The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Study of the Humanities (Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah) 900437616X, 9789004376168

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The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Study of the Humanities

Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah Edited by George J. Brooke Associate Editors Eibert J.C. Tigchelaar Jonathan Ben-Dov Alison Schofield

VOLUME 125

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/stdj

The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Study of the Humanities Method, Theory, Meaning: Proceedings of the Eighth Meeting of the International Organization for Qumran Studies (Munich, 4–7 August, 2013) Edited by

Pieter B. Hartog Alison Schofield Samuel I. Thomas

LEIDEN | BOSTON

The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available online at http://catalog.loc.gov LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2018024147

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 0169-9962 isbn 978-90-04-37616-8 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-37639-7 (e-book) Copyright 2018 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense and Hotei Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents Introduction vii Eibert J.C. Tigchelaar and Pieter B. Hartog Sources, Fragments, and Additions: Biblical Criticism and the Dead Sea Scrolls 1 Reinhard G. Kratz Post-Colonialism, Hybridity, and the Dead Sea Scrolls 28 Samuel L. Adams The Social Milieu of 4QJera (4Q70) in a Second Temple Jewish Manuscript Culture: Fragments, Manuscripts, Variance, and Meaning 53 Kipp Davis Male and Female, Heaven and Earth: Claude Lévi-Strauss’s Structuralist Approach to Myth and the Enochic Myth of the Watchers 77 Matthew Goff Pesher as Commentary 92 Pieter B. Hartog 4QCantb—Ein dramatischer Text 117 Matthias Hopf Scribal Approaches to Damaged Manuscripts: Not Just a Modern Dilemma 141 Drew Longacre Das Jubiläenbuch als Erzählung, Mose als Schreiber: Diachrone Beobachtungen zu einem synchronen Ansatz 165 Simone Paganini Reading Sectarian Spaces: Critical Spatial Theory and the Case of the Yahad 176 Alison Schofield

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Sociolinguistics and the Misleading Use of the Concept of Anti-Language for Qumran Hebrew 195 Eibert J.C. Tigchelaar Index of Modern Authors 207 Index of Ancient Sources 211

Introduction Eibert J.C. Tigchelaar and Pieter B. Hartog The eighth meeting of the International Organization for Qumran Studies (IOQS) was held jointly with the meeting of the International Organization for the Study of the Old Testament (IOSOT) in Munich from 4–7 August, 2013. For this meeting, the secretary and steering committee of the IOQS invited papers on any topic relating to the Dead Sea Scrolls that explicitly addressed, or reflected upon, issues of methodology and theory, whether classical, modern, or post-modern. In the area of classical methods, this could involve how methods that are used in biblical scholarship, such as textual criticism and its objectives or redaction and recension criticism, have to be rethought in light of the scrolls—or, reversely, how more recent developments of those methods in biblical and literary scholarship could (or should) affect the study of the Dead Sea Scrolls. As regards new methods, the call for papers suggested that papers could reflect on the application of literary and linguistic methods—e.g., modern genre theory, semantics, or metaphor study—to the scrolls. One could also think of theories and approaches drawn from the social sciences. Other approaches that gradually are being applied in the study of the scrolls include cognitive science, performance theory and ritual studies. Post-modern approaches, lastly, could include insights from gender studies, including masculinist studies, or post-colonialism. Behind this theme lay the question how the study of the humanities can contribute to the study of the scrolls, and how scrolls studies participate in the modern study of the humanities. The organizers strongly expressed the wish that papers include more than a discussion of method or theory and move beyond theory to offer readings of particular texts.

Papers at the Meeting

Some of the papers at the meeting dealt with issues of literary methods as applied in biblical scholarship and Qumran studies, and how these two could have an impact on one another. Reinhard G. Kratz delivered the keynote lecture for this meeting. His paper “Sources, Fragments, and Additions: Biblical Criticism and the Dead Sea Scrolls” is included in this volume. Hindy Najman covered the names and designations of scrolls, observing that these often use terms that express relationships to the corpus of the Hebrew Bible. In an attempt to

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sidestep some of the problems with the concept “Rewritten Scripture”—most notably the fact that the concept mixes up reception and composition—Hans Debel explored the possibilities of Gérard Genette’s notions of hypotext and hypertext. Hanne von Weissenberg reflected on the terminology of “authoritative” texts, and Armin Lange discussed his and Russell Fuller’s joint work on the textual criticism of allusions and quotations in the scrolls. Corrado Martone revisited and assessed Dominique Barthélemy’s theory that the Naḥal Ḥever Minor Prophets scroll is the missing link between pre-masoretic fluidity and masoretic uniformity. Kipp Davis and Torleif Elgvin presented Schøyen fragments and correlated this to issues of multiple literary editions and the process of canonizing the Megillot. Davis’s paper on 4Q70 (4QJera) is included in this volume. Andrea Ravasco surveyed methods in the reconstruction of 4QSama. Matthias Hopf proposed a reading of 4QCanticlesb as a dramatic text on the basis of the signs in the manuscript (see the paper included in this volume). Larry Schiffman, finally, reflected broadly on the fundamental methodological issues involved when one comes to study a non-biblical Dead Sea Scrolls text. Many scholars dealt with new methods, both literary and linguistic ones, or the use of theories or categorizations in scrolls scholarship. Martin Abegg presented a generative syntactic analysis of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Eibert Tigchelaar surveyed the application of the concept anti-language to Qumran Hebrew. Drew Longacre dealt with the treatment of defective exemplars in past and present. Elisa Uusimäki demonstrated the value of material construction as applied to 4QBeatitudes. Bennie H. Reynolds raised the problem of the category “demons.” Matthew Goff examined to what extent anthropological and religious studies approaches to “myth” could contribute to interpreting the “myth of the watchers” in the scrolls and 1 Enoch. Bärry Hartog explored how a discourse-focused approach to commentaries could further our understanding of the pesharim. Revised versions of Tigchelaar’s, Longacre’s, Goff’s, and Hartog’s papers are included here. Modern approaches, including social-scientific ones, were applied by Jutta Jokiranta and Samuel Thomas. Jokiranta focused on ritual theories drawn from the cognitive science of religion, Thomas on metaphor and ritual in Qumran liturgical texts. Samuel Adams demonstrated the relevance of post-colonial theory for understanding the scrolls, and Ana Barbulescu applied Peter L. Berger’s sociology of knowledge to the Damascus Document. Alison Schofield applied critical spatial theory to the Yahad. Adams’s and Schofield’s papers feature in this volume. Several lectures did not address method or theory directly, but offered other studies on the scrolls. Ananda Geyser-Fouche spoke on Chronicles and Qumran. Simone Paganini dealt with the book of Jubilees as narrative (see his paper in this volume). Paul Heger addressed the question whether women were

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members of the Edah-Yahad. Marcus Tso compared virtue ethics in 4Q298 and Galatians. Yoram Erder spoke on Karaite biblical exegesis and the Qumran sect. Liora Goldman argued that the Damascus Document can be defined as a thematic pesher. John Kampen addressed the relation between sectarianism and wisdom. Devorah Dimant talked about pesharim terminology in the Hodayot. Shani Tzoref surveyed exegetical representations of “gentiles” in the pesharim. Annette Steudel reflected on the relationship between D and S. Finally, Ulrich Dahmen and Heinz-Josef Fabry presented some theological and lexicographic results of their work on the Theologisches Wörterbuch zu den Qumrantexten.

This Volume

Only a handful of the papers presented at the IOQS meeting have found their way into this volume. In the period between the meeting in Munich and the appearance of this volume, many scholars have included the work they presented in Munich in other publications. The original team of editors of this volume—consisting of George Brooke, Alison Schofield, Samuel Thomas, and Eibert Tigchelaar—has peer-reviewed and given feedback to all the papers submitted to this volume. All papers have subsequently been revised by their authors. Thanks are due to Maartje van Veluw, who assisted in preparing the indices to this volume. The result is a multi-faceted volume, which captures the breadth of topics addressed and methodologies presented at the Munich conference. Unsurprisingly, the connection between Qumran studies and traditional methods in biblical studies is well-represented, with Kratz, Davis, and Longacre all addressing methodological aspects of textual criticism. Adams, Goff, Schofield, and Tigchelaar address the advantages and pitfalls of applying approaches common in the humanities, but comparatively new in the study of the scrolls (post-colonial theory, structuralist analysis, spatial theory, and sociolinguistics), to the Qumran corpus. Hartog and Hopf, finally, take their cue from the study of specific types of text in classical studies and the humanities (commentaries and dramatic texts) and attempt to integrate texts from the Qumran corpus within this wider framework. The papers in this volume offer an invitation to cross-fertilization, addressed to Qumran scholars and scholars in adjacent fields like classics, archaeology, ancient history, literary studies, and others. The study of Qumran has long been isolated from academic debates within the humanities and social sciences. Ahead of Qumran scholarship lies the task to remedy this situation and to demonstrate the importance of the scrolls for the study of culture and religion more broadly.

Sources, Fragments, and Additions: Biblical Criticism and the Dead Sea Scrolls Reinhard G. Kratz The Hebrew Bible (like the New Testament or the Qurʾan) has come to us as an almost hermetically sealed corpus of writings. According to the religious claims of this corpus its authority is indisputable. As a result, biblical scholarship, which is usually bound to a religious (Jewish or Christian) community, is sometimes struggling to apply the usual methods of historical criticism to the collection of its “holy scriptures.” For this reason and also because confidence in its own abilities to obtain reliable results has fallen sharply—compared with previous generations of scholars in the 18th, 19th, and 20th centuries—, biblical scholarship today is desperately looking for empirical evidence. The discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls seventy years ago has given us such empirical evidence in abundance. For the first time we are permitted an authentic insight into the status of the manuscript tradition of biblical and many parabiblical writings in the period from the 3rd century BCE to the 1st century CE. And therefore, for the first time, we have the opportunity to check the results of the 200-year history of biblical scholarship on the basis of ancient manuscripts. The fields and means of comparison are extremely diverse. The most prominent of these is textual criticism, for which, even before the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, there was external empirical evidence in the form of ancient versions (in particular the Septuagint). The standard work here is Emanuel Tov’s Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible, a new edition of which appeared in 2012.1 In addition, the Dead Sea Scrolls invite us to review our hypotheses on form, tradition, religious, theological and historical criticism. Above all, they allow us to study the means, techniques and trends involved in ancient interpretations of biblical writings, which are documented in various forms (Rewritten Bible or Rewritten Scripture respectively, pesharim etc.).   This paper was presented at conferences in Jerusalem, Leipzig, and Munich, and I would like to thank the audiences for many helpful feedback and comments. The paper was finished in the Academic year 2014–2015, which I spent as an Overseas Visiting Scholar in St John’s College, Cambridge. I would like to express my gratitude to the College as well as to my host, Dr. Nathan McDonald, who invited me and provided to me a peaceful and most enjoyable environment to do research. 1  Emanuel Tov, Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible, 3rd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2012).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi:10.1163/9789004376397_002

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Ultimately, the manuscripts represent a welcome opportunity of control for the methods of compositional criticism (Literar- and Redaktionskritik), which will be the focus in this paper. In the following pages I will deal first of all with the question of what biblical scholarship can learn from the Dead Sea Scrolls. Then, I want to pose the question in reverse and ask what Qumran studies can learn from biblical criticism for its exploration of the Dead Sea Scrolls. The Temple Scroll in particular will serve as a test case that allows us to approach the question from these two complementary perspectives.2 1 Biblical scholars rarely pose the question what biblical scholarship can learn from the Dead Sea Scrolls beyond textual criticism. The reason for this is obvious: Old Testament scholarship is still focused primarily on the canon of the Hebrew Bible. The Septuagint, the Apocrypha, and the Pseudepigrapha have always led a shadowy existence and have been relegated to a specialist discipline for a few experts. For many scholars the texts from the Dead Sea are even more remote. Their use requires a great deal of basic research in palaeography and material reconstruction. The work has already taken up a lot of the time of the editors of the scrolls, and even now, after their publication in the series Discoveries in the Judaean Desert (DJD) and other editions, is not fully completed. Measured against gain, the work is too arduous for most scholars, especially when they believe that the texts are mostly post-biblical and therefore not relevant to their research.

2  Yigael Yadin, The Temple Scroll, 3 vols. and supplements, rev. ed. (Jerusalem: The Israel Exploration Society, 1983); Émile Puech, “4QRouleau du Temple,” in idem, Qumrân Grotte 4, XVIII: Textes Hébreux (4Q521–4Q528, 4Q576–4Q579), DJD 25 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 85– 114, plates vii–viii; Elisha Qimron, The Dead Sea Scrolls: The Hebrew Writings, vol. 1 (Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi, 2010), 137–207; James H. Charlesworth et al., Temple Scroll and Related Documents, PTSDSSP 7 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck; Louisville: Westminster James Knox, 2011); Johann Maier, Die Tempelrolle vom Toten Meer und das „Neue Jerusalem“, 3rd completely rev. and expanded ed. (Munich: Ernst Reinhardt, 1997); Annette Steudel, Die Texte aus Qumran II: Hebräisch/Aramäisch und Deutsch (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2001), 1–157. For an introduction see Sidnie White Crawford, The Temple Scroll and Related Texts, CQS 2 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000); eadem, Rewriting Scripture in Second Temple Times, SDSSRL (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 84–104; for a more detailed treatment Lawrence H. Schiffman, The Courtyards of the House of the Lord: Studies on the Temple Scroll, STDJ 75 (Leiden: Brill, 2008).

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Conversely, however, Qumran scholarship is also not particularly interested in what it can learn from critical biblical scholarship, either because Qumran scholars are not biblical scholars and hence not concerned with biblical criticism and its results, or because they look upon biblical criticism with a certain degree of scepticism—usually for religious, but also for methodological reasons. Again, there is a fixation on the canon of the Hebrew Bible. Qumran scholarship tends to see the Hebrew canon as a completed and already fixed entity which is taken for granted as the textual basis for the (later) Dead Sea Scrolls without considering possible overlaps, interrelations or analogies in the formation and development of biblical texts and Dead Sea Scrolls. However, there are exceptions on both sides. In the field of compositional criticism, David Carr in particular has been in search of empirical evidence for some time. In his latest book he uses classical examples from the ancient Near East (Gilgamesh, Assyrian royal inscriptions), examples from the Hebrew Bible itself (Chronicles, Ezra-Nehemiah), and even the Dead Sea Scrolls in order to reconstruct the history of the Bible backwards from the most recent to the oldest books.3 One of Carr’s examples is the Temple Scroll from Qumran, which Stephen Kaufman had previously considered in his contribution to the 8th World Congress of Jewish Studies in 1981 in Jerusalem as a test case for “Higher Criticism.”4 Using selected passages Kaufman and Carr demonstrated the techniques of rewriting biblical and suspected extra-biblical sources in this work, which they based on the preliminary work carried out by Michael Owen Wise, Dwight Swanson and others.5 Kaufman identified six exegetical patterns: (1) Original composition (author or redactor’s own wording, recognisable from the linguistic idiosyncrasies); (2) Paraphrastic conflation (combination of two or more biblical formulations with a high proportion of idiosyncrasies); 3  David M. Carr, The Formation of the Hebrew Bible: A New Reconstruction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). See also the classic work of Jeffrey H. Tigay, “An Empirical Basis for the Documentary Hypothesis,” JBL 94 (1975): 329–42; idem, The Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982; repr., Wauconda: Bolchazy-Carducci, 2002); idem, Empirical Models for Biblical Criticism (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985); and Hans J. Tertel, Text and Transmission: An Empirical Model for the Literary Development of Old Testament Narratives, BZAW 221 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1993). 4  Stephan A. Kaufman, “The Temple Scroll and Higher Criticism,” HUCA 53 (1982): 29–43. 5  Michael O. Wise, A Critical Study of the Temple Scroll From Qumran Cave 11, SAOC 49 (Chicago: The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 1990); Dwight D. Swanson, The Temple Scroll and the Bible: The Methodology of 11QT, STDJ 14 (Leiden: Brill 1995).

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(3) Fine conflation (as 2, but using biblical styles of expression); (4) Gross conflation (combination of all relevant bible passages on a topic); (5) Modified Torah quotation (quotation of a passage from the Torah with modifications); (6) Extended Torah quotation (direct quotation). Although Carr does not adhere to the schema proposed by Kaufman, he arrives more or less at the same result.6 He begins with a case in which the Temple Scroll offers a text that is shorter than its biblical Vorlage and thus could represent an older text.7 Furthermore, he notes the literal identity of the biblical Vorlage or one of its versions (Septuagint, Samaritan Pentateuch) with the Temple Scroll in some places, which, apart from minor variations, suggests a more or less unchanged reproduction of the text.8 Finally, Carr presents cases in which the Vorlage has been changed, sometimes by omission, but usually by the addition of material from other biblical passages or material which, as far as we are aware, is entirely new (at least not known to us). These additions range from minor to major all the way up to the combination and conflation of formulations from diverse contexts.9 As a consequence for biblical criticism, Kaufman and Carr conclude that a reconstruction of the formation and literary development of biblical writings is not impossible but extremely difficult and only hypothetically possible. The empirical evidence in the Temple Scroll prove that the writings have been revised, altered and have grown in the course of reproduction. Without knowledge of the Vorlage, however, most changes cannot be detected and this means that the various original stages or sources cannot be reconstructed. The critic has to restrict himself/herself to the extended layers and blocks (such as JE, P, D, Dtr) and the interrelationship of the books (or scrolls r­ espectively). For Kaufman the sole decisive criterion is language and style (vocabulary, syntax, morphology); Carr also takes quantity10 into account, i.e., only a few and larger strata, separate scrolls. Both ‘critics’ reject finer literary-historical ­differentiations of the biblical text.

6  Carr, Formation, 48–56. 7  Deut 17:5//11QTa 55:20–21. 8  Deut 18:20–22//11QTa 61:1–5 or Deut 22:6–8//11QTa 65:2–7. This case conforms to Kaufman’s patterns 5–6. 9  These cases conform to Kaufman’s patterns 1–4. 10  Carr, Formation, 145, 148, therefore wants to restrict his analysis to separate scrolls and only two or three larger strata.

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On the basis of the empirical evidence as well as the many methodological reservations that Kaufman and Carr have raised with regard to the critical analysis of biblical writings, especially the Pentateuch, one actually should forego the analysis and restrict oneself to the documented variants of the textual history in the manuscripts and versions. However, since Carr wanted to write a book about the formation of Hebrew Bible, he decided to choose a “middle way” and suggested a “ ‘methodologically modest’ form of transmission history.”11 This “middle way” is not immediately apparent from the empirical data, but is a concession to the bewildering variety of the observed phenomena in the manuscripts and the limits of their explanations. This method allows Carr to draw a separating line between the application and abandonment of redaction criticism so as to reflect just how far one is willing to go. This recalls Julius Wellhausen’s biting comment on the former opponents of biblical criticism of his days that—once they had to give up their general ­opposition—they “concede compromise, commend criticism and merely condemn hyper-criticism.”12 I myself would place an emphasis somewhat different from Carr’s. The manuscripts of the Community Rule Serekh ha-Yaḥad (QS), which Carr himself selected as an example, and the reformulation of this work in the Damascus Document (QD),13 show that even relatively recent texts have been revised more than two or three times within a short period of time and supplemented to a greater or lesser extent, both with or without a biblical Vorlage, which is quoted to an ever-increasing extent as the texts grow. In addition, a comparison of the manuscripts of Serekh ha-Yaḥad, which were discovered in Caves 1 and 4, show that revisions include small and very small changes, which are partially indistinguishable from text-critical variants (from other versions or from memory). Why should one not expect such phenomena in biblical writings, however difficult and uncertain it may be to identify them with certainty? Conversely, as Carr has demonstrated with regard to the Temple Scroll and other examples, we can also, in some cases, expect large-scale additions, which split an older context and separate the two ends at a great distance from each 11  Carr, Formation, 147–48. 12  Julius Wellhausen, introduction to Einleitung in das Alte Testament, by Friedrich Bleek, ed. Julius Wellhausen, 5th ed. (Berlin: Georg Reimer, 1886), 1–4 (3): “Compromisse schliessen, die Kritik preisen und nur die Hyperkritik verdammen.” 13  Regarding the literary relationship between QS and QD see Reinhard G. Kratz, “Der ‘Penal Code’ und das Verhältnis von Serekh ha-Yachad (S) und Damaskusschrift (D),” RevQ 25/98 (2011): 199–227; Annette Steudel, “The Damascus Document (D) as a Rewriting of the Community Rule (S),” RevQ 25/100 (2012): 605–20.

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other. An example of this is the connection of Deut 17:2 to 17:1, which in the Temple Scroll is separated by three columns (cols. 52–55), or the connection of Deut 18 to the laws concerning kingship in Deut 17:14–20, between which in the Temple Scroll there are four columns (cols. 56–60). It is incomprehensible to me why, for example, the connection of Josh 2:1 or 3:1 (the departure of the Israelites from Shittim into the Promised Land after the death of Moses in Deut 34:5–6) to Num 25:1 (the last station in Shittim after wandering in the desert) should be unthinkable just because there are some very late chapters in Num 25–36 and the book of Deuteronomy in between, which are considered by almost everyone to be secondary.14 In any case, quantity seems to me to be an inappropriate argument for or against a redaction critical reconstruction. It uses a final version of a text and not the empirical data as criterion. Finally, one must remember that the empirical data for the biblical tradition from Qumran, on which Kaufman and Carr base their theories, date back to the final phase of literary-historical development and are mainly of a texthistorical nature. Therefore they cannot be readily, and certainly not exclusively, taken into account for the earlier phases of textual growth. The same objection applies to the comparison with the Temple Scroll. With regard to the techniques of the reception and interpretation of biblical and suspected nonbiblical material it basically does not offer anything new. At least nothing that could not have already been observed and studied in Chronicles or at some places in the Septuagint. It does, however, raise the question of whether this kind of Rewritten Bible literature represents a suitable analogy to every form of biblical literature and its formation. In their comparison, both Kaufman and Carr essentially have the documentary hypothesis in mind for the genesis of the Pentateuch.15 But even here there is a danger of undue generalisation. On the one hand, the documentary hypothesis is currently extremely controversial and no longer the only hypothesis for the genesis of the Pentateuch; on the other hand, it is by no means representative of compositional and redactional hypotheses in general, for example in the Prophets, the Psalms or the Wisdom literature, not to speak of the Rewritten Bible literature in the Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha or from Qumran. Kaufman in particular, whilst smugly smiling at the “critic,” does not take into account that, in the majority of cases, biblical criticism is not at all concerned 14  Thus Carr, Formation, 112–14. Something similar can be observed in the relationship of S and D: the entire halakhic middle section—18 columns in the Da format—occurs between the reception of 1QS 5:1–7a in CD 2–20, in particular 3:12–4:12, and the continuation of 1QS 5:7b in CD 15–16 (Steudel, “Damascus Document”). 15  The same holds true for the—still ground-breaking—work of Tigay, see above n. 3.

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with reconstructing the exact (biblical) Vorlage—even if one e­ xists—which, indeed, is a task hardly likely to succeed. Rather, biblical criticism seeks to elicit as accurately as possible the stages in the formation of the text and its components, regardless of whether or not this concerns a free composition, the initial or reformulated and compiled text of oral or written traditions with or without reference to biblical texts, or the reformulation of a specific Vorlage (rewriting) such as Chronicles or the Temple Scroll. And so it is obvious and evident even with a “modest methodology” that the Covenant Code in Exod 20–23 is composed of the combination of a collection of casuistic legal propositions and all sorts of supplements (with or without a Vorlage). Furthermore, Deuteronomy is essentially a reformulation of the Covenant Code. The Priestly Source, including the Holiness Code, is a new version of the Covenant Code and Deuteronomy. And finally, the Temple Scroll is obviously a new version of all three corpora of law in the Pentateuch. One could also add the literary dependence of the Damascus Document on Serekh ha-Yaḥad, both of which in turn are derived from the Torah in the Pentateuch.16 However, neither the apparent interdependence of the biblical and parabiblical texts, nor the empirical data from the Dead Sea Scrolls invoke an argument for or against an attempt to differentiate more closely according to internal criteria, i.e., style and content, the dependencies themselves as well as the textual components. What biblical criticism, after all, can learn from the Dead Sea Scrolls and from the Temple Scroll and similar works of Rewritten Bible literature in particular is, in the first place, that the literary production of biblical and parabiblical writings has something to do with interpretation and the rules of interpretation.17 Compositional and redactional history is a history of reception and interpretation. With regard to a reconstruction of the text formation, pertinent examples can demonstrate the limitations, but also the means, of analysing biblical texts. It is true that the empirical data in the Dead Sea Scrolls and elsewhere are so diverse and heterogeneous that they urge us to be cautious and allow in small as well as large matters only hypothetical reconstruction. But instead of deriving a half-hearted compromise based on reservations about methodology which “commends criticism and merely condemns higher criticism,” one can view the large range of possible editorial techniques as a model of what is to be expected in the reconstruction of textual formation—of 16  Kratz, “Penal Code.” 17  For the following see Reinhard G. Kratz, “Innerbiblische Exegese und Redaktionsgeschichte im Lichte empirischer Evidenz,” in Das Judentum im Zeitalter des Zweiten Tempels, FAT 42 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004; repr., 2006; 2nd ed., 2013), 126–56.

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course, always subject to the proviso that it is a hypothesis. In particular, the numerous subtle reformulations in the Qumran examples, which would not be recognised without knowledge of the Vorlage, urge us to analyse the biblical texts in as much detail as possible and to differentiate them tentatively as precisely as possible. Here too, Wellhausen’s comment on history and historiography holds true: “History, it is well known, has always to be ­constructed…. The question is whether one constructs well or ill.”18 Kaufman and Carr also have to “construct.” Only on the basis of their analyses of the literary and redactional history—which in Carr’s latest book tends towards very bold, quite unconventional hypotheses—will we be able to assess whether they construct “well” or “ill.” 2 It is, however, not only the Bible critic who needs to “construct,” but also the Dead Sea Scrolls scholar. This leads us to the second issue which we want to discuss, namely, what can Qumran scholarship learn from biblical criticism, in particular from the compositional and redactional criticism of the bible. The issue is—as I am well aware—heavily loaded with ideological prejudice. Unlike textual criticism and many other fields of biblical scholarship, compositional and redactional criticism is an attempt to move beyond the text of the existing biblical books and ask questions about the formation of their literary composition. Many people—primarily for religious reasons—still consider this a taboo that is underpinned by various theoretical provisos of methodology: the method is too hypothetical and the results too divergent, so that it is impossible to make accurate statements about the literary history of a composition. According to legend, English musicians complained when they played Mozart’s music (in another version by Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy) for the first time that there were “too many notes.” “Too many layers” and “too many solutions” is the complaint of many Bible and Qumran scholars when faced with modern composition or redaction historical hypotheses. The tables, therefore, are turned many times: the literary and textual complexity is intentional and in every case can be explained by the intention of the author or 18  Julius Wellhausen, Prolegomena to the History of Israel, trans. J. Sutherland Black and Allan Menzies (Edinburgh: A. & C. Black, 1885; repr., Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994), 367. For the German original version see Julius Wellhausen, Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels, 6th ed. (Berlin: Georg Reimer, 1905), 365: “Konstruiren muß man bekanntlich die Geschichte immer…. Der Unterschied ist nur der, ob man gut oder schlecht konstruirt.”

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redactor. It is usually conveniently overlooked that other fields and methods of biblical scholarship which work with traditional versions of a text and the available data provided by the manuscripts, are no less hypothetical and the results no less divergent. Furthermore, sympathy or antipathy for particular approaches and directions of scholarship also plays a role—and again this is primarily religiously or culturally motivated, even personally determined. The name of Julius Wellhausen as a major representative of source criticism acts as a red rag to many Bible and Qumran scholars. Although they hardly know him or his work, they think they know what they have to think of him and his scholarship: “liberal protestant anti-Semitism,” “Hegelianism,” “hypercriticism” are tags that have been time and again attached to him. On the other side of the spectrum there are today methodological approaches of a more apologetic nature. These call on the history of language in their analysis and classification of the sources in the Pentateuch, or locate critical issues in the area of oral, pre-literary history, or conversely, in the textual history, or concentrate exclusively on the transmitted (Masoretic) final or canonical form of the text. Consciously or unconsciously, the different directions in biblical criticism, and the ideological conditions and reservations, which are associated with them, continue to affect Qumran scholarship as well. This is demonstrated by the choice of explanatory models or hypotheses, which are used in the analysis of the Dead Sea Scrolls. It would be helpful if Qumran scholars noted the recent developments in biblical criticism in order to bring their methodology as up to date as possible and to avoid making the sorts of mistakes that biblical criticism has already made. Here again, the Temple Scroll provides an eminently suitable example. Andrew Wilson and Lawrence Wills, and then Michael Wise, developed a hypothesis on the formation of the Temple Scroll which, apart from a few details, is widely accepted in scholarship.19 According to this hypothesis the Temple Scroll is composed from five formerly separate pieces of text (sources) which were connected together here and there by redactional formulations. Wilson-Wills (1) Temple and Courts: 2:1–13:8; 30:3–47:18 (2) Calendar: 13:9–30:2 (3) Purity Laws: 48:1–51:10 19  Andrew M. Wilson and Lawrence Wills, “Literary Sources of the Temple Scroll,” HTR 75 (1982): 275–88; Wise, Study, 197–98.

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(4) Laws of Polity: 51:11–56:21; 60:1–66:17 (5) Torah of the King: 57–59 Wise (1) Temple Source: 3:1–13:8; 30:3–31:9a; 31:10–34:12a; 34:15–35:9a; 35:10–39:5a; 39:11b–40:5; 40:7–43:12a; 44:1–45:7a; 46:1–11a; 46:13–47:2 (2) Festival Calendar: 13:8–29:2 (3) Laws (diverse sources): 34:12b–14; 39:5–11a; 40:6; 45:7b–18; 49:1–51:5a; parts of 52:13b–21; 63:14b–15; 66:12b–17 (4) D (Deuteronomy) source: 2:1–15; 48:1–10a; 51:11–18; 52:1–12; 53:1–56:21; 60:12–63:14a; 64:1–6a; 64:13b–66:9a; 66:10–12a (5) MD (Midrash of Deuteronomy) source: 57:1–59:21; 60:2–11; 64:6b–13a (6) Redactional compositions: 29:2–30:2; 31:9b; 35:9b; 43:12b–17; 46:11b–12; 47:3–18; 48:11–17; 51:5b–11; 51:19–21; 52:13b–21 (incorporating legal sources); 66:9b Wilson and Wills suggested that sources 1 (Temple and Courts) and 4 (Laws of Polity) were compiled first, and sources 2 (Calendar), 3 (Purity Laws), and 5 (Torah of the King) were inserted later. Wise envisages a single redactional process, in which the oldest “D-source” was connected to the younger “Temple Source” and complemented with the remaining passages and the redactor’s own formulations. The underlying model is the fragmentary hypothesis, which is known from Pentateuch analysis. Although Wilson-Wills, Wise and others talk about “sources,” they do not mean parallel works—such as J, E, and P in the Pentateuch—which independently say the same thing but—similar to source D (Deuteronomy) in the Pentateuch—diverse passages of text which are secondarily interconnected. But the documentary hypothesis also plays a role, in particular with regard to the relationship to the biblical Vorlage of the Temple Scroll. For example, in cols. 13–29 of the festival calendar, parallel versions from Num 28–29 and Lev 23 are combined; and versions of the list of clean and unclean animals in Lev 11 and Deut 14 are combined in col. 48, in the same way as one would imagine J, E and P being combined in the Pentateuch. The methodology and the results of the hypothesis on the formation of the text which was put forward by Wilson-Wills and Wise, have been criticised several times,20 but they are still regarded as a consensus among Qumran 20  Florentino García Martínez, “Sources et rédaction du Rouleau du Temple,” Henoch 13 (1991): 219–32; Lawrence H. Schiffman, “The Deuteronomic Paraphrase of the Temple Scroll,” RevQ 15/60 (1992): 543–67.

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scholars.21 Against this consensus, however, Molly Zahn has submitted a thorough and highly significant rebuttal.22 Zahn discusses every argument of Wilson-Wills and Wise in order, which leads to the conclusion that the content, form and linguistic evidence does not justify the assumption of diverse passages from independent sources. In contrast, Zahn advocates a hypothesis of unity, in particular with reference to the way the Temple Scroll deals with its biblical Vorlage. Taking up the observations made by Wise and Swanson,23 Zahn recognises a unified hermeneutic principle in the recording and editing of the biblical Vorlage, namely the principle of Rewritten Bible—or Rewritten Scripture as she and others meanwhile prefer to say—which, despite certain differences, permeates the entire Temple Scroll and makes superfluous the assumption of various authors. The differences that are apparent between the individual parts of the Temple Scroll are not due to different sources, but to the different biblical Vorlage and the different treatment of the Vorlage by the author of the Temple Scroll. Thus, for instance, the naming of God in the third person in cols. 13–29 (festival calendar) instead of the first person can be easily explained by the Vorlage in Num 28–29 where YHWH is also referred to in the third person, although it is completely clear that he is speaking himself; Moses is simply rehearsing what he should say to the Israelites about YHWH and his regulations. Other passages can easily be explained by the formulaic character of the wording. I consider Zahn’s contestation of the source hypothesis on the whole to be impressive; however, her counter-thesis, the unity hypothesis, has not yet 21  Florentino García Martínez, “Temple Scroll,” in Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Lawrence H. Schiffman and James C. VanderKam (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 927–33 (929–30). See also Schiffman, Courtyards, 4–5; Crawford, Temple Scroll, 23; eadem, Rewritten Scripture, 89. 22   Molly M. Zahn, “Schneiderei oder Weberei? Zum Verständnis der Diachronie der Tempelrolle,” RevQ 20/78 (2001): 255–86. Meanwhile Zahn has developed a slightly modified, more sophisticated view, see Molly M. Zahn, “4QReworked Pentateuch C and the Literary Sources of the Temple Scroll: A New (Old) Proposal,” DSD 19 (2012): 133–58 and below paragraph 4. 23  See above n. 5; on the usage of scripture see already Yadin, Temple Scroll; more recently Molly M. Zahn, “New Voices, Ancient Words: The Temple Scroll’s Reuse of the Bible,” in Temple and Worship in Biblical Israel, ed. John Day, LHBOTS 422 (London: T&T Clark, 2005), 435–58; eadem, Rethinking Rewritten Scripture: Composition and Exegesis in the 4QReworked Pentateuch Manuscripts, STDJ 95 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 179–228; eadem, “Identifying Reuse of Scripture in the Temple Scroll: Some Methodological Reflections,” in A Teacher for All Generations: Essays in Honor of James C. VanderKam, ed. Eric F. Mason et al., JSJSup 153 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 341–58; Simone Paganini, „Nicht darfst du zu diesen Wörtern etwas hinzufügen“: Die Rezeption des Deuteronomiums in der Tempelrolle: Sprache, Autoren, Hermeneutik, BZAR 11 (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2009).

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convinced me. And here I believe that Qumran scholarship can perhaps learn something from the discussion which has been going on for a long time in biblical studies, not only concerning the Pentateuch, but also with regard to the analysis of the other biblical books. First, biblical criticism can provide welcome support of Zahn’s argumentation. The way in which she discusses the hypotheses of Wilson-Wills and Wise, evokes Chronicles, another example of Rewritten Bible, which is very similar to the Temple Scroll and raises the same sort of questions.24 Here too, former scholarship readily assumed different sources and different versions of the Vorlage, particularly concerning the unique material in Chronicles (Sondergut), but also for some textual deviations of the biblical Vorlage in the books of Samuel and Kings. This is precisely what Wise suggested in the case of Deuteronomy as the source for the Temple Scroll. However, this assumption has not proved reliable. In one or the other case one can, or perhaps even must, consider whether Chronicles is based on a different text of the books of Samuel and Kings from the Masoretic one we have before us. In addition, we cannot fully rule out additional information from oral or written tradition for the unique material (Sondergut) in Chronicles. The findings of Qumran in particular seem initially almost to provide empirical evidence of such a deviating Vorlage (maybe, for instance, in the form of 4QSama). However, this is not nearly enough to explain Chronicles. Rather, apart from pure textual variants, the deviations result from a rewriting of the biblical Vorlage as we know it, be it in a precursor to Chronicles, or in Chronicles itself, or in manuscripts that include both Samuel-Kings and Chronicles. Citing de Wette, Wellhausen was correct to point out that assuming numerous sources and intermediates between Samuel-Kings and Chronicles does not contribute anything to its explanation, because one simply relocates the problem of the relationship to an earlier writing, which is in itself indistinguishable from Chronicles.25 The investigation of the numerous Rewritten 24  See Reinhard G. Kratz, Die Komposition der erzählenden Bücher des Alten Testaments (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), 14–53 (English Translation: The Composition of the Narrative Books of the Old Testament [London: T&T Clark, 2005], 9–48). 25  Wellhausen, Prolegomena, 217–18; see also Kratz, Komposition, 27–28, 40–41, 46–49 (English Translation: 22, 33–35, 38–40). This, of course, does not preclude the existence of intermediate stages which sometimes, with some luck, can be grasped, e.g., the two or more stages of redactional activities in the proto-Samarian version of the Pentateuch which came to light in the Reworked Pentateuch manuscripts (4Q158; 4Q364–367); maybe in this case, too, 4Q365 including 4Q365a represent such an intermediate stage, which served as a source (Vorlage) for the composition of the Temple Scroll; see below paragraph 4. Here as in the case of Chronicles we have to think of different layers of interpretation within a copy

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Bible texts which were found in Qumran could, or should, make use of the expertise of biblical criticism in dealing with this type of literature (in addition to Chronicles, the relationship of Deuteronomy to the Book of Covenant in Exod 20–23 could also be mentioned here)—both concerning the significance of the textual criticism and of the fluid boundaries which exist between textual and compositional criticism, as well as concerning the hypothesis on sources which contain nothing more than the work at hand. For the internal plausibility of the documentary and fragmentary hypothesis as well, Zahn could have relied solidly on the near 250-year discussion of this topic in Pentateuchal criticism. Here, basic hypotheses have been developed and tested over a long period of time. As recent discussions have shown,26 the assumption of separate sources (either as source or as document), which have arisen completely independently of each other, has been shaken dramatically in the past decades, both for critical and also for methodological and literary sociological reasons. This is true both for the classical documentary hypothesis, i.e., the assumption of consistent parallel source documents (J, E, and P), as well as the fragmentary hypothesis, i.e., the assumption of single oral or written tradition blocks (such as primal history, patriarchal history, Exodus, Sinai, desert, occupation of the land, corpora of laws) which have emerged entirely independently of each other. We realize more and more that the different literary strata in the Pentateuch and in other books of the Hebrew Bible are much more related to each other and literary cross-connected than biblical criticism previously assumed. Against this background, the hypothesis of Wilson-Wills and Wise had no solid methodological basis even as far back as the 1980s and 1990s and is most improbable. However, the question is whether the only alternative to the documentary or fragmentary hypotheses is assuming unity, as Zahn has suggested for the Temple Scroll. Her strongest argument for the unity of the Temple Scroll is the consistent reference to the biblical Vorlage and the way it is handled, i.e., the hermeneutics and technique of rewriting. But the Temple Scroll is not the only example of Rewritten Bible literature. If we were to follow Zahn in this respect, then all examples from Chronicles, the Temple Scroll up to the Genesis or rewriting of a work, some of them might go back to earlier versions (Vorlagen), some are introduced by the author of the rewriting, some might be added by later scribes. 26  See Reinhard G. Kratz, “The Pentateuch in Current Research: Consensus and Debate,” in The Pentateuch: International Perspectives on Current Research, ed. Thomas B. Dozeman, Konrad Schmid and Baruch J. Schwartz, FAT 78 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck 2011), 31–61; Thomas Römer, “Zwischen Urkunden, Fragmenten und Ergänzungen: Zum Stand der Pentateuchforschung,” ZAW 125 (2013): 2–24.

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Apocryphon and the book of Jubilees would have to be ascribed to one author since they all follow the same hermeneutics and technique of rewriting. Or, in other words, the contestation of the documentary or fragmentary hypothesis does not automatically have the unity of a work as a consequence. This is true for the Pentateuch and all other biblical writings that are used as a Vorlage, as well as for the Rewritten Bible texts themselves. On the contrary, there is a further possibility discussed in biblical criticism which, as far as I am aware, has not yet been considered or tested in the analysis of the Temple Scroll and other examples from Qumran (such as the tradition of S or the relationship between S and D), namely the supplementary hypothesis (Fortscheibungshypothese). This hypothesis does not envisage separate sources (documents) or fragments, but a basic text which was successively supplemented and repeatedly updated and interpreted during this process. What is more, elements of the other hypotheses, the documentary and fragmentary hypothesis, can easily be incorporated. Diverse oral traditions or written sources, which here and there could have found their way into the text, can lay behind the basic text and its supplements. However, in the analysis we are not concerned with the reconstruction of these (hypothetical oral or written) sources, but with the formative process of the text that we have before us. The key point of the hypothesis is that the diverse literary components, which one can or must differentiate in a text, are not independent, but have been written in knowledge of each other and mostly in literary dependence. This assumption allows us to explain both the similarities of different textual strata and their differences in one and the same composition. In the following, I would like to address the issue of whether the supplementary hypothesis might possibly be applied to the Temple Scroll. 3 Whether the supplementary hypothesis can be applied to the Temple Scroll depends on how the differences in the various parts of the Temple Scroll, which Qumran scholarship considers to be evidence of inconsistency,27 relate to the concept of the complete work. It is not enough to explain the differences with the dependence on the biblical Vorlage, the content, or the complex ­(biblical and non-biblical) legal tradition.28 Rather, we must also ask whether 27  YHWH in 1st or 3rd pers., addressee in 2nd pers. singular or plural, the construction ­yihyæh qotel instead of w-qatal or we-yiqtol, different techniques of dealing with the biblical Vorlage. See Wilson and Wills, “Sources”; Wise, Study. 28  Maier, Tempelrolle, 20–35; Zahn, “Schneiderei.”

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the different legal traditions, content, and techniques of dealing with the biblical Vorlage comply with the overall concept of the work and follow a unified tendency. Not the differences themselves, which are no more than indicators of something to be explained, but the tendency and the overall concept are the key criteria for deciding whether a text is a literary unity or not. I cannot present a complete analysis of the Temple Scroll here and so I will confine myself to some basic observations, which I believe point in the direction of a supplementary hypothesis. My observations are based mainly on the obvious compositional markers, which provide information on the intention of the author or redactor: the opening in col. 2 according to Exod 34 and Deut 7; the conclusion of the building of the temple in cols. 29:3b–30:2 (29:15b–30:14); the statements in the building account of the courts in cols. 45–47; the conclusion of the law on purity in cols. 51:5b–10 (51:12b–17); the conclusion of the laws on the judiciary and on kingship in cols. 59:2–21 (59:9–28); the conclusion to the paraphrase of Deuteronomy in cols. 60–66 is missing.29 I would like to show that we can learn two things from these pieces: the layout of the composition as a whole as well as its gradual formation. With the Temple Scroll, as with any biblical text, it is recommended that we begin with the final text and first inquire about the overall concept. Here, Johann Maier has made an appealing suggestion. He observed a movement in the description which starts from the inside of the temple, then moves in the direction of the holy city outside and continues into the districts which lie beyond.30 This principle is evident in the first main section, the description of the temple in cols. 3–47, but no longer applies to the laws following in the second part of cols. 48–66.31 Other principles seem to govern the legal sections which are, however, not simply to be explained due to the complexity of the legal tradition in general and the use of biblical Vorlage in particular.

29  The distinction between “source” and “redaction” has already been suggested by Wilson and Wills, “Sources,” 275–77 and elaborated further by Wise, Study, 155–94. I will confine myself here to the pieces identified by Wilson and Wills that constitute the composition of the Temple Scroll. They are, therefore, difficult to allocate to an older source and must be redactional. There remains, however, the question whether or not they all originate from the same author or redactor. 30  Maier, Tempelrolle, 8–20. 31  The same principle one might see in the transition from the purity regulations in cols. 45–47 to cols. 48–51. See Phillip R. Callaway, “Extending Divine Revelation: MicroCompositional Strategies in the Temple Scroll,” in Temple Scroll Studies: Papers presented at the International Symposium on the Temple Scroll Manchester, December 1987, ed. George J. Brooke, LSTS 7 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1989), 149–62 (152).

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For structuring the second part one usually orientates oneself on the subject matter of the individual laws.32 Although basically correct, this approach leads to nothing more than a mere description of the content: purity, judiciary, cultic regulations, idolatry, court procedures, laws concerning kingship, priests and Levites, etc. In order to understand the organising principle of these laws it is not enough to look at them all on the same level, but one must rather take into account the different techniques of dealing with the biblical Vorlage. The differences have been worked out by Wise in particular, who, for instance, showed that one has to differentiate between a rather free reception of Deuteronomy in cols. 48–51 and 51–59, and a mere paraphrase in cols. 60–66.33 If we add the compositional passages, we clearly see that the first section in cols. 48–51 is devoted to the topic of purity and holiness. At first glance, the second section in cols. 51–59 seems to deal with state institutions, the judiciary (cols. 51–56) and kingship (cols. 56–58). On closer inspection, however, we see a different intention behind the arrangement of the biblical Vorlage. In cols. 51–57, and also in cols. 57–59, we notice a polemic against idolatry and enemies that runs like a kind of key theme through the entire section.34 The third section in cols. 32  Wise, Study, 210–34; Maier, Tempelrolle, 10–20. 33  Wilson and Wills, “Sources”; Schiffman, “Paraphrase,” and others who find in cols. 51–66 a rewriting of Deuteronomy under the heading “Laws of Polity” ignore the differences in the reception of Deuteronomy as well as the specific accents set by the arrangements of the Vorlage in cols. 51–59. Thus, the order of the laws in cols. 60–66 is not relevant in itself; the organisational principle seems to me to lie solely in the adoption of the Deuteronomic laws from Deut 18 onwards. This is different in cols. 51–59. Here, too, Deuteronomy (in particular Deut 16–17 and selected passages from Deut 12–15) stands as model, but the order in the biblical Vorlage has not been retained. More than in cols. 60–66, the Deuteronomic laws are combined with other biblical texts or supplemented by new material. This is the relative right of Wise’s distinction between a Deuteronomy Source and a Midrash of Deuteronomy Source, even if I am not able to follow his distribution of the material to his two sources. 34  Thus, col. 51:11–13 (18–20) does not introduce a chapter on the judicial system, even though by recording Deut 16–17 this topic forms a frame round the complex of cols. 51–56. However, the focus does not lie on the judiciary itself but on the polemics against idolatry from Deut 16:21; 17:1–3. Associated with idols is the consumption of sacrificial meat which is why the comments on slaughter (based on Deut 12 and other passages) connect up to the narration of Deut 17:1 in col. 52. Through Deut 12:26 and the regulation of consecrated or pledged offerings the author comes to speak of vows, which he deals with by recourse to Deut 23 and Num 30 before returning again to the topic of idolatry following Deut 13 and 17:2–4. The continuation shows why in col. 51 he has already begun with Deut 16:18– 20, the appointment of judges. According to Deut 17:1–3 the judiciary mainly targets decisions on cases of idolatry, in order to “purge the evil from among you,” and also the

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60–66 is not devoted to a particular theme, but seems to be only interested in providing a complete paraphrase of Deuteronomy as the word of God in the first person. These different perspectives, in particular the issue of idolatry in cols. 51–59, do not, however, appear in every law. For the microstructure it appears that different organisational principles and dependency on the biblical Vorlage and maybe other “sources” (oral tradition), are the determining factors for the organisation of the laws. But the identified key themes, which are expressed in the compositional passages, determine the concept of the whole composition. The main principle is a division into two parts: the building account (cols. 3–47) and the laws (cols. 48–66). In the first part, a movement from the inside to the outside is dominant; in the second part, the “qualification” for entering the sanctuary, which is conditional on the purity (holiness) of the people, its renunciation of idolatry and the nations (enemies), and its observance of all the other laws in Deuteronomy, takes centre stage. The layout of the composition can be summarised as follows: Introduction (col. 1–2) (1) Narrative Framework (covenant, idolatry, in Exod 35:19ff followed by laws concerning festivals and offerings) A. Building Account (2) 3:1–30:2 (3:1–30:14)35 Temple and Festivals 3:1–13:8 (3:1–13:13) Building Account (Temple) 13:9–29:3a (13:14–29:15) Festivals and Offerings 29:3b–30:2 (29:15b–30:14) Compositional marker (dwelling, covenant with Jacob) (3) 30:3–47:18 (30:15–47:26) (48?) Building Account (Temple Courts) 45–4736 Compositional marker (dwelling, holiness of courts and city) priestly central court in Deut 17:8–13 should be understood in this sense (Deut 17:7, 12–13 = col. 56). Elaborate material is devoted to extended laws on kingship (including regulations concerning the king’s marriage and the war with foreign nations) and is connected to the topic of idolatry by the ending in col. 59. 35  The figures in brackets follow the reconstruction of Steudel, Texte. As far as the notification is concerned, one has to keep in mind that large parts of the text are lost and, therefore, the transitions between single paragraphs, sections or literary strata of the composition cannot always be specified with full precision. 36  See esp. 45:10–14; 46:3–12; 47:3–5, 10–11, 17–18. The relevant formulations cannot be separated from their literary context, thus there is no basis for a distinction between “source”

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B. Laws (4) 48:1–51:10 (48:1[12?])–51:17) Laws concerning purity (holiness) 51:5b–10 (51:12b–17) Compositional marker (“which I tell you on this mountain“) (5) 51:11–59:21 (51:18–59:28) Laws concerning judiciary and kingship (idolatry, enemies) 51:11–56:11 (51:18–56:18) Judiciary as framework + idolatry 56:12–14 (56:19–21) Torah of the King + enemies 59:1–21 (59:9–28)  Compositional marker (curses and blessings) (6) 60–66 Deuteronomy Paraphrase (Deut 18–23) The question now arises whether this composition originates from one or more hands. Again, the compositional pieces are crucial also in this regard. They convey an apparently contradictory impression: on the one hand, a picture of great unity in which all parts are dependent upon one another and unified into a coherent whole; on the other hand, the impression of self-contained individual parts that are marked by compositional caesura or endings (cols. 29, 51, and 59) and that exhibit clear differences. Looking more closely, however, it is exactly at the compositional markers that are responsible for the consistency of the whole composition where differences can in particular be observed. This evidence leads one to suspect that the work, for all its consistency, is not homogenous. I will briefly go through each passage. The introduction in col. 2, which refers back to the revelation scene from Exod 34 and, by also taking up Deut 7, exposes the themes of covenant and idolatry, applies to the whole composition. The scene from Exod 34 is ideally suited to introduce an on-going revelation. Seeing that it is a second revelation after the sin of the Golden Calf, everything can be included that was not mentioned in the first revelation in Exod 19–24 and 25–31, but follows in the account of execution (Exod 35–40) either as God’s speech at Sinai and in the desert (Leviticus and Numbers) or as Moses’s speech (Deuteronomy). It also accommodates whatever else needed to be said as further legal innovation.37 and “redaction”; rather, the whole complex of col. 45–47 or 30–47 respectively belongs to the “redaction” which is responsible for the composition of the Temple Scroll in the context of col. 3–47. 37  For the deliberate choice of Exod 34 as the narrative framework see also Eckart Otto, “Temple Scroll and Pentateuch: A Priestly Debate about the Interpretation of the Torah,” in The Qumran Legal Texts between the Hebrew Bible and Its Interpretation, ed. Armin Lange and Kristin de Troyer, CBET 61 (Leuven: Peeters, 2011), 59–74, although with a

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The scene from Exod 34 in col. 2 introduces the building account in cols. 3–47 first. This account describes the construction of the sanctuary and courts moving from the inside to the outside, an elaboration of Exod 25–31 and 35–40. The account of execution in Exod 35–40, which on the whole is secondary and supplements some additional details not originally contained in the divine speech in Exod 25–30,38 is developed further in the Temple Scroll and—in correspondence with Exod 25–30 and 34 (in col. 2)—converted into divine speech. The leading perspective of the building account, which is expressed mainly in the compositional pieces in cols. 29 and 45–47, is taken from Exod 29 and 40. The perspective says that Israel should be the people of YHWH and YHWH should be the God of Israel and for this purpose lets his glory dwell in the sanctuary or Holy City (cols. 29 and 45–47: dwelling, holiness). With the introduction in col. 2 (Exod 34) everything is placed under the sign of the covenant. Correspondingly, a festival calendar (based on Num 28–29 and Lev 23) is inserted into the building account,39 which explains or replaces the regulation of festivals and offerings from Exod 34 and determines the interior of the Temple. To this extent, the introduction in col. 2 is connected to the building account that follows it. At the same time, it is striking that the covenant in Exod 34 does not target the building of the sanctuary as a theme but, in particular, the laws of purity in cols. 48–51, concluding in col. 51 with “which I tell you on slightly different interpretation. Otto convincingly points out that the programme of the Temple Scroll is meant to be an alternative to the Jerusalem temple but stresses the contradiction rather than the attempt to harmonize the new legislation with the Pentateuch. For a fresh and path-breaking approach to interpret the Temple Scroll and related Second Temple literature beyond the usual (solely hermeneutical or solely historical) explanations as an “ongoing construction of nomian worlds of Torah discourse and practice” see Steven D. Fraade, “‘The Torah of the King’ (Deut 17:14–20) in the Temple Scroll and Early Rabbinic Law,” in Legal Fictions: Studies of Law and Narrative in the Discursive Worlds of Ancient Jewish Sectarians and Sages, JSJSup 147 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 285–319 (quotation on 319). 38  Kratz, Komposition, 105. With the secondary entry of the altar of burnt offering from Exod 35–40 in Exod 30–31 the development has already begun which is continued by the Temple Scroll. The different version of the Septuagint or Hebrew Vorlage should be taken into account in this context; see George J. Brooke, “The Temple Scroll and LXX Exodus 35–40,” in Septuagint, Scrolls and Cognate Writings: Papers Presented to the International Symposium on the Septuagint and Its relation to the Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Writings (Manchester 1990), ed. idem and Barnabas Lindars, SCS 33 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992), 81–106. 39  Strictly speaking it is not a “festival calendar” but rather a list of offerings to be offered on the altar which has been described just previously.

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this mountain,” and the laws on avoiding idolatry in cols. 51–59, concluding in col. 59 with curses and blessings on the people.40 In comparison with this, the building account in cols. 3–47 connects quite loosely to the framework scene in col. 2 from Exod 34. The compositional marker in col. 29 mentions a covenant, but is referring to a completely different covenant from that in Exod 34, namely to the covenant formulae in Exod 29 and 40 (Israel is to be YHWH’s people, YHWH will be the God of Israel for all time according to Gen 17) and the covenant with Jacob at Bethel (and perhaps also with the other patriarchs) for the future eschatological sanctuary.41 Thus, the conclusion in col. 29 encompasses primarily cols. 3–29, including the festival calendar, which cannot be separated from its literary context in cols. 3–13. The deviation of style (with YHWH in the third person) is easily explained by the biblical Vorlage in Num 28–29, which is already a divine speech, instructing Moses how he should talk to the people. The fact that it follows the 364-day calendar and shows other similarities with the views of the Qumran community does not play a role in the redactional analysis. What follows in cols. 30–47 is the description of the courtyards with the associated safeguarding provisions for the sanctuary and the holy city. This description presupposes the building account of the sanctuary in cols. 3–29, including the festival laws and the compositional marker in col. 29. It is striking that there is no compositional marker between the building account and the statements on holiness in cols. 45–47. Instead the building account simply flows into the statements on holiness. These, for their part, clearly refer back to the compositional piece in col. 29, primarily, however, only concluding the individual provisions at the end of the section and not the section as a whole. Only the wording in 47:17 is of a summarising nature and, at some point, may have formed an older conclusion. Accordingly, this suggests that we should differentiate between the introduction in col. 2 and the building account in cols. 3–47, and within the building account itself between the building of the sanctuary including the festival calendar in col. 3–29 and the construction of the external sanctuary buildings 40  The reference of col. 51 to col. 2 seems to support the idea of Wise, Study, who integrates col. 2 in his D (Deuteronomy) source (see above paragraph 2). However, there is no visible transition or link between col. 2 and col. 48 and thus the hypothesis of an independent source lacks a textual basis. 41  Regarding the covenant with Jacob see Gen 28:13–15; 35:1–3; together with Isaac and Abraham Lev 26:42 (only “covenant” here) as well as Jub. 31. From the wording in col. 29, it does not seem possible to me that the eschatological sanctuary can be identified with the sanctuary described in the Temple Scroll. For the discussion see Maier, Tempelrolle, 131.

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with its safeguarding provisions in cols. 30–47. Because of the close literary interrelationship between the different components of the composition it is, however, not to be recommended to separate independent sources. It is more the case that one builds upon the other. And so the supplementary hypothesis (Fortschreibungshypothese) comes into play. The building account including the festival calendar in cols. 3–39 proves itself to be the basic text presupposed by all other components. This account has Exod 25–Num 29 as the biblical Vorlage and orientates itself mainly on the legislation on the sanctuary in the priestly sources (Exod 25–30; 35–40). The basic text was probably only in a second step supplemented with the sacred courts and the provisions on the sanctity of the holy precincts and city in cols. 30–47. Then the introduction in col. 2 which inserts the building account into the framing scene of Exod 34 was prefixed in order to connect up with the laws in cols. 48–66 (see esp. col. 51) in the second part of the Temple Scroll. According to the compositional markers, the part concerning the laws in cols. 48–66 is connected to the introduction in col. 2 and also with the building account in cols. 3–47. And so the beginning (48:7–8, 10–11 [16–17, 19–20]) as well as the end (51:7–8, 9–10 [14–15, 17–18]) of the laws on purity in cols. 48–51 make reference to the concept of holiness in cols. 3–47 and the notion of “YHWH’s dwelling” and presuppose this complex, at least in the extent of cols. 3–29. In accordance with the Holiness Code in Lev 17–26 they supplement the holiness of the place by the aspect of the sanctification of the worshippers, who are themselves described as “holy” or “saints” (48:7–8[16–17]; 51:8[15]). Even though this concerns internal provisions42 and not the exclusion of foreign nations and their idols, the conclusion in col. 51:6–7 (13–14) explicitly recalls to mind the revelation scene at the beginning of col. 2 (Exod 34): “which I tell you on this mountain.” Again, the assumption immediately suggests that the building account in cols. 3–29 + 30–47 was framed subsequently by means of the introduction in col. 2 and the section of the purity laws in cols. 48–51 which makes recourse to col. 2. The covenant from Exod 34 in col. 2 would thus have grown out of the covenant commitments in the context of the God’s habitation in the Temple and the covenant with Jacob in Bethel in cols. 3–29 + 30–47. The next section in cols. 51–59 and its conclusion in col. 59 take up the main issues of the introduction in col. 2: idolatry and the relationship to the nations. The section is essentially based on Deut 16–17, but occasionally refers back to Deut 12–15. The speech of Moses is converted into a divine speech to conform with the scene from Exod 34 in col. 2. With the covenant formula 42  Priority is given to how one deals with corpses and cadavers, but also disease and blood flow are in view.

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in 59:13 (20)—“I will be their God and they shall be my people”—the conclusion in col. 59 refers explicitly back to the relevant commitment in col. 29. Thus, col. 2 as well as the whole composition of cols. 3–47 + 48–51, framed by cols. 2 and 51, are presupposed. The curses and blessings in col. 59, which reflect Lev 26 and Deut 28–30 and make use of diverse formulations from the Torah and the Prophets, function as a conclusion to the entire legislation in the Temple Scroll. Attention focuses here on the future judgement and comes back full circle to the point of departure in col. 2 (Exod 34) with a message of salvation: the leading into the Promised Land. Both the people and the king are specifically mentioned in col. 59 (line 13bff), which could suggest that the laws on kingship in cols. 57–58 + 59:13b–21 (20b–28) are a secondary supplementation to cols. 51–56 + 59:1–13a (1–20a). Again, the assumption of independent sources does not, however, commend itself. The cross-connection with the introduction in col. 2 and with the building account in col. 29 suggests either a consistent composition or a successive formation and supplementation of an older text. The third section of the laws in cols. 60–66 consists ultimately of a paraphrase of Deut 18–23 and distinguishes itself by strictly following the laws in Deuteronomy and by changing the words of Moses (almost without exception) into divine speech.43 The latter connects with the preceding section in cols. 51–59, which is also based on Deuteronomy, but which rearranges the biblical Vorlage to serve its own interests. The author of cols. 60–66 is obviously following a different purpose. He recognises the context of Exod 34–Deut 17 in cols. 2–59. For him, cols. 3–51 (based on Exod–Num) might represent the divine instructions from Sinai for the Mosaic speech in Deut 12–16 (sanctuary including the festival laws), and cols. 51–59 the instructions for the laws on the judiciary and kingship in Deut 16:18–17:20. Consequently he continues with Deut 18 in col. 60 and completes the legislation with the rest of Deuteronomy in order to document that even this part of Moses’s speech in Deuteronomy is a pure reproduction of God’s speech from Sinai. 4 The situation in the Temple Scroll is paradigmatic for the question which of the explanatory models or hypotheses, developed in Biblical criticism and under discussion today, can usefully be applied to the Dead Sea Scrolls. The 43  This difference holds true despite the fact that the techniques of rewriting or paraphrasing the text of Deuteronomy are more or less the same in detail. See Schiffman, “Paraphrase.”

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formulations that can be clearly classified as compositional (or redactional) in cols. 2, 29, 45–47, 51, and 59 suggest, on the one hand, close literary connections and, on the other hand, serious differences. Not only the connections, but also the differences can be correlated to the idiosyncrasies of linguistic style and content as well as to the diverse ways of reception of the biblical Vorlage in the individual parts of the Temple Scroll. Neither connections nor differences are therefore restricted to the compositional (or redactional) pieces. This situation is explained neither by the documentary or fragmentary hypothesis, according to which the compositional passages are assigned to diverse independent sources, nor by the unity hypothesis, according to which the individual parts of the composition must originate from one author and pursue the same purpose. Even the redaction-historical variant of the documentary and fragmentary hypothesis, as advocated by Wise, in which diverse, originally independent sources are compiled by one redactor and in the process supplemented by redactional formulations (such as the compositional pieces discussed here), does not explain the situation satisfactorily. Not enough attention is paid to the cross-connections between the individual parts of the Temple Scroll or to the differences between the compositional pieces. In addition, when the compositional pieces are removed, only fragments remain which are difficult to classify on literary and theological historical grounds. An alternative model is provided by the supplementary hypothesis, which more easily explains the literary coherencies and the differences in the overall composition. Both the coherencies and the differences have come about by successive supplementing and updating of the Temple Scroll. This does not preclude the inclusion of older (oral or written) traditions, but gives the whole a certain unity. Thus, we have to take into account several witnesses, which might point to older traditions or even sources.44 The relationship between the relevant texts and the version of the Temple Scroll in 11Q19–20 is not yet fully understood. The assumption of a common cultic tradition or common source on which all texts independently draw, is a rather makeshift solution. As far as 4Q365 (including 4Q365a) is concerned, Zahn has renewed a more convincing explanation.45 According to this explanation, the manuscript of 4QRPc might 44  Crawford, Temple Scroll, 13–15, 77–83; such witnesses are the different version of the Temple Scroll in 4Q524 (4QRouleau du Temple), the textual overlaps and points of contact in 4Q365a (4QReworked Pentateuch) and 11Q21, and the parallels in Jub., CD, 4QMMT as well as New Jerusalem. 45  Zahn, “Sources”; see already eadem, “Rethinking,” 227–28. The idea can be traced back to John Strugnell (Zahn, “Sources,” 137–38); cf. also Hartmut Stegemann, “The Origins of the Temple Scroll,” in Congress Volume Jerusalem 1986, ed. J.A. Emerton, VTSup 40 (Leiden:

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have served as the “biblical” Vorlage for the Temple Scroll, at least in the section of cols. 3–47 (including the festival calendar). However, the composition probably did not originate in one go, but in several stages—beginning with the building account in cols. 3–29 and its extension to cols. 30–47, supplemented by the introduction in col. 2 and both addenda consisting of the laws of purity in cols. 48–51 and the laws on idolatry in cols. 51–59, and concluded by a continuation of the paraphrase of Deuteronomy in cols. 60–66. Methodologically this result is in accordance with the more recent models for explaining the formation of the Pentateuch as well as many other biblical books, especially the books of the prophets. It would be highly desirable for both fields of research, biblical criticism and Qumran studies, if they entered into a closer dialogue and cooperated to develop further the methods they apply in their particular field. In conclusion, two aspects should be mentioned which also play a major role in both fields. One is the historical aspect. In the compositional analysis of biblical books as well as of the Dead Sea Scrolls, it is not uncommon that historical facts or absolute dating are brought into play. In the case of the Temple Scroll, for instance, discussions take place as to whether the whole or individual parts (for example, the festival calendar in cols. 13–29) are Qumranic or nonQumranic, or the elimination of the Torah of the King in cols. 56–59 is linked to the question of whether or not it presupposes the Hasmonean kingdom.46 The relationship to the other writings from Qumran, the book of Jubilees or the Damascus Document, and their dating and the value of the historical information they contain, are all used as arguments in the discussion.47 This often presupposes an image of the history and social stratification of the Qumran community—Essene-hypothesis, Teacher of Righteousness, etc.—which is fed from different sources, not only from the Dead Sea Scrolls, but also from Brill, 1986), 235–56, especially 237, 253. The points of contact with 4Q365 are to be found in cols. 21–24, 38, and 41–42 of the Temple Scroll. For a detailed treatment of the relevant texts see Sidnie White Crawford, “Three Fragments from Qumran Cave 4 and Their Relationship to the Temple Scroll,” JQR 85 (1994): 259–73. 46  Maier, Tempelrolle, 43–51; Crawford, Temple Scroll, 24–29. The priority of the historical issues is advocated by Hartmut Stegemann, “The Literary Composition of the Temple Scroll and its Status at Qumran,” in Brooke, Temple Scroll Studies, 123–48 (particularly 126–28, 141–42). See also Paganini, Rezeption; idem, “Die Tempelrolle und der Versuch einer näheren Bestimmung einiger Merkmale der Qumran-Gemeinde,” in Juda und Jerusalem in der Seleukidenzeit: Herrschaft—Widerstand—Identität, ed. Ulrich Dahmen and Johannes Schnocks, BBB 159 (Göttingen: V&R Unipress, 2010), 381–96; Otto, “Temple Scroll.” 47  Maier, Tempelrolle, 35–40; Crawford, Temple Scroll, 13–15, 24–25, 77–83.

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the work of ancient historians, and then called upon to explain the Dead Sea Scrolls and to justify a hypothesis concerning their formation. This highly circular argumentation is also put into practice in the exegesis of the Hebrew Bible, but the clear methodological distinction between literary and historical levels is increasingly asserting itself here. As a rule, the historical question is deferred until the question of literary composition and potential growth of a work has been clarified. Relationships between different literary layers and to other writings yield at best a relative chronology. Only then does it make sense to ask what a literary source may deliver in historical terms or in which historical context it may belong. In my opinion this procedure is also to be recommended for the study of the Dead Sea Scrolls and meets up with the most recent developments in Qumran scholarship towards a “New Historiography,”48 except that one should not completely lose sight of the history of the texts and their embedding in the history of the time. The second aspect concerns the relationship of inner-biblical and extra-­ biblical rewriting to its literary Vorlage. In this respect the Temple Scroll in particular has sparked off a controversy on whether we are dealing with a supplement to the Torah, a quasi “sixth book of the Torah”;49 an alternative to the Torah, i.e., a new Torah or a second Deuteronomy; or a purely exegetical 48  See Maxine L. Grossman, Reading for History in the Damascus Document: A Methodological Study, STDJ 45 (Leiden: Brill, 2002). For the discussion cf. Philip R. Davies, “Redaction and Sectarianism in the Qumran Scrolls,” in The Scriptures and the Scrolls: Studies in Honour of A.S. van der Woude on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday, ed. Florentino García Martínez, Anton Hilhorst, and Casper J. Labuschagne, VTSup 49 (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 152–63; idem, “Sects from Texts: On the Problems of Doing a Sociology of the Qumran Literature,” in New Directions in Qumran Studies: Proceedings of the Bristol Colloquium on the Dead Sea Scrolls, 8–10 September 2003, ed. Jonathan G. Campbell, William J. Lyons, and Lloyd K. Pietersen, LSTS 52 (London: T&T Clark, 2005), 69–82; idem, “What History Can We Get From the Scrolls, and How?” in The Dead Sea Scrolls: Texts and Context, ed. Charlotte Hempel, STDJ 90 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 31–46; Sarianna Metso, “In Search of the Sitz im Leben of the Community Rule,” in The Provo International Conference on the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Donald W. Parry and Eugene Ulrich, STDJ 30 (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 306–15; eadem, “Methodological Problems in Reconstructing History from Rule Texts Found at Qumran,” DSD 11 (2004): 315–35; eadem, “When the Evidence Does Not Fit: Method, Theory, and the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Rediscovering the Dead Sea Scrolls: An Assessment of Old and New Approaches and Methods, ed. Maxine L. Grossman (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2010), 11–25; Martin Goodman, “Constructing Ancient Judaism from the Scrolls,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Timothy H. Lim and John J. Collins (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 81–91. 49  Stegemann, “Composition,” 127; idem, “Is the Temple Scroll a Sixth Book of the Torah— Lost for 2,500 Years?” BAR 13/6 (1987): 28–35.

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work, a sort of commentary on the Torah.50 Admittedly the same question can be asked of the book of Jubilees and any other copy of the Rewritten Bible literature. Basically, we are concerned with the self-conception of rewriting as expressed in literary dependency and its status with respect to the (biblical) Vorlage. The question is: Does the rewriting supplement, replace or interpret the Vorlage? This question has also been under discussion for some time in biblical criticism.51 Examples are Deuteronomy in relation to the Covenant Code, and Chronicles in relation to Samuel-Kings. As in the Temple Scroll and other examples of Rewritten Bible literature, it is obvious that the biblical examples also represent an interpretation of given (biblical) writings. However, unlike the pesharim, the interpretation or commentary is not the stated purpose, but only a means to an end. The real purpose lies in generating literature which conforms to the chosen (biblical) Vorlage and either supplements or replaces it. The massive literary and, in the case of Deuteronomy or the Temple Scroll, narrative connection to the Vorlage tends to suggest supplementation rather than replacement. In the light of biblical examples, especially Deuteronomy, the Temple Scroll with its opening scene in col. 2 (Exod 34) and the paraphrase of Deuteronomy in cols. 51–59 and 60–66, in particular, proves itself to be a seamless continuation of the interpretation history in the Pentateuch itself.52 Thus, in the same way as Deuteronomy “reproduces” the revelation of God at Sinai (Covenant 50  For the discussion see Maier, Tempelrolle, 28–35. Maier himself argues, rightly in my opinion, for an explanation which completely detaches itself from the not-yet-established canonical understanding, but perhaps “levels down” the literary dependences between Vorlage and rewriting too much. Yet it is precisely these dependences that make the Vorlage into Torah and create (new) Torah through reception in the process of rewriting and interpretation. 51   Kratz, “Exegese”; idem, “Die Suche nach Identität in der nachexilischen Theolo­ giegeschichte: Zur Hermeneutik des chronistischen Geschichtswerkes und ihrer Bedeutung für das Verständnis des Alten Testaments,” in Das Judentum im Zeitalter des Zweiten Tempels, 157–180; idem, “Rewriting Torah in the Hebrew Bible and the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Wisdom and Torah: The Reception of ‘Torah’ in the Wisdom Literature of the Second Temple Period, ed. Bernd U. Schipper and D. Andrew Teeter, JSJSup 163 (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 273–92. 52  Kratz, Komposition, in particular 99–155 (English Translation: 97–152); on the historical fiction see idem, “Der literarische Ort des Deuteronomiums,” in Liebe und Gebot: Studien zum Buch Deuteronomium, ed. idem and Hermann Spieckermann, FRLANT 190 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht), 101–20; idem, “‘Höre Israel’ und Dekalog,” in Die Zehn Worte: Der Dekalog als Testfall der Pentateuchkritik, ed. Christian Frevel, Michael Konkel, and Johannes Schnocks, QD 212 (Freiburg: Herder, 2005), 77–86.

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Code, Priestly Source) as Moses’s speech to the people in the Land of Moab and, at the same time, introduces his specific concerns, such as cultic unity and purity, the Temple Scroll transforms the speech of Moses in Deuteronomy into God’s speech at Sinai, in order to confirm and represent literarily the conformity of the law from Mount Sinai and in the land of Moab as suggested by the biblical fiction. Moreover, the Temple Scroll takes advantage of this opportunity to introduce its specific concerns.53 The narrative strategy of the Temple Scroll is not only extremely interesting from literary and theological historical aspects, but also sheds light on the much-debated question of the authority of reformulation of the biblical Vorlage in biblical or parabiblical works. In this respect, especially if one takes Chronicles as an example, there is no difference between biblical and parabiblical writings. Here, as well as there, the concerns of rewriting, whether inner-biblical or extra-biblical, are not intended to replace the Vorlage, but, on the contrary, to complement it in supplementation, even with new, sometimes conflicting details. The authority of the Vorlage is confirmed or constituted precisely through the act of rewriting. By seeking a connection to the biblical Vorlage and at the same time articulating its own claims of divine revelation (which are more or less marked and sometimes exaggerated), the Rewritten Bible literature, like many Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha, legitimates itself and retroactively the biblical Vorlage at the same time.54 53  The additional heading in Deut 6:4 LXX, which is based on 4:44–45 MT and relocates Moses’s speech with YHWH in the third person (“Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord alone”) to God, is fully in line with the Temple Scroll and therefore proves itself to be secondary. That the “Ur-Deuteronomy” once began here (Carr, Formation, 147 n. 110) is rather unlikely. See Reinhard G. Kratz, “The Headings of the Book of Deuteronomy,” in Deuteronomy in the Pentateuch, Hexateuch, and the Deuteronomistic History, ed. Konrad Schmid and Raymond F. Person, FAT 2/57 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2012), 31–46. 54  The latter is clearly seen from the situating of the work in the Sinai scene of Exod 19–24 or Exod 34, especially in the Book of Jubilees and in the Temple Scroll and is also to be observed in the self-dramatisation of Deuteronomy as a Moses flashback or in the source notes in Chronicles. See Kratz, “Exegese”; idem, “Suche”; for a wider perspective Hindy Najman, Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple Judaism, JSJSup 77 (Leiden: Brill, 2003).

Post-Colonialism, Hybridity, and the Dead Sea Scrolls Samuel L. Adams

Introduction: Post-Colonial Studies

As various forms of literary and social-scientific analysis have influenced the humanities in recent decades, post-colonial discourse has emerged as one of the more innovative means of interpreting cultures and texts. A diverse range of critics has brought attention to the power imbalance between colonial powers and subject peoples, in both ancient and modern contexts. Various studies have highlighted responses to foreign rule, as individuals and groups negotiate the changes that result from subjugation. Such inquiries frequently emphasize the perspectives of the colonized, their treatment under difficult conditions, and the cultural assimilation that can occur, even after the colonizer has relinquished control. The seminal work of Edward Said in his book Orientalism and the insights of such theorists as Homi Bhabha and Gayatri Spivak have shown how the perspectives of colonized and formerly colonized persons challenge longstanding assumptions—especially Western, imperialist ideas.1 This approach has made a significant mark in biblical studies, most notably in the work of R.S. Sugirtharajah.2 Sugirtharajah details the ways in which Western ideas, both in and outside of the academy, have led to inaccurate characterizations of colonized persons. According to his analysis, interpreters of biblical literature often underestimate the power imbalance in certain texts and the dangerous conclusions that can stem from ignorance in this regard. He cites the ability of marginal persons/communities to transcend patronizing, oppressive systems.3 Post-colonial analysis by Sugirtharajah and others has 1  Edward W. Said, Orientalism (New York: Random House, 1978; repr., New York: Vintage Books, 1994); Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994); Gayatri C. Spivak, In Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics (London: Routledge, 1988); Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin, eds., The Post-Colonial Studies Reader, 2d ed. (New York: Routledge, 2006); eidem, Post-Colonial Studies: The Key Concepts, 3rd ed. (New York: Routledge, 2013). 2  R.S. Sugirtharajah, The Bible and the Third World: Precolonial, Colonial and Postcolonial Encounters (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001); idem, Postcolonial Criticism and Biblical Interpretation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002); idem, Exploring Postcolonial Biblical Criticism: History, Method, Practice (Sussex: Wiley Blackwell, 2012). 3  Sugirtharajah, Postcolonial Criticism and Biblical Interpretation, 11.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi:10.1163/9789004376397_003

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prompted a welcome reevaluation of many biblical passages, including the story of the Exodus, Ruth (e.g., 1:14–15), Esther, and the account of the Gerasene demoniac in Mark 5:1–20. Yet this type of inquiry has not really occurred in the study of the Dead Sea Scrolls up to this point.4 Many commentators have devoted justifiable attention to the colonial context for the scrolls and the possible reference point for historical allusions in the various fragments, particularly the identification of the Wicked Priest.5 Other valuable studies have engaged in sociological analysis to unpack the sectarian understanding of the group, or groups, described in the rule books. Utilizing the categories of Bryan Wilson and other theorists, Albert Baumgarten, Jutta Jokiranta, and Eyal Regev have pointed to the “introversionist” aspects of certain documents from this corpus.6 As these and other questions proceed, perhaps post-colonial concepts can lead to certain insights, especially as we consider how this sect sought to distinguish itself from the ethos of the larger culture, and the ways in which it chose to assimilate. The establishment of sectarian groups during the Seleucid, Hasmonean, and Roman periods reflects, at least in part, a response to the effects of imperialism and persecution. Some of the more overtly religious content in the scrolls corpus indicates a separatist mentality within the complex dynamics of larger Judean society. Other passages reflect a more receptive spirit and engagement with outsiders. In studying the specifics of this dynamic, this paper will attempt to demonstrate that post-colonial constructs can play a pertinent role in analysis of the scrolls, just as they have in biblical studies. Specifically, we will analyze the relationship between mimicry and resistance, searching 4  George J. Brooke, “The Kittim and Hints of Hybridity in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in People under Power: Early Jewish and Christian Responses to the Roman Empire, ed. Michael Labahn and Outi Lehtipuu (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2015), 17–32 does include discussion of post-colonialism. 5  Hanan Eshel, The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Hasmonean State (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008); John J. Collins, Beyond the Qumran Community: The Sectarian Movement of the Dead Sea Scrolls (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2010). 6  Albert I. Baumgarten, The Flourishing of Jewish Sects in the Maccabean Era: An Interpretation, JSJSup 55 (Leiden: Brill, 1997); Jutta Jokiranta, “‘Sectarianism’ of the Qumran ‘Sect’: Sociological Notes,” RevQ 20/78 (2001): 223–39; eadem, “Learning from Sectarian Responses: Windows on Qumran Sects and Emerging Christian Sects,” in Echoes from the Caves: Qumran and the New Testament, ed. Florentino García Martínez, STDJ 85 (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 177–209; eadem, “Sociological Approaches to Qumran Sectarianism,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Timothy H. Lim and John J. Collins (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 200–31; Eyal Regev, Sectarianism in Qumran: A Cross-Cultural Perspective, Religion and Society 45 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2007).

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for indicators of assimilation in the rule books, pesharim, and the War Scroll. Such an inquiry will allow us to consider how the sectarians responsible for these texts adopted certain mores of the larger culture while at the same time creating an insular existence on other levels. Hybridity In order to address the dynamic of resistance and assimilation in the scrolls, we will focus on the post-colonial idea of hybridity. This is a multivalent and developing concept, and post-colonial theorists utilize the term in different ways. In the modern context, hybridity can refer to the adoption of new customs by diasporic populations, especially in urban areas.7 For example, studies have examined African communities in Europe and the diverse manner in which persons negotiate the intricacies of both their original culture and their new, urban environment.8 Such analysis has shown how populations cultivate a hermeneutic that navigates the tensions between their current and prior context; a process of “contentious reciprocation” often occurs in negotiating the values of one’s native culture and those of the colonizer.9 When considering such a dialectic, Homi Bhabha has described a “Third Space of enunciation,” where different cultural strands intermingle, and compromises occur. Bhabha argues that “hierarchical claims to the inherent originality or ‘purity’ of cultures are untenable, even before we resort to empirical historical instances that demonstrate their hybridity.”10 This conclusion acknowledges that even the most marginal groups experience long-term cultural shifts as a result of foreign influences.11 Cultural norms are never static, and colonized persons in particular have to cultivate an identity that lies between two worlds. The incorporation of new practices into an existing cultural matrix 7  Sugirtharajah, Exploring Postcolonial Biblical Criticism, 24–25. 8  See, for example, Maria Olaussen and Christina Angelfors, eds., Africa Writing Europe: Opposition, Juxtaposition, Entanglement, Cross/cultures 105 (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2009). 9  Sugirtharajah, Postcolonial Criticism and Biblical Interpretation, 22–23, 191. Studies on the Second Temple period have also noted the ongoing process of “adaption (or fusion) and resistance.” For a useful synthesis of scholarship in this regard and its applications, see Anathea E. Portier-Young, Apocalypse against Empire: Theologies of Resistance in Early Judaism (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2011), 103–14. 10  Bhabha, The Location of Culture, 38. 11  For example, Portier-Young, Apocalypse against Empire, 111, demonstrates that none of the apocalyptic works she examines (Daniel, The Apocalypse of Weeks) reject Hellenism outright.

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reflects a process of hybridization. Such a phenomenon does not really constitute cross-cultural “exchange,” because a power imbalance almost always exists between the colonized and colonizer.12 As Bhabha explains, “hybridity” represents an ongoing process of mimicry, adoption of new customs, and in some cases a refusal to jettison existing core values (see below).13 When considering this concept, it is worth noting that assent to cultural norms is not necessarily voluntary or intentional. Hybridity can refer to the manner in which a group conforms to the expectations of the dominant culture, sometimes in order to survive. This term can describe a lengthy process, as different cultural factors intermingle in a colonial or post-colonial setting. These processes frequently relate to issues of language and race (e.g., the “creolization” of Jamaican society under European, African, and indigenous influences in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries).14 Such phenomena often continue long after the colonial power has left or forfeited hegemony. Theorists often emphasize the inferior position of the colonized when discussing this concept and the possibility of forced adaptation to social norms. Hybridity can occur “as a result of conscious moments of cultural suppression,” such as when a ruling party acts with sudden ferocity to suppress a subject population and forces them to submit to new practices (e.g., the persecutions of Antiochus IV Epiphanes).15 Because of the intrinsic power balance in the relationship between a ruler like Antiochus and his foreign subjects, any changes must be seen through the lens of forced adaption. In post-colonial discourse, the hybridity concept is also relevant to the manner in which a person or group engages in deliberate withdrawal from the society in order to circumvent the expectations of the imperial power. When a group resists pressure to conform, post-colonial discussions have examined how this dynamic plays out in terms of non-compliance. As Sugirtharajah explains: “Hybridity is an ‘in-between space’ in which the colonized translate or undo the binaries imposed by the colonial project …” (emphasis mine).16 Postcolonial studies sometimes employ the term “ambivalence” in relation to 12  Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin, Post-Colonial Studies, 109. 13  Bhabha, The Location of Culture, 86, contends that “mimicry” of the colonial power reflects “mockery” in many cases, such that imitation of cultural trends has a subversive aspect (see below in the discussion of James C. Scott). 14  Edward K. Brathwaite, The Development of Creole Society in Jamaica 1770–1820 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971). 15  Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin, “Hybridity,” in eidem, The Post-Colonial Studies Reader, 137. 16  Sugirtharajah, Postcolonial Criticism and Biblical Interpretation, 22.

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hybridity, as individuals and groups engage in a process of determining what the colonial power requires and how much they might conform to or circumvent expectations. In settings both ancient and modern, the colonized respond to external demands in complex ways, from denial of what is expected of them to complete fusion of their practices with those of their master. When facing pressure to conform, subject peoples frequently preserve distinctive aspects of their culture through a variety of means, including the formation of voluntary associations and/or sects. On this point, hybridity seems to hold great value for interpreting the scrolls, as we consider the manner in which the community behind the scrolls both adopted and rejected aspects of the larger culture. In certain passages from the rule books, the War Scroll, and Pesher Habakkuk, one finds palpable awareness of imperial rule, such as the many references to the Kittim, and the desire to transcend the expectations of dominant, external forces through alternative forms of community. More than a few passages reflect a vocabulary of otherness, citing detachment from the society as an essential step for preserving one’s identity and holiness before God. In many instances, the authors of the sectarian scrolls express their distinctiveness by casting aspersions on fellow Jewish sects or leaders who have, from the perspective of this group, abandoned the principles of the tradition. The sect described in the scrolls sought to avoid hybridization in any way other than on their own terms, and therefore they pursued a policy of deliberate separation on a number of fronts. Yet in other areas, the textual and archaeological evidence indicates an openness to outside influences (e.g., financial transactions, administrative structures, terminology in the rule books). In proceeding with our analysis of hybridity and the scrolls, a few cautionary notes are in order. To state an obvious point, these texts and the persons responsible for them did not function in a post-colonial setting, no matter how we characterize Hasmonean rule in Judea. Much of the contemporary discussion of hybridity relates to recent writers and communities negotiating the relationship between their native culture and former colonizer (e.g., the characters in the novels of V.S. Naipaul). By applying such concepts as hybridity to the ancient world, we risk imposing modern taxonomies on a much different context. Nevertheless, many recent commentators have utilized post-colonial ideas to elucidate meaning in the biblical texts and other ancient documents, and it is profitable to consider these concepts in relation to scrolls research. Yet the cryptic references in the scrolls present a more basic problem, especially since the authors often employ the language of established, sacred traditions found in the Hebrew Bible and other antecedent sources. Before drawing conclusions about intimations of hybridity in the scrolls, one must consult antecedent passages in the Hebrew Bible for allusions. In a great many instances

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with a text like Pesher Habakkuk, it can be difficult to distinguish between creative allusion to the biblical text and cultural statements about the Romans (see below). Another issue is the relationship between the terms “colonialism” and “imperialism.” Subsequent discussion will refer to the “imperial” context for the scrolls, by which we mean the details of living under Seleucid, Hasmonean, and Roman rule. “Imperialism” denotes foreign control of a people and region by a superior power. According to Said, this is more of a general term, indicating the “practice, theory, and the attitudes of a dominating metropolitan center ruling a distant territory.”17 The term “imperialism” actually derives from the Latin imperium, which in ancient sources could describe ancient Roman sovereignty over the Mediterranean world. Therefore, it is appropriate to describe the situation of Judea under such rulers as the Seleucids and Romans as an “imperial” context. “Colonialism,” on the other hand, is a more specific term and an outgrowth of imperialism; for Said, it refers to the “implanting of settlements on distant territory.”18 References to the settlements of European expansion in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries reflects a process of colonization. One useful way of making this distinction is that imperialism refers to the “ideological force” of asserting control and colonialism to the practice based on this ideology.19 Applying these definitions to the Second Temple period, foreign powers had settlements in Judean territories, particularly military colonies (i.e., cleruchies), and the level of direct involvement by the occupying power fluctuated according to ruler and military/political dynamics. Yet the context was an imperial one throughout the existence of the sectarian group responsible for the Dead Sea Scrolls. So even if many of the ideas behind postcolonial criticism relate more to the modern context, there are notable features of the scrolls and the historical context to warrant an investigation of this type, as subsequent analysis will seek to demonstrate.

Historical Context

Before proceeding with an analysis of specific passages, some brief historical background is necessary, including forceful actions by external rulers and other group(s) in Judea. Such an inquiry provides necessary context for considering post-colonialism and hybridity. First, it is worth noting that 17  Edward Said, Culture and Imperialism (London: Chatto & Windus, 1993), 8. 18  Said, Culture and Imperialism, 8. 19  Ashcroft, Griffiths, and Tiffin, Post-Colonial Studies, 40.

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foreign involvement became more direct under the Seleucids, primarily due to socioeconomic factors. The Seleucid empire endured a major setback with its defeat by the Romans in the battle of Magnesia (190 BCE). Antiochus III (223–187 BCE) lost much of his military strength, had to pay tribute to Rome, and ceded control of many satrapies in the Mediterranean region. These developments made Antiochus and his successors, Seleucus IV (187–175 BCE) and Antiochus IV Epiphanes (175–164 BCE), more dependent on smaller provinces like Judea for revenue (e.g., 2 Macc 3:4–4:1).20 In addition, the presence of the Akra in Jerusalem meant a permanent military force in the region; this type of garrison demanded resources and meant loss of control for the local population—economically, militarily, and in the cultic life of Jews—during this period (e.g., Dan 11:39).21 On the cultural level, the Hellenistic Reform and the persecutions of Antiochus IV created a climate in which submission to external norms became a more pressing issue for persons living in Judea.22 The accounts in Josephus and 1 and 2 Maccabees indicate a struggle over how much one should conform to Greek culture, thereby “disdaining the honors prized by their ancestors” (2 Macc 4:15). For some during the second and first centuries, participation in the gymnasion or other Hellenistic practices did not pose a threat to their value system; others shunned such activity as a repudiation of their faith commitment and therefore unwelcome hybridization. As high priest, Jason requested of Antiochus that Jerusalem’s wealthy classes be registered as citizens of Antioch, the Seleucid capital (2 Macc 4:9).23 According to Anathea PortierYoung, this move had a significant impact, “drawing Jerusalem’s Hellenized elite deep within the system of local and imperial patronage and benefaction.”24 All of these steps signified a strategy among some for Jerusalem to become a polis of the larger empire. Such a move stood to benefit those who chose to assimilate to the new cultural changes, particularly those with resources in the

20  Also note the Heliodoros stele, which correlates with this account in 2 Maccabees. See Hannah M. Cotton and Michael Wörrle, “Seleukos IV to Heliodoros: A New Dossier of Royal Correspondence from Israel,” ZPE 159 (2007): 191–205. 21  Portier-Young, Apocalypse against Empire, 122–23. 22  For background, see Klaus Bringmann, Hellenistische Reform und Religionsverfolgung in Judäa: Eine Untersuchung zur jüdisch-hellenistischen Geschichte (175–163 v. Chr.) (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1983); Dov Gera, Judaea and Mediterranean Politics, 219–161 BCE (Leiden: Brill, 1998). 23  On the implications of this shift, see Robert M. Doran, 2 Maccabees, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2012). 24  Portier-Young, Apocalypse against Empire, 102.

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society, while marginalizing others.25 With regard to Antiochus IV, the radical suppressions of this ruler forced many Jews to abandon basic customs or consent to activities that strained the limits of their belief system. Portraying such events and this period as a protracted cultural clash overlooks the gradual adaptation of many Jews to new ideas and practices. The Hasmonean period (170–63 BCE) provided a degree of autonomy for certain persons in Judea, but those responsible for the scrolls do not praise this succession of figures as liberators. In fact, the extant manuscripts contain veiled critiques of Hasmonean figures.26 Experts on this material have developed intricate hypotheses concerning the central figures mentioned in the texts, and the Wicked Priest in particular is usually associated with one (or more) of these rulers.27 Regardless of when the community of sectarians took their nascent organizational steps, whether in the late second or early first century BCE, the succession of Hasmonean leaders remains pivotal in the historical memory of these documents. In particular, the powerful and at times ruthless figures of John Hyrcanus (134–104 BCE) and Alexander Jannaeus (103–76 BCE) made infrastructure and territorial advancements that created opportunities for those allied with the Hasmoneans, but discord for those groups opposing them (e.g., 4QpNah 3–4 i 7). When considering perceptions of these figures in texts like the pesharim, efforts to find definitive historical allusions are notoriously difficult, but it is noteworthy that the seminal moments of the group responsible for the scrolls occurred under two rulers who enjoyed greater autonomy from outside forces than any other Hasmonean figure. Finally, the Roman Empire during the first century had more direct control over Judea, especially after Pompey’s victory in 63 BCE. Their consolidation of power and incursions into the lives of Jews during this period, especially in terms of financial demands, affected all those living in the region. With a vast empire and sophisticated government structure, including a capital city that held more than a million inhabitants, the revenue and supply needs of Rome were enormous.28 The empire imposed land taxes (Lat. tributum soli) 25  Victor Tcherikover, Hellenistic Civilization and the Jews (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1959; repr., Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1999), 168–69, cites the deepening stratification between the urban elites and the rural population as a result of this reform. 26  See Michael O. Wise, “Dating the Teacher of Righteousness and the Floruit of His Movement,” JBL 122 (2003): 52–87. 27  For a succinct summary of the various theories, including references to the Wicked Priest in the pesharim, see Collins, Beyond the Qumran Community, 88–121. 28  Peter Garnsey and Richard Saller, The Roman Empire: Economy, Society and Culture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987), 83–84, estimate the amount of wheat and other items needed to feed the population of Rome during the first century CE.

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on agricultural produce, and this placed a burden on subsistence farmers in Judea (Josephus, Ant. 14.203; J.W. 1.154). A network of governors exacted grain and other goods for colonial use. Roman officials continued the process of taxfarming in many of the territories under their control. In addition, the Romans engaged in periodic military campaigns to quell revolt and maintain order. How much these demands affected the sectarians is an open question that we will address as we take up the various references to the Romans in the scrolls, but it is certain that this larger dynamic had an impact on the sect’s self-perception and those fellow Jews who adopted a more ­assimilationist policy. When assessing this historical period and the context for the scrolls, the emergence of different sects during this period is not a coincidence. These groups provided a means of instilling mutual solidarity and in some cases a spirit of protest in the wake of tumult and social change.29 Within this framework, post-colonial analysis can shed light on the outlook of a particular segment of the population. Certain words and allusions in the scrolls demonstrate awareness of political dynamics, and there are statements (explicit and in some cases implicit) about acceptable levels of conformity to external cultural trends. The scrolls reflect an acknowledgment of power structures and historical currents, including the hope (often expressed in apocalyptic terms) that the community (the Yahad) might transcend the challenges of their present existence and receive ultimate vindication.

Separatism and Hybridity in the Sectarian Texts

When examining descriptions of the Essenes and the sectarian rule books, we find separatist inclinations, but also markers of hybridity. If one accepts the proposition that the various sources on the Essenes offer at least some insight into the group(s) behind the scrolls, then it is noteworthy that these authors specify the sect’s deviance from larger cultural propellants. For example, Josephus reports that even if they send offerings to the temple, the Essenes perform sacrifices in a different fashion (Ant. 18.19), “keeping away from the common precincts.”30 Such language is consistent with many phrases in the rulebooks containing ‫( בד״ל‬see below). Elsewhere, Josephus states that the 29  Jokiranta, “Sociological Approaches to Qumran Sectarianism,” 220–21, highlights some of the plausible reasons for why a person might have joined the larger sect that existed at Qumran and elsewhere. 30  For the correct translation of this passage in Ant. 18.18–22, see Joan E. Taylor, “The Classical Sources on the Essenes,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Dead Sea Scrolls, 173–99 (181).

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Essenes “reveal nothing to outsiders” (J.W. 2.141). This group as it appears in such passages has the markings of an introversionist sect.31 Jokiranta employs the definitions of Stark and Bainbridge in analyzing such language, and descriptions like those of Josephus indicate a “deviant religious organization” in opposition to a larger social context.32 Yet post-colonial concepts are also relevant here: these ancient authors describe a collection of members who shun many customs in their imperial context, while also adopting certain practices. When examining markers of cultural hybridity and resistance in such sources, one critical marker is style of clothing and whether the sectarians responsible for the scrolls eschewed colorful garments as a means of avoiding conformity. According to Josephus in Jewish War, the Essenes invariably dress in white (J.W. 2.123), and each member receives a loincloth (J.W. 2.137). Such garb is similar to the attire of the Pythagoreans, who also withdrew from the larger society in several key respects, making a statement through their clothing choices.33 These descriptions in Josephus indicate the parceling out of white clothing (λευκὴ ἐσθής) to Essene community members by a supervisor and the wearing of these garments until they became tatters.34 One may speculate whether the goals of purity, modesty, and cultural detachment were behind the selection of exclusively white garments. Perhaps the whiteness of angels in many of the sources and the perceived immodesty of highly colored garments (e.g., 1 En. 8:1) influenced such a preference.35 The most pressing question for our discussion is the applicability of these descriptions to the sectarians described in the rule books, whether at Qumran or elsewhere. There are no unequivocal references to the style of dress worn by 31  Jokiranta, “Sociological Approaches to Qumran Sectarianism,” 212–13, utilizes the categories of Bryan Wilson in making this designation. See Bryan R. Wilson, Religious Sects: A Sociological Study (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1970). Several commentators also notice indicators of a “revolutionist” sect in the rule books and descriptions of the Essenes. 32  Rodney Stark and William Bainbridge, A Theory of Religion (New York: Lang, 1987), 121–28. 33  Eibert J.C. Tigchelaar, “The White Dress of the Essenes and the Pythagoreans,” in Jerusalem, Alexandria, Rome: Studies in Ancient Cultural Interaction in Honour of A. Hilhorst, ed. Florentino García Martínez and Gerard P. Luttikhuizen, JSJSup 82 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 302–6, outlines the many references to the white, plain dress of the Pythagoreans. 34  Tigchelaar, “The White Dress of the Essenes and Pythagoreans,” 308–9, points to indicators that these white garments may have been linen. 35  Tigchelaar, “The White Dress of the Essenes and Pythagoreans,” 313, argues that based on such evidence as the reference in the Book of the Watchers “one can read the ‘white garments’ of the Essenes as a social, and perhaps also political, statement: the Essenes opposed the dress of the rich who followed modern fashion by wearing expensive coloured garments.”

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members of the Yahad in the Community Rule or in other extant texts.36 One wonders whether they shared the aversion to colorful garb that one finds in descriptions of the Essenes or the Book of the Watchers. The financial regulations in the Damascus Document (D) and the Community Rule (S) militate against lavish clothing in the style of wealthy Roman households as a realistic possibility, but in the absence of prescribed deviance, uncertainty remains. For a group that paid such close attention to markers of cultural separation, whether Sabbath observance, type of calendar, or attitudes towards the priesthood, it is vexing that no clear mandate for clothing appears in the rule books. Definitive conclusions in either direction on this question are impossible, but we observe that the sectarians responsible for the scrolls, especially those living in larger towns, did not react so strongly against colorful modes of dress that they explicitly outlined appropriate attire, whether white or otherwise. Consequently, we should allow the possibility for flexibility and a certain openness to differing modes of dress. Even moderate conformity in this regard constitutes a form of hybridity. When we turn specifically to the rule books and the fluidity these documents allow with respect to the larger culture, specific language from D and S indicates wariness about external influences. The insistence on boundaries in these texts seeks to minimize the sway of outsiders in many, but not all, respects. With regard to the former text, many commentators note the more open framework for sectarians in D. In the sections with a more instructional bent (i.e., the Admonition), adherents “reside in camps, marry, and have children” (CD 7:6), presumably engaging in frequent interactions with outsiders. Yet a number of expectations are restrictive, with persons having to submit to an array of specific regulations, many of them drawn from the spirit and language of biblical texts. For example, if an individual fails to adhere to the strictures of this group (“the law for the multitude of the camp”), the mebaqqer will correct that person and set them back on the proper path, with a full 36  Jutta Jokiranta, Social Identity and Sectarianism in the Qumran Movement, STDJ 105 (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 53. Some commentators have sought to glean meaning from the reference in the War Scroll to the seven priests dressed in “garments of white byssus” (7:9–10). Perhaps this indicates a preference for white garments over and against the wool (sometimes colored) clothing of most Jews during this period. See Jodi Magness, The Archaeology of Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 202, who also points to 1QS 7:13–14, which discusses a person revealing his nakedness (“his hand”) and wearing “rags” (‫ )פוח‬as signs of modesty (194). Yet none of these references indicate clear directions to sect members on how to dress. Unless otherwise noted, translations of the Dead Sea Scrolls are from Florentino García Martínez and Eibert J.C. Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1997–1998).

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year of remedial learning (CD 15:13–15). In another passage, the author warns against selling “clean animals or birds to the gentiles (‫ )לגוים‬lest they sacrifice them. And he should not sell them anything from his granary or his press, at any price” (CD 12:8–9). This passage draws upon antecedent language, but it goes beyond biblical legislation (and later rabbinic law), seeking to avoid defilement by erecting boundaries between outsiders and those who are part of the Abrahamic covenant.37 On this and other purity concerns, the regulations seem to present a separatist agenda (e.g., CD 6:17–18: “to separate unclean from clean and differentiate between the holy and the common”). Against those who posit a more open framework, Jokiranta and Wassen have provided nuance to any perceived liberties in D.38 For example, the mebaqqer has final say with regard to commercial transactions and choice of a marriage partner (CD 13:15–17). The fact that the Admonition provides explicit regulations on interactions with non-sectarians, including gentiles, demonstrates wariness about cultural conformity. Members of this group should “keep apart from the sons of the pit” (‫ ;ולהבדל מבני השחת‬CD 6:14–15) to avoid iniquitous behavior. The “sons of the pit” might not reflect a blanket designation for all non-sectarians, but such references do indicate reservations about external influences.39 Moreover, even if these regulations allow participation in the temple cult (CD 11:17–23), there is concern about the effect of those who are not members of the sect, including and especially priests.40 Yet we must question how separatist the group described in D actually was in terms of cultural detachment, especially if they lived in villages and towns throughout the Judean countryside and interacted regularly with outsiders. 37  Catherine M. Murphy, Wealth in the Dead Sea Scrolls and in the Qumran Community, STDJ 40 (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 89. Only cattle are forbidden in the rabbinic texts (m. Pesaḥ. 4:3; y. Pesaḥ. 4, 30d, 31a; m. ʿAbod. Zar. 1:6; b. ʿAbod. Zar. 15a). The argument that this larger passage in CD (12:6–11) addresses an early and less sectarian stratum is certainly possible, but Murphy notes the use of ‫ עצה‬in the phrase ‫( עצת חבור ישראל‬CD 12:8). This term usually refers to the actual community behind the Damascus Document. 38  Cecilia Wassen and Jutta Jokiranta, “Groups in Tension: Sectarianism in the Damascus Document and Community Rule,” in Sectarianism in Early Judaism: Sociological Advances, ed. David J. Chalcraft (London: Equinox, 2007), 205–45, responding to such arguments as those of Michael A. Knibb, “Community Organization in the Damascus Document,” in Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Lawrence H. Schiffman and James C. VanderKam (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 136–38. 39  Wassen and Jokiranta, “Groups in Tension,” 214. Murphy, Wealth in the Dead Sea Scrolls, 76, suggests that the “sons of the pit” phrase could possibly be an economic designation for the place where transactions occur, based on the use of ‫ שחת‬in Aramaic ostraca. 40  Wassen and Jokiranta, “Groups in Tension,” 221.

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Michael Knibb has argued that the community behind D could participate in many aspects of public life, including maintenance of private property, ownership of slaves, and most financial transactions.41 Consequently, relationships with outsiders and adoption of widespread customs, especially those that pertain to non-cultic issues, remain possible within the parameters of this document. As Catherine Murphy notes, the prohibition against selling certain items to foreigners (CD 12:6–11) relates to halakhic matters and not to other forms of commerce. Presumably, those who conformed to these stipulations had latitude to conduct their transactions in the pursuit of surplus, while also bartering for supplies with community members and outsiders.42 Even if most commentators do not view 4QInstruction as a sectarian document, its inclusion in the Dead Sea Scrolls corpus suggests that those responsible for this text accepted private ownership of property and participation in the larger marketplace, including profit-seeking.43 Along similar lines, D contains a statement about individuals being subject to the mebaqqer in financial matters and contributing two days’ salary per month for the most vulnerable members of their lot (CD 14:12–17). This is the task of the “association” (‫)חבר‬, to look out for the vulnerable in their midst. Such a requirement implies at least some financial autonomy, as members of this community could retain most of their assets for personal use, even if they lived in camps. When looking at the specific site of Qumran and the question of commercial transactions, some archaeologists have suggested that the inhabitants participated in the regional economy to a greater degree than some of the separatist, world-denying language in the rule books allows.44 While adhering to the theory of a sectarian settlement at Qumran for much of its duration, Murphy 41  Knibb, “Community Organization in the Damascus Document,” 136. On the slavery question, the regulations in D seem to allow ownership within the confines of biblical legislation on humane treatment. See Wassen and Jokiranta, “Groups in Tension,” 219. 42  The fragmentary prohibition against usury in 4Q267 4 9–10 also seems to indicate a setting in which profit-seeking became possible. Drawing upon Lev 25:36–37, this prohibition implies the need to regulate commerce among members of this community by utilizing the language of the Torah. 43  Matthew J. Goff, The Worldly and Heavenly Wisdom of 4QInstruction, STDJ 50 (Leiden: Brill, 2003). 44  The suggestion of the Qumran site as a villa rustica, based on luxurious glass and pottery remains, has been discredited by many archaeologists and attributed to a highly selective reading of the evidence. For the hypothesis, see Robert Donceel and Pauline Donceel-Voûte, “The Archaeology of Khirbet Qumran,” in Methods of Investigation of the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Khirbet Qumran Site: Present Realities and Future Prospects, ed. Michael O. Wise et al., ANYAS 722 (New York: New York Academy of Sciences, 1994), 1–38;

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maintains that silos for grain and date storage, facilities for manufacturing pottery, the coin hoards at the site that reflect a degree of communal wealth and tax payments, a possible date palm orchard on the western edge of the settlement, and the existence of animal pens at nearby ʿEin Feshka all attest to the participation of the inhabitants in a regional economy and their willingness to engage in certain commercial activities.45 With regard to the pottery in particular, some archaeologists have claimed that the pottery at the site does not reflect isolationist policy or an obsessive concern with purity.46 Such features do not invalidate the presentation of this group as a sectarian entity seeking to withdraw in many respects, but these factors demonstrate greater cultural participation than is often acknowledged in discussions of Qumran or the Dead Sea Scrolls. In terms of the sectarians’ take on other groups and leaders, several passages from D leap off the scroll as examples of ambivalence. For example, in an allusion to Deut 32:33 (“their wine is the poison of serpents, the cruel venom of asps”), the serpents represent the “kings of the peoples and their wine is their paths, and the asps’ poison is the head of the kings of Greece (‫)ראש מלכי יון‬, who comes to carry out vengeance upon them. But the builders of the wall have not understood all of these things, nor those who daub with whitewash” (CD 8:9–12). This last line is an allusion to Ezek 13:10 and the image of a builder covering up cracks with plaster. The precise historical context for this passage from D, especially the possible referent for “the head of the kings of Greece,” remains a matter of debate. Since the Deuteronomy passage also contains ‫ראש‬, all conclusions on a particular king must be tentative.47 Yet the desire to Yizhar Hirschfeld, Qumran in Context (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2004). For a summary of responses to this hypothesis, see Collins, Beyond the Qumran Community, 184–208. 45  Murphy, Wealth in the Dead Sea Scrolls, 359–60. For more on the regional economy, see Jürgen Zangenberg, “Opening Up Our View: Khirbet Qumran in a Regional Perspective,” in Religion and Society in Roman Palestine: Old Questions, New Approaches, ed. Douglas R. Edwards (London: Routledge, 2004), 170–87. 46  Rachel Bar-Nathan, “Qumran and the Hasmonean and Herodian Winter Palaces of Jericho: The Implication of the Pottery Finds on the Interpretation of the Settlement at Qumran,” in Qumran, The Site of the Dead Sea Scrolls: Archaeological Interpretations and Debates: Proceedings of a Conference Held at Brown University, November 17–19, 2002, ed. Katharina Galor, Jean-Baptiste Humbert, and Jürgen Zangenberg, STDJ 57 (Leiden: Brill, 2006), 263–77 (277). 47  For an overview of the historical discussion concerning this passage, see Thomas R. Blanton, Constructing A New Covenant: Discursive Strategies in the Damascus Document and Second Corinthians, WUNT 2/233 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 22–24, who notes that ‫ ראש‬appears in Deut 32:33, and therefore one must be cautious about assuming a

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establish boundaries for this group is indisputable. Rival sects (there is justification for understanding the “builders” in this passage as the Pharisees) or persons who allow too much conformity, whether in terms of cooperation with foreign rulers, Sabbath observance, or other interpretations of the Torah, have made a grievous error.48 The faithful disciple must submit to rigorous discipline and the correction of his peers in order to erect a secure barrier, rather than a plaster one. Such language, even if derived from antecedent biblical passages, correlates with an insular group in a colonial context, seeking to avoid conformity with rival groups and the larger culture. With regard to S, one finds an even more restrictive worldview and considerable wariness about hybridity. Members of the Yahad should separate themselves (‫ )בד״ל‬from corrupting influences, from all of the “men of injustice” (1QS 5:10; cf. 9:5–6). Different usages of ‫ בד״ל‬appear in 1QS (17 occurrences), reflecting a vocabulary of otherness. In column 8, this community constitutes an “everlasting plantation” and has the capacity “to atone for the land” (8:5–6) through the establishment of an insular group, with its own set of codes and practices. In the initial instructions to the maskil, one of the baseline goals is for members to be “far from (‫ )לרחוק‬all evil,” seeking a different way of life (1QS 1:4). The desire for this hierarchical sect to cultivate a pure space through the formation of small communities and the rigid insistence on discipline in S demonstrate an abiding concern with boundary identification. Yonder Gillihan even goes so far as to suggest that S seeks to restrict all interaction between the Yahad and outsiders, since the document never even mentions gentiles.49 Despite the exclusivist language here, Gillihan’s own discussion of the relationship between the scrolls and other voluntary associations undermines the claim that S seeks to eradicate all interaction with outsiders. Gillihan’s recent book asks whether those responsible for S, D, and the rest of the sectarian literature of the Dead Sea Scrolls corpus had familiarity with the intricacies of Greek and Roman voluntary associations, especially the ones with similar governing structures. He minimizes the possibility of direct specific ruler as background. He also mentions Matt 23:27, where the Pharisees are cited in reference to plaster. 48  See Baumgarten, The Flourishing of Jewish Sects in the Maccabean Era, 89–91. Blanton, Constructing A New Covenant, 57–58, connects this passage in 8:8–12 with CD 4:19 and argues that the “builders” probably refers to the Pharisees. He claims that the figure in CD 8:13 (the Man of Lies) also has ties to the Pharisees. 49  Yonder M. Gillihan, Civic Ideology, Organization, and Law in the Rule Scrolls: A Comparative Study of the Covenanters’ Sect and Contemporary Voluntary Associations in Political Context, STDJ 97 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 13.

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influence, arguing that the sect responsible for the scrolls and the Hellenistic and Roman associations modeled their groups on the “organizational patterns, laws, and self-descriptive language of the state, and the empires of which they were part.”50 Arie van der Kooij arrives at a similar conclusion, though he argues that the Yahad parallels the demos of the Jewish nation (1 Macc 12:6; 14:20).51 This national polity, for which van der Kooij provides convincing parallels in Jewish literature, led to the imitation of such structures among the sectarians, creating a hierarchical framework with priests and elders forming more elite bodies in the larger group. He refers here in particular to the topdown structure of priests (1QS 6:8; 8:1); “elders” (6:8) or “men” (8:1) or “a house for/in Israel” (5:6; 8:5, 9); and “the remainder of all the people” (6:8–9) or “the men of the community” (9:5–6).52 Along similar lines, Gillihan’s comprehensive charts provide detailed evidence of how the “alternative civic association” of the “Covenanters” responsible for the Dead Sea Scrolls functioned, the nature of their separatist agenda, and the manner in which they drew upon both sacred texts and the governing structures of their day.53 Yet even as these conclusions are convincing, this phenomenon actually represents a form of hybridity, when a group forms an alternative civic association but then replicates the governing features of its polis. As they created alternative government structures, the sectarians responsible for the scrolls mimicked features of larger Jewish entities, and indirectly, those of the Greco-Roman world. In exploring the topic of hybridity and the language in the rule books, other possible links are worth noting. First is the organization of council members in clusters of ten, which we find in S, with the additional requirements of perpetual reading of the Torah, the presence of a priest, and communal meals (1QS 6:3b‒7).54 Not only does this indicate clusters of sectarians living in small towns and throughout the countryside, but it also demonstrates shared deviance from the larger culture. The rules for the “camps” in D also mandate a quorum of ten (13:1b‒3), with need for a priest schooled in knowledge of “Hagy” (or “Hagu”).55 Along with the issue of what these regulations tell us about communal living among the sectarians is the question of influence. Did 50  Gillihan, Civic Ideology, Organization, and Law in the Rule Scrolls, 505. 51  Arie van der Kooij, “The Yaḥad—What Is in a Name?” DSD 18 (2011): 109–28 (121). 52  See, for example, Josephus, Ant. 11.329–339; 1 Macc 7:33; 12:6; 14:20, 28, 44, 47. 53  Gillihan, Civic Ideology, Organization, and Law in the Rule Scrolls, 509–24. 54  Collins, Beyond the Qumran Community, 54, argues that the use of the term ‫( יחד‬i.e., “union” or “togetherness”) implies a more restrictive framework than what we find in D. 55   For background on Hagy/Hagu, see Goff, The Worldly and Heavenly Wisdom of 4QInstruction, passim.

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the ten-member requirement of other associations have an impact on such arrangements in the rule books? Gillihan notes that Greek references to “ten persons” (δεκάπρωτοι) usually refer to state councils, not alternative civic associations. Therefore, any borrowing is imitative of larger bureaucratic structures and not other associations. Yet even if this is the case, such a framework reflects a specific vision: “Structuring their organizational patterns along familiar state lines reified the Covenanters’ civic ideology: they identified themselves as a commonwealth in the making, and they looked like one, too.”56 This type of substitutionary move is arguably a form of hybridity. Even if an introversionist sect seeks an alternative form of government, the mimicry of larger state patterns reflects the “Third Space of enunciation” discussed by Bhabha, as an ostensibly insular group takes organizational cues from larger social structures. While the sectarians organized themselves most intentionally through their halakhic exposition of the Torah, this use of smaller assemblies of ten may indicate a notable (even if indirect) form of borrowing from the larger cultural context.57 Other possible points of contact are the initiation rites in both S (1QS 6:13– 23) and D (CD 15:5–17) and parallels with other voluntary associations. A full review of these procedures is not possible here, and the differences between the two documents (and possible editorial accretions) have received significant attention elsewhere.58 The parallels between these entrance procedures and the requirement for the Athenian Iobacchi are similar enough to pose the question of influence. In both cases, a candidate for membership applies to a presiding official, followed by a vote from the larger deliberative assembly (1QS 6:16–18).59 56  See Gillihan, Civic Ideology, Organization, and Law in the Rule Scrolls, 249–50. Moshe Weinfeld, The Organizational Pattern and the Penal Code of the Qumran Sect: A Comparison with Guilds and Religious Associations of the Hellenistic-Roman Period, NTOA 2 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986), 18, had argued for a direct link between the rule books and the associations, most notably cultic groups. Commentators often point to the Anandian mystery cults in this regard. 57  Lawrence Schiffman, Sectarian Law in the Dead Sea Scrolls: Courts, Testimony and the Penal Code (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1983), 24, finds the antecedents for these groups of ten within the confines of earlier traditions. The presence of ten elders at the city gate in Ruth 4 and the mention of ten “rulers” (‫ )שליטים‬in Qoheleth (7:19) are pertinent here. 58  Gillihan, Civic Ideology, Organization, and Law in the Rule Scrolls, 167–91, 363–71; Alison Schofield, From Qumran to the Yaḥad: A New Paradigm of Textual Development for The Community Rule, STDJ 77 (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 174–75. 59  For the Greek texts on the Iobacchi, see Wilhelm Dittenberger, Sylloge inscriptionum graecarum, 3d ed. (Leipzig: Hirzel, 1920), usually abbreviated SIG3. The text under consideration is 1109.32–57.

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Moreover, a written record of new initiates occurs in these texts (1QS 6:23; CD 4:4–6), along with the payment of dues (CD 14:12).60 Important differences also exist, but there are enough similarities to suggest common cultural strands, even if filtered through the particularities of each group’s sacred texts and specific cultural attachments. With such commonalities, it becomes apparent that we have glimpses of hybridity in terms of organizational features among the sectarians responsible for the rule books. Such connections do not mitigate the strong allegiance to antecedent traditions and language in the biblical texts, but they do suggest the additional influence of broader cultural norms. Such developments often occur in groups of this type, as James C. Scott has shown in his influential work on “hidden transcripts.”61 Scott and others have noted that insular, extremist groups, including those whose outward intentions are not explicitly violent, often arise during sustained periods of dominance by a colonial power. The movement associated with the Dead Sea Scrolls maintained a degree of tension with the larger society, including rival Jewish groups, over a lengthy timeframe, drawing upon sacred texts and an apocalyptic vocabulary in order to avoid conformity. While much of their discourse took place “offstage” (i.e., intentionally removed from “the intimidating gaze of power”), these sectarians incorporated aspects of the larger culture and commented on imperial dynamics past and present (see below).62 This group cultivated at least some safe physical locations (i.e., localities such as Qumran) and free time for developing their hidden transcript, and therefore the sect became an alternative community. Scott cites Max Weber’s concept of “pariah intelligentsia” in this regard, an umbrella term that includes “marginal sects and monastic orders.”63 Weber had pointed out that groups that separate from the social hierarchy “stand to a certain extent on the point of Archimedes in relation to social conventions, both in respect to the external order and in respect to common opinions.”64 For such sects, insulation provides a safe space for development of alternative forms of community. 60  The more restrictive framework of S demands registration of property during the apprenticeship phase. See Gillihan, Civic Ideology, Organization, and Law in the Rule Scrolls, 372–73. 61  James C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), 4, uses the term “hidden transcript” “to characterize discourse that takes place ‘offstage,’ beyond direct observation by power holders.” 62  Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance, 18, explores the relationship between hidden and public transcripts. 63  Max Weber, The Sociology of Religion (Boston: Beacon Press, 1963). 64  Weber, The Sociology of Religion, 126.

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Yet even when a group takes intentional steps to protect members, mimicry of larger structures and cultural mores often occurs. Timothy Ling’s discussion of “virtuoso religion” (also a Weberian category) is helpful here. According to his analysis, the “virtuosi” in this category do not withdraw to an ascetic mode, but create “alternative structures that present a reversed image of society whilst remaining within its ideological and institutional boundaries.”65 Ling is able to show cross-cultural examples of this phenomenon, and he indicates that seemingly marginal groups are subject to outside influences, even as they can also make a mark through their otherworldly frameworks and implicit modes of protest. In similar fashion, Scott explains that the “hidden transcript” never dissociates completely from the “public transcript” (in this case the discourses of Seleucid and Roman imperial structures and those of more powerful Jewish factions such as the Hasmoneans). Scott’s point about engagement is valid, especially as we consider the scribal knowledge behind these texts. In assessing the level of cultural engagement in the scrolls, the scribes who authored and compiled these documents had considerable expertise and the means of acquiring significant literacy skills. They had aptitude with a variety of literary traditions and the ability to facilitate a high degree of output. As David Carr has shown, the persons responsible for these texts had diverse knowledge of Jewish literature from this period, including esoteric wisdom texts. Perhaps the sectarians’ privileging of the Mosaic Torah had parallels in Hellenistic groups elevating their own eclectic corpus of authoritative texts.66 Even if we label the sectarian authors “dissident scribes,” as some commentators do, such figures had sufficient background to incorporate different genres and social commentary into these texts. Part of their efforts stemmed from an impetus to limit the amount of larger cultural influence through a rigid, creative reading of the Torah (e.g., the requirement in 1QS 5:8–10 that each member should “swear with a binding oath to revert to the Law of Moses” and “be segregated from all the men of injustice”). The urbanization of the late Second Temple period contributed to the exposure to literary traditions among scribes and also to the decision of some to retreat to more remote surroundings.67 For the present discussion, the point is that 65  Timothy J. Ling, “Virtuoso Religion and the Judaean Social World,” in Anthropology and Biblical Studies: Avenues of Approach, ed. Louise J. Lawrence and Mario I. Aguilar (Leiden: Deo, 2004), 227–58 (243). 66  David M. Carr, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 215–39, with a specific discussion of hybridity on 238–39. He does not discount the importance of Torah in antecedent texts like Ezra. 67  Collins, Beyond the Qumran Community, 212–13.

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such “dissident scribes” had the cultural knowledge to incorporate an array of traditions into their discourse, along with political commentary. Rather than outright rejection of Greco-Roman culture, what we see in many of these texts is a process of assimilation and rejection among a class of literate scribes with the means to codify their perspectives.68

Attitudes towards Foreign Rulers (the Kittim)

Along with participation in the regional economy, various passages in the scrolls demonstrate an awareness of larger political dynamics and not just internal Jewish conflict over halakhic matters. In particular, references to the Kittim acknowledge political and military realities, including a palpable concern with the implications of Roman rule.69 For example, Pesher Habakkuk contains multiple references to the Kittim (nine altogether), and scholars are in widespread agreement that the Romans are the subject matter for all occurrences. These passages include a noteworthy critique of bowing to Roman military standards (1QpHab 6:1–5; cf. Josephus, J.W. 6.316). Whereas the War Scroll demonstrates more of an openness to aspects of the larger military culture (see below), this particular passage in 1QpHab 6:1–5 presents a more restrictive framework. Consequently, the acceptance of hybridity varies from passage to passage in the Dead Sea Scrolls corpus. In addition, Pesher Habakkuk refers to “the leaders of the Kittim, who despise the fortresses of the peoples and with derision laugh at them” (4:5–6). Later in this column, there is mention of “the leaders of the Kittim, who on the advice of a house of guilty [people] go by, one before the other” (4:11–12). Such passages indicate an awareness of Roman political structures and the might of this imperial power.70 The pesherist also includes a polemic against the “last priests of Jerusalem,” who accumulate wealth temporarily, but “in the last days their riches and their loot will be given into the hands of the army of the Kittim” (1QpHab 9:6–7). Most commentators agree that this is a reference to Pompey’s invasion in 63 BCE and the last figures among the Hasmonean leaders (Hyrcanus II, Aristobulus II). The Kittim 68   See John M.G. Barclay, “Using and Refusing: Jewish Identity Strategies under the Hegemony of Hellenism,” in Ethos und Identität: Einheit und Vielfalt des Judentums in hellenistisch-römischer Zeit, ed. Matthias Konradt and Ulrike Steinert (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2002), 13–25 (18); Portier-Young, Apocalypse against Empire, 110–11. 69  See Wise, “Dating the Teacher of Righteousness and the Floruit of His Movement.” 70  Most commentators maintain that the phrase “house of guilty [people]” refers to the Roman senate.

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represent a formidable opponent in this passage, and the author believers that the Hasmoneans will justifiably pay for their misdeeds.71 Along with the many citations and allusions to Habakkuk and other antecedent texts, we see here a recognition that the Romans were capable of destruction. Yet in assessing such passages, the overall depiction of the Romans in Pesher Habakkuk is somewhat ambiguous. The pesherist utilizes references from Habakkuk and other sacred sources, and therefore it becomes a challenge to distinguish exegetical from historical commentary, especially since this text does not contain the names of actual figures. If an author uses antecedent sources to describe current events, how does the interpreter separate political commentary from formulaic recitation?72 Moreover, the Kittim are not purely divine instruments in every instance, including 1QpHab 8:13–9:7, where the pesherist seems to be recounting an actual event.73 Whether this statement occurred before or slightly after Pompey’s invasion, this language indicates awareness of Roman incursion and an implicit acknowledgment that this foreign power had the capacity to rule for an extended period. Such references are pertinent when considering post-colonialism and the scrolls, since they reveal an honest appraisal of power imbalances and a degree gratitude for the misfortune the Romans heaped on rulers/parties with whom the sect disagreed. Pesher Habakkuk recognizes the Romans as a formidable presence in the region, and the utilization of sacred sources to describe military might has some value for understanding the sect’s view of empire. At a minimum, the pesherist demonstrates an affinity for veiled commentary in the wake of harsh realities, and the response in this text involves a complex interaction with Roman military customs and might.74 A similar dynamic appears in Pesher Nahum. This text includes names of actual figures, and we find mention of the Kittim in a famous passage. This fragment contains a statement that King Demetrius wanted to enter Jerusalem 71  Eshel, The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Hasmonean State, 174. 72  George J. Brooke, “The Kittim in the Qumran Pesharim,” in Images of Empire, ed. Loveday Alexander, JSOTSup 122 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 135–59, demonstrates how closely the pesherist follows the original text of Habakkuk. Collins, Beyond the Qumran Community, 101–2, recognizes the need for caution, but also argues that the pesharim interpret prophecy in order to understand and comment on historical developments. The pesherist employs texts like Habakkuk to offer favorable assessments of the sect in relation to external developments and groups. 73  Jokiranta, Social Identity and Sectarianism in the Qumran Movement, 162. 74  Richard A. Horsley, Revolt of the Scribes: Resistance and Apocalyptic Origins (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2010), 135–41, understands the depiction of the Romans in this and other texts from the scrolls corpus to be completely negative.

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“on the advice of the Seekers after Smooth Things” (most likely the Pharisees).75 This is an interpretation of Nah 2:12b, and the pesherist next mentions “the kings of Greece, from Antiochus until the rise of the rulers of the Kittim, and afterwards she [Jerusalem] will be downtrodden” (4Q169 3–4 i 2–3). The vast majority of commentators understand the Kittim in this fragment as the Romans, with “until the rise of the rulers of the Kittim” referring to the events of 63 BCE. The Romans therefore become the last in a long line of foreign invaders who will (with the Deity’s help) inflict justifiable punishment on iniquitous parties, from the perspective of this sectarian author.76 As with Pesher Habakkuk, this fragment offers a historical recollection of events, including an honest appraisal of the might of the Romans and their impact on all Jews, especially the enemies of this sect. The War Scroll contains some of the more famous examples of this type, with the Kittim appearing as adversaries of the Sons of Light, especially in 1QM 15–19. The precise reference points for these occurrences of Kittim are complex topics, with much debate over whether the usage of this term refers to the Seleucids, Romans, or represents a more generic designation. The War Scroll clearly draws upon Dan 11–12 and other biblical passages, including the Balaam prophecies (Num 24:14–24), to contrast the elect group with foreigners and provide hope for ultimate deliverance.77 Even if the original author had the Seleucids in mind for some of these references, as Hanan Eshel and others have argued, subsequent interpreters of the War Scroll probably understood the Kittim as the Romans, reflecting the political dynamics of the first century BCE. When assessing the occurrences of Kittim and the terminology of the War Scroll, one of the noteworthy aspects of this text is the employment of intricate military terminology. Those responsible for this text may have had knowledge, even if indirectly, of military manuals from Hellenistic and Roman 75  Timothy H. Lim, “Kittim,” in Schiffman and VanderKam, The Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls, 469–71 (470), argues that Demetrius probably refers to the Seleucid king Eukerus (early first century BCE). 76  See Lim, “Kittim,” 470. 77  Eshel, The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Hasmonean State, 166–70, argues that the language in column 1 does not reflect the existence of Kittim in Egypt. Based on the mention of the “Kittim of Asshur” in this column (line 2), Eshel concludes that this must be a reference to the Seleucids (Asshur = Syria). Cf. Brian Schultz, Conquering the World: The War Scroll (1QM) Reconsidered, STDJ 76 (Leiden: Brill, 2009). Philip S. Alexander, “The Evil Empire: The Qumran Eschatological War Cycle and the Origins of Jewish Opposition to Rome,” in Emanuel: Studies in Hebrew Bible, Septuagint, and Dead Sea Scrolls in Honor of Emanuel Tov, ed. Shalom M. Paul et al., VTSup 94 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 17–31, traces editorial stages and associates the Kittim references in the War Scroll with the Romans.

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armies.78 For example, the reference to cavalry “at[tired in cu]irasses, helmets and greaves” (1QM 6:15) reflects awareness of larger military practices. Such terminology is consequential for our examination of post-colonialism, because it demonstrates a willingness to borrow selectively from the culture of the colonizer. As George Brooke explains, hybridity can involve decrying the oppression of the colonial power, even as one adopts the parlance of that particular culture to make a specific point.79 Just as we saw indicators of hybridity in the rule books with regard to communal structures, mimicry also occurs in the War Scroll. These passages from the pesharim and War Scroll provide colorful evidence of an introversionist sect that sought to operate independently of rivals and cultural influences thought to be damaging to its members. This group articulated an apocalyptic understanding of the created order and brooked no dissent on certain practices that aligned with their reading of Torah and tradition. Many factors led to the formation of this group and its particularly rigid characteristics, including their desire to avoid conformity, especially with regard to halakhic matters. Yet one can also glimpse engagement with larger cultural and political dynamics, including the military language of the Romans and honest assessments of the power relations between colonizer and subject peoples. Even if the overt stance on many issues led to a certain detachment withdraw from the larger society, the passages involving the Kittim are more complex than might first appear. We find hints of resistance and conformity/ hybridity throughout these texts.

Cross-Cultural Similarities

Comparative analysis demonstrates that introversionist sects often emerge in such a colonial setting and with similarly ambiguous responses to the demands of the colonizer. We find parallel examples in other contexts, among groups such as the New England Puritans during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and the period of British rule in India. The former cultivated insular networks as a means of instilling discipline, and many left England for the Americas in order to form a “New Jerusalem.” Yet these Puritan groups mimicked their earlier existence in many respects, as they formed communities in the “New World” that drew heavily on the cultural mores they knew and forced 78  On the use of military terminology in 1QM, see Jean Duhaime, “The War Scroll from Qumran and the Greco-Roman Tactical Treatises,” RevQ 13 (1988): 133–51. 79  Brooke, “The Kittim and Hints of Hybridity in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” 27.

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others to do the same.80 During the period of British rule in India and subsequently, many sectarian groups, both Hindu and Muslim, arose as a response to longstanding dissatisfaction with royal authorities and a desire to maintain distinctive traits rather than accept fusion with the colonizer. Religious convictions often prompted a separatist mentality in the official positions of these groups, even as they mimicked aspects of British culture in their organizational patterns and cultural practices. The rise of Hindu nationalism and some of the fierce rivalries that exist today can be traced to struggles over hybridity. The issue of hybridity remains a controversial one in most facets of life more than fifty years after Indian independence, especially when it comes to educational curricula and certain cultural practices (e.g., dress). Post-colonial analysis has demonstrated that tensions over hybridity can persist long after the imperial power leaves. In somewhat similar fashion, sectarian groups during the Second Temple period had to engage in a longstanding process of determining how much they were willing to be assimilated into the dominant culture and how overt they wanted their resistance to be. When studying the Dead Sea Scrolls, we often separate our inquiries into silos, looking at genre issues in one session or volume, “religious” concerns in another setting, and sectarian identity in still another gathering or collection of essays. One of the aims of this volume seems to be the application of theoretical models that can work across some of these standard lines of investigation and perhaps highlight critical features of the scrolls and the group that produced them. Post-colonial constructs are instructive in this regard, especially when it comes to references in the scrolls to communal organization, empire, and the larger cultural context. Conclusions Post-colonial discourse is relevant for Dead Sea Scrolls studies, since those responsible for the sectarian texts articulated their perspectives in the wake of the Hellenistic Reform, the persecutions of Antiochus, their disappointment with the Hasmonean state, and the demands of Rome. In particular, the concept of hybridity provides a useful means of examining some of the key sectarian texts from this corpus. Those responsible for these documents expended significant effort to avoid certain practices, especially in the area of cultic life. Yet this group also adopted and interacted with aspects of the larger society, resulting in a degree of ambiguity in the extant texts. These sectarians did not 80  Regev, Sectarianism in Qumran, 54.

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reject all outside influences; the rule books and other literature demonstrate ongoing processes of mimicry, assimilation, and rejection of cultural practices. As analysis moves forward, further utilization of post-colonial discourse (including participation by those from non-Western contexts) would enhance the innovative methods already being applied to the scrolls, as we seek to understand the complex, layered relationship between the sect that produced the scrolls and the cultural context they had to negotiate.

The Social Milieu of 4QJera (4Q70) in a Second Temple Jewish Manuscript Culture: Fragments, Manuscripts, Variance, and Meaning Kipp Davis Introduction In his survey of Jeremiah scrolls from Qumran, George Brooke observed that scriptural Jeremiah is present in at least two versions and in six manuscripts. He noted that the evidence of both 𝔊 and 𝔐 Jeremiah texts in the collection indicates their currency in Palestine since the third century BCE, and that these texts should not be categorized and distinguished geographically as had previously been supposed.1 Brooke’s essay confirms that there is evidence for at least two “principal forms” of the book of Jeremiah (or portions of Jeremiah) in the Qumran scrolls, and their assigned paleographical dates suggest that they may have had a developmental provenance among those who wrote and collected the scrolls. Brooke also drew attention to the use of Jeremiah scriptures in the Qumran literature. Based on the presence of several copies of the Cave 4 Apocryphon of Jeremiah C (4Q385a–4Q390)—a text which features narrative descriptions of Jeremiah with the outgoing Babylonian exiles and with the Jewish community in Egypt—he argued that the Qumran group attached ongoing importance to the figure Jeremiah. Devorah Dimant published these texts three years after Brooke’s essay, and her edition provided a wealth of primary material for further consideration well beyond his assessment.2 Yet discussions about the relationship of all of these texts to one another, and those pertaining to the presence and function of Jeremiah traditions and scriptures at Qumran, seem to have stalled. A fragment from the Schøyen collection containing some intriguing readings of Jer 3:15–19 reinforces the need for

1  George J. Brooke, “The Book of Jeremiah and Its Reception in the Qumran Scrolls,” in The book of Jeremiah and Its Reception: Le livre de Jérémie et sa reception, ed. Adrian H.W. Curtis and Thomas Römer, BETL 128 (Leuven: University Press, 1997), 183–205. 2  Devorah Dimant, Qumran Cave 4, XXI: Parabiblical Texts, Part 4: Pseudo-Prophetic Texts, DJD 30 (Oxford: Clarendon, 2001).

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a re-evaluation of the evidence and invites renewed consideration of the presence and meaning of the Jeremiah scriptures from the Qumran caves.3 In this essay, I shall attempt to percolate discussion of the Jeremiah scriptures at Qumran in a socio-historical context, through a reconsideration of the oldest of the Jeremiah texts, 4QJera (4Q70), and in the light of new information provided by the small Jeremiah fragment from The Schøyen Collection, MS 4612/9. First, I shall review the text-critical classification of the Qumran Jeremiah scrolls by way of their relationship to either 𝔐 or 𝔊, and suggest that these texts may not so neatly conform to this model. Second, I will argue from this that both the Schøyen fragment and 4QJera point toward developments within Jeremiah that only later resulted in the emergent dominance of 𝔐. Third, in an effort to access the socio-historical context of 4QJera I will draw from methodological discussions that are prominent in mediaeval studies surrounding the so-called “new/material philology” and with emphases set on conceptual frameworks that have produced terms like “manuscript culture” and “memorial culture.” My goal is to incorporate some of the most useful ideas from these studies for establishing a suitable context for the 4QJera scroll, and to explore it beyond its classification as a textual witness to either the 𝔐 or 𝔊 versions of Jeremiah. Rather, this—like every ancient manuscript—is a distinct artifact that formed a vehicle for ongoing social dialogue and religious and cultural development. My primary focus is set on its intriguing scribal features and on giving careful attention to the interconnections between the “fragments,” the “manuscript,” and the “text”4 and how they inform our perception about the socio-historical world of 4QJera. 3  For the fragment see now Torleif Elgvin and Kipp Davis, “MS 4612/9. 4Q(?)Jer (Jer 3.15–19),” in Gleanings from the Caves: Dead Sea Scrolls and Artefacts from The Schøyen Collection, ed. eidem and Michael Langlois (London: Bloomsbury, 2016), 215–21. 4  In this paper, I distinguish between fragments, texts, and manuscripts. Fragments are the discrete, physical remains of scrolls that have deteriorated over time. Texts are formed by words strung together in phrases, sentences and paragraphs, that are either extant on the fragments or can be confidently reconstructed, and which are believed to reflect the intended and/or perceived meaning of the author or editors. Manuscripts are individual scrolls, either fully extant or reconstructed from fragments. Cf. also Matthew J. Driscoll, “The Words on the Page: Thoughts on Philology, Old and New,” in Creating the Medieval Saga: Version, Variability, and Editorial Interpretations of Old Norse Saga Literature, ed. Judy Quinn and Emily Lethbridge (Odense: Syddansk Universitetsforlag, 2010), 85–102 (91–92); Eibert Tigchelaar, “Constructing, Deconstructing and Reconstructing Fragmentary Manuscripts: Illustrated by a Study of 4Q184 (4QWiles of the Wicked Woman),” in Rediscovering the Dead Sea Scrolls: An Assessment of Old and New Approaches and Methods, ed. Maxine L. Grossman (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2010), 26–47 (26–28).

The Social Milieu of 4QJer a ( 4Q70 )

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Versional Plurality and the Situation of Jeremiah Texts According to the Standard Model

In Emanuel Tov’s landmark handbook on textual criticism (second edition), those manuscripts designated “Masoretic” or “proto-Masoretic” exemplars among the Qumran scrolls are distinguished by their agreement with the “consonantal framework” of 𝔐 as it appears in the medieval manuscripts.5 With regard to Qumran, these texts “have no special textual characteristics beyond their basic agreement with 𝔐.”6 He has since expanded and clarified this basic definition in the third edition of his book, by noting that there were three stages of growth that reflect emerging agreement within the 𝔐-group and a progression towards “increased textual stability.”7 The Qumran scrolls all belong to the “second stage” of transmission, extending from ca. 250 BCE to the time of the Bar Kokhba revolt (132–135 CE). Tov’s assignment of manuscripts is determined by how closely they conform to the consonantal text specifically as it appears in 𝔐L. He calls the Qumran scrolls “𝔐-like texts … very similar to codex L but not almost identical to it.”8 Among the Qumran Jeremiah scrolls of Cave 4 in particular, Tov identifies 4QJera,c (4Q70, 4Q72) as proto-Masoretic texts.9 The others he designates as “texts close to the presumed Hebrew source of 𝔊.”10 Tov identifies two texts belonging to this group, 4QJerb,d (4Q71, 4Q72a), noting that “[b]oth of them reflect a Hebrew text which is very similar to the text from which 𝔊 was translated, not only in small details, but also in the major recensional differences 5  Emanuel Tov, Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible, 2nd ed. (Assen: Van Gorcum; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001), 27. 6  Tov, Textual Criticism, 115. 7  Emanuel Tov, Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible, 3rd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2012), 27. Henceforth referred to as Textual Criticism, 3rd ed. 8  Tov, Textual Criticism, 3rd ed., 31–32. Tov’s specific statement, “not almost identical to it” is ambiguous in how it is constructed, but he seems to mean that there are sufficiently enough differences between the Qumran 𝔐-like texts to disqualify them as clear 𝔐 exemplars. These texts are close in form, but not enough so to characterize their relationship to 𝔐 as one of shared identity. This is an important distinction; one which Tov perhaps made in response to some of the more positivistic assertions of 𝔐 hegemony in the Second Temple period; e.g., Bruce K. Waltke, “How We Got the Hebrew Bible: The Text and Canon of the Old Testament,” in The Bible at Qumran: Text, Shape, and Interpretation, ed. Peter W. Flint, SDSSRL (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 27–50 (esp. 37–39). 9  Tov, “70. 4QJera,” in Qumran Cave 4.X: The Prophets, ed. E. Ulrich et al., DJD 15 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1997), 145–70 (151); idem “72. 4QJerc,” in DJD 15:177–201 (184). 10  Tov, Textual Criticism, 3rd ed., 108–9.

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in which 𝔊 differs from 𝔐: a shorter text and a different sequence.”11 The sequential difference in these two manuscripts is probably their most significant identifying textual feature. As we shall see below, the places where the protoMasoretic 4QJera contains a translational correspondence with 𝔊 will often appear to also reflect a 𝔐 sequence as opposed to 𝔊. This important observation attests to a complex history of development within several texts, which in turn complicates our attempts to group texts accordingly to textual forms or families. The Cave 2 Jeremiah scroll (2Q13) presents a different situation, in which the text does not always follow a consistent heading in the direction of either 𝔐 or 𝔊. This text lacks in places the consonantal framework that Tov points to as a feature of proto-Masoretic texts, and contains a number of readings that conform to no previously known version.12 2QJer falls into Tov’s classification as a “non-aligned” or “independent” text. Of this group Tov observes that the texts under consideration follow an inconsistent pattern of agreements and disagreements with 𝔐, 𝔊, and ⅏ and that they also contain readings not known from other sources. This cluster of texts does not form a group like the others since the latter share common features, while the non-aligned texts differ from one another.13 Tov originally suggested that this group formed 35% of the Qumran finds,14 but he has since adjusted and clarified this number by noting that it forms 39% of Torah scrolls, and 49% of the other Hebrew Bible texts.15 The relationship between the Cave 2 manuscripts and the more substantial finds in Caves 1, 4, and 11 at Qumran is still uncertain, and this may detract from the significance of 2QJer relative to the main group and, more generally, the place of Cave 2 manuscripts in the social realia of Qumran.16 However, the

11  Emanuel Tov, “71. 4QJerb,” in DJD 15:171–76 (172). For the fifth Jeremiah exemplar from Qumran Cave 4, Tov has said that this single fragment, 4QJere, preserves too little from which to make an identification of its textual character. 12  Maurice Baillet, “13. Jérémie,” in Les ‘Petites Grottes’ de Qumrân: Exploration de la falaise: Les grottes 2Q, 3Q, 5Q, 6Q, 7Q, à 10Q: Le rouleau de cuivre, ed. idem, Józef T. Milik and Roland de Vaux, DJD 3 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1962), 62–68 (63). 13  Tov, Textual Criticism, 3rd ed., 109. 14  Tov, Textual Criticism, 116. 15  Tov, Textual Criticism, 3rd ed., 108; however, Tov has also cautioned that these numbers are likely inflated and handicapped by our limited knowledge about ancient scrolls (cf. 109). 16  To that end, the relationship between even the largest collections in Caves 1, 4 and 11 is a matter of increased discussion; cf. e.g., Daniel Stökl Ben Ezra, “Old Caves and Young Caves: A Statistical Reevaluation of a Qumran Consensus,” DSD 14 (2007): 313–33; idem,

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57

­ resence of 2QJer does at minimum provide a broader context for evaluating p the Jeremiah scriptures at our disposal, as well as additional indication of a complex textual history for Jeremiah in Second Temple Judaism. The publication of another Jeremiah fragment from The Schøyen Collection has added even more evidence,17 as it also bears features of an independent text. 2

“Independent Texts,” the Schøyen Jeremiah Fragment, and the Diachronic Situation of the Qumran Jeremiah Scrolls

The Jeremiah fragment from The Schøyen Collection measures 62 mm × 53 mm, and preserves the beginnings of six lines of text from Jer 3:15–19, along with a right-margin of approximately 14 mm. It has been paleographically assigned to the second half of the first century BCE by Michael Langlois.18 Ira Rabin has conducted material tests on all the Dead Sea Scrolls in The Schøyen Collection.19 She concludes regarding the Schøyen Jeremiah fragment that it originated from outside the Dead Sea region, but that it was likely recovered from a natural cave.20 Her findings do not firmly establish a Qumran provenance for the fragment, and the uncertain climate surrounding purported Judaean Desert fragments in private collections in recent scholarly discussions potentially jeopardize claims of its authenticity. Nevertheless, they do combine with Schøyen Jeremiah’s dramatic divergence from 𝔐 to situate it in an interesting way vis-à-vis the Qumran texts. Tov has observed a consistent predilection for 𝔐L agreement among the other collections of Hebrew texts from the Judean Desert,21 and this might bolster the case for including the “Further Reflections on Caves 1 and 11: A Response to Florentino García Martínez,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls: Texts and Context, ed. Charlotte Hempel, STDJ 90 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 211–23; Stephen J. Pfann, “Reassessing the Judean Desert Caves: Libraries, Archives, Genizas and Hiding Places,” BAIAS (2007): 147–70. But cf. also Mladen Popović “Qumran as Scroll Storehouse in Times of Crisis? A Comparative Perspective on Judaean Desert Manuscript Collections,” JSJ 43 (2012): 551–94. 17  Elgvin and Davis, “MS 4612/9.” This fragment has been catalogued according to Eibert Tigchelaar’s new Dead Sea Scrolls inventory as DSS F.116, DSS F.Jer1. 18  Elgvin and Davis, “MS 4612/9,” 215. Langlois’s full paleographical description of this and all the Dead Sea Scrolls fragments in The Schøyen Collection has appeared in Michael Langlois, “Palaeographical Analysis of the Dead Sea Scrolls in The Schøyen Collection,” in Elgvin, Davis, and idem, Gleanings from the Caves, 79–128. 19  Cf. Ira Rabin, “Material Analysis of the Fragments,” in Elgvin, Davis, and Langlois, Gleanings from the Caves, 61–77. 20  Elgvin and Davis, “MS 4612/9,” 215. 21  Tov, Textual Criticism, 3rd ed., 29–30.

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non-𝔐 Schøyen fragment as a find from the Qumran caves, and not another Judean Desert site. The text of the Schøyen Jeremiah fragment has been digitally reconstructed by the editors as follows:22 [

 to]p margin? ]‫והש[כיל והיה כי תרבו ופריתם בארץ בימים ההמה נאם יהוה‬ ̊ ‫ אתכם רעה‬1 ]‫ברית[ יהוה ולא יעלה על לב ולא יזכרו בו ולא יפקדו ולא‬ ̇ ‫ לא יאמרו ̊עוד ארון‬2 ]‫ ֗עשה עוד בעת ההיא ו̊ ̊ק[ראו לירושלם כסא יהוה ונקוו אליה כל הגוים‬3 ]‫הר[ע … בימים ההמה ילכו בית יהודה‬ ̊ ‫ [ולא י]כלכו עוד אחרי שררות לבם‬4 ]‫ [על בי] ̊ת ישראל ויבאו יחדו מארץ צפן[ ומכל הארצות על הארץ אשר הנחלתי את‬5 ]‫יהוה ̊כי ̇כ[בנים אשיתך ואתן לך ארץ חמדה נחלת‬ ̇ ‫ [אבותיהם ואנ]י̊ אמרתי אמן‬6

There are ten instances of textual variation in the short space of six lines of text in this fragment.23 The attested readings are compared according to their agreement with 𝔐 and 𝔊 in the following chart, in the form of three columns: the first and second record the text in 𝔐 and 𝔊, and the third column contains independent readings not found in any known manuscripts. The readings from Schøyen Jeremiah are assigned to one of the three columns, and indicated by their line references in bold typeface:

22  Rather than merely counting letter spaces to fill the lacunae, or depending upon the impressionistic practice of drawing or tracing letters to match those on the fragment, a “digital reconstruction” is a cloning tool that reproduces letters and words that are extant in the manuscript in a digital environment. This practice ensures a higher level of precision in the assessment of available spaces to fill gaps in and between lines of text, with the added advantage of working at high magnification. This technique more accurately accounts for subtle features in individual hands such as ligatures, word-spacing, or tendencies with certain letters at the beginning or the end of words. The practice is not foolproof. Nevertheless, the controls that it supplies to the enterprise of reconstruction make it considerably more effective than traditional methods that were employed before the availability of this and other useful computer tools. The reconstruction of Schøyen Jeremiah was performed using high resolution 1200 dpi infrared and colour images of the fragment by Bruce Zuckerman and Marilyn J. Lundberg of West Semitic Research in Adobe Photoshop CS6 Extended v. 13.0.5 x64. 23  Six of the textual variations are preserved on the fragment, and four have been plausibly reconstructed based on the accumulation of available physical and textual evidence for the fragment.

59

The Social Milieu of 4QJer a ( 4Q70 )

𝔐

Jer 3:15: ‫דעה‬‎ 3:16: line 2 ‫ברית[ יהוה‬ ̇ ‫ארון‬ 3:17: line 3 ‫בעת ההיא‬ ‫יקראו‬: 3:17 3:17: + ‫לשם יהוה לירושלם‬ 3:18: >

‫את אבותיכם‬: 3:18 ‫ואנכי‬: 3:19 ‫איך‬: 3:19 ‫אשיתך בבנים‬: 3:19

𝔊

Independent

line 1 ‫( רעה‬ποιμαίνοντες) κιβωτὸς διαθήκης ἁγίου Ισραηλ pr. ἐν ταῖς ἡμέραις ἐκείναις καὶ … καλέσουσιν line 3a ‫וק[ראו‬ ̊ lines 3–4 [‫]כל הגוים‬ line 5 [‫]ומכל הארצות‬‎(καὶ ἀπὸ πασῶν τῶν χωρῶν) lines 5–6 [‫]את אבותיכם‬‎ (τοὺς πατέρας αὐτῶν) καὶ ἐγώ (καγω, Q-V-26-46-130´– line 6b ̊‫ואנ[י‬ 534-544-613 O 198-407-449 C´) line 6 ‫יהוה‬ ̇ ‫אמן‬‎(γένοιτο κύριε) τάξω σε εἰς τέκνα line 6 ‫̊כי ̇כ[בנים אשיתך‬

a  Only a miniscule trace of ink from the tail of the qoph survives, but it is clearly visible under a microscope. b  While this orthographic difference is technically not a variant, it is included here as a further, small indication of scribal variation.

In two clear instances (lines 1, 6), Schøyen Jeremiah preserves readings more closely aligned to 𝔊, and the available space in the lacuna probably indicates a reflection of 𝔊 in one more instance in line 5.24 However, there are also two places in lines 2 and 3 where the fragment preserves a text closer to 𝔐 than to 𝔊,25 and another in line 4 which might show some correspondence to the paragraphing in 𝔐LA (although the lacuna could alternatively preserve a slightly longer text than the versions here). Finally, there are two places (lines 3 24  Schøyen Jeremiah reads ]‫מארץ צפן[ ומכל הארצות על הארץ‬, where 𝔐 has ‫מארץ צפון על‬ ‫ הארץ‬in v. 18. 𝔊 has a longer text, ἀπὸ γῆς βορρᾶ καὶ ἀπὸ πασῶν τῶν χωρῶν equalling ‫מארץ‬ ‫צופן ומכל הארצות‬. Considerations of space suggest that Schøyen Jeremiah followed 𝔊 here. 25  Line 2 (corresponding to the end of v. 16) has been reconstructed ‫ברית[ יהוה‬ ̇ ‫ארון‬, according to 𝔐 on the basis of the available space. The reading in line 6 (v. 19) ‫יהוה ̊כי‬ ̇ ‫אמן‬ corresponds very closely to the Greek in 𝔊, γένοιτο κύριε τάξω, and the BHS editors have suggested that ‫ איך‬in 𝔐 should be understood as an acronym for precisely the same construction that appears in Schøyen Jeremiah.

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and 6) in which the fragment does not easily conform to either 𝔐 or 𝔊. The first of these has been tentatively reconstructed to reflect an alternative, unknown shorter text.26 The Schøyen fragment reveals a pattern of brevity by which it trends towards minuses present in either 𝔐 or 𝔊. While it is only a small fragment, it contains two alternative readings with no clear, direct relationship to one or the other of the extant versions from a sampling of eight variants.27 This could serve as a significant enough ratio to suggest that this is possibly an “independent” version of Jeremiah that circulated in the late-first century BCE. The fragment closely matches Tov’s definition in its gravitation between readings from known versions, as well as in the possibility that it contained readings previously not attested from other sources. The presence of so many text types for Jeremiah should affect our assessment of the situation at Qumran, factoring into consideration diachronic and synchronic features and more thoughtful attention to the individual manuscripts beyond their groupings into textual families. For example, the possible addition of the Schøyen fragment to the Qumran scrolls affects our understanding of the historical situation of the Jeremiah scrolls in the collection: of the five scrolls from Cave 4, the two that were designated “𝔐-like texts” by Tov have been paleographically dated to the late-third/early-second century BCE (4Q70),28 and to the mid-late-first century BCE (4Q72).29 Two other manuscripts, 4QJerb,d (4Q71, 4Q72a), are regarded as “texts close to the presumed 26  Elgvin and Davis, “MS 4612/9,” 217 read [‫הגוים‬ ̊ ‫ ו̊ק]ראו לירושלם כסא יהוה ונקוו אליה כל‬to fill out the lacuna in line 3. According to the editors the last preserved letter trace cannot be identified with either qoph or yod, since the stroke is too short to be the descender of the former, and too long to be the downstroke of the latter, which appears as a small, suspended chevron in this hand (cf. Langlois, “Palaeographical Analysis”). Furthermore, upon microscopic inspection, there is a minute trace of a second letter that would match the length of a tail of qoph, and would also account for the space that precedes it. Cf. v. 17 in 𝔐, ‫בעת ההיא יקראו לירוׁשלם כסא יהוה ונקוו אליה כל־הגוים לׁשם יהוה לירוׁשלם‬, and 𝔊, ἐν ταῖς ἡμέραις ἐκείναις καὶ ἐν τῷ καιρῷ ἐκείνῳ καλέσουσιν τὴν Ιερουσαλημ θρόνος κυρίου καὶ συναχθήσονται εἰς αὐτὴν πάντα τὰ ἔθνη (= ‫בימים האלה ובעת ההיא יקראו לירוׁשלם כסא‬ ‫)יהוה ונקוו אליה כל־הגוים‬. The shorter reconstruction more clearly corresponds to 𝔊, but without the plus to open the verse. 27  Two readings cannot be counted as significant in this inventory of evidence: The reconstructed ‫ את אבותיהם‬in ll. 5–6 are suggested only from the editors’ impression of the context, and the orthographic variant ̊‫ ואנ]י‬at the beginning of line 6 is judged to be a good possibility, but is also primarily conjectural, and does not affect the content of the text. 28  Tov, DJD 15: 150. Cf. also Ada Yardeni, “The Paleography of 4QJera—A Comparative Study,” Textus 15 (1991): 233–68. 29  Tov, DJD 15:182–83.

The Social Milieu of 4QJer a ( 4Q70 )

61

Hebrew source of 𝔊,” and both have been paleographically dated to the earlyto mid-second century BCE.30 Russell E. Fuller has observed that 4QJera,b,d (4Q70, 4Q71, 4Q72a) are the only manuscripts from the so-called “biblical prophets” that pre-date the mid-second century BCE.31 And while Fuller concludes that 𝔊-type manuscripts are “rare among the biblical prophetic manuscripts from the Judaean Desert and perhaps in Palestine as a whole,”32 it is all the more significant that 𝔊 Jeremiah is well attested relative to the whole group of Jeremiah scrolls. With the inclusion of the Schøyen fragment, this would raise the total of non-𝔐 Jeremiah scrolls to four copies. This fragment falls into the same category as 2QJer; both are possibly regarded as independent texts, and both have been copied in the mid- to late-first century BCE.33 The two independent texts of Jeremiah are thus the latest copies of Jeremiah from the Judean Desert.34 According to Fuller’s study, two of the four copies of non-𝔐 Jeremiah were in use before the primary phase of sectarian settlement at Qumran, based on Jodi Magness’s interpretation of the archaeological data.35 This number is further affected by a re-assessment of the oldest of the Qumran Jeremiah scrolls, namely 4QJera (4Q70). 30  Tov, DJD 15:172, 203. 31  Russell E. Fuller, “The Biblical Prophetic Manuscripts from the Judaean Desert,” in Prophecy after the Prophets? The Contribution of the Dead Sea Scrolls to the Understanding of Biblical and Extra-Biblical Prophecy, ed. Kristin de Troyer, Armin Lange, and Lucas L. Schulte, CBET 52 (Leuven: Peeters, 2009), 3–24. 32  Fuller, “Biblical Prophetic Manuscripts,” 17. 33  The script of 2QJer is described as “belle calligraphie hérodienne” by Baillet, DJD 3:62. Questions of provenance and authenticity feature prominently in recent scholarly discussions of numerous Judaean Desert fragments in private collections. Schøyen Jeremiah’s entry into discussions of the textual history of Jeremiah and the Jeremiah Scrolls at Qumran in the light of such uncertainty thus remains a contentious matter until such questions are resolved. 34  James H. Charlesworth has also published another fragment consisting of three words in three lines that he has identified with Jer 48:29–31; cf. https://foundationjudaismchristianorigins.org/ftp/dead-sea-scrolls/unpub/DSS-jeremiah.pdf. Charlesworth characterizes the script as “an attractive early Herodian Bookhand of the late first century BCE” (2). The provenance of this fragment is unknown and it contains a handful of dubious features which suggest the possibility that it is not authentic. Eibert Tigchelaar recently raised this last point in “Jeremiah’s Scriptures in the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Growth of a Tradition,” in Jeremiah’s Scriptures: Production, Interaction, and Transformation, ed. Hindy Najman and Konrad Schmid, JSJSup 173 (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 289–306. There is another small fragment containing text from the book of Jeremiah at the Museum of the Green Foundation in Oklahoma City, Okla. 35  Fuller, “Biblical Prophetic Manuscripts,” 12–13; cf. Jodi Magness, The Archaeology of Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls, SDSSRL (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 68.

62

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Tov assigned 4QJera to the proto-𝔐 group, in large part because of the conformity of this text to the same paragraph structure that appears in 𝔐LA. In addition, the clear agreement in frgs. 4+5 i 14–16 (Jer 8:10b–12) and frg. 11 2 (Jer 10:10) with significant 𝔐 pluses has helped to validate Tov’s assignment. These features in turn closely informed his reconstructions which tend towards 𝔐.36 Tov’s reconstruction confirms the earlier study by Gerald Janzen, who asserted that the text shows only “minor deviations” from 𝔐.37 However, the difficulty with several of Tov’s reconstructions is that their alignment with 𝔐 is occasionally strained. There are at least a few instances in Tov’s columns 3–4 which cast some substantial doubt on the extent of Masoretic agreement in 4QJera as a whole.38 For example, in the space to the right of frg. 4 i 4 (column 3:7–8) Tov suggested an odd, unattested reconstruction for Jer 8:4–5 that represented an abridged reading derived from 𝔐: ‫[ואמרת אליהם כה אמר יהוה היפלו ולא יקומו‬ ]‫אם ישוב מדוע שוב]בה העם הזה [ירושלם משבה נצחת החזיקו בתרמית מאנו לשוב‬, “[You shall say to them, ‘Thus says YHWH: When men fall down, do they not get up again, when someone strays? Why then has ]this people of [Jerusalem turned a]way[ in perpetual backsliding?’].”39 Of this reading, Tov admits, “𝔐 has a longer text (‫)אם ישוב ישוב ולא‬, but it is unlikely that all of these words would have fit in the lacuna.”40 His observation about the available space is perfectly accurate; a digital reconstruction of the line reveals that a 𝔐 reading 36  The extant open paragraphs are visible in frg. 4 i 3 (= Jer 7:29), 8 (8:7), 10 (8:9); frg. 8 4 (= Jer 9:13); frg. 11 4–5 (= Jer 10:11); frg. 26 ii 4 (= Jer 17:13); frg. 28 2 (= Jer 17:18); frg. 29 ii 3 (= Jer 18:17), 12 (= 18:23); frgs. 33 + 34 9 (= Jer 22:9). From this group of ten, eight instances correspond to closed paragraphs indicated by setumot (‫ )ס‬in 𝔐, with the lone exceptions in frg. 4 i 3 (= Jer 7:29) and 8 (= Jer 8:7), which are both unattested. Closed paragraphs can be seen in frg. 2 1 (= Jer 7:15); frg. 26 ii 2 (= Jer 17:10), 3 (= 17:11), and 7 (17:18a). From this set, two correspond to closed paragraphs in 𝔐 (frg. 2 1 = Jer 7:15; frg. 26 ii 2 = 17:10), and the remaining two are unattested. 37  J. Gerald Janzen, Studies in the Text of Jeremiah, HSM 6 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1973), 173–84. 38  Tov attempted to minimize the significance of several non-𝔐 readings in 4QJera by emphasising those points of agreement between the scroll and 𝔐. Cf. e.g., Tov, DJD 15:151: “This close resemblance is evident in the small number of divergences from 𝔐, most of them being insignificant. By the same token, the text differs from 𝔊, especially in the latter’s characteristically short readings.” 39  Translation based on Martin Abegg Jr., Peter Flint and Eugene Ulrich, The Dead Sea Scrolls Bible: The Oldest Known Bible Translated for the First Time into English (San Francisco: HarperCollins, 1999), 386. 40  Tov, DJD 15:156.

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63

would be too long by at least 20 mm.41 The space would much more comfortably accommodate a reflection of the shorter 𝔊 text, which did not contain the introductory element in v. 4, ‫ואמרת אליהם‬. Another fairly clear instance appears in Tov’s col. 4:4 (Jer 9:6) directly above frg. 4 ii 1. While this line is entirely reconstructed, there is some reasonable certainty about what it contained, since the general practice within this manuscript is to block the text into section units that always start at the beginning of lines, and frequently end with large spaces to end lines. Accordingly, this line most likely began with v. 6 following a section break at the end of Jer 9:5 (represented by a ‫ ס‬in 𝔐). However, if the text followed the inclusion of the 𝔐-plus ‫ צבאות‬after ‫ אמר יהוה‬as Tov suggested,42 this would extend the line wel past the hypothetical left columnar margin by at least 10 mm. Alternatively, the slightly shorter 𝔊 reading of 9:6, ‫לכן כה אמר יהוה הנני צורפם‬, “Therefore, thus says YHWH: I will now refine them,” quite neatly fits the lacuna. This evidence along with several other non-𝔐 readings (some of which are discussed in greater detail in section 4 below) reduces significantly the instances of alignment with 𝔐 in two columns of 4QJera.43 This is to say nothing of the very unusual large secondary insertion of an entire literary pericope in Jer 7:30–8:3 that was missing from the original composition of this scroll in Tov’s col. 3:6–7 (frg. 3+4 i 4–5). These fairly significant textual differences suggest that 4QJera is perhaps better classified closer to an “independent” text that testifies to instances of 𝔐 expansion, but also contains other consequential 𝔊 and unattested readings (see further in section 4 below). Furthermore, this would then mean that 𝔐 Jeremiah does not unambiguously make an appearance in the Judean Desert scrolls until the mid-to-late-first century BCE, only to disappear altogether shortly thereafter. And while the text-critical appraisal of this manuscript is most certainly interesting and generally important, the curious nature of an especially ancient text like 4QJera intensifies interrogations about the value of the Qumran biblical scrolls beyond their deployment as mere witnesses to later textual versions. 41  Cf. the definition and description of the process for performing digital reconstructions in n. 22 above. 42  Tov, DJD 15:157. 43  In my own, independent study of 4QJera cols. 3–4 (Jer 7:28–9:15) that includes a complete digital reconstruction, I have departed from Tov’s reconstructions in numerous places, and suggest the possibility based on calculations of the column dimensions that in 30 instances of textual variation this text agrees with 𝔐 and against 𝔊 19 times (63%), agrees with 𝔊 against 𝔐 7 times (23%), and presents independent readings from both 𝔐 and 𝔊 4 times (13%).

64 3

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Beyond Textual Criticism: “New Philology” and the Intersection between “Manuscript” and “Memorial” Cultures

Qumran scholars have tended to mine the text-critical value of the “biblical scrolls,” but this may interfere with the consideration of the individual scrolls not only as representatives, but also as texts in their own right. This point is especially pronounced by the presence of the so-called “independent” texts— texts like the Schøyen Jeremiah fragment, 2QJer, and perhaps also 4QJera. To be sure, the evidence indicates a complicated history of textual development. Furthermore, the dynamic nature of scriptural texts invites inquiry into their real-life function and use. Discussions about the state of scripture in the Dead Sea Scrolls generally, and in this case for the Jeremiah scrolls more specifically, continue to challenge earlier presumptions that the development and shape of biblical texts took place in a more or less linear fashion. The copies of previously known “scriptures” to which we now have access—as well as a constellation of literary works inspired by or which appear to “rework” these texts—also call into question the practice of treating individual manuscripts merely as “textual witnesses.” While the description of textual histories and their developments is undoubtedly an important outcome of the study of scripture at Qumran and in Second Temple Judaism, modern text-critical analyses too often neglect the equally fundamental questions about the manuscripts themselves: each one might rightly be considered a sort of “independent” text at the start of any investigation. Such an approach could benefit from the advances in editorial theory that have emerged from medieval studies over the course of the past two decades, including what is commonly referred to as “new philology,” or more descriptively as “material philology.” Inspired by the work of Bernard Cerquiglini, some medievalists have begun to argue persuasively for a re-evaluation of texts apart from more traditional stemmatic, textual critical methods, and with a greater sensitivity to medieval scribal cultures which appear to have prioritized instability or variance. This is to say that in the world prior to the mass production of individual works through printing and publication, medieval manuscript production actually fostered idiosyncrasy and variation. Stephen G. Nichols, in a special issue of Speculum dedicated to exploring material philology, remarked as follows: If we accept the multiple forms in which our artifacts have been transmitted, we may recognize that medieval culture did not simply live with diversity, it cultivated it. The “new” philology of the last decade or more

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reminds us that, as medievalists, we need to embrace the consequences of that diversity, not simply to live with it, but to situate it squarely within our methodology.44 This echoes Matthew J. Driscoll’s observation that “variation is what the medieval text is ‘about.’”45 Driscoll identifies three key principles of material philology: (1) the physical form of the text is an integral component of its meaning, including such elements as form, layout, rubrics and “paratextual features.” (2) Texts are “physical objects” produced through a series of processes most commonly connected to communities; they reflect particular purposes, places, and times that are socially, economically and intellectually determined, and these in turn form an integral part of their meaning. (3) These physical objects are frequently disseminated and consumed in similar ways that are also socially, economically, and intellectually determined.46 Material philology according to this simple definition would apply directly to Qumran texts, all of which provide real, tangible objects of study beyond the hypothetical models of textual criticism. The Qumran artifacts deserve treatment as “physical objects”; as individual texts in their own right, and in many cases as representative of a dynamic field of “variance.” In a recent essay, Liv Ingeborg Lied has applied the observations of medievalists to her work with the Jewish Pseudepigrapha, and with particular attention to a series of passages from 2 Baruch as they appear in Syrian lectionaries.47 Her approach is illustrated in an appraisal of two lectionaries in Codex Ambrosianus (1312 and 1313) containing 2 Bar. 72:1–73:2. Lied analyzes these manuscripts not only for their place in the stemmatically appraised textual history of 2 Baruch, but significantly also in situ: “[T]hese passages should also be studied as ‘variance’: 44  Stephen G. Nichols, “Introduction: Philology in a Manuscript Culture,” Speculum 65 (1990): 1–10 (8–9). 45  Driscoll, “The Words on the Page,” 88. Cf. Bernard Cerquiglini, In Praise of the Variant: A Critical History of Philology, trans. Betsy Wing, Parallax (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989), esp. 33–45. 46  Driscoll, “The Words on the Page,” 88–89. 47   Liv Ingeborg Lied, “Nachleben and Textual Identity: Variants and Variance in the Reception History of 2 Baruch,” in Fourth Ezra and Second Baruch: Reconstruction after the Fall, ed. Matthias Henze and Gabriele Boccaccini, JSJSup 164 (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 403–28. Cf. also eadem, “Media Culture, New Philology, and the Pseudepigrapha: A Note on Method” (paper presented at the SBL Annual Meeting, Chicago, 19 November, 2012), https://www.academia.edu/4131828/Lied._Media_Culture_New_Philology_and_ the_Pseudepigrapha._SBL_2012.

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the passages and their socio-historical and material contexts are interesting in their own right. In this regard, [they] are something else than the passages of 2 Baruch in the Ambrosianus.”48 Analogously, and for the purposes of our own study here, the various Jeremiah scrolls deserve treatment independently as something else than representatives of textual families: they are not merely copies of this or that text type of Jeremiah. Rather, they are also witnesses of community production in their own place and time, and for their own respective purposes. Material philology provides an important approach for raising questions about our expectations about the function and significance of manuscripts in antiquity. However, it is admittedly limited in its application to the Qumran scrolls, especially in light of the generally fragmentary nature of the scrolls that have survived. Medieval manuscripts are frequently large and elaborately decorated codices that emerged from a sophisticated production model that Nichols has described as a “manuscript matrix.”49 Medievalists like Driscoll and Nichols have suggested that all the features incorporated into the production of manuscripts beyond the text are to be understood in complex conversation with one another. The calligraphic decorations, dazzling illuminations, and intercolumnar and marginal notations and elaborations are all intricately part of the significance and meaning of each manuscript. The problem when it comes to the Qumran scrolls is that not only are so many of our exemplars incomplete, but they are also comparatively quite mundane in the sense that they seemingly contain so few supplementary features beyond the text. Nevertheless, material philology can help Qumran scholars to approach the world of the scrolls in terms that address the intersection between “manuscript culture” and “memorial culture” in the ancient world. “Manuscript culture” describes the purpose and function behind the production of texts in the pre-print era, and characterizes the ancient perception of a manuscript as an “interactive space inviting continual representational and interpretive 48  Lied, “Nachleben and Textual Identity,” 408–9, on the significance of folios 157b–158a and 175a–176a in ms. 1313. Cf. the helpful discussion of alternative models for assessing manuscript variation in antiquity that includes material philology in Jutta Jokiranta and Hanna Vanonen, “Multiple Copies of Rule Texts or Multiple Rule Texts? Boundaries of S and M Documents,” in Crossing Imaginary Boundaries: The Dead Sea Scrolls in the Context of Second Temple Judaism, ed. Mika S. Pajunen and Hanna Tervanotko (Helsinki: Finnish Exegetical Society, 2015), 11–60. My thanks to Prof. Jokiranta and Dr. Vanonen for providing me with an advance copy of their essay. 49  Stephen G. Nichols, “What is a Manuscript Culture? Technologies of the Manuscript Matrix” (version Jan/Mar. 2014), http://www.academia.edu/6481950/What_is_a_ Manuscript_Culture, 2–8.

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activity.”50 Manuscripts were not just vehicles for texts or literature; they were also forums for ongoing social, religious, political and cultural dialogue. According to Martin Jaffee, the manuscript culture in Second Temple Judaism formed a complex convergence between “[t]he malleability of the physical copy of the book as it passed through a series of scribal copyists, the performative conventions that rendered the aurally received book available and interpretive traditions that lodged in multiple memories and enabled common understandings of the written text’s meaning.”51 In this context, the scrolls otherwise ought to be regarded “as living witnesses to the dynamic, chaotic, error-fraught world of [ancient] literary life.”52 In that sense every manuscript was on some level significant to current developments in its own respective social world. Material philology, and its emphasis on manuscript features within a manuscript culture, brings the object of our study into sharper relief. In her landmark work The Book of Memory, Mary Carruthers has described the relationship of manuscripts to culture in terms of “textualization”: In the process of textualizing, the original work acquires commentary and gloss; this activity is not regarded as something other than the text, but is the mark of textualization itself. Textus also means “texture,” the layers of meaning that attach as a text is woven into and through the historical and institutional fabric of society.53 Following Carruthers, the process of textualization in the medieval period was similar to its function as a cognitive enterprise in Second Temple Judaism. That is to say that variance and dynamism produced within texts was inseparable from perspectives about the nature and function of manuscripts. Carruthers further argued that the malleability that we perceive within medieval manuscripts is actually in part indicative of their mnemonic function, as part of what she calls a “memorial culture”:

50  Nichols, “What is a Manuscript Culture?” 7. 51  Martin S. Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth: Writing and Oral Tradition in Palestinian Judaism 200 BCE–400 CE (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 28. 52  John Dagenais, The Ethics of Reading in Manuscript Culture: Glossing the Libro De Buen Amor (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), xviii. 53  Mary Carruthers, The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture, Cambridge Studies in Medieval Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 12.

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A book is not necessarily the same thing as a text. “Texts” are the material out of which human beings make “literature.” For us, texts only come in books, and so the distinction between the two is blurred and even lost. But in a memorial culture, a “book” is only one way among several to remember a “text,” to provision and cue one’s memory with “dicta et facta memorabilia.” So a book is itself a mnemonic, among many other functions it can also have.54 A memorial culture is a world beyond the physical representation of texts in manuscripts, but one in which manuscripts themselves provide codified expressions of an elaborate cultural memory. Perhaps more than anything else, material philology takes seriously this dynamic intersection between “manuscript” and “memorial” cultures that effectively characterize Second Temple Jewish scribalism. Manuscripts were vehicles for extensive social dialogue. Individual manuscripts provide access to this dialogue by way of careful attention to their cumulative features: script, quality, length, structure, notations, interaction, etc.55 Material philology targets these in such a way that potentially informs us about this ongoing dialogue. This approach to the Qumran scrolls sets aside expectations of “sameness” and offers a new starting point that gives more deliberate attention to the relationships between texts, fragments, and manuscripts—which together attest to the ongoing cultural dynamics in the “error-fraught world of ancient literary life.” If Nichols, Driscoll, and Carruthers are right, then the “variance” evident in the extensive collection of Qumran scrolls may seem less dramatic. These texts are then more interesting for how they illuminate the vicissitudes of everyday life. In other words, variance is a window through which we glimpse the cognitive features at work in manuscript and memorial cultures that produced and used manuscripts to promulgate current and shifting ideas. On this point especially, the so-called “biblical scrolls” from Qumran have been mostly ignored, 54  Carruthers, The Book of Memory, 8. 55  For example, one of the more interesting features within 4QJera appears in the extensive amount and variety of sectional structuring. Tov, DJD 15:148–50 has included a good description of the many section breaks that appear in the manuscript, and makes comparisons between these and the paragraph structure in 𝔐. What has to my knowledge gone largely unexplored in 4QJera is the nature of the sections themselves relative to the content in the text. This forms an important element of the approach that I am advocating in the long run, but one that time and space do not provide for inclusion in the brief survey that follows.

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and an approach rooted in material philology will undoubtedly reveal much more than a strictly text-critical study. Consideration of the social milieu of the Jeremiah scriptures, for example, can throw light on the intriguing and especially ancient manuscript, 4QJera (4Q70). 4

Manuscript Features and Their Place in a Second Temple Jewish Manuscript Culture: The Special Case of 4QJera

4QJera presents a special case-study for this methodological argument in two regards: first, because it is among the oldest Qumran manuscripts, it hearkens back to a time and place of production well prior to the Qumran settlement. Second, the exceptionally large inter-columnar insertion of Jer 7:30–8:3 by a second scribe is an unusual feature of scribal activity,56 and prompts us to ask (at least) the following four questions about the fragmentary remains of this manuscript: – – – –

What survives? What was “original” to this scroll? What was “secondary”? What to make of it all?

What Survives? While Tov has suggested that 4QJera represents a complete copy of Jeremiah, comprising an estimated 54–58 columns, and measuring 7.9–8.5 m, it should be noted that only a fraction of the scriptural text is preserved. Tov has managed an impressive reconstruction from fifteen columns between Jer 7:1–26:10(?), with the conjecture that there is probably 12–14 columns of text missing from between the extant portions.57 This is an ambitious suggestion, given that there

56  This is far and away the most obvious feature of scribal intervention within 4QJera, but the manuscript is significant for the level more generally of extraneous scribal activity. According to Tov, DJD 15:151, “[t]he number of corrections in this text is exceedingly great…. No other Qumran text has as many corrections relative to the length of the document…. Col. XI lines 7–9 contain as many as 8 corrections, erasures, or supralinear additions, or combinations of them.” Significantly, the long insertion was written by a different scribe than most or all of the other insertions and corrections. 57  Tov, DJD 15:147–48.

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are no surviving portions of the text past ch. 22—or perhaps ch. 26.58 With so much missing material, an alternative scenario is that this scroll contained only part of the book of Jeremiah as we have come to recognize it.59 Our investigation would do well to follow the evidence at our disposal, which does not unambiguously include anything beyond ch. 22. I cautiously suggest from the material remains the possibility that this manuscript contained only the first half of “scriptural Jeremiah,”60 perhaps ending at some point after ch. 24. This supposition would then also dramatically affect our reading of this scroll, no longer merely as a textual witness to this or that edition of Jeremiah, but perhaps additionally as something else. What was “Original” to this Scroll? As we have already observed, 4QJera should probably be classified not so precisely as a proto-𝔐 text, but rather as a more independent version that also 58  Tov, DJD 15:169 is tentative about the assignment of frg. 36 to Jer 26:10. Nevertheless, its situation here is problematic. There is not enough extant on this fragment from which to be even remotely sure about its location, and its misalignment with any of the versions in the place where Tov has situated it should give us pause. Another equally possible placement is at Jer 11:10, ‫‏הפרו בית ישראל ובית יהודה את בריתי אשר כרתי את אבותם‬, which would both accord with the vertical and horizontal arrangement of frgs. 14 (Jer 11:3–6), and frgs. 17–20 (Jer 12:13–16; cf. Tov, DJD 15:190). 59  Cf. Hartmut Stegemann, “Methods for the Reconstruction of Scrolls from Scattered Fragments,” in Archaeology and History in the Dead Sea Scrolls: The New York University Conference in Memory of Yigael Yadin, ed. Lawrence H. Schiffman, JSPSupp 8, JSOT/ASOR Monographs 2 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1990), 189–220 (193–94); also idem, “How to Connect Dead Sea Scrolls Fragments,” in Understanding the Dead Sea Scrolls: A Reader from the Biblical Archaeology Review, ed. Hershel Shanks (New York: Random House, 1992), 245–55 (250). Stegemann observed in his extensive studies on the reconstruction of Dead Sea Scrolls that documents tend to show higher levels of deterioration on the innermost and outermost layers, and that scrolls were usually rolled with the beginning on the outside. He actually asserts that the most extensive damage will appear at either end of the text, “occasionally the innermost layers would remain undamaged, protected by the sheer bulk of the scroll.” While damage patterns will fairly consistently conform to this rule, well preserved, larger scrolls reveal that the innermost layers tended to fare much better than the outer layers. For example, compare the beginning, fragmentary outside portions of the Temple Scroll to the final columns which are almost completely intact. The same holds for other well-preserved examples, e.g., 1QIsab, 1QpHab, 11QPsa, 11QtgJob. It is not clear whether 4QJera was rolled correctly or incorrectly at the time of its last deposit, but if this information were available, it would also affect our understanding of the original size of the scroll. 60  By “scriptural Jeremiah” I mean the book of Jeremiah that we know from 𝔊 and 𝔐.

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contained a range of textual traditions in addition to a handful of 𝔐 expansions. Or more appropriately, 4QJera represents a text of Jeremiah on its own that reveals important information beyond its alignment to this or that version, and which attests to an underlying scribal milieu as part of a Second Temple Jewish manuscript culture. In addition to the examples discussed above that show a higher degree of variance away from 𝔐, Aviyah HaCohen argued for the disqualification of 4QJera as a Masoretic exemplum on the basis of the missing text of Jer 7:30–8:3 from its initial production.61 HaCohen suggested that 4QJera originally contained only poetical oracles that are commonly assigned to the earliest stage of scriptural Jeremiah, and that the large insertion of Deuteronomistic prose from 7:29–8:3—beginning in the open-paragraph break, continuing vertically in the margin, and then upside-down at the bottom of the sheet—attests to the development of Jeremiah prior to the extant versions.62 This proposal has some merit, although there are a few instances in the other fragments not included in HaCohen’s study—restricted to only Tov’s col. 3—that also contain so-called “Deuteronomistic prose.” Nevertheless, it would come as little surprise that a scroll containing only portions of the book we have come to know as Jeremiah could also have contained an early collection of prophetical oracles of Jeremiah that was occasionally also supplemented by sections of narrative. More recently, Eugene Ulrich has written about the long insertion, and has argued for adopting William McKane’s theory of scriptural Jeremiah as a “rolling corpus” to explain its absence from the original composition of 4QJera.63 Ulrich likewise suggests the possibility that this was a Deuteronomistically inspired insertion, although he is more cautious to note that there is no way to know whether this is to be attributed to the Deuteronomistic stratum of Jeremiah, or stemmed from a later scribe who was influenced by this earlier tradition.64 Joseph Riordan has countered Ulrich’s view from a strong 61  Aviyah HaCohen, “4QJera—A Pre-Masoretic Text?” Textus 17 (1994): 1–8 (Hebrew). 62  HaCohen, “4QJera,” 5–6. 63  Eugene Ulrich, “Qumran Witness to the Developmental Growth of the Prophetic Books,” in With Wisdom as a Robe: Qumran and Other Jewish Studies in Honour of Ida Frölich, ed. Karoly D. Dobos and Miklós Köszeghy, HBM 21 (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2008), 263–74. Cf. William McKane, Jeremiah, 2 vols., ICC (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1986), 1:l–lxxxviii. 64  Cf. Eugene Ulrich, The Dead Sea Scrolls and The Developmental Composition of the Bible, VTSup 169 (Leiden: Brill, 2015). This was cited by Joseph Riordan, “Sin of Omission or Commission: An Insertion in 4QJera?” in Gottes Wort im Menschenwort: Festschrift für Georg Fischer SJ zum 60. Geburtstag, ed. Dominik Markl, Claudia Paganini, and Simone Paganini, OBS 43 (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2014), 99–112 (102–3).

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text-critical perspective by marshalling evidence from the survival of the pericope in textual traditions in 𝔐 and 𝔊 Jeremiah, as well as the preservation of this text in 4QJerc, and so concludes that “[t]here is no need to posit a freefloating collection of oral sayings, since the passage would be present in every text tradition, which explains why all the ancient versions of Jeremiah preserve this reading.”65 Setting aside the problem in Riordan’s own argument for the nature of the long insertion,66 from the outlook of situating this manuscript within the proposed context of a Second Temple Jewish manuscript culture, the textual tradition that underlies the composition of 4QJera is perhaps not as interesting as is the meaning implied by the phenomenon of its existence. The point being that whether or not 4QJera has any dramatic effect on our theorizing about the textual history of Jeremiah, the fact that this text once survived without Jer 7:30–8:3—possibly for a significant amount of time67—is an issue that prompts a socially sensitive explanation. What was “Secondary”? The large, Deuteronomistic insertion in Jer 7:30–8:3 breaks a poetical series of oracles in Jer 7:29–9:10. It is tempting to apply HaCohen’s argument that this insertion was intended to bring this scroll into closer alignment 65  Riordan, “Sin of Omission or Commission,” 110. 66  Riordan, “Sin of Omission or Commission,” 107–8 argues from Cross’s study of 4QSama (4Q51) for the possibility that the break between Jer 7:29 and 8:4 in 4QJera was the same sort of parablepsis that occurred in 4Q51 10:6–9, which attests to an instance where an ancient textual tradition from 1 Sam 11:1 was lost as a result of verbal dittography. However, the problem of the application of this logic to 4QJera is inherent in both the exceptional size of the long insertion (conservatively estimated to be twelve lines), but also the fact that it is difficult to account for this sort of accidental omission in the absence of any pattern of verbal cues from one section to the next. In other words, there is no such similarities between the transitions from Jer 7:29–30 and 8:3–4, as there are between 4QSama 10:6 and 9 that would explain how such a mistake occurred. 67  Ulrich, “Qumran Witness,” 273, speculates that the text of 4QJera survived without the long insertion for as much as a century. Riordan, “Sin of Omission or Commission,” 109, counters that the long interval of time is possibly explained by the reluctance of the original scribe “to intervene … on pragmatic grounds.” Riordan argues that even if a scribe noticed the omission, the feasibility of correction for such a substantial portion of text was likely deemed for a time to be too insurmountable to overcome. In my mind, this actually bolsters the view forwarded in this essay, that the text minus the long insertion was considered useful enough—quelling any urgency to provide a correction for a significant period of time. It is that usefulness in the absence of Jer 7:30–8:3 that I find especially interesting. Cf. also Popović, “Qumran as Scroll Storehouse in Times of Crisis?” 562–64, on the “useful life” of scrolls in antiquity.

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with a Deuteronomistic revision of Jeremiah, and with the textual tradition that survived in 𝔐.68 Interestingly, Jer 9:11–15 contains another prosaic, Deuteronomistic comment that breaks the oracles, and it is in this section of 4QJera that there appears an intriguing grouping of insertions and additional independent readings. First, there are two supralinear insertions in 9:11 and then in 9:14, the latter more closely aligning with 𝔐. Second, the available space and the alignment of fragments 4 ii + 8–10 (col. 4:12) requires that Jer 9:13 did not correspond to 𝔐, ‫וילכו אחרי שררות לבם‬ ‫ואחרי הבעלים‬, “they have stubbornly followed their own hearts and have gone after the Baalim,” which would be too long by more than 11 mm. 𝔊 contains an alternative text which is even longer,69 and the variance does indicate a potentially complicated history of textual development for this pericope. Rather more likely is that this part of the text contained a shortened version of this popular phrase. We cannot know for certain how the pericope was shorter, but a very plausible suggestion that would fit the lacuna is that the text omitted any specific mention of the Baalim. A preferable reading might be to reconstruct in accordance with other, less specific formulations of this phrase, ‫וילכו אחרי‬ ]‫“ ש[ררות לבם הרע‬they have stubbornly followed their own wicked hearts” (cf. Jer 3:17; 7:24; 11:8; 16:12; 18:12). Beyond the textual level of variance, this shortened text and my proposed reading contribute to understanding the situation of this manuscript in its socio-historical context (see below). Third, a close inspection of the photographs reveals an error in Tov’s transcription, appearing two lines below in 4:14–15. Tov reconstructed the text of 9:14 according to 𝔐, ]‫הנני מאכילם א]ת העם הזה לענה[ ו֯ ֯ה[שקיתים מי ראש‬, “[I am feeding this people with wormwood, ] and gi[ving them poisonous water to drink].”70 There is some discrepancy in the available space at the end of line 14 to accommodate this reading, but more significantly, the two uncertain letters at the beginning of line 15 present a nearly impossible match with vav and he in Tov’s suggested ‫ו֯ ֯ה[שקיתים‬. The visible trace of the first letter especially appears much more concordant with a mem, and the following traces 68  Cf. also Tov, DJD 15:152, “[a] possible criterion for such an assumed procedure of correction is the adaptation of the text to another text tradition, such as 𝔐. Indeed, almost all of the corrections agree with the Masorah codices of 𝔐.” Further on the Deuteronomistic redaction of Jeremiah, cf. Armin Lange, Vom prophetischen Wort zur prophetischen Tradition: Studien zur Traditions- und Redaktionsgeschichte innerprophetischer Konflikte in der Hebräischen Bibel, FAT 34 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 313–15. 69  𝔊 Jer 9:13 reads ἀλλ᾿ ἐπορεύθησαν ὀπίσω τῶν ἀρεστῶν τῆς καρδίας αὐτῶν τῆς κακῆς καὶ ὀπίσω τῶν εἰδώλων. 70  Tov, DJD 15:157.

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would very neatly provide for reading ‫ ̇מי̊ ̊ר ̊א[ש‬at the beginning of the line. The available space would then require an alternative reconstruction for what precedes it, and a reading that aligns with 𝔊 over 𝔐 in v. 14 actually very comfortably fills this lacuna: ]‫הנני מאכילם א[תם לענה והשקיתים] מי רא[ש‬, “I am going to make t[hem ]eat [wormwood, and give them] poiso[ned ]water to drink.” Significantly absent from this reading is the specifier ‫ את העם הזה‬in 𝔐, “I will feed this people.” If we are to review these interesting textual differences with an emphasis on their socio-historical context, then it follows that the original scroll lacked these temporal and cultic specifiers: there were no Baalim in v. 13, and no specific audience in v. 14. It might be suggested, then, that the large, secondary insertion following 7:29 may have provided a correction away from this generalizing tendency.71 5

Conclusion: “Sectarian Variants” or “Sectarian Variance” in the Qumran Jeremiah Scrolls?

What are we to make of it all? Another way of framing this final question is to ask whether it is even possible to detect the intentions behind scribal intervention in 4QJera. If 4QJera preserves “something else” than merely a witness to the textual history of scriptural Jeremiah, then what is it? Past attempts to uncover “sectarian variants” in the Qumran biblical scrolls have met with meager results.72 These pursuits have sought to align specific scriptural versions from these texts with the consensus view of “Qumran sectarianism.” Unsurprisingly, the text of 4QJera likewise does not contain any sectarian variants according to this type of investigation. Furthermore, the highly fragmentary nature of 4QJera and the Schøyen Jeremiah fragment featured in this study mitigates against our confidence in finding much in the way of so-called sectarian 71  This textual feature is reminiscent of Pete Diamond’s observation that certain elements of specificity appear to have been minimized in the so-called confessions in 𝔊 Jeremiah (Jer 11:18–12:6; 15:10–21; 17:14–18; 18:18–23; and 20:7–18). A.R. Pete Diamond, “Jeremiah’s Confessions in LXX and MT: A Witness to Developing Canonical Function?” VT 40 (1990): 33–50; cf. also William L. Holladay, Jeremiah 2: A Commentary on the Book of the Prophet Jeremiah, Chapters 26–52, Hermeneia 22 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989), 7. 72  Cf. Eugene Ulrich, “The Absence of ‘Sectarian Variants’ in the Jewish Scriptural Scrolls Found at Qumran,” in The Bible as Book: The Hebrew Bible and the Judaean Desert Discoveries: Proceedings of the Conference Held at Hampton Court, Herefordshire, 18–21 June, 2000, ed. Edward D. Herbert and Emanuel Tov (London: The British Library, 2002), 179–95.

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variants. Nevertheless, a careful consideration of both of these texts does help to illustrate an even more pronounced and dynamic tolerance for variation at work among the Jeremiah traditions and texts than we even recently expected. The questions raised about the contents and structure of 4QJera especially point toward the social dialogue that was ongoing in the third and second century BCE in the context of an emerging collection of Jeremiah texts. The features within 4QJera mentioned briefly in this paper, and revealed with the help of the methodological principles discussed above, could shed some light on the place and function of Jeremiah within the Qumran social milieu. My interpretation of the first column in frg. 4, and the peculiar, long insertion, entertains an intriguing possibility that the first scribe copied a series of oracles devoid of the more “cultically specific” features that appear in the insertion in Jer 7:30–8:3. The second column echoes this abstraction, but shows another subtle “generalizing tendency” in the temporal de-emphasis upon the “present” in 4:13–14 (Jer 9:15–16). In a Second Temple Jewish manuscript culture similar to that which was described by Jaffee,73 the long insertion itself is not so much the product of an attempt to correct an error as it is an active engagement within an open forum of discussion, perhaps about matters of covenant obedience and its relationship to the cult. From this perspective, 4QJera is a text quite similar to how Ulrich describes it, as a Jeremianic collection that contained supplemental material, structured around a poetical core.74 There is some evidence here that those behind the production of 4QJera were at least wrestling with the cultic implications of Jeremiah’s oracles and their currency. The “something else” in these instances are texts that are actively concerned with forms of cultic expression and the importance of ethical behavior that are framed in the preaching of Jeremiah. The ways in which they interact within the larger corpora of Jeremianic texts and traditions, Qumran, and Second Temple Judaism, reveals critical aspects about each text and its situation in the real world. The diachronic situation of the Qumran Jeremiah scrolls shows a paucity of the 𝔐 tradition in the earlier stages, and an eventual disappearance of Jeremiah from the collection altogether. The other prophets seem to have been fairly popular during the peak of the Qumran settlement in the mid-late-first century BCE, but the emergence of 𝔐 Jeremiah appears to have coincided with its diminishing use among the Qumran group (or groups). Could this pattern of change have coincided with the tension evident in 4QJera, in which the specific application of Jeremiah’s oracles in the present 73  Cf. Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth, 28. 74  Riordan, “Sin of Omission or Commission,” 102, citing Ulrich, Developmental Composition.

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were points of discussion and debate that eventually faded into obscurity? This paper has attempted to take a first step, with the help of a methodological refocus, toward a better understanding of the scriptural Jeremianic traditions within Second Temple Jewish manuscript culture. I hope to have answered this question with a solid “maybe” which prompts similar, more detailed study of how the variance at large in the Jeremiah scrolls may actually have been what many of these specific texts were about.

Male and Female, Heaven and Earth: Claude Lévi-Strauss’s Structuralist Approach to Myth and the Enochic Myth of the Watchers Matthew Goff Introduction1 The Hebrew Bible contains a relatively fixed corpus of texts that scholars routinely describe as myths. The parade example is the famous Chaoskampf, in which God defeats a dragon who is associated with the primeval waters (Pss 74; 104).2 In an Early Jewish context, the term “myth” is commonly used with regard to the Enochic Book of the Watchers. The core story of angelic descent that stands at the center of this composition is often called the “myth of the watchers.” Scholars call this narrative a myth in a rather straightforward sense, not unlike the Greek muthos, to characterize the text as a “story” that was popular in antiquity and which was told and re-told. Such employment of the term “myth” is fully acceptable. The myth of the watchers is indeed an ancient story that was told and re-told. It is not my goal in this paper to declare what scholars really mean when they describe an ancient text as a myth. Also, my focus is not on comparing 1 Enoch 6–11 to Greek or Hittite myths, or myths from other cultures, as scholars such as Nickelsburg and Hanson have done.3 1  I thank my colleague Joseph Hellweg for his helpful comments on this paper. I am also grateful to the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation, whose support facilitated the composition of this essay. 2   Bernard F. Batto, Slaying the Dragon: Mythmaking in Biblical Tradition (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1992). See also Annette Zgoll and Reinhard G. Kratz, eds., Arbeit am Mythos: Leistung und Grenze des Mythos in Antike und Gegenwart (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013). For discussion of the view that the Hebrew Bible does not contain myth, understood as a genre practiced elsewhere in the ancient Near East that is inferior to the literary output of the Bible, consult Michael Fishbane, Biblical Myth and Rabbinic Mythmaking (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005). 3  Paul D. Hanson, “Rebellion in Heaven, Azazel, and Euhemeristic Heroes in 1 Enoch 6–11,” JBL 96 (1977): 195–233; George W.E. Nickelsburg, “Apocalyptic and Myth in 1 Enoch 6–11,” JBL 96 (1977): 383–405. See also Mathias Delcor, “Le mythe de la chute des anges et de l’origine des géants comme explication du mal dans le monde dans l’apocalyptique juive: Histoire des traditions,” RHR 190 (1976): 3–53; Margaret Barker, “Some Reflections upon the Enoch Myth,” JSOT 5 (1980): 7–29.

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Rather this is an exercise to see if scholarship on myth as a category of analysis can in any way enrich our understanding of the myth of the watchers. The scholarship on myth is voluminous and—to invoke a mythic trope— reminiscent of chaos. I would like to give this essay focus by limiting my analysis of this vast topic to a single major interpreter of myth, Claude Lévi-Strauss. His structuralist approach to myth, as modified by his critics, can provide an interesting and fresh interpretation of the myth of the watchers. I shall first discuss Lévi-Strauss’s approach to myth and then provide an analysis of the myth of the watchers that is informed by his views. One can apply a broad range of Lévi-Strauss’s ideas in various ways.4 In this essay I focus on one of the key insights of this thinker—that attention to how binary oppositions are combined and resolved can help elucidate patterns and connections between different parts of a myth. An analysis of the Watchers myth informed by Lévi-Strauss illustrates that in both the so-called Shemiḥazah and Asael narratives of 1 Enoch 6–11 the destruction of the earth is caused when the opposed pairs “heaven-earth” and “male-female” are combined. With different images both the episode of sexual union of the watchers and the women (1 Enoch 6–7) and the account of unsanctioned revelation from the angels (1 Enoch 8) unite these two dyads and construe this development as disastrous for the world. Moreover, in the restoration of the earth (1 Enoch 9–11), the two pairs, heaven-earth and male-female, are no longer combined. The tension between the unification of opposites that took place in the primordial past is resolved ultimately in the eschatological future.

4  Note, for example, Bennie H. Reynolds III, who turns to Lévi-Strauss to argue that symbols in apocalyptic literature (especially Daniel) should be understood as a system of signs that are related to one another. See his Between Symbolism and Realism: The Use of Symbolic and Non-Symbolic Language in Ancient Jewish Apocalypses 333–63 BCE, JAJSup 8 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2011), 84, 381. To my knowledge, very little work has been done that engages 1 Enoch with the writings of Lévi-Strauss. Józef T. Milik briefly cites an Amazonian myth taken from Lévi-Strauss, in which knowledge inherent to human civilization has a heavenly origin. Milik mentions this myth to argue that the trope that human knowledge has a divine provenance “occurs in the religions of all peoples up to the primitive times of the present time.” See his The Books of Enoch: Aramaic Fragments of Qumrân Cave 4 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1976), 28–29. Consult also George J. Brooke, “Joseph, Aseneth, and Lévi-Strauss,” in Narrativity in Biblical and Related Texts: La narrativité dans la Bible et les textes apparentés, ed. George J. Brooke and Jean-Daniel Kaestli, BETL 149 (Leuven: Peeters, 2000), 185–200.

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Lévi-Strauss and the Structuralist Study of Myth

When scholars call a text (oral or written) a myth, they often, despite the variety of opinions on the subject, stress a few key points.5 (1) While a myth may be told simply for purposes of entertainment, scholars often understand a myth as having deeper significance, as a story that articulates issues that are fundamental for understanding human existence, such as the nature of the cosmos or society. (2) The term myth is often applied to stories that involve primordial events, taking place at the beginnings of human history, or, relatedly, have an etiological dimension. (3) Scholars have often understood myths as articulations of codes that determine the nature of a group’s culture or how the human mind works. The premise guiding analysis is often that the value of studying myth is in discerning these underlying patterns.6 Claude Lévi-Strauss, who died in 2009 at the age of 100, is one of the venerable ancestors of the critical study of myth.7 An overarching principle of his structuralist approach is that certain logical operations, above all binary oppositions, are universal throughout human culture and foundational to human thought. Thus, not only the same operations of logic undergird both myth and science, but also modes of thought in “primitive” and modern cultures are more similar than is often supposed. Lévi-Strauss’s thinking about 5  Eric Csapo, Theories of Mythology (London: Wiley-Blackwell, 2005); Ivan Strenski, Four Theories of Myth in Twentieth-Century History: Cassirer, Eliade, Lévi-Strauss and Malinowski (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1987); Laurie L. Patton and Wendy Doniger, eds., Myth and Method (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1996). For the history of scholarship on the subject, consult Fritz Graf, Greek Mythology: An Introduction, trans. T. Marier (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), 9–34. Note also Russell T. McCutcheon, “Myth,” in Guide to the Study of Religion, ed. Willi Braun and idem (London: Continuum, 2000), 190–208. 6  This may explain why there is often less focus on genre with regard to myth, in terms of articulating what should or should not be labeled as myth. See McCutcheon, “Myth,” 192–93. Also, as Bruce Lincoln has stressed, a myth is often presented not as a version of the story by a specific author with a specific agenda (even though this is often the case), but rather as an anonymous expression of the heritage of an entire ethnic group. Consult his “Between History and Myth,” in Gods and Demons, Priests and Scholars: Critical Explorations in the History of Religion (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012), 53–62. 7  For assessment of his work, see Boris Wiseman, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Lévi-Strauss (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009); Strenski, Four Theories of Myth, 129–93; Csapo, Theories of Mythology, 181–261; Howard Gardner, The Quest for Mind: Piaget, LéviStrauss, and the Structuralist Movement (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1973); K.O.L. Burridge, “Lévi-Strauss and Myth,” in The Structural Study of Myth and Totemism, ed. Edmund Leach, ASA Monographs 5 (London: Tavistock Publications, 1967), 91–115.

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myth is informed by the Swiss scholar Ferdinand de Saussure (1857–1913). As is well-known, de Saussure argued that to understand the nature of language one must make a distinction between langue and parole—parole being the actual utterances spoken by people, whereas langue is the abstract system of a given language.8 Parole is diachronic and operates within the flow of history whereas langue is synchronic and, for de Saussure, a-historical. Langue was for him the more important of the two, with parole simply being the concrete actualization of a specific langue. Language represents the organization of discrete units of sound, phonemes, into a logical system that can convey meaning. For Lévi-Strauss myth operates in much the same way. Myths, he argued, comprise smaller elements, or mythemes, that should be understood as “not the isolated relations but bundles of such relations.”9 The mythemes derive their meaning from their relations with one another, with each individual unit as part of a larger system, the undergirding grammar of myth.10 For Lévi-Strauss, a myth also constitutes a culture’s attempt to resolve logical problems, to mediate between two things that appear to be in contradiction to one another. Like Freud, he illustrated his understanding of myth by turning to the Oedipus story.11 The myth involves the killing of a dragon out of whose blood come the Spartan people (Apollodorus 3.4.1). Oedipus’s name (derived from οἰδάω, “to swell” and πούς, “foot”) signifies lameness or difficulty in walking upright. Lévi-Strauss viewed these two motifs as binary opposites. The dragon represents “the denial of the autochthonous origin of man,” since people are not self-created but rather emerge from its blood. The name of Oedipus signifies an opposing theme, “the persistence of the autochthonous origin of man,” with the motif of lameness signifying self-originating man, who 8  Csapo, Theories of Mythology, 183. See also Christopher Johnson, “Before Babel: LéviStrauss and Language,” in Wiseman, The Cambridge Companion to Lévi-Strauss, 237–54; Reynolds, Between Symbolism and Realism, 80–84. 9  Claude Lévi-Strauss, “The Structural Study of Myth,” in Structural Anthropology, trans. Claire Jacobson and Brooke Grundfest Schoepf (New York: Basic Books, 1963), 206–31 (211). 10  According to Lévi-Strauss, in the same way that a native speaker of a language often knows how to speak it without being able to explain its grammar, “myths operate in men’s minds without their being aware of the fact.” See his The Raw and the Cooked: Mythologiques, Volume 1, trans. John Weightman and Doreen Weightman (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983 [orig. pub., 1964]), 12. Consult also his Anthropology and Myth: Lectures 1951– 1982, trans. Roy Willis (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1987 [orig. pub. 1984]). 11  Lévi-Strauss, “The Structural Study of Myth,” 214. See also Timothy Gantz, Early Greek Myth: A Guide to Literary and Artistic Sources, 2 vols. (Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press, 1993), 2:492–502; Graf, Greek Mythology, 45.

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emerges from the depths and walks clumsily in his first moments. The original problem from which the myth sprung, Lévi-Strauss argued, is this: is man born from one or born from two?12 The myth, in his opinion, helps affirm a belief in the autochthonous origins of humankind, despite the biological fact that two people are necessary for the production of human life. The myth emerges out of a set of binary oppositions that helps express a contradiction that is both logical and cultural. For Lévi-Strauss a myth does not in fact solve any contradiction.13 Rather an underlying cultural issue provides the basic tensions that produce the myth and its attempt to solve it. In his system a particular problem or contradiction can generate numerous myths, theoretically infinite in number. The details and images of the myth are different surface manifestations of efforts to solve the given contradiction. Lévi-Strauss’s expansive approach is evident in his massive four volume work Mythologiques (1964–1971). Drawing initially on his ethnographic fieldwork among indigenous peoples of the Amazon in the 1930s, as he recounts in Tristes Tropiques (1955), he begins the first volume of Mythologiques (The Raw and the Cooked) with a single myth, which he classifies as M1, from the Bororo people, who live in the state of Mato Grosso in Brazil.14 In this myth a man rapes his mother and, after he is transformed into a deer, impales his father with his antlers and drops him into a lake, where he is consumed by piranha-like fish.15 From this myth Lévi-Strauss expands his analysis to include an ever-widening set of myths that eventually take him in the course of Mythologiques from the southern tip of the Americas to the Arctic Circle.16 This approach, he argued, allowed him to illustrate, among other things, that his initial myth (M1) offers an explanation of the cooking of food, which mediates an opposition between nature and culture that is expressed in the title The Raw and the Cooked.17 This conclusion is reached even though, as he grants, the cooking of food is never an explicit topic of M1. He reaches this conclusion by understanding this myth in relation to several sets of others, in particular a group he classifies as M7–M12, which deals with the origin of fire.18 In M1 12  Lévi-Strauss, “The Structural Study of Myth,” 216. 13  Lévi-Strauss, “The Structural Study of Myth,” 229. 14  The four volumes of Mythologiques are: The Raw and the Cooked (1964); From Honey to Ashes (1966); The Origin of Table Manners (1968) and The Naked Man (1971). 15  The Raw and Cooked, 36–37. 16  Lévi-Strauss, The Origin of Table Manners: Introduction to a Science of Mythology: 3, trans. John Weightman and Doreen Weightman (London: Jonathan Cape, 1978), 17–19. 17  The Raw and Cooked, 64. 18  The Raw and Cooked, 66–73.

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fires are extinguished in a rain-storm, which provides an etiology for wind and rain. Lévi-Strauss concludes that the myth is “anti-fire,” with fire being central to cooking.19 Its structure is thus an inversion of that of the myths about fire.20 While one may not find this conclusion persuasive, it illustrates a key element of his method: isolating binary oppositions in myths as expressed by a structure common to them that is not monolithic but dynamic, in which base elements of logical structures can be transformed and inverted in a vast range of myths.

Lévi-Strauss and His Discontents

Lévi-Strauss’s structuralist approach to myth has not gone unchallenged. Clifford Geertz (1926–2006) bitterly critiqued Lévi-Strauss’s penchant for distilling rich and variegated myths into abstractions and logical formulae: Neither picturing lives nor evoking them, neither interpreting them nor explaining them, but rather arranging and rearranging the materials [the myths] … into formal systems of correspondences—his [Lévi-Strauss’s] books seem to exist behind glass, self-sealing discourses into which jaguars, semen and rotting meat are admitted to become oppositions, inversions, isomorphisms.21 Lévi-Strauss, Geertz complains, engages a vast array of fascinating myths, mostly from an Amazonian milieu, and reduces them to a series of dry and fixed logical abstractions. One gets the impression when reading Lévi-Strauss that his interest is less in the myths themselves and more in the abstract systems

19  The Raw and Cooked, 137, 295. See also Nur Yalman, “ ‘The Raw: the Cooked :: Nature: Culture’: Observations on Le Cru et le cuit,” in Leach, The Structural Study of Myth, 71–89 (79). 20  He often expresses the transformation of elements of a myth’s underlying structure with mathematical formulae, such as a:b :: c:a-1, in which “a-1” denotes an inversion of “a.” See Wendy Doniger, “Claude Lévi-Strauss’s Theoretical and Actual Approaches to Myth,” in Wiseman, The Cambridge Companion to Lévi-Strauss, 196–215 (198). 21  Clifford Geertz, Works and Lives: The Anthropologist as Author (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1988), 48. This quotation is cited in Doniger, “Claude Lévi-Strauss’s Theoretical and Actual Approaches to Myth,” 196, but she mis-attributes it to another book by Geertz, After the Fact: Two Countries, Four Decades, One Anthropologist (The Jerusalem-Harvard Lectures) (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1995).

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he claims they reveal.22 He shows minimal interest in the myths as narratives, as tales that are complex and multivalent which can be interpreted in various ways. Derrida legitimately critiqued Lévi-Strauss on this point, expressing disagreement not only with his reductionism but also the scientific discourse in which Lévi-Strauss embeds his analysis.23 He understood the structures he discerned, as did Freud, not as subjective constructs imposed on a set of myths but rather as genuine knowledge about the nature of reality, “scientific” discoveries of general and universalist modes of logic that reveal how the human mind works.24 None of this means that Lévi-Strauss or his structuralist approach to myth should be abandoned. On this point I am in full agreement with Wendy Doniger who praises his structuralism, in particular its emphasis on binary oppositions, for helping us identify patterns and unifying themes in a myth. We should use, she cautions, Lévi-Strauss’s methods without following them to the conclusions he reached, his claims of discovering the underlying logical abstractions that give myths their structure. Lévi-Strauss’s approach can be re-imagined as a type of literary criticism as opposed to an anthropological or ethnographic method, strictly speaking. 22  In his core studies of myth he does relatively little with the issue of genre or the problem of what should be considered a myth. He defines his subject so broadly, by essentially equating myth and language, that questions of literary classification become less important, and any tale which reveals the deep structures he wants to uncover would be valid from his perspective. See Csapo, Theories of Mythology, 228–34; Graf, Greek Mythology, 47. 23  Jacques Derrida, “Structure, Sign, Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences,” in Writing and Difference, trans. Alan Bass (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978), 278–93 (289). Also note Lévi-Strauss’s defense of a scientific approach to myth (and his personal confession that he avidly and regularly read the journal Scientific American, without fully understanding it). See his “The Meeting of Myth and Science,” in Myth and Meaning (New York: Schocken Books, 1978), 5–14. Consult also Burridge, “Lévi-Strauss and Myth,” 113; Lena Petrović, “Remembering and Dismembering: Derrida’s Reading of Lévi-Strauss,” Facta Universitatis 3 (2004): 87–96. 24  Derrida, “Structure, Sign, Play,” 286. Doniger (“Claude Lévi-Strauss’s Theoretical and Actual Approaches to Myth,” 213) claims that Lévi-Strauss “simply replaces Freud’s universal category of physical desire with his own universal logical category of what might be called logical lust”—an impulse to impose order on random sets of data. As for LéviStrauss’s universalism, consider this quote from the Raw and the Cooked: “For what I am concerned to clarify is not so much what there is in myths [italics his] (without, incidentally, being in man’s consciousness) as the system of axioms and postulates defining the best possible code, capable of conferring a common significance on unconscious formulations which are the work of minds, societies, and civilizations chosen from among those most remote from each other” (12).

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The Myth of the Watchers: Heaven and Earth, Male and Female

1 Enoch 6–11 utilizes several binary oppositions—heaven/earth, male/female, knowledge/ignorance, and creation/destruction. The myth begins with the multiplication of people on earth (6:1). At the outset there is fecundity, with sex and increase of the human population on the earth, and there is no sense that this is a problem. Some angels in heaven see this situation on earth and covet it. As 1 En. 6:2 makes clear, the issue is not simply their lust for beautiful women, but also their desire to have children, an important but often overlooked detail, although it is not in all witnesses to the text.25 They descend to earth. The oath at Mount Hermon, by which they commit themselves to taking wives, is structurally parallel (or, as Lévi-Strauss would say, isomorphic) to the watchers’ marriages (in 1 En. 6:5–6 and 7:1, respectively). The oath and the marriages establish a link not simply between male and female but also heaven, where the males are from, and earth, the location of their wives and the site of procreation. The union of the watchers and the women unites two different pairs of oppositions, with heaven correlated to male and earth to female. If one has a penchant for logical abstractions, one could state that in the Watchers myth: heaven-earth :: male-female The union of the watchers and the women does not end that well. Their offspring are horrendous giants who seek to consume and destroy the entire natural order (1 En. 7:3–5). In response, the earth lodges a complaint to heaven (v. 6).26 The introduction of the males from heaven corrupts the prior abundance of the earth. The crimes of the giants are driven by their insatiable 25  This detail is in the Panopolitanus and the Ethiopic but not the Syncellus or the Syriac versions of this verse. 26  Again Syncellus provides a different text. The account given above is found in the Panopolitanus and the Ethiopic. Syncellus does not include the horrific account of the giants eating in 1 En. 7:3–5, but rather includes a shorter description of their anthropophagy in 8:3. This makes these horrific acts come after the revelation episode in 1 Enoch 8, and avoids the issue of there being two outbursts of criminal activity (in 7:3–5 and 8:2) and two cries from earth to heaven (7:6 [which is not in Syncellus] and 8:4). Syncellus combines the two themes of the crimes of the giants and illicit revelation, which, as I argue, have similar underlying themes. See George W.E. Nickelsburg, 1 Enoch 1: A Commentary on the Book of 1 Enoch, Chapters 1–36, 81–108, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001), 183; Siam Bhayro, The Shemihazah and Asael Narrative of 1 Enoch 6–11, AOAT 322 (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2005), 140–41, 240–43.

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appetites.27 Consuming food, while an inherently destructive act, is basic to the continuation of life. The desire for food in the case of the giants, however, is detrimental to all life on earth, even of the giants themselves—they eat the food of the humans, then the humans and then each other. The unblemished and fecund nature of the earth at the outset of the story, expressed by the bountiful increase of the human population, is now reversed, ironically, by the fertility of women. The birth of children results in death. When the heaven-earth opposition is combined with the male-female one (as in the formula above), a decline of the verdant nature of life on earth takes place. Putting those two oppositions into a single set leads to a transformation of the world, so that: Desire to create life on earth (sex [between humans]) → desire to continue life on earth (consuming food) → harmony and continuity of life on earth becomes this: Desire to create life on earth (sex [between angels and humans]) → desire to destroy life on earth (consuming food) → disharmony and destruction of life on earth The story then moves from the theme of sexuality, in which the angel Shemiḥazah is prominent, to that of illicit revelation, in which the angel Asael comes to the fore. As is well-known, a major scholarly Tendenz is to attribute the two motifs to separate strata of the Book of the Watchers.28 While there are perfectly valid reasons for this redaction-critical approach, it prevents us from appreciating basic points in common between the so-called Shemiḥazah and Asael narratives that an approach informed by Lévi-Strauss can highlight. Asael gives illicit revelation to the wives of the watchers. This revelation from heaven emphasizes, ironically, secrets about the earth—knowledge about the magical properties of roots and the ability to find metals in the ground and fashion them into functional items (1 En. 7:4; 8:1). People learn to turn metal into swords and armor, and also bracelets and other cosmetic items, including forms of eye paint such as antimony, a metallic compound (takweḥlot, 27  Matthew J. Goff, “Monstrous Appetites: Giants, Cannibalism and Insatiable Eating in Enochic Literature,” JAJ 1 (2010): 19–42. 28  Nickelsburg, 1 Enoch 1, 190; Annette Yoshiko Reed, Fallen Angels and the History of Judaism and Christianity: The Reception of Enochic Literature (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 29–44.

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στίβι, ‫[ כוחלא‬4Q202 1 ii 28]).29 These illicit disclosures, like the preceding episode involving the giants, lead to widespread iniquity and lawlessness on the earth (1 En. 8:2). The transgression is carried out by people, not the offspring of the angels, as in 1 En. 7:3–5. The theme of revelation in 1 Enoch 8 can be understood as expressing, with different surface images, the same theme as the giants episode in chapter 7— that the combination of the binary pairs “heaven-earth” and “male-female” into a single set has disastrous consequences for the earth. The Asael material, with its revelation from angels to humans, obviously involves a connection between heaven and earth. Seeing this theme in tandem with the male-female opposition (a topic generally associated with the Shemiḥazah episode more than the Asael one) can help explain the nature of the knowledge revealed to humankind in 1 Enoch 8. This knowledge—how to make metal-based implements of warfare and cosmetics—causes iniquity. With more destructive weapons there is more violence and with more cosmetics there is, according to the logic of the text, more sexual transgression.30 There is a patently gendered element to the knowledge Asael reveals—he provides, one can say, destructive male knowledge about the earth (how to make metal weapons) and destructive female knowledge about the earth (how to make metal-based cosmetics and ornamentation [antimony and bracelets]). The Asael episode of illicit revelation brings together the heaven-earth and male-female binary pairs, as does the Shemiḥazah episode. And the consequences of this union in both passages are equally disastrous to the earth.31 In response to the crisis caused by the watchers, the earth produces a cry that reaches heaven (1 En. 8:4).32 This, I suggest, is the mid-point of the myth.33 29  Fritz Graf, “Mythical Production: Aspects of Myth and Technology in Antiquity,” in From Myth to Reason? Studies in the Development of Greek Thought, ed. Richard Buxton (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 317–28. Graf stresses the combination of metallurgy and sorcery in the watchers myth and discusses this combination in Greco-Roman texts. 30  While the Greek myth of Prometheus, and his theft of fire from the gods, is often invoked as a parallel, in 1 Enoch 6–11 not only is there no theft but at issue is knowledge that is destructive to humankind, whereas Prometheus illicitly acquires knowledge that is a boon to human civilization. See Nickelsburg, 1 Enoch 1, 190–93; Reed, Fallen Angels, 38. 31  These two themes are brought closer together in the Syncellus version, as discussed above. 32  The similarity between the complaint of 1 En. 8:4 and that of 7:6 is one reason that the intervening verses (8:1–3), which are about unsanctioned revelation, are considered secondary. See Bhayro, The Shemihazah and Asael Narrative, 242. 33  1 Enoch 8:4 seems to be the key verse of transition because it is immediately followed by the heavenly response to the complaint and the resolution of the crisis.

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In 1 En. 9:1 angels, triggered by the complaint, look upon the earth and see bloodshed. God instructs them to go to earth, to reveal the flood to Noah and requite punishment against the watchers and their sons (10:1–15). This results in the descent of the watchers to the subterranean realm, an inversion of their once heavenly status. They are removed from both the angelic and human spheres of life. With evil removed from the earth, the myth leaps from the primordial flood to the eschatological transformation of the earth. This period is characterized by great fecundity, with abundant vines and seeds producing a tremendous amount of food (10:19). This parallels, but is superior to the fecundity on the earth with which the tale began. Two major motifs in the second half of the narrative are heavenly revelation, in the form of an angel informing Noah about the coming flood (10:1), and the production of children. According to 1 En. 10:17, in the eschatological future the righteous will “beget thousands,” referring to their offspring.34 Neither of these themes, revelation and the production of children, is connected to a union of heavenly angels and earthly women, as in the first half of the myth. There these two tropes were explicitly coded as destructive and dangerous elements. Here, however, the themes of heavenly revelation and birth of children help convey, respectively, the purification of the world through the flood and its eschatological renewal. The key difference is that in the second half of the myth the two binary opposites (heaven-earth; male-female) are not combined into a single set, whereas in the first half they are. To what can we attribute this difference? The structure of the myth, I suggest, provides an answer to this question. It is instructive to compare 1 En. 9:1 with 6:2. In 1 En. 9:1 the archangels look from heaven upon the earth and observe bloodshed. This can be understood as an inversion of 1 En. 6:2, in which angels in heaven look down and see a fecund, bountiful earth. The angels in 1 Enoch 6 desired human women and then descended. The archangels of 1 Enoch 9 seek justice on earth. But they do not, unlike Shemiḥazah and his cohorts, simply go to earth. They first approach God in heaven. They explain to him what has happened on earth and want clear directives from him (v. 11). A key difference between the two halves of the myth is God’s sanction of angelic descent to earth. There is none in the first half of the narrative. In the second half there is. The structure of the myth suggests that an overarching theme of the myth of the watchers is that interactions between the heavenly and earthly realms are potentially destructive and should only be carried out under God’s control and permission. One could perhaps argue, to put the issue in Straussian terms, that in the myth of the watchers it 34  This is according to the Aramaic (4Q204 1 v 5). In the Panopolitanus and the Ethiopic it is (merely) “one thousand.”

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is God who mediates between heaven and earth, and without his leadership interaction between the two domains can be disastrous.

Male Superiority and the Cosmic Order in the Reception of the Watchers Myth

Why does the Watchers myth couple the binary pairs heaven-earth and malefemale? It may be an effort to express the superiority of heaven over earth by likening it to the culturally dominant trope, in the patriarchal society of Second Temple Judaism, of the superiority of men over women. An abstract concept (heaven and its superiority over earth) was made intelligible by being homologized to a more tangible element of contemporary society (the superiority of man over woman). This, in turn, reinforces the hierarchy of the genders, configured as a natural element of the cosmos. This possibility can be supported by other ancient texts that conceptualize cosmological hierarchies in terms of gender. The Similitudes of Enoch alludes to the story of the watchers, mentioning the punishment of Azazel and how four archangels will punish the wicked angels (referred to as “servants of Satan”) who led the earth astray (1 En. 54:6; cf. 10:1–15). The text then invokes the flood, which is construed as a combination of the upper waters and the lower waters (54:7–55:2; cf. Gen 1:7). The former are presented as “male,” and the latter as “female”: “And all the waters will be joined with the waters—(the water) that is above the heavens is male, the water that is beneath the earth is female” (1 En. 54:8). This trope is found elsewhere in ancient Judaism. A passage from the Jerusalem Talmud reads: “the waters above are male and those below, female” (y. Ber. 9:2).35 While Enochic texts reformulate the watchers myth in various ways, they often retain the combination of the opposed pairs male-female and heavenearth that is central to the watchers myth. Most variants to the watchers myth explicitly combine these two polarities (heaven-earth; male-female), as does 1 Enoch 6–11 itself (e.g., 1 En. 89:3–6; 2 En. 18:4; Jub. 5:1–2). The joining of these two themes is inherent in a story about male angels who are sexually active on earth. The passage in 1 Enoch 54 discussed above, however, does not explicitly mention the sexual union of the watchers and the women. It does not combine the two sets of dyads in the manner found in 1 Enoch 6–11. The Similitudes mentions, without providing any details, how the angels led people astray on earth (54:6). Although the Similitudes never mentions the theme of sexuality, 35  George W.E. Nickelsburg, 1 Enoch 2: A Commentary on the Book of 1 Enoch, Chapters 37–82, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2012), 204.

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the composition nevertheless incorporates a different sort of male-female dualism, since, as mentioned above, the upper waters are male and the lower ones female, which come together in the flood that destroys the earth. With a different set of images Similitudes attests the same basic isomorphism in 1 Enoch 6–11: that the watchers myth involves the combination of two different kinds of oppositions—one gendered, the other cosmological. Also as in the Book of the Watchers, the combination of these two dualistic images has disastrous consequences for the world. There is something similar at work in the well-known allusion to the watchers myth in the Epistle of Enoch: “Lawlessness was not sent upon the earth but men created it by themselves” (1 En. 98:4b). This text disputes the theological conclusion that sin has a supernatural origin, through the iniquity of the angels.36 The quoted passage, not unlike 1 Enoch 54, refers to the watchers myth with minimal detail. The theme of an unsanctioned encounter between the realms of heaven and earth is invoked but the sexual union of male and female is not. Like the Similitudes, the Epistle brings in the theme of gender in a different way. According to 1 En. 98:4a, a man is not ordained to be a slave, nor “a woman to be a handmaid; but it happened because of oppression.”37 And verse 5 reads: “Likewise, neither is woman created barren, but because of the works of her hands she is disgraced with childlessness.” This verse turns to the different genders to stress that difficult situations (slavery, childlessness) are a consequence of the actions of the men and women who endure these conditions. The theme of gender is invoked to make the same basic point as 1 En. 94:8b—that evil of humans is a result of their own activity.38 36  John J. Collins, “The Origin of Evil in Apocalyptic Literature and the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Seers, Sibyls and Sages in Hellenistic Roman-Judaism, JSJSup 54 (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 287– 99 (287). 37  For the textual problems is this material, see Nickelsburg, 1 Enoch 1, 469–70. 38  Other texts indicate the importance of the theme of gender for understanding the reception of the watchers myth. The Testament of Reuben, an early Christian text that preserves older Jewish traditions, construes the combination of heavenly males and earthly females as dangerous, like 1 Enoch 6–11, but expands the implications of this theme for gender relations. Women “charmed the watchers, who were before the flood” (5:6). The myth is used to support claims such as “women are evil, my children, and by reason of their lacking authority or power over man, they scheme treacherously how they might entice him to themselves by means of their looks” (v. 1). Note also v. 3: “Indeed, the angel of the Lord told me and instructed me that women are more easily overcome by the spirit of promiscuity than are men.” The hostility Reuben shows towards women in this testament is driven exegetically by Gen 35:22, according to which he sleeps with Bilhah, his father’s concubine. The Church Father Tertullian in The Apparel of Women (De cultu feminarum)

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While the surface images may change, the Epistle of Enoch and the Similitudes of Enoch present the watchers myth in a way that combines the dichotomies of heaven-earth and male-female. This combination, from a Straussian perspective, is a core issue of the watchers myth as found in 1 Enoch 6–11. This realization is important for understanding the reception of the watchers myth in later texts of 1 Enoch. It suggests that various surface manifestations in adaptations of this story retain the underlying structure identified in the watchers myth stressed in this essay. This suggests that attention to how the binary pairs heaven-earth and male-female are combined is important not only for understanding 1 Enoch 6–11 but also the subsequent reception of the watchers myth. The analysis of the watchers myth put forward here also has broader implications for the study of the Dead Sea Scrolls. The basic insight developed in this article, that there is value in attending to how different types of dualisms are combined, can be applied more broadly to Qumran literature. The Treatise on the Two Spirits (and to a lesser extent the War Scroll), for example, combines different opposed themes—darkness and light, heaven and earth, and good and evil.39 They are combined in various ways to make the basic point that the human being is the context of a cosmological drama, in which various supernatural agents, both good and evil, vie against one another. Their machinations are used not simply to divide humankind into two camps, good and evil, but also to explain the sins of the righteous, which are attributed to the activity of evil angels (1QS 3:21–22). As with the combined binary pairs in the Book of the Watchers, the merger of these opposed themes causes conflicts and problems—the presence of wickedness in the world is attributed to their activities. And, as in Watchers, the resolution of these problems is caused by 1.2–3 argues that the main teaching of the story of the watchers is that cosmetics and female forms of adornment originated from wicked angels (cf. 2.10). They invoke the anger of God and should be avoided. Women should dress modestly and not incite sexual temptation among men. In The Veiling of Virgins (De virginibus velandis) 7.2 he interprets the claim in 1 Cor 11:10 that women should wear a head-covering during worship “because of the angels” as a reference to the watchers myth. He concludes that virgins (that is, unmarried women) should wear veils and not incite male lust (cf. Jub. 4:15; Pirqe R. El. 22). See James C. VanderKam, “1 Enoch, Enochic Motifs and Enoch in Early Christian Literature,” in The Jewish Apocalyptic Heritage in Early Christianity, ed. James C. VanderKam and William Adler, CRINT 3/4 (Assen: Van Gorcum; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), 33–101 (51, 69); Scott M. Lewis, “‘Because of the Angels’: Paul and the Enochic Traditions,” in The Watchers in Jewish and Christian Traditions, ed. Angela Kim Harkins, Kelley Coblentz Bautsch, and John C. Endres (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2014), 81–90. 39  Géza Xeravits, ed., Dualism in Qumran, LSTS 76 (London; T & T Clark, 2010).

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the separation of these themes during eschatological judgment, in which the dyads light-darkness and good-evil will no longer be combined, with darkness and iniquity overthrown forever (4:18–24). Also like the watchers myth, in the Treatise God on the throne of judgment can be understood as mediating and resolving the tension and problems that were caused when opposed dualistic pairs were brought together. Conclusion Lévi-Strauss would, I think, agree with the common practice of referring to 1 Enoch 6–11 as “the myth of the watchers.” It can be reasonably characterized as a myth from his perspective not only because it is a traditional story that was often retold but, more importantly, because it operates according to a series of binary oppositions that are combined. The myth is structured around the polar oppositions “heaven-earth” and “male-female.” When these two pairs are placed into a single set the results are disastrous for the earth. The condition of the earth is eschatologically renewed when the two pairs are no longer in a single set. Or, perhaps better to say, the problems caused by the combination of the two pairs of oppositions are resolved when God is the mediating agent. The crisis on the earth is solved when the pairs are separated, when God firmly controls the relationship between heaven and earth. A mode of analysis that focuses on the coupling of different types of oppositions can provide insight not only into the form of the watchers myth in 1 Enoch 6–11 but also into how this myth was retold and appropriated.

Pesher as Commentary Pieter B. Hartog It has become a commonplace to say that the pesharim are the earliest scriptural commentaries known to us.1 Yet the study of the pesharim seems to be restricted almost exclusively to scholars of Judaism, the Hebrew Bible, or the New Testament. Only rarely, if at all, are the Qumran commentaries2 included in broader studies on commentaries and their linguistic, religious, or social aspects.3 This paradox is undesirable both from the viewpoint of the study of the pesharim and from that of the generic study of commentaries. Situating the pesharim in the wider context of ancient commentary writing opens up a comparative perspective on the Qumran commentaries. Comparative studies of the pesharim have seen the light rather continuously since the discovery of Pesher Habakkuk in 1947. These investigations exhibit two characteristic features. Firstly, most of them search for historical links between the pesharim and other interpretive traditions from the ancient world, so creating the picture of the pesharim as taking up and combining aspects from a variety of other traditions.4 Secondly, most comparative studies, be they historically focused

I am grateful to Hanna Tervanotko for her comments on a draft of the paper I presented in Munich and to the participants at the IOQS meeting for their remarks. I also thank Hindy Najman for her helpful comments on an earlier version of this article. 1  When I speak of “the pesharim” I refer to the collection of so-called “continuous pesharim” as they are assembled by Maurya P. Horgan, Pesharim: Qumran Interpretations of Biblical Books, CBQMS 8 (Washington, DC: The Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1979). 2  By “Qumran commentaries” I refer to the place of recovery of these documents (the caves at and near Qumran), without making any a priori assumptions about their relationship with the people that lived there. 3  The pesharim are notably absent from Jan Assmann and Burkhard Gladigow, eds., Text und Kommentar, ALK 4 (Munich: Fink, 1995); Glenn W. Most, ed., Commentaries—Kommentare, Aporemata 4 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999); Marie-Odile Goulet-Cazé, ed., Le commentaire entre tradition et innovation: Actes du colloque international de l’institut des traditions textuelles (Paris et Villejuif, 22–25 septembre 1999) (Paris: Vrin, 2000). The thematic issue of Dead Sea Discoveries 19 (2012) is more promising, although few contributors take their cue from broader theories on commentary writing. George J. Brooke’s contribution (“Some Comments on Commentary,” DSD 19 [2012]: 249–66) raises important issues, some of which recur in the following pages. 4  Some recent examples are Markus Bockmuehl, “The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Origins of Biblical Commentary,” in Text, Thought, and Practice in Qumran and Early Christianity,

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or not, investigate structural and hermeneutical aspects of the pesharim.5 In this essay, I do not seek for historical connections, though I do not wish to deny the usefulness of historical investigations. Nor do I focus on structural or hermeneutical aspects of the pesharim. Instead, I investigate the dynamics of self-presentation and the accrual of authority as they surface in the pesharim. Approaching these dynamics in terms drawn from more generally orientated studies on ancient commentary writing, I aim to show that the pesharim, like other commentaries, portray themselves and develop their authority by negotiating several sets of oppositions.6 I also propose that the distinctive features of the Qumran commentaries are not the result of the type of dynamics that the pesharim develop, but of the way in which they develop it. This focus on the dynamics that shape the pesharim has consequences for how we conceive of the genre of “commentary.” Writing about the use of the idea of genre in biblical studies, Hindy Najman distinguishes two manners of speaking about genre: texts can either be produced as belonging to a certain genre (i.e., text production is governed by the expectations and norms of its producers) or genre can be used as a classificatory tool by later readers of texts.7 To my mind, the term “commentary” can be used in both ways. As a consequence, ed. Ruth A. Clements and Daniel R. Schwartz, STDJ 84 (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 3–29; Daniel A. Machiela, “The Qumran Pesharim as Biblical Commentaries: Historical Context and Lines of Development,” DSD 19 (2012): 313–62; Alex P. Jassen, “The Pesharim and the Rise of Commentary in Early Jewish Scriptural Interpretation,” DSD 19 (2012): 363–98; Reinhard G. Kratz, “Text und Kommentar: Die Pescharim von Qumran im Kontext der hellenistischen Bildungstradition,” in Von Rom nach Bagdad: Bildung und Religion in der späteren Antike und im klassischen Islam, ed. Peter Gemeinhardt and Sebastian Günther (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013), 51–80; Pieter B. Hartog, Pesher and Hypomnema: A Comparison of Two Commentary Collections from the Hellenistic-Roman Period, STDJ 121 (Leiden: Brill, 2017). 5  Some recent examples are Martti Nissinen, “Pesharim as Divination: Qumran Exegesis, Omen Interpretation and Literary Prophecy,” in Prophecy after the Prophets? The Contribution of the Dead Sea Scrolls to the Understanding of Biblical and Extra-Biblical Prophecy, ed. Kristin de Troyer, Armin Lange, and Lucas L. Schulte, CBET 52 (Leuven: Peeters, 2009), 43–60; Armin Lange and Zlatko Pleše, “The Qumran Pesharim and the Derveni Papyrus: Transpositional Hermeneutics in Ancient Jewish and Ancient Greek Commentaries,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls in Context: Integrating the Dead Sea Scrolls in the Study of Ancient Texts, Languages, and Cultures, ed. Armin Lange, Emanuel Tov, and Matthias Weigold, VTSup 140 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 895–922; eidem, “Transpositional Hermeneutics: A Hermeneutical Comparison of the Derveni Papyrus, Aristobulus of Alexandria, and the Qumran Pesharim,” JAJ 3 (2012): 15–67. 6  On my understanding of the “dynamics” of commentary see the following section. 7  Hindy Najman, “The Idea of Biblical Genre: From Discourse to Constellation,” in Prayer and Poetry in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Literature: Essays in Honor of Eileen Schuller on the

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my discussion of the dynamics of the pesharim touches on both ways in which we can speak of “pesher as commentary.” On the one hand, ancient writers seem to be aware of a norm for writing interpretive works which entails: (1) dividing between the quotation of the base text (the lemma) and its interpretation; and (2) composing a literary entity which consists of alternating lemmata and interpretation.8 It is possible to refer to this norm as “commentary” and thus to acknowledge the productivity of this genre in the ancient world. Within this context, this discussion of the dynamics of the pesharim illustrates one of the ways in which these dynamics can be expressed in a commentary. This invites a cross-cultural comparison of the way in which this type of dynamics surfaces in other interpretive writings which, like the pesharim, distinguish clearly between lemma and interpretation and consist of alternations of these elements.9 This type of writings is rare in this period: the readiest points of comparison are works of Greek and Latin scholarship, Philo’s commentaries, and possibly the Egyptian Demotic Chronicle. This type of research is not wholly new in the field of Qumran studies, though the comparative study of the pesharim and Greek and Latin commentary writing is still in its infancy.10 By pointing out the type of dynamics that can be encountered in commentaries and by illustrating the way in which it is developed in the pesharim, this essay aims to contribute to this type of investigation. On the other hand, the type of dynamics that is the topic of in this essay is not restricted to writings that consist of alternate lemmata and interpretations, but also feature in many (if not most) other interpretive works. My illustration   Occasion of Her 65th Birthday, ed. Jeremy Penner, Ken M. Penner, and Cecilia Wassen, STDJ 98 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 307–21, esp. 309. 8  Such an awareness can be assumed on the basis of the remarkable structure of this kind of writing, which seems to require a conscious effort by its author to differentiate between base text and interpretation. The fact that the pesharim deal with a rather specific range of base texts, namely prophetic texts (including the Psalms), supports the idea that they were consciously composed in the way that they are. At the same time, we must bear in mind that we find very little self-reflection by the authors of these texts and, hence, we cannot be entirely certain that they consciously wrote their compositions according to a set of known norms. 9  On the use of cross-cultural comparisons for the understanding of the pesharim see George J. Brooke, “Genre Theory, Rewritten Bible and Pesher,” DSD 17 (2010): 332–57, esp. 350–54. 10  Apart from the works cited in nn. 4–5 above, see Maren R. Niehoff, “Commentary Culture in the Land of Israel from an Alexandrian Perspective,” DSD 19 (2012): 442–63. Niehoff treats the way in which the pesharim and Alexandrian commentaries present themselves and concludes that there are significant differences between them.

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of the type of dynamics developed in the pesharim can, thus, also be understood as an invitation to nuance traditional preferences for structure as a constitutive element of the “commentary” genre. We may approach “commentary” more broadly and approach it, in Najman’s terms, not so much as a “genre,” but as a “constellation” of works exhibiting a similar type of dynamics.11 This constellation would at least, but probably not only, include works commonly classified as “Rewritten Bible.”12 The type of dynamics developed in these latter works is in many regards similar to that in the pesharim. The book of Jubilees, for instance, often closely paraphrases its base text, thus accentuating its authority. But it also portrays its own contents—in contrast with those of its base text—as being inscribed on heavenly tablets and dictated by the angel of the presence.13 The Temple Scroll, though it also often paraphrases its base 11  For Najman, the concept of “genre” can be used “insofar as the classifications we employ are supposed to capture generic norms of which Second Temple text producers were consciously aware” (“The Idea of Biblical Genre,” 321). This definition is based on the treatment of “genre” in classical literature. A “constellation,” on the other hand, points to a group of compositions that can be classified as similar in some regards, but of whose similarities their ancient producers need not have been aware.    Najman’s distinction between “genre” and “constellation” is useful in that it proposes a well-defined and restricted use of terminology. At the same time, the distinction between “genre” and “constellation” is blurry, especially in the case of commentaries. As we find little to no reflection by ancient commentators on their own work in terms of generic classifications (see n. 8 above), our description of “commentary” as a “genre” or a “constellation” remains somewhat speculative, as it depends on our reconstruction of the ancient commentators’ awareness of norms for the production of interpretive works.    Cf. in this regard the work of George Brooke, which work starts not from a classical, but from a modern literary-critical idea of genre. For Brooke, genre is to be understood as an open-ended, modern way of classifying literature, whereby texts can belong to several genres at the same time (an idea he takes from Derrida and Perloff). For this reason, initial generic definitions must be broad rather than narrow. See most notably his “Genre Theory,” esp. 342: “To clarify the character of ‘rewritten Bible’ and pesher, the scholar needs to begin with a wide set of literary compositions, at least all those in Early Judaism concerned with the transmission of authoritative traditions, both those that might be labelled as scriptre and those that interpret them implicitly or explicitly.” 12  The usefulness of this term has been variously problematized in recent years. For an overview of the debate see Armin Lange, “In the Second Degree: Ancient Jewish Paratextual Literature in the Context of Graeco-Roman and Ancient Near Eastern Literature,” in In the Second Degree: Paratextual Literature in Ancient Near Eastern and Ancient Mediterranean Culture and Its Reflections in Medieval Literature, ed. Philip Alexander, idem, and Renate Pillinger (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 3–40. 13   Hindy Najman, “Interpretation as Primordial Writing: Jubilees and Its Authority Conferring Strategies,” JSJ 30 (1999): 379–410.

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text, seeks to accrue authority for itself by reformulating its base text in the first person, implying that it contains God’s very words.14 Both compositions furthermore present themselves as what Najman calls “Mosaic discourse.”15 Lastly, Jubilees and the Temple Scroll accrue their own authority by claiming to contain the true interpretation of the Torah.16 This illustrates that the type of dynamics illustrated in this essay is not unique to explicit commentaries like the pesharim, but that it is a broader feature of secondary and interpretive literature. My main frame of reference in the following pages is the work of scholars working on commentary writing in the classical world. Secondary literature on the various traditions of commentary writing on classical literature tends not so much to treat the hermeneutics of these commentaries, but rather their purpose, setting, and, indeed, dynamics.17 This, as we have seen, stands in contrast with secondary literature on Jewish commentary writing, where hermeneutics is one of the main scholarly interests. This difference must probably be attributed to the explicit way in which some passages in Rabbinic literature reflect on their own hermeneutics by listing a variety of middot. Consciously or unconsciously having these lists in mind, scholars working on Jewish commentaries tend almost directly to focus on their hermeneutics.18 On the other hand, the absence of such lists of hermeneutical techniques from the classical literature leads to different views on “commentary” and its production. Hence, this area is particularly prone to benefit from a cross-fertilization between Jewish and classical studies. The attention that scholars of Judaism give to the 14  Florentino García Martínez and Marc Vervenne, “Ancient Interpretations of Jewish Scriptures in light of Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Textual Criticism and Dead Sea Scrolls Studies in Honour of Julio Trebolle Barrera: Florilegium Complutense, ed. Andrés Piquer Otero and Pablo A. Torijano Morales, JSJSup 157 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 83–97, esp. 95–96. 15  Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple Judaism, JSJSup 77 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 41–69. 16  Najman “Interpretation as Primordial Writing,” 406–9. 17  To give just two examples: in his introduction to a volume on commentaries, Glenn Most lists several aspects of commentary writing that he deems worthy of further investigation. Hermeneutics is not one of them. See Glenn W. Most, “Preface,” in idem, Commentaries—Kommentare, vii–xv. More recently, Francesca Schironi’s extensive and important discussion of classical commentary does not have a section on the hermeneutics or exegetical techniques used in classical commentaries. See Francesca Schironi, “Greek Commentaries,” DSD 19 (2012): 399–441. 18  This is not to say that the middot can be used to describe the hermeneutics of the pesharim or any other Early Jewish interpretive writing, including Rabbinic literature.

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hermeneutics of Jewish commentaries and the way in which these are discussed can offer an important impetus to a more systematic treatment of the hermeneutics of classical commentaries. At the same time, the attention that scholars working on classical commentaries pay to aspects of “commentary” other than hermeneutics has much to teach scholars working on Jewish commentaries. It is in this latter vein that I seek to explore the type of dynamics that is developed in the pesharim and classical commentaries alike.

The Dynamics of Commentary

The origins of a commentary lie in the experience of a reader or a group of readers that they stand at a distance of their text.19 For one reason or another, the readers suspect their text not to reveal its clearest or fullest meaning at first glance. A gap exists between the text and its readers. The aim of the commentator, who is also a reader of the text, is to bridge this gap. As the text is turned into a base text, the commentator mediates between that base text and its readers. In the process, the commentator reformulates the base text so as to bring it closer to its readers: the base text is interpreted.20 In the case of explicit commentary, the results of this exposition are juxtaposed with the base text. Thus, the lemmata in an explicit commentary present the base text to the ­reader, and they are followed by its interpretation. Exhibiting this form, this type of commentary explicitly presents itself as secondary literature, since the base text takes structural precedence over the interpretation which follows it. This is meant to imply that the base text comes first hermeneutically too. Explicit commentaries can be said to present themselves as mere mediators, subservient to the base text and devoted to foster its clarity and meaningfulness. On their own terms, explicit commentaries are, thus, interpretive texts that serve to render the base text more understandable to its readers. 19  The term “text” can refer to a variety of cultural phenomena. See, e.g., Armin Lange and Zlatko Pleše, “Text between Religious Cultures: Intertextuality in Graeco-Roman Judaism,” in Between Text and Text: The Hermeneutics of Intertextuality in Ancient Cultures and Their Afterlife in Medieval and Modern Times, ed. Michaela Bauks et al., JAJSup 6 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2013), 328–50 (with literature). In this essay I limit my attention to written texts and their interpretation. 20   Wolfgang Raible, “Arten des Kommentierens—Arten der Sinnbildung—Arten des Verstehens: Spielarten der generischen Intertextualität,” in Assmann and Gladigow, Text und Kommentar, 51–73 usefully speaks of interpretation as “Umkodierung.”

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On our terms, however, commentators and commentaries are often not so devoted to their base texts. Instead, they communicate their own message and tell their own story, which can be very different from that of the base text. This is not to say that commentators can cut the ties with their base text. After all, it is its link with an authoritative base text that provides the commentary with its raison d’être and part of its own authority.21 Commentators can, however, define the nature and the implications of this link in their own image. The gap between the base text and its readers, the position of the commentator in the interpretive process, and the purpose of interpretation are no objective givens. Instead, they are constructs by the commentator and the textual community in which the commentary functions.22 These constructs allow the commentator to incorporate and communicate other interests than those of the base text in the commentary. In this way, the base text is appropriated for the purposes of the commentators and their audiences.23 It must be observed that such procedures are not restricted to “non-literal” commentaries, but are a fundamental feature of each commentary, including those commonly known as “philological.”24 No commentary, therefore, merely repeats the message of its 21  I use “authority” and “authoritative” in a loose sense. For the purposes of this essay the term incorporates two aspects of the commentator’s dealings with his text: first, that he had some reason to write a commentary on this base text rather than others; second, that he allowed the base text to exert some influence on the direction of its interpretation. 22  I do not explicitly discuss the role of the textual communities in this essay. Yet, a textual community which shares the constructs of the commentator must be assumed in order for a commentary to achieve a certain status and validity. On this topic see the useful remarks by Most, “Preface,” ix–x. On the pesharim see Jutta Jokiranta, Social Identity and Sectarianism in the Qumran Movement, STDJ 105 (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 111–213. 23  E.g., Ineke Sluiter, “The Violent Scholiast: Power Issues in Ancient Commentaries,” in Writing Science: Medical and Mathematical Authorship in Ancient Greece, ed. Matthias Asper (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2013), 191–213. 24  In many scholarly disciplines, the distinction between literal and non-literal, philological and transpositional, or pure and applied, exegesis is now considered to be fluid rather than strict. See already Northrop Frye, Anatomy of Criticism: Four Essays (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1957), 89: “It is not often realized that all commentary is allegorical interpretation.”    In the field of classics, several scholars have legitimately questioned the borderlines between philological and allegorical interpretation by showing that many allegorists had philological interests as well or, instead, by arguing that Alexandrian scholars were not as opposed to allegorical readings as scholars once believed. See, e.g., A.A. Long, “Stoic Readings of Homer,” in Homer’s Ancient Readers: The Hermeneutics of Greek Epic’s Earliest Exegetes, ed. Robert Lamberton and John J. Keaney (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), 41–66; James I. Porter, “Hermeneutic Lines and Circles: Aristarchus and Crates

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base text, even if it claims or aims to do so. Instead, every commentary construes the gap between the base text and its readers, its own aims, and its position in the interpretive process in a distinct fashion. These constructs foster and uphold the validity and authority of the commentary. Hence, each commentary develops and underscores its own authority and the validity in an intricate dynamics, based on the way in which it construes and portrays the exegetical process. In a discussion of ancient commentaries on Greek literature which “engage the didactic content of the source-text,” Ineke Sluiter suggests that these dynamics take shape in the interplay between four sets of oppositions.25 She writes: If one constructs a modern picture of the genre of ancient commentaries, four sets of oppositions stand out throughout antiquity. (1) There are two fundamental assumptions about the source-text, namely (a) that it is a great text but (b) that it needs the commentator’s efforts to be optimally effective (authority versus unclarity). (2) The commentator has to find a balance between (a) making the most of his source-text (a strategy that is bound to increase the importance of his own work) and (b) maintaining the intellectual attitude of an independent critical thinker (charity versus criticism). (3) The commentator is characterized by having a dual professional affiliation: (a) he is the colleague of his source-author, qua philosopher, mathematician, physician, and so on, and at the same time, (b) he on the Exegesis of Homer,” in Lamberton and Keaney, Homer’s Ancient Readers, 67–114; Nicholas J. Richardson, “Homer and his Ancient Critics,” in Books 21–24, vol. 6 of The Iliad: A Commentary, ed. Geoffrey S. Kirk (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 25–49; René Nünlist, “Aristarchus and Allegorical Interpretation,” in Ancient Scholarship and Grammar: Archetypes, Concepts and Contexts, ed. Stephanos Matthaios, Franco Montanari, and Antonios Rengakos, TiCSup 8 (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2011), 105–17; more generally Franco Montanari, “Ancient Scholarship and Classical Studies,” in Matthaios, idem, and Rengakos, Ancient Scholarship, 11–24 (16–17).    Similar statements have been made on Jewish scriptural interpretation by, e.g., Ithamar Gruenwald, “The ‘Scripture Effect’: An Essay on the Sociology of the InterpretativeReading of ‘Texts’,” in Assmann and Gladigow, Text und Kommentar, 75–91, esp. 75; George J. Brooke, “Reading the Plain Meaning of Scripture in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Jewish Ways of Reading the Bible, ed. idem, JSSSup 11 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 67–90. 25  Ineke Sluiter, “The Dialectics of Genre: Some Aspects of Secondary Literature and Genre in Antiquity,” in Matrices of Genre: Authors, Canons, and Society, ed. Mary Depew and Dirk Obbink, CHSC 4 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2000), 183–203 (184).

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belongs in the tradition of commentators, with a specific competence in grammar and exegesis. He will feel the need to downplay these latter qualifications in favor of the former, in accordance with the ubiquitous contempt for the “mere grammarian” (“mere grammatian” versus “real scholar”). (4) Finally, there are the modes of transmission: (a) the stable written nature of the source-text contrasts with (b) the improvised, oral aspects, and fluid nature, of the commentary (written versus oral).26 The fourth of these sets of oppositions is slightly problematic, both for classical commentaries and the pesharim. Whereas the commentaries that Sluiter discusses do indeed comment on a base text of a “stable written nature,” this does not seem to be a universal trait of base texts, nor is it a prerequisite for commentary writing. The earliest explicit commentaries on Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, for instance, saw the light in an era in which the text of these epics had not yet stabilized.27 The pesharim, too, do not imply a stable text-form of their base texts, but attest to and make use of the fluidity of the scriptural text in this period.28 The other three sets of oppositions which Sluiter outlines, can be recognized in the pesharim as well. In what follows I discuss these under two headings, each of them corresponding with two seemingly contradictory interests between which the commentary must negotiate. Firstly, the base text. As Sluiter points out, the writing of a commentary on a text implies that this text held some authority for the commentator. Yet the text, albeit authoritative, is not self-evident: it needs the commentator to become fully effective. 26  “Dialectics,” 187. 27  Aristarchus is assumed to have been the first to write an explicit commentary on Homer’s epics. His work has not been transmitted directly, but we may gain some insight in its form from the remainders of other ancient hypomnemata on papyrus and in its contents from the later scholia collections. The text of Homer on which the Alexandrian scholars commented was not yet a stable entity, but displayed a significant amount of fluidity. A substantial part of the exegetical efforts of the Alexandrian scholars, therefore, was directed towards dividing between spurious and original lines. On Aristarchus’s textual and exegetical work see, e.g., Dirk M. Schenkeveld, “Aristarchus and ΟΜΗΡΟΣ ΦΙΛΟΤΕΧΝΟΣ: Some Fundamental Ideas of Aristarchus on Homer as a Poet,” Mnemosyne 23 (1970): 162– 78; Kathleen McNamee, “Aristarchus and ‘Everyman’s’ Homer’,” GRBS 22 (1981): 247–55; Nünlist, “Aristarchus and Allegorical Interpretation.” On the fluid state of the Homeric text in this period see Stephanie West, The Ptolemaic Papyri of Homer, PC 3 (Köln: Westdeutscher, 1967); Michael Haslam, “Homeric Papyri and Transmission of the Text,” in A New Companion to Homer, ed. Ian Morris and Barry Powell, MnS 163 (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 55–100, esp. 63–69. 28  See the following section.

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This ambiguous status of the base text informs the efforts of the commentator, which Sluiter also describes. To the extent that the base text holds special authority, it is the task of the commentator to make the most of it. If the commentary ends up being too distant from the base text, it loses its credibility. On the other hand, to the extent that the base text is not self-evident, the writing of a commentary also enables the commentator to communicate his or her personal interests whilst interpreting and reformulating the base text. Every commentator, therefore, must steer a course between the two ideal typical poles of reiterating the base text or subduing it to express his or her own viewpoints. Secondly, the author of the base text. Sluiter points out that commentators often depict themselves and their work as continuous with the author of the base text and his or her work. Yet, they also attempt to surpass the base text author, in the sense that they imply for themselves the ability to render the base text more intelligible than its author did. In Sluiter’s terms, every commentator is both a “colleague of his source-­ author” and part of “the tradition of commentators.” In classical commentaries, this set of oppositions is often negotiated by the commentator’s downplaying his role as a grammarian. This need not, of course, be the case in other traditions.29 But the tension between the base text author and the commentator seems to be a universal characteristic of commentaries. This is to suggest that all commentators must position themselves on the scale between identifying with the base text author and accessing the base text as a disengaged newcomer. Thirdly, I consider a set of oppositions which Sluiter does not discuss here:30 that between the commentator and the work of other commentators. Commentary is a traditional genre, in the sense that issues which attract the attention of one commentator tend to pop up in subsequent commentaries.31 At the same time, every commentator wishes to add something new to what his predecessors have discovered. This creates another set of oppositions: every commentary needs to find its way between repeating and doing justice to the work of its predecessors and distantiating itself 29  In the classical tradition, this way of negotiating this set of oppositions is a result of the generally low esteem in which grammarians were held. On this topic see, e.g., Raffaella Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 59–65. 30  She treats some aspects of it in her “Metatexts and the Principle of Charity,” in Metahistoriography: Theoretical and Methodological Aspects of the Historiography of Linguistics, ed. Peter Schmitter and Marijke van der Wal (Münster: Nodus, 1998), 11–27. 31   See, e.g., Christina Shuttleworth Kraus, “Introduction: Reading Commentaries/ Commentaries as Reading,” in The Classical Commentary: Histories, Practices, Theory, ed. Roy K. Gibson and eadem, MnS 232 (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 1–27, esp. 16–20.

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from it. Thus, every commentary exhibits its own dynamics in which it negotiates three sets of oppositions: that between doing justice to its base text and appropriating it for its own purposes; that between identifying with the base text author and approaching its base text as an exegete or newcomer; and that between reiterating the work of other commentaries and distantiating itself from it. It is between these poles that commentaries construe their validity and authority.

Base Text and Commentary

The authority of the base text is felt throughout the pesharim. As I have hinted at above, the structure of these commentaries gives pride of place to Scripture. Not only does the commentary quote the base text in lemmata, thus distinguishing it from its exposition,32 but it also tends to present the lemmata in the order of the base text. This consecutiveness of lemmata in the “continuous pesharim” reflects the influence which the commentator allows the base text to play on the structure of the commentary. At the same time, it is the commentator who selects what parts of Scripture to include in the commentary and what not. The absence of Hab 3 from Pesher Habakkuk and of Psalm 38–44 from 4QPesher Psalms A reflects the commentator’s decisions on the extent of the base text. Thus, the structure of the pesharim reflects the ambiguous link between the commentary and the base text. The structural primacy of the base text implies its hermeneutical primacy. In this fashion, the pesher appropriates the authority of Scripture for itself: the commentary is valid and convincing because it derives directly from Scripture. On the other hand, the shape of the base text from which the commentary derives, is determined by the interests of the commentator. It is worthwhile in this context to reflect on the use of so-called “exegetical variants” in the Qumran commentaries. William Brownlee was the first to suggest that pesher commentators may alter the appearance of their base texts.33 Various scholars have reiterated Brownlee’s claims, occasionally 32  This division is often indicated explicitly by vacats as well. On the various uses of vacats in the pesharim, see Gregory L. Doudna, 4Q Pesher Nahum: A Critical Edition, JSPSup 35, CIS 8 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 233–52; Emanuel Tov, Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the Texts Found in the Judean Desert, STDJ 54 (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 326–30 (Appendix 7). 33  William H. Brownlee, “Biblical Interpretation among the Sectaries of the Dead Sea Scrolls,” BA 14 (1951): 53–76 (61; hermeneutical principle 4).

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drawing a comparison with the rabbinic procedure of al tiqre.34 Others, however, have questioned this use of exegetical variants in the light of the plurality of Scripture, suggesting that commentators did not alter the base text themselves, but picked the reading most appropriate for their exposition.35 This dichotomy is unhelpful, as there is no rigid distinction between the transmission and interpretation of Scripture. Transmission is itself an interpretive process.36 It comes as no surprise, therefore, that some of the same principles inform both the transmission of Scripture and its exposition in the pesharim.37 The fluidity of the scriptural text and the shape of its interpretation in commentaries and other interpretive compositions are two sides of the same coin. This fluidity comprises the tension between base text and commentary. It opens up the base text for interpretation and enables the commentator to make the most of it. At the same time, it asserts and enhances the authority of the base text by presenting it as an open-ended composition of continued relevance. 34  E.g., Asher Finkel, “The Pesher of Dreams and Scriptures,” RevQ 4/15 (1963): 357–70, esp. 368; George J. Brooke, Exegesis at Qumran: 4QFlorilegium in its Jewish Context, JSOTSup 29 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1985). For specific cases see Brooke, “The Biblical Texts in the Qumran Commentaries: Scribal Errors or Exegetical Variants?” in Early Jewish and Christian Exegesis: Studies in Memory of William Hugh Brownlee, ed. Craig A. Evans and William F. Stinespring (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987), 85–100. 35  E.g., Timothy H. Lim, “Biblical Quotations in the Pesharim and the Text of the Bible: Methodological Considerations,” in The Bible as Book: The Hebrew Bible and the Judaean Desert Discoveries, ed. Edward D. Herbert and Emanuel Tov (London: British Library, 2002), 71–79; more emphatically Doudna, 4Q Pesher Nahum, 67–70. 36  This is to say that textual transmission is a reflection of the living use of texts within communities. Useful suggestions how this realization should influence our thinking about issues of textual transmission, formation, and interpretation are given, e.g. and with different emphases, by George J. Brooke, “New Perspectives on the Bible and Its Interpretation in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in The Dynamics of Language and Exegesis at Qumran, ed. Devorah Dimant and Reinhard G. Kratz, FAT 2/35 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 19–37; Hindy Najman, “Configuring the Text in Biblical Studies,” in A Teacher for All Generations: Essays in Honor of James C. VanderKam, ed. Eric F. Mason et al., JSJSup 153 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 3–22. 37  I am thinking of principles such as metathesis, the interchange of similar letters, etc. It is noteworthy that these principles are in no way unique to the pesharim or even Jewish interpretations of Scripture. For instance, they play a prominent role in ancient etymology and the interpretation of classical literature. See Helen Peraki-Kyriakidou, “Aspects of Ancient Etymologizing,” CQ 52 (2002): 478–93; Maria Broggiato, “The Use of Etymology as an Exegetical Tool in Alexandria and Pergamum: Some Examples from the Homeric Scholia,” in Etymologia: Studies in Ancient Etymology: Proceedings of the Cambridge Conference on Ancient Etymology 25–27 September 2000, ed. Christos Nifadopoulos, HSSSHL 9 (Münster: Nodus, 2003), 65–70.

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The base text may be allowed to influence the form of its interpretation as well. When the commentator paraphrases his base text, or uses words from the base text or their synonyms in his interpretation, he appropriates the contents of the base text for his interpretation by recreating them. By paraphrasing the base text, the commentator validates it and presents it as the source for his exposition. He aligns his own interests with those of the base text, thus affirming the latter’s authority.38 At the same time, the commentator may divide the base text up into smaller parts and ascribe to each of them a different topic. Rather than recreating the structure of the base text, the commentator “atomizes” it. As he cuts the links between the various parts of the base text, he also discounts their bearing on each other’s meaning. Thus, the commentator can, in principle at least, offer a different meaning for each part of the base text. As he ignores the scriptural embedding of these parts of the base text, but interprets them in the light of a new context which he himself provides, the commentator can be said to recontextualize the lemma.39 These dynamics between paraphrase and recontextualization illustrate the tension between base text and commentary: though an authoritative source of exposition, the base text nevertheless is not fully intelligible when it is not explained by the commentator. The last aspect of the dynamics between base text and commentary in the pesharim concerns the historical memory of the pesher commentators. It has long been commonplace to say that these commentators interpret Scripture in the light of their own historical circumstances. Thus, André Dupont-Sommer remarks that the pesharim “violently apply the text to their own circumstances.”40 In a similar vein, Shani Tzoref observes that, in the pesharim, “biblical poetic/ prophetic texts are applied to postbiblical historical/eschatological settings.”41 Even though the expositions of Scripture in the pesharim occasionally seem to be informed by the historical circumstances in which the commentator found

38  On paraphrase in Pesher Habakkuk see Karl Elliger, Studien zum Habakuk-Kommentar vom Toten Meer, BHT 15 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1953), 127–30; Bilhah Nitzan, The Pesher Habakkuk Scroll (Jerusalem: Bialik, 1986), 40–42. 39  The term “recontextualization” plays a prominent role in the work of Nitzan, Pesher, 51–54; Shani Berrin (Tzoref), “Qumran Pesharim,” in Biblical Interpretation at Qumran, ed. Matthias Henze, SDSSRL (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), 110–33 (126–30); Lange and Pleše, “Qumran Pesharim and the Derveni Papyrus”; eidem, “Transpositional Hermeneutics.” 40  André Dupont-Sommer, The Dead Sea Scrolls: A Preliminary Survey (Oxford: Blackwell, 1952), 26. 41  Berrin (Tzoref), “Qumran Pesharim,” 110.

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himself,42 the term “application” is problematic as a description of this phenomenon. It implies the notion of a fixed history to which Scripture is then applied. But such a history is very difficult to recover, as it is shrouded in an intricate web of intertextual links between the pesharim and other writings.43 These intertextual connections, which sometimes reflect a development in the use of terminology, suggest that what we find in the pesharim is not simply history, but the historical memory of the pesher commentators.44 This historical memory informs the scriptural interpretations that the pesher commentators espouse and so reflects the commentators’ bestowing of their interests on their base texts. But the historical memory of the commentators is also informed by their reading of Scripture. In this context, Philip Davies suggests that some elements of the historical memory in the pesharim do not reflect actual historical circumstances, but are exegetically derived from Scripture.45 Hence, the contents of the pesharim reflect the tension between base text and commentary as well. On the one hand, the pesharim develop their historical memory on the basis of their scriptural base texts, thus affirming the status of these base texts. On the other, the historical memory of the pesher commentators guides their expositions of their base texts, whose authority is thus superseded and replaced by that of the commentator. The pesharim thus reflect the same tension between an authoritative base text and its need for interpretation as other commentaries. This tension is embedded in broader conceptualizations of the nature the base text and its interpretation. For the pesher commentators, history is divided up into periods

42  The mention of Demetrius and Antiochus in 4Q169 3–4 i 1–3 may be the clearest case. 43  George J. Brooke, “The Pesharim and the Origins of the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Methods of Investigation of the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Khirbet Qumran Site: Present Realities and Future Prospects, ed. Michael O. Wise et al., ANYAS 722 (New York: The New York Academy of Sciences, 1994), 339–53. 44  Philip R. Davies, “What History Can We Get from the Scrolls, and How?” in The Dead Sea Scrolls: Texts and Context, ed. Charlotte Hempel, STDJ 90 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 31–46; Loren T. Stuckenbruck, “The Teacher of Righteousness Remembered: From Fragmentary Sources to Collective Memory in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Memory in the Bible and Antiquity: The Fifth Durham-Tübingen Research Symposium (Durham, September 2004), ed. Stephen C. Barton, Loren T. Stuckenbruck, and Benjamin G. Wold, WUNT 212 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 75–94. For a concise overview see Pieter B. Hartog, “Pesharim,” in The Dictionary of the Bible in Ancient Media, ed. Chris L. Keith et al. (London: T&T Clark, 2017), 293–95. 45  Behind the Essenes: History and Ideology in the Dead Sea Scrolls, BJS 94 (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987), 91–97.

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(‫)קצים‬. These periods are preordained by God and inform the course of history.46 The last period or periods of history is known as “the latter days” (‫ )אחרית הימים‬and will culminate in the final judgement.47 As the recipient of divine revelation, the ancient prophet was granted insight in the period in which he lived. However, he did not gauge the fullest meaning of his revelation. His insights did not extend beyond his own time, nor did he survey the whole of history. The revelation that he received, however, did have the potential to illuminate more than just his own times. Originating with God, it could provide its able interpreter with insight into the divine plan of history. The pesher commentators, who lived in the latter days and looked back on earlier periods of history, were in the position to achieve this understanding of the whole of history, of which their days were the culmination. This temporal difference between the base text and the commentary is the raison d’être of scriptural exposition in the pesharim. Whereas the base text, perceived as it was to derive from divine revelation, is evidently authoritative for its commentators, its author was unable to assess its full meaning. This privilege was reserved for the readers of Scripture in the latter days—or perhaps for one such reader in particular.48 These readers understood their own position in the course of history from Scripture.49 It is in this fashion that “the view of

46  This idea is found elsewhere in the scrolls and Jewish literature. See, e.g., Ida Fröhlich, “Pesher, Apocalyptical Literature and Qumran,” in The Madrid Qumran Congress, ed. Julio Trebolle Barrera and Luis Vegas Montaner, STDJ 11 (Leiden: Brill, 1992), 1295– 305; Florentino García Martínez, “Apocalypticism in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in The Encyclopedia of Apocalypticism, ed. Bernhard McGinn, John J. Collins, and Stephen J. Stein, 3 vols. (New York: Continuum, 1998), 1:162–92; Devorah Dimant, “Time, Torah and Prophecy at Qumran,” in Religiöse Philosophie und philosophische Religion der frühen Kaiserzeit: Literaturgeschichtliche Perspektiven, STAC 51 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 147–98; Shani Tzoref, “Pesher and Periodization,” DSD 18 (2011): 129–54; Michael E. Stone, “Apocalyptic Historiography,” in Ancient Judaism: New Visions and Views (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2011), 59–89. 47  Annette Steudel, “‫ אחרית הימים‬in the Texts from Qumran,” RevQ 16/62 (1993): 225–44. 48  See the next section. 49  The expression “pesher on the periods” (‫ ;פשר על הקצים‬4Q180 1 1) is important in this regard. Though the expression is not found in this form in the continuous pesharim (but cf. the phrase ‫ פשר הדבר לאחרית הימים‬in 4Q162 2:1; 4Q163 23 ii 10), it indicates the focus of this type of exposition, which is on the understanding of the course of history and the commentator’s own position therein. See Devorah Dimant, “The ‘Pesher on the Periods’ (4Q180) and 4Q181,” IOS 9 (1979): 77–102; eadem, “Exegesis and Time in the Pesharim from Qumran,” RÉJ 168 (2009): 373–93.

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the prophetic text as ‘fore-telling’ results in an exegetical application that is ‘forth-telling.’”50

Author and Commentator

Many commentators construe their authority in conversation with the base text author. The pesher commentators do not engage in direct conversation with the author of their base texts, though. Instead, they develop the image of the Teacher of Righteousness, who is portrayed as the instigator of pesher interpretation. This portrayal of the Teacher fulfils the role of implied commentator in the pesharim, with later commentators merely being heirs to the tradition the Teacher initiated. Thus, the pesher commentators appropriate the collective memory of the Teacher for themselves. Pesher exegesis, from this perspective, is authoritative because it is not the merit of the individual commentator, but derives from “the voice the Teacher.”51 The fact that the Teacher is mentioned only in some pesharim does not invalidate this statement. There can be a variety of reasons for the absence of the Teacher. The most noteworthy ones are the exegetical potential of the base text and the historical frame in which the commentary is set. Information about the Teacher is usually derived exegetically from the base text. Thus, the pesharim on Habakkuk and Psalm 37 concern themselves with the conflict between the Teacher of Righteousness and the Wicked Priest because their base texts refer to a conflict between the righteous and the wicked.52 Furthermore, different pesharim discuss ­different 50  George J. Brooke, “Prophetic Interpretation in the Pesharim,” in A Companion to Biblical Interpretation in Early Judaism, ed. Matthias Henze (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2012), 235– 54 (248). 51  Florentino García Martínez uses this phrase from the Damascus Document (CD 20:28, 32 [// 4Q267 3 7; 4Q270 2 i 2]) to illustrate how the image of the Teacher aids the accrual of authority in a variety of Qumran texts. See his “Beyond the Sectarian Divide: The ‘Voice of the Teacher’ as an Authority-Conferring Strategy in some Qumran Texts,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls: Transmission of Traditions and Production of Texts, ed. Sarianna Metso, Hindy Najman, and Eileen M. Schuller, STDJ 92 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 227–44, esp. 235: “The ‘voice of the Teacher’ as an authority-conferring strategy is not limited to the activity of the historical Teacher of Righteousness … but … was ‘institutionalized’ within the groups that took their inspiration from this figure and became the channel of a continuous revelation while expecting the final revelation at the end of times.” 52  For a concise discussion of how this works in Pesher Habakkuk see Pieter B. Hartog, “ReReading Habakkuk 2:4b: Lemma and Interpretation in 1QpHab VI 17–VIII 3,” RevQ 26/101 (2013): 127–32.

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periods in the historical memory of their commentators. Whilst Pesher Habakkuk, for instance, is concerned primarily with an early phase of this historical memory of its commentators, Pesher Nahum focuses on a later phase. Assuming that the Teacher was remembered as a founding figure,53 we need not be surprised that he features only in Pesher Habakkuk and not in Pesher Nahum. Even in the pesharim where it is not explicitly developed, however, the image of the Teacher functions as the implied commentator.54 This is not to suggest that the voice of the later commentator completely recedes with that of the Teacher. When he occurs in the pesharim, the Teacher is always spoken about. He does not direct his voice directly, in the first person, to the readers of these commentaries. In that regard, the pesharim differ from some of the Hodayot, where the voice of the poet and the voice of the Teacher coincide. They are different also from the Temple Scroll, where the third person narrative of Scripture is rephrased in the first person to portray it as divine speech. The pesharim represent the voice of the Teacher, but the two do not merge. The type of exegesis we find in the Qumran commentaries portrays itself as belonging to the interpretive tradition started by the Teacher as both a continuation and a development of that tradition. This defines the type of scriptural interpretation that the pesharim contain as open-ended: the divine inspiration that the Teacher had received, which is the basis for this type of exegesis, did not come to a halt at his death, but was continued by his heirs, the pesher commentators.55

53  4QpPs A 1–10 iii 14–17 and CD 1:10–11 reflect this aspect of the historical memory of the Teacher. 54  Some of the elements associated with the image of the Teacher as the instigator of pesher exegesis, such as his interpretive focus on prophetic works, are found also in pesharim where he is not mentioned. 55  The fact that only one copy of each pesher was recovered may suggest that these commentaries were added to in the course of their transmission. Cf. the comments of George J. Brooke, “Aspects of the Physical and Scribal Features of Some Cave 4 ‘Continuous’ Pesharim,” in Metso, Najman, and Schuller, The Dead Sea Scrolls: Transmission of Traditions and Production of Texts, 133–50, esp. 140, also n. 28, and Jokiranta, Social Identity, 154. The possibility to include subsequent comments to already existing commentaries depends on the open-endedness of the tradition: rather than containing a closed collection of interpretations originating with the Teacher, the pesharim present a continuation and appropriation of the exegetical tradition which—according to the pesharim t­ hemselves—the Teacher instigated. See also Pieter B. Hartog, “‘The Final Priests of Jerusalem’ and ‘The Mouth of the Priest’: Eschatology and Literary History in Pesher Habakkuk,” DSD 24 (2017): 59–80.

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In the pesharim, the tension between the author and the interpreter of the base text plays a similar role to other commentaries. It functions on the level of the implied rather than the actual commentator. One way in which it comes to the fore is the fact that the Teacher of Righteousness is never called a prophet. In the light of the tension between author and commentator which I sketched in the first part of this essay, the hesitation of the pesher commentators to call the Teacher a prophet can be understood as a differentiation of his function from that of the base text author. Rather than a prophet, the Teacher is called a priest.56 One of the main functions of priests was the interpretation and instruction of Scripture—especially the law, but Pesher Habakkuk 2:5–10 indicates that priests can also be involved in the interpretation of the prophets.57 Thus portraying the Teacher as a priest, the pesher commentators emphasize his exegetical role. This may also be the import of the application of Ps 45:2, where the Psalmist describes his tongue as “the pen of a skilled scribe,” to the Teacher.58 In Sluiter’s terms, the Teacher is not said to be a “colleague of the base text author.” Instead, he belongs to “the tradition of commentators.” Put differently: he is not a fellow prophet, but an exegete who approaches his base text from a distance so as to make sense of it. He supersedes the base text author as he illumines the meaning of the base text in ways that were impossible for the ancient prophet. But this is only one side of the coin. Like other commentators, the implied commentator in the pesharim is not wholly disengaged. Apart from an interpreter, the Teacher is also a colleague of the ancient prophet. Despite the fact that the Teacher is nowhere called a prophet, his exegesis can to a certain extent be characterized as prophetic. As the pesher commentators expound 56  The clearest case is 4QpPs A 1–10 iii 14–17. Most scholars would also point to 1QpHab 2:5– 10, but with García Martínez (“Beyond,” 241) I doubt the equation of “the priest” in that passage with the Teacher. See Hartog, “‘The Final Priests of Jerusalem’ and ‘The Mouth of the Priest’.” 57  On priests as exegetes and teachers see, e.g., Steven D. Fraade, “Interpretive Authority in the Studying Community at Qumran,” JJS 44 (1993): 46–69; Florentino García Martínez, “Priestly Functions in a Community without a Temple,” in Gemeinde ohne Tempel: Zur Substituierung und Transformation des Jerusalemer Tempels und seines Kults im Alten Testament, antiken Judentum und frühen Christentum, ed. Beate Ego and Kathrin Ehlers, WUNT 118 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999), 303–19, esp. 309–11; George J. Brooke, “The ‘Apocalyptic’ Community, the Matrix of the Teacher and Rewriting Scripture,” in Authoritative Scriptures in Ancient Judaism, ed. Mladen Popović, JSJSup 141 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 37–53, esp. 44–47. 58  4QpPs A 1–10 iv 26–27. Cf. Alex P. Jassen, Mediating the Divine: Prophecy and Revelation in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Second Temple Judaism, STDJ 68 (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 350.

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their prophetic base texts, they partially align themselves with their authors. This prophetic element of pesher exegesis is clear in the explicit reflections on the nature of this type of exegesis in Pesher Habakkuk. In column 2 of 1QpHab, “the words of the Teacher of Righteousness” are said to stem “from the mouth of God.”59 This illustrates that the interpretations of the Teacher of Righteousness originate from divine revelation. Just as the words of the ancient prophet result from God, so the Teacher’s—and hence the pesher commentators’—understanding of their fuller meaning is of divine origin. The revelation imparted on the Teacher granted him insight in “all the mysteries of the words of his servants the prophets.”60 These mysteries comprise the meaning of the ancient prophet’s words for the latter days. As we have seen above, the position of the Teacher of Righteousness in the final phase of history grants him a fuller insight into these words than their original receiver had. Thus, the revelation given to the ancient prophet is also given more fully to the Teacher. As such, the Teacher continues the revelation bestowed upon the base text author. He is portrayed in line with the ancient prophet and offers an inspired interpretation of his words. The Teacher engages in revelatory exegesis, but he is not called a prophet, which indicates his other, simultaneous role as an exegete.61 In the early years of pesher research, the dual role of the Teacher and his exegesis informed a dichotomy between scholars who emphasized the revelatory nature of these commentaries and those who illustrated their exegetical nature.62 In modern-day scholarship, there is a wide-spread assumption that the revelation bestowed upon the Teacher is of a different kind than that received by the ancient prophet. The divine inspiration of the Teacher is not unmediated, but mediated by his use of exegetical strategies. “The interpretation of ancient prophetic Scripture emerges as a new mode of divine

59  ‫מפיא אל‬. See 1QpHab 2:2. 60  ‫את כול רזי דברי עבדיו הנביאים‬. See 1QpHab 2:8–9; 7:4–5 (with small differences). 61  For a nuanced discussion of prophetic elements in the portrayal of the Teacher see George J. Brooke, “Was the Teacher of Righteousness considered to be a Prophet?” in Prophecy after the Prophets? 77–97. Brooke suggests another reason for the fact that the Teacher is never explicitly called a prophet: “It is possible … that the absence of the label prophet for the Teacher of Righteousness was a deliberate strategem … to enable the inclusion of those within the movement either who would have had difficulty in identifying the Teacher as a prophet or as the eschatological prophet” (95). This explanation does not exclude the one provided here. 62  The first strain of thinking is particularly associated with the work of Karl Elliger, the second with the work of William H. Brownlee. To get an idea of the early discussion one may compare Brownlee, “Biblical Interpretation” with Elliger, Studien, 157–64.

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revelation.”63 The tension between the Teacher and the ancient prophet— that is, between the commentator and the author of the base text—must be situated within this broader framework. The tension between the Teacher as an exegete and the Teacher as an inspired individual corresponds with broader developments in the appreciation of prophecy in Judaism of this period. The dual portrayal of the Teacher reflects an awareness of the dual nature of the prophetic base text as both human and divine, and both oral and written, as well. This comes to the fore most evidently in Hab 2:1–2 and its interpretation in 1QpHab 7. In the scriptural base text, the revelation which Habakkuk receives, is oral:64 God is said to “speak” (‫דב״ר‬, ‫ )אמ״ר‬and to “answer” (‫;שו״ב‬ ‫)ענ״ה‬. Habakkuk writes down (‫ )כת״ב‬the vision and engraves it on tablets (‫ )בא״ר‬for the sake of the reader (‫)קורא‬. Thus, the vision conveyed in the book of Habakkuk—the base text of the pesher—is of a dual kind.65 It also invites dual interpretation. On the one hand, orally delivered divine revelation is interpreted in ways which are reminiscent of the interpretations of dreams and visions.66 The interpreter of this revelation also partakes in it, and thus obtains insight into the meaning of its contents. On the other hand, the base text is a written text and is to be interpreted as such—by putting the reading strategies that are available to the commentator to good use. The reader becomes an exegete. The Teacher embodies these two roles. He also reflects the dual nature of the base text in his own activity, as he is both a reader of the prophetic word (1QpHab 7:3–5) and speaks with “the reply of the tongue” and “purposeful

63  Jassen, Mediating, 352. 64  George J. Brooke, “Les mystères des prophètes et les oracles d’exégèse: Continuité et discontinuité dans la prophétie à Qumran,” in Comment devient-on prophète? Actes du colloque organisé par le Collège de France, Paris, les 4–5 avril 2011, ed. Jean-Marie Durand, Thomas Römer, and Micaël Bürki, OBO 265 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2014), 159–66 (161–63) points to the use of the verbs ‫ צפ״ה‬and ‫ רא״ה‬in Hab 2:1–2 and suggests that Habakkuk’s prophetic activity entails a visual aspect as well. 65  Cf. Michael H. Floyd, “Prophecy and Writing in Habakkuk 2,1–5,” ZAW 105 (1993): 462–81. Floyd describes the kind of writing described in Hab 2:1–5 as mantic writing, which is a part of prophetic activity. This is helpful for how we describe the base text of the pesharim, as it illustrates that a written text can be prophetically laden. 66   See, e.g., Armin Lange, “Interpretation als Offenbarung: Zum Verhältnis von Schriftauslegung und Offenbarung in apokalyptischer und nichtapokalyptischer Literatur,” in Wisdom and Apocalypticism in the Dead Sea Scrolls and in the Biblical Tradition, ed. Florentino García Martínez, BETL 168 (Leuven: Peeters, 2003), 17–33; Nissinen, “Pesharim as Divination”; Jassen, “Pesharim.”

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speech” (4QpPs A 1–10 iv 27–v 1).67 Thus, the Teacher of Righteousness interprets and extends the words and works of the ancient prophet. The pesher commentators, in their turn, invoke the image of the Teacher to accrue authority for themselves.

Dependency and Rivalry

A third set of oppositions is that between the commentator’s dependency on other interpreters and his rivalry with them. As they constitute a traditional genre, many commentaries incorporate the findings of other commentators. By so doing, they situate themselves within an interpretive tradition. There is ample evidence for such procedures in the pesharim. Take, for instance, the expression “the Teacher of Righteousness,” which features in some pesharim. The term is taken from Hos 10:12 and Joel 2:23. But its use in the pesharim is not the result of an unmediated interpretation of Scripture. Rather, it is mediated by the use of similar expressions in the Damascus Document. Similar developments underlie the use of other terms or sobriquets in the pesharim.68 The traditional nature of the pesharim is reflected also on the level of other exegetical traditions. Moshe Bernstein discusses the link between Pesher Hosea A 2:15–17 and Jub. 6:34–38.69 The figurative reading of “dust” in Hab 1:10 as a large group of people which 1QpHab 4:3–9 offers, is not unique to the pesher, either. A similar metaphorical reading occurs in the Targum to Hab 1:10 and probably goes back to the use of “dust” for people in scriptural passages like Gen 3:19.70 These examples, to which many more could be added,71 show that the pesharim are no sui generis commentaries, but partake in broader exegetical traditions which incorporate Scripture, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and Early Jewish literature. Hence, the pesher commentators depend on the work of other and previous interpreters and incorporate the findings of other interpreters in their own commentaries. 67  Cf. Brooke, “‘Apocalyptic’ Community,” 41–42. 68  See, e.g., Matthew A. Collins, The Use of Sobriquets in the Qumran Dead Sea Scrolls, LSTS 67 (London: T&T Clark, 2009). 69  Moshe Bernstein, “‘Walking in the Feasts of the Gentiles’: 4QpHoseaa 2.15–17 and Jubilees 6.34–38,” JSP 9 (1991): 21–34. 70  See Nitzan, Pesher, 44–45; Robert P. Gordon, Studies in the Targum to the Twelve Prophets, VTSup 51 (Leiden: Brill, 1994), 85. 71  Shani Tzoref, “Qumran Pesharim and the Pentateuch: Explicit Citation, Overt Typologies, and Implicit Interpretive Traditions,” DSD 16 (2009): 190–220 gives some examples from the Pentateuch.

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At the same time, the pesher commentators, like other commentators, do not seek merely to repeat the work of their peers. The raison d’être for their own work is that they have something new to say. They may incorporate the work of other interpreters, but they ultimately surpass them. The portrayal of the Teacher of Righteousness—the implied commentator in these ­commentaries—as uniquely inspired and granted insight in the mysteries of the divine revelation imparted on the ancient prophets is the clearest reflection of this self-awareness of the Qumran commentaries. But the pesharim also engage in forthright condemnations of rival interpreters. The objects of this condemnation differ from pesher to pesher.72 Yet, what they have in common is that they are not rebuked only for expounding fallacious interpretations. Accusations of deceptive interpretation function within a larger complex of condemnations of opponents in the pesharim, which aims to “justify the group’s existence and claims by placing the most relevant out-groups as the opposite of the in-group.”73 Because a substantial part of “the group’s claims” is exegetically derived from Scripture, it need not surprise us that condemnations of out-groups involves accusing them of deceitful interpretation. The main antagonists of the Teacher of Righteousness in Pesher Habakkuk are “the Man of the Lie” (‫ )איש הכזב‬and “the Wicked Priest” (‫)כוהן הרשע‬. The first is portrayed in 1QpHab 2:1–3 as the leader of a group of traitors which is accused of not believing “the words of the Teacher of Righteousness from the mouth of God.”74 Thus, the Man of the Lie and his followers reject the Teacher’s inspired interpretation. Elsewhere, the Man of the Lie is portrayed as rejecting the Torah.75 Pesher Habakkuk does not refer to the exposition of rival interpretations by the Man of the Lie, though that type of activity does seem to be implied in the references to this individual in 4QpPs A. In contrast with the Man of the Lie, the “Spouter of the Lie” (‫ )מטיף הכזב‬is presented as a rival interpreter in 1QpHab 10:5–13.76 The Spouter of the Lie is not portrayed to be in direct conflict with the Teacher, but he does play the role of his negative counterpart. In this passage in Pesher Habakkuk, the Spouter is said to build a city—which

72  Cf. Samuel Adams’s contribution (pp. 47–50) in this volume. 73  Jokiranta, Social Identity, 137. 74  ‫[דברי] מורה הצדקה מפיא אל‬. 75  1QpHab 5:11. 76  As I am not interested in reconstructing history from Pesher Habakkuk, the issue of whether the Man of the Lie and the Spouter of the Lie are the same person does not affect my argument much.

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is a metaphor for the foundation of a religious movement77—and to misdirect many. This focus on misdirection (‫ )תע״ה‬and lying (‫ )שק״ר‬implies that the Spouter of the Lie expounds teachings and interpretations which conflict with the teachings and interpretations of the Teacher of Righteousness. The pesher commentator further emphasizes the contrast between the two teachers as he uses the root ‫ יר״ה‬to refer to the activities of the Spouter of the Lie: he is stated “to teach them deceitful works.”78 Using the same root for the activity of both figures, the commentator depicts the Spouter of the Lie as the negative counterpart of the Teacher, thus accentuating the veracity and authority of the teachings and interpretations of the latter. Protagonists change in Pesher Nahum, since neither the Teacher nor his opponents from Pesher Habakkuk occur in this pesher. Condemnation is now directed against the Seekers of Smooth Things (‫)דורשי החלקות‬. Their portrayal as rival interpreters affects their name, which is a pun on the term “the interpreter of the law” (‫)דורש התורה‬. Pesher Nahum 3–4 ii 2 portrays these rival interpreters as “walking in treachery and lies.”79 Further down in the same column, the Seekers of Smooth Things must be taken as “the ones who misdirect Ephraim, who with their fraudulent teaching and lying tongue and perfidious lip misdirect many; kings, princes, priests and people together with the proselyte attached to them” (4Q169 3–4 ii 8–9). Thus, Pesher Nahum, like Pesher Habakkuk, depicts rival interpreters as misleaders in order to promote the status and validity of its own contents. 4QPesher Psalms A, lastly, speaks of the “Interpreter of Knowledge” (‫מליץ‬ ‫ )דעת‬in 1–10 i 25–ii 1. Most scholars equate the Interpreter of Knowledge with the Teacher of Righteousness because the opponent of the Interpreter of Knowledge and one of the opponents of the Teacher in Pesher Habakkuk are the same. The use of the term “Interpreter of Knowledge” instead of “Teacher of Righteousness” can then be attributed to the exegetical link between lemma and interpretation in 4QpPs A 1–10 i 25–ii 1.80 Though this may be a rather weak basis for identification, the dynamics underlying this passage are similar to those in other pesharim. In 4QPesher Psalms A, the teachings of the Man 77  David Flusser, “Pharisees, Sadducees, and Essenes in Pesher Nahum,” in Judaism of the Second Temple Period, 2 vols., trans. Azzan Yadin (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), 1:214– 57, esp. 222–23. 78  ‫להרותם במ[ע]שי שקר‬. There has been some discussion on what root the infinitive ‫ להרותם‬may be based. See William H. Brownlee, The Midrash Pesher of Habakkuk, SBLMS 24 (Missoula: Scholars Press, 1979), 171–72. 79  ‫בכחש ושקר[ים י]תהלכו‬. 80  Brooke, “Biblical Texts,” 94 suggests a link between the form ‫ מצליח‬in the lemma and ‫מליץ‬ in the interpretation.

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of the Lie are referred to as “words of lies” (‫ )אמרי שקר‬and “worthless things” (‫)קלות‬. The latter term brings to mind the phrase ‫“ חלקות‬smooth things,” which describes the deceitful contents of the teachings of the Seekers of Smooth Things in Pesher Nahum. The Man of Lie, misleading many as he did, and his followers did not heed the words of the Interpreter of Knowledge. Thus, 4QPesher Psalms A, too, implies a special validity for its own contents, which it underscores by presenting rival interpreters in an especially negative light. This illustrates that the attitude of the pesher commentators towards other interpreters is ambiguous. On the one hand, the Pesher commentators are clearly indebted to the work of their peers—also of those whose work has been preserved outside of the Dead Sea Scrolls—and incorporate the results of their work in their own commentaries. On the other hand, both their selfportrayal as engaging in inspired interpretation in the vein of the Teacher of Righteousness and their condemnation of those holding different opinions purposefully distinguish the results of pesher exegesis from those of other types of interpretation. Conclusion The observations in the preceding pages illustrate that the pesharim promote their authority and validity in a type of dynamics similar to that in other commentaries. It can be described in terms of a variety of sets of oppositions between which the commentators foster the validity of their work. The pesher commentators, like all others, must steer their course between reiterating and subverting their base texts; between aligning themselves with the author of their base text and approaching his work as an exegete; and between incorporating the work of other interpreters and having something new to say. It is between these poles that the pesharim accrue their own authority. The way in which the pesharim negotiate these sets of oppositions differs from how other commentaries negotiate them. Hence, the route that the Qumran commentaries take between these extremes determines their characteristic features.81 81  On the level of the individual pesharim there are differences in how these sets of oppositions are handled. The pesharim differ, for instance, in their presentation of rival interpreters (who are condemned in which pesher?) or their approach towards the base text (some pesharim are strictly continuous, others tend to be more thematic). This shows that the group of “continuous pesharim” is not a neat unity. This has been noted before; see especially Moshe Bernstein, “Introductory Formulas for Citation and Re-Citation of Biblical Verses in the Qumran Pesharim: Observations on a Pesher Technique,” DSD 1 (1994): 30–70.

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These observations can be taken in two ways. Firstly, they invite us to think more broadly about the connections between the pesharim and other Early Jewish interpretive writings that exhibit the same type of dynamics. Secondly, they invite cross-cultural comparisons of the way in which this type of dynamics surfaces in interpretive writings which, like the pesharim, display a clear distinction of lemma and interpretation and consist of an alternation of these two elements. In both ways, the observations in the preceding pages aim to illuminate both the nature of the pesharim and their position within the wider context of commentary writing in the ancient world.

4QCantb—Ein dramatischer Text Matthias Hopf 4QCantb ist eine erstaunliche kleine Schriftrolle mit einer Reihe von Besonderheiten: Zwar bietet dieser Text im Vergleich mit den übrigen Hohelied-Versionen (4QCanta, 4QCantc und 6QCant) mit Abstand das meiste Textmaterial. Dennoch weist die Rolle ein textliches Minus gegenüber dem MT oder der LXX auf. Außerdem findet sich hier vor allem ein ganz außergewöhnliches Textlayout. Anhand der Besonderheiten dieser Schriftrolle möchte ich aufzeigen, dass es sich bei 4QCantb um einen „dramatischen Text“1 handelt, und wahrscheinlich machen, dass die Schriftrolle womöglich performative Verwendung fand. 4QCantb—eine Bestandsaufnahme Verhältnisbestimmung zum Masoretischen Text Üblicherweise wird 4QCantb der Gruppe der „non-aligned texts“ zugerechnet,2 dies jedoch vor allem aufgrund des Umstands, dass „substantial segments of text found in the other textual witnesses“3 fehlen. Ansonsten nämlich stehen sich 4QCantb und der MT durchaus nahe. Sicherlich ist insbesondere mit Blick auf Orthographie und Aramaismen eine Reihe von Unterschieden 1  Diese begriffliche Wendung wurde in die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft eingeführt von Helmut Utzschneider, Michas Reise in die Zeit: Studien zum Drama als Genre der prophetischen Literatur des Alten Testaments, SBS 180 (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1999), 16– 17; sowie Stefan A. Nitsche, Jesaja 24–27: Ein dramatischer Text: Die Frage nach den Genres prophetischer Literatur des Alten Testaments und die Textgraphik der großen Jesajarolle aus Qumran, BWANT 166 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2006), 45–46. Vgl. aber auch die Untersuchung des masoretischen Hohelieds anhand dieses Begriffs bei Matthias Hopf, Liebesszenen: Eine literaturwissenschaftliche Studie zum Hohenlied als einem dramatisch-performativen Text, ATANT 108 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2016). 2  So z. B. bei Emanuel Tov, Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible, 3d ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2012), 109; ähnlich Armin Lange, “The Textual Plurality of Jewish Scriptures in the Second Temple Period in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Qumran and the Bible: Studying the Jewish and Christian Scriptures in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Nóra Dávid and idem, CBET 57 (Leuven: Peeters, 2010), 54–55. 3  Emanuel Tov, “106.–108. Introduction to 4QCanta–c,” in Qumran Cave 4: XI: Psalms to Chronicles, ed. Eugene Ulrich et al., DJD 16 (Oxford: Clarendon, 2000), 195–98 (195).

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi:10.1163/9789004376397_007

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zum masoretischen Konsonantenbestand zu beobachten.4 Hinzu kommen verschiedene Schreibfehler5 und kleinere variant readings,6 so dass die Bezeichnung als „imprecise copy“7 durchaus zutrifft. Dennoch scheint mir die sonstige große textliche Nähe zum MT8 zu rechtfertigen, in 4QCantb einen näheren Verwandten der protomasoretischen Tradition zu sehen.9 Aus diesem Grund wird der MT hier in der Regel als Vergleichspunkt herangezogen, ohne an dieser Stelle bereits zu weit reichende Urteile über eine literarische Abhängigkeit in die eine oder andere Richtung fällen zu wollen. Vielmehr wird hier zunächst schlicht festgestellt, dass in 4QCantb bzw. dem MT zwei sehr ähnliche Versionen des Hohenliedes vorliegen, die jedoch vor allem im Textumfang und nur punktuell auch in einzelnen Varianten voneinander differieren. Die in inhaltlicher Sicht vermutlich wichtigste Abweichung von 4QCantb gegenüber dem MT ist dabei die Bezeugung von ‫ שמע‬statt ‫ קול‬in Hld 2:14. Allein die semantischen Grundbedeutungen stehen sich konträr gegenüber: auf der einen Seite mit ‫ קול‬die Bezeichnung für ein Laut-Geben, auf der anderen mit ‫ שמע‬10 eher eine Betonung des rezeptiven Vorgangs. Dies ist u. a. auch deswegen interessant, weil der Begriff an die Kurzform der Bezeichnung für das ‫שמע‬ ‫ ישראל‬in der jüdischen Liturgie erinnert. Und tatsächlich kam diesem liturgischen Stück ja bereits vor der Tempelzerstörung eine nicht zu unterschätzende kultische Bedeutung zu.11 Angesichts des insgesamt hohen Grads an Übereinstimmung mit dem MT im Konsonantenbestand des in 4QCantb erhaltenen Textes12 ist es aber umso erstaunlicher, dass sich letzterer auf inhaltlicher Ebene durchaus von ersterem abhebt. Interessant ist dabei vor allem, was nicht in der Rolle zu finden ist: So sind ganz offensichtlich einige der stärker erotischen Bilder des aus

4  Vgl. hierzu die Übersichten bei Emanuel Tov, “107. 4QCantb,” in DJD 16:205–18 (208–9). 5  Vgl. Tov, “4QCantb,” 208. 6  Wie z. B. die beiden zusätzlichen ‫ הנה‬in 2:12–13 sowie ‫ אקום‬statt ‫ אקומה‬in 3:2. 7  Tov, “4QCantb,” 208. 8  Dies klingt in der Bewertung Tovs an, wenn er meint: „The orthography is very close to that of M“ (Tov, “4QCantb,” 208). 9  Auch Tov gibt zu, dass die Klassifizierung als „non-aligned text“ bisweilen irreführend sein kann, vgl. Tov, Textual Criticism, 109. Die Nähe ist vielleicht sogar noch größer zu bewerten, wenn man die Erwägungen von Raymond Person zur „oral mentality“ von Schreibern in der Antike mit in Betracht zieht, vgl. Raymond F. Person, “The Ancient Israelite Scribe as Performer,” JBL 117 (1998): 601–9 (609). 10  Dies gilt unabhängig von der genauen Vokalisierung. 11  Vgl. m. Tamid 5:1; sowie Louis Jacobs, “Shema, Reading of,” EncJud 14:1370–74 (1370). 12  Vor allem wenn man der veränderten Sicht auf das mündlich zu denkende „Wort“ folgt bei Person, “Scribe,” 607.

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dem masoretischen Text bekannten Materials in 4QCantb nicht bezeugt. Dies liegt bereits daran, dass die Rolle keine Passagen des zweiten (masoretischen) Buchteils enthält, also alles ab Hld 5:2. Diese zweite Hälfte präsentiert sich nämlich insgesamt deutlich stärker sexuell konnotiert.13 Aber selbst innerhalb des Textbestandes von 4QCantb sind erotische Wendungen des MT ausdrücklich nicht bezeugt. So fehlt die Bemerkung über die ‫ שדים‬der Frau in Hld 4:5. Analog könnte man erwägen, dass der recht explizite Teilvers 3:4b ebenfalls nicht in Col. 2 enthalten war. Zumindest ist die DJD-Rekonstruktion in diesem Bereich problematisch, da unklar bleibt, warum gemäß Tov die ersten Zeilen deutlich länger sein sollten als jene weiter unten. Und der stark erotisch konnotierte Teilvers 3:4b entspräche quantitativ in etwa dem zu vermutenden Überschuss. So ist 4QCantb in inhaltlicher Hinsicht insgesamt charakterisiert durch eine eher schwach erotische Bildsprache mit vielen poetischen Anleihen aus Flora und Fauna. Durch eine andere Auswahl des Textmaterials entsteht also eine erhebliche Veränderung des Textcharakters. Ein ähnliches Phänomen zeigt sich in der Untersuchung der Sprecher­ zuweisungen: Im MT sind weit mehr als die Hälfte aller Verse der weiblichen Figur bzw. Figurengruppe zuzuschreiben, während männliche Stimmen eher im Hintergrund stehen.14 Demgegenüber findet sich in 4QCantb ein ganz anderes Zahlenverhältnis: Meiner Berechnung nach dürften im erhaltenen Text15 maximal 45% der gesprochenen Sätze16 der Frau zuzuordnen sein.17 Dem Mann werden im Kontrast dazu mit rund 55% weit mehr Äußerungen 13  So u. a. 7:3–4; 7:8–10 bzw. 7:12–13 sowie 8:1–2; aber auch 5:2–5. 14  Nach Pusin sind über 85% der Verse „weiblich“ (zitiert bei Marvin H. Pope, Song of Songs: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, AB 7C [Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1977], 134). Gemäß Broadribb immerhin noch knapp 60% (zitiert bei Roland E. Murphy, The Song of Songs: A Commentary on the Book of Canticles or The Song of Songs, Hermeneia [Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1990], 64, n. 287). Meine eigene Zählung bewegt sich dazwischen: Der Frau sind demnach insgesamt 246 Teilverse in den Mund zu legen (ca. 55% der Äußerungen), dem Mann 155 Teilverse (ca. 35%) sowie der Frauengruppe der Töchter Jerusalems immerhin noch 46 Teilverse (ca. 10%), vgl. dazu Hopf, Liebesszenen, 296–98. 15  Unter Einbeziehung auch der unsichereren Textpassagen in Col. 2, aber unter Auslassung des von mir angezweifelten Teilverses 3:4b. Die „Randtexte,“ also die nur teilweise vorhandenen Verse vor oder nach Lücken, werden nur ab dem rekonstruierten Text gezählt. 16  Hier wird syntaktisch nach Sätzen getrennt. Allerdings werden vokativische Anreden separat als eigener „Satz“ behandelt, auch wenn sie genau genommen eher aphrastische Wendungen darstellen. 17  Hier handelt es sich um 2:9b–10a; 2:15–3:4a; 3:5; 3:9–11; 4:16.

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eingeräumt.18 Auch hier liegt entsprechend eine deutliche Veränderung des Textcharakters vor. Der Text scheint also insgesamt wesentlich weniger auf Weiblichkeit, Erotik und die damit verbundenen Reize zentriert, ohne sie aber gänzlich auszublenden. Angesichts dieses doppelten Ergebnisses, der textlichen Nähe zur masoretischen Tradition einerseits sowie der Differenz im inhaltlichen Charakter andererseits, scheint mir nun aber doch eine enge Verbindung, wenn nicht sogar eine direkte Abhängigkeit der Qumranrolle von der masoretischen Texttradition wahrscheinlich, da andere Erklärungsmodelle diesen Befund nur schwer erklären können.19 Die veränderte Auswahl des Textmaterials bewirkt dabei jedoch eine gezielte Veränderung des Textcharakters.20 Vielleicht könnte man das Verhältnis zur masoretischen Texttradition daher am ehesten mit den Begriffen „Abgrenzung“ und „Identifikation“ beschreiben—Abgrenzung aufgrund der Differenzen im Detail, Identifikation aber wegen des grundlegenden Wiedererkennungswertes des Textmaterials.21 18  Hier handelt es sich um 2:10b–14; 4:1–3, 8–11, 14–15; 5:1a. Die Schlusssätze in 5:1b würde ich im MT dem „Chor“ der „Töchter Jerusalems“ zuweisen. In 4QCantb wird aber anders verfahren, da diese Figurengruppe hier deutlich in den Hintergrund tritt und es dadurch fraglich ist, ob sie im Qumrantext überhaupt auftritt. 19  Gegen eine voneinander gänzlich unabhängige Entwicklung der Textfassungen spricht die grundlegende textliche Nähe zwischen 4QCantb und dem MT. Bis auf die minimale Zahl an Abweichungen (vor allem Aramaismen und Schreibfehler) enthält 4QCantb den aus dem MT bekannten Wortlaut. Bei separater Textentwicklung wäre dies schon ein erstaunlicher Zufall. Eine Abhängigkeit des MT von 4QCantb erscheint hingegen vor allem aufgrund der Aramaismen unwahrscheinlich, da diese doch auf eine späte Zeit der Abschreibung hindeuten. Außerdem sind die Schreibfehler eher als Indizien einer Abweichungen von einer korrekten Vorlage aufgrund von Unachtsamkeit oder einer „oral mentality“ (Person, “Scribe,” 609) zu werten. 20  So ist wohl auch Lange zu verstehen, wenn er in Folge von Tov 4QCantb zwar als „non aligned“ deklariert, dann aber vor allem von 4QCanta (und beiläufig auch für 4QCantb) von einer „abbreviation“ spricht, vgl. Lange, “Plurality,” 55, 88–90. Auch Tov, Textual Criticism, 109, spricht mit Blick auf die Rolle—wenn auch in Anführungszeichen—von „‚excerptedʻ Scripture texts.“ 21  Als „Wiedererkennungsphänomene“ sind hier z. B. die sog. „distant repetitions“ anzuführen, vgl. Pope, Song, 47–51. Von diesen paarweise oder öfter auftretenden Wendungen sind im MT 15 enthalten. In 4QCantb sind von diesen immerhin acht nachweislich, eventuell sogar mehr enthalten—wenigstens mit mindestens je einem Teil dieser Wendungs-Paare oder -Gruppen. Die (recht) sicheren Belege sind (in Klammern jeweils die nicht enthaltenen Gegenstücke): 2:16 (6:3; 7:11); 2:17 (4:6); 2:17 (8:14); 3:2–5 (5:6–8); 3:5 (2:7; 5:8; 8:4); 4:1 (1:15); 4:1b–2.3b (6:5b–7); 4:10 (1:2). Lediglich bei zwei Paaren ist mit an Sicherheit grenzender Wahrscheinlichkeit zu sagen, dass sie überhaupt nicht

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Dies alles deutet für 4QCantb auf eine bewusste Gestaltung vorgegebenen Textmaterials hin, die insbesondere mit gezielter Auswahl aus diesem arbeitet. Ob dieses Material selbst dem MT zur Gänze entspricht, ist wegen der Lücken nicht vollständig zu klären, selbst wenn es aufgrund der sprachlichen Parallelität naheliegt.22 Das Ergebnis ist jedenfalls ganz offensichtlich eine quasi „halbierte,“ wesentlich „harmlosere“ Version des Hohenliedes. Die Besonderheiten des Textlayouts Mit Blick auf das Textlayout ist an 4QCantb zunächst die hohe Zahl von Spatien erstaunlich. Ein derart großzügiger Umgang mit Schreibmaterial ist in anderen Texten zwar zu finden (vor allem in 1QIsa), die Mehrzahl der Rollen dieser Größe (z. B. 6QCant, 2QRutha, 4QLam, 5QLama, 4QQoha) sind jedoch ohne derartige Absätze geschrieben—ein weiterer Hinweis auf die intentionale Gestaltung von 4QCantb. Das auffälligste Merkmal der Schriftrolle sind aber mehrere Schriftzeichen, für die nur wenige Parallelen in anderen Qumrantexten vorliegen (wiederum vor allem 1QIsa). In unserer Schriftrolle sind die Randzeichen nur in Col. 1 klar und deutlich belegt. Gleichzeitig verbietet sich jedoch ein dezidiertes Urteil über die anderen drei Spalten, da dort die linken Marginalien jeweils nur äußerst fragmentarisch erhalten sind.23 Darum ist nicht mit Sicherheit zu sagen, ob jenseits von Col. 1 ursprünglich eine ähnlich umfängliche Randgestaltung vorhanden war. Zwei Argumente machen dies aber denkbar, wenn nicht gar wahrscheinlich: So weist Tov auf ein mögliches weiteres enthalten sind, wobei es sich um durchaus erotisch aufgeladene Wendungen handelt (die Brüste der Frau in 4:5 und 7:4 bzw. Weinstock/Granatapfelbaum in 6:11 und 7:13). Weitere „Wiedererkennungsphänomene“ wären in den verbindenden Elementen zu sehen, die gemäß Fox das masoretische Hohelied zusammenhalten: Die Wiederholungen („Refrains“), assoziative Sequenzen, Konsistenz der Charakterdarstellung sowie ein (loser) narrativer Rahmen, vgl. Michael V. Fox, The Song of Songs and the Ancient Egyptian Love Songs (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985), 209–22. Alle vier sind auch in 4QCantb zu finden. 22  Einzig Col. 4 mit ihrer übergroßen Lücke könnte ein Hinweis auf textliches Plus gegenüber dem MT sein. Vgl. dazu die Rekonstruktion bei Tov, “4QCantb,” 217–18. 23  In Col. 3 wirkt der in DJD rekonstruierte Text am linken Rand auf den ersten Blick recht ordentlich erhalten. Die Fototafeln zeigen allerdings, dass die Rekonstruktionslage bei einer immer noch beträchtlichen Zahl von Zeilen nicht so klar ist, wie zunächst angenommen: Selbst sonst recht gut erhaltene Zeilen (z. B. Col. 3:5–9) brechen zum Teil direkt mit dem letzten Buchstaben ab (vgl. Plate XXV, Nr. 107, Fragment 2 ii im Anhang von DJD 16)—eventuelle Randzeichen wären also in keinem Fall erhalten. Entsprechend ist es zumindest denkbar, dass Marker ursprünglich doch vorhanden waren.

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Schriftzeichen in der linken Marginalie von Col. 2 hin, das nicht mehr vollständig erhalten ist.24 Weiterhin findet sich am Ende von Col. 4 ein Schlusszeichen, das aller Wahrscheinlichkeit nach ein diple obelismene-Zeichen darstellt.25 Tov erklärt die Schriftzeichen als Zeilenfüller,26 was aber aus mehreren Gründen eher unwahrscheinlich ist: So erscheinen die Zeichen auch am Ende von vollständig ausgeschriebenen Zeilen. Außerdem sind sie zum Teil sogar auf dem Rand selbst eingetragen und nicht innerhalb des Textblockes. Schließlich wäre bei Zeilenfüllern nicht einsichtig, warum lauter unterschiedliche Zeichen verwendet wurden. Aus diesen Gründen vermute ich eher eine Korrelation zwischen Textinhalt und Zeichen. Nicht zuletzt deswegen erscheint eine Erklärung der Zeichen in Col. 1 vom Paleo-Hebräischen her am plausibelsten, da sie nur so alle als Buchstaben gewertet werden können.27 Es bleibt die Beobachtung, dass die Zeichen entweder sehr gezielt an bestimmten Punkten oder aber völlig wahllos eingefügt worden sind. Für Letzteres ist keine sinnvolle Motivation ersichtlich, was daher als unwahrscheinlich zu gelten hat. Entsprechend stellt sich die Aufgabe, ein sinnvolles Muster hinter dieser Erscheinung zu entdecken. 4QCantb—ein dramatischer Text? Die beschriebenen Besonderheiten werfen natürlich die Frage nach dem Charakter und dem möglichen historischen Verwendungszweck der Rolle auf. Schon Tov geht ja für 4QCantb davon aus, dass die Rolle „for a specific purpose“28 hergestellt wurde. Dabei liefert das Schlusszeichen den Anfangsverdacht, da dieses diple obelismene-Zeichen im Gefolge von Aristarchos von Samothrake ab dem zweiten Jahrhundert BCE als Trennmarker in griechischen Tragödien- und

24  Vgl. die Rekonstruktion in Tov, “4QCantb,” 213–14. 25  So zumindest Tov, “4QCantb,” 218. 26  Vgl. Tov, “4QCantb,” 205–6. 27  Als weitere Möglichkeiten werden Cryptic A oder auch Griechisch genannt, vgl. Tov, “4QCantb,” 205–6. Einzig das vermutete diple obelismene-Zeichen in Col. 4 würde nicht aus dem Paleo-Hebräischen stammen, sondern aus dem griechischen Kulturkreis. Angesichts der weiten Verbreitung der geläufigen textkritischen Zeichen (vgl. Kathleen McNamee, Sigla and Select Marginalia in Greek Literary Papyri, PapyBrux 26 [Brussels: Fondation Égyptologique Reine Élisabeth, 1992], 24) stellt dies m. E. aber kein erhebliches Problem dar. Gerade dieses Zeichen könnte sogar die Inspiration für die Verwendung zusätzlicher Zeichen gewesen sein. 28  Tov, Textual Criticism, 109.

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Komödien-Handschriften verwendet wurde.29 Wäre für 4QCantb ein vergleichbarer Hintergrund nachzuweisen, würde dies eine Klassifizierung in dramatischer Richtung nahelegen.30 Eine solche Einordnung jedoch, also ob es sich bei 4QCantb um eine Art Schauspiel mit regelrechten „dramatis personae“ im engeren Sinne oder zumindest um eine Form von rezitierendem Vortrag handelt, steht und fällt damit, ob der erhaltene Text selbst überhaupt als „dramatisch“ definiert werden kann.31

29  Vgl. Eric G. Turner, Greek Manuscripts of the Ancient World, 2d ed., BICSSup 46 (London: Institute of Classical Studies, 1987), 12. Nach Turner zeigt der diple obelismene in Zusammenhang insbesondere mit dem asteriscus den Schluss eines Abschnittes an. Zwar ist ein asteriscus hier nicht zu finden, eine ähnliche Funktion könnte aber das vergrößerte Schluss-mem übernehmen. Vgl. weiterhin Franco Montanari, “Diple,” DNP 3:682; und idem, “Kritische Zeichen,” DNP 6:854. Auch Tov, “4QCantb,” 218, betont dies in seiner Einführung. 30  Eine solche Überlegung wird auch durch die Ausführungen David Rhoads gestützt, der davon ausgeht, dass in der mündlich geprägten Kultur Judäas die beschränkte Anzahl von faktisch vorhandenen Manuskripten „primarily served the dynamics of orality“ (David Rhoads, “Performance Criticism: An Emerging Methodology in Second Testament Studies—Part I,” BTB 36 (2006): 118–33 [122]). 31  Ohne im Detail auf die Diskussion auf diesem Gebiet eingehen zu wollen, sei erwähnt, dass in jüngerer Zeit die Auslegung des (masoretischen) Hohenliedes als „Drama“ weitgehend abgelehnt wurde, so z. B. bei Gillis Gerlemann, Ruth: Das Hohelied, BKAT 18 (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener, 1965), 59; Othmar Keel, Das Hohelied, 2d ed., ZBKAT 18 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 1992), 25; J. Cheryl Exum, Song of Songs, OTL (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2005), 78. Etwas vorsichtiger zeigt sich Murphy, Song, 58. Stefan Fischer, “‘Er küsse mich!’—Sehnsüchtige Phantasien: Assoziatives Lesen als Annäherung an Hoheslied,” OTE 18 (2005): 204–222 (240), spricht sich hingegen dezidiert für eine performanztheoretische Untersuchung des Hohelieds aus, die mit Hopf, Liebesszenen, vorgelegt wurde.    Der bekannteste Einwand ist neben anderen (vgl. sehr detailliert Pope, Song, 34–37) die scheinbar fehlende fortschreitende Handlung. Das mehrfach begegnende Argument, es gebe sonst keinerlei Hinweise auf die Form „Drama“ im Bereich des Alten Testaments, greift jedoch anerkanntermaßen nicht (vgl. z. B. Otto Kaiser, Einleitung in das Alte Testament: Eine Einführung in ihre Ergebnisse und Probleme, 5th ed. [Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1984], 362, insbesondere n. 6; ebenso schon Wilhelm Rudolph, Das Buch Ruth—Das Hohe Lied—Die Klagelieder, KAT 17/1/3 [Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1970], 95–96; und zuletzt vor allem Utzschneider, Reise; Nitsche, Jesaja). Letztlich bleibt, was Rudolph konstatiert (wie auch andere in ähnlicher Form): „Für die Frage, ob das HL ein Drama ist, ist lediglich das entscheidend, ob es auf diese Weise gelingt, den vorliegenden Text ausreichend und einleuchtend zu erklären“ (Lied, 96–97).

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Was ist ein „dramatischer Text“? An dieser Stelle ist darum zunächst zu klären, wie der Begriff „Drama“ hier überhaupt zu verstehen ist. Unhinterfragt und eher intuitiv werden in der exegetischen Forschungslandschaft nämlich meist Vorstellungen vorausgesetzt, die der heute bekannten und verbreiteten westlichen Theatertradition entsprechen, welche sich ihrerseits stark auf die hellenistische Dramatik zurückbeziehen. Eine solche Einordnung greift jedoch viel zu kurz, da selbst modernere Theaterstücke nicht immer diesen Vorstellungen entsprechen und auch die Begriffe „Drama“ oder „Theater“ in der jüngeren Zeit deutlich weiter gefasst werden, als dies in deren vorwissenschaftlichen Verwendung der Fall ist.32 So sollten eher Definitionen und Kriterien der vergleichenden Literaturwissenschaft zu Rate gezogen werden33 und diese anschließend kurz in derzeit gängige Performanztheorien eingebettet werden. Mit Blick auf die Literaturwissenschaft erscheint es dabei zunächst sinnvoll, den Blick nicht auf das Bühnendrama als Ganzes zu richten, sondern vielmehr zu klären, was einen „dramatischen Text“ ausmacht, also was die Kriterien dieser besonderen literarischen Textsorte sind. Dementsprechend ist die Frage nach einer möglichen historischen Aufführungspraxis vorerst sekundär. Für die Definition eines solchen „dramatischen Textes“ wird hier rekurriert auf die deutschen Literaturwissenschaftler Bernhard Asmuth34 und Manfred Pfister,35

32  Hierzu ist insbesondere auf die eindrücklichen Schilderungen zu den Bereichen Drama, Skript, Theater und Performance zu verweisen bei Richard Schechner, Performance Theory, 2d ed., Routledge Classics (London: Routledge, 2003), 66–111. 33  In ganz analoger Weise fordert David Rhoads, literaturwissenschaftliche Methoden für eine performance criticism des Neuen Testaments fruchtbar zu machen (vgl. David Rhoads, “Performance Criticism: An Emerging Methodology in Second Testament Studies—Part II,” BTB 36 [2006]: 164–84 [166–67]), auch wenn ihm dabei eher die Narratologie vor Augen steht, was für das Hld in Richtung der Dramentheorie modifiziert werden muss. Rhoads Ausführungen erscheinen jedenfalls hervorragend auf 4QCantb übertragbar, da höchstwahrscheinlich für die Qumranrollen bzw. für Schriftstücke der frühjüdischen Zeit insgesamt ganz ähnliches gilt, was Rhoads über neutestamentliche Texte sagt: „They were either written ‘transcriptions’ of oral narratives that had been composed in performance or they were composed orally by dictation and written for use in oral performance“ (Rhoads, “Criticism I,” 118). 34  Vgl. Bernhard Asmuth, Einführung in die Dramenanalyse, 5th ed., Sammlung Metzler 188 (Stuttgart: Metzler, 1997). 35  Vgl. Manfred Pfister, Das Drama: Theorie und Analyse, 11th ed., UTB 580 (Munich: Wilhelm Fink, 2001).

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sowie für den alttestamentlichen Bereich auf Helmut Utzschneider36 und Stefan Ark Nitsche.37 Asmuth hat im Anschluss an die aristotelische sechsfache Unterteilung in μῦθος (Handlung), ἦθη (Charaktere, Figuren), λέξις (Rede), διάνοια (Gedanke, Absicht), ὄψις (Szenerie) und μελοποιία (Gesang)38 in seinem Standardwerk Einführung in die Dramenanalyse unter Ausscheidung kulturell bedingter bzw. redundanter Kriterien drei Kernmerkmale herausgearbeitet, die ein Drama in kulturell invarianter Weise kennzeichnen: die Lexis, die Opsis sowie der Plot.39 Lexis beschreibt dabei die Diskursform, genauer den Redecharakter eines dramatischen Textes, also dass dieser vor allem aus direkter Rede besteht. Lediglich der sog. „Nebentext“ weicht davon ab, also Regieanweisungen, Sprecherzuweisungen oder ähnliches.40 Die Redestücke, die den „Haupttext“ ausmachen, sind einzeln zu identifizierenden Sprechrollen zuzuordnen und meist, aber nicht zwangsläufig aufeinander bezogen.41 Als Opsis sind diejenigen Elemente im Text zu bezeichnen, die zur äußeren Gestaltung der Szenerie dienen. Sie evozieren dabei optische Vorstellungen zu den Inhalten der Lexis, wie z. B. aktionale Elemente von Figuren on stage, Beschreibungen des Handlungsortes und vieles mehr42—sei es durch den Nebentext (eben Regieanweisungen) oder durch die direkte Figurenrede in Form von sogenannten „Wortkulissen.“43 Beim Plot handelt es sich im engen Sinn um den Handlungsstrang eines Textes. Damit wird häufig eine stringente, kausal-logisch und meist 36  Vgl. u. a. Helmut Utzschneider, Micha, ZBK 24/1 (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich, 2005). 37  Vgl. v. a. Nitsche, Jesaja. 38  Vgl. Aristoteles, Poet. 1449b–1450b. 39  Vgl. Asmuth, Einführung, 3–14, v. a. 4. Dort wird statt „Plot“ jedoch zunächst noch das griechische mythos, dann der deutsche Begriff „Handlung“ verwendet. 40  Vgl. hierzu Asmuth, Einführung, 51–53. Allerdings ist die Existenz von Nebentext keine Selbstverständlichkeit, wie auch deutlich wird bei Schechner, Theory, 78. 41  Vgl. zu Formen des dramatischen Diskurses auch Fox, Song, 259–65. 42  Dies steht wohl auch Rhoads vor Augen, wenn er sagt: „I am no longer seeing words on a page or anticipating sounds in my head. Rather, I imagine the scenes in my mind and I tell/show what I ‘see/hear’ to a living audience before me“ (“Criticism I,” 120). 43  Vgl. z. B. Asmuth, Einführung, 51–52; ähnlich Pfister, Drama, 351–52. Für den alttestamentlichen Bereich hat nicht zuletzt Utzschneider die Verwendung von Wortkulissen demonstriert. Paradigmatisch führt er dies vor in Utzschneider, Micha, 12–13; ähnlich aber schon, wenngleich noch ohne den Terminus, Klaus Baltzer, Deutero-Jesaja, KAT 10/2 (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1999). Und zuletzt, ebenfalls für das Jesaja-Buch Nitsche, Jesaja, 44 und öfter; ähnlich im Übrigen auch Rhoads, “Criticism I,” 127.

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linear aufgebaute „Story“ assoziiert. Dies trifft aber nicht die Verwendung in der Dramentheorie, wo als Kriterium eher ein übergreifendes und erkennbares Kompositionsprinzip gemeint ist, durch das den einzelnen, unter Umständen zunächst isoliert erscheinenden Redeteilen eine bestimmte Funktion innerhalb eines Ganzen zugewiesen wird.44 In diesem Sinn wäre z. B. auch ein liturgisches Geschehen in seiner dramatischen Grund-Anlage wahrzunehmen.45 Dieser Definition schließe ich mich grundsätzlich an,46 wobei sie jedoch in einer Hinsicht geschärft werden muss. Innerhalb dieser drei Kriterien ist nämlich noch eine gewisse Hierarchie zu beobachten, die sich aus den kommunikationstheoretisch orientierten Ausführungen von Pfister in Das Drama ergibt (ebenfalls ein Standardwerk der vergleichenden Literaturwissenschaft). Ihm zufolge grenzt sich das dramatische Genre vom narrativen durch die differierende Kommunikationssituation ab: In ersterem fällt die vermittelnde Instanz des fiktiven Erzählers aus und das Textgeschehen wird den Rezipierenden stattdessen direkt angeboten. Die Handlung sowie ihr zugehöriges Raum-ZeitKontinuum geht dabei völlig in der direkten Rede auf.47 Insofern ist die Lexis, die Präsentation des Textes in durchgängiger direkter Figurenrede, das eigentliche Kernkriterium eines dramatischen Textes. In performanztheoretischer48 Perspektive erscheint eine solche Minimal­ definition freilich unbefriedigend, da zuletzt beispielsweise von Erika FischerLichte gerade die Körperlichkeit und Sinnlichkeit dramatischer Performanzen

44  In diesem Sinn ist wohl Schechner in seiner Beschreibung des „play“ zu verstehen, dem er eine große Nähe zum Ritual und Theater bescheinigt. So nimmt er für das Spiel an, dass es üblicherweise „an orderly sequence of actions performed in specified places for known durations of time“ darstelle (übertragen und wörtlich in Richard Schechner, Performance Studies: An Introduction, 2d ed. [London: Routledge, 2006], 121). 45  Ganz in diesem Sinne thematisiert auch Schechner Theaterdramen gemeinsam mit tribalen Ritualen oder katholischen Messen, vgl. Schechner, Theory, 170–210. Im Speziellen betont Pope bezüglich des Hohelieds sogar explizit die Nähe zwischen Liturgie und Drama, vgl. Pope, Song, 35. 46  Vgl. hierzu auch Hopf, Liebesszenen, 29–41. 47  Vgl. Pfister, Drama, 19–24. 48  Die Begriffe „Performanz“ oder „performativ“ sind hier und im Folgenden in aller Regel entsprechend der sogenannten schwachen Konzeption von Performativität zu verstehen, wie sie schon Krämer und Stahlhut herausgearbeitet haben (vgl. Sibylle Krämer und Marco Stahlhut, “Das ‚Performativeʻ als Thema der Sprach- und Kulturphilosophie,” Paragrana 10 (2001): 35–64 [55–56]), was dann auch von Fischer-Lichte so übernommen wurde, vgl. Erika Fischer-Lichte, Performativität: Eine Einführung, 2d ed., Edition Kulturwissenschaft 10 (Bielefeld: transcript, 2012), 44.

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betont wurde.49 Ähnlich würde es wohl auch Richard Schechner sehen, der für Performanzen vier „players“ identifiziert: (1) „sourcers“; (2) „producers“; (3) „performers“ sowie (4) „partakers.“50 Die mittleren beiden beteiligten Gruppen fallen aber in dieser eher kommunikationstheoretisch orientierten Basisdefinition schlicht aus. Insofern könnte man versucht sein, die präsentierte dreifache Terminologie mit ihrer Schwerpunktsetzung bei der Lexis als defizitär zu bezeichnen. Allerdings muss man Pfister—und in ähnlicher Weise Asmuth—zugute halten, dass bei ihnen die Plurimedialität bzw. die sinnliche Darbietung eines dramatischen Textes, also letztlich der Performanzaspekt eines dramatischen Textes, durchaus eine gewichtige Rolle spielen.51 Asmuth behauptet sogar, dass als „bloßes ‚Lesedramaʻ … jedes Stück unvollendet“52 bleibt. So weit würde ich wiederum nicht gehen wollen, da ja z. B. schon Aristoteles durchaus mit solchen Lesedramen gerechnet hat53 und ein Text, der den drei genannten Kriterien entspricht, letztlich alles in sich trägt, um eine Verwirklichung on stage zu finden. Schließlich sind es ja gerade die Opsis und der Plot, die dazu führen, dass dramatische Texte nicht nur bloße Redesubstrate sind, sondern dass sie tatsächlich aufführbar, inszenierbar werden—dass sie potenziell in eine dramatische Performanz überführbar sind. Ein solches „Performanz-Potential“54 kommt einem Text dementsprechend schon zu, wenn er zusätzlich zur Lexis auch Opsis und Plot als Merkmale aufweist.55 Dennoch ist wiederum mit Blick auf den geschichtlichen Text zu bedenken, dass uns mögliche historische Performanzen—wenn überhaupt—nur indirekt

49  Dies ist vor allem an den Einführungskapiteln ihrer Monographie zur Performativität abzulesen, vgl. Fischer-Lichte, Performativität, 9–33, insbesondere 20–21 und 25–26. 50  Wörtlich und übertragen bei Schechner, Studies, 225. 51  Vgl. Pfister, Drama, 24–29. 52  Asmuth, Einführung, 10. 53  Er ist der Meinung, dass ein dramatischer Text auch ohne die bewegte Darstellung (κίνησις) seine Wirkung entfaltet, vgl. Aristoteles, Poet. 1462a. 54  Zu diesem Begriff vgl. Hopf, Liebesszenen, 33–35. 55  Eine solche literarisch orientierte Performanz korreliert bis zu einem gewissen Grad mit der Vorstellung von Person, der die Schreiber des alten Israels selbst als „perfomer“ sieht, insofern sie ihre Texte in einer „oral mentality“ niedergeschrieben haben (wörtlich und übertragen bei Person, “Scribe,” 609). Entsprechend wäre auch mit Blick auf die vorliegende Studie zu überlegen, ob für den konkreten Text 4QCantb überhaupt streng zwischen Schriftlichkeit und Mündlichkeit unterschieden werden darf, wenn sich der Text trotz seiner faktischen Schriftlichkeit eher an mündlichen Paradigmen orientiert.

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zugänglich sind.56 Oder—wiederum in der Terminologie Schechners: In einer historischen Untersuchung wie der vorliegenden muss es primär um „drama“ gehen, also das „what the writer writes,“57 selbst wenn der Begriff „Autor“ in Verbindung mit alttestamentlischen Traditionsliteratur problematisch ist und mit Blick auf das Hohelied besser von einem „Redaktor“ oder sogar noch besser von einem „composer“ zu sprechen wäre. In der Terminologie Asmuths entspricht aber genau das der Lexis. Die Aspekte von „theater“ („the specific set of gestures performed by the performers in any given performance“) oder gar „performance“ („the whole event“) sind uns demgegenüber schlicht nicht oder zumindest kaum mehr zugänglich. Einzig das Element des „script“ („the interior map of a particular production“)58 wird anhand der konkreten Texte noch bis zu einem gewissen Grad greifbar, dann nämlich, wenn in deren­ Opsis- und Plot-Gestaltung Hinweise auf eine mögliche Inszenierung oder zumindest Inszenierbarkeit aufblitzen. Insofern bestätigt auch diese Unterscheidung Schechners die hier vertretene Vorordnung der Lexis vor die anderen beiden Elemente. Die Lexis macht einen Text zu einem dramatischen, die Opsis und der Plot verleihen ihm Performanz-Potential. Die öfter herangezogene Beschreibung der „art as an event,“ also des „actuals,“59 bei Schechner ist im Vergleich dazu als Kriteriologie für diese Studie weniger dienlich. Im Einzelnen werden bei Schechner fünf Qualitäten des actuals benannt: (1) Prozesshaftigkeit, (2) konsequente, unabänderliche Irrevokabilität der Handlungen oder Situationen, (3) Wettstreit-Charakter, (4) das Initiations-Element und (5) die konkrete und organische Nutzung des Raumes.60 Allerdings wird schon an dieser kurzen Aufzählung deutlich, dass diese Kriteriologie sehr stark an der faktischen Verwirklichung bzw. Inszenierung einer Performanz interessiert ist und insofern nur wenig für das austrägt, was hier „dramatischer Text“ genannt wurde.

56  Als ein Hinweis diesbezüglich ist wohl der viel zitierte Vorwurf (vermutlich) Rabbi Akivas in t. Sanh. 12:10 bzw. b. Sanh. 101a zu sehen, demzufolge das Hohelied nicht in ‫בתי משתאות‬ vorzutragen sei, was natürlich gerade impliziert, dass dies in jener Zeit der Fall war. 57  Schechner, Theory, 87. 58  Alle direkten Zitate aus Schechner, Theory, 87. 59  Schechner, Theory, 28. 60  Vgl. Schechner, Theory, 46.

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Diese Kriteriologie von Lexis, Opsis und Plot soll im Folgenden auf 4QCantb in Grundzügen angewendet werden, um zu überprüfen, ob dieses Manuskript als ein dramatischer Text im beschriebenen Sinn klassifiziert werden kann. Anwendung der Kriterien Dass 4QCantb die ersten beiden Kriterien—die Lexis und die Opsis—erfüllt, steht außer Frage. Die Gestaltung als Lexis liegt auf der Hand: Der Text ist in direkter Rede gehalten,61 weist also einen durchgängigen Haupttext auf. Weiterhin können diese Äußerungen einzelnen Figuren zugewiesen werden,62 wodurch grundsätzlich dialogische Strukturen entstehen.63 Damit ist das Basiskriterium bereits erfüllt. Daneben finden sich aber auch Elemente einer Opsis: Immer wieder evoziert der Text Bilder von Figuren (z. B. 4:1), Örtlichkeiten (u. a. die Fensterszene in 2:9) und zum Teil sogar Handlungsabläufen (beispielsweise das Bezaubern des Mannes durch die Frau in 4:8). Das Hohelied bietet also ohne Zweifel Elemente des dramatischen Genres.64 Es fragt sich also nur, ob auch eine sinnvolle Struktur, ein Plot, zu ermitteln ist. Entgegen anders lautender Meinungen in der Forschungslandschaft scheint mir eine solche vorhanden zu sein—und zwar im MT65 wie auch hier in 4QCantb. Der Plot der Qumranrolle präsentiert sich dabei wie folgt: Szene 1 (Hld 2:9–17 = Col. 1:1–13)66 4QCantb in seiner erhaltenen Form setzt mit Hld 2:9 ein, kurz nach einer Abschnittsbildung im Textablauf. Nach dramentheoretischen Grundsätzen 61  Die einzige Ausnahme wäre die Überschrift, die jedoch nicht im vorhandenen Text erhalten ist. 62  Die u. a. von Rudolph benannte Kritik einer schwer vorzunehmenden Rollenaufteilung (Lied, 96) hängt dabei vor allem mit seiner vorgefassten Vorstellungen eines Story-Plots zusammen und trifft daher nicht die vorliegenden Ausführungen. 63  Die öfter angeführte scheinbare Bezugslosigkeit einzelner Redestücke im Hohenlied (vgl. dazu z. B. Keel, Hohelied, 25–27) stellt ohnehin keine echte Schwierigkeit bezüglich der Lexis dar: Selbst eine Aneinanderreihung mehrerer Monologe ist eine stilistische Möglichkeit dramatischer Texte (vgl. Pfister, Drama, 196–204; für das Hohelied auch Fox, Song, 259–65). Zum Verhältnis von Dialogizität und Monologizität vgl. auch Hopf, Liebesszenen, 45–46. 64  Selbst Murphy, der das Drama als Gattung für das Hohelied sonst ablehnt, gesteht dem Text dramatische Elemente zu. Vgl. Murphy, Song, 58. Ähnlich Kaiser, Einleitung, 361–62. 65  Vgl. hierzu Hopf, Liebesszenen, 334–352. 66  Spekulationen anhand der aus dem MT bekannten Version über etwaige vorlaufende Szenen sind aufgrund der enormen Unsicherheiten nicht sonderlich ertragreich. Als einzige Vermutung möchte ich angeben, dass angesichts der Textmenge des masoretischen

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würde im masoretischen Hld in 2:8 der zweite Auftritt der vierten Szene beginnen,67 der sich bis 2:17 erstreckt. Col. 1 umfasst also ziemlich genau einen Auftritt, der sich im textlichen Bestand insgesamt nicht allzu sehr von der masoretischen Fassung unterscheidet. Auffällig ist hier aber die beschriebene Variante ‫ שמע‬statt ‫קול‬, die möglicherweise eine kultische Konnotation in die Szene einträgt. Auf die Randzeichen in Col. 1 wird gleich noch einmal zurückzukommen sein. Als Figuren sind in dieser Teilszene mit Sicherheit der Mann und die Frau anwesend. Beiden kommt in etwa der gleiche Redeanteil zu, mit einem leichten Übergewicht zugunsten des Mannes. In 2:9 und 2:15–16 werden im MT die „Töchter Jerusalems“ von der Frau angesprochen. Dementsprechend wären diese hier mit anwesend zu denken. Allerdings scheinen sie sonst in 4QCantb ebenfalls nicht vorzukommen (vgl. den nicht vorhandenen Vers 3:6). So wirkt es plausibler, dass hier eine Wendung ad spectatores vorliegt. Mit Blick auf Opsis und Plot ist zunächst interessant, dass die Frau in einer sogenannten „Mauerschau“68 spricht: Sie berichtet verbal über das optische Element der Annäherung des Mannes und fasst so Handlung in Worte (vgl. Col. 1:1). Der Mann wirbt daraufhin um die Frau. Sein Loblied ist aber mit Sicherheit eines der „harmloseren“ im Hohelied, da hier stark verhüllende florale Metaphorik bemüht wird. Der Mann setzt dabei seine erwachende Liebe mit der erwachenden Natur im Frühling gleich. Diese „Harmlosigkeit“ ist vor dem Hintergrund des Auftrittsbeginns etwas verwunderlich. Die Mauerschau der Frau als leicht voyeuristische Szene baut nämlich eine enorm erotische Spannung auf. Anstatt aber darauf seinerseits mit sexuell aufgeladenen Formulierungen zu antworten bzw. entsprechend zu reagieren, wie z. B. in 5:2–4 oder 7:1–10 (vor allem 7:8–9), spricht der Mann vom Frühlingserwachen der Natur. So wird letztlich von der menschlichen Fruchtbarkeit auf die Fruchtbarkeit der Natur im Allgemeinen verwiesen, weswegen dann auch Bilder von der Pflege der Weinberge (2:15) oder der Sorge um das Vieh (2:16) das Ende des Abschnittes prägen. Dies wirkt so dominant, dass die Figuren hinter dieser „landwirtschaftlichen Botschaft“ zurückzutreten scheinen. Besonders gilt dies für 2:15–16, wo vermutlich das Publikum angesprochen wird.

Hohelieds und des typischen Spaltenumfangs in 4QCantb aller Wahrscheinlichkeit nach nur eine, maximal zwei Szenen vor Col. 1 enthalten waren. 67  Zur Aufteilung des MT-Hohelieds vgl. die Übersicht der Szenen in Hopf, Liebesszenen, 402–11. 68  Vgl. zu dem Begriff Asmuth, Einführung, 110.

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Szene 2 (Hld 3:1–11 = Col. 1:14–2:13) Spalte 2 ist bekanntlich kaum erhalten. Allerdings dürfte die zweite Szene in 4QCantb die erste aus dem MT bekannte Nachtszene umfassen, da ja Spalte 1 mit Hld 3:1 endet, was in Spalte 2 fortgeführt werden dürfte. Welches Material jedoch dort im Detail Verwendung fand, ist nicht mehr festzustellen, auch wenn, wie gezeigt, mit einer gewissen Wahrscheinlichkeit Vers 3:4b und daneben die Verse 3:6–8 relativ sicher nicht enthalten waren. Mit 3:6 entfallen dabei ein Ortswechsel und der mit diesem im MT einhergehende Zeitsprung. Dies verändert den Text vor allem dahingehend, dass hier aus zwei masoretischen Szenen (nämlich 3:1–5 und 3:6–11) nun eine wird. Dies ist auch am Textlayout von 4QCantb erkennbar, da die nächste größere P etucha erst nach 3:11 auftritt. Dadurch verschwindet zudem die einzige Äußerung der Töchter Jerusalems und die Szene wird zu einem Monolog der Frau (höchstwahrscheinlich) an das Publikum. Des Weiteren fehlt die Passage 3:7–8 über die „Mannhaften Salomos.“ Über die Gründe des Fehlens kann nur spekuliert werden. Allerdings wurde sie in der Exegese zuletzt öfter als spöttisch-ironisch aufgefasst,69 was auch ein Motiv für den Schreiber gewesen sein könnte, sie hier nicht mit aufzunehmen. Eine solche Intention legt sich jedenfalls nahe, wenn man den Gesamtaufriss der vorliegenden Szene betrachtet. Diese läuft nun nämlich nicht mehr auf eine mögliche Vereinigung von Mann und Frau in 3:4 hinaus. Der Zielpunkt der Szene liegt vielmehr in der Ankunft des Königs Salomo und damit in der Glorie und der Majestät des Königtums. Wir finden hier also erneut den thematischen Bogen von einer anfänglichen Leidenschaftlichkeit hin zu einer Art „Sachthema,“ in diesem Fall der Ankunft und Krönung Salomos, die in der vermuteten Abfassungszeit von 4QCantb70 womöglich messianische Züge getragen haben könnte: Schließlich war Salomo der Erste, dem der Titel ‫ משיח בן דוד‬zustand.71

69  So zuletzt z. B. zu finden bei Yair Zakovitch, Das Hohelied, HThKAT (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2004), 175. 70  Anhand paleographischer Kriterien wurde die Rolle auf das Ende des 1. Jh. v. Chr. datiert, vgl. Tov, “4QCantb,” 208. 71  Interessant ist hier auch der Kommentar von Raschi in b. Taʿan. 26b, der den Namen ‫ המלך שלמה‬folgendermaßen deutet: ‫המלך שהשלום שלו‬. Damit wird ‫ שלום‬als das Friedensreich und damit messianisch verstanden.

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Szene 3 (Hld 4:1–5:1 = Col. 2:14–4:14) Im MT umfasst die nächste Szene den kompletten Textbereich von 4:1 bis 5:1. Dies entspricht in 4QCantb dem übrigen Textbestand bis Ende Spalte 4.72 Während in Szene 2 alleine die Frau zu Wort kommt, spricht hier nun fast ausschließlich der Mann. Lediglich in 4:16 erhebt die Frau noch einmal kurz ihre Stimme.73 Im Textlayout sind die Spatien in Col. 3:6–7 auffälig, da sie mit einem OpsisElement im Text einhergehen: Der Mann fordert in Hld 4:8 die Frau aktiv dazu auf, zu ihm zu kommen. Ansonsten ist inhaltlich auffällig, dass in 4QCantb mit den Versen 4:4–7 stärker erotisch aufgeladene Passagen fehlen. So wird hier die Beschreibung der weiblichen Brüste (4:5) ebenso ausgelassen wie Vers 4:6. Letzterer fungiert im MT als eine Art „Beiseitesprechen,“ in dem der Mann dem Publikum seine Intentionen verdeutlicht—genauer: die Frau zu erobern und „zum Berg der Myrrhe und zum Hügel des Weihrauchs“ vorzustoßen. In 4QCantb beschreibt der Mann hier einfach sehnsüchtig die Frau vermittels der bekannten floralen Metaphorik. Und in 4:8 charakterisiert er sie zusätzlich noch als unerreichbar. Am Ende von Col. 4 dominieren dann wieder die schon bekannten Frühlingsbilder. So kann sich in dieser Szene in 4QCantb angesichts der poetischen Romantik nicht die offensive Erotik des MT entfalten. Im Detail ist weiterhin interessant, dass in dem Abschnitt der Libanon mehrfach erwähnt wird74 und dabei mit Leben spendendem Wasser in Beziehung gebracht wird: So verbindet sich die Nennung der Berge über das Motiv der Schneeschmelze mit der Erneuerung des Lebens im Frühling. Das „Herabsteigen“ der Frau in 4:8 könnte sich im übertragenen Sinn also zusätzlich auf das Wasser beziehen. So trägt gerade die Wassermetaphorik zur Verdrängung der erotischen Assoziationen bei. Dieses Phänomen setzt sich auch in der kurzen Äußerung der Frau in 4:16 fort: Die frühlingshafte Fruchtbarkeitsmetaphorik wird dort nämlich in der Erwähnung der Winde fortgeführt.75 Im Bild der Gärtnerin, die 72  Allerdings enthielt die obere Hälfte von Col. 4 wohl ein textliches Plus gegenüber dem MT. Zumindest genügt das masoretische Textmaterial bei weitem nicht aus, um den Raum zu füllen. In Ermangelung von Daten über diesen Bereich kann hier aber nur auf der Basis des bekannten Textes gearbeitet werden. 73   Nicht ganz klar ist, warum dieser Sprecherwechsel, der auch im unvokalisierten Textbestand eigentlich offensichtlich ist, nicht auch in irgendeiner Form im Textlayout markiert wurde. 74  In 4QCantb geschieht dies im erhaltenen Text in 4:8 und gemäß MT auch noch in den Versen 4:11, 15, die vermutlich ebenfalls auf der Qumranrolle zu finden waren. 75  Zwar sind weder ‫ צפון‬noch ‫ תימן‬im Alten Testament ausdrücklich als Frühlingswinde belegt. Gleichzeitig legen aber die Ausführungen von Keel, Hohelied, 169, über deren Leben erweckende Wirkung Derartiges nahe.

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um günstiges Wetter für ihre Pflanzen bittet,76 wird dabei die landwirtschaftliche Motivik der ersten Szene aufgegriffen. Allerdings—und das ist bei aller Abschwächung der Erotik in 4QCantb festzuhalten—kommt der Text mit 4:16 und 5:1 zu seinem erotischen Höhepunkt, da hier die deutlichsten erotischen Anspielungen in 4QCantb zu finden sind. Gleichzeitig aber hat vor allem 5:1 natürlich jenseits der metaphorischen Doppeldeutigkeit auch einen klaren Wortsinn—der darin liegt, dass der Mann von Essen und Trinken spricht. Und diese Motive gibt der Mann sogleich als Aufforderung an eine nicht näher bestimmte Gruppe weiter— vermutlich erneut das Publikum. Diese ‫ רעים‬sollen es nun dem Mann gleich tun, nämlich essen, trinken und sich berauschen.77 Mit dieser eindeutigen Anweisung endet 4QCantb offensichtlich. Und hier scheint die eigentliche schöpfungstheologische78 Botschaft zu liegen, mit welcher der Text das Publikum entlässt: im Einklang mit der Natur Freude am Leben zu haben. 4QCantb—ein dramatischer Text! Insgesamt scheint in 4QCantb also durchaus eine übergeordnete Konzeption im Aufbau der Einzelszenen erkennbar, wenngleich sicherlich kein „StoryPlot.“ Vielleicht könnte man diese übergeordnete Konzeption eher beschreiben als eine Art Wechselspiel zwischen erotischen Elementen und „sachlich-­ theologischen“ Botschaften, die mit einem gewissen „didaktischen“ Impetus verbunden sind, wenn man so will. Der jeweils erste erotische Teil fungiert dabei quasi als „Eyecatcher,“ was im jeweils zweiten Teil dazu genutzt wird, bestimmte Inhalte darzustellen und den Rezipierenden näher zu bringen. Jene kreisen dabei um die genannten Themen aus Natur und Landwirtschaft— sowie womöglich um messianische Vorstellungen. Die Erotik des Textes wird dadurch signifikant in eine andere Richtung pointiert, als dies im MT der Fall ist. Insgesamt aber ist festzuhalten, dass neben Lexis und Opsis auch das PlotKriterium erfüllt ist und man 4QCantb klar als einen dramatischen Text bezeichnen kann. 76  Ein interessanter Zusatzgedanke könnte sich von einem möglichen Wortspiel in 4:8 zwischen den Wurzeln ‫( שור‬hier: herabsteigen) und ‫( שיר‬singen) ableiten, dass nämlich die Frau hier zum Singen aufgefordert wird. 77  Das ‫ דודים‬am Ende von 5:1 erscheint mir—zumindest im MT—bewusst doppeldeutig gehalten und sowohl als „Geliebte“ (als Vokativ analog zu ‫ )רעים‬als auch als „[an] Liebkosungen“ deutbar zu sein. Entsprechend des sonstigen Duktus von 4QCantb muss man hier wohl die erste Variante bevorzugen. 78  Vgl. dazu auch Ludger Schwienhorst-Schönberger, “Das Hohelied,” in Einleitung in das Alte Testament, ed. Erich Zenger, 7th ed., KStTh 1/1 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2008), 389–95 (395). Auch Murphy, Song, 105, sieht in 5:1 das eigentliche Motto des gesamten Buches.

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4QCantb—mehr als ein dramatischer Text? Diese Klassifizierung wirft natürlich die Frage nach einer möglichen historischen Verwendung der Schriftrolle auf. Hier kann das Layout des Textes weiterhelfen, da den Randzeichen und Absätzen in 4QCantb eine performative Funktion zukommen könnte. Eine gewisse Analogie hierzu wäre die erwähnte Verwendung von kritischen Zeichen oder Buchstaben im hellenistischen Kulturkreis im Gefolge von Aristarchos von Samothrake.79 Das erwähnte DipleZeichen hat ja bereits in diese Richtung gewiesen. Allerdings waren derartige kritische Zeichen oft nicht aus sich heraus verständlich, sondern bedurften einer separaten Erklärung, z. B. durch Hypomnemata.80 Als weitere Analogie könnten auch die textlichen Ergänzungen in einigen LXX-Codices herangezogen werden. Sinaiticus, Alexandrinus, Venetus und G161 enthalten nämlich Zusätze, die im Textverlauf auf die jeweils Sprechenden oder zum Teil sogar die Handlungsstrukturen hinweisen.81 Die Funktion des Layouts Die entscheidende Frage in all dem ist natürlich, ob zwischen den Besonderheiten im Layout und dem festgestellten Plot von 4QCantb ein innerer Konnex aufgezeigt werden kann, der auf eine bestimmte performative Funktion der Zeichen hindeutet. Paleo-Hebräisches šin/śin (klein, vertikal, Col. 1:9) Am leichtesten lässt sich eine solche performative Funktion am Schriftzeichen in Col. 1:9 plausibel machen: Es handelt sich vermutlich um ein kleines vertikal

79  Aristarchus verwendet vor allem den diple zur Bezeichnung einer Auffälligkeit im Text (vgl. McNamee, Sigla, 15). Neben den typischen kritischen Zeichen wurden auch Buchstaben (chi) oder Monogramme verwendet, um auf wichtige Stellen im Text aufmerksam zu machen (vgl. McNamee, Sigla, 20–22). Echte Regieanweisungen sind in griechischen Manuskripten demgegenüber selten, aber durchaus vorhanden (vgl. Turner, Manuscripts, 13). Jedenfalls sollten die Randzeichen in 4QCantb wohl in ganz ähnlicher Weise verstanden werden, also als eine Art Lesehilfe bzw. inhaltliche Erklärung (vgl. McNamee, Sigla, 8). 80  Vgl. McNamee, Sigla, 15–17. Diese Hypomnemata konnten nach McNamee auch lediglich mündlich tradiert werden, was dann wohl analog für 4QCantb anzunehmen wäre. 81  Vgl. auch die Zusammenstellung der Rubriken bei Jay C. Treat, Lost Keys: Text and Interpretation in Old Greek Song of Songs and Its Earliest Manuscript Witnesses (Ann Arbor: UMI Microform, 1996), 399–412; sowie die Auswertung auf die Lexis hin bei Hopf, Liebesszenen, 305–8.

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geschriebenes šin oder śin.82 Als šin könnte es sich auf den Schlüsselbegriff ‫ שמע‬in dieser Zeile beziehen, was immerhin die signifikanteste Variante von 4QCantb gegenüber dem MT darstellt. Diese beiden Eigenheiten des Textes sind also möglicherweise miteinander verwandt. Sofern sie sich tatsächlich aufeinander beziehen, könnte hiermit vielleicht eine Lautäußerung bezeichnet sein, eventuell sogar eine von kultisch-performativer Natur.83 Paleo-Hebräisches sayin (Col. 1:4) Das Randzeichen in Col. 1:4 stellt im Paleo-Hebräischen ein sayin dar, ein nicht allzu häufiger Buchstabe. Ein Blick in die zugehörige Zeile macht eine Verbindung zum dortigen Wort ‫ זמיר‬denkbar. Dieser doppeldeutige (und ebenfalls nicht allzu verbreitete)84 Begriff bezeichnet neben dem hier wohl gemeinten „Schneiteln“ durchweg den musikalischen Lobpreis. Fraglich scheint zunächst nur, warum dieser Begriff hervorgehoben werden sollte. Tatsächlich handelt es sich aber im gegebenen Kontext um einen wichtigen Schlüsselbegriff, da die Wendung ‫ עת־הזמיר‬der Natur-Szenerie über die Bildwelt hinaus Tiefe verleiht: Der Frühling wird—über den landwirtschaftlichen Aspekt hinaus—als die Zeit der Freude, als eine performativ konnotierte „Zeit des Lobpreises“ charakterisiert. Dies wird noch durch die etymologische Nähe zum kultischen terminus technicus ‫ מזמור‬unterstrichen. Insofern wäre zumindest denkbar, dass diese Stelle wiederum in liturgisch-kultische Richtung ausgedeutet werden könnte. Paleo-Hebräisches beth und Absatz (Col. 1:13) Beim nächsten Zeichen, vermutlich einem paleo-hebräischen beth (Col. 1:13), ist der Konnex zum Inhalt zunächst nicht so leicht zu bestimmen, da ein herausstechender Schlüsselbegriff nicht sofort auszumachen ist.85 Gleichwohl ist das beth an einem Schlüsselpunkt des Abschnittes positioniert: Zum einen 82  Vorausgesetzt natürlich, dass es sich hier um Paleo-Hebräisch handelt. Dies halte ich jedoch für wahrscheinlich, da auch die übrigen Zeichen in dieser Spalte dieser Schrift entnommen zu sein scheinen. 83  Konkret könnte man an das ‫ קריאת שמע‬denken, das zur Zeit von 4QCantb bereits liturgisch verwendet wurde, vgl. m. Tamid 5:1; sowie Jacobs, “Shema, Reading of,” 1370. Dies bleibt aber bloße Spekulation. 84  Im Alten Testament ist ‫ זמיר‬neben Hld 2:12 nur noch an sechs weiteren Stellen belegt. 85  Eine mögliche Verbindung könnte zum letzten Wort vor dem Absatz (‫ )בתר‬bestehen. Interessant wäre daran, dass dieser Begriff sonst zumeist einen Teil eines Opfertieres bezeichnet (vgl. Gen 15:10; Jer 34:18–19). Ob dort dieselbe etymologische Wurzel wie hier zugrunde liegt, ist nicht eindeutig zu bestimmen. Ob diese Umstände allein jedoch genügen, das Wort zum Schlüsselbegriff zu deklarieren, sei dahingestellt.

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wird der Textfluss durch eine P etucha im Layout unterbrochen und zum anderen ist dieser Einschnitt auch auf inhaltlicher Ebene zu finden: Genau hier liegt nämlich der Wechsel zwischen der ersten und der zweiten Szene. Der doppelte textliche Umbruch wird also durch den Randmarker zusätzlich unterstrichen. Paleo-Hebräisches ʿayin und Absatz (Col. 1:7) Für das paleo-hebräische ʿayin in Col. 1:7 ist ebenfalls keine direkte BuchstabenVerbindung auszumachen. Allerdings liegt hier auf der Ebene der Opsis ein wichtiger Einschnitt vor.86 Vers 13 endet nämlich mit der Aufforderung: ‫לכי לך‬. Dies bringt die in den Hintergrund getretene Frau zurück ins Spiel, wenn auch zunächst noch ohne Redepart. Insofern könnte hier eine Redeunterbrechung für eine wie auch immer geartete „Bühnenhandlung“ der Frau vorgesehen sein—und dies eben verdeutlicht durch Absatz und Randmarker. Die Wahl des Buchstabens ʿayin ist allerdings nicht leicht zu erklären. Möglicherweise könnte man eine Ableitung vom Substantiv ‫( עין‬als Anspielung auf einen visuellen Aspekt der Handlung) bzw. vom Verb ‫( עלה‬als Verweis auf diese Handlung) annehmen, was jedoch als recht spekulativ zu gelten hat. In jedem Fall scheint hier ebenfalls ein inhaltlicher Konnex zu bestehen, wenngleich in abstrakterer bzw. assoziativerer Form. Paleo-Hebräisches šin/śin (groß, vertikal, Col. 1:11) Für das größere vertikale paleo-hebräische šin/śin in Col. 1:11 fehlen sowohl ein eindeutiger Schlüsselbegriff als auch eine Absatzbildung. Dennoch ist ein gewisser textlicher Umbruch vorhanden, da gerade in Hld 2:16 eine bestimmte Wendung zu finden ist: ‫דודי לי ואני לו הרועה בשושנים‬. Diese ist bis heute im jüdischen Kultus sehr verbreitet, wobei nicht sicher ist, ob derartiges schon für 4QCantb vorauszusetzen ist. Fakt ist allerdings, dass die traditionelle jüdische ‫דודי‬- und ‫(אחותי) כלה‬-Metaphorik der Shabbat-Liturgie ihren Ursprung u. a. in dieser Stelle haben dürfte—und gerade dieses Begriffspaar wollte der Schreiber ja an anderer Stelle gezielt erhalten (Col. 3:14), nachdem er sie kurz zuvor noch zerstört hatte. Ob vor diesem rezeptionsgeschichtlichen    Eine andere, weniger wahrscheinliche Möglichkeit wäre ein Zusammenhang mit der Anweisung ‫( סוב‬Schluss-beth) der Frau an den Mann in der vorherigen Zeile desselben Verses, welche hier einen gewissen Höhepunkt bildet und darum in besonderer Weise hervorgehoben worden sein könnte. 86  Zugegebenermaßen ist der Sprecherwechsel von der Frau zum Mann einen Vers später anzusetzen, weswegen man vielleicht eher dort einen Einschnitt erwarten würde. Dieser Einwand ist aber mit Blick auf das hier identifizierte mögliche aktionale „Bühnengeschehen“ zu relativieren.

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Hintergrund die vorliegende Passage in einem liturgisch-kultischen Kontext zu verstehen ist, kann natürlich nicht sicher nachgewiesen werden, es ist aber zumindest erwägenswert.87 Col. 2–4 Für Col. 2 bis 4 lässt sich leider nur sehr wenig aussagen, wobei eine Existenz von Hinweis-Markern dort, wie gesagt, alles andere als ausgeschlossen ist. Zumindest das Schlusszeichen nach 5:1 ist gut zu deuten. Durch dieses könnte nämlich der Schlussvers mit seiner textpragmatischen Ausrichtung explizit als abschließender Ausruf gekennzeichnet sein. Eine gliedernde Absatzbildung wie in Col. 1 ist in den übrigen Spalten ebenfalls enthalten, wie z. B. in Col. 2, wo der Übergang von Szene 2 zu Szene 3 markiert wird.88 Auch der Absatz bei den beiden Zeilen Col. 3:6–7 dürfte einen Abschnitt in der Handlung bezeichnen, selbst wenn die Szene insgesamt weiterläuft. So ist es m. E. insgesamt recht plausibel anzunehmen, dass sich die Praxis der besonderen Layoutgestaltung nicht nur auf Col. 1, sondern auf die gesamte Schriftrolle erstreckt hat. Eine Verknüpfung zwischen Textlayout und Textinhalt erscheint also insgesamt durchaus wahrscheinlich. Nach dem hier vorgetragenen Deu­tungsvorschlag wären Randmarker und Inhalt aber sicherlich nicht nach einem starren Schema aufeinander bezogen sind. Allerdings ist selbst für die griechischen textkritischen Zeichen nach Ansicht von McNamee und Turner89 kein einheitliches System vorauszusetzen. Es sei vielmehr bei der Deutung eine gewisse „flexibility“ nötig.90 Entsprechend dürften die Verbindungen in 4QCantb eher assoziativ sein. Trifft die vorgeschlagene Deutung aber zu, scheinen die Zeichen durchweg auf ein bestimmtes Handlungselement im Text hinzuweisen, welches z. B. akustischer Natur oder auch handlungsbezogen sein kann. Man könnte die Randzeichen dementsprechend als eine Art assoziative Gedankenstütze des Schreibers bezeichnen—ein Gestaltungsprinzip, das auch in der aristarchischen Textkritik verbreitet ist.91 Dies dürfte auch dann 87  Träfe dies zu, könnte man erwägen, ob das šin z. B. auf die Wurzel ‫ שיר‬und damit das Singen anspielt. 88   Die Platzierung des Absatzes in Col. 2:8 ist nicht so leicht zu erklären. Da die Rekonstruktion vor dieser Zeile allerdings mehrere Schwierigkeiten aufweist (s. o. n. 66), ist eine Deutung kaum möglich. 89  Vgl. Eric G. Turner, Greek Papyri: An Introduction (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968), 184, n. 29. 90  Vgl. McNamee, Sigla, 11. 91  McNamee geht auch für die griechischen Zeichen davon aus, dass deren Verwendung stark von individuellen Einflüssen des Schreibers abhängig war (vgl. McNamee, Sigla, 22).

138

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gelten, wenn man der angebotenen inhaltlichen Interpretation nicht folgt. Der Grund ist, dass sich ganz Ähnliches für die Spatien festhalten lässt, die mit Schlüsselstellen im Text korrespondieren. Randzeichen und Absatzbildungen stehen dabei untereinander in Wechselwirkung. Insofern sind das Layout insgesamt in einem weiteren Sinn und die Schriftzeichen in einem engeren als „Nebentext“ zu bezeichnen, der die dramatischen Elemente, die im Haupttext bereits implizit angelegt sind, verstärkt und herausarbeitet.92 4QCantb—ein Text mit liturgisch-kultischem Hintergrund Bei diesem Durchgang durch das Textlayout haben sich die Indizien gezeigt, die auf einen möglichen performativen Hintergrund von 4QCantb hindeuten. In jedem Fall scheint es sich bei der Schriftrolle tendenziell um einen Gebrauchstext zu handeln, was zumindest ihre insgesamt schlichtere Machart mit der geringen Größe und der nachlässigen Schreibweise nahelegen.93 In eine performative Richtung weist dann aber auch die beschriebene Textpragmatik mit der immer wiederkehrenden Wendung ad spectatores, die letztlich ein (wie auch immer geartetes) Publikum voraussetzt. Weitere Aspekte, wie z. B. die Rezeptionsgeschichte des Hohelieds,94 unterstützen solche Vermutungen. Folgt man meinen Erwägungen, lässt sich dieser performative Grund­ charakter womöglich sogar noch weiter spezifizieren—nämlich in eine im weitesten Sinne liturgisch-kultische Richtung. Hierfür spricht zunächst erneut die Textpragmatik mit ihrem Wechselspiel von erotischem „Eyecatcher“ und dem Interesse an der Vermittlung von Sachthemen. Inhaltlich zeigt sich dabei an 92  Vergleichbare Ergebnisse für 1QIsa wurden erzielt von Nitsche, Jesaja, 229–78. 93  In eine ganz ähnliche Richtung gehen die Überlegungen zur Verwendung neutestamentlicher Texte in liturgischen Kontexten bei Rhoads, “Criticism II,” 122–23, selbst wenn er— anders als ich das für 4QCantb sehen würde—nicht davon ausgeht, dass Performanzen direkt von Manuskripten abhingen. 94  Neben dem schon erwähnten Rabbi Akiva-Zitat (vgl. n. 56) ist hier vor allem auf die Bestimmung des Hohelieds als dramatis in modum bei Origenes, “In Canticum Canticorum,” in Origenes Werke: Bd. 8: Homilien zu Samuel I, zum Hohelied und zu den Propheten: Kommentar zum Hohelied: In Rufins und Hieronymus’ Übersetzungen, ed. Kirchenväter-Commission der Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, GCS 8 (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1925), 61–241 (61) sowie einen weiteren rabbinischen Text zu verweisen. So erwähnt m. Taʿan. 4:8 explizit eine Rezitation von Hld 3:11 (der von mir als messianisch bezeichneten Textstelle) durch weiß gekleidete Jungfrauen bei Festlichkeiten in Weinbergen zum 15. Av, die wohl der „Heiratsvermittlung“ dienten. Letzteres ist einem Baraita-Verweis in b. Taʿan. 31a zu entnehmen, demzufolge diese Veranstaltung unter Umständen als eine Art „Heiratsbasar“ verstanden werden kann. Vgl. auch ausführlicher Hopf, Liebesszenen, 353–57.

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139

den „schöpfungstheologischen“ wie den „messianischen“ Aspekten eine theologische Motivation, was wiederum auf entsprechend gebildete Trägerkreise hinweist und damit aller Wahrscheinlichkeit nach auf einen kultisch-liturgischen Kontext. Aber auch einige auffällige Begriffe sind fruchtbar zu machen, die zusammen vielleicht kein eigenes durchgängiges kultisches Wortfeld eröffnen, dabei aber doch als Anspielungen auf diesen Kontext nicht zu unterschätzen sind: ‫( שמע‬Col. 1:9), ‫( עת־הזמיר‬Col. 1:4), ‫( אחותי כלה‬Col. 3:14), eventuell auch das mögliche Wortspiel zwischen ‫ שור‬und ‫( שיר‬Col. 3:8) sowie das schwer zu deutende, aber sonst in kultischem Kontext verwendete ‫( בתר‬Col. 2:13). Die deutlichsten Indizien finden sich jedoch auf der Zeichenebene in Form der Schriftzeichen, wo jedes der Randzeichen einen gewissen liturgisch-kultischen Hinweis in sich trägt oder zumindest tragen könnte.95 Angesichts dieser Ergebnisse scheint sich die ursprüngliche Vermutung Tovs zu bestätigen, dass für den historischen Hintergrund der Schriftrolle mit einem liturgischen Gebrauch zu rechnen ist.96 Wenn man Erwägungen zur historischen Trägerschaft solcher liturgischen Performanzen anstellen möchte, wäre man argumentativ vor allem auf die Schwächung der Erotik und die Stärkung der männlichen Stimme verwiesen, die auf einen eher konservativen Hintergrund hindeuten. Ob man hierbei an den Jachad denken mag oder nicht, sei dahingestellt.97 In jedem Fall 95  Eine andere Deutungsvariante könnte im Anschluss an Person verfolgt werden, der die Schriftzeichen in 1QIsa als Korrekturzeichen interpretiert. Gerade mit Blick auf die detaillierten Untersuchungsergebnisse bei Nitsche, Jesaja, 229–78, halte ich dies jedoch für weniger wahrscheinlich—insbesondere mit Blick auf 4QCantb, weil der Text zwar eine gewisse „Lässigkeit“ in der Produktion an den Tag legt, dabei aber sonst keine Spuren eines nachträglichen Korrekturvorganges aufweist. Die einzige Textverbesserung von 4QCantb (Col. 3:12) geht eher auf den Schreiber selbst zurück (vgl. Tov, “4QCantb,” 215). 96  Vgl. Tov, “4QCantb,” 198. Inzwischen zählt er 4QCantb nicht mehr zu den „liturgical scrolls“ (vgl. Tov, Textual Criticism, 320–21), wobei dies letztlich nur auf der Annahme beruht, dass vor allem Pss- oder Dtn-Texte liturgisch seien (vgl. die Textauswahl ebd.; ähnlich Lange, “Plurality,” 90). Dieser Ausschluss des Hlds aufgrund rein inhaltlicher Gründe überzeugt aber nicht. John Jarick hingegen geht in seiner Behandlung der qumranischen HoheliedRollen davon aus, dass diese „excerpted texts for liturgical purposes“ waren (“The Bible’s ‘Festival Scrolls’ among the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in The Scrolls and the Scriptures: Qumran Fifty Years After, ed. Stanley E. Porter und Craig A. Evans, JSPSup 26 [Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997], 170–82 [173]), auch wenn er dies hauptsächlich mit dem ExzerptCharakter begründet. Außerdem würde eine performanzorientierte Deutung gut zu den Überlegungen Rhoads zur Performanz neutestamentlicher Texte passen, vgl. Rhoads, “Criticism II,” 119 und öfter. 97  Man sollte sicherlich große Vorsicht walten lassen bei einer zu vorschnellen Bezugnahme auf die Gemeinschaft in Qumran. Für eine solche Verbindung spricht aber immerhin

140

Hopf

wollte die entsprechende soziale Bezugsgröße trotz ihrer Konservativität nicht vollständig auf das vermutlich sehr beliebte und weit verbreitete Hohelied98 nicht verzichten. Aus diesem Grund adaptierte sie es auf ihre Bedürfnisse hin im Sinne des beschriebenen Zusammenspiels von Abgrenzung und Identifikation.99 Der konkrete liturgisch-kultische Hintergrund ist im Detail nicht mehr näher zu spezifizieren. Allerdings dürfte es sich angesichts der Bildwelt um irgendeine Art „Frühlingsfeierlichkeit“ handeln.100 Höchst relevant ist dabei auch der textpragmatisch offene Schluss in 5:1: „Esst, Freunde, trinkt und berauscht euch, Geliebte!“ Diese Schlusszeile legt nahe, 4QCantb als liturgischen Gebrauchstext, also als das Skript101 einer unterhaltenden und gleichzeitig lehrreichen Liturgie-Performanz zur Eröffnung eines Frühlingsfestes zu ­verstehen—eine Feierlichkeit, die wohl im Grenzbereich zwischen profan und sakral lag—ganz im Sinne von Michael V. Fox, der schreibt: „The love songs … originally had only this connection with religion: the banquets at which they were sung were commonly held during the leisure time afforded by religious holidays.“102 4QCantb ist darum ein Dokument des Übergangs des Hohelieds vom Profanen in das Sakrale, indem es beide Bereiche durch seine Ausrichtung auf Performanz hin verbindet—der Kunst, die sowohl im Profanen wie auch im Sakralen Verwendung findet.

die Verwendung der paleo-hebräischen Schriftzeichen (vgl. Peter W. Flint, “The Book of Canticles (Song of Songs) in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Perspectives on the Song of Songs: Perspektiven der Hoheliedauslegung, ed. Anselm C. Hagedorn, BZAW 346 [Berlin: de Gruyter, 2005], 96–104 [103]). Zudem wurde zuletzt ein sexuell völlig enthaltsames oder sogar zölibatäres Leben innerhalb des Jachads in Zweifel gezogen, vgl. Paul Heger, “Celibacy in Qumran—Hellenistic Fiction or Reality? Qumran’s Attitude Toward Sex,” RevQ 26/101 (2013): 53–90, insbesondere 89–90. 98  Vgl. hierzu Hopf, Liebesszenen, 308–9, n. 93. 99  Eine solche Bestimmung fügt sich auch hervorragend zu den Überlegungen Persons: Die antiken Schreiber „preserved the texts’ meaning for the ongoing life of their communities,“ weswegen sie selbst als „performers“ zu bezeichnen seien (Person, “Scribe,” 602). 100  Ein Bezug des Hohelieds zum Pessach-Fest ist allerdings frühestens für das 6. Jh. n. Chr. belegbar (vgl. Zakovitch, Hohelied, 106), so dass man von 4QCantb her eher nicht auf eine solche Verbindung schließen sollte. 101  Durchaus auch im Anklang an die Bestimmung bei Schechner, Theory, 87. 102  Fox, Song, 227.

Scribal Approaches to Damaged Manuscripts: Not Just a Modern Dilemma Drew Longacre In order to understand the ancient texts we study, we must seek to understand the scribes who transmitted them through the ages. We must understand the ways they thought and worked and inevitably left their marks on our received texts. In some ways their world was very different from that of modern textual scholars, and yet in others it was very similar. One important commonality is that we all had/have to deal with damaged manuscripts at times in our scholarly work. Using lacunose or illegible manuscripts is not just a modern dilemma, and we will do well to conceptualize ancient scribal approaches to this ubiquitous problem.

Material Culture

Manuscript production is a very physical endeavor. From the preparation of the material to the scribe with pen in hand, every step entails real people, materials, and circumstances, each of which has an effect on the final products. Textual scholars cannot afford to forget the physicality of the manuscripts which attest to the texts of the works they study and the processes by which these manuscripts came into being. If they do, they risk missing or misinterpreting important evidence for understanding the texts. One important consequence of the materiality of manuscripts is that they may be damaged. Indeed, modern scholars are accustomed to dealing with manuscripts ravaged by the passage of time. It is, however, easy to forget that manuscripts were also often damaged in antiquity. Sometimes the materials to be inscribed were damaged prior to their inscription, and copyists could simply work around the damaged material, as in 1QIsaa 17:29. But once manuscripts were copied, they still endured sundry hazards at the hands of generations of users and at the mercy of less than ideal storage conditions. Even during the course of their useful lives, manuscripts could be damaged due to environmental conditions, general wear and tear, and occasionally even instantaneous events of a more acute nature. A few examples from our corpus will suffice to prove this point:

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi:10.1163/9789004376397_008

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– Someone in antiquity accidentally ripped 1QIsaa almost completely in two before stitching it back together (column 12). – In 4QpaleoExodm (column 8), there is an inscribed repair patch preserved that would have been stitched onto the back of the leather where the scroll had developed a large, gaping hole. – 1QIsaa was not provided with a final handle sheet or sufficient blank space at the end of the last sheet, so repeated handling wore off the ink on the left side of the final column, prompting a later scribe to re-ink the damaged text. – Emanuel Tov notes that 4QSama and 1QS were reinforced by pasting strips of papyrus and leather respectively.1 – Several scholars have proposed that damaged sheets were replaced in antiquity by new repair sheets in 4QDeutn, 4QJuba, and 11QTa.2 The main point to draw from examples such as these is that manuscripts were often damaged in antiquity within their useful lifespans. They could be discarded, repaired, or simply left in their damaged condition. If left in circulation, these damaged manuscripts would be read by later readers and occasionally even be used by later copyists as source texts for producing additional copies, potentially influencing the subsequent transmission of the text.

Scribal Practices

The role of scribes in antiquity has occasioned much controversy in modern scholarship, and the study of Second Temple Jewish scribes has not been an exception. Traditionally, scribes have been perceived as purely passive tradents of written tradition, precisely copying their exemplars as exactly as is humanly possible. For example, Alan Millard argues that the primary job of scribes was simply to copy texts carefully for future readers.3 On this view, the copying process was largely mundane and mechanical. Other scholars have argued, however, that scribes should be considered active contributors to the ever-developing traditions they transmit. Reproduction of texts was a dynamic and creative process, wherein the scribes intentionally developed and reformulated the texts they received. Shemaryahu Talmon, for instance, argues: “It appears that in biblical Israel, and probably also in other 1  Emanuel Tov, Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the Texts Found in the Judean Desert, STDJ 54 (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 125. 2  Tov, Scribal Practices and Approaches, 123, 125. 3  Alan. R. Millard, “In Praise of Ancient Scribes,” BA 45 (1982): 143–53.

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ancient Near Eastern cultures, especially in Mesopotamia, the professional scribes were not merely slavish copyists of the material which they handled, but rather minor partners in the variegated aspects of the literary process.”4 An increasing appreciation of the diversity of textual traditions and scribal practices in the late Second Temple period has led a number of scholars to try to synthesize these two competing perspectives. Some scholars have attempted this synthesis by proposing that there were two contemporary scribal approaches, one conservative and one interventionist. Emanuel Tov, for example, suggests there was widespread freedom for editorial intervention in the Second Temple period, but that this freedom was not sanctioned among the circles that transmitted the so-called proto-Masoretic texts.5 Similarly, Eugene Ulrich speaks of scribes working along two “lines,” one group of scribes exactly copying the texts, and another creatively reshaping them.6 Sidnie White Crawford goes so far as to argue that the “biblical” Dead Sea Scrolls should be categorized according to whether they reflect the “conservative” or “revisionist” traditions.7 Other scholars have attempted to synthesize the careful replication of exemplars in some cases and their conscious reformulation in others by appealing not to different groups of scribes, but rather to varying functional roles performed by the same scribes. Karel van der Toorn, for instance, argues that the same scribes could alternatively function as precise copyists or as editors preparing new editions, both of which modes of text production were compatible parts of their scribal profession, but with different purposes and procedures.8

4  Shemaryahu Talmon, “Textual Study of the Bible: A New Outlook,” in Text and Canon of the Hebrew Bible: Collected Studies (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2010), 19–84, esp. 84. 5  Tov, Scribal Practices, 24–25. Tov further suggests that there was a general shift in philosophy in the Second Temple period, in which scribes changed from viewing themselves as “petty collaborators in the creation of books” in the earlier period to being primarily precise transmitters of the earlier texts in the later period. Nevertheless, a conservative attitude can be discerned throughout the “𝔐-group.” See Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible, 3rd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2012), 184–85; he labels these different approaches “free” and “careful.” 6  Eugene Ulrich, The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Origins of the Bible, SDSSRL (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 11, 23, 51 and passim. 7  Sidnie White Crawford, “Understanding the Textual History of the Hebrew Bible: A New Proposal,” in The Hebrew Bible in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Nóra Dávid et al., FRLANT 239 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2012), 60–69. 8  Karel van der Toorn, Scribal Culture and the Making of the Hebrew Bible (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2007), 109–10, 125–26.

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According to him, “the scribe as editor is at liberty to do what would be considered a sin for a copying scribe.”9 While it would be difficult in the current debate to defend a strictly either-or position or delineate the precise proportion of the transmission process that should be associated with each tendency, it seems clear that both precise replication of exemplars and intentional editorial intervention into transmitted texts are evident in our preserved texts. Some texts will have undergone transmission at the hands of scribes who felt themselves free to intervene editorially, others will have been precisely copied by scribes intent on transmitting exactly what they had received, and still others will probably have received mixed treatment over the long course of their transmission. When we encounter such diversity of scribal practices and approaches, we should not be surprised to find a similarly diverse array of approaches to handling specific scribal dilemmas. In this essay, I would like to focus attention on one important, but often overlooked factor in the discussion. Even the most conservative copyists at times encountered material or textual defects in their exemplars. When these copyists reached lacunose or illegible texts in their exemplars, they were forced to take on an essentially editorial role. The material difficulties forced them to stop the monotonous task of continuously copying running text and consciously consider how to proceed. In this respect, though the tasks of ancient copyists and modern editors are normally worlds apart, when handling physically defective exemplars, these two worlds converge to a large degree.

Use of Comparative Evidence

In the study of scribal practices, we must give some attention to the methodologically justifiable use of comparative evidence.10 We cannot simply let comparative evidence automatically determine the paradigms by which we view the evidence from our respective fields. For one, the interpretation of the evidence from other fields may be itself be uncertain. And even when solid comparative anchors are available, we must always be aware of the uniqueness of our own data set and allow it to have its own voice. And yet, there is much to be said for interdisciplinary study of scribal practices. Scribes were typically among the most educated and internationally 9  Van der Toorn, Scribal Culture, 126. 10  Thanks to Alasdair Livingstone, Birgit Haskamp, and Niall Livingstone for their helpful comments on several comparative aspects of this essay.

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aware people in the Ancient Near East, and the various scribal cultures tended to interact extensively. The scribal culture of ancient Israel was heavily influenced by those of their Egyptian and Mesopotamian neighbors.11 At a later period, specific parallels in scribal practices can be observed between preserved Hebrew manuscripts and both Aramaic and Greek manuscripts.12 There can, therefore, be no justification for not exploring comparative possibilities. But how can comparative evidence be used appropriately? Each comparative data point has its own contextual situation, which can be described according to a variety of factors, such as the time period, geographical location, linguistic environment, scribal culture, and material medium. The closer the connections between the contexts of comparative examples, the more likely that a legitimate parallel can be drawn between them. Inversely, the more remote these contextual connections, the less likely that we can posit a direct connection between them. Even in such cases, however, it may still be beneficial to have a broad survey of attested practices to note patterns of independent human decisions and alert textual scholars to possibilities they may not have otherwise considered. Thus, comparative evidence can supplement the toolbox of textual scholars by opening up new interpretive possibilities and suggesting contextually likely solutions, even though we cannot assume that scribes within our sub-disciplines must have followed the same patterns. Comparative analysis should not be understood as prescriptive, but rather descriptive, and possibly even suggestive. Each example should be studied on its own merits, informed by and in turn informing the bigger picture. Where clear similarities in scribal practices emerge across contextual boundaries, there are two possible explanations. First, they may stem from a common scribal tradition and approach, in which case the parallels may be especially illuminating. Second, they may reflect solutions independently adopted by different scribes or scribal schools. In this latter case, the parallels are still important if the similarities can demonstrate patterns or tendencies of human behavior across scribal cultures. With these methodological preliminaries in mind, we will now examine a range of attested scribal practices for dealing with defective exemplars.

11  David M. Carr, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 47–61, 84–90; van der Toorn, Scribal Culture, 53. 12  Tov, Scribal Practices, 24.

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Attested Methods

Having established the importance of understanding the physicality of manuscripts and the copying process, the default transmission practices of scribes, and the broader scribal milieu of the ancient world, we can now examine a number of attested ways scribes responded to damaged exemplars, some of which are more easily documented than others. Many of these methods are not mutually exclusive, but could be applied in combination. I make no claim that these practices are exhaustive of all of the approaches that scribes did implement or could have implemented, but rather I offer these examples as illustrative in the hope that an organized listing of attested approaches will be a helpful reminder and resource for textual scholars. Omissions One especially problematic way that scribes could have responded to defective exemplars was simply to omit lacunose or illegible text altogether (possibly including any preserved parts of words that did not make sense without the damaged text), even without noting the damage in the new copy in any way. This would necessarily result in the loss of the damaged text within a segment of the tradition. If a lacuna was such that the copying scribe was not aware that there was in fact missing text, this approach would be easily understandable. The same would be true if the resulting post-omission text still read smoothly. If the omission left behind textual disruption, it might still be possible to detect such instances, but typically there would be no way to tell if any given omission were the result of exemplar damage or a simple accidental or intentional omission.13 Line 2 3 4 5 6

Sumerian King List P3 [900 m]u ì-a5 [á-]ba [ ] mu ì-˹a5˺ ˹á˺-tab-ba 84˹0˺ mu ì-a5

P2

Su1

[90]0 mu ì-˹a5˺ ˹á-ba˺ vacat ˹á˺-tab-ba vacat

9[0]0 [mu ì-a5] (omit) (omit) á-[tab-ba] 720 [mu ì-a5]

13  Martin Worthington, Principles of Akkadian Textual Criticism (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012), 22.

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Thorkild Jacobsen notes a possible case in the “middle part of the 1st dynasty of Kish” in the Sumerian king list where the evidence of different manuscripts might suggest the omission was due to a lacunose exemplar.14 He argues that the manuscript P2 leaves two blank lines indicating lacunae in its damaged ­exemplar—in accord with the method of leaving blank space to be documented below—since P3 preserves both of these lines. He further notes that Su1 omits two lines of text, resulting in a defective running text without any visual indication of a damaged exemplar at exactly the same point where P2 leaves its first blank line. He contends, therefore, that Su1 was copied from an exemplar with both lines damaged, where the scribe simply omitted the lacunose text. Jacobsen’s argument that Su1 was copied from a damaged tablet may also be supported by his suggestion that two numerical variants in the nearby text of Su1 are best explained as misreadings of damaged signs. If Jacobsen is correct in this analysis, then we may have a case where an omission of lacunose text without indication in the resulting copy can be verified by reference to other related manuscripts. Paratextual Comments Some scribes made explicit paratextual annotations on their new copies to alert readers to exemplar damage. This could take a number of different forms. Colophons In many scribal cultures, scribes included colophons as notes about new copies, the processes of their creation, and the scribes who copied them. These colophons could include information about the exemplar, including any damage the scribe may have encountered. One Standard Babylonian colophon, for instance, reads, i-na pī ṭup-pi ḫepûti(GAZ)meš šà-ṭir a-me-ru la i-ṭa-pil ḫe-pa-a li-šal-lim Copied from broken tablets; the reader should not treat it callously but restore the breaks.15

14  Thorkild Jacobsen, The Sumerian King List (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1939), 15–17. 15  Hermann Hunger, Babylonische und assyrische Kolophone (Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker, 1968), no. 498, line 3. Hunger gives the German translation, “Nach dem Wortlaut zerbrochener Tafeln geschrieben. Wer (sie) sieht, soll sie nicht schlecht behandeln! Zerbrochenes soll er wiederherstellen!” The English translation above is from van der Toorn, Scribal

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The famous Shabaka Stone (BM EA 498) from Egypt likewise purports (if propagandistically) to have been copied from a rediscovered, old, worm-eaten scroll: [T]his writing was copied out anew by his Majesty in the Temple of his father Ptah-south-of-his-wall, for his Majesty had found it to be a work of the ancestors which was worm eaten and could not be understood from beginning to end.16 Annotations Another option for explicitly noting a defective exemplar was to include some form of critical annotation or siglum at the point of the damaged text. For example, scribes copying tablets in Akkadian frequently annotated their copies with the stative verb ḫepi “it is broken” (alternatively read as a noun ḫipi “break”)17 and similar expressions to indicate that the exemplar had a lacuna.18 To avoid confusion in the course of further transmission, immediate copies from defective exemplars were apparently sometimes further specified with the word eššu “new,” whereas subsequent copies sometimes added the word labīru “old” to indicate that the ḫepi annotation was copied from the exemplar, rather than newly inserted. Some scribes even indicated the extent of the breaks. Similarly, Egyptian scribes also often noted lacunae with explicit annotations, such as gm(i҆) wš “found lacking.”19 Culture, 315 n. 55. Hunger cites another such example, no. 412, line 2, which reads ṭuppu ḫe-pí eš-šu, “Tafel mit neuem Bruch.” 16  Richard Parkinson and Stephen Quirke, Papyrus (London: British Museum, 1995), 75. Cf. Michela Luiselli, “The Colophons as an Indication of the Attitudes towards the Literary Tradition in Egypt and Mesopotamia,” in Basel Egyptology Prize 1: Junior Research in Egyptian History, Archaeology, and Philology, ed. Susanne Bickel and Antonio Loprieno (Basel: Schwabe, 2003), 343–60, esp. 349 n. 64. 17  Ignace J. Gelb et al., eds., The Assyrian Dictionary: Volume 6: Ḫ (Chicago: The Oriental Institute, 1956), 196. This latter reading makes sense of the use of the adjectives eššu and labīru to modify it, but has great difficulty in providing a reason why the noun would always be in the genitive. Cf. Worthington, Principles, 26. 18  Worthington, Principles, 25–27. 19  Adolf Erman and Hermann Grapow, eds., Wörterbuch der aegyptischen Sprache, vol. 1 (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1926), 368; Christopher Eyre, The Use of Documents in Pharaonic Egypt (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 336. Parkinson and Quirke, Papyrus, 48, comment: “Some gaps in manuscripts are not due to erasure: the copyist occasionally had to leave a word blank because it had been illegibly written in his original, was lost in a lacuna or needed checking and was intended to be filled in later. Religious texts copied from venerable originals often leave spaces empty to indicate lacunae, or have the

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The conscientious use and preservation of such annotations is often legitimately cited as strong evidence for the role of scribes as precise copyists,20 though Martin Worthington rightly cautions that this generalization cannot be absolutized.21 Adding annotations has the advantage of precision, but leaves the text of the new copy defective and is especially problematic if the indicators were subsequently omitted or incorporated into the main text in further copying acts.22 Blank Spaces Another attested practice of ancient copyists who encountered lacunose or illegible text in their damaged exemplars was to leave blank space. This approach has the disadvantages of not producing a readable, continuous text or explicitly alerting readers to the problem with the exemplar, but presumably it would normally have been done on the assumption that the copyist or another corrector would supplement the missing text from a different exemplar at a later time.23 1QIsaa 33:14–16, 19 (Isaiah 40:14–20) ‫ מי נועץ ויבינהו וילמדהו באורח‬14 16 ‫ הן גואים כמר מדלי וכשחק מזנים נחשבו הן איים כדק ויטול‬15

‫משפט וילמדהו דעת ודרך תבונות יודיענו‬ ‫ולבנון‬

‫אין די בער וחיתו אין די עולה‬

‫ ואל מיא תדמיוני אל‬18 ‫ כול הגואים כאין נגדו וכאפס ותהוו נחשבו לו‬17 ‫ הפסל ויעשה מסך חרש וצורף בזהב וירקענו ורתקות‬19 ‫ומה דמות תערוכו לי‬ ‫ המסכן תרומה עץ לוא ירבק ובחר חרש חכם ובשקלו להוכין פסל‬20 ‫כסף צורף‬

frank comment gem-wesh, ‘found lacking’, or more rarely shu em-iry-ef, ‘empty of what belongs there.’” 20  E.g., van der Toorn, Scribal Culture, 126, says of cuneiform scribes: “They copy the text as they find it, including its lacunae…. The scribes normally refrained from restoring a defective copy, even if the reader was encouraged to supply an appropriate phrase.” 21  Worthington, Principles, 26–27. 22  Such omissions are common, for instance, in the transmission of the sigla of Origen’s Hexapla. Eyre, Use of Documents, 337, notes that there are a number of places where such annotations were corrupted and misunderstood as the names of kings in the papyrus transmission of the Egyptian king list. 23  If subsequent supplementation was indeed the typical intention behind the implementation of this practice, this could explain the relative dearth of such examples from cuneiform literature. Once tablets had hardened after their initial inscription, the scribes could no longer supplement the tablets with their styli. They could potentially have drawn the signs with pen and ink, but this would understandably have been exceptional.

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As I have recently demonstrated on the basis of a repeated pattern of damage, the second half of 1QIsaa was probably copied from a manuscript with a damaged bottom edge, which left a significant amount of text from the bottom of its columns lacunose or illegible.24 Because of this, there are many places in 1QIsaa where the primary copyist leaves blank space for the insertion of the missing text before continuing the copying process. Column 33 is a good example of this phenomenon, since there are probably two places where the scribe left blank spaces to represent defective text, which were subsequently supplemented by a later hand (indicated in my transcription by a smaller font).25 The supplementer inserted the end of Isaiah 40:14 and all of verses 15–16, for which the first hand had left sufficient blank space. Additionally, the words ‫המסכן‬ ‫ תרומה‬in verse 20 were also secondarily supplemented.

4Q252 (Commentary on Genesis A) 2:3–5 ‫תמימה לימים שלוש מאות ששים וארבעה באחד בשבת בשבעה‬ ‫נוח מן התבה למועד שנה‬ ‫ש‬ ‫אחת וש ‏‬ ‫ויקץ נוח מיינו וידע את אשר עשה‬ ‫תמימה‬

Translation by George Brooke (lines 1–6):26 1. in the six hundred and first year of Noah’s life, and on the seventeenth day of the second month, 2. the earth dried up, on the first day of the week, on that day Noah went forth from the ark at the end of a 3. complete year of three hundred and sixty-four days, on the first day of the week, in the seven(th) 4. one and six Noah from the ark at the appointed time, a 5. complete year. And Noah awoke from his wine and knew what 6. his youngest son had done to him. 24   Drew Longacre, “Developmental Stage, Scribal Lapse, or Physical Defect? 1QIsaa’s Damaged Exemplar for Isaiah Chapters 34–66,” DSD 20 (2013): 17–50. Several examples below will assume this analysis of the scroll. 25   Longacre, “Developmental Stage,” 22–23, 39. So also William H. Brownlee, “The Manuscripts of Isaiah from Which DSIa Was Copied,” BASOR 127 (1952): 16–21 (17). 26  Translation from George Brooke, “252. 4QCommentary on Genesis A,” in Qumran Cave 4: XVII: Parabiblical Texts, Part 3, DJD 22 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1996), 185–207 (199).

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Reconstruction by Timothy Lim: ‫תמימה לימים שלוש מאות ששים וארבעה באחד בשבת בשבעה‬ ‫עשר יום לחדש באחת ושש מאות שנה יצא נוח מן התבה למועד שנה‬ ‫   ויקץ נוח מיינו וידע את אשר עשה‬ ‫תמימה‬

Modified translation: 3. complete year of three hundred and sixty-four days, on the first day of the week, in the seven4. teenth day of the month, in the one and six hundredth year, exited Noah from the ark at the appointed time, a 5. complete year. And Noah awoke from his wine and knew what Another example from Qumran can be seen in 4Q252, Commentary on Genesis A. On line 4 of column 2, the scribe left two large blank spaces, and the inscribed text is nonsense when read continuously, almost certainly indicating that there was some defective text in the exemplar of this manuscript at this point. Timothy Lim has plausibly reconstructed the missing text based on information known from elsewhere in the scroll, something similar to which must have originally been present in the text of the composition.27 In this case, however, probably due to the scarcity or lack of alternative copies of the composition, the missing text was never supplemented by a corrector.28

Chester Beatty Papyrus II (GA P46) Folio 31v Line 5 (Hebrews 10:10) 9 στηση 10 εν ω θεληματι ηγιασμενοι εσμεν δια της προσφορας του σωματος ιη̅ ςυ̅ χρ̅ςυ̅ εφαπαξ 11 και πας μεν ιερευς εστηκεν

27  Timothy H. Lim, “The Chronology of the Flood Story in a Qumran Text (4Q252),” JJS 43 (1992): 288–98, esp. 294. So also Tov, Scribal Practices, 28. 28  In this regard, perhaps it is significant that 4Q254a (Commentary on Genesis D) has unusual spacing at exactly the same date. The two manuscripts are apparently not copies of the same composition, but they are very closely parallel for 4Q252 2:3–5 and 4Q254a 3 1–2. 4Q254a has extraordinarily large spaces between the three consecutive words ‫בעהב]ש‬ ̇ ‫ לחודש‬vacat ‫ עשר‬vacat, not caused by physical defects on the leather of 4Q254a. Cf. George Brooke, “254a. 4QCommentary on Genesis D,” in DJD 22:233–36, esp. 235–36. The close parallel both in terms of textual overlap and unusual spacing may not be coincidental. This possible connection between the two manuscripts was pointed out to me by Helen Jacobus.

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Hebrews 10:10 (NRSV): And it is by God’s will that we have been sanctified through the offering of the body of Jesus Christ once for all. From outside the Qumran corpus, my colleague Edgar Ebojo has pointed out to me one of a number of examples of this practice in P46 of the Pauline epistles from around 200 CE. The first hand copied Hebrews 10:10 up to the word προσφορᾶς “offering,” where his exemplar apparently became illegible in the middle of the word after προσ. The scribe then left blank space for the illegible text and continued copying the text, leaving behind a nonsense reading.29 A later corrector inserted the correct letters into the blank space to complete the word and make sense of the passage.30

Gula Hymn Manuscript a 75 76 77 78

ra-bi ina erṣetimtim ṣi-ra ina é-kur ap-lu kun-nu-ú šá den-líl i-lit-ti elletimtim šá dnin-⟨líl⟩ šá-nin da-nim qar-ra-du dnin-urta31

75 76 77 78

Great in the underworld, lofty in Ekur, Well cared-for son of Enlil, Pure offspring of Ninlil, Rival of Anu, the warrior Ninurta.

29  Edgar B. Ebojo, “A Scribe and His Manuscript: An Investigation into the Scribal Habits of Papyrus 46 (P. Chester Beatty II—P. Mich. Inv. 6238)” (PhD diss., University of Birmingham, 2014), 256; James R. Royse, Scribal Habits in Early Greek New Testament Papyri, NTTSD 36 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 235–36; Günther Zuntz, The Text of the Epistles: A Disquisition Upon the Corpus Paulinum (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1953), 256. 30  The corrector apparently also changed the case of “Jesus Christ” later on in the line to the grammatically correct genitive. The absurd nominative case of the initial inscription is almost certainly related to the difficulty in reading the exemplar at this point. This aspect of the reading could probably be classed as a failed attempt at the restoration of a poorly legible exemplar text by the first hand. Cf. Ebojo, “Scribe,” 256. 31  Composite text and translation from W.G. Lambert, “The Gula Hymn of Bulluṭsa-rabi,” Orientalia 36 (1967): 105–32 (120).

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A good case can be made that manuscript a of the Gula Hymn in Babylonian cuneiform script from the Persian period reflects a damaged exemplar.32 On lines 76 and 77, the copy omits and leaves blank space for the final signs of each line, but the scribe did not write a ḫepi annotation.33 Line 76 omits en.líl from den.líl (attested in the Ashurbanipal manuscript I), and line 77 omits líl from dnin.líl (restored by W.G. Lambert), but there is uninscribed clay left where these signs should have occurred. The scribe, therefore, apparently encountered an exemplar with these signs damaged, so he reproduced the legible text and signaled the lacuna by leaving blank space. The fact that the omissions pertain to the names of two deities might raise suspicions that they were intentionally omitted for theological reasons,34 but this is unlikely to be the case for a number of reasons. First, the scribe shows no aversion to using either of these two names elsewhere in his copy where the names occur.35 Second, the first half of the second name is indeed written, which is not consistent with an attempt to remove the name. Third, since the names are (partially) omitted rather than replaced, what results is not a new theological meaning but nonsense. And fourth, the fact that these two omissions occur adjacent to each other at the edge of the tablet is much more easily explicable due to material damage. Thus, this manuscript provides a strong, if exceptional, example from Akkadian literature of leaving blank space to represent defective exemplar text. Attempted Restorations While scribes frequently refrained from restoring text lost in their damaged exemplars, this was certainly not always the case. At times they did attempt to restore the lost text, with varying degrees of success. Strabo records an anecdotal example of failed restoration in his Geography 13.1.54. When the Attalid kings scoured the land for books for the library at Pergamum, the Scepsian 32  Lambert, “Gula Hymn,” 103; Worthington, Principles, 22. Lambert also notes a similar problem on line 166 of manuscript a. 33  Worthington, Principles, 22, points out that this tablet was copied by a novice scribe, which could help explain the uncharacteristic treatment of the exemplar problem by this scribe. 34  Enlil and Ninlil were superseded by Marduk and Mylitta in the pantheon long before the date of the inscription of our manuscript. Thanks to Alison Schofield for this observation. 35  The prominence of Ninlil in the hymn can be seen in the fact that one section of the hymn concludes with an identification of Gula with Ninlil on line 187, despite the fact that line 77 suggests that Gula’s spouse was the son of Ninlil. Cf. Lambert, “Gula Hymn,” 113, who notes that the hymn is not characterized by a consistent portrayal of the family relations within the pantheon.

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descendants of Neleus buried the contents of the inherited Peripatetic library underground. Many years later, the books were dug up and sold to Apellicon of Teos, but they had become damaged by moisture and moths (or perhaps worms?). Apellicon attempted to restore the damaged text for further book production, but in doing so, he introduced many errors into his new copies of Aristotle’s works. On the other hand, the act of successful restoration was sometimes condoned and even highly valued. For instance, in Egypt in all periods it was often considered a virtue and mark of professional competence for scribes to be able to restore lacunae.36 This activity was not valued as an expression of literary creativity, but rather as proof of the scribes’ mastery of the content of the texts.37 From this perspective, an expert scribe would ideally know the texts well enough to remedy the defects in their written exemplars, and the intention of the scribal intervention was truly restorative. Thus, whether viewed positively or negatively, widespread awareness of the phenomenon of scribal restorations of lacunae in antiquity cannot be denied. The practice of restoration can also sometimes be documented in manuscript evidence, though there are a number of complicating factors. Unlike the use of paratextual comments and blank spaces, which typically give explicit or implicit testimony to the defective state of their exemplars, restorations may often leave no obvious visual clues to alert later readers. Furthermore, while the evidence for unsuccessful restorations is typically unclear, successful restorations frequently leave no evidence whatsoever of their occurrence. Because of this, it is normally very difficult to prove whether a problem with an exemplar indeed lies behind a given preserved text, and it is even more difficult to estimate the relative frequency of restoration versus non-restoration.38 Nevertheless, a few exceptional cases are preserved to demonstrate such a process. If scribes determined to attempt to restore the damaged text of their exemplars, they had essentially two options. First, if they had access to other manuscripts of the same composition, they could simply consult another exemplar before continuing. This method would probably ensure the highest possible level of accuracy, but would also be extraordinarily impractical and inefficient for day-to-day copying. It would require the copyist to acquire another 36  Eyre, Use of Documents, 336–37. 37  Eyre, Use of Documents, 337. 38  So also Worthington, Principles, 23. Thus, statements like that of van der Toorn, Scribal Culture, 126, that “[t]he scribes normally refrained from restoring a defective copy,” are of questionable value.

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exemplar of the same text, open the second exemplar and read to find the text in question, compare the two exemplars, and then inscribe the new copy based on supplementation from the additional exemplar.39 This long pause would drastically increase the time required for copying the new manuscript, and in the case of scrolls, it would have been extremely difficult to have two exemplars unrolled for reference without the help of another scribe. It is hard to know how many copyists in antiquity may have done this, since there is very little chance that we would be able to detect this with reference to the resulting hybrid texts alone.40 Second, the scribes could attempt to fully or partially restore the text without reference to an alternative exemplar. They could be aided in their restorations by a variety of factors such as partially preserved and legible text, memory or general familiarity with the content of the text, expectations based on literary norms (e.g., meter, parallelism, stock phrases), and contextual clues. These conjectural restorations would have been accomplished with varying degrees of accuracy, typically decreasing proportionally for longer stretches of text.41 Inaccurate restorations occasionally introduced changes to the text that would not be expected under normal copying circumstances, but sometimes did not leave any other traces of their origin. Conjectural restorations have the advantage of providing readers with a flowing, readable text, but this comes at the cost of a certain speculative element in the text that may or may not be reliable. 39  Famously, the only Greek copy of Revelation available to Erasmus in time for the publication of his first edition of the Greek New Testament was missing its final leaf containing the last six verses of the book. Erasmus was forced to restore the Greek text of these verses through retroversion from the Latin Vulgate, introducing numerous unique variant readings into the Greek tradition that are still sometimes printed in editions of the Textus Receptus. Cf. Bruce M. Metzger and Bart D. Ehrman, The Text of the New Testament: Its Transmission, Corruption, and Restoration, 4th ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 143–45. Not only does this exemplify the problem of access to alternative manuscripts (even in Renaissance Europe!), but it also adds an additional level of complexity in working across languages. 40  This could potentially be one cause of block mixing between traditions. A similar situation would obtain for the text of repaired manuscripts, which could preserve text from two or more different sources. The text of the repair patch of 4QpaleoExodm mentioned above, for instance, differs in several characteristic details from the main text of the manuscript, but it is unlikely that we would have been able to identify the repair and the influence of another source text from a copy of 4QpaleoExodm alone. 41  Thus, the suggestion of Carr, Writing, 168, 291–92, that scribes may have completely retranscribed even large portions of texts from memory after the Babylonian exile when written copies were no longer available encounters severe practical limitations.

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When attempting to restore lacunose or illegible text, scribes may have had one or more of a number of target texts in mind.42 First, and perhaps most naturally, the restoration could be intended to restore what was originally in the exemplar before it was damaged. The scribe could also aim to restore the wording deemed original to the composition. These two targets may or may not have coincided in the minds of the scribes who attempted to restore the lost texts. It is, of course, also possible that some scribes made intentionally creative contributions in response to damaged exemplars without a view to accurately restoring the missing text, such as to enhance the readability and flow of the resulting text or to reflect the scribes’ ideological or aesthetic preferences. For instance, if accurate restorations were beyond the critical faculties of the copyists given the resources at their disposal, they may simply have smoothed out the text for reading purposes. Those uninterested in accurate restoration may simply have composed new text to replace the text lost in the lacunae. Nevertheless, the documentary evidence for such a practice is minimal. A few examples of probable documented restorations can helpfully illustrate the process of restoring damaged exemplar text. 1QIsaa 52:22–24 (Isaiah 65:15–16) ‫שמכמה לשבועה לבחירי והמיתכה אדוני יהוה‬ ]‫ והיה הנשבע‬ ‫[תמיד‬ ‫ באלוהי אמן והנשבע בארץ ישבע באלוהי אמן כיא‬16

A good example of a partial restoration in conjunction with blank space can be found in column 52 of 1QIsaa. Upon reaching the damaged exemplar text in Isaiah 65:15 after ‫אדוני יהוה‬, the scribe left one full line blank and continued copying from the next column of his exemplar at the first ‫ באלוהי‬in the next verse. He also attempted a partial restoration of the lacuna, inserting incorrect contextual guesses intended to smooth out the transitions at both ends of the damaged text and omitting the correct text (attested with slight differences by the Masoretic text [MT] and the Septuagint [LXX]) ‫ולעבדיו יקרא שם אחר אשר‬ ‫המתברך בארץ יתברך‬.43

42  Thanks to Niall Livingstone for stressing this particular point. 43  Longacre, “Developmental Stage,” 47; Eduard Y. Kutscher, The Language and Linguistic Background of the Isaiah Scroll (1QIsaa), STDJ 6 (Leiden: Brill, 1974), 546; Brownlee, “Manuscripts,” 19; Dominique Barthélemy, Critique textuelle de l’Ancien Testament: 2. Isaïe, Jérémie, Lamentations (Fribourg: Éditions Universitaires, 1986), 456.

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1QIsaa 42:19–22 (Isaiah 51:6) ‫ שאו שמים‬6 ‫ קרוב צדקי יצא ישעי וזרועי עמים ישפוטו אליו איים יקוו ואל זרועו יוחילון‬5 ]‫עיניכמה והביטו אל הארץ מתחתה [וראו מי ברא את אלה‬ ‫ויושביה כמו כן ימותון וישועתי לעולם תהיה וצדקתי לוא תחת‬ ‫ שמעו אלי יודעי צדק עם תורתי בלבם אל תיראו חרפת אנוש וממגדפותם אל‬7 ‫ כיא כבגד‬8 ‫תחתו‬

Again, in column 42 of 1QIsaa, the scribe’s exemplar apparently became illegible after ‫מתחתה‬. He left half a line blank to represent the exemplar lacuna, and then he resumed copying with ‫ויושביה‬. The scribe also attempted a partial restoration under the influence of the phraseology in 40:26, but failed miserably.44 He inserted incorrect text from 40:26 and omitted the phrases ‫כי שמים כעשן‬ ‫נמלחו והארץ כבגד תבלה‬. The blank half a line after ‫ לוא תחת‬at the end of v. 6 is a paragraph break. 1QIsab, the MT, and the LXX preserve the correct text. 1QIsaa 29:15–18 (Isaiah 36:11–12) 1QIsaa ‫ ויואמרו אליו אליקים ושובנא ויואח דבר נא עם עבדיך‬11 ‫להשחיתה‬ ‫עמנו ארמית כיא שומעים אנחנו ואל תדבר את הדברים האלה באוזני‬ ‫ ויואמר רב שקה האליכמה ועל‬12 ‫האנשים היושבים על החומה‬ ‫אדוניכמה שלחני אדוני לדבר את הדברים האלה הלוא על האנשים‬ ‫היושבים על החומה לאכול את חריהמה ולשתות את שיניהמה‬

Masoretic Text ‫ ויאמר אליקים ושבנא ויואח אל רב שקה דבר נא אל עבדיך‬11 ‫והשחיתה‬ ‫ארמית כי שמעים אנחנו ואל תדבר אלינו יהודית באוזני‬ ‫ ויאמר רב שקה האל אדניך‬12 ‫העם אשר על החומה‬ ‫ואליך שלחני אדני לדבר את הדברים האלה הלא על האנשים‬ ‫הישבים על החומה לאכל את חראיהם ולשתות את שיניהם‬

Isaiah 36:11–12 in 1QIsaa is another probable example of an attempted restoration, given its position within a pattern of damage evident throughout the second half of 1QIsaa and its extraordinary variance from all other known witnesses. Between ‫ ויואמרו‬in v. 11 and ‫ אדוניכמה‬in v. 12, 1QIsaa uncharacteristically completely rewrites two lines of material, including omissions, substitutions, 44  So also Brownlee, “Manuscripts,” 19, and Kutscher, Language, 542, 546.

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transpositions, and grammatical changes. Many elements of this rewritten text appear to be contextual guesses, picking up phrases from the following verse (e.g., ‫את הדברים האלה‬, ‫)האנשים היושבים על החומה‬. Literarily, it also lacks a reference to the Hebrew language, which is integral to the story. The marginal ‫עמנו‬ was secondarily added either as a clarification by the scribe or under the influence of 2 Kings 18:26, further betraying the conscious reworking of the passage. The LXX generally supports the MT text for this passage against 1QIsaa. All of these indications point to these lines being a creation of the original scribe of 1QIsaa. On reaching the damaged exemplar edge, he attempted to fill in the lacuna from his faulty recollection of the story, aided by contextual conjectures. That there are no unusual spaces in these lines probably means that the scribe supplied this text as he initially copied the text, rather than leaving blank lines to be filled in later. Gilgamesh VIII Manuscript m1 A noteworthy example of restoration in Akkadian literature may come from a copy of the eighth tablet of the Standard Babylonian version of the Epic of Gilgamesh from Babylon, manuscript m1.45 Concerning this tablet, Aage Westenholz comments, When I inspected the tablet, I thought that I could see a faint outline around the portion with the preserved text: the copyist sketched the outline of his broken Vorlage, copied what was written there, and then inserted his restorations in smaller script.46 In this case, then, the scribe attempted to restore the text while at the same time alerting future readers to that fact and making a visual distinction between text copied from the damaged exemplar and restored text.

Hymn to Aphrodite Manuscript M (lines 4–5) χαῖρε, θεά, Σαλαμῖνος ἐϋκτιμένης μεδέουσα καὶ πάσης Κύπρου· δὸς δ᾽ ἱμερόεσσαν ἀοιδήν.

45  For information and plates, see Andrew R. George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts, 2 vols. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 1:649, plates 104–105. The copies by I.L. Finkel on plates 104–105 give no obvious indication of the features noted by Westenholz below, and I have not been able to check the surface of the tablet. 46  Personal communication cited in Worthington, Principles, 23.

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I salute you, goddess, queen of well-cultivated Salamis and of all Cyprus: grant me beautiful singing.47 Manuscript M of the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite reflects important differences from the other manuscripts, reading μάκαιρα Κυθήρης … εἰναλίης τε “blessed one, [queen of well-cultivated] Cythera … and [of Cyprus] by the sea” for the bold phrases above, resulting in poor meter. While some have suggested an intentionally different version of the hymn generalized for a broader audience,48 Martin West has argued that the words were simply not legible in the damaged exemplar of M and unsuccessfully restored.49 Certainly the words would not have been accidentally substituted if the text of the e­ xemplar had been legible. P. Bodmer VII (GA P72) (Jude 20–25) The Bodmer miscellaneous codex containing the entire text of 1–2 Peter and Jude (the biblical texts are designated as P72) from the third or fourth century may provide evidence for another case of the restoration of the text of a damaged exemplar. For Jude 20–25, P72 has such an extraordinarily high concentration of singular readings that Marchant King supposes that the scribe’s exemplar may have had the last verses broken off and the scribe resorted to restoring the text from memory. The one really poor section of text is the final five verses of Jude. Here much of the order and several of the words are unique so that though the meaning is, in general, the same as the regular text one wonders whether the exemplar was broken off at this point and the scribe resorted to memory.50 James Royse concedes, “It is indeed difficult to imagine that the scribe was seriously intending to reproduce a text that lay before him.”51

47  Text and translation from Martin L West, Homeric Hymns—Homeric Apocrypha—Lives of Homer (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003), 190–93. 48  E.g., S. Douglas Olson, The Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite and Related Texts: Text, Translation and Commentary (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012), 291–93. 49  Martin L. West, Textual Criticism and Editorial Technique Applicable to Greek and Latin Texts (Stuttgart: Teubner, 1973), 19. 50  Marchant A. King, “Notes on the Bodmer Manuscript of Jude and 1 and 2 Peter,” Bibliotheca Sacra 121, no. 481 (1964): 54–57 (56 n. 1). 51  Royse, Scribal Habits, 581–82.

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Significance for Textual Criticism

Awareness of the dilemma of copying damaged exemplars in antiquity and the range of approaches implemented in response to it can have significant implications for the text-critical study of literary works. The above discussion of scribal practices is most immediately applicable to the study of individual manuscripts exhibiting tell-tale signs of having been copied from damaged exemplars. If textual critics are alert to the full spectrum of interpretive possibilities, they may be able to more accurately describe the manuscripts and texts they study and avoid misusing their evidence when attempting to reconstruct lost states of the text. The implications of this awareness potentially go far beyond the study of individual manuscripts, however. The ancient copying of defective exemplars is one of many factors potentially inducing textual change, every bit as worthy of discussion as parablepsis, misreadings of letters and signs, theological changes, and a whole host of other mechanisms frequently included in introductions to the field. Any given manuscript reading may potentially reflect the result of a copyist’s (either the copyist of an extant manuscript or a predecessor) interaction with exemplar text that was either lacunose or illegible, or at least partially so. I would not generally expect these kinds of defective readings to have much sticking power in broad textual traditions. In many cases, the problems would have been obvious and duly corrected in the course of transmission. That said, however, it is possible that such a physical defect could radically influence the transmission history of a work. For instance, the hyparchetype of all the medieval Greek manuscripts of Josephus’s C. Ap. (Laurentianus 69,22) was copied from a tradition with a large lacuna at 2.52–113, which must be restored from the Latin tradition.52 Presumably, several leaves were torn out of a codex at some crucial point in the transmission of the work.

52  Heinz Schreckenberg, “Text, Überlieferung und Textkritik von Contra Apionem,” in Josephus’ Contra Apionem: Studies in its Character and Context with a Latin Concordance to the Portion Missing in Greek, ed. Louis H. Feldman and John R. Levison, AGJU 34 (Leiden: Brill, 1996), 49–82, esp. 62; Benedict Niese, The Works of Flavius Josephus: Edited and Supplied with an Apparatus Criticus by Benedict Niese, trans. David C. Noe, 6 vols. (Bellingham, WA: Logos Research Systems, 2008; originally published in Latin [Berlin: Weidmanns, 1887]), 5:3–4.

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Several scholars have suggested that similar phenomena have made a drastic impact on other received traditions as well.53 Bo Johnson argues that many differences between the MT and LXX in 1 Samuel 1–2 reflect textual corruption in the Masoretic tradition stemming from a damaged manuscript that was copied and whose defective text was restored from memory.54 The awkward short ending of the Gospel of Mark has often been supposed to be the result of the physical loss of the original ending in an early manuscript.55 Numerous lacunae in the Medicean manuscript of Aeschylus’s Supplices (particularly in lines 825–902) probably stem from a predecessor manuscript (either its exemplar or an earlier copy) which was either heavily damaged or simply incredibly difficult to read.56 Material damage in the archetype probably greatly disturbed the Lucretius tradition.57 All Greek manuscripts of the letter of Polycarp to the Philippians descended from a damaged manuscript with a large lacuna lacking the end of the letter and the beginning of the Epistle of Barnabas.58 Claus Wilcke has argued that most differences between the Old Babylonian 53  N. Clayton Croy (The Mutilation of Mark’s Gospel [Nashville: Abingdon, 2003], 138–41) collects many examples not only of classical works only fragmentarily preserved (Polybius, Diodorus, Dio Cassius’s History of Rome, Dionysius of Halicarnassus’s Roman Antiquities, Livy’s History of Rome, Tacitus’s Histories and Annals, Nepos’s Lives, Varro, and Petronius’s Satyricon), but also relatively well-preserved works from antiquity with significant (possible) lacunae (Thucydides’s History of the Peloponnesian War, Suetonius’s Lives of the Caesars, Plutarch’s biographies of Alexander and Caesar, 3 Maccabees, the Apocalypse of Abraham, the Gospel According to Mary, Acts of John, 1 Esdras, Psalms 154 and 155, Pseudo-Philo’s Biblical Antiquities, Testament of Moses, Gospel of Peter, Muratorian Canon, and Philo’s On Rewards and Punishments). Many more such examples could be listed, even if the proper interpretations of the evidence for these examples are debated. 54  Bo Johnson “On the Masoretic Text at the Beginning of the First Book of Samuel,” Svensk Exegetisk Årsbok 41–42 (1976–1977): 130–37, cited in Anneli Aejmelaeus, “Corruption or Correction? Textual Development in the MT of 1 Samuel 1,” in Textual Criticism and Dead Sea Scrolls Studies in Honour of Julio Trebolle Barrera: Florilegium Complutense, ed. Andrés Piquer Otero and Pablo A. Torijano Morales, JSJSup 157 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 1–17, esp. 9–10. 55  Metzger and Ehrman, Text of the New Testament, 326; and Croy, Mutilation, who argues that the original beginning was also lost and restored. 56  H. Friis Johansen and Edward W. Whittle, Aeschylus—The Suppliants, 3 vols. (Copenhagen: Gyldendalske Boghandel, 1980), 1:63–67; West, Textual Criticism, 27. 57  Sebastiano Timpanaro, The Genesis of Lachmann’s Method, trans. Glenn W. Most (Chicago: University of Chicago, 2005), 105–8. 58  Michael W. Holmes, “Working with an Open Textual Tradition: Challenges in Theory and Practice,” in The Textual History of the Greek New Testament: Changing Views in Contemporary Research, ed. Klaus Wachtel and idem (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011), 65–78, esp. 70 n. 28.

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and Standard Babylonian versions of Etana can be traced back to incorrect restorations of the text of a damaged exemplar in the tradition behind the only known copy of the latter version.59 My point in mentioning these examples is not to argue that in any of these specific cases the proposed solution of copying from a damaged exemplar is superior or inferior to other possible explanations, but only to illustrate the potential significance of the problem for understanding the textual histories of ancient works. Since we know that scribes occasionally copied damaged manuscripts and have numerous documented cases of their treatment of these defective exemplars, textual critics cannot safely assume that such realities did not affect the texts they are studying. This is not to say that we should see a damaged exemplar behind every blank space or textual variant, but only to say that the possibility should be consciously factored into our textual analyses. Of course, in the end, each case must be judged on the basis of its merits. But it cannot be doubted that the ancient copying of defective exemplars is one of many vicissitudes that a text likely faced in the course of its transmission.

Concluding Reflections

Having surveyed four general approaches (sometimes employed in combination) that can be documented for scribes’ treatment of defective exemplars, we are now in a position to draw a few concluding inferences. Explicit paratextual comments and leaving blank space both reflect a conservative, “nothing-butthe-facts” scribal approach to the text. The former approach passes on to readers clearer critical tools for understanding the prior state of the text. The latter implicitly alerts future readers to the problem and seems designed to allow for later processes of supplementation, whereby a corrector would presumably insert the correct text from another manuscript. This difference may perhaps help explain the apparent preference for paratextual comments in texts with cuneiform signs impressed on clay tablets and leaving blank space in texts written in ink on papyrus or parchment, since the former would be much more difficult to supplement once the tablets had been hardened. A more extensive study of the phenomenon would be necessary to provide a more statistically significant data set to confirm or refute this initial impression, however. Nevertheless, the similarity of scribal approaches documented across a wide 59  Claus Wilcke, “Die Anfänge der akkadischen Epen,” ZA 67 (1977): 153–216, esp. 211–14. Cf. Worthington, Principles, 24.

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range of time periods, languages, literatures, and physical media is striking, and I have no doubt that many more such parallels could be cited upon further investigation. The ambiguity of most of the evidence makes it very difficult to know how often defective texts were restored by subsequent copyists, but it cannot be doubted that such restorations did at times occur. The question naturally arises as to whether or not attempted conjectural restorations reflect a freer approach to copying the text than leaving blank spaces or paratextual comments. I would suggest that this was typically not the case, however, since the scribes’ dilemma was forced upon them by unusual circumstances outside of their control and their motivation was typically restorative, rather than innovative. Furthermore, these attempted restorations were probably mostly not arbitrary, but reflected reasoned conclusions based on the resources available to the scribes at the time, including such factors as any remaining visible traces of text on the exemplar, prior content knowledge, literary expectations, and contextual aids. Thus, they reflect a slightly more bold, critical, or editorial scribal approach to the text than might be expected under normal copying circumstances, but still not the intentional, free rewriting we see in some traditions. The copyists who utilized this methodology were willing to accept a degree of risk inherent in the act of restoration, but probably only to a point. My study of the scribal practices reflected in 1QIsaa in particular leads me tentatively to suggest that the decisions of at least this copyist to restore the missing text of his exemplar were directly proportional to his confidence in his ability to accurately restore the text. The more confident he was of his ability to restore the text accurately, the more likely he was to attempt its restoration. On the other hand, when he lacked confidence in his ability to restore the text accurately, he was more likely to refrain from attempting such restorations. In this regard, it is perhaps noteworthy that most of the examples of attempted restorations from this manuscript come from narrative passages, thematically prominent passages, or passages with similar parallels elsewhere. The theory that such restorations may simply reflect exceptional critical engagement within a generally conservative scribal approach is helpful for explaining how conservative and restorative practices can be observed within the same manuscript written by the same scribe operating in the same mode of text production. These scribes were acting as copyists, except when the nature of their materials forced them to take on an editorial role. Even those engaged in the intentional editing, revising, or rewriting of textual traditions, however, would still occasionally be faced with the same dilemma of working with a damaged exemplar.

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In the end, it seems clear that the ancient copying of defective exemplars must be factored into studies both of individual manuscripts and text-critical investigations of literary traditions. The preliminary taxonomy provided in this essay should provide an organized starting point for textual scholars to appreciate the wide variety of scribal approaches to the problem and alert them to additional interpretive possibilities they may never have considered before. An increased appreciation of this phenomenon and a nuanced incorporation of it as one of many possible mechanisms for inducing textual change are sure to enrich textual scholarship and help us better understand the texts we study.

Das Jubiläenbuch als Erzählung, Mose als Schreiber: Diachrone Beobachtungen zu einem synchronen Ansatz Simone Paganini Das Jubiläenbuch gehört in die Kategorie der „Rewritten Scripure“-Texte. Seine Autoren schreiben nicht nur Erzählungen und Gesetzestexte aus dem Pentateuch fort, sie verwenden die alttestamentlichen Perikopen, um eine ganz andere und neue Komposition zu schaffen.1 Das Jubiläenbuch präsentiert sich vom Beginn an als eine Erzählung. Im Prolog liest man nämlich: „Dies ist die Rede der Einteilung der Tage des Gesetzes und des Zeugnisses für die Ereignisse der Jahre.“ Außerdem beginnt anschließend mit der Wendung „Und es geschah“ sowie mit der wiederholten Redeeinleitung „Da redete der Herr zu Mose und sagte …“ das erste Kapitel. Einer der Hauptmerkmale des Buches ist dennoch die innere Verbindung zwischen der Narrative und den Gesetzestexten. In diesem Zusammenhang bietet das Jubiläenbuch ein ähnliches Bild, wie die Texte des Pentateuchs ab Exod 16. Nun werden aber auch die Erzählungen des Genesisbuches mit Vorschriften und Gesetzen vervollständigt. In Zusammenhang mit der Präsentation der Erzählung werden Gesetze hinzugefügt, sodass diese nur noch im Kontext der Narrative ihre Berechtigung haben und verständlich werden. Die Widersprüche, die dabei entstehen, wurden entweder harmonisiert, oder als Folge von Interpolationen oder von unterschiedlichen exegetischen Traditionen erklärt. Die Rechthermeneutik wird stets nur klar, wenn die Erzählung als Bestandteil der juridischen Botschaft wahrgenommen wird.2 Im Zusammenhang mit dieser Fragestellung ist es allerdings zunächst ­notwendig—wenngleich nicht im Detail, um die Grenze dieses Aufsatzes nicht zu sprengen—sich mit dem zugrundeliegenden methodischen Ansatz zu beschäftigen. Innerhalb des Panoramas der Studien zu den Handschriften vom Toten Meer wird der synchronen Sichtweise relativ wenig Platz eingeräumt und derartige Studien werden zum Teil missverstanden bzw. als naiv

1  Sidnie White Crawford, Rewriting Scripture in Second Temple Times (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans 2008), 61–62. 2   Dominik Markl, “Narrative Rechtshermeneutik als methodische Herausforderung des Pentateuch,” ZAR 11 (2005): 107–21.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi:10.1163/9789004376397_009

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und wenig fruchtbringend gebrandmarkt.3 Die in diesem Aufsatz verwendete erzählanalytische Methode zeigt—abgesehen von allen berechtigten Fragen zur Textentstehung—dass die angeführten Beobachtungen ganz neue Arbeitsfelder eröffnen und durchaus eine wichtige Ergänzung zur diachronen Untersuchung sein können (und sollen). Ein derartiger Ansatz ist selbstverständlich hilfreich, auch im Zusammenhang mit der Arbeit an anderen Schriften vom Toten Meer. Michael Segal hat in der Einleitung zu seiner Dissertation zum Jubiläenbuch4 einen neuen durchaus berechtigten literar-kritischen Ansatz vorgeschlagen. Seine Arbeit gilt als Meilenstein der Jubiläenbuch-Forschung und mit sehr guten Beobachtungen untermauert er die literarische Entwicklung des Werkes. Und dennoch bleibt die berechtigte Frage, ob die inhaltlichen und konzeptuellen Widersprüche nicht auch anders gelöst werden können. Die These von Segal ist in ihrer grundlegenden Konzeption unbestreitbar. Das Jubiläenbuch ist ein gewachsenes Werk, es ist ein “compound of different tradition and sources”5 und dennoch hat die redaktionelle Arbeit eine Komposition geliefert, die als kohärentes Werk gelesen werden wollte (und will). Diese Annahme gilt nicht nur für das Jubiläenbuch, sondern auch für viele andere Schriften aus den qumranischen Höhlen. Während in der Tat die große Mehrheit dieser Kompositionen eine durchwachsene diachrone Genese und Entwicklung aufweist, ist es durchaus möglich, sie als kohärente Texte zu verstehen und ihre Bedeutung auf der Ebene des Endtextes auch zu erörtern.6

3  In diesem Zusammenhang sei nur auf die ausführliche Behandlung meiner Studie zur Tempelrolle (Simone Paganini, „Nicht darfst du zu diesen Wörtern etwas hinzufügen“: Die Rezeption des Deuteronomiums in der Tempelrolle: Sprache, Autoren und Hermeneutik, BZAR 11 [Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2009]) durch Bernard M. Levinson (A More Perfect Torah: At the Intersection of Philology and Hermeneutics in Deuteronomy and the Temple Scroll, CSHB 1 [Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns 2013], 81–93) hingewiesen. Natürlich sind viele seiner Beobachtungen korrekt, dennoch besteht die Hauptschwierigkeit der Beobachtungen Levinsons nicht so sehr im Detail, sondern in der Wahrnehmung meines Ansatzes. So sind z. B. in einer synchronen Sichtweise die unterschiedlichen Beobachtungen zur Valenz der Tempelrolle keine Widersprüche, sondern Zeichen der Komplexität des Werkes. 4  Michael Segal, The Book of Jubilees: Rewritten Bible, Redaction, Ideology and Theology, JSJSup 117 (Leiden: Brill 2007), 21–35. 5  Segal, The Book of Jubilees, 35. 6  Ein derartiger Ansatz ist innovativ. Im deutschsprachigen Raum wird gerade das Projekt einer Kommentarreihe zu einigen Handschriften geplant, die sich eines synchronen Zuganges bedient. Hauptherausgeber ist der Qumran-Spezialist Ulrich Dahmen.

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Der methodische Ansatz dieser Arbeit liegt gerade darin, das Jubiläenbuch als Gesamtwerk zu lesen und die Beobachtungen auf der Ebene des Endtextes zu erzielen. Um die Grenze eines relativ kurzen Aufsatzes nicht zu sprengen, wird dennoch nur dem ersten Kapitel Beachtung geschenkt und dabei insbesondere auf die Gestalt Mose fokussiert. In einem ersten Abschnitt wird eine kurze Darstellung der Problematik der Beziehung zwischen Erzählung und Rechtstext behandelt, in der Folge wird Jub. 1 in Zusammenhang mit dem Prozess der Autorisierung sowie der Verschriftlichung betrachtet. Dabei kann man sich auch fragen, wie die Rolle des Mose gewertet wird und welche Gruppierung innerhalb des Judentums des zweiten Tempels Interesse gehabt hätte, sich eine solche Stellung anzueignen.7

Zwischen Erzählung und Rechtstexten

Wenn die Narrative innerhalb der Gesamtkomposition eine wesentliche Rolle spielt, umso mehr ist sie von Bedeutung innerhalb der Inszenierung in Jub. 1. Mose steigt auf dem Berg, um ein zweites Paar Tafel zu bekommen. Auch wenn der Text von Jub. 1 sich stark an Exod 24:12–18 anlehnt, wird die erzählte Episode nicht als Fortsetzung von Exod 19 verstanden. Mose erhält somit die Tafel des Gesetzes und die himmlischen Tafel an zwei aneinander folgenden Tagen.8 Eines der interessantesten Merkmale des Jubiläenbuches ist in der Folge die Insertion von Rechtstexten—bzw. zum Teil richtigen Gesetzen—innerhalb der Erzelternerzählung.9 Diese Texte bilden allerdings keine Rechtssammlungen 7  Auch in diesem Fall geht es nicht um Vollständigkeit, sondern lediglich um den Versuch, eine mögliche Richtung aufzuzeigen. Die Gestalt des Mose wird im Second Temple Judaism vielfach und differenziert rezipiert. Es ist unmöglich, eine einzige Grundtendenz aufzuzeigen. Der vorliegende Aufsatz beschränkt sich auf einige Hinweise, die zeigen wollen, wie doch seine Autorität keine uneingeschränkte Geltung besaß und wie es durchaus möglich ist, den literarischen Umgang mit seiner Figur als Spiegel gesellschaftlicher und religiöser Auseinandersetzungen zu werten. 8  So auch Segal, The Book of Jubilees, 247. 9  Im Genesisbuch befindet sich auch Rechtsmaterial: Gen 2:2–3 definiert das Sabbat-Gebot, Gen 2:24 behandelt eine eherechtliche Frage, Gen 9:4 berichtet vom Blutgenussverbot, während Gen 17:10–14 die Vorschrift der Beschneidung und ihre unmittelbare Anwendung beschreibt. Im Jubiläenbuch werden solche Passagen übernommen und durch zahlreiche andere erweitert: Jub. 2:17–33; 50:12 (der Sabbat: Exod 31:13–17; 20:10; Num 15:25–26); 3:8–14 (Unreinheit nach der Geburt eines Kindes: Lev 12:2–5); 3:30–31 (Kleidungsvorschriften); 4:2–6 (heimtückische Tötung: Deut 27:24); 4:31–32 (Talio-Gesetz: Deut 24:19–20); 6:15–22

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wie in den Büchern Exodus, Levitikus und Deuteronomium, sondern kommen vereinzelt innerhalb der Erzählung vor. Die Geschichte kann—im Sinn eines Präzedenzfalles—sowohl der Anhaltspunkt für eine rechtliche Erklärung in Form eines Gesetzes sein,10 aber auch den Grund für die Einführung einer Vorschrift beschreiben.11 Es ist an dieser Stelle weder möglich noch sinnvoll, sich in aller Ausführlichkeit mit dem literarischen Prozess der Zusammenfügung von Gesetzestexten innerhalb der Erzelternerzählung12 zu beschäftigen, weshalb lediglich die wesentlichen Merkmalen hervorgehoben werden sollen, die im Jubiläenbuch angeführt werden, um sich gegenüber dem biblischen Text zu profilieren.13 So unterscheiden die Autoren des Jubiläenbuches zwischen ihrer eigenen Komposition und der mosaischen Tora.14 In zwei Passagen wird der biblische Text als „das erste Gesetz“ betitelt (Jub. 2:24; 6:22). In der Folge (Wochenfest); 13:25–27 und 32:9–15 (Zehnten-Gesetz: Deut 12:17–18; 14:22–23); 15:11–14, 23–34 (die Beschneidung: Gen 17); 16:20–31 (Laubhüttenfest); 18:17–19 (Fest der ungesäuerten Brote: Lev 23:6–8); 21:5–20 (Opfervorschriften: Lev 3:10); 28:6–7 (die Heirat der älteren Tochter vor der jüngeren); Jub. 30 (Verbot von Mischehen: Lev 20:2–5); 33:9–20 (sexuelle Beziehung mit der Frau des Vaters: Lev 20:11); 34:12–19 (Versöhnungstag: Lev 16); 41:16–28 (sexuelle Beziehung mit Schwiegermutter oder Schwiegertochter: Lev 20:12); 49 (Pascha: Exod 12). 10  Z. B. die Kleidungsvorschriften in Jub. 3:8–14 haben ihren Ursprung in der Erzählung der Bekleidung von Adam und Eva nach dem Sündenfall. Das Talio-Gesetz (Jub. 4:31–32) argumentiert mit dem Tod Kains durch den Sturz eines Hauses: So wie er Abel mit einem Stein getötet hat, stirbt er erschlagen von Steinen. 11  Z. B. die Einführung des Wochenfestes gründet in der Annahme, Noah habe genau an diesem Tag ein Fest gefeiert (Jub. 6:15–22). Das Vorgehen Labans Jakob gegenüber, als er ihm zuerst die ältere Tochter als Braut gibt, gründet für die Autoren des Jubiläenbuches ganz klar auf einem göttlichen Gesetz (Jub. 28:6–7). 12  Segal, The Book of Jubilees, 273–316, bietet eine sehr gute und ausführliche Darstellung von Methodik und Inhalten. 13  Wenig zielführend ist in diesem Zusammenhang m. E. auch die Diskussion über die diachronen Entstehungsprozesse des Jubiläenbuches. Ich teile im Ganzen die Meinung, dass hier ein einziger Autor bzw. eine einzige Autorengruppe am Werk war. Dazu ausführlich James C. VanderKam, “The Putative Author of The Book of Jubilees,” JSS (1981): 209–17. Sehr treffend fasst Hindy Najman, Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple Judaism, JSJSup 77 (Leiden: Brill, 2003), 65, zusammen: “The narrative of … Jubilees does not betray a complex redactional history but instead portrays a complex series of actions, involving: an already existing collection of heavenly tablets; an angel of the presence who is instructed to dictate the contents of these tablets to Moses, and Moses himself, who assiduously records all that is dictated to him by the angel.” 14  Als mögliche Zeit für die Komposition des Jubiläenbuches kommt das 2. Jh.—zwischen 164 und 100 v. Chr.—in Frage. Dazu ausführlich und treffend James C. Vanderkam, “The

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bezeichnet sich das Jubiläenbuch zumindest indirekt als „zweite“ d.h. „endgültige Tora.“

Jub. 1: Prolog und Inszenierung

Jub. 1 ist als Inszenierung und als wesentlicher Bestandteil der Gesamtkomposition zu verstehen vor allem weil in diesem ersten Abschnitt, die Hauptprotagonisten des Geschehens dargestellt werden: Neben Gott und Mose tritt auch der Engel des Angesichtes hervor. Dies ist umso mehr von Bedeutung, denn zusammen mit diesen drei Protagonisten der Text auch der Inhalt der Mitteilung kommuniziert. Dieser Inhalt ist zunächst nicht näherbestimmt, es handelt sich um „die Einteilungen der Tage des Gesetzes und des Zeugnisses … als er [Mose] hinaufstieg zu empfangen die Steintafeln des Gesetzes und Gebotes“ (Jub. Prolog). Unmittelbar danach wird die gleiche Botschaft innerhalb einer direkten Rede noch einmal bestätigt: „und ich [JHWH] werde dir geben die zwei steinernen Tafel des Gesetzes und des Gebotes“ (Jub. 1:1), um gegen Ende des ersten Kapitels beide Elemente ausdrücklich zu verbinden: „die Tafel der Einteilung der Jahre von der Schöpfung des Gesetzes“ (Jub. 1:29). Die Inszenierung (Jub. 1) ist kunstvoll gestaltet und bildet den Verständ­ nishorizont für das ganze Buch. Die biblische Quelle für das Setting des Jubiläenbuches ist Exod 24:12–18. Das Jubiläenbuch ist demnach die verschriftete göttliche Botschaft, die Mose offenbart wurde, als er am Gipfel des Berges Sinai stand, um das Gesetz in Empfang zu nehmen. Während im Genesisbuch die Geschichte von einem unbekannten Erzähler geschildert wird, macht das Jubiläenbuch klar, dass die Geschehnisse, welche das biblische Gen 1–Exod 19 ausmachen, Mose offenbart wurden, als er JHWH und seinen Engel am Sinai traf.15 Bereits die Lokalisierung am Sinai stellt sich als folgenschwer heraus und— was noch wichtiger ist—als Autorität beanspruchend gegenüber der Lozierung der deuteronomischen Legislation im Lande Moab.16 Die Art der Vermittlung der Gesetze—und der Erzählungen—stellt allerdings die entscheidende Weiche für das hermeneutische Selbstverständnis des Jubiläenbuches. Origin and Purposes of the Book of Jubilees,” in Studies in the Book of Jubilees, ed. Matthias Albani, Jörg Frey, and Armin Lange, TSAJ 65 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), 3–24. 15  Das Jubiläenbuch ist somit auch die älteste Quelle, welche die Idee vermittelt, Mose habe Genesis und Exodus selbst geschrieben, James C. Vanderkam, The Book of Jubilees (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 24. 16  Segal, The Book of Jubilees, 273–82.

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Der Prozess der Vermittlung von Erzählung und Gesetz ist dabei singulär und will die Autorität des Textes mit Entschiedenheit untermauern. Das Buch beginnt mit einer in der 3. Person Singular geführten Erzählung. Dieser unbekannte Sprecher tritt noch zweimal in Jub. 1 auf, kommt danach aber nicht mehr vor. In der Folge berichtet Jub. 1 von einem Dialog zwischen JHWH und Mose, die miteinander in direkten Reden kommunizieren. Am Ende von Jub. 1 befielt Gott einem „Engel des Gesichtes“—gemeint ist freilich ein Engel, der bei Gott weilt17—aus nicht näher identifizierten—dennoch an die „steinernen Tafel“ von Exod 24:12 und Dtn 4:13 erinnernden—„himmlischen Tafeln,“ Mose die restlichen Teile des Buches zu diktieren. Jub. 1:29 berichtet, dass der Engel die Tafel nimmt, auf der die verschiedenen Jubiläen angeführt sind, und in Jub. 2:1 findet man die Notiz, dass der Engel zu Mose sagte, er soll alle Worte aufschreiben. Ab dieser Stelle bis zum Ende des Buches ist die Art und Weise der Wiedergabe göttlicher Worte beinahe mechanisch: Der Engel liest aus den himmlischen Tafeln und Mose schreibt genau das auf, was er hört. Es gibt—so die Stoßrichtung der Schrift—keine Möglichkeit, dass sich ein Fehler einschleicht. Die Autorität der Schrift wird somit massiv untermauert. De facto nämlich ist es JHWH selbst, der hinter der Botschaft des Buches steht: Er ruft Mose auf den Berg (Jub. 1:1), Er enthüllt für ihn die „Unterteilungen der Zeiten“ für das Gesetz und die Zeugnisse (Jub. 1:26–29), er spricht direkt zu Mose (Jub. 1:5–18, 22–26), der seinerseits antwortet (Jub. 1:19–21). Wenngleich JHWH die endgültige Quelle des Buches ist, erfährt Mose den Großteil der Botschaft nicht unmittelbar, sondern durch die für die Verschriftung bestimmten Worte eines Engels. Diese Gestalt kommt zum

17  Der mlʾk hpnym gehört zu einer der höchsten Engel-Klassen im Jubiläenbuch (Jub. 2:2, 18). In der Bibel ist die einzige Stelle, wo eine solche Gestalt vorkommt, Jes 63:9 MT, wenngleich diese Passage textkritische Probleme aufweist. In den Qumran-Schriften kommt sie einige Male in der S-Literatur und zweimal in 1QHa vor.  Vielleicht kann hier eine Anspielung an Exod 33:12–16, wo JHWH verspricht „mein Gesicht“—pny—wird das Volk in der Wüste führen, erkannt werden. Jub. 18:10 gibt allerdings Gen 22:11 wörtlich wider, wobei an dieser Stelle statt mlʾk Jhwh—wie im biblischen Text—die erste Person des Sprecher—mlʾk hpnym—vorkommt. An anderen Stellen werden dem mlʾk hpnym Handlungen zugesprochen, die im Genesisbuch von JHWH selbst vollzogen werden (er ist z. B. in Jub. 12:22 derjenige, der Abraham fordert, sein Land zu verlassen). Ausführlichere Beobachtungen sind in James C. VanderKam, “The Angel of The Presence in The Book of Jubilees,” DSD 7 (2000): 378–93 und Hindy Najman, “Angels at Sinai: Exegesis, Theology and Interpretive Authority,” DSD 7 (2000): 313–33 zu lesen.

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ersten Mal in Jub. 1:27 vor und erscheint im Lauf des Buches immer wieder, meist in Zusammenhang mit dem Beginn eines neuen Abschnitts.18

Autorität und deren Schreiber

Trotz der Unbestimmtheit der vermittelten Botschaft liegt das Jubiläenbuch viel Wert darauf, die Autorität des Inhaltes zu bekräftigen. Zunächst ist bereits der Ort der Offenbarung—der Sinai—ein Element, der als Autoritätsstiftend gelten kann,19 dann wird aber vor allem die Verschriftlichungstätigkeit als wesentlicher Moment hervorgehoben.20 Im Unterschied zum biblischen Mose, der aktiv nicht nur interpretiert, sondern das Gesetz niederschreibt, ist seine Rolle im Jubiläenbuch—wenn man vom Dialog mit JHWH am Beginn des Buches absieht—grundsätzlich passiv: er soll schreiben,21 seine—im Deuteronomium so wesentliche— Auslegungstätigkeit ist faktisch nicht mehr vorhanden.22 Zunächst ist in Jub. 1:1 18  Jub. 2:1 (Schöpfung und Sabbat); 6:19–22 (Wochenfest); 6:35–38 (Festkalender); 15:33 (Beschneidung); 16:5 (Die Zerstörung von Sodom und Gomorra); 30:12, 17, 21 (Sichem und die Mischehe); 48:4–13 (der Auszug aus Ägypten); 50:1–2, 4, 6, 13 (Sabbat und abschließende chronologische Angaben). 19  Mit ähnlichen Beobachtungen auch George J. Brooke, “Moving Mountains: From Sinai to Jerusalem,” in The Significance of Sinai: Traditions about Divine Revelation in Judaism and Christianity, ed. idem, Hindy Najman, and Loren T. Stuckenbruck, TBN 12 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 73–89. 20   Hindy Najman, “Interpretation as Primordial Writing: Jubilees and Its Authority Conferring Strategies,” JSJ 30 (1999): 379–410. 21  In Jub. 1:5, 7, 26; 2:1; 23:32; 33:18 ist Mose ausdrücklich als Subjekt des Schreibens genannt (ktb Qal), in Jub. 1:27; 30:12, 21; 50:6 kommt hingegen der Engel als „Schreiber“ vor und nicht als derjenige, der „schreiben lässt“ (ktb Hiphil). Dieser Unterschied ist sehr wahrscheinlich Folge eines Übersetzungsfehlers—der vollständige Text des Jubiläenbuch ist uns nur in der äthiopischen Version erhalten geblieben, die allerdings ihrerseits eine Übersetzung aus der leider nicht mehr erhaltenen griechischen Übersetzung der hebräischen Vorlage darstellt. Diese ist in den qumranischen Höhlen bloß fragmentarisch wiedergefundenen worden. Im hebräischen Konsonantentext unterscheiden sich nämlich die Form des Infinitiv Constructus Qal (lktwb) von der Hiphil-form (lktyb) nur minimal. Verwechselungen zwischen yod und vav sind vielfach belegt. 22  Zu Recht betont Eva Mroczek, “Moses, David and Scribal Revelation: Preservation and Renewal in Second Temple Jewish Textual Traditions,” in Brooke, Najman, and Stuckenbruck, Significance of Sinai, 91–115 (109): „Moses, as pious scribe, is a textualizer and transmitter of Torah.“ Die gleiche Meinung vertritt auch Lawrence H. Schiffman, “The Temple Scroll and the Halakhic Pseudepigrapha of the Second Temple Period,” in

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JHWH derjenige, der als Schreiber tätig ist, Mose soll den Kindern Israel— ganz in biblischer Tradition—lediglich das Gesetz lehren. Die Schreibtätigkeit Gottes soll Mose allerdings wiederholen (Jub. 1:5–7). Auch in diesem Fall folgt das Jubiläenbuch der biblischen Erzählung: Mose soll hören, was Gott ihm sagt, und soll anschließend alles in einem Buch niederschreiben. Erst nach der Bitte Mose, das Volk für seine Sünde nicht zu bestrafen (Jub. 1:19–22), ändert JHWH seine Meinung und schaltet einen Engel ein, der aus den von ihm selbst beschriebenen himmlischen Tafeln vorlesen soll, damit Mose, wie ein braver Schüler, der seine Diktatübung absolviert, schreiben kann. Der kreative hermeneutische Prozess, der in der Verschriftung des Deuteronomiums noch klar erkennbar ist, wird im Jubiläenbuch völlig ausgeklammert. Mose darf das Gesetz schreiben, es aber weder interpretieren, noch auslegen und auch nicht aktualisieren. Legitimation und Autorität also besitzt die Verschriftungstätigkeit des Mose nur, insofern er getreu die Worte des Engels aufschreibt.23 Nichtsdestotrotz aber wird die Rolle Mose als „Schreiber“ stark hervorgehoben. Die vermittelten Gesetzestexte des Jubiläenbuches interpretieren Teile der biblischen Legislation innerhalb des Pentateuchs24 und weiten sie aus. Die Quelle dieser Erweiterungen wird von JHWH selbst angegeben: die himmlischen Tafel (Jub. 1:29). Der Inhalt dieser Tafel, den Mose diktiert bekommt, ist der Text des Jubiläenbuches selbst (Jub. 2–50) und besonders—wie im Henochbuch, wo die himmlischen Tafel ebenfalls vorkommen, zu lesen ist— „alle Vorschriften für die Menschheit, und für alle, die im Fleisch geboren werden auf der Erde für die Generationen in Ewigkeit“ (1 En. 81:2). Die Autorität der Gesetzgebung innerhalb des Jubiläenbuches hängt sehr stark von seiner Verschriftung ab. Auch im Jubiläenbuch wird JHWH eine Schreibertätigkeit zugesagt: die himmlischen Tafeln, aus denen der Engel vorliest, hat er selbst geschrieben (ktb Qal), die Tätigkeit des Engels dabei wird auch mit der gleichen Wurzel—allerdings im Hiphil—beschrieben: Er soll schreiben lassen. Schließlich muss auch Mose—als drittes und letztes Glied

Pseudepigraphic Perspectives: The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls: Proceedings of the International Symposium of the Orion Center for the Study of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Associated Literature, 12–14 January, 1997, ed. Esther G. Chazon and Michael Stone, STDJ 31 (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 121–31 (129): „Moses pseudepigraphon does not claim Moses as the actual author.“ Zur Rolle Mose als Schreiber und dennoch nicht als Autor ist auch Najman, “Interpretation as Primordial Writing,” 403, von Interesse. 23  Najman, Seconding Sinai, 60–62. 24  Siehe dazu VanderKam, The Book of Jubilees, 23–85, 90.

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dieser eigenartigen Autorisation schaffenden Reihenfolge—schreiben (ktb Qal), was ihm der Engel aus den himmlischen Tafeln vorliest. Inhalt der Tafel ist zunächst Jub. 2–50, in weiterer Folge aber das ganze Gesetz. Die Rolle Mose ist lediglich—wie Hindy Najman eindrucksvoll ausdrückt—„that of the amanuensis.“25 JHWH besitzt die höchste Autorität, die seiner Schrift unmittelbar weitergegeben wird. Die Autorität von Mose als Schreiber steht ganz klar unterhalb der Autorität dessen, was er schreibt. Die im Jubiläenbuch vermittelte und von Mose verschriftete Tora genießt demnach eine höhere Stellung als Mose selbst.26 Auf der Ebene der Handlungsanalyse entwickelt sich somit eine klassische Dreieck-Konstellation, die innerhalb der Erzählung eine spürbare Spannung bildet.27 Mose wird nicht nur als Schreiber entmachtet, sondern auch als Sprecher. Nur an einer Stelle berichtet das Jubiläenbuch von einer Rede Mose an Jhwh. In Jub. 1:19–21 tritt er als Fürbitter vor, in einem Moment der Erzählung, wo er sich allein mit Gott konfrontieren kann. Diese rede, die nach dem Muster von Dtn 9:26–29 gestaltet ist,28 bewirkt eine seltsame Folge. Nachdem Mose seine Anliegen deponiert hat, empfängt er eine neue Rede Gottes, die in zwei Abschnitten mit eigenen Redeeinleitung (Jub. 1:22 und Jub. 1:27) gegliedert ist. Gerade in dem Moment, als Mose seine Rolle als Mittler zwischen Volk und Gott innehat, führt der zweite Teil der Gottesrede den Engel des Angesichtes. Diese dritte Gestalt übernimmt plötzlich und unerwartet die Rolle, die im Deuteronomium Mose zustand. Ausgehend von diesen Beobachtungen und von der damit verbundenen Wertung scheint es evident zu sein, dass bei einer solchen Darstellung das Ziel des Jubiläenbuches keineswegs eine Verherrlichung der Rolle des Mose als Schreiber sein kann.29 Mose wird vielmehr in seiner Autorität gemindert 25  Najman, Seconding Sinai, 66–67, in Anlehnung an John Strugnell, “Moses-Pseudepigrapha at Qumran: 4Q375, 4Q376, and Similar Works,” in Archaeology and History in the Dead Sea Scrolls: The New York University Conference in Memory of Yigael Yadin, ed. Lawrence H. Schiffman, JSPSup 8, JSOT/ASOR Monographs 2 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990), 221–56. 26  VanderKam, The Book of Jubilees, 90: “No room is left for mistakes [und auch für Interpretationen, SP] in this process of revelation.” 27  Stephanie Bachorz, “Zur Analyse der Figuren,” in Einführung in die Erzähltextanalyse: Kategorien, Modelle, Probleme, ed. Peter Wenzel (Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag, 2004), 51–67 (56). 28  Segal, The Book of Jubilees, 247–51. 29  Ähnlich auch James C. VanderKam, “Moses Trumping Moses: Making the Book of Jubilees,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls: Transmission of Traditions and Production of Texts, ed. Sarianna Metso, Hindy Najman, and Eileen Schuller, STDJ 92 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 25–44.

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und seine Position als Ausleger des Gesetzes in Frage gestellt.30 Innerhalb der vielfältigen jüdischen Gesellschaft aus der Zeit des zweiten Tempels findet hier eine kritische Stimme Ausdruck, die Mose—und was seine Figur b­ edeutete— hinterfragt. Er bleibt zwar als Schreiber tätig, seine Rolle ist allerdings nunmehr passiv.31 Man kann diese kritische Gruppe nicht mit einer uns bereits bekannte Partei innerhalb der jüdischen Gesellschaft identifizieren, ihre Merkmale sind dennoch unverkennbar: Mose gilt weder als musterhafter Ausleger des Gesetzes, noch als Vorbild eines Propheten und noch weniger als Repräsentant einer „Schreiber-Gruppe.“ Er verkörpert vielmehr eine wenig bedeutende Gestalt, die keine eigene Autorität besitzt, sondern lediglich den Inhalt der himmlischen Tafeln diktiert bekommt. Das Jubiläenbuch bezeugt damit mit hoher Wahrscheinlichkeit die Existenz von einer „Mose-kritischen“ Strömung im Judentum des zweiten Tempels. Ausblick Abschließend können aus den oben angeführten Beobachtungen drei Schlussfolgerungen gezogen werden. (a) Mose wird entmachtet. Er sollte schreiben, dennoch bewirkt seine Fürbitte eine Veränderung in der Gesinnung Gottes. Nicht Mose, sondern der Engel ist plötzlich Empfänger seiner Botschaft. Seine Schreibertätigkeit ist zwar noch angeführt, sie scheint allerdings nicht mehr so wichtig zu sein wie z. B. in der deuteronomischen Tradition. (b) Nach der ersten Szene und den ganzen Jubiläenbuch hindurch spricht Mose nicht mehr. Seine Rolle bleibt die eines Empfängers. Er ist nicht mehr, wie in der Tora, der alleinige Mittler der Offenbarung. Er wiederfährt das gleiche Schicksal des Volkes (Strafe und Rettung; Jub. 1:13, 18). Gott erfüllt zwar seine Bitte (Jub. 1:21 und 23), stuft ihn aber zurück: das Gesetz wird nun durch den Engel vermittelt. Mose ist nicht mehr der alleinige autoritativer Ausleger des Gesetzes, sondern nur deren Schreiber. Diese Position dient allerdings nicht dazu, seine prophetische Rolle zu mindern, um eine „Schreiber-Gruppe“ zu unterstützen. Seine Schreibertätigkeit ist auch keine explizite Auszeichnung, sondern vielmehr Ausdruck einer kritischen Haltung ihm gegenüber. 30  Mroczek, “Moses, David and Scribal Revelation,” 109–10 betont zwar, dass auch im Jubiläenbuch Mose als Schreiber tätig ist, seine Tätigkeit ist allerdings gemindert, denn “first, however, it is not Moses, but God who acts as a scribe.” 31  Najman, Seconding Sinai, 62.

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(c) Die so gestaltete Erzählung lässt erkennen, dass im Hintergrund sehr wahrscheinlich Auseinandersetzungen zwischen unterschiedlichen Gruppierungen innerhalb des Judentums des zweiten Tempels eine Rolle spielen. Wenn man der kritischen Positionierung Mose gegenüber Beachtung geschenkt wird, ist zwar schwierig diese Gruppe eindeutig zu benennen. Eine gemeinsame Tradition mit anderen Schriften der Yahad—wie S oder D—bzw. anderen Schriften aus der judäischen Wüste—wie z. B. die Tempelrolle oder 4QMMT—ist jedoch zweifelsohne erkennbar.

Reading Sectarian Spaces: Critical Spatial Theory and the Case of the Yahad Alison Schofield As scholars of antiquity, we frequently succumb to the temptation to be “sucked in … by singularity.”1 That is, we gravitate towards certain historical questions that dominate much of our conversation, such as whether something happened and if so, when, where and by whom. Yet we should not neglect other analytical frameworks available to us beyond simply that of the historical. For, as David Harvey recognizes, not even time or history can be assigned meaning independent of material processes and their spatial results.2 Such approaches are entirely relevant when studying the authors of the Dead Sea Scrolls, or Yahad, whom we have known first and foremost through their textual remains. What can we know of their spatial existence? Certainly the Scrolls are not simply disembodied relics of a textual past only to be mined for historical data. Living bodies interacted with and reproduced these texts and the meaning held therein. In this brief study, I only crack the door to a room full of questions about the interface between sectarian bodies and space. I draw from critical spatial theory, which seeks to understand how real (and imagined) communities experienced and produced meaningful spaces, and in particular, I engage spatial theorists Edward Soja and Michel de Certeau in conversation with Serekh haYaḥad and Miqṣat Maʿaśê ha-Torah. While acknowledging that our knowledge of the Yahad comes primarily from textual sources, I also question how they may have engaged with their literary imagination of space and in what ways they physically reproduced these imagined spaces in their own daily lives. For this sect, as other social groups, must have necessarily produced their own real and unique spaces because, as Mark George emphasizes, if “new configurations of society are to survive as more than mere slogans or ideas, then they

1  Meagan Morris, “Metamorphoses at Sidney Tower,” New Formations 11 (1990): 5–18 (15). 2  David Harvey, The Condition of Postmodernity: An Enquiry into the Origins of Cultural Change (Oxford: Blackwell, 1989), 203–4.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi:10.1163/9789004376397_010

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must be capable of creating their own social space, at least insofar as they claim to be ‘real’ and have a social existence.”3 In reality, the members of the Yahad sat in tension not only between lived and imagined space, but also in a spatial tension between the local and universal, between earth and the heavenly spheres, and in particular, between desert and city. Of the latter, in particular, I contend that the sectarians negotiated these liminal spaces through a regimented practice of space. That is to say, the embodied praxis of the disciplined sectarian bodies, as described in the penal codes and in MMT, produced for the sectarians an orderly and meaningful space, one which helped them to navigate their somewhat-ambiguous priestly place in the world.

Theoretical Grounding

First, it is important to remember that all (social) space is socially produced (“l’espace [social] est un produit [social]”4). Space is created by social relations, in between natural and cultural objects. It is a production, an achievement, rather than a reality in which things or people are located or “found.” In this way, space is never simply a neutral backdrop or simply “where things happen.” It is a reflection of the deeper power systems at play beneath the same social collective that produces space. Space “reflects, or re-presents, the society that produced it,”5 and in this way, social spaces are meaningfully encoded to reflect the underlying cultural processes and values at work. Therefore, the spaces of the Yahad, both conceptual and physical, are never neutral, but reflective of the values and power structures of the sect and its contemporaries. Second, therefore, space functions on many levels, from its physical reality to its conceptual or symbolic value; and the spaces of the Yahad can be analyzed as such. In the realm of critical spatial theory, the most prominent model of understanding space is that of a “trialectics of spatiality” proposed by

3  Mark George, Israel’s Tabernacle as Social Space, SBL Ancient Israel and Its Literature 2 (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2009), 42, following Henri Lefebvre, La Production de l’espace, 4th ed. (Paris: Anthropos, 2000), 66. 4  Lefebvre, La production de l’espace, 35 (English Translation: Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space, trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith [Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1991], 26). 5  Lefebvre, La production de l’espace, 20.

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Edward Soja, who draws from his predecessor, Henri Lefebvre.6 Both Lefebvre and Soja rejects any simple, Cartesian binary model of real space versus ideal space. Rather, space is a product of both; for Lefebvre, space is a physical reality that simultaneously “operate[s] … on processes from which it cannot separate itself because it is a product of them.”7 These dimensions to space are what Lefebvre and his student Soja describe roughly as “Firstspace,” “Secondspace,” and “Thirdspace,” the latter of which is the topic of this paper, roughly equivalent to what Lefebvre calls “lived space” (“l’espace vécu”). Firstspace is what we normally associate with the world around us, “real” space, or that which is seen or empirically measured (an example would be a road or highway or the physical structure of a house). Secondspace reflects the conceptual aspects of space, or mental space, and rests primarily on representational language or drawings (an example would be a road map or tourist guide or architect’s blueprint). This would be in many ways how one would imagine space, such as we may see in descriptions in the scrolls or other texts. Thirdspace is where the first two categories meet, that is, that symbolic space where our imagination meets the physical world. Following our examples above, this would be equivalent to the experience of the “freedom of the road,” or of what makes a house a “home.”8 In reality, all of us experience the physical, measurable world filtered through the lens of our mental or conceptual interpretation of that reality. Thirdspace as a category helps to try to qualify and understand this lived experience of space in a much more dynamic and embodied way. Revisiting the Yahad through the lens of Thirdspace reminds us to see them as sentient, embodied beings, who would have experienced the world somewhere between this discursive space and their physical environment.

6  Edward Soja has risen to prominence as one of the world’s foremost spatial theorists, expanding his influence beyond his work as a post-modern political geographer and urban planner. See, for example, Edward W. Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-and-Imagined Places (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 1996); idem, Postmodern Geographies: The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory (London: Verso, 1989); idem, “Thirdspace: Expanding the Scope of the Geographical Imagination,” in Architecturally Speaking: Practices of Art, Architecture and the Everyday, ed. Alan Read (London: Routledge, 2000), 13–30. Soja is heavily indebted to his predecessor, Lefebvre, who had a prolific career as a French philosopher and sociologist, publishing sixty books and over two hundred articles on many topics including the production of social space. 7  Lefebvre, The Production of Space, 66. 8  George, Israel’s Tabernacle as Social Space, 177.

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Spatial Practices and the Experience of Space

To access the lived experience of an ancient group, such as the Yahad, is not easy, if even entirely possible. Yet we are in an unusual position to have detailed descriptions of the actions of community members. Indeed, actions are at the very core of social space production. In his chapter “Walking the City” in The Practice of Everyday Life, Michel de Certeau reminds us that space is not merely a neutral, inert feature of the built environment, but, rather, is activated by the “rhetorical” practices of users and passers-by.9 Actions define spaces, or as de Certeau notes, “space is a practiced place.”10 In such a way, the movements of cooking and food preparation may define a space as a kitchen, or the building of an altar and sacrifice of animals may turn a location into something sacred or cultic. While we are left with no sectarian bodies moving in space, a few texts, such as the Serekh, suggest how the Yahad may have lived out or practiced space. For instance, the Serekh describes their annual covenant renewal ceremony: The priests shall enter in order foremost, one behind the other, according to their spirits. And the Levites shall enter after them. In third place all the people shall enter in order, one after another, in thousands, hundreds, fifties and tens, so that each Israelite may know his standing in God’s Community in conformity with an eternal plan. And no-one shall move down from his rank nor move up from the place of his lot.11 1QS 2:19–23

One is struck by the order of ceremony in this text. At least on the level of conceptual space (Secondspace), the movements of the group members are presented as orderly, regulated, and hierarchical, based on their relative standings within the community. The results of such rankings within the community were reflected and simultaneously re-presented within the spatial practices of 9  Cf. Brian Morris, “What We Talk About When We Talk About ‘Walking in the City’,” Cultural Studies 18 (2004): 675–97 (677). 10   Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, trans. Steven Randall (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 117 (italics original). David Canter (The Psychology of Place [London: The Architectural Press, 1977], 9–10, 158–59) suggests that “we have not fully identified the place until we know … what behaviour is associated with, or it is anticipated will be housed in, a given locus”; cf. as well Philip Sheldrake, Spaces for the Sacred: Place, Memory and Identity (London: SCM Press, 2001), 12. 11  Translations follow Florentino García Martínez and Eibert J.C. Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1997–1998).

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the community at large. Their power to evaluate one’s behavior (“their spirit and their deeds” [1QS 5:23–24]), and therefore to promote or demote each member, was written in space, or more precisely, in the spaces produced when the members moved in such a fashion. From a Thirdspace, or lived experience, anyone who experienced such a communal ceremony would have lived out the very power structure of the community. And, as the text itself claims, this order of ceremony was so that “each Israelite may know his standing in God’s community,” inscribing a sort of embodied knowledge within each participant. Similar expressions of regimented movement are found in the regular assembly of community members, where “everyone shall sit according to his rank before him…. Each one by his rank: The priests will sit down first, the elders next and the remainder of all the people will sit down in order or rank” (1QS 6:4–9), and none may speak until those of higher rank allow it (10–11). Again, the symbolic power of individual community members was both reflected and reproduced in their spatial practices. Further on the level of symbolic space, the experience for “those who freely volunteer to join the community” was to be “ranked and limited in their access to the cleansing waters and the pure food of the men of holiness” (1QS 5:13). Such a hierarchical arrangement mimicked the progressively sacred and analogously restricted areas of the Temple, requiring increasingly stringent levels of purity. But this time the priestly authority was inscribed in and through the bodies and movements of the sectarians themselves. They may not have recreated the restricted areas of the Temple in physical space, but on a Thirdspace level, they reproduced the logic of a priestly experience wherever their community members convened and may have practiced space in such a manner described in the Serekh. From the biblical priestly accounts, we find that priestly spaces were highly regulated ones.12 From the Bible, as well as other historical and archaeological accounts, we immediately recognize that priestly spaces possessed their own inner logic—namely an analytical space built on the hierarchical organization of strictly maintained boundaries. Yet this type of sectarian regimentation of

12  For example, see the discussion of the organization of priestly spaces and the place of the body within that realm in Sarah J. Melcher, “Blemish and Perfection of the Body in the Priestly Literature and Deuteronomy,” Journal of Religion, Disability and Health 16 (2012): 1–15. Note also the discussions of space in George, Israel’s Tabernacle as Social Space and Willam R. Millar, “A Bakhtinian Reading of Narrative Space and Its Connection to Social Space: The Case of the Levites,” in Constructions of Space I: Theory, Narrative and Geography, ed. Jon L. Berquist and Claudia V. Camp, LHBOTS 481 (London: T&T Clark, 2008), 129–40.

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space reflected in the Serekh was not built around a Temple, as best as we can surmise from the text itself. Its concentric circles of holiness, assigned to the Levites, Aaronites and Zadokites, were maintained translated into the proper praxis held by each of these groups, real or imagined. Genealogy may have provided the raw materials for the creation of a Yahad priest, but proper behavior legitimated one.

The Penal Code and the Regimentation of Space

Other specific cases of spatial practice are reflected in the “extraordinary everyday,” that is, the penal code found in various sectarian texts. This code reflects highly detailed descriptions of body movements—or better the restriction of those movements. The versions of this code in varying states of preservation in the Serekh, Damascus Document, and 4QMiscellaneous Rules, all of which Table 1

Comparison of the Penal Codesa

Offense

1QS

Lies about property knowingly

[Exclusion] from Exclusion: pure food: 2[00] days; 1 year from punishment: 100 days pure food; fined ¼ food Punishment: Not preserved 6 months

Deceives another

Insults another

Exclusion; Punishment: 1 year Dozes at Punishment: assembly 30 days Bears unjust Punishment: grudge *6 months*, corrected to 1 year Goes naked Punishment: 6 months before others

4QSe

4QDa

Not preserved Exclusion: 1 year; punishment: 6 months? Not preserved Exclusion: 30 days; punishment: 10 days [Punishment: 6 months?]

Punishment: 6 months

Exclusion: 6 [months]

4QDe

4Q265

[Exclusion: 6] months; punishment: ½ food Not preserved [Punishment?]: 30 days Punishment: 30 days

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Table 1 Offense

1QS

Comparison of the Penal Codes (cont.) 4QSe

4QDa

4QDe

4Q265

Exclusion: 30? days; [Exclusion: 30 days?; punishment: punishment: 10 10 days days?] Exclusion Guffaws Punishment: Punishment: Exclusion: 30 days; [Exclusion: [30 days]; 30 days?; foolishly 30 days 30 [days] Punishment: Punishment: punishment: 15 days [15 days] 15 days?] Punishment: Gesticulates Punishment: [Punishment: Punishment: 10 days 10] days [10 days] [10 days] with left hand Allows nakedness to be seen

Punishment: Punishment: 30 days 60 days

Not preserved Exclusion: Exclusion 1 year; from pure [Punishment?] food of the Many: 1 year; punishment Utters a Punishment: Punishment: foolish word 3 months [20 days]; exclusion: 3 months Fined: 10 [Punishment: 10] Speaks days days during fellow’s speech Punishment: [30 days] Leaves 30 days session without permission Falls asleep Punishment: [Punishment: 10 days] 3 times at a 10 days session Slanders another

a Found also in Alison Schofield, From Qumran to the Yaḥad: A New Paradigm of Textual Development for The Community Rule, STDJ 77 (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 283–84.

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reveal an intense concern over regulating the actions and bodily processes of Yahad members.13 There are some noticeable trends in these regulations. The sectarian authors stress the importance of the proper outflow of words, which would include restricting lying and deceptive speech, coarse laughing, slander, uttering a foolish or inappropriate word, or speaking out of turn. Other regulations focus on inappropriate movements, such as gesticulating with the left hand, showing one’s genitals, walking naked, and leaving without permission. Further, they record protocols about defecation and the regulation of other bodily fluids; for instance, there is a restriction on sitting, and one is punished if one’s genitals show when defecating or other genitalia are seen through holes in one’s garment (1QS 7:13–14).14 To elaborate on de Certeau, I would note that while “walking” produces spaces, the absence of some practices also creates a type of space, regimented spaces reminiscent of other priestly experiences. As mentioned above, the Bible illustrates the inner logic of priestly spaces, one which is highly restricted. And while the equivalent of the sectarian penal codes is not found in the Bible, they do capitalize on a form of priestly power. All of these practices could be described as “body techniques.” Michel Foucault is well-cited when it comes to describing body discipline and the “technologies of the self,” although his historicism does not come free from limitations.15 He emphasizes the fact that institutional powers, such as prisons and schools, enact disciplinary practices on the individual body, but always with an eye to forming the social body at large, a situation certainly at play with the penal code here. The organization and training of bodies is tantamount to the control of individuals, or as may be stated: “Get hold of their bodies—their hearts and minds will follow.”16 Of his nineteenth century subjects of study, Foucault notes that “[t]he workshop, the school, the army were subject to a whole ­micro-penalty of time (lateness, absences, interruptions of tasks), of activity (inattention, negligence, lack of zeal), of behavior (impoliteness, disobedience), of speech (idle chatter, insolence), of the body (‘incorrect’ 13  1QS 6:24–7:25; 4QSe; 4QSg; 4QDa 10 ii 2–15; 4QDe 7 i 1–11; 4Q265 1 1–2. 14  Concerns with defecation practices are, of course, found elsewhere in the building and use of toilets in the Temple Scroll and the War Scroll. For instance, the Temple Scroll mandates that toilets should be constructed 3,000 cubits away from the city (46:13–16), while the War Scroll indicates it should be 2,000 cubits (1QM 7:6–7). 15  See especially Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (New York: Vintage Books, 1995), 178. 16  John S. Ransom, Foucault’s Discipline: The Politics of Subjectivity (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997), 47, as cited also in Carol Newsom, The Self as Symbolic Space: Constructing Identity and Community at Qumran, STDJ 52 (Leiden: Brill, 2004), 97.

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attitudes, irregular gestures, lack of cleanliness).”17 As Carol Newsom has already noted, “[o]ne might almost think Foucault complied his list from the schedule of punishments in col. 7 of the Serek ha-Yahad.”18 The objective behind these regulations was no doubt to create “docile bodies,” or regimented bodies acted upon and created by, in our case, the higher authorities of the Yahad. “The instruments required to accomplish this purpose are the individuals who join the community…. Thus, they become simultaneously the objects of disciplinary power and its instruments”19 within the lived experience of the group members themselves. Now the first problem with this approach is that we do not know for sure whether any sectarians actually lived out the regulatory practices. Indeed, some have argued these penal codes were products of the literary imagination alone.20 Or these codes simply reflect an ideal to which the community should seek to aspire or judge others.21 Yet one of the benefits of critical spatial analyses is that we need not become bogged down in a form of historical positivism, whether what happened and when. But rather, we can explore the effects of this as conceptual space (Secondspace) alongside the symbolic effect it could have had on any lived experience of space (Thirdspace), whether or not everyone physically lived out all of these rules at all times. Therefore, more relevant to this study is the way these disciplined bodies in concert would have produced a certain type of space, namely a coherent, organized (social) space. Foucault notes that “discipline organizes an analytical

17  Foucault, Discipline and Punish, 178. 18  Newsom, The Self as Symbolic Space, 98. 19  Newsom, The Self as Symbolic Space, 100. 20  See, for instance, Sarianna Metso, “Constitutional Rules at Qumran,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls After Fifty Years: A Comprehensive Assessment, ed. Peter Flint and James C. VanderKam, 2 vols. (Leiden: Brill, 1998–1999), 1:186–210. 21  Newsom, The Self as Symbolic Space, 148–49. She notes that the Serekh is not a complete manual of warnings about what not to do. Rather it functions “rhetorically, the reader is not instructed about what he may or may not do but rather how he, as a member of the session, shall judge. He is addressed as one who is to exercise disciplinary power rather than as one who is subjected to it, although that fact is assumed” (148). It serves as a guide for judging the behaviors of others. See also the related discussion about the role of the penal code in producing both individual and group social identity in Jutta Jokiranta, “Social Identity in the Qumran Movement: The Case of the Penal Code,” in Explaining Christian Origins and Early Judaism: Contributions from Cognitive and Social Science, ed. Petri Luomanen, Ilkka Pyysiäinen, and Risto Uro, Biblical Interpretation Series 89 (Leiden: Brill, 2007), 277–98.

Reading Sectarian Spaces

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space,” one that is produced by and accounts for each individual.22 In the case of the penal code, not only is the individual body highly regulated—especially that which flowed from its entryways and exits—but was also accounted for within the corporate spaces of the Yahad. This collective sectarian body, including in its assemblies, reflected a “concern for seating order and decorum at Qumran assemblies” such that the collective body exhibited a same concern with discipline discussed by Foucault.23 There was an order to speaking, to movement, and to entry and exiting such meetings, not to mention an order to the everyday lives of the sectarians themselves. In this realm of experienced space (Thirdspace), through their specific practices in space they created and re-created a meaningful experience of priestly space, even if their location(s) were not necessarily in the priestly center in Jerusalem.

Returning to de Certeau and “Walking the City”

To return to de Certeau, we are reminded that the production of social spaces hinges upon movement and, as such, is never neutral. And those movements through space, even of the disempowered, can challenge other hegemonic definitions of spaces. For example, modern urban spaces are designed by city authorities to organize, direct, enforce and even control the flow and movement of people through the city, but it is only through the movements of the typical pedestrian ambling through a cityscape where true meaning is made. De Certeau notes that a person walking the city creates her own experience of various public spaces, squares, walkways, entryways, and others by choosing her own path,24 such as going against the direction of the walkways, or even walking on the bike path and turning it into a sidewalk. For him, the rhetoric and performativity of walking “affirms, suspects, tries out, transgresses, ­respects etc., the trajectories it ‘speaks’.”25 22  Disciplinary power exercises itself through its ability to organize bodies in space, following Foucault, Discipline and Punish, 143. 23  Newsom, The Self as Sacred Space, 97. 24  Now, to be sure, de Certeau is limited by his binary models of city planners versus users, but he rightly points out that walking, and its related spatial practices, are powerful bodily techniques. Walkers are enacting a form of semiotic transformation of a certain space, in de Certeau, Practice of Everyday Life. 25  De Certeau, Practice of Everyday Life, 99. The walker’s movements, memorably described by de Certeau as the “chorus of idle footsteps” are acts of selection, rejection and manipulation of spatial elements (see also Morris, “What We Talk About When We Talk About

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With these “pedestrian speech acts,” the disempowered can challenge the hegemonic definitions of spaces merely through their movements through the cities, in a “style of tactile apprehension and kinesthetic appropriation.”26 For example, skateboarders through their appropriation of spaces may turn a city park or a walkway into a skatepark through their use of space. One may also think of the modern example of the twitter-inspired flash mob taking over New York’s Grand Central Station or the Opera Company of Philadelphia, who transformed Macy’s into a surprise performance hall for Handel’s Messiah. In the latter example of professional opera singers, this unexpected public performance, deemed a “random act of culture,” was one way in which these artists transformed the mundane into a temporary opera house or a new seat of the performance arts.27 If actions define social spaces, equally so, practices can re-define social space. De Certeau would consider these examples to be “tactics” through which one redefines appropriate spaces through manipulating “the basic elements of a constructed order,” even though one may not have the official authority to do so.28

“Walking the Camp”

Just as de Certeau speaks of the meaning of pedestrian speech acts in an urban environment, the members of the Yahad would have had their own “rhetoric of walking,” wherever they found themselves. Coincidentally, de Certeau uses walking as the paradigmatic spatial practice of everyday life in the same way that Jews of the Second Temple period payed upon the root, “to walk,” which of course underlies the term halakha and daily praxis. But the Yahad members further spatialize their right practice as a “path” (‫)דרך‬, a term which elsewhere takes on a semi-technical meaning for the law-centered lifestyle lived by the

‘Walking in the City’,” 677). The walker, like the reader/interpreter of a text, encounters space, engages that spaces, and makes it his or her own through the path taken. 26  He describes this movement as “the operation of walking, wandering, or ‘window shopping,’ that is, the activity of passers-by” (De Certeau, Practice of Everyday Life, 97). 27  The Opera Company of Philadelphia, Oct. 30, 2010, Macy’s Center, http://youtu.be/ wp_RHnQ-jgU. 28  De Certeau, Practice, 100.

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community, who “walk” and “comply” with the laws of Moses.29 The metaphor of life as a journey is not uncommon, but on a symbolic level, the experience of being “in transit” often precedes an encounter with God. From the theophanies in the wilderness of the Hebrew Bible, to the conversion experiences “on the way” in the New Testament (on the road to Emmaus in Luke 24 or Saul on the road to Damascus in Acts 9, etc.), “in a sense, it seems that the marginal ground between fixed places is where God is most often encountered.”30 Within this context, it is not surprising that the Yahad imagined themselves not to be “walking the city,” but that of a camp. Their liminal place between the present and future ages, center and periphery, was reflected in their language of transition and impermanence. First, the authors of the Serekh tied their “pathway” specifically to the desert, a place of divine encounter. Drawing upon Isa 40:3, the authors of 1QS characterize their spaces of divine encounter as that of desert, or wilderness where they see themselves preparing the “way of YHWH”: 1QS 8:12–16

‫ובהיות אלה ליחד בישראל‬

‫ בתכונים האלה יבדלו מתוך מושב הנשי העול ללכת למדבר לפנות שם את דרך‬13 ‫הואהא‬

.‫ כאשר כתוב במדבר פנו דרך יייי ישרו בערבה מסלה לאלוהינו‬14 ‫ היאה מדרש התורה א[ש]ר צוה ביד מושה לעשות ככול הנגלה עת בעת‬15 ‫ וכאשר גלו הנביאים ברוח קודשו‬16

29  1QS 1:13; 2:2; 3:10, 20; 4:2, 15, 17, 22, etc. (and compare with the wording in Jub. 23:26). The sectarian authors also frequently call themselves the “perfect (ones) of the way” (‫תמימי‬ ‫( )דרך‬i.e., 1QS 4:22; 8:10–11, 22; 1QM 14:7; 1QHa 9:36, 4Q511 10 8; 63 iii 3; etc.). The authors describe and therefore prescribe that one “walk perfectly” (1QS 9:19) on this desert path, incorporating the root hlk (“walk”), which is likely a play on the term halakha. Using clever word-play, they contrast their own regimented lifestyle with that of the Jewish “other,” presumably the Pharisees, for whom halakhic questions were also of central concern. Ideally, those who walk perfectly in the desert-way are held in great regard; they are described in similar terms as those who “walk in perfect holiness” in the Damascus Document (CD 7:4–5; 20:2, 5, 7), which may refer to those who lived a celibate lifestyle. 30  Sheldrake, Spaces for the Sacred, 34.

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1QS 9:12–21

‫ אלה החוקים למשכיל להתהלך בם עם כול חי לתכון עת ועת ולמשקל איש‬12⟧ .‫ואיש‬ ‫ לעשות את רצון אל ככול הנגלה לעת בעת ולמוד את כול השכל הנמצא לפי‬13 … ‫העתים ואת‬ ‫ה{{היאה עת פנות הדרך‬. }}‫… להל{{}ך תמים איש את רעהו בכול הנגלה להם‬ ‫ ולהשכילם כול הנמצא לעשות בעת הזואת והבדל מכול איש ולוא הסר‬.‫ למדבר‬20 ‫דרכו‬ ‫ מכול עול‬21

Tellingly, it is after the legal (penal code) regulations in the Community Rule, for instance, that the authors describe their desert path. 1QS 8:12 records that when they comply with these bodily practices, then they open up the pathway of YHWH in the wilderness, thereby linking both conceptual spaces and physical practices of the sect. Here, then, we perceive the connection between movements, or praxis, and how they produce social space. One need only to think of the penal code with its restrictions on moving, gesticulating, or speaking to get a sense of a sectarian rhetoric of movement. Or we could consider their communal assemblies, acted out in order of rank, remind us how their movements could have manipulated and reproduced spaces. In this example, the members are said to pass by in an orderly fashion according to a strict priestly hierarchy, thereby imitating not the physical layout of the Jerusalem Temple, but the quality of the spatial experience of increasingly restricted spheres of sacred power. The lived-space experience would have been that of a new, hierachized priestly space, even outside of any cultic center in Jerusalem. De Certeau speaks about the power of human movement, where “users” of space can turn into new “producers” of space, thereby challenging hegemonic definitions of space.31 The equivalent might be said for the Yahad’s production of new priestly space imagined to be a desert camp, an alternative to the fixity of the Jerusalem center. Further, the authors of 4QMMT also hang their identity on proper praxis, a priestly lifestyle that they also conceptualize using “camp” terminology.32 More 31  Lefebvre, The Production of Space, 26. He claims that although space is a means of control and domination, it is not fully in the hands of the primary producers. Other spaces can be produced to compete with the dominant space. See also Karen J. Wenell, Jesus and Land: Sacred and Social Space in Second Temple Judaism, LNTS 334 (London: T&T Clark, 2007), 22–23. 32  Three major groups are mentioned in the letter: “us,” “you” and “them.” The traditional interpretation of this letter was that it derived from an early period of the sect and that it

Reading Sectarian Spaces

189

specifically, the authors conceptualize their space as the wilderness camp, as they contest the priestly practices in Jerusalem, which they also term a “camp” or “the holy camp”: 4Q394 3–7 ii 16–18 [‫ ואנחנו חושבים שהמקדש ]משכן אוהל מועד הוא וי[רושלי]ם‬16 ‫ מחנה היא וחו]צה [למחנה ]הוא חוצה לירושלים[ הוא מחנה‬17 33‫ ער]י[הם חוץ ממ]חנה‬18 4Q394 8 iv 8

‫ואין ̇ל ̇ה ̇בי̇ למחני ̇ה ֯ק[ו] ֯דש כלבימ‬

In this latter case, the authors of MMT emphasize that dogs should be prohibited from entering the “holy camp” (that is, Jerusalem), since they might eat some of the bones from the temple with the flesh still on them (4Q394 8 iv 8–9). They also disagree with the practice of letting the deaf “come to the pure food of the Sanctuary” (4Q394 8 vi) or allowing those with skin disease to come into contact with the “sacred pure food” (4Q397 6–13). The sectarian authors further challenge their contemporaries on issues of praxis, insisting that streams of liquid can transfer impurity from its receiving container back up to its pouring vessel (4Q394 8 iv 5–7). In these examples, among others, the authors of MMT understand their identity to be predicated upon the nuances of their practice of life, similar to the “path” described in the Serekh and the tendency towards restriction and prohibition in the penal code. The authors of MMT conceptualize that the end point of all points of praxis is explicitly to create a new (sectarian) space vis-à-vis their contemporaries: “[And you know that] we have segregated ourselves from the rest of the peop[le and (that) we avoid] mingling in these affairs and associated with them in these things.”34 What is at stake in this letter, then, is not simply theological or ideological positioning, but rather orthopraxis. And such behavior was legitimated by and in itself created a new symbolic space—somewhere between was written by the Teacher of Righteousness to another group of priests (presumably in the Temple), who were being accused of being too lax in their adherence to cultic practice and the law. For other interpretations see John Kampen and Moshe J. Bernstein, eds., Reading 4QMMT: New Perspectives on Qumran Law and History (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996). 33  Following García Martínez and Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition, 792. 34  Following the composite translation in Florentino García Martínez, The Dead Sea Scrolls Translated: The Qumran Texts in English (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996), 77–79.

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that imagined and that actually lived on the ground. If and where they may have lived this out in practice, following de Certeau, their movements, or restrictions thereof, would recreate a new experience of priestly space and empower its practitioners over against alternate powers in Jerusalem.

Desert as Thirdspace: Priestly Bodies as Sites of Resistance

On a symbolic, or Thirdspace, level, the desert (midbar) came to signify a lack of human habitation, to the degree that even took on the power of anticivilization in the Bible and ancient Near East.35 In the biblical narratives, in particular, the desert was subsequently viewed to be a place of chaos, whose forces threatened the order of creation, or by transference, the order of human civilization. Here is the haunt of evil spirits, wild animals and other lawless elements, menacing the “built” territory of the human city (cf. the oracles against Babylon in Isa 5:6; Zeph 2:9; etc.).36 Thus, the symbolic overtones of this space had less to do with any essential physical quality than it did with its effect produced in the Hebrew imagination (Secondspace). As a place of the uncontrolled, it could represent a number of physical landscapes, just as Liv Ingeborg Lied notes of 2 Baruch, where midbar encompasses several different landscapes, but the common denominator is that “[t]he wilderness is the uninhabitable world.”37 The scrolls reflect a similar understanding of the desert. As for the Israelites in the desert camp, some members of this sect found themselves to be situated in the Judean desert, against the forces of chaos and the uncontrolled. 35  For a small sampling see Shemaryahu Talmon, “Midbar, ʿArabah,” in Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Alten Testament, ed. G. Johannes Botterweck and H. Ringgren, 4th vol. (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1970), 663–66; and Alfred Haldar, The Notion of the Desert in Sumero-Accadian and West-Semitic Religions (Leipzig: Harrassowitz, 1950); and Alison Schofield, “Wilderness,” in The Eerdmans Dictionary of Early Judaism, ed. John J. Collins and Daniel C. Harlow (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2010), 1337–38. 36  In general, the desert is a place full of “poisonous snakes and scorpions” (Deut 8:15; Philo, Alleg. Interp. 2.84) and where wild beasts threaten (T. Ab. 12). The wilderness comes to symbolize a “trackless” place of lawlessness, where God is not known (Wis 5:7; 11:2) and was extended to indicate a place lacking certain spiritual qualities, as Jerusalem herself is described as a “wilderness” according to 1QM 1:3 and 1 Macc 1:39 (cf. 4Q179 1 i 12; Luke 21:20; Matt 24:15; Mark 13:14). 37  Liv Ingeborg Lied, The Other Lands of Israel: Imaginations of the Land in 2 Baruch, JSJSup 129 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 113–14. She also cites Jer 2:6; 26:18; 1 En. 28:1; 77:4.

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Yet, equally attractive for these ancient writers, from the dust of barren places, one could also refashion a new site, a “counter-city,” produced through the very actions of the sectarian members. These regimented spaces, discussed above, transformed the desert—real or metaphorical—into a hospitable, recognizable place. Each properly enacted order and spatial arrangement of sectarian priests could resist the uncontrollable environment of the wilderness, in much the same way that the Israelites and their Tabernacle navigated the dangerous and chaotic sea of the Sinai desert. These disciplined bodies of the sectarian camp constituted the media through which the mental spaces of desert were brought into being. Whether or not they religiously followed their camp rules and practices, Casey points out that “even imaginary places bring with them virtual bodies— ‘subtle bodies’.”38 The Yahad produced a wilderness space, and therefore a “wilderness” body, whether real or conceived through textual production. Not only is “the body … our general medium for having a world,”39 it is also the means through which we produce our space, or, in this case, a priestly world. In the case of the sectarians, the regimented body was the means through which they could easily reproduce a priestly context. From a Thirdspace perspective, then, the desert camp becomes for them an over-signified and highly symbolic place of resistance. Interestingly, the camp functions similarly to that of the tabernacle, at its very core, of which George remarks: “The spatial practices of portability and orientation make possible the metaphorical and symbolic re-creation and reproduction of tabernacle space wherever Israel finds itself….”40 The desert camp is itself free from the fixity of place, where truly the sect’s imaginative biblical geography met spatial practice. Soja defines praxis as “the transformation of knowledge into action.”41 In this regard, even the dispossessed can continuously construct and re-­construct “other spaces.”42 In this intermediate place between imagined lands and life on the ground, illustrated best by the “camp,” the desert becomes a place of 38  Edward S. Casey, “How to Get from Space to Place in a Fairly Short Stretch of Time: Phenomenological Prolegomena,” in Senses of Place, ed. Steven Feld and Keith H. Basso (Santa Fe: School of American Research, 1996), 13–52 (24). 39  Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception, trans. Colin Smith (New York: Humanities Press, 1962), 146, also discussed in Casey, “How to Get from Space to Place,” 24. 40  George, Israel’s Tabernacle as Social Space, 188. 41  Soja, “Thirdspace: Expanding the Scope of the Geographical Imagination,” 15. 42  Soja, Thirdspace, 5; and idem, “Thirdspace: Expanding the Scope of the Geographical Imagination,” 22–30.

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resistance to the hegemonic powers of Jerusalem both in text and the tangible world. Produced wherever they lived in community, the Yahad could delineate new circles of sanctified spaces, organized and re-produced through their own techniques of sociocultural production. This “practiced” desert embodied the Thirdspace experience of: … the “dominated spaces,” the spaces of the peripheries, the margins and the marginalized, the “Third Worlds” that can be found on all scales, in the corpo-reality of the body and mind, in sexuality and subjectivity, in individual and collective identities…. They are the chosen spaces for struggle, liberation and emancipation.43 Indeed, conceptually, they found themselves to be at the margins, and physically, some likely were on a geographical periphery at Qumran.44 Where these two aspects of space meet, in a Thirdspace reading, the desert “camp” experience could have been found almost anywhere through the production of a certain type of social space. Accessing the symbolic capital of this priestly terminology of the desert camp itself, and its associations with Sinai, were powerful enough that the rules dictated there would trump anything that was currently enacted in the Jerusalem Temple. In short, as de Certeau would likely confirm, these sectarians produced a new lived experience of sacred space. At least for the Yahad, the desert camp was a transitory, but translatable space, where the sect lived out its regimented lifestyle.45 And the body of the sectarian, particularly the regimented body, became a necessary medium of resistance to the Jewish powers that were. And this new organized and regulated space functioned on the level of communal body as well. Cities “must be seen as the most immediate locus of the production and circulation of power.”46 43  Soja, Thirdspace, 68 (italics mine). 44  There are examples of sectarian authors viewing themselves as on the edge of marginal space (4Q177 1:8–9; 1QHa 10:8–9), often expressed in terms of an exilic consciousness (1QpHab 11:4–6). And exile, elsewhere, is connected to wilderness spaces (1QM 1:1; 4Q171 3:1–2). 45  In Foucault’s terminology, this is essentially a heterotopian space. Michel Foucault, “Of Other Spaces,” Diacritics 16 (1986): 22–27; see also Alison Schofield, “Re-Placing Priestly Space: The Wilderness as Heterotopia in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in A Teacher for All Generations: Essays in Honor of James C. VanderKam, ed. Eric Mason et al., JSJSup 153 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 469–90. 46  As Elizabeth Grosz has defined a city as “any complex and interactive network that links together … a number of disparate social activities, processes, relations, with a number of

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The “built” environments of the sect were organized by social activities, hierarchized ritual gathering and highly regulated relationships. In this way, they imitated civilization proper. On the level of embodied space, the sectarian body became the site of the camp (= city) embedded in a wilderness mindset. The body served to civilize the desert backdrop, whether real or imagined, and to serve as a counter-city or counter-site to Jerusalem itself wherever the sectarians were located. Conclusion In some ways, this sectarian creation of space was similar to that of the later monks in the desert tradition who saw monastic settlements as anticipations of paradise in which one could move away from the polis in favor of the eremos. “The ascetic was not in some simple way rejecting culture for nature—after all, the desert signified wildness, danger and suffering rather than beauty or romantic harmony. Rather, the monastic ascetic sought a third way—a reconfiguration of disordered place into the restoration of prelapsarian paradise that was, at the same time, an anticipation of the final restoration hoped for with the incoming Kingdom.”47 For these early Christians, the wild beasts were tamed and nature was regulated in the way of reclaiming the privileges of Adam and Eve in Eden. But for the sectarians it was not so much a motive to live in harmony with nature, but to live in harmony with one’s own nature, and in this way, they would tame the wilderness.48

architectural, geographical, civic and public relations … to create a semi-permanent but ever-changing built environment or milieu” (“Bodies–Cities,” in Feminist Theory and the Body: A Reader, ed. Janet Price and Margrit Shildrick [New York: Routledge, 1999], 381–87 [quote at 386]). These habitable spaces were intricately wrapped up with the embodied sectarian, the means through which both were produced. See, for instance, Grosz, who recognizes that there is a bi-directional flow of influence and production, as well as representation, between bodies and cities. For her, “the built environment provides the context and coordinates for contemporary forms of body. The city provides the order and organization that automatically links otherwise unrelated bodies: it is the condition and milieu in which corporeality is socially, sexually, and discursively produced” (“Bodies–Cities,” 382, italics mine). Essentially, the city provides a context and frame for the body. 47  Sheldrake, Spaces for the Sacred, 112. 48  Again, see the discussion of Sheldrake, Spaces for the Sacred about the role of utopias in early monastic life.

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The body is the medium for experiencing the world. Therefore, the body, or bodily experience of space, became for the sectarians their own organizing principle of culture, that localizing (civilizing) force against the chaotic forces of wilderness. In some sense, the sectarian body became a site of resistance, analogous to the new “city,” defined by its entryways and exits. As a collective body, the Yahad became the correlate to one particular city, namely that of the hierarchical center of the Temple. This sectarian “camp” was produced through the regimented actions of the larger body itself, thereby translating the reality of displaced priests into one of emplacement or lived belonging.

Sociolinguistics and the Misleading Use of the Concept of Anti-Language for Qumran Hebrew Eibert J.C. Tigchelaar In the past decade, Gary Rendsburg has embraced William Schniedewind’s characterization of Qumran Hebrew as an anti-language. Thus, he confesses that, When I first encountered Schniedewind’s position … I admit that I was skeptical. Now, however, … I have come to embrace his position. In my own attempts to come to grips with all the peculiarities of QH, of the various interpretative routes before us, all of them proposed by leading scholars, I now accede to Schniedewind’s view as the one that explains best the nature of QH.1 Moshe Bernstein and Aaron Koller also refer, apparently with approval, to Schniedewind’s understanding of Qumran Hebrew as anti-language.2 In a short section on “Hebrew Language 2: Sociolinguistics,” they state: In the area of the sociolinguistics of Qumran, Americans have contributed a characteristic emphasis on cultural theory and interdisciplinary sophistication to address the question of the origins and social background of the dialect of Hebrew within the Qumran texts. Among Israeli scholars this topic has been debated regularly, the question being whether 1  Gary A. Rendsburg, “Linguistic and Stylistic Notes to the Hazon Gabriel Inscription,” DSD 16 (2009): 107–16 (112 n. 18); idem, “Qumran Hebrew (With a Trial Cut [1QS]),” in The Dead Sea Scrolls at 60: Scholarly Contributions of New York University Faculty and Alumni, ed. Lawrence H. Schiffman and Shani Tzoref, STDJ 89 (Leiden: Brill, 2010), 217–46 (232). See also idem, “The Nature of Qumran Hebrew as Revealed through Pesher Habakkuk,” in Hebrew of the Late Second Temple Period: Proceedings of a Sixth International Symposium on the Hebrew of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Ben Sira, ed. Eibert Tigchelaar and Pierre Van Hecke, with Seth Bledsoe and Pieter B. Hartog, STDJ 114 (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 132–59, esp. 153, 158. More hesitantly, Steven E. Fassberg, “The Nature and Extent of Aramaisms in the Hebrew Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Tigchelaar and Van Hecke, Hebrew of the Late Second Temple Period, 7–24 (23). 2  Moshe J. Bernstein and Aaron Koller, “The Aramaic Texts and the Hebrew and Aramaic Languages at Qumran: The North American Contribution,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls in Scholarly Perspective: A History of Research, ed. Devorah Dimant with Ingo Kottsieper, STDJ 99 (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 155–95.

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi:10.1163/9789004376397_011

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Qumran Hebrew was a spoken dialect or a literary artifact. Americans asked a different question: in a society that is at best bilingual, and probably predominantly Aramaic-speaking, why write in Hebrew at all?3 They briefly summarize the suggestions of Schniedewind and Steve Weitzman, and argue that taken together their contributions “provide a compelling combination of theory and data, and demonstrate the ideological value of the Hebrew language at Qumran.”4 Their rhetoric indicates that Bernstein and Koller support these suggestions: they mention the “interdisciplinary sophistication” of the involved American scholars, refer to Schniedewind’s “strength in his use of theoretical models,” and qualify his and Weitzman’s contributions as a “compelling combination of theory and data” which demonstrates the ideological value of the Hebrew language at Qumran. Even a critical footnote confirms the rhetoric: there are indeed “some implausible details in Schniedewind’s article, but these do not on their own affect the theoretical perspective.” One cannot but notice the emphasis on, and positive evaluation of, theory.5 We have to discuss to what extent Weitzman and Schniedewind, as well as more recently Rendsburg, have indeed provided theoretical sociolinguistic frameworks which enable one to sort out and explain the peculiarities of Qumran Hebrew.6 Even though they cross-reference each other’s work, Weitzman and Schniedewind by no means pose the same queries or offer compatible approaches. This raises the question how one should assess the differences between Weitzman’s and Schniedewind’s approaches, and how these sociolinguistic approaches relate to non-linguistic interpretations of the texts from Qumran.

3  Bernstein and Koller, “The Aramaic Texts,” 189–90. For an overview of Israeli scholars who discussed whether Qumran Hebrew was vernacular or literary see Steven E. Fassberg, “Israeli Research into Hebrew and Aramaic at Qumran,” in Dimant, The Dead Sea Scrolls in Scholarly Perspective, 363–80, esp. 369–71. 4  Bernstein and Koller, “The Aramaic Texts,” 190–91. 5  Phraseology taken from Bernstein and Koller, “The Aramaic Texts,” 189–90. 6  Other scholars who have accepted Schniedewind’s hypothesis of Qumran Hebrew as an anti-language are David M. Carr, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 259, and Dong-Hyuk Kim, Early Biblical Hebrew, Late Biblical Hebrew, and Linguistic Variability: A Sociolinguistic Evaluation of the Linguistic Dating of Biblical Texts, VTSup 156 (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 46–47, 106–7.

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Qumran Hebrew in a Multilingual Society: Holy Language or Anti-Language

Weitzman’s and Schniedewind’s articles were both published in American journals in 1999, and offer sociolinguistic explanations for the use of Hebrew in the Qumran texts. One should immediately note, however, that their initial questions as well as the subsequent explanations are entirely different. Weitzman’s question, clearly expressed in the title of his article, is why, in multilingual Palestine, the Qumran sect only used Hebrew in its own writing, and consistently avoided the other languages of Hellenistic-Roman Palestine such as Aramaic and Greek.7 Schniedewind’s query concerns the specific form of Hebrew that is found in many of the Qumran writings, which shows avoidance of both the Aramaic and contemporary popular Hebrew, which he originally simply identified with Mishnaic Hebrew.8 Weitzman acknowledges differences between Qumran Hebrew and Hebrew in general, but questioned Schniedewind’s description of Qumran Hebrew as an “anti-language” created in conscious opposition to the “standard” language, and his identification of this standard language as Mishnaic Hebrew.9 He states that “some of the language-features linked by Schniedewind to the Qumran sect’s ideology can be attributed to non-ideological factors” and that we do not have enough information to draw causal links between the isoglosses of Qumran Hebrew and the sect’s ideology.10 Weitzman himself constructs an argument on the basis of 4Q464 (‫ )לשון הקודש‬and Jub. 12:25–27 (Hebrew as the language of creation) which share a perception of Hebrew as the true or holy language. This perception of Hebrew as the language of creation as well as the pure eschatological speech, may be connected to the use of Hebrew as “esoteric speech,” which perhaps also was related to the idea of the community being able to participate with the angels in speech. Weitzman is careful not to assume that these writings and their ideas were exclusively connected to the Qumran sect, and assumes that the Qumran sect was part of a broader 7  Steve Weitzman, “Why Did the Qumran Community Write in Hebrew?” JAOS 119 (1999): 35–45, esp. 35–36. 8  William M. Schniedewind, “Qumran Hebrew as an Antilanguage,” JBL 118 (1999): 235– 52 simply refers to the avoidance of typically Mishnaic Hebrew forms of language. In idem, A Social History of Hebrew: Its Origins Through the Rabbinic Period (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013) this popular language is no longer identified with Mishnaic Hebrew. 9  Weitzman, “Why,” 37. 10  Weitzman, “Why,” 37.

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linguistic culture that shared views on the use of Hebrew. The use of Hebrew in the Qumran community and other such groups would have been one way to transcend the multilingualism in a society of competing ideologies and languages.11 Weitzman refers to several sociolinguistic phenomena which support his hypothesis, for example, analogies with recent “speech communities seeking to maintain their ancestral languages in multilingual societies.”12 Schniedewind bases his description of Qumran Hebrew as anti-language on the foundational article of Michael Halliday,13 and one paragraph from an article by Judith Irvine.14 He briefly summarizes their statements on “anti-language” and emphasizes three features, namely the “conspicuous avoidance or even violation of forms recognized as standard,”15 the specific lexicon and relexicalization of anti-languages,16 and the fact that anti-languages emerge from an anti-society attitude.17 He recognizes these features of anti-language in four areas which “point to the conscious creation of an anti-language by scribes within the Qumran community.”18 Those include the avoidance of Aramaic and popular language (= Mishnaic Hebrew), classicizing tendencies, orthography and paleography, and the use of code and symbolic terminology. Together they indicate that within the Qumran community language was a means for differentiating the group.19 This approach seems to illustrate the value of cultural theory, in this case sociolinguistics. A concept like anti-language labels not only one set of data, such as the paucity of loanwords in Qumran Hebrew, or the use of sobriquets. Instead, it explains an ensemble of different data as all related to one cultural linguistic phenomenon: the creation of a language by conscious linguistic choices intended to set the speaker and their language apart from others. Schniedewind sees this phenomenon also supported by how some Qumran texts speak about their own and their opponents’ language. Following Chaim 11  See the various ways of expressing this point in Weitzman, “Why,” 45. 12  Weitzman, “Why,” 40. 13  Michael A.K. Halliday, “Anti-Languages,” American Anthropologist 78 (1976): 570–84. 14  Judith T. Irvine, “When Talk Isn’t Cheap: Language and Political Economy,” American Ethnologist 16 (1989): 248–67, esp. 253. 15  Schniedewind, “Antilanguage,” 242. 16  Schniedewind, “Antilanguage,” 239–41. 17  Schniedewind, “Antilanguage,” 238, 250. 18  Schniedewind, “Antilanguage,” 242. 19  Schniedewind, “Antilanguage,” 242. See the slightly revised phrasing in idem, Social History, 178, omitting the reference to Mishnaic Hebrew, and using “pseudo-classicizing” instead of “classicizing.”

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Rabin, he argues that derogatory phrases in Qumran texts to “halting language” and “blasphemous language,” refer to spoken or Mishnaic Hebrew of those who say about the laws of the covenant of God that they are not fixed (CD 5:11–12), i.e., those who legitimized the oral law.20 On the other hand, the terminology of words measured out by God by pattern (‫ )ותשם דברים על קו‬in 1QHa 9:30 would, given the proposed meaning of ‫ קו‬as “archetype,” refer to a pre-classical archetype of language given at the foundation of the world, which the Qumranites tried to emulate.21 This hypothesis then serves to explain linguistic anomalies in general: those are the Qumran sect’s attempts to reconstruct pre-classical forms. At the basis of this hypothesis lies the assumption of the counter-societal character of the Qumran sect generated their special anti-language, by means of which they expressed their social role in opposition to other Jewish groups in Palestine, especially those groups concerned with oral law. After his initial anti-language article, Schniedewind gradually developed his hypothesis. In a follow-up article,22 he introduces the concept of “linguistic ideology” which could explain various specific Qumran idiosyncratic forms (the use of a pre-classical form such as ‫ אביהו‬rather than ‫ ;אביו‬the longer form with he in a variety of grammatical forms; the use of so-called pausal forms in non-pausal position).23 The emphasis has thus shifted from a very specific and rare sociolinguistic concept to a more general notion in sociolinguistic studies. In subsequent articles he refrained from the notion of anti-language, while, more generally, referring to language ideology.24 In his most recent book 20  Schniedewind, “Antilanguage,” 239–40. See also, slightly differently, idem, Social History, 175. 21  Schniedewind, “Antilanguage,” 240–41. See also, slightly differently, idem, Social History, 175–76. One should note, though, that this proposal is based neither on a sustained interpretation of the entire passage, nor on an investigation of ‫ קו‬throughout the Hodayot or more extensively in Qumran Hebrew. 22  William M. Schniedewind, “Linguistic Ideology in Qumran Hebrew,” in Diggers at the Well: Proceedings of a Third International Symposium on the Hebrew of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Ben Sira, ed. Takamitsu Muraoka and John F. Elwolde, STDJ 36 (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 245–55. 23  The article actually distinguishes more or less between language ideology (when dealing more generally with the Qumran sect’s ideology of language) and linguistic ideology where this is reflected in the choice for specific grammatical forms. This article also corrects some inexactitudes in the earlier one. Rather than contrasting Qumran Hebrew to Mishnaic Hebrew, it contrasts it to “the vernacular spoken in Jerusalem by the opponents of the Qumran sect” (“Linguistic Ideology,” 246) and has replaced “classicizing” with “pseudo-classicizing.” 24  William M. Schniedewind, “Prolegomena for the Sociolinguistics of Classical Hebrew,” The Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 5 (2004), http://www.jhsonline.org/Articles/article_36.

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he offers a more expanded discussion of features of the Qumran texts and Qumran Hebrew, but also returns to the thesis that “Qumran Hebrew can be characterized by the sociolinguistic category of an antilanguage.”25 In his recent work, Rendsburg has embraced Schniedewind’s use of antilanguage and put forward elements that “constitute evidence for understanding QH as an anti-language, used by the Yahad to distinguish itself intentionally from other Jews of the period, while at the same time providing their texts with a patina of antiquity and hence authority.”26 The evidence consists exclusively of examples of intentional archaism (or pseudo-classicisms) in order to construct an anti-language. Rendsburg does not discuss, let alone operationalize, the notion of anti-language. Rather, he tacitly reduces Schniedewind’s antilanguage to two elements, namely presumed archaizing tendencies in Qumran Hebrew and the supposition that these were intended to distinguish oneself from other groups. Interestingly, he introduces two new explanations, namely those of conservatism and the striving for authenticity, two notions that were never mentioned by Schniedewind. For example, he writes, “[g]iven the very strict adherence by the DSS sect to legal, cultic, and social mores, which were more conservative than those held by other contemporary Jewish groups, one is warranted to conclude that the Qumran community extended this conservatism to their Hebrew language as well.”27 Whereas for Schniedewind, these scribes were part of a counter-society and adhered to a linguistic ideology, Rendsburg turns them into a conservative group who preferred old forms since these would be more respectable.

The Theory: Sociolinguistics and the Concept of Anti-Language

All modern discussions of anti-language refer back to Halliday, who first introduced the concept with its present meaning28 in discussing the commonalities pdf; idem, “Aramaic, the Death of Written Hebrew, and Language Shift in the Persian Period,” in Margins of Writing, Origins of Cultures, ed. Seth L. Sanders (Chicago: The Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 2006), 141–51. 25  Schniedewind, Social History, 177. Cf. also pp. 183, 185, 187, 188. 26  Rendsburg, “Nature,” 153–54. 27  Rendsburg, “Trial Cut,” 232. 28  The term was earlier used by Hugo Steger, “Gruppensprachen: Ein methodisches Problem der inhaltsbezogenen Sprachbetrachtung,” Zeitschrift für Mundartforschung 31 (1964): 125–38 for the linguistic changes within a group of students who “developed a special vocabulary and brought about shifts, re-arrangements, and leveling within semantic

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of three extreme versions of social dialects: the language of the vagabonds in Elizabethan England, the language of Polish prisoners, and that of Calcutta criminals and students. Characteristic of all three are relexicalization and overlexicalization. That is, “anti-languages” consciously and constantly create new words for the older ones of the language on which it depends, especially for the areas “that are central to the subculture, and that help to set if off most sharply from the established society.”29 This relexicalization process often happens in simple manners, by different phonetic changes, or by giving a new metaphorical sense to existing words. Of course, the latter happens in all social dialects, but typical of anti-languages is overlexicalization: one creates multiple synonymous new words for the key areas in which the group differs from society. The usefulness of the concept lies not in its being a clearly defined absolute category with a limited number of examples, but a heuristic concept, an “idea to which given instances approximate more or less closely.”30 More broadly in sociolinguistics, the term “anti-language” is also used in two other domains, namely in the discussion of youth culture and language31 and for specific cases of the use of patois, pidgin, or creole languages.32 Thus Irvine, who was quoted by Schniedewind, expands the notion by including forms of dialogue or conversation that run counter to standard practice, such as in the Antiguan contrapuntal conversations, or the language and communication of urban black America of the 1970s. It is in this context that she mentions “the conspicuous avoidance and violation of forms recognized as ‘standard,’” referring to forms of conversation rather than to grammatical forms. How then does Schniedewind’s model of anti-language relate to those of Halliday and other sociolinguists? Schniedewind mentions that relexicalization and metaphor are features of anti-languages and gives as examples in Qumran Hebrew the new meaning of a word as ‫( קו‬archetype, rather than pattern), as well as the code terminology common to some pesharim, like the ‫דורשי‬ ‫החלקות‬. However, semantic specialization is not the same as relexicalization, categories … in contrast to everyday speech (group language as anti-language)” (quotation from summary). 29  Halliday, “Anti-Languages,” 571. 30  Martin Montgomery, An Introduction to Language and Society, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge, 1995), 100–101. 31  See examples in Montgomery, Introduction, 98–104. Also Ellen Hurst, “Metaphor in South African Tsotsitaal,” Sociolinguistic Studies 10 (2016): 153–75. 32  Irvine, “When Talk Isn’t Cheap,” esp. 253; Suzanne Romaine, “Orthographic Practices in the Standardization of Pidgins and Creoles: Pidgin in Hawai’i as Anti-Language and AntiStandard,” Journal of Pidgin and Creole Languages 20 (2005): 101–40.

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and the use of code words referring to individuals or groups characterizes only a very small number of texts, and may not even be intended as a code word, but rather as a sobriquet. In no way do we see in Qumran Hebrew the process of relexicalization, let alone overlexicalization, of which Halliday and Martin Montgomery give many examples, and which sociolinguists regard as typical of anti-languages. Moreover, Schniedewind provides no examples of the different forms of metaphorical expressions and phonological variants of which Halliday presents many instances. As a result, a large part of Schniedewind’s argument hinges on Irvine’s one statement about “the conspicuous avoidance and violation of forms recognized as ‘standard,’” which Schniedewind applies to the avoidance of Aramaic and Mishnaic words and linguistic forms, but which Irvine rather uses in relation to forms of communication. In short, the most characteristic linguistic feature of anti-languages, relexicalization and overlexicalization, are largely or entirely lacking from the Qumran texts. Sociologically, the supposed Qumran community is hardly comparable to those subcultures and other groups that occupy a marginal or precarious position in society and which are generally connected to anti-languages.33 In fact, exactly the opposite has been argued: the Qumran statements about the language of the opponents are consistent with the behaviour of elite groups.34 Furthermore, (pseudo-)classicizing or archaizing tendencies are not typical of anti-languages, which, in contrast, are characterized by constant change and renewal. Altogether, Schniedewind provides nothing that warrants calling Qumran Hebrew an anti-language. When referring to anti-language, he was not using a theoretical idea and applying it appropriately to the ancient data. Rather, the thesis and the label seemed to be based on an interpretation of the Qumran community as a movement that wanted to set itself apart, and therefore consciously set their language apart from the standard, or, put differently, that “group ideology finds its reflex in a linguistic ideology.”35

33  Montgomery, Introduction, 98, who explains the function of relexicalization and overlexicalization in such social groups: “[I]t makes the anti-language especially impenetrable to outsiders. The sense of solidarity between members of the subculture is heightened and maintained; and their frequently illicit dealings can remain semi-confidential, even when conducted in relatively public places such as the club, bar or street.” 34  Weitzman, “Why,” 43–44. 35  Schniedewind, “Antilanguage,” 239.

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The Data: Purported Anti-Language Features in the Scrolls

In Schniedewind’s and Rendburg’s work, much attention is given to classicizing, as well as purported pseudo-classicizing tendencies in the scrolls. Together, they provide the following examples: (1) QH most often uses the form ‫ אשר‬in clauses where Mishnaic Hebrew uses -‫;ש‬36 (2) QH often has long pronominal forms, both independent and suffixed;37 (3) QH has suffixed -â in a variety of adverbials, especially ‫ מאודה‬and ‫שמה‬.38 (4) QH has the long forms of the first person imperfect;39 (5) QH often has the old ‫ אביהו‬forms rather than the later ‫;אביו‬40 (6) QH generally has the “archaic” ‫ אל‬for ‫;אלהים‬41 (7) QH repeatedly has the “archaic” ‫ למו‬rather than ‫;להם‬42 (8) QH has a preference for the “older grammatical form” ‫ בם‬above the “newer one” ‫;בהם‬43 (9) QH uses ‫ עדה‬rather than the Late Biblical Hebrew ‫;קהל‬44 (10) QH uses the classical ‫ בעבור‬rather than ‫למען‬.45 (11) QH prefers the Classical Hebrew ‫ותם‬- ending to Late Biblical Hebrew ‫ותיהם‬-.46 However, it is unclear in most cases why these phenomena would in fact be pseudo-classicizing, let alone motivated by a wish to use an archaic form, or even reveal aspects of an anti-language.47 Rendsburg posits about the third 36  Schniedewind, “Antilanguage,” 242–44, esp. 243; idem, “Linguistic Ideology,” 254. 37  Schniedewind, “Antilanguage,” 237, 242; idem, “Linguistic Ideology,” 254. 38  Schniedewind, “Linguistic Ideology,” 253; Rendsburg, “Trial Cut,” 236–37. 39  Schniedewind, “Antilanguage,” 245–46; idem, “Linguistic Ideology,” 253. 40  Schniedewind, “Antilanguage,” 237–39, 245; Rendsburg, “Trial Cut,” 237. 41  Rendsburg, “Trial Cut,” 238–39. 42  Rendsburg, “Trial Cut,” 239–40. 43  Rendsburg, “Trial Cut,” 240. 44  Rendsburg, “Nature,” 154–55. 45  Rendsburg, “Nature,” 155. 46  Kim, Early Biblical Hebrew, 99–107; Rendsburg, “Nature,” 154. 47  Note that Montgomery, Introduction, 104, gives a sample of teenage subculture and slang and then poses the questions: “To what extent and in what ways does this data reveal aspects of an anti-language at work?” and “What further kinds of data would you need to collect in order to confirm that an anti-language is involved?”—questions which have not been tackled seriously by Schniedewind and Rendsburg.

204

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­person plural independent forms ‫ המה‬and ‫ הנה‬that the “Qumran scribes no doubt strove to retain these forms, believing them to be in some way archaic and authentic, or at least more archaic and authentic than the shorter forms,”48 but he presents no arguments for this circular claim. Apparently, Rendsburg infers that given the assumed conservatism of the group, they must have preferred forms they considered as old. Likewise, the preference in many scrolls from Qumran for the divine name ‫ אל‬instead of ‫ אלהים‬cannot simply be explained without further ado as deriving from the sect’s “desire to present a variety of Hebrew that is ancient and archaic,”49 without taking into account that ‫ אל‬also replaces ‫יהוה‬, and that ‫ אלהים‬in the scrolls frequently takes on the meaning of “divine beings.” With regard to the use of ‫ עדה‬and ‫קהל‬, Rendsburg does not undertake any attempt to distinguish between the texts in which these terms occur (which might suggest that different groups used specific terms), or semantic differentiations between the words, let alone the very frequent use of the non-archaic ‫יחד‬. The long pronominal and adverbial forms were included by Emanuel Tov in the collection of elements that make up his construct of the so-called Qumran Scribal Practice. One of Tov’s contributions to the field is that he has sought to quantify data and to correlate sets of data. This, in my opinion, should also happen with the suggestion, particularly Rendsburg’s, that Qumran Hebrew is characterized by archaic features. For example, Rendsburg repeatedly states that the Qumran scribes opted “as much as possible” for archaizing forms.50 This simply is not true. Some forms, such as the long suffixed form of the second person singular are indeed extremely common, but many other archaizing forms are used inconsistently, or even as minority variants. That holds true for the “archaic form” ‫למו‬,51 which occurs twenty times52 in nonbiblical manuscripts, against more than 125 instances of ‫ להם‬or ‫להמה‬. Moreover, ‫ למו‬occurs in a manuscript like 4Q258 that does not have any of the long pronominal or 48  Rendsburg, “Trial Cut,” 232. 49  Rendsburg, “Trial Cut,” 239. 50  Rendsburg, “Trial Cut,” 244; idem, “Nature,” 158. 51  Rendsburg, “Trial Cut,” 239–40; idem, “Nature,” 154. 52  Rendsburg mentions twenty-two occurrences in the (nonbiblical) Dead Sea Scrolls, but I do not include 1Q51 1 4 and 4Q391 12 1 (in both cases ‫ למו‬is part of a broken word). Note also the parallel occurrences in 4Q257, 4Q258, and 4Q259, which, if excluded, gives overall seventeen different uses of ‫למו‬. Note that these include twice the phrase ‫( בצר למו‬in 1QpHab 5:6 and 4Q178 1 2), twice ‫( לאין שארית ופליטה למו‬CD 2:6–7 and 1QS 4:14), and twice the collocation ‫( חרת למו‬in 1QM 12:3 and 4Q400 1 i 15). Observe, moreover, that in those Qumran texts, as in Biblical Hebrew poetry, ‫ למו‬is frequently found at the end of a clause.

Concept of Anti-Language

205

other long forms. If these different forms represent classicizing or pseudo-classicizing tendencies, then the Qumran scribes certainly did not give in to these tendencies “as much as possible,” but to different degrees, both within one and the same manuscript and within the collection as a whole.53 Observing phenomena is one thing, explaining them another. For example, Rendsburg argues that specific forms are used or even invented, “to give a patina of antiquity to the writings of the Qumran sect” and “by extension authenticity to the force of their words.”54 This, in fact, amounts to the use of classicisms as an authorial strategy of authorization. A complicating factor here is that neither Schniedewind nor Rendsburg differentiates systematically between texts and writings, that is, between manuscripts and compositions. For example, it is not clear how Rendsburg assesses the so-called biblical manuscripts. Surely, classicizing forms should not be necessary for biblical books? Indeed, most biblical manuscripts do not have the classicisms or pseudo-classicisms mentioned by Rendsburg. We never find ‫ למו‬in a Qumran biblical manuscript for ‫להם‬, nor do we find ‫ אל‬where the Masoretic text has ‫אלהים‬. The issue is less straightforward for the typical ‫ אביהו‬form of Qumran Hebrew. If MT has ‫אביו‬, so do the Qumran biblical manuscripts, with one exception: 4Q72 (4QJerc) reads ‫ אביהו‬where the MT tradition in 22:11 has ‫אביו‬. Moreover, we have three cases where a Qumran text reads ‫ אחיהו‬against MT’s ‫אחיו‬.55 Only a minority of the biblical manuscripts uses the purportedly classicizing and pseudo-classicizing long forms on -â. 1QIsaa, 4Q27 (4QNumb), and 11Q5 (the Great Psalms Scroll) are well-known examples, but one might add about twenty more biblical manuscripts. Any sociolinguistic account that looks only at general features, but not at concrete data relating to production and use of specific manuscripts threatens to overlook some of the most important data in our possession. Thus, many of the Cave 4 Tefillin consistently use the long forms, whereas only few biblical manuscripts do so. Is this because their scribes wanted to make the biblical texts of these tefillin even more archaic than they already were? Likewise, the strange, purportedly classicizing orthography of the Great Isaiah scroll would need to be related to the other features of the manuscript. The supposition of Schniedewind and Rendsburg is that some Qumran Hebrew linguistic forms are anomalies, certainly not representing a dialect of 53  More generally, Stefan Schorch, review of Diggers at the Well, by Takamitsu Muraoka and John F. Elwolde, RBL 01/2003 already suggested that “the linguistic inconsistency of the documents should be regarded as an argument against the assumption of an ideology, because every ideology tends to establish strong rules.” 54  Rendsburg, “Trial Cut,” 235, 236. 55  4Q51 (2 Sam 3:27); 1QIsaa (Isa 3:6; 41:6).

206

Tigchelaar

their scribes, but at best an artificial literary sociolect. This seems to be an a priori dismissal of the possibility that the scrolls reflect a Hebrew dialect which either had retained forms on -â, or had created them through analogy; or that the ‫ אביהו‬forms represented a spoken form comparable to the Samaritan abiyyu pronunciation.56 The question is not, however, whether one should produce a traditional linguistic57 explanation or a sociolinguistic one. Two related issues are at stake here. The first concerns the relation between sociolect and written language. Halliday emphasized the nature of anti-language as a conversational language58 and Montgomery related it to speech communities. Written language, however, is not simply a record of spoken language. For example, orthography is not simply a conventionalized code enabling reading and writing, but a highly visible domain in which standards can be established or contested. Thus, a shift towards a plene writing in many texts, or a conservative, more defective orthography in other texts, all preserved in the same collection, is not merely a linguistic phenomenon, but requires a sociolinguistic explanation, for example with the notion of “eye-dialects.”59 Moreover, the style of writing, and, for example, its linguistic features, may be as much or more dependent on genre than on the social ideology of its authors. The second issue concerns the concept of a standard of both speech and writing. We have little knowledge about the spoken Hebrew language, let alone about its possible standards, in Second Temple times. What we do have is a large heterogeneous collection of writings from the Judean Desert, which strongly suggests multiple standards. Rather than contrasting written Qumran Hebrew to some external vernacular standard, one should, from a sociolinguistic viewpoint, allow for differently coded varieties of one and the same language.

56  Jan Joosten, “Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek in the Qumran Scrolls,” in The Oxford Handbook of the Dead Sea Scrolls, ed. Timothy H. Lim and John J. Collins (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 351–74 (326). 57   Note that Schniedewind disparagingly qualifies these as neo-grammarian in his “Prolegomena.” 58  Halliday, “Anti-Languages,” 579. 59  Romaine, “Orthographic Practices,” 190.

Index of Modern Authors Abegg, M. 62n39 Adams, S. 113n72 Aejmelaeus, A. 161n54 Alexander, P.S. 49n77 Angelfors, C. 30n8 Ashcroft, B. 28n1, 31n12, 31n15, 33n19 Asmuth, B. 124–25, 127–28, 130n68 Assmann, J. 92n3 Bachorz, S. 173n27 Baillet, M. 56n12, 61n33 Bainbridge, W. 37 Baltzer, K. 125n43 Barclay, J.M.G. 47n68 Barker, M. 77n3 Bar-Nathan, R. 41n46 Barthélemy, D. 156n43 Batto, B.F. 77n2 Baumgarten, A.I. 29, 42n48 Bernstein, M.J. 112, 115n, 189n32, 195–96 Berrin, S.L. see Tzoref, S.L. Bhabha, H.K. 28, 30–31, 44 Bhayro, S. 84n26, 86n32 Blanton, T.R. 41n47, 42n48 Bockmuehl, M. 92n4 Brathwaite, E.K. 31n14 Bringmann, K. 34n22 Broggiato, M. 103n37 Brooke, G.J. 19n38, 29n4, 48n72, 50, 53, 78n, 92n3, 94n9, 95n11, 99n24, 103n34, 103n36, 105n43, 107n50, 108n55, 109n57, 110n61, 111n64, 112n67, 114n80, 150, 151n28, 171n19 Brownlee, W.H. 102, 110n62, 114n78, 150n25, 156n43, 157n44 Burridge, K.O.L. 79n7, 8323 Callaway, P.R. 15n31 Canter, D. 179n10 Carr, D.M. 3–6, 8, 27n53, 46, 145n11, 155n41, 196n6 Carruthers, M. 67–68 Casey, R.S. 191 Cerquiglini, B. 64, 65n45 Charlesworth, J.H. 2n2, 61n34

Collins, J.J. 29n5, 35n27, 41n44, 46n67, 48n72, 89n36 Collins, M.A. 112n68 Cotton, H.M. 34n20 Cribiore, R. 101n29 Croy, N.C. 161n53, 161n55 Csapo, E. 79n5, 79n7, 80n8, 83n22 Dagenais, J. 67n52 Dahmen, U. 166n6 Davies, P.R. 25n48, 105 Davis, K. 54n3, 57nn17–18, 57n20, 60n26 De Certeau, M. 176, 179, 183, 185–86, 188, 190, 192 De Saussure, F. 80 Delcor, M. 77n3 Derrida, J. 83, 95n11 Diamond, A.R.P. 74n71 Dimant, D. 53, 106n45, 106n49 Dittenberger, W. 44n59 Donceel, R. 40n44 Donceel-Voûte, P. 40n44 Doniger, W. 79n5, 82nn20–21, 83 Doran, R.M. 34n23 Doudna, G.L. 102n32, 103n35 Driscoll, M.J. 54n4, 65–66, 68 Duhaime, J. 50n78 Dupont-Sommer, A. 104 Ebojo, E.B. 152 Ehrman, B.D. 155n39, 161n55 Elgvin, T. 54n3, 57nn17–18, 57n20, 60n26 Elliger, K. 104n38, 110n62 Erman, A. 148n19 Eshel, H. 29n5, 48n71, 49 Exum, J.C. 123n31 Eyre, C. 148n19, 149n22, 154nn36–37 Fassberg, S.E. 195n1, 196n3 Finkel, A. 103n34 Finkel, I.L. 158n45 Fischer, S. 123n31 Fischer-Lichte, E. 126, 127n49 Fishbane, M. 77n2 Flint, P.W. 62n39, 140n97

208 Floyd, M.H. 111n65 Flusser, D. 114n77 Foucault, M. 183–85, 192n45 Fox, M.V. 121n21, 125n41, 140 Fraade, S.D. 19n37, 109n57 Fröhlich, I. 106n46 Frye, N. 98n24 Fuller, R.E. 61 Gantz, T. 80n11 García Martínez, F. 10n20, 11n21, 38n, 96n14, 106n46, 107n51, 109n56–57, 179n11, 189nn33–34 Gardner, H. 79n7 Garnsey, P. 35n28 Geertz, C. 82 Gelb, I.J. 148n17 George, A.R. 158n45 George, M. 176, 178n8, 180n, 191 Gera, D. 34n22 Gerlemann, G. 123n31 Gillihan, Y.M. 42–44, 45n60 Gladigow, B. 92n3 Goff, M.J. 40n43, 43n55, 84n27 Goodman, M. 25n48 Gordon, R.P. 112n70 Goulet-Cazé, M.O. 92n3 Graf, F. 79n5, 80n11, 83n22, 86n29 Grapow, H. 148n19 Griffiths, G. 28n1, 31n12, 31n15, 33n19 Grossman, M.L. 25n48 Grosz, E. 192–93n46 Gruenwald, I. 99n24 HaCohen, A. 71–72 Haldar, A. 190n35 Halliday, M.A.K. 198, 200–2, 206 Hanson, P.D. 77 Hartog, P.B. 93n4, 105n44, 107n52, 108n55, 109n56 Harvey, D. 176 Haslam, M. 100n27 Heger, P. 140n97 Hirschfeld, Y. 41n44 Holmes, M.W. 161n58 Hopf, M. 117n1, 119n14, 123n31, 126n46, 129n63, 129n65, 130n67, 134n81, 138n94, 140n98 Horgan, M.P. 92n1

Index Of Modern Authors Horsley, R.A. 48n74 Hunger, H. 147–48n15 Hurst, E. 201n31 Irvine, J.T. 198, 201–2 Jacobs, L. 118n11, 135n83 Jacobsen, T. 147 Jaffee, M.S. 67, 75 Janzen, J.G. 62 Jarick, J. 139n96 Jassen, A.P. 93n4, 109n58, 111n63, 111n66 Johansen, H.F. 162n56 Johnson, B. 161 Johnson, C. 80n8 Jokiranta, J. 29, 36n29, 37, 38n, 39, 40n41, 48n73, 66n48, 98n22, 108n55, 113n73, 184n21 Joosten, J. 206n56 Kaiser, O. 123n31 Kampen, J. 189n32 Kaufman, S.A. 3–6, 8 Keel, O. 123n31, 129n63, 132n75 Kim, D.H. 196n6, 203n46 King, M. 159 Knibb, M.A. 39n38, 40 Koller, A. 195–96 Kooij, A. van der 43 Krämer, S. 126n48 Kratz, R.G. 5n13, 7nn16–17, 12nn24–25, 13n26, 19n38, 26–27nn51–54, 77n2, 93n4 Kutscher, E.Y. 156n43, 157n44 Lambert, W.G. 152n31, 153 Lange, A. 73n68, 93n5, 95n12, 97n19, 104n39, 111n66, 117n2, 120n20 Langlois, M. 54n3, 57, 60n26 Lefebvre, H. 177nn3–5, 178, 188n31 Levinson, B.M. 166n3 Lévi-Strauss, C. 78–85, 91 Lewis, S.M. 90n38 Lied, L.I. 65, 66n48, 190 Lim, T.H. 49nn75–76, 103n35, 151 Lincoln, B. 79n6 Ling, T.J. 46 Long, A.A. 98n24 Longacre, D. 150nn24–25, 156n43

209

Index Of Modern Authors Luiselli, M. 148n16 Lundberg, M.J. 58n22 Machiela, D.A. 92–93n4  Magness, J. 38n, 61 Maier, J. 2n2, 14n28, 15, 16n32, 20n41, 24nn46–47, 26n50 Markle, D. 165n2 McCutcheon, R.T. 79nn5–6 McKane, W. 71 McNamee, K. 100n27, 122n27, 134nn79–80, 137 Milik, J.T. 78n Melcher, S.J. 180n Merleau-Ponty, M. 191n39 Metso, S. 25n48, 184n20 Metzger, B.M. 155n39, 161n55 Millar, W.R. 180n Millard, A.R. 142 Montanari, F. 99n24, 123n29 Montgomery, M. 201n30, 202, 203n47, 206 Morris, B. 179n9, 185n25 Morris, M. 176n1 Most, G.W. 92n3, 96n17, 98n22 Mroczek, E. 171n22, 174n30 Murphy, C.M. 39n37, 39n39, 40, 41n45 Murphy, R.E. 119n14, 123n31, 129n64, 133n78 Najman, H. 27n54, 93, 95–96, 103n36, 168n13, 170n17, 171n20, 172n22–23, 173, 174n31 Newsom, C. 183n16, 184, 185n23 Nickelsburg, G.W.E. 77, 84n26, 85n28, 86n30, 88n35, 89n37 Nichols, S.G. 64, 66, 67n50, 68 Niehoff, M.R. 94n10 Niese, B. 160n52 Nissinen, M. 93n5, 111n66 Nitsche, S.A. 117n1, 123n31, 125, 138n92, 139n95 Nitzan, B. 104nn38–39, 112n70 Nünlist, R. 99n24, 100n27 Olaussen, M. 30n8 Olson, S.D. 159n48 Otto, E. 18–19n37, 24n46 Paganini, S. 11n23, 24n46, 166n3 Parkinson, R. 148n16, 148n19

Patton, L.L. 79n5 Peraki-Kyriakidou, H. 103n37 Perloff, M. 95n11 Person, R. 118n9, 118n12, 120n19, 127n55, 140n99 Petrović, L. 83n23 Pfann, S.J. 57n16 Pfister, M. 124, 125n43, 126–127, 129n63 Pleše, Z. 93n5, 97n19, 104n39 Pope, M.H. 119n14, 120n21, 123n31, 126n45 Popović, M. 57n16, 72n67 Porter, J.I. 98n24 Portier-Young, A.E. 30n9, 30n11, 34, 47n68 Puech, É. 2n2 Qimron, E. 2n2 Quirke, S. 148n16, 148n19 Rabin, C. 198–99 Rabin, I. 57 Raible, W. 97n20 Ransom, J.S. 183n16 Reed, A.Y. 85n28 Regev, E. 29, 51n80 Rendsburg, G.A. 195–96, 200, 203–5 Reynolds, B.H. 78n, 80n8 Rhoads, D. 123n30, 124n33, 125n42–43, 138n93, 139n96 Richardson, N.J. 99n24 Riordan, J. 71–72, 75n74 Romaine, S. 201n32, 206n59 Römer, T. 13n26 Royse, J.R. 152n29, 159 Rudolph, W. 123n31, 129n62 Said, E.W. 28, 33 Saller, R. 35n28 Schechner, R. 124n32, 125n40, 126nn44–45, 127–128, 140n101 Schenkeveld, D.M. 100n27 Schiffman, L.H.  2n2, 10n20, 11n21, 22n, 44n57, 171n22 Schironi, F. 96n17 Schniedewind, W.M. 195–203, 205, 206n57 Schofield, A. 44n58, 182na, 190n35, 192n45 Schorch, S. 205n53 Schreckenberg, H. 160n52 Schultz, B. 49n77 Schwienhorst-Schönberger, L. 133n78

210 Scott, J.C. 45–46 Segal, M. 166, 167n8, 168n12, 169n16, 173n28 Sheldrake, P. 179n10, 187n30, 193nn47–48 Shuttleworth Kraus, C. 101n31 Sluiter, I. 98n23, 99–101, 109 Soja, E. 176, 178, 191, 192n43 Spivak, G.C. 28 Stahlhut, M. 126n48 Stark, R. 37 Stegemann, H. 23–24nn45–46, 25n49, 70n59 Steger, H. 200n28 Steudel, A. 2n2, 5n13, 6n14, 17n35, 106n47 Stökl Ben Ezra, D. 56n16 Strenski, I. 79n5, 79n7 Strugnell, J. 23n45 Stuckenbruck, L.T. 105n44 Sugirtharajah, R.S. 28, 30n7, 30n9, 31 Swanson, D.D. 3, 11 Talmon, S. 142, 190n35 Taylor, J.E. 36n30 Tcherikover, V. 35n25 Tertel, H.J. 3n3 Tiffin, H. 28n1, 31n12, 31n15, 33n19 Tigay, J.H. 3n3, 6n15 Tigchelaar, E.J.C. 37nn33–35, 38n, 54n4, 57n17, 61n34, 179n11, 189n33 Timpanaro, S. 161n57 Toorn, K. van der 143, 144n9, 145n11, 147n15, 149n20, 154n38 Tov, E. 1, 55–57, 60–63, 68n55, 69, 70n58, 71, 73, 102n32, 117nn2–3, 118nn4–5, 118nn7– 9, 120n20, 121–22, 123n29, 131n70, 139, 142–43, 145n12, 151n27, 204 Treat, J.C. 134n80 Turner, E.G. 123n29, 134n79, 137 Tzoref, S.L. 104, 106n46, 112n71 Ulrich, E. 62n39, 71, 72n67, 74n72, 75, 143 Utzschneider, H. 117n1, 123n31, 125

Index Of Modern Authors VanderKam, J.C. 90n38, 168nn13–14, 169n15, 170n17, 172n24, 173n26, 173n29 Vanonen, H. 66n48 Vervenne, M. 96n14 Waltke, B.K. 55n8 Wassen, C. 39, 40n41 Weber, M. 45 Weinfield, M. 44n56 Weitzman, S. 196–98, 202n34 Wellhausen, J. 5, 8–9, 12 Wenell, K.J. 188n31 West, M.L. 159, 161n56 West, S. 100n27 Westenholz, A. 158 Wette, W.M.L. de 12 White Crawford, S. 2n2, 23–24nn44–47, 143, 165n1 Whittle, E.W. 161n56 Wilcke, C. 161, 162n59 Wilson, A.M. 9–13, 14n27, 15n29, 16n33 Wilson, B.R. 29, 37n31 Wills, L. 9–13, 14n27, 15n29, 16n33 Wise, M.O. 3, 9–13, 14n27, 15n29, 16, 20n40, 23, 35n26, 47n69 Wiseman, B. 79n7 Wörrle, M. 34n20 Worthington, M. 146n13, 148n18, 149, 153n33, 154n38, 158n46 Xeravits, G. 90n39 Yadin, Y. 2n2, 11n23 Yalman, N. 82n19 Yardeni, A. 60n28 Zahn, M.M. 11–13, 14n28, 23 Zakovitch, Y. 131n69, 140n100 Zangenberg, J. 41n45 Zgoll, A. 77n2 Zuckerman, B. 58n22 Zuntz, G. 152n29

Index of Ancient Sources Hebrew Bible Genesis 1:7 88 2:2–3 167–68n9 2:24 167–68n9 3:19 112 9:4 167–68n9 15:10 135n85 17 20, 167–68n9 17:10–14 167–68n9 22:11 170n17 28:13–15 20n41 35:1–3 20n41 35:22 89n380 Exodus 12 167–68n9 16 165 19 167 19–24 18, 27n54 20–23 7, 13 20:10 167–68n9 24:12 170 24:12–18 167, 169 25–30 19, 21 25–31 18-19 29 19-20 30–31 19 31:13–17 167–68n9 33:12–16 170n17 34 15, 18–22, 26, 27n54 35–40 18–19, 21 35:19 17 40 19–20 Leviticus 3:10 167–68n9 11 10 12:2–5 167–68n9 16 167–68n9 17–26 21 20:2–5 167–68n9 20:11 167–68n9 20:12 167–68n9

23 10, 19 23:6–8 167–68n9 25:36–37 40n42 26 22 26:42 20n41 Numbers 15:25–26 167–68n9 24:14–24 49 25–36 6 25:1 6 28–29 10–11, 19–20 30 16n34 Deuteronomy 4:13 170 4:44–45 27n53 7 15, 18 8:15 190n36 9:26–29 173 12 16n34 12:26 16n34 13 16n34 14 10 12–15 16n33, 21 12–16 22 12:17–18 167–68n9 14:22–23 167–68n9 16–17 16nn33–34, 21 16:18–20 16n34 16:18–17:20 22 16:21–17:1–3 16n34 17:1 6 17:1–3 16n34 17:2 6 17:2–4 16n34 17:5 4n7 17:7 17n34 17:8–13 17n34 17:12–13 17n34 17:14–20 6 18 6, 16n34, 22 18–23 18, 22 18:20–22 4n8 22:6–8 4n8

212 Deuteronomy (cont.) 23 16n34 24:19–20 167–68n9 27:24 167–68n9 28–30 22 32:33 41 34:5–6 6 Joshua 2:1 6 3:1 6 1 Samuel 11:1 72n66 2 Samuel 3:27 205n55 2 Kings 18:26 158 Ruth 1:14–15 29 4 44n57 Psalms 37 107 38–44 102 45 109 74 77 104 77 Qoheleth 7:19 44n57 Song of Songs 1:2 120–21n21 1:15 120–21n21 2:7 120–21n21 2:8 130 2:9 129–30 2:9–17 129 2:9b–10a 119n17 2:10b–14 120n18 2:12 135n84 2:12–13 118n6 2:13 136 2:14 118

Index Of Ancient Sources 2:15 130 2:15–16 130 2:15–3:4a 119n17 2:16 120–21n21, 136 2:17 120–21n21, 130 3:1 131 3:1–5 131 3:1–11 131 3:2 118n6 3:2–5 120–21n21 3:4 131 3:4b 119, 131 3:5 119n17, 120–21n21 3:6 130–31 3:6–8 131 3:6–11 131 3:7–8 131 3:9–11 119n17 3:11 131, 138n94 4:1 120–21n21, 129, 132 4:1–3 120n18 4:1–5:1 132 4:1b–2.3b 120–21n21 4:4–7 132 4:5 119, 120–21n21, 132 4:6 120–21n21, 132 4:8 129, 132, 133n76 4:8–11 120n18 4:10 120–21n21 4:11 132n74 4:14–15 120n18 4:15 132n74 4:16 119n17, 132–33 5:1 132–33, 137, 140 5:1a 120n18 5:1b 120n18 5:2 119 5:2–4 130 5:2–5 119n13 5:6–8 120–21n21 5:8 120–21n21 6:3 120–21n21 6:5b–7 120–21n21 6:11 120–21n21 7:1–10 130 7:3–4 119n13 7:4 120–21n21 7:8–9 130

213

Index Of Ancient Sources 7:8–10 119n13 7:11 120–21n21 7:12–13 119n13 7:13 120–21n21 8:1–2 119n13 8:4 120–21n21 8:14 120–21n21 Isaiah 3:6 205n55 5:6 190 36:11 157 36:11–12 157 36:12 157 40:3 187 40:14 150 40:14–20 149 40:15–16 150 40:20 150 40:26 157 41:6 205n55 51:6 157 63:9 170n17 65:15 156 65:15–16 156 Jeremiah 2:6 190n37 3:15 59 3:15–19 53, 57 3:16 59 3:17 59, 60n26, 73 3:18 59 3:19 59 7:1–26:10 69 7:15 62n36 7:24 73 7:28–9:15 62n36 7:29 62n36, 72n66, 74 7:29–30 72n66 7:29–8:3 71 7:29–9:10 72 7:30–8:3 62n36, 69, 71–72, 75 8:3–4 72n66 8:4 63, 72n66 8:4–5 62 8:7 62n36

8:9 62n36 8:10b–12 62 9:5 62n36 9:6 62n36 9:11 73 9:11–15 73 9:13 62n36, 73–74 9:14 73–74 10:10 62 10:11 62n36 11:3–6 70n58 11:8 73 11:10 70n58 12:13–16 70n58 16:12 73 17:10 62n36 17:11 62n36 17:13 62n36 17:18 62n36 17:18a 62n36 18:12 73 18:17 62n36 18:23 62n36 22 70 22:9 62n36 22:11 205 24 70 26 70 26:10 70n58 26:18 190n37 34:18–19 135n85 48:29–31 61n34 Ezekiel 13:10 41 Daniel 11–12 49 11:39 34 Hosea 10:12 112 Joel 2:23 112 Nahum 2:12b 49

214 Habakkuk 1:10 112 3 102 Zephaniah 2:9 190 Wisdom 5:7 190n36 11:2 190n36 Septuagint Deuteronomy 6:4 27n53 Jeremiah 11:18–12:6 74n71 15:10–21 74n71 17:14–18 74n71 18:18–23 74n71 20:7–18 74n71 Deuterocanonical Books 1 Maccabees 1:39 190n36 7:33 43n52 12:6 43 14:20 43 14:28 43n52 14:44 43n52 14:47 43n52 2 Maccabees 3:4–4:1 34 4:9 34 4:15 34 Pseudepigrapha 1 Enoch 5:1 89n38 5:3 89n38 5:6 89n38 6–7 78 6–11 77–78, 84, 86n30, 88–91 6:1 84

Index Of Ancient Sources 6:2 84, 87 6:5–6 84 7 86 7:1 84 7:3–5 84, 86 7:4 85 7:6 84, 86n32 8 78, 84, 86 8:1 37, 85 8:1–3 86n32 8:2 84n26, 86 8:3 84n26 8:4 84n26, 86 9–11 78 9:1 87 9:11 87 10:1 87 10:1–15 87–88 10:17 87 10:19 87 28:1 190n37 54 88–89 54:6 88 54:7–55:2 88 54:8 88 77:4 190n37 81:2 172 89:3–6 88 94:8b 89 98:4a 89 98:4b 89 98:5 89 2 Enoch 18:4 88 2 Baruch 190 72:1–73:2 65 Jubilees 1:1 169–71 1:5 171n21 1:5–7 172 1:5–18 170 1:7 171n21 1:13 174 1:18 174 1:19–21 170, 173 1:19–22 172

215

Index Of Ancient Sources 1:21 174 1:22 173 1:22–26 170 1:23 174 1:26 171n21 1:26–29 170 1:27 171, 173 1:29 169–70, 172 2–50 172–73 2:1 170, 171n18, 171n21 2:2 170n17 2:17 170n17 2:17–33 167–68n9 3:8–14 167–68nn9–10 3:30–31 167–68n9 4:2–6 167–68n9 4:15 89–90n38 4:31–32 167–68nn9–10 5:1–2 88 6:15–22 167–68n9, 168n11 6:19–22 171n18 6:34–38 112 6:35–38 171n18 12:22 170n17 12:25–27 197 13:25–27 167–68n9 15:11–14 167–68n9 15:23–34 167–68n9 15:33 171n18 16:5 171n18 16:20–31 167–68n9 18:10 170n17 18:17–19 167–68n9 21:5–20 167–68n9 23:32 171n21 28:6–7 167–68n9, 168n11 30 167–68n9 30:12 171n18, 171n21 30:17 171n18 30:21 171n18, 171n21 31 20n41 32:9–15 167–68n9 33:9–20 167–68n9 33:18 171n21 34:12–19 167–68n9 41:16–28 167–68n9 48:4–13 171n18 49 167–68n9 50:1–2 171n18

50:4 171n18 50:6 171n18, 171n21 50:12 167–68n9 50:13 171n18 Damascus Document CD

1:10–11 108n53 2–20 6n14 2:6–7 204n52 3:12–4:12 6n14 4:4–6 45 4:19 42n48 5:11–12 199 6:14–15 39 6:17–18 39 7:4–5 187n29 7:6 38 8:8–12 42n48 8:9–11 41 8:13 42n48 11:17–23 39 12:6–11 39n37, 40 12:8 39n37 12:8–9 39 13:15–17 39 14:12 45 14:12–17 40 15–16 6n14 15:5–17 44 15:13–15 39 20:2 187n29 20:5 187n29 20:7 187n29 20:28 107n51 20:32 107n51

Qumran Dead Sea Scrolls 1QHa 9:30 199 9:36 187n29 10:8–9 192n44 1QIsaa 121, 138n92, 139n95, 205 12 142 17:30 141

216 1QIsaa (cont.) 29:15–18 157 33 150 33:14–16, 19 149 42:19–22 157 52:22–24 156 1QM 1 49n77 1:1 192n44 1:3 190n36 6:15 50 7:6–7 183n14 7:9–10 38 12:3 204n52 14:7 187n29 15–19 49 1QpHab 2 110 2:1–2 111 2:1–3 113 2:1–5 111n65 2:2 110n59 2:5–10 109 2:8–9 110n60 4:3–9 112 4:5–6 47 4:11–12 47 5:6 204n52 5:11 113n75 6:1–5 47 7 111 7:3–5 111 7:4–5 110n60 8:13–9:7 48 9:6–7 47 10:5–13 113 11:4–6 192n44 1QS 142 1:4 42 1:13 187n29 2:2 187n29 2:19–23 179 3:10 187n29 3:20 187n29 3:21–22 90 4:2 187n29 4:14 204n52

Index Of Ancient Sources 4:15 187n29 4:17 187n29 4:18–24 91 4:22 187n29 5:1–7a 6n14 5:6 43 5:7b 6n14 5:8–10 46 5:10 42 5:13 180 5:23–24 180 6:3b–7 43 6:4–9 180 6:8 43 6:8–9 43 6:10–11 180 6:13–23 44 6:16–18 44 6:23 45 6:24–7:25 183n13 7:13–14 38, 183 8:1 43 8:5 43 8:5–6 42 8:9 43 8:10–11 187n29 8:12 188 8:12–16 187 8:22 187n29 9:5–6 42–43 9:12–21 188 9:19 187n29 13:1b–3 43 1Q51 1 4

204n52

2Q13 (2QJer)

56–57, 61, 64

2Q16 (2QRutha) 121 4Q22 (4QpaleoExodm) 155n40 8 142 4Q27 (4QNumb) 205 4Q41 (4QDeutn) 142 4Q51 (4QSama) 142, 205n55 10:6–9 72n66

217

Index Of Ancient Sources 4Q70 (4QJera) 2 1 62n36 3 + 4 i 4–5 62n36 4 i 3 62n36 4 i 4 62 4 i 8 62n36 4 i 10 62n36 4 ii 1 62n36 4 ii + 8–10 73 4 + 5 i 14–16 62 8 4 62n36 11 2 62 11 4–5 62n36 14 70n58 17–20 70n58 26 ii 2 62n36 26 ii 3 62n36 26 ii 4 62n36 26 ii 7 62n36 28 2 62n36 29 ii 3 62n36 29 ii 12 62n36 33 + 34 9 62n36 36 70n58 4Q71 (4QJerb)

55, 60–61

4Q72 (4QJerc)

55, 60, 205

4Q72a (4QJerd)

55, 60–61

4Q106 (4QCanta) 117 4Q107 (4QCantb) 1 121–22, 130, 137 1:1 130 1:1–13 129 1:4 135, 139 1:7 136 1:9 134, 139 1:11 136 1:13 135 1:14–2:13 131 2 119, 122, 137 2–4 137 2:8 137 2:13 139 2:14–4:14 132 3 121n23 3:5–9 121n23

3:6–7 132, 137 3:8 139 3:12 139n95 3:14 136, 139 4 121n22, 122, 132 4Q108 (4QCantc) 117 4Q109 (4QQoha) 121 4Q111 (4QLam)

121

4Q162 (4QpIsab) 2:1 106n49 4Q163 (4QpIsac) 23 ii 10

106n49

4Q166 (4QpHosa) 2:15–17 112 4Q169 (4QpNah) 3–4 i 1–3 3–4 i 2–3 3–4 i 7 3–4 ii 2 3–4 ii 8–9

105n42 49 35 114 114

4Q171 (4QpPsa) 1–10 i 25–ii 1 1–10 iii 1–2 1–10 iii 14–17 1–10 iv 26–27 1–10 iv 27–v 1

114 192n44 108n53, 109n56 109n58 112

4Q177 (4QCatena A) 1:8–9 192n44 4Q178 1 2

204n52

4Q179 (4QapocrLam A) 1 i 12 190n36 4Q180 (4QAgesCreat A) 1 1 106n49 4Q202 (4QEnb ar) 1 ii 28

86

218 4Q204 (4QEnc ar) 1 v 5

Index Of Ancient Sources 87n

4Q216 (4QJuba) 142 4Q252 (4QcommGen A) 2:1–6 150–51 2:3–5 150, 151n28 2:4 151 4Q254a (4QcommGen D) 3 1–2 151n28 4Q257 (4QSc) 204n52 4Q258 (4QSd) 204 4Q259 (4QSe)

183n13, 204n52

4Q261 (4QSg) 183n13 4Q265 (4QMiscellaneous Rules) 1 1–2 183n13 4Q266 (4QDa) 10 ii 2–15

183n13

4Q267 (4QDb) 3 7 4 9–10

107n51 40n42

4Q270 (4QDe) 2 i 2 7 i 1–11

107n51 183n13

4Q385a–4Q390 (Apocryphon of Jeremiah C) 53 4Q391 (4QpsEzeke) 12 1

204n52

4Q394 (4QMMTa) 3–7 ii 16–18 8 iv 5–7 8 iv 8 8 iv 8–9 8 vi

189 189 189 189 189

4Q397 (4QMMTd) 6–13 189

4Q400 (4QShirShabba) 1 i 15 204n52 4Q464 (4QExposition on the Patriarchs) 197 4Q511 (4QShirb) 10 8 63 iii 3

187n29 187n29

5Q6 (5QLama) 121 6Q6 (6QCant)

117, 121

11Q5 (11QPsa) 205 11Q19 (11QTa) 142 1–2 17 2 18–24, 26 2–59 22 2:1–15 10 2:1–13:8 9 3–13 20 3–29 20–21, 24 3–39 21 3–47 15, 17, 18n36, 19–21, 24 3–47 + 48–51 22 3–51 22 3:1–13:8 10, 17 3:1–13:13 17 3:1–30:2 17 3:1–30:14 17 13–29 10–11, 24 13:8–29:2 10 13:9–29:3a 17 13:9–30:2 9 13:14–29:15 17 21–24 24n45 29 18–20, 22, 23 29:2–30:2 10 29:3b–30:2 15, 17 29:15b–30:14 15, 17 30–47 18n36, 20–21, 24 30:3–31:9a 10 30:3–47:18 9, 17 30:15–47:26 17 31:9b 10 31:10–34:12a 10 34:12b–14 10 34:15–35:9a 10

219

Index Of Ancient Sources 35:9b 10 35:10–39:5a 10 38 24 39:5–11a 10 39:11b–40:5 10 40:6 10 40:7–43:12a 10 41–42 24 43:12b–17 10 44:1–45:7a 10 45–47 15, 17, 18n36, 19–20, 23 45:7b–18 10 45:10–14 17n36 46:1–11a 10 46:3–12 17n36 46:11b–12 10 46:13–16 183n14 46:13–47:2 10 47:3–5 17n36 47:3–18 10 47:10–11 17n36 47:17 20 47:17–18 17n36 48 10, 17, 20n40 48–51 15n31, 16, 19, 21, 24 48–66 15, 17, 21 48:1–10a 10 48:1–51:10 9, 18 48:1–51:17 18 48:7–8 21 48:10–11 21 48:11–17 10 48:16–17 21 48:19–20 21 49:1–51:5a 10 51 16n34, 18, 20n40, 21–23 51–56 16 51–56 + 59:1–13a 22 51–56 + 59:1–20a 22 51–57 16 51–59 16–17, 20–22, 24, 26 51–66 16n33 51:5b–10 15, 18 51:5b–11 10 51:6–7 21 51:7–8 21 51:8 21 51:9–10 21

51:11–13 16n34 51:11–18 10 51:11–56:11 18 51:11–56:21 10 51:11–59:21 18 51:12b–17 15, 18 51:13–14 21 51:14–15 21 51:15 21 51:17–18 21 51:18–20 16n34 51:18–56:18 18 51:18–59:28 18 51:19–21 10 52 16n34 52–55 6 52:1–12 10 52:13b–21 10 53:1–56:21 10 55:20–21 4n7 56 17n34 56–58 16 56–59 24 56–60 6 56:12–14 18 56:19–21 18 57–58 + 59:13b–21 22 57–58 + 59:20b–28 22 57–59 10, 16–17 59 17n34, 18, 21–23 59:1–21 18 59:2–21 15 59:9–28 15, 18 59:13 22 59:20 22 60 22 60–66 15–18, 22, 24, 26 60:1–66:17 10 60:2–11 10 60:12–63:14a 10 61:1–5 4n8 63:14b–15 10 64:1–6a 10 64:6b–13a 10 64:13b–66:9a 10 65:2–7 4n8 66:9b 10 66:10–12a 10 66:12b–17 10

220

Index Of Ancient Sources

The Schøyen Collection MS 4612/9 (4Q[?]Jer) l. 1 l. 2 l. 3 l. 4 l. 5–6 ll. 5 l. 6

54, 57–61, 64, 74 59 59 59, 60n26 59 60n27 59 59

Ancient Jewish Works Josephus Against Apion 2.52–113 160 Jewish Antiquities 11.329–339 43n52 14.203 36 18.18–22 36n30 18.19 36 Judaean War 1.154 36 2.123 37 2.137 37 2.141 37 6.316 47

1 Corinthians 11:10 89–90n38 Hebrews 10:10 152 Jude 20–25 159 Rabbinic texts b. ʿAbod. Zar. 15a 39n37 b. Sanh. 101a 128n56 b. Taʿan. 26b 131n71 31a 138n94 m. ʿAbod. Zar. 1:6 39n37 m. Pesaḥ 4:3 39n37 m. Taʿan. 4:8 138n94

Philo

m. Tamid 5:1

Allegorical Interpretation 2.84 190n36

Pirqe Rabbi Eliezer 22 89–90n38

New Testament

t. Sanh. 12:10 128n56

Matthew 23:27 42n47 24:15 190n36 Mark 5:1–20 29 13:14 190n36 Luke 21:20 190n36

118n11, 135n83

y. Ber. 9:2 88 y. Pesaḥ 4 39n37 30d 39n37 31a 39n37

221

Index Of Ancient Sources Other Sources

P.Bodmer VII (GA P72) 159

Apollodorus 3.4.1 80

Shabaka Stone (BM EA 498)

Aristotle, Poetics 1449b–1450b 125n38 1462a 127n53

Strabo, Geography 13.1.54 153

Chester Beatty Papyus II (GA P46) Folio 31v line 5 151–52 Gilgamesh VIII Manuscript m1 158 Gula Hymn Manuscript a

152–53

Hymn to Aphrodite Manuscript M 4–5 158–59

Sumerian King List

148

146–47

Tertullian The Apparel of Women 1.2–3 89–90n38 2.10 89–90n38 The Veiling of Virgins 7.2 89–90n38 Testament of Abraham 12 190n36