Sources and Authors: Assumptions in the Study of Hebrew Bible Narrative 9781463200343, 2011020864, 146320034X

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Sources and Authors: Assumptions in the Study of Hebrew Bible Narrative

Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures and its Contexts 12

The series Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures and its Contexts publishes academic works dealing with study of the Hebrew Bible, ancient Israelite society and related ancient societies, biblical Hebrew and cognate languages, the reception of biblical texts through the centuries, and the history of the discipline. Volumes in the series include monographs, collective works, and the printed version of the contents of the important on-line Journal of Hebrew Scriptures

Sources and Authors: Assumptions in the Study of Hebrew Bible Narrative

Noel K. Weeks

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34 2011

Gorgias Press LLC, 954 River Road, Piscataway, NJ, 08854, USA www.gorgiaspress.com Copyright © 2011 by Gorgias Press LLC

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without the prior written permission of Gorgias Press LLC. 2011

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ISBN 978-1-4632-0034-3

ISSN 1935-6897

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Weeks, Noel. Sources and authors : assumptions in the study of Hebrew Bible narrative / by Noel Weeks. p. cm. -- (Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures and its contexts, ISSN 1935-6897 ; v.12) 1. Narration in the Bible. 2. Bible. O.T.--Criticism, Narrative. I. Title. BS1182.3.W44 2011 221.6'6--dc23 2011020864 Printed in the United States of America

TABLE OF CONTENTS Table of Contents.....................................................................................v Acknowledgements .................................................................................ix Abbreviations ..........................................................................................ixi 1 Introduction .....................................................................................1 Older Versus More Recent Criticism ...........................................1 The Wider Issues .............................................................................3 The Methodology of Literary Criticism .......................................4 The Methodology of This Work...................................................6 Reading Texts and Writing History ..............................................9 The Process of Composition.......................................................12 2 Genesis ............................................................................................19 Doublets in the Patriarchal Narratives.......................................20 The Purpose of Repetition...........................................................22 The Genealogies ............................................................................26 Alternate Explanations .................................................................28 The Joseph Story ...........................................................................30 Accretion Models ..........................................................................32 The Primeval History....................................................................35 The Creation Accounts.................................................................38 The Divine Names ........................................................................43 Promise and Divine Name...........................................................47 Text Divisions in Genesis 2–3 ....................................................50 The Flood Narrative .....................................................................53 The Sons of God (Genesis 6:1–4) ..............................................64 Varieties of Repetition ..................................................................67 Small Additions..............................................................................70 The Crucial Assumptions.............................................................71 3 Judges ..............................................................................................73 Judges and Sources........................................................................73 The Introductions..........................................................................76 The Individual Judges ...................................................................81 Othniel ............................................................................................81 v

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SOURCES AND AUTHORS Ehud ................................................................................................82 Shamgar...........................................................................................84 Barak................................................................................................85 Gideon.............................................................................................89 Abimelech.......................................................................................94 Minor Judges and the Meaning of “Judge” ...............................98 Jephthah ........................................................................................101 Samson ..........................................................................................104 Connections between Stories ....................................................106 The Last Two Stories..................................................................108 The “Pro-monarchy” Refrain....................................................110 Samuel ...........................................................................................113 Initial Orientation........................................................................113 Contrasts .......................................................................................114 David and Uriah ..........................................................................120 Rost’s Thesis.................................................................................121 Character and Leadership...........................................................125 Circularity of Argument..............................................................130 The Samuel Narrative .................................................................131 The “Ark Narrative” ...................................................................137 The Rise of Monarchy ................................................................146 Phenomena To Be Explained....................................................147 Things that Come in Threes ......................................................148 Internal and External Factors in the Demand for a King ....151 Pro- and Anti-Monarchy Bias Re-examined. ..........................155 The Ambiguity of the Philistine Threat ...................................157 Complexity of Intention and Complexity of Situation..........161 Samuel’s Commission and Samuel’s Delay .............................162 Intentions......................................................................................166 David, Saul and Goliath .............................................................168 Presuppositions............................................................................180 History and Historiography .......................................................183 Limitations....................................................................................183 The Naïve World.........................................................................186 Theories of Change .....................................................................189 Political and Religious.................................................................197 Other Figures, Other Theories..................................................199 Testing the Theory ......................................................................205 Primacy of Politics.......................................................................208

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Harmonisation .............................................................................209 6 Kings and Chronicles..................................................................211 Kings’ Source Citations ..............................................................215 Chronicles’ Source Citations......................................................218 A Possible Thesis.........................................................................226 Some Implications.......................................................................228 Differences between Kings and Chronicles............................230 The Case against Chronicles ......................................................232 The Chronicler’s Perspective.....................................................240 Speeches of Chronicles...............................................................242 The Emphasis of Chronicles .....................................................245 David in Chronicles ....................................................................262 Solomon in Chronicles ...............................................................266 Rehoboam in Chronicles............................................................267 Abijah in Chronicles....................................................................270 Asa in Chronicles.........................................................................277 Jehoshaphat in Chronicles .........................................................279 Jehoram in Chronicles ................................................................288 Ahaz in Chronicles ......................................................................289 Hezekiah in Chronicles...............................................................290 Manasseh in Chronicles..............................................................290 Josiah in Chronicles.....................................................................291 Concluding Thoughts on the Chronicler and His Sources...296 The Sources of Kings .................................................................298 Noth’s Deuteronomistic History ..............................................300 The Formulae of Kings ..............................................................310 The Redactions of Kings............................................................314 The Coherence of the Text........................................................321 A Model for the Composition of Kings ..................................325 7 Historiography and History .......................................................329 Two Stage Theories.....................................................................330 Greece as Context .......................................................................335 Archaeology as Gap Filler..........................................................337 Political Sociology as Gap Filler................................................338 “History-Like” Fiction................................................................343 Structuralism.................................................................................344 The Ancient Text and Us...........................................................345 Bibliography ..........................................................................................347 Index of Scripture Passages ................................................................373

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS There are concrete inputs into the writing of a book and less tangible ones of encouragement and stimulation. Among the latter, I must especially mention the staff and students of the former Department of Ancient History at the University of Sydney. In any academic and intellectual enterprise, that you ask questions and think can be as important as what you think. The research itself was crucially dependent upon the libraries: Fisher Library at the University of Sydney and the Van Pelt Library at the University of Pennsylvania. My thanks to the staff of those institutions and especially to Professor Barry Eichler at the University of Pennsylvania. I thank Gorgias Press for accepting this work for publication and I must make particular mention of Dr Katie Stott, whose help in the preparation of the manuscript for publication has gone far beyond what I might rightfully expect.

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ABBREVIATIONS BZAW

Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft CBQ Catholic Biblical Quarterly HTR Harvard Theological Review HUCA Hebrew Union College Annual ICC International Critical Commentary JANES Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society of Columbia University JBL Journal of Biblical Literature JSOT Journal for the Study of the Old Testament JSOT Sup, Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series JTS Journal of Theological Studies OBO Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis OTS Oudtestamentische Studiën PEGLMBS Proceedings, Eastern Great Lakes and Midwest Biblical Societies SJOT Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament VT Vetus Testamentum VTS Vetus Testamentum Supplements WTJ Westminster Theological Journal ZAW Zeitschrift für die Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft.

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OLDER VERSUS MORE RECENT CRITICISM Studies of the Hebrew Bible, particularly its narrative portions, have tended to bifurcate into two approaches. While there are intermediary positions between the extremes, we might characterise one outlying position as being interested in the way in which the literary phenomena of the text contribute to our understanding of the environment in which the text was written and thus to our understanding of religious development in Israel. In this approach the literary phenomena of most interest are the “irregularities”: the inconsistencies, repetitions and contradictions. It is claimed that these give a clue to the composite nature of the text and allow us to disentangle the different materials, composed at different times, which have been drawn upon to create the present text. At the other pole is an interest in the text as it now presents itself to us and the way in which it conveys its message, or at least in the way that the reader perceives a message. In this approach the “irregularities” are not testimonies to the history of composition but part of the data to be incorporated into a theory of how the text makes itself meaningful.1 As long as the first approach is focused on the history of text composition and the second avoids historical questions, concentrating on how we now read the text as a whole, there is no actual collision. However it is easy to foresee that conflict must For another way of describing the different approaches see W. H. Bellinger, Jr., “Enabling Silent Lips to Speak: Literary Criticism in the Service of Old Testament Interpretation,” in In Search of True Wisdom: Essays in Old Testament Interpretation in Honour of Ronald E. Clements, ed. E. Ball (JSOT Sup., 300; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999), 53–69. 1

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arise. Let us propose that a classic “irregularity”, such as a repetition, is interpreted under the second approach as part of the story-telling techniques employed in the text. It would follow that the items being repeated need not necessarily come from diverse sources but could be attributed to the one composer. A writer whose techniques for making a point involved repetition would naturally produce a composition embodying repetitions. Multiply that example to cover all the instances of “irregularities”, which have been used as evidence of a complex and drawn out history of composition, and one has a total conflict. There is another way in which these two approaches may come into conflict. In his clear and helpful consideration of the approach to be taken to a narrative text, R. W. L. Moberly argues that one has to start with the presupposition of the literary unity of the text and to study the whole text in order to know whether an “irregularity” is explainable in terms of the existing narrative before one uses it as a clue for investigation of the history of the text. He is also aware that that presupposition may lead to the explaining away of real discrepancies in the present text. On the other hand the assumption of disunity runs the opposite risk.2 One might object that whichever assumption directs one’s initial investigation will heavily colour the outcome, whether seeing more or less unity. Thus these two approaches may clash at the level of initial presupposition. It may be objected that it is highly unlikely that every “irregularity” detected in scholarship is really a narrative device. One may grant that and yet raising the possibility leads to a question we cannot avoid answering. How do we know how to interpret any given “irregularity”, if different meanings are being assigned to them? J. Barton touches on this issue in his very At the Mountain of God: Story and Theology in Exodus 32–34 (JSOT Sup., 22; Sheffield: JSOT, 1983). 13–34. For a discussion which emphasises starting with the text before us rather than with source theories see L. H. Silberman, “Listening to the Text,” JBL 102 (1983): 3–26. For a contrary position see A. F. Campbell, “Past History and Present Text: The Clash of Classical and Post-Critical Approaches to Biblical Text,” Australian Biblical Review 39 (1991): 1–18. 2

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informative survey of interpretive methods. He refers to the way proponents of the second approach such as Sternberg3 and Alter4 question features which have traditionally been seen as evidence of the text having being composed at some time out of fragments. Barton indicates that he is not persuaded but does not tell us how we may refute Sternberg and Alter.5 Elsewhere Barton calls for the proponents of the respective views to work together to achieve some consensus as to what are real inconsistencies in a text which must be understood as pointing to a diversity of sources.6

THE WIDER ISSUES This situation cannot be explored completely without reference to wider philosophical and cultural issues which touch upon such broad topics as the very possibility of history as a discipline and what is involved in reading a text. Therefore, the question arises whether what is attempted in this work may be accomplished M. Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative: Ideological Literature and the Drama of Reading (Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1985). 4 R. Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative (New York: Basic Books, 1981). 5 J. Barton, Reading the Old Testament. Method in Biblical Study (London: Darton, Longman and Todd, 2nd ed., 1984), 206–8. Another scholar with concerns is James Barr who says with reference to literary approaches: “Unless safeguards are provided, however, such a study is in some danger of having a reactionary effect and glossing over what has been accomplished by the historical-critical study of the Bible.” The Bible in the Modern World (London: SCM, 1973), 73. 6 “Historical Criticism and Literary Interpretation: Is There Any Common Ground?” in Crossing Boundaries: Essays in Biblical Interpretation in Honour of Michael D. Goulder, ed. S.E. Porter, P. Joyce and D. E. Orton (Biblical Interpretation Series, 8; Leiden: Brill, 1994), 11. It would seem in accord with that perspective that R. Polzin argues that criticism must start with literary analysis to avoid coming with inapplicable theories to the text. In the light of what literary analysis finds one can then address historical problems. However he has difficulty applying his own rules, beginning with the assumption that the Deuteronomic History is a unified literary work: Moses and the Deuteronomist: A Literary Study of the Deuteronomic History (Part 1; New York: Seabury. 1980), 6,18). 3

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without first answering some of the basic questions of modern intellectual discourse. As will emerge in the course of this work, I believe that certain presuppositions underlie our theorising and communication. I do not claim to stand on some factual ground which will be patently obvious to every rational human being. The very act of doing history involves certain assumptions about the nature of human life and the possibility of understanding the past. These assumptions vary from historian to historian, hence the various schools of historiography. Mutual comprehension between historians is best secured by making explicit those varying presuppositions. Similarly, the reading of a text, and particularly any attempt to communicate that reading to others, makes assumptions about rationality, language and culture. Hence I do not proceed by arguing philosophically for the one true perception of reality. Rather I aim, in interaction with the ancient text, to consider the various ways in which that text has been interpreted and the presuppositions behind those interpretations. Naturally that leads to the question of whether the composer’s presuppositions were the same as those of the present readers. Presuppositions may be examined and they may be challenged. The point of my raising presuppositions is not to create a way of deflecting all criticism and argument, but rather, to facilitate challenge. My intention is that the revelation and examination of presuppositions will occur in the course of this work rather than as an abstract philosophical prelude.

THE METHODOLOGY OF LITERARY CRITICISM Let us return then to the two forms of literary criticism. For the sake of convenience, and without prejudice, I will refer to the older literary criticism and the newer. These terms must be understood with exclusive reference to the biblical field and are not meant to reflect on the terminology used in the field of general literary criticism. The older literary criticism was carried out as a tool for the elucidation of the history of Israel and, in particular, its religious history. Its methodology was to search for the evidence in the text of contributions from different periods and points of view. Crucially, it was literary factors—in the broader sense—which were taken as proof of diverse sources in the text. Differences of style and vocabulary, repetitions, incongruities, abrupt transitions and

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the like, were the marks by which sources were identified. The thrust of this literary criticism was to look for diversity as proof of disunity, that is of material from different eras and schools. Once the diverse sources were isolated, then history could be written as a history of the trends and movements which produced these individual sources. The newer literary criticism does not have this clear historical objective. Depending on the particular dominant philosophical influence, it may have no interest in the author(s), let alone, the historical situation which produced the text. It does have great interest in the text as text and in its devices and techniques. The significant thing is the tendency to read the text as a unity. What the older approach would see as evidence of diversity, for example repetitions, the newer approach sees as literary technique. Clarification is needed to avoid confusion with the so-called “canonical” approach of B. S. Childs which, from the perspective of this work, belongs with the older criticism.7 Childs assumes that the present text has come about by a process of blending diverse material. It asks however what the meaning of the final version was to those who accepted it as canonical. It does not read the text as an originally unified work, although it does acknowledge that some people may have later seen it that way. This work ponders the question that, if some people at some time could see the work as unified, how can we be sure it was not originally unified. Returning again to the main issue, these conflicting tendencies to read the text either as diversity or unity, raise a question: how do we know which is correct? Both conclusions are reached by way of B. S Childs, Biblical Theology in Crisis (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1970); idem, Introduction to the Old Testament as Scripture (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979). On Childs see also J. Barton, “Intertextuality and the “Final Form” of the Text,” in Congress Volume. Oslo 1998, ed. A. Lemaire and M. Sæbø (VTS, 80: Leiden: Brill, 2000), 33–7; idem, Reading the Old Testament 77–103; idem, “Canon and Old Testament Interpretation,” in In Search of True Wisdom: Essays in Old Testament Interpretation in Honour of Ronald E. Clements, ed. E. Ball (JSOT Sup. 300; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999), 37–52; M. G. Brett, Biblical Criticism in Crisis? The Impact of the Canonical Approach on Old Testament Studies (Cambridge: CUP, 1991). 7

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literary criticism. Obviously there are a variety of ways of answering that question. We might fight the battle on the ground of literary criticism as an all-encompassing discipline, whose rules and conclusions are seen as valid for all cultures, everywhere. That is not without significant presuppositions. Is biblical literature, in any sense, distinct from other literatures? Alternatively, we might retreat to a total subjectivity of all literary interpretation. Any interpretation is as good or as valid as any other. You read the text as unified, I read it as chaotic disunity—each to his own. The consequence of this position is the virtual impossibility of any history of Israel. If there is no possibility of a reading of the text, which is more convincing than other readings, then the historian has no ground on which to reconstruct the history of Israel. Those who resort to archaeology as the solution to this dilemma, may sometimes ignore the fact that any artefact uncovered is also a “text”; that is, it needs to be read and interpreted in the context of the interpretation of other artefacts.

THE METHODOLOGY OF THIS WORK Is there a solution? My proposition is that our reading of any text will be crucially influenced by the assumptions we bring to it. These assumptions may be very general, but they may also be quite specific to texts of a genre, and/or period and/or culture. Whether I see a text as unified or not, will be the product of the interaction of the phenomena of the text with my own previous assumptions. To bring out these assumptions, I have chosen to take some biblical texts that the older literary criticism saw as complex and composite, and to read them as a unity. In the course of doing that, I must ask what I need to assume in order to read this text as a unity. The converse of that is what the older criticism assumed about the text in its reading. To reiterate, the purpose of this particular investigation is to clarify the presuppositions which will determine whether we incline to a unified or fractional reading of the book. That immediately raises issues of definition. One can make a sharp distinction between the unified work of a single author and the disunity consequent upon a redactor combining sources with little concern for agreement and consistency in the resultant work. Surely there are intermediate situations such as the work of a blender of sources

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who took some care to remove discrepancies. Contrasting opposite ends of a spectrum may obscure important issues and possibilities. Stating the issue in this form already brings out a key assumption. The older literary criticism did assume that it could make a clear distinction between an author and a redactor. The crucial difference between an author who used sources and a redactor is that redactors are held to have been so concerned to preserve the material of the sources that they allowed inconsistencies to remain which are inconceivable for a single author. Of course that leads to the logical question of why something would strike an author as inadmissible and not so impress a redactor. There is an answer to this question which I will pursue later in the context of the history and assumptions of scholarship. A crucial premise in the argument has been that, so long as we are talking about authors, the relevant ancient minds, whenever they may have been dated, would have been sufficiently similar to our minds that what we perceive as inadmissible, they would have perceived as inadmissible. Obviously any author may have used sources. The crucial distinction being made between author and redactor concerned the ability to produce a uniform composition. Thus a discrepancy or irregularity which we would not tolerate in a text is evidence that the text was not the product of a single author but rather of a redactor. Implicit here is belief that we understand the ways in which an ancient mind worked, whether we are thinking of an “author” or a “redactor”. How do we know that we do? The subjectivity and difficulty of the exercise immediately invites us to abandon it all together. Would it not be better to embrace that form of literary criticism which avoids all questions of the authorship and historical context of the text? There is a consequence of such an approach for the historian. A historian looks not just for what the text says on the surface but also for things which may be gleaned from the phenomena of the text: its style, choices, biases, omissions and so on. Both the statements of the text and the phenomena are pooled with other information about the historical context to evaluate the text and to feed into the picture of that historical context. To take extreme examples, without such a process the historian might not be able to distinguish a work purporting to convey historical events from a

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work of pure and intended fiction. Interpretations of a text derived purely from the literary reading of the text as a text may be very interesting but, if they cannot be placed in historical context, they are useless for the historian’s purpose. Thus eschewing issues of historical context excludes texts as historical sources. The older criticism worked implicitly with a model of the processes in the mind of those involved in the composition of the texts that have come down to us. This investigation aims to be more explicit about the conjectured processes. It asks what might have been the processes if the extant works come from a single author. To some extent it assesses the plausibility of what has been conjectured. More fundamentally it examines what we need to assume in order to find one set of conjectures about the minds involved more plausible than another set. It may be objected that any attempt to examine source criticism is exploring questions long since left behind by the discipline where the older division of the text into minute source ascriptions has been replaced by the recognition of large sections of material that have been put together. Yet examination of recent defences of such positions show that they are just as dependent upon the old search for irregularities in the text.8 I cannot search out and discuss every example of the methodology under examination here. However it seems to me that while the results e.g. the distinction between P and non-P in A. de Pury, “The Jacob Story and the Beginning of the Formation of the Pentateuch,” in A Farewell to the Yahwist? The Composition of the Pentateuch in Recent European Research, ed. T. B. Dozeman and K. Schmid (SBL Symposium Series, 24; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 51–72. Other essays in the same volume argue the separation of Genesis from Exodus, and thus a refutation of the thesis of a J document stretching from Genesis to Numbers, by “revealing” that the passages which link Genesis and Exodus are late and added specifically to link previously unconnected works. J. van Seters, in rebuttal of the attempt to abolish J, specifically affirms source criticism and attempts to refute the source criticism of his opponents. (“The Report of the Yahwist’s Demise has Been Greatly Exaggerated!” in A Farewell to the Yahwist?, 143–57.) Hence this is an argument between those who work with the same methodology. 8

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have changed the methodology has not. Contrary results from the same methodology indicate that we need to examine the method, not just the results.

READING TEXTS AND WRITING HISTORY It is my contention that although this seems an implausible expedition into the impenetrable world of the ancient mind it is no more subjective than historians of Israel have been doing for centuries and continue to do. There is a coherent position which rejects the texts as sources for that history. It is built upon the impossibility of obtaining accurate information from those sources. Although a negative statement, that is still a statement about our capacity to obtain information from these sources. It is often accompanied by greater confidence in our ability to deduce history from other assemblages of evidence from the ancient world, including mute archaeological remains. Whether than greater confidence is justified is not my immediate concern. Leaving aside the position which rejects texts altogether we must next examine the position which would accept the statements of texts as accurate information. That position is often assailed as uncritical and therefore unscholarly. Leaving that criticism aside, it seems to me that even those who take the text at face value attempt to penetrate to intentions and meanings. My greater concern is with those who claim to read texts critically. I would contend that any such exercise, at some point, ascribes purposes and intentions to composers. There is no great virtue in assuming those intentions and purposes are the same as ours and not subjecting that assumption to examination. In the absence of preserved composers’ statements about intentions we can proceed only by exploring the plausibility of the intentions we have ascribed to authors. There are a myriad of intentions which could be conjectured, ranging from the reasonable to the bizarre. How does one choose what to propose? Given that the divisions of the text made by older source critics are coming under question and given that the newer literary criticism is tending to read texts more as unities, an obvious approach is to ask what the author must have intended if he was an author as defined above. Obviously if a plausible explanation of authorial intent emerges, the older source and composition theories are placed in

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doubt. However it seems to me that that is too much to claim for this endeavour that it has disproved older criticism. Plausibility does not exist in a vacuum. It is conditioned by what we bring to the consideration. The most that I can elucidate are conditioning factors and presuppositions. Yet in doing so I may make a small contribution to the history of the discipline, especially as we seem to be in a period in which the old certainties of the discipline do not seem as certain. To reveal how our axioms are shifting is worthwhile. It fortifies the claim that ancient history teaches us not just about the past but about ourselves. Hence the net of this investigation must be wider than just the older source criticism. It is a common phenomenon in the history of scholarship that those who reject a position may still hold to some of its basic premises. Alternate positions may reject one assumption but keep others. It is at least interesting that interpretations are appearing which are clearly influenced by more recent literary criticism and see more coherence in the text and yet still accept that the text came from many sources and was put together by a redactor.9 If the way we see the text changes, surely our interpretation of the origin of the text should also be affected. The reader may have already discerned that I am interested in historical and not only literary questions. Older criticism’s reading of the text has contributed to the dominant reconstruction of the history of Israel. The dominance of that reconstruction creates a feed-back loop. Since we “know” what the history of Israel was, the text must have been created in a way consonant with our reconstruction of that history. Thus our comprehension of the history tells us how to read the text and our reading of the text how to interpret the history. Similarly an alternate reading of the text must imply a different history. Ways of reading of the text may be tested by the plausibility of the alternate reconstruction of the history that results from it. Superficially, this line of reasoning is plausible, but there are hidden snares attached to it. There are two separate issues involved. An example is E. Fox, “Can Genesis Be Read as a Book?” in Narrative Research on the Hebrew Bible, ed. M. Amihai, G. W. Coates and A. M. Solomon (Semeia 46; Atlanta, Scholars, 1989), 31–40. 9

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The older criticism tended to assume that once the text was correctly analysed, reconstruction of history was relatively straightforward. The newer criticism takes place in an intellectual context that does not make reconstruction of history straightforward. Suppose, for the sake of argument, we agree that a particular biblical text is the unified work of a literary genius; it could still be objected that the literary genius has written a work of fiction rather than a work of history. The older criticism tended to assume that once we had peeled off all later accretions to expose the original archaic source, then we could simply write history from it. Even if we reached the conclusion today that we had an archaic source, its interpretation would be bedevilled by many other varying presuppositions. This is one simple example of the fact that the path from text to history is problematic in the modern debate. Indeed, the very recognition of literary artistry in the text is seen by some to question its relationship to historical events. Obviously an assumption about the necessary literary form of “true” historiography is intruding at this point. A second sphere of difficulties results from the dominance of history reconstructed on the basis of the older literary criticism. It has shaped and permeated attitudes to the history of Israel. When the archaeology is read in terms of one interpretation of the text and then the archaeology is used to test the plausibility or implausibility of various reconstructions of the text, there is a danger that the layers of imposed interpretation are preventing an objective reading of that archaeological data. Learning to see in a different way takes time. The conclusions based upon unstated and often unrecognised premises must be gradually exposed and tested. Considering the presuppositions with which various schools have approached the history of Israel means an explanation of some of the assumptions of the modern world. The ancient historian must be an historian of two ages: his own as well as the ancient. Some would argue that we can never escape our captivity to the prejudices of our own time. On the contrary, I would argue that the importance of the “strangeness” of the ancient text is that it confronts us with a different set of assumptions, and thus makes us more conscious of our own. It must be confessed that while we have advocated critical treatment of the past, we have often not applied to our own discipline what we have preached for the past. Histories of scholarship in the biblical field often resemble

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hagiographies of the leading figures or positivistic chronicles of the great discoveries. There is an urgent need for critical biographies of major figures and movements which will place them in the total intellectual, political and cultural context of their time. While this work attempts some raising of the issues, it does not pretend to be a critical history of modern biblical scholarship. This work begins by taking some narrative books which, in terms of the Bible’s own internal chronology, we might describe as early: Genesis, Judges, Samuel. These books do not contain any explicit authorial indication of the role of sources in their composition, yet scholarship has predominantly tended to interpret them in terms of postulated sources. There are other narrative books, later ones on the Bible’s own chronology, which make frequent reference to sources: Kings and Chronicles. Though the tendency has been not as uniform, the sources of these books have often been denied and the works attributed to a single author, often one who composed history will little reference to the control which authentic sources might have imposed. Let us assume just for the moment that the source references of Kings and Chronicles are genuine. If a large proportion of scholarship could not recognise those sources, what does it say for our ability to recognise sources when they are there? Thus the composition of Kings and Chronicles, while raising very different issues to the composition of the earlier books, has significant bearing on the recognition of sources. This work will argue that a plausible theory of the nature of the sources of Kings and Chronicles and their relation to composition can be developed. That it is plausible does not make it correct. Once more presuppositions play a large part in the relationship between text-based information and historical reconstruction.

THE PROCESS OF COMPOSITION In a period in which basic assumptions are being questioned it is to be expected that what was once assumed to be generally agreed, or was left as unanswerable and thus insignificant, will now be examined. How did the writing of the books that make up the Hebrew Bible come about? It is not that the question has not been posed and answered in various ways before. What is changing is that the answer is seen as resolving some of the issues now in debate. A theory of sources involves theories of how the sources

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were put together; whether we are thinking of a phase of oral composition, transition from oral to written or combining of written sources. Consideration of that process then leads on to trying to locate the crucial figures, even if all we can attempt is a sociological location. Some significant contributions to recent debate take up these issues. J. Van Seters’ work, The Edited Bible10 has connections with the issues taken up in this work in that it is very much concerned with whether we read biblical books as authored works or the products of redaction. However it approaches the topic from the perspective of the nature of ancient editorial practice, rather than from an investigation of the biblical works themselves. It is not as though I would reject that as a methodological approach nor regret the questions his investigation has raised for the assumed practice of redaction of sources, however comparison with another recent work raises some significant issues. K. van der Toorn11 is more concerned with the sociological location of those involved in the making of the Bible. He accepts without criticism the very thing Van Seters criticises: editorial elaboration and conflation. Yet the two works differ also in the source of the analogies which they use. Unsurprising, in view of Van Seters’ views of the significance of Hellenistic historiography for the writing of the Bible, is his use of Classical analogies to elucidate the editorial process. Van der Toorn, on the other hand, bases his thesis that the Bible originates from Jerusalem temple scribes on Ancient Near Eastern, that is predominately Mesopotamian but also Egyptian, analogies. As so often, when comparative material is introduced to explain the Bible, the choice of the source of the analogy significantly impacts the conclusion. More may be said about these two works as a result of the conclusion derived from this investigation, but at this stage some comments are needed for the sake of clarity. Van Seters protests against seeing the originators of the Bible as editors rather than The Edited Bible: The Curious History of the “Editor” in Biblical Criticism (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2006). 11 Scribal Culture and the Making of the Hebrew Bible (Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2007). 10

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authors in their own right. He correctly points out that commonly received source theories are ambiguous and confused about whether the “editors” merely preserved or significantly changed the sources in the process of redaction and conflation. Due to this confusion the ancient authors are not being given the credit which they deserve. However he wants to champion, as authors, figures such as the “Yahwist”. The purported existence of the Yahwist is a consequence of source theories. Is it not fair to ask whether Van Seters is being sufficiently critical? In regard to the source of his crucial analogies, primarily the late antique study of the text of Homer and other forms of Classical literature, very little can be said. Since Van Seters sees the Hebrew Bible as a relatively late product and places it within the context of Hellenism, he is not being inconsistent in his choice of analogies for the editorial process. Yet, if he were wrong about the time and inspiration of composition, then he might be using inappropriate analogies. If the Bible is a Hellenistic work, then much of what it seems to indicate about its own setting is dubious. If that is the case then we cannot use data from the text itself to give us some idea of the circumstances and mode of composition. That means in effect that we have virtually no data to work with except what is supplied by analogy from outside models. Van Seters’ own placement of the biblical text removes our ability to test any model he proposes by the data of the text. It may mean we cannot say he is wrong, but we also cannot say he is right. Van der Toorn is much more inclined to argue from the data of the text itself but those arguments look very weak. It is really the Mesopotamian evidence which provides the model and proves it to the extent that it is proved. To fit that external analogy he makes the Jerusalem temple scribes the basic writers of the Bible. Certainly temple scribes played a major role in Mesopotamia and Egypt but that is connected to the fact that the temples in these countries were major economic institutions controlling lands and revenues. An economic institution needs clerical resources for its administration. The question which Van der Toorn fails to ask is whether the same is true for the Jerusalem temple. The question here is not whether the Jerusalem temple had some scribes. It may well have had some. It is whether as an institution it was such a promoter of what Van der Toorn labels as “scribal culture”. If the Jerusalem temple was a less active economic institution, then there

INTRODUCTION

15

may not have been the critical mass of scribal activity to produce the culture which he finds in the great institutions of Mesopotamia and Egypt.12 The assumption seems to be that Israel must have been the same as these other cultures. Even simple contextual factors, such as the difference between irrigation societies and other societies, might be sufficient for us to expect that similarity would need to be proved and not assumed. This concern is heightened by Van der Toorn’s placement of much of the formation of Scripture in the post-exilic period. If we have questions about the economic mass of the Solomonic temple, how much more for the second temple! Some of the difficulties with van der Toorn’s thesis might be relieved by a different model of scribal location. D.M. Carr13 sees the scribal education as happening not so much under the auspices of the temple but under the control of an existing scribe, training his own sons and possibly others. This is a model much more applicable to Palestine and there is some evidence for it from Mesopotamia. Questions arise here which this work does not attempt to explore. Carr’s work also attempts to draw connections and analogies with scribal culture outside of Israel. The sheer necessities of education in those cultures led to standard tools of instruction such as sign and word lists and standard texts which were copied and likely memorised. To use the word “canon” for these texts would be anacronistic but there is still a tendency to standardization with instances, over time, of works being dropped

Once again there is an unexamined assumption here. Did scribes in Mesopotamia and Egypt produce literary works as part of their work for the temple and with the support of that institution or was literary activity a private undertaking by people who may have earned their keep working for the temple—or even outside it? For the difficulty in answering that question in the case of Mesopotamia see M. de J. Ellis, “Observations on Mesopotamian Oracles and Prophetic Texts: Literary and Historiographical Considerations,” Journal of Cuneiform Studies 41 (1989): 166–71. 13 Writing on the Tablet of the Heart (Oxford: OUP, 2005). 12

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and new works entering the “curriculum”.14 Drastically revised versions arise in some cases as with the Gilgamesh Epic and Nergal and Ereshkigal.15 Yet this model of a somewhat standardized “classical” text used in education, but in some cases experiencing radical rewriting, is not the same model as has commonly been assumed as the process by which the biblical text was shaped, with innumerable small ideologically and politically motivated additions, deletions and changes interspersed with large mergers of texts by redactors. If we move to a model for the formation of the biblical text strongly influenced by what we know of educational practice outside of Israel, does that not require a standardized texts for instruction? What is the relationship of that standardized text to our extant text? If we are following the outside educational analogy, what do we make of the information in our present text that the text we now have was connected with a group that was often out of favour with the throne and/or the populace? These are questions which will have to be taken up in wrestling with the connection of the main issues examined in this work with broader issues of biblical historiography. Van der Toorn’s contention that the scribes who produced the Bible were a small elite within a predominantly illiterate population16 raises another very difficult issue. Can we distinguish, within the Hebrew Bible, what reflects an oral culture and what reflects a literate culture? In spite of confident conclusions in the past, this is not a clear distinction. S. Niditch argues that works composed as written works within a culture which is predominatly oral may share features of oral composition and pure oral

W. von Soden, “Das Problem der zeitlichen Einordung akkadischer Literaturwerke,” Mitteilungen der Deutschen Orient-Gesellschaft zu Berlin 85 (1953): 14–25. 15 M. Hutter, Altorientalishe Vorstellungen von der Unterwelt: Literar- und religionschichtliche Überlegungen zu “Nergal und Ereshkigal” (OBO 63; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag and Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht, 1985), 63–4. 16 Scribal Culture and the Making of the Hebrew Bible, 1–14. 14

INTRODUCTION

17

compositions might be quite sophisticated.17 That strikes one as reasonable. Though we have no way of proving it, let us accept the common wisdom that the biblical text would have come into the consciousness of most of those exposed to it in the biblical period as a read text, even if the hearer was also the reader. Texts are for reading and hearing. Surely that means that oral and written cannot be considered as separate. That is not to deny that the necessities of memorisation of a purely oral text might preference certain styles of composition. Yet even when the author does not need to memorise his text because he has a written document, if reading and hearing is the main mode of transmission, then the author will desire that the audience find a considerable portion of his text memorable. In other words it is very difficult to argue from the phenomena of an ancient text to a conclusion of oral as opposed to written composition, unless the text lies at either extreme of the continuum which connects oral and written compositions. Theoretical treatments of the process of Scripture composition which clearly delineate oral and written stages rely upon theories of human cultural evolution rather than upon evidence from ancient Israel. Hence I will not explore the question of the mode of composition. One final caveat must be registered. The literature on the Hebrew Bible is immense, so that it cannot all be read. In bibliography, as in other areas, this work is a mere scratching of the surface. Nonetheless, I hope that the assumptions exposed and the issues raised are significant. I do not pretend that I have read, let alone adequately treated, every scholar’s version of those assumptions and issues.

Oral World and Written Word: Ancient Israelite Literature (Library of Ancient Israel; Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1996), 3–5. 17

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GENESIS

It may seem the height of folly to attempt to argue an original unity to the book of Genesis. Genesis is where the search for sources and documents began. It is also, more recently, the background to quite contradictory analyses. Hence it continues as a battleground Thus G. Rendsburg can demonstrate a very sophisticated literary structuring of the book that cuts across the traditional division into sources.1 and yet carefully argued defences of the original division into sources continue to appear.2 One can make the argument that at some stage of the hypothetical redaction process, or certainly, after it was completed, people may have attempted to read Genesis as a book but that is very different to an original authorial unity. The older source criticism distinguished in Genesis three sources to which it gave approximate dates. The J document has been tentatively assigned to the early monarchy period. That designation derived from the use of YHWH as the name for the deity in that source. More recent works, aware of the inappropriateness of the rendering of that name by “Jehovah” in translations, often refer to its author/composer as the ‘Yahwist’. Closely associated with this source, indeed so closely as to be regarded often as indistinguishable, was the E source; which referred to the deity as ‘elohim’ or ‘God’. It was often regarded as a little later than J. The names ascribed to these sources indicate immediately that variation in the divine name in the text was a crucial inconsistency behind the recognition of these sources. Much later, specifically post-exilic, was the P source named for its conjectured association with priestly interests. Since it also used elohim for the deity, it was distinguished from E by other features. The Redaction of Genesis (Winona Lake; Eisenbrauns, 1986). e.g. J. S. Baden, J, E and the Redacxtion of the Pentateuch (Forschungen zum Alten Testament, 68; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009). 1 2

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Recently it has been asserted that sections of Genesis were inserted by Deuteronomists, that is those connected with, or influenced by, the movement which produced Deuteronomy. The older criticism tended to see D, the document of this movement, as essentially restricted to Deuteronomy. My immediate concerns are not so much with the existence or non-existence of these particular purported documents. Rather it is to seek alternate explanations of the characteristics of the text which were seen to imply the existence of poorly incorporated sources of some sort. Among those evidences a major role was played by doublets or duplicate accounts of the same or similar events. If we broadly divide Genesis into the Primeval History (chh. 1–11), the Patriarchal Narratives (chh. 12–38) and the Joseph Story (chh. 39–50), doublets are particularly obvious in the Patriarchal Narratives.

DOUBLETS IN THE PATRIARCHAL NARRATIVES In 12:10 Abraham, in the terms of the narrative, has done little more than traverse the promised land when he finds he cannot live in it because of famine and is forced to go to Egypt. There he is threatened with the loss of Sarai, his wife, because Pharaoh takes her (12:11–15). In chapter 26 Isaac also faces famine in the land and this famine is distinguished in 26:1 from the famine Abraham experienced. A further echo of the first famine is provided by the divine command not to go to Egypt (26:2). Though not in Egypt, Isaac is also confronted in this context by the threat of loss of his wife (26:7–11). This threat to the wife is not only parallel to the threat to Sarai in Egypt but also to a threat to Sarah which takes place in Gerar (ch. 20). Jacob faced famine in the land and was forced to go to Egypt. While his journey to Egypt did not place his wives in danger, the previous narrative provides several incidents where a threat to the wives is actual or feared (31:31,32; 32:11,12). Thus the themes of famine and threat to the wives are repetitive themes and, on the assumption that repetition proves diversity of authorship, they are a central part of documentary arguments. Yet one must note just how many repetitions there are. If one takes the threat to the wives as the clearest case, one can count threats to Abraham’s wife from pharaoh and the king of

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Gerar, to Isaac’s from the king of Gerar and to Jacob’s wives from Laban and Esau. Admittedly the threats to Jacob’s wives are of a slightly different sort, so one might exclude them and be left with the three cases of Abraham and Isaac. On the logic that duplication proves diversity of authorship, these should be ascribed to three different sources. One finds that commonly they are not.3 The problem is that the story of Sarai in Egypt uses YHWH and so must be assigned to the hypothetical J source. While the story of the threat to Rebekah, narrowly conceived, does not use a divine name, the surrounding narrative uses YHWH. It is possible to defend the attribution of both to J on the grounds that the author in 26:1 distinguishes this famine from the previous one. Yet in comparable situations that distinction would be dismissed as a late and harmonising gloss. Even if this problem is solved, the examples from the life of Jacob provide further complication to the simple thesis that repetition means diverse authorship.4 There are other forms of repetition in the patriarchal narratives. Abraham, Isaac and Jacob each have a barren wife.5 Rivalry between the offspring occurs in each family; made more Eg E. A. Speiser, Genesis (Garden City: Doubleday, 1964), 89,198. There are, of course, other ways to solve the problem. Baden (J, E and the Redacxtion of the Pentateuc, 214) says that there are internal doublets within J caused by the same tradition being preserved in two forms. Such a solution does not invalidate the premise that repetition proves diversity of origin. However it is an instance of a theory under attack being modified to meet the attack in a way that makes it more and more unfalsifiable. If duplication is a criterion for separation of sources, in some cases, yet not in others, how can this part of the theory ever be tested against evidence? A similar problem emerges with Baden’ ”‘clarification” (p. 226) that the divine names are a less that universal criterion for the division of sources, since J could use elohim and E could use JHWH as long as it was not put in the mouth of characters in the story. 5 N. M. Sarna, “The Anticipatory Use of Information as a Literary Feature of the Genesis Narrative,” in The Creation of Sacred Literature. Composition and Redaction of the Biblical Text, ed. R. E. Friedman (Uni. of California Pub.: Near Eastern Studies, 22; Berkeley: Uni. of California Press, 1981), 79. 3 4

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acute in the families of Abraham and Isaac by the fact that the nonelect son receives the advantage of primogeniture. In Jacob’s family the chosen son, Joseph, is once again not the first born. Each of the three principal figures comes into conflict with the people of the land; indeed there are frequent reminders, such as in the story of Sarah’s burial, of the minority status of the patriarchs in the land promised to them. One could go through each of these repetitions and assign each to a different source. Once again we would face conflict between division of sources on the basis of repetition and division of sources on the basis of the divine name. The narrative of the barrenness of Sarah uses YHWH (15:1–4; 16.1:2; note also 11:30) just as does that of Rebekah (25:21). The barrenness of Rachel is described in a context using YHWH (29:31,32).6 Certainly one can save the Documentary Hypothesis from such inconsistencies by an extremely atomistic division of sources so that, for example, a small fragment of 25:21 might be ascribed to a source other than J. The necessity to resort to such unlikely and obviously forced expedients decreases the plausibility of the whole thesis.7

THE PURPOSE OF REPETITION Surely the very frequency of repetition in the patriarchal narratives raises the possibility that it is not the accidental product of clumsy union of sources but is deliberate.8 If repetition is deliberate authorial device, what is its purpose?9 All these passages, with the exception of 16.1a (P), are attributed to J in Speiser, Genesis, 77, 110, 116, 193, 228. 7 For another pattern which crosses the traditional source divisions; namely anticipatory supply of information which will be necessary to understand later parts of the text; see Sarna, “The Anticipatory Use of Information,” especially 82. 8 Even those who are sceptical about the Documentary Hypothesis may retain sufficient of its presuppositions not to consider this possibility. Thus T. L. Thompson see problems in the traditional source theory explanation but still thinks that there was some sort of background of multiple tales now unrecoverable by us. Deliberate purpose is not considered as a possibility: The Origin Tradition of Ancient Israel. I. The 6

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Let us go back to Genesis 12. Abraham was promised by God (vv. 1–3), a number of things: a land, to become a great nation and to be a blessing to the nations. In v. 6b an impediment to the fulfilment of the promise is introduced: the land already has inhabitants. In immediate juxtaposition to that inconvenient fact (v. 7) God reiterates the promise of the land. By v. 10 another inconvenient fact appears: the land is unlivable due to famine. In Egypt, to which Abraham is forced to flee, a further contradiction to the promise threatens: the wife, upon whom the promise of descendants depends, is endangered. Even in this short compass the pattern is clear. The divine promise is contradicted by the facts of experience.10 How can God’s promises prove true if the land is already inhabited, it is no good anyway due to famine and if Abraham loses the wife who will bear the progeny requisite for a great nation? That dilemma is Literary Formation of Genesis and Exodus 1–23 (JSOT Sup., 55; Sheffield: JSOT, 1987), 53–9. 9 In what follows I deal with a particular purpose for repetition. For repetition as a characteristic of biblical narrative see P. D. Miscall, The Workings of Old Testament Narrative (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983). For different purposes of repetition in biblical narrative see A. Berlin, Poetics and Interpretation of Biblical Narrative (Bible and Literature Series, 9; Sheffield: Almond, 1983), 43–82. Note also the presence of repetition in the record of the petion of a worker found at Mesad Hashavyahu: S. B. Parker, Stories in Scripture and Inscriptions. Comparative Studies on Narratives in Northwest Semitic Inscriptions and the Hebrew Bible (New York: OUP, 1997), 14,5). While one extra-biblical case is not proof, it raises the possibility that it comes from a culture which saw repetition as a way of making a point, though the use of the device in that case lacked literary artistry. 10 See R. N. Whybray, The Making of the Pentateuch (JSOT Sup., 53; Sheffield: JSOT, 1987), 77 for the suggestion that the repetition is a deliberate literary device to stress the faithfulness of God to his promise. For another treatment of the conflict between divine promises and circumstances see G. G. Nichol, “Story-Patterning in Genesis,” in Text as Pretext. Essays in Honour of Robert Davidson, ed. R. P. Carroll (JSOT Sup., 138; Sheffield: JSOT, 1992), 219–22.

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heightened by juxtaposition: the existence of the Canaanite in the land is deliberately contrasted with the promise in vv. 6,7. Once the deliberate heightening of tension by such juxtapositions is observed, the explanation of v. 6b as a historical note added for the sake of a much later generation falls away.11 No matter when 6b was written, its purpose in context is to make clear that circumstances conspire against the achievement of the divine purpose. Without such juxtaposition, there would seem to be no purpose to stating the obvious about the Canaanite presence. There is a point to stating the obvious when that obvious is in tension with another consideration, namely the divine promise. Purpose and intention are even clearer if we endorse the observation of Cassuto and Rendsburg that the story of Abraham has a chiastic structure. Significantly in the chiasm, Sarai’s taking by pharaoh is paralleled by her taking by Abimelech and the two covenants parallel each other as the hinge of the chiasm.12 The divine promise in the partiarchal narratives is viewed in quite a different way by R. Rendtorff. He argues that the promise does not appear in many of the individual stories that make up the patriarchal narratives. The promise occurs largely in divine statements or references to such statements. From this failure of the promise to appear in all the stories he deduces that the promise element was added late in the process of the collection of the traditions.13 Clearly one reaches such a conclusion by first assuming that the stories existed independently and were only brought together by a long process. We would not normally assume that the

See Speiser, Genesis, 87. For a realisation of the deliberate irony see G. von Rad, Genesis (London: SCM, 1961), 157. 12 See for the original suggestion U. Cassuto, A Commentary on the book of Genesis. Part II From Noah to Abraham Genesis VI 9 – XI 32, trans. I. Abrahams (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1964), 296 and for the development G. Rendsburg, The Redaction of Genesis (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1986), 27–52. 13 The Problem of the Process of Transmission in the Pentateuch, trans. J. J. Scullion (JSOT Sup., 89; Sheffield: JSOT, 1990), 52–5. 11

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dominating theme of a literary work had to be present in every part of that work in order to qualify as the unifying theme.14 Chapter 13 introduces the theme of conflict within the family, though the family at this stage is wider than a nuclear family. The conflict is intensified by the fact that Abram and Lot are not the only ones in the land (13:7). Thus the competition for resources is intensified. What use the land if, given the other inhabitants, it is insufficient even for two families? One may note other cases of the tension between divine promise and experience being intensified by juxtaposition. In 15:1, 2 the promise is immediately followed by Abram’s protest of his childlessness. Again in ch. 17 the promise in vv. 1–16 provokes the immediate counter of Abraham’s childless state (v. 17). Those who see the two covenants of chh. 15 and 17 as repetitive and thus indicating multiple authorship should note that the contrast of promise and experience is also repeated. Repetitions occur not just within the narrative of a generation but across generations as has already been indicated by the similarity of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob with respect to famine and wives. Once again there are cases of juxtaposition of the promise and the threat to the promise: God’s promise of many offspring to Isaac (26:4) is followed by action which places his wife in danger (vv. 6–11). However this threat differs in one respect from other threats to wives. The two threats to Sarah (12:10–20; 20:1–7) took place before the birth of Isaac. Laban blustering against Jacob mentions wives and children (31:43). Jacob’s fear of Esau includes threats to both wives and children (32:11). An exception to the pattern that both wives and children are in danger occurs in 26:6–11 because Jacob and Esau were already born and the threat This point becomes even more obvious in Rendtorff’s subsequent discussion (The Problem of the Process of Transmission, 55–84) where he demonstrates that the promises occur in a great variety of formulations and in different combinations so that he concedes that the theme of the promise was integral to the theological reworking and interpretation of the traditions. Had he not begun with a theory of disparate units, he would have been forced to recognise the promise as the unifying theme of the material. 14

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ignores the children. Perhaps the placing of the promise of abundant children just before the story of Isaac and Rebekah in Gerar is meant to imply to us, by analogy with other examples, that the children might also be threatened in a feud which arose over Rebekah. Alternatively this passage, where the threat seems much more remote than the other cases, may belong more to the theme of deception which will be examined later. One could go through the whole of the patriarchal narratives specifying more parallels and juxtapositions but I think the point is obvious. The pattern of repetitions is deliberately aimed to make the point that events seem to contradict the promise of God. It is conveying a theological message. The promise of God is to be trusted even when circumstances are against it. Hence trust in the promise, despite circumstances, is the mark of piety. Abram is reckoned as righteous because he believed the promise (15:6). The story of Joseph continues the theme by showing that God’s promise to Joseph through dreams will be fulfilled even though in the early part of the story every event seems to be taking Joseph further and further from the promised objective. Blended into the story are other themes familiar from the earlier narratives: family conflict, threats to the promised children, famine in the promised land. The Joseph story also shows that themes are not merely repeated; they may be intensified. Conflict among the offspring between the chosen and the non-chosen intensifies from the mocking between Ishmael and Isaac (21:9) to Esau’s threats of violence (28:41) to the actual violence against Joseph (37). The famine experienced by Isaac appears less serious than that which forced Abram to flee but Jacob’s famine is the culmination of the patriarchs’ famine experiences. The writer of the patriarchal narratives has a story to tell but to his mind that story should convey certain truths about the relationship between God and man. He conveys this point by the presentation of similar stories and by arranging the narrative so that promise and contradiction stand in clear contrast.

THE GENEALOGIES The contrast theme extends into genealogical passages. A constant feature of Genesis is that the genealogy of the non-elect line precedes that of the elect line. Thus within the patriarchal

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narratives the generations of Ishmael (25:12–18) precede those of Isaac (25:19). Significantly Ishmael had twelve sons. Isaac had only two. Is the divine choice of Isaac to be the promised line and receive the blessing confirmed by history? Similarly the genealogy of Esau (36) comes before that of Jacob (37:2). We are told how Esau was granted a land and became politically established within it (36:31). Jacob’s fortunes in contrast are to be vexed by circumstances and to end his life in land that is not only not his own but is also a land, which has not been promised to him. Who is revealed by circumstances as the recipient of divine blessing?15 This pattern is revealed also in passages which are not closely connected to the toledoth headings. Abraham had multiple children via Keturah (25:1–4). The sequel to the dramatic story of the potential loss of Isaac, the only son, through sacrifice, is the news of the many descendants of Nahor, Abraham’s brother. (22:20–24). The tension between promise and events is all through the patriarchal narratives. Commonality is thus revealed between the stories and the genealogies. Classical source criticism postulated that genealogies, because they are different in genre to narratives, must be from another hand. Then one has to postulate that either a later editor altered the genealogies to make sure they reflected the dominant theme of the patriarchal stories or that, being written later, the author of the genealogies has deliberately incorporated these themes. Is there any advantage of such explanations over the alternate which starts from the premise that theme, rather than genre, is the key to authorship? Thus a single author has chosen to convey a common message by use of different literary forms. By juxtaposition and by repetition the theological theme of Genesis is expounded. When Abraham is revealed as a believer in the promises, a belief which is rewarded by fulfilment, then the For an example of missing the point because of beginning with a theoretical structure rather than looking for the way the concerns of the genealogies integrate with the rest of the narrative see N. Sternberg, “The Genealogical Framework of the Family Stories in Genesis,” in Narrative Research on the Hebrw Bible, ed. M. Amihai, G. W. Coates and A. M. Solomon (Semeia, 46; Atlanta: Scholars, 1989), 41–50. 15

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work conveys more that a theological message about the faithfulness of God to his promises. It sets up Abraham as a model to be imitated. Thus the work conveys both theological and practical messages.

ALTERNATE EXPLANATIONS This understanding of Genesis as having theological and moral lessons, and hence as being structured so as to reinforce those lessons, is contrary to the understanding of T. L. Thompson. He sees the work as primarily a story to be read as a story without searching for deep theological purposes.16 Yet he mixes that interpretation with another. Again and again he reads the individual narratives as aetiologies. Since the questions, which Thompson’s conjectured aetiologies answer, are not burning questions to us, the result of his explanation is that we might read Genesis just as a story where the main issue arising is not the “meaning” but “what happened next?” However, if his explanation is correct and the stories were designed as aetiologies, then surely to the original readers they were answering profound questions. Were the questions that the community asked not also religious questions? There are cases where Thompson’s reading of a story does make the issue religious and theological.17 Then the point he seems to be making is that there is no coherent theological point being made across, or by means of, a number of stories. The question that arises is how we know that there is no larger message conveyed by the text. My contention would be that the number of different ways and contexts, where the divine promise contradicts the patriarchs’ experience, points to a message that transcends individual stories. Thompson’s interpretation strikes me as deriving from a theory of the way Genesis was created, which is not actually derived from the text. Is it possible to recognise the purpose of repetition and still argue for sources? One way around this obvious use of repetition would be to argue that a late compiler has selected material from 16 17

The Origin Tradition of Ancient Israel, especially 199–212. Eg The Origin Tradition of Ancient Israel, 208.

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diverse sources to give this message. Then the existence of a clear reason for repetition would not negate a source hypothesis. However this is a multiplication of hypotheses and must fall victim to Occam’s Razor. A single author using repetition for didactic purposes is a simpler hypothesis than to posit that parallel sources once existed which said very similar things, even containing the raw material of divine promise and danger to that promise, and in that raw material a late redactor perceived the possibility of a theological lesson. Hypothetically both the explanation of the single author, and the explanation of the redactor with “providentially” suitable sources, are possible. What we need to know is why scholarship largely chose the more complex option. One possibility, given the history of scholarship, is that the question of diverse divine names conditioned people to a source hypothesis. Another is that there was not an expectation that Genesis would convey a coherent theological and practical message. Finally there is the possibility of an interaction in the scholarly mind of literary and historical hypotheses. A history of the development of Israelite religion is dependent upon the existence of sources, requiring at least one early versus at least one late source. If we “know” that the religion must have developed in a certain way, then we expect that there will be sources that reveal that fact. In the classic Documentary and Developmental Hypotheses the existence of earlier and later sources is consequent upon the belief that certain things, such as genealogy, belong with priests and elaborate priestcraft is later in Israel than narrative. The discussion of those ideas and the assumptions which lie behind them must be postponed until later. For the moment we are confronted with various ways of explaining the data that similar themes are found in different literary forms. Neither approach is exclusively demanded by the data at hand.

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THE JOSEPH STORY There has often been recognition that separation of sources was particularly hard in the Joseph Story.18 More recently there has been a tendency to regard it, just like the Primeval History, as a separate narrative. It is certainly true that the doublets that characterise the Patriarchal Narratives do not occur. The divine name is reasonably rare and the usage pattern is not easy to interpret. During Joseph’s period as a slave and in gaol the general pattern is that when the deity is referred to as the one controlling events he is YHWH, but Joseph speaking to others uses elohim. Once Joseph is elevated the regular form becomes elohim. If YHWH was regarded as being particularly comprehensible to Israelites but not others, then use of a more general designation in conversation with outsiders is understandable. The later shift in narrative to elohim has no obvious explanation. In other respects the Joseph Story is essential to Genesis and closely integrated to its development. A recurrent theme in the Patriarchal Narratives is deception and the associated family strife. It begins with Abram’s deception concerning Sarai19 and continues with Isaac and Rebekah. I noted above that the story of Isaac, Rebekah and the king of Gerar in chapter 26 departs from the usual model in that it does not explicitly bring the offspring or potential offspring into danger. Nevertheless it is a case of deception. In the next generation the deception becomes taken into the family. Jacob deceived Isaac. The pay-back which he received was the poetic justice of a switch in the darkness with respect to a wife. Jacob’s sons show they have learned well from the ignoble example of their father by deceiving the men of Shechem. The growing family conflicts swirling around the issues of choice of the favoured son and deception reach their climax in the selling of Joseph and the consequent deception which the brothers inflict on their father. Thus the Patriarchal Narratives reveal the Speiser, Genesis, 292. On the narrative’s concern to establish the righteousness of Abimelech rather than Abraham in Genesis 20 see Miscall, The Workings of Old Testament Narrative, 36. 18 19

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crisis which results from the escalation of a deleterious practice. If the crisis is not resolved, then the Patriarchal Narratives are without an appropriate ending. Of course one could postulate that the Joseph Story was put in place later to supply the needed ending.20 Surely however, it is more natural to write a story with an ending than to write a story leaving an unresolved problem for somebody much later to resolve. Though our inability to go back through the mists of time to the early stages of folklore prevents dogmatism, I would suspect that collections of folktales that lead to a resolution are more common than those without. Thus whether one holds to an author, oral composition or whatever, the same expectation would apply. Genesis 38 may be a deliberate heightening of suspense by making the reader wait to find out what will happen to Joseph but it is also something else. It is a foretaste of the plot to follow. The deceiver will be dealt with by being deceived. Judah made a promise which he did not keep (vv. 11, 14). The fact of his failure was brought home to him by disguise and deception on the part of Tamar. In a more elaborate and drawn out manner, the same plot is played out between Joseph and his brothers. Disguise and deception, as with Jacob and Isaac as well as Judah and Tamar, are crucial.21 The Joseph Story does not have the repetitions of the Patriarchal Narratives because so many of the plots, patterns and tensions developed through the repetitions are climaxed and resolved here.22 In this story the concluding famine interacts with a

See the discussion in G. W. Coates, “Another Form-Critical Problem of the Hexateuch,” in Narrative Research on the Hebrew Bible, ed. M. Amihai, G. W. Coates and A. M. Solomon (Semeia, 46; Atlanta: Scholars, 1989), 67–8. 21 For another view of the relationship between Genesis 38 and the story of Joseph see J. Barton, “Intertextuality and the ‘Final Form’ of the Text,” in Congress Volume. Oslo 1998, ed. A. Lemaire and M. Sæbø (VTS, 80; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 34. 22 It is common to argue that the deity acts less directly in the Joseph story (Fox, “Can Genesis Be Read as a Book?”, 33) but we may be 20

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‘threat’ to the offspring from the lord of Egypt. The jealousy, acted out by Cain, threatened by Esau and possessed with far greater justification and capacity for revenge by Joseph comes to a surprising and exemplary conclusion. As with the faith of Abraham, models for action are being conveyed by Joseph. Those models would lack their punch if the Joseph story stood alone without the previous narrative to tell us that a multi-generational family pattern of sinful behaviour needs to be ended by the graciousness of Joseph.23

ACCRETION MODELS Reading the Patriarchal Narratives as a progressive story which has many of its tensions resolved in Joseph raises another issue. As the traditional Documentary Hypothesis has been seen as less and less credible, alternative views of the growth of Genesis as a literary creation have appeared. Some of these, reflecting the influence of Gunkel. might be called accretion models. They start with a postulated small unit in the oral tradition and plot a growth into a story which then attracts more elements. Subsequently narrative units built up in this way were connected to each other.24 Various such models might be proposed but they share the characteristic of not dividing the text by strands that run all through the Pentateuch,

observing merely the consequence of a plot where the plans of the deity come to culmination through the human actors. 23 There is an affinity between the point being made here and the concern that the historical-critical method, by dividing the text, blunts the moral point that the text is making. (See B. C. Birch, “Old Testament Narrative and Moral Address,” in Canon, Theology and Old Testament Interpretation. Essays in Honor of Brevard S. Childs, ed. G. M. Tucker, D. L. Petersen and R. R. Wilson (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 85). Joseph’s example is more impressive when put against the background of all of Genesis’ family conflicts. 24 For a comparison of such a model with the source criticism of M. Noth see D. J. Wynn-Williams, The State of the Pentateuch. A Comparison of the Approaches of M. Noth and E. Blum (BZAW 249; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1977).

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but rather by clumps of material which coalesce around major figures or periods.25 This alternate way of arranging the sources must have consequences for the way in which the commonality and parallels between each clump of stories are seen. Suppose, hypothetically, the story of each patriarch represents a separate process of elaboration of a source. The parallel themes would then be seen as details added in the process of linking the originally independent story complexes. Alternatively one might postulate that there was an original story about one patriarch. The stories of the others could then be seen as composed on the model of the first one. There is a major problem with the thesis of quite independent stories that are linked subsequently and have parallels added at a late stage. The repeated themes are too dominant in the stories. Take away the wait for the fulfilment of the divine promise, the barren wife, famine, the threat to the wife and children, the choosing of the younger son, conflicts within and without and escalating deceit and then what is left of the patriarchal stories? A plausible thesis of originally independent stories needs greater variety of themes. Thus advocates of theories, where stories were clumped around a major figure, need an original story complex from which others are built by imitation. Martin Noth’s treatment of the Genesis stories combines a number of different emphases.26 Besides the traditional source division there is an attempt to discern original elements of tradition which grew up around particular locations and then attracted other originally unrelated stories until a series of traditions had coalesced into the account of a particular patriarchal figure. The stories of the individual patriarchs then became joined at a later stage to each other with elements of one influencing the account of another. Thus there is a controlling methodological principle which sees

For an example of another such structure see Thompson, The Origin Tradition of Ancient Israel. 26 M. Noth, A History of the Pentateuchal Traditions, trans. B. W. Anderson (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1972). 25

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discrete, particularly unconnected, story as original and larger connected stories as secondary.27 Any assessment of Noth’s theory faces the problem of knowing what is the foundational part and what is secondary. It is intertwined with a particular historical theory of how Israelites settled in Canaan through the process of sedentarization of nomads and the supposed stages of that process are used to date the particular narrative elements. One even finds the old four stage evolutionary theory of Adam Smith with its stages of hunter, nomad and farmer put to use.28 Thus one is uncertain whether Noth’s particular theory of story development rests upon something in the text or rather that the text has been made to conform to a particular theory of development. Noth’s theory can give an explanation of the parallel of themes between the Abraham and Isaac stories by asserting that the Isaac traditions came first—because he is less prominent and tends to be a less developed figure—and that the Abraham stories took over themes from those stories.29 In addition, to explain the E and J versions of very similar stories, Noth must postulate a common tradition which was separately developed into J and E strands before being united again. The parallels between these stories and the Jacob stories is a different question. It seems that because the themes are not so closely parallel in the Jacob stories that Noth does not see the problem to his theory in that these same parallels appear not just in the Abraham and Isaac stories but also the Jacob ones. Surely it is much simpler and much more in accord with the text before us to suggest that the whole story with its parallelism of themes and situations was created as such rather than it was the result of multiple stages which in turn rest upon very doubtful theories of human development. It is a necessary consequence of Noth’s assumptions that the smoother, longer Joseph story should be seen as late.30 I have argued above that it draws together many of the threads of the A History of the Pentateuchal Traditions, 79–115. Ibid., 97–8. 29 Ibid., 103. 30 Ibid., 208. 27 28

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preceding narratives. Hence it is plausible to argue that it must be later than the earlier text. However a “lateness” that depends upon the logic of a plot which tells a story in chronological sequence is much different to a “lateness” that rests upon unprovable stages of the evolution of literary composition.

THE PRIMEVAL HISTORY Older approaches carried the classic J, E and P sources into the Primeval History. More recently there has been a tendency to treat the Primeval History as a separate work. As far as subject matter is concerned, the Patriarchal Narratives form a recognisable unit over against the Primeval History. That does not exclude connections, primarily the use of the genealogical sections links both. Once again the genealogy of the non-elect lines is given first. Thus we are told of the descendants of Cain and all their cultural achievements in ch. 4. In comparison the line through Seth in ch. 5 is distinguished only by worship (4:26) and the translation of Enoch (5:24). The achievements of the line of Cain give the impression that once again the obvious blessings of God are bestowed on the non-elect. There is no such obvious distinction between the children of Noah (ch. 10) but it is noteworthy that once again the elect line of Shem is the last recounted. Earlier I argued that the thesis of authorial unity does not preclude the use of sources by the author. Rather it is an alternative to theories where sources negate the unity of the composition and one must speak of a redactor rather than an author of the whole work. The alternate is to see evidence of narrative techniques used by the one author. In other words crucial textual characteristics are interpreted more synchronistically than diachronistically. The occurrence of different subject matter and even the presence of different authorial techniques in different parts of a work do not prove multiplicity of authorship unless we work from a presupposition which restricts an author’s range of material and techniques. The use of genealogical schemes and the presentation of material which seems to indicate particular blessing to the non-elect links the Patriarchal Narratives and the Primeval History. What divides the two sections of Genesis is a different use of the device of repetition. In the Patriarchal Narratives, the device of repetition is exemplified by similar stories, or stories embodying a common

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element such as famine, scattered through the narrative and often involving different main characters. In the Primeval History the instances of repetition are not scattered but juxtaposed: a second narrative, placed immediately after the first, covers the same territory but with emphasis on different details. The prime example is the creation narrative. There is a creation account in 1:1–2:3 which is followed by another partial account beginning at 2:4. The second account is partial in that crucial aspects of creation, such as the heavenly bodies, are not mentioned. It is overlapping in that once more the creation of man and woman is treated. Further it is supplementary in that the vital topic of provision of water for the land is treated and it further elaborates on issues such as the relationship of the man and the woman and their relationship to the animate and botanical creation. The second example of this sort of repetition is in the instructions of God to Noah. A basic instruction to build the ark and to preserve a pair of all land creatures (6:13–22) is followed by a supplementary section which differs in the instruction to take seven pairs of clean animals (7:1–5). Each is concluded by a line stressing Noah’s obedience (6:22; 7:5). It is possible to postulate that other portions of the primeval history are repetitious, for example that the genealogy of Genesis 5 is a duplicate of ch.11 or that the genealogy of Shem is given twice in chh. 10 and 11.31 Yet these cases are neither duplicates in the sense of the stories of the Patriarchal Narratives or in the sense of It is commonly asserted that the information on the descendants of Adam through Seth given in ch. 5 is a variant of the family of Cain in ch. 4 eg R. R. Wilson, Genealogy and History in the Biblical World (New Haven: Yale UP, 1977), 158–63). One wonders if similar, but erroneous, conclusions could be reached by taking portions of genealogies from related families in many cultures, simply because there is a likelihood that similar or identical names will occur. The genealogies of Shem in chh. 10 and 11 are different in form, one being segmented in a context designed to show the interrelationships of peoples and the other being linear in tracing the connection of Abraham to the previous history. (For the definition of linear and segmented genealogies see Wilson, Genealogy and History, 8–10.) 31

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the closely attached duplicates of the Primeval History mentioned above. What is duplicated between chh. 5 and 11 is the genealogy form: no characters are common except for Shem who ends one and begins the other. That is not a duplication in any real sense. In chh. 10 and 11 Shem’s offspring appear in two different ways: one is a segmented genealogy and the other is linear. Since different purposes are served by these different forms, there is no reason to postulate separate sources. That brings us back to the two clear cases or repetition in the Primeval History: the creation account and the instructions to Noah. We then have the choice between different interpretations of the phenomena. It could be a case of different sources combined by an unobservant redactor so as to create duplication and maybe even contradiction. While this is the common explanation it raises questions. Why is the second creation account incomplete in lacking things such as the heavenly bodies? Why does the second instruction to Noah lack directions for building the ark? One may answer these questions by postulating that, in the process of redaction, certain parts of each second narrative have been lost. That explanation concedes that the phenomena before us amount to less than complete duplication. The alternative is to suggest that the repetition is deliberate. By separating parts of a complex story the author allows different aspects of the account to receive particular emphasis in the successive narratives. The first account of creation emphasises the transcendence of God; the second the relationships among the creatures. As far as the land is concerned, the first tells us that the seas have been removed to allow the dry land to be the stage for living things; the second that the water still needed by the land is provided by God. The second instruction to Noah stresses the importance of clean animals. How does one decide between alternate explanations? Once again a presupposition that biblical authors/editors/redactors lack the sophistication to employ sophisticated story telling devices will force us to conclude that we are looking at the lumping together of material from diverse sources. If we take the contrary presupposition then the possibility arises of authorial intent. Let us take this second possibility and explore it. It necessitates also the assumption that the intended readership would understand the device and read the text accordingly.

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THE CREATION ACCOUNTS We have an interesting poetic commentary on Genesis 1 in Psalm 104. While there is something of a different focus in that the earlier aspects of creation are treated as the accoutrements of a king, the order follows Genesis 1. Thus we are introduced to light as the royal robe (vv. 1,2a), the separated waters of day two as the place of the royal tent/palace (vv. 2b, 3a); the clouds of heaven as God’s chariot (v. 3b) and the winds of the heaven as royal messengers (v. 4). Of particular interest for our question is the treatment in the psalm of the third day. The initial act of that day, separating between sea and land, is covered in vv. 5–9. The second act, creation of vegetation, appears in vv. 14–17. In between we find in vv. 10–14 provision of water for the land. That is a concern of the second creation account. Thus the author of the psalm has taken an item out of the second account—watering of the land—and integrated it into his version of the first account at the logical position, namely in the middle of day three, between the appearance of dry land and the establishment of vegetation. Depending on our assumptions this does or does not prove something. Once Genesis was seen as a book, readers would have read it as such and that involves integrating and harmonising the details. Hence it is possible to argue that the way later readers, specifically this particular psalmist, interpret the book is irrelevant to its history of composition. On the other hand the author of Psalm 104 stands closer to the context of the original author of Genesis than we do. If he does not stumble at the separation of details into two accounts but naturally harmonises them, then maybe we should do the same. The difference in the way we might use the data of Psalm 104 reflects how we see ourselves over against the author of that psalm. Are we the detached and sophisticated scholars whose context outside a culture makes it possible for us to understand the redactor of Genesis and the false premises of the author of the psalm and thus allows us to see possibilities which would not have

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occurred to the psalmist?32 Or are we those whose entrapment in a different culture means that we need to learn from somebody within an alien culture how to understand the conventions of that culture?33 It is not the data which tells us how to read the creation accounts, it is our assumptions which tell us what to do with that evidence. The evidence of Psalm 104 will be used or dismissed depending on how we see ourselves over against the past. There are two facets of God’s care for the land reflected in these early chapters. One is to ensure that the land is preserved from the threat of the overwhelming seas. That is covered in 1:9,10. The other is to ensure that there is fresh water for the land’s creatures, human, animal and botanical. That concern lies behind 2:5,6. The negative side of these concerns are the threats of flood and drought. Since a reversal of the creation order takes the world back to a state in which man cannot live, these two issues occur repeatedly in the Hebrew Bible as pictures of judgment. A clear example of that theme within Genesis itself is the Flood as a reversal of creation. Many other biblical passages are concerned with flood as judgment or God’s mercy in preserving the world from that threat, so much so that destruction by water becomes a common metaphor of judgment.34 Similarly the provision or withholding of water is treated in terms of mercy and judgment.35 One can take the assumption of superior knowledge even further: we can see ourselves as those who understand the history of the author’s material even better that the author himself. See M. G. Brett, “Motives and Intentions in Genesis 1,” JTS 42 (1991): 1–16. 33 For an interesting example of an anthropologist wrestling with the same problem see C. Geertz, “Deep Play: Notes on the Balinese Cockfight,” in his The Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic Books, 1973), 412–53. Geertz sees the foreign observer as needing to read, over the shoulder of the native, the text which the native culture writes in its manner of life. If that is true for the modern anthropologist who can actually go and live in the culture, How much more must it be true for the ancient historian who has only small remnants of the culture? 34 Ps 24:2; 29:10; 32:6; 46:2–4 (Eng. 46.1–3); 93:3,4; Isa 28:17; Jer 51;42, 55; Ezek 26:19; Nah 1:8 35 Ps 107:33,34; Isa 50:2; Jer 12:4; 23:10; 50:38; 51:36; Joel 1:20. 32

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Here one might argue the premises of criticism against its common conclusions. If the composers of Genesis were standing in the later period from which the works of the prophets and psalms come and reading those concerns back into the past, and if the prophets and psalms tell us that that age had a concern with both flood and drought as judgment, is it not likely that those composers would reflect both in their treatment of the creation period? If one prophet (or, if you like, the school which edited/produced the prophetic book) could be interested in both, why could not one author/composer/school be interested in both in a creation account? The question then shifts to the fact that, as Genesis comes to us, that material is divided between two accounts. Our canons for scholarly writing set an objective of integration. It is not as though anybody has told us that we must do it this way. The objective is set by precedent. To integrate, to interrelate, to wrap together as many facets of the subject as possible in a cohesive, interrelated account and interpretation is the goal. Just as the physicist strives for a general theory of everything, the historian seeks an all encompassing description/explanation. Is how we write the only way to write? Is it not an alternative to separate facets and view them individually, especially if there is a pedagogic aim involved? Just as the repetition of the threats to which the patriarchs were exposed demonstrates more strongly the mercy of the God who in faithfulness delivered them, so the separate treatment of features in which the original creation had provision against natural threats spoke a message about the power and care of God. If the objection is that one would nevertheless expect some attempt at harmonisation and integration of what had been separated, then Psalm 104 is the answer to that objection. Of course the assumption of the author of Genesis must be that the reader knows how to interpret this device. A further objection will be that the two creation accounts differ in more than the contrast of removal of the seas compared with bringing the needed fresh water. They show a different attitude to the activity of God, contrasting the powerful speaking God with the anthropomorphic potter God who shapes the man

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from clay.36 While the material of the contrast may be different, we meet once again two aspects of biblical teaching which are rarely integrated. God is both transcendent and immanent. One suspects that all religions have some version of that duality but it is particularly obvious in monotheistic faiths. Nowhere in the Bible is there a passage that resolves those two aspects into one. They tend to stand side by side (eg. Deut 33:26,27; Ps 29, 145; Isa 57:15; etc.). How could a biblical author deal with those two aspects of the nature of God as involved in creation without some form of separation?37 Thus, if we assume that Genesis is the work of an author, we would resolve the problem of two creation accounts by suggesting that it is a deliberate device by the author to allow aspects of truth, which cannot be easily combined in one integrated explanation, to be conveyed. Can this explanation be “proved” in some objective sense? Of course not. Our understanding of how we stand over against other cultures will condition our minds as to whether we see it as plausible or not. Yet I think that there is a consideration which may incline us to this view. We will not find a worked out treatise on epistemology in the Hebrew Bible. Yet, as indicated by passages such as God’s speeches to Job, early chapters of Proverbs and the polemic of the prophets against human “wisdom”, there is not a high belief in the ability of the human mind to penetrate all mysteries. In that environment, viewing an event in a way that brings out varied, limited aspects of the human capacity to understand the situation, is not surprising. Of course there is an alternate explanation which is to say that the picture of God as both transcendent and immanent is a result of the bringing together of the JE and the P creation accounts. R. E. Friedman develops a picture of a new conception of God emerging as a result of such a combination.38 His thesis entails a

J. Skiner Genesis (Edinburgh, T. & T. Clark, 1910), lxi. See the comments on critics’ insensitivity to theological paradoxes in the text in Moberly, At the Mountain of God, 33–4. 38 “Sacred History and Theology: The Redaction of Torah,” in The Creation of Sacred Literature. Composition and Redaction of the Biblical Text, ed. 36 37

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particular understanding of the history of monotheism. Since JE is conceptualised as earlier, it implies an idea of a deity who has the characteristics of immanence but not of transcendence. Yet all will classify JE’s theology as a sort of monotheism. Could such a monotheistic theology of God exist in the ancient world?39 The high gods of surrounding polytheisms had a transcendent aspect. Are we really to believe that the monotheistic God of Israel once lacked this? The two accounts of creation have been used as an example of the process of the development of a text by conflation of material from different sources.40 This is then compared with examples where two versions of an item in canonical texts have been conflated, such as the Exodus and Deuteronomy versions of the commandments.41 It has been objected that this is particularly liable to happen when one is dealing with texts which are already considered authoritative.42 Even leaving aside that objection, there remains the problem that we cannot tell at what stage of a composition process the two accounts were conflated, unless we have independent attestation of the parent texts, as we do with some authoritative texts, eg the Gospels. Let us take the creation accounts as an example. Purely hypothetically, let us say that an author wanted to convey both the transcendent and immanent aspects of God’s creative involvement with the world. He is unable to conceptualise both in one story so the result is two accounts. That then strikes him as a suitable device to convey other details which would complicate a single account. We have no way of R. E. Friedman (Uni. of California Pub.: Near Eastern Studies, 22; Berkeley: Uni. of California Press, 1981), 25–34. 39 Please note that I do not deny that it exists in the modern world. Some modern theologies of a caring, but ultimately impotent, God are similar. However I see them as a modern invention. 40 J. H. Tigay, “Conflation as a Redactional Technique,” in Empirical Models for Biblical Criticism, ed. J. H. Tigay (Philadelphia: Uni. of Pennsylvania Press, 1985), 53–95. 41 Ibid., 69. 42 R. P. Gordon, “Comparativeness, Conflation and the Pentateuch,” JSOT 51 (1991): 62.

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knowing whether this hypothetical process happened, but that puts us in the same situation as the person who postulates two separate accounts and a conflating redactor.

THE DIVINE NAMES Consideration of the creation accounts leads naturally to the question of the divine names which has played such a crucial role in the history of scholarship. Genesis 1 uses elohim but chh 2–3 use YHWH elohim. Later passages employ elohim and YHWH, sometimes using one consistently for a pericope, sometimes mixing the two. In the light of Exodus 3:13–15 and 6:2–3 where the name of YHWH is presented as something new, there is a plausibility in the thesis that one source for Genesis (J) did not recognise the late revelation of the name and used YHWH in early accounts while other sources (E, P) believed that the name was first revealed to Moses and wrote their accounts in accord with that belief. That thesis is strengthened by the fact that after early Exodus the Pentateuch uses YHWH much more consistently and elohim rarely. In considering any biblical puzzle it is good to gather all possibly relevant data. There is something special about the use of the divine names in Genesis. However that is not the only regard in which Genesis has an interesting attitude to the deity. As D. Patrick has pointed out, Genesis is virtually free of mention of idolatry.43 Indeed apart from the mention of Laban’s teraphim and the possibly related command of Jacob to do away with idols (35:2), the text gives the impression that the patriarchs dwell in the midst of monotheists. Where a foreigner appears in a religious context he is depicted as worshiping the same God as the patriarchs, as shown by Melchizedek.44 Similarly early Exodus is remarkably free of mention of Egyptian gods, the exception being 12:12. Yet once the commandments are revealed on Sinai, idolatry becomes a dominating concern of the Pentateuch and most of the rest of the Hebrew Bible. D. Patrick, “The First Commandment in the Structure of the Pentateuch,” VT 45 (1995): 107–118. 44 A similar observation could be made about Jethro in Exodus. 43

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Patrick’s solution to the mystery is that the idolatry could not be depicted as wrong before the commandment against it was delivered at Sinai. Yet the alternative of depicting it in a neutral or positive fashion was unacceptable. So the solution was to ignore it. This explanation is not impossible but also not without problems. The reference to clean animals in Genesis 7:2 would be an example of a commandment seen to be in force before the revelation at Sinai. Perhaps that could be ascribed to inconsistency, in the same way that Patrick’s thesis would have to ascribe the mention of idols in Genesis 35:2 and Exodus 12:12 to lack of editorial care. What is significant is that this feature of avoidance of the mention of idolatry runs through Genesis and early Exodus showing no respect to the purported documents.45 It is not identical with the pattern of the double use of the divine name because that changes in the Joseph story before Sinai, yet it is a similar phenomenon. Since this work is an exercise in assuming the unity of the text and seeing what happens, let us apply that approach to this problem. Let us also assume the mention of idols at Genesis 35:2 was not due to editorial negligence. appeals to negligence belong more to theories of redactors who have an inability to detect inconsistency. That means we must hypothesise an author who was well aware of idolatry in the period but chose not to make it a subject of consideration. Such an understanding of the author would be supported by Joshua 24:14,15 which reports idolatry in the period, and even among Israel’s ancestors, as historical fact. Whatever the motive of the author in doing this, it opens him to a problem. The Shechem story might be used in defence of a form of association with non-Israelites which he would not This consistency, through Genesis and up to the giving of the law at Sinai, creates a problem for theses which depend upon driving a wedge between Genesis and Exodus e.g. K. Schmid, Genesis and the Moses Story: Israel’s Dual Origins in the Hebrew Bible, trans.. J. D. Nogalski (Siphrut, 3; Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2010). While such theories differ from older source theories. they retain crucial presuppositions, because it is only be ascribing the links between the two books to late redaction that the thesis of separation can be argued. 45

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approve. Hence in the context of Genesis 35:2, after the recording of the incorporation of non-Israelites from Shechem (34:29), it needs to be specified that the incorporation of their idols was forbidden. Similarly, where the interaction with non-Israelites has a religious, or perhaps better “cultic”, dimension as with Melchizedek and Jethro, it is restricted to those who are not religiously offensive. In developing the threat to the wives it was necessary for him to explain why Rachel might be in particular danger. Hence the theft of the teraphim had to be mentioned. Against the background of our traditions which imply that the incorporation of comprehensive material is the best guard against the historian trying to slant the result, if we speak of ancient authors being “selective”, it is read as deliberate deception on the part of the ancient author. Then when the author reveals a bit of data which shows he is willing to acknowledge the complexity of the situation, we save our conspiracy hypothesis by accusing him of carelessness. A simpler and more charitable explanation is that the ancient author does not see comprehensiveness as a goal in the same way as we do. The Bible contains a story of the origin of sin but not a story of the origin of idolatry. For whatever reason the author has chosen to deal with idolatry by an indirect attack. The direct attack comes later in Exodus 20. That indirect attack proceeds by deliberately interchanging the names of God. It begins in Genesis 1 with elohim. Genesis 2–3 equates the already known with another name by means of the compound YHWH elohim.46 With that established the text in chapter 4 uses YHWH only to revert to elohim in chapter 5. After that the interchange is not mechanical but

For a different argument, also seeing a deliberate connection of the two divine names see J. Van Seters, Prologue to History. The Yahwist as Historian in Genesis (Louisville, Westminster, 1992), 108. J. Weinberg sees the Chronicler as concerned to affirm the identity of the divine names YHWH, Elohim and YHWH Elohim (Der Chronist in seiner Mitwelt (BZAW 239; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1996), 256). Those many scholars who place the composition of Genesis in a period similar to or later than the Chronicler, cannot exclude a similar concern from the author of Genesis. 46

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its constancy conveys the same message that elohim is YHWH.47 One should draw a similar conclusion to this as we might draw from the constancy of repetition in the patriarchal narratives. If a feature is obvious in the text we might do the ancient author(s) the courtesy of suggesting it was deliberate and intended rather than ascribing it to their dullness of wits.48 There have been a number of attempts to resolve the problem of the divine names by attributing to each of them a particular nuance which makes their employment in one passage and not another explicable. A good example of this approach is U. Cassuto. who attributes different shades of meaning to the different names.49 One should not deny that there are shades of difference and it would be unusual if two synonyms were precisely equivalent. However it is not possible, without a great deal of subjectivity, to see those nuances in each name in every appearance of that name. Thus, while not denying that in some contexts the name used may reflect its particular connotations, I suggest that there is something arbitrary about the choice of name to use in a particular context. What is important is that both names are used. A thesis which is harder to evaluate is that of H. C. Brichto.50 He makes a number of significant points against the Documentary Hypothesis. If one takes the standard theory that some documents attest a belief that the name YHWH was not revealed until the time of Moses, that can explain why the characters in a story coming from that document would not use the name YHWH in speech but R. Polzin (Moses and the Deuteronomist. A Literary Study of the Deuteronomic History (New York: Seabury, 1980, 169,70) takes interchange of the divine name in Judges as conveying uncertainty as to who is Israel’s God. I think there is no hint of that in the text and it goes against the whole tenor of the biblical text. Yet it fits with Polzin’s tendency to read modern concern with ambiguity and uncertainty into the text. 48 For further consideration of the question of divine names see Whybray, The Making of the PentateuchI, 63–72. 49 The Documentary Hypothesis and the Composition of the Pentateuch trans. Abrahams (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1961), 15–41. 50 The Names of God. Poetic Readings in Biblical Beginnings (New York: OUP, 1998). 47

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it does not explain why the composer/redactor cannot use the term in his own narrative nor why the redactor will not be concerned with the contradiction created by incorporating J passages where the characters do use that name.51 Brichto’s own solution is more difficult to grasp and evaluate. He sees YHWH as not being a name, the vowels of which have been suppressed for religious reasons, but an artificial construct without specific pronunciation, reflecting in some sense an original Yahu which may not have had a particular meaning. His strong argument for this position is that it is hard to imagine an authority which could have universally suppressed the pronunciation of the name.52 He struggles with the obvious implication of Exodus 3:11–15 that the name has a relationship to hyh, the verb ‘to be’.53 Even if YHWH was never a pronounced name, does that hypothesis of itself solve the problem of the distribution of divine names in Genesis?

PROMISE AND DIVINE NAME In connection with the parallel of Genesis 2–3 with Genesis 1, I suggested that there were at least two separate dualities being explored: flood versus drought and transcendence versus immanence. We do well to remember that the author is conveying a great deal of information and inculcating a great variety of truths and lessons in brief compass. This is being done, as Alter has stressed, while the narrator generally avoids interruption to the story to draw a moral or underline a lesson.54 It is by the form of the narrative and the dialogues in the narrative that the author’s message is conveyed. There are a number of interacting messages. It is not as though the author is giving an alternate to idolatry and wants to convey nothing else. As argued above the stress is also on believing the promises in spite of circumstantial contradiction. The The Names of God, 7. Ibid., 19. 53 Ibid., 19–25. 54 The Art of Biblical Narrative, esp. 114–30. See also I. Provan, V. P. Long and T. Longman, III, A Biblical History of Israel (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2003), 91–3. 51 52

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parallel stories which stress the conflict between divine promise and human circumstance also convey, by interchange of divine names, an additional message. The divine promise is so crucial to the deity that he pledges himself to its accomplishment. That is the meaning of the selfmaledictory oath in Genesis 15 where the deity, who is referred to in this one chapter as YHWH elohim, elohim and YHWH, passed between the dismembered animals. It follows from the seriousness with which the divine promise is viewed that accomplishment of the promise reflects on God himself. One might say that his very being is demonstrated and proclaimed in the accomplishment of the promise. That is why we have the passages in early Exodus referred to above (3:13–15; 6:2–3). The exegesis that uses these as proof texts for a documentary hypothesis makes the mistake of seeing the issue as simply that of which vocable is used to refer to the deity. “Name” has a far more pregnant sense in biblical usage. It conveys the character, role and destiny of the one who bears it. Hence the name changes to characters in Genesis and the concern to relate various meaningful incidents to the name (eg Isaac, Esau). Hence also the revelation of the name of God is inextricably bound to the accomplishment of his promises. With the accomplishment of the promised deliverance in prospect, in a richer and fuller sense, he is revealed as YHWH. Is this a forced and harmonising exegesis of the crucial Exodus passages? That depends upon the way we approach the texts in question. Suppose we approach it from the perspective of somebody who has noticed the polemic employment of the various divine names in Genesis. Our reader thus knows that the subject of the text cannot be which tag is applied to the deity because YHWH has been appearing all through Genesis. The sense of expectation in waiting for fulfilment of the promise will also have been conveyed and the importance of that fulfilment to the very character and existence of the deity. With those presuppositions I would suggest that the text reads as I have read it. It conveys that something new is happening but that something new is the fulfilment of promise, not the revelation of a previously unknown name. The immediate context of Exodus 3 and 6 is promise fulfilment and that must also inform our interpretation. On the other hand, if we have not penetrated what the author is doing with the divine names in Genesis we will see the changing

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usage as inexplicable and look for a clue in the Exodus passages. Once the notion of sources has been planted in our minds, then the conventional explanation is attractive. If my explanation is correct there is a double reason why YHWH becomes the predominate name in the rest of the Pentateuch. YHWH has proved himself the covenant keeping God and by that attached to the name YHWH a far richer collection of connotations. It makes sense to use that name. Second, Sinai will reveal a frontal attack upon idolatry and the point made by interchanging names in Genesis is not needed in the same way. We may also have an explanation for the lesser interchange of divine names in the Joseph Story. By that stage the author may have felt that his polemic point of the unity of the deity had been made and did not so need to be stressed. Reading Exodus as a culmination of Genesis bears on a wider issue; one that has been commented upon frequently in biblical scholarship. When the text later looks back upon the founding events of the nation’s history and in particular the role of its God in those events, what events will receive particular attention? It is disproportionately the exodus from Egypt. Israel’s reception of their land is placed in connection to the delivery from Egypt. That raises the question of why there is not more interest in the promises to the patriarchs, and in particular why those promises come into view particularly in late texts.55 However if we see the exodus as the logical and historical continuation and culmination of Genesis, which is the way the received text reads, then it is logical to refer to the culmination and not the preliminary stages. When the history from Egypt to Canaan is in danger of being undone; when loss of the land and return to foreign bondage looms or becomes fact, then it makes sense to go back to the earlier stage of the patriarchal promises as the basis of assurance. Once again we confront two consistently circular arguments. If the text is composite and put together over many centuries, then it probably would not have been read as a culminating story until the latest redaction. One might expect authors and prophets to pick bits here Van Seters, Prologue to History, 228–45; idem, “Confessional Reformation in the Exilic Period,” VT 22 (1972): 448–59. 55

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and there out of the unordered assemblage of stories. However a unified text can have a culmination and be later referred to in terms of that culmination. Once more the question arises of whether one approach is more plausible than the other. I would not claim that here we enter a realm where presuppositions count for nothing. However I will make on observation on one form of the separation of the patriarchal promises from the exodus theme. Gunkel connected the patriarch stories and much else in Genesis to the world of early folklore. In conducting a polemic against that whole approach Van Seters wants to move the Yahwist late and into connection with the Greek historiographic tradition. To find analogies in the Greek tradition to the patriarchal narratives he has to emphasise the itineraries and genealogies of people who move into new territory and become founders of nations. The promises of the patriarchs are then seen as an element of late theologising added to the fundamental stories of people movements.56 It is striking that the theme of threat and contradiction to the promise, which is so foundational to many of the stories, is passed by in this approach. Is that because it would take us further from the Greek tradition, or maybe another instance of the way in which “knowing” the appropriate analogies for reading the text determines our reading of the text. Of course one could argue that the threats to the promise enter the text as part of the late theologising agenda of the promises. However that just throws us back to another form of a recurring question. How do we know that the movements, itineraries and genealogies are early and the promises are late rather than the reverse? The arguments for each priority tend to be circular. All I would say is that, as the evidence of the text comes to us, making the promises and the threats a separable element is not plausible.

TEXT DIVISIONS IN GENESIS 2–3 The methodology and assumptions of the Documentary Hypothesis tend to lead scholars to ever more division of the text. 56

Prologue to History, 197–245.

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The inconsistencies of the text seem so common that more than the traditional three sources in Genesis are needed to explain them. Genesis 2 and 3 provide an example of the logic that leads to sources within sources. The text refers to a tree of life and a tree of the knowledge of good and evil. They appear together in 2:9 but then the tree of life disappears from view while the tree of the knowledge of good and evil is referred to as though it is the only tree (2:16,17; 3:2,3). Yet later the tree of life reappears (3:22). Hence the suggestion that the tree of life is a later addition.57 As we examine the assumptions behind this suggestion, once more the issue of comprehensiveness arises. The author is expected to keep referring to all the significant items on the stage. To omit one that we know to be significant, because he is concentrating upon others, is not what an author should do. Of course the answer to this conjecture, as it is to many such conjectures, is that even modern literature does not conform to such a ridiculous expectation. Nevertheless this example provides further opportunity to explore our expectations. Perhaps we might use the art of conjuring as an example. With us the skill of the conjurer lies in the ability to keep a large number of balls in the air. To drop even one ball is a mistake. This gives us a convenient image for the imaginary ancient historian who is expected to keep talking about all the items. Can we imagine a variation on the art of conjuring? I do not claim that this variation exists in any culture; I am merely using an illustration. In this variant form nobody bothers how many balls the conjurer drops as long as he does impressive things with those he retains. In my illustration this is the biblical writer who will frequently focus on a few items of the scene as though others did not exist. As said above, all authors do this and its use as a basis for division of sources is nonsensical. Its significance is as a further clue to the suppositions scholarship has brought to the data. A different approach to the problem of diversity in Genesis 2 and 3 is provided by J. Van Seters.58 Pursuing his thesis that the author of J is a historian working according to methods best 57 58

Speiser, Genesis, 20; Von Rad, Genesis, 76. Prologue to History, 107–34.

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exemplified by early Greek historians, he explains the diversity and richness of these chapters, not as reflecting the sources mechanically intertwined by a redactor, but as the literary streams tapped by an author during the process of research. Clearly this provides a more plausible thesis when the supposed separate sources are very difficult to delineate using the traditional method of the Documentary Hypothesis. Scholarship has long sought for the background of the Eden story in Mesopotamia. Suggestive parallels are there but are not firm, conclusive ones. Crucial aspects of the biblical story lack good parallels. Van Seters solves the problem by casting the net wider to take in Greek and eastern Mediterranean traditions as well. Thus the lack of an Eve figure in the Mesopotamian traditions is compensated by the parallel of Pandora, though Van Seters recognises that the connections are not close.59 There is a methodological issue here. If our net is sufficiently wide, will we inevitably find distant parallels to biblical stories? Indeed if we had a full representation of ancient Mesopotamian literature, instead of the small proportion that remains, might we find all the parallels we want? They might not be close parallels but they might be as close as Eve and Pandora. Will we find them simply because all human literature shows similarities of some sort because it is about a common subject? It is one thing to recognise obvious parallels such as between flood stories; it is another to suggest that distant similarities amount to the possibility that we have found “the” source. Van Seters recognises that some of his parallels are distant, but he does not spell out his basic assumption. Surely there is an unspoken assumption behind such searches, namely that the biblical text is basically unoriginal. If we start with that assumption we will search for the original stories which we “know” must be out there. If we do not start with that assumption we can recognise the obvious parallels when they appear, such as flood stories, but we do not have to search for confirmation of the pure assumption that biblical writers cannot be original. It comes down to the issue: does our desire to relate particular texts to certain periods, and the historical conclusions which follow from 59

Prologue to History, 125.

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such anchoring of the text, determine what we seek to find in the text?

THE FLOOD NARRATIVE The Flood narrative is another one where the debate regarding sources has been concentrated. Clearly there are at least two accounts.60 In 6:18–21 Noah is commanded to take pairs of every animal into the ark. However in 7:1–5 the command is to take seven pairs of clean animals and a pair of the others. Finding different documents behind this is encouraged by the fact that the former uses elohim and the latter uses YHWH. A single author explanation would see this as a variant on what was done with the creation account. Two truths were to be brought out. One, linked to God’s concern for creation, was that all the animals would be preserved. The second was that within creation there is a significant distinction between clean and unclean animals and, in anticipation of later events, the duty of sacrifice performed by Noah (8:20) would not threaten the existence of the clean animals. Perhaps the alternation of divine names was just a part of the tactic discussed above. Perhaps the association of the name elohim with the account of keeping all the animals alive contains an allusion to use of that name in Genesis 1 and YHWH was seen as a more appropriate name for a distinctly Israelite concern. Our way of conveying the same combination of messages might be paraphrased as: “I want you to take two of each kind, but the clean ones have a special role, so take seven pairs of them.” How do we know whether ancient readers would have read the text as equivalent to the modern version I gave? To do that they would not have assumed that one pericope contained the whole information and would have been unsurprised by the necessity to combine it with other instructions. The simple answer is that we have no way of knowing if my conjecture is likely or not. Whybray, The Making of the Pentateuch, 83 points out that repetitions occur in the story more than once, creating difficulty for the common view that the narrative is made up of J and P. He sees the multiple repetitions as having a dramatic purpose. 60

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If we assume that the text is the unified work of an author then it follows that some such integration of material would have been expected. Even if it was not, readers, proceeding under the “false” assumption that it was, could have read it as suggested. More significantly for my purpose this exploration takes us back to the expectation that any instruction from God would have been reported in a single comprehensive form. That forms of this assumption keep emerging, tells us something about scholarship. The Flood story is often used as a parade example of the necessity of a source theory and yet, when we try to divorce ourselves a little from the debate, it strikes one as a very complex piece of literature. The intertwining of the divine names is more obvious here than practically anywhere else. Elsewhere the tendency is for a pericope to employ a consistent divine name. Why should this passage intertwine the divine names more than others? Any explanation of the passage should ideally take into account its particular structure. It is noteworthy how much repetition of small sections occurs. The earlier part of chapter 7 nicely illustrates the problem. As mentioned above, 7:1–5 is generally ascribed to J because of the use of YHWH. On the premise that repetition/contradiction proves a different source it has to be a different source to 6:18–21. There is something of an embarrassment for the theories about J and P in that it is not the hypothetical source P which shows this concern for clean animals even though P is regarded as responsible for the legislation regarding cleanness and uncleanness. Instead it is J, which the older form of the Documentary Hypothesis dated long before such concerns dominated.61 However, as noted above with respect to the failure of the doublet criteria and the divine name criteria to agree in the Patriarchal Narratives, such inconsistencies have been played down. Verse 1 contains the command to Noah to enter the ark with his household. Following verses concern the animals The section ends in verse 5 with the information that Noah was completely obedient to YHWH’s command. That information raises the issue For a forced attempt to escape the obvious problem see Skinner, Genesis, 152. 61

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of whether the statement of Noah’s full obedience is anticipatory and a summary of what is yet to be described or a summary of an obedience which has already occurred but was not described in detail. Verse 6 is ascribed to P because it contains chronological information which is deemed to be a particular concern of priests. At least part of the next few verses have to be ascribed to J because they mention both clean and unclean animals coming into the ark. These verses could be seen to supply the answer to the question above of whether the description of Noah’s obedience in verse 5 is prospective or retrospective. These verses are a description of Noah’s obedience to the command and therefore it would seem that verse 5 was prospective. In 9b we are told that Noah was acting as elohim had commanded him. Verses 5 and 9b could be seen to form a bracket around the description between them, a form common in biblical narrative. Verse 5 prospectively indicates Noah’s full obedience and 9b retrospectively confirms it. The problem is that they use different divine names. The commentaries are undecided on the solution to the problem. Von Rad includes vv. 7–10 in his J account.62 Speiser places these verses in J and solves the problem of the divine names by appeal to the dull witted redactor or later additions.63 He supports this by appeal to variants in some manuscripts of the versions. Skinner plays with that solution but is undecided,64 as befits somebody who wrote a book defending the accuracy of the Hebrew text tradition with respect to the divine names.65 D. M. Carr provides an elaborate dissection of the passage with a catalogue of features which distinguish P from non-P sections. Yet he has to admit that there are points where the system breaks down. Diagnostic features of both sources combine in 7:8–9 and so those verses have to be ascribed to the redactor.66 Genesis, 114–15. Ibid., 52–3. 64 Ibid., 154n. 65 The Divine Names in Genesis (London, Hodder and Stoughton, 1914). 66 Reading the Fractures of Genesis. Historical and Literary Approaches (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1996), 52–8. 62 63

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Verse 11 is another chronological note and is therefore ascribed to P. There is a mention in verse 12 of the duration of the rain for forty days and nights, a detail to which I shall return. In verses 13 to 16 we are told that Noah, his family and animals by twos entered the ark. In verse 16a we are told that this was as God commanded Noah. That verse ends with a mention of YHWH. This information sets before us the following compositional dilemma. We have three statements that Noah was faithful to the divine command: vv. 5, 9b, 16. Surely this is an example of repetition which should call forth the explanation that each belongs to a different source. The instances in verses 5 and 9b could be explained as bracketing, but that means a single document and they disagree on the divine name. If the name was elohim, then that is the same name as occurs in verse 16. Thus there would be repetition within P. The day may be saved by suggesting that verses 5 and 9b constitute a bracketing and 5–9 belong to one document but that some later editor changed the name in verse 9b or more radically we might ascribe the over-abundance of duplications to a later addition. A single duplication can be neatly attributed to there being two sources. When more than one duplication occurs sometimes the thesis can be saved by invoking the E document. That seems more plausible in the Patriarchal Narratives because we have separate pericopes which tend to have a consistent divine name. There is some difficulty in the scarcity of attestation of the E document but the thesis can at least be argued. The greater embarrassments come in the Patriarchal Narratives where the excess duplication involves YHWH. There logic should drive source critics to division of J but the more one is forced to divide the documents the less plausible the whole explanation. The frequent interchange of divine names within the one Flood Narrative decreases the flexibility of explanation. To pluck a bit of E out of the air would be so forced that the redactor is invoked. Once again I suggest that we take the obvious characteristics of the text as prime data to be explained rather than being explained away. If the interchange of divine names is so prominent in this particular story then that will be deliberate and deliberation implies definite motive. Given that all explanations of motives have

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an element of subjectivism, is there a plausible explanation consistent with the polemic use of divine names argued above? Of all the stories in Genesis, the flood story is the one whose parallels in other cultures are most obvious.67 Indeed, compared to the closeness of the parallels with the flood, many of the other claimed parallels look forced. Judging by the stories we know from Mesopotamia, alternate stories of the flood mention different deities and imply conflicting aims between deities. The hero is devoted to one of these deities. Therefore, if any story needs to make the point that there is only one God and various designations still refer to the one God, it is this story. It also makes sense that the obedience of Noah to the one deity, according to his different designations, is stressed. All I claim for this explanation is that it gives a reasonable explanation of the data consistent with the proposition of unity of authorship. Like any thesis it highlights problems and inconsistencies in the alternate explanations. It has the advantage of a certain simplicity and elegance in comparison to the need of source hypotheses to invoke redactors and later additions. Whether the simplicity is maintained as other data is interpreted in terms of this thesis is the question. The resultant picture of the early part of chapter 7 would be dependant on taking seriously the repeated mention of Noah’s obedience. Verses 5, 9 and 16 divide the narrative into three sections which are largely repetitive. Verses 1–5 give a prospect of what obedience will entail and verses 6–9 repeat that information showing that the commission, including specifically its concern for clean animals, was carried out. Within the latter section, verse 6 contains a chronological indication. In the next section there is also a chronological indication—despite the clear repetition—v. 11 is also ascribed to P. This section, down to verse 16, repeats what we already know, that Noah entered the ark with the animals. In For an overview of the comparisons see D. T. Tsumura, “Genesis and Ancient Near Eastern Stories of Creation and Flood: An Introduction,” in “I Studied Inscriptions from Before the Flood”. Ancient Near Eastern, Literary and Linguistic Approaches to Genesis 1–11, ed. R. S. Hess and D. T. Tsumura (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1994), 27–57. 67

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comparison with the section vv. 6–9, it is slightly more precise in giving the exact time of the year and not merely the year, it is more detailed on the mechanism of the flood, Noah’s sons are named and there is a more detailed explanation of the animals involved, with the exception that the distinction between clean and unclean is not mentioned again. While clearly repetitive, the explanation that repetition proves duplication of sources cannot be invoked because the chronological duplication in verses 6 and 11 threatens the unity of P.68 Once again the more likely explanation is that the repetition is deliberate. The general indications in verses 6–9 that Noah was obedient are now confirmed by repeating the information with emphasis on the detail, except for the one piece of information where detail was already supplied, namely the distinction between clean and unclean. Notice that the repetitive elements in the flood account tend to cluster around the instructions to Noah and his obedience to those instructions. Surely this is intended and pedagogically motivated. The reader may escape judgment and catastrophe by similar attention to the Word of God. I asked above whether the explanation presented here could maintain its simplicity as it was required to deal with more data. Clearly it is not maintaining its simplicity because repetition is being ascribed to different motives: to maintain faith in the midst of contrary circumstances, to deal with the incomprehensible mysteries of creation, to polemize against idolatry, and now to emphasise obedience to the divine command. Is there a different explanation dragged up to explain every different instance, thereby lessening the plausibility of the explanation? In one sense there is and in another sense that objection is false. The writer has more J. A. Emerton (“An Examination of Some Attempts to Defend the Unity of the Flood Tradition in Genesis,” VT 37[1987]: 419) says that source criticism does not have to ascribe every repetition to a different source. That is certainly true in the practice of source criticism but those uncommitted to source criticism need clear methodological guidelines to distinguish source based duplications from other duplications. Otherwise this claim looks like special pleading. 68

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than one concern. What is constant is repetition as the means by which he alerts the reader to those concerns and indicates what the particular message is at this point. Surely no teacher should be surprised to encounter repetition in a work of clear pedagogic intent. Verse 16 ends a section and more than a section. The action of YHWH in shutting the door indicates that the phase of preparation is over and the flood must now follow. The section vv. 17–24 begins with the rain and describes the progress of the flood and the fate of the ark. It ends with water in command and in command for a lengthy period. Once again we encounter threefold repetition, because verses 21, 22 and 23 impart the same information with varying degrees of emphasis and detail.69 The completeness of the extermination is conveyed by being described three times in slightly different ways. Surely, as with the repetition of Noah’s obedience, this is repetition for emphasis. It is commonly asserted that the sources in the Flood Narrative may be distinguished because they ascribe different causes and lengths to the flood. J mentions only the 40 days of rain (7:4,12; 8:2b, ) but P mentions waters from below as well as from above and a duration of 150 days (7:11; 8:2a,3). The common harmonising interpretation is that the torrential rain lasted for forty days but the flood waters remained at their peak for 150 days.70 The alternate explanation, invoking sources, involves separating 7:11 from 7:12 and 8:2a from 8:2b. If we accept the rather arbitrary premise that matters of chronology, such as in 7:11, are the The critical commentaries cited above seem happy to accept that verses 22 and 23 belong to the one source despite repetition but that verse 21 is a different source. Is there a rule of ancient psychology which says that a person may repeat himself once for emphasis but never twice? Carr ascribes 7:21 and 7:22 to different sources and divides v. 23 between sources without addressing the problem that he has thus created a duplication of a part of 23 with verses 21 and 22 respectively (Reading the Fractures of Genesis, 52). 70 C. F. Keil & F. Delitzsch, Biblical Commentary on the Old Testament, vol. 1 (Grand Rapids, Eerdmans, nd), 146; G. Ch. Aalders, Genesis (2 vols; Grand Rapids, Zondervan, 1981), 1.173. 69

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exclusive concern of P, we have a basis for ascribing 7:11 to P. Otherwise the verses which are being divided lack the claimed marks of the respective sources. Chapter 7:12 and 8:2a, both claimed as J, are marooned as small islands of J in the midst of P sections. It is fair to ask whether the distinctions in terms of the mechanism and duration of the flood are obvious in the text and demand source division or whether they are created by a premise that there are different sources behind the narrative and one should therefore search for differences. A stronger argument that behind the text lie sources with different views on the length of the flood is based on 8:2. If we read the text as describing consecutive events, then the cessation of rain, mentioned in 8:2b is subsequent to the 150 days of the waters prevailing in 7:24. That cannot be because the rain lasted only 40 days (7:12). The solution proposed to this contradiction is that 8:2a and 8:2b are from different sources with different views on mechanics and duration.71 G. J. Wenham has produced a different structural analysis of the Flood Narrative to that which I have suggested above, arguing that it is an elaborate palistrophe.72 He sees 6:10 to 7:24 as a series of events which lead up to a hinge at 8:1. The climactic and turning point of the narrative is God’s faithfulness to Noah recorded in that verse. Subsequent to that, the sequence of events of the flood itself and leading to the flood are reversed producing a mirror image structure. In other words the events closest to 8:1 are reversed first and then successively the prior events until 9:18,19 which, with its mention of Noah and his sons, brings us back to the similar mention in 6:10. Naturally this structure cuts across the division of sources and imperils source explanations. There is plausibility in this explanation. Many of the resultant correspondences are convincing. Clearly 8:1 is the hinge of the

Emerton, “An Examination of Some Attempts to Defend the Unity of the Flood Tradition in Genesis,” 403. 72 “The Coherence of the Flood Narrative,” VT 28 (1978): 336–48. 71

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story.73 Its weakness, as Emerton points out, is that some items in the narrative have to be ignored in order to obtain the correspondences.74 Emerton suggests that the correspondences could be due to a natural sequence of rise of the flood followed by its going down.75 That brings us back to the problem of 8:2 and the cessation of the rain. Let us take seriously the fact that 8:1 forms some sort of hinge in the narrative. In the natural order of events it marks the transition between prevailing and declining flood. It is a hinge also in that it places in the centre the theological message that it was God’s faithfulness to Noah that ensured the preservation of life. Hence it is followed in 8:2 by the crucial information that the causes of the flood have been stopped. After this we read of the waters going down in 8:3 and so on. I think therefore that 8:2 may be a summary statement, gathering in one place the aforementioned causes of the flood and the conclusion of those processes. Expecting precision of chronological reference in a summary statement is unnatural. In other words, without necessarily accepting the details of Wenham’s explanation, we should respect the general tendency to a narrative of reversals after 8:1. That means we cannot read the mention of the cessation of rain in 8:2 as necessarily indicating events coincident with or subsequent to 7:24. In the background of this discussion is a problem. To what extent should we expect strict awareness of chronological order in biblical narrative? Whether we ascribe chronological interest to a late period or not, at least some writers/editors had an interest in chronological data. Narrative is generally consecutive without devices such as flash-backs. Yet these general indications do not necessarily mean that we will be warned when information from different periods has been gathered in a summary statement For chiasm as a device for placing emphasis on the central element see H. Van Dyke Parunak, “Oral Typesetting: Some Uses of Biblical Structure,” Biblica 62 (1981): 165. 74 “An Examination of Some Attempts to Defend the Unity of the Flood Tradition,” 7–10. 75 Ibid., 16. 73

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because the order of the narrative has been directed by theological as well as chronological factors. This is a problem to which we will have to return later. In summary we must agree that the Flood Narrative is an exceptionally complex one. Here repetition and interchange of divine names are used with an intensity not found elsewhere in Genesis. An adequate explanation must explain not just the phenomena but also the intensity of the phenomena. Source explanations can suggest an explanation for the phenomena but not for why they occur here in a different way to elsewhere, because the redactor is with them such a mysterious and contradictory figure. My suggestion is that the author was writing against a background where alternate accounts of the flood existed. Just as in the case of the battle with polytheism, the author approached the problem indirectly. That is he made greater use of the devices of interchange of divine names and repetition to reinforce the lessons which came out of the flood and to make sure that those lessons were distinguished from other interpretations. Another version of the Flood narrative as a palistrophe is presented by B. W. Anderson, however he does not see this as a refutation of source analysis.76 He is happy to ascribe the literary patterning to the final redactor of the sources. Undoubtedly, this is a way in which one may recognise the complex literary structure of texts and hold to older source theories. Yet it undermines the basic argument for source theories that the contradictions and incongruities of the redacted text points to its composite nature. A text displaying an elaborate and highly structured literary device is not the text we would expect on the older theories and the redactor who can turn his sources into complex literary structures does not look like the postulated redactor who was so bound to the sources that he had to incorporate obvious contradictions. Carr’s treatment of the flood narrative brings into prominence a question lurking in the background of all source hypotheses with respect to Genesis. One may distinguish two versions of the flood story but those two versions are quite similar in overall sequence of “From Analysis to Synthesis: The Interpretation of Genesis 1–11,” JBL 97 (1978): 23–39. 76

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events and other features.77 This is a particular form of the question prompted by the fact that P and non-P traditions in the patriarchal narratives show the same general understanding of the lives of the major figures. The “parallels” and “doublets” exist, precisely because their sources are running on parallel tracks. That fact in turn requires an explanation. The common one proffered is that a common tradition came to receive separate forms before it was again combined into the one text.78 In the case of the Flood narrative the problem interacts for Carr with the difficulty of knowing whether to explain the relationship of P to the non-P source in Genesis by means of a documentary hypothesis or a supplementary hypothesis. Did P once exist as a separate document or is what has been called P simply a set of additions to an existing document? Carr finds the evidence pointing both ways. His solution is a document (P) created as a counter to non-P but eventually combined with it.79 Whether this is plausible is not my immediate concern. What is important is that source hypotheses with respect to Genesis are about the conflation of closely related materials. In spite of the attempts to set up the history of the Gilgamesh Epic as a model for the Documentary Hypothesis, analogies involving the conflation of closely similar material, such as Tatian’s combination of the gospels in his Diatessaron, look far more convincing. That however merely puts another puzzle before the historian. We know that Tatian had synoptic materials from which to work, as did other workers with biblical material who conflated Exodus and Deuteronomy or Kings and Chronicles. That synoptic materials existed prior to the Pentateuch is a supplementary hypothesis necessitated by the theory. The controversy over source hypotheses has resulted in attempts to find analogies. J. H. Tigay has argued that the development of the Gilgamesh Epic is a parallel.80 If one were trying Reading the Fractures of Genesis, 60, 125. Surely Occam’s razor should be sharpened at this point! 79 Reading the Fractures of Genesis, 47. 80 “The Evolution of the Pentateuchal Narratives in the Light of the Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic,” in Empirical Models for Biblical Criticism, ed. J. H. Tigay (Philadelphia: Uni. of Pennsylvania Press, 1985), 21–52. 77 78

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to prove that the authors drew upon different stories about the one individual to create a larger story, then the formation of the Akkadian Gilgamesh Epic out of some of the different Sumerian stories about Gilgamesh would be a parallel. However the defenders of the Documentary Hypothesis have a much more difficult task: they are trying to prove the creation of a single story from stories that run parallel to each other and can even seem like identical plots with just a few character changes, as in the threats to Sarah from foreign rulers. That is not the case with the Sumerian stories of Gilgamesh.81 If the proponents of the Documentary Hypothesis were merely trying to find analogies for a process of change in the lines of an existing text, then the changes between the Old Babylonian and the Neo-Assyrian versions of the Gilgamesh Epic would serve admirably and there would no doubt be many other analogies. Once again, if the issue were the insertion of an existing story into the plot of another story, then the insertion of the flood story into the Gilgamesh Epic is an example. The process of change in an existing text belongs rather to the question of the extent to which the existing text of scriptural books have been changed over time. The inclusion of the flood story as a complete story in the Gilgamesh Epic is more analogous to theories that the Primeval History or the Joseph Story have been added to an existing document.82 The Documentary Hypothesis requires a far more complex interweaving of sources.

THE SONS OF GOD (GENESIS 6:1–4) In considering the flood narrative I deliberately passed over the problematic introduction to that narrative in 6:1–4. If we see Genesis as a compilation of sources with possibly quite different Gordon, “Comparativeness, Conflation and the Pentateuch”, 62. Tigay’s examples (in “The Stylistic Criterion of Source Criticism in the Light of Ancient Near Eastern and Postbiblical Literature” in Empirical Models for Biblical Criticism, ed. J. H. Tigay (Philadelphia: Uni. of Pennsylvania Press, 1985], 149–73) tend to be from passages that are in dispute (thus circular reasoning) or cases of block additions such as the flood story in the Gilgamesh Epic. For further criticism of Tigay’s argument see A. Berlin, Poetics and Interpretation of Biblical Narrative, 129–34. 81 82

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origins and theologies, we will not be so surprised by this piece with its mysterious “sons of God” What does elicit comment is its isolation from the context.83 While observed, that peculiarity has tended to be obscured by the intriguing search for the source of the “myth”.84 Yet surely there is a question to be resolved: why has the redactor(s) departed from the common close intertwining of material? Von Rad pictures an author taking enough from a myth to convey a humanity perfused with evil from angelic beings yet not wanting to take this excursus into mythology too far and so unable to connect satisfactorily his mythical fragment with what follows.85 At least he is recognising the problem but it is another case where a problem is resolved by blaming the lack of skill of the defenceless compiler. If we start with a different presupposition, that of unity of composition, we will seek a different sort of explanation. Then the pressure is to find the connections. The preceding chapters have put before us two lines, those of Cain and Seth. There is a contrast between those two lines: accomplishment and yet rebellion and pride in the one versus worship and faith in the other. Clearly the author intends to pursue that earlier history because he introduces Noah as a significant and promising figure at the end of the Sethite line (5:28–32), only to return to him in 6:8 as the hope in the crisis. Surely that means our mysterious passage also has some connection with what has gone before. Traditional harmonising exegesis has attempted to make the connection by seeing in the “sons of God” the pious line of Seth and in the “daughters of men” the line of Cain.86 While this is making a greater attempt to deal with the context, it leaves a number of items mysterious. Why should the female Cainites be uniquely designated as “daughters of men”? Why should the Nephilim stand in some connection to these marriages? While traditional exegesis may see it as proof of the danger of the Skinner, Genesis, 140–41; Von Rad, Genesis, 112–4. See, in addition to the commentaries in the previous note, Speiser, Genesis, 45,6; Van Seters, Prologue to History, 149–59. 85 Genesis, 112–4. 86 Aalders, Genesis, 1.154. 83 84

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intermarriage of the godly and the ungodly—a concern that is certainly biblical—we lack pointers in the text to tell us that that was on the writer’s mind. We would expect something of the steps, from bad marriages to a corruption calling forth the flood, to be made explicit. The Sethite genealogy gives us the background to Noah. It is reasonable to expect that we may find an allusion to the Cainite genealogy also. For it also seems to come to something of a climax. We are told concerning the final figure of that line, Lamech, that he had two wives; that he exercised violent revenge and that in his pride he saw himself as able to provide a more effective revenge than God could provide for Cain (4:19–24). Here we have some of the elements which reoccur in the mystery passage. The sons of God married freely, one might infer, polygamously (6:2). The state of the earth at the time is described as violent (6:11). Perhaps the “men of the name” in 6:4 is an allusion to the pride of Lamech. What explanation of “sons of God” fits these various connections? M. G. Kline has made a connection to other passages where human rulers are called gods.87 Seeing the ‘sons of God’ as human leaders fits the picture we obtain from chapter 4 of a family that was providing innovative leadership and yet a leadership which was tending to arrogance and violence. It makes 6:1–4 fit with what follows because the judgment that follows is clearly upon humans. Once again the plausibility of an explanation comes in question. If we expect a connected narrative, rather than unconnected fragments, we will favour an explanation which makes 6:1–4 connect both with what follows and what precedes. Since the following judgment is on humans, then it must be about humans. That narrows the choice to the traditional harmonising exegesis or Kline’s. The latter has the advantage of connecting specifically to features of the description of the Cainite line. If this is a correct explanation there is an implication about the expected readership. The author was moving back and forth between genealogies. The reason we do not instinctively read the beginning of chapter 6 as the continuation of 4:24 is because the 87

“Divine Kingship and Genesis 6:1–4,” WTJ 24 (1962): 187–204.

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Sethite line intervenes. That implies that the author expected the readers to recognise what was happening and to make the necessary connection. That further means a cognisance of the way in which the story was being constructed. A reader without that awareness may reconstruct the plot but only if directed by the presupposition of a unified composition. Once source theories are introduced, we can no longer read chapter 6 with a presupposition that it must connect to something earlier.

VARIETIES OF REPETITION If we are to see Genesis as the work of a single author, what then do we make of the fact that two main portions of the work, the Primeval History and the Patriarchal Narratives, use repetition in quite different ways? There are several possibilities. One is that there were originally two separate works. A redactor has integrated them into one by means of adding the genealogies. Another is that an author who employed the literary device of repetition chose to do it in different ways because the subject matter and the points to be made required different usages. We might be able to chose between these possibilities by looking for other details which will tell us whether the stories of the Primeval History, apart from the genealogies, show similar themes and concerns to those of the Patriarchal Narratives. In fairness one must say that such an investigation yields inconclusive results. However one translates Eve’s statement on the birth of Cain (4:1), it seems to be a positive expression of joy and hope. The ensuing tragedy contrasts with that hope. Yet while this is another case of a disappointing first born comparable with instances from the Patriarchal Narratives, there is not the same sharp contrast between divine promise and events of history. While the flood story shows similar underlying theological themes of the reality of divine judgment, of piety as obedience to the divine command and so on, there are no elements in the story which obviously recall incidents in the patriarchal narratives. In short the material is sufficiently different in the Primeval History that we must say that the author, however he came by the contents of that history, did not subsume it to the same themes and message which characterises the Patriarchal Narratives. Once again the crucial judgements we make are influenced by our view of the capacity of a biblical author. If Genesis is the work

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of a single author then he has used repetition and juxtaposition in interesting ways. He has also combined different literary forms into a work with unified message: genealogical segments convey the same message as stories. Yet the book as a whole has at least two clearly discernible parts. That means that there were limits to the author’s propensity to use literary structuring and to make the narrative a vehicle for a theological message. The Primeval History conveys a fairly direct message of the varying consequences of obedience and disobedience. It is in the patriarchal narratives that more subtle nuances of faith in conflict with the disappointments of personal history emerge. If it is a single author then he does not believe that all history conveys the same message. This last point raises further reflection. We sometimes claim to recognise diversity of authorship by diversity of theological themes. Effectively we attribute one-track minds to the biblical authors. We assume that wherever the hand of a particular author is evident there will be the same emphases. Obviously in proving common authorship, commonality in some sense is needed but our concern here is the other side of the coin. Does lack of a theme, which has been present in one part of a work, prove that another part of the work cannot come from the same author? We would be reluctant to make that a universal rule with more recent literature. Why do we apply it in biblical cases? Surely it is because we see them as in some sense restricted in comparison with the later authors. It comes back to assumptions. Suppose one were to try to find a common theme between the primeval history and the rest of Genesis. Earlier I argued that the common use of the genealogy to show that the non-elect line receives greater apparent blessing than the elect line links the two parts of Genesis. Leaving that aside, are there other links? E. Fox could find only the fairly banal theme of the elect line struggling to survive amid difficult circumstances.88 Surely that reduces the richness of the patriarchal narratives to a low common denominator. Better to realise that the one author might explore different themes and explore each at depth.

88

“Can Genesis be Read as a Book,” 37.

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The structuring device of genealogy shows that at some stage a single mind arranged the material of Genesis. The crucial difference between single author and redactional explanations of Genesis then reduces to the issue of whether different employment of repetition points to multiple origins or whether a biblical author could adjust techniques to the subject matter. In other words: what are the expected capacities of a biblical author? With the contemporary fascination with computer aided computation it is not surprising that some people have sought solutions in such technology to the problems of Genesis. G. J. Wenham has reviewed one such attempt which depended on comparison of features such as word length and use of grammatical forms.89 What emerges out of this study is that narrative is significantly different to reported speech and that Genesis 1–11 stands over against the later parts of the book. These differences compare with the lack of significant differences between the “sources” of J, E and P when equivalent parts of Genesis and subject matter are compared. For example J and P in the Flood narrative are not significantly different. While such results are interesting and useful ammunition for the debate, one has the uneasy feeling that there may be alternate explanations for the results. Take for example the fact that the results for the P genealogies contrast with more normal narrative sections of P. This is easily ascribable to the difference in subject matter.90 In the earlier history of criticism portions were attributed to P on the very dubious basis that the subject matter would most likely be of interest to the supposed priestly authors of that document. Since very heterogeneous material was likely combined on that basis, differences are not surprising. Further, that authors feel speech to be something different to narrative prose and stylise it differently, is not surprising. Might such unconscious factors operate in other ways? If Genesis 1–11 are felt to be “archaic” by the author, might that impact upon the style? I know of no way of answering such questions and hence I suspect that such studies are useful to “Genesis: An Authorship Study and Current Pentateuchal Criticism,” JSOT 42 (1988): 3–18. 90 Ibid., 9. 89

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question accepted source divisions but not necessarily a foundation for firm conclusions.

SMALL ADDITIONS It may be objected that this chapter has dealt so far with the large traditional sources of Genesis but not with the many small passages which have been ascribed to a redactor or copyist adding something to connect Genesis to another topic of interest. The number of such suggested additions is so great that it would not be feasible to deal with them individually. The best that can be done is to use an example to draw out the assumptions and methodological issues. What seem editorial asides are obviously good candidates to be considered additions. In Genesis 22:2 God told Abraham to go to the land of Moriah to sacrifice Isaac. There is a likely allusion to that name in 2 Chronicles 3:1 where Mount Moriah is given as the site of Solomon’s temple, even though the latter passage connects the site to David’s vision rather than to Abraham. In Genesis 22:14 the site is named YHWH-yir’eh. That is then connected to a saying, prevalent to the writer’s day, which connects the mount of YHWH and seeing. It has been suggested that this last piece is a redactor’s addition connecting this story to the temple mount.91 In evaluating this suggestion several things have to be considered. There is not a consistent pattern of drawing together of the threads in any of the relevant texts. The story of David’s vision does not specify the location as Mount Moriah or make allusion to Abraham, though, because a vision is crucial to the story, the verb r’h ‘see’ is prominent (2 Samuel 24:17; 1 Chron. 21:16). The Chronicles’ reference to Mount Moriah makes the connection, as already mentioned, to David and not Abraham. Of course that does not exclude the possibility that the Chronicler had Genesis 22 in mind when he named the site of Solomon’s temple. However our substantive question is whether we can conclude that Genesis 22:14b is a late addition to the text as opposed to I. Kalimi, “The Land of Moriah, Mount Moriah, and the Site of Solomon’s Temple in Biblical Historiography,” HTR 83 (1990): 345–62. 91

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being original. What are the feasible grounds on which such a conclusion could be reached? The most obvious is that something in the purported addition clearly cannot pertain to the time of original composition. Given the huge disagreement on the date of Genesis it is almost impossible to meet that criterion. Perhaps more achievable is an argument that something in the “addition” is clearly out of character with the original composition. That criteria also cannot be satisfied because seeing is a key part of the story (v. 13) and various conjectured meanings in various contexts could be ascribed to the saying of v. 14b that might fit with the purpose of the original author. Another potential criterion is a discordant feature in the literary form of the “addition”. Yet, since we do not know the precise significance of the “to this day” formulae, we cannot use that criterion. That leaves us with the one effective argument that it might suit somebody in a period after the composition of Genesis to make a connection. As already mentioned, that runs us into arguments about the date of Genesis. More seriously, in a text such as the biblical text which becomes a tradition on which later things are built, there are multitudinous later connections to earlier texts. There are also themes common to the whole tradition such as the appearances of YHWH or his acts of deliverance. The naming of the site in Chronicles is probably a deliberate allusion to Genesis 22. The role of seeing in Genesis 22 and in the aftermath to David’s census could be deliberate allusion or indirect connection through the common theme of seeing. Given this web of interconnections it is quite arbitrary to declare that a particular part of the original text can be selected out and assigned to a later redactor.

THE CRUCIAL ASSUMPTIONS Thus an number of assumptions emerge as crucial for reading Genesis as a coherent work. We must postulate an author capable of using repetition and juxtaposition as a story telling device. The device of repetition is used in various ways depending on the need. It may point to the fundamental theme of the passage or it may allow different aspects of a situation to be conveyed. Thus the author clearly has no expectation that all aspects of a situation be comprehended in a single narrative. One would further suggest that the author has chosen an indirect approach to the problem of

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polytheism. Definite but unannounced polemic is prominent in the Flood story where we find frequent interchanges of divine names and repeated emphasis on obedience to the divine command. It follows that the presuppositions for source discoveries are the reverse. One must assume that composers lacked the sophistication to employ repetition as a narrative device, though the thesis that repetition indicates a different source cannot be applied consistently. The nature of the duplicates leads to postulates of closely parallel original sources. Also emerging is a different postulate: that an author will combine all significant aspects of the topic in one story. The fact that such comprehensiveness does not seem to comport with the postulate of an author lacking sophistication does not seem to have registered. Rather the assumption of a single, all-embracing, narrative probably comes from the fact that it is the norm of modern historiography, at least when events as opposed to causes are being described. Thus the purported early writers were both expected to lack sophistication and yet, in some ways, to conform to modern expectations.

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The book of Judges is another excellent example of the challenges to be confronted in seeing unity in a book of biblical narrative. The diversity of material and the apparently clear difference between hero tales of some sort and editorial framework provides evidence that may be cited as proof of diversity. Furthermore, it is generally claimed that different attitudes to kingship within Judges provides evidence of diverse material.

JUDGES AND SOURCES Judges also raises the issue of what is meant by unity of composition. Does it exclude the use of sources by the author? To exclude the use of sources would lead us to implausible positions such as asserting that Chronicles is not a unified composition because of the author’s reference to sources. On the other hand, to call a work unified and then to blame its obvious disunity on the sources used by the author, is an arbitrary solution. Accordingly, I will use a working definition, which may be subject to further refinement in the course of consideration of the issues. By unity of composition, I mean that the author has so controlled the work that any sources employed are made subservient to the message or perspective he wishes to convey. Apparent contradictions as a result of incorporation of source material are traditionally cited as proof of a sources and redaction model. Unity of composition does not exclude the possibility of stylistic peculiarities of the sources being evident, but it does exclude arguments that the incorporated sources are at variance and that variance is still visible. These methodological comments are not to be taken as a prior acknowledgment that we can see different sources behind Judges. The more we study the interconnections and cross-allusions built into the text, the more difficult it becomes to see the stories as having quite disparate origins. It is rather aimed against the tendency of first impressions to become last impressions. Superficially the saviour stories in Judges seem different to the 73

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sections which give a theological explanation of Israel’s plight. That can easily lead to the thesis that there are different sources. The next inference is that different sources probably mean lack of integration and even conflict. The point of the previous paragraph is that even if there were sources and the sources are to some extent visible, one may not assume that the author must have lost control. Let us suppose then that we were to read Judges as a unified composition in the above defined sense. It would mean that we would have to see the stories of the individual judges and the various editorial frameworks as conveying a united message. It would also mean that we could not read the work as containing both pro and anti monarchy viewpoints. Our expectation would be that there would be themes that give unity and connection to the whole work. Some recent work on Judges has abandoned the search for sources and following the influence of the recent interest in the structures by which literary works make themselves understood, has sought to read the book as a whole.1 While such works are very useful and informative in exploring ways in which what has often been seen as contradictory, may be seen as unified, they leave unchallenged the understanding of the book as composed out of contradictory sources and t expressing contradictory viewpoints. Judges consists of an introduction that places the work in the context of Israel’s occupation of Canaan and traces Israel’s subsequent problems to failure to complete the work of conquest. That forms the prelude to the stories of the judges which are commonly framed by editorial comments ascribing the crisis to Israel’s disobedience. At the end of the book are the distinct stories of the Danite migration and the Benjamite war, where the issue of monarchy is made more overt. The very heterogeneity of material is often seen as evidence of composite authorship. A thesis of For a survey of such works see G. T. K. Wong, Compositional Strategy and the Book of Judges: An Inducrive Rhetorical Study (VTS, 111; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 10–16, and E. Assis, Self-Interest or Communal Interest: An Ideology of leadership in the Gideon, Abimelech and Jephthah Narratives (VTS 106; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 4–7. 1

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compositional unity does not need to deny that stylistic heterogeneity is clear within a text. Stylistic difference may have different causes. Hypothetically, one could ascribe the stylistic difference to a deliberate employment of varying styles by an author, or, alternatively one could suggest that the author has taken over other sources, but has transmuted them to the extent he needed to produce uniformity of message if the sources were not already in line with his viewpoint. Other hypothetical explanations are also possible. The conviction that diversity of style does not exclude unity of composition may be present as an initial presupposition, or it may emerge in the course of investigation as similar themes or ideological messages are seen to run through stylistically divergent material. The crucial thing is that there need not be an automatic conclusion from literary diversity to disunity of authorship. That in turn excludes certain forms of argument from literary style to historical setting. With particular reference to Judges, it excludes the two-pronged thesis that the stories of the judges belong, in terms of form criticism to the hero sagas, typical of a certain stage of primitive societies2 and that these stories have been inserted without substantial modification in the work of a much later, and more sophisticated author so that there is a clash of viewpoint between the original sagas and the later composer. In what follows I shall start from the presupposition that Judges is a unitary work and explore the interpretations which are necessary to support that assumption. As with the previous treatment of Genesis, I am concerned to use this procedure to expose the different presuppositions behind unitary and fractional readings. I am also concerned to draw attention to features of the text which may not receive appropriate attention as a result of inappropriate assumptions about the text.

W. M. L. de Wette, A Critical and Historical Introduction to the Canonical Scriptures of the Old Testament, 2 vols, trans. T Parker (Boston: Rufus Leighton, Jr, 3rd ed., 1859), 2.194–95. 2

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THE INTRODUCTIONS Judges begins with two introductions. The first, 1:1–2.5, gives an account of Israel’s lack of success in completing the work of conquest. It begins positively with an emphasis on Judah which was divinely designated as the leader. Judah in combination with Simeon was successful against the Canaanites. Yet it was an incomplete success because conquest of the coastal plain exceeded their military technology (1:19). Similarly the Joseph tribes were successful against Bethel. B. Webb sees in the chapter a parallel structure whereby the south, led by Judah are described first in vv. 3–17 and the north, led by Joseph, in vv. 22–35.3 In each case there is a summary appendix, respectively vv. 18–21 and v. 36. One may concede that there are two main sections headed by Judah and Joseph but the appendix verses, especially vv. 18–21 do not seem clearly separated. More important for the interpretation of the passage is his suggestion that the account of the capture of Bethel, accompanied by the release of the informant to perpetuate the heritage of the city, is meant to contrast with the capture of Bezek (1:4–7), whose lord was placed completely under the control of Judah.4 While that specific parallel may be questionable, there does seem a definite degenerative pattern to the section as a whole. Overall it leads from success to failure and within the respective southern and northern sections that pattern is repeated. Failure is followed in turn by denunciation in 2:1–5. The history is then told another way in the section beginning at 2:6. Chronologically it starts earlier with the completion of territorial distribution in the days of Joshua. In this version failure is attributed to the religious unfaithfulness of Israel. The discussion reaches forward to set out a schematic version of the whole judges period and its alternation of apostasy and salvation though a divinely appointed judge. The Book of Judges. An Integrated Reading (JSOTS 46; Sheffield: JSOT, 1987), 92. 4 Ibid., 94–5. For a positive reading of the conquest of Luz see L. R. Klein, The Triumph of Irony in the Book of Judges (Bible and Literature Series 14; JSOT Sup., 68; Sheffield: Almond, 1988), 28. 3

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Thus we have two introductions to the book, each placing emphasis on a different factor. In the first version Israel, sometimes with God’s help, are the main causes of success or failure. They either succeed in conquest or they do not. In the second version YHWH is more the moving force. Acting in response to Israel’s unfaithfulness he abandons them to plunderers. In this use of two introductions one is reminded of the early chapters of the book of Genesis. It is not that there are literary links between Judges and Genesis but both works may be responding to a similar problem. What caused the failure of Israel to complete the conquest? Was it a lack of initiative, resolve, military competence, or other factors of a similar sort? Or was it to be ascribed to a religious deviation which resulted in an even worse situation due to YHWH’s punishment? As with Genesis the author is not trying to combine multiple causes in one explanation but is using the device of parallel accounts. There is a related difference between the two accounts in the prime actor. In the first account it is Israelites who are described as having YHWH with them. In the second YHWH is the crucial actor but he acts in response to Israel’s sin. Thus there is no complete divorce of divine and human in either but there is a difference in relative emphasis. How does one integrate the divine and human factors in any historical account? There has been a common approach in modern scholarship of assigning passages which differ in relative emphasis on the divine or the human to different authors. Yet if one listens to modern messages from speakers whose theology ascribes to the deity a real influence in contemporary affairs, then one is likely to hear similar alternation between the divine and the human role. The mystery is inherent in ethical monotheism. Attempts to resolve the problem by one integrated explanation or account tend to stray into making one or other of the factors effectively irrelevant. Our author has chosen to convey the different factors by giving two accounts. Both Genesis and Judges are solving a problem where a single unified explanation is not available to human insight. When one consults the commentaries, it is soon obvious that the separate composition, and therefore dating, of 1:1–2.5 is so well

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accepted that there is little felt need to justify it.5 Some of the older commentaries see more need for argument. G. F. Moore found decisive the fact that the section beginning at 26 connects to and follows on from Joshua. Therefore Judges 1:1–2:5 must be a later insertion.6 C. F. Burney saw the same problem.7 In this work I have tried to avoid discussing historical questions because views on historical questions are often determined by logically prior views on historiographical questions and so we end in obviously circular arguments.8 Nevertheless this is one point where the historical questions have to be placed in connection to the historiographical. The issue concerning commentators is that what is taken to be an account of the conquest in Judges 1:1–2:5 contradicts the version of Joshua. The former is seen as representing a piece by piece conquest by tribes acting individually and the latter as a sweeping conquest of a united Israel. My concern here is not whether archaeology does or does not support a conquest but how we read the respective texts. Joshua certainly does present a united movement but there are some recognitions that the conquest was not complete (eg 13:1–7, 23:1–5). In spite of this, the book has a triumphalist tone and the overall impression is that the conquest is over. Judges 1, in accord with the generally pessimistic tone of the whole book, gives the impression of much yet to be done and in actuality not done. Let us stand somewhat apart from these historical questions and compare the aim of each book, as a book. In Joshua a positive B. Lindars, Judges 1–5. A New Translation and Commentary (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1995), 3; R. G. Boling, Judges (Anchor Bible; Garden City: Doubleday, 1975), 29–38; J. A. Soggin, Judges, trans. J. Bowden (London: SCM, 1981), 4–5, 20. 6 A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Judges (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2nd ed., 1893), xv. 7 The Book of Judges (London: Rivingtons, 1918), xxxiv–xxxv. 8 In saying the historiographic questions are “logically prior” I refer to the order in which discussion must take place in order for us to convey our views in a comprehensible manner. I do not deny that, in reality, views on historical questions may shape views on historiographical questions. 5

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picture is given of what Israel achieved in union with their God and with each other. Assuming the obvious, that it had a pedagogic purpose, it sets forth a paradigm of the good leader and a nation in support of that leader and of each other. Judges may be seen as a mirror image. It is the negative form of that same argument.9 It presents Israel out of fellowship with their God and acting separately or in conflict with each other. What in a positive framework is mentioned as a minor matter, can become, in a negative portrayal, a large obstacle. Both introductions to Judges place the beginning of the book after the initial phase of conquest; 1:1 after the death of Joshua and 2:6 after Joshua had dismissed the people, presumably somewhere late in the chronology of the book of Joshua itself. It seems therefore that both are describing what might be called, from the positive perspective of the book of Joshua, “mopping up” operations. Yet that mopping up operation proved, according to Judges, to be difficult and unsuccessful and Judges traces that to both practical and theological causes. As I have argued earlier, historical events are very complex, especially when one is seeing God as a real actor in those events. Different lessons may be drawn from the same events, depending on what aspect one chooses to emphasise. The book of Joshua does not allow the uncompleted business of the conquest to detract from its positive model and example. It is to misread Judges and to ignore the chronological indications which it itself gives, to see it as giving another version of the conquest. We are being told that the chronological overlap, to the extent it occurs, is very far from total. Judges answers the question: why did the challenge that seemed relatively minor from the perspective of Joshua become such a problem, setting the tone for a very dismal period? To sum up the issue of the introduction to the book: if we take seriously the chronological indications the text gives, and are not led astray by a desire to find a “more plausible” model of the conquest than that given in Joshua, then we can read the beginning of the account in its own terms. The presupposition of unified For a similar approach to the problem see R. Polzin, Moses and the Deuteronomist. A Literary Study of the Deuteronomic History, part 1 (New York: Seabury, 1980), 148. 9

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composition leads to seeing another case of two parallel descriptions of the same events. Note however that each charts a degenerative course. In doing this they establish the tone of the book. If we do not see that the two introductions are in some sense chronologically parallel, although one begins events earlier than the other, then we will tend to read them as chronologically successive. The result is obvious contradiction. Thus Lindars correctly observes that the approval of Israel expressed in 2:7 contradicts the condemnation of 2:2–4.10 That is on the assumption that the section beginning at 2:6 is to be read as chronologically successive to the earlier introduction. When that assumption is removed, so is the problem. We encounter here another case where it is commonly assumed that the person who added 1:1–2:5 to the book could not see obvious problems. I suggest an alternate. Rather than implying that he could not see the contradiction because he lacked intelligence—an assumption both uncharitable and unprovable— he may have read it in the way I have suggested, as a parallel account. If a redactor could intend it to be read as a parallel account, so might an original author. Once we bring the first two sections together as parallel accounts of the same period, then much more of the book becomes a unity. The paradigm of apostasy, calling on YHWH and salvation via a judge, described in 2:6–16 is clearly employed at later points throughout the story of the judges.11 That does not exclude the possibility of a distinction between editorial framework and hero stories. Such a postulated separation must be independently investigated. M. Noth used Judges 2:11–23 as one of the cases of an explanatory narrative added by the Deuteronomist who created a connected history that spans Joshua to Kings.12 Obviously full discussion of this ascription would require an evaluation of the whole theory of the Deuteronomistic History and here I am Judges 1–5, 94. Lindars, Judges 1–5 Boling, Judges, 30. 12 The Deuteronomistic History (JSOT Sup., 15; Sheffield: JSOT, 1981), 10 11

6,7.

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concerned merely with Judges. If, as argued above, we have, in the beginning of Judges, an examination of the human and divine factors which brought Israel into the situations described later in the book, then this passage belongs within the logic of Judges and there is no reason to assert that it is a later addition. While elements such as the death of Joshua or the role of judges could have been added by a later redactor, they are not out of place in the period. Indeed, only if we start with the presupposition that theological reflection would be out of place in an earlier work, can we say this passage must be a later editorial insertion.13

THE INDIVIDUAL JUDGES If we approach Judges with the presupposition of unity of authorship we would expect to find links between the stories of the different judges. Those links may be in terms of themes, trends, deliberate structuring of comparisons, significant language and use of particular figures as paradigms. Othniel It has often been pointed out that the figure of Othniel functions as a paradigm judge.14 Nothing negative is reported about him and he restored Israel to a situation of rest (3:9–11). Significantly he is described as judging before he went to war (3:10); a detail to which I shall return. The positive portrayal of the first judge establishes a beginning point for the history of degeneration which we encounter in the book.

For the connection of Noth’s methodology to Herder and Gunkel and his assumption that the earliest tradition was preserved in small portions; hence longer explanatory passages belong to a later stage, see B. W. Anderson, “Introduction: Martin Noth’s Traditio-Historical Approach in the Context of Twentieth-Century Biblical Research,” in M. Noth, A History of the Pentateuchal Traditions, trans. B. W. Anderson (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1972), xii–xxx. 14 Boling, Judges, 82; Lindars, Judges 1–5, 128–9; Webb, The Book of Judges, 126–8. 13

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Ehud Something similar applies to the next judge, Ehud, where once again there are no negative features reported and the consequence of his activity was rest (3:15–30). In many ways the story of Ehud is the one which creates the greatest difficulty in Judges for the thesis of this work. That is because it is least integrated into the themes of Judges. There is no reference to the Spirit coming upon the deliverer. Indeed the connection of Ehud to YHWH occurs only in the opening (3:15) where he is described as the deliverer raised up by YHWH and in his own rallying call to the Israelites (3:28). Note also that he was not said to have judged Israel. These departures from the common patterns of the book strengthen the case that an independent tale has been incorporated with little emendation. This relative isolation of the story is not completely destructive to the case I am arguing, because one cannot charge that this story, as an independent source, has introduced irresolvable contradiction. Clearly the author has been able to integrate it into his basic framework, as all proponents of a separation between editorial framework and folk tales accept. However one can still ask if there is some conflict in tone if not in factual detail. That brings the element of deception, humour and ridicule in the story into focus. Klein connects the lack of explicit involvement of YHWH in winning the victor with the element of deception.15 That is, there is a deliberate avoidance of an association of YHWH and dubious conduct. If correct, why was this story included? The most plausible answer would be that the author was trying to be faithful to events as he knew them. The logically consequent inference is drawn by Webb. The author is prepared to see YHWH using surprising tools and methods.16 This however does not end the significance of the Ehud story. While it does not appear to cohere with the paradigm established in the Othniel story, later stories show interesting affinities with it. The older commentaries detected elements of sources within the story itself, primarily in that v. 20 does not seem to follow 15 16

The Triumph of Irony, 38–40. The Book of Judges, 132.

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smoothly from v. 19.17 Lindars presents the plausible solution that it is an abbreviated narrative with the interchange between Ehud, the king and an intermediary, by which Ehud secured admission, reduced to bare details.18 As far as this work is concerned the interesting fact is the failure of some scholarship to invoke such fairly obvious explanations. Are we dealing with a stage in scholarship when, source analyses still being relatively controversial, there was an excessive zeal to find sources? Or was there a tendency to assume that biblical narrative would avoid truncation? A corollary of believing that the narrator will cut unnecessary details is believing that included details have a purpose in the story. Webb wondered whether Ehud’s return from the “idols” in 3:19 was aimed to give plausibility to his story of having a “word of God” (3:20).19 If so it adds an interesting dimension to the deception practiced in the story. A work which sets out to be a stylistic analysis of the story of Ehud and that of Barak brings into clear focus the tensions within source analysis of Judges.20 Alonso- Schökel accepts the common view that the stories of the ‘judges’ have been later enclosed within an easily separable framework.21 He presents a thorough analysis of style of each story and argues that each story is clearly a unity.22 He is insistent that source criticism must first distinguish the respective texts before the style critic can analyse them. Yet the form of dismemberment of the text which he opposes was done with proper source critical appeal to unevenness and doublets.23 Also, as one observes the narrative devices he finds in the two stories, one wonders if they might have come from the same author. The premise of the traditional criticism of Judges is that the ‘hero’ Burney, The Book of Judges, 67. Judges 1–5, 143. 19 The Book of Judges, 131. 20 L. Alonso-Schökel, “Erzählkunst im Buche der Richter,” Biblica 42 (1961): 143–72. 21 Ibid., 148,49. 22 Ibid., 148–71. 23 Ibid., 169–71. 17 18

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stories have local and individual origin, yet is that demonstrable in any way? Shamgar Shamgar (3.31) is very briefly reported but nevertheless has been an item for speculation. Lindars is certain that it is a late addition because of the lack of characteristic formulae, either those for major or minor judges.24 Webb draws attention to the pattern followed in the introduction of minor figures: Shamgar appears alone, but the next minor figures, Tola and Jair (10:1–5) are a duo and the next, Ibzan, Elon and Abdon (12:8–15), a trio.25 While that is so, its meaning, if any, eludes us. The crucial question is the meaning of the use or non-use of standard formulae. It is true that the story of Shamgar is not introduced by the cycle of apostasy, oppression and appeal for salvation. He is not said to have judged Israel. If those or similar phrases had been used, then the common explanation, that a later editor had placed an independent story in an editorial framework stemming from the Deuteronomist or the Deuteronomistic School, would be invoked.26 Since the Deuteronomist or the Deuteronomistic School is believed to be responsible for the history stretching from Joshua to 2 Kings (the so-called Deuteronomistic History) and the composition of that history is variously dated between Hezekiah and the post-exilic period, any later addition must be subsequent to that. Yet, even assuming the theory of the Deuteronomistic History, how do we know that lack of characteristic formulae points to a later composition, as Lindars suggests. Boling suggests a prior collection of stories before the Deuteronomist provided his framework and so he sees the Shamgar story as a fragment added to that collection by the Deuteronomist.27

Judges 1–5, 156. The Book of Judges, 123–244. 26 Boling, Judges, 29–38. 27 Judges, 90. 24 25

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Notice the tendency for composers or compositional schools to be seen by some scholars as working only with strict and narrow formulae and methods. If the characteristic formulae are not there then the pericope cannot be from that composer/school. Even when that conclusion is reached, criteria for deciding whether the errant piece is earlier or later are lacking. Others do not necessarily see composers as so restricted. In reality we do not know how authors/composers worked because saying that a certain formula marked a certain composer/school and was used invariably is supposition. A composer might have used a formula when deemed appropriate and not used it otherwise. Paradoxically, Boling admits that there is very little lexical overlap between the formulae to introduce a judge story and Deuteronomy. It amounts to the accusation that Israel “did evil”. Surely that is so general that ascription of the editorial framework of the Judges stories to the Deuteronomist is tenuous. One suspects that the real process of reasoning depends mostly upon the contrast between the generally standard editorial framework and the seemingly individual stories of the judges. Without prejudice to the question of who wrote/composed the actual stories of the judges, it is reasonable to suppose that the fairly uniform editorial framework of apostasy, oppression, call to YHWH and raising up of a deliverer comes from the one hand. Scholarship has then sought a location for that hand depending upon theories of religious change and development in Israel. Obviously the theory invoked must lead us to anticipate a period in which there will be a fairly rigid and formulaic approach to writing. Otherwise a failure to use the formula could not be evidence that a certain passage comes from another hand. Yet this theory of rigidity has no objective foundation and hence the extent to which it controls scholarly conjecture varies. Barak From this point onwards in Judges, there is a clear pattern of increasing crisis, the correlate of which is a decline in the quality of the judge. The downward trend begins in the story of Barak, the first of a pair of reluctant judges. Barak did not receive his commission from Deborah with alacrity, and for that, the glory of victory is taken away from him (4:8,9). The same story reveals to us the beginning of disunity in Israel. The song of Deborah includes

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the cursing of those who refuse the summons to the Lord’s battle (5:16,17,23). Nevertheless, the consequence for Israel of Barak’s leadership was, once again, rest (5:31). This story is significant because it once again presents us with parallel accounts. The fact that one of these accounts is poetic has produced a scholarly analysis quite different to the normal response to parallel accounts. There was an earlier tendency to see the poem as very early because of its linguistic peculiarities.28 However that ignores the tendency of poetry to preserve archaic and dialectal forms.29 A comparative dating of texts which ignores differences between poetry and prose has no validity. One sees in Moore’s analysis the above mentioned tendency of the older criticism to find differences where they do not necessarily exist. For example, in support of the thesis of a contradiction between the prose and poetic accounts, Moore claims that, according to the poem and in contradiction to the prose account, Sisera was “standing at the door of the text drinking milk from a bowl”, when struck.30 Two accounts of the one event will necessarily differ because of different emphases. When one is prose and the other poetic the difference is exaggerated. Whether those differences are highlighted or harmonised depends on the assumptions we bring to the text about the process of composition. The differences between the poetic and prose versions are significant to B. Halpern’s attempt to reconstruct the processes of the biblical historian. He maintains that the prose account was a reasoned extrapolation from the information given in the poem. He weaves into this what he sees as two significant differences: the number of Israelite tribes involved and the location of Sisera when he received the mortal blow. According to the poem there are six tribes but the prose account mentions only Zebulun and Naphtali. The poem describes Sisera falling down dead (5:27) but in the prose account he was already lying down when struck (4:21). Moore, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Judges, 132–33; Lindars, Judges 1–5, 212–16. 29 Soggin, Judges, 81. 30 Moore, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Judges, 108. For an alternate interpretation of the verse see Boling, Judges, 115. 28

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Halpern argues that the author of the prose account interpreted the poem as saying that only Zebulun and Naphtali participated in the battle while the others remained at home. Halpern also suggests that the author misread 5:26 as indicating that two tools, rather than one, were involved in the killing. Not being able to imagine how a standing and alert Sisera could wait patently for an attack by ten peg and mallet, the author constructed what was for him the likely course of events.31 There are several grounds for objection to Halpern’s interpretation. Basically it assumes that we know better how to read an ancient Hebrew poem than the author of ch. 4. Generally it is argued that the process of the development of the biblical traditions was one whereby initially local and regional affairs were given a wider significance. Yet in this case the author has reduced the number of tribes which were involved. Surely if there was ambiguity in the poem then the prose writer would select one possible meaning for a reason. What is the reason for choosing the option which reduces the extent of the involvement? On the alternate interpretation whereby different accounts are shaped according to the item that the author wants to emphasise, selection of detail is not unexpected. The common harmonisation that the battle was started with the two tribes but others were later involved covers the problem. With respect to the circumstances of Sisera’s death, V. P. Long has pointed out that the prose account, in spite of its description of the prone victim describes Sisera as “fallen” (4:22).32 One suspects that it is not only the author of the prose account who may fall into the trap of reading poetic language too literally. Halpern’s interpretation of this story must be put in context with his treatment of the story of Ehud.33 Though he does not have the source for that story he is confident that he can read the Judges’ version as pointing to the techniques of a historian who The First Historians. The Hebrew Bible and History (University Park: Pennsylvania State UP, 2nd ed., 1996), 76–103. 32 For this and other harmonisations see V. P. Long, The Art of Biblical History (Leicester: Apollos, 1994), 53–6. 33 The First Historians, 39–75. 31

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took a tale, with all the expected flourishes and extra details of a tale, and reduced it to a tight narrative befitting a clear historiographic intent. The Barak story then furnishes Halpern with the source to argue that the prose account came purely from reasoned, even if misguided, historian’s exegesis of a single source. Yet in reality we have no way of knowing how the source of the Ehud story, if such existed, was phrased. Further, even on Halpern’s theory about the misreading of ch. 5, how can we exclude that an alternate story of the battle existed which influenced the prose author in some of his readings? The process by which the “sources” were turned into our present text may have been much more elusive than we, as historians, would like it to be. Lindars believes that the poem is a late insertion because it breaks the connection between 4:24 and 5:31b. In principle that is the same problem as with the two introductions to the book. One cannot insert a parallel narrative without severing a connection. If the author or composer who is using parallel narratives believes that his audience may be confused by the parallel narrative he may take measures to remove the confusion. If he expects them to understand the device, then there would be less felt pressure to ease the transition. In the latter case me might well expect the author/composer to resume the thread of the narrative as though nothing had happened. From the perspective of this work there is a very significant aspect to the story. Webb has pointed out the clear affinities between the accounts of the assassination of Eglon and of Sisera. Each dies from a sudden thrust. Each is revealed to the searchers lying dead. The phrasing of the crucial events is very similar.34 Lindars accepts the comparison to the extent of proposing a common author for the two stories.35 An alternative would be to suggest editorial intervention to make the stories conform to each other. Whatever the explanation of the similarity, its existence influences our interpretation of Judges. The theory of separate folk tales, gathered at some point and provided with an editorial framework but with their respective stories left virtually untouched, 34 35

The Book of Judges, 136. Judges 1–5, 174.

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is threatened. The link is particularly significant because, as pointed out earlier, the Ehud story does not completely conform to the usual paradigm. YHWH seems less involved in the Ehud story than the Deborah-Barak one. Gideon Gideon is the second of the pair of reluctant judges. In his case, the reluctance is far more prominent and far more a theme of the story. That reluctance forms the context of Gideon’s refusal of kingship, an issue I will treat more fully later. With the Gideon story, the issue of disunity also becomes more prominent. Civil war threatens due to the jealousy of Ephraim, but was averted by the diplomacy of Gideon (8:1–3). It is significant that the rest which Gideon’s activity secured for Israel was no longer a rest following his death, but rather, only during his life (8:28). Subsequent to this, we no longer read of rest.36 The introduction to the Gideon fits the standard introduction to the stories of individual judges. Israel sins, YHWH delivers them to an oppressor and the people cry out to YHWH. What follows next is not standard. We are told of the sending of a prophet and that prophet’s message. There is a parallel in that in the earlier story in chapter 4 Deborah the prophetess enters the story at the equivalent point, just after the cry to YHWH for deliverance. The message of Deborah concerns deliverance. In the message of the prophet in 6:8–11 there is no promise of deliverance but only condemnation. The truncated prophetic message is commonly ascribed to a particular but different hand to that which composed the surrounding text.37 If we read the text as a whole we obtain a different impression. One of the things undergoing deterioration through the period of the judges is the relationship between Israel and its God. In the parallel position in ch. 4 “a woman, a Halpern (The First Historians, 124) sees the lack of rest formula with Jephthah as due to the source history of the book. This is an example of the fact that reading a book in terms of sources can obscure realisation of the overall structure which shows a growing deterioration. 37 Moore, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Judges, 181; Boling, Judges, 125–26; Soggin, Judges, 112. 36

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prophetess” (4:4) comes with a positive message of victory. One cycle of fall and degeneracy further on, the message of “a man, a prophet” (6:8) is far more negative. It is not a denial of divine help but it is not assurance either. The denial will come later as the completion of the path of degeneration. It is generally conceded that Deborah belongs to the original story and is not the creation of a later editor. The prophet of chapter 6 either belongs to a story crafted against the background of ch. 4 or has been inserted by a later editor wanting to create a counterpart to Deborah in a later story. The first possibility threatens the thesis that the judges stories are independent folk tales. The second does not. Earlier the allusion of the Jael story to the Ehud story was mentioned. Once again we have an allusion of portion of a later story to an earlier story. How many times does this have to happen before the thesis of independent folk tales is fatally weakened? If we assume that the story about the prophet is a late insertion, we have a further problem. When the angel comes to summon Gideon to his mission, Gideon debates the prophet’s message. Whereas the prophet had appealed to the record of YHWH, their God, as a deliverer as a motivation for obedience, Gideon points the contrast between past deeds and present reality in a confrontational way. Once we are into the meeting of Gideon and the angel we are into what is generally taken to be the original folk tale. Are we to believe that the composer(s) of that tale took notice of a (later) story about a prophet, written by another hand? One can save the usual reconstruction by suggesting that the composer of the story about the prophet not only took notice of the Deborah story but also of the Gideon story. That is abstractly possible but if that was the order of events, then the composer of the prophet story showed admirable restraint in not fortifying it against Gideon’s somewhat irreverent allusion. As we examine the interchange between Gideon and the angel another allusion becomes clear. The reluctant Gideon has the characteristics of the reluctant Moses. As Webb points out, both protest their inadequacy, the divine assurance comes in the same

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words38, reassuring signs are given to both, miraculous fire is in both cases the proof of the divine presence and in both God speaks directly to the human being called.39 Are we to believe that a folk tale has carefully crafted allusions to the biblical story of the call of Moses?40 Once again there are several options. One is that we dispense with the attempt to contrast late editorial framework and original folk tale. The other is that we find frequent points where the later editor has inserted material. This second option leads on to implications very like the first. For it implies that the editor has inserted material which earlier critical scholarship failed to distinguish from the material of the folk tale. How much more might come from the editor’s hand? Is the separation between folk tale and editorial framework valid? Throughout the story, Gideon is the reluctant hero to whom God exhibits great patience, providing signs and messages of support. Webb suggests a turning point around 8:4 where the previously reluctant Gideon becomes bold and aggressive, punishing those who did not support him and settling a family vendetta.41 The text reads as though the pursuit to the east of the Jordan was a continuation of the battle fought to the west of the river. Therefore I cannot see the contrast as warranted. What we do see is a much bolder Gideon but that was already evident after he had overheard the dream in the camp of Midian (7:9–15). Compare Judges 6:14 with Exodus 3:12 and Judges 6:16 with Exodus 3:12. 39 The Book of Judges, 148. 40 Boling (Judges) recognises the allusion to Moses but draws no consequences. A. G. Auld (“Gideon: Hacking at the Heart of the Old Testament,” VT 39 (1989): 257–67) sees these and many other allusions to other biblical passages and opines that this is not an early folk tale but a late narrative. My immediate concern is not dating. Seeing the obvious allusions and interconnections between biblical texts threatens theories of independent origin and later redactional connection. It does not give answers to questions of dating without careful study of the data and the assumptions we bring to the data. 41 The Book of Judges, 151–3. For a similar interpretation see Klein, The Triumph of Irony, 61–2. 38

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This view of the changed Gideon is partly influenced by the contrast between the conciliating Gideon dealing with Ephraim (8:1–3) and the violent Gideon dealing with Succoth and Penuel (8:5–9,13–17). Yet the difference in treatment is not against the logic of the narrative. Belatedly Gideon had summoned Ephraim: compare 6:34,35 where the more northern tribes were rallied with the later summons to Ephraim in 7:24. Although summoned late, the Ephraimites had come to his aid, but Succoth and Peniel did not (7:24,25). That was the crucial difference which separated Ephraim from Succoth and Peniel. The Ephraimites were concerned about this late summons. Gideon’s diplomatic flattery shows a man who does not relish an excuse for conflict. While commendable as a peace making effort, it is also quite consistent with the character of the man as portrayed throughout. Consistent with the atomising tendency of the older criticism, Moore, finds different sources within the Gideon story. For example he distinguishes 6:11–24 as the first call of Gideon and 6:25–32 as a second independent tradition of Gideon’s call.42 His principle argument is that it is unlikely that two altars to YHWH would be built in the same town. Surely the anti-Baal rationale of the second altar, within the logic of the story, deals with that. More significant is the question why the two stories, which have little to do with the battle against Midian, are being told in such detail. A better explanation is that we are being given more understanding of the character of this leader: again and again he shows himself as reticent and timid. As I will develop more fully later, the book, read as a whole, is contrasting leadership types. Barak has been presented as a leader who failed to seize the commission and lost some of the glory. Gideon is another example of the same tendency. If we divide the book into small segments, then it is not surprising that the overall interest in leadership types becomes lost. Hence the individual pericopes within the story of Gideon lack point. The personality of Gideon is crucial for understanding the much discussed incident in which he was offered the kingship 42

A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Judges, 182–83,190.

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(8:22–27). Commentators fairly uniformly see the point of the story as political, disagreeing only on whether Gideon’s anti-monarchy stance reflects early or late feelings.43 An exception to this is G. H. Davies who thinks that the refusal is only a form of piety and politeness: in reality Gideon accepted.44 That is not how the text reads and it is clear that Gideon’s other (attempted) refusals were genuine attempts to decline rather than forms of acceptance. If we read the whole story of Gideon, the reluctant leader, then the kingship story appears entirely in character. He is not a man who willingly grasps responsibility. It is also crucial that we read the whole text and do not make arbitrary divisions in the text. Gideon had something in mind when he said the YHWH would rule over them. What he had in mind is described in the subsequent verses: an oracular device whereby YHWH could make his decisions known, relieving Gideon of responsibility. The negative description of that device in 8:27 throws a very different light on the whole story of Gideon’s refusal of the kingship. Thus the Gideon story marks a significant stage in the degeneration of Israel. The relationship between God and his people is becoming strained and problematic, even when they cry to him for help. The saviour raised up is most reluctant to undertake the task. Whereas Barak showed reluctance on one occasion, timidity and avoidance characterise Gideon. To be fair to the man. he does show resolution and drive when convinced and reassured. However the old character re-emerges when asked to take on the kingship. We cannot tell what the author’s own perspective on kingship was from this incident because the story is used to show how an excuse led to illegitimate practice. It is a critique of a personality rather than of a political system. Another theme further developed is that of conflict. Whereas certain groups were criticised and one was cursed in the previous story, in this story towns are punished for failure to support the cause. A serious conflict between Ephraim and Manasseh was Early: Boling, Judges, 160; late: Burney, The Book of Judges, 235; Soggin, Judges, 160; Moore, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Judge, 230. 44 “Judges VIII 22–23,” VT 13 (1963): 153,54. 43

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averted by diplomacy. Another feature of the degeneration pattern is that the relief secured by Gideon is specifically said to be ‘in the days of Gideon’ (8:28). That limitation does not occur in earlier occurrences of rest. This is also the last mention of a period of quiet secured by a saviour. It is likely that it marks a transition between the more lasting impact of earlier deliverances and a state of constant strife. It is also possible that it points ahead to what Abimelech did once his father was dead. These patterns and developing themes are not merely in the ‘Deuteronomistic’ editorial framework. They are also in the stories of Gideon and cross between the framework and the story45 and between the stories.46 Abimelech If Judges is seen as a collection of hero stories, the story of Abimelech is out of place. If instead we realise an intention to trace the degeneration of Israel, and to explore the character of the leaders who emerge during that period, then Abimelech belongs. He forms the first of a pair of assertive and aggressive leaders. The contrast with his reluctant father, Gideon, is obvious. Whereas the father rejects a properly offered leadership, the son takes power by most ruthless means. The story of Abimelech is a significant stage in the development of moral degeneration and conflict. That degeneration is linked to religious deviation. Ungratefulness to YHWH and to Gideon are juxtaposed (8:33–35). As he turned against his kin, so his city turns against him and we have a further stage in the escalation of internal conflict. Once again some older commentaries want to split the account into sources. Significantly the indication of both divine and human causes for action is seen as indicating different sources. The evil spirit of 9:23 and the account of Gaal and his band (9:26–29)

Gideon turning back the words of the prophet. The reluctance and internal conflict themes are in the stories of Deborah-Barak and Gideon. 45 46

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are ascribed to a different sources.47 Clearly some of the older critical scholars have not wrestled with the difficulty of integrating divine and human factors in historical description. Jotham’s fable and its relationship to kingship has attracted more attention than the other parts of the Abimelech story. Many see the fable as poorly fitted to the context and therefore assert that it is a late insertion into the story.48 The late appearance of the cedars in the fable causes concern also. As mentioned on a number of occasions, the presupposition that there is before us a text of many sources, poorly integrated, leads to recognising difficulties but not seeking to overcome those difficulties. Consistent with the methodology of this work, let us take the other approach and assume that whoever wrote the story saw a connection between the fable and the situation. Whether the fable existed independently and was applied to this circumstance or was created for this situation is unanswerable and ultimately irrelevant. The fable follows a course from reasonableness to absurdity. Given the logic of a fable, it is reasonable that useful, productive, trees would be approached first with the crown. It is understandable on a human level that the productive trees might prefer their current usefulness to the offer of rule. The offer of the crown to the bramble, whatever particular species is represented by that plant, is manifestly absurd. Notice that no explanation is given for the approach to individual trees; we are left to construct our own explanation for the choices. The absurdity is then compounded by the words of the bramble and its reference to providing shade for the other trees. Thus we are confronted with an absurd situation. Surely at this point we have to invoke the common sense rule that fables or parables are not Moore, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Judges, 237–38; Burney, The Book of Judges, 267. See the rejection of this view in Soggin, Judges, 165. 48 For an exposition of the conflict between the fable and its context and application see Soggin, Judges, 173–79. Burney (The Book of JudgesI, 275) ascribes the lack of fit to the lack of strict logic in Oriental reasoning. See also E. H. Maly, “The Jotham Fable—Anti-Monarchical?” CBQ 22 (1960):299–305; G. E. Gerbrandt, Kingship According to the Deuteronomistic History (SBL Dissertation Series, 87; Atlanta: Scholars, 1986), 129–35. 47

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necessarily allegories.49 They do not intend an item for item correspondence between the story and its application. Commonly the correspondence is in one or two main points. Hence in this case the one main point is the absurdity of the choice of Abimelech who has nothing to offer. That he became king by a different process to that described in the fable is irrelevant because the process of election is not the point being made. There is a second point being made in the mention of the fire and the cedars. I do not know whether the bramble as a source of fire is a further absurdity. Alternatively it may be an allusion to a pattern whereby scrub fires, beginning in vegetation such as the bramble, build up sufficient momentum to attack large trees (See Isaiah 9:17, Eng. v. 18). Clearly those in the context, hearing the fable, would know whether they were hearing nonsense or a recognisable allusion. Since the fable operates in the world of tree imagery, the cedars simply translate into political leaders, as manifest elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible (Isaiah 37:24; Jeremiah 22:7). Thus the words of the bramble in v. 15 translate into a weal or woe alternative. From the perspective of the bramble, whose further absurdity is shown by this pomposity, those anointing it have either acted with faithfulness and integrity or they have not. If it was the former then it promises its absurd protection. If the latter it threatens judgment upon the leadership. When we take the fable and compare it to reality, further absurdities and ironies appear. Since the bramble is Abimelech, there is no question of an act of integrity in his election. Both chosen and choosing are culpable. Therefore Abimelech must destroy the leaders of the community which chose him. There is a subtle denigration of Abimelech in the whole framing of the fable. The previous narrative makes Abimelech the prime mover: he persuades the city and its leaders; he assassinates his brothers. Yet Jotham ignores Abimelech and addresses the men of Shechem (9:7). Consistent with this framing, it is the destruction of the A weakness of B. Lindars’ approach to this passage is that he does not ask the methodological question of how much correspondence we may expect between fable and application. See “Jotham’s Fable—A New Form Critical Analysis,” JTS 24 (1973): 355–66. 49

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cedars which is threatened in the fable. Certainly, this demotion of Abimelech from prime mover to pompous braggart is for rhetorical effect in the fable. It may also be a case of emphasizing the leaders’ failure to lead and rather allowing themselves to be led. In addressing them and in framing the fable so that they appear as prime movers, he implicitly contrasts what should have happened with what actually happened.50 In the application, the last words of Jotham (v. 20) threaten reciprocal destruction for Abimelech. Jotham’s application puts his father in the role of a productive tree. However there is no implication, in the application, that Gideon’s refusal of the kingship was because he was productively busy in other ways. Finding that sort of implication in the fable is treating it as an allegory. Rather Jotham is introducing an element on which the fable touches only tangentially. It is the element of betrayal: how could there be integrity in the election of Abimelech when it involved such gross betrayal? Abimelech’s words of weal or woe are doubly absurd. As the bramble has no shade to offer, he has no blessing and in addition there is no possibility that the blessing side of the alternative, contingent on integrity, should ever be true. The only words given to the bramble in the fable reveal a pompous, deluded fool and thus attribute the same foolishness to those who elected it. Again and again this fable has been cited as evidence of the rejection of kingship as an institution, thus creating a conflict within the text of Judges.51 The crucial question is whether the E. H. Maly (“The Jotham Fable”, 300–1) sees the difference between the role of Abimelech in the narrative and in the fable as evidence that a fable making a different point has been employed here. This is another case of the tendency of source and redaction hypotheses to rule out alternate explanations. He sees the original fable as a criticism of people (the fruit trees) who fail to take on their responsibilities. The problem is that if that is the meaning of the original fable and it has been insufficiently changed to hide that meaning from the reader, then Jotham is criticising his father. Even if the historicity of the story is denied, as Maly does, it once again requires a dim-witted redactor not to realise that a key character has been made to say something unlikely. 51 E.g. Soggin, Judges, 177. 50

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fable, in context, refers more to an abstract political institution or to human nature and the way the absurdities of that nature create community tragedy. There is a sad tendency for the ruthless who offer nothing to obtain positions of power. To apply the fable to Australian political life and even to the Australian university scene would probably bring defamation suits upon my head but my students have not had difficulty in seeing applications! If that is true in a situation of democracy and in the political structures which are found in all institutions, how can this be a particular critique of monarchy? In both the case of Gideon’s refusal of the crown and Jotham’s parable, my criticism of the common anti-monarchy interpretation has been that it sees the text as concerned with a political system in the abstract, ignoring the personal dimensions of the context and the text’s interest in the personality of the participants.52 One wonders if the overlooking of the personal corresponds to a modern tendency to debate the merits of abstract systems without consideration of the character of those responsible for implementing the system. In the outworking of the Abimelech story there is a symmetry which makes the fate of the tyrant both appropriate and conforming to the parable.53 The man who slaughtered his kin on one stone (9:5,18) is brought down by one stone (9:53). The leaders of Shechem are consumed by fire (9:46–49) according to the fable and Abimelech’s own concern with fire leads to his demise (9:52– 54). Minor Judges and the Meaning of “Judge” After Abimelech the text introduces the first of the so-called “minor judges”. The amount of speculation on these figures seems inversely proportional to the information provided. Their role is more a historical than a historiographical concern, but it is very G. E. Gerbrandt (Kingship According to the Deuteronomistic History, 132) makes the valid point that Abimelech’s sin is not seen as his becoming king but as killing his brothers. 53 Webb, The Book of Judges, 155–56. 52

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hard to avoid one historical debate in which these figures play a minor role. They are said to have “judged” Israel. Can we make any sense of the use and, just as significantly, non-use, of this term in the book? The second introduction to the book which sets forth the general pattern of action in the book, calls the deliverers “judges” (2:18,19). Yet these deliverers are not consistently called judges in the later narrative and some unlikely figures appear as judges. The narrative credits Othniel with judging Israel immediately before it mentions his going to war. That means that the judging might be something independent of his military activity or it could be intended as an anticipatory summary of his military activity. Judging is not mentioned in connection with Ehud. In the next story the judge was Deborah and the text makes the point that her accompaniment of the army was irregular rather than expected. Thus here is a point where judging and fighting are not directly connected. Neither Barak or Gideon are called judges. Those are interesting omissions, whereas the omission of Abimelech from the list is totally to be expected. Thus the text comes to Tola and Jair. Though the activity of Tola is very briefly described it conforms to the paradigm pattern: he saved Israel and he judged (10:1). What is new is information on the period over which he judged Israel. Jair does not conform to the pattern because there is no mention of deliverance but rather information about sons, donkeys and cities. Once again he has a period as judge. Jephthah conforms both to the paradigm pattern of a saviour who is also a judge and to the approach which begins with Tola of giving the judge a certain period of office (12:7). The minor judges after Jephthah show no sign of military activity. They are uniform in that a period of activity is ascribed to each and with Ibzan and Adon we meet once more children and donkeys (12:8–15). We are told twice that Samson judged Israel for a specific period (15:20; 16:31). Can any consistent pattern be found in this data?54 Two things, however troublesome, are reasonably clear. Some saviour 54

For discussion and conjectures see Soggin, Judges, 196–200.

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figures are being called judges. Not ever judge appears as a military saviour figure. Even if we leave out the minor judges because of paucity of information, Deborah was not a military leader. The problem may be solved by choosing one part of the data and ignoring the rest, emphasising either the military judges or the nonmilitary ones. If we chose the former option we have to explain why a word with frequent judicial connotations becomes a term for a military leader. The following is an attempt based upon imagining the situation Judges describes. To dignify this attempt as more than an intuitional guess would be to overrate it. Every society needs a mechanism by which disputes are arbitrated and arguments over the punishment or non-punishment of crimes are kept within reasonable bounds. We are so used to highly formal mechanisms which perform this function that we are often conscious of their vital role only when they break down or come into disrepute. Hence we may not see the importance of arbitrating mechanisms. For a society without institutionalised mechanisms there can be a serious level of internal conflict. It is in that context that I would place the judge. Generally speaking the judge corresponds to a person of repute to whom the society is willing to turn when there is internal disagreement. One can gain that repute by several means. One obvious way is by military leadership in time of crisis. Another is by having demonstrated competence in some other way. Men of substance and riches tend to be seen as alternate leaders.55 My guess is that the mention of children, donkeys and villages with the “minor judges” is conveying an impression of people of material substance. Deborah’s appearance in the list is clearly connected to her prophetic ability. In favour of this interpretation is the fact that mentions of judging increase towards the end of the book, at the same time as mentions of rest disappear and we are given the impression of increasing chaos. I do not want to imply that there is anything institutionalised and formal about the position. That implies too The statistically disproportionate representation of generals and millionaires among American presidential hopefuls would be a modern example. 55

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great a level of internal organisation and coherence. Rather I suspect that there was an informal consensus within the society that, in time of difficulty, a certain figure might be called in to resolve a looming division. Every such thesis has problems. The problem of this one, paradoxically, is the appearance of the term “judge” in the paradigm explicating passage 2:18,19. All I can suggest is that the tendency of military leaders to also function as judges has flowed over to the use of the term in a passage which is engaged in generalisation. If the mention of Othniel’s function as judge is to be seen as independent of his military activity, his role in the community would be explicable from his earlier activity recorded in 1:13. The lack of mention of the position in connection with Ehud, Barak and Gideon may be explicable from the tendency to depict growing break down as book progresses and/or it may be a reflection of the character of those particular judges. Was Ehud too clever to be trusted? The reluctant leaders, Barak and Gideon, would be unlikely to take on more responsibility. Additionally Barak would be overshadowed by Deborah and Gideon’s rejection of the crown would show that he wanted no such function. Notice that dispute resolving was an obvious function for his ephod. Jephthah If the Abimelech story stood alone, we might conclude that the author’s point was to contrast leaders with divine call, such as Barak and Gideon, with self-appointed leaders such as Abimelech. True leaders are modest, reluctant and unassuming. False leaders are self-seeking, assertive and violent. Yet Jephthah is also grasping and assertive in spite of the fact that he was equipped by God to deliver Israel, whatever his other demerits (11:11,29). The prelude to the story of Jephthah brings out a further deterioration in the relationship of Israel and her God. Now repentance, so often and superficially performed, no longer avails with YHWH (10:11–14). Thus we have something of a sequence from the rebuke and weeping of 2:1–5, to the two cases of a cry and a deliverer given in response in 3:9 and 3:15, to a cry for help in 4:3, where the cry is implicitly connected to the subsequent delivery but not explicitly so, to the prophetic rebuke which becomes a point in an argument in 7:13. to finally this refusal of

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YHWH to help. While this is not a straight line graph of a deteriorating relationship, it is fair to describe it as a picture of a deterioration, in accord with so many other themes of the book. That YHWH is nevertheless willing to help is described in terms of YHWH’s inability to tolerate the misery into which his people were now plunged.56 As with Ehud there is no divine call of Jephthah. While Ehud’s case reads as the personal initiative of an individual, Jephthah enters the picture because those who once rejected him on social grounds are now desperate. The similarity of personal background between Abimelech and Jephthah is also made clear in the text (8:31; 11:1). There is also a similarity in their respective followers, although the text is more negative about Abimelech’s (9:4; 11:3). Additional to these details of similarity, is the general congruence of personality types. Jephthah seizes opportunities and demands position and recognition. Polzin argues that the dialogue between Jephthah and the elders and in particular the request for the help of the one they once rejected (11:7) is a clear and intended parallel to Israel’s earlier attempt to secure the help of the rejected YHWH (10:13).57 This is another case where the supposedly independent editorial framework and the folk tale interact. It has been generally recognised that Jephthah’s defence of Israel’s rights (11:12–27) seems more directed to Moab than to Ammon. Various redactional and late insertion theories have been developed to explain this anomaly.58 Boling attempts to provide a context by suggesting a development whereby Ammon had come into control of Moab and had taken over a Moabite claim to territory as her own claim. By this means he explains many of the difficult features of Jephthah’s argument.59 For the purposes of this work, Boling’s attempted harmonisation is less interesting than the

Webb, The Book of Judges, 46–8. Moses and the Deuteronomist, 178. 58 Moore, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Judges, 283; Burney, The Book of Judges, 299–303. 59 Judges, 201–5, 56 57

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dismissal of it by Soggin.60 His reason for rejecting the harmonisation is that what is represented in the text as a diplomatic communication is in fact not so and it is not addressed to the king of Ammon. This last point is difficult to comprehend and perhaps refers to the predominant reference to things Moabite which have led to the assertion that there has been a change in the recipient of the text at some time. Whether or not Boling’s explanation is correct, it does account for that feature so that Soggin’s refutation is not an argument but an assertion. Why is historical harmonisation treated as so illegitimate? Certainly specious harmonisations are at times proposed but so are specious source theories. It is not impossible that some obscurities in a text may relate to complexities of historical background of which we, at this distance, are only dimly aware. Once again the dim-witted redactor most be invoked to explain the textual obscurities if historical harmonisations are illegitimate. Basically it comes down to the self-perception of the source critic over against the composer of the text. We see clearly the real situation; the composer must have been ignorant. Harmonisations are futile attempts to save the reputation of figures who have no reputation worth saving. If we were to see ourselves differently we would treat the text differently. The story of Judges’ second conflict between Ephraim and Manasseh, makes clear the contrast between the styles of the reluctant Gideon and the assertive Jephthah. Now we have real, not just potential, inter-tribal warfare (12:1–6). Did it happen just by coincidence that the two folk tales that were about a deliverer drawn from Manasseh told the story so as to bring out a personality contrast, even before the stories were combined in one work, and that part of the contrast was in their respective reactions to the jealousy of Ephraim? That is abstractly possible but deliberate choice and presentation of the material by the author is more plausible. In connection with Gideon I suggested that the stories about altars were being told to give us some insight into the character of the leader. I would suggest the same about Jephthah’s vow and 60

Judges, 212–13.

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the sacrifice of his daughter. Here I enter into speculation but I would dare to suggest that the same personality problems which produce aggressive and tyrannical leadership in the domain of politics produces fanaticism in the domain of religion. This is not to suggest that Jephthah anticipated that his daughter would be the victim—far from it. However the vow must have contemplated the possibility or even the certainty of a human victim. This is an extremism that accords with the personality which pushes the boundaries until either conspicuous success or destruction results. While contemplating personalities and the complex interaction of personalities, one cannot help setting in contrast the GideonAbimelech dynamic and that between Jephthah and his daughter. The reluctant Gideon had an aggressive grasping son. Conversely the compliant daughter contrasts with her bold father. Is the author grappling with the perplexing contrasts and dynamics between generations? Notice how, in the paradigm passage in 2:10, the change of generation is the explanation for the change from faithfulness to deviation. Samson Concluding the stories of the deliverers comes Samson, a maverick, rather than a leader. Through God’s mercy, Israel may still be delivered, but it is no longer Israel united behind a leading figure. Thus, while there are elements of disunity within the story, for example the willingness of Judah to hand Samson over to the Philistines (15:9–12), that is less important than the impression created by Samson’s sole and erratic campaign. Disunity has progressed to the point that the deliverer has no followers. It is probably symptomatic of the continued worsening of the relationship between God and people, that there is no calling upon YHWH for deliverance at the outset of the Samson story (13:1). It is fitting therefore that the deliverance is represented as only partial (13:5). The uniformity of tone of the Samson stories has resulted in these stories being largely exempted from the scissors of the source critics. That same uniformity of tone has made them favourite examples of the presence of folk tales in Judges. Some more recent commentators have been struck by the echoes of earlier narratives. Angelic theophany connects the call of Gideon and the

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commission of Samson.61 Gideon and Samson both make use of 300 torches (7:16,20; 15:4).62 Yet even in the similarities there is difference. Samson’s use of the torches for individual revenge stands over against Gideon’s military strategy. One can suspect, as on earlier occasions, that the recurrent elements in different stories point to a common hand in composition but it often seems that the author’s point in the similarities is to make the reader see that Samson is so different to those who went before him that the end point of the process has been reached. There may be another way in which Samson is made to illustrate the end of the process. Betrayal and calling upon God in extremity (15:18; 16:28) characterise his career. Samson’s dalliances with Philistine women and their betrayal of him parallels Israel’s relationship with foreign gods. Just as Samson does not learn from one narrow escape, so Israel do not learn, even though each escapade brings more danger. Just as with Israel, YHWH answers the cry but death comes as well. D. W. Gooding has developed an interesting reading of Judges which attempts to accommodate the connections between the stories. The result is a mirror image text with the hinge in the middle of the stories of Gideon. Thus the two introductions correspond to the two final stories, the story of Othniel corresponds to that of Samson and so on.63 The attempt to compare the introductions with the last two stories is not convincing but some of the comparisons between judges stories are more persuasive. Thus Othniel, as the first judge, comes to us as a man already distinguished by an auspicious marriage, with a wife whose actions bring him blessing (1:11–15). The theme of marriage is kept before our eyes by the fact that the deleterious impact of intermarriage is mentioned just before the introduction of Othniel as judge (3:5–8). That forms a very nice contrast with the last judge Webb, The Book of Judges, 164–65; Boling, Judges, 218–23. For a structural study of ch. 13 see J. C. Exum, “Promise and Fulfilment: Narrative Art in Judges 13,” JBL 99 (1980): 43–59. 62 Webb, The Book of Judges, 164. 63 “The Composition of the Book of Judges,” Eretz-Israel 16 (1982): 70*–79*. 61

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Samson and his relationships with alien women whose promptings are very different to those of Achsah and lead to destruction.64 In another contrast Ehud’s taking of the fords through the Ephraimites compares with Jephthah’s seizing the fords against the Ephraimites.65 While these comparisons look good the attempts to compare the other stories are not as convincing. Perhaps rather than a mirror image composition, what we have in the book is a telling of the later stories in such a way that they make the degeneracy which has come about in Israel more vivid. Certainly the interrelationships of the stories weaken the common thesis of independent folk tales put within an editorial framework.

CONNECTIONS BETWEEN STORIES The final two stories have yet to be connected to the trends outlined, nevertheless, it is worthwhile to review the data considered so far. The theme of growing disunity is not merely part of the editorial framework, but is embedded in the stories of the Judges. The assumption that the stories of the Judges are hero sagas of quite diverse origin placed in a late matrix of editorial theology, prevents us looking for things that will unite such stories, but arguably the themes are there: growing disunity, contrast of reluctant and assertive leaders, the cessation of rest. It might be argued that the elements which unify the stories are in the editorial framework or created by the way an editor has juxtaposed stories but that ignores similarities in parts of the description such as of Edud’s and Jael’s fatal blows or the commissioning of Gideon and Samson. Taking this evidence on its own, there are possible explanations. We might suggest that the hand of the book’s author has intruded to change each judge story. The striking thing is then the failure of criticism to detect it and to remove the alien editor’s work, leaving us with the pure hero story. An alternate explanation is that the stories have diverse origin, but have been placed in this particular order to give an impression of growing breakdown and disunity. Does the data, of itself, allow a choice between these alternate explanations? 64 65

“The Composition of the Book of Judges,” 73*. “The Composition of the Book of Judges”.

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Probably not, but the second explanation depends upon the fortuitous circumstance of stories being available to the composer which will yield the trends he desires when placed in the right order. While not impossible, that would appear to be less probable. This is also an appropriate point to reflect again on the relationship between biblical narrative and historical event. The pattern of apostasy followed by deliverance through a judge, has, combined with it, an overall degenerative trend. Each recovery is, as it were, recovery to a lower level or standard. Of course we must be careful not to make the text say what it does not intend to say. The later Judges stories are not placed as clearly in chronological context as the earlier stories. Yet, even excluding these last couple of stories, the combination of patterns is clear. Some authors suggest that the mere presence of patterns, let alone interacting patterns as I have suggested, is proof that Judges is late and ahistorical. That conclusion is based upon a general assumption that history has no patterns, trends, cycles or regularities. That is a metaphysical assumption rather than something arising from the data of this text. The above mentioned suggestion, that the author has arbitrarily arranged his sources in order to produce trends would deny the historicity of the book, but that is not the only possible explanation of patterns in history. It is at least hypothetically possible that there was a period of time during which Israel experienced the above mentioned increase in conflict and other degenerative trends. Since the events were incorporated in stories, a collection of those stories placed in chronological order would yield the trends we see in Judges. Thus the author conceivably could have incorporated sources without substantial modification. That would explain the data without the embarrassing admission that we have failed to detect a significant editorial hand in the stories. Yet that explanation is not likely.66 It is unlikely that folk tales would each have similar emphases and concerns unless they came from the same school of composition, if not from the same author. The focus on the personalities of the judges and the ways in which contrasting personalities deal with I will pass over the irony that it involves an appeal to the historical accuracy of the text to save the reputation of criticism! 66

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crises, makes me suspect the author’s involvement. The contrast between Gideon and Jephthah, both leaders from Manasseh, and their dealing with the jealousy of Ephraim, looks a deliberate choice of material. Their respective tactics correlate very clearly with the character portrait being developed for each leader. Let us pursue for a moment the more likely possibility that the author has either written the Judges stories by himself, or at least substantially modified them to produce the impression he desired. Some would see such a role of an author as excluding any possibility of historical narrative. For them, historiography is a chronicle of events without interpretation or indications of significance. I am saying that the text reads to me as more selective in its subject matter than could be the result of a mere accidental, random combination of hero stories. That is not an assertion that the events did not happen. All historiography is necessarily selective and its priorities in selection are correlated with the message that is drawn from events. To sum up then, the stories of the judges show trends and patterns which link them together. We may not automatically assume that each story has discreet origin. Conversely, the extent to which the author has modified the stories which came to him, or even written them entirely, is unclear. To prevent any accusation that I am assuming the point at issue, I would stress again that these conclusions are reached from a conscious attempt to read the book of Judges as a unity.

THE LAST TWO STORIES What of the last two stories? The story of Micah and the Danite migration fits the pattern of degeneration. There is theft, cultic irregularity, betrayal and more theft. The Danites have no consideration for the fact that the wronged man is a fellow Israelite. These themes bring the story into connection with the story of Samson. In Samson’s experience betrayal was carried on by foreigners. In the Micah story the betrayers are Israelite, even a Levite. Thus these stories are not an unconnected appendage but take the degeneration of Israel an extra step. That degeneration is religious as well as moral. Webb notes the way in which YHWH

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enters the story in the thinking of Micah and his mother.67 The mother blesses by the Lord and makes a molten image (17:2,3). Micah is certain that the addition of a Levite will make his illegitimate cultic arrangement a certain source of blessing from YHWH (17:13). When he is betrayed by his priest, a parable of his own departure from his God, there is no comprehension but mere submission to greater but illegal power (18:23–26).68 It is not just evil which characterises Israel in its degradation but also ignorant incomprehension. The story of the Levite’s concubine and the Benjamite war is a culmination of some of the trends. Moral collapse reached a culmination, not just in the atrocities committed, but in the questionable behaviour of those who were happy to complain of the atrocity. The theme of internal disunity and conflict climaxes in civil war. It has been pointed out that the leadership of Judah, at the beginning and end of the book, forms an ironic framing.69 At the beginning, Judah goes up first against the Canaanites; after the sad history outlined in the book, Judah goes up first against an internal enemy. Thus, once the themes developed through the stories of the judges are recognised, the final two episodes form a conclusion consistent with the rest of the book. There is an affinity between the story of Micah and the story of the Levite’s concubine. In both cases the complaining party is not innocent. That applies when the former thief Micah complains about theft. It is also true of the Levite himself. He proves himself indecisive in his father-in-law’s house, a circumstance which contributes to his later danger (19:4–8). He shows no such The Book of Judges, 183–84. Is Adoni-bezek’s recognition of appropriate judgement (1:6,7) meant as a foil to Israelites who cannot recognise the obvious? Polzin (Moses and the Deuteronomist, 210–11) recognises the picture of confusion being presented in the book and sees it as an ideological statement, intended by the Deuteronomist, on the uncertainty of all human knowledge. Against this I would argue that there are those who are not uncertain and the uncertainty, along with other negative aspects, increases as the book progresses. 69 Boling, Judges, 37–8. 67 68

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indecision in surrendering his concubine when his own welfare is at stake (19:25) and shows cool indifference to the abused woman (19:27,28). One cannot but wonder if the indignity inflicted on her dead body was a measure of his attitude to the poor woman. In degenerate Israel the appeal for justice is coming from unjust men. Yet that does not excuse the criminals. Earlier I suggested we compare Samson’s betrayal by Philistines with Micah’s betrayal by a Levite. In this story the contrast between foreigners and natives occurs within the story. The Levite who would not risk seeking shelter in Jebus was attacked in an Israelite city (19:11–22). It is in accord with the whole declining relationship between people and deity that the conflict with Benjamin was not easy. Twice YHWH sent the coalition to a bloody defeat. YHWH is faithful to his covenant with Israel but it is a “tough love”.

THE “PRO-MONARCHY” REFRAIN That leaves the so-called pro-monarchy refrain of the latter chapters to be considered. The refrain of the last two episodes seems clearly in favour of monarchy: “In those days there was no king in Israel. Everyone did what was right in his own eyes.” (21:25, cf. 18:1; 19:1) Yet, the exposure of the human characteristics of individual leaders through the stories of the judges is hardly an advertisement for the benefits of one-man rule. Add to this the specific statements which have been commonly interpreted as antimonarchy. Suppose we now consider the message of Judges, viewed as a unity, about human society and leadership. It shows a degeneration that cries out for the need of somebody to enforce the law. There has to be a better way than civil war to deal with the rape and murder of the Levite’s concubine. This is the context in which we must place the calls for kingship. However, leadership in a society, already experiencing breakdown, is problematic. Is one forced to choose between the reluctant and the ruthless? Perhaps, or just as worryingly, the reluctant may be succeeded by the ruthless. Society needs leadership but be very wary about the sort of leaders who emerge. The hesitant and the ruthless both come to power. While the general trend of events is down, the work is not an argument for the necessary fall of all human society. Its history is much more complex because God’s intervention may reverse or at least stay degeneration.

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Since the cycles of apostasy and deliverance are so much more obvious, and have been much more stressed than the degenerative trends which run through the whole book, I have concentrated far more on the latter, which are of particular significance in tying the book together. Nevertheless, a reading of the book as a whole, must do justice to both. The degenerative trends and the questions they raise about leadership, are within a context of religious apostasy. Turning to idols brings the judgment of foreign oppression, and is the context within which moral and social breakdown follows. Is this unified reading of the book plausible? Is it more plausible than the alternate interpretation that it is a late framework imposed on early folktales? How we answer that question will depend upon certain assumptions The message that I derived from a unified reading of the book is a sophisticated one involving interactions of religious, psychological and political issues. Is it possible that a biblical book would convey such a sophisticated message? I have argued that Gideon’s refusal of the kingship must be put in the context of an interest in the character of leaders and the consequences that come with some common faults of leadership. Taking Gideon’s refusal that way does not bring his refusal into conflict with the later endorsement of the need for leadership. Clearly I am asserting a greater sophistication to the message of the book than is commonly done. However can the unity of the book be maintained without that assertion? Wong, having taken Gideon’s refusal of the kingship in the common way, is forced, in order to maintain the unity of the book, to argue the difficult case that the king who is endorsed in the refrain to the final chapters is not a human king but rather YHWH.70 Assis is more sensitive to the interest of the book in the personal failings of leaders71, yet the consequence of seeing Deborah, rather than Barak, as the one whose leadership is being examined72, is that the two reluctant

Compositional Strategy of the Book of Judges, 212–23. Self-Interest or Communal Interest, 125–30, 234–37. 72 Ibid., 128–30. 70 71

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leaders (Barak and Gideon) cannot be put over against the two grasping leaders (Abimelech and Jephthah). Is such a sophisticated analysis of human nature possible in a biblical text? We will answer that question according to our expectations of the times. As will emerge from later explorations of the history of biblical scholarship, it has been common to assume a “primitive” society and intellectual life at the time that the Bible was written. Only towards the end of the biblical period are any elements of sophistication possible. That leads to the further interesting situation. If a unified reading produces a sophisticated message, the work in question must be very late, and if it is late, its historicity is problematic; which is to say that disunited works may contain fragments of historical value; the more united the work, the less its assumed historicity. The purpose of this exploration of unified reading is to draw out such assumptions. At this point, I make no explicit judgments, however much my personal views may colour the presentation. A second area of assumptions is connected to the interaction of the religious and the political. I have argued that to have a unified reading, we must see the purpose of the book, including its subsections, as something other than the promotion of a political system. Even when people are raised up by God, their sins and weaknesses are a significant factor in history. Over all, the religious degeneration sets the context. That reading is contrary to a reading which sees a late and artificial religious grid imposed upon material which reflects the more basic reality of social and political conflict. Which is the basic reality of human society: the religious or the political? Answers to this question, even if unspoken answers, will influence the perceived plausibility of any reading of the book. Once again, I am not here arguing for one assumption against the other, but am simply pointing out that such assumptions exist. Thus Judges tells us that with religious apostasy society is subjected to both internal and external threats. That brings a need for leadership but leadership is subject to human weakness and degenerates as society itself degenerates. That is a sophisticated message but, if we do not begin with assumptions about sources, it is the one that the whole text provides.

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INITIAL ORIENTATION The books of Samuel are alleged to provide multiple instances of the involvement of different hands in their composition. We may note the widely accepted view of Rost, of the existence of at least three separate compositions: the ark narrative, the rise of David, and the succession to the throne of David.1 In addition, it is customary to find pro and anti monarchy sources in the account of the origin of monarchy and the selection of Saul. That there are two accounts of David’s introduction to Saul is taken for granted. Those who adhere to Noth’s understanding of the Deuteronomistic History will distinguish between the traditions the Deuteronomist incorporated and his editorial framework. Diversity and disunity of authorship seems obvious. Any thesis of the unity of Samuel must do more than harmonise apparent contradictions. It must build into its understanding of the book an explanation for the phenomena which have been seen as evidence of diversity of origin. As has already been argued, whether these explanations seem convincing will depend upon the presuppositions brought to the question. When we approach the book as a unit and examine it on those grounds, one of its obvious characteristics is the use of contrasting characters. Samuel is contrasted with the sons of Eli. Saul is set against David and to a lesser extent against his own son Jonathan. This use of contrasts is less obvious after David has become king but there is a very telling contrast of David and Uriah which even has David playing roles reminiscent of Saul. Similarity of plot construction does not itself prove unity of authorship but it does point to a controlled production rather than the chaos sometimes L. Rost, The Succession to the Throne of David, trans. M. D. Ruter and D. M. Gunn (Sheffield: Almond, 1982). 1

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implied in the sources and redaction model. If we take, for example, the multiple contrasts being developed between David and Saul, there is something analogous to the patriarchal narratives. In the latter there are multiple situations of conflict between the promises of God and experience. The tension is not primarily between individuals, as it is in Samuel, but the repetition of similar contrasts is the common feature. I suspect that in both cases it is a solution to the problem of teaching something from historical narrative without the necessity for the narrator to intrude to draw the moral. The lesson is conveyed by the repetitive pattern. Just to make it more obvious, the repetition is reinforced by juxtaposition of contrasting accounts. Once again I emphasise that I do not see this feature as itself proof of unity of authorship in Samuel. It could be evidence of a school of composition with similar approaches. Yet I would suggest that this use of contrast as a plot device is so obvious and so links Genesis and Samuel that the failure of scholarship to make a point of it and even, in the case of Genesis, to misconstrue it totally, demands an explanation. Presuppositions can blind us to the obvious in our data.

CONTRASTS Let us take, as a preliminary example, the contrast developed between Samuel and the sons of Eli.2 In 1 Samuel 1:3 the visit of Elkanah to the shrine at Shiloh it set next to the information, which seems irrelevant at this point, that Hophni and Phinehas were priests there. Events progress to the point that the young Samuel is an assistant to Eli in the sanctuary (2:11). That is made the backdrop for a treatment of the sins of Hophni and Phinehas in the ensuing verses (12–17). This account of the priests’ J. T. Willis, “An Anti-Eliade Narrative Tradition from a Prophetic Circle at the Ramah Sanctuary,” JBL 90 (1971): 289–92. For a discussion of the way the text integrates the discussion of Samuel and the sons of Eli see S. Talmon, “The Presentation of Sychroneity and Simultaneity in Biblical Narrative” in Studies in Hebrew Narrative Art throughout the Ages, ed. J. Heinemann and S. Werses (Scripta Hierosolymitana, 27; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1978), 23–5 2

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transgressions is framed by a return to the affairs of Samuel and his family in vv. 18–21. The prophetic denunciation of Eli for not dealing with his sons (2:27–36) is the occasion of the prophecy of a better priest (2:35). Immediately following that, a similar message is delivered to Samuel, marking the beginning of his role as a recipient of revelation (ch. 3). The presentation of David and Saul is once again marked by contrast and juxtaposition. Even before David is introduced, the author is setting the stage for the contrast. When the sons of Jesse are brought before Samuel and the prophet is impressed with the appearance of Eliab, God makes it the occasion to compare human assessment of externals of appearance and height with his own assessment (16:6,7). The whole approach and the specific mention of height is an obvious allusion to Saul (10:23,24). Hence the reader3 is prepared for David who is introduced as internally rather than externally qualified. Explicit comparison to Saul is then made through the contrast of spirits. In 16:13 we are told that the spirit of God came upon David when he was anointed. That is placed in direct juxtaposition with the coming of an evil spirit upon Saul. (16:14). Here we see, right at the beginning of the Saul-David relationship, the two devices of contrast and juxtaposition. The problem of the “two accounts” of the meeting of Saul and David will be considered later. For the moment it should be observed that the second account utilises the same device of contrast and juxtaposition. The description of Goliath had emphasised his physical size which invites the reader to think of Saul. Significantly Saul is placed at the head of those who were afraid of Goliath (17:11). Immediately succeeding this and immediately juxtaposed to this we have David introduced (17:12). The contrasts that will be developed between David and Saul are strengthened by the pairing of David and Jonathan. They are In referring to the recipient of the work as “the reader”, I do not intend to exclude the possibility that it was anticipated that many people would experience the book through hearing it read or recited to them. It is merely simpler to say “reader” than to say each time “the reader or hearer.” 3

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revealed to each other as kindred spirits (18:1). That means that the tension which has already been developed between Saul and Jonathan can be seen as relevant to the Saul-David relationship. In the earlier battle with the Philistines in chh. 13,14 Jonathan is the relatively uncomplicated man of initiative.4 He begins the offensive in 13:3. In ch. 14 his faith in God to work against the human odds, an obvious parallel of David versus Goliath, precipitates the decisive battle.5 Over against him, Saul is a much more complex figure. His oath and his determination to punish the offender speaks of a man trying to dominate a situation where he had failed earlier to take the initiative. When his own son is revealed as the culprit, his reaction places him in a very negative parallel to Jephthah who at least mourned for the fact that it was his daughter (Judges 11:35). Jonathan’s acceptance of his fate, even though one senses that it is in a different spirit to that of Jephthah’s daughter, heightens the comparison (Judges 11:36,37; 1 Samuel 14:43). Thus initiative stands over against bombast. It might take us too far from our theme of the Saul-David contrast to go fully into the treatment of the personality of Saul, but it has to be at least noted. The narrative does not approve Saul’s transgression, but at least it gives circumstantial information which would incline the reader to sympathise. Saul was at Gilgal with unreliable forces and Samuel had not come in the allotted time (13:7,8). One might judge his action as unwise but not unmotivated. The reader is left wondering why Saul, having acted with a degree of rashness in the matter of the offering, does not take the initiative against the Philistines. His lack of initiative, combined with his rash oath and its echoes of Jephthah, makes him come off worse in the comparison with Jonathan. Saul’s second I find the analysis of D. V. Edelman (King Saul in the Historiography of Judah [JSOTS 121; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1991]) implausible. I cannot find in the text that Jonathan’s premature attack upset Saul’s strategy (King Saul, 77) or that the disclosure of the lot that Jonathan was the one who transgressed Saul’s oath was the rejection of him as a potential king (King Saul, 94). 5 D. Jobling, The Sense of Biblical Narrative (2 vols: JSOT Sup., 7; Sheffield: JSOT, 1986, 2nd ed.), 1.19–21. 4

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failure emerges in the attack on the Amalekites. Once again it is complex. Saul’s setting up of what one presumes is a victory stele (15:12) and his sparing of Agag (15:8,9) looks like the victor advertising his victory. Yet he excuses himself on the basis of his fear of the people (15:24). M. Sternberg has provided a very careful analysis of the story of Saul’s failure in the attack on Amalek. He brings out the use by the narrator of repetition and contrast to show Saul’s guilt and lack of suitability for the throne.6 Interestingly he suggests that Saul’s attempt to defend his sin creates a contrast with David’s reaction to prophetic confrontation and explains why Saul deserved to loose the kingship whereas David did not.7 In connection with the judges, I argued that there was a contrasting of two leadership types: the reluctant, hesitant leader and the rash, aggressive leader. Saul has elements of both. David will bring out the aggressive side. In this analysis of Saul’s personality I have deliberately kept the historiographical question separate from the historical. Commentaries commonly go behind the text to find the “real” story in the conflict between the power of the king as secular leader and that of the theocratic establishment.8 However that is not what the text is presenting. It is presenting a man, sometimes sympathetically, sometimes criticising. I suspect that there is some interest in the mystery, even the tragedy, of human personality. To ignore that level and to plunge, on the basis of a supposition, to the “real” political dimensions behind the text, is to miss a lot of what the text is saying. A better approach is that of T. R. Preston who sees that there is a structure of contrasting rises and falls in the text.9 The lowly Hannah and her son are exalted while Eli and his sons fall. Samuel must then give place to Saul but in the story of Saul’s fall we are M. Sternberg, “The Bible’s Art of Persuasion: Ideology, Rhetoric and Poetics in Saul’s Fall,” HUCA 54 (1983): 45–82. 7 Ibid., 76. 8 Eg H. W. Hertzberg, I & II Samuel, trans. J. S.. Bowden (London: SCM, 1964), 106. 9 “The Heroism of Saul: Patterns of Meaning in the Narrative of Early Kingship,” JSOT 24 (1982): 27–46. 6

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provided with the image of a tragic hero far more attractive than the cunning David who is to give place in turn to the full development of a rich and conniving “Oriental despot” in Solomon. As I will outline below in more detail, there are clear patterns of contrast between the successive main figures: Samuel versus the sons of Eli; the moral failures of Samuel’s sons and those of Eli’s; David in contrast to Saul; David’s military murder of Uriah as a recall of Saul’s attempt against David. However there is a danger that the depth of the personal portraits may lead us to miss the main message. Saul has attractive features but then so does Eli. Yet the prophetic message which the text repeatedly underlines through its contrasts is that both Eli and Saul are unsuited for their positions and must be replaced. In the development of the actual conflict between Saul and David, the main place is given to Saul’s jealousy (18:6–9). Repetition occurs in that the initial turning of Saul against David was after victory. Similarly the reconciliation engineered by Jonathan (19:1–7) broke down after another victory by David (19:8–10). Another repetition is linked to the incident of the spear (19:10) because Saul also tried to spear Jonathan when he defended David (20:32,33). The main contrasts are developed in the account of David the fugitive. The cynical deception of Saul brings out the naïve yet very real ambition of David (18:17–27). Saul massacres the priests (22:11–19), but David shelters the remnant (22:20–23). Saul attempts to kill David while David spares Saul’s life (24:4–7; 26:6– 12). Saul is subject to mad fits (18:10–11) while David artfully uses the appearance of lunacy to escape a threatening situation (21:10– 15). Saul’s resort to divination in the face of uncertainty (28:6–11) contrasts with David’s trust in God and his use of the ephod upon return to ruined Ziklag (30:6–8).10 In general Saul’s indecision and fear are placed over against David’s faith and courage. While one or other of these contrasts might be questioned, the number of them points convincingly to an authorial technique which tells history, and yet makes moral points through use of contrast. Once this

10

Jobling, The Sense of Biblical Narrative, 1.18.

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technique is recognised, the search for contrasts becomes more plausible. There is degree of repetition in the narrative as a result of the use of repeated contrasts. The two cases of David’s sparing Saul’s life would be the clearest example of this (24:4–7; 26:6–12). In the tradition of source criticism they are commonly ascribed to different sources.11 Once we see the use of repetitive contrast, the need to resort to source explanations vanishes. It is to be expected that similar incidents will be repeated as well as dissimilar incidents occurring which accentuate the contrast of personalities. What is achieved by presenting the two leading figures in such contrastive ways? We can see two things it might achieve. It legitimates David’s occupation of the throne that had once been Saul’s. It also provides lessons on what to do and what not to do in the situations that arise for people in power or close to the centres of power. One objective is not inconsistent with the other but can we decide which should be given priority in explaining the author’s purpose? Chapter 25 becomes very important in this discussion. It occurs between the two incidents in which David spared Saul’s life. David had shown remarkable restraint in sparing a homicidal maniac. The first incident ends with Saul acknowledging that David was destined to be king (24:20). Yet in the very next story, David, who would not kill a murderer, sets out to kill a mean old bore. Naturally the story adds little to his credit and places him in debt to Abigail. How does this story, in showing a David prone to murder, enhance the political legitimacy of David? Yet it fits perfectly with a teaching purpose for it is part of the weakness of human nature to triumph in major crises and then show deplorable flaws in response to more minor provocations. This ambiguity of David’s nature brought out by the pattern of contrasts and repetitions impinges on the question of the alternate readings of biblical narrative which have been raised as a result of the popularity of deconstructionist approaches. In what he acknowledges is an approach with deconstructionist leanings, P. D. Miscall suggests that there are alternate readings to some crucial Eg P. K. McCarter, Jr, I Samuel (Anchor Bible; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1980), 386. 11

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texts. Thus when God, in 1 Samuel 16:7, tells Samuel that he sees David’s heart, we are not told what it is he sees. The door is open for the reader’s agreement with Eliab’s version of David’s heart as that of a wicked man (17:28).12 Obviously there are two ways we could see this alternate reading: as being an ambiguity intended, for whatever reason, by the author or as being a consequence of the fact, over which authors have no control, that language is always ambiguous. Those two possibilities have to receive different responses. Let us start with the prospect that the author himself is giving an ambiguous message about David. The repetitions then become crucial in another way. One story in which David appears positively might be of uncertain interpretation. Story after story, in which David appears positively in contrast to Saul, takes away the ambiguity. That is not to exclude the possibility that, by revealing David’s reaction to Nabal, the author meant to remind us that even great men have weaknesses, a point relevant to the earlier treatment of kingship and a foretaste of the later story of David. The other interpretation, that ambiguity is an inherent property of communication, is more a question about the nature of social reality than about the narrower disciplines of history or literature. It struggles with the problem of whether it can be presented as a consistent philosophy, paradoxically doomed by its internal contradiction as its proponents display their own belief in the possibility of communication through writing.

DAVID AND URIAH The account of David as king is not presented in terms of contrasts except in one very significant case. The David, who stayed in the palace while his army went off to war (2 Samuel 11:1), who lacked sexual discipline (11:2–4), is placed in contrast with a soldier who has returned from the privations of campaigning and, whether sober or drunk, will not indulge himself sexually (11:6–13). As a consequence David becomes Saul: using warfare to execute an The Workings of Old Testament Narrative, 52–66. For the author’s comments on his own approach see 140–42. 12

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enemy (11:14–25). This reversal of the Saul-David contrast illustrates the way in which contrasts may be used to convey messages to the reader without the need of authorial commentary. Surely once again it conveys a moral and a theological message to the reader: sin may transform you into your enemy. Rost’s Thesis The study of the contrastive patterns of books of Samuel is very relevant to the discussion of the history of the text. The highly influential thesis of Rost found three principle sources.13 Crucial was the way he went about delineating the source which really interested him: “The Succession to the Throne of David.” He worked from the end backwards. I Kings 1 (with ch. 2 as an appendix) was that end point. 1 Kings 1 is dynamic, interesting and dominated by the question of the throne succession to David.14 One may concede that the chapter is all that Rost says about it without being convinced of his conclusion. For there are many other dynamic and interesting chapters in Samuel and early Kings. Why does this one rate as the end point of a document from which we may reconstruct the earlier parts of that document? At least part of the answer has to be the anticipation that documents will be addressing political issues or a political history. Similarly Rost delineates “The Ark Narrative” in terms of a progression towards the establishment of the ark in Jerusalem.15 Thus it is the history which legitimates the Jerusalem sanctuary. Though touched on only very briefly, the story of David’s rise is seen as culminating in his establishment as king of all Israel ruling from Jerusalem.16 Rost concentrates on defining the limits of the succession document rather than exploring the intent of the composer. He does say that it was composed to glorify Solomon by somebody very much involved in the court of Solomon.17 Thus he is seeing it as primarily a political document. The Succession to the Throne of David. Ibid., 67–8. 15 Ibid., 26. 16 Ibid., 8. 17 Ibid., 105. 13 14

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While not an insuperable objection to Rost’s thesis, a consequence deserves some reflection. In order to find a suitable political climax to his postulated defence of Solomon he has to go into the first couple of chapters of Kings. Yet those first few chapters have been argued as belonging within an elaborate chiastic or parallel construction.18 It is of course possible that an independent political tract culminating in the accession of Solomon existed, the conclusion of which was turned into the first part of a new structure. Yet possibility is not the same as likelihood. If one began with the prior assumption that the books of Samuel are indifferent to political considerations, one could not obtain Rost’s conclusions. I am not saying that one should begin with this assumption but that Rost’s position has unargued presuppositions. He does not justify his treating the text as aiming to resolve political questions. The alternative would be that the theological question of God’s faithfulness to his promise to David is the major theme. In the case of “The Succession to the Throne of David” that might lead to the conclusion that the story would end at the same point with Solomon firmly established on the throne. However it would make a lot of difference to the analysis of the “Ark Narrative”. For if the theme was a theological one of the right way and place to worship God, then 2 Samuel 24 could not be excluded. Once the decision is made to find political tracts imbeded in Samuel then the identification of particular tracts may lead to some dispute about the limits of each particular tract but the results are fairly predictable. The account of the latter part of David’s reign cannot be part of a tract defending the right of David to the throne because its depiction of David, the adulterer and murderer, who could not control his own family, is scarcely a defence of David. Hence it must be a defence of Solomon. The far more favourable K. I. Parker, “Repetition as a Structuring Device in I Kings 1–11,” JSOT 42 (1988): 19–27; idem, “The Limits of Solomon’s Reign,” JSOT 51 (1991): 15–21; M. Brettler, “The Structure of I Kings 1–11,” JSOT 49 (1991): 87–97; A. Frisch, “Structure and its Significance: The Narrative of Solomon’s Reign (I Kings 1–12.24),” JSOT 51 (1991): 3–14; idem, “The Narrative of Solomon’s Reign: A Rejoinder,” JSOT 51 (1991): 22–4. 18

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account of David’s passage to the throne must then be a separate tract defending David. Thus separate sources are a necessary corollary of Rost’s assumption. By what criteria does one determine whether or not the primary thrust of much of the material in Samuel is political? Coming with the assumption is one thing but choosing assumptions is another. The very popularity of Rost’s thesis shows that it is plausible, even if that plausibility is partly related to the popularity of the assumption that the political dimension is determinative of human social existence. If one begins with my assumption of unity of authorship, then Rost’s thesis cannot be correct simply because the story of David, the failure, cannot be part of the political justification of David. If the work is a unity then why the negative portrayal of David? It is not hard to provide an alternate. In connection to Judges, I argued that there is an interest in what people do when confronted with the opportunity for power. David on the way to power is not presented as a complete paragon of virtue. I have already argued that the story of David, Nabal and Abigail cannot be read as an apology for David’s right to the throne. Nevertheless the attitude to David in 1 Samuel is generally positive. After the death of Saul, when David was gaining power in his own right, we have the first indications of a problem which will run through the life of David. The murder of Abner by Joab (2 Samuel 3:26,27) can be interpreted in several different ways. The text goes into great detail to make clear that Abner sought to avoid personal conflict with Joab (2:18–23). It is possible to read the story of David’s mourning for Abner (3:31–39) as designed to excuse David from responsibility for the politically convenient assassination of Abner.19 For this line of interpretation to be plausible one would have to separate this story from the later revelation of David’s weakness in leaving the even more blatant murder of Amasa unpunished (20:10) If we read David’s confession of weakness in 3:39 in connection with the later story of Joab we find a story of Hertzberg (I & II Samuel, 261) presents this interpretation but decides on reflection that the assassination of Abner would not have been in David’s interest at that time. 19

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David’s inability to control those close to him, including his nephew Joab. It fits with the revelation of a David so sadly impotent before the acts of his own children. The David of the so-called Succession to the Throne of David is a figure with whom one might have sympathy on a human level (though his treatment of Uriah tests our sympathy) but he is not presented as a king to be emulated. Since Solomon is such a minor player in the story, he is not being defended as a character. The positive character portrayal of Solomon is actually later in Kings. Hence if the story is an apology for Solomon it could only be an apology by default. One has to argue that all the other contenders for the throne are eliminated by one means or another, leaving Solomon in the providence of God as the last man standing. How effective that would be as an argument we have no way of knowing because we are conjecturing an opposition to Solomon about which we know virtually nothing. Shimei was not doubting the providential fact that David stood while Saul and his family fell. but that fact was not convincing to him. Would Solomon’s mere survival have been convincing to an opposition? Further it was hardly an endorsement and commendation of Solomon to be the child of such a father and to be conceived in such circumstances.20 The perspective of the text may be that the next king must be a son of David but one could not assume that would be accepted by any potential opposition to Solomon.. Surely any opposition would contemplate the possibility of leadership coming from a different family and Jeroboam’s ancestry does not seem to have posed a problem for him. Therefore the thesis that it is an apology for Solomon is hardly strongly supported by the story in the text. One wonders if the conviction that the story must have a political purpose comes first and that leaves the only possible political purpose as an extremely weak one. Thus the action may lead up to Solomon being established on the throne but Solomon’s only legitimacy, as the story expounds it, is that he is the chosen of YHWH from a family which itself was divinely chosen. The support for Absalom’s rebellion and Sheba’s S. Isser, The Sword of Goliath: David in Heroic Literature (Studies in Biblical Literature, 6; Atlanta: Soc. of Biblical Literature, 2003), 169. 20

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break away movement point to the divine choice argument being far from universally accepted in Israel. Thus this is a strange political tract if that is what it is. Let us go back to the fact that much of Samuel consists of contrasted figures: Samuel and the sons of Eli; Jonathan and Saul: Saul and David; David and Uriah. What is revealed through such contrasts is character and the different ways in which people respond to the circumstances placed before them. Some of the issues raised by that are universal human issues. The contrast of David and Uriah places genuine enthusiasm and dedication against cynical corruption.21 Even though these issues are particularly raised by the opportunities power provides, they are still universal human issues.

CHARACTER AND LEADERSHIP Let us look at the story of David in that perspective. As argued above, the Nabal story shows that he could be foolish and rash. He did not take well to being thwarted, even if in a minor matter. It appears that that lapse was nothing but a temporary indiscretion. The same might be said for the weakness where Joab was concerned. Then comes the fall and a different David emerges not just in the gross sins of adultery and murder but also in their aftermath. We now have the impotent David whether in the face of Amnon’s rape (2 Samuel 13:21); or of Absalom’s rebellion (18:33).22 We see David overreacting to the support Absalom received from Judah and alienating the other tribes in trying to win back his own tribe (19:11–15,40–43). As mentioned before, Joab’s second elimination of a rival leads to Joab being restored to his position with the text silent on any protest from David. This is the weak David but particularly weak with respect to those close to him. Once we see that the text is concerned about the character of David and his relationships, then otherwise inexplicable stories fit. S. Bar-Efrat, Narrative Art in the Bible (Bible and Literature Series, 17; JSOT Sup., 70; Sheffield: Almond, 1989), 126–27. 22 Ibid., 83–4. 21

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The story of the census and the plague in 2 Samuel 24 obviously connects to the later story of the temple but the text seems to lack essential details particularly in not making explicit the sin of David. I suggest we have failed to grasp a key example of the author’s art. Chapter 23 gives us a list of David’s mighty men and it is a carefully arranged list. The earlier ones named raise in the reader an appreciation of the ability and dedication of the men around David. That leads us to the story of obtaining water from the well of Bethlehem (vv. 13–17). Here are men who will risk their lives to satisfy their leader’s whim. Naturally the reader wonders whether David appreciates the men who fight for him and his drink offering assures us that he does. So the question of David’s appreciation of his men has been raised and answered. Or has it? The writer leads us on until we come to the last on the list: Uriah the Hittite (v.39).23 The question we thought answered is suddenly reopened. Knowing that juxtaposition is a significant device we come to ch. 24 with the question of David’s appreciation of his faithful followers still in our minds. There we find David conducting a military census. The fact that is carried out by the army commanders (v. 4) and reported in terms of men of military potential (v. 9) makes it clear that it is a census of military strength. Why does David need this when the previous chapter has told us of his able and dedicated men? The suspicion planted in our minds by naming Uriah, just before this story, supplies the answer. The reader’s mind then goes to other incidents: David too distressed by Absalom’s death to appreciate those who risked their lives in suppressing the rebellion (19:1–8); David giving priority to Judah which was the centre of the rebellion, rather than to Israel (24:19– 15,40–43). If we see the story as a study in the character of leadership then passages such as chh. 23,24 which are normally treated as unrelated appendages have a place. We may be able to see the pattern in other sections as well. Mephibosheth keeps entering the narrative. In ch. 9 he was sought out and taken care of by David for Jonathan’s sake. On David’s flight from Jerusalem he meets B. E. Kelly Retribution and Eschatology in Chronicles (JSOT Sup., 211; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1996), 81. 23

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Ziba, Mephibosheth’s servant, who tells a story of his master’s idle dream of the kingship coming to him (16:1–4). David accepts the story. On David’s victorious return he meets Mephibosheth, who has a very different story. David makes no attempt to discern who is lying out of Ziba and Mephibosheth (19:24–30). Does the author know? Notice that he begins his account of Mephibosheth’s meeting with David by a description of a mourning Mephibosheth (v. 24), hardly the bearing of a man who thought the kingdom was about to be his. I think the author is siding with Mephibosheth.24 That does not make the indecisive David appear faithful to Jonathan. Once again a juxtaposition makes the point more forceful. Barzillai the Gileadite is mentioned immediately after Mephibosheth (19:31–39). Certainly his aid to David in a critical situation (17.:27–29) deserved reward. Yet the king’s effusiveness to Barzillai, who did not need anything anyway, compares poorly with his churlishness to the dependent Mephibosheth.25 See for a similar interpretation M. Garsiel, The First Book of Samuel: A Literary Study of Comparative Structures, Analogies and Parallels (Ramat-Gan: Revivim, 1985), 71. 25 For another treatment of the significance of these stories for the theme of the work, and a use of the stories to argue against Rost’s thesis see I. W. Provan, “On ‘Seeing’ the Trees while Missing the Forest: The Wisdom of Characters and Readers in 2 Samuel and 1 Kings” in In Search of True Wisdom: Essays in Old Testament Interpretation in Honour of Ronald E. Clements, ed. E. Ball (JSOT Sup. 300; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999), 153–73 (167–71). It is also worthy of note that seeing the contrast between the treatments of Barzillai and Mephibosheth explains why the text has no further interest in Chimham (19:37,38). Isser (The Sword of Goliath, 78) sees the lack of further mention of Chimham as evidence that an earlier tale of heroic endeavours, analogous to the stories of King Arthur and his knights, lies behind the later text. He cannot see why Chimham would be mentioned and then ignored. Indeed Isser’s whole work, with its expectation that the biblical story must rest upon tales, conjectured on the basis of those of Achilles and King Arthur, is an excellent example of the difference between reading the text based upon outside analogy and reading the text to discover the actual interest and devices of the author. When one comes with a framework drawn from 24

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J. M. Hutton has produced a different explanation of the attention paid to David’s meetings at the Jordan on his way back.26 He builds these stories into a detailed theory of the way Transjordan functions in the text and how crossing the Jordan was conceptualized as a rite of passage, so that the status of certain figures was changed as a result of this translocation. Full consideration of this theory would involve discussion of the general cross-cultural applicability of anthropological theory, a topic was outside the concerns of this work. What is relevant here is the way Hutton, working with a very elaborate source model, confronts the mystery of why the text should be so interested in these meetings. He finds the answer in seeing Transjordan as having liminal significance, analogous to what happens in rites of passage. Hence sojourn there for David is preparatory to his change of status when he crosses to the west bank. This is an excellent illustration of the way in which changes in basic approach sends investigation in vary diverse directions. If we read the story as a whole, it is an exploration of the sins and weaknesses of David. Hutton may well be correct that events are presented out of chronological order. The order in the text, I would argue, is to present David’s treatment of Barzillai, and thus Chimham, in contrast to his treatment of Mephibosheth. For the author is interested in the human and moral questions, which the story of David, the man, place before us. Breaking the story into sources removes our ability to see that focus. As a heuristic tool we

other cultures much of the text does not fit that framework. Hence one must conjecture reasons for the lack of fit between framework and text. Isser’s explanation is that the heroic tales, which must have once existed, have been haphazardly used by the author of the biblical text. Rather I would suggest that in this case, and in the failure to explain how Goliath sword came to be at Nob (see The Sword of Goliath, 127), the author is ignoring details which are not essential to his version of the story. 26 The Transjordanian Palimpsest: The Overwritten Texts of Personal Exile and Transformation in the Deuteronomistic History (BZAW, 396; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2009), 9–10.

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then turn to anthropological theory, which of its very nature is abstract and generalizing. The final mention of Mephibosheth is in the story of the Gibeonites’ revenge (ch. 21). This is another story commonly seen as a stray tradition which became attached. Its connection to the Mephibosheth theme is that this time David was faithful to his oath to Jonathan (21:7). It is probably significant that this story also has a major place for loyalty in the figure of Rizpah (v. 10). It is quite in accord with the willingness of the author to neither whitewash the heroes or blacken the villains that David’s record with respect to Mephibosheth is mixed and an example of devotion and loyalty emerges in the family of Saul. I would contend that the story makes more coherent sense if we ignore the divisions that Rost has introduced and read a connected story of the impact of power and opportunity. It is not unusual in human history that devotion and loyalty appears more clearly in followers than in kings. It is not unusual that a man has preferred disloyal family to loyal friends. In the fallen David we have a study of the dilemmas that particularly afflict kings but, to a certain extent, all of us. Loyalty appears as a theme in another way in David’s flight from Jerusalem. The text makes use of the interchange between David and Ittai to underline the irony that while David’s son is trying to kill him in a rebellion centred in David’s old capital of Hebron and hence with the backing of Judah, foreign mercenaries will fight and die for him (15:18–22). Their loyalty is made more impressive by the order “for death or for life” (v. 21). A foreigner appears in another interesting position in 17:27 where the list of the three men of substance who provision David’s forces is headed by an Ammonite. The other two are men from across the Jordan. Finally we face the intriguing question of the background of David’s double agent, Hushai the Archite. His foil, Ahithophel, is relatively easy to locate as Giloh is listed in Joshua 15:51 as a town of Judah. The only clue concerning Hushai is the mention of Archites in Joshua 16:2 in a way that seems to indicate they were among the indigenous inhabitants of the land. Philistines fight for David, an Ammonite provides him with supplies and a Canaanite is his double agent. Surely there is a lesson here about one’s true friends. All we can say is that David failed to understand the lesson.

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The recurrence of themes of loyalty, appreciation and betrayal in so many different ways inclines me to believe that they bind together the story of David as king. David’s family problems, which Nathan’s prophecy links to his betrayal of Uriah (12:9–12), prevented his seeing that point.

CIRCULARITY OF ARGUMENT Placing this understanding of the text in comparison with that reached by D. M. Gunn yields some interesting results.27 Gunn has some sage criticism of Rost’s political interpretation and of some other suggestions that have been made concerning the genre of the “Succession to the Throne of David”.28 He concludes that its purpose is entertainment but specifies that it is “serious” entertainment.29 From the perspective of the present work, the significant thing is that Gunn has been influenced by Rost in the delimitation of the work to which he seeks to assign a genre. While he debates the beginning of the story and some other passages he concurs with Rost that 2 Samuel 23 and 24 are not part of this source. Suppose we were to go the other way and assume that they belong. Then we have to look for connections and, as I have suggested, we find it in the strategic placement of Uriah the Hittite and thus in the raising of questions about David’s appreciation of those around him. That then must influence how we read the rest of the story. Once again we have two arguments in a circle. If we assume all the present text belongs together then we will come to one reading of the text. The other position would eliminate parts of the present text and, not surprisingly, that leads to a different interpretation. How do we decide what to remove before we know what the text is about? Gunn’s method is: first determine what of the present text belongs to this particular story and then determine the story’s purpose. For example Gunn agrees with Rost that 2 Samuel 21 is not a part of the succession narrative. Gunn’s The Story of King David. Genre and Interpretation (JSOTS 6; Sheffield: JSOT, 1978). 28 Ibid., 19–30. 29 Ibid., 61. 27

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reason is that it differs in religious outlook and is linked via the plague motif with ch. 24.30 Thus the exclusion of ch. 24 becomes a ground for excluding another chapter. That then limits the ways in which the text may be read. If chh. 21 and 24 are included we might come to a more complex picture of the religious outlook of the text. While differences in style are frequently invoked as reasons for eliminating certain parts of texts, the lack of consensus with such arguments and the tendency for style arguments to interact in complex ways with content arguments makes one conclude that they are less than totally objective. It all leads to the suspicion that we are determining what belongs to the text before we know what the text is about. In that situation it is highly likely that intuitions, about the meaning of the text, influence decisions about what to remove and what to retain. If we go back to the story of David’s rise to power, with its frequent comparisons to Saul, then the lessons are somewhat different but they are there. The David, that refrains from murdering Saul; that uses the ephod to obtain direction from God; that defends the men of Keilah, though they would not defend him (1 Samuel 23:1–12), triumphs. The Saul who is the antithesis of this ultimately perishes. So far I have argued that we may read the story as a whole, concentrating on those parts where David is the main figure. Before leaving this to consider other passages and problems, it is necessary to underline one point. A reading of the text that sees portions of it as concerned to advance the political cause of individuals or institutions must divide the text simply because David is not uniformly treated positively. An approach which sees it as conveying a theological and moral message is not under the same necessity to divide the text.

THE SAMUEL NARRATIVE It has been argued that the account of the birth of Samuel consists of a conflation whereby an account, originally describing the birth

30

The Story of King David, 68.

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of Saul, has been taken over for the birth of Samuel.31 There are two main planks to the argument. One is that the explanation given in 1:20 for the name “because I asked him from YHWH” involves the root $’l “ask” which is the basis of the name Saul. It does not fit so well with the name Samuel. Various explanations of the name Samuel have been proposed. S. R. Driver argues for an archaic name meaning “Name of God”32 McCarter inclines to a variant of this explanation but notes that the name and the explanation in the text would best accord if was taken to mean “He-who-is-fromGod”, i,e., $eme’el.33 There is an alternative explanation which does not depend on the unlikely appropriation of another’s birth account. Driver argued that the connection of name and explanation in Hebrew names often depends not on etymology but assonance and gives clear examples.34 It may be that the number of allusions that could be heard in the name, such as “ask”, ‘from God’ and possibly, though not dwelt on in the text, “name” ($m), “heard” ($m’) lay behind the choice of the name. The second plank to McCarter’s argument is that Samuel’s introduction as a Nazirite is more appropriate to the warrior Saul. This is a weak argument depending on slender evidence. The Nazirite element is a minor part of the text. It occurs only in Hannah’s vow where she says that the child’s hair would not be cut (1:11). Alcoholic drinks come into the account, not in a prohibition to Hannah which would be analogous to the prohibition to Samson’s mother (Judges 13:7), but in Hannah’s refutation of Eli’s false charge (1 Samuel 1:12–15). The actual account of the birth and of the delivery of Samuel to the sanctuary contain no Nazirite allusions. Hypothetically it might be true that the slender allusion to Nazirite requirements is all that is left after the original account was turned to serve a new purpose but there is no evidence Saul was a McCarter, I Samuel, 62, 64–66. Notes on the Hebrew Text and Topography of the Books of Samuel (Oxford: Clarendon, 2nd ed., 1913), 16–19. 33 McCarter, I Samuel, 62. 34 Notes on the Hebrew Text, 16. See also R. P. Gordon, 1.& 2 Samuel (Exeter: Paternoster, 1986), 23. 31 32

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Nazirite. To weaken the case still further, there is no evidence for a necessary or even customary association of Nazirites and warriors. There is no trace of the connection in the law of Numbers 6. What has happened is that the sole case of Samson, a deviant from established patterns if ever there was one, has been made the norm for understanding Nazirites.35 Thus the assumption that we can read 1 Samuel 1 as a unity without the need to seek sources is a reasonable one. Given that the song of Hannah (2:1–10) is poetic, and that it breaks the sequence of the prose story, plus its lack of overt reference to the previously related events; it is almost to be expected that it will be assigned to a different source to the rest of the story.36 In accord with the methodology of this work, let us reverse the logic and see what happens. We have already seen, in the song of Deborah, a case where the poetic version interrupts the prose account. We would therefore conclude that the difference between poetic and prose accounts was seen as so clear and unambiguous, especially when there is a heading such as Judges 5:1 and 1 Samuel 2:1, that the author could resume the prose narrative without needing to give special clues to the reader of what was happening. In other words we should use the practice of the biblical text to tell us what biblical authors did, rather than conjecturing what they must have done on repeated occasions. Exodus 15 and Judges 5 are cases where the events of the prose narrative are clearly alluded to in the poetic version. The only obvious connection to the prose narrative in Hannah’s song is the reference to the barren one in 2:5 and even then it is not specifically Hannah who is mentioned. In that respect Hannah’s song is roughly analogous to 2 Samuel 22, Jonah 2 and Habakkuk 3 where the lack of obvious connection between the psalms and their McCarter does not mention Weber but the influence is obvious. As part of his search for external analogies to create categories into which he could fit the sociology of ancient Israel, Weber made the Nazirites comparable to Scandinavian berserk. See M. Weber, Ancient Judaism trans. and ed. H. G. Gerth and D. Martindala (New York: Free Press, 1952), 94–5. 36 McCarter, I Samuel, 74–6; Hertzberg, I & II Samuel, 29–31. 35

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headings is well known. Of course all of these are explained in terms of late insertions of heterogenous material, whether in respect to the poem or the heading. Even if that is true it shows that at some stage a close match of poetic content and surrounds was not expected. If that is the case, how do we know that at an earlier stage close correspondence was always expected? In effect I am arguing that bare data has more than one possible interpretation. The bare data is the perceived lack of fit of the poetic material and its surrounding material. It is just as plausible that biblical composers did not see that as a necessary problem as it is to argue that it proves clumsy insertion. All must concede that at some point of time the problem was not seen. The late insertion argument assumes that there is a difference between the time of original composition when the problem would have been seen and the later period when it was not seen. Thus it depends upon a change in sensitivity during the biblical period. Alternatively it could be asserted that arguing a late insertion is not necessary. Hannah’s song may well be early; may even have been put in place by the original author of these chapters, but the crucial thing is that it is probably a case of a poem originally composed for another occasion which has had a secondary use. On this line of argument historiographic and historical considerations intersect. Once it is granted that close overlap of content might not have been expected, the only ground for arguing that this poem originally had another context is the allusion to the king in 2:10. Appealing to this feature entails a historical argument that premonarchy Hannah could not have made reference to a king. In historiographical terms it does not exclude the one author controlling both the poetic and the prose account.37 In this context I must go back to what I argued with respect to the composition of Note the argument that the Song of Hannah at the beginning of Samuel stands over against the Song of David (2 Samuel 23:1–7).at the end. At the beginning the powerless wife trusts in divine power to vindicate right and thus sets the tone for the book; at the end the powerful king acknowledges the divine source of his power. See W. Brueggemann, “2 Samuel 21–24: An Appendix of Deconstruction?” CBQ 50 (1988): 396–97. 37

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Judges. Unity of authorship, as I am defining it, does not exclude the use of sources but it does exclude random composition where the sources are not really under the control of the composer.38 The message of the man of God in 2:27–36 is commonly ascribed to a redactor. As theories about the enfolding of “protoSamuel” into the “Deuteronomistic History” vary, so may the supposed identity of that redactor. There are two features which encourage the tendency to detach this section from its surrounds. One is the mere fact that it mentions a prophet. McCarter posits a similarity to the message of the man of God in 1 Kings 13:1–3.39 Aside from the fact that both figures are referred to as a ‘man of God’ and each delivers a message of future judgment, there is not much specific similarity. McCarter is reasoning for a recension which he sees as specifically reflecting prophetic perspectives.40 The difficulty with this is to find something in Samuel which does not reflect the perspective of the prophets! The second factor encouraging attempts to separate this section is speculation about the “faithful priest” of v. 35 and the mention of “my anointed” in the same verse. Having identified the “author” of this section as a redactor with prophetic interests McCarter finds it relatively easy to interpret the prophecy as referring to the triumph of the Zadokite priests.41 Those who proceed from the words of the prophecy itself have more difficulty because the prophecy is clearly referring to Eli and his sons but also may be stretching into a more distant future.42 Rather than proceeding from general theories of the redaction of the Deuteronomistic History which are quite uncertain, let us reason in terms of the data before us. One chain of reasoning This is not to be taken as saying that Hannah could not have spoken of a king. Data rarely necessitates only one interpretation. If the references to a king in Deuteronomy and Judges are early, then Hannah could have spoken these words in her historical context. 39 I Samuel, 92. 40 Ibid., 18–23. 41 Ibid., 93. 42 Hertzberg, I & II Samuel, 37–9; Driver, Notes on the Hebrew Text, 40–2. 38

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might be that the reference to “my anointed” is clearly to a king; therefore the text cannot have been written until after there was a king; therefore it is later than the surrounding text.43 At almost every step this reasoning has problems and unproved assumptions. Whoever wrote the text obviously believed in the reality of predictive prophecy. There is no reason why he would not place a prophecy implying monarchy in the pre-monarchy period. At the very most, one might argue that to be contemporaneous with the surrounding text, that surrounding text must have been written in the monarchy period. That is surely not too wild a supposition. Since the surrounding text refers to Israel’s recognition that Samuel was a prophet (3:20) it assumes that prophecy was a known phenomena. Thus, assuming that all this material was written by the one person, that person should have no problem placing another prophet in this period. Even in this minimal chain of reasoning there are steps and hidden assumptions which bother me. It seems as though there is a tendency in scholarship to see a prophecy and to say that it must be late. The probable source of this is not difficult to guess. It flows from a secular assumption that predictive prophecy is impossible. Therefore all prophecy must be after the event. Suppose we grant this for the sake of the discussion. How long after the event does it have to be? McCarter thinks the “faithful prophet” refers to the triumph of Zadok consequent on the banishment of Abiathar, the descendant of Eli, early in the reign of Solomon.44 In support he has the clear allusion to this prophecy in 1 Kings 2:27. Yet he assigns this prophecy to a redactor writing in the age of Josiah. On his own evidence he is justified in doing no more than dating it in or after the reign of Solomon unless a whole other set of debatable propositions are introduced. Even if those propositions with respect to the composition of the Deuteronomistic History are

Since the text is implicitly pro-monarchy, the debate may be complicated by views of whether pro-monarchy views are early or late. 44 I Samuel, 92–3. 43

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arguable in general terms, their application to this particular text will always be tenuous.45 Let us go a step further. May a secular aversion to predictive prophecy be closing our eyes to other possibilities? We are dealing here with a society in which at least some members believed in the reality of predictive prophecy. Therefore it is reasonable to assume that such prophecies were made. Prophecies are still made in our secular age so surely they would have been in that age. Even on the most secular assumptions some of them would be at least approximately fulfilled, even if only accidentally. Those would then be the ones which are likely to be remembered and recorded. Thus even on the most secular assumptions I can challenge the assumption that mention of a prophecy means the text must be late. That is not to deny that prophecies with very specific fulfilment such as the mention of Josiah in 1 King 13:2 cannot be early on secular assumptions.46 It is merely to point out that many prophecies are not that specific. Thus I am arguing that a whole set of assumptions are involved in making this prophecy a late insertion and those assumptions are not certain. It seems to me likely that the prophecy was seen to have reference to the immediate family of Eli but also a longer term implication reflected in the claim of 1 Kings 2:27.

THE “ARK NARRATIVE” As mentioned earlier, Rost’s influential thesis separated an “Ark Narrative’, comprising 1 Samuel 4:1b–18a, 19–21; 5:1–11b,12; 6:1–3b, 4,10–14,16; 6:19–7:1; 2 Samuel 6:1–15, 17–20a.47 The obvious problem with separating out this unit is that the story of For a survey of discussions critical of older notions of the Deuteronomistic History see A. G. Auld, “The Deuteronomists and the Former Prophets or What Makes the Former Prophets Deuteronomistic?” in Those Elusive Deuteronomists. The Phenomenon of PanDeuteronomism, ed. L. S. Schearing and S. L. McKenzie (JSOT Sup. 268; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999), 116–26. 46 Even here I might be faulted by the suggestion that Josiah was given his name in the light of knowledge of the prophecy! 47 The Succession to the Throne of David, 13. 45

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the judgment on Eli’s family is put in the Ark Narrative while the background to that judgment and the prophecy of it in chh. 1–3 are placed in a supposedly different source. That means that Eli, Hophni and Phinehas appear in the Ark Narrative without proper introduction and, without the account of the sins of the priesthood; thus the defeat and the judgment are unexplained. This is partly overcome by McCarter when he, following Miller and Roberts, makes 2:12–17,22–25 part of the Ark Narrative.48 What this does is to take passages which condemn the sons of Eli out of ch. 2 and attach them to the Ark Narrative. That is certainly an improvement on Rost because it makes explicable the text’s interest in the death of Hophni and Phinehas and the impact on their family. However this also removes one side of the comparison being developed in ch. 2. Note that in excluding 2:18–21 from the Ark Narrative, the depiction of Samuel in contrast to the sons of Eli is removed. Since the contrast is obviously deliberate and is being developed in ch. 1 as well (v. 3b), one would have to assign the contrast to a later redactor, who just happened to find material ideally suited to contrast in his sources. Miller and Roberts argue that the appearance of Samuel in the story of the family of Eli in ch. 2 is a secondary development so that the originally independent story of Eli and his family has been combined with the story of Samuel. Their argument for this is that while Samuel is brought into interaction with Eli he is not closely related to Eli’s sons.49 Let us explore that thought a little further. Suppose the supposed “redactor” who combined the two accounts had created a scene where the infant Samuel rebuked the sins of Hophni and Phinehas, would he then have removed our purported ability to discern that ch. 2 combines two stories and would he, consequentially, have undermined the whole case for a distinct Ark Narrative? Let us now explore the logically alternate possibility. Suppose the author of this unified section contrasted the sons of Eli with Samuel but created no story of interaction either because his knowledge of the I Samuel, 26. See P. D. Miller, Jr., and J. J. M. Roberts, The Hand of the Lord. A Reassessment of the “Ark Narrative” in 1 Samuel (Johns Hopkins Near Eastern Studies; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins U.P., 1977), 18–22. 49 The Hand of the Lord, 20–21. 48

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history, however obtained, told him that Samuel was a small child ignored by the brothers or because his purpose was secured purely by contrast. Would that failure, though understandable, prove, contrary to fact, that we have here two stories combined? The point is that Miller and Roberts have seen the implausibility of Rost’s beginning to the Ark Narrative. They have not followed the logic of that realisation to seeing that the integration of the Ark Narrative with the story of Eli’s family, which is in turn integrated with the story of Samuel, has further consequences. Once again it is simpler to ascribe the contrasts to the original author. That is especially the case when we remember that contrast of characters is a common feature of this book.50 Miller and Roberts further buttress their case by reference to the prophecy of the anonymous prophet in 2:27–36. They argue that the similarity of this to the word of God to Samuel in 3:11–14 proves that one is redundant and since the prophecy in ch. 3 alludes back to the earlier one, it is the story of ch. 3 involving Samuel which is later and secondary.51 Notice again the principle of economy being invoked: the author would not have told two similar stories, even when the second story has the additional function of telling how Samuel was called to be a prophet. In the course of their analysis Miller and Roberts raise a possibility. They suggest that the Eleazar, who was consecrated for the service of the ark in 7:1, may have been, originally, the “faithful priest” predicted in 3:35, only to be subsequently overshadowed by the Zadokites, hence the secondary interpretation in 1 Kings 2:27.52 This interpretation goes along with regarding Samuel as secondary to ch. 2 and hence not seen as the object of the prediction. Given the lack of information on Eleazar, this suggestion is difficult to refute or confirm. It does raise a significant issue for the reading of the text. It is often observed that Samuel, the seemingly obvious For another argument for the integrity of this whole section see A. Wénin, Samuel et l’instauration de la monarchie (1 S 1–12). Une recherche littéraire sur le personnage (Publications Universitaires Européennes Série XXIII, 342; Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1988), 21–114. 51 The Hand of the Lord, 21. 52 Ibid., 25–6. 50

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object of the prediction is never depicted as the successor of Eli and the full priestly role. As de facto national leader and spiritual guide he does appear to be the successor but not in the priestly role. His supposed late appearance, in terms of the literary history of 1 Samuel 1–7 is used, as mentioned earlier, to explain this. Once again there seems a hidden premise of the infinite malleability of the story in the hands of the composers. If the author knows, as I Samuel 7:1, 2 indicates, that the ark remained for twenty years at Kiriath-jearim and that the descendants of Eli maintained a cult at Nob with the ephod as a central feature (1 Samuel 21) and, besides that, he knows that Samuel’s activity was differently located and differently focused (1 Samuel 7), how could he be expected to depict Samuel as the successor to Eli’s functions? As put this question assumes a historicity to the details of the account but the question may be easily modified to remove that assumption simply by asking whether the “inventor” of this story could make Samuel the fulfilment of the prophecy and be consistent with his account of the later history of the ark and the house of Eli. Seeing the contrast in chh. 1–3 as original must flow through to our reading of ch. 4 as the fulfilment of the themes being developed in the earlier chapters. In turn the thesis of a separate Ark Narrative crumbles. M. Garsiel has made an observation about chapters 4 and 7 which further weakens the theory of an Ark Narrative.53 He finds parallels between the two battles at Ebenezer developed so as to create the contrast between defeat for Israel while Eli was the leader and victory when Samuel was leader. Besides the obvious clue of the location, there are some pointed comparisons or contrasts. In 4:1 the Philistines gather but in 7:5 it is Israel who gather. In a comparison very significant for the theology of the story, the elders of Israel seek the ark that it may save them (4:3) but in 7:8 the children of Israel request prayer that ‘YHWH our God’ may save them.54 In a reverse comparison it is The First Book of Samuel, 41–4. See also Wénin, Samuel et l’instauration de la monarchie, 95–7. A.. F. Campbell has attempted a defence of a form of Ark Narrative thesis which separates ch. 4 from chh. 1–3 (“Yahweh and the Ark: A Case Study in Narrative,” JBL 98 [1979]: 31–43). He argues correctly that the 53 54

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the Philistines who were afraid in 4:7—yet they won—whereas in 7:7 it was the Israelites who were afraid—but nevertheless won. There are other similarities of wording. This observation of Garsiel is of particular significance because the absence of Samuel from the texts that have been assigned to the Ark Narrative is often observed by proponents of the thesis of a separate source.55 If Garsiel is correct that data has another explanation. Samuel has to be omitted so as not to obscure the point being made that Eli’s sons are connected with defeat and Samuel with victory.56 Another argument for the separation of an Ark Narrative is the fact that the Ark is the prime mover and replaces the human characters as centre of the story.57 Careful attention to the text will indicate that there is a dangerous simplification in this formulation of the nature of the story. Above I pointed to Garsiel’s observation of the contrast between 4:3 and 7:8 where one anticipation—and a false one—looked to the ark for salvation over against a rewarded prayer to YHWH for salvation. The falsity of the elders’ anticipation is underlined by the title given to the ark as it comes to the Israelite camp: “the ark of the covenant of YHWH of hosts, the one who sits (or ‘enthroned’) upon the cherubim” (4:4). Surely this is an emphatic way of stating that God was not enclosed in the emphasis in the description of the defeat of Israel and in the incident of the death of Eli and his daughter-in-law falls upon the loss of the ark. He then sees this as an argument against seeing the story in ch. 4 as about judgement on Eli’s house. One of the supporting planks of the argument is that one would not expect the whole nation to be judged for the sins of the priestly family. However that is ignoring the element of Israel’s false faith. I suggest that the author is both making a point about false faith and showing how the prophecy about Eli’s house received a partial fulfilment. Once again the issue may be whether we expect complexity in biblical narrative. 55 McCarter, I Samuel, 107; Hertzberg, I & II Samuel, 46–7. 56 For a similar explanation see Willis, “An Anti-Eliade Narrative,” 297–99. 57 Rost, The Succession to the Throne of David, 26; McCarter, I Samuel, 107; Hertzberg, I & II Samuell, 47.

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box. Hence when the Philistines and their gods experienced discomfort and affliction, we are not to read an exaltation of the ark as object. That would make the part of the story concerned with Philistia to contradict the point being made over against Israel. All this makes more implausible the thesis that the purpose of the story was to exalt the ark as the central object of the Jerusalem cult. If the story is basically about the ark then it conveys the message that the ark did nothing good for Israel while in native hands but was singularly effective when held by foreigners. That is a most unlikely cult legend of the Jerusalem sanctuary. Rather the point is that YHWH was not lacking in power but refused to act for those who took him for granted, even punished them. Thus the story is one of false hope. It forms a prelude to the demand for a king where mistaken hopes will again be explored. Another suggestion by Garsiel would link the ravages of YHWH upon the Philistines with the plagues upon Egypt.58 The Philistines themselves make the connection in 4:8 and 6:6. While the ark was held captive the people and gods of Philistia were afflicted as with the plagues against Egypt. Finally they were forced to release it with gifts, thus further echoing the Exodus story. Once again Garsiel cites further verbal parallels. The patterning of the story on the plagues in Egypt further diminishes the likelihood that the purpose was to exalt the ark when it rather focuses attention on YHWH. While Rost devotes considerable attention to the style and analogies of the Ark Narrative, he misses this connection.59 Part of the reason may be because he was comparing the story with the “sources” of Exodus rather than with the book of Exodus. Another reason may be that his early date for the Ark Narrative, in the time of David or Solomon,60 would exclude its being based upon a narrative containing large elements of the “late” Priestly Source. One cannot find what one cannot seek. Rost incorporated parts of 2 Samuel 6 into his Ark Narrative. Not to have done so would have left his thesis and methodology The First Book of Samuel, 51–4. The Succession to the Throne of David, 13–22. 60 Ibid., 34. 58 59

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with a fatal flaw, because he would not have had a conclusion from which he could reason to the political purpose of the story. Miller and Roberts give the story a theological purpose without explicit acknowledgment that they are approaching the story with a different presupposition.61 Miller and Roberts support their disjunction of 2 Samuel 6 from the story by appealing to the data they assemble, primarily from Mesopotamia, on explanations for the taking of cult images as a result of victories.62 While the story of the ark in Philistine territory has similarities with such explanations of the absence of a cult image in the fact that the anger of the deity is given as a reason for the loss of the image, they think 2 Samuel 6 fits better with stories of the return of the image due to the presence and activity of a “pious” monarch. The affinities between the story of the ark on 1 Samuel and 2 Samuel 6 can be explained by the dependence of the writer of the latter on the former account.63 As I am not defending the thesis of an Ark Narrative, the issue of its limits is not crucial for me. However I think these arguments are weak. Granted that stories explaining the absence of the cult image may be different from stories telling of its triumphant return, there is nothing to stop an author combining peculiarities of both in a narrative. Affinities between narratives may be explained by the dependence of a later one upon an earlier one but that just presents us with an insolvable methodological problem. How do we separate the similarities that flow from a later author depending upon an earlier text from the similarities that arise from an author telling a connected story? I know of no sure test. I think that two fundamentally different assumptions are being fought out through flimsy arguments regarding the nature of sections of narrative. Rost sees political purpose and cuts the cloth of the text accordingly. The theological reading given by Miller and Roberts fits better with a unit that ends at 1 Samuel 7:1. My sympathies are clearly with giving the story of the ark a theological message but in large measure that is a presupposition. Further the The Hand of the Lord, 69–75. The Succession to the Throne of David, 9–17. 63 Ibid., 22–26. 61 62

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theological reading I would give it contains a message about false confidence and presuming upon God and connects it to the narrative of the rise of kingship. If the “Ark Narrative” has clear connections to chh. 1–3, is it possible to retain in any form the thesis of a separate “Ark Narrative”? One logical solution is to make the Ark Narrative the prior document and to suggest that the earlier chapters were composed so as to provide a context for it. Hence the connections between the two portions of text do not need to be denied.64 That changes the shape of the argument from the necessity to argue that the figures and allusions in chh. 4–7 do not point back to chh. 1–3 to the necessity to argue that the story of the ark could stand on its own without needing the earlier chapters to give it meaning and context. The consequence is that the focus of the “Ark Narrative” must be seen as the misuse of the ark by Israel, with consequent judgment. The death of Hophni and Phinehas then becomes an accidental by-product.65 Surely this once again changes the supposed purpose of the narrative. If we see it, as Rost did, as having a political purpose in being the legend which gives importance to the ark, then presumably the elements of the story serve that purpose. One can conceive of the death of Hophni and Phinehas fitting that purpose if the logic is that they accompanied the ark while it was being misused and therefore deserved to die. However nothing in the “Ark Narrative” justifies the death of Eli and the hint of further woes to the family in the death of Phinehas’ wife and the ominous name of his son. If, as on Eynikel’s theory, the death of Hophni and Phinehas, Eli and the further disasters for the family are parts of a national disaster that is a by-product of the sin of Israel, rather than connected to their specific sin, then the story is interested in historical detail.

E. Eynikel, “The Relation between the Eli Narratives (1 Sam. 1–4) and the Ark Narrative (1 Sam. 1–6; 2 Sam. 6:1–19),” in Past, Present, Future The Deuteronomistic History and the Prophets, ed. J. C. de Moor and H. F. van Rooy (Oudtestamentische Studiën, 44; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 88–106. 65 Ibid., 100–4. 64

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That leads to a methodological problem. How do we recognise a story which originally had a very definite political objective? Conceivably, by various stretches of the imagination all stories might be declared to be politically inspired. Presumably we recognise them by the subordination of all the elements of the story to the claimed political objective. This story is supposed to serve to exalt the ark sanctuary in Jerusalem. Yet when the ark is misused it is specifically the priests who suffer and yet it is claimed that was a “tragic consequence” and not a specific punishment.66 Tragic uncaused consequences belong more to records of events without specific agendas than to political tracts. Further a story which singles out the priests as those named as victims of the national calamity seems an unlikely political document of the Jerusalem priesthood. The focus on the priestly family in the story reads as though there is something behind it. Therefore chh. 1–3 are needed.67 Another issue that arises is that of genre. The genre of stories explaining the loss of a cult image has been separated by Miller and Roberts from the genre of stories describing the triumphant return of the image. How do we know that stories representing those respective genre were preserved virtually intact in the biblical text? What prevents our present text being authored by somebody aware “The Relation between the Eli Narratives,” 104. Similar problems arise with the thesis that the Samuel story was created to strengthen the case for the Zadokite priesthood in the time of Hezekiah (A. P. B. Breytenbach, “Who Is Behind the Samuel Narrative?” in Past, Present, Future The Deuteronomistic History and the Prophets, ed. J. C. de Moor and H. F. van Rooy (OTS, 44; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 50–61). Besides the historical uncertainties in the postulate that the Jerusalem Zadokites would need bolstering against a northern cult which claimed descent from Moses, there is the problem of the very indirect form of support. If the prophecy of 1 Sam. 2:35 referred to Zadok why was that not made more explicit? Why was not Samuel explicitly presented as a forerunner to Zadok? Theories of political purpose in biblical texts which depend upon less than explicit textual detail assume an audience with great acuity in seeing the allusions. Is this the same audience that would be impervious to contradictions? 66 67

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of both and reflecting elements from both? Further, since these genre arose out of the historical events of the loss and return of images, why could not our story have been written on the basis of the events of the loss and return of the ark by somebody with no knowledge of foreign literary texts about images? The basic assumption in form criticism is that recurrent situations will give rise to a common literary form. On that very assumption, the text before us could have arisen in Israel with no outside connections. None of these speculations are provable but we should not be choosing one above the other without acknowledging what factor inclines us to a particular speculation.

THE RISE OF MONARCHY The story of the origins of Israelite monarchy in 1 Samuel contains a number of apparent changes of detail, situation, attitude and mood which have been described in terms of the redaction of varying sources.68 More recently there have been a number of attempts to see it as a more or, even completely, unitary composition.69 Even when there is a recognition that the text has a clear structure, writers continue to try to find separate sources which have been combined to form that structure.70 The situation is thus the same as we saw in relation to Genesis where, contrary to older source theories, the text can be revealed as having a most elaborate and artistic structure and yet source attributions are maintained. It is evidence that something other than the characteristics of the final text is driving the need to decompose it into sources. However my concern at the moment is somewhat For a survey of readings postulating redaction of sources see L. M. Eslinger, Kingship of God in Crisis. A Close Reading of I Samuel 1–12 (Decatur, GA: Almond, 1985), 12–38; G. E. Gerbrandt, Kingship According to the Deuteronomistic History (SBL Dissertation Series, 87; Atlanta: Scholars, 1986), 18–35. 69 See for example D. J. McCarthy, “The Inauguration of Monarchy in Israel. A Form-Critical Study of I Samuel 8–12,” Interpretation 27 (1973): 401–12; Wénin, Samuel et l’instauration de la monarchie, 117–28. 70 Eg A. D. H. Mayes, “The Rise of Israelite Monarchy,” ZAW 90 (1978): 1–19. 68

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different. What intentions have to be attributed to an author or editor in order to secure unitary readings? Are such attribution’s totally subjective, or granted that all arguments on such questions contain a measure of subjectivity, are there presuppositions which might incline one to see one explanation of intention as more plausible than another?

PHENOMENA TO BE EXPLAINED The obvious discrepancy is between positive and negative attitudes to the new monarchy and its first representative. If we include passages outside chapters 8–12 there are other problems. In 7:13,14 we receive a picture of Israelite ascendancy over the Philistines in the days of Samuel and yet in 10:5 a Philistine presence in the heart of Israel is mentioned as a casual fact and the new king’s calling is explained in 9:16 in terms of the Philistine threat. Whereas the situation which led to the request for a king is described in ch. 8 as the need for non-corrupt arbitration and justice, we see Saul as predominantly a military leader. As a result of this shift, by 12:12 the crisis which led to the demand for a king is seen as a military one, though an Ammonite threat rather than a Philistine one. Thus there is a shift in the explanation of the call for a king. There is also a shift in mood between the tense stand-off that sets offended prophet over against elders in ch. 8 and the meandering, folktale-like story of the lost donkeys in ch. 9. Chapter 9 is in turn the first of three apparently disparate accounts of the choosing of Saul: once by Samuel’s anointing, once by lot and once by acclaim after victory. While on the subject of threefold repetition, there are also three assemblies at which Samuel expresses his concern about the request for a king. If this is not enough to be explained, there is also the problem of Samuel’s instruction in 10:7,8 which disappears from view for several chapters until it becomes crucial to the first crisis of Saul’s kingship in 13:8–14.71 Resolving this problem is a central concern of V. P. Long, The Reign and Rejection of King Saul: A Case for Literary and Theological Coherence (SBL Dissertation Series; Atlanta: Scholars, 1989). For another version of the 71

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No doubt there are many other details which strike discordant notes but we might categorise the problems to be faced in terms of: a) positive and negative attitudes to monarchy b) repetition: the three choosings of Saul and the three assemblies with negative speeches. c) shifts of mood exemplified particularly by the story of the donkeys d) discrepancy of fact so that the Philistines seem both defeated and threatening; the Ammonite threat is unexpected in a story with heavy Philistine presence. e) disjunction of clearly related material: Samuel’s instructions and the unexplained delay in their execution.

THINGS THAT COME IN THREES In 8:10–18 Samuel delivers a negative picture of kingship oriented specifically to the demand for a king to “judge” them.72 That is he declares the “judgment” of the king (vv. 9,11). In spite of the failure of many commentators73 and translators to see the obvious, a play on words is clear. It will be the “judgment” of the king in an ironic sense that it is the corrupt way in which the king will exercise the authority given to him for judicial purpose and it will be the “judgment” of the king in that it will be the way God judges the people through the king. Samuel’s negative evaluation of the request for a king in 10:18,19 is much briefer and lacks specific reference to the situation. What links it to the previous instance is that it is in the context of an assembly. The final speech in 12:1–17 has firmer links. Samuel’s declaration of innocence sets him in contrast to the grasping king described in ch. 8. Further, previous occasions of same argument see Long, The Art of Biblical History (Leicester: Apollos, 1994), 201–23. 72 Wénin (Samuel et l’instauration de la monarchie, 139–43) sees this warning speech as a disobedience to the divine command to anoint a king. I see no evidence for that in the text and it creates problems with the later warning speeches. 73 H. W. Hertzberg, I & II Samuel, 72–3; D. V. Edelman, King Saul in the Historiography of Judah, 40.

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God’s raising up a deliverer are set in contrast to the seeking of a king to meet the threat of Nahash the Ammonite.74 If we accept the redactional explanation, then we posit that there existed three different explanations of the circumstances under which Samuel delivered his attack on the request for a king and the redactor has brought them together. There are also three accounts of Saul’s being chosen as king: he was anointed by Samuel, chosen by lot and acclaimed after victory. Do we posit that there also existed three separate traditions of how Saul became king and just by chance the three accounts of choosing equalled the three condemnations? That is abstractly possible but explanations which assume greater authorial intervention are more likely. The use of speeches to convey comment and evaluation without the narrator’s intervention is a well recognised device in biblical narrative.75 What better and more authoritative comment than the prophet Samuel delivering God’s judgment on events? Similarly repetition of similar incidents is a recognised device in narrative.76 In case the point has not been grasped, the author will present it another way. Thus both the repetition of the negative speeches and the repetition of stories of the selection of Saul point to authorial design. There is a particular significance to the fact that both the accounts of how Saul became king and of Samuel’s negative speeches exist in three versions. According to the classic study of Wellhausen there are two basic traditions, a pro-monarchy one from the pre-exilic period and an anti-monarchy reflection of the post-exilic period when Israel had become a religious community with a negative attitude to matters of state.77 The problem for the See Wénin, Samuel et l’instauration de la monarchie, 223–24. On the role of narrative and speech see R. Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative, ch. 4. 76 Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative, esp. chh. 5,7. 77 J. Wellhausen, Prolegomena to the History of Ancient Israel, trans. S. Black & A. Menzies (Gloucester, MA: Peter Smith, 1957), 247–57. M. Noth adheres to the same basic division (The Deuteronomistic History (JSOT Sup., 15; Sheffield: JSOT, 1981), 47). 74 75

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two traditions views is that there are three versions of each tradition. It is in response to this problem that separate local traditions, at different sanctuaries, of Saul’s rise have been postulated.78 However we need not just three sanctuaries to preserve pro-monarchy traditions of Saul’s rise. We need, logically, three different locations at which the traditions of Samuel’s negative speeches could be preserved. Thus the very pattern of the repeated speeches and the multiple means by which Saul was finally accepted as king point to the composer’s intention. That is repetition does not point to separate traditions but to the message the composer intends.79 A further implication is that the seemingly negative tone to the speeches and the positive tone of the narrative belong within one orbit. Consider the alternative. Suppose an editor was confronted with multiple traditions, either of speeches or narratives, and chose to offset those by traditions or inventions of equal number and of an opposite tendency. That would be a self conscious act. Thus it would be intentional rather than accidental and therefore the purpose would be to include both sorts of texts and their respective viewpoints. Of course it could be that there just happened to be three of each and the redactor felt obliged to insert all six and to arrange them so that there were interposed. Abstractly one cannot exclude this possibility but it is not plausible. Note that this is not excluding that there were, as a historical fact, multiple speeches and multiple factors in Saul’s accession, or at least in the tradition. It is rather emphasising that the crucial data is the way the text in its repetition and contrast is presented to us. It looks crafted; not accidental. The conclusion would be that deliberately arranged repetition and opposition points us away from mere

Hertzberg, I & II Samuel, 91. M. Buber assumes a principle of economy, arguing that anointing and public proclamation would have been sufficient for Saul to become king. Therefore the story of the lots did not belong to the oldest tradition. (“Die Erzählung von Sauls Königswahl,” VT 6 (1956): 142) One suspects an influence on Buber of the assumption that what was early was simpler and less complicated. 78 79

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redaction. Once we have excluded simple redaction we are forced to discern a more complex authorial/editorial intention. That means there has been a deliberate authorial/editorial intention to present us with different perspectives on the institution of kingship. The prime argument for redaction, namely the inclusion of multiple and varying accounts, is actually its weakness. We must therefore produce an explanation of intention which can include the contradiction and the variety. I will return to that after considering other factors which must be part of our reading of the intention behind the text.

INTERNAL AND EXTERNAL FACTORS IN THE DEMAND FOR A KING As pointed out above, the end of chapter 7 would give us the impression that Israel had no need for a war-leader king. The Philistines who have been the great earlier threat are no more a danger. At the beginning of chapter 8 the circumstances of the popular demand are the internal problem. There is no continuity to Samuel’s judicial leadership. Accordingly the demand in 8:5 is in terms of a king to judge. Obviously this relates to my discussion of the meaning of “judge” in the Book of Judges. The potential for internal disunity and conflict is concerning the elders. Subsequently, in 8:20, war leadership is introduced as a secondary consideration. Samuel’s speech in this chapter fully reflects a demand based upon the internal judicial crisis. Chapter 9 and following give us a different impression. The Philistines are very much on the ground and factors such as the height of Saul (9:2), his role as deliverer from the Philistines (9:16) and the relief of Jabesh-Gilead point to a military figure. Yet these latter passages are not totally divorced from chh. 7 and 8. Without ch. 8, ch. 9’s account of the anointing of Saul would be without context. The beginning of ch. 12 makes an explicit link to the earlier demand for a king and Samuel’s declaration of innocence in 12:3 is a contrast to the prophecy of the judgment of the king in 8:11–17. The tradition within scholarship of explaining such discontinuities by appeal to different traditions, might lead us to ascribe chh. 7–8 to a different source to chh. 9–12 with the connections ascribed to secondary redactional activity. However it has been argued above that the pattern of threefold repetitions

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binds all these chapters together. At least Samuel’s speech in 8:10– 18 is linked to the pattern of repetition and opposition and that speech is incomprehensible without the previous demand for a king. Therefore we must search for an intent which will explain this accumulation of seemingly diverse material. We have another work which also brings together internal and external factors in the need for leadership: Judges. The earlier stories in Judges are of men raised up to deliver Israel from external threat. With Judges 17 we have a transition to the internal situation which continues through to the end of the book. It is in these later chapters that the refrain occurs: “In those days there was no king in Israel; every man did what was right in his own eyes” (17:6, 21:25; see also 18:1, 19:1). That statement of affairs is enforced by the narrative of abominations and atrocities that accompanies it so that it appears as a plea for the need of a king to address the internal need for order. That combination of external and internal threat in Judges was considered in the previous chapter. The relevant point here is the similarity in combining both functions of a leader. Obviously we are touching upon the issue of intertextuality.80 Was the account of the rise of monarchy meant to be read against the background of narratives of the earlier history? Let us, for the sake of the argument, suppose that it was. Judges reserves its plea for a king until it expounds the internal crisis. It would accord well that the initial request for a king in Samuel is in terms of the royal judicial function. Yet it would not be surprising to the reader that There are two phenomena which produce very similar results and hence can be confused. An author may introduce elements into a story to encourage a reader to compare and associate one story with an existing one. A later editor may be struck by the similarity of one story to another and, whether deliberately or not, introduce elements of the other story. We cannot conclude that the resultant evidence points to the one process rather than the other without further evidence. For an example of failing to observe this distinction see Y. Zakotich, “Assimilation in Biblical Narratives. The Composition of 1 Samuel 16–18 in the Light of the Septuagint Version” in Empirical Models for Biblical Criticism ed. J. H. Tigay (Philadelphia: Uni. of Pennsylvania Press, 1985), 175–96. 80

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the king had a military function, nor especially that that function, as described in 9:16 in terms of Philistine oppression, echoes the prophecy about Samson in Judges 13:5. However this does not indicate what message the composer intended to convey by the combination of judicial and military functions nor why there is such a shift from an emphasis on one to the other. This problem must be added to the list of things which a convincing explanation of intention must explain. There are other indications that the story of the origin of monarchy is meant to be read in conjunction with what has gone before. Chapter 8 begins with a statement of the situational problem. Samuel is old and the sons who might give some continuity of leadership are corrupt. That immediately creates echoes of the situation under which Samuel entered the history: Eli was old and his sons were corrupt.81 Surely the repetition of situation leads to the expectation that it is again time for a new leader to arise.82 That of course implies that this chapter is to be read in its present location. Of course it is possible that the tradition contained quite separate stories of old leaders with corrupt sons but as with the repetitions considered earlier, it is not just the abstract likelihood of similar situations occurring in history that concerns us but the probability that both would become part of the tradition and that both would be incorporated by mere redaction in a work so that an irony is created whereby Samuel, the solution to the former unsatisfactory situation, finds himself in a similar situation. The actual request for a king in 8:5 has similarity to the language of Deuteronomy 17:14. Once again difficult questions of Eslinger, Kingship of God in Crisis, 251. McCarter (I Samuel, 160) has a different explanation: the parallel with Eli’s corrupt sons, which he accepts, is an argument against hereditary succession in leadership and thus against the kingship which the people demand. This is not impossible but the text is starting with the age of Samuel and putting the corruption of the sons in the second position. Age of itself stresses the need of replacement, especially when the situation parallels an old leader who was replaced. 81 82

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the interrelationship of texts arise. Can anything be said without an extensive review of the scholarship on the date of Deuteronomy relative to that of Samuel or the dates of their hypothetical sources? What is of major concern to us in the present discussion is not the question of date but of priority. Suppose Deuteronomy 17:14 existed prior to 1 Samuel 8. The straight-forward reading of Deuteronomy 17 is that it allows for the appointment of a king. It would make sense for those asking for a king to echo its language. Admittedly that would add a problem for an author who includes it in a context which is hostile to the request but that belongs to the issues a unitary reading must eventually surmount. Let us consider the alternate possibility: the priority of 1 Samuel 8. It is harder to imagine Deuteronomy’s acceptance of such a request if it has already been described as rebellion against God in an existing source where a prophet speaks for God. Therefore a reasonable hypothesis is that we are meant to read 1 Samuel 8 in sequence to Deuteronomy. It is not just ch. 8 which contains such echoes of prior texts. Chapter 9 begins with a man who plays virtually no role in the actual story: Kish. He functions only as the off-the-stage father of Saul. Yet the very way Kish is described points us to the first verse of the book and the introduction of Elkanah the father of Samuel. Once the connection is realised then one sees also the function of the strange introduction of Kish. By reviving the reader’s memory of Elkanah it gives a signal that this man’s son is to replace Samuel in leadership.83 Once again we are confronted with patterns which could have arisen accidentally but which are more plausibly explained as deliberate. Both chapters 8 and 9 begin by reminding the reader of the rise of Samuel. Two independent works could each have chosen to begin their accounts by allusion to the existing story of

83The

telling of the story in such a way as to legitimate the kingship of Saul tells against theories which see the text as opposed to kingship as long as that kingship is not the rule of David. See R. E. Clements, “The Deuteronomistic Interpretation of the Founding of the Monarchy in I Sam. VIII,” VT 24 (1974): 398–410.

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the rise of Samuel but a connection between these two sections is more likely. Certainly an alternate possibility is that a redactor took a cue from chapter 8 and added an allusion to the story of the birth of Samuel to the existing separate tradition of how Saul became king. The strongest evidence against this is the cumulative weight of evidence that the stories are to be read in sequence to earlier stories. If the focus on both internal and external needs for monarchy links both 8 plus 9–12 with Judges and both chh. 8 and 9 contain hints of the earlier part of 1 Samuel, then the thesis of consecutive reading becomes more plausible. The last two deliverers in Judges, Jephthah and Samson, confront, respectively, Ammonite and Philistine threats. Saul is introduced as war leader in terms of both of those threats. Once again we have linkage.

PRO- AND ANTI-MONARCHY BIAS RE-EXAMINED It has become common to divide these chapters into sources which were opposed in their attitude to the monarchy. What I have done so far is to argue structures and themes which make it harder to find two clearly separate sources. It is time to examine more closely the “bias” of the sources. Certainly there are tendencies but far from simple ones. Chapter 8 is opposed to the request for a king but it contains signals which point in another direction. It begins by describing a situation so close to that of Eli and his sons that the reader is prepared to accept the need for a new leader. It contains a clear allusion to Deuteronomy 17:14, a passage which allows for the appointment of a king. God, despite his scruples and objections, tells Samuel to do as requested (vv. 9, 22).84 Are these what we Eslinger (Kingship of God in Crisis, 259–81) resolves the tensions within ch. 8 by distinguishing the voice of the narrator from those of Samuel and YHWH. I can accept the distinction between the narrator and Samuel, especially because 8:7 may be read as a criticism of Samuel for putting personal hurt in front of prophetic duty. Distinguishing the opinion of narrator and that of YHWH may conform to literary theories but I think it unlikely in the historical context of the writing and 84

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expect in an anti-monarchy tract? Add to this the fact that, in the other two descriptions of assemblies, words of condemnation are linked to acceptance of a king (10:18–21; 12:6–13).85 The latter two cases might be explained as products of redaction of pro- and antimonarchy sources but in chapter 8 the elements are much more tightly mixed and once again the later chapters add cumulative evidence. The pro-monarchy narratives seem more uniform. On closer examination one might refine that to say that their ambiguity is more subtle. Again and again Saul is shown to be God’s choice. The subtle undercurrent raises questions about the nature and suitability of this man. Garsiel has drawn attention to a number of these. The choosing by lot raises the unsavoury parallel of Achan.86 Cutting the oxen into pieces reminds us of the Levite of Judges 19 who is not portrayed as a man of resolution.87 Saul’s ignorance of Samuel, as contrasted with his servant’s awareness, is troubling. Other details might better be described as deliberate ambiguities whose meaning will become obvious in time. Any positive interpretation of the initial description of Saul’s external appearance in 9:2 will be refuted through the contrast of Eliab and David in 16:6–7.88 Perhaps we should add the account of Saul as prophet to these deliberate ambiguities. That Saul should participate in the activity of the prophets in 10:5–13 seems positive, especially when it is combined with the information that the Spirit has changed him. Yet what is the force of the proverb: “Is Saul also among the prophets?” Taken positively it could express the surprise that such an unlikely prospect has “got religion”. If it is meant to be taken positively, then what is the meaning of the seemingly disparaging preservation of this text that the author would be distancing himself from YHWH. See also his “Viewpoints and Point of View in I Samuel 8–12,” JSOT 26 (1983): 61–76. 85 See further Gerbrandt, Kingship According to the Deuteronomistic History, 143. 86 Garsiel, The First Book of Samuel, 83. 87 Ibid., 83–4. 88 Ibid., 82.

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remark about the paternity of the prophets? Or is the proverb to be taken negatively as the sceptically knowing remark of those who really know this Saul? With consideration for the prevalence of allusion and repetitions in 1 Samuel we should not see the second instance of Saul’s prophesying as a separate tradition of the origin of the proverb.89 Rather we see how the initial scepticism and surprise has been confirmed. The raving naked Saul of 19:23,24 has resolved the ambiguity. In accord with the whole tragedy of Saul, this is a man destroyed rather than redeemed by encounter with the divine. The scepticism expressed by the original use of the proverb has developed to outright incredulity.90 Thus the so-called anti-monarchy passages entice the reader to expect a new leader and show God’s approval of the selection of a king. The “pro-monarchy” stories subtly undermine the chosen king. Surely put together that says that the point is not political systems considered in the abstract as though we could take modern theoretical political debates back into biblical times. The composer is concerned with something more sophisticated than the for-andagainst of theoretical political debate.

THE AMBIGUITY OF THE PHILISTINE THREAT A straight forward reading of I Samuel 7:13,14 would indicate that we should not expect Philistines in Israelite territory until after Samuel’s death nor should we expect a war of liberation while the prophet was still alive. The reader is then surprised when we encounter a very real Philistine threat the moment we are introduced to Saul in ch. 9. That drives us back to examining the end of ch. 7 again. Verse 15 has clear echoes of the formula used to conclude the description of some of the judges (Judges 12:7; Contra V. Eppstein, “Was Saul also among the Prophets?” ZAW 81 (1969): 297 who sees two different versions of folk explanations of a proverbial phrase. Similarly M. Buber’s interesting exposition of the passage suffers from the necessity to make the second instance of the proverb unconnected to the first (“Die Erzählung von Sauls Königswahl”, 139–40). 90 Jobling, The Sense of Biblical Narrative, 1.18. 89

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16:31). The summary description of success against the Philistines during Samuel’s life also has echoes because such summaries are used with other judges (Judges 3:30, 4:23,24, 8:28). The summary character of the end of I Samuel 7 anticipates summaries of later rulers such as I Kings 14:30 and 15:32. Thus the reader is being prepared by the concluding formulae of the end of 1 Samuel 7 to see this as the end of Samuel’s “reign” and to anticipate a new ruler. Note that this is happening in the section which is supposedly hostile to the monarchy. Yet the problem is that Samuel does not die. The last verses of the chapter give us his continuing activity as a judge and he remains as a major actor in the ensuing drama. Once more the text seems to give us confusing signals. Assigning chapter 7 and the connected chapter 8 to a different source as contrasted to chapter 9 resolves that problem but I have argued above that a complex pattern of repetition and opposition binds chh. 8 and 9 as a literary unit. The continuing life of Samuel is not merely a contrast between chapters 7 and 9. Concluding formulae combined with continuing activity also places the end of 7 in contrast with chapter 8, although chapters 7 and 8 are clearly linked. McCarter sees the concluding formulae of ch. 7 as evidence of Deuteronomistic redaction. He also sees the impression conveyed in the summation as intended to undermine the request for a king in ch. 8.91 Thus for McCarter redactional activity explains the similarity to the formulae summarising reigns. This explanation provides us with an opportunity to explore explaining similarities by common redaction. Clearly regnal summaries are very similar and for that reason explaining them as resulting from common redactional activity is plausible. However this case is particularly interesting, especially if we postulate a common source for such formulae. For it should have been even more obvious to the redactor that the formulae, for Samuel, were in the wrong place. Samuel’s activity was not at an end. Further a redactional overlay implies that the bulk of the text already exists: that is the account of Samuel’s continuing activity found in the following chapters, 91

McCarter, I Samuel, 147–51.

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including the fact that warfare with the Philistines is continuing. The point is made even more acute if, with McCarter, we adopt the reasonable proposition that the picture at the end of ch. 7 is meant to prejudice us against the request for a king in ch. 8, because that means the ending of ch. 7 has ch. 8 with the continuing activity of Samuel in view. This discussion leads us to the difficult question of discerning the intent of the “redactor”. A redactor woodenly adding formulae may be conceptualised and distinguished from an author or an editor. A wooden and clumsy redactor might be expected to put things in the wrong place. However somebody introducing information designed to prejudice the interpretation of the coming text is a different issue. We cannot escape our dilemma by positing that a later redactor has ruined the anti-monarchy theme of 7 and 8 by inserting a summary of Samuel’s activity which prepares us for Saul. It has been argued above that the supposed anti-monarchy chapter 8 has other such signals that we should expect a new leader. There is no reason to ascribe an extra signal to a later source. Further by depicting Samuel’s period of leadership as successful in averting the Philistine threat, the end of chapter 7 is implicitly undermining one of the reasons given for the need of a new ruler. Thus it belongs with the anti-monarchy flavour of chh. 7 and 8. Thus our composer must know that Samuel lives on and is active into the era of Saul. Yet we are presented at this point in the narrative with a summary of an era extending to the death of Samuel together with a characterisation of that era. The subsequent text will tell us that there was a period of Samuel-Saul overlap and that during this time conflict occurred with the Philistines. The intention must be to ascribe to Samuel the credit for victory over the Philistines in the period of Samuel-Saul overlap92 Here is an excellent example of the subtlety of the text. One of the main reasons for the demand for a king has been undermined by showing that, without a king but with a prophet, the Philistines

92

See Buber, “Die Erzählung von Sauls Königswahl,” 119–20.

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may be repulsed. At the same time, by means of an “end of reign” summary, the reader is prepared for a new leader. In short then the composer did two things by inserting a summary of Samuel’s activity before proceeding to an account of the rise of Saul. He has both prepared us for a new leader and undermined the need of that new leader by implying that what was accomplished during the Samuel-Saul overlap was done under the hand of Samuel. Once again there is no simple pro- or antimonarchy message. Two significant things follow from this. The composer in question has departed from chronological sequence in order to make a point. Lack of chronological sequence is not necessarily proof of redaction. The second point has to do with the treatment in such texts of situations of complex causation. If, as argued, the composer is trying to ascribe victory over the Philistines to Samuel, that seems to set up a contradiction to 9:16 where deliverance from the Philistines is ascribed to Saul. The observant reader of this work might validly ask whether my argument has simply created a new contradiction, or at least highlighted an existing one, and thus reinforced the case for redaction of varying traditions. Let us, for argument’s sake, suppose that, either through knowledge of the historical situation or through a mental reconstruction of what was transmitted by various traditions or by the attempt of a creator of fiction to imagine a plausible setting, the situation in the mind of the composer was one in which various factors contributed to the Philistine defeat. Of interest to us are two such factors: a national unity and resolve stimulated by the ministry of Samuel and, on the other hand, a leadership provided by Saul in his better moments. How would a biblical writer convey that complexity? Will he say: “It was a complex situation to which x and y contributed in the following proportion?” That is obviously to ascribe to the writer what we might do. Simply by inspection of the text we know biblical writers did not do that. Is it not more likely that the writers in question will mention each contributory factor at the point at which it seems relevant, without attempting to interrelate them? Certainly that practice has often lead to claims of different sources but then the argument really depends upon an unspoken premise that biblical writers would deal with complex causation as

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we do, which is false anyway. Note than in this context the issue is not what the writer ‘should” have done. That belongs to the philosophical argument that the only proper way to view the universe is as we do. The point is what biblical composers actually did.

COMPLEXITY OF INTENTION AND COMPLEXITY OF SITUATION It has been argued that assumptions, about the composer’s ability to work with complexity, influence our reading of an ancient text. Related and yet in some sense distinct is the question of complexity of situation. For example different traditions have been postulated on the ground that Samuel was portrayed as both a judge and a seer.93 Whether we are speaking of historical actuality, or information received from tradition, or authorial imagination, why could not Samuel be portrayed as both by the one writer? Is there an unspoken assumption, that not only was the mind less capable in the past, but actual situations were less complex? The arguments used to support this separation of a “Judge Tradition” and a “Seer Tradition” draw our attention to the little mysteries in the text: where exactly did Saul’s wanderings lead him; why was the great Samuel viewed as a finder of lost donkeys; was Samuel resident where Saul found him or only visiting; why did Saul talk to his uncle on return and not his father? Does redaction of different traditions explain why the text leaves these mysteries?94

Hertzberg, I & II Samuel, 78–9; J. W. Flanagan, A Study of the Biblical Traditions Pertaining to the Foundation of the Monarchy in Israel (Ph.D, diss, University of Notre Dame, 1971), 18. 94 Flanagan, A Study of the Biblical Traditions, 18; H. Seebass, “Die Vorgeschichte der Königserhebung Sauls,” ZAW 79 (1967): 155–71. The latter “strengthens” his case by the common suggestion that one can distinguish a tradition in which Saul is made a ‘leader’ (nagid) (9:16) from a king tradition. Since the text does not in any way play on the nagid title or assign it any specific function in distinction to kingship, I suspect that the common phenomenon of the use of synonyms, to impart variety to a story, has been turned into an elaborate speculative thesis. 93

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It is possible that, were we in possession of the knowledge of the original audience, some of these things might not be mysteries. For example, maybe the geographical indications of 9:4,5 were more than enough to make the original audience guess that the path was leading to Samuel before the servant’s suggestion about the seer in 9:6. If that is so, then the various understandings or misunderstandings displayed by Saul and the servant may have given messages to the reader about their character. It would mean that they show complete or relative ignorance of Samuel in spite of his living in their neighbourhood. However there is a more basic problem well illustrated by the uncle of 9:14–16. He enters the story without an introduction beyond basic affiliation and without an explanation. Later I will conjecture a possible reason for the composer’s interest in the interchange between Saul and his uncle. For the moment the plausibility of that particular conjecture is not crucial. What is crucial is our expectation that the story should provide us with fuller details so that the uncle’s presence and question at this juncture is fully comprehensible. Once again we have to ask whether we are dealing with an expectation generated by our own practice. Is there any intrinsic reason why the biblical narrative approach must avoid unexplained details? Once again we have hermeneutic circles. If the original author of a biblical narrative or contributing tradition could be expected to supply the details, then lack of detail must have an explanation and clumsy redaction is as good as any explanation. If the biblical author felt under no necessity to supply more details than those essential for conveying the desired message, then lack of detail is a consequence and needs no subsidiary explanation. Our postulates about the history of the text are a product of our expectations about the way history should be written.

SAMUEL’S COMMISSION AND SAMUEL’S DELAY A further indication that the text is not quite what we might expect comes from 10:7,8 where Samuel instructs Saul to go down to Gilgal and wait for him. Our impression is that this will follow soon after the appearance of the signs which are fulfilled in the succeeding verses. Yet it is chapters, two national assemblies and a whole military campaign later, before the text returns in ch. 13 to the events foreshadowed here.

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Previous discussion has indicated various directions in which a solution might be sought.95 Is it an instance of indifference to strict chronological sequence? While not absolutely impossible, it is hard to see how the events of ch. 13 could overlap with or come before the events of 10:14–12:25. Suppose we postulate that the relief of Jabesh-Gilead and the final confirmation of Saul happened after the Philistine campaign recorded in chh. 13,14. That merely transfers the focus of the problem because 13:2 indicates a stage of military organisation beyond that of Saul back in Gibeah, ploughing his fields and dependent upon unusual means to raise an army. Certainly one can posit variant traditions, one of which placed ch. 13 immediately after the signs and one which contained the other events of ch. 11, 12 by which Saul was confirmed as king, with those variants having been clumsily combined. However the force of my argument has been that there are clear signs of deliberate composition rather than clumsy combination. Therefore we should look for signs of deliberate composition here also. It has been argued above that the messages given about Saul as the future king are deliberately ambiguous. Saul might hold great promise or he might not. Should we look for such mixed An alternative is provided by Long, The Reign and Rejection of King Saul, who sees the lack of immediate action against the Philistines as a failure on Saul’s part and thus beginning already the portrayal of Saul as failure. That is Saul should have immediately taken the reference to the Philistine governor in 10:5 as an invitation to attack the Philistines. Due to Saul’s inaction the sequence of events that was to be triggered by that attack has to wait until Jonathan takes action against the governor. This solution has a number of factors in its favour: it ties this part of the story to the general tendency to depict Saul as failing in his commission; it correctly emphasises the contrast being developed between Saul as the one who should act and Jonathan as the one who acts when Saul does not; it is itself an attempt at a unitary reading. There are also weaknesses, primarily the lack of obvious signs in the text that we should see Saul as an immediate failure. It seems to me that the text in chh. 9–11 is deliberately depicting the initial ambiguity of Saul rather than initial failure. Furthermore Long’s interpretation depends upon reading a lot into the mention of the governor in 10:5. 95

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messages here? The presupposition in such a search is that the composer has abbreviated what he might have said in order to avoid extraneous material and to concentrate on the main point. “Do for yourself what your hand finds, for God is with you” (10:7) is enigmatic if not completely ambiguous. It implies freedom of action on Saul’s part but does not hint as to what will result from that freedom. Taken as promise and assurance, the presence of God would point to a good outcome. Clearly that is what springs first to the mind of the reader. Yet it does not exclude the possibility of another reading: threat. God’s presence can frustrate and destroy as well as comfort and bless. The reader is presented with the question of what Saul will do when he has freedom of action. Taken that way, the composer’s plucking of a detail out of a larger strategy for meeting the Philistine threat has a purpose. It prepares the reader for the incident which will reveal what Saul does when he has freedom of action.96 It cannot be claimed that this explanation is totally convincing by itself but it does fit a pattern in the introduction of Saul. Perhaps other examples may make it more plausible. Is Saul’s hiding in the baggage (10:21,22) a becoming modesty or a hint of lack of courage and resolution? If this work was designed to be read in sequence to Judges, then the association raised by Saul’s hiding could be the reluctant leader Gideon who enters our cognisance as a hider (Judges 6:11,27). Subsequent events of the story of Saul will show that fear and lack of resolution are part of his character. One might ask similar questions about Saul’s reluctance to tell his uncle about the kingship (10:16).97 Flanagan, A Study of the Biblical Traditions, 18, sees a contradiction between 10:7 and 10:8 because the one implies freedom and the other negates it. If the writer’s premise is that the righteous man, presented with opportunity, will do just what God and his prophet require, then there is no contradiction. 97 One would then postulate that the information that the questioner was his uncle is necessary to make the reader reflect on the strangeness of a character who keeps exciting personal news even from his own family. Explanations as to why it was an uncle and not another family member 96

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Let us suppose that a biblical author might deliberately plant unresolved hints and questions within his narrative. If that was so, then there are several possible explanations for it. It could flow from a belief that the purpose of events or the true nature of an individual character was not obvious from the beginning; only over time will the hidden be revealed. Alternatively it might function to sustain interest in the story; the reader wants to know whether subsequent events will make the ambiguity clear. If there is any such possibility of narrative technique then it must change our approach to the floating, out-of-context allusions which have commonly been interpreted as the wreckage resulting from interpolation and redaction. Analogous issues arise when we consider the “folk lore” character of ch. 9. For example H. J. Boecker considers the various formal identifications: as folk tale or legend. Since it fits neatly into no such category, he sees it as a narrative which has elements of a folk tale but which, by the addition of historically specific characters and situations, has been transformed to something approaching a historical legend.98 Such conjectures naturally lead to unanswerable questions about the origin of the original tale and whether Saul or Samuel were part of the original story. Yet let us suppose for the moment that my suggestion above, that the story brings out the ignorance of Saul with respect to Samuel, who operates in his neighbourhood, is correct. If that is what the author intended, how else would he tell the story? The crucial point is that, in spite of our ignorance of authorial intent, we proceed to write would range between historical factuality on the one side and, on the other side, a fiction writer’s feel that the incident requires a person who is family but not the very closest family, in order to make the point. The crucial point is that a plausible explanation of the lack of explanatory additions to this story can be constructed from the simple postulate that what really matters to the composer is a message about the ominous personality of Saul. 98 Die Beurteilung der Anfänge des Königtums in den deuteronomistischen Abschnitten des 1. Samuelbuchs: Ein Beitrag zum Problem des “Deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerks” (Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament, 31; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1969), 12–6.

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quite speculative histories of how the text came into existence. Of course, to be fair, form criticism is built upon the presupposition that, in such “early” times, authors producing complex narratives did not exist. However even that presupposition is not carried through consistently, because the same scholars who wrestle with the original form of ch. 9 are wrestling at the same time with Noth’s thesis of a Deuteronomist.99

INTENTIONS Out of this examinations come several intentions which may be ascribed to the composer. The most important is a complex message about the transition to monarchy. It is an affirmation of the transition combined with a condemnation of the people and their motives. It is the mixed message that generates the mixed text placing endorsements of monarchy in so-called “anti-monarchy” passages and giving subtle warnings about the man chosen in socalled “pro-monarchy” sections. Much of the scholarly discussion of this passage and the issues surrounding it has been carried on as if the biblical author(s) would carry on a debate about abstract political systems: is monarchy of itself right or wrong? I suspect that such abstract discussion goes against the grain of the text. The text can appraise monarchy in terms of the advantage of continuity and certainty of leadership which it is seen to provide. Thus there is the possibility of people seeing monarchy itself as an answer. However that is ignoring two factors of concern to the writer(s): God and the realities of human nature. Thus one clear message of the text is against putting trust in anything but God. That message is conveyed both in the prophetic speeches of Samuel and the outworking of events. This outwardly attractive Saul will crumble under the pressure. God gave the Boecker (Die Beurteilung der Anfänge des Königtums) discusses both with no apparent awareness that very different conceptions of literary composition are involved. Certainly the stage of development out of folk lore is seen as earlier, but there is no recognition of the necessity to demonstrate that some elements of the narrative have their roots in that stage rather than in the era of definite authorship. One suspects that “looking” like a folk tale is considered all the evidence that is needed. 99

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people what they wanted, not just abstractly in giving them the kingship but concretely in giving them the outwardly impressive man as that king. It has been argued above that the text makes sense if read in conjunction with what has gone before. When we read the author/editor’s intention as suggested, then there is a link with the ark narrative. Israel put their trust in the external and suffered in consequence. If the composer does think there can be a place for monarchy, what is that place? Notice that the initial demand is in terms of the internal need of a king. It has become a dogma of scholarship that it was the external Philistine threat that created the demand for a king and scholarship has persisted in that despite having no source other than this text.100 Yet the composer chose not to put the original demand in that form. We confront various possibilities. One is that the scholars’ instincts have been better than their formal data. The composer is putting the real motive into second place. Another is that the demand for a king was put in terms of the internal problem by the elders because it was felt that Samuel would have more difficulty refuting that with the evidence about his sons before him. Thus it reflects a historical actuality about the situation rather than the deepest motivation. Alternatively it may represent the composer’s feeling about Israel and its needs. If God fights for you, provided the nation is obedient to God, then the need is not for a war leader but for a man to enforce the rules of God. In favour of the last as the most plausible explanation are a number of features in the text. Judges’ call for a king is set in the context of internal problems. The problem of the leadership, provided by the family of Eli, was corruption and godlessness. Samuel was not a war leader but a spiritual one. By placing the success over the Philistines all to the credit of Samuel in the summary at the end of ch. 7, the composer has deliberately undermined the plausibility of the call for a war leader. By

Eg. McCarter, I Samuel, 160; Boecker, Die Beurteilung der Anfänge des Königtums, 24. 100

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reporting the corruption of Samuel’s sons he has not undermined but rather heightened the reality of the internal crisis. Certainly the early part of Saul’s reign depicts him largely as a military figure. That may be the realities of the situation at the time. In addition it might point to something else. As a fact of human political existence, it may be easier in the short term to give military leadership than to give moral leadership. Saul, for all his failings, could win some battles. Maybe some of the people saw the need in terms of the Philistine-Ammonite threat. Whether as a debating tactic or because of conviction, the elders put it in terms of the internal need. The composer has given clear indication that he saw it in terms of internal factors. Certainly the composer read national history and situation so as to conform to personal conviction but that would have been just as true if the personal conviction was of military need. If we, with no other information, proclaim confidently that the composer was wrong and that the real threat was external, perhaps we are saying more about ourselves than about Israel. We may be falling into the recurrent human tendency to blame “them” and the “foreigners”, rather than ourselves, for our problems. Thus arguing that the account of the origin of monarchy was a unified composition requires assumptions about the techniques and viewpoints of the author. I would argue that they are not implausible assumptions. They are no more subjective than the assumptions commonly behind theories of sources.

DAVID, SAUL AND GOLIATH Studies of compositional technique in Samuel, or even mere allusions to the way biblical books were written, often treat the two accounts of the introduction of David to Saul in 1 Samuel 16 and 17 as evidence of the fact that whoever composed Samuel had available two accounts which cannot be reconciled with each other. In chapter 16 David comes to the court as a musician to calm the troubled king. In 17:55–18:2 it seems that the young David is unknown to the court before his victory over Goliath and comes to

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the court as a warrior.101 Clearly, it would seem, these are two irreconcilable versions of events. Discussion of this story is complicated by the fact that 1 Samuel 17, 18 poses particular text critical problems. The problem has been discussed many times and was the subject of a “Joint Research Venture” bringing together four scholars of different views.102 A large portion of the Massoretic text of these chapters is missing from the oldest Greek translation. Missing are 17:12–31, 41, 48b, 50, 55–58; 18:1–6a, 10–11, 12b, 17–19, 21b, 29b–30.103 There are two obvious ways to explain the phenomena. One is that the Hebrew text from which the Greek was translated lacked these portions. An inference from that conclusion might be that the extra text in the Massoretic version was added at some later stage, but one could not exclude the possibility of different recensions of the Hebrew text existing at the same time. The obvious alternative is that the Greek text represents a shortened version of an originally longer text. One way is which that might have happened is that the translator chose to omit certain portions but the abbreviation could alternatively have occurred earlier in the transmission of the Hebrew text or later in the history of the Greek text. For ease of reference I shall adopt the practice common to the discussion of referring to the story common to the Hebrew and the Greek text as Version 1 and the story reconstructed by putting together the verses found only in the Hebrew text as Version 2.

Hertzberg, I & II Samuel, 146–48; Flanagan, A Study of the Biblical Traditions Pertaining to the Foundation of the Monarchy in Israel, 27–30; 102 D. Barthélemy, D. W. Gooding, L. Lust and E. Tov, The Story of David and Goliath. Textual and Literary Criticism (Orbis biblicus et orientalis, 73; Fribourg Suisse: Éditions universitaires/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986). 103 E. Tov, “The Nature of the Differences between MT and the LXX in 1 Sam. 17–18” in D. Barthélemy et al., The Story of David and Goliath, 19. For another version of this argument see E. Tov, “The Composition of 1 Samuel 16–18 in the Light of the Septuagint Version” in Empirical Models for Biblical Criticism ed. J. H. Tigay (Philadelphia: Uni. of Pennsylvania Press, 1985), 97–130. 101

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J. Lust argues that the Old Greek represents the original text and that the pluses of the Massoretic text are additions caused by the insertion of portions of an alternate story.104 Against the thesis that the translator of the Greek omitted certain verses because they created contradictions he points to the lack of similar omissions where equivalent problems arise elsewhere in Samuel. The argument that the Hebrew text involves the combination of two stories depends, as is standard in such arguments, upon contradictions which have supposedly arisen as a result of the combination. These include the fact that David in 17:54 (Version 1) puts Goliath’s armour in his tent but according to 17:12–20 (Version 2) David was an occasional visitor and therefore would not have a tent. The frightened Israel of 17:11 (Version 1) would be unlikely to set up in order for battle (17:21: Version 2). Goliath is represented in 17:23 as “coming up” (Version 2) which would contradict the picture of the topography given in Version 1 (17:1–4). The terror inspired by Goliath was variously ascribed to his appearance (17:24 Version 2) or his word (17:11 Version 1). E. Tov presented a telling argument against the thesis that the translator of the Greek omitted sections by arguing that the translation technique reflected in the verses in common points to a careful and literal translator.105 He also argues for contradictions within the Hebrew text as a result of the insertion of another version of events. He suggests that, subsequent to the combination, details were added to make the two versions fit, such as introduction of Jesse in 17:12 as an already mentioned character and addition of 17:15 to harmonise David’s role as shepherd with that ascribed to him in 16:14–23. D. Barthélemy represents an interesting intermediary position because he believes that the Hebrew text is composite but that the Old Greek is a truncation of the longer Hebrew.106 He is convinced “The Story of David and Goliath in Hebrew and in Greek,” in Barthélemy et al., The Story of David and Goliath, 5–18. 105 “The Nature of the Differences between MT and the LXX,” 19– 46. 106 “Trois niveaux d’analyse (à propos de David et Goliath),” in Barthélemy et al., The Story of David and Goliath, 47–54. 104

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that the story of the anointing of David by Samuel in 16:1–13 constitutes the strongest argument for the legitimacy of David as king and that the other introductions of David in 16:14–23 and 17:12 would not have been needed if this first one was known. Thus 16:1–13 is a late version of the rise of David. Further 17:12 and 15 are passages added to ease the insertion of the story of David’s victory into a context which once told of a victory of the Israelite army over the Philistines. Such arguments incline him towards a redactional understanding of the Hebrew text. Yet he cannot accept that the shorter version present in the Old Greek once stood alone because that also creates difficulties. If 17:32–54 (largely Version 1) once stood together with 16:18 it would create a contradiction because in the latter David is presented as a warrior. The David of 17:32–54 fits much better with the shepherd of 17:12–15 (Version 2). In Version 1 the song of the women attributing the slaying of myriads to David (18:7) follows immediately upon 17:54. By that stage David had slain only Goliath. Hence 18:7 seems to presuppose the military position given to David in 18:5 (Version 2). The covenant between David and Jonathan is mentioned in the Greek (20:8) as a fact of history but the account of it in 18:3 is omitted. The arguments of these three scholars merit some preliminary observations. Lust’s argument that David should have no tent in which to place Goliath’s armour assumes a story told in the strictest chronological order. It is highly unlikely that the events of 17:54, especially the taking of Goliath’s head to Jerusalem, are meant to be in chronological position. All we need, to create harmony out of the discrepancy concerning the armour is the tent, which we presume David received as a result of the elevation recorded in 18:1–5. Details of the text such as 17:15 where David comes and goes between Saul and the flock can be used as proof that the story of David in chapter 17 does not contradict the role of David as musician and armour bearer in chapter 16 or can be ascribed to the harmonising of a redactor. One is inclined to comment ironically that if the supposed redactor had been consistent in seeing the need of harmonisation, then the history of biblical studies would be very different. In the bigger perspective we have another case where it can be argued that the “contradictions” can be explained with a little, but not too much effort, and the various, supposedly independent, versions of the

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story need each other to make full sense. Barthélemy’s argument that the other versions of the introduction of David to the scene would not have been needed if the story of the anointing was known, is another instance of the imposition of a principle of economy on the biblical text. Why must a biblical author chose only the “best” argument for the legitimacy of David? I have postponed consideration of the contribution of D. W. Gooding to the discussion because his is the one closest to the perspective of this work. Gooding attempts to do three main things: to deal with the supposed discrepancies within the Hebrew text, to show that the introduction of David conforms to a plot used earlier in Samuel and to conjecture the circumstances under which the original story was abbreviated.107 His answer to the purported discrepancy between 16:18 which calls David a warrior and 17:33 where Saul disputes David’s ability to fight the Philistine is that Saul’s argument is not to deny that David is a warrior but rather to point to David’s inexperience over against Goliath’s long experience. In dealing with the key alleged discrepancy in 17:55–58 where Saul shows ignorance of David’s parentage he links the section to Saul’s promise reported in 17:25 that the killer of Goliath would bring benefits to his father’s house. His argument is that, given Saul’s mental state as reported in 16:14–23, he could have David in his court without having full knowledge of his family. A similar appeal to Saul’s condition covers the variable roles Saul gives to David in 18:5–15, the inconsistency of setting a condition for marriage to Merab (18:17), when marriage to his daughter was a promise according to 17:25 and the failure to give her to David. The argument for redaction of sources depends upon proving contradictions between sources. Gooding’s arguments show that the portrayal of Saul in chh. 17–18 is not inconsistent with his portrayal in ch. 16. That is all he has to do to establish his case. However he is not so convincing when he tries to explain the variations between Hebrew and Greek texts. He argues that the omitted verses were omitted because there were perceived—but “An Approach to the Literary and Textual Problems in the DavidGoliath Story: 1 Sam 16–18,” in Barthélemy et al., The Story of David and Goliath, 55–86. 107

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not real—discrepancies between them and other parts of the story. However he is careful not to be dogmatic about who was responsible for the omissions. That leaves him vulnerable to the great objection that there are many other apparent discrepancies in Samuel which were not dealt with this way in the Greek text. Gooding’s treatment of the plot structure of the book raises some significant issues. He points out that God’s way of dealing with the deficiencies of Eli and his family was to introduce a new man who was taken out of his own family circle and placed into the circle of that family and would be destined to take over its role. Similarly David was transferred from his own family circle into that a Saul by marriage. Furthermore he parallels the scornful Peninnah with the jealous Eliab. This parallel has implications for Barthélemy’s concern about the various introductions of David. It implies that in16:14–23 and 17:12–18:27 we do not have redundant introductions to David but explanations of how David came to be playing “Samuel” to Saul’s “Eli”. The participants in this scholarly debate were given the opportunity to react to what others had said. For Lust and Tov the crucial data was the textual data of discrepancy between Hebrew and Greek texts.108 One wonders if there is a connection between this insistence upon the priority of the textual variants and their belief that the data points to redaction of separate stories. In many ways this case is the thing that believers in a redactional history of the biblical text need: a case in which there is manuscript differences to support the theory. It is logical that that manuscript evidence be made prominent and seen as decisive. In his further reflections Barthélemy makes the significant point that the argument from the uniqueness of this particular case can be turned both ways.109 It has been argued that we cannot J. Lust, “Second Thoughts on David and Goliat,” in Barthélemy et al., The Story of David and Goliath, 87–94; idem, “David and Goliath in the Hebrew and Greek Texts,” in Barthélemy et al., The Story of David and Goliath, 121–28; E. Tov, “Response,” in Barthélemy et al., The Story of David and Goliath, 92–4. 109 “Reponse,” in D. Barthélemy et al., The Story of David and Goliath, 95–8 (96). 108

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assume that discordant verses would be omitted when they are not elsewhere. The reverse form of the argument is that we cannot assume that omissions in the Greek point to a late textual insertion in the Hebrew when claimed late insertions elsewhere are not supported from the Greek. Gooding in his response cautiously suggests that the change in the Greek probably happened during transmission of the text.110 One thing that seems to have been achieved by the discussion is that Tov’s demonstration of the carefulness of the Greek translator has moved attention away from the translator as a source of the omissions. A different attempt to resolve the problem, which takes advantage of this earlier discussion, has been presented by A. G. Auld and C. Y. S. Ho.111 They are not convinced that the unique material in the MT is sufficiently coherent and selfcontained to be seen as a different version of the story but they are convinced that the shorter LXX version reflects the original. Hence they present the explanation that the additions of the MT are later emendations. In particular they argue that the consequence of these additions is to create a picture of David’s rise to power similar to Saul’s. David, son of Jesse, setting out on the errand to carry provisions to his brothers, which in turn leads to his meeting Saul, is parallel to Saul son of Kish setting out to find the donkeys which leads to his meeting with Samuel. In both stories a question about paternity appears (10:12, 17:55). Samuel’s offer of the kingship to Saul is paralleled by Saul’s offer of his daughter to David. These and other suggested parallels vary in their persuasive value but the more substantial question is the theory that a later editor, impressed by the use of parallel figures and contrasts in Samuel, has chosen to enlarge the story to supply an additional parallel. The argument would be stronger if the parallels were stronger but one can always ascribe such deficiencies to the lack of skill of the later editor. If correct it shows that the later editor saw “Response,” in Barthélemy et al., The Story of David and Goliath, 105. Note also his use of Homeric parallels to resolve some of the contradictions which Lust saw (101–3). 111 “The Making of David and Goliath,” JSOT 56 (1992): 19–39. 110

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the structure of repetition and contrast in the original story as significant; a recognition which has not always been shared by modern scholars. More substantially it raises the question, to be explored below, of why we do not see more such late “enlargements” of the Hebrew text. In reviewing the discussion several things are significant. Here, as mentioned above, is the situation which redactional theories would lead us to predict: different stories incorporated at different times lead to manuscript differences. Yet because this is a unique case for the books of Samuel conclusions are hard to reach. There is no more logic in arguing that this is the example that proves redactional theories, as opposed to arguing that redactional theories would predict many more examples and are therefore falsified by lack of those examples. It can be argued that the story as it appears in the Massoretic text is coherent. There is at least some ground for suspicion that the Old Greek version does not make sense without the omitted material. However the explanation of the omitted material as designed to remove discrepancies is most unconvincing. Surely these “discrepancies” are no more worrying than those elsewhere in Samuel. If what we find in the Old Greek is a truncation of an originally longer story and we accept Tov’s case for not blaming the translator, we have no idea whether the change was during the transmission of the Hebrew or the Greek text.112 No plausible explanation of the changes as a result of accidents in copying has

Gooding (“Response,” 105) thinks that, evidence that Josephus and Hippolytus had access to the shorter text (see Lust, “The Story of David and Goliath in Hebrew and in Greek” 7), supports his inclining to a change during transmission of the Greek text. I cannot understand the logic of this position since, whenever the change occurred, it is undisputed that the shorter version well preceded these writers. I suspect that Gooding is influenced by the belief that changes to remove discrepancies are more likely in the Greek period: see his “Third Stage,” in Barthélemy et al., The Story of David and Goliath, 116. However that assumes the motives for the change. 112

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been produced.113 Therefore I am forced to conclude that in the absence of clear evidence as to when and why the change, however it occurred, this example supplies us with more questions than answers. If the contradiction is obvious to us, why did it not trouble the composer of Samuel? Wrestling with this question then leads to subsidiary hypotheses about the composition process, generally to some theory of the predominance of inherited, even if variant, tradition over critical acumen. That in turn would lead us to expect carelessness in the composition of these chapters as the composer’s ability to produce a smooth integration of material is limited by the necessity to preserve the traditions. It is that in turn which creates the problem. For these chapters show evidence of very careful structuring. Examination of the structure and the message conveyed by it might explain the difference between our perceptions of contradiction and the author’s. The beginning of chapter 16 contains the story of Samuel’s mission to find a replacement for Saul. There are subtle contrasts with Saul in the story with Eliab functioning as an illustration of the point being made through Saul that external physical impressiveness may count with men but not with God (compare 11:23,24 with 16:6,7). This particular story reaches its climax in v. 13 with the anointing and the Spirit of the Lord coming upon David. The next verse returns to Saul but does so in very pointed contrast to David, for the Spirit leaves Saul. So at the beginning of the story of Saul’s mental troubles he is portrayed in contrast to David. However the contrast does not end there because the narrative goes on to make the point that the answer to Saul’s problem is David. Not only is that true in the theory of the courtiers, it is proved true by David’s actual playing. Chapter 17 is seemingly a new subject and we are treated to an account of preparations for war between the Philistines and Israel. Goliath is revealed as the Philistine champion and the dilemma for 113

8–9.

Lust, “The Story of David and Goliath in Hebrew and in Greek,”

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Israel climaxes in verse 11. The crucial thing in this verse is the role of Saul. As the biggest man in Israel and as king he is the logical opponent for Goliath, yet we are told that he shares the fear of his followers. Precisely at this point we meet David again. The technique of juxtaposing David to Saul’s deficiencies is obvious. Just as at the end of chapter 16, the story goes on to confirm that in outworking of events David is indeed the solution to Saul’s failures. Notice another interesting, though less explicit, contrast with chapter 16 in the role of Eliab in chapter 17. In chapter 16 it is in stature and appearance that Eliab makes us think of Saul. In chapter 16 Eliab is the jealous elder brother annoyed by the presumption and perhaps ambition of his younger brother. Is there not here a foreshadowing of the Saul-David rivalry? Thus chapters 16 and 17 have parallel plot development and use of characters. While some may hold the paralleling of Saul and Eliab to be too subtle to be convincing, the repeated use of the juxtaposed contrast of Saul and David is absolutely clear. That brings us back to the theory that these chapters present quite different versions of the meeting of Saul and David due to their originating from quite separate sources. If the two chapters represent two different sources, then why do they display such similar techniques of contrasting Saul and David? There are effectively two answers to that question, both of which explain the evidence before us. One is that the redactor, in the course of bringing the two sources together, has added material so that both chapters display a Saul-David contrast and thus convey the message that while Saul was a failure with major problems, David was the answer. The alternate explanation is that there never were separate sources: what we see as contradiction is a consequence of the fact that the author has presented events out of chronological order so as to bring out repeatedly this very contrast. When two explanations account for the data, unless new data can be introduced, choice comes down to factors such as implications and assumptions. There may be other data bearing on the question but I reserve consideration of it until I have elaborated some of the strengths and weaknesses of each position. How much reworking does a “redactor” have to do before we should really use the term “author”? The circumstances of the writing of what we call 1 Samuel are largely lost to us. If theories

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and models are to be any help for us in reconstructing that process, it is necessary that they be clear theories. In the end we may abandon them or substantially modify them but we need to start with something clear. The contrast between redactor and author must lie primarily in the freedom to organise the original material, irrespective of the way in which the original material came to the writer. That is we need not enter at this point into speculation as to whether the information came originally in oral or written tradition or whether the writer was temporally close to the events or distant to them. At one end of the spectrum is a redactor merely placing different traditions in juxtaposition. At the other end there was no prior information with which the writer worked and the writer was an author in the fullest sense. Nevertheless a theory of sources and redaction implies pressure on the writer to preserve the sources, whatever the source of that pressure, so that the original sources are still recognisable. The evidence of the redactor’s own contribution consequently is expected to occur at points of joining and in the process of smoothing inconsistencies. In the text(s) in question where can we see redactional activity? One might point to “seams” between 16:13 and 14 or 17:11 and 12 but these are the places where the intentional contrast of David and Saul is most obvious. If the appearance of Eliab in both stories is taken as significant, there is another element linking these two chapters. Further the point, that the biggest man is not necessarily the best man, links the story of David’s anointing and the story of the battle of Elah to the overall story of the failure of Saul and the emergence of David as a fitting replacement. The more the chapters cohere with the general plot, the weaker is the thesis that they once constituted separate sources. We have already seen that the contrast of David and Saul is a major structuring element in 1 Samuel. Do we have reason to believe that a biblical writer, pursuing a crucial structuring contrast, would feel it necessary to preserve chronological order? Of course we have no basis for such an expectation. That raises the possibility that the contradictions of detail we see in chapters 16 and 17 are “real” and yet would not have troubled the author. Let us suppose that, according to whatever source of information the author had of Saul and David, the process of David’s entering into Saul’s court was complex. David was both a warrior and a musician and both played some role in his acceptance. Purely hypothetically the search

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for a musician to calm the troubled Saul may have started before the battle described in chapter 17. David was welcomed, subsequent to the battle, both as warrior and as answer to the already expressed need for music. Our author may have felt no necessity to preserve the complex of events in chronological order because treating various factors separately would allow him to explore further the contrasts that were crucial to his story. Likewise an audience without expectations of strict chronology would not be troubled by Saul’s ignorance of David at the end of chapter 17. Our problem is that we have an unconscious expectation of chronological order and a suspicion of overt structuring of historical explanation. With that in our background we may mistake chronological disorder for evidence of sources. How are we to make the choice between a theory of sources and a theory of conscious structuring of the Saul-David contrast? There is no simple answer to that question because each way of reading sets in train a process which reinforces that way of reading. Once alerted to the possibility of the Saul-David contrast we will find it in the following chapters and that will then feed back into our reading of chapters 16 and 17. Conversely once alerted to the possibility of composite origin we will not expect the text to be a whole, tightly woven, literary composition and will not look for themes stretching across blocks of chapters. Alternatively it might come down to expectations about authorship. Is the hypothetical process described above, which results in chronological “disorder”, too far from our notions of historical writing to be entertained as a possibility? Then we are in danger of reading the text anachronistically. I remarked above that there may be further data to assist in deciding the question and to this I now turn. It is well known that 1 Samuel 21:19 credits the killing of Goliath to somebody else, Elhanan. It may plausibly be argued that, according to the common occurrence with folk tales, the victory has become attached in the course of time to the much better known hero, David. If that is true then behind chapter 17 stands a folk tale and the contrast of that and the source of information behind 21:19 lends more credence to a theory of separate and contradictory sources. The picture is complicated by 1 Chronicles 20.5 in which Elhanan killed not Goliath but Lahmi his brother. Some suggest that the Chronicler is merely trying to resolve the discrepancy as to

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who killed Goliath. However the agreement of the Qumran fragment of 1 Samuel 24 with the LXX and 1 Chronicles over against the Massoretic version of 1 Samuel 24 points to the fact that I Chronicles’ expansions on Massoretic Samuel may go back to a superior text114. Once again the data may be read two ways: as evidence that Chronicles is a tendentious amendment and as evidence that Chronicles preserves the better text. In that situation it is unsafe to argue from the supposed contradiction over the killer of Goliath. More substantial is the deviation between Massoretic text and LXX in I Samuel 17 itself.115

PRESUPPOSITIONS There are a number of presupposition involved in seeing Samuel as a unity. It must be assumed that the author saw no necessity to bring all the events and causal factors into a unified description. Different aspects may emerge at different points in the narrative according to what the writer wished to emphasise. Perhaps this is a way of simplifying the narrative. Perhaps it is a consequence of a basic theological axiom. God controls all and ordains all, but human actions are still significant. Having drawn a masterful portrayal of the way Hushai plays upon the vanity and the fears of Absalom, the writer tells us that it was God’s purpose to bring down Absalom (2 Samuel 17:5–14). Does that make the psychological drama unreal? In some philosophical systems it would, but in biblical narrative it does not. Human and divine causal factors emerge in the story without the attempt to reduce the human to the divine, or even to allow one human factor to negate the existence of others. That modern historiographies would not

For a general consideration of the problem see W. E. Lemke, “The Synoptic Problem in the Chronicler’s History,” HTR 58 (1965): 349–63. 115 For a survey of the history of the use of MT and LXX of Samuel see S. Pisano, Additions and Omissions in the Books of Samuel. The Significant Pluses and Minuses in the Massoretic, LXX and Qumran Texts (Orbis biblicus et orientalis 57; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1984), 2–10. Pisano (78–86) argues that the omissions of the LXX in ch. 17 stem from attempts to resolve the problems of contradiction which the MT poses. 114

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do this is not a reason for reading the biblical text as though it is a modern historiography. This approach assumes sophistication on the part of the author. He maintained a complex narrative using certain literary devices at some points and not others: making the ark story a foreshadowing of later vain hopes; tracing the disintegration of character and moral fibre under the weight of power and responsibility. Is such sophistication possible in the age of the biblical text? Once again, presuppositions flowing from the way we see our age and former ages, will influence our answer. I am well aware that the textual differences in the story of David and Goliath are not resolved. On one side are the fact that the Massoretic text version makes sense and one can suggest that necessary detail has been omitted from the Septuagint version. On the other side is the lack of plausible explanation for why the Greek text would be abbreviated. As mentioned above, we lack a pattern of such occurrences, from which to derive an explanation. Therefore I believe that this problem must be left unresolved.

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In the three previous chapters I have argued that, given a different set of assumptions, it is possible to depart from the received tradition of sources and redactors and to argue for the unity of some of the narrative books. Further I have argued that some of the textual features which have been used as evidence for sources are better interpreted as literary devices. Indeed one might say that they are fairly obviously authorial devices. That leads logically to exploring the origins and history of some of these competing assumptions. If it is all a matter of assumptions why was that not obvious previously? There is a certain unattractive hubris in claiming that all the world, except the enlightened author, is unaware of its own assumptions.

LIMITATIONS What this situation demands is a careful and thorough study in the history of ideas to expose the origins and outworkings of certain assumptions. I am not able to provide that at the present time. It would require a study of the roots of critical scholarship and the intellectual, religious and political context in which that developed. I have theories and ideas but these are not fully documented by a study of the mass of original sources and to present them as though they had that backing would be a false claim. Nevertheless the process of attempting holistic interpretations of biblical books and setting that against atomistic interpretations does reveal that assumptions are involved. Partial study of the earlier history of scholarship yields clues for an elucidation of what happened. In what follows I will present such clues as a possible basis for further exploration. I have been greatly assisted by the studies of the history of the discipline pursued by others. Yet there also seems to me to be a

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lack. Studies on modern biblical scholarship have a positivistic tendency. It is hard to write a critical history of the way in which scholarship came to a position we regard as indubitably true.1 It is not so much that I disagree with the conclusions of such studies but they do not tell me certain things I would like to know. As will emerge below, I think pivotal early scholars were working with models of expected historical development and especially of religious historical development. The existing studies are more likely to report the conclusions they came to, and the crucial nature of those conclusions for later developments, than to deal with the assumptions which underlay those conclusions. There is an irony in this lack. Crucial arguments in the early development of the discipline took the form: “If the item I am discussing had existed at the time of the writer in question, he would have mentioned it.” That seems to imply that, unless there is a clear reasons to believe the contrary, we should expect history writing to be comprehensive. Yet, if we may use the history of the discipline as an example, our own history writing is far from comprehensive. I am more inclined to believe that we report what fits our particular Perhaps a convenient example is J. Rogerson’s article “Philosophy and the Rise of Biblical Criticism in England and Germany” in England and Germany. Studies in Theological Diplomacy, ed. S. W. Sykes (Frankfort: Peter D. Lang, 1982), 63–79. Rogerson’s concern is to show how different philosophical climates explain the different ways in which criticism developed and was received in England and Germany. There is no doubt that his thesis is correct but a comparison of Locke in England and a very generally described secularised pietism in Germany does not contribute greatly to understanding the thought of particular critics. In contrast Rogerson’s Old Testament Criticism in the Nineteenth Century. England and Germany (London: SPCK, 1984) contains a vast amount of detailed information but does not elucidate the assumptions behind crucial critical developments. H.-J. Kraus, Geschichte der historische-kritischen Erforschung des Alten Testaments (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 3rd ed., 1982), 178, argues that the history of criticism has to be put in the context of the wider history of ideas but often the details of his story are more prominent than the context and he sometimes specifically omits background (see for example 80). 1

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and narrow purpose in writing. In what follows I will make grateful use of the studies of others while also wishing that certain things were better explored. A further difficulty in this exploration is the fact that that there are fairly distinct phases in the development of the older literary-critical synthesis. One might distinguish an older phase in which the existence of “sources” to the Pentateuch was recognised but these could even be seen as older than “Moses”.2 In a second period these sources were given a chronological position post “Moses”. It is the second phase that will be my focus. The similar For studies of the earlier period see Kraus, Geschichte der historischekritischen Erforschung, 38–156; K. Scholder, The Birth of Modern Critical Theology: Origins and Problems of Biblical Criticism in the Seventeenth Century (London: SCM, 1990); R. Smend, “Johann David Michaelis und Johann Gottfried Eichhorn—zwei Orientalisten am Rande der Theologie,” in Theologie in Göttingen, ed. B. Moeller (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1987), 58–81; idem, “Aufgeklärte Bemühung um das Gesetz. Johann David Michaelis, ‘Mosaisches Recht’,” in ‘Wenn nicht jetzt, wann dann?’ Aufsätze für Hans-Joachim Kraus zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. H.-G. Geyer (Neuchirchen-Vluyn: Neuchirchener Verlag, 1983), 129–39; idem, Deutsche Alttestamentler in drei Jahrhunderten (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1987), 13–37; A. Bernus, Richard Simon et son Histoire critique du Vieux Testament. La critique biblique au siècle de Louis XIV (repr. Geneva: Slatkine, 1969); H. Fréville, “Richard Simon et des Protestants d’après sa correspondance,” Revue d’histoire moderne 31 (1931) 30–55; H. G. Reventlow, “Richard Simon und seine Bedeutung für die kritische Erforschung der Bibel” in Historische Kritik in der Theologie ed. G. Schwaiger (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1980), 11–36; P. Auvray, Richard Simon 1638– 1712: Étude bio-bibliographique avec des textes inédits (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1974); H. Margival, Essay sur Richard Simon et la critique biblique au XVIIe siecle (repr., Geneva: Slatkine, 1970); R. Voeltzel, “Jean Le Clerc (1657–1736) et la critique biblique,” in Religion, érudition et critique à la fin du XVIIe et au debut du XVIIIe (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1968); B. Seidel, Karl David Ilgen und die Pentateuchforschung im Umkreis der sogenannen älteren Urkundenhypothesis (BZAW, 213; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1993); H. G. Reventlow, The Authority of the Bible and the Rise of the Modern World (London: SCM, 1984); L. Diestel, Geschichte der Alten Testament in der christlichen Kirche (Jena: Mauk’s Verlag, 1869). 2

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questions about the early phase must be postponed for future consideration.

THE NAÏVE WORLD One does not need to read far in nineteenth century biblical scholarship without seeing that those scholars saw the biblical world as naïve by comparison to their own world. That naïvety was further seen as appropriate to the early age of mankind.3 It must follow that the biblical text, and especially earlier parts of that text, could not be expected to reveal a complex historiography. It is interesting that this assignment of naïvety to the biblical world went together with a thesis of development, or at least change of sophistication, during the biblical period. The particular developmental thesis presented varied from scholar to scholar. Some saw the institution of the state as crucial for the society to reach the level of sophistication necessary to write history. For Kuenen, Israel’s religious and intellectual history followed an evolutionary course but he allowed that the impact of specific historical factors such as the conflict with Tyrian Baal and with Assyria played important roles.4 Wellhausen had a more For example W. M. L. de Wette, A Critical and Historical Introduction to the Canonical Scriptures of the Old Testament 2 vols; trans; T. Parker (Boston: Rufus Leighton, 3rd ed., 1859), 2.5–46; F. Bleek, An Introduction to the Old Testament, 2 vols, ed. J. Bleek and A. Kamphausen, trans. G. H. Venables (London: Bell and Daldy, 1869), 1.252–54, 265. (For Bleek’s role as a moderate in the scholarly picture see Smend, Deutsche Alttestamentler in drei Jahrhunderten, 71–84). See also Seidel, Karl David Ilgen, 24–32; J. Rogerson, “The Old Testament” in The History of Christian Theology, vol. 2, The Use and Study of the Bible, ed. P. Avis (Basingstroke: Marshall Pickering, 1988), 1–150 (113–15). 4 A. Kuenen, National Religions and Universal Religions (Hibbert Lectures, 1882; London: Williams & Norgate, 2nd ed., 1901), 55–177; M. J. Mulder, “Abraham Kuenen (1828–1891),” in Abraham Kuenen (1828–1891). His Major Contributions to the Study of the Old Testament, ed. P. B. Dirksen and A. van der Kooij (OTS, 29; Leiden: Brill, 1993), 1–7; J. A. Emerton, “Abraham Kuenen and the Early Religion of Ancient Israel,” in Abraham Kuenen, 11,12; A. Rofé, “Abraham Kuenen’s Contribution to the Study of 3

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complicated model, in which the initial progress through the prophets was stultified by the post-exilic priestly establishment.5 Vatke’s Hegelian framework offered a different possibility. The proponents of these alternate developmental models were conscious of the differences between them, yet the extended polemic which would have revealed the roots of the different models seems to have been lacking. That is because the primary opponent was seen as the orthodox, or conservative, rejection of developmental models. What was crucial was not how Israel evolved, but that it developed from a primitive and a naive phase to a more sophisticated one.6 On a number of occasions in the previous chapters I have resorted to an argument: if contradictions are so obvious that they the Pentateuch. A View from Israel,” in Abraham Kuenen, 105–6; M. P. Graham, The Utilisation of 1 and 2 Chronicles in the Reconstruction of Israelite History in the Nineteenth Century (SBL Dissertation Series, 116; Atlanta: Scholars, 1990), 134–37. 5 P. K. Tull, “The Rhetoric of Recollection” in Congress Volume: Oslo 1998, ed. A. Lemaire and M. Sæbø (VTS, 80; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 72–4. B. Becking puts the emphasis in a slightly differerent place. He sees Wellhausen as reflecting an Enlightenment belief that religion is what is later added to “real” history. Hence one must strip away the religion to discover “what really happened” (“No More Grapes from the Vineyard? A Plea for a Historical Critical Approach in the Study of the Old Testament,” in Congress Volume: Oslo 1998, 128). I suspect that Wellhausen was creating a practical synthesis of Enlightenment and Romanticism. For a different analysis of Wellhausen, stressing his relationship to classical scholarship but acknowledging the connection to contemporary German politics and anti-Catholicism see B. Halpern, The First Historians: The Hebrew Bible and History (University Park: Pennsylvania State UP, 2nd ed., 1996), 21–9. 6 According to S. J. De Vries, for Kuenen the order, symmetry and concern of the Grundschrift (that is, P) for figures was proof that it was late (“The Hexateuchal Criticism of Abraham Kuenen,” JBL 82 (1963), 45). On the importance of development in German historiography see also R. A. Oden, Jr., “Hermeneutics and Historiography: Germany and America,” in Society of Biblical Literature. 1980 Seminar Papers, ed. P. T. Achtemeier (Chico: Scholars, 1980), 138.

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would not have escaped an original author, how could they have escaped the redactor?7 The reason much scholarship has not been impressed by that argument has been because of a way of seeing the difference between the early and late periods of biblical history. The early period was seen as the period of freshness and vitality; the late as a period of reaction and stultification. Notice that what is involved is more than just the common thesis of a post-exilic priestly dominance. It is conceivable that priests might have been politically and socially dominant without also being dull of wits and ossified. However so entwined are the theories of priestly political dominance and rigidity that one cannot exist without the other. For the argument to detect late material within the Pentateuch—as well as other books—rests upon contradiction and conflict. That argument is refutable by the objection already mentioned; namely that the purported contradiction or conflict must be the product of the assumptions we bring to the reading because it could not have escaped the author if it were real. The answer has to be that those who redacted the books were so tradition bound that contradiction was of no concern to them. The formulation of the problem in the previous paragraph invites the rebuttal that the actual argument presented in the nineteenth century was more empirical then I have allowed. It made great appeal to the division of documents and the failure of the elaborate cultus of Leviticus and the cultic centralisation rule of Deuteronomy to appear in the period from Judges to early Kings.8 However that in turn simplifies the logic of the argument. Chronicles had to be removed as evidence before the lack of I am not the first to use that argument: see R. N. Whybray, The Making of the Pentateuch. A Methodological Study (JSOT Sup., 53; Sheffield: JSOT, 1987), 19. See also J. Barton, Reading the Old Testament Method in Biblical Study (London: Darton, Longman and Todd, 2nd ed., 1984), 26–9. 8 For example the exposition of Wellhausen’s approach by E. Nicholson (The Pentateuch in the Twentieth Century. The Legacy of Julius Wellhausen [Oxford: OUP, 1998], 10) puts the emphasis on the Pentateuchal documents but Nicholson admits (p. 3) that Wellhausen was more interested in the history of Israel’s religion than in the Pentateuch itself. 7

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complex cultus in the early monarchy could be established as fact.9 The argument in turn for the removal of Chronicles was that it reflected the priestly dominance and rigidity of the late period.

THEORIES OF CHANGE We may anticipate, given the new emphasis on history in the nineteenth century, that change would be anticipated during the biblical period.10 Why was it conceptualised as degenerative change? Once again it is important not to confuse the order of the argument. That the post-exilic period was one of tradition, rigidity and priestly dominance to an extent that had not existed before, could not be established before certain texts, presented in the canonical text as of earlier origin, had been assigned to the late period. Paradoxically the key evidence could have been explained away, if anybody had so desired, by a different sort of theory of degeneration. It could have been argued that the failure of elaborate cultus in the judges and early monarchy period was due to

On De Wette’s argument against Chronicles see K. Peltonen, “Function, Explanation and Literary Phenomena: Aspects of Source Criticism as Theory and Method in the History of Chronicles Research,” in The Chronicler as Author: Studies in Text and Texture, ed. M. P. Graham and S. L. McKenzie (JSOT Sup., 263; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999), 36–9; idem, History Debated: The Historical Reliability of Chronicles in PreCritical and Critical Research (2 vols.; Pub. of the Finnish Exegetical Soc., 64; Helsinki: Finnish Exegetical Soc., 1996), 1.76–82; J. W. Wright, “From Center to Perifery: I Chronicles 23–27 and the Interpretation of Chronicles in the Nineteenth Century,” in Priests, Prophets and Scribes. Essays on the Formation and Heritage of Second Temple Judaism in Honour of Joseph Blenkinsopp, ed. E. Ulrich, J. W. Wright, R. P. Carroll, and P. R. Davies (JSOT Sup., 149; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1992), 20–42; R. J. Thompson, Moses and the Law in a Century of Criticism since Graf (VTS, 19: Leiden: Brill, 1970), 19–20. 10 For the interaction of views of history and biblical criticism see R. A. Oden, Jr., The Bible Without Theology. The Theological Tradition and Alternatives to It (Urbana: U. of Illinois Press, 1987), 1–17. 9

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the religious regression of Israel in that period.11 The degeneracy which was actually proposed was a different sort of degeneracy: from naive vibrancy to rigid, priestly orthodoxy. There were additional ways in which the data of contradictions within books could have been explained. It could have been explained as due to the fact that it was all a late composition. It could have been argued that in the process of creating a speculative history of earlier periods the authors had not told a consistent story and had confused visions of what earlier times were like so that when the material was put together contradictions resulted. Of course theories something like this are now appearing. Why did it take so long for them to appear? The fear of political or ecclesiastical censorship may explain the lack in the early nineteenth century but is not applicable for later in that century or for the earlier twentieth century. These various probings and questions go in one direction. I strongly suspect that an assumed but undefended theory of historical change underlay what we have inherited as critical biblical studies. The assumptions seemed so axiomatic that they did not need to be argued and to argue them would have merely revealed that they were operating at a presuppositional level and were unprovable. We, in contrast, are moving into an era when those presuppositions do not seem as self-evident. Hence alternate ways of dealing with the “contradictions” and heterogeneity of the text are now appearing. L. Perlitt has written a thorough defence of Wellhausen against the change that he was bringing philosophical presuppositions to the study of the history of Israel.12 The

I realise this would have required an argument with respect to the testimony of Chronicles but the crucial thing is that such alternate theories of historical change were not debated as serious possibilities. For the later debate over the historical reliability of Chronicles see S. Japhet, “The Historical Reliability of Chronicles. The History of the Problem and its Place in Biblical Research,” JSOT 33 (1985): 83–107. 12 Vatke und Wellhausen. Geschichtsphilosophische Voraussetzung und historiograhische Motive für die Darstellung der Religion und Geschichte Israels durch 11

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particular charges from which Wellhausen is being defended is that he employed a Hegelian or evolutionary schematisation of the history. Perlitt’s study stands over against H.-J. Kraus who argues that the three phases of Wellhausen’s view of the history of Israel (old natural and naive period, period of prophets, post-exilic triumph of priestly party) corresponds to the three phases of Hegelian historical development.13 The debate depends upon where one chooses to place the emphasis because Kraus admits that the end of the process for Wellhausen is rigidity rather than the freedom of the spirit of Hegel.14 It seems to me that a less contentious thesis would be that Wellhausen, like Hegel, reflects the concern for stages of development/change which is part of the nineteenth century view but his version of the stages is not that of Hegel. Perlitt is happy to surrender Vatke, who was a self confessed Hegelian, to the critical wolves but he defends the objectivity of Wellhausen’s history.15 Similarly he expounds nineteenth century evolutionary thinking and distinguishes it from Wellhausen.16 In trying to defend Wellhausen from charges of philosophical presuppositions Perlitt places him in the stream of Romantic thought which runs so strongly from figures such as Goethe and Herder through much of nineteenth century German historiography, including significantly de Wette.17 While I would Wilhelm Vatke und Julius Wellhausen (BZAW, 94; Berlin: Alfred Töpelmann, 1965). 13 Geschichte der historische-kritischen Erforschung, 1.261–64. 14 Ibid., 2.68. 15 See Vatke und Wellhausen, 86–144 for an exposition of Vatke’s Hegelianism. 16 Ibid., 80–4. See also Rogerson, Old Testament Criticism in the Nineteenth Century, 26. 17 Vatke und Wellhausen, 200. Kraus (Geschichte der historische-kritischen Erforschung, 268) concurs on the connection to Herder and Romanticism. For similar appreciation of the importance of Romanticism see J. Barr, History and Ideology in the Old Testament: Biblical Studies at the End of a Millennium (Oxford OUP, 2000), 53. See also R. Rendtorff, “The Paradigm is Changing: Hopes—and Fears,” Biblical Interpretation 1 (1993): 35. For

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not object to the general correctness of this attribution it amounts to a strange defence. Are we to see German nineteenth century Romantic historiography as without presuppositions? Perlitt, correctly in my opinion, connects Wellhausen’s preference for the original and the vibrant with Herder.18 Certainly the picture of early societies as vibrant and fresh is standard fare with Romanticism, but is it historical fact? That question receives added force from the fact that the standard theory of sources and redaction would collapse if we could not make a distinction between the vibrancy of the early period and the rigidity of the later. This “knowledge” of the difference between periods is logically prior to anything we learn from the biblical sources. Yet we cannot see Wellhausen as simply a Romantic; his thought is much more complex. The role he gives to the state as

differences between the particular form of Romanticism with de Wette and Wellhausen see R. Rendtorff, “The Image of Postexilic Israel in German Biblical Scholarship from Wellhausen to Von Rad in Sha’arei Talmon, ed., M. Fishbane, E. Tov and W. W. Fields (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1992), 165–68. While concentrating on the particular streams of thought which lead to Gunkel, W. Klatt touches on the continuing Romantic tradition through the nineteenth century and its contrast of early naivety and later artificiality (Hermann Gunkel. Zu seiner Theologie der Religionsgeschichte und zur Entstehung der formgeschichlichen Methode (Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments, 100; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1969) esp, 105– 107). On Herder see R. Schwab, The Oriental Renaissance (New York: Columbia UP, 1984), 209–35. On the importance of Romanticism for Wellhausen’s view of sacrifice see J. Milbank, “Stories of Sacrifice,” Modern Theology 12 (1996) 30. (I thank Pastor C. Priebbenow for drawing my attention to the last article.) 18 Vatke und Wellhausen, 211. See also Oden, The Bible Without Theology, 21–3; Peltonen, History Debated, 201, 236; Thompson, Moses and the Law in a Century of Criticism since Graf, 45–8; J. A. Blenkinsopp, History of Prophecy in Israel (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1983), 27,8; idem, Prophecy and Canon: A Contribution to the Study of Jewish Origins (Notre Dame: Uni. of Notre Dame Press, 1977), 7,20.

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crucial to religious development in Israel19 connects him to a much broader debate that involves Kant and Hegel and the growing political unification of Germany. Is the essential role of the state for religious development an indubitable fact or should the historian, looking back upon the nineteenth century debate, take into account the involvement of church-state relationships in political change in Germany?20 Perlitt accepts that Wellhausen’s view of the ethical monotheism of the prophets is connected to Kant’s moral imperative.21 Are Kant’s ethics determinative for biblical historiography? Thus Perlitt’s collection of material and thorough discussion succeeds in acquitting Wellhausen from certain charges which have Vatke und Wellhausen, 176–77; Milbank, “Stories of Sacrifice”, 30–1. For a general survey of the concept of the state in the German historical tradition see G. G. Iggers, The German Conception of History: The National Tradition of Historical Thought from Herder to the Present (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan Uni. Press, rev. ed., 1983), especially 9–15. For the resistance to state control of the church in Germany see W. H. Conser, Church and Confession. Conservative Theologians in Germany, England and America 1815–1866 (Macon, GA: Mercer U.P., 1984). For the involvement of the church and members of the theological faculties in the political questions of the day see W. R. Ward, Theology, Sociology and Politics. The German Social Conscience 1890–1933 (Berne: Peter Lang, 1979). For the attitude of various intellectuals to political developments see H. Kohn, The Mind of Germany (London: Macmillan, 1962). The opposition to such manifestations of state control of the church as the union of Lutheran and Reformed Churches—and the consequent devaluing of confessional differences— included figures who were generally opposed to the critical movement in Old Testament studies. E. W. Hengstenberg and Franz Delitzsch were active on both fronts. See S. Wagner, Franz Delitzsch: Leben und Werk (Giessen: Brunnen, 2nd ed., 1991). If the conservatives were struggling for greater independence of the church from the state and were adopting a view of the development of the religion of Israel which did not require state stimulus, then it stands to reason that those two positions had some connection. Surely it is also likely that there is a similar connection on the critical side. Yet the histories of the rise of criticism separate the critical scholars from their context. Why? 21 Vatke und Wellhausen, 197. 19 20

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been made against both him and the dominant direction in source criticism. It leads to just as serious alternate charges and even seems to abet those charges, although that was certainly not Perlitt’s aim. M. Weinfeld attributes Wellhausen’s antipathy to P to a liberal Protestant bias against ceremony and ritual.22 There may be truth in this explanation but “liberal Protestantism” is a vague category and Wellhausen’s reconstruction involves more than his antipathy to cultic law. A brief excursion into Wellhausen illustrates the problems. His confession that the reading of the law and the prophets and the lack of fit between these two blocks of material prepared him to accept, sight unseen, Graf’s thesis of the temporal priority of the prophets to the law, is often cited as evidence of the prescience of Wellhausen.23 Might it also be evidence that certain convictions predisposed him to a particular reading of the text?24 Further evidence for the proposition that Wellhausen had precommitments lies in the vehemence of the rhetoric with which he dismisses de Wette’s argument for the priority of P to Deuteronomy.25 The data each must contend with is that Deuteronomy insists on centralisation of sacrificial worship but there is no explicit mention of that necessity in Leviticus. As observers of the argument we may note that lack of mention of a 22Getting

at the Roots of Wellhausen’s Understanding of the Law of Israel on the 100th Anniversary of the Prolegomena (Jerusalem: Institute of Advanced Studies, Hebrew University, 1979), Report no. 14, 15–16. 23 J. Wellhausen, Prolegomena to the History of Ancient Israe, trans. S. Black and A. Menzies (repr., Gloucester, MA: Peter Smith, 1973), 3–4. 24 See also the discussion of the relationship of Wellhausen’s inductive and deductive arguments in R. M. Polzin, Biblical Structuralism: Method and Subjectivity in the Study of Ancient Texts (Semeia Supplements; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1977), 126–49. 25 Wellhausen, Prolegomena, 34–8. For a more recent discussion of this question which interacts with older views see Z. Zevit, “Converging Lines of Evidence Bearing on the Date of P,” ZAW 94 (1982): 481–511, esp. 482–83. For a critique of methods used to establish the text of P see Rendtorff, The Problem of the Process of Transmission, 136–70.

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law is a favoured piece of evidence with Wellhausen to prove that the law in question did not exist at that time. Yet in this case the significance of the lack is quite different: it is proof that P is so much later than D that P did not consider the matter worth mentioning. Certainly Wellhausen could hypothetically be correct but if we are allowed to turn his own method of reading the vehemence and temperature of the text back upon him, then we obtain an interesting result. Just as he sees Deuteronomy as being more vehement because it is bringing in an innovation, so Wellhausen’s categorical certainty, in a matter that could be argued either way, points to his consciousness that he is arguing a doubtful point. Any argument from silence is hard to sustain and ideally requires reticence in its employer. Wellhausen is using his rhetorical skills to argue a weak case. The conclusion is of more than empirical importance to him. A similar observation may be made about his treatment of occasions where his argument from silence breaks down. 1 Kings 8:4 mentions the “tent of meeting”. This text is inconvenient for Wellhausen’s theory of the tabernacle being an invention of the post-exilic period. In the end of the discussion he comes to the circular proposition that it is a late interpolation.26 I say “circular” because this mention undermines the argument from the silence of the earlier texts which in turn undermines the thesis that P is late. Once again, hypothetically, Wellhausen might be correct but his evidence and argument justify less certainty than he displays. In the face of contrary evidence there should be room for the exploration of alternate theses rather than the skilful demolition of all that opposes. The method reinforces my impression that Wellhausen, in the absence of the data, knows where he needs to go. Reconstructing the thought process of somebody with whom one disagrees is prone to error. Allow me, with trepidation, to raise another example. In his treatment of sacrifice, Wellhausen makes a contrast, putting P and the later material: against J, and JudgesWellhausen, Prolegomena, 43–4. Note the similarly weak argument that more would have been made of Hezekiah’s centralisation and it would have been more lasting in effect if there was any substance to it (Prolegomena, 46–7). 26

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Kings.27 He makes the usually valid point that the latter are more concerned with the fact that the sacrifice is to YHWH and not to a strange god, than with the form of the sacrifice.28 This is then made a strong contrast to P, so that P is depicted as being concerned with nothing but form and the others as being concerned with nothing but the object of the sacrifice.29 Is this the debater being carried away again with his argument or is there another factor? Is there any room in the biblical text for any concept of a gradation in the seriousness of sins? Might it have been more important to the author of Judges that Gideon offered to YHWH and not to Baal than the “P & Q”s of the sacrificial form? Wellhausen writes as though there is an absolute contrast between those indifferent to form and those obsessed by it. However this comes not from the texts but rather from the already formed images of the periods to which he attaches the respective texts. When he turns to the early writing prophets he is on much stronger ground.30 The polemic against contemporary worship, the rhetorical question of Amos 5:25 which implies that Israel did not sacrifice to YHWH in the wilderness; all such statements are very useful to his case. Yet they do not establish that P is post-exilic nor do they prove his characterisation of the post-exilic period and, as the continuing debate has shown, other understandings are possible.31 Further the impact of his argument is dampened by the necessity to argue that when Amos 2:4 speaks of the “law of YHWH” he could not possibly mean the Pentateuchal cultic law.32 Once again the point in the present context is not that he could not

Prolegomena, 52–5. Note that his discussion shows he has failed to pick up the fact that J in Genesis, like all of Genesis, lacks a polemic against idolatry. How hard it is to see what our theory tells us cannot exist! 29 One would think that the criticism of Hophni and Phinehas in 1 Samuel 2:12–17 calls for some muting of the contrast. 30 Prolegomena, 56–8. 31 For example R. Hentschke, Die Stellung der vorexilischen Schriftpropheten zum Kultus (BZAW, 75; Berlin, Alfred Topelmann, 1957). 32 Prolegomena, 57. 27 28

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be right. It is that the certainty of his argument goes beyond his evidential base. So far I have been adducing examples to argue that Wellhausen skilfully and powerfully used argument to present a case which was stronger and more definite than his evidence really allowed. There is nothing surprising in the fact that he did so. We all do it to some extent! In emphasising this point I am reacting to the excessively positivistic portrayal of Wellhausen which one so often meets. More interesting is what can be discerned of his picture of historical development. He has a discussion of Judges where he says that 6:11–8:3 and 8:4–12 are two versions of the one story, in spite of the differences in detail.33 This conclusion is based on the fact that one story is a more overtly religious version than the other. Significantly he claims to be able to tell which comes first: “it may stand as a general principle, that the nearer history is to its origin the more profane it is”.34 Here is a philosophy of religious historical development. Religion is later added to the original. That is quite consistent with his portrayal of the post-exilic period as the period which is ossified by excessive growth of religious sentiment. Thus the development is depicted as towards greater religiosity. That is a picture more consistent with the older Deist picture of religious development. It contrasts with the evolutionary theory of a development from superstition and religiosity to secular reason.35

POLITICAL AND RELIGIOUS Somewhere in the complex of thought that is the Wellhausian synthesis is the relationship of political and religious dimensions. K. Rudolph interprets his work as an Arabist in terms of a belief in the priority of political history and the subordination of the history

Prolegomena, 242–45. Ibid., 245. 35 Rogerson (Old Testament Criticism in the Nineteenth Century, 40) attributes a more normal unilinear evolutionary history of Israel’s religion to De Wette. 33 34

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of religion to political developments.36 It is reasonable to suppose that there is a connection between developments in biblical interpretation and events contemporary to the scholar. Against the tradition of his own family, Wellhausen would not join with his teacher Ewald in supporting the royal house of Hannover against Prussia.37 Clearly Wellhausen saw some sort of connection between religion and the state. He argues that the elaborate Mosaic cultus could not have existed without state financial support and refers to the state “in the absence of which the church cannot have any substance either”. 38 It does suit his overall argument to contend that the cult of Leviticus could not have existed without a state organising taxes and dues but this may also give expression to his understanding of the relationship of church and state and/or religion and politics. It may seem a petty criticism to say that Wellhausen tended to see ancient Israel and especially its religious institutions in terms of his own time and its equivalent institutions. We can all fall into that trap. Nevertheless such anachronisms can unwittingly lead to major historical misconceptions. A more detailed consideration of Kings and Chronicles has to be left to the next chapter but one detail is relevant in this context. W. M. Schniedewind has observed an interesting distinction in Chronicles between those, who prophesy and are described in the text as prophets, as contrasted with nonprophets, who prophesy on some special occasion when moved by the Spirit. It is the latter group and not the former who invoke the support of the tradition and the law.39 One might suggest, in “Wellhausen as an Arabist,” in Wellhausen and his Prolegomena to the History of Israel, ed. D. A. Knight (Semeia, 25; Chico: Scholars, 1982), 111– 155. 37 R. Smend, “Julius Wellhausen and his Prolegomena to the History of Israe,” in Wellhausen and his Prolegomena, 1–20; L. Perlitt, “Heinrich Ewald: Der Gelehrte in der Politik,” in Theologie in Göttingen, ed. B. Moeller; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1987), 157–212; H. Harris, The Tübingen School (London: OUP, 1975), 43–8. 38 Prolegomena, 412. 39 “Prophets and Prophecy in the Books of Chronicles,” in The Chronicler as Historian, ed M. P. Graham, K. G. Hoglund, and 36

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interpretation of this distinction, that prophets see themselves as having their own authority as prophets and therefore not needing the support of the law or the tradition.40 If that is the case, the traditional scholarly appeal to the silence of the prophets with respect to the law becomes doubtful. For the present context what is more significant is the possibility that we have unconsciously assimilated our view of prophets to Christian preachers whose authority depended very much upon appeal to the existing Scriptures. The absence of that appeal in the prophets had to be explained and an explanation in terms of the late development of organised religion and hence of the lateness of the text detailing that organised religion made sense. Paradoxically, in view of the fact that “higher criticism” has often been viewed as the enemy of the church, we might rather say that it worked by assimilating Israel to the church.

OTHER FIGURES, OTHER THEORIES Wellhausen’s grappling with the nature and process of religious development can be compared with that of other key figures. De Wette also saw earlier religious expressions as a simple apprehension of truth which became more complex over time.41 This later development could be viewed negatively, for example in S. L. McKenzie (JSOT Sup., 238; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1997), 178–203. 40 I am not unaware of the possibility of the alternate interpretation that the Chronicler is deliberately placing references to the law and the tradition in the mouths of his occasional “prophets” because he knows that real prophets would not have spoken that way. That theory takes us further into the deliberate conspiracy view of biblical writing and like all elaborate conspiracy theories has the advantage of being very difficult to refute and the disadvantage of being implausible. On the knowledge of the Law in the prophets see G. M. Tucker, “The Law in the EighthCentury Prophets” in Canon, Theology and Old Testament Interpretation: Essays in Honor of Brevard S. Childs ed. G. M. Tucker, D. L. Petersen and R. R. Wilson (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 201–16. 41 J. W. Rogerson, W. M. L. de Wette. Founder of Modern Biblical Criticism. An Intellectual Biography (Sheffield: JSOT, 1992), 42–3.

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the argument that Chronicles’ emphasis on supernatural details proved it was later than Samuel-Kings.42 As Rogerson describes his thought, de Wette seemed to have worked with two different schemes of the development of religion.43 In the positive evolutionary scheme, fetishism developed into nature religion which through the role of Israel and Greece became Christianity which itself reaches its highest form when philosophically informed. In the alternate degenerative scheme early Hebrew religion was elevated by the religion of the heart of the prophets but degenerated under foreign influence in the post-exilic period only to be rescued by Christianity. Christianity in turn was turned back into the bondage of Judaism by the Catholic Church. This time the Reformation was the liberator but the Reformation needed its own liberation to free inquiry through historical criticism. Of course these two models can be reconciled by adding the periods of degenerative bondage to the first positive picture. However it leaves a puzzle of chicken-and-egg. Does the image of modern Christianity liberated from the bondage of orthodox Protestantism and Catholicism supply the framework for understanding the religious development of Israel?44 Or does the realisation of religious degeneration in the history of Israel supply the tools to understand modern history? Since the picture of Catholicism as a Babylonian captivity long precedes historical criticism. the first possibility is more likely. Likelihood is not proof. Rogerson’s study of de Wette has emphasised the importance of the aesthetically coloured Kantianism of J. F. Fries for his thought.45 Fries’ notion of an Rogerson, W. M. L. de Wette, 57. For other surveys of de Wette’s treatment of Chronicles see Peltonen, History Debated, 69–82, and Graham, The Utilisation of 1 and 2 Chronicles, 10–34; Japhet, “The Historical Reliability of Chronicles,” 83–5. 43 Compare W. M. L. de Wette, 217–23 with 109–10. 44 For the use by Graf of the model of the Catholic Church to understand the Chronicler see Graham, The Utilisation of 1 and 2 Chronicles, 130 45 The same case is argued in T. A. Howard, III, Historicist Thought in the Shadow of Theology: M. W. L. de Wette, Jacob Burckhardt, and the Shaping of 42

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apprehension of the Absolute through nature and history provides the background of de Wette’s positive appraisal of “myth” in the Bible as a human attempt to apprehend the Absolute. Thus one can understand the source of his positive appraisal of early religious expression in Israel. However that does not explain his negative appraisal of that developed and organised religious expression which he sees as late. Is it axiomatic to us that developed and complex religion must be a degeneration? Can that be taken as a fixed truth without examination? If Israel underwent such a development, we would expect evidence for it to be found in the biblical text. We cannot find that evidence if we take biblical books as entities because what is “early” and what is “late” will occur within the one book. If, for convenience, we may divide the history of criticism into two phases, namely the discovery of “sources” and the dating of “sources”, the earlier recognition of ‘sources’ did not carry the field until it was blended into a plausible theory of the history of Israel’s religion.46 The books in question show an evident internal complexity. They apparently evince repetitions, discordances and contradictions. There are in effect two basically dissimilar ways of dealing with such internal phenomena. We may see it as the remnants of diversity of authorship and/or source. Or we may see it as flowing from conventions of writings which, while very different to our own, have a certain sophistication. The latter explanation opens the door to the text being early, but a thesis which makes early date and complexity incompatible closes that door. Further the correlate of believing in an early naive, vibrant period is belief in a later degenerate period where complexity and the Nineteenth-Century Historical Consciousness (Ph.D. diss., U. of Virginia, 1996). 46 This same distinction is made by J. Barton (“Intertextuality and the ‘Final Form’ of the Text,” in Congress Volume. Oslo 1998, ed. A. Lemaire and M. Sæbø (VTS, 80; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 33–7 36) though with a different purpose. I am happy to accept it for convenience but I suspect that the situation was more complicated with the finding of the “sources” also being connected to prevailing historical theories.

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rigidity go together. Once these presuppositions about religious historical development are in place there is really only one way in which the data of the text can be treated. Putting it this way may obscure the complexity of the process. Not all developmental models progress from the primitive and superstitious to the modern and good. There are also models which see the possibility of change in a negative direction. It is significant that Wellhausen’s model which became so dominant does not imply that Israel progressed from good to better. His late priestly age is not presented positively.47 Various models of the history of religion compete in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. There was a common Enlightenment model in which the commendable universal religion of nature became corrupted due to various causes, not least of which was a power seeking priesthood.48 The Romantic model had various points of overlap and various points of diversity. It tended to give a positive assessment to the early stages of human religion because of their genuine uncorrupted enthusiasm rather than because they were the rational deductions of natural man. For Romanticism corruption is in the departure from the natural and thus,. for it, the danger is that the early religion of enthusiasm may be stultified by development. Wellhausen’s model has taken the early stage of naive but commendable enthusiasm from Romanticism and has made that progress into something akin to Enlightenment natural religion with the prophets. The priests are the final stage, playing the negative role assigned to them in Enlightenment theory, but achieving thereby the deadening impact of development as seen in the Romantic model. As with any complicated blending of models, it is possible to attribute various motives to Wellhausen. He has been accused of Rogerson (Old Testament Criticism in the Nineteenth Century,60) also attributes a negative picture of late priestly power to C. P. W. Gramberg. 48 Reventlow (The Authority of the Bible, 401-02) rightly criticises Perlitt, Vatke und Wellhausen, for not highlighting Wellhausen’s dependence on Enlightenment models for his picture of the late phase. See also F. E. Manuel, The Eighteenth Century Confronts the Gods (Cambridge: Harvard U.P., 1959). 47

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antipathy to Judaism, if not anti-Semitism. We have here a question of which came first. Did Wellhausen’s “anti-Semitism” drive his developmental theory or did a developmental theory lead to his seeing the late stages negatively? I think the evidence points to the latter. Even if we wish to see political-social motives in Wellhausen there are other possibilities. The “wicked priest” theory had a long history in anti-Catholic rhetoric. A model which saw a stultifying orthodox clericalism working hand in hand with the state as the final blow to pure Old Testament religion was also a useful weapon against orthodox Lutheranism, especially as represented in the circles of Old Testament scholarship by Hengstengerg, Keil, Franz Delitzsch and others.49 Even while accepting all these as possibilities for Wellhausen’s motivation we have to remember that the events to be explained are more complex than the mind of an individual scholar. There was something very attractive in the Wellhausian synthesis. Here I am not thinking only of the plausible way in which he presented it. I also include its adaptability. It was eagerly adopted in lands with different religious situations such as Britain and America.50 For the belief that Wellhausen was attacking conservative Protestants of his own day through his picture of Judaism see L. H. Silberman, “Wellhausen and Judaism,” in Wellhausen and his Prolegomena to the History of Israel, ed. D. A. Knight (Semeia, 25; Chico: Scholars, 1982), 75–82. However it was not just conservative Protestantism which was in view. Note the clear statement regarding the post-exilic theocracy: “In its nature it is intimately allied to the old Catholic Church, which was in fact its child” (Prolegomena, 422). 50 Of course those different situations might lead to similar results. For an example of the influence of opposition to Anglo-Catholicism upon the views of Colenso see Rogerson, Old Testament Criticism in the Nineteenth Century, 335,36. For the reception of Wellhausen’s views in Scotland see R. A. Riesen, Criticism and Faith in Late Victorian Scotland (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1985). Note particularly the cited opinion of A. B. Davidson that making the religion of Israel progressive was higher criticism’s most powerful argument (280). For the image of the progressive divine education of mankind as the way criticism was introduce into England see Rogerson, “The Old Testament”, 123–27. 49

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The same model was taken and applied to the history of ancient Egyptian religion by J. H. Breasted. Akhenaton was made the hero by Breasted and interpreted in terms reminiscent of the glorification of the Old Testament prophets and the villains were once more priests who in the end were able to suppress positive developments.51 That model of Egyptian religion has proved very popular despite the disagreements from within Egyptology.52 Similarly Romantic theories of the early stages of culture which see those early stages as producing a literature which is brief and vibrant have had great influence. Without too much exaggeration one could take Form Criticism back to that basic assumption. H. Gressmann’s theory of the development of history writing out of saga in Israel and Greece and the contrast of that to the official annals of Mesopotamia and Egypt betrays that same working with the poles of early and vibrant versus organised and ossified.53 Another example is A. Schultz’s belief that we can recognise additions to the text by the length of speeches.54 Surely this points to something that rings “true” in a wider sense in Wellhausen’s thesis, true that is to a broader understanding of the religious history of mankind. The nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were the periods in which developmental models held sway. They were also the ages in which the threat to progress was seen as coming from reactionary forces. Wellhausen’s thesis was a moral tale for the modern world. Surely in assessing The Dawn of Conscience (London: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1933), esp. 272–319. For a detailed study see S. Jackson, “The ‘Wicked Priest’ in Egyptology and Amarna Studies: A Reconsideration,” Antiguo Oriente 6 (2008): 181–208. 52 B. J. Kemp, Ancient Egypt Anatomy of a Civilization (London: Routledge, 1989), 229–30; W. F. Edgerton, “The Government and the Governed in the Egyptian Empire,” Journal of Near Eastern Studies 6 (1947): 154–57. 53 “The Oldest History Writing in Israel,” in Narrative and Novella in Samuel. Studies by Hugo Gressmann and Other Scholars 1906–1923, ed. D. M. Gunn (Sheffield: Almond, 1991), 12–4. 54 “Narrative Art in the Books of Samuel,” in Narrative and Novella in Samuel, 137–38) 51

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the roots of Wellhausen’s theory we cannot exclude the possibility that what was later to contribute to its popularity also contributed to its genesis. Wellhausianism, while it may be politically useful in certain circumstances, may have arisen more from a broad vision of human history rather than just from political-social motives. I have deliberately cast in a favourable light the historically most significant and most popular form of theory arguing for diversity of authorship in biblical texts. I do so to throw up a basic question. May a thesis which resonates with the spirit of the age be wrong? Historians who adhere to some form of empiricism will affirm that “good” theories may be empirically wrong. Asserting the principle of rule by evidence and practicing it are two different things. Further we must acknowledge the success of Wellhausianism in creating a theory which explains the contrary evidence. Once it is asserted that the biblical books consist of sources from different ages, exhibiting different levels of orthodoxy, it becomes relatively easy to assign inconvenient evidence to the artificial harmonisation of a late redactor. There is another factor in assessing the popularity of the Wellhausian approach. It was adaptable to a variety of theological positions. For those interested in proving the historicity and hence the authority, in some sense, of the earlier levels of Israelite religious writing, it provided a way to discern those earlier levels. Indeed Wellhausen stood in the way of attempts to dismiss the Bible as late and concocted. Conversely, in providing proof that the Bible was subjected to later rewriting, it gave justification to more liberal attempts to move beyond the Bible. Accordingly the Albright School tended to drag the earlier sources early and the reaction to Albright to make all the sources somewhat later. An argument that questions the very framework of Wellhausianism may open the door to either a conservative approach where all the Pentateuch is early or a more liberal approach where all the Pentateuch is late.

TESTING THE THEORY How do we know whether the plausibility of the older dominant higher criticism came from the strength of its case or from the congeniality of its vision to what we believed anyway? That question has to be decided on the plausibility of the basic assumptions. Crucial amongst those assumptions is the belief that

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the age that produced the biblical texts was primitive and naive. Once more the circularity of the discussion has to be faced. If anything which seems sophisticated may be assigned to the very latest stages of biblical composition, then the internal evidence which might be used to demonstrate its sophistication is thereby negated. One way out of the dilemma might be to compare the Bible with other literature of approximately the same time. If that literature is literarily and historiographically sophisticated then presumably the Bible might be also. Several preliminary questions obstruct this endeavour. Some who do see sophistication in the Bible use that to argue its lateness and affinity to Greek historiography.55 The parallels to Greek historiography cited are rather general and do not of themselves establish the obvious dependency of biblical historiography on Greek historiography. Certainly we have nothing as clear as the parallels in flood narratives discussed below. Hence the persuasiveness of the argument that biblical historiography depends upon Greek historiography takes us back to the point at issue. If we can assume that sophistication cannot be early then the parallels with Greek historiography become more plausible. Of course that does not help us in dating sophistication. The counter argument would be to try to find early parallels to biblical narrative. Some have been suggested. Yet one would ask whether they are obviously more convincing than the parallels with Greek historiography. We may be falling into the trap of looking for our evidence where it suits us. Conservatives tend to find that evidence early and liberals to find it late. In adopting this path we are using a model of cultural relationship which approximates diffusionism. Israel is thought to have appropriated ideas and institutions which diffused from their origin, whether that origin be a Mesopotamian, Canaanite or Greek one, depending on the thesis being developed. Let us take a very concrete case: flood narratives. It cannot be denied that there is a relationship between Mesopotamian and biblical flood narratives. That does not end the discussion. Did the 55

See chapter 7.

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story arise in Mesopotamia and diffuse to Israel? Or do both go back to something more original, whether that something be an event or a literary (or oral) tradition? If there was diffusion, when did it take place? Despite the dogmatism one meets on some of these questions, it cannot be said that the answers are a matter of plain fact without assumptions playing a role. What is not so frequently noticed is the fact that the obvious parallel created by flood stories stands isolated. The thesis of a parallel of biblical creation stories to foreign myths has much less objective evidence behind it and other claimed parallels often have even less. The bigger question raised here is the validity and adequacy of diffusionism. In spite of its continuing popularity in biblical studies it is not exactly fashionable in kindred disciplines. Partly that is because of its political assumptions and uses. It has been used to assert the inferiority of the culture that could not invent its own ideas and institutions but was forced to rely on others. In this respect the blithe unawareness of the political implications of PanBabylonianism amongst biblical scholars is surprising. Leaving aside the politics, diffusionist explanations are convincing only when the alternative of independent invention has been considered and refuted. Many supposed borrowings are so vaguely similar to the purported source that independent invention is equally if not more plausible. Can we cite a parallel to biblical historiography that is so close and convincing that we may date the biblical historical text in question by the outside text? Since my concern is the historiography of large portions, whether of a biblical book or the supposed source of that book, a parallel to a stray verse here or there is irrelevant. My judgement would be that we can rarely find a close parallel to a whole biblical book and when we can find parallels, as with the flood narratives, they do little to resolve the basic questions. Behind this dilemma is another case of assumptions. The search for foreign prototypes for this or that portion of the biblical text assumes the unoriginality of the biblical authors. What if, for whatever reason, they were quite original and innovative? We would then lack the needed parallels because the biblical text would not be derived from something else. Parallelomania, no matter what the supposed parallel, is unconvincing. Is that because we have started from the wrong assumption and expected slavish

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borrowings where they do not in fact occur? If there is originality in the biblical text, including in biblical historiography, then we may not date biblical historiography by parallels nor may we use parallels to defend the sophistication of biblical historiography. To come back to the original question: I asked whether we may assume that the biblical authors were naive. I then questioned whether we can decide the issue either internally from the biblical text or externally by parallel texts. Neither approach yields us an answer free of presuppositions.

PRIMACY OF POLITICS The assumption that the primary purpose of the biblical text is political has a different background. By political I mean that it was originally designed to protect and promote the interests of an individual or group or to support a particular political system. In nineteenth century theories political motivation tended to be seen as manifest in the later stages of the biblical text. Examples would be Deuteronomy written to centralise the cult and thus promote the interests of the Jerusalem priests or the Priestly writing written to entrench the role of the sacerdotal class in late Israel. Since both Romanticism and the Enlightenment tended to view early human religious activity positively, the earlier biblical sources were not seen in terms of political motivation. This is not so clear in the twentieth century. We might suggest that in this cynical century the naive enthusiasm that Romanticism ascribes to early religious sentiment has become less believable. Rost’s reading of Samuel was in terms of tracts written for political purposes: thus the Ark Narrative was to confirm the position of the Jerusalem priesthood, the Rise of David Story was to defend David’s position and the Accession to the Throne of David was to defend Solomon’s position. Many other biblical passages could be given a political purpose. Once again we are seeing assumptions at work. Does pure religious conviction exist or is political motivation behind it all? One does not have to be a Marxist to be influenced by political interpretations of religion. If the political motivation is the basic one then we must seek such motivations behind the text. When a unified text does not lead to a plausible theory of political motivation, then the text must be broken into units which can be read politically.

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Is there any way in which this assumption can be confirmed or refuted? The obvious answer is that the longevity of Marxism shows that it is quite plausible to many people and Marxism is just one of many philosophies which assume the priority of the political. Such philosophies do not claim to be based on the biblical text but are rather general assumptions about human society which are brought to the text. At most we may object that there is something anachronistic about seeing debates between monarchists and republicans in the biblical text. Of course one might turn the question about sophistication the other way and ask whether Israel, whether under Greek influence or purely independently, came to think abstractly about political systems. One could argue it but whether it is plausible in terms of what we have in the text is another question. Still proving that people did not engage in abstract political debate is far from proving that people did not know how to defend their own political position. In the end it comes down to assumptions.

HARMONISATION We are on even more uncertain ground when we come to explore the issue of whether biblical authors would have felt it necessary to harmonise statements in different parts of a narrative. My suspicion is that academic writing and intellectual criticism creates a pressure to make an argument as tight and self-consistent as possible lest the loose ends become the attachment points for criticism. What we do, even if unconsciously, we naturally assume that others will do. If they do not then there must be a reason for the lack of the obvious. Sources and diversity of authorship are explanations for a text which has not been harmonised. It might help if we searched our texts to see whether there are concerns to harmonise and contextualize information. We find some examples but they are few and probably not what we would do. For example 1 Samuel 9:9 tells us that “seer” was an old name for a “prophet”. In comparison with many other things we might like to know, this is small comfort. Does the relative lack of harmonisations and explanations prove that the text is composite and that the puzzles and incongruities come from different sources in the one text? As so often, answering in the affirmative just pushes the question back one step further to the “redactor”. If it is such an incongruity why did he not see it and harmonise it? If the

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supposed redactors never harmonised information the resort to the redactor would at least be consistent even if unprovable. In fact many aspects of our texts are explained as late harmonising additions. More likely the felt need for harmonisation is culture and context specific. What one society will feel needs to be explained, another will not. Explanation can serve various purposes: it may prevent confusion and it may guard against attack. What is felt necessary, and to what degree, depends on the author’s perception of his audience. Yet how can one be dogmatic that this is the case? Surely the argument I have employed in the previous paragraph can be turned back upon me. I have asked why the supposed redactor did not consistently harmonise. The mirror image form of that argument is to contend that since some harmonising explanations occur in the text, I cannot suggest that the writers in question saw no need to harmonise. There is a weakness in all our arguments because we are basing ourselves on assumptions, which we have no way of proving, about the nature and development of another culture.

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There are several reasons for extending this investigation to Kings and Chronicles. Often, in research on biblical narrative, allusion is made to the sources which the biblical author/editor/redactor is purported to have used. It is not that the text itself tells us explicitly about those sources or that we have the source to compare with the use which the author/editor/redactor has made of it. The sources are our hypothetical deduction. The situation with Kings and Chronicles is significantly different. They tell us about the sources they use and, since they have passages in common, we may speculate about the way each has used sources. Thus the potential value of these books is to allow us to deduce something about the way in which the biblical authors use sources. Whether that potential value is a real value is another matter. Numerous scholars have doubted the value of the source citations, particularly in the case of Chronicles. The standard While it is largely irrelevant to the questions considered in this chapter, it seems to me that it is unsafe to presume that the Chronicler was also responsible for Ezra-Nehemiah (J. Weinberg, Der Chronist in seiner Mitwelt (BZAW 239; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1996), 2; H. G. M. Williamson, Israel in the Books of Chronicles (Cambridge: CUP, 1977); idem, 1 and 2 Chronicles (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans,1982), 6–11.); S. J. De Vries, 1 and 2 Chronicles (The Forms of the Old Testament Literature, 9; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1989), 7–10.) S. L. McKenzie (The Chronicler’s Use of the Deuteronomic History [Harvard Semitic Monographs, 33; Atlanta: Scholars, 1984], 17–24) suggests a more complicated model involving multiple redactions of the works in question. Given the uncertainty, I will not be considering arguments which take the Chronicler’s authorship of Ezra and Nehemiah as a basic presupposition. 1

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developmental reconstruction of the religious history of Israel depends upon undermining the reliability of Chronicles because Chronicles makes organised cultus “too early”.2 If some historical value is attributed to Kings, then the difference in reliability between Kings and Chronicles must be emphasised. Attention has tended to focus on the question of whether Chronicles, given its relationship to Kings, is historically reliable rather than on the way in which Chronicles has used its source. The dominant approach has been to attempt to prove Chronicles deficient by comparison with Kings. The use of possible authorial devices such as repetition is different in Kings and Chronicles to what we find in Genesis, Judges and Samuel. The subtle repetition of situations, especially situations with an element of contrast and tension, is not obvious. Certainly there is repetition but very much the overt repetition of structuring elements such as the formulae for introduction and conclusion to a king’s reign. Where a theme occurs repeatedly it tends to be without the elements of juxtaposition and contrast. For example Chronicles repeatedly uses information about a king’s building activities, it is suggested, to convey an impression of a good king. If there is contrast it is not with a different sort of activity, as much as with the lack of activity on the part of bad kings. Scholarship has tended to treat this sort of repetition as an overt patterning imposed by the Chronicler. Conversely scholarship has seen other repetitive themes, such as threats to a patriarch’s wife, as proof of multiple authorship. Thus the tendency is not to treat repetition as a uniform phenomena. Thus we may fall into a trap of treating related literary devices in quite different ways. Since standard theory would make some of the sources of Genesis contemporary with Chronicles, it is not a matter, in this respect, of treating early works differently to late works. For the history of the treatment of Chronicles and in particular its reference to sources see K. Peltonen, “Function, Explanation and Literary Phenomena: Aspects of Source Criticism as Theory and Method in the History of Chronicles Research,” in The Chronicler as Author. Studies in Text and Texture, ed. M. P. Graham and S. L. McKenzie (JSOT Sup., 263; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999), 18–69. 2

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If one takes either Kings by itself or Chronicles by itself, it is possible to find conflict or apparent conflict of historical details within the work. Those conflicts are increased if one compares Chronicles with Samuel-Kings. Was whoever wrote or gave the final editorial finish to Kings (or Chronicles) not concerned about such inconsistency? There are obviously various possible answers to this question. One is the standard explanation of inconsistency, namely that it was produced by careless utilisation of different sources. A variant on this blames late glosses. When those explanation are put against the background of the previous discussion in this work, an objection is prompted. Why do we assume that a late editor/redactor would not be bothered by such inconsistency but an original author would be? Confusingly, various other aspects of the text are seen by modern scholars as the product of harmonisation. Supposedly in some cases editors see the need to harmonise and in others they do not. Why? Alternatively the major source of the phenomenon of perceived internal contradiction could be a difference between our perceptions and those of the biblical author as to what needs to be harmonised and what does not. We do not tolerate loose ends of historical detail. Historiography within another cultural context may not have the same concerns. Even if we grant that possibility, it does not supply us with the reason for a lack of concern with apparently discordant detail. It could be because accuracy of historical detail is unimportant to the author; or because he expects the reader to harmonise details; or because conveying the religious message is the prime consideration and less attention is given to supplying details of historical events. Even without agreement on the historical accuracy or the absolute date of either Samuel-Kings or Chronicles, one thing is generally accepted. Chronicles is later than Samuel-Kings. Further the Chronicler seems to assume that his readership is familiar with Samuel-Kings.3 That means he must know that his work will be compared with Samuel-Kings. B. E. Kelly, Retribution and Eschatology in Chronicles (JSOT Sup., 211; Sheffield: Sheffield Acdemic, 1996), 70. This is denied by W. Riley but his crucial argument is that if Samuel-Kings were known then the Chronicler 3

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Yet he does not show a concern to harmonise with SamuelKings. He will add details or change details without dealing with the loose ends which are created. A suggested explanation is that the Chronicler has no sense of a normative authority of SamuelKings. Even if it is true that he does not see these sources as canonical in a theological sense, why will he at times be slavishly dependent upon them if they have no reliability for him? There must be some sense in which he sees these sources as a norm. That drives us back to the problem of a lack of concern with harmonisation. This situation allows us to explore the wider issue of lack of harmonisation of details in the biblical text. If the Chronicler shows a lack of interest in harmonisation with his major sources, by what right do we expect that another biblical author would ensure that all aspects of his own text harmonise? In reality the only basis that we have for the expectation is that it is what we would do. While significant, this conclusion does not go far enough. What are the approaches to history writing which create features of the text which are confusing for us? In referring to sources and in working before our eyes with sources, Kings and Chronicles may supply clues to these questions. The point has been made above, that older positions may be questioned, without the presuppositions behind those positions also being questioned. Scholarship within a common framework reveals more clearly its framework and assumptions and thus more meaningful agreement or disagreement is possible. I suspect that one of the reasons, that the older souce criticism of the Pentateuch lost its excitement and scholars turned to final-form studies, was would not have differed so much from them (King and Cultus in Chronicles. Worship and the Reinterpretation of History [JSOT Sup., 160; Sheffield: JSOT, 1993], 19). This argument has implications for those who see Chronicles as correcting Samuel-Kings. The implication is that if Samuel-Kings were known, then the Chronicler would not have changed them. If SamuelKings was not known, then there would have been no need for correction. However I think that the number of passages that need Samuel-Kings for interpretation shows that Samuel-Kings or their sources were known.

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that the assumptions of the original approach encouraged more and more atomistic separation of sources. Something similar was bound to happen with Kings as more and more differently dated recensions are discovered and fought over. We can debate this or that particular thesis but we need to ask whether there are assumptions that tend to generate atomizing approaches. Without that discussion the debate shifts but the new sorts of discussion lack an explicitly common basis and hence give the impression of going in quite diverse directions.4

KINGS’ SOURCE CITATIONS Let us begin with Kings. Its source citations are to some sorts of records of the kings of Israel and Judah. It has been objected frequently that it is highly unlikely that official court annals, particularly of Israel, would be available to an author writing during the Babylonian Exile, if not later. Some are led by such arguments to see the source citations as quite spurious. Yet even scholars who voice such doubts are inclined by the sparse external attestations of various kings of Israel and Judah to suggest that the author had access to a king list or something similar: at least some of the kings are more than the products of the writer’s imagination. The question is: how much more than this has some historical background? The next step takes us back once more to assumptions. Would the author be likely to create a whole history out of nothing more than knowing the names of the kings? A few items in Kings overlap with extra-biblical sources. Presumably the contemporaneity of Mesha of Moab and Ahab came to him from some source just as the rebellion of Hezekiah against Sennacherib and various other aspects of the conflict with Assyria were source based. How plausible is it that these and these details alone were conveyed somehow to the author of Kings and also happened to turn up in external sources? One cannot conclude on the basis of Whether rightly or not, this is the impression I receive from Soundings in Kings: Perspectives and Methods in Contemporary Scholarship, ed. M. Leuchter and K.-P. Adam (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2010). 4

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the scant extant external attestation that Kings is completely historically accurate but in the light of what external evidence there is, wholesale scepticism of its historicity is being driven by something other than evidence. Just because the historicity of Kings has been doubted, the source citations have become especially important in some arguments. If it is based upon official annals, then its reliability is increased; indeed it conforms to what the Ranke school made the norm of modern critical historiography. Even if we think it is unlikely that the author of Kings made up his references to sources when he had no sources whatsoever, that does not prove the nature of these sources. That they are some sort of official record is an assumption based on nothing more than the names given to these sources and possible analogies with other societies. If we want to argue for the substantial historicity of Kings, it is convenient to assume that the sources are some sort of official record but our ultimate conclusion is then no stronger than our initial assumption. That unsatisfactory state of the question forces us to attempt to glean whatever we can from the source citations. They are so uniform and lacking in detail that it is hard to argue for their nature. Where an additional detail is specified as found in the source, that detail is sometimes what we might expect in an official annal (e.g., Ahab’s ivory house and the cities he built: 1 Kings 22:39). In a couple of cases this is not so likely. The conspiracies of Zimri (1 Kings 16:20) and Shallum (2 Kings 15:15) are specifically said to be covered in the source. So was Manasseh’s sin (2 Kings 21:17). In each case it could be that what the official source presented factually, even positively, was being read negatively by the author of Kings. Zimri however raises a particular issue. Is it likely that there were official annals from a seven day reign of a usurper? An idiosyncrasy in the source citations, which appear towards the conclusion of treatments of a king, is that some have an accompanying note that information of a particular sort can be found in the source. Why does the author see fit to record that something extra is contained in the source when at other times he does not? It does not seem to be conditioned by the importance of the figure. There is nothing additional for Josiah, yet Shallum and Zimri have an additional note. Lest we think that the lack of

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additional note for Josiah was due to his having been treated exhaustively in the main text, there is a note regarding source references to water works by the extensively treated Hezekiah (2 Kings 20:20). With great subjectivity we might imagine that the author, looking again at his source, noticed something he had failed to include. Sometimes the additional note makes sense in context because it is relevant to death, for example Asa’s disease (1 Kings 15:23b). Less explicable in these terms is the reference to the prophecy of Jehu the son of Hanani against Baasha and his house (1 Kings 16:7) which follows even the burial record. If the source was an official annal, then it is unlikely that it contained the prophecy of Jehu. There is another question about these source citations. In a number of places, Kings is as much about prophets as it is about kings.5 Yet we have no source citations for the stories about prophets. We might assume that the author would quote particularly from official records to bolster his work, rather than from popular prophetic tales, but that is to ascribe our value judgments to the biblical author. A further mystery with the stories of the prophets in Kings is the lack of reference to prophets we know via the independent preservation of prophetic books.6 In that respect Isaiah forms a notable exception.7 For a tabulation of references to prophets in Kings and other books see A. G. Auld, “Prophets and Prophecy in Jeremiah and Kings,” ZAW 96 (1984): 66–82. 6 J. A. Blenkinsopp claims that the Deuteronomic movement collected and edited the canonical prophetic books during the exile. Yet he acknowledges that the Deuteronomic History mentions only Isaiah and Jonah. (A History of Prophecy in Israel [Philadelphia: Westminster, 1983], 191.) It is surprising that this apparent anomaly in popular positions has not called forth more attempts at explanation. M. D. Terblanche (“No Need for a Prophet like Jeremiah: The Absence of the Prophet Jeremiah in Kings,” in Past, Present, Future The Deuteronomistic History and the Prophets, ed. J. C. de Moor and H. F. van Rooy [OTS, 44; Leiden: Brill, 2000], 306– 314) suggests that Jeremiah was omitted because he was not the preacher of the law that the Deuteronomist saw as the ideal prophet. He then has 5

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CHRONICLES’ SOURCE CITATIONS Let us leave the mysteries of Kings’ source citations for the moment and turn to Chronicles. It has often been argued that Chronicles’ source citations are based upon the model of Kings’ citations. That suggestion comes from those who doubt the authenticity of Chronicles’ citations but it is not necessarily bound up with such doubt. There is a significant difference in Chronicles’ citations: often Chronicles refers to works written by prophets.8 Whereas neither Samuel or Kings have a source citation for David, Chronicles supplies references to works of Samuel, Nathan and Gad (1 Chron. 29:29,30). That pattern is then followed with many subsequent kings. Prophetic writings are given as sources also for Solomon (2 Chron. 9:29), Rehoboam (12:15), Abijah (13:22), Jehoshaphat (20:34) and Hezekiah (32:32). Sometimes the prophets are those known from Kings but not always. Source citations for some kings describe the source in what looks like variant forms of a basic formula. With Asa, Jotham to add the supplementary thesis that the book of Jeremiah was changed so that he then appeared as an upholder of the law. Surely this is a case of arguing that the evidence proves the thesis except for the fact that we do not now have the evidence. 7 K. A. D. Smelik argues that the sections which Kings and Isaiah have in common fit more naturally into Isaiah than into Kings. From this he infers that they are original with Isaiah but chronologically late. Exploration of all the issues this raises would take us way beyond the focus of this book into the history of composition of Isaiah and arguments as to whether a passages fits well have an element of subjectivity. Nevertheless the possibility that Kings is deriving material from Isaiah and the textual overlap between the two, but no other canonical prophet, must be built into any explanation. See K. A. D. Smelik, “Distortion of Old Testament prophecy. The Purpose of Isaiah XXXVI and XXXVII,” OTS 24 (1986), 70–93; idem, Converting the Past: Studies in Ancient Israelite and Moabite Historiography (OTS, 28; Leiden: Brill, 1992), 93–128. 8 For a survey of opinions on prophets in Chronicles’ source references see J. B. Burns, “Is Necho also among the Prophets?” PEGLMBS 14 (1994): 113–22.

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Josiah and Jehoiakim it is “the book of the kings of Israel and Judah” (2 Chron. 16:11; 27:7; 35:26,27; 36:8); but that is altered to “the book of the kings of Judah and Israel” with Amaziah, Ahaz and Hezekiah (25:26; 28:26; 32:32) and in the case of Jehoshaphat it is “the book of the kings of Israel” (20:34); Joash “the midrash of the book of the kings” (24:27)9; Manasseh “the acts/words of the kings of Israel” (33:18). It is hard to see any pattern in these slightly variant citation formulae and one wonders whether the same work or type of work is being referred to each time. Most intriguing are the two cases of combination of reference to a prophet and reference to a book of kings. The source reference for Jehoshaphat is to “the annals of Jehu the son of Hanani which is taken up in the book of the kings of Israel” (20:34) and that for Hezekiah is “the vision of Isaiah the prophet, the son of Amoz, in the book of the kings of Judah and Israel” (32:32). The straightforward interpretation of these forms of description is that works of prophets have been incorporated into another work or works. This combination of data leads to a tempting but, I think, erroneous hypothesis. Given that Chronicles appears to use Kings and given the focus of Kings on prophets, could not all these citations be to some form of our Kings which the Chronicler believed to have come, at least partially, from prophetic sources?10 Against this hypothesis is the fact that the Chronicles tells us that the source contains various things which are not in Kings, for example, the prayer of Manasseh (33.18) and, with regard to Jehoiakim “the abominations which he did and what was found against him” (36:8). That seems to indicate that Chronicles has sources besides Samuel-Kings.11 For “midrash” in this context as equivalent to “history” see A. F. Rainey, “The Chronicler and His Sources—Historical and Geographical,” in The Chronicler as Historian, ed. M. P. Graham, K. G. Hoglund and S. L. McKenzie (JSOT Sup., 238; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1997), 37–8. 10 Williamson, 1 and 2 Chronicles, 18–9. 11 For an attempt to prove this from variations between the Samuel account and the Chronicles account see C. Y S. Ho, “Conjectures and 9

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Once again assumptions will determine our resolution of this and related puzzles. If we assume the unreliability, indeed the pure inventiveness of the Chronicler,12 we will see these unusual source citations as a way of covering his use of Kings. If we do not assume that, then we will seek an hypothesis to make sense of the source citations. There is no external documentary evidence which will resolve the issue. One can point out a further assumption which must go along with that of the Chronicler as a creator of fiction: the gullibility of the audience. Surely the Chronicler’s dependence upon Samuel-Kings would have been as obvious to his contemporaries as to us. The thesis of a form of citation designed to hide his dependence upon Kings is not plausible unless we assume an audience which is easy to fool. An alternate might be to suggest that he aimed to bolster the authority of Kings by ascribing prophetic foundations to it. The common thesis that he attempts in some points to correct Kings is hard to reconcile with a suggestion that he wanted to bolster Kings. More substantially, a small minority of references to the fact that prophetic writings have been taken up in another book—hypothetically Kings—is hardly a strong attempt to bestow prophetic authority on Kings. In accord with his basic conviction that the Chronicler was doing his own particular exegesis of Samuel-Kings, T. Willi opines that these references to prophetic sources are an attempt by the Chronicler to exegete Samuel-Kings’ references to its sources. He suggests that the Chronicler’s belief that the prophets were those who searched out history led to this attempt to supply the background to Kings’ source references.13 Willi’s general theory Refutations: Is 1 Samuel XXI 1–13 Really the Source of 1 Chronicles X 1–12?” VT 45 (1995): 82–106. My feeling is that his evidence is not sufficient to make a conclusive case. 12 For an example of an apodictic dismissal of the Chronicler’s sources see I. L. Seeligmann, “Die Auffassung von Prophetie in der deuteronomischen und chronistischen Geschichtsschreibung (mit einem Exkurs über das Buch Jeremia)” in Congress Volume. Göttingen 1977 (VTS, 29; Leiden: Brill, 1978), 271–72. 13 Die Chronik als Auslegung: Untersuchungen zur literarischen Gestaltung der historischen Uberlieferung Israels (Forschung zur Religion und Literatur des

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struggles to explain many of Chronicles’ unique passages which do not look like expositions of Kings. With respect to the prophetic sources his explanation is pure supposition. Unprovable and yet more plausible than the above alternatives is the thesis that the Chronicler believed that he had sources which were a combination of prophetic writings and a book or books about kings which at least in some cases utilises prophetic sources.14 Before we try to combine this with the enigma of the sources of Kings we need to note a peculiarity regarding the prophets to which Chronicles refers. Jeremiah appears as the author of a lament concerning Josiah (35:25–27), as a messenger from God who was ignored (36:12), and as the predictor of the exile (36:22) but not as a historical source. Jeremiah, in Chronicles, is not a figure who confronts the king as so many of Chronicles’ prophets do.15 Otherwise, just as with Kings, the prophets mentioned are not those we know from the survival of independent works connected with them.16 Once again with Alten und Neuen Testaments, 106; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1972), 233–40. 14 A. F. Rainey, “The Chronicler and His Sources,” 37. A similar explanation is defended in H. R. Macy, The Sources of Chronicles: A Reassessment (Ph.D. diss., Harvard Uni., 1975). W. Johnstone also sees Chronicles’ references to sources as being to a treatise by prophets about the kings but thinks that work existed only in the Chronicler’s imagination (1 and 2 Chronicles (2 vols; JSOT Sup. 253,54; Sheffied: Sheffield Academic, 1997), 1. 23, 2.16–7). 15 Johnstone uses these references to Jeremiah as part of his thesis that the Chronicler is dating the exile from the death of Josiah (1 and 2 Chronicles, 2. 259–61.) It is hard to see how such weight can be placed upon these references to Jeremiah. Jeremiah as a prophet of judgment is what we might expect but why do we need to know about his lament? It seems more that the audience is being reminded of Jeremiah and of the fact that the downfall of the kingdom is explicable in a refusal to listen to the prophets. That in turn implies that some knowledge of the message of Jeremiah was assumed. 16 C. T. Begg, “The Classical Prophets in the Chronistic History,” Biblische Zeitschrift 32 (1988): 100–7.

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Chronicles, just as with Kings, Isaiah is the great exception. If the survival of prophetic works is some measure of popularity as many assume, would not these works be the obvious sources to cite to bolster one’s work? One might object that a work such as Micah has little relevant historical detail but that cannot be objected against Jeremiah. When we combine our data from Kings and Chronicles we obtain the following: each refers to sources which contain additional information; each tends to avoid “canonical” prophets with the conspicuous exception of Isaiah; yet they are both closely tied to each other. Surely the obvious thesis is that they are referring to a common source work or corpus of source works. The further implication, driven particularly by the form of Chronicle’s citations with their reference to prophets, is that this is not an “official” state annal even though it has material such as one might expect in an official annal. Instead it is a work in which certain prophets played a conspicuous part, both as writers and key figures.17 It might be tempting to seek support for this theory in the arguments that have been presented by A. F. Campbell in support of a “prophetic record” which he sees as underlying 1 Samuel 1 to 2 Kings 10.18 In particular, accounts of the prophetic designation and anointing of kings such as David, Solomon, Jeroboam and Jehu are argued to have such similarities and particular vocabulary, over against the normal vocabulary of the Deuteronomistic History, so as to justify their attribution to a particular source. Methodologically the argument has the weakness of determining whether particular subject matter or particular authorship is responsible for distinctive vocabulary. One must add the possibility that the author of a later account of a prophetic role in the choice of a king may deliberately echo an earlier account. Further the extent of the prophetic record Campbell postulates is much less For the prominence of prophets in Chronicles see Macy, The Sources of Chronicles, 47–72. 18 Of Prophets and Kings. A Late Ninth-Century Document (1 Samuel 1 – 2 Kings 10) (CBQ Monograph Series, 17; Washington: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1986). 17

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than that of the source I am suggesting. Hence I would distinguish this thesis from Campbell’s. A number of arguments have been presented against the idea that Samuel-Kings and Chronicles share a common source(s) and in favour of the contention that Chronicles’ real source is SamuelKings. It is contended that it is unlikely that the common source(s) would be available as late as the time of the Chronicler, given the destructions and disruptions over the years.19 If the source had been some form of official royal annal(s), the chances of its/their preservation is largely a mystery to us and so one does not know what weight to assign to this argument. If, as argued above, we are dealing with a work/works composed by prophets then one can postulate an increased likelihood of the manuscript(s) being preserved in circles of disciples but we are still working with supposition. Another argument for the reliance of Chronicles on Samuel-Kings is that portions of the text of Samuel-Kings regarded as Deuteronomistic appear unchanged in Chronicles.20 With this argument the uncertainty resides in the belief that we can clearly disengage the original text from Deuteronomistic additions. From the hypothesis that Chronicles is using a source or sources which is in some sense of prophetic composition, certain other hypotheses follow. Is Chronicles utilising Samuel-Kings in some stage of formation? That is, its varying references to works of prophets and books of kings reflects an ongoing process whereby these individual prophetic works were being transformed into what we now know as Samuel-Kings. It is at least interesting that references to prophets as sources predominate with earlier kings and references to books of kings, sometimes incorporating prophetic works, with later ones. If Kings was in the process of being compiled “backwards”, with the sections on later kings coming to fixed form first, that data would fit. To argue that case would contradict the generally accepted clear precedence of Samuel-Kings to Chronicles. Against this thesis is the close verbal I. Kalimi, Zur Geschichtsschreibung des Chronisten. Literischhistoriographische Abweichungen der Chronik von ihren Paralleltexten in der Samuelund Königsbüchern (BZAW, 226; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1995), 4 20 Ibid. 19

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adoption of certain parts of Samuel-Kings in Chronicles. That seems to point to the existence of a settled Samuel-Kings before Chronicles. Certainly we can save the thesis of a Samuel-Kings in preparation by suggesting that these close verbal correspondences show that both copied verbatim or nearly verbatim from their common source. However that is to pile hypothesis on hypothesis. An alternate possibility is raised by the observation of Ackroyd that Chronicles refers to prophets as sources only with “good” kings.21 The difficulty with this suggestion is that it regards Rehoboam and Abijah as good kings, which is refuted, with respect to Rehoboam,22 by 2 Chronicles 12:14 and not confirmed by the description of Abijah. Given that Chronicles’ end point is later than that of Kings and given the general acceptance of Chronicles as an exempla of Late Biblical Hebrew23, it would seem best to maintain the thesis that Chronicles works with a completed, or essentially completed, Samuel-Kings. That does not exclude subsidiary possibilities, for example suggesting that what Chronicles refers to as the combined work of Samuel, Nathan and Gad, which is his source for David The Chronicler in His Age (JSOT Sup., 10; Sheffield: JSOT, 1991), 327; idem, “The Chronicler as Exegete,” JSOT 2 (1977), 12 22 Kelly, Retribution and Eschatology in Chronicles, 95. 23 For doubts about this commonly received conclusion see A. G. Auld, Kings Without Privilege. David and Moses in the Story of the Bible’s Kings (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1994), 9. Auld’s own model entails seeing both Kings and Chronicles as late with each developing, in distinctive but suspect ways, a much shorter common source which may be approximately reconstructed from the text common to both. Since one can reach this position only by discarding the source references, for the purpose of this study, this is just another version of the position which takes the prior assumption that the source references are fictitious. For later versions of Auld’s thesis see his “The Deuteronomists Between History and Theology,” in Congress Volume. Oslo 1998, ed. A. Lemaire and M. Sæbø (VTS, 80; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 353–67 and “HistoryInterpretation-Theology: Issues in Biblical Religion,” in In Search of True Wisdom: Essays in Old Testament Interpretation in Honour of Ronald E. Clements, ed. E. Ball (JSOT Sup. 300; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999), 22–36. 21

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(1 Chron. 29:29,30), is our books of Samuel. The reason cited above for thinking that Chronicles’ source is not identical with Kings, namely that for kings such as Manasseh the source has detail not in Kings, would not apply for David. Yet we must always distinguish possibility and certainty. Lest the reader think I have forgotten my earlier distinction between history and historiography, a note is needed at this point. I am suggesting that the source works for Samuel-Kings are seen by the Chronicler as involving prophets. To move from what the Chronicler believed to be the case to what was the case involves either evidence or an assumption about the accuracy of the Chronicler. We do not have these prior works or evidence of the role of prophets in their composition. That means that somebody could agree that the Chronicler thought he had sources written by prophets but then dispute the actual origin of those sources. In the previous chapter I dealt with the historiography which sees a degeneration late in Israelite history of which the Chronicler was a part. That naturally leads to doubts as to his accuracy or reliability. In this discussion, paradoxically, we are not dealing with the thing primarily charged against him: his elevation of the cultic personnel. Rather the issue is whether we can trust him in his giving a particular role to the prophets in writing the history of the kings. Notice that it is no longer a case of the dependence of Samuel-Kings on official royal annals but their dependence upon prophetic works which stem from the period in which such royal annals or other records may have been extant. The objection that official annals of Israel probably did not survive into the Exile falls away. If our presupposition is of a degenerate period which has placed its stamp on the Chronicler or of a general inclination to write historical fiction on the part of the Chronicler then there is no need to explore further. Our presupposition has given us the answer without the need for evidence or investigation. If we do not approach the evidence with such presuppositions then other hypotheses are possible. Nevertheless the common position that Chronicles represents the views of a priestly or Levitical faction fits poorly with the large role of prophets in Chronicles. Clearly it is hard to reconcile the role of prophets in Chronicles with a thesis of contrast between an earlier prophetic period and a later clerically dominated period. Maybe sheer weight of data can make us reexamine our presuppositions.

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A POSSIBLE THESIS Why do certain prophets play such a role in the historiography of the kings when, with the conspicuous exception of Isaiah, those prophets do not form part of the written prophetic canon?24 The obvious suggestion is that there is some idea or institution of court prophets/historiographers.25 The enigmatic statements of canonical prophets in which they distinguish themselves from other prophets would be explained.26 Yet from the perspective of Kings, and hence Chronicles, that succession has been perverted in the course of time. For earlier kings Chronicles may cite the work of the prophets but for later kings the reference is not to a prophetic source but other works, with the standard exception of the evocation of Isaiah (2 Chron. 32:32). The implication would then be that Kings was written partly to utilise the earlier work of official prophetic historiography and partly to correct its treatment of some of the later kings. Other things fall into place with this thesis. One is the special role that Isaiah seems to have. He has some official position, hence his access to the king, but he is also within the tradition of those prophets who on occasion stood apart from the king.27 In that For some suggestions, which I find unconvincing, as to why Jeremiah was overlooked see C. T. Begg, “A Bible Mystery: The Absence of Jeremiah in the Deuteronomistic History,” Irish Biblical Studies 7 (1985): 139–64. 25 Note the use of hôzeh “seer” with reference to court prophets in Chronicles: W. M. Schniederwind, The Word of God in Transition. From Prophet to Exegete in the Second Temple Period (JSOT Sup. 197; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1995), 37–45. 26 For example Amos 7:14–15 27 J. A. Blenkinsopp (A History of Prophecy in Israel [Philadelphia: Westminster, 1983], 115) recognises that 2 Chronicles 26:22,32:32 imply that Isaiah had a position of an official historian, but doubts that fact. I suspect that his main problem is that his picture of the development of prophecy is directed more by the speculations of Weber than by the evidence. Compare his presentation to that of M. Weber, Ancient Judaism trans. and ed. H. H. Gerth and D. Martindale (New York: Free Press, 1952). On Weber see J. A. Holstein, “Max Weber and Biblical 24

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respect he was heir to a particularly northern development. The dynamic role of Elijah stemmed from the fact that he openly challenged the official structure, standing outside of it as an independent voice. With his successor, Elisha, there was some return to the normal structure but the tradition of independence remained. The destruction of the northern kingdom and the possibility of transfer of persons and/or documents to the south would be an appropriate time for the northern tradition to impact particularly upon the south. Isaiah would then be a special figure, playing an Elijah role as over against Ahaz but a role more comparable to Elisha with Hezekiah. Another phenomena which may fit this picture is Chronicles’ portrayal of prophets in comparison to people who may not be designated as prophets but who, through the activity of the Spirit, deliver a prophetic message. While prophets address the king, these other speakers address the people as a whole.28 It is interesting that Jonah is the one canonical prophet, besides Isaiah, who is cited in Kings (2 Kings 14:25). It adds a poignancy to the canonical story of Jonah if he was in some sense an “official” prophet of Israel. The thesis of a prophet with a recognised official role solves some of the enigma of the role of Huldah in the story of Josiah. If there are prophets who have something of an official role, then the failure to resort to an “unofficial” prophet, namely Jeremiah, is explained. Is this thesis about the sources of Kings, and hence Chronicles, provable in some presuppositionless, objective way? Certainly not: alternate explanations can be provided just on the basis of a presupposition that the source citations, especially those of Chronicles, are fictional.29 Yet what is outlined here, based on Scholarship,” HUCA 46 (1975): 159–79 and D. L. Petersen, “Max Weber and the Sociological Study of Ancient Israel,” Sociological Inquiry 49 (1979): 117–49. 28 Schniederwind, The Word of God in Transition, 84. 29 For a defence of the authenticity of Chronicles’ prophetic sources see Weinberg, Der Chronist in seiner Mitwelt, 135–37. For a rejection of their historicity see K. G. Hoglund (“The Chronicler as Historian: A Comparative Perspective,” in The Chronicler as Historian, ed.

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the not unreasonable hypothesis that pre-exilic prophetic material survived the exile, is quite reasonable and explains some of the data. In the present state of external evidence one cannot ask for more. In addition there is a danger of over reaction. Macy suggests that in some cases Chronicles was using temple sources.30 Use of prophetic sources should not be seen as eliminating the possibility of other sources.

SOME IMPLICATIONS What does this more developed form of the hypothesis imply concerning the relationship of Samuel-Kings to Chronicles? As already mentioned, the whole question can be settled by arbitrarily declaring that Chronicles is dependent on Samuel-Kings and all the additions or changes are the work of the Chronicler. That position implies that the source references in Chronicles, in their variety and complexity, are deliberate deception. Let us not pursue that hypothesis but rather take the data seriously. We have several possibilities. 1) The Chronicler slavishly copied from Samuel-Kings except when he wanted to add or change and then he depended on other sources which may or may not have been utilised in the construction of Samuel-Kings. 2) The Chronicler gives, in some places, a more complete selection from the sources upon which Samuel-Kings depended. The reliance on common sources explains the verbal identity. 3) The Chronicler had before him Samuel-Kings and some of its sources plus, perhaps, other sources. At times he copied Samuel-Kings; at times he preferred the wording of the original source(s) of Samuel-Kings and at times he used his other sources. Each of these possibilities has merit and they are not much different. The implication of the second is that Chronicles may be in part more accurate and complete than Samuel-Kings. While this

M. P. Graham, K. G. Hoglund and S. L. McKenzie [JSOT Sup., 238; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1997], 19–29) who compares Chronicles to Greek historiography and suggests that Chronicles made up his source citations as did Classical histories. 30 The Sources of Chronicles, 177–79.

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goes against the trend of scholarship it is hard to refute without the assumption of late degeneracy. If there is any validity in the above argument, it reinforces the point that the Chronicler was heavily dependent on Samuel-Kings. If one chooses to take a different presupposition, then the fact still remains that much of the material in Chronicles is from SamuelKings. If the Chronicler sees prophets as being involved in any sense with the composition of Kings, then he must be granting some validity to Kings. Further it can be shown that the Chronicler presupposed that his audience was familiar with Kings.31 That makes his deviations from Samuel-Kings particularly significant in any attempt to explore assumptions in the historiography of the biblical writers. The Chronicler clearly does not see a necessity to harmonise his additions to or deviations from Samuel-Kings. If that is the case in a work which all see as composed by a single author, how can we assume that lack of harmony of details in other biblical works proves multiple authorship? We have simply read an ancient author by our expectations. A second implication for our understanding of the canons of biblical writing comes out of this investigation. Both Kings and Chronicles, in their source references, tell us that that sources contain material which the authors have not seen fit to include within their treatment. That is, in certain respects, the works we possess are abbreviated with respect to their sources. The authors of extant works have proceeded by way of selection from more voluminous material. Notice how different this is from the process generally assumed in the composition of biblical works where the crucial process is one of addition: that is later editors/redactors have added material and therefore there are inconsistencies and disharmonies in the material. The problem is that a process of selection and exclusion will also produce lack of harmony in the material because material needed to make interconnections between blocks of material has been excluded. Why have we excluded the possibility of unevenness due to selection being present in biblical works? Surely it came originally from the assumption of the primitiveness of the context in which 31

For examples see Willi, Die Chronik als Auslegung, 56–9.

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the biblical author was writing. At the early age of mankind one does not expect voluminous sources. If the age of the monarchy was more sophisticated than we have allowed, then much of our conclusions are based on false premises. Related considerations make us reconsider the relationship of Samuel-Kings and Chronicles. If the composition of Samuel-Kings involved selection and if the original sources available to SamuelKings remained accessible in some form to the Chronicler, then the possibility emerges that the differences are due to a different practice of selection from the original material. Most likely the differences would be a combination of different selection of material and utilisation of material from outside the common source. That means we do not need to examine the prejudices just of the Chronicler: Samuel-Kings may also reveal its interests in what it includes.

DIFFERENCES BETWEEN KINGS AND CHRONICLES Thus Kings has a more positive portrayal in many respects of the kings of Judah from Asa to Uzziah than Chronicles does. It is generally assumed that Kings is the more reliable picture and anything different in Chronicles is tendentious. That implies that Kings is also the more complete picture. Yet in 2 Kings 12:2 we are told that the right conduct of Jehoash was in “all his days in which Jehoiada the priest instructed him”. That implies something different during that period in which he did not have Jehoiada’s counsel.32 One may opine that the Chronicler’s material which fills the gap (2 Chron. 24:17–22) is a fictitious filling of the inviting gap but that does not tell us why Kings told us there was a gap without filling it. The alternate possibility is that the Chronicler is here making a fuller use of the source because his priorities are different.

P. Dutcher-Walls (Narrative Art, Political Rhetoric The Case of Athaliah and Joash [JSOT SUP., 209; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1996], 50) has the unlikely translation “all his days because Jehoiada instructed him”. He admits that his reading is not the way the Chronicler or ancient versions interpreted it. 32

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Another noticeable feature of Kings is the tendency for the story of the kings of Israel to dominate the narrative during the period of the Divided Monarchy. It is a plausible thesis that Kings’ primary interest in the northern nation is the causes of its fall.33 If the author is countering aspects of an alternate historiography concerning Judah, then the fact that events which led to the fall of the northern kingdom were paralleled by events which led up to the fall of Judah is significant for his argument. In the course of presenting this argument, Judah during the Divided Monarchy receives lesser treatment. With respect to Judah, during the time when its history paralleled Israel’s, all the author of Kings really needs to show is that Judah was not as bad as Israel. The Chronicler can then be seen as making up the deficiency by amassing the evidence at his disposal, and consonant with his purposes, about the period which has been treated more summarily in Kings. Once again, on this reconstruction, the fuller narrative of Chronicles, does not prove the superior historicity of Kings. It just shows they have different objectives. As has been mentioned above, the sin generally held against the Chronicler is that he has an incorrect view of the cultic establishment during the monarchy. The proof that his view is incorrect is the fact that Samuel-Kings supplies no such detail. If Samuel-Kings is drawn largely from a corpus of prophetic works and reflects the concerns of that corpus, then the lack of specification of cultic organisation may be explicable. Chronicles’ additions on cultic organisation may not be tendentious. Paradoxically Kings also fails the test of a “correct” view of the history of the cult: the work places the attempts at cultic centralisation “too early”. If Samuel-Kings and Chronicles are our only sources and if both see cultic organisation as being more advanced than we believe it should be, then perhaps it is our assumptions and not our sources which are wrong.

F. M. Cross, Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic: Essays in the History of the Religion of Israel (Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1973), 279–81. 33

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THE CASE AGAINST CHRONICLES The discussion in the previous chapter indicates why scholarship found it important to argue the unreliability of Chronicles. Unless Chronicles was removed Israelite religious history would not conform to scholarly hypothesis. If there are common sources to Samuel-Kings and Chronicles, then something other than the mere influences of a degenerate age is operating on the Chronicler. Chronicles’ interest in cultic religion will be explored subsequently but one also has to examine the changes Chronicles made to Samuel-Kings and the charge that these represent tendentious corruptions aimed to allow the Chronicler to impose his version of true religion. Certainly one again encounters circularity. If Chronicles’ cited sources are genuine, and particularly if they predate Samuel-Kings, then other factors must be invoked to explain the deviations from Samuel-Kings. Samuel-Kings is not necessarily the more accurate version against which Chronicles may be judged and found wanting. Declaring Chronicles’ source references to be spurious removes that possibility. Alternatively declaring them genuine opens other possibilities. To remove the debate from this state of pure baseless claim and counter claim it is important to show the unreliability of Chronicles on some other ground. Kalimi has attempted to do that by assembling the instances of what he sees as changes to Samuel-Kings and categorising them.34 The degree and cause of change is then seen as reflecting negatively on the reliability of Chronicles. The overall impression of the examples adduced is that, with some notable exceptions, the deviations are capable of alternate explanations. That is not to say that the alternate explanations are more provable than Kalimi’s explanations. Some could be explained on text-critical grounds35; others may reflect a different Zur Geschichtsschreibung des Chronisten. For a general discussion see J. Trebolle, “Redaction, Recension and Midrash in the Books of Kings,” Bull. Inter. Org. for Septuagint and Cognate St. 15 (1982): 12–35. For a discussion of the textual problems of the story of David’s census see R. B. Dillard, “David’s Census: Perspectives on 34 35

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choice of material from the common source(s), given that the postulate of the existence of the common source(s) stands on the same basis as the postulate of its non-existence. 1 Chronicles chh. 10, 11 give the impression that David became king immediately upon the death of Saul. This is then seen as an attempt to give the impression that David throughout his reign was king of the whole land.36 While trivial in some ways, this is an excellent example of a recurring situation. There is a general consensus that the Chronicler assumes his readers/hearers will know Samuel-Kings. What use is it to give the impression that Israel was always united under David if the readers/hearers know on other grounds that that is not true? For the Chronicler to achieve his purported objective he would have to engage in an argument to refute the version of events in the books of Samuel. That he does not do. Further there is evidence that the Chronicler was aware of Samuel’s version of events and even wrote history on that basis.37 In 1 Chronicles 12:23 is a mention of groups who came to David at Hebron “to turn over the kingdom of Saul to him”. That implies that the kingdom of Saul existed at some form while David was at Hebron. Even more emphatic is the statement that only some Benjamites came to David because “the majority were loyal to allegiance to the house of Saul” (12:23).38 Surely this refers to the continuing dynasty of Saul through his son. II Samuel 24 and I Chronicles 21,” in Through Christ’s Word. A Festschrift for Dr Philip E. Hughes, ed. W. R. Godfrey and J. L. Boyd, III (Phillipsburg, N.J.: Presbyterian and Reformed, 1985), 95–7. For alternate explanations of the textual problems see P. E. Dion, “The Angel with the Drawn Sword (II Chr 21,16): An Exercise in Restoring the Balance of Text Criticism and Attention to Context,” ZAW 97 (1985): 114–17. 36 Kalimi, Zur Geschichtsschreibung des Chronisten, 18–19. 37 S. L. McKenzie, “The Chronicler as Redactor,” in The Chronicler as Author. Studies in Text and Texture ed. M. P. Graham and S. L. McKenzie (JSOT Sup., 263; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999), 81,2; D. F. Payne, “The Purpose and Methods of the Chronicler,” Faith and Thought 93 (1963): 68–9; T. Sugimoto, “Chronicles as Independent Literature,” JSOT 55 (1992): 65–7. 38 See also on 1 Chron. 12: Weinberg, Der Chronist in seiner Mitwelt, 133.

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The fundamental question is this: when is the omission of material aimed to modify Samuel-Kings version of events and when is it simply not germane to the Chronicler’s purpose? Only on the thesis that true historiography must include everything can an omission be automatically read as making a point against Samuel-Kings. Another phenomenon to which various conjectural meanings have been attached is change of order of events from that found in Samuel-Kings. For example in Chronicles we find the order: coming of all Israel to Hebron to make David king (1 Chronicles 11:1–3); conquest of Jerusalem (11:4–6); building activity in Jerusalem (11:7–9); David’s mighty men (11:10–47); those who defected to David before the official summons for him to become king (12:37); celebration in Hebron at the time the call to kingship was extended to David (12:38–40); first attempt to bring the ark to Jerusalem (ch. 13); message and materials from Hiram of Tyre (14:1,2); sons born at Jerusalem (14:3–7); Philistine attack (14:8–17). That compares with the order in 2 Samuel: coming of all Israel to make David king (5:1–3); standard formula at beginning of reign (5:4–5); conquest of Jerusalem (5:6–8); building activity in Jerusalem (5:9–10); message and materials from Hiram of Tyre (5:11–12); sons born at Jerusalem (5:13–16); Philistine attack (5:17– 25); first attempt to bring the ark to Jerusalem (6:1–11). Kalimi says that the change in order in Chronicles is to give the impression that all Israel united with David to take Jerusalem before the enthronement festival and is a reflection of the importance the Chronicler attached to Jerusalem.39 The problem is that there are many other equally hypothetical explanations of the change of order. It is just as likely, if not more likely, that we are seeing another instance of the Chronicler’s interest in showing that important events, such as the taking of Jerusalem, were achieved with a much wider representation of the people than reported in Samuel-Kings. It seems highly likely that neither order is strictly chronological. David’s building activities and begetting of sons probably overlapped events reported subsequently. Added to our uncertainty, if the Chronicler had access to the source(s) of Samuel, 39

Zur Geschichtsschreibung des Chronisten, 21.

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he may have been restoring an original order in some respect. We touch here on an old debate. Wellhausen, following de Wette, says that appeal to the sources of Chronicles is beside the point. What one must do is use the text we have and explain the different perspective of Chronicles and the multitude of variations.40 This argument works by not making a clear distinction between data and the interpretation of data. The differences between Chronicles and Samuel-Kings are real and they are the data. Every explanation of the data is a hypothesis which is more or less convincing depending upon the coherence between data and explanation. The explanation that the Chronicler desired to adhere more closely, at some point or other, to the original source is one such hypothesis. To exclude it from consideration to the advantage of other equally hypothetical explanations, such as the belief in religious degeneration described in the previous chapter, simply reveals that all weak arguments need artificial help so as to contend with objections. I do not claim to be able to prove that the Chronicler was using the conjectured common source: I merely claim that it is no worse hypothesis than others that are being used. It may be objected that I have been picking easy targets out of Kalimi. (There are more weighty cases to be considered subsequently.) My concern in these examples is primarily methodological. The purpose of Kalimi is to prove that the Chronicler has made tendentious and spurious changes to SamuelKings and therefore Chronicles is unreliable and hence its source citations do not prove the access of the author to the common sources of Samuel-Kings. Yet, as long as the possibility remains that these cases are explainable by postulating that Chronicles is making fuller use of the common source than Samuel-Kings, any argument against Chronicles collapses. Both sides of the debate whether referring to the existence or non-existence or the content of the common source are going beyond the data at hand. One argument built upon propositions concerning evidence nobody presently possesses is not preferable to any similarly based argument. In other words changes of emphasis or order, of themselves, do not prove Chronicles is inferior because the 40

Prolegomena to the History of Ancient Israel, 222.

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Chronicler may have been influenced by valid considerations of which we know nothing. The general rule that an earlier source is likely to be more accurate, and therefore Samuel-Kings should be preferred over Chronicles, may be invoked but that is a fairly weak argument. Who of the Chronicler’s modern detractors would prefer the general seventeenth century view of Chronicles to the twentieth century view? Kalimi charges that such changes of emphasis and order are a use of literary means to make a point and lowers the historical value of Chronicles.41 Such arguments tell more against Kalimi than against the Chronicler. Each historian puts emphases in different places to other historians and the only way emphasis can be conveyed in historiography, which is a branch of literature, is by literary means. It is a common charge that redactors and editors emend texts to remove contradictions. Commonly that charge is hard to sustain because we lack the original unamended text. The comparison of Samuel-Kings and Chronicles gives us cases where we can see both the unamended and the amended and assess the arguments. I will give one weak example and one strong one. A contradiction is alleged in 1 Kings 5:27 (EVV 5.13) where Solomon raised a levy (mas) from all Israel as compared with 1 Kings 9:21–22 where it is said that he raised a particular sort of levy of the remnants of the Canaanites (mas ‘obed) but did not make servants/slaves of the sons of Israel. Chronicles retains the second passage, in slightly different wording, but not the first (2 Chron 8:7–9). This is interpreted as avoidance of a contradiction by the Chronicler.42 This example raises an issue which has recurred in this discussion. If the “contradiction” was not a concern to the supposed Deuteronomistic redactor of Kings why should it bother the Chronicler? A reconciliation of the statements in Kings exists in the suggestion that one refers to perpetual obligation to service and the other does not. Whether that is the correct explanation or not, there is a likelihood that, simply because of the slight difference in terminology, the two passages were seen as non-contradictory. 41 42

Zur Geschichtsschreibung des Chronisten, 34. Zur Geschichtsschreibung des Chronisten, 37–8.

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Even if that is not the case we cannot see into the Chronicler’s mind to know that this omission, out of his many omissions, was motivated by concern over a contradiction. Turning to a strong example, once more from the reign of Solomon, we are confronted by the twenty cities in Galilee which Solomon gave to Hiram (1 Kings 9:11–14). The passage is difficult partly because it contradicts the image of the massively wealthy Solomon (1 Kings 9:26–10:29). In 9:12–14 after the report of Hiram’s disapproval of the cities, we are told that he sent a very large delivery of gold to Solomon. The context may imply that this was payment for the cities and thus that Solomon had concluded a very good deal at the expense of Hiram. However that is not said directly and, while it may save Solomon’s reputation for wealth, it would do nothing for him as a fair trader. To compound the difficulties, 2 Chronicles 8:2 says that Solomon built the cities which Hiram gave him. That is then followed by information about a conquest of Solomon in the north. Kalimi says that the Chronicler is deliberately reversing the movement of the cities and reinforcing the image he wants for Solomon by juxtaposing this with a record of conquest.43 Compared to the many weak examples which Kalimi brings forth, this is a significant example. Harmonisations can be found merely by suggesting that Kings and Chronicles are talking about different cities, but, while possible, there is nothing in the bare texts to commend this explanation. There is a further significant thing which needs to be stressed in respect of this case. Kalimi gives voluminous examples of what he sees as deliberate changes on the part of the Chronicler aimed to impart and reinforce the Chronicler’s particular message. In the vast majority of cases they consist of additions, omissions and rearrangements. This is the clearest case where an actual direct change can be alleged. Other cases depend upon a very subjective appraisal of the Chronicler’s motives in presenting the story in a different way. Perhaps that should give us pause. While I do not claim to know the explanation for this particular case, one case does not prove a particular explanation. 43

Zur Geschichtsschreibung des Chronisten, 39–40.

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Let us take another case where reconciliation of the respective accounts of Kings and Chronicles is very difficult. There is apparent conflict between Kings and Chronicles on the fate of the temple vessels at the end of the kingdom of Judah.44 According to 2 Kings 24:13, at the time of the collapse of the first revolt and the deportation of Jehoiachin, all the vessels of gold made by Solomon were cut in pieces by Nebuchadnezzar and taken away. However the 2 Chronicles 36:10 version of this event has Nebuchadnezzar taking articles from the temple to Babylon. If we take the Kings’ account as a simple statement that no vessels remained intact and all that went to Babylon was scrap metal, then it is Kings that is out of line with the rest of the biblical witness. Jeremiah speaks of the return of the vessels which were taken to Babylon at that time (27:16; 28:3,6), as does Ezra 1:7–11. Kings might also be construed as at odds with itself because there were gold objects remaining to be taken from the temple to Babylon after the defeat of the second revolt (2 Kings 26:15). Kalimi and Purvis see the purpose of the Chronicler’s account as being to heighten the image of the second temple by using the vessels as a link to the Solomonic temple.45 If we are to see Chronicles as tendentiously changing Kings’ more accurate account, then Jeremiah and Ezra are equally guilty. Further Chronicles may have undermined its own case by reporting that Ahaz cut up the vessels of the temple (2 Chron 28:24). Thus the apparent contradictions are not just between what one could view as the Kings’ original historical account and a later tendentious Chronicles version. As if often the case one can posit confusion in the sources or attempt to make sense of the sources. Since 2 Kings 24:13 is the one out of step with the rest of the passages, let us start there. Two actions are reported. The first is the bringing out of the precious items from the temple and the palace. The second is cutting up articles of gold. If we are meant to understand these two actions as focused on the same objects, then we are being told that all the I. Kalimi and J. D. Purvis, “King Jehoiachin and the Vessels of the Lord’s House in Biblical Literature,” CBQ 56 (1994): 449–57. 45 Kalimi and Purvis, “King Jehoiachin and the Vessels,” 455. 44

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precious items were brought out and those of gold were cut up. Could there actually be two different groups of articles: those small enough to be readily transported and those which needed to be cut up for transportation? That is not an improbably way of dealing with the problems of transporting booty and resolves a lot of the tensions between the texts. However it does not resolve them all. In both Kings and Chronicles we have seemingly incompatible actions performed on the same objects. In Kings they are deported by Nebuchadnezzar twice in 2 Kings 24:13 and 26:15. In Chronicles the objects cut up by Ahaz are present again late in the kingdom. We can extrapolate the problem further because taking of palace and temple treasures is a fairly frequent occurrence, being reported also in 1 Kings 14:26; 15:18; 2 Kings 16:8; 2 Chron 12:9; 16:2; 25:24. Of course we can posit that the temple treasures were replenished between occasions but that goes beyond what the text says. Clearly then we have two options: either to see each text as quite contradictory, internally as well as when compared with other texts or to suggest that there is an approach to description which is confusing us. Let us say for the sake of the argument that 2 Kings 24:13 is talking about two different groups of objects. We would then infer that the writer expects the reader/hearer to realise that because of some understanding of a conqueror’s practice. Once again there is not a felt need to spell out detail. How then do we reconcile 2 Kings 24:13 and 26:15? I suspect that there is a different understanding of the comprehensiveness of a statement. To say that certain things have been taken may not imply that everything of that category has been taken but rather that some have been taken. It seems to me that we commonly read a statement, that items of a certain category were taken, to mean all items of that category, unless there is a specifically expressed limitation. Even then a specific qualification may not mean what we expect. “All” statements are quite problematic in the biblical text and are involved in many of the seeming contradictions. I wonder if “all” is understood not from the point of view of abstract existence as it is with us, but from the point of view of the relevant human agent. Thus in 2 Kings 24:13 the “all” means not that the Babylonians carried out an exhaustive search so that no

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possibly existing object remained but that they left none of the objects which came into their hands on that occasion.46 Perhaps a different case, equally problematic, will illustrate the distinction I am making. Joshua 10:40 is one of the passages that give the impression of an utterly depopulated land of conquest but Joshua 23:4 speaks of nations remaining, and that impression is certainly reinforced by the early chapters of Judges. I wonder if the point of 10:40 is not that every existing Canaanite in the relevant territory was killed but rather that Joshua did not exempt any he might have been in position to kill. The sheer number of supposed contradictions within biblical books and between books should give us reason to ponder. Are we reading the text correctly? Take away the assumption that we from our enlightened position are entitled to look down on the historians of the past and the question becomes pressing. It is often stated that the Chronicler’s willingness to present the stories in a different fashion to those of Samuel-Kings shows that he did not regard these works as canonical. Once again contemporary practice exposes the weakness of this argument: it implies that every conservative preacher, Bible story writer and so on who paraphrases, enlarges, blends and omits details rejects the canonical status of the Bible. Surely if the Chronicler had no respect for the authority of Samuel-Kings he would directly contradict the details of the story more often than these few problematic cases.

THE CHRONICLER’S PERSPECTIVE Another approach to this set of problems and in many ways a useful approach is to investigate the Chronicler’s presentation of his overall argument: in other words his rhetorical strategy.47 Duke sees the Chronicler as presenting each reign according to a basic paradigm of opportunity for good or evil. Kings in contrast For an alternate explanation of the use of “all” in this context see M. Brettler, “2 Kings 24:13–14 as History,” CBQ 53 (1991): 541–52. 47 R. K. Duke, The Persuasive Appeal of the Chronicler: A Rhetorical Analysis (JSOT Sup., 88; Sheffield: Almond, 1990). 46

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presents less possibilities for change, particularly with the inevitability of destruction because of Manasseh’s deeds.48 While one may agree that the Chronicler is concerned to challenge his generation with the choice between obedience and disobedience, Kings is not so simple. Kings reads more as an attempt to discern the purposes of God in history. The failure of the kingdom to fall, in spite of the sins of the Judean kings, is interpreted in terms of God’s mercy to David (1 Kings 15:4,5; 2 Kings 8:19). Conversely the lack of long term impact of Josiah is ascribed to the sin of Manasseh (2 Kings 21:10–15). The stability of the dynasty of Jehu, which contrasts with problems in Judah, is ascribed to God’s promise to Jehu.49 Theologically the perspectives differ in that Kings implies an understanding of the secret counsels of God, whereas Chronicles keeps the revealed divine will before Israel (see Deut. 29:29). We may proclaim that these are totally different perspectives but the biblical writers showed a strong tendency to incorporate both.50 The sickness, prayer and healing of Hezekiah (2 Kings 20:1–5) can have a place in Kings only if the author believes that human piety can have an impact upon the apparently inflexible divine will. Conversely Chronicles can retain Huldah’s prophecy and the message that Josiah’s piety will ultimately avail only for himself alone (2 Chron 34:22–28). Both documents present a complex picture of the interaction of divine purpose and human responsibility because, in spite of the ideological biases which have been charged against them, both had ultimately to make sense of a history in which the divine action is not always transparently simple.

I Duke, The Persuasive Appeal of the Chronicler, 70–1. E. T. Mullen, Jr., “The Royal Dynastic Grant to Jehu and the Structure of the Book of Kings,” JBL 107 (1988) 193–206. 50 See the comments on critics’ insensitivity to theological paradoxes in the text in Moberly, At the Mountain of God: Story and Theology in Exodus 32–34 (JSOT Sup., 22; Sheffield: JSOT, 1983), 33–4. 48 49

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SPEECHES OF CHRONICLES The speeches recorded in Chronicles have been a particular focus of discussion.51 It has frequently been observed that the message of Chronicles often comes through its speeches. In a search for the origin of the distinctive style of these speeches, Von Rad, influenced one suspects by the standard view that sees the Chronicler as a partisan for the Levites, fastened upon the description of the Levites as teachers (eg 2 Chron 35:3). From that he constructed a post-exilic practice of Levitical sermons and found there the material which the Chronicler has mined to create his speeches. Even in the material which Von Rad cites there are problems for this thesis. The speakers in Chronicles are not always Levites; indeed they are more likely to be prophets and kings than Levites. The parallels of language which he cites are often from the writing prophets. First it must be emphasised that, in conveying his message by citing the speeches of characters in the story, the Chronicler is completely unoriginal. That is a standard feature of biblical narrative. Does a Levitical sermon tradition, or some other hypothetical sermon tradition, lie behind the messages of the prophets in Chronicles? Certainly Chronicles is different in that others besides the prophets give such messages but that is part of the character of Chronicles in showing that a wider segment of the population was involved in the work of God. It is also true that one hears through these speeches the notes that the Chronicler wanted to emphasise. In that the Chronicler is once more unoriginal: the desired points were made by the speeches presented in other biblical historical narratives. We thus return to the main point in the debate over the Chronicler. Was his message the invention of the post-exilic period or did he select from his preexilic sources the material he saw as relevant for his own age? If the former is the case then we may ascribe the themes of the speeches to his own imagination or to something he might have heard in his Duke, The Persuasive Appeal of the Chronicle,r 120–36; G. von Rad, “The Levitical Sermon in I and II Chronicles,” in idem, The Problem of the Hexateuch and Other Essays (London: SCM, 1966), 267–80. 51

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own context. In either case, and particularly because we lack evidence for the postulated post-exilic practice, we are into conjecture.52 Von Rad does try to strengthen his case by saying that the speeches are quoting later prophets or other biblical books,53 however the “quotations” are more in the nature of allusions where it is impossible to define who in quoting whom and Von Rad’s own invocation of a preaching tradition raises the possibility that we are seeing common themes within a tradition coming to the surface at different times.54 Another way of tackling this phenomenon is to try to isolate a genre of prophetic speeches, found in those parts of Chronicles without parallel in Kings, which can be seen as a late development. This genre has been distinguished from other genres by the fact that it records what the prophet (or person acting as a prophet) said rather than what the prophet did. It can thus be seen as an attempt to give a particular interpretation and meaning to the narrative.55 That such speeches can be isolated from sections unique to Chronicles is not at issue: the meaning of that fact is. If we take larger prophetic books such as Isaiah or Jeremiah we could R. Mason tries to remedy that lack by looking for parallels to these supposed “Levitical” sermons in Zechariah. From that he can then postulate a post-exilic milieu which was the basis for the Chronicler’s “sermons” (“Some Echoes of Preaching in the Second Temple? Tradition Elements in Zechariah 1–8,” ZAW 96 (1984) 221–35). He finds parallels between Zechariah and Chronicles’ “sermons” but not confirmation of the Levitical origin of these “sermons”. In a conclusion that raises concerns about the subjectivity of form-critical conclusions he claims to be able to distinguish these “sermons” from prophetic oracles. The problem is that he has found his evidence in Zechariah and one wonders if we would have been inclined to read Zechariah as of sermonic rather than prophetic form without the contribution of Von Rad’s theory about Levitical sermons. 53 “The Levitical Sermon”, 269–76. 54 For other criticisms of Von Rad’s theory see D. Mathias, “‘Levitische Predigt’ und Deuteronomismus,” ZAW 96 (1984) 23–49. 55 S. J. De Vries, “The Forms of Prophetic Address in Chronicles,” Hebrew Annual Review 10 (1986): 15–36. 52

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also distinguish reports of what the prophet did—and said in the course of that action—from pure speeches without situational commentary. If we take some of the shorter books we might find speeches without situational commentary as in Micah. Do we have distinct genre, the presence or absence of which enables us to say something about the sources of the text? Or do we have a consequence of the situation of the particular prophet or of the circumstances under which the book was written? Might there be other explanations? The presuppositions of form criticism, especially the expectation that people in antiquity had to express themselves in one of a number of defined forms, will give us an answer. However those presuppositions always run the risk of reading a feature, which comes from the author’s particular approach and situation, as a consequence of the author’s sources. Perhaps a modern analogy may illustrate the problem. Listen to one preacher and one might think that the only prophetic passages in Scripture are those which describe the dramatic appearances and actions of Elijah and Elisha. Listen to another and one might believe the same about the soaring poetry of Isaiah. A concentration of particular features in a literary work may be a consequence of the material available to the author or of the particular character and purposes of the author. In an atmosphere in which there is so much focus on sources it is not surprising that unique characteristics are seen as due to the source and not to an author. Paradoxically, after that prejudice is applied to Chronicles, the Chronicler is then subjected to the further indignity of being accused of fictional creations.56 If a writer could be creative in writing history surely he could be creative in what he chooses to select from the sources. If an author is woodenly source bound then he would not be making up things. Of course those two alternatives are too absolute but the crucial point is a protest against judgments about what happened in the process of composition based on simplifications of the possible complexities.

As De Vries does with Chronicles’ sources (“The Forms of Prophetic Address,” 17). 56

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THE EMPHASIS OF CHRONICLES A different presentation of the relationship between Chronicles and Kings is found in a stimulating article by B. Halpern.57 Essentially it is an argument based on characteristic terminology which leads to the conclusion that the Chronicler and the author of Kings made similar use of a common source in their respective treatments of the reign of Solomon but from there to the reign of Hezekiah the Chronicler made much more use of that source. If that argument could be substantiated, then its implications for understanding both works would be profound. Both works stress the wealth and honour which accrued to Solomon. With subsequent kings, Chronicles depicts the abundance which falls to good kings as a mark of divine favour, while Kings minimises that consideration.58 Another distinctive of Chronicles is stressing the peace and rest that comes as a consequence of obedience in the Divided Monarchy period down to Hezekiah.59 Assembly and rejoicing are other themes which

“Sacred History and Ideology: Chronicles’ Thematic Structure— Indications of an Earlier Source,” in The Creation of Sacred Literature: Composition and Redaction of the Biblical Text, ed. R. E. Friedman (U. of California Pub: Near Eastern Studies, 22; Berkeley: U. of California, 1981), 35–54. 58 Halpern, “Sacred History and Ideology,” 38–40. 59 Halpern, “Sacred History and Ideology,” 40–2. As an example of the many ways in which evidence may be interpreted, note E. Ben Zvi’s argument that the lack of references to building activity in the cases of Manasseh and Josiah casts doubt on whether the Chronicler would have real records of building by earlier kings (“The Chronicler as a Historian: Building Texts,” in The Chronicler as Historian, ed. M. P. Graham, K. G. Hoglund and S. L. McKenzie (JSOT Sup., 238; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1997), 139). If we approach the evidence with the presupposition that the Chronicler was likely to have invented material, then all sorts of inconsistencies appear in his text. If we assume he was a normal historian then we recollect that our own sources to the past can result in a poorer picture of some more recent eras as compared to more distant ones. Once again presuppositions can be controlling. 57

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show a similar pattern of occurrence. in both with Solomon, but otherwise predominantly in Chronicles down to Hezekiah.60 Halpern’s thesis is that there was a source which emphasised wealth and kindred blessings as a consequence of obedience. Chronicles was more faithful to that source than Kings. Since the relevant themes are not employed after Hezekiah, it is most likely that the source was composed in Hezekiah’s time.61 There are other indications that Hezekiah’s time was crucial for the composition of Chronicles such as the reference in 1 Chronicles 4:41 and the omission of the name of the king’s mother after Hezekiah in Chronicles, but not in Kings.62 Unfortunately for clarity with respect to Chronicles’ sources, this data is susceptible to another interpretation. That is that the Chronicler was picking up certain things out of Kings’ portrayal of Solomon (or other earlier sources0 such as the role of rest in Joshua and Judges and using those themes in its treatment of later kings. Yet if that was the case, we would expect those themes to continue past Hezekiah, especially as Josiah was a good king. On that latter basis it is possible to argue that Halpern has identified a significant element in the source picture. A consequence of de Wette’s identification of Deuteronomy, and specifically its emphasis on cultic centralisation, with Josiah’s time has been the downgrading of the role of Hezekiah in biblical historiography. Hekekiah’s reforms which anticipate Josiah’s were ascribed to a reading back of Josiah’s actions. The special significance of Isaiah in both Kings and Chronicles and the patterns which change after Hezekiah confirm that the period of Hezekiah cannot be so easily dismissed. Yet Halpern may be over-simplifying the situation. A proSolomon history from the time of Hezekiah, devoted to the depiction of Hezekiah as a second Solomon, explains some of the Halpern, “Sacred History and Ideology”, 42. Halpern, “Sacred History and Ideology”, 48,52. 62 Halpern, “Sacred History and Ideology”, 48. S. L. McKenzie (The Chronicler’s Use of the Deuteronomistic History [Harvard Semitic Monographs, 33; Atlanta: Scholars, 1984], 75) suggests that this shows that the Chronicler’s source for the later kings was not Kings. 60 61

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data.63 It does not explain why Kings should have deviated from it. Saying that Kings was antagonistic to Solomon64 does not explain why it should have included so much material tending to glorify Solomon from the supposed pro-Solomon source. If the Chronicler was deliberately choosing the pro-Solomonic picture over Kings’ negative portrayal, why would he refer the readers back to Ahijah’s anti-Solomon prophecy in 2 Chronicles 10:15? I suspect that we are selling the biblical historians short by ascribing simple pro and anti sentiments to them. A very different interpretation of the distinctive contributions of the Chronicler has been presented by P. Welten.65 He concentrates upon reports about building, the army and war and argues that these are largely the invention of the Chronicler. Often the argument is built upon the claim that technical terminology belongs to the Chronicler’s age and not that of the period being described. This is a weak argument for two reasons. It is not surprising that an author with genuine information about former times would convey that information in terminology that would be familiar to the readership. Also we might question, given the sparsity of the attestation of the terminology for many of these topics, whether we can proclaim a certain term to be a post-exilic coinage.66 A similar unwarranted dogmatism appears in discussion of building activity. For example, are we really so well informed about the architectural differences between pre- and post-exilic features of a city such as Jerusalem? Overall Welten’s work reads as though he knew what the answer was before he consulted his data.

For the parallels that Chronicles develops which link Hezekiah to David and Solomon see M. A. Throntveit, “Hezekiah in the Book of Chronicles,” Society of Biblical Literature. 1988 Seminar Papers, 1988, 302–11; Kelly, Retribution and Eschatology in Chronicles, 103. 64Halpern, “Sacred History and Ideology,” 51. 65 Geschichte und Geschichtsdarstellung in den Chronikbüchern (Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament, 42; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1973). 66 For comments on some specific questions see Williamson, Israel in the Books of Chronicles, 85,6. 63

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As mentioned before, it is particularly with respect to the addition of cultic detail that Chronicles is charged with unhistorical additions. This is in turn linked to a supposed desire to promote the standing of the Levites.67 J. W. Kleinig assembles the evidence for a refutation.68 Perhaps the most significant is the stress in the text on the fact that the activity of the Levites is subordinate to that of the priests. In the crucial programatic statement in 1 Chronicles 23:24–32, where David assigns revised functions to the Levites, consequent upon the fact that they were no long required to transport the tabernacle and its utensils, the Levites are said to be “at the hand of the sons of Aaron” (v. 28). The order of presentation of priests, Levites (said to minister before the priests) and gatekeepers in 2 Chronicles 8:14 points to a similar subordination, especially since the authority of David’s ordinances is claimed for this arrangement. According to the description of the cleansing of the temple in Hezekiah’s reign, the priests brought the offensive material out of the house and the Levites carried it outside the city to the Kidron valley (2 Chron 29:16). S. J. De Vries connects the prominence of David in Chronicles to the desire to elevate the Levites.69 His point, that the priests could find the basis of their authority in Moses and Aaron but legitimation for the role that the Levites play in the second temple depends upon the ordinances of David, is correct.70 However an intent to promote the political position of the Levites does not accord with the Chronicler’s clear subordination of the Levites to the priests.

P. D. Hanson, “I Chronicles 15–16 and the Chronicler’s Views on the Levites,” in Sha’arei Talmon ed. M. Fishbane, E. Tov and W. W. Fields (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1992), 69–77. 68 The Lord’s Song. The Basis, Function and Significance of Choral Music in Chronicles (JSOT Sup. 156: Sheffield: JSOT, 1993), 16. See also G. N. Knoppers, “Review of K. Strübind, Tradition als Interpretation in der Chronik,” CBQ 55 (1993): 82. 69 “Moses and David as Cult Founders in Chronicles,” JBL 107 (1988): 619–39. 70 Ibid., 638, 67

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That is not to deny that Levites are frequently mentioned and there is a particular interest in Levites. The standard explanation for this prominence is that the Levites were a powerful group who through this work were enhancing their power. Yet the data of itself allows for an alternate explanation. That is the Chronicler is dwelling upon the Levites because their position in his day was extremely weak and that weakness threatened cultic organisation. Either explanation could explain the emphasis. However we have outside information which informs us about the post-exilic period. Ezra 8:15–20 tells us that while priests were available to return with Ezra, he had to take special measures to obtain Levites. Indications that tithes and contributions were not being received occur in Nehemiah 13:10 and Malachi 3:8. It is hard to imagine a powerful Levitical establishment without a revenue base. One might object that these few verses are a slender basis on which to build a picture of a threatened cultic establishment or that they apply to the early post-exilic period and not the time of the Chronicler. Yet this is the data we have and we must use it. A threatened theocratic establishment is as plausible, if not more plausible, in generating the emphases of Chronicles, as a powerful one.71 Against a background of impoverishment a passage such as the discussion of the super-abundance of the offerings in the time Hezekiah makes sense (2 Chron 31:9–10). I would suggest that this possibility has not been considered seriously before because the prevailing nineteenth century image of Judaism, Catholicism and orthodox Lutheranism told scholars that the cultic establishment in the postexilic period had to be a powerful one. Once again I must distinguish historiographic and historical concerns. That the Chronicler found it convenient to emphasise the supply to the cultic establishment does not mean that he made up all the stories which have that theme. I have suggested, in the previous chapter, that a picture of a repressive and regressive ecclesiastical establishment was convenient for nineteenth and twentieth century critics. They transferred their image of their For another argument relating the concerns of Chronicles to EzraNehemiah see W. J. Dumbrell, “The Purpose of the Book of Chronicles,” Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society 27 (1984): 257–66. 71

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ecclesiastical opposition to post-exilic Judaism. Yet in fairness to earlier critics, it has to be said that my allusion to the nineteenth century background does not disprove the existence of a powerful cultic establishment in post-exilic Judah. That a historical fact may be convenient to an author does not make it untrue. Its existence has to be decided on other grounds. Similarly we must distinguish between a fact being convenient to the point the Chronicler wanted to make72 and its being untrue. If because it was convenient to the Chronicler it is untrue then, by the same reasoning, the nineteenth century critical view of the post-exilic period must be wrong. Those who reason from the suitability of the Chronicler’s emphases to his context to the fictitious nature of his stories, risk the psalmists’ judgment of falling into the hole they themselves dug. The Chronicler has a definite theology of music.73 It is developed partly by appeal to historical events and partly by allusion to significant passages. Describing the actions of Hezekiah with respect to the Levitical musicians he describes the musical arrangements as “by the command of David and Gad, the king’s seer, and Nathan, the prophet, because by the hand of YHWH the command was by the hand of his prophets” (2 Chron 29.25). This passage in turn refers back to the reassignment of duties to the Levites in 1 Chronicles 23.24–32, which places the changes in the context of the rest which God had granted to Israel now that Jerusalem was established as a focus of worship. A provisional institution of this order occurs in 1 Chronicles 15.16 in conjunction with bringing the ark to Jerusalem and in ch. 16 in connection with the pre-temple worship at the ark site in Jerusalem. Apparently distinct from the other orders were sons of Asaph, Heman and Jeduthun. The distinct characteristics of this group were that they were appointed by David and the commanders of the army and that they prophesied with musical accompaniment (1 Chron 25.1– 2). Since some of the fathers mentioned (Asaph, Heman) occur in psalm headings, it is possible that the combination of music and For a survey of the congruence between the Chronicler’s message and his context see J. M. Myers, “The Kerygma of the Chronicler: History and Theology in the Service of Religion,” Interpretation 20 (1966): 257–73. 73 See Kleinig, The Lord’s Song, 17–32. 72

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prophecy in the case of this group relates to composition of songs. If those songs had a role in military training or preparation, the role of the army commanders in their appointment would be explained.74 A perplexing and seemingly anachronistic form of a similar ordinance is dated to the time of Josiah (2 Chron 35:1–6).75 It is perplexing in that it is phrased as though the Levites were still carrying the ark, although that had not been the case since David’s time, as Chronicles itself tells us. The passage comes before the celebration of the Passover. In 2 Kings 23 that celebration of the Passover is preceded by an extensive cleansing of the temple. Perhaps the ark was removed as part of that cleansing and refurbishment. In that case it would have been borne on the shoulders of the Levites. The Chronicler was interested only in the part of the story which reinforced the duties of the Levites. If this chain of conjecture is correct, then there must have been a more extensive account from which the Chronicler has extracted the bit of interest. That account cannot have been Kings which records none of this detail. In Num 9:15–10:13 two subjects are interwoven. One is the role of the cloud that represented the presence of God at the tabernacle and the other is the function of trumpets in the life of Israel. These two things come together in Chronicles’ description of the dedication of Solomon’s temple (2 Chron 5:11–14).76 There It may seem that this conjecture is departing from the separation of history and historiography. The biblical books by their mention of people and places create a network of cross references. In trying to understand how a writer is presenting the history we are obliged to make use of that network. Explaining how the network came about is part of what happens in the conversion of information from the biblical historical source into an account of the history of Israel. At that point various presuppositions come into operation, once again, ranging from accepting that the psalm headings have a factual base, to which the Chronicler also refers, to claiming that fictions have been part of the process at one or more stages. 75 S. J. De Vries, “Moses and David as Cult Founders in Chronicles,” 639. 76 Kleinig, The Lord’s Song, 34–6. 74

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is a regular association of trumpets and the Levitical musical instruments. We find it in 1 Chron 16:5–6; 2 Chron 5:12; 7:6; 29:26.77 This implies that the musical instruments were seen as an expansion of the function of the trumpets. In each of these passages it is specified that it is the priests who play the trumpets (as in Num 10:8). Musical instruments played by Levites to accompany trumpet playing priests would fit Chronicles’ picture of the role of priests and Levites. In Numbers 10 the trumpets have various purposes; they are used to coordinate movements of the people and with respect to war and sacrifices they were to draw God’s attention to the people. That involvement of God is clearly continuing in the understanding of the function of the Levitical musicians in 1 Chronicles 16:4: “to cause to pay attention, to thank and to praise YHWH, the God of Israel”. That is not to exclude a function with respect to the people. Another combination is musical instruments and rejoicing.78 The background is that the law connects the coming of the people to sacrifice at the festivals with rejoicing. It is there in the law of trumpets in Num 10:10 and in the crucial passage which provides the justification of Jerusalem as the site of the central sanctuary. (Deut 12:5–7,11–12,18) as well as Deut 16:10–11; 26:11; 27:7. Accordingly the musical performance of the Levites was connected with rejoicing (1 Chron 15:16; 2 Chron 29:30). One wonders whether in this stress on rejoicing we find another echo of post-exilic concerns. The conclusion to the reading of the law in Nehemiah 8 is a command to celebrate with rejoicing (vv. 8–12). The threatened, struggling and divided community seems to have seen little cause for rejoicing and, without rejoicing, effort and enthusiasm were imperilled. In Numbers 10:10 it is specified that the trumpets were to be blow over the whole burnt offering and the peace offering. The sin Passages that mention musical instruments and trumpets without specifying the players are 1 Chr 13:8; 2 Chr 20:28; 23:13. In the account of the detailed organisation of the Levitical musicians (1 Chr 15:16–22) trumpets are not mentioned but do appear in the following description of the carriage of the ark (15:28). 78 Kleinig, The Lord’s Song, 37–8. 77

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offering is not mentioned in this connection. That arrangement is preserved in 2 Chronicles 29:20–36 where the musical part does not begin until after the sin offering. Presumably the thought is that the music is an expression of the relationship between God and his people which is also represented by the whole burnt offering as a symbol of the consecration of the people to God and the thank offerings. However that relationship cannot exist until the separating sin has been atoned for and hence music follows the sin offering.79 Thus while definite proof is not available, it seems reasonable to conclude that the Chronicler’s emphasis on music and the Levites was, at least partly, a response to the post-exilic situation. The community binding and encouraging function of worship was threatened by a vicious cycle whereby little perceived need for the Levites, and perhaps, little dedication on the part of the Levites, led to a failure of their means of support and, consequently, loss of Levites. By constantly placing the Levites in a support role to the priests and their musical instruments in support to priestly trumpets the writer makes clear that he is not supporting a power play on the part of the Levites. When scholarship has read the dynamic in terms of political power, in spite of the subordination of Levites, we do not just evince our difficulty in allowing the text to speak over our expectations; we also show that we have not sufficiently considered the social consequences of worship in a religious community.80 Kleinig, The Lord’s Song, 100–3. A consideration of the Chronicler which emphasises the importance of worship in the Chronicler’s theology is J. Goldingay, “The Chronicler as a Theologian,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 5 (1975): 99–126. However the analysis is marred by two features. He sees Ezra and Nehemiah as part of the Chronicler’s work and that leads him to questionable interpretations. Second he has an image of the Chronicles as a narrow and negative solution to the problems faced by the post-exilic community. Yet his own data, that includes the all-Israel sweep of the opening genealogies—indeed the world wide sweep, as in Genesis, of the opening—and the many instances of favourable attitude to the north, demands a different image. This approach illustrates the way in which the defensive strategies of Ezra 79 80

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It is not just Levitical organisation which concerns the Chronicler. There is much more attention to administrative detail of all sorts than in Samuel-Kings. Fixation on the supposedly theocratically dominated period in which the Chronicler wrote has caused the detailing of religious organisation to be seen out of proportion to other forms of organisation.81 Once again it has to be asked whether we are failing to read Chronicles in its post-exilic context. The impression I obtain from Ezra-Nehemiah, Haggai and Malachi is of a community in which more than religious organisation is imperilled. Ezra and Nehemiah stand out as two individuals who used the power of faith, personality and position to send the community in a certain direction. Read the stories negatively, as many have, then they are egotistic bullies. Read the stories sympathetically then they are men struggling with a reluctant community. Nehemiah went back to the Persian court and what he had put in place was undone (Neh 11:4–10). Certainly that disorganisation is not our impression of the later Jewish community as it emerges into clearer focus towards the end of the intertestamental period. It is hard to say what factors caused the transformation. Ironically it may have been caused, in significant part, by the sheer determination of individuals such as Ezra, Nehemiah and the prophets (and the Chronicler?). Is our reading of the post-exilic period mistaking cause and effect? We see the concerns of Ezra, Nehemiah and the Chronicler for organisation, and particularly religious organisation, and we attribute that to the period in which they lived. Maybe what gives us our image of the period is a result of their efforts rather than the cause of them. This discussion would be incomplete without a consideration of the priesthood in Chronicles. How do we bring together the clear subordination of the Levites to the priests and the clear intention to promote the function of the Levites? How do we combine that with our impression of the priesthood drawn from undisputed post-exilic sources. One solution is to divide Chronicles and Nehemiah can be joined with the inherited negative image of the post-exilic community to colour any reading of Chronicles. 81 Note also K. G. Hoglund’s argument that the Chronicler uses his genealogies to give a sense of order. (“The Chronicler as Historian,” 23).

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and interpret the earlier material as aimed to promote Levites and later additions as supporting the Zadokite priesthood.82 We meet here a similar problem to that which arises with the story of the origin of monarchy or the narrative of David. If we see a text as having a purely political purpose then it cannot include information which is both favourable to and critical of the person or group supported. Since Chronicles subordinates the Levites to the priests and also has passages which compare the Levites favourably to the priests (for example 2 Chron 29:34) the logic of the political interpretation says that it cannot come from one author. If we do not presume that the text’s purpose is primarily political, we have no such problem. Yet while we may see much in Chronicles which fits well into the author’s post-exilic context, we have to be cautious. Throughout Chronicles significant changes in the sphere of the cult result from the actions of kings rather than high priests.83 Perhaps we might see that as a defence by the Chronicler of the role of the early Persian kings in the re-establishment of the temple but that seems a little dubious. We have no evidence from post-exilic sources that the role of the Persian kings was disputed and there is a fair jump from Judean kings to Persian ones. Further it is common in Chronicles to associate the king with a wider assemblage in cultic arrangements and in significant cultic acts (1 Chron 15; 24:3; 25:1; 29:1–9; 2 Chron 1:3; 5:1–7; 7:8; 29:12–16; 30:2; 35:8,9). It is possible that the point of this is to show that the ordering of worship was not solely a royal matter during the time of the first temple and therefore the lack of a king did not invalidate the procedures of the second temple. If this is so then it is significant that those associated with the king in such arrangements are not restricted to cultic personnel. That means the

For example P. D. Hanson, “I Chronicles 15–16 and the Chronicler’s views on the Levites,” 69–77; idem, “Israelite Religion in the Early Postexilic Period,” in Ancient Israelite Religion: Essays in Honor of Frank Moore Cross, ed. P. D. Miller, Jr, P. D. Hanson and S. D. McBride (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 485–508. 83 Riley, King and Cultus in Chronicles, 167. 82

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Chronicler is not strengthening the political position of the cultic personnel by this emphasis. There is a danger that in trying to read Chronicles against the post-exilic background of the author that we do not face the problems of our uncertainty as to the date of composition84 and our slender basis of knowledge of the post-exilic period. Weinberg notes the parallel between the refusal by YHWH of David as a temple builder and the blocking of the attempt to rebuild the temple under his descendant Zerubbabel by the Persian king. Yet the parallel breaks down when it comes to the completion of the second temple because neither the Davidite nor the high priest are mentioned (Ezra 6:16–18). Indeed the high priest is not prominent in the subsequent problems of the community as recorded in EzraNehemiah.85 We might read the failure of the high priest himself to be prominent in Chronicles as a reflection of that situation but we then date the book on the premise that it is a reading back of the author’s situation into the past.86 If the author is actually trying to be faithful to the information he has received, then we would be dating the book according to a false premise. Indeed the difficulties of dating the book by such means should give us pause before assuming the author took no notice of his information about the past. The complex pattern of Chronicles’ relationship to SamuelKings provides abundant opportunities for theories about the Weinberg (Der Chronist in seiner Mitwelt, 282), second half of the 5th century; I. Kalimi (“Was the Chronicler a Historian?” in The Chronicler as Historian ed. M. P. Graham, K. G. Hoglund and S. L. McKenzie (JSOT Sup., 238; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1997), 83), 3rd quarter of the 4th century; Williamson (1 and 2 Chronicles, 16), probably 4th century 85 Weinberg, Der Chronist in seiner Mitwelt, 86. 86 Weinberg notes the statistical pattern for Chronicles to be more interested in Levites and other secondary cultic personnel while SamuelKings is more focused on priests but does not see it as necessarily reading the Chronicler’s own situation back into the past but rather a case of present realities influencing what he extracted from the past (Der Chronist in seiner Mitwelt, 241–42). One must keep in mind that broader community functioning, and not just in cultic matters. is a concern of the Chronicler. 84

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purpose of Chronicles. There has been a tendency to treat deletions of material found in Samuel-Kings as significant but adoption of material found in Samuel-Kings as non-significant. Thus omission of material will be ascribed to a particular bias on the part of the Chronicler, even when material retained would contradict his supposed point. Surely that reflects a disparagement of the Chronicler’s intelligence. If something was offensive to him we would expect it to be omitted rather than mechanically repeated. Certainly conclusions can be made on the basis of relative frequencies but such changes are more likely to reflect a difference in what the Chronicler felt it necessary to emphasise than an attempt to correct Samuel-Kings. Arguments from omissions have their own dangers. Textual material from Qumran, combined with Septuagint variants, has raised the possibility that differences between Samuel and Chronicles may merely reflect the fact that the Chronicler was working with a form of Samuel different to the later Massoretic text.87 Hence arguments based on small textual differences are suspect. There is the added danger that the Chronicler may have seen some passages of Samuel-Kings as covering issues uncontentious in his day and therefore dispensable for reasons of economy.88 Given these uncertainties it is much safer to attempt to W. E. Lemke, “The Synoptic Problem in the Chronicler’s History,” HTR 58 (1965): 349–63. For an alternate view which suggests that the text of Samuel could have been changed to bring it closer to Chronicles see W. Johnstone, 1 and 2 Chronicles, 1. 21. 88 There is a much bigger issue and question here, and one which I do not intend to explore in detail. Auld (Kings Without Privilege, 22–8) cites instances where the Septuagint of Kings is shorter than the MT and the Chronicles version is shorter again. If we apply to such cases the rule that the shortest text is the original, then we must come to the conclusion that Chronicles is a better witness to the original Kings than MT Kings and that the Septuagint represents an intermediate stage in the growth of the Hebrew text of Kings by accretion. Taken at face value, this would eliminate all arguments that the Chronicler omitted something because it did not suit his theology. I wonder whether we know enough about either the Chronicler’s method of text composition or the circumstances of the 87

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discern the purpose from larger blocks of added material or patterns of treatment of material. In the debate over the differences between Chronicles and Samuel-Kings much attention has been focused on Chronicles’ omission of many of the more negative accounts of David and Solomon. It is often suggested that the Chronicler was doing this so as to provide a more positive image of the figures who were responsible for the cultic arrangements that were so important to him. There are several basic arguments against this interpretation.89 The Chronicler was willing to include negative material when it suited his purpose. The story of David’s census (1 Chron 21) is included because it pertained to the temple.90 G. N. Knoppers would go further and see the inclusion of this story as linked to the depiction of David as a model of the repentant sinner. That would then enforce the importance of prayer.91 Certainly that is an important aspect of the story but recognising it has implications. The David of the Bathsheba-Uriah story was also a repentant sinner. That story could have been told to reaffirm the message of repentance and intercession. To do so would reinforce the message of the census story and Manasseh’s repentance. If the Chronicler did not tell it, then it was not because it did not suit the message he wished to convey. Further it seems obvious that Chronicles assumes knowledge of Samuel-Kings including with respect to David. David’s return to Ziklag, after being rejected by the Philistine leaders and his campaign to recover the captured women and children are creation of the Septuagint or the history of the MT to come to conclusions here. Hence, fully aware that this introduces an extra uncertainty into my discussion, I am signalling the problem but passing it by. 89 For other arguments in the case of David see S. Japhet, The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles and its Place in Biblical Thought (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1989), 472–77. 90 D. F. Payne, “The Purpose and Method of the Chronicler,” Faith and Thought 93 (1963): 69. 91 “Images of David in Early Judaism: David as Repentant Sinner in Chronicles,” Biblica 76 (1995): 454.

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mentioned in passing as though the readers/hearers could supply the background themselves (1 Chron 12:20, 21). The statement in 2 Chronicles 10:15 that the separation of Israel and Judah was the fulfilment of God’s word to Jeroboam through the prophet Ahijah, when that prophecy is not mentioned elsewhere in Chronicles, is proof that the Chronicler expects his readers to know Kings. If they know Kings, there is no way the sin of Solomon can be concealed. One of the interesting aspects of the relationship of Chronicles to Samuel-Kings is that the amount of material taken from Samuel-Kings varies considerably for different kings. The general rule is that unique material is more prominent with the more important kings. The exception is Solomon.92 Surely that indicates that what interested Kings in its portrayal of Solomon was what interested Chronicles, namely the cultic arrangements. Although that was less prominent in Samuel-Kings’ treatment of other kings, the Chronicler presented a portrayal which gave more space to what interested him. One of the consequences of reading Chronicles as reflecting power struggles of religious personnel is to substantially narrow the range of motivations that can be ascribed to the author. Variety can be introduced by hypothesising that different parts come from different authors but for any one author the motivation is merely the enhancement of a particular faction. A motivation, which is more religious and/or ethical than political, increases the possible purposes behind particular sections. I have suggested above that the author may be troubled by the state of the post-exilic community. It is unlikely that merely one feature of that community would concern him. Interpreting Chronicles in terms of a vision for the community gives a variety of possible reasons for the inclusion of material. Let us take as an example the very abbreviated treatment of Saul in 1 Chronicles 10.93 Since Saul is treated without background Weinberg, Der Chronist in seiner Mitwelt, 128. For a discussion of interpretations see S. Zawlewski, “The Purpose of the Story of the Death of Saul in I Chronicles X,” VT 39 (1989): 449– 467. 92 93

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explanation it is likely that the Chronicler presupposes the books of Samuel. The author makes clear what he desires to teach in vv. 13– 14. Saul lost his life and kingdom through disobedience to God. R. Mosis has a difficulty with the claim that Saul did not seek YHWH (v. 14) because that would contradict 1 Sam 28:6. He claims that the Chronicler has deliberately altered the history because YHWH’s refusal to answer Saul contradicted his theology in which YHWH was always ready to hear.94 ‘Seek’ (dr$) comes twice in close proximity in vv. 13a and 14b. It is likely that the same event is in view, presented in terms of what Saul did in seeking information through the medium and what he did not do in failing to seek YHWH. Before concluding that the Chronicler is deliberately contradicting Samuel we should ponder a peculiarity of the narrative in 1 Sam 28:6. Among the means by which YHWH did not answer Saul was the Urim. The alert reader would immediately think that the Urim could not come into consideration because we have already been told that the ephod was in David’s camp. Yet it would not conflict with a biblical notion of God as ultimate cause to see the loss of the ephod as a means by which God punished Saul and withheld information from him. Yet as divine causality is comprehensive, so is human culpability. I suspect that a truncated way of saying that Saul had placed himself in a situation where he could not access divine communication is to say that he did not seek God. An alternate or supplementary possibility is that it is an example of the message that circumstances do not justify disobedience. The biblical text can describe Saul acting in desperation in certain circumstances and yet view that act as heinous sin. It does so with the visit to the medium and also with Saul’s sacrifice at Gilgal (1 Sam 13:8–14). If that is the Chronicler’s perspective then Saul’s going to the medium was a refusal to seek YHWH. According to the ethos of the “total-obedience-no-matter-what” position, Saul would be obliged to seek YHWH whether he received an answer or not, rather than resort to illegitimate means.

Untersuchungen zur Theologie des chronistischen Geschichtswerkes (Freiburger theologische Studien, 92; Freiberg: Herder, 1973), 39,40. 94

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An additional factor to note with Chronicles’ story of the death of Saul is that the moral of the story is spelled out by the author.95 There is a difference between the historiography of Genesis and that of Chronicles in that the message conveyed by repetitions and juxtapositions with very rare editorial comment in the former is routinely spelled out by the author in the latter. To return to the primary reason for considering 1 Chronicles 10: without denying that the chapter may serve as a backdrop to David, the author is making a warning example out of Saul. That is not to imply that necromancy is his specific concern because it might be obedience in the wider sense. C. Begg has argued convincingly that “seeking YHWH” is one of the themes of Chronicles.96 The vast majority of references are in sections not paralleled by Samuel-Kings suggesting that it reflects the Chronicler’s own theme. The activities which are seen as manifestations of seeking are various. A significant example is 1 Chronicles 15:13 because failure to transport the ark in the lawful way is seen as a dereliction in the seeking of God. Seeking is here clearly closer to the notion of obedience than to that of obtaining information. In 22:19 seeking is connected with building the temple. This narrower focus does not preclude a very broad one where what is sought is all the commandments (28:8). In the next verse that leads to a promise that God will allow himself to be found by those who seek him. This promise comes in the context of a description of YHWH’s ability to penetrate into the thoughts and intentions of the human mind. Hence it is clear that the promise assumes a righteous seeking. The charge that the On the Chronicler’s view of Saul’s sin and the relationship of his views of transgression and atonement see W. Johnstone, “Guilt and Atonement: The Theme of 1 and 2 Chronicles,” in A Word in Season: Essays in Honour of William McKane, ed. J. D. Martin and P. R. Davies (JSOT Sup., 42; Sheffield: JSOT, 1986), 113–38. 96 “‘Seeking Yahweh’ and the Purpose of Chronicles,” Louvain Studies 9 (1982): 128–41. See also R. K. Duke, “A Rhetorical Approach to Appreciating the Book of Chronicles,” in The Chronicler as Author. Studies in Text and Texture, ed. M. P. Graham and S. L. McKenzie (JSOT Sup., 263; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999), 117. 95

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Chronicler was concerned purely with externally correct performance ignores such emphases.97 Another example of a wide significance to seeking is the charge that Asa sought physicians rather than YHWH (2 Chron 16:12). A further example of the use of the term to encapsulate genuine religious devotion is the contrast between seeking Baals and seeking YHWH in the case of Jehoshaphat (17:3,4). Finally we have an example which makes absolutely clear that the slander of the Chronicler as a person concerned only with the correct observance of external details and not with the heart has derived from assumptions and not from the text. Hezekiah prayed for those ritually impure northerners who partook of the Passover in formal impurity but in sincerity of heart in seeking God. He also tells us that YHWH heard the prayer (30:18–20).98 The frequency of this term and the range of activity and attitude covered by it show that it became for the Chronicler a way of designating true piety. This range strengthens my argument that the author is more concerned with the total religious tone of the community than with factional power.

DAVID IN CHRONICLES Chronicles gives a truncated version of Samuel’s story of David as king, concentrating upon the bringing of the ark to Jerusalem and arrangements for it there, his plan to build a temple and God’s promise of a dynasty, his conquests and the census and resultant plague. Thus the more personal and family story of David is omitted. The consequence is that the moral perils which surround the ruler in his personal and family conduct do not receive emphasis. The large additions concern David’s establishment of cultic organisation and preparations for the temple. This is also relevant to Mosis’ charge (see footnote 94) that the Chronicler would have problems with God’s failure to respond to Saul’s inquiry. If the seeking to which YHWH responds is seen as a righteous seeking then the example of Saul would pose no problems. Against the charge that the Chronicler was interested in purely legalistic religiosity see 2 Chr 30:18–20 (Also S. Japhet, The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles, 252,64). 98 Williamson, 1 and 2 Chronicles, 31. 97

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There is no question that the Chronicler had a tendency to dwell upon actions and arrangements that impacted upon the temple. It is a reasonable inference that he saw that as having relevance for his own day. This tendency influences modern evaluations of the Chronicler for two reasons. One is because a central role for the temple in the early history of Judah runs contrary to some reconstructions of religious history. A second reason is because these details are often missing from SamuelKings and thus raise the issue of whether the Chronicler obtained his information from sources or invented it. With both these questions the conclusions we reach are largely based upon our presuppositions and therefore it is very hard to bring the discussion to a conclusion. A related and yet more tangible question is whether the Chronicler was correcting the history found in SamuelKings to achieve this objective. In discussing this question it is important to insist that additional information in Chronicles is not of itself a correction of Samuel-Kings unless we assume that Samuel-Kings was comprehensive. G. N. Knoppers argues that the Chronicler was countering any impression that using the treasury of the temple for strategic purposes, such as buying off attackers, was allowable and presenting positively those who made donations. These were issues that were not of concern to Kings.99 One can agree that Knoppers has highlighted a major issue for the Chronicler and one that had contemporary relevance. More difficult to decide is the Chronicler’s attitude to the Samuel-Kings account. Knoppers thinks that the fact that kings who are viewed positively in Kings use temple treasures for strategic purposes would have been offensive to the Chronicler as it would be a disincentive to endowing the second temple.100 Chronicles provides information on donations that is not in Kings.101 Since we are “Treasures Won and Lost: Royal (Mis)appropriations in Kings and Chronicles,” in The Chronicler as Author. Studies in Text and Texture, ed. M. P. Graham and S. L. McKenzie (JSOT Sup., 263; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999), 181–208. 100 Ibid, 193. 101 Ibid, 194–7. 99

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comparing Chronicles’ information with Kings’ lack of it, any conclusion on this aspect will depend completely on a prior judgment about the existence or non-existence of Chronicles’ sources. Therefore it is the use of temple resources which is critical because both works mention this. As frequently happens the ancient historians fail to conform to the neat boxes of our expectations. In 2 Kings 16:8 we read of Ahaz sending temple treasures to Tiglath-pileser and one might infer from the context that it achieved its purpose. It fits the thesis that this was an issue of concern to the Chronicler that, when he mentions a payment to Assyria (2 Chron 28:21) the text says that it did not help Ahaz. In contrast 2 Kings 12:18 mentions a payment by Joash to Hazael which achieved the intention of diverting the enemy but the 2 Chronicles 24:23 version does not mention the use of temple property. In this case it cannot be objected that the Chronicler had to suppress the payment from the temple because the payment achieved its objective, for the Chronicler presents the incident in a context of death, despoliation and judgment. Given that fact he could easily have placed a payment from the temple in that context, as he did with Ahaz. Maybe the Chronicler’s connection of historical event and moral lesson was more sophisticated than we think. Yes the temple and its resources was a major issue for him. However he was also concerned with a contemporary failure to heed the word of God. In the case of Joash he was confronted with both the use of the temple and with the murder of a priestly messenger. He chose to concentrate upon the latter. A reading of the deviations from and additions to Samuel-Kings as though there is only one concern at issue will produce a distorted impression. Returning to the treatment of David, it is a weak argument to say that the Chronicler was attempting to whitewash David and included the story of the census only because it related to the temple. He later included the story of the division of the kingdom with only a bare reference to Ahijah’s prophecy. Something similar could have been done in the case of the census. Actually repentance is such an important theme in his theology that the inclusion of this story of David’s sin could have suited his purpose. B. E. Kelly has argued that repentance is a crucial element of the message of Chronicles. That message is well expressed in 2 Chronicles 7:12b–16a, God’s promise to Solomon.

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Another passage which bring out this message is 2 Chronicles 32:26 where Hezekiah’s humbling averted the judgment.102 I suspect we must find another reason for the omission of the story of David’s family. The story of David and Bathsheba and David’s family problems have a general human application. It may have particular relevance for kings surrounded by opportunities for temptation and recalcitrant sons of ambitious mothers. Nevertheless the main application is on a personal and moral level. One of the characteristics of Chronicles is its community focus. It is less a treatise on how to live the individual righteous life than a manual on community life. Accordingly the David of Chronicles is the historical David of Samuel presented not as a lesson for personal conduct but as an organiser and establisher. We are naturally led to suspect that the author saw something about that role as being a vital emphasis for his day.103 In 1 Chronicles 27 we have an account of the organisation of personnel and property in David’s kingdom. There is nothing cultic about it. Why is it included? If corroborated by other evidence it would point to an interest in organisation that is wider than merely cultic organisation. Connected to the question of the Chronicler’s interest in David is his interest in the Davidic dynasty. This has been generally connected to the question of whether there was a Davidic messianic movement in the time of the Chronicler. The difficulty interpreters then encounter is that a great interest in David and his succeeding line of kings does not seem to translate into a high expectation of the future restoration of the Davidic kingship. The dynastic promise in 1 Chronicles 17:11–14, unlike the parallel in 2 Samuel 7:11–16, does not have the threat of punishment on the disobedient offspring.104 Lest we should deduce the Chronicler’s views from one omission, God speaking to Solomon makes the establishment of his throne conditional on obedience (2 Chron

Retribution and Eschatology in Chronicles, 50, 60, 103–4. For the importance of the house of David to the Chronicler see D. N. Freedman, “The Chronicler’s Purpose,” CBQ 23 (1961): 440–41. 104 Ibid., 438. 102 103

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7:17–18).105 Thus Chronicles joins many other biblical books in seeing history as determined both by divine promise and human behaviour. It follows that the Chronicler could have some expectation of the continuation of the Davidic line but he does not see it as immediately relevant to the situation he wants his history to address.

SOLOMON IN CHRONICLES With the exception of the omissions of the lapses of Solomon’s old age, the account of Solomon contains similar material to that in Kings. However it has been argued that the structure of the narrative forms a chiasm so that the centre is the dedication of the temple and God’s response (2 Chron 5:2–7:22). Other notices such as his building activity (2:17–5:1 and 8:1–16), the recognition granted him by outsiders (2:1–16 and 8:17–9:12) and his wealth and wisdom (1:1–17 and 9:13–28) are assembled concentrically around that centre.106 Discovery of literary structures such as chiasm has become fashionable and not every claimed example is convincing but this one seems solid. It reinforces the impression that one obtains without careful structural investigation: the temple is the centre of the author’s concern with Solomon.107 Ironically the Kings’ account of Solomon has also been seen as highly structured. While versions of that structure vary, they have in common the centrality of the temple but differ from Chronicles’ structure by placing Solomon’s wise and pious acts in

This is a good example of a passage which can be slighted as “merely” a result of copying from 1 Kings 9:4,5. Nevertheless I suspect that the Chronicler read what he was copying. 106 R. B. Dillard, “The Literary Structure of the Chronicler’s Solomon Narrative,” JSOT 30 (1984):85–93. For this and other cases of chiasms in Chronicles see L. C. Allen, “Kerygmatic Units in 1 and 2 Chronicles,” JSOT 41 (1988): 21–36; W. Johnstone, “Solomon’s Prayer: Is Intentionalism Such a Fallacy?” Studia Theologica 47 (1993): 125,26. 107 For the analogous importance of Solomon’s prayer at the dedication of the temple to royal prayer in Chronicles see R. L. Pratt, Royal Prayer and the Chronicler’s Program (Th.D. diss., Harvard Uni., 1987). 105

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contrast to his later disobedience.108 Assuming, as seems reasonable, that some sort of repetitive/contrastive or chiastic structuring of the Solomon account is involved in both Kings and Chronicles, it seems highly unlikely that the duplication arose independently. Either the respective authors saw it in a common source or the presence of a structure in one (presumably Kings) influenced the form of the other. Then the fact that Solomon’s sin is an important part of the parallelism in Kings but not in Chronicles becomes significant. One could say that the Chronicler has deliberately created a parallel structure but one in which Solomon’s sin is hidden from view because both halves of Chronicles’ parallelism reflect favourable on the king. That then implies a deliberate act and not just an unconscious consequence of a tendency on the part of the Chronicler. However the indications of deliberate intent do not square with the fact that the Chronicler is happy to make allusions to Kings’ account of Solomon’s sin and condemnation. Therefore the process must be one of the Chronicler recognising that the literary device is a suitable one for him to emphasise the points he wanted to make about Solomon, without an intention to obscure or negate the Kings’ version.109

REHOBOAM IN CHRONICLES Chronicles’ account of Rehoboam is quite similar to Kings’ but with specific exceptions. Kings intersperses the story of Rehoboam K. I. Parker, “Repetition as a Structuring Device in I Kings 1–11,” JSOT 42 (1988): 19–27; ibid, “The Limits of Solomon’s Reign: A Response to Amos Frisch,” JSOT 51 (1991): 15–21; idem, “Solomon as Philosopher King? The Nexus of Law and Wisdom in I Kings 1–11,” JSOT 53 (1992): 75–91; M. Brettler, “The Structure of I Kings 1–11,” JSOT 49 (1991): 87–97; A. Frisch, “Structure and its Significance: The Narrative of Solomon’s Reign (I Kings 1–12.24),” JSOT 51 (1991): 3–14; B. Porten, “The Structure and Theme of the Solomon Narrative (I Kings 3–11),” HUCA 38 (1967): 93–128. 109 It would not make a material difference, if the facts were slightly different and the postulated common source had a positive use of a parallel structure. In that case it would be Kings adapting it to make a different point. 108

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with that of Jeroboam. Chronicles gives much more detail to the campaign of Shishak and introduces the prophet Shemaiah again to explain events. Chronicles is interested in the building activity and abundant family of Rehoboam. The peculiarities of Chronicles’ account must be considered in the light of Kings’. Kings’ summary of the reign of Rehoboam deviates from its usual summary in passing judgment not upon the king but upon Judah: we are told that Judah did evil (1 Kings 14:22). It seems reasonable to conclude that Kings found it difficult to present a concise estimate of the reign of Rehoboam himself and therefore its summary focused on the nation. The account of that evil is followed by the mention of Shishak’s attack, implying but not stating a connection. Chronicles solved the problem of characterising the reign of Rehoboam by periodising it. It describes a process whereby elements from Israel, especially Levites, reacting against the policies of Jeroboam came to Judah and influenced Rehoboam in an orthodox direction. Looking carefully at the Chronicles text one wonders if the Chronicler also was carefully nuancing his description of Rehoboam’s reign. There is no initial appraisal of Rehoboam’s reign. Instead there is a description of the division of the kingdom (10:1–11:4), followed by an account of Rehoboam’s building program (11:5–12). The next section concerns the Levites who moved to the south as a result of Jeroboam’s cultic changes (11:13–17). They are said to have strengthened Rehoboam. The crucial, but ambiguous, clause comes in v. 17b: “for they went in the way of David and Solomon for three years”. Who is meant by “they”. In the context we might take it as referring specifically to the Levites who are the subject of the previous verb. Or we might take it as an vague reference to the inhabitants of Judah including the king. The former seems more grammatically likely but even if we opt for the latter possibility, it is not a strong endorsement of the orthodoxy of Rehoboam.110 After Hence I cannot agree with the view of G. N. Knoppers that the Chronicler is depicting Rehoboam positively in his first three years of reign (“Rehoboam in Chronicles: Villain or Victim?” JBL 109 [1990]: 423– 440). I think he is avoiding personal judgment at this part of the narrative to focus on the positive role of the Levites. 110

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this period, when the kingdom was strong, king and people forsook the law of the Lord and Shishak’s raid was the appropriate punishment (12:1,2). Proceeding from the assumption that the Kings’ version is the reliable one and what is not in Kings is the invention of the Chronicler, some have tried to discern the motive behind the Chronicler’s periodization. A common explanation is that the Chronicler held to a doctrine of immediate punishments. Shishak’s attack had to be explained and so there must have been a turning away immediately preceding the attack. There are a number of problems with this explanation. The order of events in Kings with reports of sins (1 Kings 14:22–24) followed immediately by the report of Shishak’s campaign (vv. 25,26) implies a connection. In this respect the difference in Chronicles may be simply the fact that it makes connections and reasons more explicit than Samuel-Kings. Thus it may be more a stylistic difference than an ideological one. Other cases where Chronicles records sin and punishment may contain detail on the chronology of the connection but it is not necessarily an immediate connection. Asa’s resort to Damascus for help and thus presumably Hanani’s rebuke was in his thirty-sixth year (2 Chron 16:1–10) but his disease did not come until three years later (v. 12) and no explicit connection is made between sin and disease. The criticism of Jehoshaphat in 2 Chron 19:2,3 is tempered with praise and the subsequent attack, which was defeated anyway, is given a vague chronology (20:1). Jehoram’s sin is detailed along with the list of his defeats and afflictions, but given that the only precise chronological indication is that his sickness lasted two years and that was after military problems (21:16–19), this is hardly evidence for the sickness being an immediate punishment. More examples could be given but they all lead to the conclusion that the Chronicler sees punishment as following sin but not necessarily as immediately following. Also against any idea of immediate retribution is the fact that, in the time of Jehoram, we are told that the house of David was preserved because of God’s covenant with David (2 Chron 21:7).111 Further in Josiah’s charge to the delegation sent to the prophetess Huldah, 111

Kelly, Retribution and Eschatology in Chronicles, 41.

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he explicitly says that they are suffering the outpouring of God’s wrath that resulted from the sins of the previous generation(s) (2 Chron 34:21). It is true that this is close to the version in Kings (2 Kings 22:13) but one cannot argue that the Chronicler purposely changed what he received from Kings to fit his theology and also contend that he left things in the text taken from Kings which disagreed with his theology. The substantial question is whether we can ascribe additional detail regarding Rehoboam in Chronicles to invention on the part of the author. If we can then the alternate explanation that Chronicles had another source which gave additional detail is discounted. Since we are arguing about the unknown, the only way to give this discussion about hypotheticals an air of objectivity is to find patterns in Chronicles over against Kings. Those patterns are then ascribed to the ideological bias of the Chronicler. The pattern may be that the Chronicler is more inclined to add chronological information and to periodise reigns, rather than a necessary adherence to a doctrine of immediate retribution. If we grant, for the sake of the argument, that there is a pattern, as suggested above, do we know what it means? The direct answer is that we do not. It could mean that the Chronicler needed to make his fiction more plausible and so added authentic sounding detail. It could mean that Kings was uninterested in the detail and failed to pick it up from the common source. Our presuppositions tell us what to make of it, not the data itself.

ABIJAH IN CHRONICLES Similar considerations arise when we compare the accounts of Abijah/Abijam. Once again Kings has an unusual description, saying that Abijam walked in the sins of his father and his heart was not perfect with YHWH his God (1 Kings 15:3). Chronicles omits any general appraisal. It is the latter detail which is particularly interesting in the light of the fact that Chronicles attributes a speech to Abijah which includes distinctive emphases of the Chronicler. Why not simply make him a good king if his speech is

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so appealing? Perhaps the Chronicler was less inclined to invent history than scholars have been to ascribe invention to him.112 There are two significant aspects of that speech. One is its account of the origin of the northern kingdom. It denies its legitimacy on the ground that the grant of the Israel to the Davidic dynasty was perpetual (2 Chron 13:5). The blame for the division is placed squarely on Jeroboam and his worthless supporters. They are then contrasted with the youth and inexperience of Rehoboam (13:6,7). Once again variance in detail and approach raises the issue of the relationship of this version to Kings’ fuller account of the division of the kingdom. I noted above the mention of the fulfilment of the prophecy of Ahijah the Shilonite (2 Chron 10:15) and the implication that the readers/hearers would know Kings’ version of events. Furthermore that verse carries over from Kings the explicit statement that the division was the will of God. In addition Chronicles preserves the account of Rehoboam’s failure to listen to the counsel of the elders (2 Chron 10). Thus we are left with several possibilities. If the Chronicler meant to refute or substantially correct the version in Kings, he substantially undermined his attempt by appearing to affirm that version. To say that he did not realise he was undermining his own purpose is to accuse the author of lack of intelligence. Alternatively we might suggest that he reported contradictory versions of events without attempting to reconcile them. The implication is that he had a concern to preserve records of the past rather than to come to some “true” version of events. While that explanation is often given for the failure of supposed redactors to harmonise accounts, applying it to the Chronicler would contradict the general view that he was presenting a definite, ideologically coloured, version of the history. Without agreeing with all the accusations of bias and slanted history that have been directed at the Chronicler, I have to agree that he was not a mere collector of various stories. The third possibility is that the Chronicler did not see this speech as being necessarily contradictory to the explanation of the division of the kingdom given in Kings. Finally we might solve the problem by 112

Kelly, Retribution and Eschatology in Chronicles, 96.

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postulating that our present Chronicles was created out of two sources with contradictory understandings of the division of the kingdom. The Chronicler was obviously intelligent and he had a definite message. That means we are left with the third or fourth explanations as the most likely. We thus come full circle. When such “contradictions” occur in the text of earlier books, they were ascribed to the dull wits of the redactors who have combined sources from different periods, including from the late period in which a definite “priestly” version of events was created which clashed with earlier views. The proof of the existence of that “priestly” view of reality was Chronicles. However we now find that Chronicles also presents a clash between records of events. Granted one could use the same methodology again and postulate an even later period in which dull witted redactors combined contrary accounts and produced the present Chronicles. One could do it but surely it is time to ask whether the whole enterprise needs re-evaluation. Let us assume that the most likely explanation is the third one: the Chronicler does not think he is presenting contrary accounts. What does that tell us about his understanding of history? That one account ascribes events to the will of God and another to the schemes of men is no problem whatsoever. The Bible regularly sees both as involved in historical events. An event may be evil in terms of its human cause but still be part of a divine plan against which it is useless to struggle. With respect to the role of both Solomon and Jeroboam in bringing about the schism, nothing is implied here that is not also implied in ascribing the Assyrian attack to judgment upon Judah and also holding Assyria guilty for it (Isa 10:5–19). More significant is the variation in the appraisal of Rehoboam. In the account shared with Kings he appears as a proud, arrogant young man. In Abijah’s speech he is an inexperienced young man. Are they really inconsistent portrayals? Or is it possible that the request that Jeroboam and all Israel addressed to Rehoboam (1 Kings 12:4) was shrewdly calculated to lead an inexperienced and vain neophyte to a foolish response? If we accept this way of reading the accounts then we come again to the conclusion that biblical authors give abbreviated accounts of events suited to the point they wish to convey without necessarily excluding accounts which bring out other factors in the

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situation. Once again I must underline the point I made earlier: this is a sophisticated approach to history and must be excluded if our presupposition is that the biblical authors, whether because of their position in the evolutionary progression of humanity or their racial misfortune of being Semites and not Greeks or their religious rigidity, were incapable of sophistication. In essence I am raising the possibility that the Chronicler alluded to the Kings’ version of the division of the kingdom in which the division was punishment for Solomon’s sins and was achieved through the brashness and youthful foolishness of Rehoboam. He presented that in abbreviated form because he needed the skeleton of events to carry his story forward but it was not the main point he wished to make. His main point related to human culpability in events which were nevertheless in accord with the divine will. Just as the Assyrians were guilty even when carrying out God’s purpose against Judah, so Jeroboam and his confederates were guilty. Their guilt lay in rejecting the God ordained institutions of the Davidic kingship and the temple establishment with its priests and Levites. Yet he—and Kings also—saw a complex interworking of the actions of the Israelites and of Rehoboam in the events that actually produced the schism. Despite this, they did not think they needed to emphasise equally every factor in every account of those events. The situation is thus similar to what I argued for the two creation accounts: different details and different emphases spread over several accounts. In accord with the common thesis that the Chronicler wanted to remove the blame for the division of the kingdom from Solomon, W. Johnstone has produced a reading of the story of the division of the kingdom in which the Chronicler is putting all the blame on Rehoboam, portraying him as demeaning himself by going to Shechem to be crowned and so on.113 The problem is that the Chronicler would, on that interpretation, be contradicting not just Kings but also his own report of Abijah’s address. If the portrayal in Chronicles of Rehoboam as the cause of the split is a contradiction of Kings’ view that the split was due to Solomon, then Chronicles’ positive portrayal of the speech of Abijah, which 113

1 and 2 Chronicles, 2. 22–31, 54.

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places the responsibility on Jeroboam and the rabble with him, must be an internal contradiction within Chronicles. I suspect that that logic is not rigorously pursued because the Chronicler is seen as presenting a consistent ideological position. Of course one could argue an internal inconsistency in Chronicles by a version of the Romantic thesis that late biblical authors lacked intelligence. However, the tendency to push the composition of all biblical books into the later period,114 must have as a corollary that we would expect the same approach to historiography in all of them. Returning to Abijah, R. W. Klein suggests that the war account is a construction of the Chronicler to fit the expectation that a good king must be victorious. The list of captured cities was derived from Joshua 18:21–24. Besides the fact that Chronicler clearly avoids calling Abijah a good king, Klein has to admit that the Jeshanah of 13:19 is not in the Joshua list.115 While ascribing this speech to the king, Chronicles is careful not to ascribe the subsequent victory to the piety of the king. Rather the focus is on the trumpets of the priests and the shout of the soldiers (2 Chron 13:14–18). By doing this the Chronicler avoids contradicting Kings’ account with its negative assessment of Abijam’s state of heart and also furthers his obvious purpose of making the cause of events a wider circle of people than might be assumed on the basis of Samuel-Kings. D. G. Deboys disagrees with this analysis and sees the shout of the people as an indication that the people are in unity with Abijah. He also points out that there is nothing negative said of Abijah in Chronicles.116 A further indication that Chronicles may be attempting a more positive picture of Abijah than Kings is the fact that 1 Kings 15:12 describes Asa’s reform as including the removal of idols made by “his fathers” but the Chronicler’s account of the reforms omits that element.117 Yet against the thesis of an intention to give a different See next chapter. “Abijah’s Campaign against the North (II Chr. 13)—What Were the Chronicler’s Sources?” ZAW 95 (1983): 214–16. 116 “History and Theology in the Chronicler’s Portrayal of Abijah,” Biblica 71 (1990): 50–1. 117 Ibid., 51–2. 114 115

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view of Ahijah to Kings is the lack of summary judgment of his reign. Further we may contrast the report of the battle with other accounts that clearly give both king and people as the causal agents in events (eg 1 Chron 13:6; 15:25). Perhaps the best explanation is that the different priorities of Kings and Chronicles lead to different portrayals. From the perspective of Kings’s concern with idolatry, there is nothing positive to be said about Abijam. Chronicles’ concern with maintenance of the role of the temple leads to a varied presentation.118 Central to the Chronicler’s presentation is the speech of Abijah. It is commonly pointed out that its themes are common places of Chronicles.119 That in turn has led to speculation that it is the Chronicler’s own composition. Such speculation sets up an unrealistic alternative for the biblical historian. If he reports themes, details and emphases which are apart from or contrary to his clear priorities, he may be adjudged as giving a reliable historical report. If that is not the case then the suspicion is that it is a fictitious composition. Obviously most biblical histories will normally fail the test because they have a definite purpose and tend to report what is relevant to that purpose. How do we know that the Chronicler did not find the material of Abijah’s speech in an early source—maybe along with much other material that was irrelevant to his purpose and hence omitted? We only know it if we know on some other objective basis what Abijah would and would not have said.120 The only way we can conclude that is by declaring For another approach to Abijah which stresses the importance of the temple see G. H. Jones, “From Abijam to Abijah,” ZAW 106 (1994): 420–34. 119 Klein, “Abijah’s Campaign against the North,” 212; Deboys, “History and Theology in the Chronicler’s Portrayal of Abijah,” 57–9. 120 Of course one can also object that the battle could never have taken place, that the numbers of troops are improbably high and so on. The objection to the battle as such leads into the same quagmire: how do we know without sources what battles were and were not possible? If we say, purely for the sake of the argument that the numbers are wrong, does that mean everything about the report must be wrong? We do not apply that standard in other cases. 118

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Kings an exhaustive account of the reign and it is clearly far from that. One suspects that the real factor influencing scholarship is the conviction that a concern for the central role of the temple could not be early. As I have been repeatedly stressing, that does not come from our sources. I mentioned above the Chronicler’s obvious intent to include a wider circle of people in the outworking of events. The obvious reason why the Chronicler might seek to widen the circle of causation is to give a message to his own time. In the case of this victory the result brought about by the wider circle of people is a good one. However there can also be negative results as in the case of the turning away from YHWH ascribed to Rehoboam and all Israel (2 Chron 12:1). Thus he does not see group action as necessarily good. Rather the message is about group responsibility whatever the result. It is a call to the people to be involved in determining the course of events conveyed by showing that repeatedly the course of events was determined by the people acting as a whole without the supposed wielders of power or in concert with the power holders. That cannot be the tactic of somebody concerned to establish or strengthen a narrow priestly or Levitical theocracy. Even when the Chronicler is recounting an event which the chief priest leads, namely the counter-coup of Jehoiada, he adds to the account of the loyalist conspiracy in 2 Kings 11:4 a wider contingent drawn from outside of Jerusalem (2 Chron 23:2). It is hard to see this as an argument for a narrower theocracy than Kings because the additional elements include non-Levitical as well as Levitical elements. The only way out of this conundrum for supporters of the theory of the Chronicler as defender of priestly/Levitical power interests is to say that the Chronicler is giving a picture of all the elements of society united behind a priestly lead. That theory is exploded by the numerous cases where the leader of the larger group is not priestly, as with the depiction of David at the head of a caucus (1 Chron 11;1–4, 12; 13:1–2; 15:25–28; 28:1 etc.). What interests the Chronicler is not just who leads the group but the fact that the whole group is involved. That is not to deny that in his view of society kings and priests are the natural leaders. The crucial thing about his vision is that it calls upon all to take responsibility for events, not simply to follow the leadership of a particular

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faction. It follows that the Chronicler is writing in terms of a situation where there has been a failure of the community to rally together. Once again that is the picture which our biblical postexilic sources give.

ASA IN CHRONICLES When it comes to Asa the Chronicler confirms the positive assessment of this king given by Kings (1 Kings 15:11–14; 2 Chron. 14:1–5). Once again, as with Rehoboam, Chronicles periodises the reign in a way Kings does not. In Kings the removal of Maacah is recounted as part of the general summary of the reign (15:13) while in Chronicles it is part of the further reform which followed the defeat of Zerah and the prophecy of Azariah (15:16). Kings records the alliance with Ben-hadad and Asa’s diseased feet without judgment (15:18–23) whereas Chronicles records a prophetic judgment against him and connects his disease with a failure to seek YHWH (16:7–12). The source citation for Asa in Kings is one of those which indicates that the source contains information which has not been exploited in the Kings’ account (15:23). With a little imagination with respect to one item, namely his might, one could see this as a summary of the extra detail provided by Chronicles. The might could be an allusion to the victory over Zerah and the building receives explicit reference in 2 Chronicles 14:6–7. The third item in the extra information, Asa’s foot problems, creates interesting possibilities. One can see the mention of Asa’s building activity among the extra information as an allusion to the sort of thing that the author of Kings might have included. His reference to this activity is a shorthand way of telling us that Asa was a builder without giving detail. Why the allusion to the foot disease in this truncated form and why in that position? Several possibilities arise. One is that Kings is putting in random information for reasons lost to us and the Chronicler chose to create a story to appropriate the chance remark for his theological program. A more likely possibility is that Asa’s illness was significant to the author of Kings but he did not want to elaborate upon it because it was not essential to his message. That opens the possibility that the significance was similar to what the Chronicler saw in it. It does not prove the similarity. Thus the thesis of opportunistic invention by the Chronicler and the thesis, that the author of Kings saw the

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same in his source as the Chronicler did, are equally unprovable with the data at hand. Yet it is more likely that the author of Kings was including a significant rather than a random fact simply because we are looking at history written for a purpose. Whatever the explanation this is another case of the author of Kings having information at his disposal which he chose not to develop. There is a very significant contradiction in the Chronicler’s story of Asa. In 14:3 we are told that Asa removed the high places whereas in 15:17 we are told they remained. The latter passage is a parallel to 1 Kings 15:14. There are two ways of dealing with this apparent contradiction. One is to say that the Chronicler took over the reference to the high places remaining from Kings and then, when he added his own section on Asa, he contradicted the information taken from Kings. That assumes a lack of attentiveness on the part of the author and is consistent with the thesis that authors of the post-exilic period lacked intelligence because they were in a degenerate period. The alternate explanation is that the meaning of each passage is defined by its context. The information in 14:3 is in the context of Asa’s action to remove idolatrous practices and is meant to be understood in that sense. The high places mentioned in 15:17, as is common with Kings’ references to high places with monarchs it regards as orthodox, refer to places where YHWH was worshipped but which violated the principle of centralisation of sacrificial worship. The immediately following context, with its reference to Asa’s orthodoxy, excludes any notion that these particular high places were idolatrous.121 A further inference from this explanation is that the author saw no necessity to cross reference and harmonise information given in different W. Johnstone (1 and 2 Chronicles, 2.69) has an alternate explanation. He sees the Chronicler as solving the problem by adding to 14:5 “from Israel”, referring to the north, as a way of removing the contradiction between his own version and Kings. That then makes the reference to Israel in the speech of Azariah in 15:3 of special significance. It is hard to argue that it means the northern nation because it is presented in v. 4 as repenting and finding God. Clearly it must mean Judah. Consequently it is hard to argue that Israel in 14:5, without any indication that the geographical focus has changed, is a harmonising reference to the north. 121

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contexts. We would have to assume that he relied on the intelligence of the reader/hearer to interpret from the particular context. There is an ironic symmetry in these rival explanations. One depends upon assuming the lack of intelligence of the author. The other assumes that the author grants a measure of intelligence to the audience. Can one explanation be proved superior to another? No, because there are crucial assumptions with each. If the second explanation is correct it would potentially apply to a number of cases where modern readers have been troubled by a failure to harmonise contradictions and have therefore postulated multiple sources. Mosis interprets the account of Asa’a reign in terms of his theory that the Chronicler is creating models and parables of the destruction of Jerusalem and the re-establishment of the community by the returned exiles. He sees the message of Azariah in 2 Chronicles 15:1–6 as a reference to Nebuchadnezzar’s destruction of Jerusalem. Similarly the covenant of 15:8–15 is based on Ezra 8.122 The difficulty with this and other examples which Mosis uses is that there is nothing in the text which demands the interpretation. The argument seems to be that when narrative elements come in which are not derived from Samuel-Kings, then they must be inventions of the Chronicler. That leads in turn to conjectures as to the purpose of the inventions. Given we have no other access to the mind of the Chronicler, one conjecture is as good as another. If the Chronicler has source material not exploited by Samuel-Kings, Mosis’ argument and its conclusions are undermined.

JEHOSHAPHAT IN CHRONICLES The Chronicler’s treatment of Jehoshaphat is characterised by additional information and, once again, by periodization.123 Indeed it shows more alternation of praise and blame than the account of Untersuchungen zur Theologie des chronistischen Geschichtswerkes, 174–75. G. N. Knoppers, “Reform and Regression: The Chronicler’s Presentation of Jehoshaphat,” Biblica 72 (1991): 500–24. 122 123

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any other king. The account of Jehoshaphat in Kings is unusual because it shows clearly that the order of narration of the kings of Judah has been disrupted by the concentration at this point of the text upon the kings and especially the prophets of the north.124 1 Kings 15:24 contains a mention of Jehoshaphat as the successor of Asa. His alliance with Ahab leads to his appearance in ch. 22 at a point which suits the chronology of the northern kings. Finally in 1 Kings 22:41–50 the regular summary of his reign appears. That summary, once the standard items are removed, is very short. The standard items include chronology of reign, name of mother, summary evaluation of the character of the reign and source reference. We normally find the account of the significant events of a reign between the standard introduction and the source reference but in this case there is only one additional piece of information, and that is covered in one verse: namely his alliance with the king of Israel. After the source reference we have additional information including the story of the fleet at Ezion-geber. Thus, if we exclude the standard clauses, there is more information on Jehoshaphat in the appendix than in the main text. When Kings is taken as the normative text and additional matter in Chronicles is treated with great suspicion, the consequence is that the text of Kings is not seen in its idiosyncratic character. I would suggest that Kings’ way of telling the story of Jehoshaphat is unusual to say the least. The most likely explanation is that the kings of the south are being treated as an appendix to an essentially northern story. It also fits this explanation that Jehoshaphat reappears, again out of the order of the narrative for kings of Judah but in accord with the narrative for kings of Israel in 2 Kings 3. It is therefore hardly fair when Chronicles’ additional information is held to be suspicious just because it is additional. Surely the priority given to the northern kings in Kings is likely to lead to abbreviated information for southern kings. Treatment in Chronicles shows several prominent features. There is a major interest in administration. Note that royal officials appear in first position and the Levites in second position in 2 Chronicles 17:7,8. 124

Schniedewind, The Word of God in Transition, 23.

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This is further evidence that organisation is crucial to the Chronicler rather than the promotion of the Levites as a faction.125 Military organisation is described in 17:12–19. This positive picture of organisation is followed by the first account of an inappropriate alliance, that with Ahab and the consequent combination at the battle of Ramoth-gilead. This account is very close to that given in Kings. What is different is the rebuke delivered by Jehu son of Hanani who appears in 1 Kings 16:1–4 rebuking Baasha. This Jehu appears again in the source citation for Jehoshaphat in 2 Chronicles 20:34, probable evidence that he is a southern prophet. Thus this alliance is condemned in Chronicles but not explicitly in Kings. The next story is of administrative reform again but whereas the purpose of the one in ch. 17 was given as “to teach” (vv. 7–9), the purpose in 19:5–11 was judicial. The background of the judges, appointed in provincial centres according to v. 5, is not given but Levites and priests head the list for Jerusalem but share the task with others in v. 8. Once again this is consistent with a major but not an exclusive role of the cultic professions in administration. The historicity of the following account of the invasion from across the Dead Sea has received much attention.126 Our concern at the moment is the ideology expressed in the account. Clearly it expresses what has been dubbed the “Holy War” ideology where God does the fighting for his people. It is a more dramatic case because, unlike examples such as 2 Chronicles 13:13–19, the human armies do not even engage. No explanation is given for this particular measure of divine assistance. Presumably the explanation will lie in the arguments advanced in Jehoshaphat’s prayer (20:6– On the importance of organisation in general to the Chronicler’s portrayal of Hezekiah see G. N. Knoppers, “History and Historiography: The Royal Reforms,” in The Chronicler as Historian, ed. M. P. Graham, K. G. Hoglund and S. L. McKenzie (JSOT Sup., 238; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1997), 190–92. 126 For a treatment of the historical background see A. Rainey, “Mesha’s Attempt to Invade Judah (2 Chron. 20),” in Studies in Historical, Geographical and Biblical Historiography Presented to Zecharia Kallai, ed. G. Galil and M. Weinfeld (SVT, 81; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 174–76. 125

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12). The prayer appeals to three phases of the history; the grant of the land to Abraham, the temple established as place of petition and the consideration granted to Ammon, Moab and Mount Seir during the wilderness wanderings. Appeal to the temple obviously fits the emphases of the Chronicler. The other bases of appeal contradict much that has been written about the Chronicler’s theology. It is clear that he accepts the history of the promise of the land and the wanderings and conquest.127 A message of assurance was conveyed by a Levite to the assembly. The message originated from the presence of the Spirit of YHWH upon him. This accords with Chronicles’ common approach that people designated as prophets are not said to speak through the Spirit but those who perform an occasional function of prophecy do. The message of the responsibility of YHWH for the victory and the lack of any necessity for human effort has been connected with the idea of a “Levitical sermon”, considered above, and various explanations given for the origin of that literary form. The search for a genre to ascribe to a specific pericope may have the effect of obscuring the uniqueness of texts but here the danger is obscuring connections to other texts. There is another case in Chronicles of defeat of an enemy without human intervention and that is the destruction of Sennacherib’s army in 2 Chronicles 32:21. It has the similarity that the sin of the enemy is detailed in 32:16–19 and we are told that Hezekiah and Isaiah prayed (32:20). However there is no message of assurance although such a message through Isaiah the prophet does occur in 2 Kings 19:6–7,20–34.

S. Japhet (The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles) attempts to draw a picture of a Chronicles that omits the Exodus and Sinai from its view of the history of Israel and yet she has to admit that in some cases Chronicles preserves the references that are found in Kings (380,81). The only way that one can say both that Chronicles is deliberately changing Kings’ view of history and admit that Chronicles preserves passages with the Kings’ view is to charge the Chronicler with incompetent presentation of his own thesis. We will avoid such problems if, instead of trying to prove that Chronicles is opposed to Kings, we explore what the shifts in emphasis mean. 127

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A unique feature of the account in 2 Chronicles 20 is the presence of singers going before the army and praising YHWH (vv. 21,22). While this may have been important to the Chronicler, given his interest in temple musicians, it is not a standard feature of his battle accounts. One notices another of the Chronicler’s concerns in that the appointment of the singers is ascribed to joint consultation between the king and the people (v. 21). In this story the prominent themes out of the previous history, such as the promise of the land and the journey to the promised land meet together with the themes beloved of the Chronicler such as the importance of the temple, the role of praise and the importance of trusting YHWH and his prophets (v. 20). Surely that tells us that the Chronicler did not see his emphases as a replacement for the themes of the past history but as placed on the foundation of that past history. The event described is one which would be most unlikely to repeat in the post-exilic period in even the vaguest approximation. Therefore he is not laying down a program for action, but reinforcing the importance of certain things in his own time, on the basis of their importance in the past. The story of the ships at Ezion-geber is recounted in the same position, as information subsequent to the source reference, in both 1 Kings 22:48–49 and 2 Chronicles 20:35–37. Thus it is similar to the information about Asa’s feet which is also placed after the source reference in both books. Is it possible that there is a convention applying here? If there is—and let it be admitted that this is very speculative—could it be that the source for the information placed after the source citation is different to the source of the information placed before it? While this is an initially tempting hypothesis it encounters the difficulty that two of the features mentioned late in 1 Kings 15:23, that is Asa’s might and building, seem incorporated in the main account in Chronicles. The respective accounts of the ships give different impressions. In 1 Kings 22:48–49 the order of events is that the ships are made by Jehoshaphat, wrecked and then, subsequently, Ahaziah put forward the proposal of joint action which Jehoshaphat declined. In 2 Chronicles 20:35–37 the alliance is mentioned first, with a moral judgment on the enterprise drawn by the author. After this comes a prophetic judgment and the information on the destruction of the ships. The Chronicles’ account is clearly highlighting the danger of alliances. That is

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concordant with Chronicles’ use of another prophet to denounce Jehoshaphat’s cooperation with Ahab (19:2).128 It is reasonable to infer that the Chronicler wrote against a background where alliances and cooperations threatened the existence of the distinct community of the post-exilic period. That is the picture given also in Ezra and Nehemiah. Similarly his concern with the danger of marriage alliances is relevant to his own time.129 Hence the Chronicler was writing with a consciousness of the dangers of his own time. As argued above, that a historian selects information to enforce a thesis of relevance to his own time, is not of itself evidence of invention. Once again the less explicable passage is the one in Kings. Why was the information that Jehoshaphat refused an offer of cooperation from Ahaziah the son of Ahab given without indication of what the reader was to learn from the incident? It has been argued above in connection to Genesis, Judges and Samuel that the authors refrain from drawing explicit lessons from history, allowing the repetition and juxtaposition of stories and themes to carry the message.That reliance on subtle structure is not so obvious in Kings and Chronicles which show us many examples of very explicit drawing of morals and interpretation of events. The condemnation of Jehoshaphat’s cooperation in ship building is a good example. If we drop the hypothetical but influential scholarly theory of the evolution of thought, religion and institutions, discussed in the previous chapter, and assess this pattern on its own merits, then an obvious possibility arises. It looks as though more explicit interpretation of events is characteristic of later narratives. That would make Kings something of a transitional work. Consider then the portrayal of Jehoshaphat in 1 Kings. The main incident, his involvement with Ahab in the battle of Ramoth-gilead is described even before the formal notice On the Chronicler’s hostility to alliances see G. N. Knoppers, “’Yhwh is Not with Israel’: Alliances as a Topos in Chronicles,” CBQ 58 (1996): 601–26; R. Dillard, “The Chronicler’s Jehoshaphat,” Trinity Journal 7 (1986): 17–22. 129 S. J. De Vries, “The Schema of Dynastic Endangerment in Chronicles,” PEGLMBS 7 (1987): 59–77. 128

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of his reign. In that formal notice his alliance with Israel is the one distinct item.130 By this brief notice the reader/hearer is reminded of the earlier story. Yet the account of Jehoshaphat, if we include the appendixed story of the ships, concludes with his rejection of further cooperation. That could be read as the story of a man who entered into unwise alliances but finally learned his lesson. That this moral is not drawn explicitly but is conveyed by repetition is both a reflection of rhetorical technique and of the importance of this theme to the writer. On this reading, to the extent that the author of Kings can be diverted from his primary focus on Israel, he presents a king of Judah who finally learns by experience. Yet that is not his primary focus and an elaborate structure is not built upon this theme. For the Chronicler alliances are a major issue. If there was a more detailed account of the interactions of Judah and Israel available to both authors, then we would conclude that for Kings’ purpose the final rejection of the cooperation was the item to be selected but for Chronicles it was whatever cast negative light upon the alliance. Since we do not now possess this postulated detailed account, there is no way of proving this interpretation over the equally speculative assertion that the Kings’ account was the original and the Chronicler made up a completely fictitious account to suit his priorities. Similar issues arise in the discussion of Jehoshaphat’s legal reforms. In favour of the fictitious nature of these reforms it has been argued that the description shows the Chronicler’s own style and ideology.131 Since the structure of the judiciary outlined does not correspond to anything from the Chronicler’s own time nor to anything the author might have drawn from other biblical works, G. N. Knoppers argues that it represents the Chronicler’s ideal

That is taking the summary characterisation of his reign (22:43a) and the mention of the high places (22:43b) as part of the normal introductory formula. The story of the ships, coming after the source citation, is not part of the normal description of a reign. 131 G. N. Knoppers, “Jehoshaphat’s Judiciary and ‘The Scroll of Yhwh’s Torah’,” JBL 113 (1994): 62,68. 130

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program.132 Once again a test is being applied to the Chronicler that many historians in other ages must fail. If it were the situation that the Chronicler found something he liked in an earlier age, is it not likely that he would express that in his own terminology? For example, does every argument which holds up ancient Greek democracy as an example to our day, and yet does that in language and concepts of our day, prove that there was no democracy in ancient Greece? Of course there are aspects of the text, such as the reference to a law scroll, which must be declared anachronistic or major premises of the accepted history of the religion of Israel collapse. Nevertheless that has to be argued on its own ground. It cannot be coupled to another flawed argument. The prophet Eliezer the son of Dodavahu of Mareshah who occurs in the Chronicles account is one of the sequence of Judean prophets who give a distinct character to Chronicles’ account. Seen in wider perspective, on the theory that Chronicles is substantially a work of fiction, it is not just this incident that a reader/hearer would be expected to accept. It is the existence of a whole tradition of prophecy in Judah.133 It has been pointed out above that Chronicles’ source citations are distinctive in that they assign an important role to prophets in the preservation of the crucial information. Thus Chronicles presents itself to us as a work which is dependent upon a tradition of prophets. The mention of Eliezer is not something plucked out of the air but is consistent with a larger picture. From this point the argument for fiction could go in two different directions. We might postulate that there was such a preexilic tradition of Judean prophecy but that the Chronicler has exploited the knowledge of the existence of such a tradition by foisting upon it inventions. Alternatively the whole tradition could be an invention of the Chronicler. Obviously the plausibility of each possibility will be dependent upon the knowledge in the postKnoppers, “Jehoshaphat’s Judiciary and ‘The Scroll of Yhwh’s Torah’,” 62. 133 With respect to this particular story the common argument that, if the story was authentic we would expect it to be in Kings, cannot be employed. Kings is clearly absorbed with the story of Israel at this point. 132

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exilic community of the pre-exilic situation.The more that was known of the pre-exilic situation, the less plausible the suggestion that the Chronicler could successfully foist fiction upon that community. At this point in the argument the nature of the postexilic community becomes especially relevant. I have been arguing that both the priorities of the Chronicler and the information in other post-exilic works shows it to be a community in danger. We see a group struggling to survive and in danger of disappearance by absorption into other communities. There is a certain conservative tone coming through works such as Ezra and Nehemiah, a tone which is understandable given the circumstances. On this there is substantial agreement amongst scholars. The standard reading of post-exilic Israel may have taken that picture to an extreme but at least they agree on the conservatism of post-exilic Israel. Traditions and preservation of the past become very important in such communities. Indeed that is part of the common portrayal of the stultified and tradition bound character of late Israelite society. Yet we are also asked to believe that the Chronicler successfully invented a fictitious past and had it accepted by this community. Certainly there must be examples in history of conservative communities accepting the most surprising innovations. Nevertheless, in the absence of explicit data about the existence or non-existence of the Chronicler’s access to prophetic pre-exilic traditions, we have to argue in terms of probabilities. The assertion of invention in the context of a conservative community is a possible thesis but not the most likely one. In this respect there is a deep contradiction within the conventional thesis. In turn that contradiction arises because the cultic emphasis of the Chronicler has been seen and put through the filter of a mind which saw cultic religion as late and negative. It was very difficult to combine that image with the prophetic emphasis of the Chronicler because the standard periodisation of Israelite religion saw the prophets and priests as representing different eras and their respective minds as being opposed to each other. It was another case of presupposition simplifying the complexity of the picture presented to us by the evidence. In summary there is no good reason for denying the possibility that the Chronicler had information on pre-exilic prophetic activity in Judah.

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JEHORAM IN CHRONICLES The Chronicler’s treatment of Jehoram is distinguished by a more negative portrayal of the king, both in mention of actions and in estimation, than in Kings, and by the introduction of the writing of Elijah. The greater proportion of negative details is easily explained by Kings’ concentration on Israel in this period. The letter of Elijah is more intriguing. For our purposes the question of whether Elijah could have still been alive at this time, given the account in Kings, is not the crucial issue.134 Given the belief in predictive prophecy in Chronicles and/or its sources, the writing of a condemnation before Elijah’s death would not have been considered inconceivable and perhaps is implied by the unusual way in which the conveying of the message is described. Of more significance is the ascription of the judgment to Elijah who otherwise does not appear in Chronicles. The mention of Elijah, with no more explanation than that he is a prophet, strengthens the likelihood that Chronicles expects the readers/hearers to know Kings or the sources behind Kings. It also raises the fascinating conjecture that Chronicles expected that every errant king would be confronted by prophetic rebuke and would therefore have no excuse for his condemnation and judgment.135 Having no Judean prophet to fulfil this function, the Chronicler turned to Elijah. The conjecture may be fascinating and the accounts of many kings fit that pattern but it shows too many exceptions to be convincing. The next king, Ahaziah is one. Ahaz is a striking exception because the prophet Isaiah would surely have been available had the Chronicler wanted to produce a prophet to confront Ahaz. It follows therefore that the Chronicler was not obliged, within his own canons of writing, to produce a prophet, let alone an Israelite one. I cannot see sufficient similarity between the sin of Jehoram and the sins Elijah condemned in Kings to make Elijah the only suitable condemning prophet. For a discussion of this question see C. F. Keil, The Books of Chronicles (Biblical Commentar on the Old Testament; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, nd), 396–400. 135 Japhet, The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles, 188. 134

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Therefore we have to postulate that the Chronicler had a source for this story.

AHAZ IN CHRONICLES A similar situation confronts us with the story of the capture of Judeans in the reign of Ahaz and the message of the prophet Oded which led to their release (ch. 28). This story reflects credit on Israel and while the Chronicler was not opposed to Israel as some supposed, there is no necessity for the invention of the story. E. Ben Zwi sees the depiction of Israel as righteous in this story as evidence that Chronicles is not a defence of the legitimacy of the Davidic dynasty as such. These Israelites were not expected to support an evil king of Judah.136 The story of Ahaz is also significant in that it concerns a king who became more apostate due to affliction (28:22). In this it is a foil to the story of Manasseh and his repentance (33:12,13). Those who see the Chronicler as having a very artificial and schematic theory of blessing and repentance, often say that the repentance of Manasseh was an invention to prevent the Chronicler’s theology being falsified by the survival of Judah under an apostate king. Surely Ahaz should have created the same problem for his theology. Note also that there was no personal affliction and catastrophe to Ahaz to confirm the Chronicler’s supposed theology. If we say that military defeat is the catastrophe for Ahaz we merely raise the problem of why some kings in Chronicles, for example Asa, receive personal affliction and others, equally or more guilty, do not.137 “A Gateway to the Chronicler’s Teaching: The Account of the Reign of Ahaz in 2 Chr. 28,1–27,” SJOT 7 (1993): 240–47. For the debate over the significance of the Ahaz and Hezekiah accounts for the Chronicler’s understanding of the relationship between Judah and Israel see G. N. Knoppers, “A Reunited Kingdom in Chronicles?” PEGLMBS 9 (1989): 74–88. 137 Ben Zwi (“A Gateway to the Chronicler’s Teaching,” 223) raises the case of those killed in the plague that resulted from the census taken by David (1 Chr 21:14). This cannot be seen as a retribution for their individual sin yet the Chronicler retains this detail which also occurs in the Kings account. 136

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HEZEKIAH IN CHRONICLES In a different way the account of Hezekiah undermines the common depiction of the theology of the Chronicler. Surely Hezekiah was a king who conformed to the Chronicler’s expectation for a righteous king. Notice the emphasis in the Chronicler’s account upon his prompt action to care for the cult (29:3). There was no calamity in Hezekiah’s reign which the Chronicler was forced to explain by inventing some sin of Hezekiah but rather the reverse: Judah was saved out of the hand of Sennacherib. Yet the text accuses him of inappropriate response to the mercies of God (32:25). It is perfectly clear why Hezekiah is treated this way. The text alludes to the story of the Babylonian envoys (32:31). The Chronicler knows that he must take into consideration Kings’ account of the envoys’ visit which gives a negative impression of Hezekiah. If the Chronicler was as free to refute and ignore Kings as some interpretations suggest, then this detail about Hezekiah should have been no problem to him. His way of dealing with the incident is instructive. He alludes to it, apparently assuming that he does not need to recite it to readers/hearers who would be familiar with the Kings’ account.138 From the Chronicler’s perspective what is needed is an integration of this incident with his positive earlier depiction of this king. He finds the explanation in pride (32:25), a theme developed with another good king, Uzziah (26:16).139

MANASSEH IN CHRONICLES It is not my intention to go into the debate over the historicity of the story of Manasseh’s removal to Babylon and his repentance.140

Ackroyd, The Chronicler in His Age, 323. The attempt to read Chronicles account of Hezekiah’s interaction with the Babylonian envoys positively (Ackroyd, The Chronicler in His Age, 178–79), is quite contrary to what the text says. 140 For a survey and argument for historicity see B. E. Kelly, “Manasseh in the Books of Kings and Chronicles (2 Kings 21:1–18; 2 Chron 33:1–20),” in Windows into Old Testament History. Evidence, Argument 138 139

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My concern is with the historiography of the account. W. M. Schniedewind draws attention to the strange duplicate nature of the source citation in 2 Chronicles 33:18,19. He sees v. 18 as a reference to the Chronicler’s sources and v. 19 as reflecting the Chronicler’s interpretation of a source.141 Yet as it stands it seems to be distinguishing two different sources. The material covered in the sources shows some overlap but is not identical. It is tempting to suggest that v. 18 refers to an official record and v.19 to some sort of prophetic record. However the content of v. 18 looks more like what one would expect in a prophetic source. Maybe we should postulate that v. 18 indicates the compilation of prophetic works into some sort of consecutive account to which 2 Chronicles 20:34 also refers but v.19 refers to individual works outside of that corpus.142

JOSIAH IN CHRONICLES It is instructive to compare the account of Hezekiah with that of Josiah. Both are kings who are treated positively with more attention being given to their work of cult reform than in Kings. In both cases the point is made that they acted to reform the cult from the beginnings of their reigns. The Kings account (2 Kings 22,23) differs from that in 2 Chronicles 34 in that in Chronicles Josiah is depicted as a reformer from the beginning of his reign

and the Crisis of “Biblical Israel”, ed., V. P. Long, D. W. Baker and G. J. Wenham (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 131–46. 141 “The Source Citations of Manasseh: King Manasseh in History and Homily,” VT 41 (1991): 456,57. 142 Another piece of scholarly speculation should be mentioned. K. A. D. Smelik suggests that the reference in v. 18 to “the words of the seer”’ is a reference to the oracle of doom in 2 Kings 21:10–15 (Converting the Past, 175–76). This is a plausible suggestion but unprovable. If correct it is another case where the Chronicler, rather than suppressing and changing the Kings version of the history, is assuming the audience’s knowledge of it and alluding to it. Even if incorrect, we have other passages which make clear that knowledge of Kings is assumed.

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rather than as a result of the finding of the book of the law as in Kings.143 In Kings the death of Josiah is treated as an appendix after the source citation (2 Kings 23:28–30) but in Chronicles it comes before the source citation (2 Chron 35:20–27). The enigma of the Chronicles account is the treatment of Necho as a prophet. The possibility that the Chronicler believed that there had to be a “prophet” warning every king, has been dealt with above. The cases of Hezekiah and Uzziah show that the Chronicler had available other ways to explain deviation in good kings. The commonly suggested explanation is that he believed in immediate divine retribution;144 therefore there had to be a sin of

J. R. Shaver, Torah and the Chronicler’s History Work. An Inquiry into the Chronicler’s Reference to Laws, Festivals, and Cultic Institutions in Relationship to Pentateuchal Legislation (Brown Judaic Studies, 196; Atlanta: Scholars, 1989), 80–2. L. Eslinger has constructed an elaborate argument that the Chronicler set out to subvert the picture of Josiah given in Kings (“Josiah and the Torah Book: A Comparison of 2 Kgs 22:1–23:8 and 2 Chr 34:1– 35:19,” Hebrew Annual Review 10 [1986]: 37–62). His argument depends upon seeing chapters 22 and 23 of 2 Kings as being set up as a deliberate parallel showing the finding of the book of the law and the response to it. The way in which a similar parallel of finding the book and the response is developed in 2 Chr 34,35 is then seen as subversive of the message of Kings. In each case one can question whether the text is arranged as a deliberate parallel. Certainly the concern was to show the king’s response to the finding of the book but the claimed paralleling of the individual elements in each case is not convincing. 144 For a general consideration of this theory see R. B. Dillard, “Reward and Punishment in Chronicles: The Theology of Immediate Retribution,” WTJ 46 (1984): 164–72; S. Japhet, The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles, 161–69; R. K. Duke, “A Model for a Theology of Biblical Historical Narratives Proposed and Demonstrated with the Book of Chronicles,” in n History and Interpretation: Essays in Honour of John H. Hayes, ed. M. P. Graham, W. P. Brown J. K. Kuan (JSOT Sup., 173; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1993), 74–6; R. North, “Theology of the Chronicler,” JBL 82 (1963): 372. 143

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Josiah to explain his death.145 The inadequacies of this theory as a general explanation of the Chronicler’s theology have been touched upon above but this difficult passage is a convenient place to consider some of the implications. There are a number of kings who, in Chronicles but not in Kings, have a specific personal judgment connected to a specific sin. These cases are divided in that, with some, what might be construed as a judgment, though not described as such, is mentioned in Kings. In this category we might number Joash (2 Kings 12:20,21 cf. 2 Chron 24:20–25) and Amaziah (2 Kings 14:19 cf. 2 Chron 25:14–27). Asa is a special case because his disease is described in Kings (1 Kings 15:24) and elaborated upon to the detriment of his piety in Chronicles (16:12) but not directly connected to the account of transgression which is unique to Chronicles (16:7–10). Perhaps in this instance the reader/hearer of Chronicles was expected to make the connection. Azariah’s leprosy is described as a divine judgment in 2 Kings 15:5 but the explication is in 2 Chronicles 26:16–21 One king, Joram (2 Chron 21:12–20), has a specific connection of transgression and judgment in Chronicles but no affliction described in Kings. It is common to suggest that the Chronicler believed that he must find an explanation for the personal afflictions of Joash, Amaziah146 and, probably, Asa in a sin, so that the accounts unique to Chronicles of their transgressions resulted. In those cases we can argue that the problem was posed for the Chronicler by the mention of their untimely or gruesome ends in Kings. Joram creates a problem in that there is no trigger account in Kings. Hence a logical consequence of taking this explanation of the Chronicler’s theology seriously is that we must posit that the S. B. Frost, “The Death of Josiah: A Conspiracy of Silence,” JBL 87 (1968): 369–83. For a discussion of the historical background to the event see A. Malamat, “Josiah’s Bid for Armageddon. The Background to the Judean-Egyptian Encounter in 609 B.C.,” JANES 5 (1973): 267–78. 146 For Chronicles’ treatment of Amaziah see M. P. Graham, “Aspects of the Structure and Rhetoric of 2 Chronicles 25,” in History and Interpretation: Essays in Honour of John H. Hayes, ed. M. P. Graham, W. P. Brown and J. K. Kuan (JSOT Sup., 173; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1993), 78–89. 145

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Chronicler had another source of information besides Kings to which he believed he had to respond. However there is a problem for this explanation of the Chronicler’s theology in Ahaz. He had personal and specific transgressions aplenty in both the Kings and Chronicles accounts but no corresponding judgment in Chronicles. A further difficulty arises with Jotham: the 2 Kings 15.:7 notice places the beginning of attacks of Damascus and Israel, instigated specifically by YHWH against Judah, in his reign. There is no connection of this act of YHWH to a specific sin. The Chronicler, instead of finding a sin to explain the attack, ignores it and builds an even more positive picture of this king (2 Chron 27:1–9). Perhaps one might suggest that both versions are assigning the problems in the nation to the people rather than the king (2 Kings 15:35; 2 Chron 27:2). Following this explanation leads to the conclusion that both books can distinguish between royal culpability and the sin of the nation as a whole. If we leave the case of Jotham out of consideration, then we have with Ahaz a case of sin but no personal calamity. Likewise with Hezekiah we have sin but no personal calamity. In the case of Hezekiah this lack of divine wrath is ascribed to repentance (2 Chron 32:26), but the implication is that wrath has been postponed rather than completely averted. When we take these instances of the Chronicler’s dealing with the relationship of sin and affliction and apply them to the case of Josiah, then the situation is more complex that sometimes suggested. Since the calamity happens to Josiah personally, the Chronicler, on the common understanding of his thought, could not blame it on the people as may be happening in the case of Jotham. If we assume that he is adding fictitious segments, then he had available to him the device of blaming the pride of the king as with Uzziah and Amaziah. An alternate was idolatry which comes into the story with Joash and Amaziah. Why resort to the unusual expedient of making Necho a prophet? It is possible that he wanted to convey a message that God might speak through pagan rulers in order to calm politically restive elements in post-exilic Judah. E. Ben Zvi has pointed out that foreign rulers such as Huram (2 Chron 2:11,12) and the queen of Sheba (2 Chron 9:8) make theologically correct pronouncements and suggests that this might reflect a message to the post-exilic community that a foreign

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ruler is not necessarily evil.147 Nevertheless these other monarchs are not presented as speaking with prophetic authority. The possibility that the Chronicler had to have a prophet to rebuke every king has been refuted above; besides Jeremiah was available (2 Chron 35:25). He could have invented a prophet as he is sometimes assumed to have done with Eliezer the son of Dodavahu of Mareshah. There is one explanation which makes sense of some of these bits of discordant data. That is that the Chronicler had information to which he felt bound. Necho as prophet is the most striking case of this but others exist such as the portrayal of Joram. In fact there is a lot of material which coheres together in a rational way when we assume the Chronicler had sources: the role of prophets in source citations, the role of prophets in rebuking kings and the peculiarities of the bits added with respect to individual kings. H. G. M. Williamson has added a further suggestion to the puzzle of the Chronicler’s treatment of the death of Josiah. He points out that this is the only case where the Chronicler introduces the source citation at a different point in the sequence of the history to its position in Kings. 2 Chronicles 35:26,27 has the source citation after the account of the king’s death, whereas 2 Kings 23:28 has it before. Williamson’s explanation of the anomaly is that an edition of Kings existed in which there was further elaboration on Josiah’s death and Chronicles is dependent upon that.148 Several issues arise from this thesis. It is a reminder

“When the Foreign Monarch Speaks,” in The Chronicler as Author. Studies in Text and Texture ed. M. P. Graham and S. L. McKenzie (JSOT Sup., 263; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999), 215,27. 148 “The Death of Josiah and the Continuing Development of the Deuteronomic History,” VT 32 (1982): 242–47. This thesis was countered by C. T. Begg (“The Death of Josiah in Chronicles: Another View,” VT 37 (1987): 1–8) who pointed out that the distinctive aspects of the Chronicler’s treatment of the royal death can be paralleled in other parts of Chronicles’ unique contributions. Williamson’s response was to concede the validity of many of Begg’s examples but to point out that he had not dealt with the crucial evidence of the movement of the source 147

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that we may be forming all sorts of theories about the purpose of the distinctive sections in Chronicles when these sections are actually coming from Chronicles’ sources. Further the near complete uniformity between Kings and Chronicles on the placement of source citations looks like an indication that the Chronicler saw his work as closely modelled upon Kings. Whether Williamson’s explanation for deviation in this particular instance is correct is another matter. It is much easier to produce an explanation for a pattern of changes than for an individual change. Short of the discovery of a version of Kings with the extra detail the suggestion can be no more than a possibility.

CONCLUDING THOUGHTS ON THE CHRONICLER AND HIS SOURCES How then does the Chronicler work with these sources? There is a great variety of approaches as we can see just from his use of the material of Samuel-Kings. He may use it verbatim or he may allude to it as information to be reckoned with in relationship to his own picture. The latter approach emerges most clearly in his reference to Hezekiah’s dealing with the Babylonian envoys. It would seem that in this case he was aware of a possible discordance with his version of that king. In some cases he is supplying the information which seems behind the Kings account but which is not supplied in that account. Examples are the information in Kings that Joash’s obedience was limited to the lifetime of Jehoiada and that YHWH smote Azariah with leprosy. It is bizarre in these cases to focus on Chronicles’ explanation as what needs to be explained rather than the enigmatic character of Kings’ truncated notices. Quite commonly he adds materials or gives an independent but parallel version of the history to that which we find in Samuel-Kings. When Chronicles adds details not in Kings and especially when it appears to periodise the history in a different way to kings, how can we tell if it is invention or a case of the author finding something in the sources not developed in Kings? Assuming that citation (“Reliving the Death of Josiah: A Reply to C. T. Begg,” VT 37 (1987): 9–15).

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Kings must be comprehensive or that Chronicles could have no sources of any sort solves nothing. Let us take as an example A. M. Solomon’s thesis that the Chronicler, picking up on the four hundred years of oppression in Genesis 15:13–16, has periodised the period of the Divided Monarchy into four eras each culminating in a renewal of purified worship.149 Thus Asa, Joash, Hezekiah and Josiah are regarded as artificially exaggerated high points to fit this division into four. It is true that the Chronicler’s account gives details about each of these, especially with regard to worship, that are not in Kings. Yet the treatment of each as signalling a significant return to orthodoxy is not unique to Chronicles but is present in Kings. Given the Chronicler’s greater concern with worship his portrayal of these kings is not surprising. In other words the Kings’ picture plus the Chronicler’s particular interest would yield the treatment of these kings. We do not need to resort to a theory of a particular and tendentious periodisation. Thus the real question is not about Chronicles; it is about history. Can we say that the history of Judah could not have the swings away from and to orthodoxy that both Kings and Chronicles describe? One might say that one or either of these works has exaggerated the swings or introduced anachronistic details but that is not the key issue at the moment. It is whether such an alternating pattern is possible. I say that we cannot know that it is impossible in the absence of sources that give an alternate version of history. The amazing thing to me is that so many scholars seem to assume that it had to be impossible. Only if they already knew what the history had to be on some other ground could they come to that conclusion. Thus once again it is an assumption about what must have been the course of religious history.

“The Structure of the Chronicler’s History: A Key to the Organization of the Pentateuch,” in Narrative Research on the Hebrew Bible, ed. M. Amihai, G. W. Coates and A. M. Solomon (Semeia, 46; Atlanta, Scholars, 1989), 56. I must confess that I do not follow why, on this thesis, the four hundred years should of itself suggest division into four eras, especially when those four eras lead only to Josiah and not a final liberation. 149

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THE SOURCES OF KINGS The books of Kings tell us repeatedly that behind it are sources. Though more uniform than Chronicles’ source citations, the form of these references vary. Since the period covered by Kings is one of hundreds of years, one might expect that the material in those sources would show variations. If that were the case one might expect that those variations would have a flow-on impact on Kings itself. After all a great deal of biblical source criticism has been built upon the argument that differences in sources explains differences in the present text. Yet the discussion of the composition of Kings is almost exclusively restricted to using variations in the text to posit a history of different versions of Kings or different redactions of Kings. For example a major topic of debate has been over whether there was a pre-exilic version of Kings which was later supplemented by one or more exilic redactors as opposed to all versions being exilic in origin. In that debate differences between the treatment of kings up to Hezekiah or up to Josiah, as contrasted with treatment of subsequent kings, has been a major topic. Surely, if Kings really depends upon contemporary or near contemporary sources, then we would expect differences between treatments of kings, especially after kings who can be seen as having a major impact. To put the problem in other words, how do we know that differences in the text reflect differences in the later redactions and not in the earlier sources? Of course all consideration of the sources of Kings can be banished by the apodictic statement that they are fiction but that is a dogmatism more appropriate to the theology from which critical scholars like to distinguish themselves. Considering that some versions of Pentateuchal source theories placed sources early in the monarchy period, why could Kings not have sources from the monarchy period and why could not the variation in those sources explain much of the differences within Kings? A consequence would be that theories of the multiple late redaction of Kings become more difficult to argue because the variations they cite as evidence can be ascribed to the influences of early sources. I suspect that behind this inconsistency lies another proof that models of the development of Israelite religion determined how the biblical text could be interpreted. Kings shows a concern for the centralisation of sacrificial worship in Jerusalem. Yet, in comparison with Chronicles, it seems to have no other major cultic

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concern. Interpreting that data in accord with the dominant model in which Deuteronomy with its concern for a central place of sacrifice is dated to Josiah, led to the conclusion that Kings could not be prior to Josiah. The role given to Hezekiah then becomes the problem because the text says that his centralising reforms precede Josiah (2 Kings 18:4,22).150 Note that this indication of cultic centralisation is not just in a summarising judgment about the high places which could be easily assigned to a late editorial attachment to the older source material. Placing together the view that cultic centralisation must be a late concern with what the text indicates in its portrayal of Hezekiah leads to the conclusion that not just the editorial refrains of Kings but also the main narrative must be written in the time of Josiah or later. Thus potential input from the sources becomes minimised and the input of the editor becomes prominent.151

An example of the attempt to deny cult centralisation to Hezekiah is furnished by L. K. Handy (“Hezekiah’s Unlikely Reform,” ZAW 100 (1988): 111–15). He argues that the praise granted to Josiah’s Passover (2 Chr 35:18) proves that the celebration ascribed to Hezekiah in Chronicles never happened. Against this it is sufficient to note that the praise of Josiah’s Passover stresses the range and completeness of participation and stresses that there had been no one like it since Samuel. That does not deny the existence of Hezekiah’s especially as the description of Hezekiah’s mentions the irregular circumstances (2 Chr 30). Handy suggests that the supposed suppression of the high places was merely Hezekiah’s movement of property of outlying cults into Jerusalem in the face of the Assyrian attack. To sustain this thesis with respect to Kings he is forced to minimise the clear statement of cultic reform in 2 Kings 18:4. A fundamental question arises: if Hezekiah did not centralise worship and did not celebrate a Passover, why do Kings and Chronicles give him such an important role? Those who doubt whether he successfully resisted Sennacherib merely make that question more difficult. 151 For an explicit ignoring of the possible influence of sources on the ground that the scholarly consensus says the Deuteronomist shaped the text see Dutschler-Walls, Narrative Art, Political Rhetoric, 23–4. 150

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The history of critical studies furnishes many examples of textual evidence which is inconvenient to a particular hypothesis being arbitrarily declared to be a late insertion. Surely it would have been possible to assign any mention of cultic centralisation to such a late insertion and to read Kings as the material derived from the sources but placed within an editorial framework furnished by a final redactor. In the analogous case of Judges, a common model consisted of hero stories placed within an editorial framework. Surely Kings could be interpreted as early source material, placed within a late editorial framework which showed a concern about centralised worship and with occasional insertion of late material particularly concerning cult centralisation.

NOTH’S DEUTERONOMISTIC HISTORY These issues bring us to Noth’s theory of the Deuteronomistic History which has so dominated discussions of Kings.152 In that theory Noth is happy to see the text from Deuteronomy to David as largely consisting of previous compositions adapted and framed by the Deuteronomist. He takes a similar attitude to the stories of the prophets in Kings.153 Why not apply that approach to Kings as a whole? It does not seem that Noth answers that question. Reading between the lines of his work one can attempt to find an answer. There is in Kings, and in some of the more interpretive passages of the earlier books, a definite understanding of the meaning and the direction of history. The drama of Israel’s history is played out against the background of the purposes of God until all comes to the sad end of Judah’s fall as a result of her apostasy. The Deuteronomistic History (JSOT Sup., 15; Sheffield: JSOT, 1981). For a survey of debate over and modifications to Noth’s theory see J. M. Hutton, The Transjordanian Palimpsest: The Overwritten Texts of Personal Exile and Transformation in the Deuteronomistic History (BZAW, 396; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2009), 79–156. For a discussion and critique of the many theories of the composition of Kings see P. S. F. van Keulen, Manasseh through the Eyes of the Deuteronomists The Manasseh Account (2 Kings 21:1–18) and the Final Chapters of the Deuteronomistic History (OTS, 58; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 4–51. 153 The Deuteronomistic History, 68. 152

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Noth sees that as an interpretation after the event and there seems to be the unexpressed assumption that it could not be an interpretation worked out in the long course of the events. Noth’s Deuteronomist is somebody who developed an understanding of the tragedy of the destruction of Jerusalem and the exile as a result of being confronted with those events. The raw material for writing a history was there but nobody had placed it within this interpretive context before. Since so much of the history found in Kings points towards destruction and exile, it follows that the history could have been written only after the conclusion had been reached. Surely this provokes a fundamental objection. The secular assumptions of critical scholarship forbid the belief in predictive prophecy that is so clearly part of the text. Yet, even without divine intervention, men have been known to see the direction in which events are heading. The covenant structure of the book of Deuteronomy includes curses and blessings. Effectively these predict the course which history will take given certain patterns of action. Even in our own age there are schools of thought which combine biblical prophecy and apocalyptic to create the future history of the world, constantly adapting their scenarios to unfolding events. Why would we not anticipate such a development in biblical Israel and Judah, especially in a culture which attests belief in predictive prophecy and in the blessings and curses of the covenant? This admittedly speculative alternative is raised with a purpose. I argued above that what Kings and Chronicles seems to be referring to as a common source has connections to the prophets. Who would we expect to be developing a covenantal history of Israel and Judah but the prophets? Putting the various lines of evidence together would lead us to expect that sources would be available in which the covenant curse of exile and similar punishments was being considered and historiography was being developed in that context. There is another line of argument which can be introduced to strengthen this hypothesis. It has commonly been pointed out that Kings has a major place for the northern prophets and their role as

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warners of the northern kings.154 The line of speculation based upon that fact leads in two different directions. We may postulate that there was an actual tradition from the north, whether historically based or not is irrelevant to the present argument. That material from the north had been preserved until it was incorporated into the present Kings. Surely that material is telling a story for Israel very similar to the Deuteronomist’s history of Judah. One can even concede that the conclusion to the tale in 2 Kings 17 is an original composition by the Deuteronomist without materially weakening the argument because the story of apostasy and judgment is woven through the stories of the northern prophets. Now if a story of royal apostasy and final destruction in the north could exist in Judah long before the work of the exilic Deuteronomist, who can say that nobody in Judah could have been making similar reflections about their own history? Alternatively we may argue that all the material about the north is a fiction invented by the Deuteronomist. Yet we must acknowledge that, in inserting it, he has truncated his history of Judah. Then the question arises as to why the Deuteronomist omitted material from Judah which, whether it be historical or fictional, could have been put to the purpose of explaining the fall of Judah. Surely the work of the Chronicler demonstrates that such a use of Judean material was possible. If the author/redactor of Kings used material about the north then it is most likely that he had material from the north in some form. That also leads to the conclusion that traditions existed which pictured the story of Israel as a story of apostasy and fall, with the consequence that somebody might have been developing a history of Judah on the same model.155 W. M. Schniedewind, “Prophets and Prophecy in the Books of Chronicles,” in The Chronicler as Historian ed. M. P. Graham, K. G. Hoglund and S. L. McKenzie (JSOT Sup., 238; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1997), 213. 155 A variant explanation for Kings’ interest in the north is put forward by G. N. Knoppers (“Dynastic Oracle and Succession in 1 Kings 11,” PEGLBS 7 (1987): 159–72). He sees the Deuteronomist, as contrasted with the Chronicler, as accepting the legitimacy of the dynasty set up by Jeroboam I. Even if that were true, it does not explain the fact that Kings’ 154

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We come back to the unexpressed assumptions of Noth and those who have followed him. The creativity which is able to conceptualise the larger meaning of events and place it within a schema can exist, according to them, at the end of the period but not during it. Notice in contrast how the supposed dullness of the Chronicler’s generation has so dominated the discussion of Chronicles. In a quite different periodisation of history, the period before the Deuteronomist is not seen as able to develop larger historiographic schemes but the exilic Deuteronomist is seen to have such ability. In the classic picture of the history of thought in Israel the prophetic period was the age of originality doomed to be overtaken by the conservatism of the post-exilic periods. Why did that assumption not create a challenge to Noth’s model? Is it that the connection of cultic centralisation and Josiah loomed so large in biblical scholarship that no other arguments could be heard? In other words, the mere fact that Kings, read at face value, threatened the theory that cult centralisation began with Josiah meant that Kings could not be read at face value. Above I raised the fact that the expedient of postulated late insertion commonly used elsewhere could have been used to argue that Kings was an amalgam of early sources with passages pointing to cult centralisation in the time of Hezekiah added later. That would have been an alternative to Noth’s view of the Deuteronomist as essentially the author rather than the redactor of Kings. It is interesting that this possibility has not been greatly favoured. One scholar who has seen the weakness of Noth’s contention that the Deuteronomist wrote Kings and has attempted to strengthen Noth’s argument is H.-D. Hoffmann.156 Hoffmann tries to safeguard Noth’s thesis by moving the Deuteronomist further from being a redactor of sources and more towards being an author. In order to do this Hoffmann takes the cultic reports and

focus is heavily on the northern prophets or why the interest would be maintained after the dynasty of Jeroboam was destroyed. 156 Reform und Reformen. Untersuchungen zu einen Grundthema der deuteronomistischen Geschichtsschreibung (Abhandlungen zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments, 66; Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 1980).

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argues that there is little evidence of sources behind them: rather they read largely as the free invention of the Deuteronomist. In pursuing his thesis Hoffmann has to argue against other scholars’ attempts to distinguish in the book of Kings between an original source and the editorial work of the Deuteronomist. Naturally, given the traditions of Old Testament scholarship, those arguments have been based upon perceived repetitions and contradictions. Hence Hoffmann has to argue for the unity of many of the relevant sections.157 He even declares repetition to be characteristic of the Deuteronomist’s style.158 Given the argument in earlier chapters of this work, I will not take issue with an attempt to argue for the unity of a passage. It should be pointed out however that this is a good illustration of the dilemma of the present state of the discussion. If Noth’s thesis that the Deuteronomist is largely the author and not just the redactor of Kings needs to be reinforced as Hoffmann seeks to do, otherwise the dominant reconstruction of the history of Israel’s religion is threatened, then one must argue that repetition does not disprove unity of composition. Yet if that is true then much of the traditional critical discussion of the biblical books is shown to be based on a false premise. The assertion that any particular biblical work, purporting to describe events, is essentially or even entirely a work of fiction has all the logical strength and all the weaknesses of the philosophical theory of solipsism. In the philosophical discussion all the common sense impressions that we are actually in contact with a world outside can be ascribed to the cunning of the mind which creates an imaginary external world. Analogously, in the literary/historical parallel, details of the text which seem to reflect actual happenings, can be ascribed to the author’s desire to create a believable picture. In discussing the crucial event of the finding of the book of the law in Josiah’s time Hoffmann suggests that details have been added to make the story believable.159 If even parts of the story of the finding of the law are fictional, what then is the historical core, if For example Reform und Reformen, 106–7, 129, 156, 161, 170–80. Reform und Reformen, 156, 161. 159 Reform und Reformen, 200. 157 158

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any, to the story? He argues that the author is reconciling the fiction in Deuteronomy that Moses is the author of the law with the historical tradition of its origin/discovery in the time of Josiah by means of this fiction of the finding of the book in the temple.160 Why stop there? Why does a tradition of the origin of the law in Josiah’s time need to be postulated? Could that not be fiction as well?161 Pushing the argument to this extreme reveals the danger that the acids of doubt will consume even the premise which they were originally employed to protect, namely the connection of Deuteronomy to the age of Josiah. That same problem can be explored another way in terms of Hoffmann’s more detailed argument. Essentially he has extended the thesis that any mention of early cult centralisation is a projection of the work of Josiah. He adds Manasseh as the negative foil to Josiah and argues that pictures earlier in Kings of falls into cultic sin and subsequent restorations are fictions modelled upon the antithesis of Manasseh and Josiah. The obvious rebuttal is that he has so weakened the historicity of Josiah’s reform that it is hard to understand why anybody would make it a model, unless we see the whole as a fictional work. In trying to make his thesis more credible he postulates that the author has conceptualised and imposed various schemes of fall and rise or apostasy and reform. For the north that concentrates upon the reform of Jehu to the sins of Ahab and for the south the various pairs of Solomon to Abijam versus Asa/Jehoshaphat, Ahaz versus Hezekiah and Manasseh versus Josiah. The earlier cases are seen as retrojections of the final conflict. The fact that the description of various abuses often culminates in Josiah’s removal of those abuses is seen as strengthening this hypothesis. A similar structure is suggested by E. Ben Zwi. He has a structure from Rehoboam to the usurpation of Athaliah of two evil kings, two good kings and two evil kings. After the restoration of Reform und Reformen, 198. For a speculation along these lines see R. Coggins, “What Does ‘Deuteronomistic’ Mean?” in Those Elusive Deuteronomists. The Phenomenon of Pan-Deuteronomism, ed. L. S. Schearing and S. L. McKenzie (JSOT Sup., 286; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999), 25. 160 161

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the Davidic line the sequence is four good kings followed by four who included the two worst and the two best. Of course this nice pattern excludes Amon, but Ben Zwi explains that as being due to his having no role because he was between the main characters of Manasseh and Josiah.162 Perhaps a better description of the role of Amon is that he is the exception which imperils the attempt to see this neat scheme in the text. One also wonders why, if the author intended this pattern of twos and fours, he did not draw more attention to it. Assessing the plausibility of this sort of thesis raises some fundamental issues of the philosophy of history. Often the argument is a form of assertion that it could not have happened that way, therefore the report is a fiction. Indeed in the very structure and tendency of the argument there is the implied assumption that patterning and similarity in the history is proof of the historian’s invention. That certain elements occur in earlier reforms and with Josiah is one example of a similarity.163 Another is that the reforms of Jehu and Joash are claimed to be intentionally paralleled and one is developed in the narrative on the model of the “The Account of the Reign of Manasseh in II Reg. 21,1–18 and the Redactional History of the Book of Kings,” ZAW 103 (1991): 359–61. This opinion of Amon is supported by N. Na’aman (“The Debated Historicity of Hezekiah’s Reform in the Light of Historical and Archaeological Research,” ZAW 107 (1995), 194). Na’aman’s understanding of the history is that the Deuteronomist had an archival note to the effect that Hezekiah had removed the Nehushtan. He elaborated on that on the basis of terminology from Deuteronomy 7;5, 12:3 and Josiah’s reform. What this adds to the argument is the similarity of the terminology in 2 Kings 18:4 to Deuteronomy. The similarity is real but what does it prove? Since Kings is a polemical and pedagogic work it will naturally depict what it does not like in negative terms and what better place to find negative descriptions than the book of the law? One can also find, in the polemics of one church group against another. a considerable amount of depiction of the opponent in negative language drawn from Scripture. That language does not prove that what is being attacked did not exist. 163 Reform und Reformen, 47–53. 162

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other.164 The historiographic question is whether history can be expected to show such patterns and parallels. Let us take the alternation between governments more to the Right and governments more to the Left in Western democracies. On the essential logic which lies behind Hoffmann’s work, a later investigator would be justified in saying that much of contemporary political history was a fictional retrojection of an impressive win by one particular political party. That would be particularly the case if the data had been assembled into a coherent work by a writer writing in the shadow of that later win and seeing earlier events as forshadowings. To apply the analogy in a different form, there was a tendency, in the immediate aftermath of World War II for parties of the Left to be popular in various western European countries. Any political history of post-war Europe might describe similar phenomena in different countries. Applying the same logic that Hoffmann applies to the cases of Jehu and Joash, one could say that the political history of one such European country has been falsely constructed on the model of another.165 On a more mundane level it is possible to show that Hoffmann has exaggerated his postulated tendencies and parallels. For example he makes Jehoahaz the beginning of the fall after the high point of Jehu,166 oblivious to the fact that their cultic policies receive the same criticism (2 Kings 10:29; 13:2). A significant example of similar flawed logic is the treatment of the religious

Reform und Reformen, 105. M. Smith has an explanation of the accelerated alternation of religious contrasts towards the end of the history of Judah. He sees it as a consequence of Judah being caught up in the Great Power conflicts between Assyria and Egypt. This induced political conflicts in Judah which expressed themselves religiously (Palestinian Parties and Politics that Shaped the Old Testament [New York: Columbia UP, 1971], 38–9). The point for the moment is not whether this is a correct explanation. It is rather that patterns of events in history may have an explanation. To jump from a report of a pattern to the conclusion that it was created by the historian is to omit essential steps, and difficult steps, in a convincing argument. 166 Reform und Reformen, 113. 164 165

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policies of Solomon and Jeroboam I.167 The Deuteronomist is accused of misunderstanding the policies of Solomon and accusing him of apostasy to paganism when all that author had was traditions of the religious syncretism of the early monarchy. Thus the early Solomon has been painted unhistorically as too “orthodox”. In contrast the same author is accused of mistaking Jeroboam’s religious policy because his calves would not have been images of the deity but rather pedestals for YHWH. Thus Jeroboam has been unfairly portrayed as too “unorthodox”. Yet surely, if the early monarchy period was so syncretistic, Jeroboam might have meant the calves to be taken as gods, given that the worship of bovine figures is well attested. Really all Hoffmann “knows” is that the Deuteronomist must have been wrong in his portrait of the earlier period. He knows that from the standard developmental theory of the growth of monotheism during the monarchy and the feeling that later authors must have been unfairly biased against the north. If the picture of cultic affairs given in Kings and Chronicles is substantially unhistorical what other source do we have to know what was the religious character of the early monarchy? The Pentateuch and the prophets are also under accusation of being rewritten to reflect later orthodoxy. Surely profound agnosticism on the question should be the critical stance. The reverse is the case because the critical position has largely flowed from “knowledge” of what must have been the religious development of Israel. Hoffmann is essentially reinforcing those assumptions against the threat posed by seeing Kings as based upon real sources. A different argument but one with a similar tendency is Ackroyd’s thesis that Ahaz has received an unfairly negative picture in the biblical text, in comparison with Hezekiah, and that that is particularly visible in Chronicles. The good/bad contrast of itself looks suspect.168 For example, both kings paid tribute to Assyria. It Reform und Reformen, 57–8, 66n, 71. P. R. 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. Ahlström, ed. W. B. Barrick and J. R. Spencer (JSOT Sup. 31: Sheffield: JSOT, 1984), 247–59. 167 168

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is possible that Ahaz’s submission to Assyria was for the well-being of Judah and Hezekiah’s rebellion brought the nation into danger.169 One can agree that it would be possible to massage the data to create a reversed image of these two kings but the bigger question is why the texts we have portray one negatively and one positively. Given no further information, a thesis of an artificially constructed contrast has no advantage over the thesis that the existing portrayal goes back to a judgment of contemporary witnesses. Could an equally coherent, but alternate, thesis be developed to explain the data?. Following the suggestions made above in the discussion of Chronicles, an alternate is quite possible. Various prophets or prophetically inclined writers developed an on-going history, critique and evaluation of the monarchy. In the case of Ahaz and Hezekiah, Isaiah would most likely have been most prominent in this activity. They did so utilising on some occasions their contact with the court to supply certain details and in conscious continuity with the work of predecessors. In other words the similarities which are commonly seen as the result of retrojection could be the result of progressive development. The pattern set by earlier writers was then followed by later ones. That material was excerpted and adapted by whoever wrote Kings. An example would be the parallel portrayal of Hezekiah and Josiah. P. J. Botha has pointed out the many features in which the descriptions of the two kings coincide: both do what was right; do as David did; broke in pieces, cut down and removed illegitimate cultic objects; followed the law of Moses; were described as without parallel; tore their clothes; were assured that God heard their prayer; wept before God; sent to a prophet/prophetess.170 P. R. Ackroyd, “The Biblical Interpretation of the Reigns of Ahaz and Hezekiah,” 254–56. 170 “‘No King Like Him...’ Royal Etiquette according to the Deuteronomistic Historian,” in Past, Present, Future The Deuteronomistic History and the Prophets, ed. J. C. de Moor and H. F. van Rooy (OTS, 44; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 36–49. In developing the thesis that the Deuteronomist is primarily interested in praising kings who had regard for the honour of YHWH, Botha points out that in showing Hezekiah’s 169

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These parallels could be explained by one author writing the whole work and describing both kings. They could also be described by a later author emphasising the features wherein Josiah resembled Hezekiah. If the latter were the case it could have happened in a source work or in the work we now possess. The data of similar description does not mandate a particular interpretation. How can one refute the alternative of a progressively written story without knowing the religious history of the period and how can one know that, independent of the biblical texts, which are our witnesses to the era? Dismissing the accuracy of the biblical sources and their appeal to further sources solves the problem but that rejection rests upon nothing objective. On the other hand there is no conclusive external textual or archaeological evidence to disprove the thesis that a writer, who was essentially correct on those bits of political history which we can confirm from Assyrian or Moabite sources, invented or substantially modified the religious history of the monarchy period. It may be unlikely that an author would present an essentially accurate political history of external relations and an essentially inaccurate internal history, but that can be postulated. Which set of assumptions we choose will be determined by other presuppositions.

THE FORMULAE OF KINGS The argument as to whether differences in the detail of the text can be ascribed to the influence of sources has often focused on the introductory and concluding formulae for each reign. S.R. Bin-Nun concern for the honour of YHWH the focus is upon his response to the blasphemy of Sennacherib. There is a parallel created with Josiah but it is created by showing his concern with the affront to the dignity of YHWH involved in the idolatrous practices of Judah. Thus the narrative with Hezekiah emphasises the Assyrian crisis and with Josiah cultic reform (ibid., 40–7). That leads to the question of whether scholarship, in seeing the cultic reforms of Hezekiah, which are much more sparingly mentioned, as mere reflections of those of Josiah, has missed the author(s)’ intention. To set forth a paradigmatic king only one main illustration of faithfulness was needed. Hence Hezekiah’s cultic reforms could be given a shorter treatment.

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saw a variation in the word order of the introduction as significant. With Kings of Israel the order is ‘he reigned...years’.171 In contrast, with kings of Judah the formula is ‘...years he reigned’.172 Bin-Nun sees the different expressions as coming from a different formulation of the official records in the north and the south and, hence evidence that the author had access to sources.173 This argument has been rebutted by E. Cortese with the argument that the different order in the notations springs from the fact that, with Judean but not Israelite kings, the age of the king at accession is given first.174 Cortese’s argument tends to the conclusion that we should see Kings as the work of one author who, while he may have used sources, did not reflect those sources in his expressions.175 The difficulty with this counter argument is that the regular order for the kings of Judah is maintained for Abijah and Asa for whom no age at accession is given.176 That difficulty is dealt with by Cortese by saying that the author has maintained the customary form for kings of Judah, even when, for these particular kings, he lacked the data on their age at accession.177 This argument well illustrates the uncertainties of such arguments. Here we have two scholars each of whom is willing to concede that the author had access to sources. They disagree on the extent to which the author was beholden to those sources in expression. Naturally that difference could influence the historical reliability ascribed to Kings and our ability to use the extant text to reconstruct the sources. Each argument has a certain plausibility yet it is easy to contrive a number of additional ways to interpret the very same data. I could bolster my earlier suggestion of a prophetic historiography by suggesting a “founder effect”, in which the E.g. 1 Kings 15:25. E.g. 1 Kings 15.2. 173 “Formulas from Royal Records of Israel and of Judah,” VT 18 (1968): 419–21, 432. 174 “Lo schema deuteronomistico per i re di Guida e d’Israele,” Biblica 56 (1975): 40. 175 Ibid, 52. 176 1 Kings 15:2,10. 177 “Lo schema deuteronomistico,” 40n. 171 172

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formula used for an account of an early reign was imitated by those who crafted accounts of later reigns. In the absence of any other considerations it is just as plausible to postulate that a late author chose slightly different ways of expressing the reign summaries for the north and south just so that they would be distinctive. We are dealing with the interpretation of patterns of human action. Unless we introduce controlling assumptions, a plausible explanation of a pattern requires a range of data and observations. At least some limitation on the vast range of possible motives and purposes is necessary to make the discussion manageable. I have argued earlier that the presupposition of the dull-witted redactor served such a limiting function. Reversing that presupposition and making original historiography possible only late in the biblical period is just another limiting presupposition. In the difference between Bin-Nun and Cortese we have essentially the difference between ascribing more of the final product to the source or more to the writer. The only data which, as data, can enter into the question, is the similarity and difference of formulations in the extant text. I have argued that a number of different interpretations of the patterns of similarity and difference is abstractly possible. Can we preference one of those abstract possibilities without calling upon other considerations apart from the bare data? BinNun’s attempt to argue from what is a fairly small variation in word order does not seem persuasive. Yet Cortese has to explain away the fact that some texts fail to fit his explanation. Further there could be alternate explanations of the same data. Surely agnosticism with respect to this sort of debate is the only reasonable conclusion. Once again I must make clear that I am distinguishing the historiographical and the historical question. Often the claim that we can distinguish evidence of the impress of the more ancient source in a biblical book has been conjoined with an argument that the text has historical reliability. Conversely the argument, that there is no such influence of an ancient source discernible, has led to the conclusion that the biblical book is late and historically unreliable. Both arguments are specious unless they are very carefully defined, qualified and limited. Quoting a source does not make your report accurate as we should know from the many warped modern newspaper reports that quote a “reporter on the spot”. Conversely an author who choses to express things in his

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own words is not thereby made unreliable. Hence my argument that we have great difficulty in discerning whether the words of a source are being reflected is not an argument against the historical reliability of the text. It is merely a refusal to accept the confusions which have bedevilled debate. A more complicated division of the summary formulae for each reign and thus for the authorship as a whole has been put forward by H. Weippert.178. In contrast to Bin-Nun’s division, Weippert has two out of her three redactors composing judgment formula for both the north and the south. The third deals only with the final four kings of Judah. The basic mark of her first redactor is the judgment “he did right/evil in the eyes of YHWH”.179 The work of this redactor forms a block in the midst of the history, stretching from Jehoshaphat to Ahaz in Judah and from Joram to Pekah in Israel.180 The work of the second redactor is harder to demarcate. It is found with the kings Rehoboam to Asa, Hezekiah to Josiah in Judah and with Jeroboam I to Ahaziah in Israel.181 It is with this second redactor that Weippert’s scheme clearly falters. There is no clear diagnostic mark. Indeed some examples use “he did right in the eyes of YHWH” just like the first redactor.182 The main differentiating mark is then seen to be various different ways in which the fundamental judgment is expanded and clarified.183 There is simply not enough uniformity in the formulae of the second redactor to make convincing the thesis that these are all the work of the one hand.184 Another variant on composition theses arguing from regnal formulae is found with B.

“Die ‘deuteronomischen’ Beurteilungen der Könige von Israel und Juda und das Problem der Redaktion der Königsbücher,” Biblica 53 (1972): 301–39. 179 Ibid., 310. 180 Ibid., 335. 181 Ibid., 335. 182 Ibid., 327. 183 Ibid.. 328. 184 For a similar conclusion see Cortese “Lo schema deuteronomistico,” 43–8. 178

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Halpern and D. S. Vanderhooft.185 This theory proposes three editions of Kings: Hezekian, Josian and Exilic. Since their argument considers more aspects of the description, it seems more convincing, yet it leaves us with the same problem of determining which regularities in the descriptions of certain kings are due to the editor(s) and which to the sources.

THE REDACTIONS OF KINGS There is currently no consensus about the composition of Kings. Some put the emphasis on unity of composition with few additions. Others find various redactions. Those redactions are variously dated with the major tendencies being the positing of a pre-exilic and an exilic redaction as distinguished from the thesis of a number of post-exilic redactions.186 The picture is further complicated by the extent to which scholars, holding various forms of Noth’s theory of the Deuteronomist, see that figure as merely editing the pre-Kings works in contrast to contributing substantially to the composition of those works. How valid are the criteria by which various redactions or late additions are distinguished from each other? Earlier chapters of this work have questioned the attempts to find sources in other books. Are the methods for distinguishing strands in Kings any more valid? F. Cross presented an argument which was very influential, distinguishing a work from the time of Josiah from an exilic contribution. Of these the former was by far the most significant and constituted a presentation of Josiah as the restorer. Cross saw that as bringing to culmination the two dominating themes of Kings. One was the sin of Jeroboam, the son of Nebat, in setting “The Editions of Kings in the 7th–6th Centuries B.C.E.,” HUCA 62 (1991): 179–244. 186 For a survey of the debate see E. Eynikel, The Reform of King Josiah and the Composition of the Deuteronomistic History (OTS, 33; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 7–31. For theories of post-exilic redactions see H. Spieckermann, Juda unter Assur in der Sargonidenzeit (Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments, 129; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1982). 185

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up a rival cultic establishment to the temple of Jerusalem. Josiah’s destruction of the altar at Bethel was the culmination and fitting conclusion to that theme. The second theme was the preservation of the Davidic line for the sake of David, climaxed in Josiah as the restorer who returned the cultic establishment to purity. He sharply distinguished from this a secondary addition represented in the account of the post-Josiah kings but much more significantly in the ascription of the exile to the sin of Manasseh. Cross sees this as an attempt to adapt the history to the reality that Jerusalem did fall and the Davidic line ended.187 There is no question that the themes that Cross sees as underpinning the Josianic version of Kings are there in the text. The greater problem is whether one can see them as necessarily incompatible with the explanation that the exile was due to Manasseh. It depends on how we see the purpose of the final work. There has been debate on Noth’s view that the work gave an Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic, 274–89. For a version of this theory which sees the exilic redactor as presenting a qualified hope of a Davidic restoration see J. D. Levenson, “The Last Four Verses in Kings,” JBL 103 (1984): 353–61. An attempt, compatible with Cross’ thesis. to distinguish various sources in the story of Josiah is presented by N. Lohfink, “The Cult Reform of Josiah of Judah: 2 Kings 22–23 as a Source for the History of Israelite Religion,” in Ancient Israelite Religion: Essays in Honor of Frank Moore Cross, ed. P. D. Miller, Jr, P. D. Hanson and S. D. McBride (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 459–75. For a discussion of the attempt to use Chronicles’ use of Kings to distinguish between pre- and post-exilic redactions of Kings see McKenzie, The Chronicler’s Use of the Deuteronomistic History,187–206. A work which combines some elements of the theories of Noth and Cross is B. Peckham, The Composition of the Deuteronomistic History (Harvard Semitic Monographs, 35; Atlanta: Scholars, 1985). He sees a crescendo of sources with each utilising and/or modifying the preceding: J, 1st Deuteronomist, P, 2nd Deuteronomist, E. His principal historian, the 2nd Deuteronomist, is equivalent to Noth’s Deuteronomist but his inclusion of a first Deuteronomist allows him to incorporate elements of Cross’ reconstruction. The definiteness of his source divisions and the boldness of his thesis is not matched by the extent of the argument and the work is accordingly difficult to evaluate. 187

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explanation of the fall of the nation but no hope for the future.188 Let us suppose that the author of the final work had hope for the future. That future would be in terms of a return to the Lord and the raising up of a Davidic king. Then it makes perfect sense to present a model who would illustrate the feasibility of just such a reversal of the sins and failures of the past. Josiah is that model. The presentation of Hezekiah as the other paradigmatic king also makes sense as trust in the midst of overwhelming odds is another prerequisite for recovery. It is also understandable that the postJosiah kings are presented in a cursory way because they are the prelude to the anticipated future rather than that anticipated future. Cross makes a point of the fact that in the crucial explanation of the exile in 2 Kings 21:2–15 closely parallels the account of the fall of Samaria189 and the text fails to name the prophets who are supposed to have spoken against Manasseh.190 While factually true, these observations in no way support the theory of a separate hand. Rather this nicely illustrates how quite ambiguous evidence is used in contrary ways depending on the theory to be proven. One account may resemble another because the two come from the same author or because a later author imitates an earlier one. I mentioned above Hoffmann’s argument that the similarity of the reforms of Jehu and Jehoshaphat indicated that the accounts came from the one person. That could be the case here in the resemblance of the accounts of the fall of Samaria and of Manasseh. Or, compatible with Cross’ thesis, a later author might be imitating the earlier. The data of itself does not tell us. The failure to name the prophets is part of the bigger puzzle of the very limited group of prophets who are named in Kings and Chronicles.

For a contrary view see H. W. Wolff, “Das Kerygma des deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerks,” ZAW 73 (1961): 171–86. For an interpretation which reads Kings as an ironic view of the history, repeatedly undermining its heroes with indications of their frailty, but holding out some hope for the future, see J. G. McConville, “Narrative and Meaning in the Book of Kings,” Biblica 70 (1989): 31–48. 189 Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic, 285. 190 Ibid., 286. 188

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Actually an observation which Cross mentions in passing as having been made by others may be more worthy of examination.191 It is the information that a certain thing mentioned exists “to this day”.192 Cross singles out particularly the information that Edom has been independent of Judah “to this day” (2 Kings 8:22) and that the Arameans had occupied Elath “to this day” (2 Kings 16:6) as implying the existence of the Judean state. I find this unconvincing. Given an exilic author with hope of the resurrection of the Davidic kingdom, would not he anticipate its renewed control of the territory of Edom? That would be sufficient reason to introduce these reminders. Much more convincing is the statement about the poles of the ark in the temple of Jerusalem being there “to this day” (1 Kings 8:8). It is hard to think of a reason for this being mentioned by a post-destruction writer. Given that the context is the dedication of Solomon’s temple it is hard to think of a reason why it would be mentioned by a writer as late as Josiah. If the point was the faithful preservation/restoration of the temple by Josiah, then surely it would be mentioned in connection with his reign. Hence this becomes an argument for the reflection of an early source within Kings. Of the other mentions of “to this day” in Kings, the only other case worthy of pondering is 1 Kings 12:19, where the rebellion of Israel against the house of David is said to continue until the writer’s day. If Josiah was really being presented as the one who had ended the northern schism, could this be said? Could it be said after Israel effectively ceased to exist? Cross does not emphasise these two examples, maybe because they do not support his Josianic dating. Various marks, for distinguishing recensions within Kings, have been suggested. Let us take as an example the assertion that one can distinguish a recension which treats the promise to David as unconditional from one in which the blessing is conditional

Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic, 275. For the meaning and use of this formula itself see B. S. Childs, “A Study of the Formula ‘Until this Day’,” JBL 82 (1963): 279–92. 191 192

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upon human obedience.193 Passages such as 1 Kings 11:36 and 2 Kings 8:19 attach no condition to the promise that the line of David will continue. Yet other passages (1 Kings 2:4; 8:25; 9:4,5) express the promise in a conditional form. Hence it is postulated that the unconditional form comes from a pre-exilic redaction but that the later exilic redaction, forced to face the destruction of Jerusalem and the end of the Davidic kingship, explained the failure of the promise by making it conditional upon the obedience of the sons of David. Certainly the “inconsistency” exists but one must ask whether, in that sense, the whole of biblical religion is “inconsistent”. God both requires obedience and gives blessing to sinners. That is inconsistent but it is an inconsistency at the very heart of the religion. I suspect that any present day sermon, or series of sermons, where the premise is that the deity plays an active part in determining the form and outcome of everyday affairs, will show the same inconsistency. Where the context is one of discouragement and doubt as to whether threatening events are outside the control of the deity, then the message will emphasise the absolute control of the deity and the certainty that no word of his will be unfulfilled. Yet in another context, obedience to the will of the deity will be stressed along with the threat that disobedience will forfeit blessing.194 Once again the positing of such conflicts within the text raises the role of the dull-witted final editor. If the unconditionality and the conditionality of the Davidic promise is a basic inconsistency, then why did the final editor not see that? My contention is that, if he actually existed, he would not have seen it because he adhered to a form of religion in which such “inconsistency” is pervasive. If he could not see it, what would prevent an original author with the I. W. Provan, Hezekiah and the Books of Kings; A Contribution to the Debate about the Composition of the Deuteronomistic History (BZAW, 172; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1988), 91–130. 194 I linked this to the two sided nature of the covenant or the grace/law dichotomy in my Admonition and Curse. The Ancient Near Eastern Treaty/Covenant Form as a Problem in Inter-Cultural Relationships (JSOT Sup., 407; London: T & T Clark, 2004), 144, 166. 193

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same religious perspective, whether pre-exilic or exilic, from writing both? Thus even though Noth’s hypothesis of the Deuteronomist tends to reverse the normal understanding of creative and uncreative periods, the discussion tends to drift back to the premise of a period of final editing which lacked the intelligence to detect fundamental inconsistency. Another suggested clue to different recensions is the divergent understanding of “high places” in the text.195 In passages dealing with kings of Judah who receive general commendation, the tolerance of the high places is mentioned as a negative aspect without leading to an overall negative assessment (e.g., 1 Kings 3:3; 15:14; 22:43). Provan comes to the reasonable conclusion that these were shrines where YHWH was worshipped and the issue for the writer was lack of centralisation of worship.196 There are other passages where the high places are treated much more negatively and are a reason for God’s judgment (e.g. 1 Kings 14:22–23; 2 Kings 17:9–11). Provan makes the crucial claim that we would not expect one author to treat “high places” in such different ways and on that basis posits different authors.197 It is that very claim that must be questioned because it assumes an overly technical approach to language in the biblical text. As words are generally used the connotations come from the context. Certainly there are certain words for which the associations are universally positive or universally negative, but they are the exceptions. The only way we can tell whether this word is a precise technical word with always uniform connotations or a normal word which can be used with different nuances is by observing usage. Where the word is used with respect to a king described in the text as orthodox in cultic practice, even as suppressive of idolatry, then the context guides the reader to the conclusion that these places must be for the worship of YHWH. In other contexts, where they are mentioned along with other accoutrements of idolatry and/or as part of a specific charge of idolatry, the reader would conclude that they were for unorthodox purposes. The text is not ambiguous Provan, Hezekiah and the Books of Kings, 57–90. Ibid., 69. 197 Ibid., 75. 195 196

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to the reader and hence there is no reason why the same word cannot be used for different purposes. Recent religious literature has developed specialised terminology for the worship places of different religions and cults but, in the absence of such a development, present day religious polemic would probably be using terms in a very similar way to the biblical text. Why do we read the biblical text so “technically”? Was it not the claim of critical scholarship that it was reading the Bible like any other book? An ingenious argument for the existence of a Josianic edition of Kings has been put forward by J. Rosenbaum. It is significant also because it shows that evidence can be interpreted in different ways. Central to the argument is the difference between Chronicles presentation of Hezekiah’s reform and Kings’ account of Josiah’s reform both in order of presentation and emphasis. Involved with this is the lack of emphasis on Hezekiah’s cultic reforms in Kings. Rosenbaum’s explanation is that an editor of Kings, who wanted to portray Josiah as the new David, could not highlight Hezekiah’s similar reforms because they had failed and been reversed by Hezekiah’s own son. The Chronicler did not have that problem because for him Josiah paralleled Hezekiah as a reformer whose work was overturned.198 While helpful in correcting the persistent attempt to picture the description of Hezekiah as merely an echo of that of Josiah, this thesis has a major weakness. There is an obvious explanation of the failure of Kings to emphasise the reforming activities of Hezekiah. One of the major emphases of Kings is the promise to David and the continuity of the Davidic line. A major threat to that promise came with Sennacherib’s attack on Judah. Hence that is what takes the attention of Kings and Hezekiah’s reforms, rather than being a major theme in their own right, serve more to build the picture of a righteous king deserving salvation.

“Hezekiah’s Reform and the Deuteronomistic Tradition.” HTR 72 (1979): 23–43. 198

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THE COHERENCE OF THE TEXT A different form of underlying assumption emerges in discussions of lack of smooth coherence in the text. For example S. McKenzie conducted a careful analysis of the message of Ahijah the Shilonite to Jeroboam (1 Kings 11:29–39).199 That passage is characterised by parentheses referring to the future of the Davidic dynasty which break the flow of the narrative and the promise to Jeroboam. Hence he argues that these are later glosses. Surely there is an assumption here that the original narrative would be concise and coherent and therefore any tendency to discursiveness must be ascribed to a later hand. If we were certain that we were dealing with the very literal words of the prophet Ahijah, then the parentheses might be troubling but that is not the position McKenzie is defending. Rather he sees the core of the text as the work of the Deuteronomist. Is it not feasible that the future of the Davidic dynasty would be a concern to the Deuteronomist? In the previous chapter I raised the influence of Romanticism upon biblical studies. Here again we see a romantic assumption. The earliest texts are assumed to be coherent and generally brief. Tendencies to discursiveness can then be ascribed to later activity. Yet Romanticism, particularly as applied to an ancient text whose context of composition is largely lost to us, is an assumption. Without that assumption there is no reason to assume that the original author could not have been discursive. A further consequence of seeing texts through Romantic glasses is that one expects coherence within stories that belong together. For example the stories about a figure such as Elijah should belong together and concentrate upon the same themes. The stories about Elijah in 1 Kings 17–19 with their echoes of Moses and focus on Baalism fit that expectation. However these themes are lacking from the story of Ahab, Elijah and Naboth’s vineyard in chapter 21. Hence McKenzie deems chapter 21 as the work of the Deuteronomist but chapters 17–19 as a separate work

The Trouble with Kings. The Composition of the Book of Kings in the Deuteronomic History (SVT, 42; Leiden: Brill, 1991), 41–7. 199

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added later.200 Once again a familiar question appears. If a later editor was not troubled by this diversity of subject matter, how do we know an earlier author would have been? This same assumption of smoothness and coherence lies behind other attempts to distinguish original text and later additions. For example the role of Jeroboam in the revolt against Rehoboam seems confused. According to 1 Kings 11:40 Jeroboam was in Egypt until the death of Solomon. In chapter 12:1 we have Israel coming to crown Rehoboam at Shechem before we hear in the next few verses of a mission to summon Jeroboam from Egypt. Complicating the issue further is a mission, after Jeroboam had returned, to summon him to the assembly and make him king. This clumsiness can be seen as evidence of later glosses.201Again one must inquire why it is that the original must be smooth but the later composite does not need to be. Surely there is an alternate way to read the story which does not require the theory of glosses. The main subject in 12:1–19 is the interaction between Rehoboam and the people. Having introduced that subject the text backtracks to explain Jeroboam’s presence. Somebody believed that Jeroboam would be useful and summoned him so that he was on hand. One might suspect that his role in the whole affair became more prominent as the relationship between king and people deteriorated. With the final breakdown of negotiations and the rejection of royal authority the move was made to elect Jeroboam as king. Thus the text is describing the transition between Jeroboam being part of the movement and his becoming the leader of that movement. We might not describe that change as the text does, but how can we be so dogmatic that it could not be described that way? Perhaps related to assumptions of smoothness in original composition is the assumption of coherence and cross referencing in stories. 2 Kings 22:1–23:3 is the story of the finding of the book of the law and the consequent ceremony of covenant renewal. Verses 4 to 20 of chapter 23 turn to cultic reforms made by Josiah The Trouble with Kings. The Composition of the Book of Kings in the Deuteronomic History, 84. 201 Ibid., 47–51. 200

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before returning to the book of the covenant and the Passover celebrated according to the book in verses 21–23. E. Eynikel opines that 23:4–20 is from another hand to 22:1–3,21–23 because the story of cultic reforms in 23:4–20 makes no reference to the book of the covenant.202 Why do we expect such cross reference? Surely it would be easy to find comparable instances in other literature where related incidents are recorded without cross reference. Eynikel makes the reasonable point that it would be hard to put all the cultic reforms and the Passover in the same eighteenth year in which the book was found. However she may be making unwarranted assumptions about the narrative. Perhaps the cultic reform report in 23:4–20 includes events which took place at different times, but which the author recorded together because to him they were interconnected in design and purpose. P. Dutcher-Walls has made an interesting comparison between this account and the story of the cleansing of Jerusalem after the overthrow of Athaliah in 2 Kings 11:17–19.203 In the latter passage the proclamation of Jehoash as king, which is set in train by the covenant made by Jehoiada, is apparently suspended while the people go off to demolish the temple of Baal. One may doubt whether the king elect stood waiting until the people returned from their work of demolition, but from the rhetorical point of view it makes the point that first the evil must be purged before the new era is consolidated. It is not hard to imagine a similar interaction in the account of Josiah’s reform. That is, the various aspects of cultic reform from different parts of the reign have been narrated together. In effect biblical narrative bundles together events which, to the author, seem thematically related and reports those events together.204 If we read the text as reports of invariably successive events, then it must seem contradictory. What reason do we have, other than our own

The Reform of King Josiah and the Composition of the Deuteronomistic History (OTS, 33: Leiden: Brill, 1996), 320. 203 Narrative Art, Political Rhetoric, 83. 204 See my previous discussion of the meeting of David and Saul and the battle with Goliath. 202

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customs, we for assuming that narratives must be dominated by the principle of chronological succession? Even if we do regard the failure to mention the book of the covenant in the reform report as an insurmountable difficulty, that does not tell us that one report was added later. The tension may have been in the original account of events.205 Given that Chronicles reports Josiah as engaging in cultic reform before the discovery of the book of the law, perhaps Kings is not connecting the reform specifically to the discovery for a reason. In other words, in the cultic reform report of Kings a variety of events have been brought together, some directly connected to the discovery and some not so connected. We expect to see an explicit linking of the reform to the discovery and are confused because behind the narrative may lie a more complex set of events. Of course this reconstruction is hypothetical but, if it contains some truth, then we come to the paradoxical realisation that it was the author’s concern not to claim what could not be claimed—namely that the whole reform flowed from the discovery of the law—that confused us. Lest this version of events seems to be crossing the line between history and historiography, let me make the same point in another way, for those who insist that we cannot assume that any real historical events lie behind the narrative. In the model where Kings is a late, largely fictitious, creation, some historical information coming to the author concerning relations with Assyrian kings has to be conceded. It is unlikely that that was the only information transmitted to the late author. Hence one would have to hold open the possibility that traditions of Josiah as book finder and cultic reformer reached the author but with these two activities unconnected. That lack of connection in the original traditions has then been faithfully preserved in the text we have. The point is the same: one cannot assume that a tension in the text is late as opposed to being early.

For the presentation of this point as a general truth see R. H. Lowery, The Reforming Kings. Cults and Society in First Temple Judah (JSOT Sup., 120; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1991), 28. 205

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It has been common to argue that the special commendations of Hezekiah and Josiah point to an early edition of Kings, especially the description of Hezekiah in 2 Kings 18:5 as being better than those who followed. How could that be said by an author who knew of Josiah? However this conclusion does not pay close attention to the text. The superiority of both kings is carefully qualified by a particular virtue. With Hezekiah it was trust (2 Kings 18:5) and with Josiah it was turning to YHWH with heart, soul and might (2 Kings 23:25). In both cases these virtues are illustrated in the story of each king.206 Hence these passages cannot be used to argue for an early edition of Kings.

A MODEL FOR THE COMPOSITION OF KINGS It might seem that I have been arguing for a single author to Kings and against seeing various sources or redactions behind the book. That has not been my intent. Rather I have been concerned to show that the ways in which scholarship has sought to find evidence of different hands in Kings are flawed. It is not surprising that cases can be made either for a uniform work or for late insertions in Kings. Our criteria by which we are distinguishing one hand from the other are very subjective.207 The flaws are very similar to the flaws found in attempts to find different sources in other historical books. Of course it is possible to find such differences in the text provided that we start with certain assumptions but those assumptions have no objective basis and often are contradictory. As I see the state of the evidence, taking seriously what the text itself tells us, two models of the composition of Kings are possible. One is that somebody gathered together, edited and G. E, Gerbrandt, Kingship According to the Deuteronomistic History (SBL Dissertation Series, 87; Atlanta: Scholars, 1986), 51–4; McKenzie, The Trouble with Kings, 51–4. 207 Note how Van Keulen, Manasseh through the Eyes of the Deuteronomists, is able both to find different hands in 2 Kings 21 and to argue, against many other scholars that, except for these cases, 2 Kings 21–25 is a unified exilic composition. It comes down to determining what degree of difference is sufficient to indicate another hand. 206

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organised a series of reports on the monarchy and related matters put together by people who were either prophets or had some links to the prophets. The second is that somebody with access to such a series of reports wrote a connected work. In either model the crucial factor is that that series of reports had considerable ideological unity. The attempts to find ideological differences within the text cannot be sustained. What tilts my opinion towards the second option is the fact that it is quite difficult to find clear stylistic differences within the material. If allowance is made for the possible impact of the source material and differences of subject matter, then the differences being used as evidence are really quite small. For example the differences of phraseology found in the framework texts are small. I doubt that ancient writers would have been so restricted in style as to adhere rigidly to a very narrow choice of words. If one can make the sort of distinctions that have been made between “Deuteronomistic” and “nonDeuteronomistic” vocabulary and it is not just a matter of subject matter, I do not see how one can ascribe the non-Deuteronomistic sections to later writers rather than to the impact of original source material.208 Once again I fear that theories about the way in which thought and religion in Palestine “must” have developed are telling us how to organise the data. In the study of the “Deuteronomic History” significant attention has been devoted to certain speeches which are seen as providing the author’s definitive interpretation of historical events.209 There is no doubt that there are important sections, not just speeches, which provide important interpretive guidelines. The difficulty is rather one of determining their significance for the history of composition. Depending on the faithfulness to his/their sources that one ascribes to the author(s), one could say that he/they selected significant speeches from the sources or made up these significant sections. However, I cannot see how one makes Note Halpern’s point that trying to detect redactors by style ignores the possibility that their style reflects their sources (The First Historians, 114). 209 See D. J. McCarthy, “II Samuel 7 and the Structure of the Deuteronomic History,” JBL 84 (1965): 131–38. 208

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that thesis more plausible than the thesis that an author of an early source made a speech an interpretive device and other authors, were influenced to follow that pattern. It may be significant that 2 Kings 17:7–19, with its exposition of the reasons for the fall of Israel and hint of the significance of that for Judah (v. 19), is not presented as a speech. What seems important is not that there are speeches as such but that the hearer/reader is provided with an interpretative framework. I am not ignoring the third possibility that it was all a very late largely fictitious creation and that all the source references are without basis. Yet it seems highly improbable that traditions of interaction with external powers would come down to the eventual editor(s) but not traditions about internal events. Surely there are as many, if not more, dubious presuppositions in that position as there are in any other approach.

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In this work I have tried to make a distinction between historical and historiographical issues. How a text is written and the message it seeks to convey are separate issues to the truth of the record as a narrative of historical events. I have been arguing that presuppositions have played a large role in the historiographical interpretations of the text, namely presuppositions which arise from our view of what people at a certain point of history could or would have written. Similarly presuppositions will play a large role in our working through the process from text to a reconstruction of the events or processes behind the account. To work through all those presuppositions is beyond the aim of this work but certain issues naturally arise. Traditional source criticism, by separating sources and then dating those sources, was able to reconstruct a history of the religion of Israel. That history then created a framework which had to be taken into consideration in any other explorations of the history of the period, even when the focus of those explorations might be on other aspects such as political history. If traditional source criticism is questioned, then what is the framework for a developmental history of Israel? Having asked the question I will leave it unanswered to make an observation on the state of the field. We are in a situation in which disagreement with traditional source criticism is obvious. We are also meeting claims that a developmental history of Israel cannot be written on the basis of the biblical text. The example to prove the point is the contention that all Hebrew biblical texts originated in the late

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period in an attempt to create a history for the Jewish people.1 Leaving aside the truth of that contention, what may be happening is that, without source theory to support a developmental history, one option is to move everything to the late period.

TWO STAGE THEORIES Yet in this movement of the composition of the biblical text to the late period we are not necessarily escaping developmental histories and even clearly Romantic ones. It is fascinating to compare the end of T. L. Thompson’s Early History of the Israelite People2 with the epilogue to his Origin Tradition of Ancient Israel.3 The latter presents the stories of Genesis as stories such that a child might understand; stories which are distorted if seen as having pedagogic or theological intent. The former is interested in the stage of the gathering of those stories into a connected corpus which will supply national identity to the heterogenous population of Palestine in the Persian period. Here we have two chronological stages. First is the stage where stories from the childhood of mankind reach across the ages to modern children and those who can sufficiently remove the clutter of serious ideology from their minds to understand the wonder and the entertainment of stories. The second stage is when the force of political and sociological necessity produces national history. This two stage reconstruction has connections with an earlier age of the writing of Israel’s history. The Romantic conceptions involved in formulating the first stage

T. M. Bolin, ‘When the End is the Beginning. The Persian Period and the Origins of the Biblical Tradition,” SJOT 10 (1996): 3–15. T. L Thompson also argues for the creation of national unity through the creation of the biblical text but puts the process in the Persian period (Early History of the Israelite People From the Written and Archaeological Sources (Studies in the History of the Ancient Near East, 4; Leiden: Brill, 1992), 415–23). 2 Studies in the History of the Ancient Near East, 4; Leiden: Brill, 1992. 3 (JSOT Sup., 55; Sheffield: JSOT, 1987). 1

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are very clear.4 Wellhausen, with his connection between national history and state formation, might well have understood the argument for the second stage. Notice that if Genesis is an original unity, with pedagogic authorial purpose and complex literary techniques, both the postulated earlier and later stages are imperilled. In that Thompson’s “developmental history” is a two stage one, it does depart from the Developmental Hypothesis’ multiple stages: the original stories, the first documents (J, E), prophetic era and priestly era. In turn that raises a fundamental question about the two stage theories which have become popular recently. Where do prophets fit in a two stage theory? The older developmental theories had prophets as the crucial proponents of Israelite monotheism. The newer theories, by bringing together the stage of creation of the national literature and the emergence of a distinct monotheism do not have a major role for prophets.5 Yet the prophets are crucial figures in the biblical story. Even if one does not interpret the stories of Genesis as Thompson does, one can conceptualise primitive entertainment stories with an aetiological tendency. Similarly one can conceptualise the creation of a national history, even if the analogies such as Manetho and Berossus are clearly building on well entrenched traditions and do not give a good precedent for the creation of an ethnic consciousness and tradition, which lacked antecedents. However why should pre-exilic prophets play such a role in the final biblical collection if the record of their existence is spurious and no surrounding or possibly influencing culture gives precedent for such a large role of prophets? That forces the proponents of a two stage theory into something like a conspiracy theory: somebody created the tradition

While not expressed in the same way, Rendtorff’s treatment of the significance of Gunkel as undermining the Documentary Hypothesis, also leads towards a reduction of the number of stages. See “The Paradigm is Changing: Hopes—and Fears,” Biblical Interpretation 1 (1993): 38–9. 5 Thompson, Early History of the Israelite People, 419–22. 4

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of prophets as one of Judah’s distinctives and foisted it on people who were in no position to know anything about their real roots.6 If one concedes that pre-exilic prophets were a historical reality then it is likely that there was something distinctive about Judah before the exile. The connection of Kings and Chronicles to prophets then becomes more likely. That would then lead one to accept that allusions in Kings and Chronicles to sources are genuine, with the consequent tendency to assign greater historical validity to Kings and Chronicles. That in turn would remove some of the objections to the historicity of parts of the Pentateuch. Another example of what I would call a two stage theory is J. Van Seters’ attempt to correlate the appearance of historiography in Greece and Israel.7 Chronologically the first stage is the individual stories. The second stage is the historian, whether Herodotus or the Deuteronomistic Historian who collects those stories into a historical work. Similarly to Thompson, he sees national identity as the driving force behind the work of the Deuteronomist.8 Van Seters is also concerned with the bigger question of why historiography in a “true” sense emerged in Israel and Greece but not clearly and unambiguously in other Ancient Near Eastern cultures. It is clear that both Israel and Greece produced a historical literature which is independent of the state. In trying to find an explanation for this in Israel, Van Seters gives credit to the work of the prophets in producing a corporate identity.9 Yet when it comes to the stories of the northern prophets in Kings, Van Seters performs a typical source critical exercise, separating some of the Elisha stories from the Elijah ones.10

Compare the critricism in J. Barr, History and Ideology in the Old Testament: Biblical Studies at the End of a Millennium (Oxford: OUP, 2000), 100–1. 7 In Search of History. Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History (New Haven: Yale UP, 1983). 8 Ibid., 360. 9 Ibid., 360–61. 10 Ibid., 303–6. 6

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Van Seters’ work raises questions beyond the scope of my treatment which cannot be adequately addressed here.11 Nevertheless some preliminary attention is needed. Once again there are two poles in the way in which Van Seters treats the ancient material. There is the pole of form criticism which is the perspective through which he tends to view the works originating from the rest of the Ancient Near East and the material, such as “prophetic legends”, utilised in historiographic works in Israel. The second pole is the creative historian who is not bound to forms but shapes a history out of the individual stories and his own imagination.12 Herodotus and the Deuteronomist are examples. Connected to form criticism from its origins in Gunkel’s Romanticism are connotations of primitiveness and discreetness. While individual stories may conform to a type, they are individual productions. For those stories to be connected and combined implies another stage. Once the polarity has been set in those terms, works cut up into individual forms to fit the presuppositions of form criticism must appear less sophisticated. Thus the very structuring of the discussion tends to pull Israelite historiography away from Ancient Near Eastern parallels and towards Greek parallels. Yet it is true that historiography elsewhere in the Ancient Near East tends to be tied to royalty and hence lacks critical distance from the royalty that is its main subject. That critical distance from the subject, if we put aside for the moment our theories and look at our received biblical text, is connected in the biblical text to the prophets and the prophetic perspective. I suggest that there are two reasons Van Seters cannot emphasise this. In reading the Deuteronomistic History as a work of national self-identity he has to minimise what cries out from the page as the For a critique of Van Seters’ attempt to connect Greek and biblical historiography see E. Nicholson, “Story and History in the Old Testament,” in Language,Theology and The Bible: Essays in Honour of James Barr, ed. S. E. Balentine and J. Barton (Oxford: Clarendon, 1994), 135–50. 12 Rescuing the author from speculations about editors is clearly the main thrust of The Edited Bible: The Curious Historey of the “Editor” in Biblical Criticism (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2006). 11

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real theme of Kings: a theological understanding of the judgment of God. That in turn takes us back to the prophets and makes Herodotus’ concern with divine providence a more distant parallel. The second factor is that he follows L. Perlitt in making covenant in Israel late and unconnected to the treaty tradition in the Ancient Near East.13 I have argued elsewhere that a comprehensive review of the evidence leads to the opposite conclusion.14 If covenant is late then the prophets lack an ideological context and the origin of independent historiography in Israel becomes even more of a mystery.15 I would suggest that there are two broad factors behind the sort of historiography that we see in Kings. One is theological and relates to the covenant idea. In this respect there are affinities to the treaty tradition, particularly in its Hittite version. The second is socio-political and relates to the existence of literate figures who were able to maintain a critical distance from the centers of political power even when in proximity to them. In that respect there are affinities to Greece. Now there may well have been more factors but realising that there are at least two factors, and that the analogies for these point in different directions, helps us to see the biblical historiographic tradition on its own terms, rather than attaching it to one particular analogy. In the importance of covenant/treaty the biblical text finds its analogies with Ancient Near Eastern texts; in the existence of a historiography able to stand apart from the sources of political power it is more like Greek historiography. It also needs to be stressed that analogy of itself, especially when there are other analogies pointing in another direction, does not determine dating.

Bundestheologie im Alten Testament (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1969). 14 Admonition and Curse. The Ancient Near Eastern Treaty/Covenant Form as a Problem in Inter-Cultural Relationships (JSOT Sup., 407; London: T & T Clark, 2004). 15 One of the virtues of M. Kline, The Structure of Biblical Authority (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2nd ed., 1972) is to stress the connection of covenant and prophets. 13

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Thus the elimination of the stages justified on the ground of source criticism tends to leave the field with the options of assigning more credibility to the biblical text or even less credibility.

GREECE AS CONTEXT While a number of scholars are maintaining a distinction of stages in biblical historiography, though a simplified set of stages, that is not the direction of N. P. Lemche’s theorising. In some ways he represents the most consistent following of the implications that result from the disappearance of developmental theories, although it must be admitted that his theory is based more upon historical arguments of the non-existence of the world portrayed in the biblical text than upon historiographic arguments. Making good use of the lack of early evidence of biblical texts, he posits a Hellenistic origin for the whole Old Testament corpus.16 He counters the claim that stages in thought and language can be detected in the biblical corpus by raising the possibility that different abilities of the composers or different contemporary contexts may have produced the differences.17 Given our paucity of knowledge of the different forms and situations of Jewish communities in the postexilic period,—a paucity made doubly ironic by the confident assertions about literary activity in that period—it is very difficult to disprove that possibility.18 While the theory of Lemche is innovative there is a significant link to past thinking. One of the factors making the Hellenistic “The Old Testament—A Hellenistic Book?” SJOT 7 (1993): 163– 93. For another example of rejection of a developmental literary history, applied specifically to the Pentateuch, see R. N. Whybray, The Making of the Pentateuch (JSOT Sup., 53; Sheffield: JSOT, 1987), esp. 232–33. 17 “The Old Testament—A Hellenistic Book?”, 187–89. For an example of a scholar, who sees this necessity to treat all biblical material as contemporaneous as itself a refutation of the thesis, see R. N. Whybray, “What Do We Know about Ancient Israel?” Expository Times 108 (1996): 73–4. 18 Note R. Rendtorff’s point that dating texts in the post-exilic period is putting them in a dark age where our knowledge of background and conditions is limited (“The Paradigm is Changing,” 49). 16

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period an attractive possibility for the composition of biblical literature is the image of Greek culture as vibrant, refreshing and a nurturing environment for great literature.19 I have argued that the older literary criticism derived its approach to the text from the assumptions of an era which saw itself as a sophisticated era standing over against a more primitive era which was incapable of literary complexity. Whether the model, via which the history of Israel was understood, was one of evolutionary development or a Romantic one, the assumption of primitiveness was common. Yet that culture of sophistication which looked back on the past from lofty heights was conscious that it itself had a foundation. That foundation was Greece. Partly through the Romantic fascination with certain forms of artistic production, to be a Romantic and to see oneself culturally as a product of Greece came close together. It was not uncommon to set this commonality of contemporary Romanticism and ancient Greece over against biblical monotheism.20 Lemche is not setting Greece over against biblical monotheism but he is working with a model in which Greece stands out from what went before. In an argument from silence worthy of those who are generally derided for placing biblical composition early without evidence, he holds up the Amarna Letters as proof that great literature was not produced in the Late Bronze Age.21 How the literary demerits of the letters that happen to be preserved from that age, because they were written in cuneiform on clay, prove that great literature was not being produced in another medium is unclear to me. Consider also that the discovery of this archive of cuneiform letters in Egypt, rather than at their points of origin in the Levant, makes us suspect that there are archives yet to be discovered in Palestine. Yet more important that this weak argument is the image that produced it: “The Old Testament—A Hellenistic Book?”, 186–87. H. G. Kippenberg, Discovering Religious History in the Modern Age, tr. B. Harshav (Princeton: Princeton UP, 2002), 98–112. (I thank Pastor C. Priebbenow for drawing my attention to this work.) 21 “The Old Testament—A Hellenistic Book?”, 186–87. I think that Ugaritic texts would be a closer literary analogy to much of the Hebrew Bible than the Amarna letters. 19 20

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Greece stands over against its culturally impoverished forerunners. Once more a model of cultural history is shaping the conclusion. Another example of the carry over of major presuppositions appears in T. M. Bolin’s case that the biblical text is a species of antiquarianism rather than historiography.22 The distinction itself comes from within Greek historiography and the problem of whether the categories of one ancient culture are definitive for other ancient cultures is not considered.23 A key part of Bolin’s argument is appeal to the doublets in the text. He sees them as preserved because for the antiquarian author they preserved something of the past which must not be lost, even if they destroy the sense of the text.24 Note how the key evidence from the old literary criticism has been retained but put within a new context. It has now become evidence that the biblical writers are antiquarians as defined within ancient Greek historiography. Naturally seeing the actual literary function of doublets would destroy this argument as it does the older literary criticism because Greek writers do not use doublets in the way the biblical ones do.25

ARCHAEOLOGY AS GAP FILLER The older literary criticism by declaring that much of the text was late and tendentious weakened its authority as a source for history. “History, Historiography and the Use of the Past in the Hebrew Bible,” in The Limits of Historiography. Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts, ed. C. S. Kraus (Mnemosyne: Supplementum, 191; Brill: Leiden, 1999), 113–40. For an argument which questions basic premises of this case see A. Kuhrt, “Israelite and Near Eastern Historiography,” in Congress Volume. Oslo 1998, ed. A. Lemaire and M. Sæbø (VTS, 80: Leiden: Brill, 2000), 257–79. 23 “History, Historiography and the Use of the Past,” 129. 24 Ibid., 134. 25 This statement may be disputed. Whybray (The Making of the Pentateuch, 228) says Herodotus and other Greek authors used repetition as a literary technique. No doubt there was a degree of repetition, as in any historical work, but one can hardly argue for doublets as in the biblical text without also explaining why we do not have a “Documentary Hypothesis” for the work of Herodotus. 22

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Yet some of it was regarded as early and used to reconstruct the early history. If it is all declared to be late, then its historical usefulness is further reduced. What then can fill the gap? One argument which is being presented is that archaeology can fill the gap. Further the lack of archaeologically recovered remains is used as evidence for the proposition that the text is late. Of course, as certain debates have made notorious, the interpretation of that archaeological evidence may not be without its problems.26 A significant item in this debate is the assertion that basing history upon written evidence in ancient sources is problematic because the ancient writers were biased. Mute archaeological evidence does not contain such bias. Note again a continuance of an old presupposition in a different context. It is the presupposition that the ancient biblical writers were severely deficient in comparison with what we would see as acceptable norms. They had biases; modern archaeologists do not.27

POLITICAL SOCIOLOGY AS GAP FILLER The thesis of this book has been that belief in identifiable sources in biblical narrative depends upon a presupposition which places us over against the ancient composers. We see ourselves as being able to place them against the background of historical processes of which they were unaware. If effect we, who are not trapped in the stream of historical processes and whose writings are not relativised by that stream, can stand in judgment on them and categorise their work. In this chapter I have been asking whether recent positions which depart from the older source critical views are still using the same presuppositions. A convenient example is provided by B. Halpern, “The Gate of Megiddo and the Debate on the 10th Century,” in Congress Volume. Oslo 1998, ed. A. Lemaire and M. Sæbø (VTS, 80: Leiden: Brill, 2000), 79–121. 27 For a vigorous exploration of these themes see I. Provan, “In the Stable with the Dwarves: Testimony, Interpretation, Faith and the History of Israel,” in Congress Volume. Oslo 1998, ed. A. Lemaire and M. Sæbø (VTS, 80: Leiden: Brill, 2000), 281–319. 26

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G. F Synman’s article “Texts Are Fundamentally Facts of Power, Not of Democratic Exchange”.28 Synman places his article in the context of contemporary South Africa events as he sees them: the tendency of the report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission to become a “sacred text” immune from criticism; the move of churches from Dutch Reformed background to create a confessional statement which might limit the ability to look critically at the biblical text and its context; the attempt of conservatives to use the civil courts to support practices which flow from an “ahistorical” reading of the biblical text. These trouble him because they do not see texts from the past, and in particular the biblical text, as existing within a context. In particular he leans to the view of P. Davies that the biblical text is the product of a small elite whose use of literacy allowed them to create a story.29 Synman brings this in connection with E. Said’s charge that academic study of the Middle East has served political purposes.30 Synman suggests that the pursuit of “biblical archaeology” with the aim of validating the biblical text might also serve less altruistic ends.31 Do we then read the biblical texts as the work of an elite who may have had an interest in creating a story? The problem is that we who do the reading might be described in the same way. Synman’s description of the situation of the academic biblical scholar who might be threatened by church orthodoxy raises the possibility of the scholar being caught in a power struggle. Who is struggling for position: is it only the church authorities or is it also the scholar? Paradoxically one is reminded of Wellhausen’s situation and the suspicion that among the contexts of his work was the conflict in the church between more and less conservative

In Past, Present, Future The Deuteronomistic History and the Prophets, ed. J. C. de Moor and H. F. van Rooy (OTS 44; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 272–305. 29 P. R. Davies, In Search of ‘Ancient Israel’ (JSOT Sup., 148; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1992), 19. 30 Orientalism (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1978). 31 “Texts Are Fundamentally Facts of Power, Not of Democratic Exchange,” 293. 28

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elements; a conflict that had ramifications into the political process which in turn is also true of present day South Africa. When one looks at the views of Davies himself, a number of the already mentioned concerns arise. He comes very close to a conspiracy theory of the origin of the text when he claims that when the text is more “history-like” then it is more fictional.32 He also presents a thesis of the use of literature by the ruling caste.33 Yet his picture of what was going on behind the text involves a society about which we know very little. and perhaps even less. because Davies is doubtful of the accuracy of Ezra and Nehemiah. If we place ourselves in a situation in which we know virtually nothing about the social context, doubt what sources we may have, and then determine what was happening, what will we produce? We will tend to fill the vacuum with our reigning theories of social structure. It is not surprising therefore that the resulting thesis, with its use of religion and literature to indoctrinate the masses into something that is convenient for the upper class, has something of a Marxist hue. Marxism has tended to be the default sociology of much of academia. I would suggest that the process has analogies to what produced developmental theories. In the absence of real evidence about early Israelite culture and literature, once the Bible was declared unusable, Romanticism inserted its notions of primitive society. Might Romanticism be correct? Might Marxism be correct? Abstractly one might answer in the affirmative but not because of any considerations uniquely relevant to the historical period one is considering. The question should not be the one being currently asked: whether a history of Israel can be written. It should be: can any history of anywhere be written once we have determined that we cannot trust what should be the relevant sources? Removing the sources and then substituting our favoured political sociology is speculative sociology, not history. The impact of political sociology also shows in Davies treatment of prophecy.34 He suggests that we may be looking at scribes practising a particular genre or social criticism by In Search of ‘Ancient Israel’, 27. 116–17. 34 Ibid., 123–25. 32 33

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government scribes who were not enamoured with their employer and were using prophecies set in another age as a form of oblique criticism. Would one come to that as a likely context just by reading the prophets? Where does the dominating issue of idolatry fit in this reconstruction of the composition of the prophetic books? In spite of the artificial contrasts involved in Wellhausen’s picture of the prophets, at least one could understand the vehemence of the prophetic polemic on his theory. The removal of biblical texts as reliable sources has led to the need to build reconstructions on analogies from other cultures. One has to ask where there exists an analogy for government bureaucrats creating a passionate literature set in a past age about a problem that is not a major issue for their age.35 Another example of the same problem is P. Dutcher-Walls’ reading of the account of the overthrow of Athaliah. Basic to the analysis is locating Judah within a typology of non-industrial societies.36 On that basis, rather than from anything in the text, the sociological and the political complexion of the society is deduced and from that the factors behind the way in which the story is told are discerned. It is a convincing interpretation provided we grant two things. The first is the basic sociological determinism and the validity of cross cultural comparisons without detailed sociological data from Judah. The second is that we are not also trapped in the same sociological determinism. If we moderns are also determined by our context then we should be discerning behind DutcherWalls’ work the social context of the author and the sectional interest the work represents. This is not an argument against the political and power dimensions of scholarship. Having worked in a “secular’ university for thirty years, to deny the political dimensions to academic life It might be possible to save Davies thesis by developing his picture of a connection of government and Jerusalem temple hierarchy. Then we could see prophetic literature as a defence of the centrality of the temple. Yet the prophets treat idolatry as a more serious issue than the centrality of worship at the temple. 36 Narrative Art, Political Rhetoric. The Case of Athaliah and Joash (JSOT Sup., 209; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1996), 20. 35

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would be to deny my own experience. It is rather to face the fact that, if the power struggles of elites are a constant of history which we must use as a basic hermeneutic tool in interpreting the past, then it follows that the same applies to the present. We cannot turn it just against the biblical authors and anybody who argues that they may be giving a reasonable representation of the history.37 It applies to us also. Thus we confront one of the powerful relativising arguments which threaten the whole edifice of academic history. This work has argued that certain features in Kings and Chronicles point to prophets as being behind those works in some way. For that thesis to be plausible I had to argue that these prophets were in some sense connected to the court but yet able, when need be, to stand over and against the kings and criticise them. In spite of various attempts to reduce biblical prophecy to a sociological dimension, court prophets with a degree of independence do not emerge from sociological analyses because sociological analysis depends upon comparable phenomena in other cultures and that situation is not clearly attested elsewhere. Is there therefore a uniqueness in Israel or does the lack of parallels confirm the suspicion that it is all an invention of an ancient elite, whatever their motivation? Suppose that there actually once existed a group who could stand apart from the power structures which employed them, yet had no tie to any other societal grouping whose interests they served. If such a group existed, then the thesis that all history is explicable in terms of power struggle is falsified. Putting that another way: the thesis that all is power struggle necessitates the rejection of the possibility presented here. That necessity of rejection is at the presuppositional rather than at the evidentiary level. If the text hints at the existence of such a group, then the text must be fiction. One of the unfortunate aspects of recent debate has been the tendency to argue that those who defend the historicity of the biblical text have a vested, even financial, interest in promoting that point of view. That may be true in some cases but personal interest is a constant of human history. There could be personal interest in denying the historicity of the biblical text. Do we advance the discussion by such accusations? 37

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Since results are being determined by presupposition all one can do in reply is to comment ironically on the skill of the conspirators in alluding to prophetic sources rather than making a specific point of it. We might also comment ironically on our own enlightened state in that, unlike the ancients, we are free from all social pressures.

“HISTORY-LIKE” FICTION An alternate reaction to the loss of the certainties provided by developmental source theories and to a realisation of the literary complexity of the text is to see biblical narrative as fiction cast in the form of historical narrative.38 No doubt this is a convenient way of avoiding the seemingly interminable battles over the historicity of the events described. Yet it amounts to little more than unsupported assertion. The statement that the biblical authors wrote fiction in the form of history is a historical statement about the procedure of the authors. Only if we have some sort of access to the author can we know what the author intended.39 Even if one accepts the thesis argued here that biblical narrative is complex and sophisticated, one cannot conclude from that that the author mean to write fiction. Saying that true historical writing must be dull and lacking in literary skill could be nothing more that putting the best face on our literary impoverishment as historians. Similarly one cannot extrapolate from the biblical author’s playing of the omniscient R. Alter, “Sacred History and Prose Fiction,” in The Creation of Sacred Literature. Composition and Redaction of the Biblical Text, ed. R. E. Friedman (Uni. of California Pub.: Near Eastern Studies, 22; Berkeley: Uni of California, 1981), 7–14; H. W. Frei, The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative (New Haven: Yale UP, 1974). For a critique of Frei see L. M. Poland, Literary Criticism and Biblical Hermeneutics. A Critique of Formalist Approaches (Chico: Scholars, 1985), 120–26. For a criticism of Alter see M. Gerhart, “The Restoration of Biblical Narrative,” in Narrative Research on the Hebrew Bible, ed. M. Amihai, G. W. Coates and A. M. Solomon (Semeia, 46; Atlanta: Scholars, 1989), 13–29. 39 Compare B. Halpern’s argument that history is distinguished from fiction by the intent of the author (The First Historians The Hebrew Bible and History [University Park: Pennsylvania State UP, 2nd ed., 1996], 8). 38

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narrator to a fictional intent because that excludes the possibility that the author saw himself as coming to some pieces of information by divine inspiration. The thesis of fiction-as-history fails to explain why an author would deliberately dress his fiction in historical garb. Theories of pseudepigraphy are excluded because they attach to a person already known in the historical tradition; an impossibility if the whole tradition is fiction. Indeed the thesis that the Hebrew Bible was created in the Hellenistic period to provide a national history for the Jews is more convincing because it at least supplies a motive for the writing. Yet, even on that thesis, since at least some parts of the biblical text overlap with outside sources, the authors must have had some access to information. The question of what those sources were and how they were utilised cannot be avoided.

STRUCTURALISM The recognition of literary structure and story-telling techniques in the biblical text owes a lot to the influence of structuralism.40 Structuralism is often connected to a disinterest in the original meaning in the text and authorial intention. It would not be surprising to see a fusion of the ahistorical tone of structuralism and the presupposition that a complex text must be late. The former tells us that the original context of the text is not significant and the latter that we know the text must be late. They agree in doubting the historical information in the text. Yet that conclusion is not based on the text as such. If the structures of the text indicate that it wants to give the reader a message, that interpretation of the intent of the text is either the intent of the author or the erroneous interpretation of the reader or a completely fortuitous product of the assemblage of fragments into a text. The last possibility becomes less plausible the more obvious the crafting of the message within the text and within cognate texts. Order in human productions is rarely the product of accidents. Taking then the other two possibilities, how do we know See in general D. C. Greenwood, Structuralism and the Biblical Text (Berlin: Mouton, 1985); Poland, Literary Criticism and Biblical Hermeneutics. 40

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that we have read a message when the text had no message, or that we have read the wrong message? The answer must be from the structures of the text. Thus a concern with the structures of the text drives me to a conclusion on the existence of the message (if any) and its content. Notice I am not saying that the message conveyed by the text is necessarily true or anything like that. It is merely a matter of concluding that the text conveys a message. May the above conclusion be countered? Yes quite easily. One may say that every person must derive a different message from the text. Unfortunately I cannot understand that refutation because I am forced by the logic of that very position to interpret the refutation differently to the way other people do. In other words relativists cannot articulate their position without destroying it.41 Alternatively one may say that the reader can only comment on the structures of the text: any meaning those structures have is beyond the task of literary criticism. That means the restriction of criticism to a purely descriptive discipline and not an interpretive one. In practice structuralists generally go beyond pure description and restriction to description makes it a banal exercise. If I decide that a text has a message and I take the presupposition that we may come to at least some approximation of what the originator of the message intended, then I have made a conclusion about authorial intent. Going from some knowledge about authorial intent to a historical conclusion about the author is not an easy step. Too often one of a possible array of deductions from authorial intention is canonised. Nevertheless it is a contribution to a possible historical deduction about the author. Only if I have collateral information may I make my conclusions more certain.

THE ANCIENT TEXT AND US Thus my essential thesis is that how we view ourselves over against the biblical sources and, along with that, how we view the capacities of the authors must determine how we read the text. A denial of the capacity or intelligence of the authors does not 41

See Barr, History and Ideology in the Old Testamentt, 134.

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come out of the text itself, whether from its statements or its structures. The presuppositions which shaped traditional source criticism have great resilience and may reappear slightly disguised but they are still presuppositions. Yet I maintain that if we look at the text for itself two things are obvious. It is a sophisticated work and it tells us that prophets were important. The thrust of much scholarship may be contrary to those two considerations but cannot destroy those two considerations.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Aalders, G. Ch., Genesis. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1981. Ackroyd, P. R., “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. Ahlström, edited by W. B. Barrick and J. R. Spencer, 247–59. JSOT Sup. 31: Sheffield: JSOT, 1984. ______, “The Chronicler as Exegete,” JSOT 2 (1977): 2–32. ______, The Chronicler in His Age. JSOT Sup., 10; Sheffield: JSOT, 1991. Allen, L. C., “Kerygmatic Units in 1 and 2 Chronicles,” JSOT 41 (1988): 21–36. Alonso-Schökel, L., “Erzählkunst im Buche der Richter,” Biblica 42 (1961): 143–72. Alter, R., The Art of Biblical Narrative. New York: Basic Books, 1981. ______, “Sacred History and Prose Fiction,” in The Creation of Sacred Literature. Composition and Redaction of the Biblical Text, edited by R. E. Friedman, 7–14. Uni. of California Pub; Near Eastern Studies, 22; Berkeley: Uni of California, 1981. Anderson, B. W., ”From Analysis to Synthesis: The Interpretation of Genesis 1–11,” JBL 97 (1978): 23–39. ______, “Introduction: Martin Noth’s Traditio-Historical Approach in the Context of Twentieth-Century Biblical Research,” in M. Noth, A History of the Pentateuchal Traditions, translated by B. W. Anderson, xii–xxx. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1972. Assis, E., Self-Interest or Communal Interest: An Ideology of Leadership in the Gideon, Abimelech and Jephthah Narratives. VTS 106; Leiden: Brill, 2005 Auld, A.G., “The Deuteronomists and the Former Prophets or What Makes the Former Prophets Deuteronomistic?” in Those Elusive Deuteronomists: The Phenomenon of Pan-Deuteronomism, 347

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edited by L. S. Schearing and S. L. McKenzie, 116–126. JSOTS 268; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999. ______, “The Deuteronomists Between History and Theology,” in Congress Volume. Oslo 1998, edited by A. Lemaire and M. Sæbø, 353–67. VTS, 80; Leiden: Brill, 2000. ______, “Gideon: Hacking at the Heart of the Old Testament,” VT 39 (1989): 257–67. ______, “History-Interpretation-Theology: Issues in Biblical Religion,” in In Search of True Wisdom: Essays in Old Testament Interpretation in Honour of Ronald E. Clements, edited by E. Ball, 22–36. JSOT Sup. 300; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999, ______, Kings Without Privilege. David and Moses in the Story of the Bible’s Kings. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1994. ______, “Prophets and Prophecy in Jeremiah and Kings,” ZAW 96 (1984): 66–82. Auld, A. G., and C. Y. S. Ho, “The Making of David and Goliath,” JSOT 56 (1992): 19–39. Auvray, P., Richard Simon 1638–1712: Étude bio-bibliographique avec des textes inédits. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1974. Baden, J. S., J, E and the Redacxtion of the Pentateuch. Forschungen zum Alten Testament, 68; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009, Bar-Efrat, S. Narrative Art in the Bible, Bible and Literature Series, 17; JSOT Sup., 70; Sheffield: Almond, 1989. Barr, J., The Bible in the Modern World. London:SCM, 1973. ______, History and Ideology in the Old Testament: Biblical Studies at the End of a Millennium.. Oxford: OUP, 2000. Barthélemy, D., “Trois niveaux d’analyse (à propos de David et Goliath),” in D. Barthélemy et al., The Story of David and Goliath, 47–54. Barthélemy, D., D. W. Gooding, L. Lust, and E. Tov, The Story of David and Goliath: Textual and Literary Criticism. Orbis biblicus et orientalis, 73; Fribourg Suisse: Éditions universitaires/ Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986. Barton, J., “Canon and Old Testament Interpretation,” in In Search of True Wisdom: Essays in Old Testament Interpretation in Honour of Ronald E. Clements, edited by E. Ball, 37–52. JSOT Sup. 300; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1999, ______, “Historical Criticism and Literary Interpretation: Is There Any Common Ground?” in Crossing Boundaries Essays in Biblical Interpretation in Honour of Michael D. Goulder, edited by

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INDEX OF SCRIPTURE PASSAGES

Genesis 1 1-11 1:1-2:3 1:9,10 2-3 2:4 2:5,6 2:9 2:16-17 3:2,3 3:22 4 4:1 4:19-24 4:26 5 5:24 6:1-4 6:10-7:24 6:13-22 6:18-21 6:20 7 7:1-5 7:5 7:6 7:7-10 7:9 7:11-12 7:11-16 7:16-24 8:1 8:2,3 9:18-19 10 11

11:30 12:1-3 12:6,7 12:10 12:10-20 12:11-15 13 13:7 15 15:1-4 15:6 15:13-16 16:1,2 17 17:1-6 17:7 20 20:1-7 21:9 22:2 22:13-14 22:20-24 25:1-4 25:12-18 25:19 25:21 26 26:1 26:2 26:4 26:6-11 26:7-11 28:41 29:31,32 31:31,32 31:43 32:11,12

43,45,47,53 69 36 39 43,45,47,50-53 36 39 51 51 51 51 35,45 67 66 35 35,36,37,45 35 64-67 60 36 53,54 53 54,57-59 36,44,53 55,56 55 55 55 59-60 56 59-61 60-61 59-61 60 35,36 36,37

373

22 23 23,24 20, 23 25 20 25 25 25,48 22 26 297 22 25 25 25 20 25 26 70 70-71 27 27 27 27 23 20,30 20 20 25 25 20 26 22 20 25 20,25

374

SOURCES AND AUTHORS

34:29 35:2 36 37 37:2 38 38:11.14

45 43-45 27 26 27 31 31

Exodus 3:11-15 3:13-15 6:2-3 12:12 15 20

47 43,48 43,48 43,44 133 45

Numbers 6 9:15-10:13 10

133 251 252

Deuteronomy 12:5-7,11-12,18 16:10,11 17:14 26:11 27:7 29:29 33:26,27

252 252 154,155 252 252 241 41

Joshua 10:40 13:1-7 15:51 16:2 18:21-24 23:1-5 24:14,15

240 78 129 129 274 78,240 44

Judges 1:1-2;5 1:11-15 1:13 2:1-5 2:6 2:10 2:18-19 3:5-8 3:9

76-80 105 101 101 76,79-80 104 99,101 105 101

3:9-11 3:15 3:15-30 3:30 3:31 4 4:3 4:4 4:8-9 4:21 4:22 4:23,24 4:24 5 5:1 5:16,17,23 5:26 5:27 5:31 6:8 6:8-11 6:11-8:3 6:11,27 6:11-24 6:25-32 6:34-35 7:9-15 7:13 7:16-20 7:24-25 8:1-3 8:4 8:4-12 8:5-9,13-17 8:22-27 8:28 8:31 8:33-35 9:4 9:5,18 9:7-20 9:23 9:26-29 9:53 10:1 10:1-5 10:11-14 10:13 11:1

81 101 82-84 158 84 87,89 101 90 85 86 87 158 88 88 133 86 87 86 86,88 90 89 197 164 92 92 92 91 101 105 92 89,92 91 197 92 93 89,94,158 102 94 102 98 95-98 94 94 98 99 84 101 102 102

INDEX OF SCRIPTURE PASSAGES 11:3 11:7 11:11,29 11:12-27 11:36,37 12:1-6 12:7 12:8-15 13:1 13:5 13:7 15:4 15:9-12 15:18 15:20 16:13,14 16:28 16:31 17 17:6 17:2-3 17:13 18:1 18:23-26 19 19:1 19:4-8 19:11-22 19:25 19:27-28 21:25

102 102 101 102 116 103 99,158 84,99 104 104,153 132 105 104 105 99 115 105 99,158 152 152 109 109 110,152 109 156 110,152 109 110 110 110 110,152

1 Samuel 1 1-3 1:1 1:3 1:11 1:12-15 1:20 2 2:1-10 2:10 2:11 2:12-17 2:12-17,22-25 2:18-21 2:27-36 2:35

133,138 138,140,144-145 154 114 132 132 132 138,139 133 134 114 114 138 115,138 115,135,139 115

3 3:11-14 3:20 4 4-7 4:1 4:1-18a,19-21 4:3 4:4 4:7 4:8 5:1-11b,12 6:1-3b,4,10-14,16 6:6 6:19-7:1 7 7:1 7:1,2 7:5 7:7 7:8 7:13,14 7:15 8 8:10-18 8:5 8:11-17 8:20 8-12 9 9-12 9:1 9:2 9:4-6 9:14-16 9:16 10:5 10:5-13 10:7 10:7-8 10:12 10:14-12:45 10:16 10:18-19 10:18-21 10:21,22 10:23-24 11,12

375 115 139 136 140 144 140 137 140,141 141 141 142 137 137 142 137 140,151,167 139,143 140 140 141 140,141 147,156 158 147,149,151,153, 154,155 148,152 151,154 151 151 147 147,151,157,165-66 155 154 151,156 162 162 147,151,153,160 147 156 164 147,162 174 163 164 148 156 164 115,176 163

376

SOURCES AND AUTHORS

12 12:3 12:1-17 12:6-13 12:12 13 13,14 13:3 13:7,8 13:8-14 14:43 15:8,9 15:12 16-18 16:6-7 17:11-12 17:28 18:1 18:6-9 18:10-11 18:17-27 19:1-10 19:23,24 20:8 20:32-33 21 21:10-15 21:19 22:11-19 22:20-23 23:1-12 24 24:4-7 24:20 25 26:6-12 28:6 28:6-11 30:6-8

151 151 148 156 147 162 116,163 116 116 147,260 116 117 117 168-76 115,120,156 115 120 116 118 118 118 118 156 171 118 140 118 179 118 118 131 180 118-119 119 119 118-119 260 118 118

2 Samuel 2:18-23 3:26-27 3:31-39 5,6 6 6:1-15,17-20a 7:11-16 9

123 123 123 234 142 137 265 123

11 12:9-12 13:21 15:18-22 16:1-4 17:5-14 17:27-29 18:33 19:1-8 19:11-15,40-43 19:24-30 19:31-39 20:10 21 22 23 24 24:17

120-121 130 125 129 126 180 127,129 125 126 125,126 127 127 124 129,130,131 133 126,130 122.126,130,131 70

1 Kings 1,2 2:4 2:27 3:3 5:27 8:4 8:8 8:25 9:4,5 9:11-14 9:21,22 9:26-10:29 11:29-39 11:36 11:40 12:1 12:1-19 12:4 12:19 13:1-3 13:2 14:22 14:22,23 14:22-24 14:25,26 14:26 14:30 15:3 15:4,5

121 318 136,137.139 319 236 195 317 318 318 237 236 237 321 318 322 322 322 272 317 135 137 268 319 269 269 239 158 270 241

INDEX OF SCRIPTURE PASSAGES 15:11-14 15:12 15:14 15:18 15:18-23 15:23 15:23 15:24 15:32 16:1-4 16:7 16:20 17-19 21 22 22:39 22:41-50 22:43 22:48-49

277 274 278,319 239 277 277,283 217 280,293 158 281 217 216 321 321 280 216 280 319 283

2 Kings 3 8:19 8:22 10:6 10:29 11:1 11:17-19 12:2 12:18 12:20,21 13:2 14:19 14:25 15:5 15:7 15:15 15:35 16:8 17 17:7-19 17:9-11 18:4,22 18:5 19:6-7,20-34 20:1-5 20:20 21:2-15 21:10-15

280 241,318 317 317 307 276 323 230 264 293 307 293 227 293 294 216 294 239,264 302 327 319 299 325 282 241 217 214 241

377

21:17 22:1-23:3 22:13 23 23:4-20 23:25 23:28 23:28-30 24:13 26:15

216 322 270 251 323 325 295 292 238,239 238,239

1 Chronicles 4:41 10 10,11 11-14 11:1-4,12 12:20,21 12:23 15 13:1,2 15:13 15:16 15:25-28 16 16:4 16:5,6 17:11-14 20:5 21 21:16 22:19 22,23 23:24-32 24:3 25:1,2 27 29:1-9 29:29,30

246 259-60,261 233 234 276 258 233 255 276 261 250,252 276 250 252 252 265 179 258 70 261 291 248,250 255 250,255 265 255 218,225

2 Chronicles 1:1-17 1:3 2:1-16 2:11,12 2:17-5:1 3:1 5:2-7:22 5:1-7

266 255 266 294 266 70 266 255

378 5:11-14 5:12 7:6 7:8 7:12-15 7:17-18 8:1-16 8:2 8:7-9 8:14 8:17-9:12 9:8 9:13-28 9:29 10 10:1-11:4 10:15 11:5-12 11:13-17 10:15 12:1 12:9 12:1,2 12:14 12:15 13:5 13:6 13:6,7 13:13-19 13:14-18 13:19 13:22 14:3 14:1-5 14:6,7 15:1-6 15:8-15 15:16 15:17 15:25 16:1-10 16:12 16:2 16:7-10 16:7-12 16:11 16:12 17:3,4 17:7,8

SOURCES AND AUTHORS 251 252 252 255 264 265-6 266 237 236 248 266 294 266 218 271 268 271 268 268 247,258 276 239 269 124 218 271 275 271 281 274 274 218 278 277 277 279 279 277 278 275 269 269 239 293 277 219 262,293 262 280

17:7-9 17:12-19 19:2,3 19:5-11 20 20:1 20:1,2 20:6-12 20:20 20:34 20:35-37 21:7 21:12-20 21:16-19 23:2 24:17-22 24:20-25 24:23 24:27 25:14-27 25:24 25:26 26:16 26:16-21 27:1-9 27:2 27:7 28 28:21 28:22 28:24 28:26 29:3 29:12-16 29:16 29:20-36 29:25 29:26 29:30 29:34 30:2 30:18-20 31:9,10 32:16-19 32:20 32:25 32:31 32:21 32:26

281 281 269,284 281 282 269 283 281 283 218,219,281,291 283 269 293 269 276 230 293 264 219 293 239 218 290 293 294 294 219 289 264 289 238 219 290 255 248 253 250 252 252 255 255 262 249 282 282 290 290 282 265,294

INDEX OF SCRIPTURE PASSAGES 32:32 33:12,13 33:18 33:18,19 34 34:21 34:22-28 35:1-6 35:3 35:8,9 35:20-27 35:25 35:26,27 36:8 36:10 36:12 36:22

218,219,226 289 219 291 291 268,270 241 251 242 255 292 221,295 219,295 219 238 221 221

Ezra 1:7-11 6:16-18 8 8:15-20

238 256 279 249

Nehemiah 8:8-12 11:4-10 13:10

252 254 249

379

Psalms 29 104 145

41 38,39,40 41

Isaiah 9:17 10:5-19 37:24 57:15

96 272 96 41

Jeremiah 22:7 27:16 28:3,6

96 238 238

Amos 2:4 5:25

196 196

Jonah 2

133

Habakkuk 3

133

Malachi 3:8

249