden era,” a person immediately strengthens his position by suggesting that he is carrying 41 Mario Liverani, “Mesopotamian Historiography and the Amarna Letters,” in Historiography, 303–311; Liverani, “Leaving by Chariot for the Desert,” in Myth and Politics in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography (ed. Zainab Bahrani and Marc Van De Mieroop; Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell, 2004), 85–96. 42 This need not suggest that every autobiography used all three elements, only that they were especially prominent means of self-justification. Idrimi, e.g., appealed primarily to the heroic pattern at the expense of his connection with the past. 43 Liverani, “Leaving,” 85. 44 Assmann, Mind, 20.

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on the work of his heroic forebears and intimating that he himself is capable of enacting similar meaningful change in the world. People thus may idealize the past, remembering it in the best light, and forgetting or forgiving its less salutary aspects. People are also selective in which aspect(s) of the past they wish to stress, usually appealing to the one that best suits their present agenda, e.g., America’s Christian roots or its emphasis on individual rights. In appropriating the aspect of the past that serves their present, they also are selective in their appropriation. For example, while there are certainly clear examples of Christianity among the Founding Fathers, there is simultaneously evidence for different beliefs and expressions. Thus, in focusing on Christianity, some people choose to remember the Founding Fathers as devout Christians and to call for a return to this idealized past which has been “forgotten,” while (unconsciously) forgetting the diversity of expressions that in some way mirror modern American society. Another important point follows from this observation, namely that the past is most often recounted for present purposes. This was especially the case in the ANE world. 45 One did not often simply remember the past for its own sake; rather, one remembered it so that it could be applied profitably to the present. 46 In the past-focused ANE perspective, one associated oneself with the past or an aspect of it in order to strengthen one’s position – especially when deviating from a perceived norm – by establishing either a new pattern of leadership or a cultic innovation. Before moving on to the Priestly texts, we must first address the question of plausibility. To be believed (or at least considered for acceptance) a story must be credible. Regardless of whether or not it faithfully recounts past events, whether it is based on past events, or whether it is simply pure imagination, a story must be realistic and compelling enough to convince an audience that it is plausible. 47 Indeed, a story must be compelling enough to be worth remembering; it must be able to convince its audience that it has something important to contribute. Luckily for the purveyor of the past, there is a certain suspension of disbelief when referring to the ancient – even mythological – past. There is a willingness to accept things that are no longer possible, elements that seem more appropriate in the realm of the fairytale. 45

Bonatz, “Macht,” 202; Assmann, Search, 112–113. On different ways of presenting the past for present purposes, see, e.g., Beaulieu, “Abduction,” 29–40. 47 Joan G. Westenholz, Legends of the Kings of Akkade: The Texts (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 1997); Potts, “Reading,” 393. To be plausible, it must fit with the prevailing ideology; it must be consonant enough with the way people think about themselves and their past to convince them to incorporate it into their history. 46

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D. Remembering and Forgetting in the Priestly Texts 48 With both the ancient background and modern foreground in mind, we stand better equipped to address remembering and forgetting in the Priestly texts. Rather than addressing when and for whom they were composed, the present inquiry will examine the persuasive purposes of the Priestly texts and their promotion in the Persian period. 49 This strategy is particularly appropriate because the Priestly texts purposely distance themselves from the present, 50 rendering the Priestly narrative both time-bound and timeless. 51 The Priestly story begins at creation, focuses its retelling of history on the founding of Israel (especially its cult) and ends before the Israelites’ arrival in the promised land. 52 Thus, it chooses to bind itself to the foundational period of ancient Israel. However, unlike the ANE apologies and the majority of its cultic material, there is no reference to the present, that is, no explicit indication of when, by whom, or for whom the texts were composed. Despite – or perhaps because of – the lack of reference to any present context, there is substantial evidence that the content of the Priestly material is understood to be timelessly relevant, a   for the people of Israel. 53 Indeed, it is likely 57F

58F

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48 When speaking of the Priestly texts (P), I leave aside the debated P-like texts in Numbers and the Holiness Legislation (H) (including its potential expansion outside of Leviticus 17–26) and refer rather to P as classically understood in Genesis to Leviticus 16 (see, e.g., Martin Noth, The Chronicler’s History [trans. H. G. M. Williamson; JSOTSup 50; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987], 107–147). 49 James W. Watts (Ritual and Rhetoric in Leviticus: From Sacrifice to Scripture [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007]) notes that rhetorical analysis can “investigate every subsequent interpretation and interpretive community for which we have evidence to discover how this text … was/is used to convey a persuasive message from human and/or divine speaker to particular audiences” (153) and “that it makes little rhetorical difference when it was composed between the eighth and fifth centuries” (154). 50 Cf. Byran D. Bibb, Ritual Words and Narrative Worlds in the Book of Leviticus (LHBOTS 480; New York: Clark, 2009), 18. 51 Cf. Bibb, Ritual Words, 57: “The text creates the distance between the past and the present with its narrative style and bridges that gap with specific techniques to show the timelessness of the narrative moment as well as the continuity of the present with that glorified past.” For the underlying ritual theory, see Catherine Bell, Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 145–150. 52 There remains significant debate about the end of the Priestly account. For a summary of approaches and an argument for Leviticus 16, see Christophe Nihan, From Priestly Torah to Pentateuch: A Study in the Composition of the Book of Leviticus (FAT II/25; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007). 53 See further, Michael Hundley, Keeping Heaven on Earth: Safeguarding the Divine Presence in the Priestly Tabernacle (FAT II/50; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011).

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that disguising the compositional history of the text serves to enhance its status. 54 As in the ANE examples, the Priestly account chooses to remember certain elements while omitting or marginalizing others. First, the Priestly texts focus on and are set within the idealized ancient past. 55 Of all the historical or unhistorical possibilities, this is the time period the Priestly writers choose to remember in their account. Second, the Priestly texts are replete with divine approval. In the world of the Priestly texts, the legislation at Mt. Sinai, itself a location of some cultural significance, is at the divine behest. Clearly, it must be of some importance to the deity since he spends so much time talking about it. Third, the Priestly texts associate themselves with the heroes of the past (most notably Moses, perhaps the most venerated figure in Israelite tradition). Thus, the legislation that forms the bulk and stands at the heart of the Priestly narratives is delivered at the founding moment of Israel, at its most hallowed locale, directly from the mouth of YHWH, and is mediated by its most revered hero. This legislation is the primary element the Priestly writers chose to “remember.” Fourth, the Priestly texts take pains to present their story as plausible enough to be accepted as part of the Israelite cultural memory. For example, the Priestly writers seem to expand upon the various inventories and construction reports of ANE temples, producing the most comprehensive prescriptive and descriptive report in order to establish the authenticity of the tabernacle account. 56 Since it is set in the distant past, at so pivotal a moment in Israel’s “history,” with its god and most venerated hero as the primary actors, it is less incongruous to speak of dramatic effects without fear of arousing significant disbelief (like the magnificent theophanic appearance of YHWH in fire and cloud, sending the earth into tumult at his arrival.) Rather than detracting from the story’s credibility, the magnificence of YHWH and the lengths to which he speaks of the construction and legislation of the tabernacle instead enhance it. Furthermore, there is a significant amount of rhetoric in the legislation itself convincing the reader of its importance. 57 For example, the Priestly texts contend that in many contexts an afflicted person cannot truly get better without coming to YHWH in the sanctuary under the supervision and mediation of the priests. And, with a clearly articulated removal system provided and authorized by the deity himself, that same person is as54 Cf. regarding Deuteronomy, Bernard M. Levinson, Deuteronomy and the Hermeneutics of Legal Innovation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997). 55 Hundley, Keeping Heaven, 5; cf. Bibb, Ritual, 18. 56 Cf. Hundley, Keeping Heaven, 6 n. 33. 57 See Watts, Ritual; Hundley, Keeping Heaven; for the rhetoric of the cultic legislation below, see Hundley, Keeping Heaven, 135–192, esp. 173–192.

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sured of a positive result as long as the ritual is performed correctly. The evocative names of the offerings themselves (2 and , dealing with the removal of both sin and impurity, intentionally and closely related to sin and guilt), argue for the seriousness of the offenses and the necessity of their remedies. 58 Likewise, the priests use the term  to interpret the effect of these offerings, without ever really defining it. 59 56F

56F

By leaving  undefined, limiting it to the sanctuary and making it absolutely necessary for the removal of sins and serious impurities, the Priests convince people that they need  even if they do not know precisely what it is. Having established it as a constituent part of the ultimate goals of forgiveness and cleansing, clearing can become the ultimate goal itself in reference to the tabernacle. The mere presence of  convinces people that Clearing Day [in Leviticus 16] is necessary so that their sins and impurities can be cleared from the tabernacle. 60 567F

With all of these and many more pieces piled together putting so much at stake, it would take a brave Israelite indeed to challenge the veracity of the account. Why then do the Priestly texts take such great pains to establish their credibility? It is unlikely that the Priestly writers are suggesting that the tabernacle be (re)built in the Persian or any other context. Even if that were the case, the elaborate Priestly description falls significantly short of providing a full blueprint. Rather, their motivation(s) must lie elsewhere. Promotion of the legislation itself is perhaps more likely. Since we cannot know the minds of the Priestly writers, it remains unclear if the account is constructed to reintroduce previously forgotten legislation or rather to convincingly introduce new legislation while appealing to antiquity (e.g., Josiah’s book of the law in 2 Kgs 22). But regardless of whether the legislation is thought to be a return to the old or the new in the guise of the old, the Priestly writers would adopt the same techniques to bolster its legitimacy. In fact, they seem to ascribe to the same model as their ANE counterparts: connecting their innovations with the deity and heroic figures, and presenting those innovations as a return to the long lost original – and thus ideal – cultic prototype. Nonetheless, like the tabernacle itself, it is even possible that the priests in promoting their legislation do not intend to implement it (cf. the famous Laws of Hammurabi, which although elaborate seem to have served other purposes than constituting a viable law code).

58

See Watts, Ritual, 79–96; Hundley, Keeping Heaven, esp. 179–185. On , see Watts, Ritual, 130–141; Hundley, Keeping Heaven, 186–192. In arguing that the priests leave the term  undefined, I am not suggesting that they or the people had no idea what it meant. Rather, the meaning of the term is somewhat flexible and thus can mean different things to different people in different contexts. 60 Hundley, Keeping Heaven, 191. 59

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Leaving aside the debate about its potential implementation, the larger purpose of the story seems to be to exalt YHWH and his cultic system as supreme over all ANE and internal rivals, and by extension, to exalt the priests as its mediators. 61 As such, the Priestly account is both backwardand forward-looking. It establishes the greatness of YHWH, his system, and his priesthood in the past, thereby creating an ideal prototype to aspire to and a powerful shared identity for present and future readers. In other words, its primary innovation is cast as a restoration, giving Israel a shared past with powerful present and future implications. 62 The Priestly account gives the Israelites a proud heritage that creates a collective memory, brings solidarity to the group, sets them apart from (and in some ways over) other cultures, offers them hope for the future, and provides a pattern to follow to actualize that hope. In addition, if it had been written or used to address current conditions in the Persian period, the Priestly texts may imply that the only way forward is back to the beginning. They also may imply that the exile and present condition of Israel are a result of forgetting the cultic system promoted by the priests, and that the way forward is to reclaim their great, idyllic past by means of an encounter with YHWH in the cult. As in the ANE, the people cannot simply recreate the previous conditions since this past is ultimately out of reach. Nonetheless, as in the ANE, contact with the deity by means of the cult is the primary way of accessing the ideal past and appropriating the necessary benefits derived from it. Even if the cult and its setting may change (e.g., set in the second temple instead of the desert tent), YHWH and the priests remain essentially the same and thus may ensure that the system is the legitimate heir of the prototypical tradition. Because of this, it may also receive and dispense the same benefits as its idyllic forbear. In other words, the priests enhance the authority and necessity of the cult and its priesthood by claiming continuity on institutional and personal levels. However, not just any priests will do – the text takes great pains to stress that only the priests descended from Aaron (i.e., those that claim Aaronid descent) are legitimate. 63 The Aaronids put themselves forward as the purveyors of an ideal but forgotten past, as divinely sanctioned, and as associated with a heroic figure, Moses. This enables them to claim in some way that they are capable of instituting similar monumental change for the better. The latter association with Moses is especially pronounced since the text transfers the all-important ritual authority from Moses to Aaron, (from 61

Hundley, Keeping Heaven, e.g., 201–207. In speaking of providing Israel with a shared past, I am not suggesting that they created the tradition ex nihilo. Rather, they co-opted and enhanced existing traditions. 63 Watts, Rhetoric, 142–172. 62

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the ultimate leader to the first and prototypical priest) thereby reinforcing the necessity and authority of the Aaronid priests. Thus, as with the ANE rulers, the priests are staking a claim to leadership by appealing to ancient tradition, divine approval, and heroism. However, they remain largely unconcerned with government and politics on a national scale. Their primary – if not sole – concern is the cult they modeled on the ideal, ancient prototype, implying that its continued existence is essential for present and future prosperity. Thus, those who promoted the Priestly texts in the Persian period chose to remember the past in such a way that it convinced the people with powerful rhetoric that the only way forward was back to the beginning, in the form of the cult modeled on the ancient prototype.

Remembering Josiah’s Reforms in Kings HERMANN-JOSEF STIPP

A. A Fantasy … In 587 B.C.E., Babylonian troops razed Jerusalem and the temple and took the last Davidic king, Zedekiah, fettered and blinded into exile. 1 The second book of Kings offers an account of Judah’s road to disaster, ascribing the tragedy solely to religious, and not to political wrongdoings: it was Judah’s behavior in cultic matters that unleashed the divine wrath. If we assume that similar views were more widely held at the time, a contemporaneous observer could have been forgiven if he or she reflected on Judah’s collapse along approximately the following lines: “The gods bestowed auspicious beginnings on the kingdom of Judah during the glorious days of David and Solomon. Then the northern tribes broke away and Judah was reduced to a minor power. Yet Yhwh, the bountiful lord of the Davidic dynasty, was kind enough to grant his protégés a stable rule on their ancestor’s throne for centuries – which is possibly why those kings finally succumbed to an unheard-of presumption and arrogance. The trouble started when King Hezekiah came up with the outrageous idea of denying the gods their due by banning their veneration and by eradicating their places of worship. This he did with all of the gods, except for Yhwh, the god of his own clan. The king and a coterie of fanatics from the so-called ‘Yhwh-alone-party’ justified those acts with the assertion that Yhwh was a jealous deity who stubbornly insisted on being the only god to be revered by the Israelites. However, Hezekiah did not stop at that; he even dared to offend his own divine guardian by confining all sacrifices to Yhwh, the only ones still allowed, to one single site in the whole of Judah, namely, to the temple in Jerusalem, the shrine of the royal family. For that purpose, he had the audacity to demolish Yhwh’s own sanctuaries, except for the temple in Jerusalem. ‘He removed the high places, broke down the 1 This essay was written during a visit to the Department of Ancient Studies and the Theological Faculty at the University of Stellenbosch (South Africa) in March 2011. I owe many thanks to their staff for their generous help to facilitate my research. In addition, I am grateful for Ellen Sabo’s unstinting efforts to correct and improve my English.

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pillars, and cut down the sacred pole’ (2 Kgs 18:4) 2. Driven by greed, he wanted to keep the tithes and the proceeds from the offerings of the faithful all for himself (cp. Deut 12:6, 11, 26; 16:16–17; 26:1–4). “Yhwh and the other gods were highly affronted by this insult, and they issued a stern warning: they sent the rod of their anger (cp. Isa 10:5), a gigantic Assyrian army, to devastate the Judean countryside and to eventually lay siege to the capital, threatening to destroy her (cp. 2 Kgs 18:13). The Assyrians, too, shook their heads in wonder over this hubristic king and his benighted idea of riling his own divine protector by willfully curtailing his veneration. Thus an Assyrian military commander could taunt us, claiming that he had been commissioned by no one else but Yhwh to avenge the slight given to our god: ‘If you say to me, We rely on Yhwh our God, is it not he whose high places and altars Hezekiah has removed, saying to Judah and to Jerusalem, You shall worship before this altar in Jerusalem? … (Exactly for this reason) Yhwh has said to me, Go up against this land, and destroy it.’ (Cp. 2 Kgs 18:22, 25) “But Yhwh, being a merciful god, loved his people and wanted to give them a chance to quit their evil ways. He made sure that Hezekiah could avoid the worst by paying a huge tribute to the besiegers. For that, Hezekiah was forced to deplete the treasures of temple and palace, which he had wished to inflate with his blasphemous schemes (cp. 2 Kgs 18:14–16). So Jerusalem was saved for the moment, but Judah remained an Assyrian vassal for many decades to come. “Hezekiah’s son Manasseh heeded the caution. He restored Judah’s cult to its pristine state, following the proper rules observed by our forebears since time immemorial: ‘He rebuilt the high places that his father Hezekiah had destroyed; he erected altars for Baal, made a sacred pole …, worshiped all the host of heaven, and served them’ (2 Kgs 21:3). Yhwh and the other gods greatly rewarded the pious king for the respect paid to them and the hallowed tradition: they blessed him with an astoundingly long-lasting and peaceful reign. Manasseh sat on the throne for no less than 55 years (2 Kgs 21:1), longer than any other king during the four centuries of Davidic rule. When yet his grandson Josiah seemed to walk faithfully in the sacred paths of old, the gods felt that the time was ripe to lift the foreign yoke from our shoulders: the Assyrian empire waned, and the kingdom of Judah regained its former independence. “This respite, however, spelled disaster for our land. Ignoring the lessons from the past, King Josiah took the newly-won freedom as an invitation to return to the abominations of Hezekiah. No sooner had the Assyrian troops departed from Judean soil than Josiah proceeded to demonstrate his 2

sion.

Quotations from the Bible are taken or adapted from the New Revised Standard Ver-

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utter contempt for all the gods of the heavens. He eliminated ‘all the vessels made for Baal, for Asherah, and for all the host of heaven’ from the temple in Jerusalem; ‘he burned them outside Jerusalem in the fields of the Kidron, and carried their ashes to Bethel. He deposed the ministers whom his predecessors had ordained to make offerings in the high places before the Judaic cities and before Jerusalem; he also deposed those who made offerings to Baal, to the sun, to the moon, to the constellations, and to all the host of the heavens. He brought out the image of Asherah from’ the temple, ‘outside Jerusalem, to the Wadi Kidron, burned it at the Wadi Kidron, beat it to dust and threw the dust of it upon the graves of the common people. … He removed the horses that the kings of Judah had dedicated to the sun …; then he burned the chariots of the sun with fire.’ (Cp. 2 Kgs 23:4–6, 11) “Further emulating the baneful model of his great-grandfather, Josiah did not exempt his own dynasty’s guardian from his sacrilege; in fact, he incensed Yhwh to an extent that went far beyond Hezekiah’s effrontery: ‘He brought all the priests out of the towns of Judah, and defiled the high places where the priests had made offerings, from Geba to Beer-sheba’ (2 Kgs 23:8), thus ensuring that Yhwh would be deprived of these places of worship forever. To crown it all, Josiah extended his atrocities to the northern territories, where he revealed the full scale of his heinous mind by murdering Yhwh’s servants, the priests (cp. 2 Kgs 9:7; 17:13, 23; 21:10; 24:2): he ‘removed all the shrines of the high places that were in the towns of Samaria …. He slaughtered on the altars all the priests of the high places who were there, and burned human bones on them.’ (2 Kgs 23:19–20) In doing so, he did not even recoil from wrecking the shrine of our venerated ancestor Jacob (cp. Gen 28:10–22; 2 Kgs 23:15). As a result, Josiah ‘shed very much innocent blood … besides the sin that he caused Judah to sin so that they did what was evil in the sight of Yhwh’ (cp. 2 Kgs 21:16). In retrospect, the sad conclusion must be drawn that ‘there was no one like’ Josiah, ‘who sold himself to do what was evil in the sight of Yhwh’ (cp. 1 Kgs 21:25); in fact, ‘before him there was no king like him’ who infuriated Yhwh and the other gods the way he did; ‘nor did any like him arise after him’ (cp. 2 Kgs 23:25).” At this point, our imaginary Judean might have taken a deep sigh, and continued like this: “It attests Yhwh’s kindness to his people that he did not instantly remove them out of his sight (cp. 2 Kgs 17:18; 23:27; 24:3, 20). In his forbearance, he contained his wrath instead, and conveyed another warning: he handed Josiah over to Pharaoh Neco, who killed him as soon as he met him at Megiddo. The inveterate sinner was unable to muster even the tiniest resistance (cp. 2 Kgs 23:29). So, the worst offender of the Davidic dynasty suffered his well-deserved fate: a shameful death. In

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addition, his son Jehoahaz was taken captive to Egypt. Yet although Yhwh had condemned Josiah’s outrages most manifestly, the next king of Judah, Jehoiakim, did not listen to what Yhwh tried to teach him through the course of events; contrary to Manasseh, Jehoiakim did not build new high places for Yhwh nor did he re-establish the cults of the other gods. “Miraculously, not even this wore out the patience of the gods; they still kept voicing increasingly urgent appeals to repent and reinstate their worship. They sent ‘bands of the Chaldeans, bands of the Arameans, bands of the Moabites, and bands of the Ammonites … against Judah to destroy it … for the innocent blood that’ Josiah ‘had shed,’ which ‘Yhwh was not willing to pardon’ (cp. 2 Kgs 24:2, 4). Eventually, a Babylonian army arrived to close in on Jerusalem, just as the Assyrians had done after Hezekiah had tampered with Judah’s worship. Jehoiakim died during the siege; his son Jehoiachin surrendered to Nebuchadnezzar and was exiled to Mesopotamia, together with many of our fellow Judeans. Thus Jerusalem once again escaped destruction. But Yhwh was now so enraged about the slight to his majesty that he gave the Babylonians free rein to plunder the royal shrine – the one that Hezekiah, Josiah and others of their ilk claimed to be the only place fit for sacrifice. “Yet this warning too fell on deaf ears. The Babylonians heaved Zedekiah, another son of Josiah, onto the throne in Jerusalem. Fully aware of what had happened to his predecessors, our last Judean king nevertheless refused to read the persistent messages issued by the gods. In the end, another Babylonian army marched on Jerusalem, conquered the city, and brought Davidic rule to a close. Above all, they tore down the temple that Hezekiah and most of his descendants had dared to turn into the one exclusive sacrificial site in all of Judah. ‘So Judah went into exile out of its land.’ (2 Kgs 25:21) ‘Indeed, Jerusalem and Judah so angered Yhwh that he expelled them from his presence.’ (2 Kgs 24:20) He ‘wiped Jerusalem as one wipes a dish, wiping it and turning it upside down.’ He cast off the remnant of his heritage, and gave them into the hand of their enemies; so that they should become a prey and a spoil to all their enemies, because they had done what is evil in his sight and had provoked him to anger (cp. 2 Kgs 21:13–15). “So this is how it came about that Yhwh and the other gods made Judah into ‘an object of cursing and ridicule among all the nations of the earth’ (Jer 44:8), to serve as a chilling caveat that humans must give the gods the devotion owed to them, and avoid meddling with the sacred tradition handed down to us from our forefathers.” Dear reader, relax. This was only a fantasy.

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B. … And Its More Serious Implications 1. Judah’s History of Cult Reforms and their Interpretation in Kings But to be honest – is this fictional speech of an imaginary Judean from the post-587 years really no more than a far-fetched flight of fancy? Probably not. Following Jer 44, similar views were widespread among Judeans at the time. In vv. 16–18, the Judean emigrants to Egypt are quoted as saying to Jeremiah: “As for the word that you have spoken to us in the name of Yhwh, we are not going to listen to you. Instead, we will do everything that we have vowed, make offerings to the queen of heaven and pour out libations to her, just as we and our ancestors, our kings and our officials, used to do in the towns of Judah and in the streets of Jerusalem. We used to have plenty of food, and prospered, and saw no misfortune. But from the time we stopped making offerings to the queen of heaven and pouring out libations to her, we have lacked everything and have perished by the sword and by famine.” In its context, this statement must be taken as a bitter swipe at the Josianic reforms. Just like our invented Judean, the speakers relate their own experience with history in order to justify their stance that the eradication of non-yahwistic cults had earned Judah nothing but misery. Furthermore, the sneering remarks on the cult centralization made by the Rabshakeh in 2 Kgs 18 (see above) are another indication that such an attitude was, at least at certain periods, rife in Judah. When the narrator put this opinion into the mouth of a blasphemous Assyrian officer, he obviously did so because his fellow Judeans gave him reason to vilify such views as utterly detestable. So we may plausibly assume that in its essence, our fictional review was shared by a substantial number of Judeans in the years after 587. Nonetheless, this appraisal is the exact opposite of how our primary biblical source, the second book of Kings, evaluates the events. In fact, it is a remarkable feat of commemorative politics that 2 Kings – or rather the Deuteronomistic History – managed to convince its audience for the most part that Hezekiah’s and Josiah’s reforms were a good idea instead of a way of driving Judah into the abyss. It goes without saying that revering a variety of gods from a pantheon was the natural thing to do in antiquity, and humans took special care not to annoy the gods by neglecting their needs. Therefore, polytheistic piety was imperative for one’s well-being. After all, when followers of Yhwh started to campaign for the first commandment, the existence of the other gods was still undoubted. So, for many contemporaneous witnesses, the monolatric turn of Judean worship must have appeared downright dangerous. And as Jer 44 demonstrates, they could find their opposition to the change corroborated by history.

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Even more astounding is how successfully the Deuteronomists convinced the Judeans that slashing the number of sacrificial sites devoted to Yhwh – as the reforming kings did – was fulfilling Yhwh’s wishes rather than upsetting him. This is particularly surprising as the biblical writers made a major effort to justify their struggle for the sole adoration of Yhwh by emphasizing his merits for Israel: the deliverance from bondage in Egypt, the gift of the land, and his control of history in general. But they actually supplied no rationale at all for the centralization of the sacrifices, apart from the assurance that Yhwh willed it thus (Deut 12:4–28). In the eyes of numerous contemporaries, the cult centralization must have amounted to an effective cutback of Yhwh’s worship and, consequently, to a vicious assault on the dignity of the last divine resort left to Judah. Put more succinctly, this kind of religious behavior must have looked absolutely self-destructive to many. And what is more, the course of events lent itself much more easily to proving the detractors of the reforms right rather than validating the interference with the cult. When the Deuteronomists gave their account of Judean history, they had to cope with the fact that – from the days of Hezekiah down to the final fiasco – the fate of the kings would not match their religious merits, as had been presumed by the redactors. For example, virtuous Hezekiah had to endure an Assyrian invasion. Judging from archeological finds and other sources, the campaign triggered significant population losses, did enormous damage to the economy, and severely reduced the size of the Judean state. 3 The redactors tried to downplay the impact of the incursion by restricting its consequences to a huge levy (2 Kgs 18:14– 16); then they added a story telling how the enemies were chased away by a stunning divine miracle (2 Kgs 19:35–37), and they flatly denied that Hezekiah had remained an Assyrian vassal (2 Kgs 18:7). But apparently they could not evade the detail that Hezekiah had to part with most of the precious objects from the temple. To what degree the Deuteronomists were able to wipe out the memory of those harsh times is indeed an intriguing question. But even Hezekiah’s favorable portrayal was hardly able to dispel doubts as to whether Yhwh really approved of the modifications to cultic life in Judah. Evil Manasseh, however, enjoyed the longest period of government by far in the annals of Davidic kingship. Moreover, Assyrian control, with all its burdens, appears to have afforded his regime an unsurpassed era of sta3

See, e.g., Nadav Na’aman, “Josiah and the Kingdom of Judah,” in Good Kings and Bad Kings: The Kingdom of Judah in the Seventh Century BCE (ed. L. L. Grabbe; T&T Clark Biblical Studies; London: T&T Clark, 2005), 189–247 (189–90); Othmar Keel, Die Geschichte Jerusalems und die Entstehung des Monotheismus. Teil 1 (OLB 4.1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), 470.

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bility and peace. If one were to apply the typical analysis of the day, the prosperity under his reign had to be read as a ringing divine proclamation that the heavenly powers fully endorsed Manasseh’s polytheism. It was Josiah, though, whom the Deuteronomists lionized, praising his unequalled atonement and return to Yhwh. After giving a meticulous account of Josiah’s cleansing and unification of the cult – in line with dtr ideals – the editors accorded him the best marks ever among the Judean and Israelite kings: “Before him there was no king like him, who turned to Yhwh with all his heart, with all his soul, and with all his might, according to all the law of Moses; nor did any like him arise after him.” (2 Kgs 23:25) Josiah’s unique virtues, however, did not spare him a demise under circumstances about which the redactors preferred to remain tight-lipped (2 Kgs 23:29– 30), giving rise to the suspicion that the facts were too embarrassing to be divulged. 4 As it seems, Josiah indeed suffered a kind of death that could be interpreted as a damning divine judgment on his cultic alterations. When the Deuteronomists’ great hero had passed away, little more than two decades elapsed before the Davidic state met its ultimate downfall. Interestingly enough, the editors of Kings condemned all four remaining rulers for “doing what was evil in the sight of Yhwh” (2 Kgs 24:32, 37; 25:9, 19), but they withheld all details as to the specific nature of their iniquities. In particular, the Deuteronomists avoided indicting Josiah’s successors of repealing the cult centralization and restoring the worship of other gods. Accordingly, in the view of the editors, the sins of Judah’s post-Josianic monarchs, however bad, were not at the root of Judah’s undoing. Instead, the redactors usually heaped all the blame on Manasseh (2 Kgs 21:10–16; 23:26–27; 24:3–4), but when they wished to, they could accuse his contemporaries along with him (2 Kgs 21:15). Therefore the prophets deliver Yhwh’s categorical verdict of annihilation on Judah as early as the days of Manasseh, an avowal reaffirmed two more times in the remainder of the book.

4

See esp. Stanley Brice Frost, “The Death of Josiah: A Conspiracy of Silence,” JBL 87 (1968): 369–382; Davies, “Josiah and the Law Book,” in Good Kings and Bad Kings: The Kingdom of Judah in the Seventh Century BCE (ed. L.L. Grabbe; T&T Clark Biblical Studies; London: T&T Clark, 2007), 65–77 (66). Contrast the highly hypothetical conclusions by Avioz in two of his articles, “What Happened at Megiddo? Josiah’s Death as Described in the Book of Kings,” BN 142 (2009): 5–11, and also “Josiah’s Death in the Book of Kings: A New Solution to an Old Theological Conundrum,” EThL 83 (2007): 359–366. For the stir that the notes on Josiah’s demise caused in antiquity already, see Steve Delamarter, “Death of Josiah in Scripture and Tradition: Wrestling with the Problem of Evil?” VT 54 (2004): 29–60; Zipora Talshir, “The Three Deaths of Josiah and the Strata of Biblical Historiography (2 Kings XXIII 29–30; 2 Chronicles XXXV 20–5; 1 Esdras I 23–31),” VT 46 (1996): 213–236.

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This concept has several notable implications. By failing to accuse Josiah’s successors of cultic transgressions and shifting all the guilt to Manasseh, the Deuteronomists tacitly admitted that Josiah’s reforms had outlasted their initiator until the very end of Davidic power. As far as the redactors were concerned, the cult centralization and abolition of the high places were irrevocable, given their theory that Josiah had forever profaned the old sites of worship (2 Kgs 23:8, 16). Regarding the purity of the cult, the Deuteronomists apparently did not feel in a position to decry a fresh surge of idolatry after Josiah, which could have served as a motivation for the catastrophe. But by conceding that the last Judean rulers had not strayed from Josiah’s paths, the editors of Kings encouraged an interpretation according to which the divine punishment, rather than aiming at Manasseh, targeted the reformer and his successors instead. It did not help that after the fatal crime, the punishment took a disconcertingly long time to materialize. In their understanding of history, the castigation was administered more than half a century after the peaceful death of the hated idolater. Moreover, in the logic of the Kings narrative, Yhwh did not merely fail to chastise the arch-villain; he also waited for Josiah to eradicate the causes of his anger, root and branch, and for the reforms to prove their lasting effect for a while. Only then did Israel’s god consider the moment right to carry out his irreversible decision, to “remove Judah out of his sight” and to “reject the city that he had chosen, Jerusalem” (2 Kgs 23:27; cp. 21:13–14). The redactors required their audience to read this historical sequence fully against the grain, whereas the natural conclusion would have been to attribute the collapse of Judah to the divine verdict on Josiah and like-minded Judeans. But there is even more to it. The Deuteronomists styled Josiah as the unparalleled exemplar of wholehearted repentance and absolute compliance with the demands of the Mosaic law. It was these characteristics that earned him his brilliant score: “Before him there was no king like him, who turned to Yhwh with all his heart, with all his soul, and with all his might, according to all the law of Moses; nor did any like him arise after him.” (2 Kgs 23:25) Nonetheless, Yhwh’s response to Josiah’s unreserved ‘turning’ to Yhwh, was to ‘not turn’ from his resolution to forsake his people: “Still Yhwh did not turn from the fierceness of his great wrath, by which his anger was kindled against Judah, because of all the provocations with which Manasseh had provoked him. Yhwh said, ‘I will remove Judah also out of my sight, as I have removed Israel; and I will reject this city that I have chosen, Jerusalem, and the house of which I said, My name shall be there.’” (v. 26) Frenzied by Manasseh’s apostasy, Yhwh had long before decreed the irrevocable extermination of his people, so not even the most pious efforts of Josiah would have been able to save Judah from a

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fate similar to Israel’s; as a consequence, his consummate obedience to the Mosaic law could easily be dismissed as utterly futile. To be sure, Huldah’s oracle promised the king that he would be spared the sight of the coming ruin, and to receive a decent interment (2 Kgs 22:20) – which, however, did not prevent his ignominious death at the hands of an enemy. Thus the divine reward for his heroic labors amounted to no more than what all his ancestors on the Davidic throne, worthy or wicked, had been granted. 5 Taken together, he fared worse than Manasseh and Ahab (1 Kgs 21:27–29), the most depraved offenders of all Judean and Israelite kings. More to the point, the text does not offer any hints as to how Josiah’s merits might be beneficial to the survivors of the calamity. (The note of Jehoiachin’s release from confinement in 2 Kgs 25:27–30 is often taken as some sort of key to the supposed expectations of the redactors for the future. However, it alludes neither to Nathan’s oracle nor to Josiah.) Ultimately, Kings comes across as a massive documentation of what even the sincerest and most radical repentance is powerless to achieve. As a result, Judean history as related in Kings can easily be read as a warning to stay clear from Deuteronomistic ideas on cultic matters. This is extremely odd if the editors actually wished to win over their target audience for the ideals of the Deuteronomistic movement as embodied by Josiah, like most Hebrew Bible scholars hold. 2. Consequences for the Origin and the Interpretation of the DtrH Paradoxical as the denouement of Kings may be, many exegetes, including the present writer, find the strange ending quite easy to explain; the final two chapters covering the post-Josianic kings, as well as certain preceding passages, represent exilic expansions of a literary work which was compiled during the last pre-exilic decades. As numerous scholars from the nineteenth century onwards have hypothesized, Kings – or rather, the Deuteronomistic History – was originally authored at a time close to Josiah’s reforms with the aim of providing a justification for his far-reaching interference into Judah’s religious life. 6 The need for such propagandistic back5

Concerning Jehoahaz, Jehoiachin, and Zedekiah, who died in exile, Kings does not provide burial notes. With all other Judean kings, our sources do not offer sufficient reason to doubt that they were given a proper funeral. 6 For recent summaries of current research on theories regarding the DtrH and the redactional history of Kings, see Michael Avioz, “The Book of Kings in Recent Research. Part I.” CBR 4 (2005): 11–55; Andreas Scherer, “Neuere Forschungen zu alttestamentlichen Geschichtskonzeptionen am Beispiel des deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerks,” VF 53 (2008): 22–40; Jeremy M. Hutton, The Transjordanian Palimpsest: The Overwritten Texts of Personal Exile and Transformation in the Deuteronomistic History (BZAW 396; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2009), 79–156; Gary N. Knoppers, “Theories of the

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ing is altogether likely. That it was hard to enforce the first commandment is plain to see from the intense polemic around this topic in the Bible, from archeological pointers to polytheistic practices, and from general insights into typical views from antiquity on how to secure divine goodwill. As mentioned above, Jer 44:17–18 is a testimony to what many Judeans felt about monolatry. Granting a particular shrine a monopoly on offerings clashed with deeply engrained traditions and so probably met with tenacious resistance. It is no accident that scholars find it very difficult to identify credible parallels to these measures from the ancient Near East. The compulsory journey to Jerusalem rendered the bringing of sacrifices much more complicated. To this may be added the risk of a decreasing volume of offerings in general. And what is more, it is hard to doubt that the degraded or deposed priests, together with their erstwhile clients, did not take kindly to Josiah’s ideas and formed a persistent pool of discontent for a long time to come (cp. 2 Kgs 23:9). 7 It was the necessity of persuading this opposition that motivated the Deuteronomists to pen their work and heap so much praise on their champion. And in order to clarify what awaited those who defied the reforms, they presented the annihilation of the northern kingdom as a threatening model. These literary strategies were only promising at the time of writing when the redactors would never have anticipated Josiah’s disgraceful end, as little as they expected Judah to soon suffer a fate quite similar to what had befallen the northern tribes. Indeed, in the logic of the pre-exilic ediRedaction(s) of Kings,” in The Books of Kings: Sources, Composition, Historiography and Reception (ed. A. Lemaire, B. Halpern, and M. J. Adams; VTSup 129; Leiden: Brill, 2010), 69–88; as well as the passages reviewing the history of research in Baruch Halpern and André Lemaire, “The Composition of Kings,” in The Books of Kings. Sources, Composition, Historiography and Reception (ed. A. Lemaire, B. Halpern, and M. J. Adams; VTSup 129; Leiden: Brill, 2010), 123–153. A problem bracketed out here is the issue of where the pre-exilic original actually ended. A closure with 2 Kgs 23:25ab G".  =) "8 *  )F"    +   E)   +   )D      E    .  D   . -  C .B .  A   ?    " @  >+"   is doubtful since 25c + " @ *  9#   " @  8 -   seamlessly continues the preceding. Thus the original ending is probably lost. For a discussion, see Stipp, “Ende bei Joschija. Zur Frage nach dem ursprünglichen Ende der Königsbücher bzw. des Deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerks,” in Das deuteronomistische Geschichtswerk (ed. H.-J. Stipp; ÖBS 39; Frankfurt a. M.: Lang, 2011), 225–267 (229). 7 A witness to this may be found in Num 16–17, where a later hand turned the older narrative of Dathan’s and Abiram’s revolt into an account of a rebellion of a band of Levites, led by Korah, demanding access to the priesthood. While the reworking as such is widely accepted among critical scholars, the precise amount of text to be attributed to it remains a matter of debate. For recent attempts to isolate the layer, see, e.g., Horst Seebass, Numeri. 2. Teilband: Numeri 10,11–22,1 (BKAT 4/2; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2003), 174–8; Ludwig Schmidt, Das vierte Buch Mose: Numeri 10,11– 36,13 (ATD 7.2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004), 63–7, and the literature given there.

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tion of Kings, Josiah’s reforms offered the perfect shield against such doom. The devastating defeat plunged the Deuteronomists into a profound quandary only a few years later. On the one hand, they were unwilling to discard or replace their work altogether, or to revise it to such an extent that the contradictions between their theoretical concepts and the course of events fell away, although we do not know why – perhaps they wrote for a public intimately familiar with the original document. On the other hand, they did not think it wise to charge Josiah’s successors of rescinding the reforms, either; it seems that their target audience was fully cognizant of the unfounded nature of such allegations. Constraints of this sort must have been instrumental in inducing the exilic updaters to settle for an uneasy compromise: they piled all the guilt on Manasseh and his generation, since that king had already in the pre-exilic edition played the role of a kind of counter-reformer in the space between Hezekiah and Josiah. But by tracing Judah’s undoing to misdeeds committed before Josiah’s reign, the redactors effectively undercut their own efforts to propagate Deuteronomistic ideals, for they had to implicitly admit the limits of what even the most scrupulous observance of the law was able to achieve. Given the circumstances, though, they apparently accepted this as the lesser evil. As such, the paradoxical end result bears the hallmarks of a compromise created by writers whose authorial liberty was severely restricted by the memories of their target audience. The recollections that had to be considered regarded both a previous version of the document as well as the preservation of Josiah’s reforms under his successors. In my opinion, the paradoxical nature of the present Kings storyline is the best argument in favor of a pre-exilic origin of the DtrH. The narrative-logic argument looks much more compelling than the popular reasoning based on formulaic phrases, though linguistic evidence may supply additional confirmation. Moreover, the portrayal of Josiah’s cultic activities and their effects has vital implications on the problem of historical credibility: on the one hand, his measures impart the impression of an institutional success because their validity throughout the final years of the Judean kingdom remains undenied; on the other hand, the redactors did not dispute the soteriological failure of those reforms, as they proved unfit for saving Judah from ruin. The Deuteronomists certainly did not contrive the exemplary feats of Josiah only to record their ineffectiveness once it came to averting serious harm. Nor were the reforms later fictitiously credited to a king whose shameful demise fomented further doubts as to whether the divine powers were indeed pleased with his legacy. Hence the conflict between the information relayed and the editors’ concerns yields a strong corroboration of the basic historicity of the claim that Josiah initiated major alterations to cultic life in Judah.

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In fact, the literary context turns the reforms into a case in point for a certain assessment of historical reliability that is widely employed and theoretically reflected in research on the historical Jesus, where it is known as the “criterion of embarrassment.” 8 Adapting a definition by John P. Meier for our purposes, we may state that “[t]he point of the criterion is that [an author] would hardly have gone out of [his] way to create material that only embarrassed its creator or weakened [his] position in arguments with opponents.” 9 This is not the place to tackle the delicate theological consequences of the highly counterfactual character of the interpretation applied in Kings to Judah’s cultic history. But what may be a tough nut for theology could be a boon for historiography because the tensions between the data and its construal deliver a useful clue as to the dependability of our source. The following conclusions may be drawn with respect to the way Josiah’s deeds are remembered in Kings. The pre-exilic original of the DtrH described the reforms as a triumphant success since the document was edited at a time close to the events, and designed to provide Josiah’s project with a theological justification. To that end, the redactors confronted their readers with the example of the northern kingdom to warn them of the disaster to be expected if Deuteronomistic cultic demands continued to go unheeded. In particular, they recalled the mass deportations as a sure sign that Yhwh had irrevocably severed ties with the affected tribes. The dtr authors could only devise such a concept under the condition that they would have never dreamt of Judah suffering a similar fate before long; in their eyes, Josiah had done away with such threats once and for all. Yet the sanguine portrayal of their hero created an enormous problem for their heirs from the exilic period, for whom the memory of the reforms became a painful liability. In view of what had been recounted about the northern state, the downfall of Judah likewise had to appear as her final rejection by 8 German: “Kriterium der Tendenzwidrigkeit.” For recent treatments, see, e.g., Gerd Theissen and Dagmar Winter, “Die Kriterienfrage in der Jesusforschung. Vom Differenzkriterium zum Plausibilitätskriterium (NTOA 34; Fribourg: University Press/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1997), 177–180, 247–250; Ingo Broer, “Die Bedeutung der historischen Rückfrage nach Jesus und die Frage nach deren Methodik,” in Jesus von Nazaret – Spuren und Konturen (ed. L. Schenke et al.; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2004), 19–41 (31–32); Gerd Häfner, “Das Ende der Kriterien? Jesusforschung angesichts der geschichtstheoretischen Diskussion,” in Historiographie und fiktionales Erzählen. Zur Konstruktivität in Geschichtstheorie und Exegese (BThSt 86; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2009), 97–130 (118). 9 John P. Meier, “Basic Methodology in the Quest for the Historical Jesus,” in Handbook for the Study of the Historical Jesus, Vol. 1: How to Study the Historical Jesus (ed. T. Holmén and S. E. Porter; Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2011), 291–331 (310–314, quotation from p. 310–11). I gratefully acknowledge the advice of my distinguished colleague Gerd Häfner from Munich University for his helpful advice on the subject.

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Yhwh. In addition, Josiah’s reforms greatly disappointed the hopes attached to them. When the post-587 revisers of the DtrH nonetheless abstained from deleting the recollection of Josiah’s activities from the document, they did so because they had no choice, for they were addressing an audience that was aware of both Josiah’s lasting heritage and its literary representation in the original edition. In order to somehow reconcile the reminiscence of Josiah’s institutional success with the experience of his soteriological failure, the redactors turned Manasseh into a monstrous scapegoat. Even so, they produced no more than a stopgap solution since they could not avoid the impression that their hero had toiled in vain, and that even the most genuine remorse and rigorous penitence could be totally fruitless. As a result, the portrayal of Judah’s last kings in the DtrH illustrates particular modes of remembering – first by writing, then by rewriting literature. Already in Josiah’s days, when the Deuteronomists compiled their work and drew on history to make a case for their cultic ideals, the recent past did not sit comfortably with the propagandistic ends of the editors. Hezekiah’s mixed political balance sheet was a fact, as was the extraordinary length of Manasseh’s reign. At the time, however, the redactors apparently felt that their reading of the past all the same carried enough plausibility to be credible. Given the high hopes attached to the reforms, the deuteronomistic concept of Judah’s cultic history was utilized as a call to tackle the task, and conversely, the hopes attached to the reforms also colored the deuteronomistic concept of history. When this amalgamation was shattered in 587 and another crop of editors revised the work, the discrepancies between what they wanted to demonstrate and the course of events had risen immensely. Caused by the emergence of new and totally unexpected recollections, memories that seemed to embody a solution – Hezekiah’s and Josiah’s reforms – had themselves turned into problems in need of solutions. To make matters worse, the redactors were now working on a document which for whatever reason could neither be discarded, nor manipulated at will. So they had to put up with serious constraints on how the memories could be refashioned. Consequently, the memories were preserved, even though supported by explanations that modern readers may find less than satisfying. When surveying the finished work, one may wonder how it managed to convince at all. In the final analysis, we cannot avoid the conclusion that in the process of remembering there were strategies at work which could move far away from what was written in the text. This is why we should not be too confident in assuring ourselves that we are able to tell how the biblical books were read in Yehud. The foregoing treatment could be substantiated through a comparison with other editorial approaches to the subject. For example, the Deuteronomistic editors of the book of Jeremiah opted for forgetting by more or less

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trying to consign Josiah’s reforms to oblivion. They could do so because their authorial license was not hemmed in by an older edition of the book. The Chronicler, alternatively, based his account on Kings; so he portrayed the reforms, but gave them a much different significance. Such an analysis, however, would require another essay. 10

10 On the Josianic reform in Jeremiah, see Stipp, “Die joschijanische Reform im Jeremiabuch,” in ‘Ich werde meinen Bund mit euch niemals brechen!’ (Ri 2,1) (ed. E. Gaß and H.-J. Stipp; HBS 62; Freiburg: Herder, 2011), 101–129. For the Chronicler, see Louis C. Jonker, Reflections of King Josiah in Chronicles: Late Stages of the Josiah Reception in 2 Chr 34f (Textpragmatische Studien zur Hebräischen Bibel 2; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2003); Hee-Sook Bae, Vereinte Suche nach JHWH. Die Hiskianische und Josianische Reform in der Chronik (BZAW 355; Berlin: de Gruyter 2005); Ehud Ben Zvi, “Observations on Josiah’s Account in Chronicles and Implications for Reconstructing the Worldview of the Chronicler,” in Essays on Ancient Israel in its Near Eastern Context: A Tribute to Nadav Na’aman (ed. Y. Amit, E. Ben Zvi, I. Finkelstein, and O. Lipschits; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 89–106; and Ken A. Ristau, “Reading and Rereading Josiah: The Chronicler’s Representation of Josiah for the Postexilic Community,” in Community Identity in Judean Historiography: Biblical and Comparative Perspectives (ed. G. N. Knoppers and K. A. Ristau; Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2009), 219–247.

Selective Transmission of the Past in Chronicles: Jehoiada’s Rebellion in 2 Kings 11 and 2 Chronicles 22:10–23:21 JUHA PAKKALA

A. Introduction The editorial processes are central for understanding how the Hebrew Bible was created and transmitted. Scholarship has traditionally assumed that the older traditions were largely preserved in the Fortschreibung of the texts. For example, Christoph Levin has suggested that in this process “nothing was taken away. The given text remained unchanged; at least it was not abridged.” 1 Although this position is common in source, redaction and composition critical analyses of the Hebrew Bible, its methodological basis is rarely discussed or tested. The assumption, at least in such an unconditional form, may not stand on solid ground. There is extensive “empirical” evidence 2 in the Hebrew Bible to assume that at least in some cases the use of sources was much more radical than what is generally assumed in biblical scholarship. The Chronicler’s relationship with his sources is an example of how parts of the older text may have been rewritten, relocated and omitted. Such methods of Fortschreibung are not as1 Christoph Levin, The Old Testament (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2005), 27. Similarly, many others, for example Jean Louis Ska, Introduction to Reading the Pentateuch (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 169–170, notes: “If a tradition is ancient, it must be maintained even if it has been superseded. A law cannot be abolished, even if it is no longer applicable … Indeed, nothing is eliminated; everything is preserved and interpreted … the desire to collect everything that tradition had handed down became particularly strong during the time of the Second Temple.” The position of Georg Fohrer is also very typical, Exegese des Alten Testaments: Einführung in die Methodik (Uni Taschenbücher 267; Heidelberg: Quelle & Meyer, 1989), 42. According to Fohrer there may have been “Auslassungen…von Buchstaben, Partikeln, kleinen häufigen Wörtern” and “Beseitigung anstößiger Ausdrücke.” He does not mention any other possible omissions. 2 The term “empirical” evidence used in reference to parallel passages derives from Jeffrey Tigay, Empirical Models for Biblical Criticism (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985).

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sumed to have taken place in the transmission of Biblical texts. The evidence from Chronicles is one witness that is often ignored, despite the fact that it may provide scholarship with the most extensive amount of evidence about how sources were used during the time of the creation and early transmission of the Hebrew Bible. The Chronicler’s position towards his textual sources is complicated and varies from passage to passage. In some passages he used his sources rather freely to form the new composition. In these sections his method may not be much different from the authors of the Holiness Code, Deuteronomy or the history writer of 1–2 Kings, who used older traditions as resource material that could be changed, rewritten or omitted as the author assumed to be suitable for the new composition. On the other hand, there are sections where 1–2 Chronicles follows the source text so closely that the parallels could be passages from the same composition. In many passages where 1–2 Kings 3 was used as the source the Chronicler adopted the older text almost word-for-word (for example in 2 Chr 21:5–10a and 23:7– 18). Here his method does not differ much from the technique of a copyist. That very many passages were adopted without major changes shows that the Chronicler had a very high view of his source. 1–2 Kings was assumed to provide an authoritative presentation of Israel’s history in the monarchic period, for otherwise the extensive use and faithful rendering of the source would be incomprehensible. 1–2 Kings was the basis and starting point. 4 However, this does not mean that the Chronicler regarded 1–2 Kings as infallible, divinely authoritative or unchangeable, because there are many examples in which he changed events and issues whenever they contradicted with his own conceptions. The reason for writing a new version of Judah’s history during the monarchy is that 1–2 Kings had to be updated and corrected theologically. This necessitated many extensive and radical changes. In most cases, a theological reason can be seen as the main motive for the changes. I will show examples of passages where the source text was rewritten and where parts of the source were omitted, mostly for theological reasons. 3 In this essay I will mainly refer to the relationship between Chronicles and 1–2 Kings. The relationship between Chronicles and its other sources may be slightly different in nature and should be discussed separately. 4 Some scholars, for example Peter R. Ackroyd, I & II Chronicles, Ezra, Nehemiah (Torah Bible Paperbacks; London: SCM, 1973), 155, imply that many deviations were caused by the Chronicler’s disuse of 1–2 Kings, but this would be misleading. Even in cases where the Chronicler’s account differs completely from the parallel in 1–2 Kings, the reasons are theological. The close parallels as well as the differences imply that the Chronicler read his source very carefully and spent considerable time contemplating its theological meaning. The changes are mainly theological corrections that were not made lightly.

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They will show that the Chronicler was far from perceiving 1–2 Kings as a holy text or a divine revelation that may not be changed substantially. Although the resulting text in Chronicles may be a reflection or reaction to 1– 2 Kings, the examples will show that the Chronicler’s own theological conceptions regularly preceded the text and conceptions of 1–2 Kings. 5 Since the beginning of modern scholarship, many have downplayed the differences between Chronicles and its sources, and this has, in my view, resulted in theories which assume Chronicles to be merely an interpretation or supplementation of its sources. According to Keil, the Chronicler rendered his sources very carefully and the deviations are due to the Chronicler’s attempt to explain the text in more detail and from a different perspective. Other differences would be purely formal or linguistic. 6 Steuernagel noted that the Chronicler made only small changes to his sources. 7 Similarly also Noth, who emphasized the faithfulness of the Chronicler towards his source, and maintained that the changes are primarily minor. 8 According to Torrey, theological abridgements were not extensive, and large abridgements exist because the Chronicler was in agreement with the older composition. Torrey is also certain that “[the Chronicler] did not mean to supplant the books of Samuel and Kings; he intended rather to supplement them.” 9 In view of the parallel text and their differences, such positions are unconvincing or even hard to comprehend, especially when represented by scholars who have been very consistent and critical in other areas of biblical scholarship. Although discussing specifically the Chroni5 Thus also Kai Peltonen, “Function, Explanation and Literary Phenomena: Aspects of Source Criticism as Theory and Method in the History of Chronicles Research,” in Chronicler as Author (ed. P Graham and S. McKenzie; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 18–69 (66). 6 C. F. Keil, Chronik, Esra, Nehemia, Esther (BKAT; Leipzig: Dörffling & Franke, 1870), 26: “Die Sorgfalt, mit welcher der Chronist seine Quellen benutzt hat, ersieht man bei der Vergleichung der der Chronik mit den Büchern Samuels und der Könige gemeinsamen Erzählungen, und zwar nicht bloß daraus, daß in diesen parallelen Abschnitten die Relation der Chronik mit den Berichten jener Bücher in allen wesentlichen Punkten übereinstimmt, sondern auch aus den darin uns entgegentretenden Abweichungen, indem diese in sachlicher Beziehung vielfach genauere und vollständigere Nachrichten liefern und in jeder anderen Beziehung rein formeller Art sind, zum größeren Teile nur Sprache und Ausdrucksweise betreffen oder mit dem paränetisch-didaktischen Zwecke der Geschichtserzählung zusammenhängen.” According to Keil, the Chronicler omitted some parts because they were “Nebenumstände” (see p. 7). 7 Carl Steuernagel, Lehrbuch der Einleitung in das Alte Testament (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1912), 408. 8 Martin Noth, The Chronicler’s History (JSOTSup 50; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1988), 89–95. 9 Charles C. Torrey, Ezra Studies (New York: Ktav, 1910; repr 1970), 213–214. His view is somewhat ambiguous, because he also emphasizes the Chronicler’s attempt to correct the erroneous conceptions of the sources (218–223).

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cler’s relationship with his sources, many scholars have avoided the issue of omission or assumed that there are only minor and technical omissions. 10 It is somewhat surprising that even Kalimi, who may be one of the most consistent scholars to investigate the Chronicler’s relationship to his sources, discusses omissions only briefly. 11 It is therefore evident that the phenomenon of omissions in Chronicles and its implications for the wider study of the Hebrew Bible should be given much more attention in scholarship. In many ways the Chronicler’s method may be characterized as one of a redactor or editor, such as is usually assumed to have edited the Deuteronomistic history or other books of the Hebrew Bible. 12 If we possessed only Chronicles, there would probably be many scholarly investigations that would characterize the Chronicler as an editor of an earlier composition, which some scholars would try to reconstruct. In the passages discussed here, some of his methods are similar to the assumed methods of the nomists or the history writer. The main difference is that the Chronicler seems to be much more radical than what one usually assumes from the later editors of 1–2 Kings. As noted by W. Rudolph, “While the author of the Deuteronomistic History normally transmitted his sources unchanged … the Chronist intervenes more strongly in the text, when it was necessary …” 13 The omissions in Chronicles range from individual words to entire passages. Sometimes an entire story or part of the story was left out, without any counterpart in Chronicles. Other times the Chronicler did not agree with some detail, theme or course of events in the source text, and omitted it. His method in such cases may be what is often implicitly assumed of the history writer in relation to his sources, the royal annals. It is rather surprising that the Chronicler’s use of his source has not had wider methodological impact on the study of the editorial processes of other texts of the Hebrew Bible. 14 The reason for this may be the common view that Chronicles is an interpretation or Midrash that is merely supple10 E.g., Thomas Willi, Die Chronik als Auslegung: Untersuchung zur literarischen Gestaltung der historischen Überlieferung Israels (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 1972), 92–111. 11 Isaac Kalimi, Zur Geschichtsschreibung des Chronisten (BZAW 226; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1995), 80–91. 12 Many modern scholars have called the Chronicler a redactor; see for example, Carl Steuernagel, Lehrbuch der Einleitung, 408. 13 Wilhelm Rudolph, Chronikbücher (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1955), xiii. 14 Ehud Ben Zvi has also noted that Chronicles has been neglected and continues to be neglected, in his History, Literature and Theology in the Book of Chronicles (London: Equinox, 2006), 20, 79: “the book is considered more often than not as, at best, of peripheral importance from historical, literary or theological perspectives. The book is often described as being boring, inferior to other biblical narrative works …” (20).

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menting its sources. On the other hand, some scholars imply that the Chronicler’s method must have been different from that of the editors of other books. 15 It is necessary to acknowledge that Chronicles is a prime source for editorial processes of the Hebrew Bible. Although it is only one example of these processes, it provides a wide variety of techniques in relating to the source to form a new composition. Not all editors used similar techniques, but in investigating any texts in the Hebrew Bible, one should take into consideration the possibility that some of the editors in the transmission of any Biblical text may have used similar techniques as the Chronicler. It provides a range of possibilities for how the texts may have been changed in the course of their transmission. In view of the evidence from Chronicles, it would be difficult to assume that the texts of the Hebrew Bible were exclusively edited with conservative techniques where nothing was omitted and rewritten. In this chapter, 2 Chr 22:10–23:21 will be used as an example of the Chronicler’s use of sources. This passage is especially fruitful for the investigation because it contains many different kinds of changes made in relation to the source text. 16 Although the observations primarily relate to this passage, similar changes in relation to the sources can be found in many other parts of 1–2 Chronicles as well.

15 This is also implied in the above-mentioned quotation from Rudolph, Chronikbücher, xiii. 16 Although it is probable that the Chronicler used 2 Kgs 11, or a text relatively close to the MT, it is not necessary to determine here in what stage of the transmission the omissions or other changes took place. One also cannot completely exclude the possibility that in some cases the original author of Chronicles followed the source closely but that a later editor of Chronicles omitted a section that was theologically problematical. See, for example, Wilhelm Martin Leberech de Wette, Beitraሷge zur Einleitung in das Alte Testament (Halle: Schimmelpfennig, 1806–07), 61; Steuernagel, Lehrbuch der Einleitung, 408–409; Rudolph, Chronikbücher, viii, 4; and Kurt Galling, Die Bücher der Chronik (ATD 12; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1954). It should be noted, however, that editing in the chapters investigated here is traditionally assumed to be very limited. For example, according to Rudolph, Chronikbücher, viii, 4, who assumes a considerable number of later expansions to Chronicles, has suggested only one small addition in the chapters investigated here, namely in 2 Chr 23:10. Georg Steins, Die Chronik als kanonisches Abschlussphänomen: Studien zur Entstehung and Theologie von 1/2 Chronik (BBB 9; Weinheim: Beltz Athenäum, 1995), 415–439, has shown that the redaction history of Chronicles may be much more complicated than traditionally assumed.

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B. Jehoiada’s Rebellion: 2 Kgs 11 and 2 Chr 22:10–23:21 Although the differences between the two accounts on Jehoiada’s rebellion are extensive, it is generally accepted that 2 Kgs 11 was the main source behind 2 Chr 22:10–23:21. 17 Because the Chronicler’s version is already familiar with the later additions to 2 Kgs 11, 18 it is apparent that the Chronicler used a late version of 2 Kgs 11. Despite the differences between the two versions, there is no reason to assume that the author of 2 Chr 22:10– 23:21 had another completely different source at his disposal. 19 Almost every verse of 2 Kgs 11 is used in some form in 2 Chr, and they are used in exactly the same order. If other sources had been used for 2 Chr 22:10– 23:21, one would expect to find different themes and, at least in some parts, more variation in the order of events from those of 2 Kgs 11. The differences between the two texts can best be understood as reactions of the Chronicler to the text of 2 Kgs 11, because most of the changes are well in line with the Chronicler’s theology. 20 There are some significant differences between the Hebrew and Greek versions of the passages, but they are limited in comparison with the much more substantial changes taking place between 2 Kgs and 2 Chr. 21 Alt-

17

Hugh G. M. Williamson, 1 and 2 Chronicles (NCB; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1982), 312–31; Jacob M. Myers, II Chronicles (AB; Garden City: Doubleday, 1965), 131. 18 For the redaction history of 2 Kgs 11, see for example Levin, Der Sturz der Königin Atalja: Ein Kapitel zur Geschichte Judas im 9. Jahrhundert v. Chr. (SBS 105; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1982). There is no evidence for significant expansions in 2 Kgs 11 after the author of 2 Chr 22:10–23:21 had used it as a source. 19 Many from beginning of modern research until now, for example, Keil, Chronik, 305–7, have assumed other sources. Keil argues that the versions differ so much that there must have been another source. It is evident that Keil’s position is circular reasoning, because his observations on the differences between 1–2 Kgs and 1–2 Chr lead him to the conclusion that the Chronicler rendered his sources very faithfully (see p. 7–8, 26– 27). Steuernagel, Lehrbuch, 404, assumes that many of the plusses and additions were taken from the now lost Midrash of Kings. Also Sara Japhet, I & II Chronicles (OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1993), 828–37, suggests that other sources may have been used. 20 As Edward L. Curtis, Books of Chronicles (ICC; New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1910), 423, rightly notes about 2 Chr 23–24, “Nowhere else does the Chronicler’s method of interpreting history and introducing notions of his own time as controlling factors in the earlier history more clearly appear.” Similarly also Rudolph, Chronikbücher, 271–72. 21 The most significant of the differences between the LXX and MT is the plus       ! "   # in the LXX of 2 Chr 23:18. Other differences are a plus in the LXX in 2 Chr 23:12 (  $%& " ), a plus in the MT of 2 Kgs 11:1 ( #  ) and 11:6 ( H ). In 2 Chr 23:3 the MT has &   ,

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hough the focus here is on the omissions, other changes will also be investigated in order to gain a better view of the overall editorial processes and understand when the Chronicler resorted to omissions. The accounts on Joash being hidden from Athaliah are mostly very similar, but there are some important differences: 22 2 Chr 22:11

2 Kgs 11:2

& . 5.   !  )   7  &) )"  " %  +      -  . )   .  +5  & . 5.     )I 5  - )#   . )"   .   )   & .5.  !  )  +      +    )  -       *  " *  )  +     3 "  +  ! -  J 

& . 5.     ) .   7  +    )  - )

 &) )"  " %        -  . )   . ()()  & . 5.     )I 5  - )#   . )" )"+   ,   +  "  +  ! -  J 

The most important difference is the expansion in 2 Chr 22:1, where the family relationships of Jehoshebat 23 are explained in more detail than in the source text. At the beginning of 2 Kgs 11:2, Jehoshebat is defined as the daughter of king Jehoram and sister of Ahaziah. Chronicles preserves this information but it is relocated and incorporated into the larger expansion later in the verse. The author of 2 Chr 22:11 added that Jehoshebat was the wife of Jehoiada the priest. This idea is probably an invention of the Chronicler to increase the influence and involvement of Jehoiada throughout 2 Chr 22–24. Since the expansion was made in a verse where the Chronicler otherwise followed 2 Kgs 11:2 word-for-word, and since it partly overlaps with the relocated information about Jehoshebat being the daughter of king Jehoram and sister of Ahaziah, it is not probable that the expansion derives from a different source, as some scholars have suggested. 24 The expansion is met exactly where the author of 2 Chr 22:11 seems to have rearranged the text. If the author of 2 Chr 22:11 had used another source, one would expect to have other traces of it as well, and, in any case, the probability that there was an isolated piece of tradition reporting that Jehoshebat was the wife of Jehoiada the priest is unlikely. The most 603F

604F

while the LXX contains  '$ ( ) !) * % "  +, ( -. / !) * % ". 22 The expansions in the Chronicler’s account are written in bold, slight changes are in italics and the omissions are marked strikethrough. 23 Note that the name is written slightly differently in the two versions: ¹  „ vs. ¹  „. 24 For example, Japhet, I & II Chronicles, 1993, has suggested that here the Chronicler may have had authentic information not preserved by the author of 2 Kgs 11.

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likely solution is that the Chronicler invented the idea that Jehoshebat was the wife of Jehoiada the priest. The change was probably sparked by the implication in 2 Kgs 11 that a lay person was able to move freely or even live in the temple area. This would have been inconceivable in the Chronicler’s own context in the Second Temple period, and therefore an explanation and justification for her presence there was needed. Although the whole idea that non-priests were able to enter the temple area is bound to have disturbed the Chronicler, 25 it would have been difficult for him to omit altogether the idea that Joash was hidden in the temple, because many details in the ensuing story were dependent on his hiding place. The temple was the hub of the rebellion. Making Jehoshebat the wife of Jehoiada would have given the justification for her presence in the temple area. The change of K  in 2 Kgs 11:3 to   in 2 Chr 22:12 developed the text in the same direction by reducing the tension of a non-priest’s presence in the temple. In the older text Joash is reported to have hidden with Jehosheba alone, whereas in the Chronicler’s account Joash stays with both Jehoshebat and her husband, Jehoiada the priest. These changes are illustrative of the Chronicler’s method in using the source. He found a detail in the source text that did not correspond with his own understanding of who was allowed to enter the temple. Because it was difficult to omit the problematic reference, an explanation was invented to reduce the disturbance. The reference to Joash having been instructed by Jehoiada the priest in 2 Kgs 12:3 certainly influenced the expansion as well. It would have been logical that Joash had been close to the priest also in his childhood. The result was the priest’s increased influence throughout the entire story. In other words, a theologically disturbing detail forced a reaction from the Chronicler. Although the source text was silent on the matter, it was evident for him that Jehoshebat must have had a closer connection with the temple. The two accounts on the main participants and supporters of Jehoiada’s rebellion in 2 Kgs 11:4 and 2 Chr 23:1–2 differ considerably: 605F

2 Chr 23:1–2

   )  # M    !  L   L + 1 ) 5   /    . 7 ,    )     . !    + "    + .    !-  +   !  - + .  / !- . )  + .    !-   +" , 2    )5 !      2 .      3 .   +     !  *   ,   +' .  # , +   25

cler.

2 Kgs 11:4

  )     !   L   L + ()5   /   .  7 ,   '     * 

2 Chr 23:6–7 in fact makes it explicit that this issue was important for the Chroni-

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  /  )      N +   . +"  , 

     "   , 

According to 2 Kgs 11:4 Jehoiada was supported by the leaders (captains of the hundreds) of the royal guards (') and of the Carians (), a group of foreign mercenaries. 26 Although they were the backbone of the rebellion in the original story, both groups were systematically omitted in 2 Chr 23 (v. 12, 20, cf. 2 Kgs 11:11, 19, see below). 27 Instead of the soldiers, 2 Chr 23:1 provides a list of names, whose professions are not mentioned, but who, with the exception of Elishaphat, are otherwise found in other parts of Chronicles, where they are regarded as priestly or Levitical names. 28 Other changes in the Chronicler’s account confirm that priests and Levites were meant (see below). The change is understandable because the rebellion began in the temple, and it would certainly have disturbed the Chronicler to have foreign mercenaries enter an area where not even lay Judeans were allowed (cf. Jehoshebat above and 2 Chr 23:6–7). Some scholars have suggested that the list of priests may derive from a different source that contained a parallel version of the rebellion, 29 but this is unlikely. The change is logical and understandable in view of the Chronicler’s theological conceptions. 30 60F

607F

608F

609F

610F

26

On Carians as foreign mercenaries, see for example Carl S. Ehrlich, “Carites,” ABD 1:872. 27 Willi, Die Chronik als Auslegung, 118–19, has suggested that the Chronicler did not understand many of the old institutions and actors of the older text, for example  and ', and he therefore replaced them with other actors. This is a very unlikely explanation, because the changes are systematically made towards certain theological conceptions. His view ignores the general development in the whole chapter and the tendency of changes that the Chronicler made in relation to his source. Willi (119) similarly explains many of the changes in locations as a consequence of unfamiliarity with the old locations of the monarchical times. 28 Rudolph, Chronikbücher, 271. 29 For example, Steven L. McKenzie, The Chronicler’s Use of the Deuteronomistic History (HSM 33; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1984). 30 The incomprehensible construction    /  – which is often unsuccessfully translated – may suggest that 2 Chr 23:1 was edited. 2 Kgs 11:4 uses the preposition  to express a genitive, but this makes little sense in 2 Chr 23:1, because then one would have to conclude that Jehoiada was supported by the leaders of Azariah the son of Jeroham, of Ishmael the son of Jehohanan and of Azariah the son of Oded. If one follows most modern and ancient translations (such as LXX) and assumes that  introduces the object, one would have to explain why the author first used   . to introduce the object then switched to in the middle of the list of objects and then again returned to the original  . . Consequently, the list of persons in 2 Chr 23:1 may contain traces of further editing, or the Chronicler preserved the  preposition from the original text only partly, but after having difficulties incorporating it in the new text, switched to the  . preposition in the middle of the list.

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The Chronicler’s expansions and changes concerning the beginnings of the rebellion continue in 2 Chr 23:2, which adds that before starting the rebellion, the rebels had to go to all Judean cities and gather the Levites and the chief fathers () of Israel to join the rebellion. The idea that the Levites as a group are part of the rebellion against the evil queen Athaliah is again an expected addition. 31 It further changes the nature of the rebellion from a military coup d’état led by soldiers and mercenaries to a general religious uprising with the aim of re-establishing a nation that follows Yahweh’s will. The role of the chief fathers is also typically added in Chronicles, although their role remains less significant than that of the priests and Levites. 32 The final change in these verses deals with the location where the rebels met. Yahweh’s temple as the meeting place was changed to Jerusalem. As other changes in the passage also indicate, the temple had, in the Chronicler’s Second Temple context, become a place mainly to be entered by priests, while 1–2 Kings implies that the rules had not been so strict during the First Temple Period. A meeting of the rebels in the temple, especially if non-priests were also involved, would not have been permissible for the Chronicler. Although many of the events in the following verses still take place in the temple, the Chronicler found it necessary to stress that nonpriests were not allowed to enter the temple itself and that the Levites would kill anyone who did so (2 Chr 23:6–7). 2 Chr 23:1–2 shows that the Chronicler took great freedom to rewrite his source text whenever it conflicted with his theological conceptions. 33 Several changes were made to show that the sanctity of the temple was preserved during the rebellion. The main idea of the passage was taken from the source, but many of the details were radically changed and the resulting text in 2 Chr 23:1–2 is also notably expanded. Actors and locations were changed, without the author even seeking to justify the change or to explain the relationship of the new text to the source. For example, instead of trying to keep the older text and specify that the rebels met outside the temple but did not enter it, the Chronicler found it easier to omit the temple in this context and just refer to Jerusalem. He also did not regard it necessary to give the royal guard and the Carian soldiers even a 61F

612F

613F

31 One should not exclude the possibility that the reference to all Levites and the chief fathers is a later addition to the Chronicler’s account, but the constant involvement of the Levites in the ensuing verses may speak against this assumption. 32 The term is never found in 1–2 Kings, whereas it is fairly common in Chronicles and other late books, such as Num, Ezra and Neh (68 times in all these books, and outside them only 3 times). Its additions seem to follow a general tendency in Chronicles. 33 As noted by Torrey, Ezra Studies, 218, “the story of the coronation of the boy-king … is here rewritten in order to make it correspond to the recognized usage of the third century B.C.”

Selective Transmission of the Past

249

small role in the rebellion, but instead dropped them altogether and replaced them with actors who could move freely inside the temple. He may not have wanted to give the reader any impression that military power and foreign mercenaries were used to oust the evil queen. Although an interesting and possibly historical vestige, the foreign soldiers were a disturbing factor for the Chronicler’s view of the past. They would have defiled Yahweh’s temple and therefore could not have been the backbone of a successful rebellion to reinstate the Davidic dynasty. For the Chronicler, Israel’s past was primarily dependent on Yahweh’s will, which Israel could influence by keeping his commandments; consequently, the sanctity of the temple as well as the role of the priests and Levites was central. The source and the past were corrected accordingly, and in effect, the Chronicler reinvented this part of Israel’s history on the basis of his theological conceptions. The differences between the accounts continue after the rebels have met: 2 Chr 23:3

    7  * "  ,  & .5.   ! 4  3    & . 5.   .    .  " . ,

        !   . :  . - *&4  

2 Kgs 11:4

    . "  , … "   ,       & . 5.   

.  . "   , 

In 2 Kgs 11:4 Jehoiada makes a treaty with the soldiers and has them give an oath of loyalty to support him in the rebellion. Only after the oath Jehoiada reveals Joash the son of the dead king Ahaziah, to them, and the rebellion can begin. All this happens in the temple, where Joash had been hiding. Although the general development of the events is similar, the Chronistic account differs in many details. Instead of a treaty between the soldiers and Jehoiada ( in 2 Kgs 11:4 refers to the soldiers), in the Chronistic account the treaty () is a covenant between the entire community (# ) 34 and the king. 35 It is a common feature of 1–2 Chronicles to 614F

34

615F

Note that the Chronicler’s account contradicts his own conceptions about who was allowed in the temple. According to 2 Chr 23:6–7 it was strictly prohibited for nonpriests, whereas v. 3 insinuates that the entire community came to the temple. The idea that the covenant was made in the temple was evidently adopted from 2 Kgs 11:4, but the change the Chronicler made introduced an implied contradiction between his own conceptions and the text. The Chronicler evidently had difficulties in harmonizing the main plot of the older text where the temple was the center of the rebellion with his own theological conceptions.

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Juha Pakkala

emphasize the involvement of the entire community in various events. The idea that the people make a covenant with the king is also encountered in 2 Kgs 11:17, but this occurs only after the coup has been successful. 36 Although it is illogical that the whole community made a covenant with king Joash before he was made king, in the initial stages of the rebellion when everything still had to be kept secret – also shown by the secrecy concerning the hiding place and existence of an heir to the throne – the Chronicler regarded it more important to adhere to his ideals and include the whole community rather than to consider the rationale of the account. 37 The oath () was also omitted in 2 Chr 23:3, because it had become irrelevant after the treaty had been changed into a general covenant. In 2 Kgs 11:4 the  functions as a promise of loyalty for the rebellion, further stressed by the oath, whereas in 2 Chr 23:3 it defines the general relationship between the people and the Davidic king. 38 2 Chr 23:3 is an example of radical changes in relation to the source. Preserving five words from 2 Kings, the Chronicler took the liberty of changing the main actors (leaders of the soldiers to all Israel and the king), 39 omitting the oath of loyalty, making a linguistic improvement without changing the message, and adding a comment that he regarded theologically relevant (      & ). In this verse the author took ideas and themes from the source, but was not bound by them to a great extent, and it is clear that we are not dealing with just an interpretation of the older text. The Chronicler consciously changed the mean61F

617F

618F

619F

35 According to Sara Japhet, The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles and its Place in Biblical Thought (BEATAJ 9; rev. ed.; Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1997), 101, “although the narrative describing the events is different, their significance remains the same.” It is necessary to disagree with her view. She also assumes that in the Chronicler’s account the first covenant (in 23:3) was “between Jehoiada and the commanders,” but this must be a misunderstanding. 36 Joash is called “king” in 2 Chr 23:3, although he is made king only in v. 11. The motivation to change the treaty to a covenant between the people and the king introduced a clear inconsistency in the text. 37 As noted by Japhet, I & II Chronicles, 830, on 2 Kgs 11: “a sense of authenticity pervades the entire course of the narrative.” This can hardly be said of 2 Chr 23, although the authenticity of 2 Kgs 11 should also not be taken for granted. 38 The Chronicler’s addition of Yahweh’s promise to preserve David’s dynastic line is understandable, because it emphasizes what is at stake here and to whom the people are declaring allegiance. There is no reason to see any other source for this comment than Yahweh’s promise of eternal dynasty to David in 2 Sam 7. The Chronicler wanted to remind the reader about the broader theological meaning of the whole event, which he did not find appropriately represented in the older text. Williamson, 1 and 2 Chronicles, 315–17, has also suggested that the Chronicler probably attempted to show that the rise of power by Joash had similarities with David’s rise to power. 39 2 Kgs 11:3 implies that the leaders of the soldiers are the subject. They are not repeated, but this is evident after v. 2.

251

Selective Transmission of the Past

ing of the text, without having any source to support the presented interpretation of the past events. Rewriting continues in the following verses, where Jehoiada gives orders to the rebels on how to execute the rebellion: 2 Chr 23

2 Kgs 11

*.     L +/ !- .  -  :  .   !"-  ,      "- *  L   J H  & . 5.       L  5 )   !    L     ) '    !        "- *     *    )   6  ". # *+"    5  ,        5     . .  +      !         &  .5.  .  ,  + 7  7  +    .    )      ) ' +)"   &  .5.   + .   4

"   + '  5 *.     L +/ !- .  -  :  .  L   & . 5.   . .     "   +!     L  6 .  +  '      ! L    L    H  . .    .  L  '" " *. )  , +  7 & .5.  .      . .    + .   

   &  . 5.   ! .  7 8  +  )  O  .    )      )" +)  ' &  .5.   + .  

In 2 Kgs 11:5–6 the Carian soldiers and guards are divided into three groups of duty, guarding three locations where they should be when the rebellion begins: the king’s palace, the Sur gate, and the gate behind where the guards were located („¿    ¹ ). They are also ordered to guard the temple, each in turn, although the meaning of this part of the verse ( º«„ ««€«) is debated and possibly corrupted. 40 Moreover, two smaller divisions are ordered to guard the part of the temple where the king is (À« €  „€„ ). They should surround the king and kill anyone who tries to break their ranks. In accordance with the other changes, the author of 2 Chr 23 made an addition that specifies the three different groups as Levites and priests. The locations were also changed: the gates, the king’s palace and the Jesod (Foundation)-gate. Moreover, all of the people are now asked to go to the courts of Yahweh’s temple, as 2 Chr 23:6 explicitly emphasizes that nonpriests and non-Levites may not enter the temple building itself. 41 Although some scholars have suggested that this verse may be an addition, at least v. 6b is clearly influenced by 2 Kgs 11:7b; this influence could indicate that, instead of being an addition, at least this part of the verse is a 620F

621F

40

For example Williamson, 1 and 2 Chronicles, 316, suggests that both 2 Kgs 11 as well as 2 Chr may be partially corrupted in these verses. 41 Thus also, for example, Japhet, I & II Chronicles, 831.

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poorly written vestige from the original text of 2 Chronicles. Moreover, v. 6 is well in line with the other changes that the Chronicler made in relation to his source text. Several details in these verses are informative of the Chronicler’s tendencies and methods for using the source. Again the holiness of the temple and the primacy of the priestly class were more important than the preservation of the integrity and rationale of the original account. He omitted the soldiers and guards and replaced them with priests, although it would have been much more logical for soldiers to guard the king. He also added that the whole nation took part in the rebellion and went to the courts of the temple (v. 6), although the whole event is originally described as a secret and sensitive operation that should surprise queen Athaliah and her entourage. It is illogical that the whole nation would have taken part in the rebellion and still the queen did not even hear about it before v. 11. Nevertheless, the addition is well in accordance with 2 Chr 23:3 where the entire community is said to have taken part in the treaty. The idea that the guards should kill anyone who tries to break their rank when they surround the king was replaced with the idea that the Levites, in addition to protecting the king, should kill anyone who tries to enter the temple (2 Chr 23:7). This change again illustrates how priestly interests overruled realism in the Chronicler’s account of the rebellion. Protection of the king’s life in the sensitive phase of the rebellion was clearly a relevant feature of the older text, but the Chronicler regarded it even more important for the success of the rebellion to preserve the temple’s sanctity. Practical and military considerations were replaced by theological considerations. The tendency to increase the role of the Levites continues in 2 Chr 23:8:  2 Chr 23:8

 + '   . " - *  +     ,   +/ !- ,         -  . +  # ,  " *   )   L  ')  !  L  )#   5  .  " *   )  2 "  *

2 Kgs 11:9

 + '   . " - * () 5   / +/ !- ,         -  . +  # ,  " *   )   L '"  !   L   " *   )  +" .  , 

Whereas 2 Kgs 11:9 refers to the leaders of the hundreds – evidently of the Carian soldiers and guards of 2 Kgs 11:4 – as the main pillars of the rebellion, the Chronicler replaced them with the Levites, followed by the whole of Judah. Using some words of the source, the Chronicler further formed a short comment about the priestly divisions. The verse is yet another example of how the Chronicler could replace the original actors with new ones without even trying to explain or leave a trace of the original text. Similar motives to change the text are also found in 2 Chr 23:11:

253

Selective Transmission of the Past 2 Chr 23:11

  ! (+) , & . 5.     . . (+) '),   )"+   ,+!    .  .   .    )  + (   ,    + & .5.    + "  ,

2 Kgs 11:12

  !   , & .5.     .  . '),   )"+   ,+!    .  .   . $ +*  ,  + (   ,  & .5.   + "  ,

Following his general tendency, it was clear for the Chronicler that Jehoiada was the main actor in the scene, but the original text contained a problem. Some of the verbs were in the singular and some in the plural, although the subject is not specified. The reason for the inconsistency is probably an earlier expansion in 2 Kgs 11:12a¡ 42 The singular evidently refers to Jehoiada, while the more original plural implies that the guards of v. 11 are the subject. Instead of harmonizing the verb forms, the Chronicler specified the subject of the plural verbs as Jehoiada and his sons. Jehoiada was already implied by the older text whereas the sons are an interpretation and attempt to correct the incongruence caused by the addition. The omission of Á € „ in the Chronistic account is probably a consequence of changed subjects. In 2 Kgs 11 the soldiers of v. 11 („¿ ) clap their hands for the king, but since they were removed in the Chronicler’s account, Jehoiada and his sons would have been clapping. In the Chronicler’s mind, it may have been inappropriate or degrading for priests to clap for the king, although the meaning of the gesture in ancient Israel is not well known. 43 The short reference to Jehoiada appointing people to overseer the temple in 2 Kgs 11:18 was substantially expanded in 2 Chr 23:18. 44 62F

623F

624F

42 The differences in plural vs. singular verbs of 2 Kgs 11:12 and 2 Chr 23:11 are considerable. The LXX and MT versions also differ in this respect: The LXX of 2 Chr follows 2 Kgs 11, whereas the LXX of 2 Kgs 11:12 uses singular verbs where the MT has plural verbs. The problems were probably caused by earlier editorial activity in 2 Kgs ¼¯¡™š|ž¥¦ ¡›Ÿ{Ÿ|¤{Ÿ ¡¯£\+­š|¥|¤ ¡¯{¤|¥¨¨{{Ÿ2 Kgs 11 that disturbed the original plural subjects of the verse. For the editorial history of 2 Kgs 11, see Levin, Der Sturz der Königin Atalja, 18–19, 45–Âá𠡯+­š{›š{¤Ÿ addition, the verbs (' and ) are in the singular, and it is implied that Jehoiada is the subject, whereas it is probable that the guards (') are the original subject of v. ¯£\¡™š|ƙ¦2 Kgs 11:12 probably preserves the oldest text, whereas 2 Chr 23:11 as well as the LXX of 2 Kgs 11:12 have secondarily attempted to correct the disturbance between the subjects, both in their own way. The verbs were changed to singular and thus Jehoiada was made the only subject of the LXX of 2 Kgs ¼¯¡ǟ»{Ÿ ¡¯\¨|¤ the LXX preserve the plural (clapping of the hands and the hailing of the new king), and it is implied that the soldiers are the subjects. 43 The gesture is otherwise found only in Ezek 6:11; 21:19, 21; 22:13. 44 The longer reading in the LXX of 2 Chr 23:18 should be preferred as original. The MT is missing an equivalent of       ! "   # ,

254

Juha Pakkala 2 Chr 23:18

2 Kgs 11:18

" : #( J   )   /. ,         :#     . -  ,     "- *   +* *   )")!-       !       ! +    /   ". )

): #( J  *  /. , …      !

It is not surprising that the Chronicler reacted to this reference by providing more detailed instructions on tasks relating to the temple, with the priests and Levites playing a major role. Similar expansions are common in many other parts of 1–2 Chronicles as well, and in fact, this is a typical expansion of the older text that one commonly assumes to have taken place in the transmission of the Hebrew Bible. Nevertheless, the comparison of the parallel accounts has shown that such classical expansions are only one of the many techniques used by the Chronicler to edit and reuse the source in his composition.

C. Summary 2 Chr 23 demonstrates various positions towards the source text, which was a version of 2 Kgs 11 relatively close to the MT. A comparison of these two passages bears evidence to the editorial processes of the Hebrew Bible and shows how a source text was used to create a new version that describes the same events. The differences also show how the Chronicler related to the source text. Although biblical scholarship has invested considerable attention to reconstruct the earlier sources of various compositions, there has been notably little discussion on the consequences of the differences between 1–2 Kings and 1–2 Chronicles for understanding the editorial processes during the time when much or most of the Hebrew Bible was written. Although only a short sample, this passage challenges some assumptions made in the investigation of the editorial history of the Hebrew Bible. Most of the differences with the source are consistent with the theological conceptions and ideals of the Chronicler, known from other parts of Chronicles. As in many other passages, the Chronicler increased the role of the priests, the Levites, and the temple. Many of the additions in relation to 2 Kgs 11 are not great in number of words but they still had substantial impact on the text and fundamentally changed the message of the passage. It is noteworthy that many of the additions did not have any notable kernel probably caused by a homoioteleuton, as assumed by many, for example, Rudolph, Chronikbücher, 272.

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in the source text. They were added because of the Chronicler’s conviction. For example, the priests and Levites were added because the Chronicler assumed that they should have had a role. In view of the source text these additions can be characterized as inventions that do not have a textual basis in the older text, although one may see logic in the way they were created on the basis of the older text. In addition to the expansions, 2 Chr 22:10–23:21 bears witness to much more radical interventions to the text: some parts of 2 Kgs 11 were omitted and others rewritten. The rewritings range from small changes of individual words (e.g.,  to ) to larger rewritings of details, actors and events (e.g., the main actors of the rebellion). The Chronicler replaced some of the omitted parts with an entirely new version of the events, but there are also examples of omissions without any substitute in the Chronicler’s text. The Chronicler apparently did not feel obliged to render everything in the source, and since the omissions mainly occur where the source is in disagreement with the Chronicler’s theological conceptions, it is evident that he did not omit parts of the text because he agreed with the source. 45 Although the Chronicler had a high regard of 1–2 Kings, he could apparently rewrite or omit anything which did not correspond to his own views of the past or conflicted with his theological conceptions. The Chronicler did not have to explain or interpret any part of the older text, rather, contradictions and perceived errors were simply omitted and, if necessary, replaced with a new text. There are several cases where “correcting” or “revising” would much better describe his approach towards the older text than “interpreting.” The replacement of the soldiers and mercenaries with the priests and Levites is the most illustrative example of this. 625F

45

Nevertheless, it is clear that not all omissions are caused by theological problems or the Chronicler’s disagreement with something in the source. As noted by Ben Zvi, History, Literature and Theology in the Book of Chronicles, 92, “It has been shown again and again that these supposed ‘lacks’ should not be construed as evidence for a denial or for an implied request to dismiss or devaluate the periods that are not mentioned, not their main figures.” This certainly applies to many passages (or figures like Moses, as pointed out by Ben Zvi). One should not make it a general rule that if something is missing in Chronicles in relation to his sources, it must have been against the Chronicler’s convictions. However, when we can establish a parallel where the source text evidently contradicts the Chronicler’s conceptions that can be reconstructed on the basis of his work and when the Chronicler is clearly using the text but leaves out details or replaces them with something that explicitly contradicts the source, it is fair to assume that the Chronicler was not in agreement with the source and that the omission was caused by a theological or other reason. The passages investigated here have provided many such examples. In the end, each passage has to be investigated separately to understand what the Chronicler’s position to his source was in that case.

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Despite considerable freedoms to omit, add, and rewrite, the Chronicler did not invent the past freely. He was evidently convinced that the text in 2 Kgs 11 preserved important and even authoritative information about Jehoiada’s rebellion. He copied much of 2 Kgs 11 word-for-word, which shows that he regarded this account as a generally reliable text which could function as the starting point for Jehoiada’s rebellion. However, this was done only to a point where the source text did not contradict his theological conceptions. Most of the changes are theological corrections. The Chronicler’s text is the result of an interrelationship between the source and his own theological conceptions. The fact that much of the source was preserved in Chronicles should not distract one from seeing that his theological conceptions had precedence if they conflicted with the source. 46 Although the source was assumed to have considerable historical authority, it had to be corrected theologically. Where the source text was changed, there is no question that the Chronicler regarded his own version more relevant and correct than 2 Kgs 11.

46 This does not mean that 1–2 Kgs would not have had considerable theological influence on the Chronicler. See Willi, Die Chronik als Auslegung, 55.

Remembering Ancestors: A Levitical Genealogy in Yehud and the Bohai Gaos Genealogy of Gao Huan 1 ZHENHUA (JEREMIAH) MENG Remembering played a central role in ancient Israel, especially in Judah’s Early Second Temple period, when many books of the Bible were written or redacted. Genealogy in post-exilic times helped establish a strong connection between the Yehudites and the monarchic past. In the present essay, a levitical genealogy in Chronicles and its background is analyzed to show how the memories of ancestors were shaped, and a cross-textual reading of a similar case in ancient China is then examined.

A. The Genealogy of the Gatekeepers The Hebrew word “gatekeeper” (”¹È ‹) originates from the word “gate” (ˆ¹ ‹ ˆ ) and occurs 37 times in different forms in the Hebrew Bible, 34 of which are in post-exilic historical books, including Chronicles (20 times), Ezra (4 times), and Nehemiah (10 times). Since this leaves only three other occurrences in all other books in the Hebrew Bible 2, we do not have a clear image of this group. The gatekeepers, along with the priests and Levites, are always mentioned without their lineage, in the long lists in Ezra–Nehemiah, so hardly any clue as to their ancestral heritage is available from these two books. The chronicler, however, emphasizes that the gatekeepers, or at least their chiefs among the returnees after exile, are Levites (1 Chr 9:26). A detailed genealogy of the gatekeepers during David’s time can be found in 1 Chr 26. 628F

1 This essay is supported by the Chinese MOE Humanity and Social Science Youth Foundation Research Project (No. 12YJC752025) and the MOE Project of Key Research Institute of Humanities and Social Sciences at Universities (No. 2009JJD730002). 2 2 Sam 18:26; 2 Kgs 7:10, 11.

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Zhenhua Meng

1 Chronicles 26 1

As for the divisions of the gatekeepers: of the Korahites, Meshelemiah son of Kore, of the sons of Asaph. 2 Meshelemiah had sons: Zechariah the firstborn, Jediael the second, Zebadiah the third, Jathniel the fourth, 3 Elam the fifth, Jehohanan the sixth, Eliehoenai the seventh. 4 Obed-edom had sons: Shemaiah the firstborn, Jehozabad the second, Joah the third, Sachar the fourth, Nethanel the fifth, 5 Ammiel the sixth, Issachar the seventh, Peullethai the eighth; for God blessed him. 6 Also to his son Shemaiah sons were born who exercised authority in their ancestral houses, for they were men of great ability. 7 The sons of Shemaiah: Othni, Rephael, Obed, and Elzabad, whose brothers were able men, Elihu and Semachiah. 8 All these, sons of Obed-edom with their sons and brothers, were able men qualified for the service; sixty-two of Obed-edom. 9 Meshelemiah had sons and brothers, able men, eighteen. 10 Hosah, of the sons of Merari, had sons: Shimri the chief (for though he was not the firstborn, his father made him chief), 11 Hilkiah the second, Tebaliah the third, Zechariah the fourth: all the sons and brothers of Hosah totaled thirteen.

While introducing the chief of the gatekeepers, Shallum (‹), the chronicler highlights that he is “son of Kore, son of Ebiasaph, son of Korah” (1 Chr 9:19), Japhet identifies Shallum with the first gatekeeper in the genealogy, Meshelemiah ( „«‹«), who is “son of Kore, of the sons of Asaph of the Korahites” (1 Chr 26:1), despite the different periods the chronicler puts them inbecause of alternating forms. 3 Hosah, another leader of the gatekeepers, is “of the sons of Merari” (1 Chr 26:10). Merari is the son of Levi (Gen 46:11; 1 Chr 5:27 [6:1], 6:1[16]), whereas Korah is Levi’s great grandson (Num 16:1; 1 Chr 6:23 [38]). Thus, the lineage of the two families is traced back to Levi, as shown in the following chart: 629F

3 Sara Japhet, I and II Chronicles: A Commentary (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1993), 452.

259

Remembering Ancestors Levi

Gittite (?)

Gatekeepers

Korah

Merari

Meshelemia

Hosah

Obed-edom

18 descendants (7 sons)

13 descendants (4 sons)

62 descendants (8 sons)

As indicated by the genealogy, Meshelemiah and Hosah, along with their descendants, are depicted as Levites. However, as the above chart shows, the largest and most dominant branch, the family of Obed-edom, has no explicit link with Korah, Merari, or any other levitical ancestors. On one hand, the introduction to the family of Obed-edom is the longest in this genealogy because he has more sons and significantly more descendants than the other two families, “for God blessed him” (1 Chr 26:5). On the other hand, the chronicler does not mention his lineage at all. Therefore, the identification of his name with “Obed-edom the Gittite,” in whose house the ark rested after the crisis of Uzzah (2 Sam 6:10–11; 1 Chr 13:13–14), is unsurprising. Obed-edom is not only non-Levite, but also non-Israelite. It can also be noted that the introduction to Obed-edom’s family is inserted into the middle of that of Meshelemiah. Only “the Korahites and the sons of Merari” are mentioned as gatekeepers (1 Chr 26:19) in the conclusion verse of this section, and Obed-edom seems to be ignored. A number of scholars therefore suggest that vv. 4–8 on Obed-edom should be regarded as a later interpolation. 4 However, if Obed-edom is simply a later insertion, then it would be difficult to interpret the ingenious list in vv. 14–18, into the context of which Obed-edom (v. 15) is perfectly integrated. Moreover, Japhet has rightly emphasized that vv. 4–8 as a section has a welldesigned inner chiastic structure:

4 For recent scholarship, cf. Steven L. McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles (AOTC; Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2004), 199. For a summary, see Gary Knoppers, I Chronicles 10–29: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. (AB 12; New York: Doubleday, 2004), 869–70.

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I. (a) Genealogy of Meshelemiah (vv. 1b–3) (b) Genealogy of Obed-edom (vv. 4–7) (c) Number of gatekeepers of Obed-edom (v. 8) (d) Number of gatekeepers of Meshelemiah (v. 9) II. (e) Genealogy of the Merarites (vv. 10–11a) (f) Number of the Merarites (v. 11b) 5

Despite this structure, regardless of whether the entire genealogy underwent later redaction or not, considerable doubts exist as to the historical accuracy of the information. The names Jathniel, Peullethai, Othni, Rephael, Semachiah, Tebaliah, and Shuppim (v. 16) appear only once in this genealogy and are unique in the entire Hebrew Bible, so hardly any information about them is available. 6 The names Meshelemiah, Zechariah, Jediael, Zebadiah, Elam, Jehohanan, Eliehoenai, Jehozabad, Joah, Sachar, Nethanel, Ammiel, Issachar, Obed, Elzabad, Elihu, Shimri, and Hilkiah do appear elsewhere (even numerous times) in the Bible, but they are very popular and common names among the Israelites. In addition, these names are never associated with the gatekeepers or their work, except in the genealogy in 1 Chr 26. During the Hezekiah reform, a Shemaiah was mentioned as being responsible for guarding the gate (2 Chr 31:15), but he lived 300 years after David’s time. The only exceptions are Obed-edom and Hosah. The former was mentioned three times elsewhere as a gatekeeper (1 Chr 15:18, 24; 16:38), appearing with Hosah on the third time (Hosah is only mentioned here outside of the genealogy in 1 Chr 26). However, as emphasized earlier, Obededom is not a Levite or an Israelite 7 and is not listed in Ezra–Nehemiah. As such, these “Levitical descendants” in the genealogy in Chronicles do not have any relationship with gatekeepers elsewhere according to the textual evidence available. In addition, the names related to the work of gatekeepers in passages other than the genealogy of 1 Chr 26 are not associated with Levites. Jehiah (1 Chr 15:24), Miniamin, and Shecaniah (2 Chr 31:15) are unique in the Hebrew Bible, whereas Jehiel (1 Chr 15:18), Berechiah, Elkanah (1 Chr 15:23), Jeshua, and Amariah (2 Chr 31:15) are popular Israelite names that are not directly associated with any levitical characters. Although elsewhere a man by the name of Eden is identified once as a Levite (2 Chr

5

Japhet, I and II Chronicles, 451. The analysis of names here is based on the Masoretic text. Knoppers has listed the textual differences of the names among various Greek translations. Cf. Gary Knoppers, I Chronicles, 10–29, 861–6. This does not impact the following discussion. 7 For a detailed discussion, see Nancy Tan, “The Chronicler’s ‘Obed-Edom’: A Foreigner and a Levite?” JSOT 37 (2007): 217–230. 6

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29:12), he cannot be ascertained to be the same person as the Eden in 2 Chr 31:15. Therefore, although Chronicles states that “some of the Levites were scribes, and officials, and gatekeepers” (2 Chr 34:13), the Chronicler does not really give more examples which show that the gatekeepers were Levites in pre-exilic history, except for the abrupt genealogy and a simple statement on “Kore son of Imnah the Levite” (2 Chr 31:14). In fact, even for the families of Meshelemiah and Hosah, “although the order of the gatekeepers had become well established, and their duties clearly delineated, no convincing effort had been made to supply genealogical detail to confirm their levitical descent.” 8 The number of gatekeepers is also unclear. Figures such as 139 (Ezra 2:42), 138 (Neh 7:45), and 172 (Neh 11:19), are available, and the difference between them is acceptable. 1 Chronicles 9:22 mentions 212 gatekeepers among the returnees, which is a reasonable amount compared with the numbers in Ezra-Nehemiah. However, the chronicler claims that there were 4000 gatekeepers in David’s time (1 Chr 23:5), which is unbelievable. In fact, there is reason to question whether such a system of gatekeepers was ever actually implemented or if the description is rather a reflection of the reality of the Second Temple period. 9

B. Reason for the Memory of the Gatekeepers as Levites The genealogy of the gatekeepers in Chronicles is not as reliable as many other events recorded in this book. Why would the chronicler choose to remember the gatekeepers as Levites, the traditional temple personnel? What reasons exist to shape the memory of levitical ancestors for this group? The gatekeepers are not simply porters of the Second Temple, as some English translations (e.g., KJV, NWB) suggest, or temple personnel from the lower class, as some scholars infer. 10 On the contrary, they earn high status in Yehud. Moreover, they are listed along with priests and Levites, they own their own houses and lands (Ezra 2:70; Neh 7:73; 10:40 [39]), and they receive portions from the people (Neh 12:45, 47; 13:5). The roles of this group are diverse and extensive. Wright has analyzed and summarized their work well:

8

Japhet, I and II Chronicles, 451. Japhet, I and II Chronicles, 451; McKenzie, 1–2 Chronicles, 198, 200. 10 Cf. Jacob M. Myers, I Chronicles (AB 14; Garden City: Doubleday, 1965), 176; Roddy L. Braun, 1 Chronicles (WBC 14; Waco:Word, 1986), 252. 9

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1. According to the numerous military connotations, such as %,  and so on, used to depict the gatekeepers and their contributions in various events, they are portrayed as a paramilitary security force, but with functions that extend far beyond the mere maintenance of civil law and order; 2. They are in charge of the political administration of the state; 3. They are in charge of the administration of temple revenues; 4. Their tasks also encompass the custodial care of the temple and its paraphernalia. 11 637F

As such, Wright concludes that “the gatekeepers in Chronicles clearly constitute a distinctive social group.” 12 These people can further be inferred to actually constitute a new group formed in the distinctive context of the Second Temple Period. The Persian Empire was no more tolerant than the previous regimes ruling Israel or Judah (e.g., Assyria, Babylon). The main concerns of the empire in the minority areas were basically two things, namely, stability and income. The gatekeepers were responsible for both of these tasks. The Achaemenid government would send people called “The King’s Eyes and Ears” to the conquered districts. 13 Those magistrates whom they accused, “were … put to death, without form of trial or right to present their defense.” 14 As for income, the second temple served as both Internal Revenue Service and Local Taxation Bureau and collected money and treasury for the Persian Empire. 15 The gatekeepers were the temple personnel in charge of this temple. Gatekeepers were probably allowed, or even assigned and supported, by the Persian Empire. Therefore, regardless of where the gatekeepers were from or who their ancestors were, associating them with some honorable ancestors serving the temple during the Second Temple Period was important for establishing a memory which showed the continuity of pre- and post-exilic periods and in elevating their status. However, their real origin was neglected and 638F

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For a detailed discussion, see Jacob W. Wright, “Guarding the Gates: 1 Chronicles 26.1–19 and the Role of Gatekeepers in Chronicles,” JSOT 48 (1990): 69–81. 12 Wright, “Guarding the Gates,” 79. 13 T. Cuyler Young, “Iran,” in Encyclopaedia Britannica 21 (Chicago: Encyclopaedia Britannica, 1970), 946. 14 Clément Huart, Ancient Persia and Iranian Civilization (London: Routledge and K. Paul, 1972), 74–5. 15 Cf. Joachim Schaper, “The Jerusalem Temple as an Instrument of the Achaemenid Fiscal Administration,” VT 45 (1995): 528–539; Muhammad A. Dandamayev, “Achaemenid Babylonia,” in Ancient Mesopotamia: Socio-economic History, A Collection of Studies by Soviet Scholars (ed. I. M. Diakonoff; Moscow: Nauka Publishing House, 1969), 296–311 (309–310), with further literature.

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forgotten. As a result, the gatekeepers’ significant role and high status became somewhat historical and therefore, natural and self-evident. Although the Levites had their distinct identity in the temple, they were a small and weak group at the beginning of the Restoration. Why then were the gatekeepers associated with them? A similar case in Chinese history may give some insight.

C. The Ancestor Memory of Gao Huan Gao Huan (檀㫊, 496–547 CE, Gao is the family name) was a top general of the Chinese dynasty called Northern Wei (386–534 CE) and its branch successor state, Eastern Wei (534–550 CE). He was from a poor family in Huaishuo (⾨㚼) and once joined agrarian rebellions against Northern Wei rule during its last years. 16 However, he then threw himself into the lap of a Northern Wei general and gradually became the most influential official after a series of coups during which he enthroned and dethroned several emperors. After Northern Wei was divided into Eastern and Western regimes, he was always firmly in control of the Eastern Wei government, and in 550, his son, Gao Yang, eventually forced the last emperor of Eastern Wei to yield the throne to him, establishing the Gao clan as the imperial clan of a new Northern Qi state (550–577 CE). Gao Huan was formally honored as Emperor Shenwu (䤆㬎䘯ⷅ, literally “the divine and martial emperor”) by this new dynasty, which he actually founded. Gao Huan lived primarily in the early sixth century, when China was in a period called Southern and Northern Dynasties (420–589). This was an age of civil war between the southern and northern states. Although the nomads from north China occupied the central area of the country and founded regimes from early fourth century, the majority of the Chinese people, the Han (㯱), were compelled to migrate to south China, where they continued with their former political structure. On one hand, the nomads despised the Han people because of their frequent military failures, but on the other hand, they were willingly or reluctantly assimilated by the Han people in many respects, including culture, customs, and so on. Such syncretization was mutual. Many Han people in the northern dynasties chose to live the nomad’s life. Gao Huan was generally considered more Xianbei (汄⋹, the race of the Northern, Eastern, and Western Wei emperors) than Han by his contempo16 History of Northern Qi, Imperial Biography of Emperor Shenwu. Most volumes of this book were lost in later times and were supplemented by another historical book, which is a collection of the records of Northern Dynasties, History of Northern Dynasties, Book of Qi.

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raries. His nickname, Heliuhun, is a typical Xianbei name, whereas “Huan” is probably its translation in the Han language. His son was called “Xianbei bastard” (汄⋹⮷⃧) by his regime’s opponent. 17 Moreover, his historical imperial biography also records that “Emperor Shenwu’s family had been in the north for generations and therefore learned the customs there and acted as Xianbei” ĩ䤆㬎㖊䳗ᶾ⊿彡炻㓭Ḉ℞὿ĭġ忪⎴汄⋹). 18 However, before this description, the biography has a brief introduction of Gao Huan, stating that his ancestral hometown is “Tiao of Bohai” (㷌㴟咂Ṣ) and giving his genealogy spanning six generations: Yin was a prefecture of Xuantu during the Jin Dynasty (265–420). The son of Yin: Qing. The son of Qing: Tai. The son of Tai: Hu … Hu has four sons, the third one is Mi. Mi served the (Northern) Wei Dynasty… and has migrated to Huaishuo for breaking the law. The son of Mi: The emperor’s father Shusheng. 19 (ℕᶾ䣾昸ĭġ 㗳䌬厇⣒⬰ĭġ 昸䓇⸮ĭġ ⸮䓇㲘ĭġ ṽ櫷ɃɃ⛸㱽⽁⯭⾨㚼擯ˤ寏䓇䘯侫㞹䓇ˤ)

㲘䓇㷾ɃɃ㷾䓇⚃⫸ˤ䫔ᶱ⫸寏ĭġ

Based on this genealogy, Gao Huan is from a noble family, Gaos of Bohai, which had been very famous and influential from the Jin Dynasty until his time. Nevertheless, modern scholarship asserts this record to be doubtful. Since the 1930s, Shigekuni Hamaguchi (㺐⎋慵⚥) has studied every historical figure of Gao Huan’s genealogy, as well as their activities, and concluded that the record was spurious. 20 More evidence has been accumulated since then. For example, the Gaos of Bohai always had close relations with their hometown, whereas there are no such communications recorded for Gao Huan’s great grandfather, Gao Hu. Gao Huan’s grandfather in the genealogy, Gao Mi, died in 472 C.E. at the age of 45, when Gao Huan’s father, Gao Shusheng, was born. However, if Gao Shusheng had a younger brother, Gao Fan (檀侣), then how was this person born? The probability exists that “when the Gaos fabricated the genealogy, they did not carefully calculate the years and rashly designated Shusheng to be the ‘eldest son.’” 21 As for Gao Shusheng, he was said to be a Viceroy of Northern 17

History of Northern Dynasties, Book of Qi. History of Northern Dynasties, Book of Qi. 19 History of Northern Dynasties, Book of Qi. 20 Shigekuni Hamaguchi, “A Study of Gao Qi Regime”, Journal of History 49, no. 7– 8 (1938); repr. in A Study of Qin, Han, Sui, and Tang History (Tokyo: Tokyodaigaku shutpankai, 1966), 685–736. 21 Yue Miao, “The Political Conflict between Han and Xianbei People in Eastern Wei,” in Notes on Reading History (Beijing: Joint Publishing, 1963), 78–94 (81–2). A number of scholars are also attempting to answer this question. For instance, the historian might try to avoid recording the fact that Gao Mi was punished for lawbreaking and so accelerated his year of death. Another possibility is that Gao Shusheng’s younger brother was a posthumous child or was born by another wife or concubine of Gao Mi. For a re18

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Wei. 22 How is it then possible that Gao Huan was from a poor family and joined the rebellion against his father’s government? A mistake was made by either the History of Northern Dynasties or the History of Northern Wei (or possibly both). A number of scholars suggest that fabricating any genealogy within three recent generations is difficult, especially in the time of the Southern and Northern Dynasties, when genealogies were considered very significant. 23 However, considering the coercion by Gao Huan, fabricating a historical record would not have been difficult. In addition, Gao Huan’s son, Gao Yang, assigned Gao Dezheng (檀⽟㬋) of the Gaos of Bohai to be the official in charge of imperial affairs. He might have fully supported the emperor in associating Gao Huan’s family with Bohai Gaos. 24 Modern scholarship has varying opinions of Gao Huan’s original ethnicity. He might have been an individual of the Xianbei, 25 Goguryeo (檀⎍ᷥ), 26 or the Han people, as officially stated. However, it is a wellaccepted fact that his genealogy as seen today is unreliable. Understanding why Gao Huan and his family claimed themselves to be the Gaos of Bohai is not difficult. First, they played important roles in the political life of three dynasties, just as the gatekeepers did in Persian Yehud. Even as the most powerful family in the state, they would still seek to associate themselves with noble ancestors to let people remember that they were not of unknown origin and did have an honorable past. This claim would further legitimize their governance. Moreover, the Gaos of Bohai would be a good choice. Before the Southern and Northern Dynasties, the noble families (⢓㕷) were so venerated that only their members had the opportunity to be singled out to serve the government, whereas this was nearly impossible for others. This tradition continued into Gao Huan’s time and even until later dynasties. On the other hand, the Southern and Northern Dynasties created a period of wars and political chaos. Those who had a greater amount of military power could acquire the throne, whereas previous nobles became somewhat marginal. Therefore, not only cent systematical argument, see J. Zhang, “Analysis on the Origins and Genealogy of Gao Huan’s Family,” Journal of Literature, History and Philosophy 322 (2011): 47–67. 22 History of Northern Wei, Biography of Gao Mi. 23 Cf. Qun Chen, “The Gaos of Bohai and the Politics in Eastern Wei,” Studies on Chinese History 74 (1997): 70–80 (76), with further literature. 24 Luming Qiu. “Fabrications in the Genealogy of Noble Families: A Case Study of the Bohai Gaos,” Historical Research 312 (2008): 60–74 (72). 25 Yiliang Zhou, Essays on Wei, Jin and the Southern and Northern Dynasties, (Beijing: Zhonghua Press, 1963), 187–8. 26 Miao, Notes on Reading History, 93; Lianqing Chen, A Study on the Family Names of the Ancient Chinese Minorities (Changchun: Jilin Arts and History Press, 1993), 163; Hai Yan, “A Study on Gao Huan’s Origins,” Museum Research 93 (2006): 23–27.

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did Gao Huan found it advantageous to have ancestors from the Gaos of Bohai, but the Gaos of Bohai also found it good to have such a great “descendant” to continue their fame. The activities of Gao Huan’s “ancestors” were primarily recorded initially in the History of Northern Wei, which was written during the Northern Qi dynasty, a dynasty founded by Gao Huan’s son. The memory established in this book unsurprisingly serves the interest of the imperial family. However, the genealogy of Gao Huan seen today is derived from the History of Northern Qi and the History of Northern Dynasties, which were written in the early Tang Dynasty (618–907), approximately 70 years after the downfall of Gao’s Northern Qi Dynasty. Why then did a false genealogy continue to spread? One reason would be that one descendant of Gao Huan’s family in the early Tang was responsible for editing the genealogies of all noble families in the country and might have confirmed that Gao Huan was from the Gaos of Bohai. A more important point is that the real descendants of the Gaos of Bohai did not deny the genealogy of Gao Huan. On the contrary, they were willing to identify Gao Huan’s descendants as their relatives and close relations. 27 Therefore, the fabricated genealogy of Gao Huan was strongly remembered, whereas his real origin was totally forgotten.

D. Remarks on Cross-textual Reading From the analysis above, more insights on remembering and forgetting ancestors in history can be gleaned through the cross reading of biblical and Chinese historical texts. The cross-textual hermeneutics bears a task similar to comparative literature, that is, “to transcend the limitation of a narrowly defined perspective and to expand our horizon by assimilating as much as possible what appears to be alien and belonging to the Other.” 28 This encounter will result in an enrichment of experience and knowledge through a mutual engagement of the self and the other, what Hans-Georg Gadamer calls the “fusion of horizons.” A cross reading is more than just a comparison of the biblical account with other records to simply list their similarities and differences. 29 As a Chinese individual who grew up in an 27

Qiu, “Fabrications in the Genealogy of Noble Families,” 73. Longxi Zhang, The Tao and the Logos: Literary Hermeneutics: East and West (Durham: Duke University Press, 1992), xiv. 29 For the method cross–textual hermeneutics, cf. Archie Lee, “Biblical Interpretation in Asian Perspective,” AJT 7 (1993): 35–39; “Identity, Reading Strategy and Doing Theology,” BibInt 9 (1999): 197–201; Biblical Interpretation in Asia (Hong Kong: Chinese Christian Literature Council, 1996), with further literature. 28

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Asian context, rather than with a biblical culture, and therefore being significantly more familiar with the former, I would like to comment on issues raised in the foregoing text from the perspective of Chinese history. The redaction or fabrication of genealogies is common and typical in the history of many nations. The cases of gatekeepers in the Bible and Gao Huan in Chinese historical books are not unique in their respective contexts. Aside from the gatekeepers in Yehud, the genealogy of the singers is also doubtful and the reason for its formation may be similar. In China, many political rulers after Gao Huan were also keen to associate themselves with noble ancestors and families, including the emperors of the previously mentioned Tang Dynasty. Through this process, the memory of ancestors was gradually shaped and strengthened, whereas other facts were forgotten, including the origins of these people and the lineage of the real descendants of a family or nation. 30 The formation of such ancestral memories usually has a political background. The people and groups with political power may have the incentive to edit genealogies positively in order to add prestige to and further legitimize their regime. In addition, they have the capability of launching such a process. The gatekeepers were in charge of the military and the administrative work of both Jerusalem and the second temple and could very well have influenced the redaction of biblical historical books. Gao Huan’s family was the most powerful throughout three dynasties, and historians would then follow their instructions or even ingratiate themselves on their own initiative by helping Gao Huan’s family with the fabrication of their genealogy. As previously noted, the Levites seem to be a marginal and small group in the Persian Yehud. Among approximately 42,000 returnees cited by Ezra–Nehemiah, only 74 Levites were present (Ezra 2:40; Neh 7:43), but they did not accompany Ezra on his journey to Jerusalem (Ezra 8:15). In addition, they were supposed to be in low positions and were accused by the prophet of…?(Ezek 44:10, 12). Why then would the gatekeepers want to associate themselves with Levites? The Levites were dramatically venerated in the second reform of Nehemiah. They were explicitly a positive and significant group in Neh 13 compared with the priests, who were criticized by Nehemiah. 31 The Persian Empire could possibly have supported the priests in Yehud to run the local administration, but they also may have been worried about the “super power” of the priesthood that could be dangerous to the central government. The empire, therefore, chose the Levites to join the ruling class of 30

For example, Tobiah is portrayed in Nehemiah as a foreigner. For detailed discussions, see Kyung-Jin Min, The Levitical Authorship of EzraNehemiah (London: T&T Clark International, 2004), 132–7. 31

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Yehud as a balancing power. 32 The Levites were so few in number that they could not be sufficiently influential in Yehud, even if they had the support of Persia. However, the gatekeepers were still related to this group. The case of Gao Huan may shed light on this question. Gao Huan was not greatly in need of the power and support of the Gaos of Bohai, which was already a marginal clan during his time. However, Gao Huan established the memory that the Gaos of Bohai were his ancestors to elevate his reputation for the benefit of his reign, rather than to obtain real support from this family. From this perspective, the notion “levitical” in the Persian Yehud may well be more of a symbol than real ancestry. The gatekeepers thus had the identity of traditional temple personnel, which could help them legitimize their role in the temple and Yehud, although they may not have had any blood ties to Levi. Scholars have been arguing on the levitical authorship of the Chronicles without reaching any consensus. 33 However, the Levites are undoubtedly responsible for a great portion of Chronicles, and they are surely highlighted in this book. From the case study of Gao Huan, reasons exist to infer that the real Levites were ready to embrace the gatekeepers as part of their clan because this act would benefit both sides. Thus, Gatekeepers would have notable ancestors, whereas the Levites in turn became more powerful. The formation of this alliance and the writing of history further enhanced the memory of ancestors.

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On this point, see Min, The Levitical Authorship of Ezra–Nehemiah, 136–7; Zhenhua Meng, “The Rising of the Levites: Reason and Influence,” Jewish Studies 9 (2010): 121–131. 33 Regarding the authorship of Chronicles, some scholars suggest two parts (Chron. – P and Chron. –L) representing respectively the priests and the Levites. Cf. Hugh G. M. Williamson, “The Origins of the Twenty-four Priestly Courses,” in Studies in the Historical Books of the Old Testament. (ed. J. A. Emerton; Leiden: Brill, 1979), 251–68; 1 and 2 Chronicles (NCB; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1982), 28–31; Min, The Levitical Authorship of Ezra–Nehemiah, 66–70. Other scholars assert one author (or one group of authors) that tries to equal the two groups. Cf. Gary N. Knoppers, “Hierodules, Priests, or Janitors?: The Levites in Chronicles and the History of the Israelite Priesthood,” JBL 118 (1999): 49–72.

From Generation to Generation: Remembered History in Psalm 78 JUDITH GÄRTNER The notion of “remembered history” is central to the cultural studies debates on cultural memory as initiated by J. and A. Assmann, 1 and it provides the conceptual framework of this study. In this approach, remembered history is understood to provide the basis for the collective memory of a community. Such a historic account consists of events from the past that are communally valued as significant for the identity formation and affirmation of the community. 2 This paradigmatic character of remembered history finds expression in the history of the events’ reception. Individuals retrospectively interpret events, imputing them with meaning that both renders them constitutive for the collective’s identity and legitimizes the individual’s belonging to that specific community of remembering. The past thus remembered lays the foundation for the present. 3 The prooemium of the historical Ps 78, vv. 1–11, reflects on this issue of remembered history. 4 Indeed, the remembering of paradigmatic events 1

See Jan and Aleida Assmann, “Das Gestern im Heute: Medien und soziales Gedächtnis,” in Die Wirklichkeit der Medien: Eine Einführung in die Kommunikationswissenschaft. (ed. K. Merten et al.; Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1994), 114–140, and see as a summary of the discussion Astrid Erll, “Kollektives Gedächtnis und Erinnerungskulturen,” in Konzepte der Kulturwissenschaften (ed. A. Nünning and V. Nünning; Stuttgart: J. B. Metzler, 2003), 156–185 (156–180). 2 On the notion of the collective memory see Erll, “Gedächtnis,” 175–180 and Wulf Kansteiner, “Postmoderner Historismus: Das kollektive Gedächtnis als neues Paradigma der Kulturwissenschaften,” in Handbuch der Kulturwissenschaften: Paradigmen und Disziplinen (vol. 2; ed. F. Jaeger and J. Straub; Stuttgart: J. B. Metzler, 2004), 119–139 (119–136). 3 See Kansteiner, “Historismus,” 136. 4 On the meaning of remembering in the Old Testament in general and in the psalms in particular, see Bernd Janowski, “Schöpferische Erinnerung: Zum ‘Gedenken Gottes’ in der biblischen Fluterzerzählung,” in Welt als Schöpfung: Beiträge zur Theologie des Alten Testaments 4 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2008), 172–198 (172– 197).

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is the prooemium’s very topic, by which it offers insights into the understanding of processes of remembering and forgetting during the Second Temple period. The psalm makes explicit the actual reception process. The culture studies debates propose to outline this reception process of collective memory in general and remembered history specifically. The following paragraphs will examine the significance of the historical hermeneutical reflections of Ps 78. The outline of the general conceptualization of history found in Ps 78 and discussed in part 1 of this chapter serves as the context for the examination of the specific content of the remembered history. Part 2 addresses the process of the transmission of tradition () as described in the prooemium (vv. 1–11). Part 3 evaluates the notions of “remembering” () and “forgetting” () YHWH’s miraculous deeds. As will be shown,  and  are the semantic key terms introduced in the prooemium; they structure the entire psalm and its specific theology of remembered history during the Second Temple period. 5 64F

A. “Remembered History” in Psalm 78 The historical Ps 78 unfolds the Israelite’s experience of YHWH’s work in creation and history in 72 verses, spanning the time of the desert wanderings to the inauguration of the Davidic kingship. 6 The recounting of the early history of Israel is presented in two parallel passages, vv. 12–39 and vv. 40–72. 7 Beginning with an account of the mi65F

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The following exposition is part of my habilitation project, which is published under the title Die Geschichtspsalmen: Eine Studie zu den Psalmen 78, 105, 106, 135 und 136 als hermeneutische Schlüsseltexte im Psalter (FAT 84; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012). 6 The complex textual structure of the psalm consists of a prooemium (vv. 1–11) and two parallel sequences of an historic account (vv. 12–39 and 40–72). This complexity has been attributed to the literary development of this psalm. For an overview on the various literary-critical positions, see Friedhelm Hartenstein, “Zur Bedeutung der Schöpfung in den Geschichtspsalmen,” in “Gerechtigkeit und Recht zu üben” (Gen 18,19): Studien zur altorientalischen und biblischen Rechtsgeschichte, zur Religionsgeschichte Israels und zur Religionssoziologie (ed. R. Achenbach and M. Arneth; BZAR 13; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2009), 335–349 (340), Anm. 22–23. See furthermore Hermann Spieckermann’s Heilsgegenwart: Eine Theologie der Psalmen (FRLANT 148; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989), 133–139; Frank-Lothar Hossfeld and Erich Zenger, Psalmen 51–100 (HThKAT; Freiburg: Herder, 2000), 421–425 and Markus Witte, “From Exodus to David: History and Historiography in Psalm 78,” in History and Identity: How Israel’s Later Authors Viewed Its Earlier History (DCLY 2006; ed. N. Calduch-Benages and J. Liesen. Berlin: de Gruyter, 2006), 21–42 (22–24). 7 On the composition of the psalm, see Notker Füglister, “Psalm LXXXVIII [sic!]: Der Rätsel Lösung?,” in Congress Volume Leuven 1989 (VTSup XLIII; ed. J. A. Emer-

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raculous deeds of the creator in the desert in vv. 12–16, it describes the dividing of the sea, YHWH’s protection and guidance by a cloud and a pillar of fire, and the water flowing from a stone. Immediately following these miracle accounts, the audience hears about the ancestors depreciative reaction in the desert (vv. 17–31). Their conduct is put into sharp relief against the background of God’s provisions of manna and meat in Exod 16 and Num 11. Then, bringing to mind the Plagues Narrative, the psalm recounts how YHWH afflicted the people with a plague in his wrath. The reference to v. 8 in v. 17 is crucial for the structure of the psalm, as it repeats the notion of “rebellion” ( ). In bringing this rebellion to mind, the ancestors’ forgetfulness is made present to the audience – a forgetfulness that finds expression in the story of how the people tested God (v. 18) and how they craved meat (v. 29). In vv. 32–39, the composers of the psalm use theological terms hearkening back to creation in order to reflect on their ancestors’ sinfulness. They believe the ancestors’ guilt to be grounded in the nature of human beings. At the same time, YHWH is remembered as the creator whose wrath is curtailed by his relationship to his creatures. It is because of this relationship, they believe, that God’s wrath will not lead to their annihilation. The beginning of this section of the psalm (vv. 32–39) is thus solidly anchored in its context: “They sinned yet more” (2 ) cites v. 17, “do not believe” (  Hif.) makes a connection to v. 22, and the notion of “miraculous deeds” () from vv. 4, 11–12 is taken up again. The creation theology on human guilt is, indeed, central to the conception of history in this psalm. 8 The second sequence of recounting Israel’s early history begins in vv. 40–42. Now YHWH is placed in the foreground: YHWH the ruler of the world and YHWH’s work for his people. YHWH is cast as God active in history rescuing his people from their enemies. Just as was seen in vv. 17 and 32, vv. 40–42 refer back to the previous context. They take up the notion of “rebellion” ( ) found in vv. 8 and 17, the notion of “testing” God () found in v. 18, the ancestor’ guilt of “not remembering” ( ) found in v. 35, as well as their practice of forgetting found in vv. 8 and 11. The latter reference stands in stark contrast to the remembrance of God in v. 39. For a second time the worshipping community is transported back to the inception of salvation history. Not only are vv. 40–42 interrelated with the historic reflections of the first set of parallel verses, but the second unit of 67F

ton. Leiden: Brill, 1991), 264–297 (270–276); Beat Weber, “Psalm 78: Geschichte mit Geschichte deuten,” TZ 56 (2000): 193–214 (194–198); and Witte, “Exodus,” 30–37, who argues specifically for the parallel sequencing of the historic accounts. 8 See Witte, “Exodus,” 32–33.

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in each parallel passage also begins its account in Egypt (v. 12) and Zoan’s field (v. 43) respectively. This parallelism of the historic meditations also reaches into the next section. This second account takes the audience to the stories about YHWH’s acts of rescue and miraculous deeds in vv. 43–55, reminding them of the Plagues Narrative (vv. 44–51), the departure into the wilderness, the victory at the Sea of Reeds, and Israel’s inhabitation of the land as a community centered in a cult (vv. 52–55). Yet, just as in vv. 17–31, despite all this goodness, the ancestors reject God (vv. 56–64). They insist on worshiping on the heights and serving idols. Infuriated, God abandons the dwelling place at Shiloh and destroys the people’s social order (vv. 62– 64). These actions of wrath are mellowed by God’s relenting from his wrath just as they were in vv. 32–39. This dynamic is captured in the description of the election and rejection practices of YHWH, the ruler of the world. The election, coinciding with the acknowledgement of God as creator, precedes the rejection. The objective of YHWH’s election practices, Ps 78 argues, is the installation of David as the divinely mandated leader of YHWH’s people. The parallel historic accounts put the contrast between YHWH’s miraculous works and the people’s negative response into stark relief. The miracles give expression to God’s dedication to salvation, whereas the conduct of the people is marked by offenses against the covenant. This tension between the YHWH’s salvific care and the people’s breach of relationship from the very beginning focuses the psalm on the interpretation of Israel’s early history 9 as it is introduced in the prooemium.

B. From Generation to Generation: The Hermeneutical Basis of Psalm 78 The prooemium prefaces the parallel passages on Israel’s early history. By guiding the worshipers into a deepened understanding of their early history, it provides the worshipers with an opportunity to reflect on the importance of YHWH’s dedication to salvation in the present. The prooemium begins with a call to the people (v. 1). A speaker summons “my people” ( ) to listen to his “instruction” () and the “words of his mouth” (  ). In v. 2 this summons is amplified through the use of two cohortatives in the first person singular. The speaker calls 9

See also Spieckermann, Heilsgegenwart, 140, who particularly points out the “peculiar form and weight of the issue of guilt in the field of tension between the histories of salvation and of doom” in his explanation of Ps 78.

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the audience to listen to a “saying” ( ) 10 as well as to a proclamation of the mysteries of the ancient past (#  ). The notion of the ancient past (#) 11 refers to an early history of Israel grounded in wholesomeness, thereby defining the historical theological perspective of the psalm. 12 Verse 3 seeks to legitimize the role of the speaker. The use of “we” shows that the speaker is a member of a group of sages or masters of lore and tradition. These sages are understood to have received knowledge about YHWH’s miracles from their ancestors and, therefore, able to transmit this knowledge to the following generations. The notion of “telling with praise” ( Piel) is key to the understanding of transmitting tradition. The reception of this knowledge effects the commission and function of the group of tradition bearers (v. 4a). The commission and function are to transmit what has been heard to “their children” (). Thus, the transmission of tradition is closely associated with the notion of “telling with praise” ( Piel). The recipients of this transmission of knowledge are named “their children” () in the parallel account, they are named the “future generation.” The suffix in the third person singular (“their children” []) indicates that the speaker group actually understands itself as counterparts to the people and as mediators in the relationship between God and the people. Verse 4b provides an overview of the content of the tradition that was the responsibility of the sages for preservation and transmission. Worthy of narration are the “glorious work of YHWH” ( ), “his power” () and “his miraculous deeds, that he has done” (  ). It is especially YHWH’s miraculous deeds that seem to exemplify his salvific work in history. Given the significance of history, v. 3 shows that the speakers understood it also to be the ideal venue for the process of transmission of YHWH’s salvific work and the knowledge thereof. Handing on this knowledge joins the group of the speakers with the ancestors and with the people, including the future generations in a succession of knowledge. 69F

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On the notion of “saying” ( ) see Weber, “Psalm 78,” 199. On # see Klaus Koch, “Qädäm: Heilsgeschichte als mythische Urzeit im Alten (und Neuen) Testament,” in Spuren des hebräischen Denkens: Beiträge zur alttestamentlichen Theologie (vol. 1 of Gesammelte Aufsätze; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1991), 248–280 (254–259). He shows that this notion describes the mythic past as wholesome. 12 On the intertextual associations of the call to listen see Witte, “Exodus,” 25; Spieckermann, Heilsgegenwart, 140; Dietmar Mathias, Die Geschichtstheologie der Geschichtssummarien in den Psalmen (BEATAJ 35; Frankfurt a. M.: Peter Lang, 1993), 73– 76; and Thomas Hieke, “‘Weitergabe des Glaubens’ (Ps 78,1–8): Versuch zur Syntax und Struktur von Ps 78,” BN 78 (1995): 49–62 (57). 11

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Thus, employing an historical theological perspective, vv. 5–11 explicitly address the significance of this history, and thereby its transmission, for the present. Verse 5 immediately draws the gaze entirely toward YHWH. It is God who gives the Torah and instructions to Israel and to Jacob and commands the ancestors to transmit them to the following generations. 13 While “our ancestors” in v. 3 refers to the ancestors of the speaker’s generation, v. 5 deals with the first generation in the land, thus locating the command of transmission in the beginning of salvation history. The final clause ( ) in vv. 6–7 elucidates the meaning and significance of YHWH’s initial establishment of the Torah. Not only does the Torah require its transmission from fathers to children, it also proves its validity in this transmission from generation to generation (v. 6). The condition for a successful transmission of the tradition is that the following generation “recognizes” ( Qal) the significance of the instruction for its own generation. 14 The root  connects to the “making known” (& Hif.) of the instruction in v. 5 as well as to the “comprehending” ( Nif.) of the mysteries of the ancient past in v. 3. These three semantic aspects of the root  – recognizing, making known, and comprehending – delineate the cognitive process of the transmission of tradition: the ancestors comprehend the miraculous deeds and instruction of YHWH (v. 3) and make them known to their children (v. 5). By doing thus, the children in turn come to comprehend the meaning of the tradition for their own relationship with God (v. 6). The transmission of the knowledge and actuality of YHWH’s salvific work expands across the generations enabling also the children and the children’s children to set their hope in God, to remember God’s deeds, and to keep God’s commandments (v. 7). 15 It is not to be taken for granted, though, that the ideal perpetual process of making YHWH’s salvific deeds present always works. With good reason, the forgetfulness of the people in vv. 8–11 stands in contrast to the rememberance of YHWH’s miraculous deeds. 16 The hope set in God (v. 7a) is contrasted with their unfaithfulness to God (v. 8b). And the practice of not forgetting YHWH’s deeds (v. 7a£) is set in contrast with forgetting God’s deeds (v. 11). These contrasting images are marked by a change in the grammatical person. In the context of the ideal process of transmission 673F

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This is an indirect reference to the Sinai revelation, which marks the beginning of the transmission of tradition. See Hartenstein, “Bedeutung,” 336, Anm. 6. 14 See also Johannes Kühlewein, Geschichte in den Psalmen (CThM 2; Stuttgart: Calwer, 1973), 89–90. 15 See Witte, “Exodus,” 28–29. 16 See Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalmen 51–100, 433–434 and Klaus Seybold, Die Psalmen (HAT 1.15; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 309.

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described in vv. 5–11, the psalmists situated themselves in continuity with their ancestors and marked such continuity with a suffix in the first person plural (“our fathers”) (v. 5). In v. 8, however, they distance themselves from the fathers by using the third person plural (“their fathers”), breaking with the continuity proclaimed in vv. 5–6. Now “their fathers” are spoken about as a “stubborn and rebellious” generation (   ) (v. 8). Remembering is weighted against forgetting. In failing to remember, the ancestors are forgetting their foundation and therewith their identity as God’s people. The possibility of a generation’s failure and breaching of the commandments is actually taken into account already at the beginning of the history of relationship between YHWH and the people. It is further elaborated in the two sets of historic reflections in the vv. 12–39, 40–72. The attitude of the ancestors described as “rebellious” ( ) and “unfaithful” ( ) in v. 8 are key words, and they structure the historic account (vv. 8, 17, 40, 56; vv. 8, 22, 32, 37). In this way, the authors reconnect the issue of the guilt of the ancestors with the prooemium. 17 Remembering and forgetting become historical theological key concepts that serve to evaluate the conduct of the ancestors in the two parallel historic accounts. Therefore, the prooemium cannot do other than to imply the possibility of forgetting YHWH’s deeds, and the historic accounts cannot do other than to tell about the ancestors’ forgetting (vv. 17–31, 56–64). The prooemium concludes in v. 11b with the phrase “they forgot the miraculous deeds, which he let them see” (  ) and reconnecting it to v. 4b (“his miraculous deeds, which he has done” [  ]). The recounting of YHWH’s miraculous deeds thus frames the exposition of YHWH’s salvific laying down of Torah and order (v. 5) and the inaugurated transmission of tradition. 18 67F

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C. A Psalm-Specific Theology of Remembering in Psalm 78:1–11 The reception process of YHWH’s grounding salvific work as outlined in the prooemium is conceived and valued as the practice of “telling with praise” ( Piel) as introduced in v. 3. There, it describes the process of transmitting tradition from the fathers to the “We” to whom the speaker belongs. Verse 4 elaborates on this theme, calling upon everyone, including the speaker, to tell the future generations about the foundational 17

For an examination of the key words of Ps 78 see Füglister, “Rätsel,” 274–276. V. 9 is not part of the conceptual context of the prooemium, because guilt is not attributed to the fathers of the beginning but to the Ephraimites. See also Füglister, “Rätsel,” 270. 18

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salvific work of YHWH (see also v. 6). Thus, it delineates a transmission process across the generations. This process serves to pass on the salvific rules of YHWH that are constitutive for the identity of God’s people. The origin of the category of speech of “telling with praise” recounting YHWH’s miraculous and redemptive work ( Piel) can also be found in the songs of thanksgiving of individuals. In that context, the song makes the individual’s concrete experience of being redeemed by God newly present before an assembly (see Pss 22:23; 107:17–22). This public and cultic act of presenting and expressing thanksgiving for an individual’s experience of being redeemed from adversity becomes a paradigmatic experience that is integrated into the collective knowledge of salvation of the assembly. 19 Psalm 78 adopts this form and modifies it in the context of a historical hermeneutical reflection. 20 In contrast to the song of thanksgiving of the individual, Psalm 78:1–11 seeks to make a collective experience of redemption present and public. As a paradigmatic experience of redemption, it is meant to strengthen the relationship between God and individuals as members of a community of tradition (Ps 78:7). Therefore, we are dealing here with a diametrical process. In the song of thanksgiving, the paradigmatic aspect of the individual’s redemptive experience is integrated into the collective knowledge of salvation, whereas in Ps 78 the collective experience of salvation serves the individual in affirming her or his belonging to the people of God. Furthermore, the transmission of knowledge of YHWH’s redemptive work extends across the generations (Ps 78:3–7). Each generation needs to be told and to hear these narratives anew. Thus, this process ultimately seeks to reestablish Israel’s community of tradition as YHWH’s people for each new generation and to perpetually reaffirm its identity. The transmission of tradition from parents to children, known from the deuteronomic-deuteronomistic and wisdom literature, 21 is integrated into the context of this cultic thanksgiving. The deuteronomic-deuteronomistic ideal of the culture of memory spanning three generations (see Deut 678F

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19 See Janowski, Konfliktgespräche mit Gott: Eine Anthropologie der Psalmen (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 2003), 245 and C. Hardmeier, “Denn im Tod ist kein Gedenken an dich … (Ps 6,6): Der Tod des Menschen – Gottes Tod?,” EvTh 48 (1988): 292–311 (305–307). 20 See J. Conrad, “Art.,” ThWAT 5:915–916. See also Füglister, “Rätsel,” 286. 21 On the linguistic overlappings with the wisdom literature in Ps 78, see especially Witte, “Exodus,” 22–25 and specifically footnote 12. According to Witte, the background of the wisdom tradition is highly relevant in Ps 78, because of these intertextual connections. Therefore, he calls the speaker also “wisdom teacher.” See on the wisdom didactic trend of Ps 78:1–2 also Spieckermann, Heilsgegenwart, 140; Mathias, Geschichtstheologie, 73–76 and Hieke, “Weitergabe,” 57.

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4:9.25, 6:2) in particular is referenced in vv. 3f and repeated in vv. 5f. 22 However, the process of reception is not articulated using the deuteronomic-deuteronomistic notion of “learning/teaching” ( ), 23 but the notion of “telling with praise” ( Piel). The deuteronomicdeuteronomistic and wisdom literature, on the one hand, and Ps 78:1–11 on the other hand, also differ in the agents involved in the process of transmission. Whereas in the deuteronomic-deuteronomistic tradition the transmission takes place within the clan or the family, assuring the transmission of tradition from parents to their children, and whereas the wisdom tradition casts this relationship of transmission as one between teacher and students, 24 the transmission of traditional knowledge in Ps 78 addresses the entire people. Thus, the deuteronomic-deuteronomistic ideal of the reception process spanning three generations within a clan or family has been modified. It is transposed to the level of the entire people and it is integrated by way of “telling with praise” ( Piel) into a historical hermeneutical reflection. Yet, not only remembrance, but also forgetting is addressed in Ps 78:1– 11. The forgetting of the miraculous deeds of YHWH marks the rebellious first generation (v. 11). They were not faithful to God and they did not honor God’s covenant (vv. 8, 10). Hence, the forgetting of the ancestors, which is part of the history of God’s people from the beginning, leads in the end to the abandonment of cultic thanksgiving. The foundation of the community of tradition is in danger of being lost. As the forgetting of the ancestors now becomes part of the historical hermeneutical reflection, it remains in lively memory. The worshipping community is called with a loud voice to not forget the forgetting of the ancestors. Rather, the forgetting of the ancestor becomes an integrated part of the remembered history of Ps 78. In this sense, forgetting is also assigned an identity forming and affirming significance. Psalm 78:1–11 develops its own historical hermeneutical reflection providing an account of the evolution of a “remembered history.” This happens against the background of the practice of “telling with praise” ( Piel) discernible in the thanksgiving of the individual. First, it is modified to describe the re-presentation of the collective redemption experiences. In this re-presenting, the worshiper becomes aware of the paradigmatic significance of these events for his or her own time, in order that the individual may be reaffirmed in belonging to the people of God. Thus, the collective perspective of the remembered history in Ps 78 is permeable 681F

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22 On the use made of the three-generation-model of the deuteronomic-deuteronomistic literature see Hossfeld and Zenger, Psalmen 51–100, 433. 23 See Deut 4:10, 5:1.31, 6:1, 11:19, 31:13.19.22. 24 See Witte, “Exodus,” 22–25 and Hieke, “Weitergabe,” 57.

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from the perspective of the individual worshiper. Second, the collective perspective is emphasized by the transposition of the deuteronomicdeuteronomistic ideal of the transmission of tradition spanning three generations within the family to the level of the entire people of God. Third, the representation of forgetting is part of Ps 78’s specific theology of memory. The guilt of the ancestor should remain in lively remembrance so that the worshiper is kept from forgetting and therefore kept from abandoning the cultic thanksgiving. Psalm 78:1–11 develops a psalm-specific theology of remembrance. The praise-filled telling of YHWH’s salvific work is transformed into a narration staged as a directive to praise God. Remembered history thus signifies the identity forming and affirming proclamation of the mysteries of the ancient past in Ps 78 (Ps 78:1).

Memory and Forgetting in and on the Exile: Remarks on Psalm 137 BOB BECKING For the exile, native territory is the product of heightened and sharpened memory, and imagination is, indeed a special homecoming. 1

A. Introduction On 11 September 1977, the South African police arrested Steve Biko and loaded him in the back of a Land Rover. The anti-apartheid activist lay naked and restrained in manacles during the 1100 km drive to Pretoria, where he was incarcerated into a prison with hospital facilities. Upon arrival, he was nearly dead as a result of various injuries. He died the next day. The police claimed his death was the result of an extended hunger strike. The autopsy, however, revealed multiple bruises and abrasions indicating that he ultimately succumbed to a brain haemorrhage from massive injuries to the head. In other words, he had been brutally clubbed by his captors. The truth behind the death of Steve Biko was made public by two South African journalists: Helen Zille and Donald Woods. 2 The collective memory on the brutal death of Biko is, however, not so much feed by newspaper articles as it is by a popular song. In his song Biko, released in 1980, Peter Gabriel tells the tale of Steve Biko. Gabriel sings: “You can blow out a candle / But you can’t blow out a fire / Once the flames begin to catch / The wind will blow it higher.” During the reign 1

Michael Seidel, Exile and the Narrative Imagination (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986), ix–xi. 2 On Steve Biko see, e.g., Donald Woods, Biko (New York, London: Paddington Press, 1978); Kurt Shillinger, “Biko’s Legacy still Resonates in South Africa 20 Years Later,” Christian Science Monitor 89 (1997): 8; Trefor Jenkins and Graeme R. McLean, “The Steve Biko Affair,” The Lancet 364 (2004): 36–37; Jeremy Punt, “Post-Apartheid Racism in South Africa The Bible, Social Identity and Stereotyping,” Religion and Theology 16 (2009): 246–272.

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of South Africa’s apartheid government (which ended in 1990), Gabriel often closed his concerts with the song, encouraging the audience to sing with him. Gabriel and his band members would leave the stage one-by-one until only the drummer was left to keep the beat as the audience chanted, “Biko, oh, Biko.” The drummer would soon leave but the audience would continue the chant a capella. The lights would fade away while the concert hall remained lit only by lighter flames in the raised hands of audience members. This song by Peter Gabriel is a typical example of what historians of popular music call a “topical song.” 3 Topical songs emerged from the realm of folk music. 4 In these ballads, a reflection on recent political or social events is given in an epic form. They contain a combination of narrative and commentary. They aim at convincing the audience – through ways of identification – to share the view on reality depicted in the song. 5 In the performance of these songs a political and or societal identity is construed. 6 In my view, the well-known Psalm 137 – By the Rivers of Babylon – can be construed as an ancient forerunner to the genre of the topical song. Its narration of and its comments on the then recent experience of exile aims at convincing a post-exilic audience of a specific worldview. Traditionally this Psalm has been classified as a communal lament. 7 This form, however, does not fit the Psalm; Ps 137 contains too many elements of narration, and the characteristic Formeln of a lament are absent.

3 See Michael Drewett, “The Eyes of the World Are Watching Now: The Political Effectiveness of ‘Biko’ by Peter Gabriel,” Popular Music & Society 30 (2007): 39–51. 4 See some of the ballads by Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan and Tom Waitts. 5 See, e.g., Ronald D. Cohen and Dave Samuelson, Songs For Political Action: Folk Music, Topical Songs, and the American Left, 1927–1953 (Hambergen: Bear Family, 1996); Geert Buelens, “Het gezongen dagblad: Topical songs als geheugen en geweten,” in Oneigenlijk gebruik: Over de betekenis van poëzie (Nijmegen: Vantilt, 2008), 237–58. 6 See the fundamental remarks by Simon Frith, “Music and Identity,” in Questions of Cultural Studies, (ed. S. Hall and P. du Gay; London: Sage, 1996), 108–117; repr. Simon Frith, Taking Popular Music Seriously: Selected essays (Burlington: Ashgate, 2007), 293–312. 7 Most recently by George Savran, ‘How Can We Sing a Song of the Lord?’: The Strategy of Lament in Psalm 137,” ZAW 112 (2000): 43–58; E. Gerstenberger, Psalms, Part 2, and Lamentations (FOTL 14; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 394–95; John Ahn, “Psalm 137: Complex Communal Laments,” JBL 127 (2008): 267–289; Marta H. Lavik, “Killing Children with God’s Permission? Rhetoric and Retaliation in Psalm 137,” in Culture, Religion, and the Reintegration of Female Child Soldiers in Northern Uganda (Bible and Theology in Africa; New York: Peter Lang, 2010), 193–206; Reinhard Feldmeier and Hermann Spieckermann, Der Gott der Lebendigen: Eine biblische Gotteslehre (TOBITH 1; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 344.

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B. Translation and Notes i.1 (Ps 137:1–2) By the rivers of Babylon, there we were sitting. We, however, were weeping, when we remembered Zion At the poplars in the midst of it we had hung our harps

1aA 1aB 2aA 2aB

i.2 (Ps 137:3) For there requested from us those who had taken us captive, the words of a song; and those who had tormented us, joy “Sing for us from the songs of Zion.”

3aA 3aB 3bA 3bA

ii.1 (Ps 137:4–5) “How could we sing a song for YHWH on foreign ground?” If I forget you, Jerusalem, may my right hand forget. ii.2 (Ps 137:6) May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth, if I do not remember you. If I do not heighten Jerusalem above the height of my joy.

6aA 6aB 6bA 6bB

iii.1 (Ps 137:7) Remember, YHWH, the children of Edom who, at the day of Jerusalem. said “Raze, raze, unto its foundation.”

7aA 7aB 7bA 7bB

iii.2 (Ps 137:8–9) O, daughter of Babylon, you destroyer, blessed is he who will pay you back the deed that you have done to us. Blessed is he who will grasp and dash your sucklings against the bricks.

8aA 8aB 8aC 9aA 9aB

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Notes on the translation: 1aA   ; 11Qpsa reads , with no significant difference of meaning. Ahn renders  as “irrigation canals,” thus bypassing the problem that the city of Babel lay along only one river, but overlooking the possibility that the Judahites were exiled to a variety of locations, all along the banks of streaming waters. 8 In addition, the Hebrew  can refer to both city and country. 9 1aB In the construction  %, the particle gam followed by a -form + a temporal infinitive has adversative force. % should not be construed as an adverb “loudly” as has been proposed by Dahood. 10 3aA The verb  is construed with a double object in the sense of “requesting a thing from a person”; see also Isa 58:2; Jer 38:14; Hag 2:11; Ps 35:11. 11 3aB  is a Hapax. Both LXX ! ,&&1  23, and Vulg. qui abduxerunt nos seem to construe it as a derivation from a Hebrew verb  or . Along with Targum, , “our plunderers,” and some more recent translations (NRSV; NBG), I prefer “our tormentors,” construing the noun as a causative derivation from the verb , “to howl; lament.” 12 5aB The verb , “to forget,” with “right (hand)” as subject is an uncommon collocation in the Hebrew Bible. How can hands forget? The text has therefore often been emended into & and accepted the verb “to wither.” 13 Hartberger and Spieckermann proposed to revocalise the form as a Niph’al and read it is as a passivum divinum. 14 Levin has argued that the collocation would refer to a bodi691F

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8 Ahn, “Psalm 137,” 275–76; Ahn, Exile and Forced Migration, (BZAW 417; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2010), 83–84; see also Samuel Terrien, The Psalms: Strophic Structure and Theological Commentary (ECC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 865. 9 See Thijs Booij, Psalmen Deel 4 (POT; Kampen: Kok, 2010), 267. 10 Mitchell J. Dahood, Psalms 101–150 (AB 17A; New York: Doubleday, 1970), 269; for arguments against his position see Casper Jeremiah Labuschagne, “The Emphasizing particle gam and its Connotations,” in Studia Biblica et Semitica (ed. W. C. van Unnik and A. S. van der Woude; Wageningen: Veenman, 1966), 193–203; Ulrich Kellermann, “Psalm 137,” ZAW 90 (1978): 43–58 (56); Leslie C. Allen, Psalms 101–150 (WBC 21; Waco: Word, 1983), 236. 11 Bruce K. Waltke and Michael P. O’Connor, An Introduction to Biblical Hebrew Syntax (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1990), § 10.2.3. 12 See also Alfred Guillaume, “The Meaning of  in Psalm 137:3,” JBL 75 (1956): 143–144; Gary A. Rendsburg and Susan L. Rendsburg, “Physiological and Philological Notes to Psalm 137,” JQR 83 (1993): 385–99; M. Emmendörffer, Der ferne Gott: Eine Untersuchung der alttestamentlichen Volksklagelieder vor dem Hintergrund der mesopotamischen Literatur (FAT 21; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 184; M. D. Goulder, The Psalms of the Return (Book V, Psalms 107–150): Studies in the Psalter, IV (JSOTSup 258; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 228. 13 E.g., by Bernhard Duhm, Die Psalmen erklärt (KHC 14; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1922), 453; Hans-Joachim Kraus, Psalmen 2. Teilband Psalmen 64–150 (BKAT XV/2; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1972), 904; Dahood, Psalms 101–150, 271. 14 Birgit Hartberger, “An den Wassern von Babylon …”: Psalm 137 auf dem Hintergrund von Jeremia 51, der biblischen Edom-Traditionen und babylonischer Originalquellen (BBB 63; Bonn: Peter Hanstein, 1986), 205; Hermann Spieckermann, Heilsgegenwart: Eine Theologie der Psalmen (FRLANT 148; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ru-

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ly reaction, as a parallel to the sticking of the tongue to the palate (6aA) and proposes the rendition “let my right arm palsy.” 15 In my view, however, the expression needs to be evaluated in musical terms: as the tongue will no longer be able to sing, the right hand will no longer be able to play the harp, having forgotten the movements of the music. 16 I disagree with Rendsburg and Rendsburg that the verb refer to a cerebrovascular accident by which the singer became paralyzed. Their analogy with Arabic  , “lame; crippled; paralyzed,” is not convincing. 17 8aA With Kraus 18, I construe  as an active participle, see already Symm (Ë ÌÍÎ'ÏÐÑ). This interpretation gives more sense than the traditional reading of the form as a passive participle as in the KJV: “O daughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed” and adapted by many interpreters. 19 8aB–C There is no textual evidence to construe these two lines as a later addition. 20 8aC The elliptically construed relative clause is not irregular. 21 9aB “Bricks.” I do not agree with the suggestion of André Lemaire that  in this verse could be taken as an Edomite toponym. 22 Hartberger 23 has convincingly argued that  here refers to “Mauern und Strassenpflaster aus Gebirgstein,” hence a translation “bricks” is plausible. Her argument also implies that this noun is a reference to Edom, since “rocks” would be absent in Babylon, while they are abundantly found in Edom. 24 701F

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precht, 1989), 115–16; adapted by Emmendörffer, Der ferne Gott, 184. On the concept of a passivum divinum see Christian Macholz, “Das “Passivum divinum,” seine Anfänge im Alten Testament und der ‘Hofstil,’” ZNW 81 (1990): 247–253. 15 Schneir Levin, “Let My Right Hand Wither,” Judaism 45 (1996): 285–286; adapted by Robert Couffignal, “Approches nouvelles du Psaume 137,” ZAW 119 (2007): 65. 16 See also Cas J. A. Vos, Theopoetry of the Psalms (Pretoria: Protea Book House, 2005), 268. 17 See Rendsburg and Rendsburg, “Physiological and Philological Notes to Psalm 137.” 18 Kraus, Psalmen 2, 904; Klaus Seybold, Die Psalmen (HAT, 1/15; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 508–11 (509); Allen, Psalms 101–150, 236–37; pace Emmendörffer, Der ferne Gott, 184; Vos, Theopoetry, 264. 19 E.g., Kellermann, “Psalm 137,” 45; Hartberger, “An den Wassern von Babylon …,” 210; Goulder, Psalms of the Return, 226. 20 Pace Kraus, Psalmen II, 1082; Kellermann, “Psalm 137,” 46; Spieckermann, Heilsgegenwart, 116; Emmendörffer, Der ferne Gott, 184. 21 See Paul Joüon and Takamitsu Muraoka, A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew: Part Three Syntaxis (SubBi, 14/II; Rome: Editrice Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 1991), § 158 ha. 22 André Lemaire, “Nabonidus in Arabia and Judah in the Neo-Babylonian Period,” in Judah and the Judaeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period (ed. O. Lipschits and J. Blenkinsopp; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 288; see also Kellermann, “Psalm 137,” 47, for earlier proposals to construe here a toponym. 23 Hartberger, “An den Wassern von Babylon …,” 211–212. 24 Pace, e.g., Kellermann, “Psalm 137,” 57–58. This proposal also implies that there is hardly any evidence to construe v. 8 as a reference to Edom.

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C. Poetic Features of Psalm 137 1. A Poem of Three Canticles I adopt the concept of a three-partite structure by dividing Ps 137 into three canticles, each of which contains two strophes. 25 My argument is based on a series of observations on the level of parallelisms, repetition and other poetical features. Most of them have already been observed by other scholars. 26 In addition, I will look at the Psalm from the point of view of “voices” or embedded direct speech. Psalm 137

Canticle I

Strophe i.1 i.2

Ii ii.1 ii.2 Iii iii.1 iii.2

137:1–3 137:1–2 137:3 137:4–6 137:4–5 137:6 137:7–9 137:7 137:8–9

In the reading I present in this chapter, canticle i is a description. The first strophe (i.1) pictures the circumstances under which the exiled Judaeans were invited to sing a Hymn on Zion. The final line of this second strophe (3bA) is embedded direct speech. The imperative clause ' , 25

Most scholars propose a tripartite delimitation, although these scholars differ on the question of the three units: Pieter van der Lugt, Strofische structuren in de bijbelshebreeuwse poëzie (Kampen: Kok, 1980), 437–440; see also the outline of earlier scholars in favour of a tripartite division, e.g., De Wette; Ewald; Condamin; Kissane; Dahood; Kraus; Kellermann; Gerstenberger, and van der Lugt, Strofische structuren, 439; see also Allen, Psalms 101–150, 234–243; Jonathan Magonet, “Some Concentric Structures in Psalms,” The Heythrop Journal 23 (1982): 365–376; Spieckermann, Heilsgegenwart, 117; Seybold, Psalmen, 508–511; Emmendörffer, Der ferne Gott, 183–192; Goulder, Psalms of the Return, 224–229; Savran, “How Can We Sing a Song of the Lord?”; Terrien, Psalms, 864–865; Vos, Theopoetry, 263–75; J. Ahn, Exile and Forced Migration, 79; Lavik, “Killing Children with God’s Permission?” 193–206. 26 See esp. van der Lugt, Strofische structuren, 437–440; Pierre Auffret, “Essai sur la structure litéraire du Psaume 137,” ZAW 92 (1980): 346–377; Morris Halle and J.-J. McCarthy, “The Metrical Structure of Psalm 137,” JBL 100 (1981): 161–67; Jan P. Fokkelman, Major Poems of the Hebrew Bible at the Interface of Prosody and Structural Analysis: Volume II: 85 Psalms and Job 4–14 (SSN 41; Assen: Van Gorcum, 2000), 301–02; Terrien, Psalms, 865; Vos, Theopoetry, 263–266; I will refrain here from a full poetical analysis of the parallelisms and the delimiters at the levels of line, verse, canticle and Psalm.

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“Sing for us a Song on Zion,” consists of the words of a group of Babylonians. The second and the third canticle are the contents of a Hymn on Zion, albeit in a different tone than expected. This means that I read the greater part of Ps 137 as a Hymn on Zion. Canticles ii and iii are the text of a slightly ironic hymn with two themes: a) the impossibility of forgetting Zion, and b) a summons for divine revenge. The second canticle contains words and phrases that belong to the standard vocabulary of ancient Israelite hymns, especially those Psalms that express confidence, faith and hope. There is, however, a striking difference between those anthems and Ps 137, as we see in the example of Ps 78:7: so that they should set their hope in God, and not forget the works of God, but keep his commandments.

Here, people are invited to trust in God by not forgetting (i.e., remembering) his works. In the protasis of Ps 137:5aA, the possibility of forgetting Jerusalem is described; the abyss of non-commemoration is hypothesized in the phrase, “if I do not remember you.” In the book of Psalms and related texts the verb , “to remember,” occurs frequently. In many instances God is summoned to remember his people, his mercy, his deeds and doings in the past, etc. 27 Sometimes God is asked to not remember the sinful conduct of the people. 28 In other texts, Israel – both individually and collectively – is invited to remember YHWH as their “ground of being.” 29 More examples could be given for my surmise that the author of Ps 137 is consciously turning and sometimes contorting the language of the Israelite tradition on its head. Phrased otherwise, the core-testimony on YHWH is twisted into its counterpart. 30 The final canticle of Ps 137, the second part of the Hymn, is a summons to YHWH to take revenge for what has been done to Israel. The ius talionis is invoked over Edom and Babel 31 – Edom for the vicious role they assum710F

71F

712F

713F

714F

27 See, e.g., Ps 74:2; 132:1; Neh 1:8; Job 10:9; with, e.g., Johannes Kühlewein, Geschichte in den Psalmen (CThM 2; Stuttgart: Calwer, 1973), 33–100. 28 E.g., Ps 25:7; 79:8; 103:18; 105:5. 29 Ps 77:11; 106:7; 143:5. 30 For the terminology see Walter Brueggemann, Theology of the Old Testament: Testimony, Dispute, Advocacy (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1997). 31 On the ius talionis and its ancient Near Eastern background see Eckart Otto, Theologische Ethik des Alten Testaments (Theologische Wissenschaft 3/2; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1994), 72–81; Yael Shemesh, “Measure for Measure in the David Stories,” JSOT 17 (2003): 89–109; on the concept of divine retribution see Walter Dietrich and Christian Link, Die dunklen Seiten Gottes: Willkür und Ohnmacht (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1995), 128–148; Feldmeier and Spieckermann, Der Gott der Lebendigen, 433–476.

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edly played during the sack of Jerusalem and Babylon for being the exiling nation. 2. A Request in Exile Within this composition, the author constructs an identity by displaying his views on exile and suffering. I will now focus on the second of the three canticles. In Ps 137:1–3 the main theme can be depicted as Lamenting the Absence. In the middle of an existential ambiguity – coloured by an alienation of both a spatial and a spiritual character – the exiled persons are requested () to sing a song of Zion. The request is made by a group of Babylonians who are labelled as , “those who had taken us captive,” and persons who acted as a , “tormentor.” 32 It is not just people passing by who had an interest in cultural curiosity, 33 but the exactly those who were responsible for the fate of the Judaeans who asked them to sing the impossible. The acts of mockery hit the heart of the identity of the “we”-group in the Psalm. 34 715F

716F

71F

3. How Can We Sing the Lord’s Song in a Strange Land? Basically, the response is negative: the exiles do not sing a hymn from their religious tradition. The request by the Babylonians has an important presupposition. Their request, if accepted, would imply the removal of a hymn on Zion from its cultic and ritual realm, and places it in the public sphere along the banks of foreign rivers. “Ritual” can be defined as the construction of a subjunctive world. 35 Ritual creates – at least in the minds of the participants – a realm beyond, it constructs an “as if”-world that differs from the “as is”-world and in doing so, helps participants to cope with reality and grief, and to console themselves. The exiled Judaeans answer the request to separate? a hymn on Zion from the “irrealis”-world of the Jerusalemite ritual by – ironically – singing a song with the message that they would not sing a song. This song 718F

32

See above in the notes on the translation. Thus Hartberger, “An den Wassern von Babylon …,” 221. 34 See also Spieckermann, Heilsgegenwart, 118–19; Emmendörffer, Der ferne Gott, 186–88; Savran, “How Can We Sing,” 46–47; Vos, Theopoetry, 268–69. This request is echoed in the opening scene of the movie Shoah, where Simon Srebnik is singing to please the Nazi officers in the Chelmno concentration camp; see Claude Lanzmann, Shoah: An Oral History of the Holocaust (New York: Random House, 1985), 3–7; Karl A. Plank, “By the Rivers of a Death Camp: An Intertextual Reading of Psalm 137,” Literature & Theology 22 (2008): 180–194. 35 On this concept see Adam Seligman, Ritual and its Consequences: An Essay on the Limits of Sincerity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 17–43. 33

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contains the syntactic structure of the “irrealis.” The opening line of the second canticle of Ps 137 – and hence of the hymnic answer – contains an oath in the language of a fitting adynaton. 36 The “answer” by the exiled Judaeans is phrased in a sentence beginning with the interrogative pronoun &, “how?” This question can only lead to a negative answer: the presence on foreign ground prohibits in a way the singing of a song from Zion. 37 This impossibility expresses the pain of alienation. The suffering expressed in this canticle can easily be described: Separation from Zion and the temple could lead to forgetting the specific Yahwistic identity of these Judaeans. The lines in this canticle are phrased in such a way that the singers want to protect themselves from giving up their religious traditions. They want to keep themselves away from the seductive temptations of any kind of syncretism. The text of vv. 5–6 contain yet another beautiful adynaton. Three lines open with the construction  or – in the negative –  . They are placed in an extended chiasm: 719F

720F



A

 

A1

Protasis B B1 Protasis

 

A2

Protasis

Apodosis Apodosis

If I forget you, Jerusalem, may my right hand forget, may my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth, If I do not remember you; If I do not heighten Jerusalem above the height of my joy. 38 721F

The irrealis-constructions imply that since it is impossible to forget Jerusalem, it is impossible to sing a song from Zion. The non-remembrance will make the singer physically incapable of performing that task: his right hand will forget the mechanics of the melody and the setting of the fingers

36

With: Marjo C. A. Korpel and Johannes C. de Moor, The Silent God (Leiden: Brill, 2011); pace, e.g., Gerstenberger, Psalms, Part 2, and Lamentations, 391–92. On oaths in the Hebrew Bible, see Blane Conklin, Oath Formulas in Biblical Hebrew (LSAWS 5; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2011). 37 See also Kraus, Psalmen 2, 906–07; Kellermann, “Psalm 137,” 49; Emmendörffer, Der ferne Gott, 188–89; Savran, “How Can We Sing,” 49–50; Y. Steenkamp, “Violence and Hatred in Psalm 137: The Psalm in its Ancient Social Context,” Verbum et Ecclesia 25 (2004): 294–310; Vos, Theopoetry, 265. 38 See also Kellermann, “Psalm 137,” 49; Hartberger, “An den Wassern von Babylon …,” 222–23; Savran, “How Can We Sing,” 50–51; Vos, Theopoetry, 265–66, 268; Ahn, “Psalm 137,” 284–85; Booij, Psalmen Deel 4, 269; Lavik, “Killing Children with God’s Permission?” 198–199.

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for the correct tone and his tongue will cling to his palate. In a metaphorical way, he would be paralyzed. 39 Within this, syntactical structure verbs for “to forget” play an important role. The verb  “to forget,” stands parallel to the negated verb , “to remember.” The subject of the act of forgetting – and hence those who are summoned to remember – is the “I” that stands as a representative of the community in exile. The object of forgetting – and hence the feature to be remembered – is “Jerusalem.” It is obvious that “Jerusalem” does not merely refer to a location in Judah, but that the city name should be viewed symbolically. The text of the second canticle in Ps 137, however, does not explicitly state the character of this symbol. From the context of Ps 137 two features become clear: a) The apparent identification of “Jerusalem” with “Zion” indicates that “Jerusalem” refers to the cultic centre of the chosen city. It is the temple and the Davidic house that should not be forgotten on foreign soil. b) In the final canticle, God is summoned to remember the Edomites and their behaviour on the day of Jerusalem. The unique expression  , “the day of Jerusalem,” 40 refers to the conquest of the city of Jerusalem by the Babylonians resulting in the destruction of the temple and the exile of a great part of the population. The Hebrew Bible has conserved a tradition that on that day and during its aftermath, the Edomites cooperated with the Babylonians in their violent acts. 41 The historical trustworthiness of this tradition cannot be proven. 42 YHWH is 723F

724F

725F

39

See Rendsburg and Rendsburg, “Physiological and Philological Notes to Psalm 137.” In fact this is a form of the loss of procedural memory, see Francis Landy’s contribution to this volume, “Notes Towards a Poetics of Memory in Ancient Israel.” 40 Pace Hartberger, “An den Wassern von Babylon …,” 209, who incorrectly assumes the expression to be present at Obad 12–14; Vos, Theopoetry, 269, who assumes the same expression to be present at Jer 32:28. He probably confused Jer 32:28 with Jer 38:28: “And Jeremiah remained in the court of the guard until the day that Jerusalem was taken.” 41 See Obad 10–16; Ezek 25:12–14; 35:5–7; Esdras  4:50; this tradition is continued in Rabbinic writings see Seth D. Kunin, “Israel and the Nations: A Structuralist Survey,” JSOT 82 (1999): 19–43. 42 See Kellermann, “Psalm 137,” 57–58; G. S. Ogden, “Prophetic Oracles Against Foreign Nations and Psalms of Communal Lament: The Relationship of Psalm 137 to Jeremiah 49:7–22 and Obadiah,” JSOT 24 (1982): 89–97; Hartberger, “An den Wassern von Babylon …,” 134–39; John R. Bartlett, Edom and the Edomites (JSOTSup 77; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1989), 151–57; Ernst Axel Knauf, “Supplementa Ismaeletica,” BN 45 (1988): 62–81; Hans M. Barstad, History and the Hebrew Bible: Studies in Ancient Israelite and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography (FAT 61; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 117–120; Rainer Albertz, Die Exilszeit 6. Jahrhundert v. Chr. (BE 7; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2001), 84–85, 149–153; Nadav Na’aman, “Sources and Composition in the Biblical History of Edom,” in Sefer Moshe: The Moshe Weinfeld Jubilee Volume; Studies in the Bible and the Ancient NearEast, Qumran, and Post-Biblical Judaism (ed. C. Cohen, A. Hurvitz, and Sh. M. Paul; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2004), 313–

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asked to remember their cruelty and take revenge. This implies that “Jerusalem” symbolically stands for the ruined city. All in all it can be assumed that “Jerusalem” refers to the contested tradition of divine favour for the city. The author of Ps 137 warns its audience that this breach and fracture should not lead to abandoning YHWH. Their answer to the question by their Babylonian guards is an oath not to forget. I will return to this point after having made some remarks on the Psalm as a whole and having discussed its possible date. 4. From Mourning to Revenge Summarizing the contents of Psalm in its entirety, it is interesting to note a movement in the way the Jehudites coped with their situation. In the first canticle their reaction was a reaction of mourning. In the third canticle this has shifted into a cry for revenge. The Psalm as such is too short to apply Kübler-Ross’s ideas on stages in the grief process to this particular group of people. 43 Of greater importance is that this change in mentality had been provoked by the mockery of the Babylonian “captive takers” and “tormenters.” It is their request to “sing a song of Zion” that triggered this movement from mourning – in my view, an act of resignation – to a cry for revenge, which can be seen as a more active and concerned way to deal with the situation of alienation. 44 “Revenge,” however should not be seen as a form of blind hatred, but within the parameters of the ius talionis. The call for “revenge” cannot be compared with, for instance, the wish for revenge as a human response of inhumane character after a traumatic event of which the world ‘ad hayyom "" witnesses, such as the wish for revenge among victims of the

320; Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah under Babylonian Rule (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 68–97; Laura M. Zucconi, “From the Wilderness of Zin Alongside Edom: Edomite Territory in the Eastern Negev During the Eighth-Sixth Centuries BCE,” in Milk and Honey: Essays on Ancient Israel and the Bible in Appreciation of the Judaic Studies Program at the University of California, San Diego (ed. S. Malena, D. Miano and F. M. Cross; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2007), 241–256; Ahn, “Psalm 137,” 285–286. 43 Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, On Death and Dying (London: Tavistock Pubications, 1970). Hartberger, “An den Wassern von Babylon …,” 223, interprets the third canticle as an expression of “negotiation.” 44 See also Couffignal, “Approches nouvelles,” esp. 61–63, who defines this shift in semiotic language and symbols; Lavik, “Killing Children with God’s Permission?,” 199– 201; pace Athalya Brenner, “‘On the Rivers of Babylon’ (Psalm 137), or between Victim and Perpetrator,” in Sanctified Aggression: Legacies of Biblical and Post-Biblical Vocabularies of Violence (Bible in the Twentyfirst Century 3; London: Continuum, 2004), 76–91.

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Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. 45 I will certainly not exclude the possibility that the “we-group” in Ps 137 is construed as suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder.

D. Cui bono and the Dating of the Psalm In my youth I was socialized with the idea that Ps 137 was written by a group of deeply traumatized exiles along the banks of the Euphrates during their forced migration to Babylon in the sixth century B.C.E. 46 Despite my delving into and embracing of critical scholarship, I never left that position. Last year, I gave a paper on exilic ideology and identity in Ps 137 at a seminar for my local graduate school. In the discussion, a colleague from the department of ancient history, Rolf Strootman, put forward the cui bono question: whose interests are defended by this song? His question gave rise for a reassessment of text and evidence. 1. A Context for an Exilic Psalm When locating Ps 137 during the exile, it is of great importance to look at a group of cuneiform texts that have recently emerged and will be edited by Laurie Pierce and Cornelia Wunsch. These texts are a record of the administration of rural business in Mesopotamia during the Babylonian and Persian periods. They come mainly from URU  pna-, “the City-ofNashar”; “Eagleton,” and al Ya-hu-du, “the city of Judah/Yehud,” probably in the vicinity of Borsippa. Some of them have already been published. 47 The indication “the city of Judah/Yehud” or “New Jerusalem” reflects the politics of the Neo-Baby45

See Jeffrey Sonis, et al., “Probable Posttraumatic Stress Disorder and Disability in Cambodia: Associations With Perceived Justice, Desire for Revenge, and Attitudes Toward the Khmer Rouge Trials,” Journal of the American Medical Association 302 (2009): 527–536. 46 For a discussion of the various views, see: Kellermann, “Psalm 137,” 51–52; Hartberger, “An den Wassern von Babylon …,” 4–7; Spieckermann, Heilsgegenwart, 117–18; Emmendörffer, Der ferne Gott, 185–86; Goulder, Psalms of the Return, 226–227; Albertz, Exilszeit, 91; Yair Hoffman, “The Fasts in the Book of Zechariah,” in Judah and the Judaeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period (ed. O. Lipschits and J. Blenkinsopp; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 180; Ahn, “Psalm 137,” 270–274 (with lit.); Booij, Psalmen Deel 4, 265–67; Ahn, Exile and Forced Migration, 76–80. 47 Francis Joannès and André Lemaire, “Trois tablettes cunéiformes à onomastique ouest-sémitique,” Transeuphratène 17 (1999): 17–34; see also David S. Vanderhooft, “New Evidence Pertaining to the Transition from Neo-Babylonian to Achaemenid Administration in Palestine,” in Yahwism after the Exile: Perspectives on Israelite Religion in the Persian Era (ed. R. Albertz and B. Becking; Studies in Theology and Religion 5;

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lonians to bring deportees together in specific ethnic groups. The cities to which these persons were brought were named after the area of origin. Evidence exists for exiled communities with names such as Ashkelon, Gaza, Neirab, Qadeš, Qedar and Tyre. 48 The most important conclusions that can be drawn from these texts are: a) not all the descendants of the exiled Judaeans immediately returned to Jerusalem after the conquest of Babylon by Cyrus; 49 b) the exiled Judaeans remained a separate ethnic group in Babylonia, or at least for the majority of them did; c) many of them were settled in newly reclaimed agricultural areas; The texts in this archive register transactions from URU  pna- in al Yahu-du, and in some smaller unnamed cities. The documents are mainly dated in the early Achaemenid period (during the reigns of Cyrus, Cambyses, and Darius I) but about 10% of the texts are dated in the NeoBabylonian period. The documents in their entirety mention about 450 persons. About 25% of them bear a West Semitic name. Sixty-four persons are Judaeans, and many of them have a yahwistic theophoric element in their name. A dramatic decrease of the Judaean share during the transition from the Neo-Babylonian to the Persian era is not detectable. It is a remarkable fact that during the time of the archive the Judaeans and their descendants acted in various roles in transactions that were important enough to be registered. They are not only listed among the witnesses, but also as mentioned as buyers and sellers of goods and properties. Before arriving at some premature conclusions, it should be noted “that all of the transactions are in the context of work done as obligations to royal lands. These are are not the transactions of entirely free people working in a true capitalistic market economy.” 50 In addition, it becomes clear that both “Eagleton” and “New Yehud” were newly established locaAssen: Van Gorcum, 2003), 219–235 (219–220); Wilfred G. Lambert, “A Document from a Community of Exiles in Babylonia,” in New Seals and Inscriptions, Hebrew, Idumean, and Cuneiform (ed. M. Lubetski; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2007), 201– 205; Kathleen Abraham, “An Inheritance Division among Judeans in Babylonia from the Early Persian Period,” in New Seals and Inscriptions, 206–221. 48 Israel Eph’al, “The Western Minorities in Babylonia in the 6th–5th Centuries B.C.: Maintenace and Cohesion,” Or 47 (1978): 80–83; Francis Joannès and André Lemaire, “Trois textes de # à l’époque Néo-Babylonienne,” RA 81 (1987): 147–158; Joannès and Lemaire, “Trois tablettes cunéiformes,” 24; Vanderhooft, “New Evidence Pertaining to the Transition,” 219–35. 49 See also Albertz, Exilszeit, 88; B. Becking, “‘We all returned as One’: Critical Notes on The Myth of the Mass Return,” in Judah and the Judaeans in the Persian Period (ed. O. Lipschits and M. Oeming; Winona Lake: Eisenbraun, 2006), 3–18. 50 Laurie Pearce in private communication January 2007.

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tions that were important for the production of food for the increasing population in the Babylonian and later Persian empire. This feature does not tally with the traditional image of exile. Pearce notes that in these documents Yehudites are indicated with the professional title . 51 This word is not easily translated. It refers to a class of semi-free agrarians who worked at “estates of the crown,” who had an obligation for statute-labour and who had to pay taxes on the yield of their acres. From the Murashu-archive it is clear that the title of  was often given to persons belonging to a group of professional, institutional, or ethnic coherence. 52 Another title, $%, is mentioned in the new archive. A $% was some sort of a local administrator who, empowered by a governor of a larger territory, had to take care of jurisdiction and taxes in his realm of power. The term further “underscores the population’s subordinate position vis-à-vis the crown.” 53 Both words,  and $% refer into the direction of the existence of a hatru, some kind of “guild” of semifree men in the area of URU  pna- and al Ya-hu-du. 54 This would imply that in the area of Borsippa during the Babylonian period until well into the Persian era a group descending from Judaean exiles lived at an acceptable level of prosperity and were organised in their own – albeit limited – organisation. In the book of Jeremiah, a letter can be found that had been sent to exiles in Babylonia. In it a prophecy of Jeremiah is recorded – or summarized – likely as an answer to questions put by the exiles with connection to the organisation of their lives in exile: Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce. Take wives and have sons and daughters; take wives for your sons, and give your daughters in marriage, that they may bear sons and daughters; 51

Laurie Pearce, “New Evidence for Judaeans in Babylonia,” in Judah and the Judaeans in the Persian Period, 399–411. 52 Muhammad Dandamaev, Slavery in Babylonia, from Nabopolasser to Alexander the Great (626–331 BC) (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 1984), 626; Matthew W. Stolper, Entrepreneurs and Empire: The Murashu Archive, the Murashu Firm and the Persian Rule in Babylonia (Leiden, Istanbul: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten, 1985), 79–82; Heather D. Baker, “Degrees of Freedom: Slavery in Mid-First Millennium BC Babylonia,” World Archaeology 33 (2001): 18–26. 53 Laurie Pearce in private communication January 2007; see also Stolper, Entrepreneurs and Empire, 83; Vanderhooft, “New Evidence Pertaining to the Transition,” 223. 54 Pearce, “New Evidence for Judaeans in Babylonia”; L. Pearce, “‘Judean’: A Special Status in Neo-Babylonian and Achemenid Babylonia?,” in Judah and the Judaeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identities in an International Context (ed. O. Lipschits, Gary N. Knoppers and Manfred Oeming; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 267–277.

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multiply there, and do not decrease. But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, 55 and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.

In its present literary context, the letter is connected to exiles of the first wave, i.e., after the first conquest of Jerusalem by the Babylonians. Traditionally, the address of the letter has been construed as Judaeans living in the city of Babylon. 56 From a historical point of view, its contents could be widened to a larger period. The prophetic words of Jeremiah can easily be applied to the life of exiled Judaeans in “Eagleton” and “New Yehud.” 2. Psalm 137 as Construction of Exilic Identity Hutchinson and Smith have defined an ethnic identity as follows: [A] named human population with myths of common ancestry, shared historical memories, one or more elements of common culture, a link with a homeland, and a sense of solidarity among at least some of its members. 57

Psalm 137 can be connected with the various elements of this definition. Note that the following remarks are made at the level of the text and the world it invokes, and not at the level of historical reality. The we-group in Ps 137 is a human population but not specifically named as an ethnos or a nation. This group apparently shares myth, such as the divine favour for Zion. 58 It is obvious that this group identifies itself by the set of historical 55

Jer 29:5–7. See, e.g., Meindert Dijkstra, “Prophecy by Letter (Jeremiah xxix 24–32),” VT 33 (1983): 319–322; Gerald J. Keown, Pamela J. Scalise and Thomas G. Smothers, Jeremiah 26–52 (WBC 27; Waco: Word Books, 1995), 64–69; Klaas Smelik, “Letters to the Exiles: Jeremiah 29 in Context,” SJOT 10 (1996): 282–295; Dirk Schwiderski, Handbuch des nordwestsemitischen Briefformulars: Ein Beitrag zur Echtheitsfrage der aramäischen Briefe des Esrabuches (BZAW 295; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2000), 325–326; Jack R. Lundbom, Jeremiah 21–36 (AB 21B; New York: Doubleday, 2004), 359–361; Georg Fischer, Jeremia 26–52 (HThKAT; Freiburg: Herder, 2005), 83–90; Rüdiger Bartelmus, “‘Israel’ zwischen den Babyloniern und den Persern: kritisch-theologische Überlegungen zu Jer 29,4–7 und Jes 44,24–45,7” in Israel zwischen den Machten: Festschrift für Stefan Timm (ed. M. Pietsch and F. Hartenstein; AOAT 364; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2009), 15–23. 57 John Hutchinson and Anthony D. Smith, eds., Ethnicity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 6; see also M. B. Moore and B. E. Kelle, Biblical History and Israel’s Past: The Changing Study of the Bible and History (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2011), 129–132. 58 On the Zion-theology in the Hebrew Bible, see, e.g., J. H. Hayes, “The Tradition of Zion’s Inviolability,” JBL 82 (1963): 419–426; F. Stolz, Strukturen und Figuren im Kult von Jerusalem (BZAW 118; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1970); Jimmy J. M. Roberts, “The Davidic Origin of the Zion Tradition,” JBL 92 (1973): 329–344; B. C. Ollenburger, Zion, the City of the Great King: A Theological Symbol of the Jerusalem Cult (JSOTSup 41; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1987); Christl M. Maier, “Psalm 87 as a Reappraisal of the Zion Tradition and its Reception in Galatians 4:26,” CBQ 69 (2007): 473–486. 56

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events it experienced and that influenced their collective memories: the devastation of Jerusalem and the exile into Babylon. The common culture is clear from the implicit references to the cult in Jerusalem. The longing for the homeland is self-evident. The we-language can be seen as a performance of group internal solidarity. This solidarity also includes those who lost their life during the devastation of Jerusalem. In short, behind Ps 137, a group with a clear identity is visible. The religion of the group was clearly contested by the events. The text describes this in terms of suffering, albeit in a limited way. Physical suffering, such as hunger or oppression, seems to be absent from the Psalm and the world it implies. This observation tallies with the growing knowledge on the actual fate of the exiled Judaeans. The picture that arises from both archaeology and epigraphy is that of group living in relatively good conditions. Reading Ps 137 against this setting yields the themes of alienation and ambivalence. The real contest was not to be found in daily life but in the fact of their alienation from Zion and the mockery from the Babylonians. The Babylonians request to sing a hymn of Zion started a process in which this group returned to their own traditions, albeit in a seemingly conservative way. 3. Conflicts in the Landscape of Yehud There is no objective clue as to the exact date of the composition of Ps 137. Looking at the text from the cui bono perspective, the following remarks can be made, though. The books of Ezra and Nehemiah give evidence of a power conflict during the second part of the fifth century B.C.E. in the province of Yehud. The parties in that conflict are not completely clear regarding number, size and historical reality, but it is obvious that a group that construes itself as the benê golah stands opposite against at least two other groups: (1) the people(s) of the land, and (2) inhabitants of the Northern territory. The people(s) of the land can be seen as the descendants of those “who remained in the land” after the conquest of Nebuchadnezzar. They are depicted in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah as having an incorrect form of Yahwistic faith by which they are polluting the land. As for the Northerners, they are presented by Ezra and Nehemiah as ones who obstruct the operations. See, amongst other passages: Then the neighbouring people began to do everything possible to frighten the Yehudites and to make them stop building. (Ezra 4:4) A letter was also written to Artaxerxes about Jerusalem by Governor Rehum, Secretary Shimshai, and their advisors, including the judges, the governors, the officials, and the local leaders. They were joined in writing this letter by people from Erech and Babylonia, the Elamites from Susa, and people from other foreign nations that the great and

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famous Osnapper had forced to settle in Samaria and other parts of Western Province. (Ezra 4:8–10)

Their letter advises Artaxerxes to stop the rebuilding of the temple in Jerusalem (Ezra 4:11–16). The advice was implemented. When Sanballat, the governor of Samaria, heard that we were rebuilding the walls of Jerusalem, he became angry and started insulting our people. In front of his friends and the Samaritan army he said, “What is this feeble bunch of Yehudites trying to do? Are they going to rebuild the wall and offer sacrifices all in one day? Do they think they can make something out of this pile of scorched stones?” (Neh 4:1–2)

The benê golah or qahal golah should indicate a group of Yahwists who returned from exile “with their faith intact,” as Joseph Blenkinsopp remarks several times in his recent book. 59 The expression “with their faith intact” needs a little bit of explanation and exploration. First of all, I do not believe that the exiles and their descendants in Babylon were able to continue the exact form of Yahwism that they carried in their ke ' to Mesopotamia. Living in a multi-religious context must have one way or another affected their faith and beliefs. Comparative analysis shows that living in exile or diaspora generally leads to a stricter religion that is then construed as the Old Time Religion. This can easily be detected among Muslims in northwestern Europe or Dutch post-WWII immigrants in Canada. In other words, the form of religion of the returning benê golah can best be seen as a more fundamentalist view of the divine. The books of Ezra and Nehemiah evidence a religious conflict between the returnees and those who remained. The conflict, however, is not only over religion. 60 Reading between the lines of the text – and sometimes in the lines themselves – reveals a power struggle. This conflict, in my view, had everything to do with administration and economy. Who was in control? Was Jerusalem or Samaria the 59 Joseph Blenkinsopp, Judaism the First Phase: The Place of Ezra and Nehemiah in the Origins of Judaism (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009), esp. 78–85. 60 There exists an abundance of literature on this topic; see, e.g., Melody D. Knowles, Centrality Practiced: Jerusalem in the Religious Practice of Yehud and the Diaspora in the Persian Period (SBLABS 16; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006); Blenkinsopp, Judaism the First Phase; Moore and Kelle, Biblical History and Israel’s Past, 396– 463; Philip R. Davies, On the Origins of Judaism, (London: Equinox, 2011), 6–71. As for the date of the events, I hold a middle position between the more traditional view which connects Ezra and Nehemiah with events in the 6th cent. B.C.E. as recently defended by A. Philip Brown, Hope Amidst Ruin: A Literary and Theological Analysis of Ezra (Greenville: Bob Jones University Press, 2009), and the Redaktionsgechichtliche proposals of J. Pakkala, Ezra the Scribe: The Development of Ezra 7–10 and Nehemiah 8 (BZAW 347; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004), and Jacob L. Wright, Rebuilding Identity: The Nehemiah Memoir and its Earliest Readers (BZAW 348; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004), who construe greater parts of the books of Ezra and Nehemiah as late.

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power base in the satrapy? Who controlled the temple and its taxes? In the background stands the rivalry between the rebuilt temple in Jerusalem and the temple at Mount Gerizim. Archaeological remains of the latter indicate that such a rival temple existed from the middle of the fifth century onward. The rivalry was not restricted to the basics of religion. It also contained competition over the form of the cult and its revenues. Elsewhere, I have argued that this rivalry should be seen as one of the formative backgrounds of the so-called mixed marriage crisis; the “strange” women were not member of a different ethnicity, but Yehudites from the indigenous population with a form of religion strange to the one of the benê golah and an inclination to visit rival sanctuaries. 61 Who controlled the land? In my view the so-called lists of returnees in Ezra 2 and Neh 7 should be seen as a census list of people owning – or claiming ownership – of parcels and plots of land that produced income for them and supplied them with a power base in the Bürger Temple Gemeinde.

E. Four Corners Theory In and around every hymn or song, four roles could be played: 1. The commissioner: the instance who commissioned the composition. It should be noted that a commissioner, although most often a human being, can also have a more abstract character. “Tradition,” “situation,” and “idea” could also act as commissioner since they quite often provoke the composition of a lyrical text. In many cases the commissioner cannot be established. 2. The composer: the person or persons responsible for the lyrics and the score of the song. A distinction should be made between the original composer (who is sometimes hidden beyond the horizon of tradition) and translators or reworkers who appropriated the given text to a new context. 3. The performer: the one or ones who actually bring the song to life. Every new performer gives a new version of the same composition. 4. The hearer: those individuals or groups who listen to an actual performance of the composition. It stands to reason that each hearer brings in

61 Bob Becking, “On the Identity of the ‘Foreign’ Women in Ezra 9–10,” in Exile and Restoration Revisited: Essays on the Babylonian and Persian Periods in Memory of Peter R. Ackroyd (ed. L. L. Grabbe and G. A. Knoppers; Library of Second Temple Studies 73; London: T&T Clark, 2009), 31–49.

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his or her personal worldview that influences the perception of the composition. 62 All sorts of connections and interactions exist between the four roles described. It is perhaps superfluous to say that with some anthems, one instance could be cast in two or three different roles, but not in all four. 1. Exilic Identity If one reads Ps 137 in the exilic context, the following scheme can be designed: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Commissioner: Babylonian guards Composer: A person from the “we-group” Performer: A person from the “we-group” Hearer: The “we-group” of Judahite exiles

The identification of the commissioner can be discussed, since other identifications are possible. The text itself, however, hints at the Babylonians who provoke the exiles to sing and hence compose this song. In the interaction between the performer and the hearer, a group identity is constructed. The character of this identity can best be described in terms of keeping the ancestral traditions by remembering Zion. The request for a hymn on Zion provokes a process of internalisation and group internal solidarity. The collective silence – as implied in the refusal to sing a song on Zion – is brave way of dealing with the contested memory. The silence covered in the singing of an ironic song reveals the depths of the memory. 63 2. Postexilic Ideology If one reads Ps 137 in the post-exilic context, the following scheme can be designed: 1. Commissioner: Babylonian guards or: A person from the “we-group” 2. Composer: A person from the “we-group” or: A person from the benê golah 3. Performer: A person from the benê golah 4. Hearer: Inhabitants of Persian Yehud 62 I have adopted this scheme from Ann J. Adams, Public Faces and Private Identities in Seventeenth-Century Holland: Portraiture and the Production of Community (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 259–271. 63 On the power of silence see: Vered Vinitzky-Seroussi and Chana Teeger, “Unpacking the Unspoken: Silence in Collective Memory and Forgetting,” Social Forces 88 (2010): 1103–1122; Korpel and de Moor, The Silent God.

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In this connection, the identifications of the commissioner and of the composer are even more disputed. Depending on the question of whether one sees Ps 137 as a text from the exile period reapplied in a new context or as a deliberate post-exilic composition written upon return to Jerusalem, different commissioners and composers are possible. In the interaction between the performer and the hearer a different identity is constructed. Within the contours of the conflict, this evokes the ideology that the group sees themselves as the best part of Israel. They apparently share myth, such as the divine favour for Zion. Within the contours of the conflict, the fact that they did not betray Zion while in a foreign land indicates that they see themselves as the true keepers of the Zion-theology. It is obvious that this group identifies itself by the set of historical events it experienced and that influenced its collective memories: the devastation of Jerusalem and the exile into Babylon. After their return from exile, this collective memory supplied them with an ideological plus, since they were the group that survived the pit and hence the “true Israel.” The fact that they returned can be seen as an implicit reference to a divine approbation to their cry for justice: Babylon was lying in ruins. The religion of the group was clearly contested by the events of the exile, but it was also deepened and strengthened, albeit in a seemingly conservative way. With their ideology of being the “holy seed,” they distanced themselves from the “people(s) of the land” as well as from the Samari[t]ans in the north. Their exilic identity functioned as post-exilic ideology. In conclusion, the interaction between performer and hearer of Ps 137 in the days of Nehemiah and Ezra evoked an anti-outgroup ideology; since the Samari[t]ans and the “people(s) of the land” never sat by the rivers of Babylon and were never triggered to sing the Lord’s song in a strange land, they can never be seen as true Israel. In other words, Ps 137 stands at the well of Yahwistic internal apartheid.

F. Conclusion Psalm 137 talks about two kinds of remembrance. In its exilic setting, the text displays a dynamic dialectics of the acts of memory and forgetting in which the divine and the human acts are intertwined. The community is urged to not give in and to not forget the good things God has done on their behalf despite the fact that Zion lay in ruins. This fuels the hope that God will remember his people and once more act on their behalf by revenging their enemies on the “day of Jerusalem.” In the first reading (in which the Psalm was composed after the exile) the act of remembrance receives an ideological dimension. The “others”

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should never forget that they had not been in the pit of the exile. In this context the Psalm functions very much like a topical song. The ballad reflects on recent political events. Psalm 137 contains both narrative and commentary. The anthem aims at convincing its audience to share the view on reality as enveloped in the song – by identification and implicitly making a division between “us” and the “other.” 64 The performance of this song transmits the idea that the benê golah are the “holy seed.” 65 In a present day reading, the Psalm communicates a strong religious identity in which remembering the sorry side of life, the days of turmoil and fissures, has an important place. (This can be illustrated by a scene from the American office series, Mad Men, that is set in the 1960s. In one episode, a couple going through a break-up visits a New York restaurant where a Jewish beatnik performs a version of By the Rivers of Babylon. 66 The music pretty much underlines the bitterness and the alienation displayed in the scene.) In addition, the text communicates hope that God will remember all those who became victims of “Babylonian” acts; here an alphabet of repression could be given, starting with the A of Apartheid. 67 Whether performers or readers of this Psalm still want God to take revenge is another question. In all cases the remembrance of this Psalm will trigger its readers or singers to share the view on reality demonstrated in the song.

64 See, e.g., Cohen and Samuelson, Songs For Political Action; Buelens, “Het gezongen dagblad,” 237–258. 65 See Ezra 9:2; see on this text, e.g., Harold C. Washington, “Israel’s Holy Seed and the Foreign Women of Ezra-Nehemiah: A Kristevan Reading,” Biblical Interpretation 11 (2003): 427–437. 66 Mad Men season one episode 6 “Babylon”; the song Rivers of Babylon as written and composed by Don McLean is performed by David Carbonara. 67 Jeremy Punt, “Post-Apartheid Racism in South Africa The Bible, Social Identity and Stereotyping,” Religion and Theology 16 (2009): 246–272.

“Forgotten” by Yahweh: A Mental Image of Human Suffering and Its Function in “Exilic” Laments REINHARD MÜLLER The God of the Old Testament is sometimes said “to forget” someone or something, 1 at least according to common translations. 2 What does the Hebrew root  mean in these cases? This semantic question has considerable theological implications. To which notion of the deity is this use of  referring? What kind of relationship between human beings and the divine is implied? The following observations reveal a distinct sociomorphic concept. Being “forgotten” by Yahweh is a qualification of human suffering that is in most cases related to the concept of divine kingship. This mental image originates in individual lamentation and plays a considerable role in collective laments that are directly or indirectly related to experiences of the “exilic” period. 751F

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A. Being “Forgotten” The root  can refer to unconscious lapses of memory, a meaning that comes close to the modern use of the English verb “to forget.” 3 Much more often however,  means to turn away consciously from something or someone. 4 Thus it is possible to “forget” deliberately, as shown by the 753F

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1 Deut 4:31; 1 Sam 1:11; Isa 49:14–15; Hos 4:6; Amos 8:7; Ps 9:13; 10:12; 13:2; 42:10; 44:25; 74:19, 23; 77:10; Lam 5:20. 2 Cf., e.g., KJV; ASV; NRSV; NIV (except Hos 4:6; Ps 9:13; 74:23 where “ignore” is used). 3 Cf. Gen 27:45; Deut 24:19; Prov 31:5, 7; Job 39:15. 4 Cf. Hamilton, “  ,”  TWOT 2:922 (“Forgetting is not simply a psychological act of having a thought pass from one’s consciousness, a temporary or permanent lapse of memory. This is indicated by the frequent identification of the verb with an action.”) and David J. A Clines, ed., The Concise Dictionary of Classical Hebrew (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2009), 459–60, where “forget” is defined as, e.g., “fail to show,” “be unfaithful to,” “deliberately dismiss from one’s mind,” “ignore,” “be careless about.”

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words “I want to forget my complaint” (Job 9:27) or by the call “forget your people and the house of your father” (Ps 45:11). 5 When taking another person as its direct object,  denotes a social act that is done more or less consciously, much like its antonym  “to remember.” 6 For example, one use of  is for breaking off a relationship with another person. 7 When a wife “forgets” her husband she commits adultery (Hos 2:15) – a meaning of that can be paraphrased with the metaphorical expression %  & “throw behind (one’s) back” (Ezek 23:35). When the chief cupbearer “forgets” Joseph (Gen 40:23) and leaves the former companion in his miserable situation it is an act of gross ingratitude. When the individual who is suffering from a disease or some other misfortune is excluded from the community, it is a collective act of separation that can be called “forgetting,” as in Job 19:14:    “my friends have forgotten me.” As a consequence of this act, those who once knew the individual and recognized him as belonging to them now regard him as a stranger (Job 19:15). 8 Thus, can be the opposite of the root and is in this case to be paraphrased with “to deliberately stop knowing someone,” with  understood in a social sense rather than a cognitive sense. Regarding death itself, however, the unconscious aspect of “forgetting” seems to lie at the surface. The dead become forgotten by the living (Job 24:20; Qoh 8:10; 9:5; cf. also Job 28:4). The realm of death can be called  1“land of oblivion” (Ps 88:13). 9 This unconscious aspect is meant when the state of social isolation experienced by a suffering individual is compared with death, as in the phrase    “I am forgotten like 756F

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For a similar use of the Akkadian % see the Epic of Gilgamesh (standard Babylonian version) IV 245: “Forget death, [seek] life!” (Andrew R. George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts, 2 vols. [Oxford: University, 2003], 1:601). 6 The antonymic use of both roots is attested ten times: Gen 40:23; Deut 9:7; 1 Sam 1:11; Isa 17:10; 23:16; 54:4; Ps 9:13; Job 11:16; 24:20; Prov 31:7. 7 This sense could be implied when Israel/Judah/Jerusalem is said to forget Yahweh, as Hos 2:15 and Ezek 23:35 show (cf. Jer 3:21; 13:25). But Jer 2:32 indicates that this kind of “forgetting” can also be conceived of as an unconscious lapse of memory; this meaning of could be implied when the Israelites are said to forget Yahweh’s words (Deut 4:9 [in the context of a warning not to forget]), his deeds (Ps 78:11; 106:13), his name (Jer 23:27; Ps 44:21 [negated, see below C.]), or his covenant (Deut 4:23 [in the context of a warning not to forget]; Prov 2:17 [said of the foreign woman]). In a single instance it is denied that Yahweh is forgetting the covenant with the fathers which implies the same concept of (Deut 4:31). 8 Thus Meir Malul, Knowledge, Control and Sex: Studies in Biblical Thought, Culture and Worldview (Tel Aviv: Archaeological Center, 2002), 223. 9 The root is a rare synonym of (qal: Lam 3:17; nipɼal: Isa 44:21; piɼel: Gen 41:51; hipɼil: Job 11:6; 39:17).

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a dead man out of heart” (Ps 31:13). This individual perceives the exclusion from his social group as if this group forgot him even in a cognitive sense. To sum up, can denote not only the unconscious process of losing the memory of something, but also, and much more often, the deliberate social act of denying to “know” somebody any longer. It has to be noted, however, that in the perspective of the person who is “forgotten,” both aspects can merge, since this person can get the impression that being suddenly “unknown” to the others means also to be forgotten by them in a cognitive sense (Ps 31:13).

B. “Forgotten” by the Divine King: Individual Laments The motif of being “forgotten” by Yahweh originates in the language of individual lament. This is revealed by Ps 13, probably the oldest instance of the motif in the Old Testament (v. 2). '      &     How long, Yahweh, will you forget me forever, how long will you hide your face from me?

The synonymous parallelism of and  &  shows that qal here also denotes a deliberate act of separation, since “hiding the face” is identical with “refusing to acknowledge him who is ignored, which means relegating him to the status of the unknown, not belonging to one’s frame of reference.” 10 Yahweh ignores the pleas of the individual, 11 refuses to take care of him, does not “know” him any longer, and excludes him from his presence. This act exposes the individual to imminent danger of death, as indicated by the plea in v. 4b (       “brighten my eyes so that I may not sleep in death”). Obviously the praying individual, who is “forgotten” by Yahweh, is already near to the state of the dead, who are no longer remembered by Yahweh (Ps 88:6). The underlying notion of the deity is in all likelihood related to the concept of divine kingship. This is indicated by the image of the hidden face of Yahweh, a motif that is rooted in the mental imagery of the audience with the divine king in his throne room, as consistently demonstrated by 760F

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Friedhelm Hartenstein. 12 Permission to see Yahweh face-to-face includes access to the protecting and life-giving sphere of his throne room. If the divine king averts his gaze, the supplicant loses his grace during the audience; if the king “hides his face,” the supplicant is either initially excluded from the throne room or driven out in the course of the audience. 13 In Ps 13, both mental images merge. In the opening (v. 2), the praying individual imagines that Yahweh does not allow him to enter his presence; the god “hides his face” and ignores the cries of the individual. The plea 2 “look!” (v. 4) implies that the supplicant came a step nearer to the god; in this plea he imagines himself in the audience and trying to move the divine king so that he looks at him again. Ps 13 does not reveal why Yahweh is refusing to let the praying individual enter the sphere of his presence. 14 The question  “How long?” however, could indicate that a just reason is nevertheless assumed – some act of human disloyalty towards the deity that was committed by the individual. But “How long?” also implies that the punishment for this act should not be everlasting 15; it suggests that the punishment would be too great if Yahweh excluded the praying individual forever from his presence. 16 It is possible that is used to stress this reproachful tone of the lament, since it denotes a complete breaking off of the relationship. The notion of Yahweh “forgetting” a suffering person can also be found in Ps 42/43. An individual, who is living near the Jordan springs (42:7–8), expresses “[i]ntense longing to return to the sacred places of divine presence” 17 and laments about social and religious isolation among hostile neighbours, a lament that probably gives insight into how Jewish life in 764F

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Friedhelm Hartenstein, Das Angesicht JHWHs: Studien zu seinem höfischen und kultischen Bedeutungshintergrund in den Psalmen und in Exodus 32–34 (FAT 55; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 53–222. 13 Cf. Hartenstein, Das Angesicht JHWHs, 71–78. 14 The only instance in which is used to denote explicitly a divine punishment is Hos 4:6, an oracle addressed to a priest ( % &  / &   “And you forgot the teaching of your god, / also I will forget your sons!”). The use of in this talio however is probably inspired by the motif of Israel “forgetting” Yahweh, an important theme in the book of Hosea (2:15; 8:14; 13:6). 15 The question “how long?” is a feature that can also be found in several Mesopotamian laments, cf. Werner Mayer, Untersuchungen zur Formensprache der babylonischen “Gebetsbeschwörungen” (Studia Pohl: Series Maior 5; Rome: Biblical Institute, 1976), 92–93. 16 Cf., e.g., Erhard S. Gerstenberger, Psalms. Vol. 1 (FOTL XIV; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988), 84. 17 Charles Augustus Briggs and Emilie Grace Briggs, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Psalms. Vol. 1 (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1906–1909), 365.

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exile and diaspora could be perceived. 18 In this context, qal is used with Yahweh as subject (42:10). 768F

        1 & #   I want to say to God, my rock: Why did you forget me, why must I walk mourning because of the oppression of the enemy?

The parallelism indicates that the mourning is ultimately the consequence of God’s “forgetting,” and this act is imagined as having created the spatial distance between the place where the individual is currently living and Jerusalem, the only place where it is possible to enter the sphere of divine presence and to “see 19 God’s face” (42:3). This motif and its origin in the theology of the temple 20 show that the concept of divine kingship is implied also in this psalm. The imagery of the audience with the divine king however is reinterpreted in this “exilic” context. The notion of being excluded from the divine presence is linked with a specific, geographical dimension that is implied in this concept of individual exile. The lament of 42:10 has a close parallel in the last stanza of the psalm (43:2–3). 769F

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        1 & #      &  &  &  &#    For you are the god of my refuge, why did you reject me, why must I walk mourning because of the oppression of the enemy? Send forth your light and your faithfulness, they shall lead me, they shall bring me unto your holy mount, unto your dwelling places.

The lament of 42:10 resembles 43:2; the question   “Why did you forget me?” is parallel with   “Why did you reject me?” This analogy shows that “forgetting” here also refers to a deliberate act by which Yahweh removed the individual from his presence. In the plea that follows this second lament (43:3), Yahweh’s light and faithfulness are imagined as divine courtiers who introduce the supplicant not only into the physical temple in Jerusalem but also into the invisible

18 Cf. Briggs and Briggs, The Book of Psalms, 1:365; Gerstenberger, Psalms, 1:182; Frank-Lothar Hossfeld und Erich Zenger, Die Psalmen: Psalm 1–50 (NEchtB 29; Würzburg: Echter, 1993), 266. 19 has to be read as qal. The Masoretic interpretation as nipɼal that is already attested by the LXX is a theological emendation, cf., e.g., Baethgen, Die Psalmen, 121. 20 Cf. Exod 23:15, 17; 34:20, 23, 24; Deut 16:16; 31:11; 1 Sam 1:22; Isa 1:12.

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throne room of Yahweh. 21 This motif reveals once more the mental imagery of divine kingship that lies in the background of the psalm.

C. “Forgotten” by the Divine King: Communal Laments It is no surprise that the motif of “being forgotten” by the deity could be reapplied to the people as a whole, an idea that in all likelihood was induced by the catastrophe of 587/6 B.C.E. The destruction of the temple as the earthly equivalent of the invisible divine palace seems to have created the notion that the community was permanently excluded from the presence of Yahweh. This notion is expressed most concisely in the context of Lam 5, a lament of the people that seems to reflect the events that followed the downfall of the Judean kingship (v. 20).  '     &  Why do you forget us forever, do you forsake us for the length of days?

The synonymous parallelism of and shows that “forgetting” is again conceived of as a social act. 22 The preceding bicolon (v. 19) clarifies that also here this act is related to the sovereignty of the divine king. 72F

      & You, Yahweh, remain forever, your throne from generation to generation.

The following lament of the community that Yahweh “is forgetting” them “forever” contrasts intentionally with this explicit reference to Yahweh’s everlasting kingship. 23 On the one hand, it is indisputably true that Yahweh sits upon his throne “from generation to generation;” on the other hand, it cannot be likewise true that access to this throne is “forever” denied to the people. Thus the adverb ' “forever” is used in Lam 5:20 in exactly the same sense as in Ps 13:2. The lament about the seemingly endless state of being excluded from Yahweh’s presence aims at an end of this state 24; like the individual of Ps 13, the people of Lam 5 hope to enter the sphere of the 73F

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divine king again. Accordingly, the lament continues with the plea  &  “bring us back to you, Yahweh, and we will return” (v. 21). 25 The verb qal with Yahweh as subject is also attested in Ps 44, another lament of the people (vv. 24–25). 75F

    '   '#  &   '   Awake! Why do you sleep, lord? Arise! Do not reject us forever! Why do you hide your face, do you forget our affliction and oppression?

This mixture of prayer and lament is influenced by the language of individual lamentation, as indicated by the call to wake up, 26 the plea “do not reject,” 27 and the parallelism of  &and that accords exactly with Ps 13 (v. 2). But the idea of a community that is being ignored by Yahweh is – in comparison with Lam 5 – modified, since the divine “forgetting” is not referring to the Israelites themselves but to their “affliction” and 1“oppression.” Both terms are related to the history of Yahweh’s people 28; Ps 44:25b could even allude to the creed of Deut 26:5–9 (v. 7: ' …   “and he saw our affliction…and our oppression”; cf. also Exod 3:7, 9). Thus the community of Ps 44 that laments about its dispersal among the nations (v. 12–15) compares its current state implicitly with Israel’s suffering in Egypt. The community complains about being excluded from the divine presence, and by doing so, it also appeals for an act of renewed deliverance that will bring the people back to Yahweh, as revealed by the end of the Psalm (v. 27b: &   “and redeem us for your kindness’ sake”). The use of in this lament has yet another aspect. Some lines before, the people deny that they have forgotten Yahweh and his name (vv. 18, 21), a bold claim that contrasts with the deuteronomistic idea that Israel is suffering because it forgot Yahweh, his deeds and his commands. 29 According to this claim, the lament of v. 25 “Why do you hide your face, do 76F

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This plea is probably influenced by Jer 31:18:  “bring me back that I may return!” 26 Cf. Ps 7:7; 35:23; 59:5–6. 27 Cf. Ps 43:2; 88:15; Lam 3:17. 28 Cf. Hossfeld and Zenger, Die Psalmen, 277. 29 Cf. Judg 3:7; 1 Sam 12:9; Jer 2:32; Ezek 22:12, etc., as well as exhortations like Deut 6:12. 25

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you forget our affliction and oppression?” suggests that Yahweh has no reason to ignore the suffering of his people. 30 Thus the appeal to end this seemingly arbitrary ignorance sounds even stronger than in Lam 5. The motif of being “forgotten” by the deity appears also in another psalm of collective lamentation, Ps 74. After a long opening lament (vv. 1*–11) and a hymnical praise of the divine king (vv. 12–17), Yahweh is called to remember his people (vv. 18–19). &     '   &  Do not give to the wild beasts the breathing of your dove, the life of your afflicted do not forget forever!

Once again,  is combined with ', a combination that can only be understood with regard to the traditional use of both words in individual and collective lamentation; Yahweh’s “afflicted” get the impression that in the present their suffering is ignored by him, but they pray that this state will not endure forever. Once again, the perspective of Ps 13:2 can be discerned in the background. Obviously  here also denotes a deliberate social act, an act of refusing to care for another, and it is probable that the imagery of the audience with the divine king is implied again. This is clear not only by the motifs of divine kingship that can be found in the preceding text of the psalm, 31 but also in v. 20, where Yahweh is asked to  2“look upon the covenant,” a modification of the old plea to look upon the praying individual (cf. Ps 13:4  2“Look, answer me!”); the plea of v. 21a,  &  “let not the crushed return ashamed!” is best be explained according to Justus Olshausen as “let him not return from your throne in vain.” 32 The plea “Do not forget forever!” (v. 19b) modifies the traditional laments “how long” or “Why do you forget forever?” The reason for this modification is to be found in the context. Verse 19 is framed by a series of pleas that call Yahweh to remember the blasphemy of his enemies (vv. 18, 22b, 23); '   in v. 19b is parallel with v. 23: &' #  “Do not forget the voice of your adversaries…!” Thus, like the surrounding pleas, the plea of v. 19b – “The life of your afflicted do not forget forever” – aims at an act of deliverance. Yahweh is called 781F

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30

Cf. Hermann Hupfeld, Die Psalmen. Vol. 1 (3d ed; Gotha: Friedrich Andreas Perthes, 1888), 616. 31 In v. 12, God is addressed as “my king,” and the motifs of the battle against chaotic powers in vv. 13–15 and about creation in vv. 16–17 are clearly linked with the concept of divine kingship. 32 Justus Olshausen, Die Psalmen (KEHAT 14; Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1853), 319 (italics in the original): “Nicht kehre zurück unerhört von deinem Throne.”

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upon to allow the group of his afflicted to enter his presence again, and to save them finally from their oppressors. Regarding the , the “afflicted,” the perspective of this psalm differs from other collective laments like Lam 5 or Ps 44 33. The  are, as the concordance shows, in most cases a distinct group defined both by its piety and by its low social status and its oppression by the wicked. 34 In Ps 74:19, Yahweh’s people as a whole are implicitly identified with this group. 35 783F

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D. God Does Not “Forget” The notion that Yahweh forgot his people when the Babylonians took Jerusalem and destroyed the temple did not remain unchallenged; in Isa 49:14– 15, it is explicitly contested. In this divine speech, 36 Yahweh quotes a lament of Zion 37 (v. 14): 786F

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'       And Zion said: Yahweh has abandoned me, and my lord has forgotten me.

This short poetic bicolon seems to put in a nutshell what is expressed by collective laments like Lam 5 or Ps 44. 38 As in Lam 5:20,  and  occur in synonymous parallelism with Yahweh as subject, a construction found nowhere else. 39 But there is an important difference between Isa 49:14 and other collective laments. Here it is not the people speaking but personified Zion, imagined as a woman and (childless) mother (cf. 20–21), perhaps even as Yahweh’s wife (cf. v. 18 40). Thus, in Zion’s mouth, the 78F

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33

According to Hermann Spieckermann, Heilsgegenwart: Eine Theologie der Psalmen (FRLANT 148; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989), 125–26 with n. 11, vv. 18–21 are a late addition that could already refer to the religious struggles of the Seleucid time. 34 Cf., e.g., Isa 10:2; 14:32; 32:7; 58:7; Ps 12:6; 72:4; Job 24:4; 34:28; Prov 30:14. 35 Cf. Isa 3:15; 41:17; 49:13; Ps 72:2. 36 After the hymn in v. 13, it is not clarified from the outset who is the speaker of this quotation; only in v. 15 it becomes clear that it must be Yahweh (cf. also  in v. 18). 37 Cf. the quotation of complaints of the people in 40:27. 38 Cf. Claus Westermann, Das Buch Jesaja: Kapitel 40–66 (ATD 19; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986), 177. 39 Thus Berges, Klagelieder, 299. 40 Cf. also 50:1 which could be a second answer to Zion’s complaint in 49:14.

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complaint about being “forgotten” by Yahweh sounds even more reproachful than in the mouth of the people. Yahweh seems to be forced to respond to this complaint with a strong objection (v. 15).    2      % &   Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? Yes, these may forget, yet I do not forget you.

The rhetorical question (v. 15a) refers to common human experience. The audience of this speech or the readers of this text are expected to deny that a mother is able to “forget” her child because they know that there is a lifelong bond existing between them. Again, is not referring to an unconscious lapse of memory; in this context it means the same as “to be careless about.” At the same time, the rhetorical question suggests a change of metaphors. In context, Zion is imagined as a woman and mother, but according to v. 15a Yahweh himself also feels and acts like a mother. The continuation in v. 15b, however, stresses that Yahweh’s divinity is more than this anthropomorphic image; it negates a possible objection of the audience or readers (“some mothers might even forget their children” 41) with the explicit statement that Yahweh never “forgets” Zion. 42 Although Zion’s lament quoted in v. 14 resembles lamentations of the people, neither this nor Yahweh’s answer refers to the traditional imagery of the audience with the divine king. This is obviously due to the crucial comparison of Yahweh to the mother who cannot help but to care for her child. A striking parallel to this metaphor, where the verb  is even used, can be found in Jer 2:32. 791F

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   #        

41

Cf. August Dillmann, Der Prophet Jesaja (KEHAT 5; 6th ed; Leipzig: 1898), 430. An additional argument for this negation that describes how Yahweh keeps himself permanently reminiscent of Zion is given in the following verse (49:16): “Behold, I have enscribed you in my palms, / your walls are constantly before me.” 42

311

“Forgotten” by Yahweh: Suffering in Exilic Laments Does a virgin forget her jewellery, a bride her attire? Yet my people have forgotten me days without number!

In comparison with the bride and her jewellery it appears as totally abnormal that Israel would forget Yahweh, who is like jewellery for Israel. Although in Jer 2:32 has a different sense which denotes the act of unintentionally leaving something behind, Isa 49 uses an argumentation that has a surprisingly similar structure: it would be completely unnatural if Yahweh would forget Zion. Thus it is possible that the rhetorical question of Isa 49:15 is inspired by Jer 2:32 (cf. also the motifs in Isa 49:18). 43 Another relevant text, in which it is denied that Yahweh “forgets,” is the alphabetic acrostichon Ps 9/10. This psalm speaks about the group of the “afflicted” 44 who are pious but have to suffer the cruelty of both the “wicked” and the nations. 45 In contrast, Yahweh’s eternal kingship is mentioned repeatedly, 46 a horizon within which the hope of a final judgment that brings justice for the pious is expressed. 47 In this horizon, the explicit denial that Yahweh is ignoring their suffering becomes a necessary link between present and future. The first instance of in Ps 9/10 is found in two verses that are arranged as a short imperative hymn (9:12–13). 793F

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'        %        #'   Make music to Yahweh who thrones on Zion, proclaim his deeds among the peoples! For he, who requires blood, has remembered them, 48 he did not forget the cry of the afflicted. 49 798F

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The hymnic opening (v. 12) alludes to imagery of divine kingship that is related to the notion of divine judgment in earlier verses (vv. 5, 8–9). The motif that Yahweh requires blood means that he avenges the blood of the 43 Cf. Bernhard Duhm, Das Buch Jesaja (HAT III/1; 2d ed; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1902), 337. 44 Cf. (Ketib) in 9:13 and 10:11; in 9:13; in 9:19; in 10:2 and 9; in 9:19 and 10:17. 45 Cf. in 9:6, 17; 10:2–4, 13, 15; in 9:18; the nations are mentioned in 9:6, 9, 12, 16, 18, 20–21; 10:16. 46 Cf. 9:5, 8–9, 12; 10:16. 47 Cf. esp. 9:5–9, 17, 20; 10:18. 48  is referring not to the aforementioned nations but to the , cf. John Goldingay, Psalms, 174. 49 With Ketib.

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afflicted (cf.   +  in Gen 9:5; 42:22; Ezek 33:6). 50 Their cry could allude to Israel’s past when the cry of the Israelites repeatedly moved Yahweh to save his people from their oppressors (cf. Exod 3:7; Deut 26:7; Judg 3:9, etc.). 51 In 9:18–19, the root is resumed in order to contrast the relationship of the wicked nations to God with God’s relationship to the poor. 80F

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     %    '      # The wicked shall turn back to Sheol, all the nations that forget God. For the poor shall not always be forgotten, nor the hope of the humble perish forever.

Here the old combination of and '(Ps 13:2) is used again, but this time it gets a completely new meaning: it bridges the gap between the present and the future. The poor and the humble will not be forever excluded from the sphere of the divine presence, in contrast to the wicked who will finally enter the realm of death due to their ignorance of God. A reinterpretation of  and ' similar to Ps 9:19 can be found in Amos 8:7. # %     '   Yahweh has sworn by the excellency of Jacob: Surely I will not forever forget all their deeds!

The “deeds” are described in the preceding verses: rich merchants oppress the “poor” and the “humble” ( in vv. 4 and 6, 1 52 in v. 4) by buying them as slaves (vv. 4, 6). Yahweh swears an oath in order to announce that he will bring these oppressors to justice, thus finally redeeming the poor. These ideas stand surprisingly near to Ps 9/10. 53 The third instance in Ps 9/10 where the root is used comes close to the oldest instance of the motif in Ps 13. In 10:11 the psalm reveals the thoughts of the wicked concerning the suffering of the afflicted: 802F

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50 Cf., e.g., Briggs and Briggs, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Psalms, 1:74; Goldingay, Psalms, 1:174. 51 Cf. Hossfeld and Zenger, Die Psalmen, 1:86. 52 With Ketib. 53 This could indicate that Amos 8:7 does not belong to the ancient prophecy of doom but to a late eschatological reinterpretation of this prophecy, see Christoph Levin, “Das Amosbuch der Anawim,” in Fortschreibungen: Gesammelte Studien zum Alten Testament (BZAW 316; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2003), 265–90 (275–79); repr. from ZTK 94 (1997): 407–36.

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     '     He has said in his heart: God has forgotten; he has hidden his face, he does not see forever.

These words are almost the same as in Ps 13:2, with one important difference: the lament is changed into an absolute statement. In the opinion of the wicked, his evil deeds that make the afflicted suffer (10:8–10) are permanently ignored by God, and the afflicted themselves are forever excluded from the divine presence. Thus the wicked completely perverts the ancient lament. 54 After quoting these blasphemous words, the psalm continues with an urgent plea to Yahweh (10:12): 804F

&     #    Arise, Yahweh; O God, lift up your hand: do not forget the afflicted 55! 805F

The contrast of this plea with the preceding statement of the wicked reflects that the pious are in danger of receiving the impression that the thoughts of the wicked could turn out to be true. In order to avert this impression, Yahweh must be called upon to use his kingly power and save the afflicted. 56 The call “Do not forget the afflicted!”, a close parallel of Ps 74:19, means nothing else. As long as the afflicted suffer, they perceive themselves as “forgotten” by Yahweh, which means that they are not yet saved by the eternal king – but they hope that this situation does not endure forever. 806F

E. Conclusion The verb qal with Yahweh as subject is almost exclusively used in the context of laments. Its origin in the lament of the individual (Ps 13; cf. Ps 42/3) has influenced its use and sense throughout the Old Testament. Most frequently the expression occurs in the context of “exilic” laments that directly or indirectly reflect the catastrophe of the Judean kingdom at the beginning of the sixth century (Isa 49:14; Lam 5; Ps 42/3; 44; 74). 54

Cf. Hossfeld and Zenger, Die Psalmen, 1:88. With Ketib. 56 The call   #(cf. 9:20) is in most instances related to Yahweh’s fight against his enemies and the enemies of his people, cf. Num 10:35; Ps 3:8; 7:7; 17:13; 74:22; 82:8; the motif of the lifted hand is reminiscent of ancient imagery of the smiting god. 55

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In all these cases  denotes more than the cognitive process of forgetting that happens unconsciously. A constant sociomorphic meaning can be discerned instead. If Yahweh is said to “forget” human beings, there is always a deliberate act of excluding them from the divine presence imagined. This act is recurrently related to the imagery of divine kingship, most explicitly in Lam 5, Ps 74 and Ps 9/10. The exception of Isa 49:15 is due to the special argument in this text.

Lest We Forget Our Sins: Lamentations, Exilicism and the Sanctification of Disjunction 1 JAMES R. LINVILLE George Santayana is remembered for saying that “those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” 2 I would offer my own little twist. Those who do remember the past are doomed to repeat it and recreate it in a myriad of ways through stories, myths, rituals, and art, sometimes in traditional ways and sometimes with great innovation. Memory is subjective and the same event or idea may be remembered in different ways at different times, in association with a variety of other memories. As Francis Landy has reminded us elsewhere in this volume, social memory is made up of the individual memories of the people within a society. My contribution is to think around the edges of Lamentation in terms of the interplay between personal and socially transmitted memories of the fall of Jerusalem and to explore the notion of exilicism – a term I coined for better or worse in my doctoral work on the book of Kings. I concluded that Kings was a Persian-era text best characterized as exilicist in perspective as opposed to exilic in date. 3 I find the typical historical periodization based on the Exile ill conceived since we cannot find a definite end to the exile that all ancient Jews would have recognized, a recognition that would have influenced the content of their writing. As is well known, some Jewish writings from the second century B.C.E., including Daniel and Enoch, construed the state of the Jewish people as remaining in exile up to the contemporary period. This is so despite the facts that Jerusalem had for centuries a functioning temple cult and, according to the ideology in some now-biblical books, was populated by a community that was restored from their exilic state.

1 The original title of this essay when presented in Munich was “Lest we Forget our Sins: Innovative Religion, Exilicist Ideology, and the Sanctification of Disjunction.” 2 George Santayana, Life of Reason, Reason in Common Sense (New York: Dover, 2005), 284. 3 James R. Linville, Israel in the Book of Kings: The Past as a Project of Social Identity (JSOTSup 272; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998).

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Exilicism, however, carries no chronological nuances beyond referring to a post-monarchic ideology that understands the Judeo/Israelite people as existing in a state of divinely ordained exile for religious, political, and moral offenses. It is, if you will, a mode of remembering the past and relating it to the present – a version of the myth of the exile that interprets the deportation of Judeans in religious terms. Lamentations expresses bitter and painful memories of the deportations, so much so that scholars are sometimes hard pressed to accept that eyewitnesses might not have written the book. Kings is a thoroughly exilicist history of the Israelite nation? It never sees the deported Judeans home, but leaves them in captivity. Josiah’s reform and covenant renewal episodes seem to symbolically prepare the Judeans for the adventure of the exile by reforming the cult and celebrating Passover, the first one mentioned in the Latter Prophets since Joshua’s time. The Passover is a ritual of divine protection, and implies that the exile is potentially another exodus and another opportunity to reconstitute Israel as God’s people. The ending of Kings lacks any accent on the potential for repentance, but this lack is already made good in the content of Solomon’s dedicatory speech in 1 Kgs 8. Penitents, regardless of where they have been sent, can appeal to Yahweh through prayer in the direction of the temple. Thus, Kings prescribes a human response to the exile in a memory of a near perfect time when the temple with its cosmic associations was new: before the ominous prophecy to Josiah, before Manasseh’s wickedness, before the fall of Samaria and, indeed, before even the division of the kingdoms. This was a time when all the people convened at the temple to hear how to survive their exile to the chaotic land outside the boundaries of the sacred centre of the universe. It is a memory of restoration by a return to origins. 4 King’s exilicist perspective concentrates on collective guilt and the culpability of specific monarchs rather than on expressing the human cost of divine judgment. Second Kings 25 mentions starvation as a result of lengthy siege of the city, but avoids mention of cannibalism or expressing the psychological horror of the battle. The chapter says more of the destruction of the temple than the deportation of the survivors. In Kings, God is fully justified, and readers are given no opportunity for objection. Lamentations has a rather different outlook, and expresses a very different human response, but likewise is exilicist, construing the people as remaining in the state of exile. Exilicism might be seen as a competing system of national identity to that espoused in Chronicles, Ezra, Nehemiah, Haggai and Malachi, which might be characterized as restorationist, i.e., they show that the Judean/ 4

Linville, Israel in the Book of Kings.

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Israelite peoples have returned from exile. I do find it difficult to accept that exilicism disappeared with the Edict of Cyrus or the mission of Ezra, only to reappear in a somewhat different form in second century B.C.E. Although I did not explore the issue in my earlier work in Kings, I would not draw the distinction between exilicism and restorationism too sharply. Rather, I would now see the two as dynamically interacting ideologies throughout the Persian and Hellenistic periods. They may well have been entrenched ideological or political positions for some people in those times, while for others they may have been alternate modes of thought, each applicable to different social or personal contexts at different times. Indeed, it may well be the case that exilicism is an integral part of the ritualization of restorationist ideology. Contrasting ways of construing the present state by re-evaluations of the past are part of the totality of the symbolic universe of ancient Judean society. Berger and Luckmann argue that all symbolic universes, which order history and the present in the face of the anomic terror, “proclaim that all reality is humanly meaningful and call upon the entire cosmos to signify the validity of human existence.” 5 These are “incipiently problematic” since they, like societies, are products of complex histories and cannot simply be taken for granted. 6 No formulation in a myth, ritual, or ideological declaration completely represents the totality of what one believes; all statements are partial, selective, and inconsistent or contradictory with other statements one might make. As many commentators have noted, the poems in Lamentations have odd shifts in focus, direction and speaker. This perhaps is evidence of rewriting, but as P. M. Joyce holds, inconsistencies in speech are a sign of grieving. 7 I think it might also be a sign of conflict over what is right, of a worldview that is aware of its own tensions and contradictions, and this does not depend on suffering per se. P. C. Saltzman talks of how culture can enshrine contradiction or inconsistency in what he calls institutional alternatives. He argues that culture is not monolithic. He is worth quoting at length: People are often shifting between activities, altering patterns of interactions and association, and revising orientations and perspectives. Rather than extra-societal, rooted in psychology or individual interest or the dialectical breakdown of the social order, it is more reasonable to argue, at least tentatively, that these processes are encompassed by society, that they are supported by society, and that to a significant degree they are channelled and structured by society. From this perspective, it is not very fruitful to character5 Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge (Harmondsworth: Penguin Press, 1967), 120–1 (122). 6 Berger and Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality, 123–4. 7 Paul Joyce, “Lamentations” in The Oxford Bible Commentary (ed. J. Bartonand J. Muddiman; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 528–33 (529); Joyce, “Lamentations and the Grief Process: A Psychological Reading,” BibInt 1 (1993): 304–320.

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ize a society, whether in terms of underlying structures, core culture patterns, or determining infrastructures, as one particular thing, as exemplifying a specificity, pure and singular. No, plurality and multiplicity, fluidity and adaptability, must be at the center of our attempt to understand society. 8

Lamentations offers one set of memories about the fall of Judah that is often inconsistent, shifting and sometimes at odds with other aspects of ancient Judah’s symbolic universe and accepted truths. It may be that even within the confines of officially sanctioned religion and texts, multiple modes of thought can be validated concurrently, and that within a single ritual cycle, different modes come to the fore in succession. The result may seem like a jumble of clashing voices and ideological positions, but this is ground for the relevance of religious thought, not its downfall. My views on such disjunctions stem from the work of Jonathan Z. Smith and Burton Mack, who study the gaps between reality and expectations, imagined worlds and lived experiences from religious traditions around the world. The gaps are explored in myth and ritual and these become the occasions for further thought and creativity. 9 The interpreter of Lamentations is confronted with a number of such gaps. Most famously, Lamentations affirms the ideology of divine retribution that is the cornerstone of Torah legislation and prophetic warning, and yet offers major complaints against the justice of it. If the book was part of a religious ritual for those who lived among Jerusalem’s ruins in the sixth or fifth centuries, as seems likely, then the questioning of faith becomes an element of the overall set of religious discourses. Similarly, if such rituals did exist in the Persian period, Lamentations’ view of the city as being reduced to Sheol is given lie to by the resumed temple service and recovering city. By sanctification of disjunction, I mean the enshrining in a sacred context disjunctions, inconsistencies and ironies that fundamentally call into question what can be holy and what can be a true memory. As I will briefly describe below, Lamentation may well be part of a temple rededication ceremony that formalizes the pain of loss (perhaps hyperbolically) in a ceremony that marks something altogether happier. The majority of scholars consider Lamentations to be a product of the sixth century B.C.E. For example, Adele Berlin comments that it can take 8 Philip Carl Saltzman, “Culture as Enhabilmentis,” in The Structure of Folk Models (ASA Monographs 20; ed. Ladislav H. and M. Stuchlik; London: Academic Press, 1981), 233–256 (238–239). 9 Jonathan Z. Smith, “Map is not Territory,” in Map is not Territory: Studies in the History of Religions (SJLA 23; Leiden 1978), 289–310 (308); Smith, “Sacred Persistence: Toward a Redescription of Canon,” in Imagining Religion: From Babylon to Jonestown (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982), 36–52 (42–3), See most recently Burton Mack, Myth and the Christian Nation: A Social Theory of Religion (Religion in Culture: Studies in Social Contest & Construction; London: Equinox, 2008).

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some time for literature detailing with mass atrocity and trauma to be produced by a society. She observes that the Sumerian city laments were composed up to fifty years after the reported events, during the time of the temple’s reconstruction. Similarly, she notes how many holocaust laments were not written by survivors or in the immediate aftermath of the atrocities. They continue to be written. Berlin places Lamentations a few decades after the fall of Jerusalem, based on Dobbs-Allsopp’s linguistic dating. 10 Yet Dobbs-Allsopp admits that the linguistic criteria can hardly sustain such a narrow time frame for Lamentations’ composition that he favors between 586 and 520 B.C.E. Rather, this date range is determined by the fall of Jerusalem and the fact that Lamentations does not refer to the rebuilt sanctuary. He also thinks that Second Isaiah refers to Lamentations. 11 I find such arguments unconvincing. 12 Dating one book on the grounds of perceived relationships with other books may establish a relative chronology, provided one gets the direction of literary borrowing right, but not a firm date range, as the dates for those other books may also be open to re-examination. Moreover, parallel expressions may simply be the product of a widely shared repertoire of tropes. The date of the temple’s rebuilding is hardly certain, and it does no good to suppose that a second temple-era writer needed to have mentioned the reconstructed temple. 13

10

Adele Berlin, Lamentations (OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2002), 33. Frederick W. Dobbs-Allsopp, “Lamentations from Sundry Angles,” in Lamentations in Ancient and Contemporary Cultural Contexts (ed. N. C. Lee and C. Mandolfo; Symposium 43; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 2008), 13–25 (15–17). In a paper of 1997, “Tragedy, Tradition, and Theology,” JSOT 74 (1997): 29–61 (31–32), Dobbs-Allsopp takes the descriptions of the society in Lamentations pretty much at face value as descriptions of the writer’s own situation. The next year he published a lengthy article (“Linguistic Evidence for the Date of Lamentations,” JANES 26 [1998]: 1–36) in which he dates the book to the 6th cent. B.C.E. on linguistic evidence that strikes him as indicating the transitionary period between Standard Biblical Hebrew and Late Biblical Hebrew. He is followed by Berlin, Lamentations, 34–35, while Charles W. Miller (“The Book of Lamentations in Recent Research,” CBR 1 (2002): 9–29 [12]), thinks his arguments can refute proposals of later dates. 12 Other scholars, such as Robert Rezetko, are re-examining the history of the Hebrew language. The dates ascribed to the use of Standard and Late biblical Hebrew may have to be revised. See Rezetko, “Dating Biblical Hebrew: Evidence from Samuel-Kings and Chronicles,” in Biblical Hebrew: Studies in Chronology and Typology (ed. Ian Young; London: T&T Clark, 2003), 215–250. 13 The absence of such a mention is a frequent criterion used to constrain the latest possible date for the composition or final redaction of the book of Kings, but it is an argument based on the untenable presupposition that writers need to bring all of their work up-to-date in terms of historical references. See Linville, “Rethinking the ‘Exilic’ Book of Kings,” JSOT 75 (1997): 25–42. 11

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For some, a date close to the 586 B.C.E. fall of Jerusalem seems the natural solution given the emotion-laden nature of the book which many scholars seem to think could only result from a first hand experience of the Babylonian attack on the city. 14 Iain Provan and Adele Berlin have soundly refuted these kinds of arguments as overly subjective. 15 As Provan has observed, it is quite unreasonable to assume that the Second Temple period was a time of universal optimism in which Lamentations could not have been produced. 16 Moreover, we do not need to posit a traumatized author to explain a text of chaos. Scottish folk musicians still compose new songs about the defeat of the Jacobite forces at Culloden in 1746. For example, the final verse of Alastair McDonald’s “Culloden’s Harvest,” written in the early 1990s, reads: Now mothers and children are left to their weeping, With only the memory of father and son. Turned out of our homes to make shelter for strangers, The blackest of hours on this land has begun. 17

Notice how McDonald chose to leave his audience in the same blackness as the bereaved of centuries past. We need not think that the world of Lamentations’ poets was full of only mourning and anguish. There may 14

E.g., Robert B. Salters, Jonah and Lamentations (OTG 29; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 98; Salters suggests an argument from silence concerning Lamentations. Following up on Claus Westermann’s argument that there is no petition for salvation in the book because the people are too depressed, he proposes that this may be indicative of an early date, followed by Mark J. Boda, “The Priceless Gain of Penitence: From Communal Lament to Penitential Prayer in the ‘Exilic’ Liturgy of Israel,” in Lamentations in Ancient and Contemporary Cultural Contexts (ed. N. C. Lee and C. Mandolfo; Symposium 43; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 2008), 81–101 (86). N. C. Lee, “(A)Scribing (De)Claiming Poets and Prophets,” in Lamentations in Ancient and Contemporary Cultural Contexts (Symposium 43; ed. N. C. Lee and C. Mandolfo; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 2008), 33–46 (34–35, 45), prefers to see the poems of Lamentations as a redacted crystallization of the poetic elements first uttered by traumatized survivors of the initial conquest of Jerusalem in 597 B.C.E. and its subsequent destruction. Moreover, she thinks the daughter of my people is a prophetess with whom Jeremiah (another voice in Lamentations) is in dialogue (cf. Jer 8:21–22, 14:17). 15 Joyce, “Lamentations,” 528–533 (529). He thinks Lamentations was written in the immediate aftermath of the fall of Jerusalem, basing his argument in part on Jer 41:5 which indicates mourning ceremonies on the temple site. He thinks that this was the setting for the composition of Lamentations, referring also to Zech 7:2–5 and Joel 2:15–17. He also thinks that the acrostic form was an attempt to impose order on a chaotic situation but from this concludes that the book was probably written close to the described time. 16 Iain W. Provan, Lamentations (NCB; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991), 12. 17 “Culloden’s Harvest” (“Harvest of Culloden”), Corban Music (MCPS/PRS).

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well have been other texts and other rituals, both solemn and joyous, along with drinking songs, love songs, and children’s laughter. As biblical scholars, we have a tendency to view as authentic the sentiments expressed in the biblical literature and, far too often, to marginalize ritual as valid carriers of religious and emotional significance. These factors may have led to the tendency to view the emotional content of Lamentations as authentic and hence, expressed by those with first hand experience of the described horrors. As Gary Ebersole argues, we must resist the temptation to view ritual mourning as somehow mere superficial display with no true emotions behind it, which is part of our western centered baggage. Emotions that seem at first glance to be turned on and off at will in different social contexts in many societies around the world are no less real to those experiencing them than the spontaneous emotions that we, as Westerners, validate as the only authentic ones. 18 I do not think it wise, therefore, to regard Lamentations necessarily as the product of survivors of Judah’s fall. It could have been written long after, and for an audience living in vastly different conditions. Diana Edelman explores the motif of the empty land found in Kings, Chronicles and Jeremiah and argues that it is based on a template found in Mesopotamian lamentations. She observes how the Mesopotamian materials fell into various genres of literature, some of which related to the rededication of rebuilt or repaired cities. The composition of new laments would be commissioned for various building projects and these would have been based on older models. Some of these texts display a large amount of hyperbole in describing the destruction that has been made good. In some cases, mere rebuilding of decrepit walls could inspire a lamentation of an enemy’s attack. 19 The motif of the empty land is a deliberate exaggeration of the results of divine punishment that has been used in the prophetic books as well as in the book of Lamentations and narrative account of the capture of Jerusalem by the Babylonians in 586 B.C.E. because it was considered a requisite element in any description of the destruction and restoration of a city or temple. 20

The hyperbolic empty land motif, however does not imply that Jerusalem’s fall was not accompanied by massive death, displacement and suffering. Rather, the poems of Lamentations, while conveying social memories of 18

Gary L. Ebersole, “The Function of Ritual Weeping Revisited: Affective Expression and Moral Discourse,” HR 39 (2000): 211–246. 19 Diana V. Edelman, “‘The Empty Land’ as a Motif in City Laments,” in Ancient and Modern Scriptural Historiography: L’Historiography Biblique, Anceinne et Moderne (ed. G. J. Brooke and T. Römer; BETL 207; Leuven: Peeters, 2007), 127–149. I’m grateful to Prof. Edelman for providing me with a copy of her essay. 20 Edelman, “Empty Land,” 127–149 (142).

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the fall, may not be carrying eye-witness memories of that event. As I will argue below, however, its emotive effect can still be very real. There remains also the question of theodicy. As a text written, or at least read, in the Persian period on the eve of the new temple’s dedication, it may be seen as implying a warning against taking the new temple and new society for granted as much as it is detailing the obstacle that is now overcome with the new building. As is well known, Lamentations is not merely about the loss of loved ones, property, and political self-determination. Rather, it demonstrates the suffering of having an ordered world torn apart, of a deity that destroys rather than protects, and the instruction, hard to reject, that the city and her inhabitants deserved what it had received. Such an ideology might be easy to maintain by those living in comfort, but harder to sell to those who have lost loved ones in a war caused by others. In some respects, Lamentations is the Devil’s or, at least, the deuteronomists’ and prophets’ advocate, showing how Jerusalem has fallen because of its sin. 21 Francis Landy writes that perhaps this solution was chosen as if a bad explanation were better than no explanation. 22 Many interpreters find that the book attempts to alleviate or counter this chaos through its highly ordered poetic formulations with four of the five poems composed acrostically, and with the verse count of the fifth poem matching the number of Hebrew letters. The form and the content of Lamentations may seem to be at odds with each other as the book conveys a near total collapse, with only the faintest glimmer of hope, mostly contained in the central poem. As Landy says, Lamentations is “one of the most obtrusively formal books in the Bible” with the acrostics being “an ironic wish-fulfilling gesture, an ineffectual assertion of control over language.” 23 For Kathleen O’Connor, the acrostics are a familiar symbolic order that implies that suffering is complete as, “There are no letters left for more suffering.” 24 Regardless of how it is read, the disjunction between form and content is part of Lamentations inherent, creative tensions, the beauty of its ugliness. Lamentations 1 and 2 express how the sacred pilgrimages and rites have been violently ended. The altar is rejected and the priests killed. Chapter 3 21 As a fulfillment of the prophets: see, e.g., Deryn Guest, “Hiding Behind the Naked Woman in Lamentations: A Recriminative Response,” BibInt 7 (1999): 413–448 (413– 14); Joyce, “Lamentations,” 528–533 (529). 22 Landy, “Lamentations,” in The Literary Guide to the Bible (ed. Robert Alter and Frank Kermode; Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1987), 330. 23 Landy, “Lamentations,” 333. 24 Kathleen O’Connor, “Voices Arguing about Meaning,” in Lamentations in Ancient and Contemporary Cultural Contexts (Symposium 43; ed. N. C. Lee and C. Mandolfo; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 2008), 27–31 (29).

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begins with a male speaker complaining of suffering divine wrath. He complains of being walled in (3:7). Starting at v. 21, however, one finds a recollection of divine mercy that cannot be exhausted, a memory of God’s faithfulness and justice and a call to repentance. At v. 40, however, the tone once again changes and deity’s anger is brought to mind as the singer complains that no prayer may penetrate the cloud obscuring the god. At the end of the chapter, the singer attempts one more prayer that recalls God’s previous mercy. There is no mention, however, that this prayer, nor the one at the end of the book, has been heard. In 4:22 there is the claim that Judah’s punishment is complete but this seems little consolation. Lamentations 3 seems to embody the tension between a painful realization and desperate hope. Its location in the middle of the book though, seems to replace the defunct temple with a new, textual sacred center. The first two chapters and start of the third may be likened to entrance rites that bring one into a sacral sphere where positive aspects of God can be recalled, only to have the participant then pass through barricades of obscuring smoke and to endure more painful rites that close off the reading and return one to a desolate world and a final desperate prayer. This is not to suggest that faith or hope should be seen to dominate the book. 25 Lamentations locates a sacral center only to raise the question of whether it is possible or even desirable for the reader to dwell there. Most scholars do agree that the book had some kind of liturgical function, although we cannot know just what sort of function that was. To my mind, reading the text as a repository of one’s own cultural memories is itself a form of ritualization, even if a proper institutional liturgy was not practiced. Yet, if this is the case, we have to think of there being another disjunction. The hopelessness of Lamentations is denied by the continued presence of those who remember Jerusalem’s former pain. For the voices in Lamentations, the world has not become profane but chaotic, “sacred in the wrong way,” to borrow a phrase from Smith. 26 Cast out of the center, the locus of all that is good and ordered in the cosmos, the exiles find themselves on the periphery of a sacred, if not actual, geography. The memory of desecration becomes sanctified in the ritual of Lamentations. As Berger and Luckmann put it, “All social reality is precarious. All societies are constructions in the face of chaos.” 27 Persian Jerusalem would 25

I agree with Dobbs-Allsopp that the sin of Judah is not equal to its punishment in the mind of the poet. There are more references to suffering than to sin. In Lam 3:42, Yahweh is reproached immediately after a confession. Implicitly, the starving children and cannibalism “stand as paradigms of innocent suffering at the hands of Yahweh,” Dobbs-Allsopp, “Tragedy Tradition and Theology,” 29–61 (36–38). 26 Smith, “Pearl of Great Price,” 1–19 (16). 27 Berger and Luckmann, “The Social Construction of Reality,” 121.

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be no different. Memory is not simply about the past, it is about the present. The terror of Lamentations was not simply about the previous fall of Jerusalem but fears of one yet to come. According to Jonathan Z. Smith, ritualized disjunction or descent(s) into chaos is a feature of all societies. These ritualized states are then made good through symbolic recreation. Smith adds that people cannot recognize the world turned chaotic and, more frighteningly, cannot recognize themselves within it. 28 I would add that a corollary to this is that one’s deity also cannot be identified – and this, I think, is the problem expressed in Lamentations. The book does not change or recreate a new world immune to chaos. Perhaps a ritual involving Lamentations was followed by other rite and performed text that symbolically restored order. In each new instance of the ritual, or reading of Lamentations, however, new levels of meaning can be given to the text and the performance by any of the participants or spectators. There is an interesting connection between painful rituals, memory, and sacred places. Michael Houseman has studied notions of sacred places in light of rituals in which participants are required to endure pain. He finds that such rites do not forge links between people and places since the participants were already well acquainted with the place. Rather, this acquaintance is recontextualized through the personal experience of pain. In one New Guinea context, visiting dancers and singers call to mind particular places and abstract, non-personal representations of ancestors. The host spectators are moved to recall their own dead and to grieve, mourn, and become angry with the dancers for causing them so much pain. They then attack the dancers with torches, burning them on the shoulders. The dancers pay compensation for inflicting the emotional pain in the first place with gifts. 29 Houseman finds that pain is well suited to making connections with place (more so than ecstasy or other bodily experiences). He writes, “To begin with, it is markedly unpleasant, such that what one might call the ludic hypothesis of ritual action – ‘it’s all but a game’ – is cast into doubt.” 30 I am not suggesting that rituals in involving physical harm to participants accompanied performances of Lamentations (self-mutilation being banned in Lev 19:28). Rather, I would posit that literary representation of pain can function in similar ways to real suffering by those who internalize the text. There are probably far more people who cry at a film or play or 28 J. Z. Smith, “The Influence of Symbols upon Social Change: The Place on which to Stand,” in Map is not Territory: Studies in the History of Religions (SJLA 23; Leiden: Brill, 1978), 129–146 (145–46). 29 Michael Houseman, “Painful Places: Ritual Encounters with One’s Homeland,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 4 (1998): 447–467. 30 Houseman, “Painful Places,” 462.

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when reading a book than would be likely to admit it. The New Guinea example also suggests how one can place personal levels of meaning on public performances and how this can spur real emotions in a public, scripted performance. Similarly, performances of Lamentations long after the fall of Judah could bring to mind personal suffering, and the memory of suffering the text of Lamentations can bring the practitioner into a personal relationship with the city and temple. Thus, it might become personally, and not just collectively, sacred. But this introduces another level of memory that needs to be considered, which is the memory of remembering: the repeated rehearsing of other people’s experiences as one’s own. Thus, one’s connection to Zion through Lamentations is tied not to cultural memories but personal ones, even if the text itself has little lasting emotional effect on the practitioner with each performance. This works in modern Western societies, too. Christmas, Passover, or other overtly religious holidays can carry great significance even for those who are at the margin of the tradition or have no religious affiliation. Such holidays can evoke strong emotional memories of family, home, and more. The actual religious story or theme may just be a trigger for more emotions and responses of a more personal nature. Of course, familiarity can breed contempt, as well, and regardless of how highly esteemed the emotional impact of Lamentations is to modern scholarship, we must assume that at least some of ancient Judah’s population may have been plainly bored with it, or openly trivialized it. Still, the text may have come as a bit of a shock if used to enlighten excited children who ran home showing their parents or priests old Babylonian arrowheads they discovered among the old ruins. Recall the violence that results from ritualized pain and memory in the New Guinea example. The student of Lamentations might substitute the physical violence with textual, symbolic outbursts. Hugh Pyper writes that Lamentations cannot complete the mourning process; it is locked in its melancholia, which he describes as an ambivalence that turns the anger of the survivor against the dead victim. 31 Later, he adds: There is no celebration of the power of memory to overcome disaster, but a protest at the burden of memory, the anger of the surviving child who feels that his existence is only justified as a living mausoleum, an epitaph to the now unburdened dead. 32

This insufferable situation leads to a quest to punish those who saddled the mourner with the burden of survival. The poet represents this burden as the violation of a woman/city who is blamed for the survivor’s resentment of survival. This is linked to Lamentations’ motif of the mother abandoning 31 32

Hugh S. Pyper, “Reading Lamentations,” JSOT 95 (2001): 55–69 (56). Pyper, “Reading Lamentations,” 63.

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her children. The woman is blamed for the child’s suffering and the city’s agony becomes the punishment, delivered in advance, and so deflecting guilt from Yahweh. For Pyper, Lamentations ensures God’s survival over that of the city and its population. As he puts it, “God’s injustice is read as justice – arbitrary disaster becomes punishment, inscrutable and ultimately unchallengeable.” 33 He adds a little later, “the virtual author created through the canonical text destroys Zion so that the Lord may be seen to be faithful, and so that the community of the Father can outlast its mother’s ruin.” 34 Zion, the site of communion with God, is desacralized to affirm that God remains. Paradox, displacement, and chaos become sanctified. The temple site and full range of positive and negative associations link the people to the deity in a manner that locks them into a persistent, if troubled, relationship. The social dynamics of remembering Jerusalem’s pain are potentially complex. One can reaffirm the truth of the covenant curses or question the justice of the whole system taught by Torah’s proponents. Lamentations might be recited to defy God, but in accusing God it may be a profound statement of loyalty to Jerusalem. Yet, tears can be transgressive. In reporting on Ana Caravelli’s research on the oral lamentations of rural Greek women, Ebersole reports how these songs can often challenge the status quo. He writes that despite all rituals having some level of scripting, mourning rites often have room for improvisation because of their strong emotional contexts. In Greece, this affords the singer a sanctioned opportunity to transgress normal social boundaries and expectations. 35 This is instructive, as we might posit that Lamentations was part of a socially sanctioned context for questioning of divine justice, for releasing tension, for mourning the dead of a war that perhaps didn’t make much sense. In this, God is not allowed to get a word in edgewise. Kathleen O’Connor writes: Had the poets of Lamentations given a speech to God, God’s words would silence debate: the struggle with pain would come to closure prematurely. Any words from God would silence speech. Instead, God’s silence gives reverence to voices of anger and resistance, of hope and despair. 36

It is a reverence that God himself does not share, as he does not even listen. The painful memories contained in Lamentations speak of identity, as do many memories. So, to whom then belong these voices of anger and resistance? Perhaps to those who live in defiance of memory, as if to say, 33

Pyper, “Reading Lamentations,” 63–66. Pyper, “Reading Lamentations,” 67–68. 35 Ebersole, “The Function of Ritual Weeping,” 214. 36 Kathleen O’Connor, “Voices Arguing about Meaning,” 28–29. 34

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we are the people who remember and mourn Jerusalem. To stop is to become the dead left unmourned. And yet they found a way commune with their god, too, and to rejoice.

C. Further Methodological Conclusions

Notes Towards a Poetics of Memory in Ancient Israel FRANCIS LANDY “La patrie des Juifs est un texte sacré au milieu des commentaries qu’il a suscité” (Edmond Jabès Le Livre des Questions)

There are three types of memory: semantic, procedural, and episodic, which interact in various ways throughout our lives. 1 Semantic memory represents the corpus of facts and ideas on the basis of which we extract relevant information from our environment, pass judgment, and so on. Procedural memory is “how to” memory; how to write poems, for instance. Procedural memory enables us to do things without thinking. Episodic memory refers to the narrative, syntactic, dimension of memory, the more or less exciting discrete events which constitute our life history and come back to haunt us. 2 Some episodic memories are so intense that they become defining moments in our lives, demarcating epochs or what Foucault calls epistemes, enabling paradigm shifts, and become focuses for repeated exegesis. 3 Some may be “flashbulb” memories, which recur unexpectedly, urgently and vividly, belying the pastness of the past. 4 Some memories, 1 Pascal Boyer, “What are Memories for? Functions of Recall in Cognition and Culture,” in Memory in Mind and Culture (ed. Pascal Boyer and James V. Wertsch; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 3–32 (4). The distinction between these types of memory is largely the work of Endel Tulving and his students (“Episodic and Semantic Memory,” in Organization of Memory [ed. E. Tulving and W. Donaldson; New York: Academic Press, 1972], 381–403; “Memory and Consciousness,” Canadian Psychologist 26 [1985]: 1–12; “Origin of Autonoesis in Episodic Memory,” in The Nature of Remembering [Washington: American Psychological Association, 2001], 17–34). Properly speaking, episodic memory is a sub-system of semantic memory, and semantic memory of procedural memory (“Memory and Consciousness,” 2–3). 2 According to Boyer (“What are Memories for?” 4), episodic memory poses the most difficult problem for evolutionary psychologists. 3 As we will see below, these memories are the basis for Whitehouse’s theory of imagistic religion. 4 Classic instances of “flashbulb memories” are the assassination of John F. Kennedy, the death of Princess Diana, and 9/11. Many people recall precise details of the moment when they heard about these events as if they were present; hence the metaphor of the flashbulb. Unlike the photographic image, however, they are highly selective and often

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according to psychoanalysis, are so terrifying and dreadful that they destroy our lives, making us incapable of living beyond them. 5 Memories happen within our minds, across several cerebral regions, through immensely elaborated networks of associations. 6 Memory, instead of being a unified system, resembles a series of orchestras playing at once, more or less in sync. All three types of memory have linguistic, conceptual, sensory, and emotive aspects, all of which have different neurological correlates and locations; in addition, memories that concern the sense of the self are significantly different from those that do not: “the self constitutes a unique and special structure in memory.” 7 Autobiographical memory networks (AMNs) cross boundaries between individuals; they evoke a vast store of cultural and other knowledge and histories. From one point of view, represented for instance by Pascal Boyer, we have no social memories, except metaphorically; we are enclosed in our brains, bodies and biographies. 8 From the other point of view, we are distorted. See the classic study by Roger Brown and James Kulik (“Flashbulb Memories,” Cognition 5 [1977]: 73–99), and the extensive discussion of flashbulb memory in relation to traumatic rituals in Harvey Whitehouse, Arguments and Icons: Divergent Modes of Religiosity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000); Whitehouse, Modes of Religiosity: A Cognitive Theory of Religious Transmission (Walnut Creek: Altamira Press, 2004), 104–13. 5 Repression of traumatic memories is foundational to psychoanalytic theory and method, from Sigmund Freud and Josef Breuer’s Studies in Hysteria (1895) on: “these experiences (i.e., those responsible for hysteria) are completely absent from the patients’ memory when they are in a normal psychical state, or are only present in highly summary form” (trans. James and Alix Strachey; Vol. 3; London: Penguin Freud Library, 1895 [1988]), 60. However, as Alan Baddeley (Human Memory: Theory and Practice [Hove: Psychology Press, 1997], 273–81) has argued at length, there is very little clinical evidence that repression is a pervasive human phenomenon, as proposed by psychoanalysis. In particular, infantile repression may be subsumed in the more general problem of childhood amnesia, on which see Helen L. Williams and Martin A. Conway, “Networks of Autobiographical Memories,” in Memory in Mind and Culture, 46–48. 6 See Williams and Conway, “Networks of Autobiographical Memories,” 36–38, for the concept of the memory network, and Daniel L. Schacter, Angela H. Gutchess, and Elizabeth A. Kensinger, “Specificity of Memory: Implications for Individual and Collective Remembering,” in Memory in Mind and Culture, 102–104, for an account of the complexity of neural processing involved in emotional memories. Boyer (“What are Memories for?,” 20) comments: “It makes little sense to talk about a general faculty of memory. Memory systems are diverse.” 7 “Specificity of Memory,” 93. 8 Boyer (“What are Memories for?,” 11) in a critique of Halbwachs. The debate is rehearsed by James V. Wertsch in Voices of Collective Remembering (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), and “Collective Memory,” in Memory in Mind and Culture, 118–124, and goes back to Frederic C. Bartlett’s (Remembering: A Study in Experimental and Social Psychology [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1932], 293– 300) insistence that Halbwachs mistakes metaphor for reality, and that all he can demon-

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social beings, whose memories are made up of social facts. This corresponds to the long-standing debate between “externalist” and “internalist” models of mind. The externalist position is that the environment is part of the mind; we are only restricted to ourselves through a division of our world into self and other, two interdependent parts of the same cognitive system. 9 In any case, social and collective memory is constituted by, and inseparable from, the many memories of the members of the social body; in talking of social memory, we must not forget individual memory, or indeed that we must be cautious in assuming a homology between the two memory systems. From a cognitive, evolutionary perspective, the development of human memory serves many functions, and is interrelated to all other aspects of human mind and life, in particular the development of language and the imagination. 10 Memory evokes non-present realities; through memory we cross time, finding correspondences between past, present and future, so as to become part of a mythical, timeless narrative. Memory, or at least a special kind of memory, is intimately connected to religion: to sacred texts, which recollect foundational stories and eternal verities; to rituals, which commemorate primeval events and are ever-repeated; to sacred sites, which are sites de memoire, objects of pilgrimage, and mythic symbols. The anthropologist Roy Rappaport argues that these are foundational to the evolution of humanity. Humanity emerges together with language. 11 Language enabled humans to communicate about things not immediately acstrate is that memories exist within a group, not that there are group memories (294). Bartlett may have misinterpreted Halbwachs, but his point, nonetheless, is well-taken – in particular the observation that an analogy is generally assumed between social and individual psychology (293). 9 The issue is the relationship of self memory networks to culturally encoded memory networks. As Williams and Conway (“Networks of Autobiographical Memories,” 53) point out, this is itself culturally conditioned. Western societies tend to see the self as independent, while Asian societies regard it as interdependent. The anthropologist Geoffrey Samuel proposes that humans inhabit a “multi-modal framework,” which crosses the boundary between individual and society, and between mind and body (Mind, Body, and Culture [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989]). 10 Boyer (“What are Memories for?” 18), quoting Hobbes, sees memory as “one of the forms of the imagination.” 11 By “humanity” Rappaport does not mean the evolution of hominids or homo sapiens. He is referring to the transformation that took place in evolutionary history through language, religion and culture, equivalent perhaps to Dawkins’ well-known contrast of “genes” and “memes.” It is what sets humans apart from other animals (Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1999], 3–8 [4]). Of course, Rappaport is well aware of advances in ethology, at least until the mid 1990s. However, his primary focus is on the difference between human language and those of other species, and what makes humans “fully human” (Ritual and Religion, 4).

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cessible to the senses, about imaginary worlds, for example. Through language humans can plan, argue, and ruminate; they can communicate about the past and imagine the future. Just as seriously, through language humans can lie; language vastly increased the possibility of falsehood. 12 According to Rappaport, religion ameliorates the problem of falsehood, particularly through ritual and canon. 13 These establish truths, what Rappaport calls “Ultimate Sacred Postulates,” 14 which are memorized and repeated through the ages. 15 The study of memory is thus indistinguishable from the techniques for generating both the foundational concepts of a society and its experiential, numinous, and affective components, which together constitute what Rappaport terms “the Holy.” 16 Another anthropologist, Harvey Whitehouse, distinguishes two types of religion, doctrinal and imagistic, founded on two types of memory. Doctrinal religion institutes a hypertrophic semantic memory: liturgies and rituals are repeated verbatim, possibly over centuries. 17 What he calls imagistic religion 18 results from infrequent intense episodic memories, such as terrifying initiations, which are life-transforming and the subject of spontaneous and lifelong exegesis. The two modes interact in the world’s religions, as many of Whitehouse’s students have shown, but can never be confused: they are, technically, “attractor poles,” i.e., religions tend towards the extremes, even if they coexist in the same culture. 19

12

Another equally pressing problem is that of indeterminacy, what Rappaport calls the “alternative” (1999: 17). Many questions are not resolvable. For instance, it is impossible to determine whether YHWH or Marduk is the supreme god. 13 Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 15. 14 Rappaport, Ritual and Religion, 287. 15 Of course, religions transmit many other kinds of truth, such as cosmological principles, but, according to Rappaport, they derive from the USPs. 16 Ritual and Religion, 371. Rappaport’s discussion of “the holy” depends to some extent on the individualist accounts of James and Otto, but is also situated firmly within the tradition of Durkheim’s concept of the sacred, with its emphasis on societal effervescence or, in Turner’s term, communitas. Rappaport is in critical dialogue with Maurice Bloch’s discussion of ritual authority. 17 Whitehouse develops his theory, rather schematically, in his book Arguments and Icons, using some extreme examples based on his fieldwork in New Guinea. (Coincidentally, Rappaport’s fieldwork was also in New Guinea, and provides the base of much of his argument.) Following critique in his co-edited volume with James Laidlaw, Ritual and Memory: Towards a Comparative Anthropology of Religion (Oxford: Altamira Press, 2004), he revised his theory substantially in Modes of Religiosity. 18 The terminology is confusing. Imagistic religion does not necessarily have to do with images. For example, Eastern Orthodox iconography might well be an example of the doctrinal mode of religiosity. 19 Many examples of this coexistence are to be found in Harvey Whitehouse and James Laidlaw, Ritual and Memory. Whitehouse (Modes of Religiosity, 75) argues that

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Since through memory one thinks of and experiences non-present realities, it becomes an instrument of, and is neurologically identical to, the imagination. 20 One imagines and recreates the past, drawing together bits and pieces of one’s semantic and episodic memory, in ever new combinations. 21 Memory is intrinsically metaphoric. Here poetry and history meet. Boyer argues that through the imagination, memory becomes an instrument of ethical social constraint; one can imagine long term consequences, for example, or develop empathy on the basis of past experience. Equally, it may be disruptive, as when one imagines counterfactuals. 22 As is well-known, there is a “memory boom” in the discipline of History, partly because of the influence of New Historicism, which has made historians more self-conscious about their rhetoric and subjectivity, and partly because of the explosion of memory and commemoration in contemporary culture. 23 Historians may see themselves as historians of memory, rather than the past as it really was – of how societies constructed the modes are “attractor positions,” round which religious concepts and actions tend to cluster. Intermediate positions are unlikely to survive. 20 Boyer, (“What are Memories for?” 18), quoting Hobbes, sees memory as “one of the forms of the imagination.” For example, amnesiac patients often have trouble imagining the future. For a detailed neurological study, see Donna R. Addis et al., “Remembering the Past and Imagining the Future: Common and Distinct Neural Substrates during Event Construction and Elaboration,” Neuropsychologia 45 (2007): 1363–1377. See, however, the finding of Karl K. Szpunar et al., “Neural Substrates of Envisioning the Future,” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 104 (2007): 642–647, that while many cortical regions are equally activated for autobiographical past and future scenarios, some are more active in imagining the future. This may be because imagining the future may require more work than remembering the past (Schacter et al., “Remembering the Past,” 659). Schacter et al. indeed suggest that the brain is a “prospective organ” and that the function of episodic memory is to construct plausible futures (661). See also the pioneering study of David H. Ingvar, “‘Memories of the future’: an essay on the temporal organization of conscious awareness,” Human Neurobiology 4 (1985): 127–136, on the interdependence of the neural substrates of consciousness of the past, present and future. 21 See the discussion of memory as a kind of “bricolage” in Schacter, Addis and Buckner (“Remembering the Past,” 661). This work, however, is highly speculative. 22 Boyer, “What are Memories for?” 18–20. Jan Assmann (Religion and Cultural Memory [trans. Rodney Livingstone; Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2006], 16), in particular, studies the role of counterfactual memory in the construction of collective memory, i.e., the imagining of a distant and alien past from which to critique the present. The supreme example for him is Deuteronomy. 23 David W. Blight (“The Memory Boom: Why and Why Now?” in Memory in Mind and Culture, 238–51) provides an excellent survey of the factors contributing to the “memory boom,” e.g., the Holocaust and heritage tourism. See also Jay Winter (“Historians and Sites of Memory,” in Memory in Mind and Culture, 252–268), who notes that historians are drawn to the subject because of its moral salience in contemporary society (253).

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themselves on imaginary pasts. Pierre Nora, in particular, thinks that memory depends on an absence of memory, especially in contemporary culture, that it is prosthetic. 24 Similarly, Eric Hobsbawm has argued that invented memories are a symptom of modernity and the disruption of authentic memory. 25 Historians, therefore, may also be critics of memory, such as false memories and national myths. In this essay I intend to make a few notes towards a poetics of memory in the Hebrew Bible, to supplement the work of historians such as Ehud Ben Zvi. 26 The Hebrew Bible invites the attention of historians of memory, because it is a book of memory, a  , haunted by memories of exile, past glory, sin and guilt, going back to Eden; like every national history, it is an attempt to create a story, and thus an identity, from the complicated facts and tensions of the past, and an interpretation, or set of interpretations, of the failure of the story, of why history refuses to accommodate itself to human desire. As with modern sites of memory, it is a displacement, an attempt at recuperation founded on discontinuity, the rupture of the destruction of the two kingdoms. The past is claimed to constitute us, but only at a distance, through the politics of nostalgia. The historian of memory studies how memories shaped biblical communities, what they chose to record, how they understood their past, and thus their present and 86F

24

“We speak so much of memory because there is so little of it left …. There are lieux de mémoire, sites of memory, because there are no longer milieux de mémoire, real environments of memory” (Nora, “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire,” Representations 26, Special Issue: Memory and Counter-Memory (1989): 7–24 [7]). Nora argues that the cultivation of sites of memory is the result of a fundamental breach with the past, especially in modernity. Biblical historians such as Ben Zvi postulate a similar break in post-exilic Yehud. Winter (“Historians and Sites of Memory,” 256) critiques Nora’s hyperbolic contrast of history and memory as Eurocentric; it would not be applicable, he contends, to India or Latin America, in which traditions of memory persist. This is surely the case with Europe, too. One may note Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi’s formative argument in Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1982) that Judaism is a religion of memory, not history, and its development in his brilliant “Open Letter to Freud” in Freud’s Moses: Judaism Terminable and Interminable (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991), whether psychoanalysis is a Jewish science. 25 Eric Hobsbawm, “Introduction: Inventing Tradition,” in The Invention of Tradition (ed. Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 1–15. 26 Ben Zvi has been something of a pioneer in the study of the social memory in the Hebrew Bible, as exemplified by the numerous studies cited in his contribution to the present volume. However, as he notes, “studies on ancient Israelite books have not been influenced much by work in the field of Memory Studies” (“Remembering the Prophets” in this volume, 11). Using a somewhat different set of resources, see Francesca Stavrakopolou, Land of Our Fathers: The Roles of Ancestor Veneration in Biblical Land Claims (LHBOTS 473; London: T&T Clark, 2010).

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future. For the historian of memory, history is not primarily about facts and data, few and insecure as they may be, but how people internalized and propagated those facts. The historian is thus rather close to the literary critic, attentive to the rhetorical strategies, the tropes and the posited intentions of the communities that created and were created by these texts. 27 Poetics, as I use it here, is the study of how a term, a theme, a complex, becomes the object of thought and imagination. How did ancient Israelites, and those who composed biblical texts, think about memory? How are words like “memory” and “remember” used in literature, what associations and emotional valences do they carry? How do they interact with other words, and thus become metaphorical? How does memory, for instance of other texts, participate in the creation of poetry? How does a book, like Qohelet, in which memory is thematized, comment on others? The poetics of memory also concerns the interplay of different types of memory in the poetic work, as well as the relationship between the work and the represented world, which was suffused with complex networks of memories. The Bible is our main source of evidence for that world, but the religion of ancient Israel is not found in the Bible, or even prescribed by it, though the writing of the biblical texts may be a part of its history. 28 At the very least, as sites of memory, alongside the text we must posit ritual, place and time. To what extent these sites are expressed, elided or suppressed by the Bible we do not know. But the memories associated with those sites are evoked by the text, and translated into its own system of memories, of readers and writers. The Hebrew Bible is, first of all, a repository of semantic knowledge, simply by virtue of being a text, and a text, moreover, which claims to embody divinely authorized truth and matters of absolute momentousness, such as how to live and the history of God. As a network of semantic memories, it is synchronic and timeless, an archive on which one can always draw. At the same time, it contains and is constituted by episodic memories, in particular because it is a story, which tells of the formative events in our history, our collective biography. And it evokes procedural memory, how to read, for instance, but also how to read this book, in the

27

It is thus close to the work of New Historians, notably Hayden White and Steven Greenblatt. 28 Ziony Zevit, The Religions of Ancient Israel (London: Continuum, 2001) provides a substantial survey of archaeological and other evidence, including a comprehensive methodological essay. See also John Barton and Francesca Stavrakopolou, eds., Religious Diversity in Ancient Israel and Judah (London: T&T Clark, 2010), on religious diversity in Ancient Israel.

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way that, according to Umberto Eco, every book is an instruction manual. 29 This is clearly true with texts as didactic as those of the Hebrew Bible. The religious world the Bible projects likewise evokes complex systems of memory. On the one hand, it requires a great deal of memorization, and the acquisition of a vast store of ritual and other knowledge, which correspond to what Whitehouse calls “doctrinal religion.” 30 Doctrinal religion, according to Whitehouse, is characterized by high-frequency, low-arousal ritual, as well as articulated theology, which is remembered because it is constantly repeated; equally it can be numbingly boring. 31 The priestly stratum of the Bible, in particular, is a perfect exemplar of doctrinal religion, in which nothing essentially changes. Even if the priestly/holiness code does not represent the practice of the Second Temple, or indeed of the First Temple (if one accepts the Milgrom/Knohl dating), it is clear that ritual in the Temple (and outside it) was highly formalized, repetitive and semantically encoded. If, as most scholars assume, the scribal work of composing the Bible was associated with the temple, the relationship between text, ritual and a changeless world is evident. The text informs and at least in part prescribes the ritual, but equally the text is ritualized, through processes of sacralization, liturgical performance and authorized techniques of reading. 32 Both evoke semantic memories, attached to the cycle of time, which asserts the constant rhythm of creation, despite all 29 More precisely, it is an instruction manual that helps transform the empirical reader into a Model Reader. A metaphor is genetic imprinting. For Eco, the boundaries between author, text and reader are fluid. See, for instance, Eco, Six Walks in the Fictional Woods (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1994), 12–13. 30 Whitehouse, Arguments and Icons, 35–53, and Modes of Religiosity, 87–104. 31 Whitehouse, Arguments and Icons, 44: “A problematic side-effect of … extensive repetition is that rituals may become boring to some people …. The body goes through the motions automatically and the mind wanders or is numbed by the predictability and familiarity of it all.” Whitehouse’s favourite example is Anglican church services, though his fieldwork was in missionary-inspired cargo cults in New Guinea. See also Whitehouse, Modes of Religiosity, 97–99, on the “tedium effect,” and the efforts of doctrinal religions to counter it. Boyer, Religion Explained, 284–85, describes this as the “tragedy of the theologian,” that the only way to prevent adulteration of the message is to make it boring. Biblical scholars may be reminded of the sanction in the Community Rule against sleeping in the assembly! 32 For the sacralization of reading practices, see especially the various contributions to Jonathan Boyarin, ed., The Ethnography of Reading (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993). We know little enough about reading techniques in antiquity, but it must have required a great deal of memorization and repetition, as emphasized by David M. Carr, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 111–73. Assmann (Religion and Cultural Memory, 18– 19) provides a succinct summary of the manifold ways the text is inculcated, at least according to Deuteronomy. See also Jean-Pierre Sonnet, The Book Within the Book: Writing in Deuteronomy (Leiden: Brill, 1997).

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human vicissitudes. Both assert a transcendence of history; the more the Bible or biblical texts are identified with the book of God (e.g., in Isa 34:16), the less they have any temporal context. Similarly, in the temple, as the Psalms repeatedly assert, one can experience eternity; from it death and change are systemically excluded. Both the biblical text and liturgy emanate from and signify this zone of timelessness, and thus, as Ben Zvi says, tend to work against eschatology. 33 Nonetheless, the religions of Ancient Israel, including that authorized by the biblical text and its scribal-priestly guilds, were clearly imagistic, in Whitehouse’s sense, as well as doctrinal, and thus based on episodic memory. In the Bible, the prophets are visionaries, inspired poets, who depend on metaphors, strange and counter-cultural acts (like walking naked for three years), and the musical, dramatic and sensory resources of poetry, to communicate a message that predicts and models a radical transformation of reality and of social behaviour. Prophets belong to Weber’s charismatic type of religion, along with shamans and other extrainstitutional religious specialists. Lester Grabbe and Thomas Overholt indeed argue for the usefulness of cross-cultural comparisons with shamanic phenomena. 34 Across the ancient Near East, the two modes coexist and are mutually dependent, as is well-known. The prophets, moreover, only exist in writing, through the edited, domesticated appropriation by scribal elites, for their own political and cultural agendas; they become doctrinal, part of the semantic memory of Israel. However, what they depict is an alternative source of authority and sacred knowledge, a mystical access to the divine, always potentially at odds with a fixed and bureaucratic tradition. In other words, as Ben Zvi has shown, the scribes, those in charge of late Persian period memory, sought to be inclusive. 35 What they included testifies not only to the diversity of the Israelite religious landscape, but the potential for subversion. 33 Ehud Ben Zvi, “On Social Memory and Identity Formation in Late Persian Yehud: A Historian’s Viewpoint with a Focus on Prophetic Literature, Chronicles, and the Dtr. Historical Collection,” in Texts, Contexts and Readings in Postexilic Literature: Explorations into Historiography and Identity Negotiation in Hebrew Bible and Related Texts Pages (ed. L. Jonker; FAT II/53; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011), 95–148 (143–45). He remarks that the eschatological climate was “very cold indeed” in the late Persian period. 34 Grabbe, “Shaman, Preacher, or Spirit Medium? The Israelite Prophet in the light of Anthropological Models,” in Prophecy and the Prophets in Ancient Israel: Proceedings of the Oxford Seminar (ed. John Day; New York: T&T Clark, 2010), 117–132; Overholt, Channels of Prophecy: The Social Dynamics of Prophetic Activity (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989). Overholt notes that these are particularly applicable to the Elijah-Elisha cycle (102–11). 35 In his “Social Memory” essay, Ben Zvi comments on the inclusivity of the late Persian period elite, that, for example, included Benjaminites in the category of Yehudim, and tended to discourage sectarian division (117, 141–42).

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The imagistic mode pervades the priestly tradition, too, since it is intensely corporeal, remembered not just through verbal repetition, but through the performance of acts, such as sacrifice and purgation, the consumption of food, with all the associated aromas and digestive processes, through the composition, singing and musical accompaniment of psalms. Israelites would come on pilgrimage, celebrating the narrative, and especially the formative events of Israelite history, like the Passover. They would grieve, in rituals of mourning for the temple, notwithstanding that the temple was eternal, and for each other. All these would activate episodic memory, for instance through the collective experience and displacement of pilgrimage, comparatively rare, if ever practiced, events like the Jubilee, as well as the full sensorium. A poetics of memory supposes constant interaction between individual and collective memories. For example, one may suppose the existence of individual poets behind some or all of the biblical poetic texts; there were individual scribes, editors, auditors, and interpreters. That does not mean to say that the audience were not in some sense the authors of these texts (though that goes beyond the evidence), but that the irreducibly social mind is made up of many members, each of whom will have a more or less different memory map. As a literary critic, I am concerned with the creative contribution of poets, on the basis of their absorption of their literary and social culture, and with the episodic memories derived from their own experiences, such as the initiation narratives of prophets. It does not matter that these accounts are literarily constructed, use existing schemata, or that the prophets themselves are literary figures, whose biographies, if not totally fictitious, are part of the literary, imaginative composition by the authors or communities of the texts. I take it as axiomatic that these narratives bear the imprint, the trace, of real experiences, such as the experience of writing, and a real vocation. 36 The memories evoked by texts, and by the autobiographical experiences of writing and reading, are complex emotional, sensory, and conceptual phenomena, which activate different regions of the brain simultaneously. The most powerful memories are those which carry the greatest emotional or sensory freight, and thus are most deeply embedded in the brain, specif-

36

I discuss these issues at length in Landy, “Where is Isaiah in Isaiah?” in Literary Constructions of Identity in the Ancient World (ed. Hanna Liss and Manfred Oeming; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2010), 283–300 (285–86) in which I argue that the character of Isaiah is both a collective persona, constructed over centuries, and exhibits the impress of real experience, of some kind. Moreover, it both arises out of a context and calls that and any context “profoundly into question.” See also my forthcoming essay “I and Eye in Isaiah or Gazing at the Invisible,” in JBL, Summer 2012.

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ically the amygdala. 37 Memory triggers collective emotion and thus creates a sense of the collective. 38 A poetics of memory will be attentive to the possible emotional and sensory affects imparted by the text, which contribute to its aesthetic and imaginative appeal and thus its rhetorical force. Every text says, “I was there” – at the Exodus from Egypt, Mt. Sinai and so on. As Tulving says, memory is the sole time travel machine. 39 The poetic critic can augment the work of the historian through the study of these affects. This is subjective, dependent on one’s own responses, as well as the imputation of these or different responses and motivations to the poets and recipients of the text (I want to avoid “readers” because of the complex relations of orality and literacy, even in the same person, and likewise of creation, exegesis, and intertextual imagination: maybe “dwellers with the text” might be better). This is insecure; an experiment by Norman Holland in the 80s showed that 44 American professors could not agree on the interpretation, at the most elementary level, of a single poem. 40 However, it is unavoidable, since the Implied Reader is but a fiction. There are only real readers and real authors, trying to make sense in the dark. A very simple example: What would remembering to forget Amalek mean in the absence of a visible Amalek or any possibility of annihilating anyone, for instance in the Persian period? One cannot tell, but it is impos-

37

Schacter et al. “Specificity of Memory,” in Memory in Mind and Culture, 103. Experimental evidence shows that, counter-intuitively, different processes are involved with the production of emotional and non-emotional memories, and that the former are specifically associated with connections between the amygdala (associated with emotions) and the hippocampus (associated with short and long term memory). See Kensinger and Schacter, “Emotional Content and Reality-Monitoring Ability: fMRI evidences for the influences of encoding processes,” Neuropsychologia 43 (2005): 1429–1443 (1430). 38 Lambert et al. “How Does Collective Memory Create a Sense of the Collective?” in Memory in Mind and Culture, 194–217, for instance, study how emotions associated with 9/11 created a sense of the American collective, and how such a sense is exemplified in the rally effect, manifested immediately after 9/11, or, conversely, in a sense of collective betrayal (207). 39 “Origin of Autonoesis,” 20–21. More precisely, he refers to episodic memory. Tulving thinks that episodic memory is uniquely human, and gives rise to what he terms “autonoetic consciousness,” defined by the capacity of normal adults to subjectively experience themselves in time. The distinctiveness of autonoetic consciousness is illustrated by an acutely amnesiac patient who has lost all sense of time, of past and future events, although his semantic memory is intact. 40 Holland, The Brain of Robert Frost: A Cognitive Approach to Literature (New York: Routledge, 1988), 53. His experiment consisted of a questionnaire with questions ranging from the purely grammatical to the entirely subjective.

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sible to ignore the implacability of that memory, or the stylistic means wherewith it is impressed. 41 The poetics of memory, to summarize, is concerned with these questions: i) the thematics of memory – when does the Bible talk about memory, and why? ii) the slippage between the Bible, as a memory device, and the represented world, with its own, non-literary, systems of memory. A complication is the autonomy and interrelation of the poetics of the text and of the world, e.g., the mnemonic effects of a ritual and an account of the ritual. 42 iii) the techniques of memorization of the text, its strategies for selfpreservation, as well as those of the scribal community. Under this rubric I would place matters of style, formality, claims to authority etc. iv) the relation between semantic and episodic memory systems, doctrinal and imagistic religion, both in the Bible and the represented world. v) the repertoire of sensory and emotive affects and their correlation with intimate, and frequently pre- or non-verbal, experiences, wherewith memories acquire a sense of profundity. vi) the interaction between individual and collective memories, especially those of poets and audiences. The social historian will ask very different questions: in what ways did social memory contribute to the project of identity formation in late Persian period Yehud? What accounts for the variety, comprehensiveness and contradictions, what Ben Zvi calls the “fuzziness,” of the texts? What memories were included, and what could not be tolerated, within the scribal/textual community? What was the relationship between the elite, the custodians of memory, and their public? What was the relationship of their imagination of the ideal and actual Yehud to the empire; was memory a site of resistance? How did figures such as Abraham, Moses and Isaiah come to be remembered, and in what way did they serve as models? These questions are pertinent, and Ben Zvi’s answers are very attractive. I like especially his insistence on the fuzziness of memories, their multi-levelled complexity. My account would supplement his by drawing attention to the different memory systems at play in ancient Israel, for instance the Persian 41 Indeed, one cannot ignore its subsequent history in shaping collective consciousness. Assmann (Religion and Cultural Memory, 22) notes that these words are inscribed on the holocaust memorial in Paris. 42 See Watts, Ritual and Rhetoric in Leviticus: From Sacrifice to Scripture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), for a book-length discussion of the relationship between ritual, textualization and the claims of the Aaronide dynasty.

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period, the way memory is thematized, its emotional and sensory valences, and relations between the social and individual in the construction of memory. Nonetheless, there is, I believe, a fundamental divide between us; we are engaged on radically different projects. I also have a few local disagreements; I am not as convinced as Ehud is that the Yehud community was too small for sectarianism, for which I think there is relatively clear evidence, e.g., in Trito-Isaiah. The eschatological temperature might have varied a lot in different social and personal localities; there are many historical instances of personalities, such as Maimonides, holding entirely contrary eschatological positions simultaneously. 43 However, the real question is: what are memories, including social memories, for? For Ben Zvi, they are for identity formation. He is interested in how scribal communities used, collected, and edited texts so as construct their pasts and thus their presents and futures, to give themselves meaning. He looks at history backwards; and indeed it is part of his lifelong project, from his early essays on Chronicles onwards. For me, the time travel effect of memory works in both directions. In other words, what matters about the past is that it is past, as well as being foundational for the present. Across the divide marked by the destruction and exile is another world, full of romantic kings like David, marvellous prophets like Elijah, strange poets like Isaiah. Moses is not just our teacher and a model for us unassuming scribes, but a complex and mysterious character, whose intricacies we will never fathom, at an immense temporal and psychological distance. In reading, including texts that purport to be memories, true records, readers may recognize themselves, but they might wish to learn about that which is not themselves, driven by curiosity. 44 According to the philosopher Emmanuel Levinas, indeed, this is the ethical message of the Bible, that we are responsible for others, who are irreducible to ourselves. I would stress that this is a complementary path to Ben Zvi’s (my prototypical social historian), but one equally important. I will take a particular case. According to Ben Zvi, for Persian period readers Isaiah was the great example of a prophet who succeeded, and the deliverance of Jerusalem is the evidence of the possibility of divine inter-

43

Maimonides combined an extreme anti-apocalyptic concept of the Messianic age as being not essentially different from this one with Messianic numerological speculation (Joel Kraemer, Maimonides: the Life and World of One of Civilization’s Greatest Minds [New York: Doubleday, 2008], 236–37, 354–56). 44 Gabriel Josipovici, The Book of God: An Essay on the Bible (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988), 4, writes beautifully that the Bible, like all “books that matter to us”, does more than speak to our condition: it “guide(s) us out of ourselves into what we feel to be a truer, more real world.”

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vention on behalf of Israel, despite every catastrophe. 45 It is impressive to what degree the book (especially so-called Proto-Isaiah) supports the agenda. However, it is a book with many voices, such as the voice of despair in the lament of 63:7–64. There the principal function of memory is to emphasize the abyss between past and present. The poetic problems of Isaiah are, in my view, unresolvable, not only because of multiple authorship, but because the world resists explicability. Memory may thus establish continuity with the past but also discontinuity. Writing fixes memories, creates an authoritative canon of memories, but by the same token excludes, marginalizes, and represses others. Writing is therefore both an antidote to forgetfulness, and its instrument, as Plato argued in the Phaedrus. Writing struggles against death, which is both the death of the body and the greater death of our memories, our imprint on life, as well as the loss of our own sense of our lives and past. Autobiographical memory networks are vulnerable to time, age, distortion and confusion. Studies of Alzheimers disease show that memory loss is not the actual loss of memory, but of the categories under which to file memories and thus to retrieve them. 46 Memory work, for ourselves and in Ancient Israel, involves a huge effort of organization; Jacques Derrida, in his book Archive Fever, argues that the word “archive” signifies both “beginning” (arkhe) and “rule, order” (arkhon); it creates an authorized history and a political hierarchy. 47 Ben Zvi is right in suggesting that the community of Yehud was in no imminent danger of extinction. However, the anxiety that pervades many of the writings is a fear of the death and nothingness that lies in wait for all of us. All these writings are an implicit and sometimes explicit question: “What did we, or do we, mean?” For example, the Primal History, which comes to such an abrupt but also anticlimactic end, matters not because it tells us who we are but who we were. All history is a failure, and we live in the afterglow. All history is lament.

45

“Isaiah a Memorable Prophet: Why was Isaiah so Memorable in the Persian/Early Hellenistic Period,” in Remembering Biblical Figures in the late Persian and Early Hellenistic Periods: Social Memory and Imagination (ed. Diana V. Edelman and Ehud Ben Zvi; Oxford: Oxford University Press, forthcoming, 2013). 46 This is because the hippocampus is damaged early in the disease, and is the organ primarily responsible for the indexing of memories (John Zeisel, I’m Still Here: A Breakthrough Approach to Understanding Someone Living With Alzheimer’s [New York: Avery, 2009], 65–66). 47 Jacques Derrida, Archive Fever (trans. Eric Prenowitz; Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1995), 1–2.

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Derrida, following Freud, holds that writing signifies death, but also is allied with it; it speaks for and perpetuates death. 48 It displaces memory, the living experience of the person, as well as preserving it. In the Hebrew Bible, as psychoanalytically oriented critics such as Ilana Pardes, Danna Fewell and Hugh Pyper have shown us, memory is often associated with guilt and irretrievable loss, such as of the mother. 49 The landscape is haunted by the dead. In her wonderful recent book on death, memory, and the ancestors, Land of Our Fathers, Francesca Stavrakopolou contrasts the graves of the patriarchs, which establish the Israelites’ claim to the land, with Moses’s lack of a tomb, outside the land. 50 The only gravestone for Moses is the Torah, inscribed on a stele on Mt. Ebal. Writing signifies exile, even within the land. And thus begins a long journey.

48 Derrida, Archive Fever, 10. Derrida here reverts to a theme he touched on his essay on “Freud and the Scene of Writing” in Writing and Difference (trans. Alan Bass; London: Routledge, Kegan and Paul, 1978), 196–231, on the complicity of writing, the “trace” and the death, since writing always erases the traces of the past “texts” that have given rise to it (230). 49 Ilana Pardes, The Biography of Ancient Israel (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000); Danna Nolan Fewell, “Deconstructive Criticism: Achsah and the (E)razed City of Writing,” in Judges and Method (ed. Gale A. Yee; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 119–145; Hugh Pyper, “Reading Lamentations,” in An Unsuitable Book: the Bible as a Scandalous Text (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2005), 89–101. 50 See especially her contrast of Abraham and Moses (Land of Our Fathers, 29–80).

List of Contributors Bob Becking, University of Utrecht Ehud Ben Zvi, University of Alberta Kåre Berge, NLA University College, Bergen Diana V. Edelman, Independent Scholar, Sheffield, UK Christina Ehring, University of Munich Judith Gärtner, University of Munich Friedhelm Hartenstein, University of Munich Michael Hundley, University of Munich Jörg Jeremias, University of Marburg Sonya Kostamo, University of Alberta Francis Landy, University of Alberta Christoph Levin, University of Munich James Linville, University of Lethbridge Zhenhua (Jeremiah) Meng, University of Nanjing William Morrow, Queens University Reinhard Müller, University of Munich Urmas Nõmmik, University of Tartu Juha Pakkala, University of Helsinki Hermann-Josef Stipp, University of Munich

Source Index Genesis 18:16 18:16–33 18:17–18 18:17–19 18:19–22 18:20–21 18:22–33 18–19 19:15 19:17 19:24 19:24–25 19:29–38 20 20:4 20:7 37:26 40:23

196–197 197 197 195, 199–200 201 196–197 7, 195–208 195 201 201, 203 203 197 200 205 204 196 133 302

Exodus 3:21–22 4:5 4:26 5:2 7:5, 17 8:6 8:18 8:18–19 9:4 9:14, 16 9:29 10:2 10:7 10:23 10:26 11:2–3 11:7 12:8–9 12:12

157 152 150 152 152 152 151–152 157 157 152 152 148, 152 152, 157 157 152 157 152, 157 187–188 152

12:14 12:14–20 12:22 12:24 12:24–27 12:27 12:30–34 12:42 12:43–51 13:3–10 13:8 13:8–10 13:8–9 13:14–16 13:15 14:21–22 15:21 15:22–26 15:4–5 19:1–2 19:1–24:8 23:1 23:2 23:3–4 23:6 23:7–8 23:9–14 23:14–19 23:15 23:16 23:17–19 23:21, 26–32 28:12 32:13 34:10 34:18 34:18–26 34:21 34:25

1 149 176 173 147, 149, 153 189 176 19 149 147 189 1, 22 153 147, 149, 153 189 166 158 148 165 180 179 184 177 177 177 177 175–176, 190 171, 173–174, 175 184, 187 172–173, 176, 187 173 173–177, 187 176 1 1 169 172 175, 184 175 174, 176, 184

350 Leviticus 11:45 19:28 23:4–44 23:21 23:41 23:43 23:5 23:9–15 26:45 Numbers 3:13 8:17 9:1–3 9:1–14 9:3 9:5 10:10 28:16 33:3 33:18 Deuteronomy 4:20 4:34 6:16 6:21–22 7:15 7:18 9:26 9:27 11:1–21 11:4 12:4–28 13:1–5 16:1 16:1–16 18:9–15 18:15 18:16–19 18:20 21:18–21 24:1 24:3 26:3 26:5 26:5–9 26:5–10

Source Index

168 324 171, 176 179 149 172, 180 172, 183 172 168

168 168 172 177 183 172 1 172 176, 183 168

168 168 63 147 168 168 168 1 147 169 230 63 172 171–172, 176–178, 183–184, 187 52 53 2, 53 54 47 135 135 172, 178–179 179 307 172, 179

26:5–11 28:27 28:60

179 168 168

Joshua 3–5 4:7 24:5 24:6–7

172 1 168 169

Judges 6:13

121

1 Samuel 2:27–36 2:31 3:2–18

115 107 116

2 Samuel 7:23

168

1 Kings 8:51 21:27–29 22:19–22

168 233 50

2 Kings 2 2:14 11 11:2 11:3 11:4 11:5–6 11:7 11:9 11:11, 12 11:17 11:18 12:3 16 16:3–4 16:5 16:10–18 16:15 18:4 18:7 18:14–16 19–20

47 128 9, 244, 246 245 246, 250 246–247, 249–250, 252 251 251 252 253 250 254 246 64 65 60, 64 64–65, 70 65 226 230 230 62, 67

351

Source Index 19:35–37 20:3 20:11 20:17 21:1, 3 21:10–16 22:20 23:6 23:8 23:12 23:16 23:19–20 23:21 23:25 23:26–27 23:29–30 24:3–4 24:20 24:32, 37 25:9 25:19 25:21 25:27–30

230 1 66, 71 116 226 231 233 251 227, 232 71 232 227 178, 184 231–232 231–232 231 231 228 231 231 231 228 233

1 Chronicles 9:19 9:26 15:18, 23, 24 16:38 17:31 23:5 26 26:1 26:4–8 26:10 26:14–18 26:16 26:19

258 257 260 260 168 261 257–258 258 259 258 259 260 259

2 Chronicles 15:8–15 22:1 22:10–23:21 22:11 22:12 23:1–2 23:3 23:6 23:6–7 23:7, 8

179 245 9, 243–244, 255 245 246 246–248 249–250, 252 251 246, 248 252

23:11 23:18 28 28:5–6 28:5–15 28:5–16 29:12 29:19 30:13–21 30:15–18 31:14 31:15 32:20 32:20–22 32:24 32:31–32 32:32 34:13

253 254 62, 64 60, 64 67–68 70 261 71 183 184 261 260–261 69 62 62, 71 62 69 261

Ezra 2 4:4 4:8–10 4:11–16 6:19–22

296 295 295 295 178, 183–184

Nehemiah 4:1–2 5:19 7 8:13–18 9:11

295 1 296 180 78–79

Job 9:27 15:33 19:14 19:15 22:18–19 35:10 36:6–7 38:8–11

302 120 302 302 204 128 204 3, 89

Psalms 9:5 9:8–9 9:12 9:12–13 9:18–19 10:8–10

311 311 311 311 312 313

352 10:11 10:12 11 11:1 11:6 11:7 13:2 13:4 24:8 30:10 31:13 42:3 42:7–8 42:10 43:2–3 44:12–15 44:18, 21 44:24–25 44:25 44:27 45:11 50:6 51:1 74:1–11 74:2 74:12–17 74:18–19 74:19 74:20, 21, 22, 23 78 78:1, 2 78:1–11 78:3–7 78:5–11 78:7 78:8–11 78:11–12 78:12 78:12–16 78:12–39 78:17–31 78:32–39 78:40–42 78:40–72 78:43–55 78:44–51 78:51 78:52–55 78:56–64

Source Index 312 313 202 203 202 302 303–304, 306–308, 312–313 303–304 81 133 303 305 304 305 305 307 307 307 307–308 307 302 128 19 308 1, 308 308 308 308–309, 313 308 10, 19, 148, 270 272 269–270, 276–278 271–276 274–275 274, 276, 285 271, 274–275, 277 271 272 271 270, 275 271–272, 275 271–272 271 270, 275 272 272 168 272 272, 275

78:62–64 88:6 88:13 89:48 89:50 104:5–9 105 106 135:8 136:10 137 137:1–2 137:1–3 137:3 137:4–5 137:5–6 137:6 137:7 137:8–9

272 303 302 133 128 3, 88 19 19 168 168 10, 11 281 286 281 281 287 281 1, 281 281

Proverbs 1:1 25:1

19 19

Ecclesiastes 1:1

19

Song of Solomon 1:1

19

Isaiah 1:1 1:9 1:10–15 2:2 2:3 3:8–11 7:1 7:1–2 7:2 7:3–13 8:5 11:15 13:14–16 14:28 18:5 30:7 30:18 31:3 38:8

61 202 202 106 41 202 64 60 62–63 61–63 61 169 201 61 120 169 128 169 66

Source Index 40 40–55 40:1–2 40:1–5 40:1–11 40:3 40:3–5 40:5 40:9–11 40:10 40:12–31 40:26 41:17–20 42:13 42:14–17 42:14–16 43:14–15 43:16 43:16–17 43:16–19 43:16–21 43:17

2:28 2:32 3:25 5:14 6:11 6:11–12, 13 7:26 7:32–34 9:4–5 9:13 11:3–4 11:4 11:10 14:20 16:4 16:8 16:9 16:11, 12 16:14–15

43:18 43:18–19 43:19 43:19–20 43:19–21 43:20 43:21 46:1–2 46:8–11 46:11 49:7–12 49:14–15 49:14–26 49:15 49:22 51:17–23 52:7 52:7–10 54:7–10 55:6–11 56–66 63–64 63:7–64:11 65–66

74 73, 91, 103, 137 93 92 4, 92–94, 100–103 78–79 79, 93 93, 101–102 92 92, 101 81 81, 84–85 130 78, 80 130 78, 80 3, 76 78–80 77, 79, 83–84 86 3, 75–76, 78, 130 3, 76–77, 80–82, 84, 87–88 82, 125 75, 78 3, 78, 80, 85–86, 89 79 77 79, 88 3, 78, 87–88 103 82 83 130 309–310 130 310–311, 314 131 130 93, 101 4, 92–94, 100–103 130 4, 89 138 137–138 138 137–138

18:7–10 18:8 19:6 20:7 20:7–9 23:2, 3–4 23:4, 5–6 23:7–8 23:9 23:16 23:16–18 23:21–22 23:23 23:26–27 23:29 23:40 30:3 30–31 31:27 31:27–30 31:27–34 31:28 31:29 31:29–30 31:30 31:31 31:31–34

Jeremiah 1:10, 10–12

110

31:38–40

353 127 302, 310–311 124 52 52 113 124 108 118 124 111 168 111, 124 124 108 114 108 124 4, 105, 108, 113– 116, 123 110 111 108 47 52 114 115 114–115 51 47 50 50 52 50 51 114 115 116 110–111, 114 4, 113, 116, 120 109, 112, 115–116 110, 112 4, 111, 120 108 123 109–110 4, 36, 38, 109, 111– 113, 116, 118–119, 124 115

354

Source Index

31:39 32:20, 21 43:2–3 44:8 44:16–18 44:17–18 49:39

114 168 50 228 229 234 106

Lamentations 3:7, 21, 40 4:22 5:1 5:19 5:20 5:21

323 323 1 306 306, 309 307

Ezekiel 18:2–4 20:9 23:14–16 23:35 29:1–6 29:3 29:4–6 32:2 36:26 40–48 44:10 44:12 45:21

120 168 173 302 170 169–170 170 169 36 29 267 267 183–184

Daniel 9:15

168

Hosea 1–2 2:15 2:18–19 2:21–22 4:6 12:13 13:4

38 302 47 36 304 43 168

Joel 2:18 Amos 1:2 3:7 3:8

4:2 4:10 7:14 8:4, 6, 7 8:11 9:5–6 9:10 9:11–15 9:13

116 168 47 312 116 45 45–46 46 107

Micah 3:6–7 3:9 4:2

47 50 41

Haggai 1:12 2:6–9

132 27

Zechariah 6:14 10:11 13:2–6

1 169 2, 46–48

Malachi 1:2–5 2:10–16 2:17 2:17–3:5

3:23–24

129 126, 129 126–131, 137 5, 125–127, 129– 130, 134–135, 137– 138, 140–142 126 126, 130–131, 138 126 129 126 126, 128, 130–131 126, 129 5, 129, 132–135, 132–138, 140–142 137–138

1 Macc 14:4–15

33

2 Macc 10

180

Wisdom 10:6–9

205

2:17–3:12 3:1 3:1–4 3:1–5 3:2, 3–4 3:5 3:6–12 3:13–21

132

45 46 51

Author Index Abraham, K., 291 Ackroyd, P. R., 62, 63, 240 Adams, A. J., 297 Addis, D. R., 335 Ahlström, G. M., 165, 187 Ahn, J., 280, 282, 284, 287, 289, 290 Albani, M., 75 Albertz, R., 289–291 Albrektson, B., 95 Allen, L. C., 283, 284 Ambos, C., 212, 213 Annus, A., 86 Arnold, W. R., 174, 182–184 Assmann, A., 10, 147, 269 Assmann, J., 10, 147, 153, 215, 216, 218, 219, 269, 335, 338, 342 Auerbach, E., 159, 174, 186 Auerbach, Elias, 188 Auffret, P., 284 Aurelius, E., 112 Avioz, M., 231, 233 Babuts, N., 59 Baddeley, A., 59, 332 Baddley, A., 57 Bae, H.-S., 238 Baentsch, B., 174 Baker, H. D., 292 Barkow, J. H., 192 Barstad, H. M., 154, 289 Bartelmus, R., 293 Barth, F., 150 Bartlett, F. C., 332, 333 Bartlett, J. R., 288 Barton, J., 32, 337 Bautch, R., 139 Beaulieu, P.-A., 210, 211, 219 Becking, B., 10, 11, 103, 104, 291, 296 Bell, C., 150, 155, 156, 161, 220 Bell, L., 216 Ben Zvi, E., 17, 18, 24, 29–34, 37, 39, 41, 43, 50, 56, 60, 68, 136, 145, 198,

199, 205, 207, 238, 242, 255, 336, 339, 342, 343 Berge, K., 5, 6, 193 Berger, P. L., 12, 317, 324 Berges, U., 76, 78, 79, 306, 309 Bergman, J., 74, 80 Berlin, A., 319, 320 Bibb, B. D., 220, 221 Biddle, M. E., 107, 113, 115 Bird, S. E., 39 Blenkinsopp, J., 61–63, 66, 76, 93, 295 Blight, D. W., 335 Bloch, M, 189, 334 Block, D. I., 95, 104 Blum, E., 21, 195–200 Boda, M. J., 139, 320 Bodi, D., 104 Bokser, B. M., 171, 181 Bonatz, D., 219 Booij, T., 282, 288, 290 Borger, R., 96, 97 Borowski, O., 172 Boyarin, J., 338 Boyer, P., 12, 331–333, 335, 338 Bozak, B. A., 106 Brandt, M., 57 Braulik, G., 53 Braun, R. L., 261 Brenner, A., 289 Breuer, J., 332 Briant, P., 207 Briggs, C. A., 304, 305, 312 Briggs, E. G., 304, 305 Brinkman, J. A., 96, 99 Broer, I., 236 Brown, A. P., 296 Brueggemann, W., 285 Buchner, A., 57 Buckley, J. J., 149 Budde, K., 61 Buelens, G., 280, 299 Burnett, J. S., 128

356

Author Index

Campbell, J., 155 Cantor, N., 192 Capomacchia, A. M. G., 217 Carlston, D., 57 Carr, D. M., 338 Carroll, M. P., 153 Carroll, R. P., 115 Carter, C. E., 55 Cassin, E., 98, 102 Cassuto, U., 174 Childs, B. S., 61, 174 Clements, R. E., 61, 165 Cogan, M., 95 Coggins, R. J., 140 Cohen, P. S., 153, 154, 299 Cohen, R. D., 280 Colson, F. H., 178 Coman, M., 39 Conklin, B., 287 Connerton, P., 170 Conway, M. A., 332, 333 Cooper, A., 166, 173, 175 Cosmides, L., 192 Couffignal, R., 283, 289 Cowley, A. E., 182, 183, 186, 187 Curtis, E. L., 244 Dahood, M. J., 282, 284 Dalman, G., 172 Dandamaev, M., 292 Dardenne, R. W., 39 Davies, P. R., 44, 192, 231, 296 de Moor, J. C., 287, 297 de Vaux, R., 173, 174 De Vries, S. J., 139 de Wette, W. M. L., 243 Delamarter, S., 231 Derrida, J., 344, 345 Dick, M. B., 214 Dicou, B., 32 Dietrich, 49 Dietrich, W., 286 Dijkstra, M., 293 Dillmann, A., 310 Doak, B. R., 138, 139 Dobbs-Allsopp, F. W., 319, 323 Doty, W. G., 151, 155 Douglas, M., 157 Drewett, M., 280 Driver, T. F., 160 Duhm, B., 108, 110, 115, 116, 120, 122, 201, 202, 282, 311

Dupont-Sommer, A., 181, 186 Durham, J. I., 174 Eaton, J. H., 165 Ebersole, G., 12, 321, 326 Eco, U., 338 Edelman, D., 6, 79, 163, 185, 186, 321 Edelman, M. J., 191 Edzard, D. O., 211, 212 Ehring, C., 4, 75, 92, 95, 103, 104 Ehrlich, C. S., 247 Eliade, M., 154 Ellermeier, F., 49 Elliger, K., 48 Emmendörffer, M., 91, 282–284, 286, 287, 290 Engelkamp, J., 57, 59 Englund, G., 216 Eph’al, I., 291 Erll, A., 269 Feldmeier, R., 280, 286 Fewell, D. N., 12, 345 Finkelstein, I., 55 Fischer, G., 293 Fiske, S. T., 57 Floyd, M. H., 136, 139 Fokkelman, J. P., 284 Foster, B. R., 83 Fox, M. A., 215 Frame, G., 97, 99–101 Freud, S., 332 Fried, L. S., 103 Frith, S., 280 Frost, S. B., 231 Füglister, N., 270, 275 Galling, K., 243 Gärtner, J., 10, 138 Geertz, C., 155 George, A. R., 99, 302 Gerstenberger, E. S., 304, 305 Gertz, J. C., 149 Gesenius, W., 77 Gillischewski, E., 198, 206 Goldingay, J., 303, 312 Goldstein, B. R., 166, 173, 175 Gosline, S. L., 216 Gosse, B., 201 Gottlieb, H., 163 Goulder, M. D., 282–284, 290 Grabbe, L. L., 339

Author Index Graffy, A., 131 Gramsci, A., 156 Grayson, A. K., 97 Green, A. R. W., 163 Greenblatt, S., 337 Grelot, P., 180–182, 185, 186 Groß, W., 112 Grünwaldt, K., 75, 149 Guillaume, A., 282 Gunkel, H., 196, 198, 200, 206 Gutchess, A. H., 332 Häfner, G., 236 Halbe, J., 172, 175 Halbwachs, M., 332, 333 Halevy, 180 Halle, M., 284 Halpern, B., 234 Halvorson-Taylor, M. A., 42 Haran, M., 174, 177 Hartberger, B., 282, 283, 286–290 Hartenstein, F., 3, 4, 74, 75, 79, 81, 91, 93, 94, 104, 270, 274, 304, 306 Harth, D., 147 Hayes, J. H., 294 Hermisson, H.-J., 51 Hewstone, M., 192 Hieke, T., 273, 276, 277 Hill, A. E., 127–129, 131–133, 138 Hobsbawm, E., 336 Höffken, P., 201 Hoffman, Y., 290 Hoffmann, D., 180 Hoffner, H. A., 217 Holladay, W. L., 53 Holland, N., 341 Holzinger, H., 173, 174 Hossfeld, F.-L., 81, 270, 274, 277, 305, 307, 312, 313 Houseman, M., 12, 324 Hundley, M., 7, 8, 220–223 Hupfeld, H., 308 Hutchinson, J., 154, 293 Hutton, J. A., 233 Hyatt, J. P., 174 Ingvar, D. H., 335 Irvine, S. A., 61 Ishida, T., 217 Jacob, B., 174 Jacobsen, T., 83

357

Janowski, B., 93, 269, 276 Janzen, D., 155 Japhet, S., 56, 67–69, 244, 245, 250, 251, 258, 260, 261 Jauss, H. R., 158–160 Jenkins, T., 279 Jeremias, J., 2, 45, 50, 116, 165 Joannès, F., 291 Johnson, A. R., 165 Johnstone, W., 171, 179, 180, 192 Jonker, L. C., 238 Josipovici, G., 343 Joüon, P., 283 Joyce, P., 317, 320, 322 Kaiser, 61 Kaiser, O., 202 Kalimi, I., 242 Kansteiner, W., 269 Karumidze, Z., 146 Kaufmann, E., 147 Keel, O., 230 Keil, C. F., 241, 244 Kelle, B. E., 293, 295 Kellermann, U., 283, 284, 287, 288, 290 Kensinger, E. A., 332, 341 Keown, G. J., 293 Kertzer, D. I., 161, 162, 171, 190–192 Kiesow, K., 74 Kihlstrom, J. F., 192 Kilian, R., 74, 195, 197, 200, 206 King, L. W., 99, 162, 214 Klimesch, W., 57 Kluwe, R. H., 57 Knauf, E. A., 288 Knohl, I., 176, 338 Knoppers, G. A., 259, 260, 268 Knoppers, G. N., 40, 234 Knowles, M. D., 295 Koch, K., 45, 177, 273 Köckert, M., 53, 196 Korpel, M. C. A., 287, 297 Kostamo, S., 3, 69 Kraeling, E. G., 183, 187 Krašovec, J., 197 Kratz, R. G., 92 Kraus, H.-J., 164, 282–284, 287 Kübler-Ross, E., 289 Kuhl, C., 109 Kühlewein, J., 274, 285 Kulp, J., 171

358

Author Index

Kunin, S. D., 288 Kutscher, J., 181 Laaf, P., 149 Labuschagne, C. J., 282 Laidlaw, J., 190, 334 Lambert, A. J., 341 Lambert, W. G., 83, 96, 291 Landy, F., 12, 288, 315, 322, 340 Langdon, S., 213 Langer, S., 190 Lanzmann, C., 286 Lauber, S., 129, 130, 134, 135, 140 Lavik, M. H., 280, 284, 288, 289 Leach, E., 153, 154 Lee, N. C., 320 Lemaire, A., 234, 283, 291 Lenzi, A., 86 Lescow, T., 127–130, 132, 134 Leuenberger, M., 75 Levin, C., 4, 53, 65, 105, 108, 110, 112, 115, 116, 123, 195–198, 200, 203, 204, 206, 239, 244, 253, 313 Levin, S., 283 Levinson, B. M., 171–174, 176, 177, 221 Lidzbarski, M., 180, 181, 184 Link, C., 286 Linville, J. R., 11, 12, 315, 316, 320 Lipschits, O., 55 Liss, H., 27 Liverani, M., 218 Loewenstamm, S. E., 163, 165, 176 Lohfink, N., 179 Loretz, O., 203 Luckenbill, D. D., 97 Luckmann, T., 12, 317, 324 Lüer, G., 57 Lundager Jensen, H. J., 151, 156 Lundbom, J. R., 293 Lux, R., 104 MacAloon, J. J., 155 Macholz, C., 283 Mack, B., 12, 318 Maier, C. M., 294 Malamat, 49 Malkki, L., 157 Malul, M., 302, 303 Marttila, M., 207 Mathias, D., 273, 276 Maul, S. M., 75, 211–213, 215

Mayer, W., 304 Mayr, U., 57 Mays, J. L., 50 McCarthy, J.-J., 284 McClean, G. R., 279 McKenzie, S. L., 247, 259 McNeile, A. H., 174 Meeks, D., 215 Meier, J. P., 236 Meng, Z. J., 9, 268 Merquior, J. G., 154 Mettinger, T. N. D., 165 Meyer, E., 184, 186 Michaeli, F., 174 Milgrom, J., 149, 177, 338 Miller, C. W., 319 Misztal, B. A., 56, 147 Moore, M. B., 293, 295 Moran, 49 Morrow, W. S., 5, 125, 128, 129, 133– 135, 137, 139, 141, 174, 177 Mowinckel, S., 164 Mühling, A., 201 Mullen, E. T., 145 Müller, H.-P., 148 Müller, R., 11, 81 Muraoka, T., 283 Myerhoff, B., 170 Myers, J. M., 244, 261 Na’aman, N., 65, 69, 230, 289 Neisser, U., 192 Nelson, R. D., 65 Nicolsky, N. M., 175 Niditch, S., 150 Niemann, H. M., 112 Nihan, C., 40, 220 Nisbett, R. E., 190 Nogalski, J. D., 29, 136 Nõmmik, U., 7, 201–204, 208 Nora, P., 26, 336 Noth, M., 174, 220, 241 O’Brien, J. M., 129 O’Connor, K., 322, 326, 327 O’Connor, M., 282 Ogden, G. S., 288 Olshausen, J., 308 Ornan, T., 75, 213, 214 Otto, E., 172, 187, 286 Otzen, B., 48 Overholt, T., 339

Author Index Pakkala, J., 9, 296 Pardes, I., 12, 345 Pearce, L., 292 Pedersen, J., 166 Peltonen, K., 241 Petersen, D. L., 46, 126, 127, 138 Pfeiffer, E., 129–132, 134 Pohlmann, K.-F., 115 Pongratz-Leisten, B., 73, 83 Porten, B., 180, 181, 185 Potts, T., 217, 219 Propp, W. H. C., 149, 150, 174 Provan, I. W., 320 Punt, J., 279, 299 Pyper, H. S., 12, 325, 326, 345 Rappaport, R. A., 12, 170, 191, 333, 334 Rawlinson, H. C., 97, 100 Rendsburg, G. A., 282, 283, 288 Rendsburg, S. L., 282, 283, 288 Rendtorff, R., 149 Rezetko, R., 319 Rigney, D., 29 Ristau, K. A., 238 Roberts, J. J. M., 294 Roediger, H. L., 56 Römer, T., 60, 65, 179 Rom-Shiloni, D., 140 Rosler, F., 57 Ross, L., 190 Rowlands, M., 192 Rudolph, W., 242–244, 247, 254, 306 Rüterswörden, U., 52 Sachau, E., 180–182 Safrai, S., 180 Salters, R. B., 320 Saltzman, P. C., 12, 317, 318 Samuelson, D., 280, 299 Santayana, G., 315 Sarna, N. M., 174 Sauer, G., 74 Savran, G., 280, 284, 286, 287 Sayce, A. H., 181 Scalise, P. J., 136, 137, 293 Schacter, D. L., 332, 335, 341 Schaudig, H., 92, 95–97, 212 Scherer, A., 233 Schmid, K., 113–115, 179 Schmidt, H., 164 Schmidt, L., 197–200, 206, 234

359

Schmidt, W. H., 46, 51–53 Schniedewind, W. M., 56 Schoors, A., 130, 131, 134 Schöpflin, K., 196, 198, 199, 201, 205, 207 Schvaneveldt, R. W., 57 Schwartz, B., 30, 39 Schweizer, H., 200 Schwiderski, D., 293 Seebass, H., 234 Segal, J. B., 177, 183, 184, 187 Seidel, M., 279 Seitz, C. R., 53 Seligman, A., 287 Seux, M.-J., 92 Seybold, K., 203, 274, 283, 284 Shafer, B., 216 Shemesh, Y., 286 Shillinger, K., 279 Skweres, D. E., 179 Smelik, K., 66, 293 Smith, A. D., 293 Smith, D., 157 Smith, J. Z., 12, 151, 318, 323, 324 Smith, M. S., 180 Smothers, T. G., 293 Soggin, J. A., 199, 207 Sonis, J., 290 Sonnet, J.-P., 338 Speiser, E. A., 164 Spieckermann, H., 270, 272, 273, 276, 280, 282–284, 286, 290, 309 Stapel, D. A., 192 Stavrakopolou, F., 336, 337, 345 Steck, O. H., 74 Steenkamp, Y., 287 Steins, G., 243 Steuernagel, C., 187, 241–244 Stipp, H.-J., 8, 234, 238 Stolper, M. W., 292 Stolz, F., 294 Stott, K., 33 Stummer, F., 102 Sukenik, E. L., 181 Sweeney, M. A., 65, 66 Szpunar, K. K., 335 Tadmor, H., 217 Tai, N. H. F., 48 Talon, P., 83 Talshir, Z., 231 Tambiah, S. J., 154

360

Author Index

Tan, N., 260 Taylor, S. E., 57, 59 Teeger, Ch., 297 Terrien, S., 282, 284 Tesser, A., 192 Theissen, G., 236 Thiel, W., 53, 115 Thompson, K., 156 Thompson, M. E. W., 61 Tiemeyer, L.-S., 98 Tobin, V. A., 215 Tooby, J., 192 Torrey, C. C., 241, 248 Tulving, E., 331, 341 Turner, V., 150, 151, 154, 155, 334 van der Lugt, P., 284 van der Toorn, K., 31, 145, 210, 211, 213, 214 van Dijk, J., 99, 212 van Dorp, J., 66 van Gennep, A., 151 van Hoonacker, A., 187 van Oorschot, J., 92 Van Seters, J., 172–174, 177, 179 Vanderhooft, D. S., 291, 292 Veijola, T., 121, 172, 174, 177, 184 Vincent, A., 174, 182, 186 Vinitzky-Seroussi, V., 297 von Rad, G., 19, 164 Vos, C. J. A., 283, 284, 286–288

Weinfeld, M., 65, 79, 114, 116 Weiser, A., 164 Wellhausen, J., 116, 120, 122, 196, 198, 205 Wertsch, J. V., 5, 6, 145–147, 332 Westenholz, J. G., 219 Westermann, C., 77, 139, 195, 197– 199, 207, 309, 320 Weyde, K. W., 126–129, 131–135, 138 White, H., 337 Whitehouse, H., 12, 190, 331, 332, 334, 338, 339 Wilcke, C., 211 Wildberger, H., 62, 64, 202 Willi, T., 242, 247, 256 Williams, H. L., 332, 333 Williamson, H. G. M., 61, 67, 244, 250, 251, 268 Willi-Plein, I., 48 Winter, D., 236 Winter, J., 335, 336 Witte, M., 204, 270, 271, 273, 274, 276, 277 Wöhrle, J., 127, 132, 137 Wolff, H.W., 50, 117, 118 Wood, J. V., 192 Woods, D., 279 Wright, D. P., 177 Wright, J. L., 296 Wright, J. W., 261, 262 Yerushalmi, Y. H., 336

Wagenaar, J. A., 172, 174–177 Wagner, T., 79 Walker, C., 214 Wallis, G., 126, 135 Waltke, B. K., 282 Wambacq, B. N., 175–177, 183, 186 Wanke, G., 115 Warhurst, A., 33, 56 Washington, H. C., 299 Watts, J. W., 220–223, 342 Weber, B., 270, 273

Zehnder, M. J., 74 Zenger, E., 81, 270, 274, 277, 305, 307, 312, 313 Zerubavel, E., 18, 56–58 Zevit, Z., 337 Zgoll, A., 73, 83 Zimmer, H. D., 57, 59 Zimmer, O., 147 Zucconi, L. M., 289