The Ten Commandments: Monuments of Memory, Belief, and Interpretation 9781009366892, 9781009366908, 1009366890

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The Ten Commandments

The Decalogue, commonly known as the Ten Commandments, is usually analyzed as a text. Within the Hebrew Bible, however, it is depicted as a monument – an artifact embedded in rituals that a community uses to define itself. Indeed, the phraseology, visual representations, and ritual practices of contemporary monuments used to describe the Ten Commandments imbue them with authority. In this volume, Timothy S. Hogue presents a new translation, commentary, and literary analysis of the Decalogue through a comparative study of the commandments with inscribed monuments in the ancient Levant. Drawing on archaeological and art historical studies of monumentality, he grounds the Decalogue’s composition and redaction in the material culture and political history of ancient Israel and ancient West Asia. Presenting a new inner-biblical reception history of the text, Hogue’s book also provides a new model for dating biblical texts that is based on archaeological and historical evidence, rather than purely literary critical methods. Timothy S. Hogue is Assistant Professor of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations at the University of Pennsylvania.

The Ten Commandments Monuments of Memory, Belief, and Interpretation

TIMOTHY S. HOGUE University of Pennsylvania

Shaftesbury Road, Cambridge cb2 8ea, United Kingdom One Liberty Plaza, 20th Floor, New York, ny 10006, USA 477 Williamstown Road, Port Melbourne, vic 3207, Australia 314–321, 3rd Floor, Plot 3, Splendor Forum, Jasola District Centre, New Delhi – 110025, India 103 Penang Road, #05–06/07, Visioncrest Commercial, Singapore 238467 Cambridge University Press is part of Cambridge University Press & Assessment, a department of the University of Cambridge. We share the University’s mission to contribute to society through the pursuit of education, learning and research at the highest international levels of excellence. www.cambridge.org Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781009366892 doi: 10.1017/9781009366908 © Timothy S. Hogue 2023 This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Cambridge University Press & Assessment. First published 2023 A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library. A Cataloging-in-Publication data record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. isbn 978-1-009-36689-2 Hardback Cambridge University Press & Assessment has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Contents

List of Figures

page vii

Preface Acknowledgments

1

2

3

ix xi

Introduction: Monuments, Monumentality, and the Decalogue How Communities Use Things to Make Meaning Approaching the Decalogue’s Monumentality The Structure of This Study Levantine “I Am” Monuments The Contours of a History of “I Am” Monuments Origins in the Late Bronze Age: Idrimi of Alalaḫ The Age of Civic Ritual: Katuwas of Karkamiš The Age of Territorial Theatre: Mesha of Moab The Age of Court Ceremony: Bar-Rakib of Samʾal The Afterlife of “I Am” Monuments The Place of the Decalogue in the History of “I Am” Monuments

1 1 13 18 21 22 28 32 49 61 71 74

The Decalogue in the Book of Exodus Translation and Commentary of Exodus 20:2–17 Artifacts Depicted in the Decalogue’s Narrative Context The Decalogue’s Setting in Exodus’ Narrative Spaces and Rituals The Sociohistorical Context of the Decalogue’s Composition in Exodus

76 77 101

The Decalogue in the Book of Deuteronomy The Court of the Divine Emperor

140 143

v

110 126

vi

4

Contents Translation and Commentary of Deuteronomy 5:6–21 Artifacts Depicted in the Deuteronomic Decalogue’s Narrative Context The Decalogue’s Setting in Deuteronomy’s Narrative Spaces and Rituals The Sociohistorical Context of the Decalogue’s Redaction in Deuteronomy The Afterlife of the Decalogue in the Postmonarchic Period Communal Upheaval and Reinvention in the Wake of the Babylonian Invasions The Afterlife Interpretation of the Decalogue’s Content Transposing the Decalogue onto New Artifacts in New Settings From Inscription to Scripture Conclusion: The Monumentality of the Decalogue I Am: A History of Monuments I Am Yahweh: A History of Monumentality From Monument to Scripture and Back Again The Eternal Monument of the Divine King

Appendix 1 Corpus of Levantine “I Am” Monuments Appendix 2 Transcription and Translation of Texts in Chapter 1

153 166 180 200 208 209 214 223 237 238 239 241 243 246 248 252

Appendix 3 Translation of the Narrative in Exodus 19–24:11 with Editorial Insertions Marked

267

Works Cited

277

Scripture Index Subject Index

317 322

Figures

1 Chart showing the number of Levantine “I Am” monuments by century. page 25 2 Map showing the sites of Iron Age and Persian period Levantine “I Am” inscriptions discovered in situ. 26 3 Chart showing the numbers of Levantine “I Am” monuments by epigraphic type and period. 27 4 Monumental inscription of Katuwas complete with an “amu-figure” (KARKAMIŠ A13d). 40 5 Map of the Lower Palace area of Carchemish showing the locations of Katuwas’ “I Am” monuments. Map by Amy Karoll. 47 6 The Dibon Stele including the royal inscription of King Mesha of Moab. 53 7 The territorial distribution of Mesha’s “I Am” monuments in Moab. 58 8 The territorial distribution of Urhilina’s “I Am” monuments in Hamath. 59 9 The territorial distribution of Hazael’s “I Am” monuments in Aram. 60 10 Bar-Rakib’s Second Palace Orthostat (KAI 217). 64 11 Bar-Rakib’s Third Palace Orthostat (KAI 218). 66 12 Map of the Zincirli Acropolis showing major monumental installations. 70 13 Chart showing the distribution of “I Am” inscriptions written in Akkadian by historical period. 73 14 Outline of the narrative in the Sinai Pericope highlighting its ring structure. 118 15 Configuration of ritual participants around Yariris’ loyalty oath document at Carchemish (KARKAMIŠ A6). 193 vii

Preface

And Moses wrote down all the words of the Lord. He rose early in the morning, and built an altar at the foot of the mountain, and set up twelve pillars, corresponding to the twelve tribes of Israel. Exodus 24:4 (NRSV)

In just one verse following on the heels of the Ten Commandments in chapter 20, Exodus tells us that textual authority was originally located not in a text alone but rather in an assemblage of artifacts and social practices. Writing down the words of God involved more than composing a text in this case. It also required building a monument, establishing a ritual, and engaging a community. The power of these words comes not from their being written down but from their being monumentalized. It is their monumentality that granted them authority. This suggests a radical but necessary paradigm shift for biblical and other textual studies. Analyzing a text – especially a monumental one like the Ten Commandments – requires not just a consideration of its words but also the inscribed artifact (here, the pillars), its physical location (at the foot of the mountain), the means for interacting with it (the altar), and the people engaging it (Israel). This book presents a new analysis of the Ten Commandments based on their monumentality and their relationship to the monumental assemblages of ancient Israel and its neighbors. By comparing the text of the Ten Commandments to these monuments, we will find that many of the phrases and themes of the biblical text originate in monumental inscriptions from the surrounding region. The similarities do not stop there, however. We will also find that the artifacts and rituals depicted alongside the Ten Commandments match what we know of inscribed monuments and their associated rituals from the archaeological record. Moreover, we ix

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Preface

will find that if we study these monuments in historical sequence, changes in material culture match up with editorial changes to the Ten Commandments and the narratives surrounding them in the Hebrew Bible. All of this points to the conclusion that the Ten Commandments was not only composed to act as a monumental inscription but also strategically edited over time to maintain its monumentality. Why was the Decalogue’s monumentality so important to maintain? The monuments it most resembles had two important functions. First, they presented and – from an ancient perspective – became the speech of a powerful individual, usually a king. Second, these monuments brought groups of people into relationship with that king as well as with each other. In other words, when groups engaged these monuments, they were transformed into communities, whether religious groups, city-states, or fledgling nations. Given its relationship to these monuments, I conclude that the Decalogue accomplished the same thing. While there will be much to say about each verse in the Decalogue and the artifacts and practices depicted alongside it, its purpose is relatively easy to describe. It was intended to become the word of God and announce his kingship. It also constituted Israel as his people. Keeping up with the monuments of its day meant that it accomplished this in different ways in different social and historical contexts, but the Decalogue remained – and indeed remains – a monument to the kingship of God aimed at the establishment of his people. To make the comparisons presented in this book easier for the reader to follow, I have transcribed passages from the Hebrew Bible in the same way as I would transcribe epigraphic Hebrew or other Northwest Semitic dialects. That is, I have transliterated the consonantal text without vowels, so that it more closely resembles the standard transcriptions of the extrabiblical inscriptions I reference in this study.

Acknowledgments

The present book is nothing so monumental as what I have just described, but it is the culmination of over ten years of research and discussion with a veritable community of different readers and interlocutors. Space does not allow me to thank everyone, so I must beg the forgiveness of anyone left out below. First, this book was significantly impacted by my mentors and cohort at University of California, Los Angeles – William Schniedewind, Aaron Burke, Caitlyn Bonesho, Yona Sabar, Craig Melchert, Melissa Ramos, Alice Mandell, Jeremy Smoak, Andrew Danielson, Jason Price, Mark Steinberg, Nadia Ben-Marzouk, Dani Candelora, Jacob Damm, Lisa Cleath, Rosanna Lu, Michael Wingert, Martinluther Chan, Jeremy Williams, Brian Donnelly-Lewis, Megan Remington, and Elizabeth Van Dyke. Without your gracious comments and critiques during this study’s infancy, it could not have grown up into the book presented here. With them, I wish to thank my other colleagues in the field who either read portions of this book, commented on the material when I presented it at conferences, or simply engaged me in conversation over the material. I am particularly thankful to Seth Sanders, Mark Lester, Jonathan Greer, Madadh Richey, Dennis Pardee, Nathaniel Levtow, Dominik Markl, Eckart Otto, Helmut Utzschneider, Julia Rhyder, Lauren Monroe, Dan Fleming, Quinn Daniels, Eva von Dossow, and Bill Green. I would like to express special gratitude to the scholarly community that welcomed me in Japan, where I had multiple opportunities to present this research and take it in new directions. I am especially grateful to my colleagues Shigeo Yamada, Daisuke Shibata, Ada Taggar-Cohen, Hajime Yamamoto, David Tsumura, Yoshiyuki Muchiki, and Kazuko Watanabe. xi

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Acknowledgments

This book was significantly improved through discussions with scholars in fields outside of Hebrew Bible, Jewish studies, and Northwest Semitics. I am particularly grateful to the many Anatolianists I have had the opportunity to discuss my approaches to Luwian material with (especially Ilya Yakubovich, Annick Payne, and Alessandra Gilibert). I also wish to express my thanks to Christelle Alvarez and Yegor Grebnev for inviting me to Oxford University’s Centre for Manuscript and Text Culture’s 2019 meeting “Transposition and Monumentality of Writing,” where I had the opportunity to sharpen my approach to monumentality in conversation with Egyptologists, classicists, Mayanists, runologists, and sinologists. The comments of Kristel Zilmer, Sarah Jackson, Caitlin Reddington Davis, Charles Crowther, and Ondř ej Škrabal were particularly helpful in this regard. It is my hope that this study will encourage more scholars of ancient West Asia to seek insights in fields like Runology, Sinology, and Mesoamerican studies. There is a rich conversation yet to be had. This book would never have seen the light of day nor taken quite the shape it has were it not for the hard work of the team at Cambridge University Press. If any errors are left to be found in the book, the fault lies with me alone, because this team has done stellar work walking me through the final stages of preparing this study. I wish to express special thanks to my editor at the press, Beatrice Rehl, who took an early interest in this project and greatly assisted me in completing it. This book would never have been completed were it not for the loving support of my family. I’m grateful to my parents – Scott and Gail Hogue – as well as my sisters – Staci Hogue and Donna Chavez – who even sat through academic presentations of this material when they had opportunity. At the time of writing, he won’t be able to read this, but I’m also grateful to my son, Daniel Akira Scott Hogue, whose curious engagements with the world inspired so much of my approach to material culture. Finally, I must thank my loving wife, Tabby Hogue, who has very kindly listened to me prattle on about monuments for most of our marriage. Your patience is boundless and I could not have finished this book without you.

Introduction Monuments, Monumentality, and the Decalogue

What more is there to say about the Ten Commandments? It stretches belief that a list of fairly obvious moral maxims could capture the imagination and ire of countless generations of religious observers, exegetes, politicians, legal experts, and biblical critics alike. Why has this document – of all the snatches of the Hebrew Bible that could have been extracted – had such remarkable staying power in both the ancient and modern worlds? This book will argue that the Ten Commandments – or the Decalogue – have remained relevant because they are monumental. This is not to say merely that they are important or influential. Rather, by monumental I intend a functional definition developed by art historians, archaeologists, and literary theorists over the past century. Monuments, to be monuments, must provoke a reaction on the part of communities. They are focal points of engagement and interpretation that prompt groups of people to reconstruct what they remember and believe. The Decalogue is and was such a monument. Indeed, I will argue that it was designed that way. This book will seek to recover the ancient West Asian traditions of monuments out of which the Decalogue emerged. By contextualizing the Decalogue within the monuments of its day, we can uncover new insights into the text’s composition and reception in its original contexts. More than this, we can uncover why the Decalogue has continued to be reproduced and reinterpreted to the present day. The Decalogue was a monument from the start. Its social power derives from its monumentality – the quality that invites communities to engage with it to make special meaning for themselves.

how communities use things to make meaning Though perhaps unfamiliar to some readers, the word “monumentality” may readily conjure up grand mental images. “Monument” has often been used in a modern Western context to denote large, durable, significant 1

2

Introduction – Monuments, Monumentality, and the Decalogue

public works intentionally constructed to awe or otherwise emotionally impress their visitors. In studies of ancient West Asia, “monumental” is often used interchangeably with “lapidary,” thus projecting a modern Western perspective on ancient material culture. When we hear the word “monument,” we might be immediately tempted to think of great public works of architecture and sculpture like the Pyramids at Giza, the Great Wall of China, Cleopatra’s Needles, or the Lincoln Memorial. It is not wrong to label such things monumental, but is it their form or rather their function that makes them so? Expanding our search for what really makes things monumental, we might turn to classic works of art or literature: perhaps the Sistine Chapel, the Mona Lisa, The Tale of Genji, or Rumi’s Masnavi. These too might be labeled enduring, public, influential, and certainly large in a metaphorical sense, but are these features what truly make a monument? Fewer of us would jump immediately to an important legal document like the United States Constitution. And yet, according to art historians, the Constitution is more monumental than even the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, American Gothic, To Kill a Mockingbird, and any other piece of art that has become a national treasure in the United States. How can this be the case? Theoretical work in art history over the last century has sought to redefine monuments as socially embedded things that interact with communities in culturally specific ways. These studies have postulated that a monument is only truly monumental if it successfully produces meaning for a community.1 Wu Hung defines monuments as follows: As scholars have repeatedly stated, a monument, no matter what shape or material, serves to preserve memory, to structure history, to immortalize a figure, event, or institution, to consolidate a community or a public, to define a center for political gatherings or ritual communication, to relate the living to the dead, and to connect the present with the future. (Wu 1995, 4)

Monuments are thus defined by “how they oriented people both physically and mentally, how they exemplified common moral and value systems, how they supported and affected the constitution of collective identities and specific political discourses” (Wu 1995, 14). More simply, 1

Alois Riegl began the research that led to the view of monuments advanced by this study in 1903. His work especially challenged the notion that monuments must be state-sponsored public works. Riegl instead analyzed monuments based on how they were received by society (1903; 1982). The most significant recent work is that of art historian Wu Hung (1995).

How Communities Use Things to Make Meaning

3

James Osborne argues that a monument should be defined as “an object, or suite of objects, that possesses . . . special meaning to a community of people” (Osborne 2014, 4). He then defines monumentality as “an ongoing, constantly renegotiated relationship between thing and person, between the monument(s) and the person(s) experiencing the monument” (Osborne 2014, 3).2 In short, a monument is anything that produces special meaning for a community as they interact with it, regardless of that thing’s size, material, durability, or even its publicity.3 The defining feature of monuments is their potential to produce communal meaning in various ways – in other words, their monumentality. Osborne illustrates his definitions using the Guennol Lioness. This piece is probably to be identified as a work of the proto-Elamite culture dating to roughly 3,000 BCE. The original publication of the object described it – correctly, in Osborne’s opinion – as monumental. The lioness is also only 3.25 inches long. What, then, justifies its claim to the label of “monument”? Osborne suggests that the answer lies in the relationship between the object and its current cultural context. Regardless of the lioness’ original context – which is considerably difficult to reconstruct – modern scholars and laypeople alike have chosen to treat the object as a monument. It was even auctioned off in 2007 for the startling sum of $57.2 million – a monumental value to ascribe to such a minuscule object. In short, the Guennol Lioness is a monument because modern scholars, auctioneers, and its current owners – a veritable community of different people – imagine it to be so (Osborne 2014, 1–2, 13–14). The current audience may very well think the object more monumental than did the proto-Elamites. The Guennol Lioness may admittedly be a case of moderns making a mountain out of a molehill or, in this case, a monument out of a bauble. If it seems unimpressive, compare it to the example of Stonehenge. No modern visitor to the site of Stonehenge would consider it anything but a monument, and yet debate rages as to what it may have signified to its prehistoric audience. Ultimately, these debates are immaterial to the classification of Stonehenge as a monument, however. It is monumental 2

Emphasis in original. Richard Bradley similarly argued that a monument is an object that can affect “a subtle change in the relationship between people and the natural world” (Bradley 1993, 20). 3 Note that the meaning only arises as communities actually interact with the monument. This is especially the case in ancient West Asia, where monuments had to be activated by their users. These were never passive conveyers of meaning, but rather active – even agential in the emic perspective – producers of meaning (Bahrani 2014, 173).

4

Introduction – Monuments, Monumentality, and the Decalogue

precisely because it produces meaning for communities, even though that meaning and those communities have changed. This, in the words of Richard Bradley, is “what visitors to Stonehenge on midsummer morning recognize and what its excavators seem to forget,” namely, that “experience is at the heart of how monuments are used” (Bradley 1993, 47). Stonehenge is monumental precisely because moderns imagine it to be so, and so did its prehistoric constructors – if the labor invested into its construction and layout are any indication.4 While various cultural productions may be intended to provoke certain communal engagements, they are only monumental when a community really does engage them, interpret them, and use them to redefine itself. In light of that, Jefferson had better watch his step in his memorial, but the Constitution can rest easily as America’s premiere monument. The people of the United States – constituted as a communal “We” by the preamble of the text – are almost constantly engaged in interpreting this document. At the highest level of interpretation – the Supreme Court – this engagement can even affect the values and identity of the nation as a whole. Whether one sits to the right or left of the aisle, the Constitution is regularly trotted out as a symbol of party values and platforms. Though different groups disagree on how precisely to interpret the Constitution, they very notably agree that it should be interpreted and that this interpretation has meaning for everyone included in “We the people.” These communal acts of interpretation – even when the resultant interpretations do not agree – still create some wider social cohesion. In other words, the aptly named Constitution of the United States does in fact constitute a community of people as “We the people of the United States of America.” It is America’s monument par excellence. In recent history, one monumental text has risen in challenge to the Constitution – the Ten Commandments. The Monumentality of Texts: The Decalogue and the Constitution In 2005, the United States Supreme Court heard arguments concerning the display of a monument bearing an abbreviated version of the Ten Commandments in a courthouse in McCreary County, Kentucky. This was neither the first nor the last such case the Supreme Court heard. Why had a relatively short text composed in ancient Palestine caused such 4

Investment of labor is often – but not always – a telltale indicator that an object may be monumental (DeMarrais, Castillo, and Earle 1996, 16–19; Glatz and Plourde 2011, 36–38).

How Communities Use Things to Make Meaning

5

fanfare? What sort of power did the text have that necessitated a ruling – and a close ruling at that5 – from the highest court in a modern nation? Surprisingly, both the majority and the dissenting opinions were agreed on the answer to this question: they both accepted that the Ten Commandments are monumental. This did not mean that the justices observed correctly that this version of the Ten Commandments had been carved large in stone and publicly displayed, as many would misconstrue the meaning of the term “monumental.” Rather, even if they did not use the exact language of archaeologists and art historians, the Supreme Court recognized that the Ten Commandments display in McCreary County was functionally monumental. The text was produced and presented to provoke active engagement on the part of the local community. This community was intended to interact with the monument to make meaning for themselves. The nature of this meaning was the quandary that faced the court. In order to determine the text’s meaning, the court addressed aspects of it that few in the public – and few among biblical scholars – would typically consider. Rather than addressing their form or even verbal content, the Supreme Court questioned how the surrounding community related to the Ten Commandments monument and especially what the text meant in the specific context of the courthouse. That is, in order to determine what viewers of the Ten Commandments might understand to be their purpose, the court needed to analyze not the text alone but also its context and the sequence of events surrounding its erection as a monument. In other words, this case was not so much a question about the Ten Commandments monument as it was about its monumentality. Though both accepted that the Ten Commandments were a monument, the majority and dissenting opinions provided two separate accounts of what made the Ten Commandments monumental in McCreary County. Writing for the majority, Justice Souter argued that in determining the meaning of the monument, “purpose needs to be taken seriously . . . and needs to be understood in light of context” (McCreary County, Kentucky, et al. v. American Civil Liberties Union of Kentucky et al. 2005, 844, 874). On this basis, he concluded that this particular Ten Commandments display monumentalized ideological support for a particular religion – Christianity. He noted that the initial dedication of the display was attended by a Christian pastor, who publicly declared that religious 5

This particular case was a 5–4 decision.

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Introduction – Monuments, Monumentality, and the Decalogue

principles were the foundation for civic ethics. The text was secondarily contextualized within a display linking it to governmental texts that affirmed the existence of God. Finally, the display was recontextualized within an exhibit dedicated to the “Foundations of American Law.” This final display was deemed incapable of erasing the monument’s prior history. It was thus a failed attempt to present the Ten Commandments in a secular light. Accordingly, the court ruled that this display still amounted to support for a particular religious outlook. The function of the text was thus determined by not only its words but also its ceremonial inauguration, its presentation to the public, its context within the courthouse, and its history. Souter thus outlined an acceptable method for determining a text’s monumentality and its socially embedded meaning. This method made almost no appeal to the actual words of the text. Justice Scalia, on the other hand, appealed in his dissenting opinion to the broader cultural background of the text. He argued that the monument also had to be understood in light of other receptions of its discourse. On this basis, he asserted that the Ten Commandments did not appeal to any one religious tradition but rather to several through its acknowledgment of a common creator. According to Scalia, the Ten Commandments were recognized as God-given by Christians, Jews, and Muslims – the three largest religions in the United States. This display of the Ten Commandments did not monumentalize a religion so much as they monumentalized a person. Scalia concluded that “publicly honoring the Ten Commandments is thus . . . indistinguishable from publicly honoring God” (McCreary County, Kentucky, et al. v. American Civil Liberties Union of Kentucky et al. 2005 Scalia, dissenting). Though it was entirely unintentional, Scalia’s opinion echoes that of Tiglath-pileser III in a similar case of monument display in Gaza in the eighth century BCE. In one of his annals, he wrote of this monument, “I set it up in the palace of Gaza, and I counted it as one of the gods of their land” (Berlejung 2012, 155; Tadmor 1994, 141, 179 Summary Inscription 4:11’, 8:17’). Publicly honoring the stele was thus to be indistinguishable from publicly honoring Tiglath-pileser, even as though he were a god. While his appeal to the history of religions left something to be desired, Scalia rightly posited that monumentality must also be historically situated in a broader reception history of the same discourse. He even inadvertently appealed to the Iron Age reception of monuments akin to the Decalogue. What was really at issue in this case, then? Whatever the precise meaning of the Ten Commandments was in the context of the McCreary County Courthouse, the problem remains that the text was being

How Communities Use Things to Make Meaning

7

enshrined as an American monument in a civil context. Displayed alongside other “Foundations of American Law,” the Decalogue was entered into a competition with other monumental texts used to constitute American civic identity – the Constitution foremost among them (Watts 2004). The stakes in this case were thus much larger than simply a question of what was monumentalized by this specific iteration of the Ten Commandments. The question lurking behind this was which monumental texts should the United States government use to constitute its societal values and norms? Should the Ten Commandments be allowed onto the same field as texts like the Constitution? This study will advance an approach to the Ten Commandments that will make this foray into Supreme Court opinions particularly relevant. Leaving its American context behind, I will argue that the text was designed as a cultural monument in each of its major appearances in the Hebrew Bible. That is, the text was composed as well as strategically edited to engage the communities within which it was embedded and to provoke them to use it to make special meaning. In the case of the Decalogue, that special meaning primarily concerned the kingship of God and his people. Put another way, the Decalogue answers the question: whom does God rule? An implicit understanding of this may underlie the great controversy the text caused in modern America. To answer this question in an ancient context, the scribes responsible for the different iterations of the Decalogue drew upon the discourse of contemporary Levantine monuments – especially a particular class of artifacts that I label “I Am” monuments. Therefore, though separated in time by some thousands of years, the Supreme Court’s approach to this issue is instructive for an analysis of the Decalogue in its original sociocultural context as well. Depicted Monuments and Manuscripts: Building Monuments with Words Many studies of monuments and monumentality emphasize materiality. And materiality does matter. Even in the case of texts – like the Constitution – so much of what they communicate is bound up with their material, medium, aesthetic features, the spaces they occupy, and the ways in which we physically interact with them. Almost no one would read the phrase “We the People” on a Post-it note as opposed to an aged parchment and experience the same emotional impact. But what if the materiality of the monument exists only in the world of a narrative? How are we to approach an artifact that only exists in a depiction?

8

Introduction – Monuments, Monumentality, and the Decalogue

Though their form still matters, monumental texts are unlike other monuments in that they are not limited to a single instantiation. The Constitution is still defined by its verbal content, and copies of the original – especially on media more significant than Post-its – retain some if not all of its social power. Similarly, the Decalogue is not a singular artifact. It is a collection of verses repeated in slightly different forms in two places in the Hebrew Bible, and it has taken various forms both within the biblical narrative and in its subsequent history. Nevertheless, it can still be analyzed as a monument, in that it provokes communal engagement and meaning-making. But it is a monument made of words rather than stone. Instantiations of it – perhaps stretching back to its original form – have been made of stone, but that is not what made it monumental. Monumental texts affect the communal imagination in the same ways as other monumental artifacts, and it is that potential to capture imagination that renders all such things monumental. However, the ancient scribes responsible for the Decalogue did not leave its monumentality to chance. In the ancient world, one particular strategy for capturing the imagination was the literary depiction of an artifact, whether real or imagined, which could prompt audiences to engage the words of the text as though they were such an artifact. This is precisely what we will find in the narratives surrounding the Decalogue. It is always reproduced alongside depictions of various inscribed artifacts: stelae, tablets, tablet boxes, amulets, and scrolls. What’s more, we will discover over the course of this study that those depictions were periodically updated to maintain the relevance of the Decalogue as older inscribed artifacts fell out of use. This is part of what makes monumental texts so powerful. As texts, they can shapeshift into new forms to engage new communities in meaningful ways. It still matters what instantiations of textual monuments are made of – in terms of their physical materials – but they are ultimately made of words. In Wu’s study of monumentality in ancient China, he develops his definition of monumentality by first analyzing not specific artifacts but rather literary depictions of them. His study of the Nine Tripods exemplifies how to approach materiality that exists primarily as depicted in a narrative, and so the Nine Tripods provide an essential model for approaching the Ten Commandments. The Nine Tripods were a set of bronze vessels cast to commemorate the creation of the Xia dynasty – China’s legendary first dynasty. They were utilized in rituals devoted to the imperial ancestors, and possessing them granted the holder the right to rule as emperor. These objects and the rituals they were used in were so

How Communities Use Things to Make Meaning

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sacred that they were kept hidden from public view, but the accounts relayed to the public about the current place of the tripods still allowed these objects to function in the communities in which they were embedded. Even hidden from view, the Nine Tripods still prompted several successive communities of Chinese citizens to reconstruct their beliefs and values as they acclimatized to new dynastic rulers. The Nine Tripods also probably never existed. The primary evidence for this is that they appear to morph in size and shape in literary depictions over time. These changes are not simply the result of competing traditions or conflicting accounts. Rather, the changes line up with broader cultural shifts in the production of monuments. The Nine Tripods were always depicted as the most important type of bronze monument of the contemporary age. The literary description had to change in order to preserve the relevance and social power of the Nine Tripods. Wu thus chose the Nine Tripods as his paradigmatic example of a Chinese monument. These objects were monumental because they successfully produced special meaning for the communities in which they were embedded. They accomplished this solely as they were depicted and described, because there were probably never any material bronzes to be encountered otherwise. Far from diminishing the monumentality of the Nine Tripods, this imagined materiality actually enhanced it because their monumentality could be updated in each subsequent depiction as the monuments in the surrounding culture changed (Wu 1995, 6–12). We shall see that the Decalogue evolved in a similar fashion as the monuments in its sociocultural context changed. Wu’s study of the Nine Tripods provides an important model for integrating manuscript traditions with material and epigraphic remains. The issues of connecting archaeological evidence to the Hebrew Bible are only sometimes problematized and often elided. While this difficulty often appears unique to the field of biblical studies, other fields face the same problem and can provide some creative solutions. Wu highlights that manuscript traditions provide an essential window into the reception of material and epigraphic remains. The example of the Nine Tripods is so fascinating because their monumentality was updated to reflect the monuments of new periods. This provides significant evidence for their reception as monuments. If the communities interacting with them did not accept them as monumental, there would be no need to revise these accounts over time. In the ancient Levant, our primary evidence for monumentality is in material remains. Only a few texts exist that explicitly describe monument reception in addition to production. The Hebrew

10 Introduction – Monuments, Monumentality, and the Decalogue

Bible and its evolving account of the Decalogue will prove to be an invaluable piece of evidence in this regard. Broadly speaking, depicted materiality was an essential means of constructing monuments within narratives in ancient West Asia and in the Hebrew Bible. In depictions like those of the Decalogue, “the words . . . evoke, and in some sense create, a monument,” to quote Rebecca Pyatkevich (2009, 162). Anne Kathrine de Hemmer Gudme argues that the tabernacle account in Exodus 25–40 accomplishes a similar function, for example, based on a comparison to the Egyptian Book of the Temple. The Book of the Temple is a literary depiction of an ideal temple. Like the Nine Tripods, the Book of the Temple was thought to have originated in Egypt’s legendary past. Similarly, the tabernacle is framed within an account from Israel’s legendary past, and its architectural descriptions allow its users to reconstruct it within their minds. This is not to say that things like the Tabernacle and the Decalogue definitely did not exist in some form or other, but rather that those originals were ultimately immaterial to their monumentality. It was as texts that these monuments became truly powerful. They are monumental precisely because their imagined materiality made them meaningful to particular communities, even though they primarily existed as literary depictions (Gudme 2014, 8–9).6 Levantine “I Am” Monuments: The Inspirations for the Depiction of the Decalogue If the Decalogue is a depiction of a monument, what were its composers depicting? While such depictions could be of a specific artifact, it is more likely that the Decalogue’s composers were drawing from known traditions of monumental discourse – that is, the common visual styles, ritual practices, formats, and stock phrases used when making monuments. This was the standard means of creating literary monuments in Ancient West Asia and North Africa. For example, the Foundation Deposit of Amenhotep son of Hapu from Egypt existed only in a literary narrative; its depiction was not based on a specific foundation deposit but rather on the discourse common to contemporary Egyptian foundation deposits

6

Jeremy Smoak has made a similar argument about the connection between monumental writing in actual architectural settings and the layout of the tabernacle texts in the book of Numbers (Smoak 2017a). A recent study by Julia Rhyder applies a similar logic to approaching the monumentality of the tabernacle in Exodus more explicitly than did Gudme (Rhyder 2022).

How Communities Use Things to Make Meaning

11

(Assmann 1992, 61). Similarly, Mesopotamia’s entire corpus of “narû literature” drew broadly on the contemporary monumental discourse of narû to build new monuments within the world of the text, rather than limiting their depictions to the discourse of a single example (Jonker 1995, 90–99). In the case of examples like narû-literature or even the Nine Tripods, this had the added benefit of making it possible to update the depicted monument’s depiction over time to ensure that its monumentality stayed current as monuments in the surrounding culture changed. So, what stream of monumental discourse did the composers and editors of the Decalogue draw from? First and foremost, the Decalogue drew upon the discourse of Levantine “I Am” monuments. The Decalogue opens with the pronouncement “I am Yahweh.” This “I Am” opening for a text was the telltale sign of a particular class of monuments in the ancient Levant – “I Am” monuments. These monuments were inscribed with texts that invariably opened with an “I Am” statement identifying an individual speaking through the monument who would then proceed to propose a communal perspective for his audience to accept. We will see in the course of this study that such inscriptions were only produced during certain historical periods and primarily in the Levant. Their unique “I Am” opening was a clue to their monumentality; it occurred as an opening in no other context. This opening was the key to the authority ascribed to these artifacts. As we shall see in the next chapter, this rendered “I Am” monuments ontologically equivalent to the implied speaker from an emic Levantine perspective. They thus became living reembodiments: substitutes for elites that could speak with the same authority (Hogue 2019b). “But,” the reader may wonder, “could the opening of the Decalogue simply be the consequence of relating the direct speech of God? How else was Yahweh to introduce himself?” As it so happens, this is not the only indication that the Decalogue was adapting Levantine monumental discourse. It also contains violation clauses typical of Levantine “I Am” monuments – restrictions concerning engagement with images, the inscribed name, and associated ritual practice. The socially oriented commandments – such as “Thou shalt not murder!” or “Thou shalt not covet!” – are also encountered in other “I Am” inscriptions. Two “I Am” inscriptions in Hieroglyphic Luwian – CEKKE and BULGARMADEN – even contain longer social contracts incumbent on their target communities. Furthermore, the Hebrew Bible explicitly imagines the Decalogue as inscribed on a monumental object, though we must leave for later the question of whether this was always a set of stone tablets or perhaps

12 Introduction – Monuments, Monumentality, and the Decalogue

something else. Most notably, the Decalogue contains the one and only instance in the Hebrew Bible of Yahweh collectively addressing the people of Israel without mediation. We will see that the primary purpose of Levantine “I Am” monuments was to permit an important individual – usually a king – to directly address a populace and reshape them. Viewing these parallels in concert suggests that the Decalogue really is imitating the monumental discourse of Levantine “I Am” monuments (Hogue 2019c). No previous research has outright labeled the Decalogue a monument nor analyzed it with a model based on monumentality. However, the connection between the Decalogue and Levantine monumental inscriptions is not a new one. Arno Poebel first noted this in 1932 as a part of Das Appositionell Bestimmte Pronomen Der 1. Pers. Sing. in den Westsemitischen Inschriften und im Alten Testament (Poebel 1932, 53–57). In 1951, Umberto Cassuto noted the same in his commentary on the book of Exodus (Cassuto 1951, 76, 241). Nahum Sarna later expanded on this observation by suggesting that the Decalogue’s similarity to monumental inscriptions – especially royal inscriptions – was a means of imbuing the text with authority (Sarna 1991, 15, 109). Apart from making these conclusions very briefly – and mostly in his endnotes – Sarna made no attempt to further develop the connection and neither did his predecessors. Part of the reluctance to search for parallels to the Decalogue in monumental discourse may stem from the overemphasis on cultic or religious contexts for the text’s use and origin as opposed to political ones (cf. Mowinckel 1927; Alt 1934; Mendenhall 1954; Beyerlin 1961; Gerstenberger 1965). For its own part, the Hebrew Bible regularly conceives of Yahweh as a king, so we should be unsurprised to discover adaptations of royal rhetoric in the divine sphere. Such a conception of a deity as a monarch was not unique to ancient Israel, but it may have been unique in its intense application. So strong was the identification of Yahweh as king that he even received some typical trappings of ancient West Asian monarchs that were denied to the kings of Israel and Judah (Brettler 1989, 165). In the books of Exodus and Deuteronomy in particular, Yahweh is shown defeating his enemies and rescuing his people much as an ancient West Asian king would do with the support of the gods. Yahweh here combines the royal role of conqueror and the divine role of patron. The story of Sinai is then not simply about a theophany or a covenant. Rather, it is about the enthronement of Yahweh as king of Israel (Smith 2016, 18–19). It should come as no surprise that monuments

Approaching the Decalogue’s Monumentality

13

would be erected to commemorate such an enthronement, or that the biblical writers would utilize known monumental discourse in order to depict those monuments. The Decalogue utilized the discourse of “I Am” monuments to develop the Israelite conception of a divine king. Analyzing the Decalogue as a monument necessitates a broader approach than has yet been advanced by biblical scholarship. The meaning of the text and its purpose must be determined not on the basis of verbal content alone, but also in light of its context – how it was depicted, how it was integrated into the Hebrew Bible’s narrative world, and how the community was depicted as engaging with it. Additionally, these elements of the text must be analyzed in historical sequence, both in terms of the revisions of the text preserved in the Hebrew Bible and in terms of a history of monumental discourse in the neighboring cultures contemporary with ancient Israel. Only then can we fully understand the monumentality of the Decalogue – that is, its social power in its original context and the quality that has allowed it to continue capturing communities’ imaginations ever since.

approaching the decalogue’s monumentality To analyze the Decalogue’s monumentality, we must first understand how communities interact with monuments more broadly. The examples of the Guennol Lioness and Stonehenge discussed earlier are important reminders that monuments primarily function by capturing the collective imagination (Kahn and Kirch 2014, 223). Monuments do not contain meaning but rather provoke its imaginative construction. Because such acts of imagination undergird the function of monuments, Timothy Pauketat suggests that prompting imagination is really the defining feature of monuments. He argues: They inspire, motivate, and actively engage people by disproportionately articulating social relationships to other places, substances, moving celestial objects, and the great beyond . . . Indeed, I also suggest that such qualities are the defining elements of monuments worldwide to varying degrees. Monuments, to be monuments, must be more than big memorials. They must possess the qualities of monumentality, the foremost of which is the imaginary. We do not merely see them and remember. We feel them and imagine. (Pauketat 2014, 442)

Monuments are artifacts that prompt communities of people to imaginatively construct meaning in ways particular to their historical and cultural context. Monumentality is the potential of such objects to provoke

14 Introduction – Monuments, Monumentality, and the Decalogue

community-scale imagination that results in the construction, experience, or maintenance of special communal meaning. By connecting monumentality to imagination, we may also highlight that monumentality is not strictly related to a monument’s meaning but rather its affordance of meaning. Monuments do not have definitive meanings. Instead, they make certain meanings possible to construct as communities engage them. As stated earlier, monumentality is the potential to provoke collective imagination that results in meaning-making. The meanings assigned to monuments are thus primarily possibilities. They are entirely dependent upon the interpretation of those visiting the monument. Nevertheless, because “people’s encounter with [a monument] will be constrained or enabled in distinctive and definite ways,” these meanings can be safely reconstructed at least in part (Pauketat 2014, 432). They depend on both the specific parameters of the monument – whether its discourse, physical attributes, setting, or associated performances – and the reception of those parameters in a given sociohistorical context. A caveat of analyzing monuments in light of their affordances is that their monumentality is not determined solely by their creators. Things can be intentionally fashioned to promote the kinds of interactions that monumentalize, but many such productions fail, and some things that were never meant to be monuments are made into monuments by their local communities. Demonstrating monumentality in an ancient context must therefore center on an analysis of the interactions prompted by the form, but that form alone cannot be taken as evidence for an intent that would monumentalize. Thus, in the case of literary monuments like the Decalogue, we should of course consider the scribe’s agenda, as much as it is accessible. But this alone is insufficient to label the Decalogue a monumental text. It must be paired with a broader study of the monumental discourse being adapted by the scribe, as well as the evidence for later editing and reception that suggests continued engagement with the text. These show that a community actually used the Decalogue as a monument in addition to its composers and editors intending that it function as one. The monuments I address in this study primarily prompted communal engagement that resulted in social formation. Social formation “refers broadly to the construction and configuration of social relations” and is a “dynamic, constructive, relational process” (Levtow 2008, 33).7 7

Beyond this, questions of identity become exceedingly complex, and an approach to identity connected to the Decalogue is in grave danger of devolving into a debate over what kind(s) of

Approaching the Decalogue’s Monumentality

15

Concerning Levantine monuments in particular, Seth Sanders argues that “the inscriptions propose new kinds of political order, and they do it in a form designed to help create them” (Sanders 2009, 118). Such artifacts could configure social relations even if their users disagreed concerning their specific meanings. Catherine Bell argues that “the most symbolic action, even the basic symbols of a community’s ritual life, can be very unclear to participants or interpreted by them in very dissimilar ways.” Nevertheless, such symbols “still promote ‘social’ solidarity,” and this “social consensus does not depend upon shared information and beliefs” but is rather “promoted because they rarely make any interpretation explicit” (Bell 1992, 183). Much like the Constitution, the act of interpretation is most important in social formation, rather than the content of those interpretations. Even if they bring people together to dispute, monuments are still thereby producing social relations. History of Monuments and Monumentalities If the foregoing definitions seem vague to the reader, this is intentional on the part of the theorists developing them. According to Wu, monumentality is never transcultural or transhistorical, so any attempt at a general definition will result in “empty words until they are historically defined” (Wu 1995, 4). Monumentality is thus an historical property; it cannot be applied synchronically or ahistorically. Zainab Bahrani, for instance, argues that “monuments are temporal things. They belong to a specific time, and they are legible within that specific time” (Bahrani 2014, 234). Osborne similarly emphasizes that monumentality can only be understood “in the context of its relationship to the community of which it forms a part” (Osborne 2014, 4). In other words, we can only develop specific definitions of “monument” and “monumentality” within specific sociohistorical contexts. To accomplish this, Wu suggests a method of producing a history of monumentality alongside a history of monuments. A history of monuments attempts to document diachronic shifts in the discourse of monuments, while a history of monumentality focuses on the evolution of the processes involved in a community’s construction of meaning through monuments. Wu argues that combining these identity it promotes (e.g., ethnic, national, religious, etc.). I will sidestep this debate for now by highlighting again that approaching monumentality concerns affordance rather than meaning and social formation rather than identity.

16 Introduction – Monuments, Monumentality, and the Decalogue

approaches makes it possible to address questions of how forms were selected and employed in ritual and religious contexts, how they oriented people both physically and mentally, how they supported and affected social formation, and how they suited individual ambitions and needs (Wu 1995, 14). The peoples of ancient West Asia used different types of monuments for different purposes. New eras saw the invention of new types of monuments, but also the repurposing of preexisting monuments to fulfill new functions. A history of monuments and a history of monumentality seek to periodize such changes. We cannot proceed with an analysis of the Decalogue in light of the foregoing if we presume a general definition of ancient West Asian “monument” or “monumentality.” In addition to relating to a particular community within a particular time and place, to truly label an object monumental we must also demonstrate that it related to its community, utilizing recognizable monumental discourse from that time and place. To do this, we must construct a history of monuments from the surrounding region in order to determine how monuments and their monumentalities changed over time. Against this backdrop we may begin a study of the history of the Decalogue’s monumentality, which also shifted over time. It is not enough to say that the Decalogue is a monument simply because it affords meaning for various communities. We can only analyze its monumentality by comparing its discourse with that of other monuments from ancient West Asia. This is also why this study cannot escape the thorny issue of dating, though I fully recognize not every reader will agree with my own approach. A history of monuments and history of monumentality provide a sophisticated means for connecting epigraphic remains to manuscript traditions, but it also implies a close historical proximity. Apart from careful art historical records, monumental discourse cannot survive past the period when it is actually in use. Recall that the Nine Tripods transformed in depictions as the monuments in the broader culture changed. This was in part because these new forms were more meaningful to contemporary audiences. But this was also because the older monuments and especially communal interactions with them were inaccessible to contemporary writers. While monuments are expected to last longer in cultural memory than other artifacts, this is not in fact the case. Osborne argues that “monuments’ invocations of past individuals and events is counterintuitively frail and vulnerable to modification” (Osborne 2017, 19). Instead of preserving the same message over time, monuments are used by new generations with new social conventions and assumptions to produce new meanings. In fact, unless this process is

Approaching the Decalogue’s Monumentality

17

regularly repeated, the object can and likely will cease to function as a monument (Gilibert 2011, 114). All cultural memory is produced via creative acts of imagination rather than accurate reconstructions of the past. Bradley argues that monuments “required a greater act of the imagination: a process of recreating a past that was really beyond recall and making it play an unrehearsed part in the present” (Bradley 1993, 129). In her study of the monuments of Deir el Medina, Lynn Meskell reaches a similar conclusion, arguing: “Remembering entails evoking a concrete image within the mind, fostered by the imagination: memory and imagination are to some degree interchangeable” (Meskell 2003, 48). More broadly, Patrick Hutton has described cultural memory in general as “a process of imaginative reconstruction, in which we integrate specific images formulated in the present into particular contexts identified with the past” (Hutton 1993, 78). If engagement with monuments persists over generations, their “original meaning” is not truly remembered but rather reconstructed by each successive generation in light of contemporary concerns. Unless some other account is preserved, only the monument itself remains as witness to its meaning, but that meaning may be interpreted in radically different ways by subsequent audiences. How then could the monumental discourse of the Decalogue – which I will argue originates in some cases in the Iron Age – have survived? Two vectors of transmission are most often considered – oral and textual tradition. The first is spoken of within the Hebrew Bible itself. For example, in Josh 4:6–7, after having a monument erected, Joshua commands the people to give a patterned account of the monument “when your children ask in time to come, ‘What do these stones mean to you?’” Alternatively, such discourse may be preserved in textual form, as was the case for the Nine Tripods and ultimately for the Decalogue. Melissa Ramos has introduced some much-needed nuance to this discussion recently in proposing that such traditions were transmitted ritually (Ramos 2021, 28–31, 93–98). That is, we should not imagine a purely oral or textual vector of transmission for traditions like the Decalogue. Indeed, both oral and written traditions are passed on most successfully in the context of ritual practice; they are not separate vectors of transmission but rather both components of ritual transmission. If the Decalogue was intended to function as an “I Am” monument, then it would have been transmitted as some combination of oral and textual tradition embedded within specific rituals. In the course of this study, we will see that “I Am” monuments were always embedded in

18 Introduction – Monuments, Monumentality, and the Decalogue

rituals, and these often included ritual acts of both inscription and oration. Both oral tradition and textual tradition were components of the ritual transmission of monumental discourse in the ancient Levant. Again, the scribes responsible for the Decalogue did not leave these connections to chance. In the narratives surrounding the Decalogue, we find depictions of rituals such as those practiced alongside other “I Am” monuments. Most importantly, these biblical rituals explicitly prescribe both the inscription and recitation of the text. That was how it was to be ritually transmitted. In general, I will speak of the composition and editing of the Decalogue in terms of writing, while other scholars might favor an oral transmission of the tradition in its earliest forms. What is most important to emphasize, however, is that the composers and editors of these traditions were depicting monuments as they knew them via ritual traditions. They were not recovering historical knowledge that was otherwise inaccessible to them. The biblical composers will undoubtedly have depicted the material and ritual culture of their own time or that of living reporters. When the editors of these accounts updated them, they did so according to their own perception and experience of monuments and the rituals attached to them. Otherwise, we must propose that the composers and editors of these passages were recalling traditions of monuments without any means of recollection, or that they were accidentally reinventing earlier attested practices at a later date. Both options are less likely than assuming that the communities involved in composing and editing the Decalogue utilized their own experience in their literary activity. And so – in addition to factors like language, archaeology, and more general history – art history has an important role to play in dating the composition of biblical texts that depict material culture and ritual engagements with it.

the structure of this study This study will argue that the Decalogue was depicted in the Hebrew Bible as a Levantine “I Am” monument. Moreover, this study will suggest that the reception of the Decalogue as a monument can be confirmed by strategic changes in its depiction. Just as the Nine Tripods were depicted differently in different time periods to better match the monuments of each new writer’s present, the Decalogue’s monumentality shifted in Exodus and Deuteronomy as its editors updated it to better match the prestige monumental inscriptions of their respective times. This is the history of the Decalogue’s monumentality.

The Structure of This Study

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Chapter 1 serves as a history of monuments to act as the background to the history of the Decalogue’s monumentality. I will focus on the discourse of what I call Levantine “I Am” monuments: monuments that include inscriptions opening with the phrase “I am so-and-so.” I argue that this corpus of inscriptions provided the cultural models that were adapted by the Decalogue. To structure my analysis, I propose that Levantine monuments were designed to communicate in three ways: verbally, aesthetically, and spatially. By considering historical trends among ninety exemplars of “I Am” monuments, it is possible to periodize their verbal, aesthetic, and spatial discourse. This will serve as a baseline for comparison with the Decalogue, allowing us to reach new conclusions about when it was produced and edited and why. Chapter 2 opens with a new translation of the Decalogue in light of its connection to “I Am” monuments. The following commentary analyzes the verbal communication strategies adapted by the Decalogue and the depicted aesthetic and spatial strategies juxtaposed to it in the book of Exodus. I will demonstrate that the Decalogue was originally produced using the discourse of Levantine “I Am” monuments from the ninth– eighth centuries and monumental installations in the kingdom of Israel. While the material in Exodus has seen further transformation, it nevertheless preserves a depiction of the Decalogue closest to ninth- or eighthcentury monumental traditions. Chapter 3 will turn to the place of the Decalogue within the preexilic discourse of the book of Deuteronomy. Especially by utilizing the methods of innerbiblical discourse, I demonstrate that the Decalogue in Deuteronomy was strategically edited and connected to new depictions of material culture. Following previous work on the history of Deuteronomy, I argue that these changes began in the kingdom of Judah and were partially motivated by changes in monumentality during the seventh and sixth centuries. Levantine practices of monument-making underwent dramatic transformations during this period, and the editors of Deuteronomy appear to have been remarkably sensitive to those changes. In analyzing these changes, I suggest some additional modifications to typical translations of the Deuteronomic Decalogue. Chapter 4 will turn to the Decalogue in relationship to late monarchic and postmonarchic discourse in both Exodus and Deuteronomy. Some material in these books suggests a growing fixation on small-scale inscribed artifacts like amulets and scrolls as well as personal religious practices to accompany more communal ones. While these features of material culture were already growing in significance during the late

20 Introduction – Monuments, Monumentality, and the Decalogue

monarchic period in Judah, they became especially relevant after the fall of the Judahite monarchy when large-scale monument production ceased to be a viable means of social formation. In the case of the Decalogue, this culminated in its transformation into a portable text that was not limited to a particular locality. Even some of the verbal dimension of the Decalogue was reinterpreted in order to distance the text from earlier monumental discourse. The result was a radical recasting of textual authority that laid the foundation for scripturalization. In the Conclusion, I review the history of monuments and monumentality presented in the prior chapters and point forward to how that history set the stage for the interpretive movements that followed. Those early attempts to imbue a text with divine authority laid the foundation for the emergence of Jewish and Christian Scripture as well as for competition between different communities interpreting the text. In spite or perhaps because of this competition, the Decalogue achieved as Scripture that which no other monument ever has: seemingly perennial relevance. It is an eternal monument to a divine king.

1 Levantine “I Am” Monuments

Sometime during the Late Bronze Age, a new kind of inscribed artifact emerged in the Levant, one that spoke for itself with the voice of a king. This was not entirely unprecedented; monumental inscriptions had been presented as first-person accounts for centuries prior to the emergence of “I Am” monuments. However, the specific combination of communicative strategies displayed in these artifacts – their monumental discourse (Assmann 2011, 149–51) – was unique. Most importantly, the designation for these artifacts was entirely new. Rather than being designated by the name of a king or by a label for the epigraphic support, the inscription on these artifacts simply began “I am . . .” These monuments were thus no longer objects that had been inscribed by other entities, nor were they simply the bearers of messages from kings. Rather, “I Am” monuments were presented to communities as though they were subjects – interactive entities speaking for themselves as an “I.” This fundamentally changed how communities viewed these artifacts and interacted with them. From an ancient Levantine perspective, these monuments had the potential to transcend any symbolic function that might be ascribed them and become instead substitutes rather than representations of the elite speaking in the inscription.1 While it would take some centuries for these monuments to 1

On “I Am” monuments, the inscription is the primary piece of evidence that allows us to label them. This was the key to the monuments’ function as a substitute for a person rather than as a representation of them. However, in the ancient world, most of the community experiencing “I Am” monuments could not read them for themselves, though there is evidence to suggest that these inscriptions were read aloud by specialists. Instead, many would encounter “I Am” monuments as visual and tactile media, so the iconography, epigraphic support, and ritual emplacement and engagement with these monuments were often carefully crafted to buttress the function and message of the inscription. Ultimately, these artifacts were encountered as mixed media that communicated to audiences through a variety of strategies that were not easily disentangled (Hogue 2022c, 15–18).

21

22

Levantine “I Am” Monuments

gain popularity, they would eventually become the premier monument type in the Iron Age Levant (Hogue 2019b). What did these “I Am” monuments have to do with the Decalogue? In this study, I will argue that they were the model for its discourse. While the Decalogue as we know it is not inscribed in stone, it nevertheless evokes the experience of encountering a stone monument. This is partially accomplished by the narrative surrounding the Decalogue, which contains depictions of stone monuments and the rituals surrounding them. But this is also accomplished by the wording of the Decalogue. In the next chapter, I will argue that most of the verses in the Decalogue draw on phraseology and tropes common to Levantine “I Am” monuments. By utilizing this tradition of verbal discourse, the composers of the Decalogue presented it as though it were an “I Am” monument, even apart from the narrative surrounding it. As stated previously, the Decalogue is an “I Am” monument made of words. In this chapter, I explore the discourse of “I Am” monuments in historical sequence to promote a richer understanding of the communicative strategies on display in the Decalogue.

the contours of a history of “i am” monuments It is important to stress at the outset that the label “I Am” monument is more a functional designation than a formal reference to genre. Monuments of this type include memorial inscriptions, dedicatory inscriptions, funerary inscriptions, and hybrids of those genres, but they function in roughly the same way and share a common monumental discourse. All of these monuments provoke an imagined encounter with the individual presented as speaking in the inscription’s opening lines. That person was thus reembodied or given an alternative physical manifestation in the form of the monument (Belk 2013, 481–84). By reembodying a significant individual for a particular audience, these inscriptions promoted social formation on the basis of that encounter (Hogue 2021a). Broadly speaking, this was the function adapted by the Decalogue, but this function was accomplished by different discursive strategies throughout the history of Levantine “I Am” monuments. I should also justify my use of “Levantine” as opposed to other regional, cultural, or linguistic labels. “Northwest Semitic” and “Hieroglyphic Luwian” are often used to designate corpora of inscriptions, but these are both linguistic/epigraphic descriptors and thus unsuitable for describing nonlinguistic elements of monumental discourse. “Syro-Anatolian” does better at providing a regional label, but even as

The Contours of a History of “I Am” Monuments

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the definition of this region is expanding, it is never used to include southern Levantine polities like Israel or Moab. “Syro-Hittite” suffers from the same regional restrictions and also implies a further limitation to the successor polities of the Hittite Empire. While the Hittites did provide significant grist for the mill of Levantine monumental discourse, they were not its sole progenitors. Their successor states also wielded significant influence over a much larger region than the empire previously covered. In contrast to these other labels, “Levantine” implies a broad regional association for this monumental discourse without limiting it to the northern Levant or to particular linguistic or epigraphic traditions. Furthermore, approaching “I Am” monuments as a broad Levantine phenomenon will allow me to construct a larger comparative corpus than any previous studies have utilized. Most importantly, this makes it possible to consider Northwest Semitic, Hieroglyphic Luwian, and even Akkadian inscriptions on “I Am” monuments in concert. These corpora are admittedly in very different languages written in substantially different writing systems. That is where the differences end, however. There is mounting evidence that these linguistic differences were actively bridged through calquing and borrowing of major poetic devices, tropes, and themes (Masson 2010, 53; Yakubovich 2010, 396; 2011, 181; 2015; Melchert 2010; 2021; Aro 2013, 234–38; Hogue 2019b; 2019c). There are also clear cases of the adaptation of Hieroglyphic Luwian–inspired orthography and iconography in Northwest Semitic and Akkadian inscriptions (Hamilton 1998, 222; Bunnens 2005; Struble and Herrmann 2009, 20; Gilibert 2011, 82).2 Furthermore, the ritual engagement with and spatial distribution of the inscriptions are not significantly different but rather point to a shared tradition of monumental discourse (Gilibert 2011, 5–18, 115–37). Eva von Dassow is thus absolutely correct to conclude that the separation between these corpora is not one of cultures but of disciplines (Dassow 2020). The different linguistic codes used in various “I Am” monuments were unique expressions of the same underlying monumental discourse (Mazzoni 1997, 301; von Dassow 1999, 249; Bunnens 1999, 615; Bunnens 2000, 16–17; Novák, Prayon, and Wittke 2004, 2–4; Gilibert 2011, 9; Sanders 2013, 51; Herrmann, van den Hout, and Beyazlar 2016, 70).

2

The close relationship between these corpora despite their use of different languages is also suggested by the existence of at least two trilinguals: ARSLANTAŞ and INCIRLI (Hawkins 2000, 246; Kaufman 2007). These monuments include inscriptions in Hieroglyphic Luwian, Akkadian, and a Northwest Semitic dialect (Aramaic in the case of ARSLANTAŞ and Phoenician in the case of INCIRLI).

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Levantine “I Am” Monuments Method: Dimensions of Meaning Affordance

But what, precisely, was the monumental discourse of Levantine “I Am” monuments? As stated before, these monuments exhibit three discursive dimensions: verbal, aesthetic, and spatial. Verbal discourse primarily includes the content of a monument’s inscription: its language, semantics, poetics, and any other aspect of the monument experienced through reading. Aesthetic discourse includes any aspects of the monument experienced as visual or tactile media: its material, orthography, iconography, epigraphic support, and any associated artifacts. Spatial discourse includes any aspects of the monument experienced in terms of location or locomotion: its emplacement on both a local and regional scale, its architectural context, and the practices of engagement it affords, especially rituals (Hogue 2022c; see also Watts 2013; Thomas 2014, 50–51). These types are differentiated mostly for heuristic purposes; they were utilized in concert by ancient artisans and audiences and are sometimes difficult to disentangle. Together, these dimensions of monumental discourse made particular horizons of meaning available to a monument’s users. They facilitated communal sense-making and meaning-making (Hogue 2021a). In the case of “I Am” monuments in particular, all of these dimensions primarily facilitated an encounter with the monument’s agent. By this term, I refer to the fictionalized version of the monument commissioner encountered through the monument (Hogue 2019b). In ancient West Asia, many monuments were understood as extensions or reembodiments of their commissioners, rather than as representations. That is, these monuments were actually experienced by their original audiences as though they were persons, not objects. They were ontologically equivalent to the person encountered through the monument (Bahrani 2014). Levantine “I Am” monuments accomplished this in historically dynamic ways through their verbal, aesthetic, and spatial discourses. The rest of this chapter will provide an historical overview of these strategies. Corpus While I will only present a few case studies in the historical overview comprising the rest of this chapter, I have considered a much larger corpus in constructing this history. Here, I will discuss the corpus in its entirety and point the reader to additional resources concerning each monument

The Contours of a History of “I Am” Monuments

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I include. “I Am” monuments first appeared in the Levant during the Late Bronze Age and they continued to be produced until the Hellenistic period.3 However, the differences evinced by “I Am” inscriptions from these periods as well as the distribution of evidence suggest that the monumental discourse imitated by the Decalogue should be sought among the inscriptions of the Iron Age. Note especially that production of “I Am” inscriptions in the Levant decreased considerably after the eighth century (see Fig. 1). Accounting for all known Levantine “I Am” Monuments produces a list of ninety monuments, the vast majority of which date to the Iron Age (see Appendix 1 for complete list with references). See Figure 2 for the locations of the Iron Age monuments on this list that were discovered in situ. As much as possible, this study will contextualize the

Number of Levantine “I Am” Monuments by Century 0

5

10

15

20

25

30

35

40

15th 14th 13th 12th 11th 10th 9th 8th 7th 6th 5th 4th 3rd 2nd

figure 1 Chart showing the number of Levantine “I Am” monuments by century.

3

Only four “I Am” inscriptions survive from the Late Bronze Age. One of these – ZA 31 – is a brick inscription from Kassite Babylon that may not be related to the Levantine tradition (Bartelmus 2010, 149–50; Abraham and Gabbay 2013, 186). The Idrimi Inscription likely served as inspiration for the adaptation of the “I Am” formula in the two Hittite examples, and these directly inspired emulation in the neo-Hittite and other Levantine polities. Nevertheless, it should be emphasized that the Hittites adapted Idrimi’s formula to best suit preexisting Hittite monumental discourse, and that Hittite discourse could not be uncritically emulated by the neo-Hittites as they were no longer projecting an ideology on an imperial scale.

figure 2 Map showing the sites of Iron Age and Persian period Levantine “I Am” inscriptions discovered in situ. The size of markers indicates the number of independent inscriptions discovered there. Map by Amy Karoll.

The Contours of a History of “I Am” Monuments

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monumentality of the Decalogue within the monumentality of these artifacts. Where it is helpful, these artifacts will be compared to the broader corpora of Northwest Semitic inscriptions and Hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions with which they share the most in common. Neo-Assyrian monuments will also provide an important comparative body of evidence for some periods in the history of these inscriptions (Na’aman 2006; Sanders 2009, 120–22; Dobbs-Allsopp and Pioske 2019). My corpus excludes, however, Akkadian “I Am” inscriptions from Mesopotamia, which merely adapt the “I Am” formula to head otherwise standard Mesopotamian monumental inscriptions (Hogue 2019a, 337–38). Historical Phases of Levantine “I Am” Monuments I periodize the inscriptions in this corpus into six broad phases, only some of which will directly concern the Decalogue (see Fig. 3 for the distribution of monuments in these periods by epigraphic type). I have derived four of these phases from the diachronic presentation of monuments proposed by Alessandra Gilibert in her study of monuments from Samʾal (modern Zincirli) and Karkamiš (Gilibert 2011, 115–32). I propose here relabeling one of her phases, slight changes to some of her dates, and adding two additional ones to better account for Levantine “I Am” monuments from

Levantine “I Am” Inscriptions Hieroglyphic

Alphabetic

Cuneiform

40 35 30 25 20 15 10 5 0 LBA Archaic (1500–1200) Transitional (1200–950)

Civic Ritual (950–850)

Territorial Theatre (870–745)

Court Ceremony (790–600)

Afterlife (600–200)

figure 3 Chart showing the numbers of Levantine “I Am” monuments by epigraphic type and period.

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Levantine “I Am” Monuments

other sites. The resulting periods are (1) the Late Bronze Age (1500–1200 BCE), (2) the Archaic Transitional period (1200–950 BCE), (3) the Age of Civic Ritual (950–850 BCE), (4) the Age of Territorial Theatre (870–745 BCE), (5) the Age of Court Ceremony (790–600 BCE),4 and (6) the Afterlife of “I Am” monuments. The major breaks I make from Gilibert are as follows. I replace her “mature transitional period” with “the Age of Territorial Theatre.” As will be shown “The Age of Territorial Theatre” later in this chapter, this period was marked by a combination of territoriality and monumentality not seen before or after among Levantine “I Am” monuments. Also, because I am utilizing data from the southern Levant in addition to Gilibert’s from the northern Levant, it is possible to extend the Age of Territorial Theatre to 745 BCE. This results in a slight overlap with the Age of Court Ceremony, which should itself be extended at least to the end of the seventh century when the southern Levant underwent similar changes to those attested in the north in the late eighth. I also add the Late Bronze Age to account for the origins of “I Am” monuments as well as an afterlife period to account for their decline. In the sections that follow, I provide a more detailed overview of the major historical phases of Levantine “I Am” monuments and the cultural interactions that shaped them. I will provide brief case studies of major monumental installations to illustrate the most significant discursive features of each period. This history of monuments will provide the baseline for constructing a history of the Decalogue’s monumentality in the rest of the book. My intent is to situate the Decalogue within these periods by determining when the discourse it utilized was in vogue in the Levant.

origins in the late bronze age: idrimi of alalaḫ “I Am” monuments first appeared during the Late Bronze Age in North Syria. The earliest example is the statue of Idrimi of Alalaḫ . In the fifteenth century BCE, Idrimi, the King of Alalaḫ , erected a monument celebrating his rise to power.5 The inscription originally appeared unique in the context of Bronze Age monumental inscriptions, leading A. Leo Oppenheim to conclude that it was “of a specific literary tradition, totally 4

Gilibert’s periods, especially from the Age of Civic Ritual to the Age of Court Ceremony, almost line up (though not perfectly) with the Iron IIa, Iron IIb, and Iron IIc periods. However, because these periods in monumentality overlap with one another and cannot be perfectly attached to other archaeological dating schemes, I maintain Gilibert’s terminology. 5 For a transliteration and translation of this and all other texts used for case studies in this chapter, see Appendix 2.

Origins in the Late Bronze Age: Idrimi of Alalaḫ

29

different in temper and scope than that of the ancient Near East” (Oppenheim 1955, 200). However, Edward Greenstein and David Marcus later demonstrated that many of the problems in the text disappear when it is connected to traditions such as those preserved in the Hebrew Bible and Northwest Semitic inscriptions (Greenstein and Marcus 1976, 63 ff.). Idrimi’s monument was certainly innovative, but it began a trend that continued for over a millennium. Idrimi’s monument is the earliest occurrence of an inscription opening with the words “I Am,” and this phrase was instrumental for integrating the monument’s verbal, aesthetic, and spatial discourse. The inscription opens as follows: a-na-ku mid-ri-mi DUMU mDINGIR-i-lim-ma ARAD d⸢IM⸣ dḫ e2-bat u3 diš8tar2 NIN iria-la-la-aḫ NIN; NIN-ia (1–2)

(1–2)

I am Idrimi, son of Ilı¯-ilimma, servant of the Storm-god, Hebat, and Ištar, the lady of Alalaḫ , the lady, my lady.6

Already, this inscription reveals what would become the standard format of the “I Am” formula: the first-person pronoun followed by the agent’s name, genealogy, and titles. While there is some variety in the appositional information following the agent’s name, this material always serves to define the agent’s relationship to other significant figures and the monument’s users (Hogue 2019b, 87). This same format is seen throughout the history of “I Am” monuments. But what was the significance of beginning the inscription with the word “I”? Other ancient West Asian monuments tended to open with the dedicator’s name or with a designation for the dedicated object (e.g., “stele” or “statue”) (Sanders 2009, 114). Beginning with the first-person pronoun instead foregrounds deixis. Deixis includes any relative parts of language that cannot be understood apart from their spatial, temporal, and personal contexts. In the words of Peter Stockwell, deixis is “central to the idea of the embodiment of perception” (Stockwell 2002, 41). The “I Am” opening implies a personal and spatiotemporal origin for the discourse that follows. Most significantly, by opening with the pronoun rather than the agent’s name or epigraphic support, “I Am” monuments create a short-lived tension during which the users must quickly decide which coordinates to 6

For a recent edition of the text see Jacob Lauinger, “Statue of Idrimi,” Oracc: The Open Richly Annotated Cuneiform Corpus. http://oracc.org/aemw/alalakh/idrimi/X123456/html (accessed July 10, 2017).

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assign to the “I” in order to make sense of the artifact and its text. It is thus not the agent’s identification that comes first but his perspective, and the users are prompted to project into this perspective from the beginning of the text. This process is known as deictic projection, and it is the single most important function of the monumental discourse of these artifacts (Turner 1996, 100–101; Herman 1999, 539; Hogue 2019b). Deictic projection allowed users to “get inside” the text and take “a cognitive stance within the mentally constructed world of the text” (Stockwell 2002, 46). The users could thus “see things virtually from the perspective of the character or narrator inside the text-world” (Stockwell 2002, 47). This was how these artifacts created communities: by reshaping their users’ perspectives into that of the agent. Deictic projection via the “I Am” formula provoked the users to imagine that the agent was actually present and addressing them through the monument. Kristel Zilmer argues that in monumental inscriptions “proximal deictic features,” like the first-person pronoun, “create an image of orality in the mode of expression” and “fulfill a gestural function and connect the written with the oral” (Zilmer 2010b, 138). Because the audience experiences the monument as speech, “there unfolds interaction similar to face-to-face communication that we would otherwise experience in oral contexts” (Zilmer 2010b, 147). This presentation “creates the image of an immediate encounter between the commissioners of the memorial and the audience” (Zilmer 2010b, 152). In other words, Levantine “I Am” monumental inscriptions begin with the agents gesturing to themselves, suggesting that they are present and speaking to the users of the monument. The use of the personal deictic element “I” actually produces the presence of the implied speaker by conjuring him within the imagination of the audience “as if he were standing right in front of us” (Sanders 2009, 114; 2012, 35). It textually reembodies him. Idrimi inventively paired this verbal discourse with the aesthetic discourse of his monument. Idrimi’s inscription was carved on a statue of the king himself. Of the remaining “I Am” monuments, twelve more are statues or statue bases.7 The “I Am” formula was carved across the mouth of the statue, emphasizing that it was meant to manifest the voice of that statue (Longman

7

KARKAMIŠ A15b, MARAŞ 4, MARAŞ 14, MARAŞ 13, KIRÇOĞ LU, PALANGA, ÇINEKÖY, the copy of the Azatiwada Inscription on a statue (KAI 26 C), the Zakkur Statue (KAI 202), the Hadad Statue (KAI 214), the Kerak Statue (KAI 306), and the Kapar(r)a Inscription.

Origins in the Late Bronze Age: Idrimi of Alalaḫ

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1991, 60). Stephen Houston and David Stuart have argued that the similar use of personal deixis in Mayan monuments “accentuates the intimate oration directed to a living actor by a sculpted image” (Houston and Stuart 1998, 88; Houston 2006, 142). The inscription thus worked in tandem with the statue to mediate an encounter between Idrimi and his users (Aro 2013, 237). This function was already closely associated with ancient West Asian statues. As mentioned previously, from an emic perspective such artifacts were not understood as mere representations. Rather, the statue is better understood as a substitute or duplicate of Idrimi. It would have been understood as possessing its own personhood, which was equivalent to that possessed in Idrimi’s organic body. Zainab Bahrani argues that such artifacts should be understood as “ways of encountering that person” or “modes of presencing” (Bahrani 2003, 128, 135). That is, the statue itself was understood as an agent that could interact with its users. The “I Am” statement thus refers to the statue, which was indistinguishable from Idrimi himself (Aro 2013, 237). The function of Idrimi’s statue can be further inferred from its spatial discourse. It was likely originally placed in a cultic installation, but it was buried by later users of the monument after it was destroyed by an invading force. This ritual interaction serves as further evidence that the statue was actually understood as a person from an emic perspective – as a duplicate of Idrimi himself. The “I Am” statement literally transformed the statue into Idrimi, rendering him present wherever the statue was (Hogue 2019b, 327). After its destruction, it needed to be ritually buried much as would be done for organic human remains. Most importantly, it is clear that the monument was socially powerful and continued to be received as such after its original production. This power necessitated a proper response by later generations. In sum, the “I Am” statement tied different “modes of presencing” together, creating a uniquely Levantine means of transforming artifacts into agents by reembodying the individual identified as the speaker in the inscription. This innovation did not end at Alalaḫ . It was later emulated by the Hittites. Tudḫ aliya IV (ca. 1237–1209 BCE) had a seated statue produced in the style of Idrimi (Otten 1963, 17; Aro 2013, 241). His successor Šuppiluliuma II (ca. 1207–1178 BCE) then adapted the “I Am” formula in NIŞ ANTAŞ , a rock inscription in Hieroglyphic Luwian (Schachner et al. 2016, 31–32). This Hittite adaptation of the “I Am” formula is significant because it dislocated the formula from statuary. While a statue may have been erected alongside NIŞ ANTAŞ , no such statue has been found (Aro 2013, 244; Payne 2016, 293). Because the formula itself manifested the

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Levantine “I Am” Monuments

presence of the king, a statue was not always necessary. This freer relationship between the verbal and aesthetic discourse of monuments characterizes the rest of the history of Levantine “I Am” monuments. Most surprisingly, Šuppiluliuma’s inscription was duplicated in Hittite on a clay tablet in the context of an annalistic narrative – KBo 12.38 (Güterbock 1967, 76–81). We will return to a discussion of KBo 12.38 in the next chapter. Though separated by some centuries, it demonstrates that the literary use of an “I Am” inscription was not limited to the Decalogue in the Hebrew Bible. We might suspect that “I Am” monuments would have disappeared along with the Hittite Empire at the beginning of the twelfth century. The most significant result of the Hittite adaptation of Idrimi’s practice, however, is that they raised it to a level of prestige that would not soon be lost. The practice was maintained and developed by the empire’s successors among the Iron Age Levantine kingdoms. From there, it spread throughout the Levant and even beyond it.

the age of civic ritual: katuwas of karkamisˇ The Archaic Transitional period (1200–950 BCE) attests a dearth of “I Am” monuments. The tradition seems to have been just important enough during the twilight of the Hittite Empire to survive into the Early Iron Age. However, this monumental discourse was revived and reformulated in a big way at tenth-century Karkamiš. This began under the country-lord Suhis II at the end of the Archaic Transitional period, but it reached its zenith under his successor Katuwas at the beginning of the Age of Civic Ritual proper (950–850 BCE). This period was marked by the erection of large-scale urban monumental installations that facilitated massive public spectacles (Gilibert 2011, 121). This innovation laid the foundation for all subsequent developments in the discourse of “I Am” monuments. Katuwas erected multiple “I Am” monuments in the Lower Palace Area of Karkamiš, six of which are complete enough to include in the corpus above. These are conventionally labeled according to their plates in the original excavation publication as KARKAMIŠ A2+3, A11a, A11b+c, A12, A13d, and A23. The associated inscriptions legitimated Katuwas’ role as ruler through his military victories, construction efforts, and his religious devotion to the Storm-god and other major deities of Karkamiš; they even explicitly narrate the triumphal processions the Lower Palace area was designed to facilitate (Pucci 2008b, 219–20). While these monuments are similar to earlier examples of “I Am” monuments, they also

The Age of Civic Ritual: Katuwas of Karkamiš

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attest unique strategies in their verbal, aesthetic, and spatial discourse that would impact further developments during the Iron Age. Especially with his theatrical emplacement of “I Am” monuments, Katuwas quite literally set the stage for everything to follow, so it is worth considering his monuments in detail as exemplary of general tendencies in the corpus. The Verbal Discourse of Katuwas’ Monuments The verbal discourse of Katuwas’ monuments mostly consisted of ideologized narratives and injunctions. This always began with Katuwas’ fictionalized past. It is fictionalized in the sense that it is selectively recorded and given narrative structure so as to mean something to the monument’s users. That meaning is an expression of Katuwas’ ideology (Green 2010, 17–22). “I Am” monuments always ideologize memory. The narrative elements of the presented memory – whether characters, events, or places – are always evaluated by the agent speaking through the inscription. The agent’s perspective gives value to these narrative elements. As in many other “I Am” monuments, Katuwas’ inscriptions positively evaluated his rise to prominence, building and rebuilding activities, and production of societal peace and prosperity. These activities are all legitimated on the basis of divine election, royal prerogative or affiliation, and popular acclamation (Knapp 2015, 45–51). Generally, the positive narrative elements of Levantine “I Am” monuments present the agent creating “heightened order,” in Douglas Green’s terms (Green 2010, 304–18). According to Green, agents “establish the matrix in which the ideal, blessed life of humans is to be lived” (Green 2010, 317). The ideal nature of Katuwas’ activities is further suggested by appeals to the gods of Karkamiš, who selected him for these duties and owe him blessing in response to his success. The agent’s relationship to the divine sphere is a significant aspect of legitimation in “I Am” monuments. Throughout their history, “I Am” monuments appealed to divine election to legitimate the agent. The agent responded to this patronage by dedicating monuments and temples to the gods and by establishing rituals for them. Beginning in the tenth century, however, agents began to appropriate some divine prerogatives for themselves, including explicitly establishing monuments for their own primary benefit, instituting rituals to honor themselves, and utilizing curses to defend their own monuments and rituals rather than those of the gods. This is mirrored in the iconography, where images of the worshipping king disappear and are replaced by images of the king receiving worship.

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Levantine “I Am” Monuments

Katuwas is one of the first examples of this royal appropriation of the divine. Essentially, in this period the agent claimed a sort of parity with the gods by emulating them (Denel 2007, 190; Gilibert 2015, 146–48). Not all elements of Katuwas’ narratives were positively evaluated, however. Negatively evaluated narrative elements include battle accounts, the defeat of rivals, and defamation of inept predecessors (Green 2010, 146–49, 294–96; Payne 2012, 42–44; Knapp 2015, 51–54). All of these serve to construct the image of an “enemy” who embodies the opposite of the agent’s ideology within the narrative (Green 2010, 290). The agent sometimes speaks of this enemy in individual terms, making him a direct rival to the agent’s claim of ideological centrality. In other “I Am” monuments, rivals to the agent are often vaguely described as holders of the same social position as the agent (usually “king” in royal monuments), but other terms are sometimes employed (Green 2010, 287).8 In the case of Katuwas, these rivals are competitors who appear to have arisen during his reign. Narratives such as these concerning the agent’s rivals and battle with them develop the trope of the agent as victor. This motif was “the basic indicator of greatness” in ancient West Asian inscriptions (Green 2010, 290). The agent’s narrative of defeating his rivals and overcoming his predecessors buttresses his ideology by means of contrast. Surprisingly, battle narratives and the notion of the enemy were not ubiquitous in “I Am” monuments, at least during the Iron Age. Rather, this sort of rhetoric had to be developed at the same time that monuments were becoming more individualized. At the end of the tenth century and through the ninth, many Levantine rulers faced significant challenges to their authority and began to reconfigure their elite identity in response. As a result, “I Am” monuments became less and less concerned with connecting the agent to previous generations of kings, acts of building, and religious devotion to perpetuate the ancestor cult. Instead, monuments were increasingly individualized and drew attention to specific kings and 8

Some inscriptions do provide specific individuals to fill this adversarial role, but even those still make use of the vague category. For example, the Kulamuwa Orthostat (KAI 24) first describes potential rivals as mlkm ʿdrm “powerful kings” in line 5 and just mlkm “kings” in line 6, though a more specific enemy is subsequently identified. Similarly, the Karatepe inscriptions (KARATEPE 1/KAI 26) see Azatiwada defending his land from unspecified marauders (lines 15–19), and he also claims superiority over kl mlk “every king” (see lines AI:12 and AIII:4–6). While Mesha’s primary rival in the Dibon Stele (KAI 181) is the king of Israel, he claims more simply in line 4 to have been saved from kl hmlkn “all the kings.” In the Zakkur Statue (KAI 202), Zakkur’s enemies are described as an alliance of mlkn “kings” in line 5 and subsequently as kl mlkn ʾl “all these kings” in lines 9, 14, and 16. Only one of these kings is ever named.

The Age of Civic Ritual: Katuwas of Karkamiš

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their achievements in comparison to others (Gilibert 2011, 119–22; 2012; 2013, 53–54). Battle narratives did not appear in Levantine “I Am” inscriptions until the second half of the tenth century, and the inscriptions of Katuwas are some of the most important early exemplars. Nevertheless, some of his inscriptions and many more “I Am” monuments besides completely lack this trope. Katuwas’ inscriptions all conclude with prescribed ritual actions for the users of his monument to carry out in response to his actions as well as curses on those who fail to do so. While the first-person narration implied an audience for the monument, it never directly acknowledged the presence of the users (Sanders 2009, 114). The users are directly acknowledged, however, by the use of injunctions. These injunctions consisted of instructions for ritually activating the monument, as well as demands that the monument and its operative elements be preserved: namely, the monument’s epigraphic support, the inscription, associated iconography, dedicated artifacts, and the agent’s name (Gilibert 2011, 109).9 These prescriptions propose social practice and formation to the users in the form of the expressed wishes of the agents. Together with the ideology presented in the narrative, these injunctions propose a communal identity to those users who accepted Katuwas’ perspective and directions. The propositions outlined in the injunctions revolve around maintaining the encounter with the agent and the means of reifying it (Gevirtz 1961, 158). The majority of these injunctions are therefore concerned with preserving and maintaining the monument (Gevirtz 1961, 140). These injunctions forbid the effacement, destruction, or usurpation of the monument (Gevirtz 1961; Tawil 1973, 477–78; May 2012, 4–5). Any of these actions would jeopardize the functionality of the monument, especially the production of an encounter with the agent. Any violence done to the monument was seen as a violation of the relationship it created and the identities it materialized, that of both the community and the agent (Levtow 2012, 311). The injunctions that require ritual engagement with the monument may also be understood as maintaining its functionality. The combination of ritual and monument increased the monument’s 9

In a sense, all of these could be seen as shorthand terms for the monument at large as the inscribed surface, associated iconography, name, and any dedicated artifacts all alike embodied and materialized the agent and his relationship to the users (Levtow 2012, 316). In particular, the “name” referred to in the inscription likely referred to the inscription as a whole in some texts (e.g., KAI 10, 24, 26, and 202; see also KAI 61, 62, 201, 215, 222, 228, 258, and 309). This was also the case in some Hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions (Richter 2002, 199–204; Yakubovich 2002, 196).

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Levantine “I Am” Monuments

communicative capacity (Gilibert 2011, 114). The injunctions describing associated rituals were intended to prevent the meaning and pathos of the monument from fading with time (Gilibert 2011, 133). No encounter could be imagined unless the monument and its associated practices were preserved. The maintenance of the monument was tantamount to the preservation of the agent himself (Levtow 2012, 316). Destroying the monument meant destroying the person it reembodied (Ritner 2012, 395). To ensure that his prohibitions were observed, Katuwas ended his inscriptions by invoking curses on any potential violators of the monument, especially any who would make themselves his rivals. The intent of such curses again was to extend and preserve the monument and the ideal community it proposed (Green 2010, 304–5). The curses typically threaten to remove from the violator any of the benefits the monument may have granted. They promise the destruction of the violator’s name, posterity, and any other opportunity for remembrance (Levtow 2012, 316). Katuwas thus effectively threatens not only that the violator will be cast out of the community but also that they will even have their individual identity destroyed (Sanders 2012, 18–20). While Katuwas’ monuments do not explicitly include blessings for those who do follow his instructions, the curses imply that benefits await those who do not violate the monuments. Other Levantine monuments made these benefits explicit, however. Agents occasionally invoked the gods to provide the monument’s users with an extension of the order created during the narrative. By implication, the agent thus asked for the users to be granted the same benefits he had won for himself (Green 2010, 318). The blessing most often requested by monuments is that of long life (Green 2010, 270–77). A long life would theoretically allow the agent to continue reifying his ideal domain and lifestyle (Green 2010, 304–5). Similarly, Levantine “I Am” monuments also tend to record a blessing of posterity (Green 2010, 151). The extension of these blessings to the users would promise them the ability to continue communally identifying with the agent and to receive any benefits he provided. Like the inscription of Idrimi, Katuwas’ inscriptions primarily functioned to textually reembody him by means of deictic projection, which also implied that the inscriptions were to be understood as his direct speech. Katuwas’ monuments made this even more explicit than that of Idrimi due to the nature of the Luwian language. Every clause included the quotative particle -wa-, suggesting that the entire inscription is to be understood as quoted speech. It is notably appended to the first-person pronominal opening in most cases (e.g., amu-wa-mi “I-[quotative

The Age of Civic Ritual: Katuwas of Karkamiš

37

particle]-[first-person reflexive particle]”), but because the entirety of the inscription is meant to be understood as direct speech, this particle appears in every subsequent clause as well (Payne 2010, 40). Katuwas carried this use of deictic projection even further, however. As was the case in Idrimi’s inscription, Katuwas foregrounded his perspective using deixis, but this now became the governing aspect of the entire text (Hogue 2019b; 2019c; 2021a). This strategic use of deixis is especially obvious in Katuwas’ inscriptions due to the nature of the Hieroglyphic Luwian language in which they are written. It was a grammatical feature of Luwian – at least as realized in text – to begin every clause with a clitic complex. That is, the first word in every clause – often the conjunction a – was followed by a chain of clitics denoting various grammatical information about the clause. These clitics include conjunctions, reflexive particles, locative particles, and, most significantly, dative, accusative, and nominative pronominal clitics (Payne 2010, 40; Yakubovich 2015, 19). In other words, almost every clause in Hieroglyphic Luwian begins with much of the deictic information governing the clause. Thus, almost at a glance, the sophisticated user of the monument can determine the agent’s perspective by looking at the clitic chains opening each clause. The agent’s perspective is clearly foregrounded in every case. Personal, temporal, and spatial deictic categories act as indexes and metaphors for ideological deixis, which I define elsewhere as “the use of linguistic referents to suggest relative distance from a core ideology” (Hogue 2018, 4). Personal and spatiotemporal elements of the text are evaluated based on their nearness to the agent, who is at the inscriptions’ ideological center (Liverani 1973, 186–91). Stockwell argues that such deictic elements “encode the social viewpoint and relative situations of authors, narrators, characters, and readers” (Stockwell 2002, 46). As such, Levantine “I Am” monuments utilized deixis to suggest social structures and hierarchies, even when they were not explicitly labeled. Katuwas structured his inscriptions around deictic categories to guide his monuments’ users into a positive relationship with him, as well as to warn them of the consequences of failing to accommodate his perspective. In other words, the text engaged the users deictically to coax them into accepting the agent’s ideology. The imagined interaction between the users and the agent was predicated on the assumption of response (Herman 1999, 528–29; Zilmer 2010a, 138; 2010b, 147). As they had just observed the world from the agent’s perspective, the users were intended to respond to the agent’s

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demands in light of that perspective. The text thus placed the users into a liminal state pending their response to the monument. The perspective of the user was thereby potentially transformed into that of the agent. The strategic use of deictic elements allowed not only the conjuration of the agent’s perspective but also the reembodiment of that perspective within the users themselves. The Aesthetic Discourse of Katuwas’ Monuments All of Katuwas’ inscriptions were inscribed on orthostats. Apart from the six monuments of Katuwas, this form was utilized in an additional fifteen exemplars from the corpus above.10 Orthostats were stone wall slabs designed to protect the structures they adorned from environmental weathering. They originated as undressed protective elements of Levantine walls but were later co-opted for the display of monumental art. Even in their undressed form, however, their limited emplacement in temples, palaces, and city gates demonstrates that these unworked stones were fundamentally monumental and used to mark liminal space (Harmanş ah 2007b, 72–76; 2011, 632). Orthostats provided unique opportunities for displaying aesthetic discourse. Unlike other monumental artifacts, orthostats could accommodate entire narrative progressions at their most sophisticated (Harmanş ah 2007b, 81–84). The agent reembodied by the monument could thus be encountered in very complex relationships with other figures and places. Katuwas and his immediate predecessors took special advantage of this to radically shift the emphasis of Levantine monumental art. Abandoning the Hittite imperial models of earlier rulers, Katuwas instead used these orthostats to emphasize his own power (Gilibert 2015). Even more significantly, as an architectural feature, orthostats were not easily distinguished from their architectural setting. Modern scholarship is careful to label these artifacts separately, and so it can be tempting to think of Katuwas’ orthostats as six separate monuments. This may not have been the perspective of the ancient audience, however. Instead, Katuwas’ six inscribed orthostats were parts of a greater whole, including not only the uninscribed orthostats beside them but also the monuments of his predecessors. Though each of these accomplished unique discursive 10

The others are KARKAMIŠ A1b, KARKAMIŠ A6, ALEPPO 6, HINES, HAMA 1, HAMA 2, HAMA 3, HAMA 4, HAMA 6, HAMA 7, KARATEPE 1 (KAI 26 A and B), PORSUK, the Kulamuwa Orthostat (KAI 24), and the Bar-Rakib palace orthostats (KAI 216–18).

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functions within the space, they were always encountered together as an assemblage. It is possible to analyze each as a monument, but we should also realize that these pointed to a larger built environment that was experienced by ancient users as a single monumental installation. As a result, an agent encountered through texts and images on orthostats was reembodied within the entire space. Katuwas thus extended his presence throughout the Lower Palace area (Hogue 2021a, 12). The ability of orthostats to distribute an agent’s presence in space also allowed them to produce liminality. This function is most obvious in the portal orthostats of Katuwas: KARKAMIŠ A2+3, 11b+c, and A23. These were each carved on a set of two portal orthostats that functioned together. The effect of these paired orthostats was twofold. First, they revealed the agent’s ability to distribute his presence and agency and to manifest them in multiple locations and forms. The creation of such monuments in the first place reveals the ancient conception that one individual’s presence need not be singular; it could be multiplied, distributed, and divided (Harmanş ah 2007a, 181; Bahrani 2014, 118–19). Orthostat pairs accentuated this multiplicity of presence even more than other monumental forms. While this repetition could theoretically be accomplished by other artifacts, orthostats were uniquely suited for this because they were architectural features of larger built environments. Second, as paired orthostats flanking portals, they allowed the agent to follow and address the processing user from either side of the portal. The repetition of the artifacts would remind the users of the rhythm of rituals attached to them (Bahrani 2014, 118, 132). Portal orthostats also took advantage of the liminality of portals to imply that crossing a threshold entailed making an ideological transition with the agent, a process that will be discussed more in relation to the spatial discourse of these artifacts. The most sophisticated example of aesthetic discourse in Katuwas’ monuments is the portrait that accompanies KARKAMIŠ A13d (Fig. 4). Like statues, portraits were seen as duplicating an individual’s personhood and possessing an agency all their own (Bahrani 2003; 2014, 24–29; Aro 2013, 232). The portrait thus reembodied Katuwas, serving the same function as the “I Am” formula in the inscription. In this case, however, this overlapping function was made explicit. The posture of Katuwas in the portrait consciously imitates the hieroglyph EGO (amu) “I.” The portrait is in fact meant to be read as the first hieroglyph in the inscription – the first-person pronoun (Payne 2016, 289–90). In this case, the deictic statement “I am” (Luwian EGO amu-) was literally the image of the agent. Not only are image and text serving the same purpose in this example but

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figure 4 Monumental inscription of Katuwas complete with an “amu-figure” (KARKAMIŠ A13d). Exhibit in the Anatolian Civilizations Museum in Ankara, Turkey. The processing image of Katuwas is in fact the first hieroglyph in the Luwian inscription. Photo: A. Erdem Ş entürk, provided courtesy of Tayfun Bilgin, www.hittitemonuments.com, v. 1.77.

the image is also the text.11 The portrait thus directly evokes the voice of Katuwas, announcing “I am Katuwas” to his monument’s users. The result is a portrait that was emically understood as capable of speech; more than this, the portrait was speech (Hogue 2019b, 331; 2021a, 12–13). This portrait-as-hieroglyph (labeled EGO2 or the amu-figure) was iterated at

11

Generally speaking, treating “image” and “text” as separate artistic categories is a modern notion that was completely alien to the cultures under study. It remains helpful for heuristic reasons, but my separate treatment of verbal and aesthetic discourse should not be taken to reflect an actual distinction in the ancient context (May 2012, 4; Levtow 2012, 311–16).

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other sites and even influenced the development of portraiture accompanying non-hieroglyphic texts (Bunnens 2005; Payne 2016). The remaining five orthostats include no additional iconography directly accompanying the text as in KARKAMIŠ A13d. Nevertheless, the inscriptions themselves should also be considered part of the monuments’ aesthetic discourse (Thomas 2014, 60–61). The writing was ultimately visually apprehended, and some users could not interpret the semantic meaning of the signs they were viewing. Writing on its own was symbolic of exclusive knowledge and social power, and, apart from being read, writing could function as “an image of itself” (Gilibert 2011, 120). While the framing of the text as direct speech may imply that it was meant to be read aloud, this was not the only function of the text. Texts were also used to authenticate and legitimate the monument and imbue it with symbolic power (Özyar 2013, 135–36). Inscriptions likely fulfilled this aesthetic purpose in general on “I Am” monuments, whether or not they were also read (Denel 2007, 186). In addition to images directly accompanying inscriptions, however, we must also consider the greater artistic sequences surrounding Katuwas’ monuments and the other artifacts that accompanied these. Katuwas’ inscribed orthostats were only part of a much larger sequence of worked orthostats depicting processions of armed warriors, courtiers, male and female offering bearers, musicians, gods, and perhaps the queen of Karkamiš in addition to Katuwas himself (Gilibert 2011, 107–8). The images of the processors provide a model of the ideal user of the monument. They appear to participate in the processions and rituals surrounding the monuments and invite the monuments’ users to join in (Özyar 2013, 134; Bahrani 2014, 132). In a sense, they embody the ritual and its ideal participants within the monument itself. Much as the text implies or prescribes beliefs and behavior for the users, these images project a particular social structure and identity to the users as well as a practice to be undertaken in response to that. Apart from the orthostats, other monumental artifacts were also integrated into this assemblage in the Lower Palace area. For example, in §20 of KARKAMIŠ A11a, Katuwas reports that he set up a statue of a god named Atrisuhas within the gate along with the orthostat. This divine statue was actually found in situ beside the orthostat. This massive seated deity is depicted enthroned atop two lions. This configuration drew upon a complex set of artistic associations, but most importantly it allowed Katuwas to associate himself with the divine sphere. The association of “I Am” monuments with divine images is attested more broadly. In such

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examples, the intention of the monument must be to manifest the agent within the presence of the deities depicted alongside him (Hawkins 2000, Volume I:304). This practice is likely cognate with typical votive practice in Mesopotamia and the Levant, in which statues of supplicants were placed before divine images so that they were reembodied in perpetual prayer (Graesser 1972, 43; Postgate 1994, 177; Shafer 2007, 146; Gudme 2012, 9; Bahrani 2014, 79). Katuwas’ integration of the statue of Atrisuhas into his “I Am” monument allowed him to be manifested perpetually in the presence of that deity. In addition, many of the orthostats in the Lower Palace area were accompanied by offering tables, cups, and depressions for offering food and libations. To better understand the importance of these artifacts, however, we must turn to their distribution in space. The Spatial Discourse of Katuwas’ Monuments The integration of monuments into built and natural environments allowed them to tap into the power of the landscape as well as reshape it by imbuing it with new meaning (Yamada 2000, 295; Harmanş ah 2007a, 180; Zilmer 2010a, 139; Kahn and Kirch 2014, 218–19). The distribution of monumental artifacts in specific places and the performance of particular rituals alongside them served to map the world proposed in the inscription and iconography onto that physical space (Gilibert 2013, 49). Levantine “I Am” monuments were erected in arenas of various scales that were united by their purpose of proposing a space for spectacles to conjure the presence of the agent. Typical small-scale theatres of “I Am” monuments were palaces, temples, and other clearly bounded sites of ritual interaction. Katuwas extended this logic to a larger scale by taking advantage of the urban layout of Karkamiš. One of the key features of Levantine cities – especially those of the northern Levant – was that they were laid out in such a way as to demonstrate a clear hierarchy of space. City centers – such as those at Zincirli, Karkamiš, and Hamath – were typically walled off and accessible by means of central processional roads. The city center itself was further subdivided into ceremonial and residential regions, and the ceremonial area was dominated by the ceremonial plaza – a large-scale theatre designed for ritualized engagement with monumental art and architecture. This role was filled by the Lower Palace area at Karkamiš (Pucci 2008b). By erecting his many monumental orthostats on the boundaries of the Lower Palace area, Katuwas transformed it into a theatre. A “theatre”

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is “any building, plaza, landscape, pilgrimage route, or other setting in which spectacles are performed” (Coben 2006, 223). The affordances and constraints of the Lower Palace area as well as patterns of traversal through it were inextricable elements of Katuwas’ monumental discourse. Plazas like the Lower Palace area suggest the scale of the rituals to be carried out within them and can be analyzed to determine the number of users participating in them at any given time (Gilibert 2011, 104). Assuming a medium crowd density of 2.5 persons per square meter, at 3000 m2 the Lower Palace area of Karkamiš could hold at least 7,500 users. Karkamiš’ total population has been estimated at 18,200, but it is also probable that 50 percent of this population was either under the age of twelve or over sixty-nine. Katuwas’ theatre could thus easily accommodate the most able-bodied segment of the adult population of Karkamiš. This was the group he most needed to target, given their potential to challenge his rule (Gilibert 2011, 103). The Lower Palace area was an ideal space for staging spectacles that were intended to “constitute political subjects through the formal and codified enactments of relationships” (Inomata and Coben 2006, 4–5). Gilibert argues that such ceremonial plazas “should be analyzed as the material correlate of the ‘citizens’ as a generic political subject” (Gilibert 2013, 37–40). The mere production of the plaza projected the elite ability to mobilize capital and labor. In particular, it demonstrated the ability to mobilize the population of Karkamiš as a community (DeMarrais, Castillo, and Earle 1996; Glatz and Plourde 2011). In the Lower Palace area, Karkamiš’ inhabitants could “actually witness the public as a collective body which gazes, moves, and interprets together” (Hogue 2021b, 246). In addition to the inscriptions’ prescriptions of collective practice and the iconographic depictions of such practices, within the theatre the users actually beheld Karkamiš taking shape in the form of its denizens gathering together. Ideally, these people would thus be transformed from mere denizens into subjects and citizens. Katuwas’ monuments utilized space to affect his monuments’ users in diverse ways, allowing him to propose a complex social structure to the resultant citizenry. The theatre provided a space for engaging the monuments to activate the encounter with the agent. First and foremost, users were invited to collectively gaze at and experience the monuments visually, perhaps even tactilely. These interactions were likely extended in an auditory direction as well. The texts on the “I Am” monuments may have been read aloud to the audience gathered in the plaza (Payne 2010, 40). In some cases, users would verbally respond to this reading using incantations and

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other scripted pronouncements. Such a connection is implied by the use of formulaic language and deictic elements often indicative of oral performance. This is particularly true of the imprecations in such inscriptions, which seem to reflect a background in oral performance (Ramos 2016, 219). Iconographic depictions accompanying “I Am” inscriptions – those of singers, musicians, and dancers in particular – also imply that scripted performances were attached to these monuments (Denel 2007, 185). Later monuments from Karkamiš even record oaths that needed to be repeated before “I Am” monuments.12 The prescriptions in Katuwas’ inscriptions reveal that the monuments also received specific offerings and sacrifices. In KARKAMIŠ A11a §12, Katuwas establishes PANIS(-)ara/i-si-na “seasonal bread (offerings)” (Payne 2012, 67–68). In the neighboring KARKAMIŠ A11b+c §18, Katuwas demands a blood sacrifice, oxen and sheep, and bread offerings (Hawkins 2000, Volume I:103). Surprisingly, some of these offerings are targeted at Katuwas himself and his monument, revealing a strategy within Levantine monumental discourse more generally from this period of co-opting elements of ancestor cult and the worship of deities in order to introduce the agent into the realm of the gods. The Lower Palace area was equipped with multiple altars and indentations carved at the base of orthostats to act as receptacles for libations and other offerings (Ussishkin 1975, 95; Denel 2007, 189–90). Food and drink offerings may imply that ritual feasting was connected to the Lower Palace area as well. Feasting involves imbuing communal acts of eating and drinking with special significance. In particular, feasting creates coherence among groups of people, while the manipulation of feasting practices allows elites to create and consolidate their power. Feasts also served as a means for multiple users to participate in offerings and to imaginatively socialize with the agent and other figures conjured by the monuments and rituals attached to them (Greer 2013, 3–5). The agent and the deities were also understood to participate in these feasts by means of incantations and sacrifices (Sanders 2013, 48–49). The feasting that followed these acts allowed the audience to become participants in the sacrifice and to relate directly to Katuwas. As a result, it was not only the elites presently manipulating the feast who consolidated their power, but the elites imagined in the preceding rituals – the gods and the agent in his distributed, reembodied form – also claimed a place in the hierarchy above the users. 12

See KARKAMIŠ A6 §§21–22 (Hawkins 2000, Volume I:127).

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Of the various types of offerings provided for “I Am” monuments, only one appears unique in the Levantine context and deserves some special attention. This is the blood offering attested multiple times at Karkamiš. It might be inferred that offering animal sacrifices would involve blood, but only some texts explicitly prescribe that blood be offered before the monument. KARKAMIŠ A11b+c §18 prescribes an asharimi- “blood sacrifice” to the gods (Hawkins 2000, Volume I:103–6). The same type of sacrifice is prescribed in one of the fragments of KARKAMIŠ A29 with the Storm-god as the recipient (Hawkins 2000, Volume I:219). Another Karkamišean “I Am” monument, KÖRKÜN §7, prescribes an ashana(n) tisa- “blood offering,” again for the Storm-god (Hawkins 2000, Volume I:173–74). Curiously, though the agent is not a deity in any of these instances, it is specifically divine figures who receive this type of offering. Outside of the evidence for blood ritual in the Hebrew Bible to be discussed in the next chapter, the only comparative to Karkamišean blood offerings comes from Bronze Age Emar. This is nevertheless an attractive comparative because, like Karkamiš, Emar was located in northern Syria and conquered by the Hittites; Emar may even have been directly administrated by the rulers of Karkamiš (M. Yamada 2020). As part of the seasonal Zukru festival, a blood ritual was performed with monumental stones. After a feast – which may imply earlier animal sacrifice – at least two aniconic stelae were rubbed with blood and the image of the god Dagan was made to pass between them. Daniel Fleming suggests that this practice was meant to conjure Dagan among the monuments thus manipulated (Fleming 2000, 86–87). This use of blood and monuments to reembody divine presence survived into the Iron Age. Tying all of the above individual practices together were the spectacular processions carried out in the Lower Palace area. More than any other ritual element, these took special advantage of the space to communicate a particular ideology to the monument’s users. Both elites and non-elites were conceived of as participants, even if they might participate in different ways (Pucci 2008a, 121). During the Age of Civic Ritual, processions were for the first time centered specifically on the present ruler, rather than a deity or royal ancestor. This striking development likely reflects the growing instability of the region as territorial control became more difficult to maintain (Gilibert 2015, 147). As a result, military parades and triumphal processions became standard types of ritual processions as well as key elements of the accompanying monumental artwork (Denel 2007, 192; Gilibert 2011, 119–20).

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Processions also molded the users more generally by disciplining the body – training it to move through space in a particular way and thus introducing it to social rules and roles (Hodder 2006, 96). The participant was not only bringing offerings or arriving at a dedicated space to feast. They were also walking as the agent directed and lingering where the agent wanted. In the words of Tim Ingold, walking in general is “an intrinsically social activity,” in which the walker’s movements “are continually responsive to the movements of others in the immediate environment” (Ingold 2004, 328). In the case of ritual processions attached to monuments, the users are responding to both the movements of their fellow processors as well as the depicted movements of processors in the accompanying monumental art. Even in cases where processors are not depicted, the users must always respond to what Mark Smith calls “the imagined materiality” of the agent present and processing with them (Smith 2016, 27). These aspects of the monuments direct the users to walk in particular ways, which had strong implications for the social roles the users filled. In other words, by directing the movement of the users, the agent socialized with them and molded them into a community subject to his direction. The locations of his monuments reveal the pattern of the processions carried out in Katuwas’ theatre as well as the social roles they were meant to create (see Fig. 5). Upon entering Karkamiš, potential users of these monuments would find themselves on a processional road clearly leading to the citadel. They would first encounter Katuwas at the King’s Gate restricting entry to the Lower Palace area. Katuwas was manifested within the gateway by means of three “I Am” monuments – most notably the portal orthostats KARKAMIŠ A11b+c flanking the southern entrance of the gateway but also by KARKAMIŠ A11a and KARKAMIŠ A13d within the gateway. These gateway monuments point to the liminality affected by them. By encountering Katuwas’ perspective in this transitional space, the ideal user passing through the gate would be transformed by moving through the gateway.13 Transition through the gateway was used to imply and promote ideological transition toward the perspective proffered by Katuwas 13

I have adapted the term “ideal user” from Peter Stockwell’s description of the “idealised reader.” Any work of art – textual or not – can be interpreted in multiple ways. Though monuments could still function if they were not interpreted precisely as their creators intended, the monument-makers of Levantine monuments do appear to have particular interpretations in mind. The “ideal user” is thus the user that correctly interprets the monument and is transformed by it as the agent proposes. Of course, the real users probably only approached this ideal to various degrees (Stockwell 2002, 43).

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figure 5 Map of the Lower Palace area of Carchemish showing the locations of Katuwas’ “I Am” monuments. Map by Amy Karoll.

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(Hogue 2021a, 11). It is most important to note in this regard that these three inscriptions are the only ones in which Katuwas gives instructions for the ritual processions to take place at the gate and in the ceremonial plaza beyond (Gilibert 2011, 110). KARKAMIŠ A11a even gestures to the temple of the Storm-god, which is the ultimate target of the procession (Pucci 2008b, 221). This procession and its associated rituals were the means of transformation for the users. Significantly, this movement was often convoluted, requiring 90°–180° turns to access different tiers of the theatre (Pucci 2008a, 171; Gilibert 2013, 40). Upon passing through the gateway, the users of the monuments would come face-to-face with the temple of the Storm-god. Because this temple was raised on a temenos without a means of ascent on its southern side, the users would be unable to access it from this vantage point. Instead, they would need to turn 90° to the right, at which point their gaze would instead be invited to the Lower Palace area and the palace of Katuwas, both of which were bounded by decorated orthostats (Denel 2007, 181; Marchetti 2015; 2016). Continuing forward, the users would encounter Katuwas again in the form of KARKAMIŠ A12 on the boundary between the Lower Palace area and Katuwas’ palace. This boundary contained no portal allowing access into the palace. Like the temple, the palace was completely inaccessible from this vantage point, and in fact there was no means of entry from the Lower Palace area. Thus, while the users could encounter Katuwas in the form of his monuments within the plaza, a clear hierarchy between them and the ruler was also demonstrated. They could not engage Katuwas so intimately as to enter into his palace. The placement of the monument in this case thus afforded a sense of otherness to the users and served to create a social hierarchy (Hogue 2021a, 13). From the southern boundary of the Lower Palace area, users could make another 90° turn to the left to approach the great staircase on the northern end of the plaza. Here they would encounter Katuwas again in KARKAMIŠ A23 near a side entrance to the temenos of the temple of the Storm-god.14 After a 180° turn, users could finally complete their procession to the temple of the Storm-god, where they would meet Katuwas one final time in a portal orthostat pair flanking the doorway to the temple’s

14

It is also possible that KARKAMIŠ A23 originally served as a portal orthostat in a temple of Kubaba, functioning analogously to KARKAMIŠ A2+3 in the temple of the Storm-god. If this was the case, this inscription was secondarily reused at the great staircase leading to the temple of the Storm-god (Gilibert 2011, 37).

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cella (KARKAMIŠ A2+3) (Gilibert 2011, 50–51). These monuments mark increasingly intimate liminal zones culminating in the entrance to the temple’s inner sanctum. By erecting them at these transitional spaces, Katuwas used his monuments to invite his users deeper into his proposed ideology. Finally, they ritually encountered him beside his patron deity, the Storm-god. By directing motion through the plaza in this way and creating patterns of engagement with the monuments encountered there, Katuwas’ monuments facilitated the formation of groupness, otherness, and social hierarchies. These “I Am” monuments thus functioned not only to manifest Katuwas before his users and distribute his presence. They also created complex social structures in the city of Karkamiš. Successive periods in the history of “I Am” monuments saw these strategies expanded even further.

the age of territorial theatre: mesha of moab Many of the innovations of the Age of Civic Ritual continued into the rest of the ninth and eighth centuries, but some new and unique developments appeared during this time as well. For example, the first “I Am” inscriptions in Northwest Semitic dialects appeared during this time – the Moabite inscriptions of Mesha. The relationships articulated by “I Am” monuments were also becoming increasingly complex. For example, while the monuments of Katuwas had appropriated aspects previously restricted to divine monuments for depicting the ruler, monuments in the Age of Territorial Theatre created a new role for deities as increasingly active performers in “I Am” monuments. New means of motivating users to accept agents’ ideologies also appeared. Most importantly, monuments during this time extended the logic of the ceremonial plaza to a territorial scale. Rather than delimiting portions of urban landscapes as theatres for political spectacles, some rulers now distributed “I Am” monuments to configure entire regions as though they were such theatres. The monuments of the Age of Territorial Theatre are especially significant for the present study, because the best examples of “I Am” monuments from this period come from polities that interacted closely with Israel – namely, Moab, Hamath, and Aram. The Moabite king Mesha’s revolt is narrated in 2 Kings 3. Within his own inscription, Mesha names King Ahab of Israel as his primary enemy. Mesha’s monumental discourse may have been appropriated from the more powerful state of Israel from which he broke away (Sass 2005, 88; Sanders 2009, 124). The monuments of the Aramaean king Hazael – another named enemy of Israel during this

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same period – employ the same discursive strategies as those of Mesha. The Hamathite king Urhilina provides an important new piece to this puzzle. Not only do his monuments shed light on many of the discursive patterns evident in Mesha’s monuments, but we know from Assyrian sources that Urhilina was an ally of Ahab. While the Bible never speaks of Urhilina by name, positive relations between Israel and Hamath are recorded (Younger Jr. 2016, 462–63). These rulers thus provide the best evidence for monumental discourse that was probably known and practiced by the Israelites. The following sections will present a test case of Mesha’s monuments, but I will explain these in light of other examples from this same period, especially those of Hazael and Urhilina. The Verbal Discourse of Mesha’s Monuments For the most part, the content of “I Am” monuments remained unchanged in this new period from those of the proceeding one. Nevertheless, there were some departures from the earlier period that are worth commenting on. The first shift that may be noted is that Mesha claims to be the king of a region rather than a city. Though he explicitly calls himself a Dibonite – a denizen of the city of Dibon – he claims to be king of Moab – a region consisting of multiple cities and territories in the inscription. This shift is even more striking in the case of Urhilina, who claims to be i-ma-tú-wa /i-ni(REGIO) REX “King of Hamath” where Hamath is marked with the determinative REGIO “country” rather than URBS “city.” Hamath was also the name of Urhilina’s central city, and he certainly could have claimed to be the king of the city of Hamath much as Katuwas claimed only to be the ruler of the city of Karkamiš. Instead, he expands the label of Hamath to an entire region. What is most important to note in both cases is that Urhilina and Mesha were proposing regional polities rather than simply describing them. By labeling these regions in this way, these rulers performatively brought those territories into being. By implication, they were projecting a political identity onto the denizens of those large territories, providing them with not only a collective geographical label but also a chief deity and language in the inscriptions (Sanders 2009, 114– 18). The goal was to reconfigure the likely disparate peoples of those territories as subjects to the singular polities being proposed. The wider reach claimed by the “I Am” monuments of this period in some cases necessitated longer and more varied battle narratives. In Mesha’s inscriptions, this also necessitated significantly more complex poetics. Unlike Hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions, Northwest Semitic inscriptions

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could not reveal their poetics by means of clitic chains. Instead, they utilized a variety of rhetorical techniques to organize their discourse. Perhaps most simply, sections may be differentiated by the type of clause preferred and the clauses’ average lengths (O’Connor 1977, 24–26; Hogue 2019c, 93). Section bracketing was also regularly accomplished by means of parallelism, chiasm, and inclusio. We should note that while more complicated scribal techniques underly such examples, they are still governed by ideological deixis in that they reveal specific information about persons and artifacts in the agent’s environment and his perspective on them. Mesha’s Dibon Stele15 expands the organizational principle of ideological deixis to perhaps its most sophisticated. This inscription was emplaced at Qarḥoh – Dibon’s acropolis and the very center of Mesha’s domain (Liverani 1973, 189–91; Ahlström 1982, 1:16; Routledge 2004, 147). The text itself identifies Qarḥoh as its center point, but then narrates Mesha’s actions throughout all of Moab. In the inscription, Mesha sets out from Dibon and consolidates his power first in northern Moab and then in southern Moab (Routledge 2004, 142–43). The narration of events according to a geographic rather than a chronological pattern is a reflection of the monument’s emplacement in a set location and targeting of a particular region. The basic principle of Mesha’s evaluation of these zones is that the further a territory is from Qarḥoh, the more in need of taming it is. Mesha ultimately presents five tiers of space based on their nearness to his ideology: Qarḥoh at the very center, wider Dibon next, northern Moab, southern Moab, and finally the enemy lands of Israel and Judah (Green 2010, 306). The inscription thus provokes the users to imagine not only Qarḥoh as a socially formative place but all of Moab as well. Denizens of various regions of Moab are related to Dibon and Mesha in slightly different ways but all with the aim of subjection. The relationship between the agent and his users was also framed somewhat differently during this period. In addition to celebrating achievements that primarily benefited themselves, the agents of this period also recorded works that they had undertaken to benefit their subjects. Mesha, for example, claims not only to have won battles, conquered territory, and built temples. He also narrates having built cisterns to provide water for his people. While Katuwas improved social order explicitly for his own benefit, Mesha claims to have acted on behalf of the people (Green 2010, 308–15). 15

This artifact has also been called the Mesha Stele or the Moabite Stone. I have chosen the label “Dibon Stele” to better differentiate it from what I label the “Kerak Statue,” which was also an “I Am” monument erected by Mesha.

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This provided the users with increased motivation to accept the social structures proposed by Mesha. Along the same lines, “I Am” monuments also began to more explicitly document the agent’s justice. While agents like Katuwas simply claimed that they were righteous, agents like Panamuwa I during the Age of Territorial Theatre actually gave his subjects moral proscriptions. In a striking parallel to the Decalogue, he forbids the users of his monument to murder (KAI 214 line 26) or to lie in legal proceedings (lines 28–34) (Hogue 2019c, 93). Such injunctions served to define the relationship between the agent and his users in terms of social obligations. These prescriptions reified the same ideal order the agent claimed to have created in the narrative portion of the text. By leaving directions for the monument’s users to maintain or recreate that order, the agent extended the influence of his ideology into the daily lives of the users. Now instead of receiving instructions to be carried out in a ceremonial theatre, the users were given directions that applied at all times throughout the agent’s claimed territory. Finally, the relationship between the agent and the divine sphere shifted in some significant ways. While Katuwas appealed to the gods of Karkamiš, they were never active players in his “I Am” monuments. In Mesha’s inscriptions, however, his god Kemosh speaks with him directly to guide his actions. For example, Kemosh tells Mesha lk ʾḥz ʾt nbh ʿl ys´rʾl “Go! Take Nebo from Israel!” (KAI 181:14) and rd hltḥm bḥwrnn “Go down! Make war on Ḥ awronen!” (KAI 181:32). Such divine injunctions were a means of demonstrating the close relationship between the agent and his divine elector (Green 2010, 167). In general, wherever divine speech is recorded in the corpus of Levantine “I Am” monuments, it is rendered in the form of second-person injunctions, thus using personal deixis to demonstrate the closeness between the deity and the agent. This discursive strategy appears in not only the Dibon Stele, but also the Zakkur Statue, TELL AHMAR 5, TELL AHMAR 6, and potentially BOYBEYPINARI 2. This shift is particularly relevant to the Decalogue. The most innovative aspect of the Decalogue is that its composers made Yahweh into the agent. The injunctions were rendered in the second person because that was the standard way to represent divine speech in “I Am” monuments. The Aesthetic Discourse of Mesha’s Monuments Unlike the monuments of Katuwas, the aesthetic discourse of Mesha’s was remarkably simple. The Dibon Stele (Fig. 6) is completely aniconic apart from the text itself serving as an icon for many viewers. More broadly,

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figure 6 The Dibon Stele including the royal inscription of King Mesha of Moab. Exhibit in the Harvard Semitic Museum, Harvard University – Cambridge, MA, USA. This file is made available under the Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication.

stelae actually are the most common epigraphic support for “I Am” monuments. Of the monuments included in my corpus, forty-five are stelae.16 Of these forty-five, twenty are aniconic. Aniconic stelae are attested in all of the periods outlined in the historical schema proposed 16

These are İ SPEKÇÜR, DARENDE, IZGIN 1–2, MARAŞ 8, KELEKLİ , TELL AHMAR 5, ARSUZ 1, ARSUZ 2, BABYLON 1, TELL AHMAR 6, ALEPPO 2, BOROWSKI 3, TELL AHMAR 2, TELL AHMAR 1, KARKAMIŠ A12, MARAŞ 2, RESTAN, QAL’AT EL MUDIQ, TALL ŠṬI¯B, HAMA 8, SHEIZAR, KÖRKÜN, the Mesha Stele (KAI 181), the Tel Dan Stele (KAI 310), the Yehawmilk Stele (KAI 10), the Katumuwa Stele, the Neirab Stelae (KAI 225–226), KÜRTÜL, KULULU 1, KULULU 2, KULULU 3, KULULU 4, ANDAVAL, BOHÇA, BOR, Çİ FTLİ K, EĞ REK, KAYSERİ , SULTANHAN, CEKKE, ADANA 1, KARKAMIŠ A5b, KARKAMIŠ A17a, and KARKAMIŠ A18a.

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earlier and appear to be the most broadly attested form of “I Am” monument in geographic terms as well, occurring everywhere from central Anatolia to southern Transjordan. Also, accounting for nearly a quarter of all Iron Age “I Am” monuments, aniconic stelae are one of the most common epigraphic supports encountered. In addition to the Dibon Stele during the Age of Territorial Theatre, Hazael’s stele at Tel Dan appears to have also been aniconic, as are the stelae of Urhilina. Nevertheless, aniconic stelae did not function solely as epigraphic supports. They also played a significant role in the overall function of the monument. At their most fundamental, stelae functioned as extensions and reembodiments of various objects, people, and deities (Graesser 1972, 35–37; Bonatz 2000, 32–64, 115–17, 156–57; Aro 2003, 317–26; BlochSmith 2006, 65; 2015, 107–11; Bahrani 2014, 43, 59–60). This is true across ancient West Asia for stelae whether they were inscribed or uninscribed, iconic or aniconic.17 Even stelae that explicitly served to commemorate events still in some sense functioned as if they were standing in for people; their function as witnesses suggests that they exuded some sort of personal agency and were more than simple reminders (Graesser 1972, 41–51; McCarthy 1978, 174). In other words, the stele – like other ancient West Asian monumental artifacts – was a “mode of presencing” (Bahrani 2003, 137). They manifested individuals or groups in the minds of those engaging them. The addition of iconography or inscriptions to these artifacts served to make that function even clearer to their users by specifying who was reembodied by the stele. But the use of aniconic stelae persisted even after the development of iconographic stelae. A variety of factors undoubtedly contributed to this, but one reason for this persistence was that the artifact itself accomplished the same function as the iconography even apart from it. Another possibility should be kept in mind for the aesthetic function of stelae, however. The stelae may have been reembodying a deity in addition to the named agent. Of the twenty-five iconic stelae, four depict the agent alongside a deity18 while a further eleven depict only a deity.19 All of these depict the Storm-god rather than the agent. I have argued elsewhere that in It is also worth noting in this regard that “I Am” monuments were occasionally accompanied by uninscribed, aniconic stelae. See, for example, the plaza installations surrounding the Tel Dan Stele and KARATEPE 1/KAI 26 (Bloch-Smith 2005, 36; Davis 2013, 59–60; Özyar 2013, 123). 18 ARSUZ 1, ARSUZ 2, DARENDE, KELEKLİ . 19 ADANA 1, TELL AHMAR 1, TELL AHMAR 2, TELL AHMAR 6, BOROWSKI 3, ALEPPO 2, BABYLON 1, KÜRTÜL, CEKKE, KÖRKÜN, and KARKAMIŠ A17a. 17

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statues similar to these stelae, the inscription manifests the agent while the image manifests the deity whose presence the agent desires to enter (Hogue 2019b). Given the emplacement of the Dibon Stele in the shrine to Kemosh in Qarḥoh, the stele may have been intended as a reembodiment of Kemosh in addition to or even instead of Mesha. A similar possibility presents itself for Mesha’s other “I Am” monument – the Kerak Statue. Not enough of this statue is preserved to say for certain what individual it is intended to depict, but other examples from the Age of Territorial Theatre may suggest that it was Kemosh. The aforementioned monument of Panamuwa I from this period was actually a statue of the Storm-god Hadad inscribed with an “I Am” inscription of Panamuwa. Similarly, though the inscriptions ÇINEKÖY, the Azatiwada Statue (KAI 26 C), and the Zakkur Statue (KAI 202) all record “I Am” inscriptions of human kings, they depict deities. All of these date roughly to the Age of Territorial Theatre, so the pairing of a human agent’s inscription with the aesthetic reembodiment of a deity was a common cultural model during this period. The purpose was undoubtedly to manifest the agent alongside the deity (Hogue 2019b, 336). Given the cultic overtones of the Kerak Statue’s inscription, it may very well have been a statue of Kemosh bearing an inscription of Mesha designed to conjure the two figures together. Unfortunately, we can say little more about the aesthetic discourse of Mesha’s monuments because neither was found in situ. Both seem to further buttress the relationship created between Mesha and Kemosh in the verbal discourse of the monuments. Given the described placement in shrines, we might speculate that these monuments were originally accompanied by altars and other cultic paraphernalia meant to facilitate ritual practices similar to those attached to Katuwas’ monuments. Much more can be said about the spatial discourse of these monuments, however. The Spatial Discourse of Mesha’s Monuments The Age of Territorial Theatre probably saw the same kinds of ritual engagement as the Age of Civic Ritual (Gilibert 2011, 125–28). The major shift that occurred during this period was in the scale of those engagements. Rather than being limited to a single ritual locus or even a single urban theatre, “I Am” monuments were now distributed across regions. Complementary monuments were placed in different cities instead of different locations within the same city. As a result, a wider region was ritualized by treating different cities as though they were

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ceremonial boundaries. This is why I label this period the Age of Territorial Theatre. Territories had themselves been reconfigured as theatres during this period. This development was contingent upon a performative territoriality that was united with monumentality during this period. Ancient Levantine territories were malleable. James Osborne argues that territorial sovereignty was not evenly distributed but rather “expressed and experienced as a patchy and highly variegated phenomenon across the landscape” (Osborne 2013, 775). During the Age of Territorial Theatre, Levantine elites utilized “I Am” monuments to express territory and manipulate how it was experienced. Green argues that Levantine monumental inscriptions often narrated a ruler’s creation and reconfiguration of space. The conquest of new cities and territories as well as the building, refurbishing, and reinforcing of cities and particular buildings feature prominently in these narrations. Most importantly, the emplacement of a monument complemented – and I would argue reified – the ruler’s configuration of space (Green 2010, 307–16). Seth Sanders thus argues that Levantine monumental inscriptions configured territories performatively (Sanders 2009, 118). That is, these inscriptions were not merely verbal descriptions of a polity’s territory, as though it were a preexisting reality. Rather, they were proposing, performing, and thereby enacting territory. These inscriptions aimed not to describe but rather to bring about territorial sovereignty. While the verbal discourse of these inscriptions was undoubtedly important toward this end, it was not the only performative means of reifying territory. Far more significant was the spatial discourse of these artifacts. Of course, peripheral monuments like those of Mesha, Hazael, and Urhilina were ubiquitous in ancient West Asia, but their function was not consistent historically. For example, Ömür Harmanş ah argues that peripheral monuments allowed rulers to appropriate “local places of power to configure the edges of their imperial territories” (Harmanş ah 2017, 48). This practice was similar to what I have noted for Mesha, but with one important difference. The Late Bronze Age examples used by Harmanş ah illustrate elite claims on places of power, but not necessarily enactments of simultaneous control of multiple regions. Mesha’s monuments, however, assume control of a region – Moab – in addition to key sites within it. This performance of a regional sovereignty may have been partially appropriated from contemporary Assyrian monuments (Sanders 2009, 120–22). Assyrian peripheral monuments in the ninth century explicitly combined territoriality with monumentality. While most Assyrian monuments

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were centrally installed in capital cities, there was also a significant practice of peripheral monument-making, especially in newly subjugated cities. This was especially true of the reigns of Assurnasirpal II and Shalmaneser III (Shafer 2007, 133, 141). According to Ann Shafer, their peripheral monuments “consistently marked the important culminating or transitional points in the[ir] campaigns” (Shafer 2007, 136).20 These were sometimes treated as markers of cosmic boundaries between the civilized Assyrian polity and the outer chaotic world (Yamada 1999, 10–12; 2000, 295–96). More significantly, the erection of peripheral monuments allowed the Assyrian king to distribute his presence throughout the frontiers of his territorial polity. Through his reembodiment in the peripheral monument, the king and his ideology could be present on the frontier, engaging in perpetual ritual practice to transform that border place into a location aligned with the urban core. At the same time, monuments within the urban core would recapitulate these materialized rituals, tying the core and periphery together through a complex network of complementary monuments and the king’s shared presence in both places (Harmanş ah 2007a, 195). Ultimately, the concerted use of peripheral and central monuments allowed the Assyrian kings to transform “the geography of the empire” into “a narrative map, a spatial narrative” (Harmanş ah 2007b, 84). At least two of Shalmaneser’s monuments were erected in Levantine cult centers and were intended to enact the populace’s submission to the sovereignty of Assyria (Yamada 1999; 2000, 390–97). Perhaps inspired by this cultural model, Levantine elites took this sort of spatial discourse a step further by drawing upon their own tradition of erecting multiple monuments in ceremonial theatres. Two complementary “I Am” monuments erected by Mesha have been discovered (Fig. 7). As already noted, the Dibon Stele was set up on Dibon’s acropolis. The Kerak Statue was erected at Kerak in southern Moab, which according to the inscription on the Dibon Stele was the

20

This function of the placement of peripheral monuments is also reflected by their literary integration into royal annals. Aššurnas ̣irpal II described the erection of monuments at the end of campaigns nine times in his annals. This was significantly expanded by his successor Shalmaneser III, whose annals and inscriptions include over fifty descriptions of monument-making (S. Yamada 2000, 274–75). A similar practice is attested among the Hittites. Šuppiluliuma II recorded the erection of mountain monuments to commemorate both his subjugation of Cyprus and his father Tudḫ aliya IV’s victory over Cyprus before him. In KBo 12.38, he even concluded the conquest account with a Hittite translation of the full text of the associated monumental inscription (Güterbock 1967).

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figure 7 The territorial distribution of Mesha’s “I Am” monuments in Moab. Map by Amy Karoll.

space within Mesha’s territory that was most in need of subjection. Mesha thus tied these two spaces together, projecting his Dibon-centered ideology into the peripheral zone of Kerak (Routledge 2004, 192; Shafer 2007, 147–48). Much as Katuwas enacted a theatre for social transformation by means of a monument in the temple of the Storm-god and complementary monuments in the surrounding plaza, Mesha paired a monument in the temple to Kemosh in Dibon with a complementary monument in Kerak on the southern frontier of his territory. The implication is that the theatre for Mesha’s social formation is the entire territory thus marked and enacted. Kerak became a liminal space – like the gateways and other portals in ceremonial plazas – facilitating transition into Mesha’s territorial theatre and therefore his perspective. As the ceremonial plaza was the “material correlate” to a city’s subjects, Mesha transformed all of Moab into the correlate of his polity’s subjects (Routledge 2000, 235–45; Gilibert 2013, 39 N. 19). The territoriality proposed in his monuments is enacted by their cross-regional distribution.

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figure 8 The territorial distribution of Urhilina’s “I Am” monuments in Hamath. Map by Amy Karoll.

This innovative use of monuments to performatively constitute territory was not unique to Mesha. Most significantly, Urhilina of Hamath paired “I Am” monuments in the city of Hamath with duplicate monuments in his frontier cities (Fig. 8). QALAT EL MUDIQ was erected 46 km northwest of Hamath. TALL ŠṬI¯B was installed 41 km north-northwest of Hamath, while RESTAN was placed 26 km south of the capital city (Gonnet 2010, 97; Payne 2012, 59–61). Another copy of these inscriptions, HINES, was discovered out of context in northern Iraq. A similar

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figure 9 The territorial distribution of Hazael’s “I Am” monuments in Aram. Map by Amy Karoll.

strategy seems apparent for the monuments of Hazael in Dan and Aphis, which were undoubtedly complementary to monuments in Damascus (Fig. 9). Hazael’s model was later followed in Aphis by Zakkur (Hogue 2021b, 252). Further north, Panamuwa I of Zincirli erected a monument in Gerçin 7 km northeast of Zincirli that was modeled after monuments in the capital’s acropolis, suggesting a similar complementarity to that expressed by Mesha’s monuments (Gilibert 2011, 125). Even Kamani of Karkamiš may have engaged in a similar practice with his erection of the Cekke Stele approximately 68 km west-southwest from his monuments in the same ceremonial plaza utilized by Katuwas a century earlier. Mesha’s monuments – as well as those of Urhilina – were further tied together through cultic parity. While the monuments of the Assyrians and other Levantine polities like Samʾal tended to devote their monuments to unique local deities wherever they were emplaced, Mesha and Urhilina devoted all of their monuments to the same deity: Kemosh in Mesha’s case and Baʿalat in Urhilina’s. The erection of these monuments in different

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geographic locations thus did not simply tie the core and the periphery of these burgeoning territorial polities together. These monuments specifically bound those areas together as part of a larger implied pilgrimage network. As argued by Coben, theatres could take the form not only of plazas but also of “pilgrimage routes” (Coben 2006, 223). The appropriation of pilgrimage routes by elites to claim territorial control is attested elsewhere in ancient West Asia in various periods (Ristvet 2008; 2011). But Mesha and Urhilina crafted their territories by establishing new pilgrimage networks centered on a single important deity. They thus transformed the regions marked by their monuments into territories that were defined by devotion to a specific deity, giving rise to a form of monolatry in the process (Hogue 2022b). This use of “I Am” monuments to enact a special relationship to a specific deity during this period is particularly important to keep in mind when considering the Decalogue. This may explain why the biblical composers utilized this form in particular to depict the origin of Israel’s relationship to Yahweh.

the age of court ceremony: bar-rakib of samʾal Levantine monumental discourse evolved significantly beginning in the late eighth century. While multiple factors were undoubtedly at work, the most important one to keep in mind was the resurgence of the Assyrian empire under Tiglath-pileser III (745–727 BCE). This king reorganized the Assyrian polity and expanded it, pushing its direct influence into the Levant for the first time in a century. The impact of Assyria’s expansion is observable in Levantine culture throughout the rest of the eighth and seventh centuries (Crouch 2014b, 8–82). As a result, Levantine elites had to reconfigure how they presented themselves in order to appease – and sometimes react to – the neo-Assyrian imperial program. In general, “I Am” monuments became much more limited in scope at this time and tended to focus on legitimating Levantine elites to other elites. Accordingly, new monumental installations tended to appear in restricted environments in royal centers. In addition, many productions from this period represented a shift in practices of monument aggregation. While new monuments had always been erected in the vicinity of old ones to gain legitimacy by association, the Age of Court Ceremony saw new monuments consciously reframing earlier artifacts and even subverting them. These shifts in Levantine monument-making are best illustrated by the royal monuments in the citadel of Samʾal. Outside the gate to the citadel stood a colossal ruler statue without an inscription dating to the early

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ninth century. It was a generic monument to the dynasty – in fact, it is identical to a colossal ruler statue found at Karkamiš dating to the same period – with no specific identity presented or necessary (Gilibert 2011, 77–79). Within Samʾal’s citadel gate stood the Kulamuwa Orthostat – a late ninth-century “I Am” monument of Kulamuwa in which the identified king not only proclaimed his victory over or manipulation of foreign kings (including the Assyrian king). He also disavowed his predecessors at Samʾal (Gilibert 2011, 83–84). Deeper within the citadel complex stood the “I Am” monuments of Bar-Rakib, who ruled Samʾal as a vassal of Tiglath-pileser III in the late eighth century. Bar-Rakib’s monuments exhibit an Assyrianizing tendency in both their appropriation of Assyrian models and their apparent acquiescence to Assyrian subjection. Nevertheless, they also drew upon earlier Levantine models, including Kulamuwa’s defamation of his predecessors. However, in this case, BarRakib consciously adapted Kulamuwa’s monumental rhetoric and integrated his monuments into the environment of the Kulamuwa Orthostat to disavow Kulamuwa. This simultaneous incorporation of Assyrian models and metacommentary on past Levantine practice are some of the defining aspects of the Age of Court Ceremony. The Verbal Discourse of Bar-Rakib’s Monuments The resurgence of the neo-Assyrian empire under Tiglath-pileser III resulted in significant changes to the language of kingship. During his reign, many of the polities of the Levant became tributaries or vassals of Assyria. Among Tiglath-pileser III’s political reforms, he sought to consolidate his power by restricting that of his governors and vassals, including their monumental discourse (Shafer 1998, 32–33; 2007, 135; Yamada 2014, 44). According to Shigeo Yamada, Assyrian monuments of this period changed by “ascribing the prerogative in the military and administrative enterprises ideologically solely to the king,” as opposed to his governors or vassals (Yamada 2014, 47). As a result, the monumental texts of Levantine kings of this period had to grapple with the presence of a power greater than the king as well as the near impossibility of deriving legitimacy through open warfare, which may have invited the ire of the Assyrian king. The rivals in monumental discourse therefore transformed from “enemies” into “brothers.” They might be depicted as envious or obsequious toward the agent, but they were no longer openly denounced (Green 2010, 211–19, 229–31, 296–97). Beginning in the Age of Court Ceremony, battle narratives essentially disappeared from Levantine “I Am” inscriptions, and any mentions of

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martial prowess were relatively brief. Bar-Rakib noticeably avoids defaming any foreign kings, who are now either his fellow vassals or his overlord the Assyrian king (Green 2010, 293–97; Gilibert 2011, 86–88). The poetics of Bar-Rakib’s inscriptions changed in similar ways. While they utilize the same rhetorical strategies as earlier monuments, they use them for quite different purposes. Broadly speaking, the most popular structure encountered for Levantine “I Am” monuments is the bipartite inscription. Bar-Rakib’s first palace orthostat (KAI 216) exhibits this format, probably in imitation of the Kulamuwa Orthostat (KAI 24). In this form, the inscription is divided into two clear rhetorical units differentiated by ideological deixis. The first unit is usually concerned with legitimating the agent. It may focus solely on negative material presenting the agent’s ideology in terms of contrast, or on presenting the agent’s positive interactions with those near to him. The second unit of these inscriptions consists of injunctions. These are focused on an implied or explicit “you,” addressing the users themselves in their present time and place. The medial deictic “you” implies a liminal state with respect to ideological deixis. The users were placed between the agent and his enemies, pending their acceptance or rejection of his perspective. Such a structure was previously proposed by Michael O’Connor and Mario Fales for the Kulamuwa Orthostat and by Dennis Pardee for the Katumuwa Stele, which was also discovered at Samʾal. Green has also observed it in the Zakkur Statue (KAI 202). Even a cursory look through all the Luwian and Semitic exemplars of “I Am” inscriptions, however, will reveal that the bipartite format and derivatives of it are ubiquitous (O’Connor 1977, 23–26; Fales 1979, 7–9; Pardee 2009, 63; Green 2010, 124–27, 166–69, 223–25). Bar-Rakib utilized the bipartite format to put his users into a liminal state, but it was not the same sort of liminality proposed by his predecessors. Whereas the earlier Samʾalian king Kulamuwa, for example, situated his users between him and his foreign enemies, Bar-Rakib positioned his users between himself and Kulamuwa. In the second unit of his first palace inscription (KAI 216), Bar-Rakib explicitly denounced this earlier period of Samʾal’s history. Instead, he invited his users to enter a new period defined by him. This is especially clear in lines 16–20: by . t ̣b . lyšh . lʾbhy . mlky . šmʾl . hʾ . byt . klmw . lhm . . . wʾnh . bnyt . bytʾ . znh “There was no good palace for my fathers; all they had was that palace of Kulamuwa . . . but I built this palace.”

Notice the disparaging tone Bar-Rakib creates through his use of deixis. Kulamuwa’s palace is explicitly not good – a perspective further

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emphasized by Bar-Rakib’s use of the distal particle hʾ “that.” By contrast, bytʾ znh “this palace” of Bar-Rakib must be a good alternative. Utilizing rhetoric like this to both imitate and depart from earlier tropes of “I Am” monuments, Bar-Rakib invited his users to reject the more independent past of Samʾal in preference to its status under Bar-Rakib as a vassal to Assyria (Hogue 2022c, 48). The aesthetic and spatial discourse of these monuments present the same argument. The Aesthetic Discourse of Bar-Rakib’s Monuments Bar-Rakib’s monuments are all orthostats adorning the new palace he built on the acropolis of Samʾal. Three of these were inscribed, and fragments of more inscribed orthostats have been found. These are accompanied by many uninscribed orthostats as well. On the one hand, the scenes on these orthostats clearly derive from Levantine models; they are markedly similar to those of Katuwas and Kulamuwa. On the other hand, Bar-Rakib drew upon Assyrian cultural models to a greater degree than Levantine elites in prior periods. While this hybridization at times seems to reinforce both traditions, it also undermines both. All of Bar-Rakib’s inscribed orthostats are paired with portraits of the king (Fig. 10). He is shown both processing and seated while receiving supplicants. Both scenes are known from Karkamišean monuments. A key

figure 10 Bar-Rakib’s Second Palace Orthostat (KAI 217). Exhibit in Das Vorderasiatisches Museum in Berlin. Photo: Courtesy of Richard Mortel (www .flickr.com/photos/prof_richard/40208720312/). Licensed under CC BY 2.0.

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departure, however, is that while the processing portraits like that of Katuwas also functioned as a hieroglyph for the first-person pronoun, this was impossible for the alphabetic inscriptions of Samʾal. Nevertheless, a portrait based on the hieroglyph EGO2 was included, nor was Bar-Rakib the first to adapt the hieroglyph for his portrait. The Kulamuwa Orthostat is accompanied primarily by a relief image of the agent that is clearly modeled on the Karkamišean examples of EGO2 but with no linguistic value (Gilibert 2011, 82). Bar-Rakib simply appropriated this practice from Kulamuwa and the models he used at Karkamiš (Gilibert 2011, 87–88). Noticeably, the writing on the monuments does not overlap the portrait, unlike the typical practice of Assyrian monumental portraits (Bunnens 2005). This lack of overlap was required by Levantine monuments, because the portrait was treated as part of the text. Their relationship was further highlighted by their shared function; both text and image served as reembodiments of Bar-Rakib, allowing him to imaginatively appear before his users, whether they were literate or not. The portrait was not the only element of Bar-Rakib’s “I Am” monuments appropriated from Luwian hieroglyphs, however. Even though all of his inscriptions are alphabetic and written in a dialect of Aramaic, they are carved in raised relief in clear imitation of the Hieroglyphic Luwian scribal practice of neighboring Karkamiš. This is true of all Samʾalian monuments. The use of this style points to the prestige of aligning the monument with the traditions of Karkamiš, while the use of Northwest Semitic dialects point to the conscious attempt to differentiate Samʾal from the neighboring kingdoms and perhaps to break away from their influence (Hamilton 1998, 222; Struble and Herrmann 2009, 20; Gilibert 2011, 82). The choice of an orthography – perhaps even more than the choice of a language – visually branded a community (Sebba 2015). The raised relief of Bar-Rakib’s Aramaic inscriptions, for instance, prompted a very different social constitution than the incised Aramaic of Hazael’s inscriptions in the prior period. This aesthetic feature of the text prompted its viewers to ascribe Bar-Rakib (and his predecessors) the same prestige as the internationally recognized monuments of Karkamiš, which influenced not only the monuments of other Levantine kingdoms but also those of the encroaching Assyrians. While Kulamuwa’s earlier monument was arguably already Assyrianizing, Bar-Rakib took this appropriation of elements from Assyrian art to a new level (Gilibert 2011, 82). Bar-Rakib’s third palace orthostat (KAI 218) shows the king seated on an Assyrian-style throne and receiving a supplicant (Gilibert 2011, 86). Centered above the scene is a staff bearing a crescent

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figure 11 Bar-Rakib’s Third Palace Orthostat (KAI 218). Exhibit in Das Vorderasiatisches Museum in Berlin. Licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0. Photo: Courtesy of Osama Shukir Muhammed Amin (https://commons.wikimedia.org/ wiki/File:Sam%27alian_basalt_wall_relief_depicting_Prince_Barrakib,_8th_cent ury_BCE._Pergamon_Museum.jpg).

moon – an icon for the moon-god Sîn (Fig. 11). Above that, the inscription reads in full: mrʾy . bʿlḥrn . ʾnh . brrkb . br . pnm[w] “My lord is Baʿal-Ḥ arra¯n (i.e., ‘the Lord of Ḥ arra¯n,’ an epithet for Sîn), I am Bar-Rakib son of Panamuwa.” The inscription and the accompanying appropriation of Assyrian iconography show a clear deference to the Assyrian suzerain. Sîn was the god before whom loyalty oaths were sworn, so the textual and iconographic reference to him on Bar-Rakib’s monument was a means of displaying his vassalage (Green 1992, 20–21, 34–39). In fact, two Assyrian stelae (the Antakya and Pazarcik stelae) erected by Adad-nerari III in the Levant to negotiate border disputes between local kings include the same staff icon for Sîn of Ḥ arra¯n to indicate his role in securing the contracting parties’ loyalty (Hätinen 2021, 251–52). Bar-Rakib’s repetition of this iconographic motif in effect indexed his loyalty to Assyria.

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However, those viewers familiar with Levantine artistic tradition (as well as Mesopotamian artistic tradition, for that matter) would recognize that Bar-Rakib retained the traditional seat of the Levantine king, which during Katuwas’ time had been appropriated from the gods. While Assyrian iterations of this scene depicted those subject to the loyalty oath supplicating before Sîn, as in the Antakya Stele, here the one receiving supplicants is the enthroned Bar-Rakib, who sits on an Assyrian throne, no less (Hogue 2022c, 40–41). Even while Assyrian pressure in the Levant greatly reshaped the monumental discourse in the region, Levantine elites resisted this pressure in creative ways. This practice of creatively subverting while also accommodating Assyrian traditions will reappear in the later modifications of the Decalogue, especially in the context of Deuteronomy. The Spatial Discourse of Bar-Rakib’s Monuments While there was some overlap between the Age of Territorial Theatre and the Age of Court Ceremony, the spatial discourse that characterized each could not be more different. While Mesha had expanded the logic of a ceremonial theatre to encompass an entire region, Bar-Rakib and his contemporaries restricted it to intimate, elite-oriented spaces. This shift seems primarily linked to Assyria’s resurgence in the region, so it is worth considering Levantine interactions with Assyria more broadly before focusing on Bar-Rakib in particular. After Tiglath-pileser III came to power in 745 BCE and began incorporating Levantine polities into his empire, the connection between monumentality and territoriality in the Levant completely disappeared. This was a type of monumental discourse that Tiglath-pileser and subsequent Assyrian kings reserved for themselves (Shafer 1998, 32–33; Yamada 2014, 44). Tiglathpileser III revived the practice of erecting peripheral monuments at frontier zones that marked the territorial limits of Assyria (Shafer 2007, 135). His inscriptions attest the erection of ten such monuments, but only one of them was set up in the Levant at Gaza (Yamada 2014, 36; Suriano 2014, 402). The vast majority of Tiglath-pileser III’s monuments were erected in his palace, however, and this shift toward greater centralization was mirrored in the Levantine monuments of the same period (Gilibert 2011, 130–31; Yamada 2014, 33–34). This was a culmination in the development of Assyrian court culture that had begun under Assurnasirpal II. Though he had erected important examples of peripheral monuments, Assurnasirpal II’s grandest construction was a new capital city and palace

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at Kalḫ u (biblical Calah, modern Nimrud). Massive spectacles were held in the city on a yearly basis, during which foreign dignitaries were required to deliver tribute to the Assyrian court and participate in ceremonial feasts (Barjamovic 2011, 31–35, 40–48; Bahrani 2014, 116). Though these processions and feasts included large numbers of participants, they were generally restricted to local and foreign elites. The restriction of access to these festivals served to broadcast the supreme power of the Assyrian king as well as to integrate elites into his hierarchy (Barjamovic 2011, 60). Somewhat surprisingly, the court ceremonies at Kalḫ u continued even during the eighth century. Prior to the imperial resurgence, emissaries from Samʾal, Karkamiš, Malatya, Cilicia, Israel, and possibly even Judah are attested on wine lists from Kalḫ u as participants in the court ceremonies held there (Aster 2016, 181–87). Even though Assyria was not currently exercising direct rule over the region, some of these kingdoms may still have been paying it tribute. Israel, however, may have in fact been Assyria’s ally during this period, rather than a vassal (Na’aman 2019). It is possible that exposure to these ceremonies inspired Levantine kings to imitate Assyrian court ceremonies back home. Such an imitation may be seen in Jeroboam II’s distribution of wine to clan leaders in Israel, for example. This wine was not sold but rather gifted to nonroyal elites to ensure their loyalty to the king. This practice shares much in common with the strategy of wine distribution in Kalḫ u at the same time (Nam 2013). The motivation for Levantine royals to target nonroyal elites in their polities was twofold. First, after the resurgence of the Assyrian empire, many Levantine rulers now had an overlord to appease. Second, because nonroyal elites had grown in power significantly during the eighth century – even to the point of successfully appropriating monumental discourse “that had previously been the exclusive prerogative of the royalty” – Levantine rulers had a greater need to legitimate themselves in the eyes of these elites (Gilibert 2011, 126–28).21 These elites now posed an existential threat to their rulers (Denel 2007, 187; Green 2010, 294–97; Yamada 2014, 44). Accordingly, at sites like Samʾal there was an increase in new monument production to promote consent among nonroyal elites. This mirrors the development of Assyrian practice at this time. When Tiglath-pileser III rose to power, he significantly curtailed the power of Assyrian elites as well as newly subjugated Levantine rulers. 21

For examples of elite emulation of royal monuments, see the Azatiwada Inscription (KARATEPE 1/KAI 26), the Neirab stelae (KAI 225–226), and the Katumuwa Stele.

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This was paired with an upsurge in monument erection undoubtedly intended to promote consent among these increasingly disenfranchised elite groups (Gilibert 2011, 130–31; Yamada 2014, 31–34). In order to more specifically target elites, the spatial discourse of “I Am” monuments during the Age of Court Ceremony tended to be marked by segregation. Former ceremonial plazas were subdivided, with their boundaries guarded by newly erected “I Am” monuments, and accessible only by the elite. Depictions of processions in these areas increasingly show only elite participants. Though larger civic spectacles may have continued to be performed around older monuments, newer ones were the domain only of society’s higher echelons. Though rituals may have included aspects restricted to elites in the past, this restriction was more openly emphasized beginning in the eighth century. Even Katuwas’ plaza at Karkamiš was repurposed to host spectacles targeting only elite denizens of the city. The same secondary segregation of an acropolis is attested at Samʾal, Tel Dan, Tell Halaf, and Tell Tayinat, suggesting a far-reaching shift in regional monument-making practices (Pucci 2008a, 174; Gilibert 2011, 128–31; Greer 2013, 135–36). While the “I Am” monuments in these contexts continued to reembody the king speaking through them, they now reembodied him only before a restricted elite audience, rather than before his polity’s denizens at large. Bar-Rakib’s monuments were used alongside preexisting monuments in Samʾal’s urban landscape to transform it into a spatial narrative of his reign (Fig. 12). As was the case at Karkamiš, upon entering Samʾal individuals would find themselves on a processional road leading to the acropolis and the ceremonial plazas beyond. Because users had to approach the acropolis from the south but the citadel gateway was located in the northeast, the acropolis would be visible well before users could actually access it. Before passing through the citadel gate, users would encounter the colossal ruler statue mentioned earlier and perhaps some larger scale public spectacles staged there (Gilibert 2011, 95–97). The ceremonies held beyond the gate were significantly more intimate, however. Upon passing through the citadel gate, elite visitors to the acropolis would find themselves directly in front of the Kulamuwa Orthostat and Kulamuwa’s palace. During the reign of Kulamuwa, this is where the elite procession ended. During the reign of Bar-Rakib, however, after entering the acropolis, visitors still had to traverse the entire width of the acropolis twice and pass through another portal before reaching Bar-Rakib’s palace. This is because Bar-Rakib had divided Zincirli’s citadel in half, with

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figure 12 Map of the Zincirli Acropolis showing major monumental installations. Map by Amy Karoll.

a new portico leading into an enlarged version of the old palace complex. This segregation of the acropolis was clearly symbolic, because BarRakib’s new buildings were built over the top of previous citadel fortifications and actually weakened them. The dividing walls Bar-Rakib had constructed thus served no defensive purpose (Pucci 2008a, 39). The portico Bar-Rakib constructed was an enlarged version of the entry facade into Kulamuwa’s palace, but it opened into an open-air courtyard covering the citadel’s southern half (Gilibert 2011, 88). This southern courtyard was approximately 240 m2, meaning that it could only hold about 600 participants – a significant departure from the theatre of Katuwas.

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Flanking the gateway into the southern plaza, the users would come into contact with twin portal orthostat inscriptions of Bar-Rakib (KAI 216 and 217), which legitimated his reign on the basis of his loyalty to the Assyrian king and his construction of the massive new palace. The inscriptions explicitly refer to the Kulamuwa Orthostat, drawing on its semantic tropes and even deictically gesturing to the old palace (Gilibert 2011, 87– 88; Hogue 2022c, 47). Bar-Rakib’s monuments reembodied him at this location in particular in order to guide his users into his newly constructed palace and wave them away from the palace of Kulamuwa, as it were. Upon entering the southern plaza and processing back to the eastern side of the acropolis, the users would finally be able to enter the palace of Bar-Rakib and encounter him again in a final short “I Am” monument (KAI 218) that flanked the doorway, paired with an uninscribed orthostat (Gilibert 2011, 85–87). The visitors encountering the orthostats would thus actually process with Bar-Rakib into his palace where he received them and feasted with them (Gilibert 2011, 87). Passing through each of these portals implied a growing intimacy with Bar-Rakib, who appeared at each major waypoint to persuade the processors to continue their journey into the palace and the ideological perspective it indexed (Hogue 2022c, 47). While the restriction of access to these orthostats to elites imitated Assyrian practice and various aspects of Bar-Rakib’s monuments cast aspersions on Samʾal’s pre-vassal period, the spatial discourse is nonetheless subversive for those users familiar with Levantine cultural models. The spatial discourse of Levantine monuments was often centered on temples, as were Katuwas’ procession to the temple of the Storm-god and Mesha’s focus on the temple of Kemosh. Bar-Rakib’s convoluted and segregated procession ultimately ends in his own palace, however. As was the case with his monument’s aesthetic discourse, this is a somewhat subversive hybridization of Levantine and Assyrian practice. Even as a vassal king, Bar-Rakib had nevertheless claimed the position of a god, much as he had done in his aesthetic discourse when he appropriated and subverted an Assyrian audience scene usually centered on the god Sîn.

the afterlife of “i am” monuments As a result of Tiglath-pileser III’s imperial ambitions, both Assyrian and Levantine monumental discourses changed significantly (Green 2010, 294–97; Yamada 2014, 48). This only intensified under the Sargonids in the seventh century, and the Levantine polities that had not been

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incorporated as provinces during this time took to radical reformulations of their ideologies and identities (Crouch 2014b, 8–104). Most importantly, new “I Am” monuments nearly ceased to be erected during the seventh century and are very sparsely attested in the centuries afterwards in the Levant. Notably, Hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions disappeared altogether in the seventh century. Some aspects of “I Am” monuments were appropriated abroad, however, allowing the “I Am” formula to live a new life in Mesopotamia. The Assyrians adopted the form during the seventh century and may have restricted its use among their subjects. In general, the Assyrians sought to restrict monumentalization practices among their governors and vassals in order to solely claim what they saw as a royal prerogative (Shafer 1998, 32–33; 2007, 135; Yamada 2014, 44–47).22 The formula appeared in forty-six neo-Assyrian inscriptions from the seventh century at precisely the time when it was on the decline among Levantine polities. It appeared in a further four neo-Babylonian inscriptions and once more in the Behistun inscription of Darius the Great.23 These Mesopotamian examples of “I Am” inscriptions were the last examples of the form’s use in royal inscriptions or even in emulations of royal inscriptions (see Fig. 13 for the historical distribution of these monuments).24 Because these monuments only adapted the formula, however, and otherwise followed standards of Mesopotamian monumental discourse, they are unlikely to have inspired the Decalogue. 22

This rule is most interestingly demonstrated by some of the few exceptions to it. In 780 BCE, the Assyrian governor of Til-Barsib – formerly a center in the polity of Masuwari – erected his own “I Am” inscription in Akkadian, Luwian, and Aramaic. While the erection of this monument by an Assyrian elite and his use of Akkadian cuneiform points to Assyrian pressure in the region, the fact that this official rather than the Assyrian king erected the monument speaks to the relatively weak hold of the crown on the region during this time, especially when compared with the later reforms of Tiglath-pileser III (Younger Jr. 2016, 362–65). Even more significant in this regard are the effectively royal inscriptions of Suhu, which were only erected during a very short period at the end of the ninth and beginning of the eighth century BCE when Assyrian control of the region was not very strong (Zaia 2018, 207–8). Four such inscriptions from the eighth century adapted the “I Am” formula (Na’aman 2008, 223–34). Apart from these five examples from the eighth century, the “I Am” formula did not appear again in cuneiform until the Assyrian kings themselves adapted it. 23 For the neo-Babylonian examples, see Nabonidus 23, 49, 56, and 2001 (Weiershäuser and Novotny 2019). For an edition of the relevant lines of the Behistun Inscription, see Benedict and von Voigtlander (1956). 24 Note that this chart includes the examples from Alalaḫ and Kassite Babylon discussed briefly earlier as well as a regent’s inscription from tenth-century Assur that is otherwise not relevant to this study (Novotny and Tushingham 2017).

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Akkadian “I Am” Inscriptions 60 51 50 40 30 20 10 2 0 LBA

0 Archaic

2 Civic Ritual

4 Territorial Theatre

1 Court Ceremony

Afterlife

figure 13 Chart showing the distribution of “I Am” inscriptions written in Akkadian by historical period.

The subsequent “I Am” inscriptions in Northwest Semitic dialects from the Persian and Hellenistic periods were mostly funerary monuments and increasingly dissociated from royalty. The Tabnit Sarcophagus (KAI 14) from Sidon and the Yehawmilk Stele from Tyre were the last royal Levantine “I Am” monuments in the Persian period, and both exhibit marked differences from those of earlier periods. Hellenistic exemplars are limited to two in Phoenician from Cyprus,25 three Phoenician–Greek bilinguals from Athens,26 and one Aramaic–Greek bilingual that was found in Armazi, Georgia (Metzger 1956). Some of these inscriptions include nothing but the “I Am” formula, and those that are longer are only expanded by brief dedications of the monument. These features as well as the lateness and farflung distribution of these inscriptions suggest that they should be treated as a new type of monument indicative of a new monumentality, even if they derive some of their discourse from earlier Levantine “I Am” monuments. As such, it is highly unlikely that the Decalogue derived its rhetoric from these late inscriptions or from the earlier Mesopotamian appropriations. The Afterlife period is primarily worth considering in order to eliminate it as a possible temporal setting for the Decalogue’s composition. 25

These are Kition Funerary Inscription B 1 (KAI 35) and B 38 (Amadasi Guzzo and Karageorghis 1977, 48–51, 86–87). 26 These are KAI 53, 54, and 59. For an engaging study of KAI 54 with references to the other two, see Stager (2005).

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the place of the decalogue in the history of “i am” monuments In the chapters to follow, I will argue that the Decalogue’s composers and editors drew upon features of the monumental discourse discussed in this chapter. The phraseology of the Decalogue repeats many of the tropes of “I Am” monuments, most notably the “I Am” statement but also typical injunctions and poetic strategies. While the Decalogue as it exists now is not inscribed in stone, the narrative surrounding it in the Hebrew Bible imagines it as such. Furthermore, the narrative explicitly connects the Decalogue to depictions of artifacts like stelae, which were the most common epigraphic supports for “I Am” monuments. We will also find that the narratives depict the Decalogue in spatial contexts akin to those attested for Levantine “I Am” monuments, such as its peripheral setting in the book of Exodus or its implied centralization in Deuteronomy. Considering the Decalogue alongside the corpus of “I Am” monuments will thus allow us to make new judgments regarding its translation and interpretation as well as that of the surrounding narratives. As we have just seen, however, the monumental discourse of “I Am” monuments was not static but rather highly dynamic. It changed semiregularly during the centuries of its use, sometimes in drastic ways. Therefore, it is not enough simply to compare the Decalogue to this corpus of artifacts and conclude that it was communicating in similar ways. Instead, it must be compared to them in historical sequence. After all, as argued in the Introduction, discussing monumentality ultimately amounts to “empty words” unless it is historically situated (Wu 1995, 4). That is why this chapter has focused on constructing a history of monuments to act as a backdrop for an analysis of the Decalogue’s monumentality. As I admitted in the Introduction, analyzing the Decalogue using an art historical framework does necessitate addressing the thorny issue of dating. However, it also provides a novel means of approaching this problem. The cultural model of monumentality from which the Decalogue derives had all but died out in the seventh century and essentially ceased to be a meaningful way of constituting communities. Even if it were possible to recover that lost monumental discourse, there is no conceivable reason for the composers of the nascent biblical texts to imitate it. If the Decalogue were composed as an “I Am” monument in the Afterlife period, it would communicate next to nothing to contemporary audiences by drawing upon forgotten political rhetoric that had since been stripped down and repurposed for grave markers. In the following chapters, I will show that

The Place of the Decalogue in the History of “I Am” Monuments 75 the Decalogue instead derived its monumental discourse from earlier periods in the history of Levantine “I Am” monuments. Engagement with the text began by drawing upon the cultural expectations attached to such monuments at the height of their popularity. Furthermore, because the Decalogue, like the Nine Tripods, was ultimately a monument made of words, it was edited over the course of its transmission. In the chapters to follow, I will argue that some of this editorial activity can be periodized based on the historical changes in monumental discourse discussed earlier. This is yet another reason why a history of monuments is essential to a study of the Decalogue within this framework. It provides an external rubric for dating portions of the biblical text. There is one key way in which the Decalogue is unlike “I Am” monuments, however, and this too will be discussed later in this book. Unlike other “I Am” monuments, the Decalogue survived their demise in the seventh century. While it adapted key aspects of the verbal, aesthetic, and spatial discourse of ancient Levantine monuments, this text continues to be engaged even now. By drawing upon the discourse of “I Am” monuments especially, the Decalogue was presented as more than a text. It was a reembodiment of Yahweh, speaking with his very voice. Nevertheless, because it was preserved as a text in portable, reproducible form, it retained that significance well after its models had been forgotten. While “I Am” monuments ceased to be productive cultural models in the seventh century, the Decalogue evolved into something else that purported to contain the very words and presence of a significant individual – Scripture.

2 The Decalogue in the Book of Exodus

I begin my history of the Decalogue’s monumentality with its appearance in the book of Exodus, though some passages in Deuteronomy will be considered as well. While there are certainly literary strata within the immediate context of the Decalogue – even within the Decalogue itself – that date to later eras, I argue here that the earliest version of the tradition was based on cultural models from the Age of Territorial Theatre. Because monuments are the bearers of cultural memory – that is, apart from their proper engagement, their original meanings and functions cannot be accurately remembered – the original composers of the Decalogue must have been familiar with these cultural models. In what follows, I will demonstrate that the Decalogue drew upon the standard phraseology, themes, and organizational principles of “I Am” monuments. More than this, the depictions of material culture, ritual, and even geography in the narratives surrounding the Decalogue in Exodus are evocative of the aesthetic and spatial discourse of “I Am” monuments. The cumulative effect of these features is to suggest that the Decalogue was initially composed and contextualized based on Levantine monumentalities typical of the Iron Age. As a result, the Decalogue primarily functioned in the narrative world of Exodus as a reembodiment of Yahweh meant to constitute the Israelites as a community upon their escape from Egypt. Because the corpus of Levantine “I Am” monuments provides new contextual and comparative data for some of the unusual phrasing in the Decalogue, I begin with a new translation and commentary on the text. Following that, I analyze depictions of material culture in the narrative passages attached to the Decalogue in Exodus, comparing those depictions to the material record of “I Am” monuments. After that, I analyze the depicted geographical setting and movements through space in the narratives surrounding the Decalogue, comparing them to 76

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the known spatial discourse of “I Am” monuments. Finally, I argue that those data in combination suggest a date of composition for the Decalogue in the Iron Age. The mostly likely setting for the Decalogue’s composition was ninth and eighth century Israel. As stated in the Introduction, though I will speak of the Decalogue as a text, this composition was not purely textual but rather involved the creation of a ritual tradition involving writing, speaking, and various other activities.

translation and commentary of exodus 20:2–17 I begin with a new translation of Exod 20:2–17 in light of parallels between the Decalogue and “I Am” monuments. Nearly every clause in the Decalogue can be linked to the verbal discourse of Levantine “I Am” monuments, and this requires new renderings of some verses. I will explain these translation choices in what follows as I compare each verse to similar sections in Iron Age Levantine inscriptions. Translation of the Decalogue in Exodus 20 2

I am Yahweh your God who brought you out from the land of Egypt, from a house of slaves. 3 For you there shall be no other god above me. 4 You yourself shall not make a cult object, nor a ritual substitute of anything that is in the heavens above, or that is on the earth below, or that is in the water beneath the earth.5 You shall not bow down to them nor serve them. For I am Yahweh your God, a Jealous God who avenges the iniquity of parents on children to the third and fourth generations of my enemies,6 but who performs kindness to thousands of those that love me and keep my commandments. 7 You shall not maliciously erase the name of Yahweh your God, for Yahweh will not acquit the one who erases his name maliciously. 8 Enchant the Sabbath-day to consecrate it.9 Six days you will work and do all your labor,10 but the seventh day is a Sabbath to Yahweh your God. Do not do any labor, neither you, nor your son or your daughter, nor your manservant or maidservant, nor your livestock, nor the immigrant within your gates.11 For in six days Yahweh made the heavens, the earth, the sea, and everything in them, but he rested on the seventh day. Therefore, Yahweh blessed the Sabbath-day and consecrated it.

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Honor your father and your mother, so that your days may be long in the land that Yahweh your God is giving to you. 13 You shall not murder. 14 You shall not commit adultery. 15 You shall not steal. 16 You shall not answer your neighbor with false testimony. 17 You shall not usurp your neighbor’s household. You shall not usurp your neighbor’s wife, his manservant, his maidservant, his donkey, or anything that is your neighbor’s. Verse 2: “I Am Yahweh Your God . . .” The first verse of the Decalogue is the strongest indication that it is to be understood as an “I Am” monument. Verse 2 is a standard “I Am” formula: the first-person pronoun followed by the agent’s name, title, and additional identifying information. The formula provides no genealogy but instead uses a relative clause relating Yahweh’s salvation of the people from Egypt and their bondage there. This is not an uncommon form for the “I Am” formula; both royal and nonroyal elites are known to identify themselves in this way.1 These agents legitimate themselves by action rather than ancestry – a trend that is more broadly attested from the Age of Civic Ritual onwards, when agents increasingly focused monuments on themselves rather than their relationships to the royal ancestors or gods. The most innovative aspect of the Decalogue’s use of the “I Am” formula is that it identifies a god rather than a human king. However, recall that Yahweh was considered a king in ancient Israel and Judah; this appropriation of the “I Am” formula to identify him is an extension of a much broader understanding of God as king. Yahweh received many of the trappings and language of kingship. In fact, kingship was so bound up with the ancient conceptualization of Yahweh that some typical elements of royalty were denied to the Israelite and Judahite kings in deference to him (Brettler 1989, 165). This included many types of ancient West Asian monumental discourse. For example, prophetic texts often begin with what has been labeled the royal messenger formula: “Thus says Yahweh” (Westermann 1991, 100–102; Schniedewind 2015, 314–15). In addition to granting the text thus headed royal and divine authority, this formula was also closely bound up with monumental discourse. It was 1

For examples, see the Zakkur Statue (KAI 202) and KARKAMIŠ A6.

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used to open nearly every Hittite monumental inscription, for instance (Güterbock 1983). Yahweh was also made the suzerain in adaptations of vassal treaties, which were themselves treated as monuments in certain contexts (Levinson 2010; Levinson and Stackert 2012). He was also depicted as the giver of a monumental law code – the Covenant Code – in a passage directly adjacent to the Decalogue. Given these other developments, it comes as little surprise that the ancient Israelites would adapt the discourse of Levantine “I Am” monuments for Yahweh as well. Despite the absence of other divine agents, Levantine “I Am” monuments were also uniquely suited to this sort of adaptation. A key innovation during the Age of Civic Ritual (950–850 BCE) that continued through the Age of Court Ceremony (790–600 BCE) was the king’s appropriation of divine prerogatives. Kings were depicted in the traditional seats of gods, they received sacrifices and other ritual practices as though they were gods, and they aggrandized themselves in their texts sometimes in place of gods. During the Age of Territorial Theatre (870–745 BCE), gods reappeared as active players in “I Am” monuments, even though they typically were not agents. Gods spoke directly with kings during this period, almost exclusively in the form of second-person commands. “I Am” monuments were thus closely tied to divine rhetoric in addition to royal rhetoric and were ripe for adaptation with a divine agent. Though the Decalogue is nonetheless innovative in making Yahweh the agent, its innovations are based on attested developments in other “I Am” monuments. In making Yahweh the monumental agent, the Decalogue’s “I Am” formula in verse 2 renders everything to follow into the direct speech of Yahweh. This is why the Decalogue is presented as a speech in Exod 20:1 (wydbr ʾlhym ʾt kl-hdbrym hʾlh lʾmr “Then God spoke ‘All These Words,’ saying:”) rather than as an inscription in the narrative of Exodus. Levantine “I Am” monuments were presented in precisely the same fashion – as direct speech.2 Relating a monumental text as if it were direct speech was an essential part of its monumentality. Therefore, when Exod 20:1 suggests that the words to follow are the direct speech of Yahweh and imply that they were spoken to the community, it is describing the ideal experience of an “I Am” monument. Users of these monuments were supposed to experience them as though they were direct speech, and this is precisely how the producers of the Decalogue depicted it. 2

Jon Levenson previously argued that direct speech in this instance aligns the text with ancient West Asian royal rhetoric, but he made no connection to monumental texts in particular (Levenson 1985, 28).

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The direct address in verse 2 is even more significant because the Decalogue is the sole example of Yahweh addressing the people at large in the Hebrew Bible (Ska 2006, 48). We should note that Exod 20:1 merely reports that Yahweh spoke, and not that he told Moses to repeat a message to the Israelites as in every other instance of communication between God and Israel in Exodus.3 The Decalogue in Exodus is thus the singular example of a collectively received address from Yahweh. This again is closely connected to the discourse of “I Am” monuments. While these monuments were likely encountered in a king’s absence and possibly read aloud by specialists, they were nonetheless intended to be experienced as though the king were present and directly addressing the users. As an “I Am” monument, the Decalogue is thus presented – at least in Exodus – as though it were the only unmediated interaction between Yahweh and Israel. The primary function of the “I Am” formula is to verbally reembody Yahweh by means of deictic projection. By opening his address with “I,” Yahweh gestures to himself in the text world, provoking the users to imagine him standing before them (Houston and Stuart 1998, 88; Sanders 2009, 114; Zilmer 2010a). The “I” of the formula proffers a perspective from which the users are to view and evaluate the world. Furthermore, because this formula was designed to verbally reembody an agent, when it was adapted for use by a divine agent, it effectively became a means of producing a theophany (McCarthy 1978, 163–67). The Decalogue took the formula a step further by defining a “you” in its opening as well. The users are thus offered an explicit relationship to Yahweh. The result is an especially intimate imagined encounter between Yahweh and the Israelites. While past scholars recognized the similarities between the opening line of the Decalogue and what I have labeled the “I Am” formula, they did not recognize the compositional significance of this (Poebel 1932, 53–57; Cassuto 1951, 76, 241; Sarna 1991, 15, 109; Demsky 2015, 21). Inserting the defining textual formula of a known class of artifacts into a literary context functions as what Stockwell calls “compositional deixis” – it points to a particular type of text and indicates to the audience that they should read it as such (Stockwell 2002, 44–46). This is all the more striking because the “I Am” formula is only attested as the opening 3

Exod 19:25 is sometimes read as an introduction to c. 20 that specifies that the Decalogue is in fact mediated. However, scholars are generally in agreement that 19:20–25 derive from a separate source and are not original to this context (cf. Carr 2011, 120; Baden 2012, 77).

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to a text on “I Am” monuments. The only partial exception to this is the one that proves the rule – KBo 12.38. This is an annalistic text of the Hittite king Šuppiluliuma II recording his conquest of Cyprus and the monument he erected to commemorate his victory. After a double line on the tablet, a new text opens with the words “I am the Great King Šuppiluiuma . . .” This has been shown to be a translation into Hittite of one of the earliest Hieroglyphic Luwian “I Am” monuments – NIŞ ANTAŞ (Güterbock 1967, 81). Because the “I Am” formula is used in no other context than monumental compositions, it implies to the readers that they are to read that section of KBo 12.38 based on the expectations associated with “I Am” monuments. The Decalogue accomplishes exactly the same sort of signposting through its adaptation of the formula. More than any other clause, the “I Am” formula aligns the Decalogue with monumental discourse and creates the expectation that the text it introduces is monumental. The rest of the text fulfills this expectation as well. Verse 3: “. . . No Other God Above Me” Exod 20:3 demands the sole recognition of Yahweh as Israel’s god, and so it has sometimes been misread as a statement of monotheism. I translate the verse “For you there shall be no other god above me.” The controversial elements of this clause are the prepositional phrase ʿl-pny “over me” and the referents of the phrase ʾlhym ʾḥrym “other god(s).” Beginning with the prepositional phrase, the alternative translation “besides me” implies that the commandment is a statement of monotheism, which is not the intent here (Smith 2003, 150–53). The translation “in my presence” typically assumes a reference to idols in this commandment, which requires the retrojection of later idolatry polemics into the Decalogue (Hurowitz 2012, 259–61). I will go on to argue that no idol polemic characterized the Decalogue, and so the referents of “other god(s)” cannot be idols. Against these proposals, “above me” highlights that the command intends the removal of rival claimants to Yahweh’s position. These potential rivals are the “other god(s)” (Eichordt 1961, 1:222; Childs 1974, 402–404). Accordingly, I label this the monolatry commandment, since it involves demanding the acknowledgment of Yahweh’s preeminence over other gods. The remaining challenge, as Brevard Childs already intuited, is how “to explain the delineation of God’s claim on Israel in negative terms against other gods” (Childs 1974, 404). This is explained by the Decalogue’s adaptation of verbal discourse from “I Am” monuments in order to

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The Decalogue in the Book of Exodus

develop a conception of Yahweh’s kingship. Just as human kings used their monumental inscriptions to humiliate or otherwise subsume other kings to their overwhelming authority, so too Yahweh must disavow other gods who might claim his divine kingship. The monolatry commandment adapts language typical of such disavowals in “I Am” monuments. In these inscriptions, potential rivals most often bear the same title as the individual identified in the “I Am” formula – usually “king” (Green 2010, 287). For example, in line 6 of the Tel Dan Stele (KAI 310), Hazael claims somewhat generically to have slain ml[kn rbr]b̊ n “mighty kings,”4 meaning that he has removed all of his rivals (Suriano 2007, 167–68). Similarly, in KAI 202 A:14, Zakkur’s god promises him ʾḥs ̣lk mn kl mlkyʾ ʾl “I will deliver you from all these kings.” Exod 20:3’s reference to “other god(s)” likely replicates vague references like these to rival claimants to power. In this regard, it is worth reflecting that the Hebrew phrase ʾlhym ʾḥrym is actually ambiguous in terms of its number. Generic references to other kings in “I Am” monuments may support the traditional rendering of “other gods,” but if a rival were to claim Yahweh’s title of ʾlhym, the singular “other god” is also possible.5 In the book of Exodus, this may point back to Pharaoh, who is not only a rival king to Yahweh but also a rival god. The narrative treats Pharaoh’s claim on the Israelites as at least as strong as Yahweh’s and some sections appear to disparage the Egyptian belief in the Pharaoh’s divinity (Batto 2015, 194). One of the closest parallels to the specific wording of verse 3 can be found in the Azatiwada Orthostats and Statue.6 In the Phoenician inscriptions, Azatiwada claims for himself ʿz ʾdr ʿl kl mlk “great power over every king” (KAI 26 AIII:4, 6–7; BII:7–8, 10; CIII:18, CIV:1). The Luwian parallels of this phrase shed even more light on the trope. It is once rendered as pi-ia-tu-há-wa/i-tu OMNIS-MI-ma-za ||REX-za SUPER+ra/ The original publication by Biran and Naveh reconstructed this as ml[kn šb]ʿn “seventy kings,” P.-E. Dion proposes instead the form mlkn rbrbn “mighty kings.” This would exactly parallel the phrase in line 10 of the first Bar-rakib Palace Orthostat (KAI 216), whereas mlkn šbʿn “seventy kings” is an otherwise unattested trope (Biran and Naveh 1995, 16; Dion 1999, 148; Blum 2016, 38–39). 5 As an appellative for Yahweh, ʾlhym often takes adjectives in the plural, as in the phrases ʾlhym ḥyym “living God” (e.g., Deut 5:26) or ʾlhym qdšym “holy God” (e.g., Josh 24:19). 6 These artifacts present nearly the same text in five copies. The Hieroglyphic Luwian versions of the text are typically labeled KARATEPE 1 Hu. and Ho. for Hieroglyphisch unten (that is, the hieroglyphic inscription of the city’s lower gate) and Hieroglyphisch oben (the hieroglyphic inscription of the upper gate) respectively. The Phoenician versions are labeled A, B, and C, where A is inscribed on orthostats in the lower gate (thus also labeled Pu.), B is inscribed on orthostats in the upper gate (also labeled Po.), and C is inscribed on a statue. 4

Translation and Commentary of Exodus 20:2–17

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i-ta “let them give him all victory over all kings,”7 highlighting the potential connection between this theme and warfare. In the case of the Decalogue, verse 2 had already made use of the motif of the king as victor by referencing the defeat of the Egyptians (Green 2010, 290; Greenberg 2013, 11). This recalls Yahweh’s overcoming of his primary rival in Exodus – the Pharaoh (Blum 1990, 9–17; Bruggemann 1995; Smith 1996, 25–50). Verse 3 ensures that no more rivals will rise to challenge him. The other Luwian parallel of the Phoenician phrase is even closer to the phrasing in the Decalogue. It reads SUPER+ra/i-li-há-wa/i-sá |FRONS-la/i/ u-sá i-zi-ia+ra/i-ru |OMNIS-MI-ma-za REX-ta-za “let him be made highly preeminent over all kings.”8 Azatiwada’s preeminence is here described with two prepositions, one denoting relative height (“highly,” “above,” or “over”) and the other denoting relative order (“before,” “foremost,” or “first”) (Yakubovich 2013, 156–58). This pairing of prepositions to describe preeminence over rivals may provide an exact parallel to the pair in the Decalogue, ʿl-pny (literally, “over-before me”). Much as other Levantine “I Am” monuments foreground deictic elements to provide a particular perspective to their users, the monolatry commandment essentially summarizes all the deictic information needed to make sense of the rest of the Decalogue. The injunction is actually stated in the third person because the true subject of the clause is the “other god(s)”; the use of distal deixis in these constructions implies distance from Yahweh’s ideology. Yahweh himself is described using the proximal deictic element “me” and is thus diametrically opposed to the “other.” Between these is the clause’s “you,” a medial deictic element that can imply either closeness to the speaker or the potential to move away. In other words, this commandment provokes the users to project themselves into a liminal state with a transformation possible into either the people of Yahweh – the you of the clause – or the people of his enemy, the other god(s). Similar shifts can be observed in the other commandments. One final note should be made regarding verse 3. This verse and most of those following are commandments, but such injunctions are usually reserved for the end of “I Am” monuments. Many “I Am” monuments instead follow the “I Am” formula with a narrative account of the

7

KARATEPE 1 Hu. §LII. Transcription and translation follow Hawkins (2000, Volume I:55). 8 KARATEPE 1 Hu. §L. Transcription and translation follow Hawkins (2000, Volume I:55).

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The Decalogue in the Book of Exodus

speaker, which is mostly lacking in the case of the Decalogue apart from some allusions to the exodus from Egypt and creation. However, while narrative plays an important role in those “I Am” monuments that attest it, inscriptions lacking narratives or attesting very short narratives appear in every era reviewed in the previous chapter. Of the monuments already discussed, examples like RESTAN, QAL’AT El MUDIQ, TALL ŠṬI¯B, the Kerak Statue, and the third Bar-Rakib Palace Orthostat consist entirely of brief introductions to the agent and sometimes a short building account (usually describing the erection of the inscribed artifact). Monuments like KARKAMIŠ A13d proceed from a short introduction of the agent directly into injunctions.9 Though they include somewhat longer narratives, inscriptions like KARKAMIŠ A11a, KARKAMIŠ A11b+c, KARKAMIŠ A2+3, the Hadad Statue, or the first Bar-Rakib Palace Orthostat devote more than half of the text to injunctions.10 These all suggest that “I Am” monuments that lacked extensive narratives or that consisted primarily of injunctions were a common model. Verses 4–6: “You Yourself Shall Not Make a Cult Object, nor a Ritual Substitute . . .” The first feature of verses 4–6 that deserves comment is that the commandments here are rendered in the second person. Levantine “I Am” monuments often related such injunctions using third-person jussives or vetitives. However, though injunctions in the second person were not the most common form of injunction in Levantine “I Am” monuments, this innovation was not unique to the Decalogue. Of the monuments already discussed, the Dibon Stele also attests injunctions in the second person.11 This example is particularly important because it represents monumental discourse closest to that which undoubtedly existed in Israel (Sass 2005, 9

This is also true of ALEPPO 6, KARKAMIŠ A1b, KARKAMIŠ A14b, the Katumuwa Stele, the Yehawmilk Stele, and the Tabnit Sarcophagus. 10 See also ALEPPO 2, TELL AHMAR 5, KÖRKÜN, MARAŞ 14, PALANGA, KULULU 1, SHEIZAR, KULULU 2, SULTANHAN, and ADANA 1. 11 For other examples of second-person injunctions in “I Am” inscriptions, see the Zakkur Statue (KAI 202:13), the Tabnit Sarcophagus (KAI 13:5–8), the Yehawmilk Stele (KAI 10:13), TELL AHMAR 5 (§12), TELL AHMAR 6 (§23), ISKENDURUN (§6), KARKAMIŠ A18a (§2), Hİ SARCIK 1 (§5), and SULTANHAN (§27). What these examples demonstrate is that injunctions were not necessarily standardized in monumental discourse in the Levant. While injunctions in the third person were arguably the norm, commands in the second person were attested throughout the history of “I Am” monuments.

Translation and Commentary of Exodus 20:2–17

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87–88). More importantly, as discussed previously, the Dibon Stele and other “I Am” monuments that record divine speech reveal that the speech of deities was rendered exclusively in the form of second-person commands. The composers of the Decalogue rendered all of its injunctions in the second person in order to meet this expectation. A look at the content of these injunctions also reveals substantial overlap with the common themes and phraseology of Levantine “I Am” monuments. I previously established that verses 4–6 reflect typical monumental discourse concerning images. The protection of images produced by the monument’s commissioner and the prohibition of illegitimate monumental images are regularly encountered injunctions in ancient West Asian monuments, including Levantine “I Am” monuments.12 Such injunctions were usually paired with generational blessings and curses, as we see in Exod 20:5–6. This is because progeny was understood to play a role similar to that of monumental images. Monumental images reembodied those they depicted, allowing them to be remembered and even encountered whether or not the depicted person was present or even still living. Cursing the descendants of an image violator was thus seen as a punishment that fit the crime; without descendants, that individual could not be remembered or kept alive in ritual. Similarly, protection of a monumental image could sometimes be paired with blessings of progeny (Hogue 2019c, 90). The primary intention of the image commandment is the prohibition of any unauthorized monuments that would compete with those legitimated by Yahweh, so it has been stated using themes familiar to such prohibitions in other monumental texts. Apart from these thematic parallels, verses 4–6 also contain specific connections to the language of Levantine “I Am” monuments. The opening injunction in verse 4 – lʾ tʿs´h lk “you yourself shall not make” – has provided both commentators and grammarians with some difficulty, but a solution can be found in the phraseology of “I Am” monuments. The addition of lk to this commandment is particularly difficult to parse. This appears to be a prepositional phrase acting as a sort of dative-reflexive pronoun “for yourself,” but such a use for l- is quite unusual in Hebrew. The most convincing solution has been to label this “the centripetal lamedh” – a use of l- that emphasizes the subject’s

12

For some examples of rhetoric surrounding monumental images, see the Azatiwada Orthostats and Statue (KAI 26 A II:19–III:1; C IV:2–6a, 13–18), the Hadad Statue (KAI 214:15–18, 20–24), the Neirab Stelae (KAI 225:6–11a; 226:5, 8–10), the Tell Fekheriyeh Statue (KAI 310:10–12), and SHEIZAR (§3–7).

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agency more than the bare verbal phrase alone (Muraoka 1978, 497; Waltke and O’Connor 1990, 208). Yoshiyuki Muchiki has added that in a negative context this usage of l- also emphasizes the forbidden action more than its object (Muchiki 2012). This is remarkably similar to a construction typical of “I Am” monuments. The creation of a monument was an act of some hubris, and the agent typically claimed sole agency in this act even though the actual commissioner of the artifact probably had nothing to do with its crafting. In Hieroglyphic Luwian, this bombastic agency was typically claimed by means of an additional reflexive pronoun. In Karkamišean inscriptions, for example, this was typically realized by the verb izzi(ya)- “to make” + a dative-reflexive (usually -mu or -mi since this action is almost always related in the first person). I have demonstrated elsewhere that this phrase was calqued into Samʾalian at Zincirli in the phrase qnt ly ns ̣b “I made (for) myself a monument” in the Katumuwa Stele (Hogue 2019a, 64). Since then, Craig Melchert has demonstrated that the same Luwian terminology was calqued into Phoenician in the Azatiwada Orthostat in the phrase ypʿl l šʿr zr “he will make himself another gate” (KAI 26 AIII:16) (Melchert 2021, 367). To these we may tentatively add line 18 of the Panamuwa Inscription (KAI 215), in which it is said that Tiglath-Pileser hqm lh mšky “erected himself an image.” This use of centripetal lamedh – which was an attempt to render a particular usage of the Luwian reflexive into Northwest Semitic – was apparently adapted into Hebrew as well. A construction in which a negative injunction is followed by l- and a pronominal suffix that matches the subject of the verb occurs only eleven times in the Hebrew Bible. In ten of these examples, the object is a monumental artifact and the verb is one of creation or erection (Muchiki 2012).13 This usage reflects the technical phraseology of Levantine “I Am” monuments; Hebrew ʿs´h l- calques the same Luwian terminology as the Phoenician and Samʾalian examples earlier. It must be allowed that Hebrew may have acquired this idiom from Phoenician or another Northwest Semitic language acting as an intermediary for the Luwian language from which it originated. However, this would not be the sole example of Luwian impact on Hebrew (Noonan 2019, 308–309).

13

Exod 20:4/Deut 5:8 (lʾ tʿs´h lk psl (w)kl-tmwnh); Exod 20:23 (ʾlhy zhb lʾ tʿs´w lkm); Exod 30:37 (hqṭrt . . . lʾ tʿs´w lkm); Exod 34:17 (ʾlhy mskh lʾ tʿs´h-lk); Lev 19:4 (ʾlhy mskh lʾ tʿs´w lkm); Lev 26:1a (lʾ-tʿs´w lkm ʾllym); Lev 26:1b (wpsl wmsḅ h lʾ-tqymw lkm); Num 16:21 (lʾ-ttʿ̣ lk ʾšrh); Num 16:22 (lʾ-tqym lk msḅ h); Jer 16:2 (lʾ-tqḥ lk ʾšh). Only Jer 16:2 does not concern monument creation or erection.

Translation and Commentary of Exodus 20:2–17

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The use of this technical language in the Decalogue emphasizes that the prohibition is against usurpation of agency rather than a specific class of artifacts (Hurowitz 2012, 290–99). In this context, a translation of “you shall not make by yourself” or “you shall not invent” would also be suitable. As agent, Yahweh claims the sole prerogative in creating any and all monumental images meant to reembody him. If anyone else were toʿs´h l- a monument for themselves, they would be challenging Yahweh’s monuments and therefore his legitimacy. The dependence of an artifact’s legitimacy on its maker rather than its form can be further borne out if we examine the objects of this command. The monumental artifacts banned in verse 4 are any psl “cult object” or tmwnh “ritual substitute,” which in this version of the Decalogue appear to denote separate but closely related concepts.14 The root psl means “to fashion,” and it is used to describe the making of an idol (Hab 2:18), the carving of the Tablets of Stone (Exod 34:1, 4; Deut 10:1, 3), and the dressing of building materials for the temple (1 Kgs 5:32). As such, though the root does emphasize a means of production, it does not correspond to a particular form or genre of figured art. What is consistent across these uses is that an act of psl results in an artifact that can reproduce or support divine presence (Hurowitz 2012, 298). While psl has been traditionally understood as a reference to a non-Yahwist idol, it is more likely that this prohibition has in mind competing or unauthorized cult artifacts of any kind. Yahweh could be legitimately reembodied or simply engaged by means of a psl so long as he crafted it for himself. Indeed, Victor Hurowitz argues that the Decalogue “was fashioned by an act of ‫ ”פסילה‬and it is “the only proper ‫( ”פסל‬Hurowitz 2012, 300). Hurowitz’s conclusion assumes that the Decalogue was carved on the Tablets of Stone, however, and the structure of the text implies that these actually contained the instructions 14

“Cult object” also emphasizes the potential broadness of this term. While it could certainly refer to a divine image in this case, that is not the only possible referent for a “cult object” in ancient West Asia. This might be especially emphasized by the term lk in this commandment. This is an emphatic element related to monument creation, but in addition to the pronoun matching the creator of the monument it can also point to the reembodied individual. In ancient West Asia, cult objects were not just idols as later tradition supposed but also substitutes for any of the ritual participants, including the worshippers. Perhaps in addition to forbidding competing images of Yahweh, this clause is also forbidding the Israelites from creating competing images of themselves. This meaning is highlighted by the second part of the clause where the people are forbidden from making a tmwnh “ritual substitute” for anything in nature, thereby preventing them from treating any force of nature as a ritual participant, whether or not that participation would be construed as divine. For a discussion of parallel artifacts in Mesopotamia, see the discussions in Postgate (1994, 177–79) and Herring (2013, 31–37).

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The Decalogue in the Book of Exodus

for the Tabernacle (Schniedewind 2004, 128–29). Nevertheless, the Decalogue similarly functioned as a legitimate reembodiment of Yahweh. As an “I Am” monument, the Decalogue accomplished the same function as a monumental image – whether or not it was associated with one. The word tmwnh comes from an uncertain root. It is probably cognate with the Ugaritic tmn “form” or “manifestation.” Joseph Aistleitner has suggested that both Ugaritic tmn and Hebrew tmwnh may be related to the Akkadian temennu, a term for a class of buried monuments often translated “foundation deposit” (Aistleitner 1963, 2773). As was the case for other such monuments, the primary function of temennu was to reembody the individual it commemorated, so it is a striking functional parallel to the Ugaritic and Hebrew terms even if not etymologically linked (Bahrani 2014, 92–96). In Akkadian usage, temennu was sometimes interchangeable with s ̣almu “image” or “substitute,” narû “monument,” and most importantly pisiltu “clay tablet,” which is cognate to Hebrew psl. I have chosen to translate tmwnh as “ritual substitute” to highlight its apparent relationship to ʾšr bšmym mmʿl wʾšr bʾrs ̣ mtḥt wʾšr bmym mtḥt lʾrs ̣ “anything that is in the heavens above, or that is on the earth below, or that is in the water beneath the earth.” Whatever the precise meaning and etymology of tmwnh, in its present context it clearly refers to a monument meant to manifest some entity other than Yahweh. The term psl thus may have referred to illegitimate images of Yahweh, while tmwnh referred to images of other competing figures. There has been some debate as to whether the waw in the phrase psl wkl-tmwnh is original, and thus scholars are not agreed on whether these should be understood as two separate objects or as a singular compound (Block 2011, 59–60; Nicholson 2014, 60; Imes 2016, 209). Erhard Blum has recently concluded – correctly in my opinion – that the waw is original and that psl and tmwnh represent two separate objects and act together as the plural object in verse 5’s lʾ-tštḥwh lhm wlʾ tʿbdm “you will not bow down to them nor serve them” rather than the “other god(s)” in the preceding commandment (Blum 2011b, 290). The waw was secondarily deleted in Deut 5, probably based on a later misunderstanding of the terms to be discussed later in this book. Within Exod 20, however, I propose that these two terms should be taken as a hendiadys to describe any monumental image that might usurp Yahweh’s legitimated monuments. While the discourse utilized here to describe images and their connection to generational blessings and curses is ubiquitous in ancient West

Translation and Commentary of Exodus 20:2–17

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Asian monuments, one specific feature is more limited in its historical distribution. The curses attached to the image commandment not only forbid usurpation of Yahweh’s legitimate monuments but also label those potential usurpers s´n’y “those that hate me” or “my enemies.” This most resembles the monumental discourse of the Age of Civic Ritual (950–850 BCE) and the Age of Territorial Theatre (870–745 BCE). In fact, King Mesha of Moab used the exact same word to refer to his enemies in his “I Am” inscription, saying hrʾni bkl s´nʾy “he made me look upon my enemies” (KAI 181:4). Against other commentators, I thus maintain that the image commandment in some form was part of the original Decalogue and that it was not composed later than the eighth century. In the late eighth century, the trope of the “enemy” disappeared from Levantine “I Am” monuments in response to pressure from Assyria, as discussed in the previous chapter. One final aspect of the image commandment deserves comment. While Yahweh is clearly the speaker in the actual injunction, he is referred to in the third person in the blessings and curses that follow. Many scholars have sought an explanation for this so-called Numeruswechsel in terms of redactional activity, but these shifts in person have more recently been explained as a rhetorical device (Otto 2012a, 1:387 ff. 2012b, 2:940). In fact, just such a rhetorical device is known from Levantine curse formulae (Gevirtz 1961, 157). Given the significance of deictic elements – like the person of verbs – to Levantine monumental discourse, it is now possible to explain this change in person in light of deictic shift theory. In the same way that deictic projection allowed the users of “I Am” monuments to project into the perspective of the speaker, clauses like these allow them to shift perspectives to imagine potential consequences for their actions (Stockwell 2002, 46–49). The change in person reveals that the clause is a hypothetical and that it expresses relational changes that may result from the hypothetical action (Sanders 2013, 49 n. 64). In the case of the image commandment, the injunction is expressed in the second person to stress the immediacy of its application to the users. Yahweh initially addresses them as “you” in verse 4 but shifts to the third person in the blessing and curse in verses 5–6. This shift constitutes a potential relational shift expressed by personal deixis. The users may either obey the injunction and receive blessing or disobey the injunction and be cursed. Both of these possibilities are expressed as potentialities through the use of the third person as opposed to the second, which here points to the users in their liminal state between Yahweh and the other god(s).

90

The Decalogue in the Book of Exodus Verse 7: “You Shall Not Maliciously Erase the Name . . .”

Despite appearances to the contrary, the name commandment in verse 7 is one of the clearest parallels with monumental discourse. While many commentators have associated this commandment with a speech act, new evidence suggests that the verbal phrase ns´ʾ ʾt-šm “to lift a name” originally referred to the physical manipulation of an inscribed artifact. The same phrase is used in Exod 28:12 and 29 to describe Aaron’s literal carrying of the names of the Israelites on his shoulders by means of the ephod. In other words, the names referred to in these verses are inscribed artifacts that Aaron must literally lift up. The only context where this construction does refer to invocation is in Psalm 16:4, where the fact that it refers to a speech act is specified by the addition of ʿl-s´pty “on my lips.” Carmen Imes argues accordingly that the usage in Psalm 16 is actually a metaphorical extension of the earlier meaning (Imes 2016, 142–43). A physical act rather than a mode of speaking is envisioned by the name commandment in the Decalogue, but it is negativized by the inclusion of lšwʾ “to emptiness” or “from malice.”15 This act of lifting the name of Yahweh off the monument entailed erasing it. Though this meaning was lost in later receptions of the Decalogue and replaced with a metaphorical understanding of misspeaking the name, name erasure is far more likely to be the original intent of this phrase. In fact, this unusual phrasing is one of the clearest borrowings of technical language from Levantine “I Am” monuments. Levantine “I Am” monuments regularly describe the inscribing of the agent’s written name and prohibit its erasure. In fact, Akkadian, Hieroglyphic Luwian, and Northwest Semitic dialects all use the word “name” as a metonym for an inscribed monument, because the monument cannot function as a proper reembodiment without naming its agent (Yakubovich 2002, 196; Levtow 2012, 334). Manipulating the name is always described in physical terms. For example, the Hieroglyphic Luwian phrase alamanz tuwa- “to put the name” appears in KARATEPE 1 Hu. §XXXIX, ALEPPO 2 §10, HAMA 4 §7, and HAMA 5 §4. The examples from Hamath are particularly notable because they

15

HALOT suggests translations of šwʾ such as “worthless,” “futile,” “evil,” “deceit,” and “destruction,” all of which may be justified depending on the word’s context. They offer the translation “to abuse a name in an evil way (in a magic ritual or an oath)” for ns´ʾ šm lšwʾ. HALOT, s.v. “‫שׁו‬ ָ ‫שְׁוא‬,” 4:1425–1426. An understanding of šwʾ as somehow referring to malice in Exod 20:7 may be supported by Deuteronomy’s conflation of the term with šqr “false” in Deut. 5:20.

Translation and Commentary of Exodus 20:2–17

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are inscriptions of Urhilina, a known ally of the Israelite king Ahab. The example from KARATEPE 1 was calqued into Phoenician as s´yt šm “to set the name” (KAI 26 AIII:13, 16; CIV:16, 18). These are undoubtedly parallel to the Hebrew expressions s´ym šm “to place a name” and škn šm “to set a name,” which Sandra Richter argues are technical references to the erection of inscriptions in the Hebrew Bible (Richter 2002, 133, 199–205; cf. Yakubovich 2002, 196; Radner 2005, 161–62; Levtow 2014, 34–36). The technical language for erecting inscriptions thus appears in both the Hebrew Bible and in “I Am” inscriptions, but even closer parallels can be found for the specific formulation in the Decalogue. The Hebrew phrase ns´ʾ šm has an exact parallel in the Hieroglyphic Luwian phrases alamanza ahha wala- “to lift away the name” or alamanza (wan)ahha la- “to take away the name,” which are the standard ways to describe name erasure (Goedegebuure 2012, 435 n. 96). These phrases were even worked explicitly into commands and curses, as in ISKENDURUN §6, which reads: za-pa-wa/i Ila+ra/i+a-ma || (B) |á-là-ma-za |ni-sa |wa/i-na-(A)ha |la-si “Do not take away (i.e., erase) this name – Laramas.” Nearly the exact same command occurs in HAMA 4 §8, demonstrating again that this phraseology was being used by Israel’s close allies in the ninth century.16 A further example in BOYBEYPINARI 2 §19 includes the instrumental MALUS-lá/í-satara/i-ti CUM-ni “with malice” or “maliciously.” This could provide a striking parallel to lšwʾ if we accept an understanding of the term as referring to “malice” rather than “emptiness” (Wright 2004, 262). If the latter translation is preferred, lšwʾ would be acting in parallel to the Luwian ahha or wanahha “away.” Regardless, these parallels demonstrate that lifting up a name was a technical description for name erasure in Levantine monumental discourse. As in the image commandment, the name commandment includes a shift in verbal person expressing relational possibilities. The commandment opens in the second person with “You shall not maliciously erase the name of Yahweh your God,” but it continues with both Yahweh and the perpetrator spoken of in the third person with “for Yahweh your God will not acquit the one who erases his name maliciously.” The example earlier from ISKENDERUN shows the exact same shift. After the initial secondperson command “do not erase this name,” the clause continues with wa/ i-tu-ta DEUS-ni-zi LIS-za “(or) the gods will prosecute him” – a striking parallel to the Decalogue’s “Yahweh will not acquit.” As in the image 16

For more examples, see ANCOZ 2 I.2, KÖTÜKALE §5, and BOYBEYPINARI 2 §19.

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commandment, the third person here expresses the potential distancing outcome of breaking the commandment. The relationship ceases to be defined in terms of “I” and “you” and transforms into the less intimate “he” and “anyone.” In a departure from the image commandment, though, there is now no third-person blessing. This implies that the correct response to the commandment is no longer being expressed as a hypothetical in the third person, but is now assumed in the secondperson of the injunction itself. In other words, “you” is less in between “I” and “other” at this point and is being shifted more toward the perspective of “I” – that is, Yahweh. An increasing intimacy between the users and Yahweh is thus implied. Verses 8–11: “Enchant the Sabbath-Day . . .” The Sabbath commandment in verses 8–11 is the most reworked portion of the Decalogue, having attracted editors at many different periods in the text’s transmission history. Nevertheless, the commandment essentially consists of ritual instructions, and these are some of the most common injunctions in “I Am” monuments. While the Sabbath commandment is certainly composite, this does not necessarily mean that it is late, as some have proposed (Smith 1997, 233; Knohl 1995, 67, 102 n. 144, 104; Blum 2011b, 293–94). Childs cogently argued that the commandment reflects an early Israelite tradition which gave the sabbath a special sanction . . . the command to observe, or not desecrate, the sabbath was the bare datum of the tradition. To this basic command a variety of different reasons were added, but no one ever became fully normative, as the continual fluidity demonstrates. (Childs 1974, 415)

This “bare datum” is the command in verse 8 to zkwr ʾt-ywm hšbt, which I translate as “enchant the day of the Sabbath” (Lukács 2015). The use of the verb šmr “keep” or “observe” in Deut 5:12 was a later modification (Hogue 2022a).17 Furthermore, the original object of the commandment was the Sabbath, while the seventh day was a later insertion that was

17

I argue this on the basis of lectio difficilior. The Sabbath is the object of the verb zkr only once in the Hebrew Bible – Exod 20:8. It is the object of šmr ten times, all of which occur in Deuteronomic or Holiness contexts (Sommer 1998, 169; Olyan 2005). I thus maintain that the verb was changed in Deut 5 in order to connect the Decalogue’s Sabbath Commandment to these other corpora. The more unusual verb in Exod 20:8 suggests no such connection to other biblical corpora, implying that it is the original reading.

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eventually equated to the Sabbath (Lemaire 1973). Based on similarities to the image commandment and the name commandment, I maintain that some of verse 11’s motivation clause was original as well – specifically the reference to creation.18 What remains is to determine what was intended by the verb zkr, what was the original referent of šbt, and how these practices related to creation. Levantine “I Am” monuments can shed new light on all of these. Though usually translated as “remember,” the Hebrew verb zkr more accurately describes a “sharp focusing of attention” that “eventuates in action” (Sarna 1991, 13). Hermann Eising suggests that the root more specifically referred to an act of invocation paired with offering (Eising 1980, 80–81). In the context of ritual, I have defined it elsewhere as “interactive fascination that culminates in embodied action”; in other words, zkr refers to what art historians and scholars of ritual refer to as enchantment (Hogue 2022a; Gell 1992; Bennett 2001, 5). In ancient West Asia, enchantment typically culminated in conjuration – the production of presence through material artifacts and embodied rituals (Bahrani 2014, 24–43). Hans Wolff essentially arrives at the same conclusion when he argues concerning zkr that “undertones of magic accompany this expression, the notion being that to name Yahweh’s name is necessarily to invoke the presence of Yahweh himself” (Wolff 1977, 283 n. 31). Reembodiment – one of the primary functions of “I Am” monuments – was only possible because these artifacts were enchanted. For our present purpose, the best examples of this practice actually occur in the monumental discourse of Samʾal and related sites in the northern Levant. The Hadad Statue (KAI 214) – a Samʾalian “I Am” monument dating to the Age of Territorial Theatre – provides some of the most specific instructions for a ritual targeted at an “I Am” monument. The artifact was the center of a “public ceremony with a substantial audience” (Gilibert 2011, 109). This ceremony involved making particular offerings, invoking the names of the agent (Panamuwa I) and the depicted deity (Hadad), and repeating a particular incantation. Most importantly, the Hadad Statue uses the verb zkr to refer to the act of invocation (lines 16 and 18

Both the image and name commandments contain similar ky clauses that are more clearly related to the initial injunction and have parallels in “I Am” monuments. Furthermore, the ky clauses of the image commandment and the Sabbath commandment actually repeat each other and form an inclusio, so they were probably composed at the same time. The rest of the Sabbath commandment’s justifications, however, do not match the expected pattern of the Decalogue, bear no relation to monumental discourse, and appear to be editorial (Hogue 2022a).

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17) but also as a summation of the entire ritual. The practice is condensed in line 21 into the phrase ʿd yzkr nbš pnmw “(thus) let him continually conjure the personhood of Panamuwa.” The same ritual practice is described in a monument to Panamuwa II (KAI 215), where the artifact that mediates the enchantment is labeled a zkr “fetish.” In the context of rituals attached to “I Am” monuments, zkr summarizes a set of ritual actions intended to conjure the agent and otherwise activate the monument (Hogue 2019c, 91). This is why the Decalogue includes this ritual instruction. Further connections to Levantine monumental discourse can be seen if we consider the occasion of the Decalogue’s ritual – the Sabbath. It is impossible to determine the original referent of the Sabbath with certainty, but the best explanations offered previously are that this was a technical term in the preexilic period for either the fifteenth day of a month, the day of the full moon, or the day of the new moon (Meinhold 1905; 1909; 1930; Hossfeld 1982, 247–52; Nicholson 2014, 60–61). Regardless of which of these options is preferred, these were all significant times during major festivals, and the Sabbath was originally a designation for a day of special importance within a larger festival (Fleming 1999, 173–74; 2010, 37). The best candidate is the Israelite Autumnal New Year Festival, which ran from the new moon to the full moon. This was also known as the Feast of Ingathering or more simply ḥg, and it was at some point combined with the festival of Sukkot (MacRae 1960, 257; de Moor 1972; Hallo 1977, 9– 10; Mettinger 1982, 116–23; Mowinckel 2004, 116–23; Rofé 2009, 473– 74; Ayali-Darshan 2015, 3; Van Der Toorn 2017, 639–41). At Samʾal, the Katumuwa Stele – an “I Am” monument of an official serving under Panamuwa II – describes the same sort of ritual practice as that in the Hadad Statue but with the specification that it is to be carried out on a yearly basis. Similar rituals in Karkamiš were to be carried out seasonally or yearly, such as the sacrifices, blood rituals, feasts, and processions prescribed in Katuwas’ monuments.19 The Zukru festival mentioned in the previous chapter may have functioned as an autumnal new year festival at Emar. The invocation of the god Dagan, a communal feast, and a blood manipulation ritual involving stelae were carried out to initiate that festival on the fifteenth day of the first month of the Emarite year. All of this activity is summarized by the name of the festival “Zukru,” which is derived from the same root used at Samʾal and in the Sabbath commandment (Fleming 2000, 82–87, 97). This connection will 19

See especially KARKAMIŠ A11a §12 and KARKAMIŠ A11b+c §18.

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be even more attractive when we go on to consider the spatial discourse of the Decalogue, because the text in Exodus is closely associated with stelae erection, feasting, and ritual blood manipulation (Exod 24:3–8, 11b). Seasonal or yearly practices intended to reembody the agent of an “I Am” monument (as was the case at Samʾal) or a major deity (as was the case at Emar) are the technical referents of the root zkr in ritual contexts. This explains why the Sabbath – as a reference to a significant festival day and potentially the Israelite New Year – was the object of the Decalogue’s command. But why is the Sabbath commandment justified on the basis of Yahweh’s act of creation? This is a complex iteration of the Decalogue’s conceptualization of Yahweh as a divine king. Broadly, acts of construction are very typically narrated by the agents of “I Am” monuments, but these monuments are also bound up with enthronement and temple building. The zkr ritual in the Hadad Statue may have been a coronation festival for Panamuwa I’s successor; the same possibility may hold for the ritual mentioned in a monument devoted to Panamuwa II (KAI 215). Similar rituals at Karkamiš were utilized not only to celebrate Katuwas’ reign but also to inaugurate the temple of the Storm-god (Gilibert 2011, 109–10). The Sabbath has previously been argued to have been a celebration of Yahweh’s enthronement that was closely bound up with ritual practice in the temple and tabernacle (Weinfeld 1981; Geller 1996, 68). The Decalogue draws on all of these connections. The zkr ritual was selected specifically for its connection to coronation rituals, and it is connected in the Decalogue to Yahweh’s act of creation as a justification and reenactment of his enthronement. Verse 12: “Honor Your Father and Mother . . .” The commandment to honor one’s parents in verse 12 has sometimes been interpreted as a late addition to the Decalogue due to its focus on familial relationships, which some scholars take as a greater concern of postmonarchic scribes (Blum 2011b, 294; Nicholson 2014, 61). However, this command and the accompanying blessing both have exact parallels in Iron Age monumental discourse. More generally, honor was a key theme of all Levantine monumental inscriptions, but it only occasionally appeared explicitly in injunctions (Green 2010, 294). For example, KARKAMIŠ A17b §3 preserves the injunction |za-ha-wa/i DEUS-ni-[na] |i-zi-i-sa-ta-tú-u “let him honor this god” (Hawkins 2000, Volume I:176). While the object of this command is not the agent, it may suggest that the Decalogue adapted tropes

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like this because its agent is a god. An injunction targeted at the agent occurs on a monument dedicated to Panamuwa II of Samʾal (KAI 215), where lines 22–23 demand recognition for Panamuwa qdm ʾlhy wqdm ʾnš “before gods and men.” Beyond these thematic parallels, it is now possible to draw attention to some exact verbal parallels. Ilya Yakubovich has recently demonstrated that the Hieroglyphic Luwian verb izzi(ya)- is a compound verb meaning “to do or make reverently” that tends to be restricted to cultic contexts (Yakubovich 2020). The related verb izzi-sta- “to honor” appeared in every Luwian example discussed earlier, but some important examples utilize izzi(ya)instead. Accounting for Yakubovich’s thesis, it is now possible to translate §III of KARATEPE 1 Hu. as follows: wa/i-mu-u (DEUS)TONITRUS-hu-za-sa á-TANA-wa/i-||ia(URBS) MATER-na-tína tá-ti-ha i-zi-i-tà Tarhunzas honored me as mother and father to Adanawa . . .

The exact same expression occurs in ÇINEKÖY §6. Apparently, to be honored or reverently made into a mother and father was an idiom for showing a high degree of respect. It is significant that this idiom should appear in these two inscriptions, because both were bilinguals. In Phoenician, the expression is rendered in KARATEPE (KAI 26) as pʿl lʾb wlʾm “to make into a father and a mother” (AI:3, BI:2, CI:3–4). In lines 8–9 of the Phoenician version of ÇINEKÖY, the expression is kn lʾb wlʾm “to be a father and mother.” The compound Luwian verb “to do or make reverently” was simplified in these calques into simply “to do” or “to be.” This points to a further parallel from Samʾal. In the Kulamuwa Orthostat, the commissioner claims wʾnk lmy kt ʾb wlmy kt ʾm “and I was for some a father and for some a mother” (KAI 24:10). These parallels reveal that the “father and mother” was a semi-standard trope in speaking of honor. Apparently, when this idiom made its way into Hebrew, it was the reverence of the action that was emphasized, resulting in the expression kbd ʾt-ʾbyk wʾt-ʾmk “honor your father and mother.” The location of this clause in the Decalogue alongside so many other adaptations of discourse from “I Am” monuments and its exact verbal parallels in the above expressions render it highly likely that it too originated in Levantine monumental discourse from the Iron Age. However, something appears to have been transformed, whether in the course of the idiom’s transmission or the text’s redaction and reception. The Phoenician and Luwian examples allow the possibility of a double accusative – the making of some entity into a father

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and mother – so the use of the accusative marker ʾt in Hebrew is unproblematic. But there is no second object. Perhaps an earlier form of the text indicated that Yahweh was to be honored as father and mother, and this was deleted by a later redactor who misunderstood the idiom. An alternative solution that does not require amending the text is that the idiom was transformed to facilitate a transition into the social commandments that follow. Thus, instead of honoring someone else as one’s father and mother, the injunction is simply to honor one’s father and mother. This prepared the audience for the transition from Yahweh-focused commandments to the commandments focused on interpersonal relationships that conclude the Decalogue (Childs 1974, 417–18). The injunction in verse 12 is not the only part of the verse with direct parallels in Iron Age monumental discourse. It also contains the only clause in the Decalogue where an explicit benefit is promised to the people – long life. The purpose of obtaining long life appears in all sorts of monumental inscriptions, not just “I Am” monuments. For example, almost the exact same wording occurs in lines 4–5 of the Ekron Inscription (KAI 286), which concludes with tʾrk ywmh wtbrk ʾrṣh “may she lengthen his days and bless his land.” Similar requests for the lengthening of days but without a mention of land occur in the dedicatory inscriptions from Byblos (KAI 4–7) and the Tell Fekheriyeh Inscription (KAI 309:11–12). Line 3 of the second Neirab Stele (KAI 226) claims that the god to whom the deceased was devoted hʾrk ywmy “lengthened my days” (Green 2010, 281). This discourse undoubtedly lay behind the near-identical wording in the Decalogue. The pairing of two clauses with exact verbal parallels in monumental discourse makes verse 12 a particularly salient example of the adaptation characterizing the Decalogue at large. Verses 13–17: The Social Commandments The final sequence of short commandments in the Decalogue have previously been labeled “the social commandments” because they focus especially on interpersonal behavior (Ska 2006, 50). Parallels to the commands against murder,20 adultery,21

In line 26 of KAI 214, Panamuwa indirectly commands his potential successor: ʾl yhrg “let him not murder.” 21 TELL AHMAR 2 §16 reads [NEG2]-a-pa-wa/i-ti mi-i-na-ˊ FEMINA-ti-i-na LITUUS-PAla-ni-ia-i (FEMINA.FEMINA)á-ma-na-sa5+ra/i-i-na “or he who shall regard my wife as his concubine” (Hawkins 2000, Volume I:228). This may be comparable either to the 20

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theft,22 false witness,23 and coveting are also attested in the corpus of “I Am” monuments. Of these, the last is worth some additional attention because the connection to “I Am” monuments permits a new translation. A curse formula in one of the Azatiwada Orthostats (KAI 26 AIII:14–15) includes the line: ʾm ʾp yḥmd ʾyt hqrt z wysʿ hšʿr z “if, moreover, he should usurp this city and remove this gate” (Gevirtz 1961, 143). In the context of monumental inscriptions, the verb ḥmd apparently entails violating a monument – specifically by claiming it as one’s own and removing any references to the original commissioner. This verb is thus better translated “usurp” in this context than “covet” (Levtow 2012, 316). Drawing on logic similar to the pairing of injunctions concerning images with curses on progeny, the Decalogue’s ḥmd commandment centers on another’s household and its members – all of which can preserve an individual in ways analogous to monuments. Based on this correspondence, I propose that this commandment originally required that the Israelites not obliterate their fellows by usurping their households and failing to acknowledge their memory. In other words, this commandment has in mind a concern very similar to that of levirate marriage.24 What is most notable about all of the social commandments is that Yahweh is not the direct beneficiary of any of them. This was typical of monumental discourse especially during the Age of Territorial Theatre. For example, Mesha commanded his subjects to build cisterns for themselves. He did not directly benefit, but he did demonstrate his beneficence and effectiveness as a ruler (Green 2010, 290). Even more striking are the social injunctions of the Hadad Statue (KAI 214). In lines 25 and following, Panamuwa leaves instructions for how his heirs are to relate to their family and citizenry, including prohibitions on murder and perjury as in the Decalogue. Not only does Panamuwa not directly benefit, he cannot benefit because he is dead. The social injunctions primarily demonstrate commandment against adultery (lʾ tnʾp in verse 14) or against coveting the neighbor’s wife (lʾ-tḥmd ʾšt rʿk in verse 17). 22 See BOROWSKI 3 §9, ARSUZ 1 and 2 §23, KÖRKÜN §11, and KARKAMIŠ A11a §27. 23 The Sefire Treaty (KAI 222 A2:38) declares to any violators of the inscription’s stipulations šqrt bʿdy ʾln “you were false to these testimonies.” This is almost exactly parallel with ʿd šqr “false witness” in Exodus 20:16. The term ʿdy in KAI 222:A2:38 is a plurali tantum usually translated “treaty.” This is the Aramaic equivalent of the Akkadian term adê. I have translated it more literally in this case to highlight the correspondences between this line and the verse in the Decalogue. 24 The original commandment probably contained only one or two objects – the neighbor’s household and possibly his wife. The list was subsequently extended in Deuteronomy and transposed into Exodus. This process is discussed in more detail in Chapter 3.

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Panamuwa’s ideal justice, and they allow him to mold his ideal heirs (Green 2010, 184). The social commandments of the Decalogue serve a similar purpose. They propose correct behavior for ideal users of the monument – those who accept the practices and values Yahweh is proposing. They also attest to Yahweh’s righteousness through his ability to give just commands. The Organization of the Decalogue The Decalogue has long been understood as a bipartite text purported to contain “the two tables of the law.” As discussed in the previous chapter, a bipartite format was a typical layout for “I Am” monuments. Though this was not the only possible format for these monuments, the bipartite form appears to have best facilitated the deictic operations of the text. The deictic elements of the text prompted the users to imagine themselves in a variety of configurations relative to the agent. As a result, the ideal user would move closer and closer to Yahweh’s perspective in each subsequent clause until an ideological transformation had occurred. The poetics of the text and its layout brought about this shift in the users’ perspectives. As in other bipartite “I Am” monuments, the Decalogue’s two main sections are differentiated by clause length and demarcated by changes in verbal forms. The first unit of the text is primarily focused on actions that directly benefit Yahweh, and these each contain lengthy justifications for their injunctions. The second unit of the text contains no justifications, instead shifting to a series of short injunctions that primarily benefit the users themselves. The boundary between these two sections is marked by a shift from prohibitives to positive commandments using the infinitive absolute form of the verb. Thus, the first unit of the text ends with the Sabbath commandment, while the second unit opens with the honor commandment. Almost the exact same basic structure can be observed in the Kulamuwa Orthostat and the Hadad Statue (Hogue 2019c, 92–93). Some more complex rhetorical devices are also used to reinforce this basic structure. For example, all of the second-person commands in the first unit are tied together by means of an inclusio. In the image commandment, verse 4 prohibits the making of “a ritual substitute of anything that is in the heavens above or that is on the earth below or that is in the waters beneath the earth.” This triad is repeated to close the inclusio at the beginning of verse 11 where Yahweh is said to have created “the heavens

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and the earth and the sea and all that is in them.” Such strategies are also attested in the Hadad Statue and the Bar-Rakib Orthostats (Younger Jr. 1986). This inclusio reinforces the boundaries of the first unit of the bipartite text. But why is the structure of the first unit so much more elaborate than that of the second? This is also a rhetorical strategy of the text. The first unit is marked by a number of strategic deictic shifts meant to suggest that the monument’s users will be distanced from Yahweh if they fail to keep his commandments and thus end up in the same category as his enemies. This begins with a specification of Yahweh as the ideological center of the text in the “I Am” formula in verse 2, where he is subsequently defined as “your God.” This in direct opposition to the “other gods” of the monolatry commandment in verse 3, in which the users find themselves between Yahweh and these enemies. Verses 4–6 use a deictic shift to suggest that both Yahweh’s blessing and his curse are potential results of engaging the Decalogue; they are contingent on the response of the users. The name commandment in verse 7 uses a deictic shift to imply that only disobeying it is hypothetical, while obedience is simply assumed. The users are thus moved into a category even closer to Yahweh. The Sabbath commandment in verses 8–11 contains no deictic shift; the text thus expresses the expectation that the users will move even closer to Yahweh’s perspective. Finally, the honor commandment in verse 12 and the following social commandments in verses 13–17 focus primarily on interpersonal relations among the users, thus offering benefits primarily aimed at them rather than Yahweh. At this point in the text, the deictic shift is assumed to have already been completed, so no further justifications with hypotheticals are necessary in this second unit. In short, the entire layout of the text accomplishes a deictic shift into the desired perspective for the users. Effectively, the first unit proposes Yahweh’s ideology in terms of the “I” of the opening formula. The second unit shifts to focusing on the “you” of the commands. “He” and “they” are only used when speaking of potentialities, as in “those who hate me,” “those who love me,” and “he who removes my name.” This structure is intended to promote intimacy between Yahweh and the users. This reflects the transformation of identity proposed implicitly by the text’s ideology. In other words, the poetics of the Decalogue reveal the relationship it calls into being. This aspect of the text’s verbal discourse brings about the transition to a Yahweh-centered perspective. In the next section, we will see that deictic shift also permitted a connection to the aesthetic discourse

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of Levantine “I Am” monuments, though this was by no means the full extent of the Decalogue’s aesthetics.

artifacts depicted in the decalogue’s narrative context It would be tempting to conclude that, as a literary text, the Decalogue cannot be analyzed in relation to artifacts. While it is true that the literary nature of the text makes it difficult if not impossible to comment on monumental orthography or iconography, the lack of an epigraphic support for the text would be unthinkable to an ancient audience. The divorce of text from materiality is a modern, Western phenomenon. In ancient West Asia, the mere gesturing to a text assumes an artifact. This gesturing to an artifact actually occurs by means of the verbal discourse of the Decalogue, especially the “I Am” formula. The use of this formula is an example of compositional deixis; it prompts the audience to consider the material to follow in terms of the conventions of “I Am” monuments (Stockwell 2002, 55). The exact same compositional deictic shift was employed in KBo 12.38 – a Hittite annal describing Šuppiluliuma II’s conquest of Cyprus. After completing the conquest, the text moves directly into an “I Am” inscription presented as the direct speech of Šuppiluliuma (Güterbock 1967). No description of the artifact is included because it was unnecessary; the compositional deictic shift itself implies the materiality and therefore the imagined artifact containing the embedded “I Am” inscription. The audience of the annal was simply expected to make the connection to the implied epigraphic support because that was inextricable from the text. Presumably, the Decalogue could have been embedded in the book of Exodus without any reference to other artifacts and functioned alone as an imagined inscribed artifact. The producers of the text did not leave this to chance, however, and there are in fact clear epigraphic supports and other associated artifacts to be discovered within the Sinai Pericope. But how do we make sense of literary depictions of artifacts? Wu Hung argues that such depictions tell us what ancient writers believed monuments “were supposed to be” (Wu 1995, 10). In other words, such literary accounts are an invaluable window into the aesthetic discourse of ancient monuments as it was actually experienced. More than this, the ultimate purpose of such literary accounts was to reproduce that aesthetic experience. This was a common practice in ancient West Asia, where certain literary genres were closely tied to imagined monumental artifacts by

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means of ekphrasis (Thomason 2004; Bahrani 2014, 212–13). Bahrani defines ekphrasis as “a form of description we associate with the intellectual understanding of aesthetic quality” (Bahrani 2014, 45). In the case of ekphrastic depictions of monumental artifacts, “the words . . . evoke, and in some sense create, a monument” (Pyatkevich 2009, 162). This section is thus especially concerned with the monuments erected alongside the Decalogue in the book of Exodus, which reveal how the Decalogue was to be imagined in visual and tactile terms. Epigraphic Supports for the Decalogue In many traditions, the Decalogue has been connected to lḥt (h)ʾbn “the Tablets of Stone” or lḥt hʿdwt “the tablets of the testimony” mentioned later in the book of Exodus. Though this connection is not made explicit until the republication of the Decalogue in Deuteronomy, it has nevertheless influenced many scholars’ approaches to the Decalogue in Exodus. This assumption is not sustainable, however, and is worth critically reconsidering. William Schniedewind has argued cogently that the Tablets of Stone are a framing device for the description of the Tabernacle, and it is that inscription that should be understood as inscribed on the tablets in the book of Exodus. In Exod 24:12, Yahweh invites Moses onto the mountain in order to give him “the Tablets of Stone,” which he actually delivers to Moses in 31:18. The Tabernacle description is contained between these two mentions of the tablets, which act as an inclusio enclosing that description. In fact, the Tablets of Stone (lḥt (h)ʾbn) are never mentioned again by this title outside of the two appearances in Exod 24:12 and 31:18; their sole purpose is to frame the Tabernacle instructions. The tablets are thus imagined as the epigraphic support for a building inscription, much like a Mesopotamian foundation deposit (Schniedewind 2004, 128–29; cf. Gudme 2014, 8–9).25

25

As a complement to Schniedewind’s proposal that the tablets are a building inscription for the Tabernacle, Anne Katrine de Hemmer Gudme suggests that the Tabernacle texts should be understood as an Israelite analogue to the Egyptian Book of the Temple, which is currently understood to be the textualization of an ideal temple. This is an attractive comparative for understanding the textualization of architectural monuments in ancient West Asia, but Gudme’s argument that the Tabernacle is merely an ideal type is overstated. Jonathan Greer’s ongoing work on the Tabernacle and its parallels with the temple at Tel Dan along with its dissimilarities to the Temple in Jerusalem as described in the Hebrew Bible suggest that the Tabernacle may in fact have a basis in a real shrine (Gudme 2014, 8–9; Greer forthcoming).

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While it is true that Exod 34:28 suggests that the second set of tablets (now called lḥt ʾbnym “Stone Tablets”)26 are inscribed with ʿs´rt hdbrym “the Ten Words,” this verse is likely a later Deuteronomistic insertion (Childs 1974, 608–9). Also, it is by no means certain that “the Ten Words” was a title for the Decalogue in the context of Exod 34. In that context, the deictic reference to “these words” in Exod 34:27 clearly refers to the preceding material in verses 11–26, commonly known as the Ritual Decalogue or better as the Small Covenant Code since these verses share more in common with the Covenant Code of Exod 21–23 than the Decalogue of Exod 20 (Whybray 1995, 116). The Small Covenant Code – and not the Decalogue of Exod 20 – is thus the referent of “the Ten Words” in Exod 34. “The Ten Words” only comes to refer to the Decalogue inscribed on the tablets in Deut 4, a shift we will focus on later in the book. Nevertheless, the use of the tablets to frame the Tabernacle material is still instructive for discovering a possible epigraphic support for the Decalogue. The Sinai Pericope (Exod 19:1–24:11) – within which the Decalogue is embedded – makes use of similar framing devices to connect the Decalogue to its narrative. This is one of the most complex portions of the Hebrew Bible due to its multiple layers of composition and redaction, and it would go far beyond the scope of this study to attempt a solution to every textual issue. Nevertheless, attention to some key signposts in the larger text can shed light on the place of the Decalogue within it. In Exod 19:7–8, Moses relates kl-hdbrym hʾlh “All These Words” to the people and they respond with the phrase kl ʾšr-dbr yhwh nʿs´h “All that Yahweh has said, we will do.” The phrase “All These Words” is repeated again in Exod 20:1, where it functions as a sort of title or colophon for the Decalogue (Levinson 2004, 281–82; Wright 2009, 498–99 n. 81). This title is repeated as a framing device for Exod 24:3–8. In Exod 24:3, Moses again recounts kl-dbry yhwh “all the words of Yahweh” and the people respond kl-hdbrym ʾšr-dbr yhwh nʿs´h “all the words Yahweh has said, we will do,” thus repeating the opening event of the Sinai Pericope to bracket almost the entire section.27 Finally, in Exod 24:8 Moses completes the These replacements are also known as lḥt hʿdwt “tablets of the testimony.” In Deuteronomy, these seem to become lḥt hbryt “tablets of the covenant” (e.g., Deut 9:15), though it may be worth exploring whether these are in fact the same tablets. 27 Of course, the Decalogue is not the only thing related in Exod 24:3. Another text or oration is mentioned by the title of kl hmšpṭym “all of the ordinances.” This title was added to refer back to the Covenant Code, which receives that title explicitly in Exod 21:1 (Childs 1974, 502). However, the lack of this phrase in other descriptions of what Moses 26

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ritual inauguration of the installation at Sinai, announcing that it concludes the covenant concerning kl-hdbrym hʾlh “All These Words.” These are the only instances in the entire book in which the title “All These Words” is used, implying a strong link between them, the Decalogue, and Exod 24:3–8.28 Similarly, the secondary title “All the Words of Yahweh” appears twice in Exod 24:3–4 but nowhere else in the Sinai Pericope.29 Within this passage, three artifacts are described that may have been imagined as epigraphic supports for the Decalogue: an altar, twelve mas ̣s ̣ebot, and an inscription or scroll. The verbs in Exod 24:3–4 that take the Decalogue (i.e., “All the Words of Yahweh”) as their object are sfr “to recount” or “to inscribe” and ktb “to write.” Both of these imply artifactual instantiations for the Decalogue, inviting the question of what precisely was inscribed. The first possibility appears in verse 4, in which the first artifact that Moses constructs is an altar. This likely picks up on the instructions to build an altar that almost directly followed the Decalogue in Exod 20:24–26 (Childs 1974, 505; Chavel 2015, 190–92). While inscribed altars are known from the Levant,30 no “I Am” monument has ever been discovered is delivering to the people in Exod 24 – most notably in the description of what Moses actually inscribes in verse 4 – makes their inclusion suspect and possibly suggestive of later redactional activity. Both Bernard Levinson and David Wright are agreed that kl hmšptym “all the ordinances” is a later insertion referring to the Covenant Code. Levinson argues that both this title and the Covenant Code itself were inserted into the Sinai Pericope after the Decalogue was already embedded there (Levinson 2004, 281–82; Wright 2009, 498– 99 n. 81). In addition, the Covenant Code expressly forbids certain maṣsẹ bot in Exod 23:24, so it is even less likely that it rather than the Decalogue was originally associated with twelve of them in Exodus 24 (Bloch-Smith 2015, 108–10). Given that the Covenant Code imitates a law code such as would be inscribed on a stele, it is easy to understand why it would be inserted alongside the Decalogue and a description of stelae erection (Wright 2009). Its insertion in Exodus 21–23 may thus represent a later juxtaposition of the text with the Decalogue and Exod 24. The result is that two texts imitating stele inscriptions were strategically juxtaposed to an account of stelae erection. The final redaction clearly imagines these texts interacting with these artifacts in the same way. 28 While the Decalogue itself may be an independent composition, source critics have traditionally assigned both it and Exod 24:3–8 to E (Noth 1962, 154; Beyerlin 1965, 36–48; Eissfeldt 1965, 212–19; Blum 1990, 91–92, 99; Carr 2011, 120; Baden 2012, 117; Chavel 2015, 192). 29 There is an additional occurrence of “all the words of Yahweh” in Exod 4:28, but nowhere else in the book, or the entire Pentateuch for that matter. However, there is a near parallel in Deuteronomy 27:4, in which the Israelites are instructed to inscribe kl htwrh hzʾt “All This Torah” on a set of monuments remarkably similar to the ones described in Exodus 24. I will discuss this reference in relation to the Decalogue in the next chapter. 30 For examples, see the inscribed altars from Moab and Tell Tayinat (Hawkins 2000, Volume I:375; Bean et al. 2018).

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that uses an altar as an epigraphic support. It is more likely, then, that the altar in this passage was imagined as a ritual support for the Decalogue but not an epigraphic support. A much better candidate for the Decalogue’s epigraphic support is the second artifact constructed by Moses in verse 4 – the mṣbh. Usually translated “standing stone” or sometimes “stele,” this Hebrew term is probably best rendered “monument,” though it is often simply transliterated as maṣsẹ ba (pl. maṣs ̣ebot). Carl Graesser argues that the Hebrew term should be rendered with a transliteration in order to distinguish a technical definition of mas ̣s ̣eba as an uninscribed stone as opposed to a “stele” as an inscribed stone (Graesser 1972, 35). However, Elizabeth Bloch-Smith argues that maṣsẹ bot in the Hebrew Bible are defined not by their form but rather by their function. These artifacts are never formally described. All that is made clear is that these artifacts were made of stone and intended to reembody a significant individual (Bloch-Smith 2005, 31; 2006, 65; cf. Graesser 1972, 37; Herring 2013, 57). Furthermore, it is by no means certain that maṣs ̣ebot were always uninscribed. Bloch-Smith speculates that the maṣsẹ ba at Tell Arad, for example, may have originally been inscribed with ink on the basis of red pigment discovered on the smooth face of the stone (Bloch-Smith 2005, 31; 2006, 79). The term mas ̣s ̣eba is cognate with the Phoenician term mṣbt “stele” as well as the Aramaic/Samʾalian terms ns ̣b and nsḅ ʾ. These are used to refer both to stelae and statues in the round, again suggesting that they referred to the artifact’s function rather than its form and should be translated “monument” (Hogue 2019a, 194). Nevertheless, archaeologists have attempted to identify examples of maṣsẹ bot based on some formal characteristics; thus, the term is usually applied to stele-form stones that are taller than they are wide.31 These are essentially aniconic stelae, the most broadly attested epigraphic support for “I Am” inscriptions, but we must keep in mind that understanding maṣs ̣ebot as a functional designation leaves open the possibility that these aniconic stelae were only one type of maṣs ̣ebot. Regardless of their exact form, what is clear is that the

31

Bloch-Smith lists maṣsẹ bot at Tell el-Far’ah (North) (eleventh to seventh century BCE), the Shechem Temple (eleventh to tenth century), the Hazor Bamah (mid-eleventh century), Lachish Locus 81b (tenth to eighth century), the Tel Rehov courtyard stone (tenth to ninth century), the Tel Dan gateway installation (ninth to eighth century), the Beit Saida gateway (850–732 BCE), and Arad (ninth to eighth century). In addition to these, one possible maṣsẹ ba that is wider than it is tall comes from the Bull Site (twelfth to eleventh century) (Bloch-Smith 2005, 36; 2015, 114).

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mas ̣s ̣ebot in Exod 24 were monuments and the most likely epigraphic supports for the Decalogue (McCarthy 1978, 174). One last potential epigraphic support should be considered, if only to be discounted. Exod 24:7 reports that Moses took sfr hbryt “the scroll/ inscription of the covenant” and read it to the Israelites, who proceed to give almost the same response to it as they did to the Decalogue in verse 3. While it is possible to understand this artifact as containing the text of the Decalogue, its appearance in this passage is undoubtedly the result of later editing. In fact, this verse is enclosed within a resumptive repetition – a typical editorial marker of insertion utilized by ancient scribes (Kuhl 1952; Fishbane 1985, 85; Levinson 1997, 18–19; Ska 2006, 77–78). Verse 6b reports that Moses takes blood (wyqḥ mšh ḥsỵ hdm) and sprinkles it on the altar (zrq ʿl-hmzbḥ). Both verbs are repeated in verse 8, where Moses again takes the blood and sprinkles it, this time on the people (wyqḥ mšh ʾt-hdm wyzrq ʿl-hʿm). Verse 7 interrupts this repetitive ritual description, suggesting that it was inserted by a later editor who used the repetition to bracket his insertion. The oral response in this verse is also suggestive, since it is an elaboration rather than a repetition of the responses in Exod 19:8 and 24:3. Schniedewind has argued that this interpolation was added to link this account to Josiah’s law book in 2 Kgs 23:2, 21, the only other context that mentions the sfr hbryt “scroll/inscription of the covenant” (Schniedewind 2004, 125–26). Exod 24:7 contains the only clear link to the story of Josiah and fits poorly with the rest of the narrative; it is not original to Exod 24:3–8 and thus the “inscription” mentioned here is a poor candidate for an epigraphic support for the Decalogue. The Sinai Assemblage What makes the artifacts in Exod 24:3–8 convincing supports for the Decalogue is not their individual connection to monumental installations in the Iron Age Levant, but rather their combination in this passage and in known Levantine assemblages. For example, while the erection of a stele or a maṣs ̣eba in isolation was a possibility, the multiplicity of these artifacts in Exod 24 is especially suggestive of a monumental theatre. For example, Urhilina’s “I Am” monuments RESTAN, QAL’AT EL MUDIQ, and TALL ŠṬI¯B are all exact duplicates of each other, bearing the same inscription that is also duplicated on HINES, a building block. These surrounded the territorial theatre of Hamath. Similarly, Mesha paired the Dibon Stele with the Kerak Statue, which was inscribed with a similar though not duplicate text. These repetitions were significant for

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a number of reasons. The duplicate inscriptions conjured Urhilina and Mesha in multiple places within their kingdoms at once. They served as a reminder of the rhythm of ritual attached to such monuments, and their patterned repetition of words served to call to mind the nature of incantation – a practice that may have accompanied these artifacts (Bahrani 2014, 119–32). All of these purposes could very well be intended by the repetition of the twelve mas ̣s ̣ebot, which if imagined to be inscribed must be inscribed with the same repeated text – the Decalogue. The repetition of the maṣsẹ bot, of course, also invites the question of who or what they are precisely reembodying. Generally, maṣsẹ bot are described in the Hebrew Bible as reembodiments of deities – including Yahweh (Bloch-Smith 2015, 106–107). However, Exod 24:4 specifies that the twelve maṣsẹ bot were erected lšnym ʿs´r šbtỵ ys´rʾl “for the twelve tribes of Israel,” leading some interpreters to conclude that they instead represent the Israelites (Bloch-Smith 2015, 110; Chavel 2015, 196). This portion of the text may be a later addition, however. There is significant disagreement over when to date the tradition of the twelve tribes. While some scholarship allows for a preexilic date, the assumption that Judah is included in the count suggests a Judahite origin for the tradition and thus a post-720 BCE temporal horizon (de Geus 1976; Weingart 2019).32 Nevertheless, the possibility that these monuments – regardless of how many there were – represent both Yahweh and the Israelites remains. In addition to conjuring specific individuals, maṣsẹ bot also marked locations where special communication with the divine was possible or where relationships between two parties had been reified (Graesser 1972, 41– 48; Bloch-Smith 2005, 28; 2006, 65). It should also be recalled from the previous chapter that while “I Am” monuments primarily reembody a particular individual through their text, their accompanying epigraphic supports and aesthetic amplifications may simultaneously manifest deities and other ritual participants (Özyar 2013, 134; Bahrani 2014, 116). Ultimately, these monuments materialized an encounter between the agent and ideal users, and both could be reembodied by aesthetic discourse. The maṣs ̣ebot in Exod 24:4 need not represent either Yahweh or the Israelites; such artifacts were perfectly capable of conjuring both.

32

Alternatively, if arguments about the early origin of the tradition of the twelve tribes are accepted, the twelve mas ̣sẹ bot may represent an earlier united Israel that included Judah (Weingart 2020; Blum 2020). Based on the discussion that follows, I would suggest the periods of the Omrides or Jeroboam II as attractive candidates, since both seem to have imposed vassal status on Judah.

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But what if the maṣs ̣ebot in Exod 24 were not epigraphic supports? The combination of inscribed and uninscribed artifacts in monumental theatres is also well attested. The sites of Karatepe, Zincirli, and Karkamiš, for example, all attest installations comprised of multiple inscribed and uninscribed stelae and orthostats complete with fixtures for libations or sacrifices (Ussishkin 1975, 95–100; Hawkins 2000, Volume I:45–47; Gilibert 2011, 100, 120; Herrmann 2017). The mas ̣s ̣ebot may thus be understood as either inscribed or uninscribed elements of a larger complex of this type. The best parallel to this may be the installation from Karatepe, where several uninscribed iconographic orthostats were paired with orthostats inscribed with an “I Am” inscription repeated four times. That “I Am” inscription was inscribed one final time on a divine statue accompanied by an uninscribed and unfigured cone-shaped basalt boulder (Hawkins 2000, Volume I:45–47; Özyar 2013, 123). This final artifact was undoubtedly an aniconic monument operating in the same way as undressed maṣsẹ bot. The rest of the Sinai assemblage further points to a connection with monumental theatres. For example, the combination of stelae or standing stones and altars in Levantine monumental installations is well attested. Of course, such assemblages are also attested in connection to “I Am” monuments. The best parallels are again the monuments of Urhilina and Mesha. HAMA 4, RESTAN, QAL’AT EL MUDIQ, and TALL ŠṬI¯B are all aniconic stelae adorned only with an “I Am” inscription. These were either installed in or point to significant cult places, which were undoubtedly furnished with altars and other such paraphernalia. Similarly, the Dibon Stele was aniconic apart from its inscription, and it was placed in a shrine to Kemosh. Similar assemblages are known from Shechem, Hazor, Timna, Bet Shean, and Tel Arad, just to name a few examples from within ancient Israel and Judah (Richter 2007, 358–61). Of these, Tel Arad is worth special attention. Previous scholarship is not in agreement about the date of the temple at Tel Arad, but it was most likely in use in the ninth and eighth centuries BCE (Bloch-Smith 2015, 114). The mas ̣s ̣eba at the site was a limestone pillar with one surface smoothed down that was placed in the focal niche of the temple, suggesting that it was replacing a cult image to act as a reembodiment of the deity – likely Yahweh – at that location.33 Some nearby stones have been identified as smaller attendant maṣs ̣ebot, but their identification and 33

The Arad Temple may have even been a modest peripheral monumental complex meant to manifest Yahweh on the edge of Judah (Bloch-Smith 2015, 107, 112).

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dating are contested. The limestone maṣsẹ ba was flanked by two incense altars, suggesting a similar ritual configuration to that described at Sinai in Exod 24. There is also a central altar constructed in the same fashion as that described in the altar law in Exod 20:24–26 (Bloch-Smith 2015, 114). There are traces of red pigment on the central mas ̣s ̣eba, suggesting that it was adorned – perhaps with a text (Bloch-Smith 2006, 79). If this stone was adorned after the fashion of the inscription at Deir Alla – where red ink was used for writing on plaster – it would be an attractive parallel for understanding the Decalogue as an inscribed maṣsẹ ba (Levine 1981, 197).34 The single best parallel for the Sinai installation, however, comes from Tel Dan. The monumental cycle at Tel Dan may represent an Israelite iteration of gateway installations from the northern Levant.35 In particular, the gateway at Tel Dan may be modeled on the southern gate of Carchemish or the citadel gateway of Tell Halaf (Ilan 2019, 128). In place of the typically encountered stelae and orthostats, the gateway on the royal processional road to Dan has four maṣs ̣ebot shrines (Biran and Naveh 1993, 82). These are generally all dated to the same period, which the excavators propose was the reign of Ahab (Biran and Naveh 1993, 84). Alternatively, David Ilan has recently suggested that the gateway was constructed by the Aramaean king Hazael and later renewed by one of the Nimshide kings, most likely Jeroboam II (Ilan 2019, 127–29). To date, Tel Dan attests more maṣs ̣ebot than any other site – a total of fourteen (Bloch-Smith 2006, 73–74). While none of the Danite mas ̣s ̣ebot appear to have been inscribed, they likely interacted with inscriptions to some degree. The Tel Dan Stele was originally erected in the city gateway alongside these maṣs ̣ebot. The inscription’s opening is not preserved, but its content suggests it may have been an “I Am” inscription. Furthermore, an altar was discovered in the courtyard of the gate-complex accompanying these standing stones (Biran 1994, 241–45; Greer 2017, 4 n. 7). Finally, Tel Dan also attests the most likely candidate for an Israelite mizra¯q – a bowl used to collect sacrificial blood for ritual manipulation. 34

The shape of the Deir Alla plaster text suggests that it was originally inscribed on a plastered stele. The stele was hung on a wall, but later fell and separated from the plaster text (Millard 1978; Hackett 1987). 35 This is not to say that such gateways did not exist in the southern Levant, but mostly aniconic monumental programs have been preserved, as at Tel Dan and Bethsaida. However, the entryway to Kuntillet Ajrud suggests that inscriptions may have been present in southern Levantine gateways on plaster. In most cases the climate has not allowed such inscriptions to survive (Ahituv, Eshel, and Meshel 2015).

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This is likely an example of the same sort of vessel referred to as ʾagga¯no¯t “bowls” in Exod 24:6 that are similarly used for blood manipulation in the rituals at Sinai (Greer 2010, 28, 38). The monumental installation in Tel Dan’s gateway is thus almost an exact parallel to the installation depicted at Sinai in Exod 24. The association between the Decalogue and the altar, the mas ̣s ̣ebot, and the ʾagga¯no¯t reveal that the Decalogue was inserted into Exodus to act as one element within a larger monumental theatre. The aesthetic augments to the Decalogue in the book of Exodus also suggest that the text was meant to be imagined as part of a ritual sequence. The altar, mas ̣sẹ bot, and ʾagga¯no¯t attracted particular kinds of ritual responses, some of which are narrated within the text. These implements were the means by which the Decalogue was utilized and activated by its associated community within the narrative world of the book of Exodus. Without these depicted engagements and their enactment within particular spaces, this aesthetic discourse would be rendered meaningless. A further consideration of the Decalogue and its place in the theatre and performances at Sinai requires a closer look at their spatial discourse.

the decalogue’s setting in exodus’ narrative spaces and rituals Key depictions of the Decalogue’s location and ritual activation follow patterns of spatial discourse attested for Iron Age Levantine monuments. The spatial syntax of those artifacts has been transposed onto narrative syntax in Exodus.36 This will become apparent when we examine the Decalogue’s location within the narrative world on both a local and a regional scale. To analyze this aspect of the Decalogue’s 36

Though the Decalogue is a purely literary monument, it is nonetheless possible to analyze its integration in spatial and geographic terms. It is not difficult to conceptualize how a literary text may take on a spatial or even geographical dimension. One of the most significant aspects of the act of reading is the reader’s ability to convert movement through space (such as moving across marks on a line or turning pages in a book) into movement through time (such as experiencing a written sentence as speech or advancing through a narrative). The literate mind can accomplish this subconsciously, but the cognitive processes underlying the conversion are quite complex (Fauconnier and Turner 2002, 210–11). It is no more complex – and perhaps even less so – to convert movement through the space of a text into movement through another space. This is in fact the underlying assumption of certain forms of ancient West Asian and biblical literature (Gudme 2014; Smoak 2017a).

The Decalogue’s Setting in Exodus’ Narrative Spaces & Rituals 111 monumental discourse, we must consider it on three different levels: within the Sinai Pericope, within the book of Exodus, and within the Pentateuch. We will find that these levels correspond with the narrative’s imagining of the Decalogue within a ceremonial theatre at Sinai, along Yahweh’s frontier bordering Egypt, and in relation to another installation within Israel. Sinai as Ceremonial Theatre Having just discussed the monumental artifacts and ritual paraphernalia associated with the Decalogue in Exod 24:3–8, I begin an analysis of the Decalogue’s spatial discourse within the ritual depicted in this same passage. This passage describes a series of ritual actions that have been taken together to form a “covenant renewal ceremony” (Childs 1974, 359). This ceremony is essentially a civic ritual, which Gilibert defines as a ritual designed to “bind a broad slice of inhabitants in loyalty” to the agent and to “neutralize dissent and conjure consent by calling up a large audience and affecting its feelings” (Gilibert 2011, 121). The various artifacts outlined earlier are utilized in ritual performances in this passage to monumentalize an “I Am” monument (the Decalogue) and thereby bind the ritual participants to the agent (Yahweh). The sequence of actions depicted here – the act of inscription, recitation, oral response, sacrifice, blood manipulation, and feasting – is more or less how “I Am” monuments were monumentalized and ritually activated during the Age of Civic Ritual (950–850 BCE) and the Age of Territorial Theatre (870– 745 BCE). In Exod 24:3, Moses either recites or inscribes the Decalogue before the people, depending on how we take the verb spr. The people respond with the aforementioned formula kl-hdbrym ʾšr-dbr yhwh nʿs´h “all the words Yahweh has said, we will do,” repeating their response to “All These Words” from Exod 19:8. The only explicit performance of the Decalogue occurs between these two responses to it in Exod 20, leading some scholars to surmise that the text of the Decalogue may now be out of sequence in the Sinai Pericope (Beyerlin 1965, 36–48; Eissfeldt 1965, 212– 19). This is possible, but it may also be the case that the response is being used as a framing device to contain the text of the Decalogue. The later intrusion of the Covenant Code as well as the accretion of editorial insertions made this framing less apparent. Regardless, the Sinai Pericope is still bookended by ritual engagements with the Decalogue.

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What is most important to note about Exod 24:3 is that the Decalogue has been orally performed – whether here or in Exod 20 – and the people orally respond to it. This presentation as speech is undoubtedly prompted by the understanding that all monumental texts were quoted discourse in the Iron Age Levant, but it may also reflect a tradition of reciting the texts. Though only one Levantine monumental inscription is known to explicitly demand such a recitation, many similar texts from Anatolia and Mesopotamia make such a practice explicit.37 Furthermore, the setting of these texts within cultic and civic gathering places would appear to presuppose a collective address that may have consisted of the recitation of the monumental text (Parker 1996, 216; 1997, 135; Gilibert 2011, 83). Finally, because there is no evidence for silent reading during this period of history, if these texts were to be experienced at all it would have to be aurally. As we saw in the previous chapter, many “I Am” monuments specify oral responses or incantations that are to be spoken in response to them, so the speech acts connected to the Decalogue are to be expected. Next, in verse 4, Moses inscribes the text and builds the maṣs ̣ebot and altar.38 This recalls the monumentalization sequences of “I Am” monuments. Though they are not reenacted, monumentalization sequences consisted of ritual actions performed in order to make an artifact monumental. Recall that a monument is an artifact that is communally engaged for collective sense- and meaning-making. In the ancient Levant this required specific actions to be carried out in order to distinguish a monument from other artifacts. These usually included the creation of an artifact, its erection in a particular space, and its dedication or ritual inauguration (Sanders 2013; Hogue 2019a). In the Zakkur Statue, for example, lines 13–15 report šmt qdm [ʾlwr] nṣbʾ znh wk[tbt b]h ʾyt ʾšr ydy “I placed this monument before Ilwer, and I wrote on it my deeds.”39 The

The Sefire Treaty Stelae (KAI 222) includes the lines ʾl tštq ḥdh mn mly sprʾ z[nh wytšmʿn] “let the words of this inscription not be silent, but let them be heard” (A2:8–9). Melissa Ramos also cites certain formulaic aspects of the language in these treaties to argue that they reflect oral performance (Ramos 2016). Anatolian and Mesopotamian monuments often included lines demanding that the texts be read aloud (Korošec 1931, 100–102; Roth 1995, 17–18; Jonker 1995, 96–104; Beckman 1996, 3; Shafer 2007, 147). 38 If this is the second act of inscription, the first part of this verse may be an explanatory gloss for verse 4 or alternatively conditioned by the Deuteronomistic insertion of the Scroll/Inscription of the Covenant in verse 7. 39 Regarding my translation of nsḅ ʾ in these lines, most scholars render this word “stele.” However, Zakkur’s monument is in fact not a stele but a statue base. Based on the similar use of nsḅ in Samʾalian to refer to both statues in the round and stelae, I translate this Aramaic term as simply “monument.” This instance of the term on the Zakkur Statue 37

The Decalogue’s Setting in Exodus’ Narrative Spaces & Rituals 113 statue is monumentalized by its erection in a cult space and its inscription. The act of inscription is only sometimes made explicit in monumentalization sequences like this one, but its pairing with an act of monument erection makes it a particularly important parallel to Exod 24, where the same pair occurs. This analysis is rendered more probable by the next action in Exod 24’s monumentalization sequence. Representatives chosen from the people use these newly made ritual implements to perform sacrifices in verse 5. Monumentalization sequences often conclude with the dedication of the artifact by means of offerings and sacrifices (Hogue 2019a, 198–99).40 In fact, the sequence in Exod 24 is nearly an exact parallel to the monumentalization sequence in CEKKE §2–5, in which the monument commissioner erects the stele, inscribes it, and then offers sacrifices before it. While ritual acts of building, writing, and sacrificing are of course common, it is their combination in this sequence that points to their function in Exod 24 of monumentalizing the Decalogue. Verses 6 and 8 narrate a blood manipulation ritual similar to those attested at Karkamiš and Emar. As discussed earlier, the depiction of this ritual action forms a resumptive repetition around verse 7, which is likely a Deuteronomistic insertion in this context and should be excluded from the present analysis.41 Following the sacrifice in the preceding verse, Moses collects the blood in ritual vessels – again, like those attested for Israelite rituals at Tel Dan. In an act reminiscent of the Emarites anointing stelae with blood during the Zukru festival, Moses sprinkles half of the blood on the altar (Fleming 2000, 86–87). The other half he sprinkles on the people, though H. L. Ginsberg proposed that this passage originally narrated the sprinkling of blood on the monuments instead, making the ritual an exact parallel with that of Emar (Ginsberg 1982, 45–46). After the sprinkling, Moses declares: “Behold the blood of the covenant, which Yahweh carved for you on ‘All These Words’ (i.e., the Decalogue).”42 Like the blood rituals of Karkamiš and Emar, the primary intent of this act demonstrates that it is a functional term for describing monumental artifacts, not a formal description of a particular type of artifact. 40 For examples of monumentalization sequences with sacrifices, see SULTANHAN §1–4, KULULU 1 §5–6, and the Katumuwa Stele. 41 Verse 7 has been well incorporated into this ritual sequence, however. Moses reads an inscription, and the people respond to it with a near – though not exact – repetition of oral response recorded in Exod 19:8 and 24:3. 42 The idiom krt hbryt “to cut a covenant” used in this verse originally referred to the ritual dismemberment of animals in covenant ratification ceremonies, but it secondarily became connected to the ritual cutting and inscribing of stones for the monumentalization of

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must be to conjure Yahweh within the ritual space at Sinai. These blood rituals also bound the targeted peoples to the deities thus conjured. This transformed those deities – Dagan at Emar and Tarḫ unzas at Karkamiš – into the chief deities of their respective polities and their subjects. The blood ritual in Exod 24 accomplished the same for Yahweh. In other words, this ritual actualized the monolatry required by the Decalogue. The “covenant renewal ceremony” culminates in a communal feast with Yahweh in verse 11b, which source critics assign to the same layer as verses 3–8 rather than the later layer in verses 9–11a (Baden 2012, 117; Chavel 2015, 192). This recalls feasting practices generally associated with “I Am” monuments, but especially those that explicitly included deities like the feasting of Panamuwa and his sons with Hadad prescribed in the Hadad Statue (KAI 214:15–17) (Struble and Herrmann 2009; Sanders 2012, 19–20; 2013). From an archaeological perspective, this ritual feasting may resemble the feasts held at Tel Dan, revealing yet another connection between the monumental installation at Sinai and the attested installations and practices at that Israelite cult site. These feasts created and reinforced communal ties among the participants and between them and Yahweh (Greer 2013, 106–108, 127–33). This feasting concluded the monumentalization of the Decalogue and provided a model for its reactivation in future ritual engagements.43 Most importantly, the entire ritual itinerary in Exod 24:3–8, 11b, imagines ritual engagement with the Decalogue as a communal affair. This is not a segregated performance like those of the Age of Court Ceremony. Rather, the people at large engage the theatre at Sinai together. Even those mediating the sacrifices are not ritual specialists but youths chosen from among the people, highlighting the openness and lack of stratification in this ritual practice (Chavel 2015, 192).44 While it is true that the monuments may act as ritual stand-ins for the people and that the “youths” certainly mediate for them in the sacrifices, the people are nevertheless the primary participants (Bloch-Smith 2015, 110). This is remarkably similar to the civic rituals identified by Gilibert in connection to monumental installations in the northern Levant – Karkamiš, in covenants (Ramos 2022). I understand it here as a reference to the fashioning and inscribing of the Decalogue, hence I translate it as “carve.” 43 CEKKE §2–6 contains another parallel to this. In addition to prescribing a sacrifice to inaugurate the monument, this section also explicitly prescribes ritual practice to be carried out in the future to reactivate the monument. 44 Blum suggests that this may serve as a concrete example of the “kingdom of priests” from Exod 19:6 (Blum 1990, 51–52).

The Decalogue’s Setting in Exodus’ Narrative Spaces & Rituals 115 particular. The installation of monuments in open theatres elsewhere in the Levant may suggest that these civic rituals were widely practiced (Gilibert 2011, 117 ff.). This was the spatial discourse in mind when Exod 24:3–8, 11b, was juxtaposed to the Decalogue. The collectivity of this practice stands out even more in light of the editorial work on this passage. As already mentioned, verses 9–11a are the work of later editors and interrupt the ritual described in verses 3–8, 11b. These verses were added along with verses 1–2 to reframe the ritual itinerary just discussed (Childs 1974, 499–502; Fretheim 2010, 255; Baden 2012, 117; Chavel 2015, 192). The primary revision these verses introduced to the ritual was segregation. In verses 3–8, the ritual participants are all the people, while in verses 1–2 and 9–11a, the participants are only certain elites. This segregation reflects more clearly the Age of Court Ceremony, and it is likely a later addition indicative of a change in the Decalogue’s monumentality. This change in monumentality will be taken up in more detail in the next chapter. Taken as a whole, the covenant renewal ceremony in Exod 24 imagines the Sinai installation as a ceremonial theatre, akin to that of Katuwas at Karkamiš. Inscriptions, stelae, altars, and uninscribed standing stones were installed in such cultic zones to act as focal points for ritual interactions (Gitin, Dothan, and Naveh 1997, 7; Bloch-Smith 2006, 65; Feldman 2010, 152–61; Smoak 2017b, 329–30). The users of these theatres were transformed into subjects through their engagement with the monuments there. Such complexes were liminal zones that were meant to effect the ideological shift proposed by their associated inscriptions (Gilibert 2011, 67–75; Hogue 2021a). The Decalogue in effect transformed Sinai into a natural temple precinct in the absence of the Tabernacle at this point in Exodus, and such natural sanctuaries were known throughout ancient West Asia (Yamada 1999, 1, 11; 2000, 296; Shafer 2007, 141; Harmanş ah 2007a, 149–64; 2017, 40; Glatz and Plourde 2011, 35, 59). Within this theatre, the Israelites encountered Yahweh through the medium of the Decalogue and its associated artifacts, and they engaged him through sacrifices, blood ritual, and feasting. Together, these ritual actions bound the people to Yahweh and provided a means of community formation. In other words, these artifacts and practices were actually giving shape to the community of Israel – they were creating Israel out of a disparate group of individuals. Having encountered Yahweh through the Decalogue, this group was transformed into his people. The function of this space as a ceremonial theatre is even more apparent when we consider the procession that brings the Israelites there.

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The Decalogue in the Book of Exodus The Procession to the Theatre

After escaping Egypt and a subsequent trek through the wilderness, the Israelites finally arrive at Sinai in Exod 19. What follows is perhaps the most confusing set of passages in the Pentateuch – the Sinai Pericope (Exod 19–24:11). The spatial discourse of “I Am” monuments can shed new light on this pericope’s organization and the convoluted motion through the narrative. The organization of this pericope is primarily governed by spatial rather than temporal concerns. The narrative is structured to clarify the location and movement of various individuals and artifacts in the environment of Sinai, rather than according to a clear chronological sequence. Such an organizational principle has been demonstrated elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible,45 in addition to other ancient West Asian texts, including Levantine “I Am” monuments (Badali et al. 1982; Marcus 1987; Yamada 2000, 32; 2014, 40; Green 2010, 125–26).46 Levantine “I Am” monuments had a very complex spatial syntax in terms of how they related to their environments and invited particular kinds of movement. A direct approach to such a monument would be highly unusual. Rather, these artifacts were embedded in tiered theatres with different levels of participants filed into tiers of increasing intimacy with the artifacts and thereby the agent. Those that could approach the monument did so by means of many pauses, retreats, 180° turns, and precarious climbs (Pucci 2008a, 171; Gilibert 2013, 40). This difficulty of access heightened the users’ sense of the specialness of the monument, its uncanniness, and its inviolability. This complex spatial syntax has been translated into the narrative syntax of Exod 19–24:11. Depicting a monument within the narrative necessitated a convoluted approach. A direct approach is the last thing the audience would expect. What they would expect is exactly what we have: a tiered approach with some groups left behind before reaching the summit, and an approach requiring retreats and turns as directed by the agent (Yahweh). When read as a narrative about approaching a monument, even the current form of the text is quite coherent, or rather incoherent or better convoluted by design. Exod 19–24:11 is rife with scribal markers of revision and insertion: resumptive repetitions, inclusios, step parallelism, and epexegetical markers. 45

Similar arguments have now been defended for the tabernacle materials in Exodus as well as some of the ritual instructions in Numbers (Gudme 2014; Smoak 2017a). 46 Certain Assyrian narratives, for example, are structured in geographical rather than chronological order. The same logic can be observed in the geographical organization of the Dibon Stele, which explains why some events are narrated out of chronological sequence.

The Decalogue’s Setting in Exodus’ Narrative Spaces & Rituals 117 When these are acknowledged and stripped away, what emerges is a primary narrative line centered on divine revelation meant to constitute a community (Ska 2006, 213–14; Roskop 2011, 9–10; Chavel 2015).47 The major events of the earliest form of the narrative are as follows (Carr 2011, 120). First, Moses ascends the mountain to meet Yahweh, who tells him to prepare the people to receive hdbrym hʾlh “these words.” Second, the people communally respond with a sort of ritual incantation that brackets most of the passage (kl ʾšr-dbr yhwh nʿs´h “All that Yahweh has said, we will do.”). Third, the people ritually prepare themselves for Yahweh’s theophany. Fourth, Yahweh appears in a storm theophany.48 Then the Decalogue is inserted. After this, the people’s perception of the storm theophany is related. Then Moses again ascends the mountain to receive revelation. He then reports kl-dbry yhwh “all the words of Yahweh” to the people, who respond with the same ritual incantation as before. The people then ritually enter into a relationship with Yahweh, described as dm-hbryt ʾšr krt yhwh ʿmkm ʿl klhdbrym hʾlh “the blood of the covenant Yahweh carved for you on ‘All These Words’.” While it is true that the Decalogue does not arrive where one might expect it if this is read as a temporal sequence, when the framing narrative is read with spatial syntax in mind, a concentric structure emerges with the Decalogue right at its center (Fig. 14).49 The convolution of this pericope draws special attention to movement up and down the mountain as well as to varying degrees of access. Moses ascends and descends from the mountain at least five times, sometimes without a clear purpose and with varying retinues. Though other textual and literary factors may be responsible for the text reaching its present shape, these were notably not harmonized because they were comprehensible to ancient scribes and their audiences (Tov 2017, 7). Perhaps because this passage was fixated on monument erection, the approach to the monument was allowed to spatially reflect such an approach in lived contexts. The passage is laid out concentrically like a Levantine city or ceremonial plaza. Yahweh and the Decalogue appear at the center of the

47

I provide a translation of the narrative portions of the Sinai Pericope with editorial material clearly marked in Appendix 3. 48 The fire theophany notably only appears in marked elaborations on the passage. 49 It has been suggested that the original form of the Sinai monument-making scene would have had the Decalogue and its ritual inauguration in Exod 24 immediately following Exod 18. If that were the case, the restructuring of the material in the midst of Exod 19– 24:11 was to promote the secondary attachment of the Covenant Code to the tradition (Childs 1974, 350–56, 500; Ginsberg 1982, 46; McCarter 1988, 149; Smith 1997, 233–34).

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The Decalogue in the Book of Exodus I.

Moses Receives Revelation (19:3–7) “All These Words” (19:6) II. Communal Response (19:8) III. Ritual Preparation for Theophany (19:10–15) IV. Storm Theophany (19:16–19) V. Decalogue (20:2–17) a. “All These Words” (20:1) VI. Storm Theophany (20:18) VII. Moses receives revelation (20:22–21:1) VIII. Communal Response (24:3) IX. Ritual Ratification (24:4–8) a. “All These Words” (24:8) a.

figure 14 Outline of the narrative in the Sinai Pericope highlighting its ring structure.

narrative on Mount Sinai, which fills the role of a temple’s inner sanctum. The Israelites may only approach the base of the mountain, a motion reminiscent of the procession through the King’s Gate at Karkamiš where the users can view the temple of the Storm-god but are prevented from accessing it by a vertical obstacle – the temenos. The reader – like the user of such monuments – has no direct path to the Decalogue. In order to ascend the mountain, the reader must linger at different stations, retreat, and repeatedly try again. This is a literary reflection of the spatial complexities of approaching and engaging with a monumental text. The narrative surrounding the Decalogue reflects how ancient Levantine elites disciplined people into becoming their subjects. Through their gathering and processional through the installation at the base of Sinai, the people move into the liminal zone created by the Decalogue and its associated monuments. By processing as directed, they accept and perform a new social role as Yahweh’s subjects (Hodder 2006, 436). In an interesting twist, by transposing this procession into a literary narrative, the writers of these passages discipline the reader in the same way. They now imaginatively process through the Sinai installation along with the Decalogue’s users in the narrative. This is not the only aspect of the narrative that was impacted by the spatial discourse of “I Am” monuments, however. In fact, the structure of the entire book reflects the territorial distribution of such artifacts. Territoriality in the Narrative Geography of Exodus In the book of Exodus, the narrative order and literary frame of materials surrounding the Decalogue provide spatial and temporal coordinates to create a narrative world – an ideologically informed thought world that is

The Decalogue’s Setting in Exodus’ Narrative Spaces & Rituals 119 constructed within the text (Green 2010, 285). More importantly, this narrative world assumes a specific territoriality – that is, the expression of control of a given territory. Not only is the immediate context of the Decalogue apparently patterned after the spatial discourse of monuments, but its territorial placement within the narrative world of Exodus is modeled on monumental discourse as well. As was the case for the monuments of Mesha and Urhilina discussed in the previous chapter, Yahweh’s monument created not just a liminal interactive zone on a local level but also a liminal frontier on a larger territory. Additionally, the Decalogue marked a cosmic extremity – the boundary between Yahweh’s territory and the chaotic enemy land of Egypt. In this way, its spatial discourse resembles that of the peripheral monuments of Aššurnas ̣irpal II and Shalmaneser III in the Levant (Shafer 2007, 145; Yamada 2000, 284). The Decalogue accomplished all of this because it was depicted as a frontier victory monument capping a campaign out of Egypt (Hogue 2019c, 95–98). The narrative of Exodus prior to the Sinai Pericope in many ways resembles an ancient conquest account in which Yahweh defeats Egypt and overcomes his rival – the Pharaoh (Levenson 1985, 22–23; 1993, 127–53; Bruggemann 1995, 44–47; Smith 1996, 39; Herring 2013, 129). Much of this narrative material appears to have been compiled using the model of royal annals (Rendsburg 2006, 218).50 Admittedly, many elements of the narrative of Exodus may have originally derived from other sources, but they were collected in a manner similar to ancient annals. Royal annals were themselves composites of other sources, and they provided one of the few models for text compilation with which the ancient Israelites were familiar (Younger Jr. 1990, 321 n. 1).51 The connections between the Exodus narrative and annalistic literature have previously been made by Angela Roskop Erisman. She demonstrated that the itinerary notices in Exodus and Numbers share many formal similarities with those of Neo-Assyrian annals in particular.52 These

50

Gary Rendsburg suggests specifically that the Exodus narrative was composed to act as a Königsnovelle to Moses. He is correct to note the connection to Königsnovelle – a type of annalistic text – and this may indeed be the model used. However, this connection is complicated by the fact that Yahweh also plays the role of king in addition to Moses. For more on Königsnovellen, see the summary in Hsu (2012, 274–76). 51 K. Lawson Younger Jr. argued the exact same process for the collection of texts in Joshua 9–12, so Exodus would not be alone in adhering to this model. 52 These itinerary notices appear in Exod 12:37; 13:20; 16:1a; 17:1; 19:2; Num 10:12; 20:1; 20:22; 21:20; 21:11.

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itinerary notices utilize the same standard verbs (nsʿ/nasa¯ḫ u “to set out” followed by ḥnh/bia¯tu “to camp”), they are paired with date formulae, and they function primarily to structure narrative materials drawn from other sources (Roskop 2011, 149). Itinerary notices are only attested in this form and for this purpose in the Pentateuch and the Neo-Assyrian annals of the ninth and eighth centuries. Though the itinerary notices are sometimes assigned to the Priestly source, which may imply a later date, this assignment is by no means certain (Roskop 2011, 153). Contrary to a potential late dating of these notices, their close parallels to ninth and eighth century Neo-Assyrian annals suggests an origin during the same period. As it turns out, the itinerary notices are not the only elements of the Exodus narrative that follow patterns otherwise known from Neo-Assyrian annals.53 The non-Priestly strata of Exodus, for example, clearly consist of a military narrative (Roskop 2011, 150–51). In Exod 13:17–18 the Israelites leave Egypt armed for war; in Exod 14–15 Yahweh fights on their behalf with Pharaoh’s army; in Exod 17 the Israelites do battle themselves with the Amalekites (Baden 2012, 124–25). The non-Priestly plague accounts that precede these may also be read as a form of combat, in which Yahweh attacks Egypt in its own territory in order to rescue Israel (Bruggemann 1995; Dozeman 1996, 113–18). Even extending this analysis to both non-Priestly and Priestly strata still shows significant parallels with annalistic tropes.54 For example, the book of Exodus includes spatiotemporal coordinates to frame the narrative (Exod 1:1–7), an enunciation of 53

This is not to say that Neo-Assyrian annals were the only possible source for these other tropes. Barbara Cifola has observed the same tropes and organizational principles in Egyptian annalistic accounts, and K. Lawson Younger Jr. extended the model to Hittite annals (Cifola 1988; 1991; Younger Jr. 1990, 125–64). 54 While some aspects of the annalistic form in the Exodus narrative were obscured by later Priestly redactions, others were actually enhanced by it. For instance, the spatiotemporal coordinates – a typical means of opening an annalistic account – were added by the Priestly editor. The scene at the sea mirrors ancient West Asian battle accounts with its structure of flight, pursuit, and combat, and it shows many marks of Priestly compositional and redactional activity (Herring 2013, 129–31). The majority of Exod 25–31 and 35–40 are Priestly, and their focus on monument erection naturally follows the earlier combat account and move away from enemy territory (Smith 1996; Herring 2013, 132). The golden calf episode had already been attracted to this material and edited based on this preoccupation with monuments, and I would argue that the same may be true for the insertions of the Decalogue and the Covenant Code (Hurowitz 2012, 296–97). The Priestly editors merely continued the non-Priestly insertion of accounts of monuments to close the annalistic account in Exodus. While some of the strata in this editorial material are undoubtedly late, others point to an earlier period and a northern setting in particular (Hurvitz 1967; 1974; 1982; 2000; Haran 1978; 1981; Rendsburg 1980; Zevit 1995; Greer

The Decalogue’s Setting in Exodus’ Narrative Spaces & Rituals 121 disorder (Exod 1:8–22), divine aid (Exod 2–6), movement from place to place (Exod 16–19), the fearful presence of the deity in the passing of the night (Exod 11–12), flight from enemies (Exod 7–10, 13:17–14:4), pursuit by enemies (Exod 14:5–12), combat (Exod 14:13–31), acts of celebration (Exod 15), and monument erection (Exod 20–40).55 All of these are typical motifs in Neo-Assyrian annals, and many appear in Exodus along with the aforementioned itinerary notices, suggesting a concerted effort to align these narrative materials with their annalistic models. Military narratives in royal annals typically ended with accounts of monument erection. These monuments were usually erected on conspicuous landmarks to mark the termination of campaigns and the victory of the campaigning monarch. This trope is consistent throughout the history of ancient West Asian and North African annals, appearing in Hittite, Egyptian, and Assyrian examples of the practice. The “I Am” monument inserted into the Hittite annal KBo 12.38, for example, is depicted as having been erected on a mountain after Šuppiluliuma II’s conquest of Cyprus (Güterbock 1967, 73).56 The choice in Exodus of a mountain in Sinai is also reminiscent of Egyptian practice. Sinai was a significant peripheral monument-making zone for the Egyptians, who act as the main antagonists in Exodus. The biblical account effectively reverses the Egyptian notion of cosmic extremities. Whereas the Egyptians conceived of Sinai as a chaotic transitional zone between their land and the desert, Exodus presents Egypt as the enemy land and Sinai as the dominion of Yahweh (Shaw 1998, 256–57; Baines 2007, 104; Hikade 2007, 1–2; Vogel 2011, 337–38; Matic´ 2017, 21). The closest practice to that depicted in Exodus, however, is again that of the Neo-Assyrians, who often narrativized the erection of monuments at conspicuous landmarks. To the Assyrians, these landmarks represented cosmic extremities between the ordered land within the empire and the disordered lands without (Shafer 2007, 144–45). These narratives corresponded to real monuments that the peoples of the Levant may have seen. For example, Shalmaneser III erected a monument on Mount Carmel in Israel at the end of one of his campaigns (Yamada 1999, 4; 2000, 192). He 2013, 99; 2019; forthcoming). For a broad survey of the debate surrounding the date of the Priestly materials, see the discussion in Ska (2006, 159–61). 55 For more on these tropes in Neo-Assyrian annals, see the discussion of Aššurnas ̣irpal II’s annals in Badali et al. (1982). 56 This practice continued in the Iron Age in the Anatolian region of Tabal as demonstrated by the “I Am” monuments BULGARMADEN, Hİ SARCIK 1, and Hİ SARCIK 2.

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erected a similar monument on Mt. Lebanon beside an older mountain monument of Tiglath-Pileser I (Yamada 2000, 194–95). Apart from these examples nearest ancient Israel, a number of such monuments were erected by Shalmaneser III throughout the northern Levant as well. This trope also governs the end of the Exodus narrative.57 After leading the Israelites out of Egypt, Yahweh halted his campaign at a mountain and set about commemorating his victory. At Sinai, Yahweh gives a monumental law code (Exod 21–23), has an altar and stelae erected (Exod 24), produces a building inscription for a shrine (Exod 25–31), and then has that shrine constructed (Exod 35–40) (Schniedewind 2004, 129–31; Hogue 2019c, 96). The second half of Exodus is so concerned with monument erection that it even attracted the story of the Golden Calf, which in this context is presented as a counter-monument for Yahweh to have destroyed.58 None of these monuments is atypical for a new monarch to be setting up; the only common type missing is a summary inscription to simply announce the victory (Badali et al. 1982, 39–41; Younger Jr. 1990, 72; Yamada 2003; 1999). This is the function of the Decalogue, which appears before any of the other monuments in Exodus. In short, it comes as little surprise that such a military narrative would conclude with the erection of monuments to commemorate the victory. The Decalogue did not just appear to fulfill the expectation of a victory monument, however. It also accomplished an important territorial transition in the narrative world. The book of Exodus is broadly structured on the basis of geography: chapters 1–15:21 take place primarily in Egypt, 15:22–18:27 narrate the march from Egypt to Sinai, and 19–40 take place exclusively at Sinai (Smith 1996, 38). Placing the Decalogue first among the monuments at Sinai marks it as a liminal frontier. This sort of 57

In fact, the composition and redaction of the book of Exodus as a whole has previously been connected to monument production, though this argument has never been stated in these precise terms. Stephen Herring has argued that a key concern of the Priestly redactors was the presence of Yahweh – especially as seen in his appearance to Moses, his coming to Egypt, and ultimately the anchoring of his presence in various artifacts throughout the Sinai pericope. In fact, this concern preexisted the Priestly strand and was expanded upon by the Priestly editors (Herring 2013, 127–37). Because monuments were a significant “mode of presencing” in ancient West Asia, it was essential that Yahweh’s presence be anchored in monuments (Bahrani 2003, 137). Herring’s observations thus amount to a theological explanation for the appearance of monuments in the Sinai pericope. These were artifacts necessary for anchoring the presence of God at Sinai. 58 The episode of the Golden Calf is especially striking in this regard. Despite its apparently non-Priestly origin, it has been edited to correspond to the Priestly tabernacle passages. It was thus redacted to make even clearer that it should be read as a narrative about a counter-monument (Hurowitz 2012, 296–97; Levtow 2012, 330–31).

The Decalogue’s Setting in Exodus’ Narrative Spaces & Rituals 123 geographic liminality was combined with the monumentality of “I Am” monuments during the Age of Territorial Theatre. Urhilina, for example, marked four frontier zones in the kingdom of Hamath using shorter “I Am” monuments that were paired with a centrally installed monument in the city of Hamath itself. Similarly, Mesha paired the Dibon Stele with a peripheral monument in Kerak in order to reorient the community in Kerak toward his new political center in the north. In the book of Exodus, the Decalogue marks a transitional zone between the enemy land of Egypt and the domain of Yahweh beginning at Sinai. The placement of the Decalogue in this context – along the regional seams in the book of Exodus – implies that it is performing a notion of territoriality. The geographical transition also corresponds to a transformation in the identity of the Israelites. As opposed to their former identity as slaves of Pharaoh, they were now the servants of Yahweh (Smith 1996, 39; Levenson 1985, 22–23, 127–59). The depiction of the Decalogue on a liminal frontier also implies that a central monument should be expected to complement the peripheral one. Exodus did not fulfill this expectation, but Deuteronomy shows evidence of an early tradition that did. The Complementary Installation in the Central Highlands I will address the Decalogue in Deuteronomy more specifically in the next chapter. Here I will primarily explore its implications for the Sinai installation and its recapitulations. Deuteronomy implies a strong connection between the mountain of God and another mountain in the central highlands of Israel. This connection makes good on the expectation created by the Sinai installation of a central monument installed elsewhere. Deuteronomy maintains a periphery in Sinai, but it reveals that the implied center is in northern Samaria – the traditional heartland of Israel. Deuteronomy complicates matters somewhat in that it consistently refers to the original location of the Decalogue as Horeb rather than Sinai. While Horeb and Sinai may have originally been tied to separate traditions concerning the mountain of God, they ultimately became entangled.59 Horeb is explicitly connected to the Decalogue in Deut 5:2

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Source critics tend to assign Sinai to J and P while Horeb is limited to E and D. Attempts at a geographical solution have proposed that Sinai was the Judahite name for the mountain of God while Horeb was the Israelite name. Dating of the two traditions range from very early to very late. For general reviews of this topic with references, see Kingsbury (1967), Sarna (1986, 38, 233 n. 16; 1991, 14), and Tigay (1996, 420, 526 nn. 28–29).

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and to the storm theophany at Sinai in Deut 18:16, revealing that the two locations were equated. This equation may have occurred quite early. Deut 18 is part of the Deuteronomic Code, which is considered by most scholars to be the ancient core of Deuteronomy along with some framing materials (Wellhausen 1899; Noth 1943, 27–40; Eissfeldt 1965, 231 ff.; von Rad 1966a, 5:11 f.; Gese 1967; Nicholson 1967, 18–36; Fohrer 1968, 165–78; McCurley Jr. 1974, 295–97; Otto 2013b, 213–14). The connection of Horeb – which is sometimes depicted further east than would be expected for Sinai – to the Exodus narrative may also reflect the early combination of Cisjordanian and Transjordanian Israelite traditions. The communities living on either side of the Jordan originally maintained separate exodus traditions, and these may complicate the identification of the mountain of God. These were eventually combined in the course of the Hebrew Bible’s composition (Kingsbury 1967, 209–10; Russell 2009, 69–71; Fleming 2012, 116–17).60 Whatever the precise origin of this part of the tradition, the more important contribution of Deuteronomy is its link to a complementary installation outside of Sinai or Horeb. The Deuteronomic Code (Deut 12–26) makes nine references to an inscription of Yahweh (Richter 2007, 344–45).61 This inscription is always referred to as Yahweh’s name, perhaps facilitating a direct connection to the Decalogue, which refers to Yahweh’s inscription using the same terminology in the name commandment. The frame of the Deuteronomic Code makes the location of this inscription explicit. In Deut 11:29, Yahweh commands the Israelites ntth ʾt-hbrkh ʿl-hr grzym wʾt-hqllh ʿl-hr ʿybl “you shall set the blessing on Mount Gerizim and the curse on Mount Ebal.” In at least one other instance (Lev 24:1) the verb ntn (literally “to give”) is used to describe the erection of a monument, and this is likely the action envisioned here. Deut 27:1–8 makes this action explicit in its command to set up stones on Mount Ebal and inscribe them. Especially given the similarity of the depicted artifacts to those encountered in Exod 24:3–8 in addition to Deut 27:5–7’s explicit allusion to the altar law in Exod 60

Stephen Russell’s proposed separation of Cisjordanian and Transjordanian Exodus traditions posits that even Sinai was absent from the Cisjordanian tradition. The mountain of God – whether Sinai or Horeb – may have been introduced to the Exodus narrative as a result of combining these traditions. He argues that these traditions were combined at an early point in northern Israel, however, so the mountain of God element is particularly difficult to disentangle. 61 For references to this inscription, see Deut 12:5, 11, 21; 14:23, 24; 16:2, 6, 11; 26:2. As already discussed, the Deuteronomic phrase lškn šm is likely a calque of an Akkadian phrase meaning to set up a monumental inscription (Richter 2002; 2007; 2012; Radner 2005).

The Decalogue’s Setting in Exodus’ Narrative Spaces & Rituals 125 20:24–25, this would seem to recapitulate the installation described at Sinai (Blenkinsopp 1992, 191; Richter 2007, 346–49; Anderson and Giles 2012, 103; Herring 2013, 61; Bloch-Smith 2015, 110). Ebal is only the mountain in the Masoretic Text of Deut 27; the Samaritan Pentateuch and possibly the Old Greek have Gerizim instead.62 Deut 11, however, suggests that inscriptions were to be erected on both mountains. Regardless of which mountain is original to this passage, what is more important is that this monumental installation was imagined in the central highlands – Israel’s original heartland and political center (Finkelstein 2013, 38–41; Fleming and Monroe 2019). Some scholars have explicitly connected this installation to Shechem – one of Israel’s first royal centers (von Rad 1966b, 26–40; Weinfeld 1972, 57; Rofé 2002, 7–8, 100). While Shechem lies at the feet of Ebal and Gerizim, our assignment need not be so specific. Israel’s other royal centers in the Iron II – Tirzah (Tell El-Far’ah (North)) and Samaria – are both within 9 km of Ebal (Sergi 2019). Both Shechem and Tirzah attest assemblages similar to those depicted in Deut 27 and Exod 24:3–8 (Bloch-Smith 2005, 36; 2015, 114; Richter 2007, 358–61). In other biblical texts, this installation is actually produced at Ebal (Josh 8:30–35), Gilgal (Josh 4),63 and Shechem (Josh 24) (Weinfeld 1972, 166; Bloch-Smith 2015, 110). These different accounts all agree that a monumental installation – perhaps several – was to be imagined in the heartland of Israel and that it recapitulated the installation on Sinai. Some have proposed that Deut 27 is a late passage reflecting the attested Samaritan practice of erecting Decalogue monuments and other inscriptions on Gerizim (Edenburg and Müller 2015, 158–60). The problem with this theory is the material of the inscriptions in Deut 27. The stones erected on Mount Ebal are covered in plaster and then inscribed – presumably with ink or paint. Samaritan Decalogue monuments – and Samaritan monuments in general, for that matter – were incised in stone. No plastered inscriptions are attested from the period to which proponents of a Samaritan origin for Deut 27 date the text (Gudme 2017, 90).

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Stefan Schorch and Christophe Nihan understand the Gerizim tradition to be original as opposed to other scholars who see it as secondary. Alternatively, Sandra Richter provides archaeological evidence of a ritual installation on Ebal as evidence that the setting at Ebal is original and reflective of a real shrine (Nihan 2007; Richter 2007; Schorch 2011, 28). 63 Note that the Hebrew Bible recognizes at least five different Gilgals, three of which are within 24 km of Ebal. Given the location of this Gilgal directly across the Jordan, it may be extremely close to if not the same as the installation imagined in Deut 27 and Josh 8 (Richter 2007, 353).

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Incising inscriptions in stone is attested in all periods in ancient West Asia, but the more unusual practice of producing plaster inscriptions is especially known from the southern Levant in the eighth century. The most famous plaster inscription comes from Deir Alla, but inscriptions from Israel and Judah proper are more pertinent to our present purposes. Traces of red ink have been discovered on a stele at the Judahite fortress of Tel Arad, suggesting that it was originally inscribed after the fashion described in Deut 27. More significantly, a preserved plaster inscription is attested at Kuntillet Ajrud – an Israelite fortress in the Sinai (Bloch-Smith 2006, 79; 2015, 101–102; Richter 2007, 359–61). The materiality of the inscription depicted in Deut 27 cannot be explained by the material culture of the Persian period, but rather suggests that at least some layers of the passage originated in the eighth century. What was the significance of this installation in the central highlands? This installation was not the marker of a frontier as was the installation at Sinai; rather, it marked the extension of Yahweh’s domain into Israel proper. As the highest mountain in the central highlands, Ebal would have been an effective means for surveying the entire territory of Israel’s heartland. As Richter argues, “like the triumphal monuments of Mesopotamia,” a monumental installation on Mount Ebal served as “a visible declaration of hegemony over this new region” (Richter 2007, 363). Even if the original mountain was Gerizim, this slightly lower peak in the same region would have served the exact same purpose. The Ebal/Gerizim installation is the central installation complementing the peripheral one at Sinai. It functioned analogously to Mesha’s monument at Dibon, while the Sinai installation is more akin to the monument at Kerak. While Deut 27 – like the whole of Deuteronomy – was subject to later revision and expansion, the earliest version of the text was preexilic and may have been produced contemporaneously or only shortly after the Decalogue and its early contextual passages in Exodus. The installation of the Decalogue at Sinai was complemented by a duplicate or similar inscription imagined in Israel’s central highlands in order to enact the territory claimed by Yahweh.

the sociohistorical context of the decalogue’s composition in exodus The Decalogue developed Yahweh’s kingship by borrowing language from ancient royal inscriptions in its “I Am” formula (Cassuto 1951, 76, 241; Sarna 1991, 15, 109). The connection between Levantine

The Sociohistorical Context of the Decalogue’s Composition 127 “I Am” monuments and the text of the Decalogue ran far deeper than its opening line, however. Almost every clause in the Decalogue is derived from the verbal discourse of such monuments. Some aspects of it certainly underwent editing, but the unity of this verbal discourse strongly suggests that the original version of the Decalogue was much closer to its final form than previously assumed. Beyond this verbal discourse, the context of the Decalogue in the book of Exodus also draws upon the aesthetic and spatial discourse of Levantine “I Am” monuments. As a result, the Decalogue in Exodus afforded meaning in the same way as these monuments. It reembodied Yahweh in an imagined encounter with the Israelites and it promoted their constitution as a community. I conclude this chapter by examining the monumentality of the Decalogue within both the narrative world of Exodus and the world behind the text. This necessitates some attempt at dating the text. In attempting to date biblical texts, we must carefully disambiguate the temporal setting within the literary world and the setting for composition implied by the depicted cultural elements. In its larger narrative frame, the Decalogue has been set in the periphery of Bronze Age Egypt. The specific monumental discourse of the Decalogue cannot maintain this setting, however, and we see the discourse of the Iron Age creep in and take over. In particular, the monumental discourse of the Decalogue matches cultural models from the Levant especially during the ninth and eighth centuries BCE. While specifying a sociohistorical context within this range requires some educated guesswork, the exercise is nonetheless valuable because monumentality is essentially meaningless until it is restated in historical terms. The Decalogue’s Monumentality The monumentality of the Decalogue resided in the special meaning afforded it by the community that engaged it. It afforded meaning in various modes through its verbal, aesthetic, and spatial discourse. I analyzed these separately earlier for heuristic purposes, but they were inextricable from each other in the experience of ancient audiences. Together, these formed the Decalogue’s monumental discourse, which I will now discuss in concert. The content of the Decalogue primarily defines the relationship between Yahweh and the Israelites in terms of injunctions, all of which have parallels in Levantine “I Am” monuments. The commandments

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adapt phraseology from “I Am” monuments to declare Yahweh’s preeminence, demand the protection of his monument, prescribe its ritual activation, and propose ideal moral behaviors for the people. The poetics of the text also attest to the adaptation of this discourse. The Decalogue was structured according to deictic categories, as were other monuments of the Iron Age Levant. The text opened with an “I Am” formula in order to initiate deictic projection in the minds of its users. They were thus provoked to imagine Yahweh present with and speaking to them. The remaining organization of the text orients those users in an evaluative space relative to Yahweh and his ideology. Various deictic shifts in the text express the distancing consequences of failing to orient oneself according to the perspective and values proposed by the layout of the text. Cumulatively, the text of the Decalogue places its users in a liminal space between Yahweh and his rivals, and it is organized so as to draw its users closer to Yahweh. The text thereby not only reembodies Yahweh but also provides a means for its users to embody his perspective in themselves, thus becoming his subjects. The Decalogue was inserted into the book of Exodus alongside multiple depictions of artifacts. These allowed people to imagine a physical means of participating in the transformation brought about by the text. The altar and the mas ̣s ̣ebot recall ancient Levantine artifacts that would typically be inscribed with texts like the Decalogue. They may also be functioning as attendant uninscribed artifacts meant to interact with or in place of such texts as part of a larger monumental theatre. These artifacts act as mediums for the physical interaction of the Decalogue’s participants – the altar provides a means of engaging with the deity while the mas ̣s ̣ebot reembody him and also provide a permanent means for the Israelites to be present before the text and the altar. These artifacts were also ritual implements for carrying out the transformation proposed by the text. The ritual sequence attached to the Decalogue reveals how the associated implements were to be used in order to effect the proposed transformation. First, the people and Moses processed to Sinai in a convoluted approach, highlighting the specialness and inviolability of the monumental theatre there and especially its focal point – the Decalogue. The Decalogue was then monumentalized by ritual acts of building, inscription, recitation, and sacrifice. Within this sequence, the people gathered before the monuments at the base of Sinai, they orally assented to the text, and they were sprinkled with blood along with the altar. The depiction specifies that this blood sprinkling signified that the ritual transformation

The Sociohistorical Context of the Decalogue’s Composition 129 was complete. The people then participated in an intimate feast with Yahweh. Cumulatively, these rituals suggest that the people had passed through the liminal zones of the theatre and emerged as the subjects of Yahweh. The Decalogue also produced liminality and transformation on a regional scale. In the book of Exodus, the Decalogue’s setting at Sinai mirrors the erection of monuments in royal annals to signal the successful conclusion of a military campaign. Its setting at the point at which the Israelites had left Egypt and entered a new region reflects the territorial distribution of some Levantine “I Am” monuments. That is, the text was erected in a peripheral zone to spread a new ideology to those being drawn out of another territory. Just as ancient Levantine kings would need to provide a reoriented identity to conquered populaces, Yahweh proposes a new identity in Sinai to the people he brought out of Egypt. Taken together, these different modes of discourse reveal the monumentality of the Decalogue. This discourse was a specific means of affording meaning and sense-making to the Israelites in the narrative. That meaning revolved around the reembodiment of Yahweh and the creation of his ideal subjects. The verbal discourse proposed a new perspective to its users and guided them into that proposed perspectival shift. The spatial discourse restructured space at Sinai and guided its users through it in order to reshape them. The aesthetic discourse consisted of ekphrastic accounts of material and ritual means for actualizing this embodiment and social constitution. The Decalogue thus presents Yahweh as a divine king who fulfills the expectations of not only Levantine deities but also Levantine rulers. By drawing on the discourse of “I Am” monuments, Yahweh provided the Hebrews coming out of Egypt with a land, a communal identity, and a shared deity and king. The Decalogue thus reconfigured what it meant to be Israelite. Importantly, by guiding the user of the literary text through an idealized experience of the monument, the composers of the Decalogue promoted the same transformation among later audiences as well. The Date of the Decalogue’s Composition The Decalogue’s monumentality cannot rightly be considered apart from its historical context. Recall that monumentality is never transhistorical. Monuments “belong to a specific time, and they are legible within that specific time” (Bahrani 2014, 234). Appeals to literary creativity cannot get around this. Creativity is ultimately a materialized process, and it is

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contingent on its sociohistorical setting (Tanggaard 2015). The simplest explanation for the appearance of a Levantine monumentality of a particular period in the Decalogue is that the text was composed at the same time. To borrow the critique of Eckart Otto of the late dating of biblical adaptations of Neo-Assyrian literary forms: “the question arises as to why the biblical authors should use the Neo-Assyrian motifs of the seventh century in the sixth century, when they were already outdated. . . . To speak of a verspätete Rezeption ‘belated reception’ does not explain anything” (Otto 2013a, 346). Of course, many scholars continue to date the composition of texts like the Decalogue late. Otherwise, many assume if the Decalogue did exist in earlier periods, it was not necessarily as a text. A history of monuments provides a new perspective from which to engage with this discussion. Especially since monumental discourse was only preserved through active engagement with monuments, outdated discourse would be inaccessible to ancient scribes who had not experienced it. The history of Levantine “I Am” monuments can thus provide insight into the history of the Decalogue. Many aspects of the Decalogue’s monumental discourse point to a date in the ninth or eighth century. For example, the Decalogue makes use of many elements of verbal discourse that originate in Hieroglyphic Luwian “I Am” monuments. While some Luwian loanwords and expressions are attested elsewhere in the biblical text (Noonan 2019, 308–9), the high concentration of technical phrases in the Decalogue of Luwian origin is unprecedented. The “I Am” formula, the use of a compound preposition to describe Yahweh’s preeminence over other gods, the initial verbal compound in the image commandment, the entirety of the name commandment, and the injunction in the honor commandment all have direct verbal parallels in Hieroglyphic Luwian. While it is possible that some of this phraseology may have entered Hebrew via another Semitic language like Aramaic or Phoenician, it is highly unlikely that these idiomatic expressions would have long survived the demise of Hieroglyphic Luwian in the late eighth century. Furthermore, such a convoluted transmission may not have been necessary. King Ahab of Israel was a known ally of Urhilina of Hamath, and this relationship may have provided the arc of transmission for these aspects of verbal discourse. Another possibility is that this discourse came to Israel during the reign of Jeroboam II, who incorporated Hamath into his kingdom (Haran 1967).64 64

It is worth noting that Hamathite rulers with Yahwistic names appear in extra-biblical records following the reign of Jeroboam II, perhaps suggesting that some sort of marriage

The Sociohistorical Context of the Decalogue’s Composition 131 More specifically, the monumental discourse of the Decalogue points especially to a setting during the Age of Territorial Theatre (870–745 BCE). The monolatry commandment and image commandment proclaim Yahweh’s supremacy over rivals without any reservation; the hedging language of such self-praise that emerged in the context of Neo-Assyrian imperial expansion is completely absent (Green 2010, 297). Similarly, the practice of proposing territorial control using “I Am” monuments is only attested in the Levant between the incursions of Aššurnas ̣irpal II and Tiglath-Pileser III. This practice was eliminated when Tiglath-Pileser claimed it as his sole prerogative in the late eighth century. While the aesthetic discourse of the Decalogue is common to all periods of Levantine “I Am” monuments, it is more restricted in the history of Israel and Judah. The use of maṣs ̣ebot, in particular, was the target of later religious reforms that completely disavowed their use. This suggests that Exod 24 and its connection to the Decalogue must predate the reforms of Josiah and perhaps even those of Hezekiah (Bloch-Smith 2005, 36). In short, the Decalogue cannot be dated earlier than 870 BCE and not much later than 745 BCE. But what about the narrative surrounding it? Because Exod 19–24:11 acts as an etiology for Israelite identity, it attracted much editorial activity in several different time periods in order to redefine Israel in different sociocultural and historical settings (Ska 2006, 213–14; Chavel 2015, 202–7). Nevertheless, some form of this narrative originated during the preexilic period. David Carr suggests that the initial non-Priestly narrative consisted of the storm theophany, the Decalogue, possibly the Covenant Code, and some form of the ritual in Exod 24:3–8 (Carr 2011, 120). While there is much debate over the date of the attendant rituals in Exod 24, various scholars date portions of both verses 3–8 and 9–11 to the preexilic period (Jeremias 1965; Clifford 1972, 155; Cross 1973, 163–69; McCarthy 1978, 264–69; Hendel 1989, 378– 81; Van Seters 1994, 254–70; Zenger 1996, 265–88; Smith 1997, 241–44; Schniedewind 2004, 122–28; Carr 2011, 470–77). Editorial activity undoubtedly continued into the Persian period, but it began in the preexilic period. The annalistic organization of the narrative materials framing the Decalogue points to a preexilic date as well. While Roskop Erisman

alliance or other close relationship existed between Israel and Hamath even after this period (Younger Jr. 2016, 488–96). Even though these rulers were supposedly “Aramaean,” comparison with the kings of Zincirli suggests that Luwian could still have been used under these Semitic rulers and thus transferred to Israel (Hogue 2022c, 28).

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concluded that this literary practice must have been adapted from NeoAssyrian texts, she nevertheless concludes that this happened during the Persian period based on the typical assignation of the itinerary notices to a Priestly hand. However, she provides no clear vector of transmission for this adaptation to have taken place centuries after the literary convention ceased to exist (Roskop 2011, 146–51). There is, however, a possible vector of transmission that may point to the adaptation of Neo-Assyrian annalistic conventions at an earlier date. These texts were only made public during the ninth and eighth centuries. Aššurnas ̣irpal’s annals, for example, were inscribed in full on the pavement slabs of the Ninurta Temple in Kalḫ u, and select years were also inscribed on walls and thresholds in his palace, which remained in use until the reign of Tiglath-Pileser III (Russel 1999, 15, 48–53; Roskop 2011, 87–88; Aster 2016, 181). For his own part, TiglathPileser III had his annals inscribed in full on the walls of his palace in Kalḫ u (Russel 1999, 88–94). Sargon II (722–705 BCE) followed suit and his Kalḫ u palace was decorated with the first fourteen years of his annals (Russel 1999, 111–14). During the reigns of these kings, Neo-Assyrian annals were used as a primary means of communicating ideological claims to the public, especially elites and foreign dignitaries visiting the Kalḫ u palaces. However, this ceased to be the case during the reign of Sennacherib (705–681 BCE), when annals were relegated to cylinder inscriptions hidden within walls and intended only to be read by future royal scribes. The annals were replaced instead with mostly pictorial narratives on palace walls, representing a significant shift in Neo-Assyrian monumentality and communication strategies (Russel 1999, 244). How might Neo-Assyrian monumental practices of this specific time have come to influence the production of literature in ancient Israel? The most probable answer is that Israelite scribes were exposed to NeoAssyrian annals when they visited the palaces at Kalḫ u as emissaries to the Assyrian court. Even though Assyria did not have direct hegemony over the Levant between the reigns of Shalmaneser III and Tiglath-Pileser III, Levantine elites – including emissaries from the kingdom of Israel – continued visiting the palaces at Kalḫ u to bring tribute and participate in court ceremonies there. Israelites could have been exposed to annalistic conventions as early as the ninth century and definitely during the early eighth century; the Kalḫ u wine lists show that Israelites were certainly visiting Assyria during the reign of Jeroboam II (Aster 2007, 13–18; 2016, 181–93). This also suggests another important conclusion: this early version of Exodus and its Decalogue originated in the Northern Kingdom. It was during the ninth and eighth centuries in the Northern

The Sociohistorical Context of the Decalogue’s Composition 133 Kingdom that Israelite scribes most likely adapted Neo-Assyrian conventions for the structuring of their own literature. During this time, not only was there a clear vector of transmission, but annalistic conventions were also being used as a means of communicating ideology to a public. It is far less likely that these conventions would have been adopted after the Assyrians themselves abandoned them in favor of other strategies, and still less likely that Judean exiles somehow rediscovered the Assyrian annals centuries later. The Israelite Origin of the Decalogue Already our discussion of the date of the Decalogue’s composition has pointed to a probable origin in the Northern Kingdom of Israel, but many other pieces of evidence point in this direction as well. Many of the constituent parts of the book of Exodus – including the exodus narrative (Hoffman 1989; Finkelstein 2013, 145–51), the mountain of God and storm theophany (Kingsbury 1967; McKenzie 1991, 83–87; Fleming 2012, 116 n. 4), the Covenant Code (McCurley Jr. 1974, 304; Patrick 1977, 156–57; Wright 2009), and the Tabernacle description (Greer forthcoming) – are thought to be of originally northern extraction. The connection to materials in Deuteronomy also supports this conclusion. A number of scholars argue that the book of Deuteronomy in fact originated in the Northern Kingdom of Israel before its destruction in 722 BCE (cf. Alt 1953; Porteous 1963; Ginsberg 1982). Even scholars who do not accept that an edition of the book was produced in Israel will acknowledge that the book does in fact preserve earlier Israelite traditions (cf. von Rad 1953, 60ff.; 1966b, 26–40; Weiser 1961, 133 f. Eissfeldt 1965, 223; Nicholson 1967; Weinfeld 1972, 57; Rofé 2002, 7–8). Finally, the Decalogue is primarily alluded to in texts generally thought to have originated in the Northern Kingdom: Hosea, Psalms 50 and 81, and 1 Kings 12 (cf. Rendsburg 1990; Römer 2017; Leuchter 2020). The northern origin of the Decalogue is also suggested by its aesthetic discourse’s many correspondences with the cultic installation at Tel Dan. These parallels not only suggest a northern context for the text but demand a date before the fall of the Northern Kingdom. The mere focus on an inscription from the Age of Territorial Theatre implies northern provenance. Textualization increased significantly in ancient Israel during the eighth century, but current evidence suggests that it was restricted to the Northern Kingdom until the late eighth century. Essentially no Hebrew writing is attested from Judah until after the fall of Israel (Schniedewind

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2004, 113–33; Finkelstein and Silberman 2006, 263; Fleming 2012, 302– 303). Literary connections between the Decalogue, its contexts, and the Israelite monarchy bear out this provenance as well. Broadly speaking, the Exodus narrative was a major charter myth of the Northern Kingdom (Russell 2009; Carr 2011, 120; Fleming 2012, 115; Finkelstein 2013, 145–51).65 The non-Priestly strata of the Exodus narrative in particular contain substantial parallels to the annalistic account of Jeroboam’s rise to power and founding of the Northern Kingdom in 1 Kings. Even though Judahite polemics are apparent in both narratives, these are editorial additions to earlier Israelite compositions (Weingart 2020, 153). Like Moses, Jeroboam originates in a royal context (compare Exod 2:5–10 and 1 Kgs 11:28), he acts rebelliously on behalf of the people (Exod 2:11–12 and 1 Kgs 12:4), he flees in fear for his life (Exod 2:13–15 and 1 Kgs 11:40), he returns to his people after the death of his pursuer (Exod 4:19–20 and 1 Kgs 11:43–12:3), he attempts to negotiate the relief of his people from forced labor (Exod 5:1–5 and 1 Kgs 12:4–5), forced labor is intensified as a result (Exod 5:6–14 and 1 Kgs 12:6–14), and finally he leads his people out from southern domination (Exod 7–14 and 1 Kgs 12:16). Both accounts conclude with the erection of cultic victory monuments, including golden calves (Exod 32:1–6 and 1 Kgs 12:26–30). Jeroboam even inaugurates his monuments by alluding to the Decalogue in 1 Kgs 12:28, and he is the only king to ever make any reference to the Exodus. There is no conceivable reason for southern scribes to have fabricated this testimony to the northern origin of the Exodus (Römer 2017, 375). These parallels suggest that though the Exodus account may have drawn upon earlier traditions, it was partially composed in annalistic format to act as a legitimating myth of the Northern Kingdom and its monarchy (Coote 1991; Albertz 1992, 1:215; Van Seters 1994, 72; Nohrnberg 1995, 282–96; Carr 2011, 477– 79; Finkelstein 2013, 145–51; Leuchter 2017, 120–21). Jeroboam is 65

Secondarily, the Exodus narrative may have functioned as a charter myth for the Mushite priesthood at Dan that rose to special prominence during the reign of either Jeroboam I or Jeroboam II, depending on how one interprets the archaeological remains at Tel Dan. Mark Leuchter has argued that “the picture of Moses in the mature versions of the Exodus narrative may preserve memories regarding the Mushites during Israel’s formative period” (Leuchter 2012, 490). The Exodus narrative may reveal additional structural parallels to the account of the Danite and Mushite migration to the city of Dan, for example, which became one of Jeroboam’s national shrines (Malamat 1970). The many parallels between the Sinai installation and the cult at Tel Dan may provide new evidence for this possibility, but it also suggests a more straightforward connection to the Israelite monarchy.

The Sociohistorical Context of the Decalogue’s Composition 135 essentially Israel’s new Moses in the account in 1 Kings (Leuchter 2017, 130). It was undoubtedly originally composed in the Northern Kingdom in order to create a clear parallel between Moses and the Israelite king.66 The original form of the Sabbath commandment as well as the rituals performed in Exod 24 may provide more evidence for this connection to the Israelite monarchy. Similar rituals were carried out semi-regularly at the royal sanctuary in Tel Dan. Jonathan Greer suggests that one of the primary occasions for these rituals was Sukkot or its precursor – the Israelite Autumnal New Year or ḥg (Greer 2013, 39–40). As already discussed, this festival had important connections to the new moon, the new year, and the Sabbath. This was also the occasion upon which the historian of 1 Kgs 12 saw fit to place the Decalogue in the mouth of Jeroboam as he established the Northern Kingdom. This connection to northern festivals is not limited to this single reference. The first line of the Decalogue was also quoted in Psalms 50 and 81, Asaphite psalms of northern origin believed to have originally been connected to a recurrent autumnal festival (Gray 1961, 10–12; Goulder 1996, 149–51; Mowinckel 2004, 120–21).67 Though the occasion is never named outside of Exod 19:1’s reference to the ḥdš “new moon” and the Decalogue’s own reference to the Sabbath, the ceremonial complex enacted in Exod 24 is perhaps best explained as a literary depiction of monument activation rituals such as would be carried out on a semi-regular basis as part of the Israelite New Year.68 Hos 2:13, another northern text, even seems to equate ḥg with ḥdš and šbt (Hallo 1977, 9; King 1988, 109–12). This was the festival during which Israel ritually performed the enthronement of Yahweh as well as their own social structure in order to consolidate their communal identity. What historical circumstances in Israel could have motivated the Decalogue’s composition? Jeroboam I, though central to the narratives just discussed, reigned in the tenth century before the Age of Territorial 66

Rendsburg’s assertion that the Exodus narrative is essentially a Königsnovelle for Moses is even more salient in this case. The Exodus narrative is written in annalistic style to legitimate Moses’ and Yahweh’s position over Israel, and by extension it legitimates the reiteration of that position in the form of the northern monarchs (Rendsburg 2006). 67 Michael Goulder suggests that the Selah pauses in these psalms may have been liturgical pauses to allow for the reading of the Decalogue (Goulder 1996, 38–43, 147–57). 68 The Covenant Code includes another possible designation for this autumnal festival: ḥg hʾsyp “the festival of Ingathering.” In Exod 23:16, the Israelites are instructed to perform this festival at the end of the year, and verses 17–19 specify that the performance involves appearing before Yahweh in his temple, making offerings, and perhaps even feasting (Goulder 1996, 149–50).

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Theatre and apparently before any significant writing was undertaken in Israel. Any connections between the Decalogue and Jeroboam are thus to be explained in light of the work of later Israelite scribes (Robker 2012, 157–64). Two possibilities present themselves for the sponsors of these scribes: the Omrides (especially Ahab) and the Nimshides (especially Jeroboam II). In the ninth century, the Omrides expanded Israelite territory significantly, thus necessitating new reflections on what territory was included in the designation “Israel” and what people could be considered “Israelite.” The Omrides performed their territoriality by constructing monumental palaces and fortresses (Sergi and Gadot 2017). Two of these were built in the Israelite heartland in Samaria and Jezreel, but the others were all placed in frontier cities facing potential enemies or overlooking newly conquered territory. These were in Jahaz, Ataroth, Hazor, RamothGilead, Har Adir, and Gezer (Finkelstein and Lipschits 2010; Finkelstein 2013, 85–105; 2019, 142–43).69 A similar practice is attested in Hamath by Ahab’s ally Urhilina as well as in Moab by Ahab’s enemy Mesha, who even claimed Jahaz and Ataroth for himself. Unfortunately, no “I Am” monuments have been found at these sites, nor can any inscriptions be confidently dated to the Omride period. But we should keep in mind that neighboring Moab produced at least two “I Am” inscriptions of considerable length and sophistication during this same period and successfully distributed them across a wide territory. Apart from these inscriptions, Moab preserves even less evidence of literary activity during this time than does ancient Israel. So the ninth century is certainly a possibility for the composition of the Decalogue, but certain factors render it less likely than the eighth century. In particular, the Omride period ended in calamity and the Israelite polity shrank back into its heartland. During the eighth century, the Nimshides expanded Israel to its greatest extent, effectively turning it into a small empire. Especially under Jeroboam II, Israel reclaimed territory from Aram, pushed as far north as Hamath and as far south as Sinai, captured territory in Transjordan, and made vassals of Ammon, Moab, Edom, and Judah (Haran 1967; Tebes 2018; Finkelstein 2020a). Even more so than the Omrides, the Nimshides again needed to address the questions of what was Israel and

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Finkelstein’s inclusion of Hazor and Gezer in this list are the result of his late chronology of some strata at those sites (Fleming 2021, 140 n. 71). Not all archaeologists accept the appearance of Omride architecture at those sites, but their status as Omride is immaterial to the current argument.

The Sociohistorical Context of the Decalogue’s Composition 137 who counted as an Israelite. One of the ways they set about proposing an Israelite identity was through writing. It was especially during this period that a standardized written Hebrew emerged and that mostly in service to the Nimshide dynasty (Sass 2005, 59). For example, the Samaria Ostraca used writing to record the distribution of luxury items to elites outside of Samaria. This provided a means of tying these elites to the court of Jeroboam II at Samaria, making them simultaneously dependent upon and indebted to him. A similar strategy was employed by the Assyrian court at this time to create hegemony over foreign dignitaries, including emissaries from Samaria (Nam 2013; Aster 2016). This is thus a likely setting for the production of literature that reframed Israelite identity (Robker 2012, 114; Römer 2017; Finkelstein 2017; 2019; 2020b). The annalistic history of Jeroboam I in 1 Kings probably originated during the reign of Jeroboam II. The Nimshide king narrated the story of his namesake in order to lend legitimacy to his own dynasty. While this tradition shows significant evidence of later transformation, the original edition of the text was a pro-Jeroboam, Israelite narrative (Berlejung 2009; Robker 2012, 164; Römer 2017; Finkelstein 2019, 145–46). Similarly, the composition of the Exodus narrative – or at least its close alignment with the Jeroboam I story – can be tentatively placed in this period. The territorial installation of the Decalogue in the Pentateuch lends new evidence for this picture. The territory imagined for Yahweh by the Decalogue corresponds to the actual territory of Israel under the Nimshides. Jeroboam II successfully expanded Israel into Sinai, as evidenced by his fortress at Kuntillet Ajrud. Sinai thus was actually the southern frontier of Israel during this time, and it directly bordered Egypt (Tebes 2018; Schniedewind 2019, 33).70 The complementary installation on Mount Ebal also fits well with this territorial expansion. The central installation on Mount Ebal speaks to an association with the central highlands and especially northern Samaria. But it also suggests an alignment with the Transjordan, from which the Israelites cross into the heartland of Israel in Deut 27 and Josh 4, 8, and 24. Daniel Fleming suggests that this tradition reflects the incorporation of Transjordanian literary traditions into Israel’s literature (Fleming 2012, 116–17, 314–21). A very particular form of the Exodus narrative may have come with these

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For this reason, I would suggest that the label “Northern Kingdom” is inappropriate for the territory ruled by Jeroboam II. This territory surrounded Judah because Jeroboam controlled territory north, east, and south of Jerusalem. It is thus better labeled the Encircling Kingdom.

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Transjordanian traditions. Stephen Russel argues that Cisjordanian and Transjordanian exodus traditions should be differentiated, even though they were apparently combined at an early point. In particular, the Cisjordanian tradition may have been limited to the Israelites coming out of Egypt, while the Transjordanian tradition was more militaristic and focused on the people’s liberation from Egypt and subsequent conquest of what would become Israel (Russell 2009, 127–28). Transjordan was actually incorporated into Israel by Jeroboam II during the same period that Sinai became the kingdom’s southern frontier, so this would be an attractive period to date the combination of Cisjordanian and Transjordanian Israelite traditions (Finkelstein 2020a). Notably, the method of inscription on plaster prescribed in Deut 27 is attested in Transjordan at Deir Alla and in Sinai at Kuntillet Ajrud. Thus, the erection of the Decalogue at Sinai and the recapitulation of the Sinai installation after crossing into the central highlands from Transjordan reflects the real territorial extent of Israel under Jeroboam II. What function did the Decalogue accomplish within the kingdom of Israel? It fundamentally answered the question of what it meant to be Israelite. We know that the Israelites erected monuments at Samaria akin to those of the surrounding kingdoms in the ninth or eighth century (Rollston 2010, 55). The Decalogue reveals the idealized version of that Israelite monumental discourse. It demanded recognition for the preeminence of Yahweh, and it tied the Israelites en masse to him as his people. This is especially notable since Yahweh was the dynastic god of both the Omrides and the Nimshides and likely became the chief deity of the polity during those periods (Finkelstein 2019, 146; Stahl 2020; Fleming 2021, 190, 259–60).71 The Decalogue imagines Yahweh’s territory as consisting of all of Israel’s holdings under Jeroboam II. Finally, the Decalogue’s context in Exodus sees the Israelites responding to Yahweh’s kingship using artifacts and practices especially known from the royal sanctuary at Tel Dan. In the narrative world, the Decalogue transformed a disparate people into Israel, and it served the exact same purpose in the world behind the text. It reconfigured Israelite identity at a time when Israel had come to encompass more people and land than ever before. In conclusion, the Decalogue’s monumentality reflects the attested monumentality of Levantine “I Am” monuments from the Age of 71

Fleming and Stahl propose that Yahweh became the chief deity of Israel under the Omrides, while Finkelstein maintains that Yahweh was simply a dynastic deity of the Omrides and only became the polity’s chief deity under the Nimshides.

The Sociohistorical Context of the Decalogue’s Composition 139 Territorial Theatre, and it can be safely dated to that period. Various factors point to the text’s composition in the Northern Kingdom of Israel during that period. A more specific setting for the text cannot be confirmed, but numerous lines of evidence suggest that we should credit the Decalogue’s composition to the Nimshide dynasty, with Jeroboam II as the most likely sponsor. Nevertheless, we should not discount the possibility of an Omride origin, since the monuments most similar to the Decalogue all date to the reign of Ahab. It may also be possible that an Omride tradition was transformed by the Nimshides to become the Decalogue. Regardless, the Decalogue was most likely produced under one of these northern dynasties. The Decalogue’s composition was only the beginning of a much longerlived tradition, and its monumentality changed significantly as a result of its reception in later periods. Already in the book of Exodus, there is evidence for editorial work attempting to better align the Decalogue with the norms of the Age of Court Ceremony, such as the segregated ritual in Exod 24:1–2, 9–11a, that was added to reframe the earlier ritual in verses 3–8, 11b. This sort of ritual syntax actually does appear in Israel during the Nimshide period and so may be evidence for an early reformulation of the Decalogue (Greer 2013, 133–36). However, it is far more likely that this editing was the work of Judahite scribes who reformulated the Decalogue after the fall of Israel. While vestiges of this work appear in Exodus, it appears much more clearly in the book of Deuteronomy.

3 The Decalogue in the Book of Deuteronomy

The relevance of a cultural product waxes and wanes with time, and its authority is subject to perennially changing interpretations. Ironically, this is especially true of monuments. Because they transform cultural interactions and ideas from a particular time and place into material artifacts, they are vulnerable to being forgotten or misunderstood, not to mention simply destroyed (Osborne 2017). However successful a monument’s production may have been, monumentality is only preserved through regular reception. A monument can only have meaning if it is engaged, and the nature of that engagement may need to change in order for a monument to continue making sense for subsequent generations and other communities. As Gilibert puts it, “if left untouched . . . monuments lose their aura and become invisible” (Gilibert 2011, 114). Having been produced as an “I Am” monument, the Decalogue was vulnerable to just this sort of evanescence. Repeated and sustained reception was essential to the maintenance of its monumentality. In ancient West Asia this sort of maintenance often entailed updated engagements and recontextualizations. This is precisely the sort of reception we encounter for the Decalogue in Deuteronomy. The relationship between the Decalogues in Exod 20 and Deut 5 has long confounded scholars. The debate over this topic is usually most concerned with which of the two had primacy over the other. While the verbal discourse of Exod 20 can be treated as a Vorlage to Deut 5, Erhard Blum is correct to note that the two were probably originally identical and were both subsequently transformed interdependently (Blum 2011b, 289– 91; cf. Lukács 2015). The contexts of the Decalogue provide less of a problem. Many have recognized the priority of Exodus over Deuteronomy in this regard (Kratz 1994; Köckert 2007; Blum 2011b). This is especially important for the present argument because it is the 140

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contexts of the Decalogue that reveal its aesthetic and spatial discourse – that is, the cultural practices informing how audiences imagined the Decalogue, its setting, and ritual engagement with it. While the original verbal discourse of the Decalogue in Deuteronomy may have been identical to that in Exodus, its aesthetic and spatial discourse was radically transformed. Leaving behind discursive practices unique to the Age of Territorial Theatre (870–745 BCE), the scribes responsible for Deuteronomy reconfigured the Decalogue as an “I Am” monument of the Age of Court Ceremony (790–600 BCE). In other words, these scribes reimagined the Decalogue as a centralized monument engaged in the king’s court, rather than as a victory monument marking the boundary of a burgeoning territorial polity. Recall that the Age of Court Ceremony was a particularly notable period in the history of “I Am” monuments because it witnessed the transposition of older monuments into new assemblages. These recontextualizations changed the meanings that were afforded by preexisting monuments. Bar-Rakib, for instance, left Kulamuwa’s earlier monument intact on the Zincirli acropolis when he began his own construction. However, his transformations to the art and architecture of the acropolis as well as his inscription’s (KAI 216) reinterpretation of Kulamuwa’s inscription (KAI 24) forced the earlier monument into a new relationship with the community engaging it. As a result, the Kulamuwa Orthostat was received in a new way during Bar-Rakib’s reign. Similarly, the writers of Deuteronomy introduced the textual tradition of the Decalogue into new literary contexts – especially, a new narrative geography and new depictions of monuments. The results were a new reception and interpretation of the Decalogue, even though its verbal discourse was largely left intact. The reception of the Decalogue in Deuteronomy is inextricably bound up with the history of the book of Deuteronomy itself. A complete history of Deuteronomy would go beyond the scope of this book, so I only review it briefly here. Many, though certainly not all, scholars accept that some form of Deuteronomy existed in the preexilic period, though this is usually restricted to portions of Deut 12–26 and perhaps some of the framing materials.1 The book was then redacted multiple times in the postmonarchic period, though there is little consensus in scholarship regarding these redactions. Popular schemas include the “double redaction” theory 1

For a counterexample, see the recent chapter by Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò, in which he argues that Deuteronomy originated during the Persian period, though he notes his position runs counter to scholarly consensus (Niesiołowski-Spanò 2021).

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first proposed by Frank Moore Cross that posits one preexilic and one postmonarchic version of Deuteronomy and the Göttingen school that argues that there were three or four postmonarchic redactions of a preexilic Urdeuteronomium.2 Many histories of Deuteronomy follow suit in understanding the book as having progressed through multiple discreet editions. However, it is more likely that the book was subject to periodic revision and that it accreted new material slowly rather than in systematic editions at specific times (Person 2002, 8–9, 16; Kratz 2005, 170; Edelman 2013, 72–73 n. 47). That is the position adopted here. Even the preexilic materials in Deuteronomy, however, primarily consist of reworkings of earlier materials and show signs of periodic revision. Deuteronomy frequently adapts other sources in the Pentateuch and alludes to extrabiblical traditions, expanding and reframing them. In other words, Deuteronomy was a self-conscious reception and transformation of other textual and non-textual traditions, and this reception remained fluid until a late stage in the book’s history. Rather than seeking discrete editions of the book, my method sheds light on a specific period in this process of reception and transmission. In the case of the Decalogue, the creators of Deuteronomy received and reframed it in terms of the monumental discourse of their contemporary time. Once the discourse of the Age of Territorial Theatre – especially the 2

The book of Deuteronomy has in many ways become a field unto itself, and fuller histories of its scholarship have been produced elsewhere (cf. Provan 1988, 2–31; McConville 1992, 67–69; Latvus 1998, 1–20). The major approaches can be summarized as follows. Scholarship on the history of Deuteronomy is mostly divided between the followers of the so-called double redaction theory of Frank M. Cross and the Göttingen school. Both groups develop Martin Noth’s proposal of a Deuteronomistic History (DtrG) as the product of a single Deuteronomist (Noth 1943; 1991). Cross expanded on this by proposing a preexilic version of the history and an exilic redaction of it (Cross 1973). Cross’ views have been expanded in the work of Richard Nelson, A. D. H. Mayes, and Iain Provan, to name just a few (Nelson 1981; 2004; Mayes 1981a; 1983; Provan 1988). In contrast to this theory, Rudolf Smend initiated what has become known as the Göttingen school by proposing two Deuteronomistic strata, both of which were exilic (Smend 1971). Walter Dietrich proposed a third exilic redaction shortly thereafter (Dietrich 1971). This approach has been most fleshed out by Timo Veijola. Veijola proposes a preexilic version of Deuteronomy that he labels Urdeuteronomium (Ur-Dtn). This was followed by an initial exilic redaction (DtrG), a prophetically oriented redaction (DtrP), and a legally oriented redaction (DtrN, in which N stands for “nomist”). Following Christoph Levin, Veijola proposes a final postexilic Deuteronomistic redaction focused on covenant or bundestheologie (DtrB) (Levin 1985b; Veijola 2004). For a recent alternative proposal to either the double redaction theory or the Göttingen school, see Otto’s proposal of a preexilic edition followed by two postmonarchic redactions – the exilic Horebredaktion and the postexilic Moabredaktion (Otto 2013b; 2012a, 1:231–57).

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use of complementary cultic installations with “I Am” monuments to define political territories – had been transposed into writing in the book of Exodus, it was apparently worth preserving and interpreting even outside of its original historical context. The phraseology, geographical settings, and ritual engagements with “I Am” monuments changed significantly in the following period, however, so that discourse could not be iterated or imitated. This is because the cultural models defining that discourse had ceased to be productive sources of meaning in the late eighth century. The reception of the Decalogue as a depiction of an “I Am” monument in Deuteronomy – not to mention later strata in Exodus – thus made use of monumental discourse from later eras in order to apply the text to new sociohistorical contexts. The preexilic layers of Deuteronomy suggest a strong familiarity with monumental discourse from the Age of Court Ceremony, which the writers used to transform the Decalogue. The best historical context for this receptive process is late eighth century and seventh century Judah.

the court of the divine emperor The Age of Court Ceremony was a period of great political upheaval and transformation in the Levant and ancient West Asia more broadly. As discussed in Chapter 1, this period was marked by discursive practices that responded to external imperial pressures on Levantine politics. In particular, there was a stronger proclivity for adapting Mesopotamian cultural models during this period due to the growing influence of the Neo-Assyrian empire. This included the segregation and stratification of monument-engagement rituals. Possibly under the influence of the complex social hierarchies enacted by Assyrian court ceremonies, Levantine court ceremonies tended to separate elite and non-elite participants. In addition, some Levantine monuments began to display stronger Assyrianizing tendencies in their artwork, adapting styles and tropes from Assyrian monuments. The phrasing of Levantine monumental inscriptions occasionally acknowledges the superiority of the Assyrian king and defers to his imposed peace. We see this, for instance, in the reframing of foreign Levantine kings as “brothers” rather than as “enemies.” Finally, this period was marked by the recontextualization of older monuments, which were recruited into new monumental installations in order to negotiate the rebalanced power relationships affected by the encroachment of external empires as well as internal developments in the Levant – particularly the growing influence of nonroyal elite classes.

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This period witnessed a significant change in the role of the king in monumental installations. Gilibert notes that “[t]he king, previously represented as the trait d’union between the gods and the people, became the catalyst for a hierarchy of non-royal officers and attendants” (Gilibert 2011, 134). We saw in the example of Bar-Rakib’s acropolis monuments in Chapter 1 that the situation became even more complex after the resurgence of the Assyrian empire. Levantine kings acted as middlemen during this period. A Levantine king potentially had to negotiate relationships between the gods and the suzerain king who claimed authority over him and an increasingly complex hierarchy of local elites who needed to be convinced of the king’s own authority (Hogue 2022c). The reconceptualization of kingship during the Age of Court Ceremony was largely motivated by the newfound vulnerability of the office. On the one hand, Levantine kings had to contend with the encroaching power of empires that could remove them, replace them, or abolish their office altogether and reorganize their polity as a province. On the other hand, nonroyal elites in ancient West Asia were growing in wealth and influence and represented a significant threat to kings (Gilibert 2011, 128–33; 2013). Multiple coups during this period saw traditional dynasts dethroned in favor of other powerful families with little to no connection to the royal family. One of the most significant examples of this was the rise of the Nimshide dynasty in Israel. This was neither the first nor the last coup, but it is notable in that a family of merchants and military leaders toppled the previous royal family and established the most successful dynasty in Israel’s history. This was just one example of a more widespread phenomenon. Even the Assyrians were not immune to anxiety over succession. Despite the great success of Tiglath-Pileser III’s reformulation and expansion of the empire, his heirs were replaced by the usurping Sargonid dynasty. The Sargonids themselves implemented a complex new monumental program – the installation of tuppi adê in their provinces and vassal states – to ensure dynastic succession (Ramos 2021, 49). The Divine Emperor Literature from the late Judahite monarchy often presented Yahweh as an alternative to other suzerains claiming Judah as a vassal. This was an expansion of the “God as king” metaphor. He was also increasingly associated with productions more suited to Mesopotamian as opposed to Levantine monarchs. For example, the king as lawgiver was a standard

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element of Mesopotamian royal ideologies that was materialized in the form of monumental law codes. Outside of the Hittite law codes and some fragmentary legal texts from second millennium Hazor, such texts are unattested in the Levant. The only potential exceptions to this from the Iron Age are the biblical law codes, which appear to be adapting traditions from Mesopotamian monuments (Schniedewind 2019, 151–57). The Deuteronomic Code makes up the bulk of Deuteronomy, and it seems to imagine Yahweh based on the model of a Mesopotamian monarch. Changes in Levantine conceptions of kingship presented a rather unique situation for the Decalogue, which had previously cast Yahweh as a divine king in order to unify the denizens of an expanding Israel beneath the royally sponsored cult. Because the offices of god and king had already been merged, the reception of the Decalogue during the Age of Court Ceremony represented an opportunity to enhance Yahweh’s divine kingship. As a court ceremonial “I Am” monument, it inserted Yahweh into the increasingly complex social hierarchies of the late eighth and seventh centuries. By placing Yahweh at the top of this hierarchy, he was not simply slotted into the typical role of a god. Rather, he was reinterpreted as a king of kings – an emperor comparable to the kings of Assyria and Egypt. This presentation of Yahweh and the revisions to the Decalogue that facilitated it were inextricably bound up in the historical situation of Judah during the Age of Court Ceremony. Among other things, Deuteronomy drew upon the practices of the Neo-Assyrian empire to recast Yahweh as an emperor with an increasingly complicated court. The Decalogue is the center of not merely a ritual enactment of a people of “Israel” in Deuteronomy, but also the enactment of a cavalcade of ritual specialists, political leaders, bureaucrats, and finally the common people within a hierarchal social structure reflective of Judah itself during the same period. Israel and Judah in the Age of Court Ceremony Israel and Judah’s experiences of the Age of Court Ceremony were more complicated than a shift in monumentality. This began in the early eighth century with the renewal of contacts between Levantine polities and the Assyrian court at Kalḫ u. During this period, Judah became a vassal of Israel under Jeroboam II. We even have indications that Judahite emissaries were sent to the Assyrian court on behalf of their Israelite overlords, providing a vector of transmission for court ceremonies to the Southern Kingdom in addition to the north (Na’aman 2019). These interactions

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intensified under Tiglath-Pileser III, who reorganized the Assyrian empire and expanded it into the Levant. The Sargonids expanded Assyrian domination of the Levant, which ultimately resulted in the reduction of Judah to an Assyrian vassal and the abolition of the kingdom of Israel altogether. Judah survived the fall of the kingdom of Israel to continue making its own monuments and literature, but the Judahites also actively incorporated Israelite texts into their nascent corpus of biblical writings. In so doing, they fundamentally reconfigured what it meant to be Israelite and thus participated in the same ideological exploration as their predecessors to the north (Na’aman 2010; Hong 2011; Schütte 2012). Having defined “Israel” in the past, the Decalogue must have been an attractive text to modify in order to reconceptualize “Israel” in the Judahite scribes’ present. The first recognizable book of Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic Decalogue within it were thus Judahite receptions of Israelite traditions.3 It is this Judahite reception of the Decalogue that is the primary object of inquiry in this chapter. Apart from shifts in monumentality in the surrounding region, what could have prompted the Judahites to undertake this project? More significantly, why was the Judahite monarchy sponsoring a rewriting of Israelite literature? We have already mentioned that Judah was previously a vassal of Israel. It is during this period that we have the first evidence of Israelite scribal practice spreading to Judah, though not of any extensive literary production in the south (Finkelstein and Silberman 2006, 263; Fleming 2012, 302–3; Hogue 2022d).4 However, these interactions cannot explain why Judah would rewrite Israel’s literature. They only set the stage for subsequent interactions. The most significant of these occurred during the Israelite refugee crisis in the last decades of the eighth century. The Assyrians conquered Galilee in 732 BCE, dealing a major blow to the kingdom of Israel. In 721, Samaria fell to an Assyrian siege and the Israelite kingdom ended altogether. The decade between these two events and subsequent years saw the immigration of multiple waves of Israelite 3

For references to works on the northern origin of Deuteronomy or some of its traditions, see my discussion in Chapter 2 in the section “The Israelite Origin of the Decalogue.” See also the critical discussion of these works by Cynthia Edenburg and Reinhard Müller (2015). 4 Two seals have been discovered that name servants of the Judahite king Uzziah. These officials’ names and even the name of the Judahite king himself all utilize one of the most distinguishing features of Israelite orthography: they spell the theophoric element -yw rather than -yhw (Avigad and Sass 1997, 50–51). This and other pieces of evidence point to Uzziah’s status as a vassal of Jeroboam II, and this relationship undoubtedly promoted the transferal of Israelite scribal practice to the south during this time.

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refugees to the kingdom of Judah. In the late eighth century, the population of the polity doubled and the population of Jerusalem alone grew to more than ten times its previous size (Finkelstein 1999; Finkelstein and Silberman 2006; Frevel 2018). The Israelite refugees brought with them many technological advantages, the greatest of which may have been their advanced scribal practices. Israelite scribes were subsequently integrated into the Judahite bureaucracy, and Judahite scribes from the ensuing period note that they were trained by Israelites (Schniedewind forthcoming, 90–129). This spread of Israelite scribalism into Judah undoubtedly facilitated the transfer of Israelite texts to the south, but the refugee crisis also motivated the reception of this literature in unique ways. We see the great impact of the Israelite refugee crisis on Judahite literature in Deuteronomy especially. Mark Glanville goes so far as to argue that the integration of refugees and other displaced people into “Israel” is the central concern of the book (Glanville 2018). This is especially apparent in the texts concerning gr in Deuteronomy. The gr features prominently in the framework of Deuteronomy and within the Deuteronomic Code. The gr is explicitly addressed in the Judahite revisions to the Sabbath commandment in the Decalogue, and they participate in the loyalty oath ceremonies in Deut 27–29. Glanville is correct to argue that this Hebrew term should be translated differently depending on when the specific text under consideration was both composed and received, but he defines the gr in general as someone who has been displaced and is therefore dependent upon settled hosts in another context. During the Age of Court Ceremony, this especially included Israelite refugees as well as refugees from other kingdoms and other regions of Judah who were displaced by the Assyrian conquests (Bertholet 1896, 123–78; de Vaux 1961, 74–76; Weinfeld 1972, 90–91; Glanville 2018, 602–3). The Deuteronomic Decalogue was one tool for integrating the refugees into Judah. Meanwhile, the former territories of the Kingdom of Israel were incorporated into the Assyrian empire as the provinces of Megiddo, Gilead, Dor, and Samerina. Assyrian governors and other officials were installed into each of these provinces, and populations from elsewhere in the empire were forcibly settled there to fill the void left by the exiled and migrating Israelites, although a number of Israelites likely remained behind (Zertal 2003; Knoppers 2013, 18–45; Dijkstra and Vriezen 2014). Though the former heartland of Israel was devastated after the Assyrian conquest, the Assyrians did invest in the remaining urban centers of Samaria, Tirzah, and Shechem (Tavger 2020). These locations in

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addition to sites in the Aphek-Gezer region saw an increase in Assyrian architecture, ceramics, and scribal practice. Royal stelae, administrative documents, and legal contracts written in cuneiform are attested from Samaria and its environs in this period. This region is often ignored in studies of Assyria’s relationship with Judah, but its role in Judah’s history should not be underestimated. Military forts built in the province of Samerina served as staging points for southern campaigns, and it is hard to imagine that these were not at least partially responsible for facilitating Sennacherib’s campaign against Judah in the late eighth century. Furthermore, when Judah was a vassal to Assyria, Judahite emissaries were expected to deliver tribute on a yearly basis in the imperial heartland. These emissaries first had to travel to the administrative centers in Samerina, where they were met by other emissaries, Assyrian officials, and military escorts (Aster and Faust 2015). Judah’s continued interactions with Samerina undoubtedly facilitated the impact of Assyrian monument-making practices on the Southern Kingdom as well as potential interactions with the former denizens of the Northern Kingdom. The interactions between Judahite, Israelite, and perhaps even Assyrian cultural elements likely intensified again at the end of the seventh century. With the death of Aššurbanipal II in 627 BCE, the neo-Assyrian empire was sent into disarray and gradually receded from the southern Levant. King Josiah of Judah used this opportunity to annex the Assyrian province of Samerina – the former heartland of the Kingdom of Israel (Malamat 1973; Na’aman 1991). This annexation, related by 2 Kgs 23, was accompanied an iconoclastic interaction between Josiah’s reforming government and the former cult places of Israel. This was not the first instance of literary interactions between the two peoples, but this period probably saw further revisions to Israelite traditions preserved within Judah’s nascent corpus of texts that would later be incorporated into the Hebrew Bible. In the final decades of the seventh century, Assyria receded from the southern Levant only to be replaced by a resurgent Egyptian empire. An intermittent suzerain–vassal relationship between Egypt and Judah may have begun in the eighth century if not earlier (Hays 2010; Morkot 2019). This intensified under the twenty-sixth dynasty of the Saites. This is especially indicated by the actions of Pharaoh Necho II (610–595 BCE), though Saite hegemony over Judah may have begun during the reign of Psamtik I (664–610 BCE) (Malamat 1975; Crouch 2014b, 22–25). At the beginning of his reign, Necho II executed one Judahite monarch (Josiah), deposed another (Jehoahaz), and installed a third as his vassal and even changed his throne name (Jehoiakim, formerly Eliakim). Research on the

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late Judahite monarchy needs to better account for the impact of this relationship. Though perhaps not as far-reaching as Assyria’s, Egypt’s monumental discourse undoubtedly had an impact on Judahite monumentality as well. A full exploration of this is outside the scope of this book, but we will see at least one example of a potential interaction between Judahite and Egyptian monumentalities from this period. In short, the Age of Court Ceremony entailed a complex set of international relations between Judah, Israel, and the surrounding empires. The fall of Israel precipitated the migration of Israelite traditions to Judah, where they were transformed in the midst of continuing relations with the former territories of Israel as well as Assyria and Egypt. This was the sociohistorical situation prompting Israelite and Judahite scribes to adapt the language of empire and court ceremony to a conception of Yahweh in the book of Deuteronomy. The Early History of Deuteronomy Many previous approaches to Deuteronomy have suggested that it was originally produced by the late Judahite monarchy, even going so far as to suggest that this is an “Archimedian point” against which other texts must be dated (Levinson and Stackert 2013, 310).5 Many scholars maintain the traditional narrow dating of the book to the reign of Josiah,6 but some have proposed instead an origin during the reign of Hezekiah (Weinfeld 1972; Ginsberg 1982; Haran 1978; Schniedewind 2004).7 The history of 5

This date originally derived from a theory proposed by Wilhelm Martin Leberecht de Wette and very influentially expanded upon by Julius Wellhausen. These scholars argued that Josiah’s law book in 2 Kings 23 was an edition of Deuteronomy (de Wette 1806; 1806, 170 ff.; Wellhausen 2018, 259). This theory has come under scrutiny in recent scholarship, however, and Josiah’s law book can no longer be definitely identified as Deuteronomy (Lowery 1991; Ben Zvi 1996; Stavrakopoulou 2004; Knauf 2005; Davies 2005; Monroe 2011; Crouch 2014b). As a result, new attempts at dating material in Deuteronomy should proceed according to additional criteria. 6 A Josianic date is especially maintained by scholars who note parallels between Deuteronomy and Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty (EST), a seventh-century neoAssyrian treaty that was monumentalized in the form of multiple tuppi adê (Weinfeld 1965; 1972; 1976; Frankena 1965; Dion 1991; Halpern 1991, 28 n. 20; Steymans 1995b; 1995a; 2013; Otto 1996b; 1999; 2012a, 1:540 ff. Nelson 2004; Levinson 2004; 2011; Levinson and Stackert 2012; 2013). A more recent though not uncontroversial wave of scholarship has questioned the direct connections to EST, however (Pakkala 2006; Koch 2008, 108–70; Zehnder 2009; Berman 2011; 2013; Taggar-Cohen 2011; Crouch 2014a). 7 Some approaches to Deuteronomy have proposed even more precise dating schemes. Jacques Vermeylen, for example, dates specific editions of Deuteronomy to 575, 560, and 525 BCE (Vermeylen 1986, 123–27). In a similar vein, Karel van der Toorn has

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monumental discourse in the Levant invites reconsideration of this sort of dating. Specifically, we should reconsider what dates are suggested by the evidence and whether these are a range rather than a point. The “Archimedian point” argument is based on Deuteronomy’s commonalities with neo-Assyrian artifacts, particularly Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty (EST). While I would caution against the identification of EST in particular as a source for these parallels at the exclusion of other Assyrian adê and related texts, I accept the basic premise that these parallels do reflect interaction with Assyrian monumental discourse. In fact, this chapter will demonstrate that these interactions went beyond potential links to EST. However, these interactions are increasingly unlikely to have occurred during the reign of Josiah, when Assyria’s hold on the southern Levant was deteriorating and “Assyrian imperial ideology lost its political and ideological relevance” (Aster 2017, 29). Instead, I suggest that these interactions and revisions point to ongoing composition during the period of Assyrian domination, rather than a narrow date during the reign of one king or another. Utilizing a history of monuments and their reception is better suited to analyzing the writing and revision of Deuteronomy as a process rather than a product – that is, specific editions. This fits well with a proposal by Seth Sanders to focus on the cultural moments out of which certain discourses emerged rather than attempt to provide precise dates for overly specified literary layers (Sanders 2009, 167). C. L. Crouch essentially approaches Deuteronomy in the same way, arguing that the book reflects the cultural concerns of “the long seventh century,” which extended from the late eighth century to the early sixth. Crouch especially focuses on programs of political centralization and identity reconfiguration in response to the encroachment of the neo-Assyrian and Egyptian empires during this period (Crouch 2014b, 8–82). The history of monuments produced in this study suggests that the same concerns outlined by Crouch also eventuated in shifts in monumentality during the Age of Court Ceremony. Accordingly, I propose that the book of Deuteronomy was initially composed during the Age of Court Ceremony (790–600 BCE), but this appears to have been an ongoing project. My method cannot pinpoint a single preexilic edition within this range, but it can suggest that the preexilic period dated editions of the book to 620, 580, 540, and 500 BCE (van der Toorn 2007, 149). Such specificity is impossible when utilizing a history of monuments, which can only be periodized into broad ranges of dates.

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saw the book of Deuteronomy being updated periodically. My method can suggest historical horizons for some of these updates, and more importantly it can elucidate the sociocultural motivations for these updates. Many of the traditions transformed in Deuteronomy originated in the Northern Kingdom. Chief among these is the Sinai Pericope, which lent both its content and structure to Deuteronomy. The book begins with a rehearsal of the account of the people arriving at the mountain of God (Deut 4:45–11:31; cf. Exod 19) (Noth 1943, 27–40; von Rad 1966a, 5:11 f. Nicholson 1967, 18–36; Fohrer 1968, 165–78; Hoffman 1989; Baden 2012, 131–34; Schniedewind 2022).8 This includes the Decalogue (Deut 5; cf. Exod 20), which many scholars previously recognized as part of the earliest form of Deuteronomy and which I have concluded originated in the north in the ninth–eighth century (Noth 1943, 27–40; von Rad 1966a, 5:11 f. Nicholson 1967, 18–36; Fohrer 1968, 165–78).9 The Deuteronomic Code (Deut 12–26) that makes up the bulk of the book is a major revision of the Covenant Code (Exod 21– 23), from which it derives not only content but also its organization (von Rad 1966a, 5:13; Lohfink 1984; 1996; Otto 1993; 1999; 2013b, 213– 21; 2012a, 1:231–38; 2016, 3:1093–1108; Levinson 1997; Stackert 2007, 6–113; Levinson and Stackert 2012). The Covenant Code was In Deuteronomy, the mountain of God is exclusively called “Horeb,” which may be another indication for the northern origin of these traditions (Ginsberg 1982, 45; Schniedewind 2004, 83). Outside of Deuteronomy, Horeb is mostly encountered in nonpriestly texts that were traditionally assigned to the Elohist, which is often singled out as an Israelite source. Deuteronomy has been shown to adapt Elohistic texts more than any other source in the Pentateuch (McCurley Jr. 1974, 302–6; Jenks 1977; Coote 1991; Stackert 2012; 2014, 128 ff.; Baden 2012, 128). In addition, Horeb is the mountain of God in the Elijah–Elisha cycle in the book of Kings, which was an Israelite composition (Campbell 1986, 106 ff.; Schniedewind 2004, 78). Nevertheless, some scholarship maintains that this material was all added in the postmonarchic period (Otto 2013b, 214), though I would maintain that the origin of this material in the north points to a preexilic date. 9 Some have argued instead that the Decalogue was known to the original scribes of Deuteronomy but not included (Weiser 1961, 119–25, 127, 130 ff.; McCurley Jr. 1974, 303). Still others simply exclude it (Lohfink 1963, 143–52; Brekelmans 1985; Otto 1996a, 197–99; 2012b, 2:684–715; Blum 2011b, 298), but the evidence for connections to the Sinai Pericope may preclude this possibility. In particular, the Decalogue was probably included at the beginning of Deuteronomy before the Deuteronomic Code by analogy to its appearance before the Covenant Code in the Sinai Pericope (Crouch 2014b, 116). Furthermore, it may be telling that Hosea – sometimes touted as a proto-Deuteronomic prophet – alludes to the Decalogue and apparently loaned much of his discourse to Deuteronomy (Holladay 2004, 73). Holladay also suggests that parallels between the Decalogue and Jeremiah 7 suggest that the Decalogue was part of a preexilic Deuteronomy (Holladay 1986, 245). 8

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most likely an eighth-century Israelite depiction of a monumental law code (McCurley Jr. 1974, 304; Patrick 1977, 156–57; Wright 2009; Carr 2011, 472), so its monumentality is updated by Deuteronomy along with that of the Decalogue.10 Finally, the account of the installation on Mount Ebal (Deut 27–29) is a recapitulation of the one on Sinai (Exod 24:3–8, 11a) (Olyan 1996; Richter 2007, 347; Lundbom 2013, 741).11 Each of these sections revises an Israelite tradition that was included in the Sinai Pericope in Exodus, and they are laid out in the same order in Deuteronomy. What is most significant about this new Sinai Pericope is that it suggests early forms of the book of Deuteronomy were primarily responding to northern texts that were centered on monument production. The revisions aimed to update these depictions of monuments to better fit newer notions of monumentality.12 While most of the book of Deuteronomy can be said to revise materials of northern extraction, it is more difficult to say whether an edition of the book was composed in the north. The reimagined Sinai Pericope may delineate some of the earliest layers in Deuteronomy (Deut 4:45– 29*), but this material is available to us only in the form of Judahite revisions. Since the northern materials rewritten in these passages of Deuteronomy were already available in the nascent Sinai Pericope, the Judahite revisions may well be the original form of Deuteronomy rather than a hypothetical northern book. It is probable that the first form of the book of Deuteronomy recognizable as such was composed in Judah, but it was composed by reworking materials that originated in Israel. It is thus in Judah that we should locate a reception of the Decalogue according to the norms of the Age of Court Ceremony. Both this historical horizon and this geographical setting will become clearer as we examine the verbal, aesthetic, and spatial discourse of the Decalogue in Deuteronomy.

10

In personal correspondence, David Wright has proposed that the Covenant Code may have been composed in the second half of the eighth century in response to the rising prestige of Mesopotamian monuments in the Levant (particularly under the aegis of the neo-Assyrian empire). If this is the case, it may have been added to the Sinai Pericope just before the fall of Israel. 11 Deut 27:5–7 also alludes to the altar command in Exod 20:25. 12 This fits well with observations that Deuteronomy is particularly concerned with its own materiality, a feature that sets it apart even from Exodus with its many depictions of material culture (Sonnet 1997; Schaper 2004; 2007; Stavrakopoulou 2013b; Lester 2023). That is, in addition to fixating on depictions of material culture, Deuteronomy also contains passages that appear to reflect on the materiality of the book itself.

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translation and commentary of deuteronomy 5:6–21 The earliest version of the Decalogue in Deuteronomy may very well have been no different than the one in Exodus (Blum 2011b, 292–94). In the preserved texts of Exod 20:2–17 and Deut 5:6–21, however, scholars have noted more than twenty differences (Stamm 1958, 5; Loza 1989, 99–102; Ska 2006, 48). These differences likely reflect revisions that began in the preexilic period and continued into the postmonarchic period. Below, I provide a translation of the Masoretic text of Deut 5. Some of the differences in translation from the previous chapter will be addressed in the following commentary, but others will be taken up in the next chapter. Translation of the Decalogue in Deuteronomy 5 6

I am Yahweh your God who brought you out from the land of Egypt, from a house of slaves. 7 For you there will be no other gods above me;8 you will not make yourself an idol in the likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth below, or that is in the water beneath the earth.9 You will not bow down to them nor serve them. For I am Yahweh your God, a Jealous God who avenges the iniquity of parents on children to the third and fourth generations of those that hate me,10 but who performs kindness to thousands of those that love me and keep my commandments. 11 You will not use the name of Yahweh your God maliciously, for Yahweh will not acquit the one who uses his name maliciously. 12 Keep the Sabbath-day to consecrate it, as Yahweh your God commanded you.13 Six days you will work and do all your labor,14 but the Seventh Day is a Sabbath to Yahweh your God. Do not do any labor, you, your son or your daughter, your manservant or maidservant, your cow, your donkey, any of your livestock, and the displaced person within your gates in order that your manservant and maidservant may rest like you.15 And you will remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, but Yahweh your God brought you out from there with a strong hand and an outstretched arm. Therefore, Yahweh your God commanded you to perform the Sabbath-day. 16 Honor your father and your mother as Yahweh your God commanded you, so that your days may be long and so that it may be well with you in the land that Yahweh your God is giving you.

154 17

The Decalogue in the Book of Deuteronomy You shall not murder,18 neither shall you commit adultery,19 nor shall you steal,20 nor shall you answer your neighbor with malicious testimony,21 nor shall you expropriate your neighbor’s wife, nor shall you desire your neighbor’s house, his field, his manservant, his maidservant, his bull, his donkey, or anything that is your neighbor’s.

The Revised Sabbath Commandment and the Biblical Law Codes The Sabbath commandment is changed more substantially than any other portion of the Decalogue in Deuteronomy. The changes can be shown to promote a stronger integration of not only the Decalogue into Deuteronomy, but also the Decalogue into the new social contexts that were shaping Deuteronomy. The most obvious revision appears at the beginning of Deuteronomy’s Sabbath commandment: the verb zkr has been replaced by šmr. This change should be considered in terms of lectio difficilior. This principle of textual criticism holds that when a passage shares no similarities with other corpora, it is most likely an original composition. This is because revision is more likely to create connections to other corpora, especially in cases like this when the text is being revised to apply it to a new social context (Monroe 2011, 84). In the case of the initial clause in the Sabbath Commandment, zkwr “enchant” was an entirely unique expression. Nowhere else in the Hebrew Bible do we find this ritual activity paired with the Sabbath, so the reading in Exod 20 is more likely to be the original one. The Sabbath is the object of the verb šmr, however, in nine other instances in the Hebrew Bible. The first three pairings (Lev 19:3, 30; 26:2) come from the Holiness Code and all read alike wʾt-šbtty tšmrw “and my sabbaths you shall keep.” The three remaining Pentateuchal instances all occur in Exod 31:13–16, but there is some debate about whether these verses should be assigned to a Holiness or Priestly source. If these instances are to be assigned to P, however, they likely represent P interacting with the conception of the Sabbath in H (Olyan 2005). The final three occurrences are found in Isaiah 56 (verses 2, 4, and 6) and have been explained as allusions to the Holiness Code (Sommer 1998, 169). The pairing of the terms šmr and šbt in Deut 5:12 is the only instance that has not been previously explained by interactions with Holiness texts, but this revision was most likely introduced to bring the Decalogue into conversation with another corpus (Hogue 2022a). The only plausible corpus is Holiness literature. The appearance of Holiness language in Deuteronomy is a complex issue. There is some debate as to the date of the Holiness Code and

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related compositions, but a number of scholars have proposed that – like Deuteronomy – they originate in preexilic Judah and continued to be edited into the postmonarchic period (Haran 1968, 1098; 1981, 329 n. 12; Knohl 1995, 201–9; Milgrom 2000, 1510). Some scholars suggest that the Holiness Code is dependent upon Deuteronomy (Rendtorff 1954, 45 n. 34; Koch 1959, 74–77; Elliger 1966, 143–45; Moran 1966, 271–77; Cholewinski 1976; Levinson 2005, 630–33; Stackert 2007, 9 ff. (with references); Otto 2012b, 2:786). Others suggest dependence in the opposite direction (Weinfeld 1972, 180–83; Haran 1981, 329 n. 12; Bettenzoli 1984; Rofé 2002, 16). For the purposes of the present argument, I will follow the proposal of Lauren Monroe that the Holiness and Deuteronomic compositions developed alongside each other and were subject to “cross-pollination.” In particular, she notes that the so-called Deuteronomistic history – especially the account of Josiah’s reform – shows signs of having been motivated by concerns otherwise known from the Holiness Code in addition to Deuteronomy. However, these strands are so interwoven as to defy attempts to clarify the priority of one over the other (Monroe 2011, 130–33). I would suggest that the same cross-pollination impacted the development of Deuteronomy. The appearance of Holiness language in Deuteronomy’s Decalogue is merely evidence of its new social context in monarchic Judah. The next revision to the Sabbath commandment reveals the exact same motivation as the first – the incorporation of material from other legal corpora. This comes in the form of an extended insertion beginning with the phrase kʾšr sw ̣ k yhwh ʾlhyk “as Yahweh your God commands you” at the end of Deut 5:12. This phrase is typical of Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic history (Weinfeld 1972, 356–57).13 A near identical repetition of this phrase also closes the Sabbath Commandment in Deut 5:15, which reads ʿl-kn s ̣wk yhwh ʾlhyk lʿs´wt ʾt-ywm hšbt “therefore Yahweh your God commanded you to perform the Sabbath day.” This is a resumptive repetition. This repetition may actually extend to the changed verb at the beginning of the commandment, so that the bracket opens with the verb šmr and the repetition closes with the verb ʿs´h (Lohfink 1994, 252–53). This verbal pair is typical of Deuteronomy, occurring a further thirty-three times in Deuteronomy – especially in the 13

Identical or near identical phrasing to kʾšr sw ̣ k yhwh ʾlhyk “as Yahweh your God commands you” is only found here in Deut 5:12 and in Deut 4:23; 5:15–16; 13:6; 20:17; 1 Sam 13:14; and 1 Kgs 13:21.

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Deuteronomic Code (Weinfeld 1972, 336).14 The same pair actually brackets all of the material in Deut 5–11, tying it together as an introduction to the Deuteronomic Code (Lundbom 1996, 304–6). The use of a resumptive repetition marks the enclosed material as an editorial insertion, and the use of language typical of Deuteronomy more broadly makes explicit that the insertion is to be understood as exegetical. The scribes are expanding the Sabbath commandment by explaining how it is to be kept. They accomplish this by appealing to ritual prescriptions from other legal corpora that make explicit the sorts of activities that are forbidden and expected on the Sabbath. The material in verses 13–14 is adapted from a ritual prescription in Exod 23:12 that reads: ššt ymm tꜥs´h mꜥs´ka wbym hšbꜥy tšbt lmʿn ynwḥ šwrk wḥmrk wynpš bn-ʾmtk whgr Six days you will do your work, but on the seventh day you will cease so that your ox and donkey may rest and the son of your maidservant and the displaced person may be refreshed.

The revisers of the Decalogue expounded on this verse from the Covenant Code in their version of the Sabbath Commandment, thus participating in Deuteronomy’s broader program of revising the Covenant Code (Lukács 2015, 42). The expansion of the law from the Covenant Code – particularly the list of the individuals to whom this commandment applies – is typical of the Deuteronomic Code.15 In fact, almost the exact same list appears several times in cuneiform legal texts (Moran 1967). Lists like these were basic elements of scribal curricula in ancient West Asia and sometimes provided material for literary composition and revision (Schniedewind 2019, 70–94). As a result of the inclusion of this list, the Decalogue is now more closely aligned to the Covenant Code and the Deuteronomic Code. While these both imitate monumental law codes from ancient West Asia, this connection represents a departure from the discourse of “I Am” monuments. The consequence of this insertion is a reframing of ritual practice connected to the Sabbath, especially with indirect reference to Mesopotamian practices. The next piece of inserted material in the Sabbath commandment continues to revise material from the Covenant Code but in a manner attested elsewhere in the Deuteronomic Code. In order to further justify 14

Cf. Deut 4:6, 23; 5:1, 32; 6:3, 25; 7:11–12; 8:1; 11:22, 32; 12:1, 28, 30; 13:1, 19; 15:5; 16:1, 12; 17:10, 19; 19:9; 23:24; 24:8; 26:16; 28:1, 13, 15, 58; 29:8; 31:12; 32:46. 15 Similar lists can be found in Deut 12:18; 13:7; 16:11, 14; 22:17.

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allowing servants and displaced persons to rest on the seventh day, verse 15 opens with wzkrt ky-ʿbd hyyt bʾrṣ ms ̣rym “and you will remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt.” This justification closely parallels that of a command not to oppress displaced persons in Exod 23:9, which is justified: ky-grym hyytm b’rs ̣ ms ̣rym “for you were displaced in the land of Egypt.” This connection is strengthened by that verse’s close proximity to Exod 23:12, which was revised in Deut 5:13–14. While the Covenant Code may have provided the original material for this revision, the exact line is repeated four more times in the Deuteronomic Code: Deut 15:15; 16:12; 24:18; and 24:22. This phraseology occurs nowhere else in the Hebrew Bible. This insertion continues the Judahite program of linking the Decalogue in Deuteronomy to other legal corpora, particularly the Covenant Code and its revised form in the Deuteronomic Code. The link to the Deuteronomic Code is further established by the remainder of verse 15, which reads wyṣʾk yhwh ʾlhyk mšm byd ḥzqh wbzrʿ nṭwyh “and Yahweh your God brought you out from there with a strong hand and an outstretched arm.” This exact phrase is repeated only in Deut 26:8.16 This may serve as another example of the Judahite expansion of the Sabbath with other ritual prescriptions. Deut 26:8 is part of a liturgical script to be repeated before a priest upon bringing a sacrifice to Yahweh. The allusion to this script may specify the sort of ritual activity that was expected on the Sabbath. The connection to this specific section of the Deuteronomic Code – sometimes called the Credo – is especially telling. Though Gerhard von Rad’s thesis that the Credo was central to the growth of the Hexateuch is no longer widely accepted, the verbal parallels between the Decalogue and the end of the Deuteronomic Code suggests that the scribes producing Deuteronomy intended the phrase to frame their revisions more broadly by creating an inclusio around the legal material contained in Deut 5–26* (von Rad 2001, 121 ff.). The verbal parallels between these two passages serve as a “redactional bridge” between them (Levinson 1997, 27). The Introduction of the Seventh Day One aspect of the Sabbath commandment is worth special comment in this context. In a cunning bit of exegesis, the revisers of the Decalogue merged the Sabbath with the Seventh Day labor taboos. This was likely absent from the original Sabbath commandment, but it was added to the Decalogue in 16

A near identical phrase also occurs in Jer 32:21, which further suggests the monarchic Judahite setting for this revision to the Decalogue.

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Deuteronomy and subsequently transposed into the Exodus Decalogue as well (Blum 2011b, 293–94). The merger of the Seventh Day with the Sabbath was accomplished by replacing the verbal clause bym hšbʿy tšbt “on the seventh day you will cease” from Exod 23:12 with the nominal phrase ym hšbʿy šbt “the seventh day is a Sabbath” or “the seventh day of Sabbath.”17 The weekly Sabbath that grew out of this merger is typically understood as originating in the postmonarchic period (Hossfeld 1982, 247–52; Nicholson 2014, 60–61). However, while the weekly Sabbath certainly gained new significance in that period, the Sabbath – understood as a festival – is an earlier practice, as has already been discussed. The Seventh Day – understood as a practice originally separate from the Sabbath – is also an ancient and broader West Asian tradition that predates its biblical adaptation. Oded Tammuz has recently collected data that demonstrates that the seventh day of rest was observed in Judean communities even before the Persian period (Tammuz 2019). Comparative evidence from Mesopotamia and elsewhere in the Levant demonstrates that this practice may have had a significantly more ancient antecedent. The biblical texts proscribing activities on the seventh day are essentially hemerological. Hemerological texts systematically proscribe and prescribe specific activities on various calendar days. Unfortunately, ancient West Asian hemerologies are understudied and have only rarely been utilized in comparative biblical analyses.18 However, this is not to say that such texts were rare. In fact, hemerological texts are an abundantly attested genre and recent publications have made it possible to bring this data to bear on the biblical parallels. While no parallels so exact as to identify a ‘source text’ have been discovered, ancient West Asian hemerologies do show a consistent avoidance of activities on the seventh day of each month and more broadly on other multiples of seven – that is, the fourteenth, twentyfirst, and twenty-eighth days (Livingstone 2013, 275). The largest body of hemerologies was transmitted in cuneiform, and most exemplars naturally come from Mesopotamia. Copies of Mesopotamian

17

The second option is especially suggested by manuscripts like the Nash Papyrus and some from Qumran that preserve the preposition from Exod 23:12, thus reading bym hšbʿy šbt “on the seventh day of the Sabbath.” This is an attractive possibility given that šbt may have originally referred to a multiday festival, as discussed in the previous chapter. It may also parallel the Mesopotamian festival of sebū t sebîm “the seventh day of the seventh month” that was sometimes known as Sabū tu. 18 William Hallo previously commented on the parallels between the taboos expressed in the Offering Bread Hemerology and biblical food taboos, though he did not relate them to labor taboos in the Hebrew Bible (Hallo 1985, 31–32).

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hemerologies have been discovered in the Levant, however. For example, copies of the Babylonian Almanac – which Alisdair Livingstone labels “the base-text for the genre ‘hemerology’” – have been found in Late Bronze Age contexts at Emar and Ḫ attuša, and copies dating to the neo-Assyrian period have been discovered at Sultantepe (Livingstone 2013, 5–7). Copies of the Offering Bread Hemerology – which is characterized by more elaborate prescriptions and proscriptions than the Babylonian Almanac – have been discovered at Ḫ attuša and Ugarit (Livingstone 2013, 107). More recently, exemplars of a related genre – the menology, which lists favorable and unfavorable months as opposed to days – have been discovered at Tell Tayinat in layers dating to the neo-Assyrian period (Lauinger 2016). These are all fragments of the menology Iqqur ¯ıpuš, which was closely interrelated to the hemerological series Inbu be¯l arḫ i. Each month in the Inbu series concludes with relevant quotes from Iqqur ¯ıpuš, so these texts were likely transmitted together (Livingstone 2013, 199). The study of hemerologies by the ancients was not purely academic. Neo-Assyrian royal letters, annals, and building inscriptions regularly allude to Mesopotamian hemerologies, and use them to justify avoiding or participating in certain activities at specific times. Furthermore, a study of dated extispicy and legal documents has demonstrated that those activities really were avoided on days they were proscribed and concentrated on days during which they were prescribed (Livingstone 2013, 269–78). Most significantly, activities like extispicy and medical practice were proscribed on multiples of seven – the seventh, fourteenth, twenty-first, and twentyeighth days of the month. These proscriptions are especially elaborate in the neo-Assyrian period and typically conclude with the line ana epe¯š ṣibū tim la¯ naṭu “unsuitable for the carrying out of a plan,” suggesting that other activities were to be avoided as well. In the neo-Babylonian period, the elaborate neo-Assyrian hemerologies were simplified into a list of five unlucky days that occurred every month: the seventh, ninth, fourteenth, twenty-first, and twenty-eighth – in other words, every seventh day as well the ninth of the month (Labat 1957, 306–7; Guillaume 2005, 5 n. 19). The avoidance of activities every seventh day that were otherwise permissible had a long history in Mesopotamia that was reflected in real practice in addition to hemerologies and related texts. While it is possible that the practice of proscribing activities on the Seventh Day may have been transmitted by hemerological texts to the Levant, we should cautiously attend to Livingstone’s argument concerning the relationship between hemerologies and social practices. He writes that “what seems to me most likely is that there were long held and ancient

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practices that avoided those days . . . and that these practices, as included in the hemerologies, are both proscriptive for society and descriptive of it” (Livingstone 2013, 278). In other words, hemerologies may describe and maintain social practices rather than establish them. A tradition of avoiding labor on the seventh day likely existed in a non-textual form first. Perhaps a local Levantine tradition even existed prior to cultural exchanges with Mesopotamia. Nevertheless, those cultural exchanges certainly provided the opportunity for Mesopotamian practices to leave a mark on Levantine ones. Especially given that other portions of the Covenant Code and Deuteronomic Code have been shown to interact with traditions otherwise transmitted in cuneiform, it stands to reason that the biblical hemerologies contained in these collections were also impacted by those cultural traditions. This is further suggested by a very particular instance of the seventh day described in Cuneiform texts: sebū t sebîm “the seventh day of the seventh month” – a potential cognate to ym hšbʿy šbt. In general, Mesopotamians seem to have singled out days in the month that were multiples of seven, on which they would refrain from certain activities (Jacquet 2011, 62). This was in part related to the phases of the moon, but it also derived more generally from the perceived unluckiness of the number seven itself (Cohen 1993, 391). As a result, the seventh day of the seventh month was especially to be avoided, and in the hemerologies it receives the longest lists of proscriptions. The best example of this comes from the Offering Bread Hemerology, which forbids riding in a boat, walking along a street, crossing a river, jumping over a ditch, libating in a field, sexual intercourse, and eating various foods (such as pigeon, rooster, fish, and leek), among other things (Livingstone 2013, 137–38). The Hemerology for Nazimaruttaš demands that one must simply fast the entire day on the seventh day of the seventh month, and that “he should be fearfully, deadly still in his house,” among other proscriptions and prescriptions (Livingstone 2013, 187–90). The Prostration Hemerology and the Bilingual Hemerology for the First Seven Days of Tašrı¯tu both devote special sections to the first seven days of the seventh month that proscribe actions such as crossing rivers and taking oaths as well as eating particular foods (Livingstone 2013, 168–70, 193– 94). Finally, the Inbu series applies a somewhat standard summary proscription to the seventh day of the seventh month, forbidding extispicy, medical practice, and “the carrying out of a plan” (Cavigneaux and Donbaz 2007, 315). A recent study of the transmission of hemerological compositions argues that all such texts were specially composed for

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specific audiences at particular times based on much broader hemerological traditions (Jiménez 2016). This may suggest that broader food and labor taboos underlie the specific instantiations contained in hemerological texts targeted at specific groups in society. Consistently, these hemerologies forbid an unusually comprehensive list of foods and activities on the seventh day of the seventh month, with some individuals being advised to abstain from labor and/or food altogether.19 The seventh day of the seventh month was also the date of an important festival in Mesopotamia. The Mesopotamian festival was variously known as sebū t sebîm, šebu-šebî, Sabū tu, and Šebū tu. Wherever it is attested, the feast of the seventh day of the seventh month is linked to the autumnal equinox. It was a ceremony of transition and purification (Jacquet 2011, 62). In Babylonia and Assyria, the akitu festivals – sometimes thought to be new year festivals – commenced after vigils on the seventh day of the seventh month (Cohen 1993, 326–30). As such, these festivals were Mesopotamian analogues to the Levantine autumnal festival celebrated as the zukru at Emar (which also knew the Babylonian Almanac) and the Israelite autumnal New Year – one of the prime candidates for šbt in preexilic Israel. While that autumnal New Year took place in the eighth month in Israel, it was held in the seventh month in Judah. Incidentally, the ritual practices of Deuteronomy are also prescribed to be repeated every seven years in the seventh month in Deut 31:10. This was to be carried out during the festival of Sukkot, which according to the Holiness Code began and ended with a Sabbath Day (Lev 23:34–39). Veysel Donbaz and Antoine Cavigneaux have suggested that Sukkot in particular was influenced by the seventh day practices of Mesopotamia. In addition to hemerological texts, they also appeal to mythological texts that justify the food and labor taboos of the seventh day of the seventh month using etiological explanations connected to the establishment of time by the gods (Cavigneaux and Donbaz 2007, 335; cf. Puech 2003, n. 19). One of the Akkadian terms for sebū t sebîm may have been adapted in ancient Judah to develop the notion of the seventh day of rest. Blum has previously suggested that the Hebrew term šbt was a loan of Akkadian šapattu, a special term for the fifteenth day of the month, which was also the day of the full moon (Blum 2011b, 293 n. 15). This is problematic

19

Originally, this cessation of labor was practiced because the day was considered dangerous. Various accidents were understood to be more likely on the day, so work and regular activities had to be avoided (Cavigneaux and Donbaz 2007; Livingstone 2013, 137 ff.; Yamada and Shibata 2021).

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because the term is not attested outside of southern Mesopotamia (Fleming 1999, 173–74), but a parallel to Blum’s proposal may be worth considering for some form of sebū t sebîm or Šebū tu. This festival is attested from the Middle Euphrates region directly adjacent to the Levant.20 This festival may have provided the foundation for the merger of šbt and ym hšbʿy. This merger would have seemed natural due to the phonological correspondences to the Akkadian names for the Mesopotamian festival. Whether or not this was the origin of the Hebrew terminology, the practices associated with the Mesopotamian festival are clearly parallel to both the Sabbath and the Seventh Day. Even if the Seventh Day was a ritual practice original to Israel, its textualization may have been impacted by the textualization of such labor taboos in Mesopotamian hemerologies. The merger of the Sabbath and the Seventh Day theoretically could have occurred quite early if it is connected to sebū t sebîm, but evidence for scribal revision in this context suggests that the Judahite revisers of the Decalogue in Deuteronomy may have been the first to put it in writing. In textualizing this ritual tradition, they used the models of ritual proscriptions and taboos provided by Mesopotamian ritual textualization. David Wright previously demonstrated that the Covenant Code from which Deuteronomy’s Decalogue derives the notion of the seventh day was itself influenced by Mesopotamian legal practice (Wright 2009). More recently, Melissa Ramos has shown that Deuteronomy expanded on this influence by incorporating elements of Mesopotamian texts consisting of series of ritual prescriptions, specifically Šurpu and Maqlu. Elements of these Mesopotamian traditions were incorporated into Deuteronomy to develop a local ritual tradition (Ramos 2021, 82–88). Though the context is broken, Šurpu contains at least one incantation specifically prescribed for sebū t sebîm (Cohen 1993, 392; Jacquet 2011, 62). As a result of Mesopotamia’s growing influence in the Levant – especially their legal and ritual practices – the Decalogue’s Sabbath was merged with a related concept that 20

In fact, there may even be a vector of transmission for the festival to have traveled from the Middle Euphrates to Israel. The festival was called Sabū tu in the land of Ḫ ana on the Middle Euphrates beginning in the Bronze Age. As early as the reign of Urtamis of Hamath, Ḫ ana and Hamath had an intimate diplomatic relationship that may have facilitated artistic and ritual interactions. Most notably, both regions attest “I Am” inscriptions as demonstrated by those of the governors of Suḫ u, which were all erected at Ḫ ana. A later king of Hamath – Zakkur – even claims to be from the land of Ḫ ana (KAI 201:2) (Hogue 2019b, 335–36, with references). As already discussed, Hamath was a close ally of Israel. Perhaps Hamath acted as a sort of cultural bridge between Israel and the middle Euphrates, facilitating the transference of practices like Sabū tu.

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also had currency in Mesopotamia. The Judahite scribes thus utilized Mesopotamian models in carrying out their revision of the Decalogue, much as they used the models of Mesopotamian law codes, treaties, and incantation series elsewhere in the book.21 The Revised Social Commandments The revisions to the Sabbath commandment and the social commandments created redactional bridges to other parts of the text, resulting in an overall ring structure for the Decalogue. While such a ring structure is observed more broadly in ancient literature – as we have already seen in the Sinai Pericope – it can be an indicator of revision, and this is the case in Deuteronomy more broadly (Levinson 1997, 27). Exactly the same structure is observable in the Deuteronomic Code, in which redactional bridges were built by means of self-referential repetitions and strategic insertions from the Covenant Code. This same principle of textual elaboration has been observed in Mesopotamian law codes, which may have inspired the revisions seen here (Otto 1993; 1999, 201, 208; 2012a, 1:237 ff. 2016, 3:1087, 1100 ff.). These are examples of formulaic language, which would have amplified the oral performance of these legal codes.22 The revisers of the Decalogue used self-referential repetitions and citations of the Covenant Code to produce a new structure that better aligned the text with legal codes – the Deuteronomic Code in particular. The revisions to the social commandments are not as radical as those in the Sabbath commandment. They are primarily notable in that they were clearly derived from the revised Sabbath Commandment. This is most obvious in the revised honor commandment. In verse 16, between the command itself and its purpose clause, the phrase kʾšr ṣwk yhwh ʾlhyk “as Yahweh your God commands you” has been inserted. This is an exact repetition of 21

My argument here thus runs somewhat counter to the proposals of scholars such as Bernard Levinson and Eckart Otto, who argue that Deuteronomy was intentionally subversive of Assyrian traditions (Otto 1999; Levinson 2010). While I agree that Deuteronomy is conversant with such traditions, I would maintain along with C. L. Crouch that more is needed to suggest that this was a subversive relationship (Crouch 2014a, 45). Instead, I would suggest that Mesopotamian models may have inspired some ritual innovations in Judah and that they were also utilized as models for textualizing rituals. 22 Monumental law codes were intended to be read aloud. See, for example, the epilogue of the Law Stele of Hammurabi, which includes the prescription “have my inscribed stele read out loud” (Slanski 2003, 9:261).

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the resumptive repetition in Deut 5:12 and 15. The addition of this phrase serves to connect the honor commandment directly to the Sabbath Commandment. In Exodus, these two commandments were the boundaries of two separate rhetorical units, but in Deuteronomy they are intended to be read together. This is part of a larger revision designed to connect the social commandments as a whole to the Sabbath. This will become apparent upon a closer look at the usurpation commandment that closes this section. I mentioned only briefly in the previous chapter that the original object of the usurpation commandment was either the neighbor’s wife or household. It may have been both, but the remainder of the list was added later. Because this commandment initially concerned the usurpation of someone else’s means of remembrance – either the offspring afforded by their wife or their household in general – it is unlikely that objects like fields, servants, and livestock were included. In Judah, however, the verb ḥmd developed a slightly different nuance as revealed in Mic 2:2. In a diatribe against oppressive, wealthy members of society, the Judahite prophet accuses them thus: ḥmdw s´dwt wgzlw wbtym wns´ʾw “they covet fields and seize them, houses and they take them.” In this context, the verb clearly refers to the expropriation of someone else’s property, perhaps as a means of collecting debts (Kessler 2015). Micah 2:2 and the usurpation commandment are the only contexts in the Hebrew Bible that apply the verb ḥmd to fields and houses. I would argue that the appearance in Deut 5:21 actually constitutes an allusion to Mic 2:2 that was later transposed into Exod 20. In fact, this may even be an example of Seidl’s Law – that is, the reverse citation of another passage in order to expand and comment on it (Levinson 1997, 17–20). Where Micah’s oracle accused certain individuals of “expropriating fields . . . and houses,” Deuteronomy’s Decalogue announces that “you shall not expropriate your neighbor’s house nor his field.” The commandment was then expanded with a list typical of other legal corpora. Almost the exact same list occurs four times in the Deuteronomic Code itself in addition to cuneiform legal texts (Moran 1967).23 Most significantly, the list is almost a perfect match for the one in Deut 5:14 that was derived from Exod 23:12; the only difference is that the son and daughter are missing, perhaps due to the presence of the wife in the preceding clause.24 As a result, the accusation from Micah is fortified through its insertion in an ancient 23 24

Cf. Deut 12:12, 18; 16:11, 14. This list was subsequently transposed into the Decalogue in Exodus with some of its constituents removed.

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monumental text, and it is also expanded to prohibit more actions using a list known from legal corpora. Furthermore, this revision to the usurpation commandment completed a new structure for the Decalogue. The Sabbath commandment is at the center of the new ring structure for the Decalogue (Lohfink 1965; 1994, 255–60; Mayes 1981a, 164–65; Otto 2005, 95–108; Ska 2006, 49–50; Kilchiör 2015, 330, 341). This was accomplished by means of redactional bridges between the Sabbath commandment and the first and last lines of the Decalogue as well as the social commandments more broadly (Lohfink 1994, 255–57; Ska 2006, 50). As already noted, the list in verse 14 of the Sabbath commandment is repeated in the revised usurpation commandment in verse 21. This connection was further buttressed by the exact repetition of “as Yahweh your God commands you” in both the Sabbath commandment and the honor commandment. In addition, a link to the “I Am” formula is created by the inserted reference to the Exodus. While the line “you will remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, but Yahweh your God brought you out from there” is an exact parallel to Deut 15:15, 16:12, 24:18, 24:22, and 26:8, it is also an elaboration of the “I Am” formula’s “who brought you out from the land of Egypt, a house of slaves.” These connections are further emphasized by a small revision on either side of the Sabbath commandment. The term šqr that previously appeared in the commandment concerning perjury in Exod 20:16 has been replaced with šwʾ in Deut 5:20, creating a direct link to the name commandment in Deut 5:11 and further tying the two halves of the Decalogue together. In short, a relatively small number of revisions has resulted in a radically new structure for the Decalogue, and this would have afforded meaning in a different way than the text in Exodus. Taken together, these revisions reveal a subtle but nonetheless significant shift in the Decalogue’s verbal discourse. Most importantly, the Decalogue has been revised in this context to more closely resemble monumental law codes. It shares its ring structure with compositions like the Deuteronomic Code and the Middle Assyrian laws (Otto 1999). New material in the Sabbath commandment and social commandments are derived from the Covenant Code and Deuteronomic Code. As a result, the Decalogue itself is made into a legal text to some degree. While “I Am” monuments could contain moral prescriptions, they were not law codes, and neither was the Decalogue in Exodus. The Decalogue in Deuteronomy has been made to resemble a legal text, however, and this is especially fitting in this setting. While it is true that the Decalogue better fits its original literary setting in Exodus, there it appears as a unique insertion

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(Kratz 1994; Köckert 2007; Blum 2011b). However, as a result of the many redactional bridges built between the Decalogue and other portions of Deuteronomy, it is actually much better integrated into its new literary context.25 That context also substantially reimagines the Decalogue’s aesthetic and spatial discourses.

artifacts depicted in the deuteronomic decalogue’s narrative context While retaining some of the artifacts from Exodus, Deuteronomy nonetheless updates the Decalogue’s assemblage to look like the monuments that were most prestigious in the eighth and seventh centuries. In the previous chapter, I mentioned that Deuteronomy complemented the Sinai installation with a monumental assemblage in the central highlands of Israel and that the book developed a direct connection between the Decalogue and the stone tablets. Both epigraphic supports reflect the aesthetic discourse of monumental treaties, an ancient form of monument in West Asia that was revitalized during the Age of Court Ceremony. There are examples of other “I Am” monuments from this period that were adapted for use with treaties, which were becoming increasingly prestigious monumental texts in their own right. The verbal discourse of treaties is known to have impacted the production of Deuteronomy, so it is no surprise that the Decalogue was also affected by their aesthetic discourse. The Frontier Stelae in the Central Highlands While the account of the monumental installation in the central highlands in Deut 27:1–8 appears to reflect a more ancient Israelite tradition, it nevertheless shows signs of transformation in the context of eighth–seventh century Judah. This is apparent from context clues even though the assemblage – the stone monuments and the altar – remains largely the same. In this case, we should keep in mind Collin Renfrew’s observation that “continuity in religious practice does not imply lack of change in that practice, and certainly cannot be taken as constancy of meaning” (Renfrew 1985, 5).

25

On the basis of lectio difficilior, this integration into Deuteronomy also provides further evidence that this setting is secondary. Literary revision in the Hebrew Bible tends to create links between different corpora, whereas original compositions tend to be marked by a lack of references to other texts.

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In the course of its reception in Judah, this assemblage took on a new monumentality. The first evidence that the highlands assemblage was reimagined is the name given to the monuments erected there. The monuments in Deut 27 are no longer called maṣsẹ bot but rather ʾbnym “stones.” This is a reflection of the fact that maṣsẹ bot ceased to be used in ancient Israel and Judah at the end of the eighth century (Bloch-Smith 2015, 115). These artifacts were categorically disavowed in Judahite sources – specifically Mic 5:12 and Lev 26:1 (Bloch-Smith 2006, 65). We have already seen that both of these sources – Micah and the Holiness Code – had an impact on the verbal discourse of the Decalogue.26 Here, we see those sources reflecting the same shift in material culture suggested by the change in terminology in Deut 27. This serves as another piece of evidence for shifting ideals of monuments in the sociohistorical context of ancient Judah.27 Unlike the maṣs ̣ebot of Exod 24, the “stones” of Deut 27 are explicitly inscribed. The change in function facilitated by this difference was well described by Dennis McCarthy: there are steles connected with the covenant rites in Ex 24, 4, and while the function is undefined surely this is a reflex of the idea of stele as witness. In these cases the stone itself functions as witness and there is no mention of its being inscribed. On the other hand, in Dt 27 the witness idea has fallen into the background and the stones serve to record the document. This change of function could simply be a reflection of Israel’s urge in its later days to find a written guarantee for the continuity of its traditions. However, certain aspects of the treaty tradition indicate that there is more to it than this. . . . It is easy to conceive this concern’s being developed in the direction of a monumental record, more 26

Note especially that revisions to the Sabbath commandment in Deut 5 closely parallel the Sabbath prescription in Lev 26:2, while the update to the monumentalization ritual in Deut 27 reflects the concern of Lev 26:1. These two references are significantly separated in Deuteronomy, but their connection to revisions updating the Decalogue and its contexts from Exodus may indicate that the scribes working on these passages in Deuteronomy and Leviticus were interacting with one another’s work. In other words, we see here an interesting example of cross-pollination. 27 The decline of maṣsẹ bot may have begun earlier in the Northern Kingdom. The Covenant Code and the Deuteronomic Code revising it only forbid maṣsẹ bot to other gods but not the practice in general (see Exod 23:24, Deut 12:2–3) (Bloch-Smith 2015, 109–10). In 2 Kgs 3:2 and 10:26–27, the Omrides are faulted for erecting maṣsẹ bot while the Nimshides are depicted destroying them as a part of their religious reforms. While both accounts may have been edited by Judahite scribes, they likely originated in the north like the Covenant Code (Campbell 1986, 107–10; Halpern and Lemaire 2010; Knapp 2015, 60). In short, the relationship to maṣsẹ bot may have been shifting in the north in the eighth century, but these artifacts were only categorically forbidden in the south.

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impressive, more enduring and endowed with numinous qualities. Nor is this just speculation. That is exactly what we have at Sfiré. (McCarthy 1978, 126)

Essentially, McCarthy noted that the account in Deut 27 reflected a later monumentality rooted in the history of monuments of the surrounding region. Though earlier traditions of “I Am” monuments and their support by stelae and mas ̣s ̣ebot in particular gave rise the original account in Exod 24, the duplicate in Deut 27 was borrowing significant aspects from the monumentality of lapidary treaties in the Levant. Importantly, Deut 27:8 makes explicit that the contents of these inscriptions were kl-dbry htwrh hzʾt “all the words of this Torah.” This is likely an allusion to the inscriptions on the maṣsẹ bot in Exod 24:3–8: kl-dbry yhwh “All the Words of Yahweh” and kl hdbrym hʾlh “All These Words” – both of which function as titles for the Decalogue. The Decalogue was thus reimagined in Deut 27:1–8 as a lapidary treaty. The remainder of Deut 27–28 makes explicit the function of the inscriptions on the stones. These were utilized in a loyalty oath ceremony. Loyalty oaths were also attested in connection with “I Am” monuments – like KARKAMIŠ A6 (esp. §§21–22) – but only during the Age of Court Ceremony. More broadly, such loyalty oath ceremonies were usually carried out in reference to treaties or contracts. The best examples of monumental Levantine treaties are the Sefire Stelae, which McCarthy explicitly connected to the artifacts and practice depicted in Deuteronomy in the quote above. More recently, Ramos and Laura Quick have demonstrated that many of the curses in Deut 27–28 have parallels in the Sefire Stelae and related Northwest Semitic inscriptions (Ramos 2016; Quick 2018). These parallels occur in contexts that cannot be explained by Mesopotamian influence, which is often given pride of place in discussing the influence of treaties on Deuteronomy. Instead, Deut 27–28 reflects a primarily Levantine tradition of erecting lapidary treaties (McCarthy 1978, 162). Nor is Sefire the sole example of such a tradition. CEKKE, KARKAMIŠ A4a, and TÜNP 1 from Karkamiš as well as BULGARMADEN, KULULU 2, and KARABURUN from Tabal in southeastern Anatolia are further examples of Levantine lapidary treaties or contracts.28 Of these, CEKKE, BULGARMADEN, and KULULU 2 are actually “I Am” monuments in which a short “I Am” inscription introduces

28

It may be worth noting that both Carchemish and Tabal were known to biblical authors. Cf. Isa 10:9; 66:19.

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the text of a compact or treaty.29 Notably, all of these examples along with the Sefire Stelae date to the Age of Court Ceremony, specifically the eighth century. Treaties from both before and after this century were almost exclusively inscribed on tablets. Only in the Levant in the eighth century was there a short-lived transition to monumentalizing treaties with stelae.30 This was the practice informing the update of the Sinai installation in its recapitulation in Deut 27. In the broader layout of Deuteronomy, the “I Am” inscription in the Decalogue now introduced a lapidary treaty – just like CEKKE and BULGARMADEN. Though the practice of erecting lapidary treaties was primarily Levantine, it was still somewhat impacted by shifting monumentmaking practices among the Assyrians. CEKKE, for example, appears to be a conscious emulation of Assyrian frontier-marking stelae like the Pazarcık Stele and the Antakya Stele. These Assyrian stelae were erected in the Levant to mediate territorial disputes between Levantine polities. They marked the acquisition of new territories and formalized that acquisition in a contract, exactly like CEKKE (Donbaz 1990; Hawkins 2000, Volume I:331; Osborne 2013, 779–80).31 They visually indexed loyalty oath rituals, though the inscriptions on these stelae did not constitute treaties (Hätinen 2021, 251–52). As mentioned in Chapter 1, Levantine monuments like those of Bar-Rakib in Zincirli reproduced these visual indexes of loyalty oath ceremonies, though no loyalty oath is present in his inscriptions. This may explain why the Decalogue was recruited into a loyalty oath ceremony in Deuteronomy, even though the text of the Decalogue itself makes no reference to such a ritual. In sum, though the assemblage in Deut 27 is mostly the same as that in Exod 24, the surrounding context reveals a significant shift in 29

Of these, KULULU 2 is the most remarkable. The inscription describes the monument as a sman- lalamma- “compact-contract” or “sealed document.” This compound is composed of nouns for compacts otherwise known from the lapidary treaties KARABURUN and BULGARMADEN. KULULU 2, however, is a funerary monument. 30 The only potential comparatives to this come from thirteenth-century Egypt and ninthcentury Babylonia. The Egyptian version of the treaty between Ramses III and Ḫ attušili II was carved on the walls of the Temple of Amon in the thirteenth century. In addition to this example, a portion of a lapidary treaty between Šamši-Adad V and Mardukzakir-šumi was discovered in the library of Aššurbanipal but is thought to have originated in Babylonia. However, it is difficult to tell whether this piece of stone originally belonged to a stele or not. Neither of these developments led to the emergence of standardized practices (Altman 2010, 30). 31 In both Hieroglyphic Luwian and Akkadian these frontier stelae have special designations. In Luwian, they are called FINES-ha+ra/i-ia ta-sa “frontier-marking blocks” (see CEKKE §15), and in Akkadian they are taḫ ûmu “boundaries.”

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monumentality. Due to shifts in monument-making practices in both Judah and abroad during the eighth century, these same artifacts now communicated in different ways with their intended audience. The Decalogue is probably still to be understood as connected to the stones in Deut 27 in some way, perhaps even as part of their inscription. However, the ceremony utilizing those stones in Deut 27–28 suggests that the stones were now being utilized as material supports for a loyalty oath ceremony. This reflected the short-lived practice of erecting lapidary treaties in the Levant or otherwise indexing a loyalty oath ceremony via the monument’s inscription or iconography. This practice was informed by shifts in Assyrian peripheral monuments from the same period. Furthermore, the connection of the Decalogue to loyalty oaths in Deut 27–28 was not limited to that context. This laid the groundwork for the introduction of the Decalogue’s most famous epigraphic support – the Tablets of the Covenant. The Tablets of the Covenant The epigraphic supports of monumental treaties evolved significantly in the seventh century, and the Decalogue was reimagined in Deuteronomy in response. During this period, lapidary treaties disappeared in the Levant altogether. Meanwhile, the Assyrians developed a new kind of a monumental treaty – the tuppi adê “tablet of the covenant” or “tablet of destiny.”32 These monuments played a significant role in seventh-century West Asian politics as the Assyrian empire continued to expand. The tuppi adê have even been shown to have had a major impact on the development of Deuteronomy, which adapts key elements of their verbal discourse (Weinfeld 1965; 1972; 1976; Frankena 1965; Kutsch 1973; Dion 1991; Halpern 1991, 28 n. 20; Steymans 1995b; 1995a; 2013; Otto 1996b; 1999; 2012a, 1:540 ff. Nelson 2004; Levinson 2011; 2004; Levinson and Stackert 2012; 2013).33 32

The term adê is a loanword into Akkadian from Aramaic. The Aramaic word is cognate with the Hebrew ʿdwt “testimony,” but both the Aramaic and Akkadian terms betray slight differences of nuance. In Aramaic, the term is used in the Sefire treaties to refer specifically to the content of the treaty itself. The same nuance applies to the Akkadian term, but the binding nature of these monuments led to the merger of the concept with the earlier Mesopotamian notion of “tablets of destinies.” Thus, adê is translatable as either “covenant” or “destiny,” and it may parallel either the Hebrew ʿdwt or bryt (Fales 2012, 145; Lauinger 2013, 115). 33 Among other parallels, note the apparent citation of Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty (EST) §4 in Deut 13:1, the allusion to the Assyrian pantheon and their associated curses from EST §39–42 in Deut 28:26–33, and the similarities in ritual scope in EST §4–7 and

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Though the only Levantine exemplar of such a monument is the version of EST discovered at Tell Tayinat, it is theorized that such tuppi adê – perhaps even EST in particular – were set up in other cities in the Levant as well. Certainly, EST was set up in multiple provinces, including the one based at Tell Tayinat, within the Assyrian heartland, and in various regions of Media. A treaty between Esarhaddon and the king of Tyre discovered in Nineveh may suggest that a copy was installed in Tyre as well. The connections between Deuteronomy and tuppi adê may suggest that such an artifact was even set up in Judah itself (Steymans 2013, 9–11). The erection of EST in a province like Tell Tayinat also introduces the important possibility that a copy may have been placed in Samerina, and this copy may have impacted Judahite practices even if a copy was not erected in Jerusalem. The impact of tuppi adê also extended to depicted aesthetic discourse in Deuteronomy, especially as seen in the new epigraphic support for the Decalogue. Material derived from tuppi adê specifically appears in Deuteronomy’s introduction and conclusion, suggesting that it was added in the course of the book’s revision to reframe the intervening material and encourage its reception in light of these neo-Assyrian prestige monuments (Carr 2011, 479; Milstein 2016, 1–6, 73–75).34 Karel van der Toorn argues that this revised introduction began in Deut 4:45, which reads ʾlh hʿdwt . . . ʾšr dbr mšh ʾl-bny ys´rʾl “This is the Testimony . . . that Moses spoke to the Israelites.” This is almost an exact parallel to the standard opening line of tuppi adê: adê ša PN issi PN “The adê of PN with PN.”35 Note especially that the Assyrian term adê is a direct cognate to Hebrew ʿdwt. Another close parallel occurs in van der Toorn’s proposed colophon to his reconstructed preexilic edition of Deuteronomy in Deut 28:63, which reads ʾlh dbry hbryt ʾšr-ṣwh yhwh ʾt-mšh “these are the words of the covenant that Deut 29:9–14 – a scope that is otherwise unique to Assyrian adê and unknown in Levantine treaty traditions (Tigay 1996, 496–97; Schniedewind 2004, 135; Levinson 2010). Despite these connections, some scholars remain critical of the direct connection to EST but the evidence still points to a broad connection to tuppi adê (Pakkala 2006; Koch 2008, 108–70; Zehnder 2009; Berman 2011; 2013; Taggar-Cohen 2011; Crouch 2014a). 34 This is an example of what Sara Milstein calls revision by introduction and conclusion. By changing the opening and closing of a literary work, editors could reshape the reception of the work as a whole. This was a practice typically encountered in both Mesopotamian and biblical literature, and some of the most prominent Mesopotamian examples were revised using depictions of monumental artifacts (Milstein 2016). 35 See for example EST (SAA 02.006) §1 lines 1–3 as well as the colophon in §107 lines 666–670. These openings were fairly standard, however, and can also be found in Esarhaddon’s treaty with Baal of Tyre (SAA 02.005), the Zakutu treaty (SAA 02.008), Aššurbanipal’s treaty with Qedar (SAA 02.010), Sin-šarru-iškun’s treaty with Babylon (SAA 02.011), and the version of EST from Tel Tayinat (SAA 02.015).

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Yahweh commanded Moses” (van der Toorn 2007, 135–55).36 It is within the introductory material in Deut 4:45–11 that we find apparent references to the aesthetic discourse of tuppi adê as well.37 The first possible reference to monuments similar to tuppi adê is in Deut 5:22. Immediately after the repetition of the Decalogue concludes in verse 21, verse 22 relates that ʾt-hdbrym hʾlh dbr yhwh . . . wyktbm ʿl-šny lḥt ʾbnym “Yahweh spoke ‘These Words’ . . . and he wrote them on two stone tablets.” The title for the Decalogue from Exod 20 and 24 reappears here alongside the text, but now instead of being associated with maṣs ̣ebot and an altar this text is explicitly inscribed on tablets (Childs 1974, 502). Recall that the Tablets of Stone in Exod 24:12 and 31:18 were inscribed with the Tabernacle plans. This is the first instance of a set of tablets inscribed with ‘These Words’ – that is, the Decalogue. This connection is made even stronger by the elaboration on these tablets in Deut 9:9. There the lwḥt ʾbnym “stone tablets” are mentioned again, but this time with the explanatory gloss lwḥt hbryt ʾšr-krt yhwh ʿmkm “the tablets of the covenant that Yahweh carved for you.” This is nearly an exact repetition 36

Note that the supposed colophon to van der Toorn’s proposed second edition of Deuteronomy – Deut 29:28 – may also draw upon tuppi adê in its reference to hnstrt “the hidden things,” which Moshe Weinfeld argues is a reflection of the placement of tablets in buried tablet boxes (Weinfeld 1972, 64). Carr similarly argues for the impact of tuppi adê on Deut 29 (Carr 2011, 307–9, 479). 37 Deut 4:1–44 is certainly postmonarchic, so its aesthetic discourse will be dealt with in the next chapter (Cross 1973, 274–89; Mayes 1981b, 50–51; Dohmen 1987, 200–210; Levtow 2008, 150). The date of Deut 4:45–11 is contested, but it is generally considered older than the majority of Deut 4 (McConville and Millar 1994, 17–18 with references). The material from 9:7–10:11 is regarded by many scholars to be a later addition to this material on the basis of its switch in pronominal number from singular to plural (Noth 1943, 17; Minette de Tillesse 1962; von Rad 1966a, 5:832; Fohrer 1968, 169–78). However, Wright and Lohfink instead argue that the change in pronoun is merely an internal marker of the switch between narrative and direct address (Wright 1953, 394; Lohfink 1963, 239 ff.). Eckart Otto takes this a step further and suggests that the change in number was a poetic device meant to bracket this specific unit of text. He argues that the change in number represents an internal change in addressees from the generation at Horeb to the generation preparing to enter the land (Otto 2012b, 2:939–40, 973–74, 998–1002). Though this proposal is not uncontroversial, it is attractive given the use of similar deictic shifts elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible as well as in Levantine inscriptions that were discussed in the previous chapters. Various shifts in pronouns were typical poetic devices for refocusing the audience’s attention. Though Otto understood this section as Deuteronomistic, the use of this poetic device suggests a preexilic date. Terrence Fretheim maintains that this section should be dated to the promulgation of the Judahite version of the book in Jerusalem in the seventh century (Fretheim 1968, 3). Deut 5 at the least is certainly preexilic, and this chapter makes the first connection between the Decalogue and tuppi adê (Hyatt 1942, 158; Rofé 2002, 6; Crouch 2014b, 120). In addition, see the works of Moran and Arnold, which connect key themes of the larger complex of Deut 5–11 to preexilic cultural assumptions (Moran 1963; Arnold 2011).

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of Exod 24:8, but instead of connecting this covenant to a blood manipulation ritual involving stele, the covenant is now monumentalized by means of tablets (Ramos 2022, 230).38 This is the first time the tablets are given the new name lwḥt hbryt “the Tablets of the Covenant” – an exact parallel to tuppi adê. Deuteronomy’s tuppi adê are explicitly inscribed with the Decalogue. By shifting the monumentality of the treaty tablet, the Assyrians created a portable monument capable of redefining communal identities. EST, for example, was monumentalized in the Assyrian capital of Kalḫ u. After the monumentalization ceremony, copies of the tuppi adê were carried to cult centers in vassal territories and installed there as ritual objects (Fales 2012, 151; Scurlock 2012, 178). The exemplar from Tell Tayinat was discovered in Building XVI, which has been identified as a neo-Assyrian temple constructed in the late eighth or early seventh century BCE. The tablet was found near a podium in the temple’s inner sanctum along with a number of votive tablets. The tuppi adê was pierced horizontally, suggesting that it was meant to be mounted. The find spot of the tablet as well as its breaking pattern suggests that it was originally mounted facing an altar on the podium’s east side (Harrison and Osborne 2012, 137; Lauinger 2013, 114). This suggests that the tuppi adê was meant to be exhibited and viewed in connection with ritual processions and offerings in the inner sanctum of the temple (Gilibert 2011, 109–12). Based on accounts of similar tuppi adê in the Assyrian heartland, the text had to be activated by means of a large public ceremony involving ritual acts including sacrifices and the recitation of the text (Fales 2012, 148–50). Once the tuppi adê were ritually inaugurated, they became “tablets of destinies” – sacred objects before which those who had sworn the oath were expected to return and perform regular ritual obeisance in their local cult centers. Much like “I Am” monuments, tuppi adê were a means of encountering the Assyrian monarch who was reembodied by it (Berlejung 2012, 158–59; Hogue 2019c, 82–84). Importantly, tuppi adê also functioned by transporting Assyrian court ceremonies into other territories – a function we will explore below in connection to the Decalogue’s new spatial discourse. The monumentality of tuppi adê was not merely a proposition of the Assyrian court. In fact, this monumentality was so accepted by subjugated

38

Another near repetition of the phrase occurs in Deut 28:69, the colophon of the earliest edition of the book according to van der Toorn. Certainly, these two repetitions are used to reframe the intervening material, updating the monumentality depicted in the Sinai Pericope with that expected by seventh-century audiences in connection with tuppi adê.

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populaces that rebellious vassals even tacitly acknowledged it in their rebellion. The Medes brought their copies of EST with them when they sacked Kalḫ u. They ritually destroyed them in the temple of Nabû, where they were likely originally monumentalized, thereby deactivating them with equal ritual force (Scurlock 2012, 182). If tuppi adê were similarly installed in Jerusalem or Samerina – which appears likely given the influence of EST on Deuteronomy – then the monumentality afforded by the tuppi adê was undoubtedly known in Judah as well (Levinson and Stackert 2012, 132; 2013, 321; Steymans 2013, 11–12; Otto 2017, 4:1989–90). Among other strategies, the Judahites subverted this monumentality not by carrying the tablets back to Assyria and smashing them like the Medes, but by applying the same monumentality to Yahweh’s monument – the Decalogue. The tablets in Deuteronomy were no longer the building instructions for the Tabernacle revealed at Sinai, but rather tuppi adê meant to materialize Yahweh’s hegemony over Judah. This implicitly trumped Assyria’s claim on the region. The text accomplished this by simultaneously embodying Yahweh and also by reconfiguring the communal identity of the monument’s users. The tablets took on these functions by acting as Judahite analogues to neo-Assyrian tuppi adê, which embodied the Assyrian king and categorized his subjects. The adaptation of the monumentality of Mesopotamian tablet monuments also facilitated a further complication in Deuteronomy’s assemblage: the introduction of the Decalogue to the Ark of the Covenant of Yahweh. The Ark of the Covenant of Yahweh The Hebrew Bible appears to speak of multiple arks with varying designations that correspond with descriptions of strikingly different artifacts. For example, the ʾrwn hʿdwt “Ark of the Testimony” mentioned in Exod 25, 26, 30, and 40 is essentially a throne for Yahweh complete with cherubim in the inner sanctum of the Tabernacle (Haran 1959). Similar depictions of deities enthroned on cherubim are known from Phoenician and Punic sources (Hendel 1988, 375–78). By contrast, the ʾrwn bryt-yhwh “Ark of the Covenant of Yahweh” lacks cherubim and any indication that it is a throne. Rather, it is a chest for holding the Tablets of the Covenant, hence its designation (von Rad 1966a, 5:79; Weinfeld 1972, 208–9). This artifact primarily appears in Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History.39 39

Outside of these contexts, the Ark of the Covenant of Yahweh only appears in Num 10:33 and 14:44 as well as in the reiterations of Deuteronomistic passages in Chronicles.

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Only in Deut 10 are the Tablets of the Covenant explicitly deposited within this Ark. Not only is this the only place in the Pentateuch where the Ark becomes a receptacle for the tablets, but the Ark apparently has no function apart from housing the tablets in Deuteronomy. Previous studies of the Ark within Deuteronomy have pointed to its changing function as evidence for its demythologization in Deuteronomic theology or else as some indication of cult reform in Jerusalem (Clements 1965, 302–3; Fretheim 1968, 6–7; Weinfeld 1972, 208–9). While these may be potential motives, another possibility arises when examining monumental discourse in the surrounding cultures. Specifically, with the influx of Mesopotamian monumental discourse into Judah came the notion of the monumentality of the tablet box. Tablet boxes enhanced the monumental texts they contained in very particular ways. So even if there was an attempt to subvert earlier traditions about the Ark by transforming it into a tablet box, there was also a positive motivation rooted in shifting ideas of the monumentality of text in Judah during the neo-Assyrian period.40 In certain cultural contexts, a text’s monumentality could be enhanced if access to it was restricted or even completely obfuscated (Wu 1995, 6–8; Baines 2006, 276–86; Smoak and Mandell 2017). Monumentality in the Levant had already begun to shift in this direction during the Age of Court Ceremony, during which new monuments were erected in more restricted locales and interaction with them was restricted to elite users (Gilibert 2011, 128–31). Mesopotamia had long had an even more extreme practice of creating hidden monuments. These temennu monuments – or foundation deposits – were hidden in niches in temples and palaces. They could consist simply of stamped bricks, building inscriptions on The possibly related designation ʾrwn hbryt “Ark of the Covenant” appears only in Joshua (3:6, 8, 11, 14; 4:9; 6:6). 40 Though the monumentality of temennu continued to be significant in literary productions from the neo-Babylonian period and even the Persian period, the Ark of the Covenant of Yahweh appears to have lost much of its significance in the postmonarchic period. After the sack of Jerusalem, the Ark was never recovered or remade and appears to have been forgotten in later tradition. For example, in Jer 3:16–17, the ark is even said to have been superseded by Jerusalem itself. The ark was emphatically no longer necessary in later reception (Schniedewind 2004, 133). The Ark was central to Jerusalemite cult during the Judahite monarchy, however (Clements 1965; Fretheim 1968; Fleming 2013). It thus seems most likely that the Ark was introduced as a material support for the Decalogue during the late Judahite monarchy. Furthermore, temennu were significant monumental objects in both real practice and literary depiction in Mesopotamia and Egypt at the same time, and these traditions appear to have penetrated into Judah during the reign of Josiah if not even earlier.

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tablets, cylinder inscriptions, small images, or tablets held in tablet boxes (Jonker 1995, 84–85; Milstein 2016, 129). These monuments derived a significant part of their authority from their inaccessibility. That is, they were more special and therefore more meaningful due to the near impossibility of seeing or reading them (Jonker 1995, 92). As such, it became incredibly desirable to be able to claim that one had read a temennu inscription and was acting in accordance with it. This became a significant way for a king to legitimate his actions during the neoAssyrian period and even more so during the neo-Babylonian and Persian periods (Jonker 1995, 166–71).41 Unique to the neo-Assyrian period, however, was the addition of “I Am” inscriptions to temennu. As noted in Chapter 1, “I Am” inscriptions became significantly rarer in the Levant during the seventh century but they reached a new zenith in Assyria. Among other epigraphic supports, many neoAssyrian “I Am” inscriptions were carved on temennu. Such “I Am” inscriptions were exceedingly rare in earlier periods and became entirely extinct after the fall of Assyria.42 This suggests not only a further motivation for transforming the Decalogue into a temennu in Deuteronomy but also a very narrow historical period when this epigraphic practice was in evidence to potentially motivate that transformation. The original intended audience for temennu appears to have been limited to the gods who could access them in their hidden locations. The only humans expected to read them were future rulers, who were charged with utilizing them in renewing dilapidated buildings (Jonker 1995, 84–85). Nevertheless, temennu eventually took on an entirely new audience within narû-literature. Narû-literature derived its monumentality entirely from its depiction of its text as having been inscribed on a narû “monument.”43 Over time, temennu came to be understood as a subtype of narû, and the 41

For examples of this practices in the neo-Babylonian and Persian periods, see especially the many references to foundation deposits in the inscriptions of Nabonidus (e.g. Nabonidus 20–24, in which he appeals to the temen of Naram-Sin) and Cyrus’ appeal to an inscription of Aššurbanipal in line 22 of the Cyrus Cylinder (Michalowski 2006; Weiershäuser and Novotny 2019). 42 The earliest “I Am” inscription on a foundation deposit is an inscription of the Assyrian governor Be¯l-e¯riš from the tenth century. This practice completely disappeared until the seventh-century building inscriptions of Sennacherib and Esarhaddon as well as Aššurbanipal’s many cylinder inscriptions utilizing the “I Am” formula (Grayson 1991, 2:126–28; Grayson and Novotny 2014; Leichty 2011; Novotny and Jeffers 2018; Novotny, Jeffers, and Frame 2023). 43 The Akkadian term narû is often translated “stele,” but it refers to a variety of artifacts. Most notably, the literary works that include these depictions are themselves categorized as narû. Thus, I would suggest that a better translation is simply “monument.”

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composers and editors of narû-literature began to enhance the monumentality of their works by connecting them to depicted temennu monuments. This gave that literature a new sense of specialness; it implied that the text was originally hidden, but it was now being unveiled to a wider audience. Expanding on the earlier authority of the temennu to guide building renovations and other royal behaviors, these imagined temennu authoritatively made demands of any potential audience (Jonker 1995, 102). It should also be noted again that the only monumental artifacts named in the Decalogue have Akkadian cognates related to this practice. Hebrew psl is cognate with Akkadian pisiltu “tablet,” and Hebrew tmwnh may be cognate with temennu. The best example of a literary work deriving new authority from a connection to temennu is the Epic of Gilgamesh. During the Middle Babylonian period, the epic was edited with the addition of a new introduction that specified that the text had been legitimated by the discovery of a temennu (Tigay 1982, 143–46; Milstein 2016, 129–31). This was enhanced even further in the late version of the epic discovered in Aššurbanipal’s library, which cast the entire epic as the text of a narû and a temennu. Whereas the Middle Babylonian version implies that the text is buttressed by the discovery of a temennu in the form of a brick inscription, the neo-Assyrian version contains specific instructions to open a tablet box and carefully read the tablet discovered inside (Jonker 1995, 102; Milstein 2016, 131). The epic was thus updated in successive periods so as to derive its authority from the most prestigious monuments of its contemporary time. This updating of monuments was not limited to the literary sphere; it is also attested in material practice in Mesopotamia. The most relevant example of this is the case of the Šamaš Tablet from Sippar. Though often studied for what it reveals about renovations to temples and cult statues, the treatment of the tablet in antiquity is also informative about the monumentality of the tablet itself. In the early ninth century, Nabû-apla-iddina constructed a new cult statue for the sun god Šamaš, and he commemorated this action with an inscribed stone tablet that was buried as a temennu. In the late seventh century, this temennu was discovered by the neoBabylonian king Nabopolassar, who made clay casts of the stone tablet and added his own inscription to the back of one of the new tablets. He subsequently placed all of the tablets in a tablet box, which he also inscribed. The entire assemblage was subsequently buried again as an expanded temennu monument (Bahrani 2014, 224–27). Preserving earlier monuments in ancient West Asia required updates to ensure their communicative

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potential for future generations. In the case of temennu monuments – whether real or imaginary – this necessitated textual and artifactual expansion through the addition of accompaniments like tablet boxes. The concept of legitimating and even monumentalizing a text by recasting it as a hidden monument was not unique to Mesopotamia. This occurred in ancient Egypt as well. For example, one inscription from the Third Intermediate Period has been described by Jan Assmann as “pretending to be the copy of a foundation document of the funerary temple of the sage Amenhotep, son of Hapu” (Assmann 1992, 61). This text contains a lengthy collection of blessings and curses designed to promote its instructions, which are cast as the words of Amenhotep – an Egyptian sage from the Bronze Age (Breasted 1906, 925–26; Möller 1910; Robichon and Varille 1936, 3–4). This text is thus remarkably similar to Deuteronomy’s monumentalization strategy. Much of Deuteronomy is presented as a monumental text reporting the words of another ancient sage from Egypt – Moses.44 Judah became a protectorate of Egypt during the Third Intermediate Period, so the introduction of hidden monuments to the Hebrew Bible may have been motivated by interactions with Egypt in addition to Assyria. This was a wider cultural phenomenon in ancient West Asia and North Africa. Hidden monuments may be referenced in other portions of Deuteronomy as well. Moshe Weinfeld argued that the king’s copy of the law in Deut 17:18 was a reflection of this practice. In Mesopotamia, temennu monuments were supposed to be recovered and reworked by later kings (Bahrani 2014, 232). The Šamaš tablet was a concrete example of this. Deut 17:18 appears to be prescribing just such a practice. This may even imply that the mšnh htwrh “copy of the Torah” is not a word-forword reproduction, but rather an update applying the older text to the king’s contemporary context. This sort of periodic revision is precisely what we find in the literary history of Deuteronomy. Weinfeld also suggested that Deuteronomy 29:29’s assertion that the hidden things were for Yahweh was a reference to the practice of hiding a copy of a text in a tablet box in a foundation deposit (Weinfeld 1972, 63–64 n. 5). One copy might be made public, while another was hidden. Literature like the Epic of Gilgamesh, for example, pretended to be copies of temennu that were still buried. They derived their authority through this pairing with a hidden monument. Even if one rejects Weinfeld’s assignation of a temennu tradition behind Deut 29:29, it is hard not to see the concept behind the new placement of the Tablets of the Covenant 44

Assmann notes this similarity with particular reference to Deut 27 (Assmann 1992, 43–51).

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within the Ark. The monumentality of the tablets was clearly enhanced by their placement within the Ark, which is emphatically a tablet box in Deuteronomy to be hidden within a cultic context.45 The tablets thus became the Judahite equivalent of temennu monuments. Deuteronomy is not the only context in the Hebrew Bible where a hidden monument appears. Most significantly, a hidden text was uncovered in the temple in 2 Kgs 23 during the reign of Josiah and became the basis for his religious reforms. Though it is no longer universally accepted that this text was Deuteronomy or some version of it, it nonetheless illustrates that the concept of temennu or something cognate to it had penetrated ancient Judah.46 Whether or not this hidden monument was Deuteronomy, at least one scribe believed it to contain the Decalogue. The found text in 2 Kgs 23 is called spr hbryt “the Inscription (or Scroll) of the Covenant.” The exact same artifact appears in an insertion to Exod 24:3– 8 in verse 7, as noted in the previous chapter. These are the only two appearances of “the Inscription of the Covenant” in the Hebrew Bible and are undoubtedly meant to be understood as identical. Read in tandem with the deposition of the Tablets of the Covenant into the Ark of the Covenant in Deuteronomy and the insertion of the Inscription of the Covenant into Exod 24, 2 Kgs 23 may envision Josiah discovering a temennu that contains the Decalogue, among other things. The Ark’s function as a tablet box was central to the Decalogue’s new monumentality in Deuteronomy. By placing the Decalogue-inscribed tablets within the Ark, Judahite scribes transformed them into the equivalent of a temennu – a textual monument that gained further legitimacy from its exclusivity. Placed in the Ark, the tablets were now only accessible to the divine and perhaps rulers who might use them to make copies. This inaccessibility and hiddenness enhanced the divine authority of the tablets. However, just as in narû-literature, the contents of these tablets did not remain hidden but were unveiled in literary form. The Decalogue was thus reimagined in this update as the unveiled text of a hidden foundation deposit. By casting their literary revisions in these terms, Judahite scribes updated the aesthetic discourse of the Decalogue based on that of 45

Schniedewind has argued in the opposite direction that the ark gained its numinous power from the insertion of the tablets. Undoubtedly, the monumentality of each object was enhanced through its interaction with the other (Schniedewind 2004, 33). 46 Montet proposed in 1910 that the account in 2 Kings may have been influenced by the Egyptian practice of foundation deposits. Parallels to similar practices among the Hittites and Mesopotamians have since been proposed, but the connection to temennu is perhaps the most convincing (Montet 1910, 317; Na’aman 2011).

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monuments that were growing in significance during the seventh century due to the influx of Mesopotamian and possibly Egyptian traditions. This influx is independently attested to by the appearance of the temennu tradition in 2 Kgs 23. As a tablet box concealing the Tablets of the Covenant, the Ark granted the text far more significance than its previous function as a throne ever could. Most significantly, as a container for the Tablets of the Covenant, the Ark continued to reembody Yahweh as a tablet box much as it had as a throne.

the decalogue’s setting in deuteronomy’s narrative spaces and rituals Various elements of the Decalogue’s discourse have already indicated a new spatial setting in Judah. The first indication of this is the historical situation behind the shifts in the Decalogue’s monumental discourse. The text’s verbal and aesthetic discourse suggests a date in the eighth and seventh centuries, so it was most likely revised after the kingdom of Israel fell. This scribal activity therefore must have been performed in Judah. We have also seen interactions between revisions to the Decalogue and Judahite texts like Micah and the Holiness Code. The scribes working on Deuteronomy did not leave the spatial discourse of the Decalogue up to these implications, however. The book also contains more concrete indications of the Decalogue’s setting in Judah – Jerusalem in particular. This paired with other historical shifts in monumentality had significant ramifications for this new community’s engagement with the Decalogue. The Migration to Jerusalem The transposition of the Decalogue onto the Tablets of the Covenant and their placement in the Ark of the Covenant of Yahweh had the consequence of making the Decalogue portable. This in turn made possible a radical shift in the Decalogue’s spatial setting: its removal from Israel’s central highlands to Jerusalem. This mirrored the historical migration of the Israelites themselves and their traditions south to Jerusalem as the Northern Kingdom was collapsing. The Ark, of course, had a special place in Jerusalemite monumental practice. By association, now so did the Decalogue. The combination of the two created a unique opportunity for integrating the two populaces. Thomas Römer and Israel Finkelstein have even proposed that the migration from Israel was reflected in the Ark narratives in Samuel–Kings. In the

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narrative in 1 Sam 4–7:1, they propose a literary reflection of the historical significance of the cult site at Kiriath Jearim. They argue that the movement of the Ark to that site reflects the real religious reforms of Jeroboam II, who may have installed the Ark near the Israel–Judah border to legitimate his domination of the Southern Kingdom. The narratives in 2 Sam 6 and 1 Kgs 6–8, however, reflect the later movement of the Ark into Jerusalem, which they propose happened under Hezekiah or Josiah (Finkelstein and Römer 2020). Even if one does not accept the particulars of this reconstruction, the fact remains that the Ark explicitly features in stories regarding its movement from Israel’s central highlands to Jerusalem. The Ark as it appears in 1 Kgs 6–8 even appears to be a conscious invocation of the Ark from Deut 10. In addition to sharing its designation “the Ark of the Covenant of Yahweh,” this Ark notably lacks cherubim but is instead installed beneath separately constructed cherubim, perhaps in an attempt to combine the two Ark traditions (van der Toorn and Houtman 1994, 230–31; Leuchter 2008, 536 n. 41).47 That is, we see in these passages a cultic object originally installed elsewhere that evolved in its depiction as it was taken over by Judah. This is precisely what happened to the Decalogue in Deuteronomy. Deuteronomy as well as the Deuteronomistic History also reflect this migration in their so-called name theology. Recall that in ancient West Asia the word “name” could be used as a metonym for a monumental inscription. Deuteronomy’s many references to “placing the name” have been accordingly interpreted as idiomatic expressions for erecting monuments – an idiom Hebrew shared with Akkadian and Hieroglyphic Luwian. As an expansion of this idea, Deuteronomy is also concerned with “the place of the name” – that is, the location where Yahweh’s monument was erected. Richter argues that there is a tacit understanding in Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History that the place of the name could change. In fact, if the name refers metonymically to a monument marking territorial acquisition, its place should change as Yahweh’s territory moves and changes centers (Richter 2007, 366; Shafer 2007, 135). This mutability of the place of the name is also a natural consequence of the Decalogue having been transposed onto portable monuments: the tablets and the Ark. Though the Ark may not have originally been a singular artifact nor even limited to Judah, it ultimately became a fixture of the Jerusalemite cult – one with which Deuteronomy is 47

It was the combination of these traditions by scribes in Jerusalem that led to the tradition of a singular ark.

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particularly concerned (Clements 1965, 302; Fretheim 1968; Weinfeld 1972, 197–209; Fleming 2013, 76). Thus, the fact that the Ark is mentioned at all and that it is even made the carrier of the Decalogue in Deuteronomy implies a Jerusalemite setting for these texts. Furthermore, the portability of the Ark was essential to its ritual function. As Fleming argues, when the Ark is mentioned in relation to Jerusalem, it “has only one active role in the life of the Jerusalem cult, and that is to enter the city and its temple” (Fleming 2013, 81). This was a typical function for certain cult artifacts in ancient West Asia. Recall that in the Emarite Zukru festival, the cult statue of Dagan was carried to a designated location outside of the city, from where it processed back into the city’s temple. The southern Mesopotamians – most importantly, the Babylonians – conducted a similar ritual with their cult statues during their akitu festivals (Fleming 2013, 85–89). In the seventh century, however, the Assyrians co-opted such practices toward political ends. In the newly minted Assyrian akitu festivals, the ritual garments of the king were carried to local cult centers in provincial capitals, and thus the king himself usurped the role of the divine and was made ritually present to receive obeisance and divine blessing in all his territories (Pongratz-Leisten 1997). The tuppi adê were also made an essential part of these Assyrian rituals, in which they too took on the role of a divine reembodiment (Watanabe 2020). While tuppi adê monuments were inaugurated in imperial centers, they became effective over a particular populace when they were finally installed in a local cult place during an akitu festival (Lauinger 2013). They afforded social meaning by moving from place to place, and thus by transferring the king’s presence from the center to the periphery. Once the Ark became the receptacle for the Tablets of the Covenant, this portable monumentality was extended to it as well. This understanding is implicit in 2 Sam 6, where David’s conquest of Jerusalem and subsequent movement of the Ark is presented as a completion of Yahweh’s conquest of Canaan (Levtow 2008, 139; 2014, 37–38; Fleming 2013, 82–83). 1 Kgs 6–8 completes this transition when Solomon ritually installs the Ark in the temple in Jerusalem, announcing that it has become the place of Yahweh’s name (1 Kgs 8:43) (Otto 1996b, 45). The portability afforded to the Decalogue by its placement in the Ark allowed the Judahites to implicitly acknowledge the importance of the text’s previous location while simultaneously affirming the significance of its present resting place (Richter 2007, 366). This made it possible for Yahweh to be present in multiple locations at once and to move into new centers as his territory expanded.

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Besides building on changing monumentalities in the surrounding region, the “name theology” also made it possible for Judahite scribes to use the Decalogue to express a uniquely Judahite ideology. They did this by introducing the concept of election to the place of the name. Jerusalem is not just the place for Yahweh’s name in the Deuteronomistic History, but is also the location that Yahweh chose for his name to be placed. This same language of choosing a place for the name is present within Deuteronomy itself.48 R. E. Clements argued that this connection of the name theology to election represented an adaption of the concept of the place of the name to better fit the state ideology of Judah, which was founded on the divine election of the Davidic dynasty (Clements 1965, 303–4; Schniedewind 1999, 83 ff.). The Decalogue’s configuration of “Israel” relative to Yahweh’s monument and his land were thus combined with the Judahite conception of the election of the Davidic king and his politico-cultic center on Zion (Clements 1965, 305–7).49 While the place of Yahweh’s name was originally the central highlands of Israel, the chosen place for Yahweh’s name was Jerusalem by virtue of its connection to this Davidic ideology. In considering the movement of the Decalogue to Jerusalem, we should also consider briefly Deuteronomy’s supposed fixation on centralization. While this has previously been connected exclusively to religious reforms in Judah, it may have originally reflected political reform in the broader Levant. The Age of Court Ceremony was marked by the centralization of political rituals. As the power of kings became more vulnerable, it was necessary for them to directly interact with their subjects – especially elite subjects – in central and restricted locales (Gilibert 2011, 128–37; Greer 2013, 133–38). In addition to the northern Levantine examples examined earlier, we should also note that this centralizing tendency held throughout the southern Levant and even Mesopotamia (Crouch 2014b, 68–69, 132 ff.). Accordingly, this period saw a sharp decrease in the erection of peripheral monuments by Levantine polities. Instead, new monuments were usually erected in political centers, and subjects were expected to

48

The Deuteronomic Code regularly alludes to Yahweh’s choosing a place for his name. See Deut 12:5, 21; 14:24; 26:2. The Deuteronomistic History explicitly connects this with the election of David in 1 Kgs 11:36. 49 Note that the election of Zion and the Davidic dynasty were also apparently inserted into Psalm 20 and 78, both of which are thought to have originated in Israel. This kind of editorial work intended to Judahitize Israelite traditions is thus attested outside of Deuteronomy (Clements 1965, 304 N. 1; Goulder 1995, 72–73; van der Toorn 2016, 253; 2017, 636–37).

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appear before them to demonstrate loyalty. The transition to Jerusalem thus reflected a regional shift in monument-making practices, but it also had significant ramifications for the ritual means of engaging the text in that centralized space. The Loyalty Oath Ceremonies As was the case in Exodus, ritual engagement with the monuments in Deuteronomy is postponed until the entirety of the text has been related. That is, just as we find the ritual engaging the Decalogue in Exod 24 following the Covenant Code, in Deuteronomy we find a monumentengagement ritual beginning in Deut 27 after the Deuteronomic Code. As was already discussed, the monumental installation depicted in Deut 27 as well as the ritual practices afforded by it are largely recapitulations of what was encountered in Exod 24:3–8, 11b. The key difference is that this ritual sequence has been reconceptualized as a loyalty oath ceremony. Practices associated with such ceremonies more broadly characterize the rituals depicted in Deut 27–30. Loyalty oath ceremonies entailed the erection and ritual inauguration of an epigraphic support for the oath, and the performance of the oath in a public assembly (McCarthy 1978, 173–74). This performance consisted of a recitation of the oath’s associated text, a set of scripted responses (especially self-curses) for different parties in the covenant, and a variety of physical actions intended to ensure the efficacy of the oath (Ramos 2021, 52). Because the loyalty oaths we have evidence for were instantiated by monumental artifacts, loyalty oath ceremonies were fundamentally a subtype of the monumentalization sequences explored in the previous chapter. Recall that the erection of a monument was typically accompanied by ritual acts of inscription, reading, incantation, sacrifice, and feasting. Loyalty oath ceremonies involved many of the same practices but with a slightly different focus. During the Age of Court Ceremony, loyalty oaths provided a significant opportunity to buttress the increasingly tenuous authority of rulers. Ramos argues that loyalty oaths “served a social strategy of addressing social anxiety, or of reinforcing systems of cultural power, and a rhetorical purpose of securing the allegiance of participants” (Ramos 2021, 49). Accordingly, they were incorporated into Levantine “I Am” monuments during this period.50 50

This points to another interesting feature of the eighth-century Levantine examples inscribed in Hieroglyphic Luwian. It has long been argued that the covenant texts in

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In the corpus of Levantine “I Am” monuments, loyalty oath ceremonies are attached to CEKKE, BULGARMADEN, KARKAMIŠ A6, and KULULU 2. Of these, CEKKE is perhaps the most instructive. The ritual performance of the oath in CEKKE requires sacrifices (§§4–5), a feast between the contracting parties and other ritual participants (§10), and the erection of frontier stelae (§§15–16). Every one of these elements is included in the ritual prescriptions in Deut 27:1–14. CEKKE and other monuments like it demonstrate how the form of the “I Am” monument was being adapted to loyalty oaths in various ways during this period. Loyalty oaths were one means of extending ritual instructions in such monuments. The “I Am” inscription became an introduction to the loyalty oath. Before continuing, we should briefly consider the nature of the interaction implied by the connection of loyalty oath ceremonies to the Decalogue and Deuteronomy more broadly. Our primary evidence for loyalty oath ceremonies comes from texts, and it can be tempting to treat verbal parallels in these texts as evidence for the transferal of verbal discourse – in other words, as evidence for literary dependence. In some cases, this was a valid way to understand parallels between the Decalogue’s verbal discourse and other biblical corpora. Spatial discourse requires a somewhat different approach, however, even though we must rely on textual evidence in tandem with material remains in order to reconstruct it. Spatial discourse was experienced in ritual practice, and it was in practice that this discourse was most likely transmitted (Ramos 2021, 28–31, 93–98). A further comparison between CEKKE and Deuteronomy can serve to demonstrate what we can learn from a study of the two and other such texts in concert. In Deut 30:19, Moses calls upon Heaven and Earth as witnesses to the loyalty oath. A similar curse formula appears in CEKKE §§25–26: a-wa/i ¦“CAELUM”-sa CORNU+RA/I-na ¦ni LITUUS+na-ti TERRA-pa-wa/i CORNU+RA/I-na ¦ní ¦¦ (PES2.PES)[tara/i-pa-ti]

Deuteronomy, such as that preserved in Deut 27, include a historical prologue. The historical prologue is absent from the treaties at Sefire and the neo-Assyrian exemplars, leading many scholars to posit a connection to the Hittite treaty tradition that regularly made use of them. The same has been argued on the basis of the appearance of blessings alongside curses in the biblical and Hittite materials. Such a distant connection is no longer necessary, however. Historical prologues and blessings were regularly preserved in the eighth-century covenant texts from the Levant inscribed in Hieroglyphic Luwian. CEKKE even used an “I am” inscription to apparently fulfill the same introductory function (McCarthy 1978, 109–40; Weinfeld 1993, 139; Berman 2011, 42; Taggar-Cohen 2011, 481–82).

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Let him not behold the abundance of Heaven, And let him not challenge the abundance of Earth.

Another Hieroglyphic Luwian stele preserves an even closer parallel to the text in Deuteronomy. TÜNP 1 §§3–4 read: SU]B-na-na (“TERRA”)ta-sà-kwa/i+ra/i-sa i-LITUUS-wa/i-ni-sa ¦SUPER+ra/i-la+ra+a-pa-wa/i (“CAELUM”)ti-pa-sá ¦i-tà?-wa/i-za Below Earth belongs to Ea, But above Heaven belongs to El. (Yakubovich 2010, 386–89)

Here Ea and El are called as divine witnesses against any violators of the stele. The connection of these particular deities to heaven and earth is to imply that violators in any sphere will be found out. Undoubtedly the same purpose underlies Deut 30:19. Although no divine names are included, Heaven and Earth are called as witnesses so that no violators can escape. A similar function for Heaven and Earth is also attested in Šurpu Tablet III (line 116), in EST (lines 41–42), and in Arslan Tash Amulet 1 (lines 8–14) (Ramos 2021, 76, 89, 140). The role of Heaven and Earth in Deut 30:19 thus parallels the function of divine witnesses in loyalty oath documents and incantations more broadly in ancient West Asia. None of these examples can definitively be treated as a source document for the passage in Deuteronomy, but they do suggest a sphere of cultural interactions that may have facilitated the transmission of this ritual discourse to Judah. Each of these attests to the interchange between the Levant and Mesopotamia during the Age of Court Ceremony. The Arslan Tash Amulet preserves a covenant made with Assur, and CEKKE is thought to be an emulation of the Assyrian Antakya stele (Hawkins 2000, Volume I:149). Elements of TÜNP 1 suggest a strong affinity for the monument-making practices of Karkamiš, but the compact calls as witnesses one Mesopotamian god (Ea) and one West Semitic god (El). Further complicating this picture is the name of the individual taking the oath: Santattiwad. This name is clearly Luwian and even includes two Luwian theophorics, “Santas” and “Tiwad.” These sorts of interactions may have been partly facilitated by the participation of Levantine elites in Assyrian court ceremonies. Ramos points to the trade in magical artifacts between Mesopotamia and the Levant as an additional vector of transmission for ritual discourse between the two regions (Ramos 2021, 97–98). The interaction of Judahite emissaries with Assyrian officials in Samerina

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may have provided the specific context for the transferal of this discourse to Judah, though interactions with other Levantine polities may have contributed as well. These sorts of cultural interactions and examples of cultural hybridity characterize the Levant at large during this period (Osborne 2021, 134–72). With that in mind, we can attempt to catalogue some of the ritual practices of Deut 27–30. The erection of monuments and the performance of sacrifices in Deut 27:1–8 do not differ substantially from the ritual in Exod 24:3–8, 11a. The key addition in Deuteronomy is an emphasis on oral performance and aural reception, which become even more important in Deut 27:9 ff. However, the first indication of this change in engagement with the Decalogue actually occurs in Deut 5. Within the verses framing the Decalogue, Yahweh is no longer presented as delivering the Decalogue in a direct address. The Decalogue still contains Yahweh’s quoted words, but Moses is reciting it as part of an address to a new generation of Israelites after the wilderness wanderings. Moses claims to lhgyd “recount” the dbr yhwh “word of Yahweh” to his new audience. Moses calls the people together and begins his address in verse 1, verses 3–4 consist of his quoted speech describing the Decalogue, and verse 5 finally introduces the Decalogue as a quote within a quote. The embedding of quoted discourse within another speech is regularly encountered in loyalty oath and incantation texts. It indicates the performance of a ritual script (Ramos 2021, 119). Deut 5:23–26 describe the people’s aural experience of this recitation; they accept it as though it were the voice of Yahweh himself. The people even claim to have heard Yahweh’s voice four separate times. Deut 27–29 picks up this narrative with a set of scripted oral responses to be performed by the priests, Levites, and finally the people themselves in various hierarchal configurations. Ramos has recently argued that Deut 27–29 functioned as a “loose script for a performance that was likely repeated and adapted for various occasions and purposes” (Ramos 2021, 57). In this way, the passage functioned analogously to a ritual tablet in an incantation series. Such ritual instructions were expanded over time, likely in response to changing social contexts (Abusch 2015, 175; Ramos 2021, 120–21). Ramos emphasizes that an oath performance was not limited to a single enactment but could be repeated with each instantiation having the potential to reinterpret its meaning for a new community and a new cultural moment. . . . At different locations and times, the performance was perhaps re-enacted with some variation in the inscriptional display, which may have reflected a re-framing of the formulaic elements of the oath for each specific instantiation of the ritual. (Ramos 2021, 50)

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We have already seen that the inscriptional display – what I have called the epigraphic support – in Deuteronomy was updated over time in response to shifts in monumentality in the broader region. The treaty stele of Deut 27 were replaced by the Tablets of the Covenant in Deut 5 and those were installed in a mobile tablet box in Deut 10. In the same way, the ritual instructions and especially the scripted responses to the oath were updated over time in Deut 27–29 to accommodate new conceptions of loyalty oath ceremonies. The status of Deut 27–29 as a ritual script is especially indicated by the high incidence of formulaic language. Assonance, rhythmic repetition, and word play all indicate that the text was intended to be read aloud as a ritual script (Ramos 2016, 212; 2021, 54). Additionally, changes in speaker are indicated by deictic shifts within the passage. We have already discussed other functions for deictic shift in Levantine “I Am” monuments and biblical literature. Most significantly, these shifts initiated a change in perspective. In the case of loyalty oaths, a shift in the person of verbs is used to indicate portions of the text that were likely performed by different parties. In CEKKE, for example, there is an alternation between narrative clauses in the third person that describe the ritual participants and clauses in the first-person plural that represent scripted pronouncements by the ruling parties. CEKKE concludes with a list of curses in the third person that may have been performed by a ritual expert. This appears to have been common to Levantine loyalty oaths, as it appears also in the Sefire treaties and was even adapted by the Assyrians in Esarhaddon’s treaty with Tyre (Ramos 2021, 119–20).51 The same shift is evident in Deut 27, where the narrative includes embedded deictic shifts that indicate changes in interlocutor. Furthermore, the curses are explicitly prescribed to be spoken by ritual specialists. The contents of this script suggest that it was updated over time to accommodate changing conceptions of loyalty oaths as a result of broader cultural interactions. Some aspects of the script in Deut 27–29 are most at home in a Levantine context. We have already seen that the initial aesthetic support for this script was a set of stelae, which were primarily associated with Levantine loyalty oaths. Stelae are the epigraphic supports for the oaths preserved in the Sefire Stelae, KARABURUN, TÜNP 1,

51

Deictic shift was utilized for a similar purpose in neo-Assyrian treaties, but with some marked differences. In the Levant, the use of the first person indicates the speech of the party being sworn to, while the second person indicates the speech of the party swearing the oath. In Mesopotamia, it is the other way around. (Ramos 2021, 119–20)

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CEKKE, BULGARMADEN, and KULULU 2.52 In addition, the futility curses of Deut 28:30–33 share thematic and verbal parallels to multiple examples of ninth–eighth century Levantine curses (Ramos 2016; Quick 2018).53 These parallels suggest that the ritual script in Deut 27–29 was in part composed by drawing upon native Levantine traditions of curses and loyalty oaths, especially those of the eighth century. Other aspects of Deut 27–29 are more indicative of Mesopotamian influence. The impact of Mesopotamian tradition might be implied by the change of epigraphic support to tablets in Deut 5 and 9–10, but evidence for interaction with Mesopotamia can also be found within the ritual script itself. For example, Ramos has demonstrated that the curses in Deut 27:15–24 have verbal parallels in the Maqlu and Šurpu incantation series. Not only do the three sets of curses share semantic links, the curses also appear in the same sequence in Deuteronomy and Šurpu. Further material in Deut 28 (esp. verse 15–19, 21–22, 25, 27–29, 34, 37, 45–46, 48, 51, 59–61, 65–67) shows substantial thematic similarities to other contexts in Maqlu and Šurpu as well (Ramos 2021, 79–99). Finally, both Deut 27 and Maqlu emphasize burning as a ritual action to accompany their curses. Both Maqlu and Šurpu were circulated during the neoAssyrian period, and Maqlu was even performed before the Assyrian king in the seventh century (Ramos 2021, 59–63). Deut 27’s depiction of an eighth-century monumental installation thus seems to have been expanded with elements of an oath script that would have been more popular in the seventh century. Deut 28 also shows signs of expansion using curses from tuppi adê, which were distributed among the other expansions. For example, the curses in Deut 28:26–35 closely parallel the curses in EST §§39–42. These curses especially seem to reflect the Assyrian pantheon and their function in tuppi adê. Though the divine names have of course been removed, the curses in Deuteronomy closely parallel curses performed by specific deities in tuppi adê. The sequence of curses also appears to closely follow the sequence of deities in the Assyrian curses. Similarly, Deut 28:23–24 parallel a curse preserved in EST §56 and §§63–64 (Frankena 1965, 123–54; Weinfeld 1965, 417–27; 1972, 116–29; Steymans 1995b, 119–41; 1995a, 143–49; 2003; Carr 2012, 528; Levinson and Stackert 2012, 130; 2013,

52

Though not a stele, KARKAMIŠ A6 is an orthostat and thus still a lapidary support for its loyalty oath. Similarly, KARKAMIŠ A4a preserves a contract on a cylindrical stone drum. 53 See especially the futility curses in the Sefire Treaties, the Tell Fekheriyeh Inscription, the Bukan Stele, and Lev 26:26.

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324).54 Most significantly, these parallels are concentrated in sections of Deut 28 that cannot be explained by connections to incantation series like Maqlû and Šurpu. These apparently expanded the earlier curse script with curses more familiar to Assyrian adê, paralleling the adê-oriented shifts in the aesthetic dimension of the text. The incorporation of elements common to tuppi adê also had significant ramifications for the social structure proposed by this ritual script. Enacting Social Hierarchies with the Loyalty Oath The most significant alteration made to the ritual attached to the Decalogue in Deuteronomy is the stratification of its participants. In Exod 24:3–8, the people are the primary ritual participants and their mediators are drawn from among them. While the people at large are present in the ritual in Deuteronomy in the form of kl ys´rʾl “all Israel” (Deut 27:9) and they are required to respond to the recitation of the curses, they no longer provide nonspecialist ritual practitioners to mediate for them. Instead, the ritual practitioners are limited to Moses, the Levites, and the priests. This sort of segregation is evident in the material culture of Israel at the beginning of the Age of Court Ceremony. In the Nimshide layers at Tel Dan, for example, luxury items were discovered in the priestly quarters within the temple, where they were lacking in earlier periods. This suggests that the priests at Dan became an elite class in that period. Simultaneously, a temenos was built around the altar in the temple courtyard, suggesting that while worshippers could bring sacrifices to the temple without distinction, only the priests were allowed to participate in the ritual slaughter and burning. Greer analyzes these changes as evidence for stratified rituals during this period at Tel Dan (Greer 2013, 133–36). The new spatial discourse attached to the Decalogue reflects the increasingly elite status of priests and the segregated ritual practices it motivated. The segregation of the ritual attached to the Decalogue perfectly matches attested shifts in monumentality in the Age of Court Ceremony.55 During this period, Levantine monuments were erected in increasingly exclusive contexts and their ritual activation was more 54

Despite these connections, the argument that this demonstrates direct literary dependence on EST in particular may be overstated (Crouch 2014a, 49–78). 55 It must be admitted, however, that this sort of ritual segregation also characterized the Persian and Hellenistic periods. In the next chapter, I will show that an editorial insertion in the ritual of Exod 24:1–11 was most likely carried out in this later period. However, the nature of that insertion suggests that it is building on an even earlier revision designed to

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limited in scope. In particular, when this transition in monumentality occurred, participation in monument-making and activation rituals was limited to elites (Gilibert 2011, 130–31). Loyalty oaths became a special means for enacting these stratified social structures. For example, the Sefire treaties were accorded with the royal families of ktk and Arpad, the lords of ktk and Arpad, the kings of Aram, and any representatives of the people who were able to enter the royal houses.56 The only active parties in the Sefire treaties are elites, and they are presumably the ones responsible for reciting it. Apart from Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic history, the new social hierarchy introduced to the Decalogue in Deut 27 seems also to have impacted the account of the Decalogue in Exodus. While there is some debate about the relative dating of Exod 24:3–8, 11b, and verses 1– 2, 9–11a, the second set of verses was most likely added later to reframe and reconceptualize the earlier ritual in verses 3–8 (Childs 1974, 499– 502; Fretheim 2010, 255; Baden 2012, 117; Chavel 2015, 192). The history of “I Am” monuments may provide new evidence for this, because the primary revision introduced by these verses was ritual segregation. In verses 3–8, the ritual participants are all the people, while in verses 1–2 and 9–11a, the participants are only certain elite figures from among the people. Notably, these are same elite figures as those in Deut 27: priestly and Levitical families.57 This transition in monumentality explains why a more complicated ritual was associated with the Decalogue in Deuteronomy and why the ritual in Exodus was subsequently transformed to match it. Like the passages in Deuteronomy, however, Exod 24:1–2, 9–11a, shows evidence of further transformation at a later date. We will discuss these additional transformations in the next chapter.

segregate that ritual. I maintain that the earlier revision was carried out during the Age of Court Ceremony, as were the initial passages focused on segregation in Deuteronomy. 56 KAI 222 A1:1–5. There is a curious reference to ʾrm klh “all Aram,” perhaps matching kl ys´rʾl “all Israel,” but it is bracketed by references to the royal family, suggesting that it may still refer to elite representatives of the people rather than the whole populace. This apparent specification of elite participants is to be expected in light of related eighthcentury monumentalization rituals known in the Levant, but it is markedly different from the Assyrian practice. Even the eighth-century treaty between Aššurnerari V and Mati’ilu of Bit-Agusi is supposed to apply to “the people of his land” without exception (McCarthy 1978, 195). 57 However one understands the precise relationships and roles of the Levites and priests in Deuteronomy, it is abundantly clear that they form an elite class with authority over other echelons of society (Wright 1954, 327–28; Emerton 1962; Abba 1977).

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The spatial configuration of ritual segregation in Deuteronomy is also worth special comment. Six tribes are to stand on Mount Gerizim, while six tribes stand on Mount Ebal.58 The Levites then recite the curses and blessings, to which the people on either side are to respond. A similar configuration appears in the recapitulation of this scene in Josh 8:33, where “all Israel with their elders, officers, and judges – whether foreign or native-born – were standing on either side of the priests and Levites carrying the Ark of the Covenant of Yahweh, half of them before Mount Gerizim and half of them before Mount Ebal.” The monumental form of the oath is thus centered in a divided assembly, in which the closer one is to the inscription, the more prestige they seem to hold. The exact same spatial configuration is attested for the previously mentioned “I Am” monument KARKAMIŠ A6. A century after Katuwas completed the Lower Palace Area at Karkamiš, the ruler Yariris inserted the Royal Buttress between the King’s Gate and the Herald’s Wall. The Royal Buttress was a sequence of figured orthostats arranged in a right angle along the wall of the Lower Palace Area. Yariris was a regent ruling Karkamiš until the designated royal heir – Kamanis – came of age. He implemented a loyalty oath ceremony to ensure the Karkamišean elite would remain loyal until the young king took the throne. That oath was prescribed in KARKAMIŠ A6, which was placed on the corner of the Royal Buttress – right in its center. On either side of the inscription with its prescribed loyalty oath, iconographic scenes present a procession toward the oath. Yariris appears both in the form of the EGO2 hieroglyph opening the inscription and as a portrait standing beside the inscription. Kamanis stands between these two instantiations of Yariris, and the rest of the royal family processes toward the oath from Yariris’ right. On the left side of the buttress, various courtiers are shown processing toward the oath document (Fig. 15). In a striking departure from loyalty oath ceremonies elsewhere in ancient West Asia, the depicted oath is sworn not by the other elites to the royal heir (Kamanis), but rather by the heir to the goddess Kubaba – sometimes known as the divine queen of Karkamiš. The goddess was invoked to bind all the participants together and maintain the social structure proposed by Yariris, including his temporary position ahead of

58

The division of tribes here is worth noting. The tribes on Mount Gerizim (Simeon, Levi, Judah, Issachar, Joseph, and Benjamin) are all Cisjordanian entities that were located in the heartland of Israel or further south in the land of Benjamin and the Kingdom of Judah. The tribes on Mount Ebal are all associated either with the Transjordan or Galilee.

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figure 15 Configuration of ritual participants around Yariris’ loyalty oath document at Carchemish (KARKAMIŠ A6). Gilibert, Alessandra. “Children of Kubaba: Serious Games, Ritual Toys, and Divination at Iron Age Carchemish.” Religions 13 (2022): 881–908. Drawing by Elia Bettini and reproduced by permission of Alessandra Gilibert.

figure 15 (cont.)

Kamanis (Posani 2017, 105; Gilibert 2022, 889). The configuration is strikingly similar to that in Deuteronomy, in which different tribes and ritual specialists are situated on either side of the monument containing the loyalty oath to Yahweh. Most significantly, Yariris inserted his loyalty oath scene into the preexisting processional sequence set up by Katuwas. He thus took advantage of the processional scenes already in the Lower Palace Area. The resultant composite recruits the “I Am” monuments of Katuwas in the King’s Gate and on the Herald’s Wall into the scene (Gilibert 2011, 47– 49). As a result, the previous dynasty is made to process toward Yariris behind the new royal family and the new nonroyal elite. We saw such a use of new depictions to subtly shift the monumentality of older installations at Samʾal in the acropolis installation of Bar-Rakib, which subtly subverted the neighboring installation of Kulamuwa (Hogue 2022c). A similar strategy appears in the Hebrew Bible.

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The late Judahite monarchy witnessed increasingly complex stratification among its people, and these changes in Judah’s social structure necessitated modifications to the social hierarchy enacted by the loyalty oath ritual in Deuteronomy. Epigraphic evidence from Judah suggests that late Judahite bureaucracy was significantly more complex than Israel’s (Faigenbaum-Golovin et al. 2016; 2020; Shaus et al. 2020). Fleming has argued on the basis of biblical evidence that Judah and Israel had very different political structures in general. Judah is presented as far more centralized and hierarchal than was Israel (Fleming 2012, 18). The developing ritual script in Deuteronomy may have again turned to Assyrian tuppi adê for inspiration in enacting new social hierarchies when the text found itself in a vastly different social context. Assyrian loyalty oaths introduced even more complicated hierarchies to the Levant. These were necessitated by the installation of Assyrian officials there as well as the incorporation of Levantine elites into Assyrian social structures. For example, we read in §1 of the version of EST found at Tell Tayinat: The adê of Esarhaddon, king of Assyria, son of Sennacherib, king of Assyria, with the governor of Kunalia, with the deputy, the majordomo, the scribes, the chariot drivers, the third men, the village managers, the information officers, the prefects, the cohort commanders, the charioteers, the cavalrymen, the exempt, the outriders, the specialists, the shi[eld bearers (?)], the craftsmen, (and) with [all] the men [of his lands], great and small, as many as there are – [wi]th them and with the men who are born after the adê in the [f]uture, from the east . . . to the west, all those over whom Esarhaddon, king of Assyria, exercises kingship and lordship. (Lauinger 2012, 112)

This passage recognizes multiple levels of local elites, some holding traditional roles and some holding offices created by Assyria. Tell Tayinat also preserves evidence for local cultic artifacts and practices being incorporated into the adoration of the tuppi adê, suggesting that local cultic personnel were included in this hybridized hierarchy (Osborne 2021, 134–36, 168–72). Though these cultic personnel are not mentioned explicitly in the loyalty oath text, the placement of the tuppi adê suggests that the loyalty oath ceremony was centered on a cultic space, like the ritual depicted in Deuteronomy. Unlike the hierarchies specified or implied by Levantine court ceremonies, commoners are explicitly included in this hierarchy rather than filling a subservient role implied by their exclusion. EST is explicitly accorded with everyone, which is emphatically stated in terms of the hendiadys “great and small,” “from the east to the west,” and the all-inclusive “as

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many as there are.” Commoners as well as elites were likely expected to acknowledge the tuppi adê installed in the temple at Tell Tayinat. However, the commoners are the last in a long list belying a complex social hierarchy (Harrison and Osborne 2012, 137; Lauinger 2013, 114). The inclusivity of this practice reflected a particular source of social anxiety for the Assyrians: the need to promote submission among local populaces and elites as well as among relocated Assyrians, who were known to rebel elsewhere.59 Further expansions to the ritual script in Deuteronomy reflect a similar complication in social structure. In a passage similar to EST §1 in Deut 29:10–15, Moses addresses: all of you, before Yahweh your God – the leaders of your tribes, your elders, and your officials, all the men of Israel, your children, your women, and the displaced people who are in your camp, both those who cut your wood and those who draw your water – to enter into the covenant of Yahweh your God, sworn by an oath, which Yahweh your God is making with you today; in order that he may establish you today as his people, and that he may be your God, as he promised you and as he swore to your ancestors, to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob. I am making this covenant, sworn by an oath, not only with you who stand here with us today before Yahweh our God, but also with those who are not here with us today.

Deut 29 thus specifies that the loyalty oath ceremonies are to include nonelite members of society using a rhetorical strategy parallel to EST (Schniedewind 2004, 135). It is worth noting especially how inclusive this list is, even though it still implies some social stratification. In addition to elite and common men, Deuteronomy also includes women, children, and displaced persons living among the Israelites. Even if they remain segregated in terms of the roles they play in the loyalty oath ritual, this is nonetheless the most inclusive group of ritual participants we have yet encountered. Given the inclusivity of the list of ritual participants in Deut 29:10–15, it is surprising that the Levites and priests are absent from this list. This suggests that the stratification of participants in this ritual changed over time in response to changing practices in the surrounding region. Meanwhile, the inclusion of a variety of political elites as well as refugees “addressed possible factors of social instability by promoting a sense of community solidarity” (Ramos 2021, 95).60 Furthermore, both EST and The most extreme example of this is Šamaš-šum-ukin, the son of Esarhaddon who was installed as king of Babylon. He formed a coalition to rebel against his brother, the Assyrian king Aššurbanipal. A loyalty oath (SAA 2.009) had explicitly been accorded between these two, but it failed to keep even an Assyrian prince loyal to the Assyrian king. 60 The social situation envisioned in this passage also mitigates against assigning it to the postmonarchic period. While the priests continued rising in significance after the fall of the 59

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Deuteronomy make explicit that the loyalty oath applies to future generations as well as those currently participating in the ceremony, reflecting the real concern that present loyalty did not guarantee a similar attitude in the future. Unlike EST but like KARKAMIŠ A6, however, the oath is not sworn to the king or his heir but to the polity’s chief deity. This may reflect the growing instability of royal succession in the late Judahite monarchy, which was often subject to the whims of encroaching empires. Like the divine queen of Karkamiš, the divine king of Israel/Judah provided more stability than any human ruler could promise in this period. The changes in social structure here thus reflect real sources of anxiety and instability in the late Judahite monarchy. These anxieties were in part assuaged by gradually expanding the ritual script in Deut 27–29. They were also mitigated by repeat performances of the loyalty oath ceremony. The Occasion for the Loyalty Oath As mentioned earlier, the loyalty oath ceremony depicted in Deut 27–29 was merely a loose script for repeated performances. Both the script and these performances could change over time in response to changing sociocultural circumstances. In fact, these performances were probably seasonal. In the previous chapter, I suggested that the Decalogue was mostly associated with the autumnal New Year in Israel. We have already seen in Israelite sources like Pss 50 and 81 and Hosea that this festival was connected to the Decalogue (Gray 1961, 10–12; Hallo 1977, 9; King 1988, 109–12; Goulder 1995, 149–51). This association may have survived in Judah. For example, Jeremiah’s preaching of the Decalogue before the temple of Jerusalem on Sukkot in Jer 7 may indicate a Judahite continuation of this Israelite practice.61 The practice in Deuteronomy may have also been informed by parallels in Assyrian loyalty oath ceremonies.62 monarchy, much of the bureaucratic structure described here was dismantled. Subsequently, these political elites themselves became refugees rather than their caretakers. 61 Jeremiah’s temple sermon explicitly develops Hos 4:2’s reversal of the Decalogue as an accusation on the occasion of Sukkot (Fishbane 1985, 430 n. 947) His reaction to the Decalogue on this occasion may also reflect Hosea’s discussion of the autumnal New Year in Hos 2:11 and 9:5. Though the practice of the Sabbath had changed in Deuteronomy, the association of the text’s ritual performance with the New Year Festival and quite likely the first New Moon of the new year appears to have continued (Hallo 1977, 10; Holladay 1986, 240; Mowinckel 2004, 129). 62 The connection to Sukkot is ancient but persisted into the postmonarchic period. Though the festival is not given a name, the reading ceremony in Nehemiah 8 notably occurs “in

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In addition to the ritual practices already discussed, Assyrian loyalty oath ceremonies may have included seasonal feasts as well (Barjamovic 2011, 40–46; Aster 2016, 186–91). In the case of EST, the tuppi adê was initially inaugurated during the local akitu festival at Kalḫ u, which involved the ritual enthronement of Nabû, who would bless the adê (Fales 2012, 137, 149–50).63 This festival was open to the public and may have even included foreign tribute bearers (Aster 2007, 19–20). However, this was not the only akitu festival that featured the tuppi adê. Assyrian akitu festivals were unique in that they were not limited to the center of the polity as was the case in Babylonia. The Babylonian akitu festival was primarily celebrated at Babylon, where the statue of Marduk was carried from his temple to the akitu house to act as the focal point in various rituals. After Sennacherib destroyed Babylon in 681 BCE, he reorganized cultic practices derived from Babylon. Most significantly, the akitu festival established during this time was celebrated in not only the imperial centers of Assur, Kalḫ u, and Nineveh but also provincial capitals and garrison cities on the frontier. Each akitu festival was unique in fixating on the primary local deity rather than Assur, who took the traditional place of Marduk in the festival in Assyria proper. Also unlike the Babylonian practice, the center of the festival was not these local deities but rather the Assyrian king who was receiving their blessing. It was not the cult statue of a particular deity that was carried to the akitu house in these festivals, but rather the ritual clothing of the Assyrian king and the tuppi adê. Thus, instead of picturing a god returning to his central sanctuary, the Assyrian akitu festivals witnessed the king traveling to the frontiers of his empire through the medium of his garments and his monuments. By reconceptualizing the akitu festival in this way and distributing the practice to both central and peripheral cities, the Assyrian king transformed the akitu into a means of “visualizing and enacting his territorial claim of controlling the universe” (Pongratz-Leisten 1997, 252). This strategy was remarkably similar to the territorial theatres constructed by Levantine rulers in the ninth and eighth centuries, but the use of the akitu festival for this purpose by the Assyrians is attested only in the seventh century. the seventh month,” the traditional date of the autumnal New Year, at least in Judah. This reading ceremony may have been a postmonarchic development of the loyalty oath ceremony (Ramos 2021, 51). 63 Even the Median deactivation of EST apparently had to be carried out in the throne-room of Nabû, suggesting that they were likely activated in the same location (Scurlock 2012, 178–79).

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The Assyrian transformation of the akitu festival was shortly followed by the institution of EST in 672 BCE and other adê like it. In addition to being initially inaugurated during the akitu festival in Kalḫ u, Jacob Lauinger argues that the tuppi adê was subsequently reactivated in local akitu festivals wherever it was installed. This would have occurred on a yearly basis at the same time that emissaries were to bring their yearly tribute to Assyria (Lauinger 2013, 111–15). After its installation, the tuppi adê was actually deified and locals were expected to worship it as though it were divine; the same practice was extended to neo-Assyrian royal stelae in conquered cities (Berlejung 2012, 159; Watanabe 2020). The Assyrian akitu festivals also recruited local deities and practices into their ritual programs. I have already mentioned that it was not Assur who blessed the king in his symbolic procession to peripheral cult centers but rather the primary local deity. This incorporation of local practices also extended to the use of local cult artifacts. For example, a traditional Syro-Anatolian pyxis was discovered in the Assyrian temple at Tell Tayinat among the assemblage that also included the tuppi adê and other neo-Assyrian cultic paraphernalia. This pyxis predates the Assyrian artifacts by centuries and seems to have originally been used for offering incense in funerary rituals. Its iconography recalls well-known feasting and slaughter motifs from Levantine funerary monuments. This local cult artifact was apparently recruited into the akitu festival at Tell Tayinat, in which it was used in not a funerary ritual but rather a loyalty oath ceremony (Osborne 2021, 134, 170–72). This illustrates that the Assyrians were not dismantling local practices in their conquests but rather appropriating them toward pro-Assyrian ends. If there really was a tuppi adê installed in Jerusalem, as some scholars suppose, the Judahites would have participated in yearly akitu festivals centered on the loyalty oath ceremony, providing a significant vector of transmission for these practices to Judah. Furthermore, this festival mostly likely would have co-opted local ritual practices and artifacts to present Yahweh’s blessing the Assyrian king. It also would have required the Judahites to worship the tuppi adê as an equivalent god. We need not speculate about this occurring in Jerusalem, however; it almost certainly occurred in Samaria. As mentioned earlier, when the Judahites paid their yearly tribute to Assyria, they had first to travel to the administrative centers in the Assyrian province of Samerina directly to their north. While no tuppi adê have been discovered in Samerina, it was home to Assyrian garrison cities along with governors, scribes, and other officials. A royal stele of

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Esarhaddon was also installed there, and such stelae were adored as divine manifestations of the king (Berlejung 2012; Aster and Faust 2015, 301; Watanabe 2020). The peripheral akitu festivals were performed simultaneously with the bringing of tribute, and tribute bearers from different polities were made to travel to provincial administrative centers before continuing together on to the imperial core. The Judahites thus could have participated in akitu festivals in Samerina when they brought their tribute, if not in one of the cities in the Assyrian heartland. Because Yahweh was likely still considered the primary local deity, he would have played an essential role in any akitu festivals in Samerina (Knoppers 2013, 68). The potentially deified stele of Esarhaddon in Samaria may also have been involved. This practice of local akitu festivals sheds new light on the spatial discourse of the Decalogue in Deuteronomy. The initial inauguration of the text and the newly associated loyalty oath occurs in the old Israelite center near Shechem in Deut 27, but the text’s transposition to the Tablets of the Covenant implies that it was subsequently installed in the temple in Jerusalem.64 While Deut 27 may preserve vestiges of an earlier Israelite tradition of ritual engagements near Ebal and Gerizim, Judahite emissaries would have to pass through the exact same territory on their way to Assyria to pay tribute (Aster and Faust 2015, 299–300). Ironically, the Judahites may have been required to participate in real loyalty oath ceremonies in exactly the location envisioned in Deuteronomy, and Yahweh may have even been a participant in these ceremonies as the primary local deity (Knoppers 2013, 45–70). Deuteronomy ultimately subverts this practice by reemphasizing the centrality of Yahweh at the expense of the Assyrian king. The changes to the Decalogue’s spatial discourse in Deuteronomy imply that the text could be reactivated yearly in the form of the Tablets of the Covenant installed in Jerusalem. This ritual interaction would be performed during the autumnal New Year. This stipulation is explicitly commanded in Deut 31, though there it is only to be repeated every seven years.65 Like the akitu festival, this reenactment of the loyalty oath 64

Such a setting was also attested for Levantine lapidary treaties. KAI 222 B3:1–3 reads: [wmn y]ʾmr lhldt spryʾ [ʾ]ln mn bty ʾlhyʾ ʾn zy y[r]šmn “and whoever will order for these inscriptions to be effaced from the temples where they are recorded.” 65 Deut 31 is certainly composite and the date of the text is contested. As far as the festival and its connection to the reading of the covenant text, Tigay proposes two different “Deuteronomic” sources represented by verses 9–13 on the one hand and verses 24–27 on the other. The references to the ark in these passages suggests an origin during the time

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ceremony in Deuteronomy would provide an opportunity for Yahweh to enact his territorial claim on Judah as well as for the Judahites to renew their relationship with him. It also subtly subverted the Assyrian practices in vogue in the seventh century, in which the Assyrians may have sought to recruit Yahweh into their own propaganda.66

the sociohistorical context of the decalogue’s redaction in deuteronomy This chapter has demonstrated that the reception of the Decalogue in Deuteronomy was significantly impacted by the history of Levantine “I Am” monuments as well as the history of monuments more broadly in ancient West Asia and North Africa. Just like Wu’s example of the Nine Tripods in China or the Epic of Gilgamesh in Mesopotamia, the depiction of the Decalogue was changed by later scribes to better match the monumentalities of their present sociohistorical context. Whereas Exodus construed the Decalogue as a Levantine “I Am” monument typical of the Age of Territorial Theatre (870–745 BCE), Deuteronomy recasts it as a monument in the Age of Court Ceremony (790–600 BCE). The reframing of the Decalogue, the strategic transformation of its discourse, and inner-biblical exegesis demonstrate active attempts to update the monumentality of the Decalogue. As a result, Yahweh was reembodied according to somewhat different conceptions of kingship, and “Israel” was reconfigured as a new community. The changes made to the Decalogue’s monumentality suggest a protracted process of revision rather than a single literary production. Deut 27, for example, strongly implies that the Ebal/Gerizim installation – in addition to recapitulating the Sinai installation – is being reimagined as the setting of a lapidary treaty. In current evidence, this type of monument is only known from the eighth-century Levant. Passages thought to be secondary additions to frame this in Deut 13 and 28–29 as well as the references to tablets in Deut 5 and 9–10 betray interactions with neoAssyrian tuppi adê, a type of monument unattested in the Levant before of the Judahite monarchy. This same provenance is suggested by the naming of the festival as Sukkot and the specification that it occurs in the seventh month. Both features are also present in the Holiness Code (Lev 23:24). The festival of Sukkot survived into the postexilic period, of course, so portions of verses 9–13 could be later (Tigay 1996, 504). 66 The account in 2 Kgs 18:25, in which Rab-shaqeh claims that Yahweh commanded the Assyrian king to attack Judah, may reflect the Assyrian practice of recruiting local deities into their peripheral propaganda.

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the seventh century (Rütersworden 2002, 188–90; Carr 2011, 309, 479).67 Rather than assign specific literary layers to accompany each of these and propose dated editions of the book, here I conclude only that Deuteronomy was an ongoing project intended to update earlier depictions of monumental artifacts in order to maintain their relevance. The various scribes working on Deuteronomy provided Yahweh with imagined monumental assemblages that could compete with the best of those erected by the surrounding kingdoms and empires. The monumental discourse of the Decalogue was changed accordingly as it was recruited into these new assemblages. The Monumentality of the Decalogue in Deuteronomy As was the case for “I Am” monuments erected during the Age of Court Ceremony, two primary motivations are reflected in the discursive shifts in the Deuteronomic Decalogue. First, there is a stronger tendency to adapt Mesopotamian practices. This is especially seen in the Decalogue’s incorporation of allusions to legal corpora. While “I Am” monuments could contain moral directives, they were not legal texts. Neither was the Decalogue as originally composed. Only the revisions in Deuteronomy introduced the language of law to the Decalogue. This was in keeping with Deuteronomy’s emphasis on the Covenant Code, which it revised into the Deuteronomic Code. Both law collections imitate monumental law codes from Mesopotamia. Second, the monumental discourse of the Deuteronomic Decalogue reflects the tenuousness of Levantine social structures during the Age of Court Ceremony and near constant need to reimagine them. As Gilibert argues, this was a period when “power was increasingly negotiated behind closed doors” because rulers had a greater need to convince non-royal elites of their political programs and thus promote submission among the rest of the populace (Gilibert 2011, 131). The increased exclusivity of the Decalogue in Deuteronomy as well as the increasingly stratified social structure it enacted reflect this sort of social strategy. One of the goals of Deuteronomy more broadly was to update Israelite materials for use in Judah. This resembles the strategies of polities like Samʾal and Karkamiš, where older monuments were recruited into new assemblages to justify new rulers. The Assyrians embraced a similar 67

Note that the term adê refers primarily to the content of these texts. The textual artifact is referred to as a tuppi adê “treaty tablet.”

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strategy in their expansions, recruiting local Levantine practices and artifacts into their own monumental programs on the periphery. Similarly, the scribes active in Judah after the collapse of Israel utilized previously authoritative texts in creating their own literary assemblages. The Decalogue was an essential part of this program. The updates necessary to recruit the Decalogue into a new monumental assemblage are most apparent in its aesthetic and spatial discourse in Deuteronomy. The replacement of the maṣsẹ bot with the ʾbnym – though likely constituting no imagined physical change – belied the Judahite disavowal of maṣs ̣ebot more broadly. Again, this was a shift in monument-making uniquely attested in Judahite texts like the Holiness Code and Micah. The growing impact of loyalty oaths on the material in Deuteronomy also facilitated a connection to oath documents on stelae – a unique monumental product of the eighth-century Levant. This set the stage for further transformations, however. Deuteronomy also sees the Decalogue definitively transferred onto the Tablets of the Covenant, probably under the influence of the growing prestige of Assyrian tuppi adê monuments, which performed a function similar to Levantine lapidary treaties. Finally, the Tablets of the Covenant were installed into the Ark of the Covenant of Yahweh, which in Deuteronomy is primarily a tablet box meant to hide the tablets. The content of these tablets was then unveiled in literary form in Deuteronomy, granting the text an air of exclusivity and authority akin to narû-literature. This likely occurred in response to both the Assyrian and Egyptian practice of depicting hidden monuments as sources of authority and wisdom. The transposition of the Decalogue onto oath stelae and then the Tablets of the Covenant also invited the attachment of a loyalty oath ceremony to the text – a connection that was being made elsewhere in the Levant at the same time. In the recapitulation of the Sinai installation in the central highlands in Deut 27–29, we see a ritual script designed to integrate multiple groups into Deuteronomy’s conception of “Israel.” This ritual script apparently expanded over time to accommodate different conceptions of loyalty oaths and the social structures they were intended to produce. Such ritual scripts were probably understood as malleable texts that could be applied in unique ways in local contexts at particular times. The transposition of the Tablets of the Covenant into the Ark of the Covenant undoubtedly implied the migration of the Decalogue and its associated rituals to Jerusalem, where they would take a unique form in response to Judah’s specific sociohistorical circumstances. The maintenance of the original setting of the loyalty oath

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ceremony near Shechem, in addition to reflecting a more ancient Israelite conception of the Decalogue, probably also reflected the political relationship between Judah and the province of Samerina necessitated by their vassalage to Assyria. The Decalogue was still fundamentally a reembodiment of Yahweh in Deuteronomy, but the changes in its monumentality imply a shift in the conceptualization of Yahweh. Rather than being presented as a divine king in the model of a Levantine monarch, Yahweh has here absorbed the trappings of ancient West Asian and North African emperors. His claim on his people is now buttressed by his role as a lawgiver and as a recipient of a loyalty oath. The inscriptional support for this oath is the Decalogue, which is ultimately inscribed on stone tablets, rendering it a portable monument that could be transferred to different centers in Yahweh’s territory. His people are also no longer conceptualized simply as the denizens of his enacted territory. Rather, they are constituted as a stratified group of many constituents, each of which must perform fealty to Yahweh in slightly different ways in a loyalty oath ceremony. Rather than enacting a particular territory by repeating this ceremony on his frontiers, Yahweh instead now requires that each of his subjects attend to him in his central sanctuary. As before, however, understanding the history of the Decalogue’s monumentality requires more than just references to the history of Levantine “I Am” monuments. We must also consider the historical situation in Judah and its potential impact on these shifts in monumentality. The monumentality described in this chapter is still ultimately an empty description until it is historicized. We shall see that in addition to simply updating the monumentality of the Decalogue, the scribes responsible for Deuteronomy were also responding to very particular social concerns in Judah and Israel during the Age of Court Ceremony. The Judahite Reception of the Decalogue During the Age of Court Ceremony, Israel and Judah both underwent radical changes. Israel eventually disappeared altogether, having been conquered by the Assyrian empire. At the same time, Judah’s population doubled, thanks in no small part to an influx of Israelite refugees. The once insignificant polity also found itself increasingly at the center of imperial politics. In the late eighth century, Judah began an on-again offagain vassal relationship with Assyria. By the end of the seventh century, Judah found itself essentially an Egyptian protectorate. These complex

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interactions were inextricably entangled with the development of monumental art, spectacle, and social structures in Judah. The Decalogue, though a product of ninth–eighth-century Israel, was also impacted by these developments. Despite some commonalities, it is important to emphasize that Judah and Israel had starkly different experiences of the empires surrounding them. As we saw in the previous chapter, Israel under the Nimshide dynasty essentially was an empire. Though some Israelite kings certainly paid tribute to the Assyrians, Jeroboam II sent ambassadors to the Assyrians as an independent ruler rather than as a vassal (Na’aman 2019, 13–14). This may in part explain why Israel was destroyed rather than made a vassal when the neo-Assyrian empire resurged in the Levant in the late eighth century; the Kingdom of Israel was an obstacle to further Assyrian expansion (Fales 2019). Judah’s experience could not be more different. In the Age of Court Ceremony, Judah was subjected first to Israel, then to Assyria, and finally to Egypt. When they inherited Israel’s notion of Yahweh as a Divine King, it thus made little sense to imagine him after the model of their own king. The Judahite kings were constantly struggling to maintain their sovereignty in the face of encroaching outside powers (Malamat 1975). But these interactions did provide Judah with the discourse it needed to reimagine Yahweh as an emperor like the kings of Assyria and Egypt. This political situation was one major factor in Judahite revisions to the Decalogue and its framework. Another major influence was the new relationship between Judah and Israel precipitated by the dissolution of the latter’s monarchy. In the Age of Court Ceremony, Judah had to contend with not only the expansion of Assyria but also the fact that the Assyrians had toppled their sometime-enemy, sometime-suzerain to the north. On the one hand, the Israelites brought with them authoritative traditions from a once powerful kingdom. On the other hand, the arrival of these traditions in the hands of refugees demanded explanation. Were these traditions still authoritative? If so, how could their authority be maintained in a new social setting? The generations receiving these materials thus grappled with an entirely new context in which to tackle the question of Israelite identity and its relation to Judah. We see this new relationship explored in the changes made to the Decalogue’s verbal discourse. In Exodus, the Decalogue proposed an Israelite identity to a disparate group of individuals, and this matched well with a setting during one of the Northern Kingdom’s expansions. In Deuteronomy’s Decalogue, there is a stronger emphasis on past trauma

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informing future living. Instead of presenting Yahweh’s perspective and then exploring its ramifications on communal living, the transition now focuses more strongly on the experience of slavery in Egypt. This is implied by the redactional bridges created between the two rhetorical units of the Decalogue. As a result of the exact repetitions in the Sabbath commandment and the honor commandment, the Decalogue now pivots on a transition from life in Egypt (“you will remember that you were slaves in the land of Egypt”) to life in the land (“that it may go well for you in the land Yahweh your God is giving you”). Many scholars have suggested that shifts like these point to a setting in the postmonarchic period (Otto 2012a, 1:170–71; 2013b, 213–33; Nicholson 2014, 59–63; Markl 2014, 724–26). In the next chapter, I will argue that the Decalogue spoke into the postmonarchic period through this shift, but I would argue here that the social situation in eighth- and seventh-century Judah makes just as much sense for this shift in verbal rhetoric. These shifts were possibly intended to help the Israelite refugees and their descendants living in Judah to better integrate into Judahite society. This integration was realized in the form of pan-Israelite ideology, which saw Judahites identifying themselves with Israel and Israelites with the social institutions of Judah. The Exodus probably took on a new meaning in this context as a reflection of Israel’s recent past. The migration and escape from slavery expressed by the Exodus narrative now had a contemporary parallel: the escape of the Israelite refugees from the Assyrian onslaught. The shifts in the Decalogue thus configure Israel in response to flight and rebuilding elsewhere. This reflects the social situation of refugee scribes collaborating with Judahite scribes to rewrite Israelite texts like the Decalogue (Markl 2021, 270). What was the nature of the rewriting on display in Deuteronomy? Some scholars maintain that the Judahites were subverting earlier traditions and acting as theological censors (Levinson 1997, 149–50; Na’aman 2010; Levinson and Stackert 2012; van der Toorn 2017). I follow work that instead sees the rewriting of the Judahites as an act of transformative maintenance. This rewriting implicitly acknowledged the authority of the texts being rewritten (Otto 1993; 2012a, 1:231–38; 2013b, 213–21; Najman 2003; Venema 2004, 217). In ancient West Asia, textual authority was acknowledged not by leaving earlier texts untouched but rather by revising them to apply them to new contexts. This demonstrated that the authoritative text was taken seriously enough to be applied to the contemporary period. Engagement of monuments by new generations saw older monumental texts being read and documented but also expanded

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with new texts, images, and artifacts. This expansion and reframing of older monuments was a means of preserving them, even if the earlier horizon of meaning was sometimes subverted (Bahrani 2014, 232). The Epic of Gilgamesh, as we have discussed, was periodically revised to better match contemporary monumentalities. These various revisions certainly transformed the epic, but in such a way as to maintain and even enhance its authority in new contexts (Tigay 1982, 140–46; Jonker 1995, 92, 106, 168–69; Fleming and Milstein 2010; Milstein 2016, 131). This is precisely what we see in Deuteronomy. Israelite traditions were updated to apply better in Judah in a new historical context. The Judahites acknowledged and enhanced the authority of the Sinai Pericope in Exodus by rewriting it in Deuteronomy. A history of monumentality sheds new light on this process because the rewriting in Deuteronomy fundamentally involved updating depictions of monuments in light of contemporary monument-making practices. The traditions were certainly transformed in this update, but this transformation was undertaken to maintain rather than obscure them. Even if some traditions were ultimately subverted, even this subversion relies on an implicit acknowledgement of authority. Recall that Bar-Rakib’s monumental installation on the acropolis of Samʾal was in essence a rewriting of Kulamuwa’s monumental palace and orthostat inscription. He updated his predecessor’s monumental discourse using the norms of the Age of Court Ceremony in addition to interacting with the pressures and practices of Assyria. As a result, Kulamuwa’s monument was subverted to a degree, but Bar-Rakib’s new monuments would be meaningless apart from the reuse of Kulamuwa’s discourse and the preservation of Kulamuwa’s original production. The monumentality of Bar-Rakib’s monuments was wholly contingent on an implied conversation with Kulamuwa’s monuments. We saw the same sort of conversation in Yariris’ reframing of Katuwas’ monuments at Karkamiš. This conversational stance is also apparent in Deuteronomy. The Deuteronomic Decalogue and other revised materials would lose significant meaning apart from the preservation of their precursors in Exodus. As the Israelites were integrated into Judah, it was the interactions between the two cultures that prompted the production and continued revision of Deuteronomy during the preexilic period. In its earliest iterations, the refugees themselves may have participated in the production of Deuteronomy, but this was nevertheless literary activity that happened in conversation with Judah (Nicholson 1967; Rofé 2002, 7–8). As such, I propose that any preexilic forms of Deuteronomy are not to be explained

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as solely Israelite or solely Judahite productions. Rather, Deuteronomy was the result of Israelite–Judahite dialogue and especially of the maintenance of Israelite traditions in their new sociohistorical context in Judah (Markl 2021, 270). In the social context of Judahite interactions with Israelite refugees, the Decalogue again served the purpose of defining “Israel.” No longer was this the territorial Israel of the Omrides or Nimshides reflected in the Decalogue as preserved in Exodus. Rather, this was an Israel whose center had migrated to Jerusalem, an Israel ruled by a Davidic dynast, and an Israel that included both Israelites and Judahites. Deuteronomy’s Israel also reflected the complex social structure of Judah in the Age of Court Ceremony. The rituals attached to the Decalogue differentiated between various levels of political leaders, ritual specialists, native-born commoners, and refugees. Nevertheless, all of these were combined into “all Israel” in Deuteronomy. Just as the Decalogue had defined Israel in the Age of Territorial Theatre in the north, it redefined Israel during the Age of Court Ceremony in the south. Like Israel before it, however, Judah was eventually conquered and dismantled. The neo-Babylonians began this process in 596 BCE with their first sack of Jerusalem, and they completed it in 586 when they captured the city and abolished the monarchy. Though the young Davidic king Jehoiachin survived in Babylon and likely preserved many important Judahite texts, the exile is largely marked by a dearth of written material and a significant break in Judahite scribal tradition (Schniedewind 2004, 139–64). The postmonarchic period saw the Decalogue forced to migrate into a radically different social context, and this necessitated a significant departure from the monumental discourse of Levantine “I Am” monuments.

4 The Afterlife of the Decalogue in the Postmonarchic Period

The afterlife of the Decalogue technically covers its reception history down to the present day – a scope much too large to address here. In this chapter, I wish only to explore the earliest phase of the Decalogue’s afterlife – its innerbiblical reception in late monarchic and postmonarchic texts, especially late additions to Exodus and Deuteronomy.1 In speaking of the Decalogue’s “afterlife,” I mean those interactions between text and community that extend beyond the history of “I Am” monuments. This especially included its transposition onto new media and its reimagining in non-monumental contexts. The afterlife of the Decalogue witnessed a highly inventive transposition of the Decalogue into daily life. This transposition was impacted by interactions with monuments, but it was also precipitated by an experience unique to communities derived from Judah – the Babylonian invasions. With the destruction of both the temple and the palace, Judean communities lacked any institutions with enough power to wield most traditional forms of monumental discourse. Stone monuments and public 1

It goes without saying that the history of these materials is complex. As discussed in the previous chapter, Deuteronomy continued to be edited after the fall of the kingdom of Judah, and scholars have proposed multiple exilic and postexilic editions and literary strata. The same is true for the book of Exodus, which was edited well into the postexilic period. The present work is less concerned with the precise dating of these materials. Instead, I follow Lauren Monroe in referring to these materials as broadly postmonarchic, since the disappearance of the monarchy was one of the primary motivations differentiating this literary work from its preexilic precursors (Monroe 2011, 133–34). In the case of materials pertinent to the Decalogue, this is especially seen in that changes to its monumental discourse mostly reflect the relative absence of monument production in the postmonarchic period rather than the further development of earlier practices. Furthermore, new postmonarchic discussions of monuments seem mostly concerned with the question of the proper response to monuments that were illegitimate from the writers’ perspectives – like those of the Babylonians (Levtow 2008, 143–53).

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spectacles in particular became the prerogative of their dominators – the Babylonians and the Achaemenid and Hellenistic empires after them. As a result, new compositions during this period betray an impulse to categorize foreign monumentalities as illegitimate rather than to depict or adapt them accurately. At the same time, there was a need to adapt older materials to a social context in which friendly monuments were lacking and as a result largely irrelevant (Levtow 2008, 147–53). The result was a greater emphasis on small-scale artifacts and household ritual practices.

communal upheaval and reinvention in the wake of the babylonian invasions The afterlives of artifacts – including texts that may be instantiated as multiple artifacts – are often marked by dereliction. However, Victoria Kelley emphasizes that afterlives also consist of maintenance, the often hidden and frequently overlooked assiduous habits of upkeep that were and are used to counter dereliction and to stave off ruin. . . . If the afterlife of objects is in part about the ways in which time and use cause dereliction and decay, we should remember too the strenuous efforts to postpone these processes that are also part of the relationship between people and things over time. (Kelley 2021, 229)

In the case of monuments, this maintenance is an attempt to stave off what Gilibert calls the fadeaway effect, which she defines as a “paradoxical property of monumental art and monuments in general” in which “their signifying power, if left untouched, tend [sic] constantly to decrease: eventually, monuments lose their aura and become invisible” (Gilibert 2011, 114). Because monuments afford meaning to communities and produce social structures that would be impossible apart from the material practices surrounding them, they are not the only ones vulnerable to this fadeaway effect (Gallagher and Ransom 2016, 349; Hogue 2021a, 13–14). Communities too risk fading away unless they find new ways to make meaning together. The afterlife maintenance of monuments is thus partly a survival strategy: an attempt to stave off the ruin of not only things but also people (Green 2014; Smith-Christopher 2015, 69–74). Afterlife maintenance is still a process of reception, but it is unlike what we observed in the previous chapter in a key way. The scribes combating this fadeaway effect for the Decalogue were no longer updating the text to better match the monuments of their day. Rather, they were attempting to maintain the text in a sociohistorical context in which “I Am” monuments

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had ceased to be productive sources of meaning. Recall that these artifacts almost completely disappeared from the material record after the neoAssyrian period. Moreover, we find a relative dearth of monuments produced by Judeans in the postmonarchic period. The Babylonian invasions rendered the Judeans nearly incapable of making new large-scale monuments or engaging preexisting ones on their own terms. In what had been the land of Judah, not only was there a significant decline in public works, but Hebrew inscriptions completely disappeared during the neo-Babylonian period (Schniedewind 2004, 145–46). The Persian period saw this reversed but only somewhat. The returnees to Yehud brought with them a revived Hebrew scribal practice and rebuilt the Jerusalem temple, but both the temple and Hebrew scribalism were heavily impacted by the policies of the Achaemenid empire. Outside of Jerusalem, only two further examples of monumental installations seem to have been produced in the postmonarchic period: the temples at Elephantine and Gerizim. The temple at Elephantine was built in the sixth century by a diaspora community in Egypt. It was subsequently destroyed and rebuilt in the late fifth century before being abandoned in the fourth. After being abandoned, this temple may have been intentionally desecrated, as it was subsequently used as a stable (Rosenberg 2004). This temple points to the precarious nature of new monumental constructions during the postmonarchic period. While the Judean community at Elephantine was capable of building a temple, they ultimately could not maintain it.2 The sacred precinct at Gerizim was probably first constructed in the seventh century by survivors of the Assyrian conquest of Israel, though the temple was only added in the fifth century. In that precinct, 395 inscriptions have been discovered, but these display very little continuity with the monarchic practices of Israel and Judah. On the one hand, there do exist some few Hebrew inscriptions, including some in Iron Age Hebrew script that point to the survival of Israel’s monumental traditions after the conquest of the kingdom by Assyria, at least initially (Magen 2007; Arie 2021; Schniedewind forthcoming, 284–89). On the other hand, the vast majority of the Gerizim inscriptions are written in Aramaic, date to

2

There is also some scholarly debate over whether the community at Elephantine should be considered Judean, Judaeo-Aramaean, or something else. Recently, Karel van der Toorn has proposed that only some members of the community were originally of Judahite extraction, but the community nevertheless became a Jewish diaspora during the Persian period (van der Toorn 2019).

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between the fifth and second centuries, and consist of short dedications (Gudme 2017, 89–91). It is debatable whether these later inscriptions should even be considered monumental, given that each individual inscription was not engaged by the community. The entire assemblage of inscriptions, however, may have been monumental. The temple at Gerizim was destroyed in the Hellenistic period by the Hasmonean king John Hyrcanus. It is perhaps most significant for being a competitor to the temple in Jerusalem (Minnick 2017). This evidence points to a general lack of continuity in both scribal and monument-making practices among the various communities impacted by the neo-Babylonian invasions. Nowhere was this lack more keenly felt than among the Judean exiles in Babylonia. This community was most likely responsible for the maintenance of biblical literature, but they lacked access to their own monumental discourse for decades, if not centuries. Nearly all the monuments that the exiled community experienced were unfriendly to them, so to speak, and those they constructed in the postexilic period were dim reflections of their preexilic precursors raised in the shadow of foreign domination. As a result, communal stability had to be located in other aspects of material culture, and this radically affected subsequent reception of the Decalogue. Afterlife as Curation and Domestication The exile is sometimes seen as a period of great literary production and creativity, but such a model may make too little of the social upheaval it entailed. In Judah, the monarchy was abolished, the temple destroyed, and the population profoundly diminished. Urban centers were destroyed or abandoned, and those people that remained in the land settled in villages of significantly smaller size than the settlements of the monarchic period. While some aspects of material culture continued, public works ceased, luxury items indicative of social flourishing disappeared, and Hebrew inscriptions from the Babylonian period are nonexistent. Given this profound sociomaterial and demographic change, it is no surprise that Nehemiah later returned to the land and complained that the people could not even speak Judahite (Neh 13:24). Even if Palestine was not emptied during the exile, it is hard to imagine the remaining population participating in any significant literary activity or the construction of new monuments (Smith-Christopher 1997; Schniedewind 2004, 139–64; 2013, 127–31). Outside of the land, the experience of the exiles

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themselves was undoubtedly traumatic, not least because there was almost no continuity in material culture. Texts provided the only link back to Judah. The Judahite scribal apparatus was exiled to Babylonia, where they retained the patronage of the Davidic royal family in exile. We should not downplay the literary activity of these exile scribes, but neither should we overestimate their productivity. While rich oral responses to exile were composed and later written down, exilic scribes were more curators of texts than authors (Schniedewind 2004, 149). This is not to say that this involved no literary creativity. Maintaining the relevance of preexilic biblical texts required additions, revisions, and innerbiblical exegesis. But these materials were appended to preexistent texts in order to preserve them in a new social context. Entirely new compositions were not the norm in this period. While the postexilic period saw the creation of new narrative works, compositions like the book of Chronicles suggest that this curatorial scribal attitude persisted (Schniedewind 2004, 184–87; cf. 1995).3 The curatorial work of postmonarchic scribes is what most concerns the history of the Decalogue. Surprisingly, the exiles still used monuments to define their community, but they used them in a starkly different way than had their preexilic forbearers. In their new social positions, the Judean exiles lacked access or at the very least autonomous access to traditional technologies of monument production – namely, stonemasonry. In response, they utilized earlier monumental texts to disavow the monuments of their oppressors, allowing them to maintain some autonomy in reception if not production. Nathaniel Levtow calls this categorization of foreign monuments “iconic politics” and argues that it was a significant means of identity formation via contrast. That is, this negative categorization of foreign monuments made it possible to propose a contrastive identity to the diaspora community. No longer were the Judeans defined simply by how they engaged their own monuments. Now a significant means of bounding their community consisted in not engaging with foreign monuments, which were categorically proscribed as “idols.” This created a necessary boundary around the community in exile, where they found themselves in constant contact with other cultures from a position of subjection. Iconic politics provided a means of avoiding total assimilation (Levtow 2008, 19–39, 143–52). 3

What I call the “curatorial scribal attitude” shares much in common with what Seth Sanders labels the literary value of “comprehensiveness” (Sanders 2015).

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Losing the institutions of the palace and the temple also meant that the Judean community in exile had no theatres in which to perform the public spectacles required of the preexilic community. Ritual was an essential means of transmitting communal traditions, so the lack of public spectacle posed an existential threat to the community in exile. The community therefore had to reconfigure their interactions with monumental texts to place a greater emphasis on personal religion. They accomplished this by domesticating monumental spectacles, transposing them onto small-scale artifacts that could be engaged at home in addition to in public. As William Green puts it, this period saw a shift in focus “from the institution to the individual and the community. It transformed a religion of cult and sacrifice into a religion of the book and the body” (Green 2014, 121). These practices were by no means new. As we will see, the transposition of monumental discourse onto artifacts like scrolls and amulets began under the late Judean monarchy. What was unique about the postmonarchic period, however, was the unprecedented emphasis placed on small-scale artifacts, which were in effect disguised as ritual innovations (Ramos 2021, 137–47). During the late monarchic period, small-scale artifacts like scrolls and amulets were granted relevance by association with large-scale monumental installations. In the postmonarchic period, however, these small-scale artifacts entirely replaced the monuments they were based on, which no longer existed. Instead, these postmonarchic artifacts and ritual practices became dislocated from any particular place and time precisely because they primarily addressed the community at the levels of the individual and the household (Nielsen 1995, 63; Ska 2006, 51 N. 18). Susan Niditch suggests that “in this way, religious ideas were privatized and personalized, albeit always within the contours of traditional content, structures, and turns of phrase” (Niditch 2015, 135). The resultant domestication of monumental discourse – such as that in the Decalogue – allowed it to maintain its relevance, even though the traditional theatres and platforms for public engagement with monuments were lost. The change in attitude toward institutionally sponsored monuments in the exile as well as a newfound emphasis on personal religion profoundly reshaped innerbiblical reception of the Decalogue. Because the Judeans lacked the capital and autonomy necessary to produce their own largescale monuments and theatres, they creatively manipulated earlier depictions of monuments to reconfigure Judean identity in the postmonarchic period. The Decalogue was creatively reinterpreted in order to disavow the monumental images of Babylon and other empires with which they

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had been brought into contact. They further reapplied the text to smallscale ritual contexts. Though these practices were still understood in relation to the community, the practices connected to the Decalogue no longer absolutely required congregated performances. As a result, a totally new kind of monumental text developed out of postmonarchic literary activity. Furthermore, these practices were primarily situated in the reading and interpretation of literature in order to inform a response to the individual’s and community’s present situation (Sanders 2009, 164; Nicholson 2014, 50–61). In other words, the postmonarchic community initiated the transformation of monumental text into Scripture.

the afterlife interpretation of the decalogue’s content The postmonarchic period saw some additional changes made to the text of the Decalogue, but even more radical transformations occurred in its interpretation. This is reflective of the curatorial attitude of postmonarchic scribes. While they attempted to keep earlier texts intact, maintaining them also required the addition of exegetical keys to make sense of them in new contexts. In the case of the Decalogue, we will see that innerbiblical exegesis of its verbal discourse also impacted the shape of the text in later transmission. We must read these exegetical passages and further revisions to the Decalogue in tandem in order to make sense of its verbal discourse among postmonarchic communities. Disavowing Sculpted Images Deut 4:1–44 – or at least significant portions of it – is almost universally dated to the postmonarchic period (Cross 1973, 274–89; Mayes 1981b, 50–51; Dohmen 1987, 200–210; Levtow 2008, 150). This is significant because it essentially acts as a new introduction to the book of Deuteronomy. Recall that one instantiation of the preexilic book began in Deut 4:45 (van der Toorn 2007, 135–55). The new material in Deut 4:1–44 preserves an example of revision by introduction; it was added to the beginning of the book by postmonarchic scribes to reshape the reception of everything that followed (Braulik 1989, 266; Otto 1996a, 198; Milstein 2016, 58 n. 41). This is particularly relevant to understanding the Decalogue’s afterlife, because a significant portion of this new introduction is devoted to exegesis of the first two commandments, which the postmonarchic exegete reimagines as a single commandment. This new

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first commandment casts loyalty to Yahweh and a ban on divine images as two sides of the same coin. This exegesis radically recasts the Decalogue to immediately follow it in chapter 5, not least by dissociating it entirely from the monumental artifacts that inspired it. The exegesis of the Decalogue in Deut 4 is most apparent in verses 16, 23, and 25. These verses are primarily concerned with interpreting the phrase psl kl-tmwnh from Deut 5:8. Apparently, the postmonarchic community had some difficulty parsing this particular combination of terms, which occurs only five times in the Hebrew Bible: the two instances of the Decalogue’s image commandment (Exod 20:4 and Deut 5:8) and the three verses in Deut 4 mentioned previously. Deut 4 reorganized these terms into a construct chain referring to a single type of artifact. This is particularly clear in Deut 4:25, which reads: wʿs´ytm psl tmwnt kl wʿs´ytm hrʿ bʿyny yhwh-ʾlhyk “should you make an image of the form of anything, then you will have done evil in the eyes of Yahweh your God.” The word kl is left with nothing to modify in this verse, revealing that it is the end of the construct chain psl tmwnt kl “an image of the form of anything.” Verse 16 glosses this construct phrase as follows: pn-tšḥtwn wʿs´ytm lkm psl tmwnt kl-sml tbnyt zkr ʾw nqbh “Lest you act corruptly and make for yourself an image of the form of anything – an icon or a male or female pattern.” The terms sml and tbnyt effectively gloss psl and tmwnh.4 This calque suggests that the phrase’s original meaning had either been forgotten or become irrelevant enough in the postmonarchic context as to require a new explanation. In place of the hendiadys referring to illegitimate monumental images of any kind, the postmonarchic exegete in Deut 4 reads the image commandment as forbidding the creation of a singular object – an idol. Specifically, the terms psl and tmwnh were seemingly reinterpreted to refer as a unit to anthropomorphic or theomorphic images – idols of the kind the Judean community experienced during their exile in Babylonia (Levtow 2008, 143; Feder 2013, 271–72). This new reading impacted the later transmission of the Decalogue in Deut 5 as well. While the Exodus Decalogue originally preserved a plural object psl wkl-tmwnh,5 Deut 5:8

4

Note that the same equivalence occurs in 2 Chr 33:7, which glosses psl with the term sml. This is especially striking because the parallel passage in 2 Kgs 21:7 completely lacks the term sml and instead employs psl in construct with ʾšrh “Asherah.” Then, in the Chronicler’s unique account of Manasseh’s repentance, the king notably removes the sml he had made, but the psl is never mentioned again. This provides further evidence that the term psl was poorly understood in the postmonarchic period and thus glossed with sml. 5 This is also preserved in the versions of Deut 5 in the Dead Sea Scrolls, Septuagint, Samaritan Pentateuch, Syriac Peshitta, Vulgate, and the Targumim.

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deletes the waw and transforms the phrase into a construct akin to that found in Deut 4 (Tigay 1996, 65; Blum 2011b, 290). As a result, the following verbal phrase lʾ tštḥwh lhm wlʾ tʿbdm “you will not bow down to them or worship them” can no longer assume the plural object psl wkltmwnh as is the case in Exod 20. Instead, one must continue backward to find an antecedent in the ʾlhym ʾḥrym “other gods” of the previous commandment.6 The deletion of the waw thus grammatically forces the equation of the ʾlhym ʾḥrym “other gods” with the psl kl-tmwnh “an idol in the likeness of anything” – an equation that did not exist when the second commandment regulated the creation of multiple types of images.7 The result is a commandment in Deuteronomy that must be understood as referring to divine images in particular and must be read

6

The new reading of the monolatry commandment and image commandment as a single commandment is further borne out by Deut 4’s unique preoccupation with divine exclusivity. Speaking of Yahweh, Deut 4 twice affirms that ʾyn ʿwd “there is no other” in verses 35 and 39. This concept appears nowhere else within Deuteronomy itself and so was likely introduced in this postmonarchic reframing of the book. This addition to the introduction of Deuteronomy encouraged reinterpretation of the book as a whole. Juxtaposed with the Decalogue in Deut 5, the focus on divine exclusivity in Deut 4 likely colored postmonarchic readings of the first commandment in the Decalogue. Thus, even though the words remained the same, the first commandment could now be understood as a statement of divine exclusivity, rather than a demand that Yahweh be recognized above any other gods who might usurp his particular relationship with Israel. 7 The postmonarchic rereading of psl and tmwnh as well as the need to gloss them suggest that the image commandment preexisted this exegetical treatment of it. This conclusion runs contrary to scholarship suggesting that the image commandment was the product of Deuteronomists writing in the postmonarchic period. Contra the positions of Levin, Dohmen, Hossfeld, Blum, and others, I maintain with Yitzhaq Feder that the image commandment in the Decalogue is preexilic. Feder supports this argument by pointing to the relationship between Hosea’s discussion of aniconism in the eighth century in tandem with other references to the Decalogue, exodus, and wilderness traditions. He further adduces that the aniconic rhetoric of Hosea and the Decalogue was originally sociologically motivated rather than theologically. That is, the image commandment was intended to prevent assimilation to foreign practices of worship; the problem was not images themselves but the foreignness they represented. I would expand on this by pointing to the arguments of the previous chapters. Monumental rhetoric regulating image creation and manipulation was intended precisely to maintain loyalty to a particular monarch against illegitimate alternatives. Precisely this motivation lay behind the incorporation of an image regulation in the Decalogue (Hossfeld 1982, 268–73; Levin 1985a, 170; Dohmen 1987, 237–77; Blum 2011b, 291–92; Herring 2013, 50; Feder 2013, 262). While the treatment of the phrase as a construct chain referring to a single referent – namely, an idol – does have the effect of transforming the image commandment into a true Bilderverbot, it is just that: a transformation. Though postmonarchic scribes may be responsible for the creation of such Bilderverbot, they did so by reworking older material that had either lost its relevance or was no longer clearly understood. The image commandment did not originate in postmonarchic discourse as such, but it was significantly reframed and redefined by it.

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as a continuation of the first commandment rather than as a stand-alone violation clause (Blum 2011b, 290; Block 2011, 59–60; Greenstein 2011, 9; Nicholson 2014, 60; Imes 2016, 209). The loss of earlier monumental discourse concerning stone monuments is also felt in exegesis of the curses appended to the image commandment. This commandment’s generational curses were part and parcel of Iron Age Levantine monumental discourse. Monuments – images in particular – were understood to accomplish the same function as progeny by extending an individual’s name and memory, much as one’s descendants were expected to do. Curse formulae in monumental inscriptions accordingly equate violations involving the agent’s image with curses on the violator’s progeny (Levtow 2012, 317). Outside of such a context, generational curses make less obvious sense. Thus, during the postmonarchic period, exegetes felt the need to reinterpret the generational curse of the image commandment in the Decalogue, ostensibly using them to justify a radical shift to the idea of individual responsibility. Deut 7:9–10 preserves an almost exact repetition of the blessings and curses of the image commandment, but with a radically new interpretation. Those verses read as follows: wydʿt ky-yhwh ʾlhyk hwʾ hʾlhym hʾl hnʾmn šmr hbryt whḥsd lʾhbyw wlšmry mṣwtw lʾlp dwr wmšlm ls´nʾyw ʾl-pnyw lhʾbydw lʾ yʾḥr ls´nʾw ʾl-pnyw yšlm-lw And you shall know that Yahweh your God is God – a faithful God keeping covenant and kindness to those that love him and keep his commandments for a thousand generations, but who repays those who hate him to their face by destroying them. He will not hesitate with one that hates him. He will repay them to their face.

Note that the blessings and curses from Exod 20:5–6 and Deut 5:9–10 are cited in reverse order in Deut 7:9–10. Reverse citation was one typical means for ancient scribes to mark exegetical materials explicitly, a practice known as Seidel’s law. The postmonarchic exegetes use this technique in Deut 7:9–10 to announce their intention to reinterpret the transgenerational blessings and curses of the Decalogue. The exegetes here use the language of the earlier transgenerational blessings and curses to instead affirm that an individual is only responsible for their own sin rather than that of their ancestors (Levinson 2008, 72–81). A focus on individual responsibility for sin is more generally a hallmark of the personal religion of the postmonarchic period (Niditch 2015, 29–31). This focus on individual responsibility was clearly motivated by the social

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situation of the postmonarchic communities. Because there were no longer any Yahwistic monuments to attack, Yahweh’s revenge on subsequent generations was a punishment with no potential crime to merit it. These exegetical passages recast the Decalogue to better fit the social context of the exiles and their descendants. The preoccupation of innerbiblical exegesis with the beginning of the Decalogue in particular highlights the need to reimagine the text in order to apply it to a social context without friendly sculpted images. Recasting the first two commandments as a singular prohibition of idolatry recruited the Decalogue into a broader postmonarchic program of iconic politics. This new interpretation also dislocated the text of the Decalogue from the artifacts that originally inspired it. From Inscription to Recitation The name commandment was also subtly reinterpreted to account for a lack of stone inscriptions to protect. This began with revisions in the text of the Decalogue itself. As argued in the previous chapter, the editors of the Deuteronomic Decalogue built a redactional bridge between Deut 5:11 and 5:20. This was accomplished by changing the term ʿd šqr in the commandment against false witness to ʿd šwʾ “vain witness.” The resulting connection between these commandments suggests that the editor understood the name commandment as referring to a speech act like the commandment against false witness. Recall that the name commandment initially forbade the erasure of Yahweh’s name from the physical medium of the Decalogue. While the new understanding was not in keeping with the earlier meaning of the commandment – except perhaps as a metaphorical extension of it – this reading would have been easier for postmonarchic communities to accommodate (Nicholson 2014, 59 ff.). This shift in emphasis made it possible to keep this commandment by regulating one’s speech rather than by protecting a hypothetical inscription. The name commandment thus became something that could just as easily be kept by the diaspora as by the preexilic community. This oral understanding of the name commandment likely began as a late monarchic or postmonarchic emphasis on inscriptions as objects of reading as opposed to viewing.8 For example, Jeremiah is depicted in Jer 7 delivering a sermon at the temple that contains an exegesis of the 8

Wu Hung speaks of a similar shift in functions for inscriptions on Chinese ritual bronzes (Wu 1995, 11–12). In Judah, this shift went hand in hand with the spread of literacy during the late monarchic period (Schniedewind 2013, 104–15; Faigenbaum-Golovin et al. 2016).

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Decalogue. Alongside it, Jeremiah repeatedly pairs the phrase lškn šm “to erect the inscription” with nqrʾ šm “for the name to be called” or “for the inscription to be read” (verses 10, 11, 14, 30). Jeremiah thus shifted the emphasis on Yahweh’s inscribed name from its material nature to its function as an object for proper recitation (Richter 2002, 212). The late monarchic period saw a rise in literacy in Judah that may have motivated this shift from viewing to reading inscriptions (Schniedewind 2013, 104–5; Mandell and Smoak 2018; Shaus et al. 2020). Finally, the shift from material act to speech act in the name commandment was facilitated by innerbiblical exegesis in Deut 6. Deut 6:10–15 presents an innerbiblical exegesis of the opening of the Decalogue. William Moran previously proposed that Deut 6:10–15 makes several allusions to the Decalogue, but he argued that there is no allusion to the name commandment because this would violate the order of the commandments. That is, the passage in Deut 6 would then allude first to the first commandment, then the third, and finally the second (Moran 1963, 85 n. 46). I would suggest instead that this violation of the order of the commandments is an example of Seidel’s law, a typical innerbiblical exegetical marker especially apparent in the book of Deuteronomy. The exegete here alludes first to the “I Am” formula and then paraphrases the name commandment and the new idolatry commandment in reverse order. This implies that he is offering a new interpretation of the material (Levinson 1997, 17–20; 2008, 73 n. 18). In his exegesis of the name commandment in Deut 6:13, the exegete alludes to a law concerning oaths from the Holiness Code (Otto 2012b, 2:786).9 Compare Lev 19:12 and Deut 6:13: Lev 19:12

Deut 6:13

wlʾ-tšbʿw bšmy lšqr wḥllt ʾt-šm ʾlhyk ʾny yhwh And you shall not swear falsely by my name and thus profane the name of your God. I am Yahweh.

ʾt-yhwh ʾlhyk tyrʾ wʾtw tʿbr wbšmw tšbʿ

9

Yahweh your God you shall fear, him you shall serve, and by his name you shall swear.

The connection between the name commandment and this portion of the Holiness Code persisted even in much later exegetical traditions. For example, in the Sermon on the Mount in the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus transitions from interpreting proscriptions in the Decalogue to an exegesis of the Holiness Code by giving a loose citation of Lev 19:12. As Jesus had just finished reinterpreting the commandments against murder, adultery, and perjury, one would expect another proscription from the Decalogue. Instead, Matt 5:33 cites Lev 19:12, perhaps using it as a bridge between the Decalogue’s name commandment and the Holiness Code.

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The name commandment is thus effectively replaced with a demand that the Israelites must only swear by Yahweh’s name – that is, they must recite the name properly. No emphasis on anything written remains, unless it is a support for reading. As in the case of the image commandment, this transition made it possible to continue observing the name commandment in the absence of inscriptions carved in stone. The Sabbath as a Spectacle of Daily Life The preexilic Sabbath was spectacular in every sense of the word. It was most likely a festival that included public participation in ceremonies held in grand theatres. During the exile, such public practices were impossible, and the theatres supporting them had been dismantled. Even after the exile, public spectacles evolved significantly due to the sociohistorical separation from the institutions of ancient Israel and Judah. This did not mean that the Sabbath ceased to be a spectacle, however. Ian Hodder emphasizes that a practice can be spectacular at any scale, whether public or private. Any practice that molds the practitioner into a particular social role or that disciplines them into observing certain social rules can be considered a spectacle (Hodder 2006). During the postmonarchic period, the Sabbath definitively shifted into a domestic spectacle – a spectacle of daily life rather than a festival. Postmonarchic reflections on the Sabbath tend to place emphasis on individual practice rather than festive ritual. This began with a greater emphasis on Deuteronomy’s rather than Exodus’ Sabbath commandment. Where the commandment in Exodus exhorts the audience to zkr “enchant” or “ritually enact” the Sabbath, Deuteronomy instead commands them to šmr “keep” or “observe” the Sabbath. This is the version of the commandment preferred in Third Isaiah (Isa 56:2, 4, 6), for example, as well as in harmonizations of the Decalogue from the Second Temple period (Eshel 1991, 128). These later receptions reveal that postmonarchic communities were continuing to reflect upon and redefine the Sabbath in light of their new social situation (Hammock 2000; Gose 2005). In particular, these late attestations increasingly define the Sabbath in terms of social justice rather than festival practice. This is especially apparent in postmonarchic passages like Isa 56, Ezek 20, and Exod 31 (Nihan 2011, 73). These passages all appear to be reflecting on the incorporation of Exod 23:12 into Deuteronomy’s Sabbath commandment, where the motivation for the Sabbath is to allow various members

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of the community – especially vulnerable ones – to rest.10 Nevertheless, this social practice is still spectacular. Isa 56 even emphasizes that the Sabbath is not just an act of social justice toward foreigners, for example, but also a means of incorporating them into the community (Gose 2005). It is thus not an identity-marker so much as an identity-maker. Isa 56:2, 4, 6 equate keeping the Sabbath with keeping the covenant between Yahweh and his people. It is the spectacle that molds its practitioners into Israelites, and so it was redefined as something that individuals could practice interpersonally and not only in festal gatherings. The key to fully domesticating the Sabbath was its transformation into a weekly rather than a seasonal practice. In the previous chapters, I discussed how both the Sabbath and the seventh day of rest may have originated in seasonal festivals in ancient West Asia. Regardless of when these two were merged, they only gradually developed into a weekly practice during the postmonarchic period.11 On the one hand, there is evidence that some postexilic communities – such as that at Elephantine – still understood the Sabbath as a feast day rather than as a weekly practice (Lemaire 2011, 370; Becking 2011, 408; Kratz 2011, 432, with references). On the other hand, there is also evidence that a weekly day of rest was practiced among other communities during the exilic period and perhaps even earlier (Tammuz 2019). Eventually, the Sabbath was crystallized into a weekly practice, which then became the single most important spectacle in the Judean community. The weekly Sabbath was a means of domesticating spectacle. It made it possible to keep the Sabbath as an individual or household outside of

10

The original editor of Deuteronomy’s Sabbath commandment extracted this insertion from a portion of the Covenant Code concerned with both interpersonal justice and the festival calendar. It could reasonably be understood as an expansion of the festal Sabbath. Later reflections on the Sabbath, however, reveal that the social justice aspect of the commandment was emphasized at the expense of the festal aspect. 11 Even though the merger of the Seventh Day and the Sabbath may have occurred earlier, this did not necessarily mean that it was already a weekly practice. It remains unclear when the seven-day week originated. In ancient West Asian cultures, each day of the month would have been numbered outside of a weekly framework. A similar practice continues in modern East Asia. In Japan, for example, appointments are typically made using the days of the month (many of which have unique names) rather than the days of the week. Thus, the Seventh Day likely initially referred only to the seventh day of the month rather than every seventh day in a week. The seven-day week seems to have appeared first in the postmonarchic period, so that may be when these days became weekly practices rather than monthly or yearly ones. Eviatar Zerubavel even proposes that the seven-day week originated with the Jews, though the notion of seven-day cycles that were not yet weeks existed in other ancient West Asian civilizations (Zerubavel 1989, 6–11; cf. Guillaume 2005).

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the context of a large communal gathering or indeed outside of a ritual calendar (Bauks 2002; Becking 2011, 406, with references). Nevertheless, even at this scale the practice was still spectacular; it had a formational effect on those performing it. Furthermore, as the community sought to practice the Sabbath together, they could recapitulate the public spectacles of old in new contexts. In a sense, the Sabbath transported the community back to a time when it could be observed as a festival in the temple. This preservation of spectacle in domestic practices was a means of maintaining the monumentality of the Decalogue in a new form. This same sort of domestication as maintenance can also be seen in changes to the Decalogue’s aesthetic and spatial discourse in the postmonarchic period. The Social Commandments in the Diaspora The Sabbath was not the only commandment in the Decalogue to be refocused on private rather than public practice. The usurpation commandment was also revised along these lines. In the first part of Deut 5:21, the phrase lʾ tḥmd “you will not usurp” or “you will not expropriate” was calqued with the phrase lʾ ttʾwh “you will not desire.” This may very well suggest that a later editor had forgotten what the term ḥmd originally meant in this context or else that the Decalogue had become sufficiently divorced from its original monumental context as to render the verb difficult to interpret. Whatever the reason for the change, it is presented as an exegetical revision. The replacement of the second occurrence of ḥmd with tʾwh presents the terms as a lemma and a gloss, a typical marker of Holiness and Deuteronomistic exegesis (Levinson 1997, 34; 2005, 621). Usurpation was likely an unfamiliar violation to audiences separated from traditional Levantine monumental discourse. Expropriation may have similarly been irrelevant to audiences separated from institutions designed to protect them from such practices. Desire, however, is understandable in any context. Most significantly, this exegetical change refocused the last commandment on a private offense rather than a public crime. The refocusing from public to private offenses may characterize the social commandments as a whole. As a result of reinterpreting the verb ḥmd as a synonym of tʾwh and reversing the order of wife and house in the commandment, the exegete introduced a new structure to the social commandments. By fronting the commandment forbidding desiring the neighbor’s wife, the exegete created a redactional bridge to the

Transposing the Decalogue onto New Artifacts in New Settings 223 commandment against adultery. A similar bridge was then implied between the remainder of the usurpation commandment and the prohibition against stealing. Reading along the same lines, we may propose a linkage between the prohibition of murder and the prohibition of perjury. The result is that public-facing crimes are paired with prohibitions against internal attitudes that motivate them (Zenger 1995, 59; Ska 2006, 49–51). The Sabbath and the following social commandments thus reveal a broader pattern of reshaping the Decalogue into a set of practices that could be kept by individuals among the exiles or the diaspora.

transposing the decalogue onto new artifacts in new settings One of the primary concerns of postmonarchic biblical literature is dislocation from the land, whether as the result of exile or diaspora. This dislocation had intense ramifications for monumental discourse, which in the Levant assumed access to particular places and pilgrimage routes. Outside of their original context, monuments were thought to lose their meaning, and many inscriptions accordingly place curses on not only those who would destroy but also those that would move inscribed artifacts.12 The exilic and diaspora Judean communities thus needed to radically reimagine how their monumental texts related to space in order to maintain them. These developments were inextricable from the evolution of aesthetic discourse as well. As the Decalogue was imagined in new places, it was also transposed onto new media. East of Jerusalem In the texts surrounding the Decalogue, postmonarchic editors took special advantage of the spatial affordances of literature. In the previous two chapters, I focused on how the spatial discourse of monuments was transposed into literary forms in the contexts of the Decalogue. Though the monuments these texts were depicting were typically installed in specific places, they could be conceptualized as portals to other places and times (Meskell 2003, 42–44; Pauketat 2014, 432–34). For instance, Mesha’s monument at Kerak (KAI 306) connected its users to his other installation in Dibon (KAI 181). The most significant function of an “I 12

For some examples, see lines AIII:15, 17 and CIV:17, 19 in the Azatiwada inscriptions (KAI 26) and line B:19 on the Sefire Stelae (KAI 202).

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Am” monument was that it rendered the agent constantly present and speaking to the monument’s users whenever they engaged it. The concerted erection of multiple “I Am” monuments connected distant places together, so that the Decalogue at Sinai looked toward the land of Israel and vice versa. When this spatial discourse was transposed into literature, that literature effectively became a means for imaginary travel to those depicted locations and times (Rigney 2004, 383; Gudme 2014, 12–14). Later material appended to these accounts explicitly drew attention to this function of the text. The introduction to the Decalogue in Deut 5:1–5, for example, explicitly notes that the text was reset, but it leaves the new setting ambiguous. The most instructive verse in this regard is verse 3, which reads: lʾ ʾt-ʾbtynw krt yhwh ʾt-hbryt hzʾt ky ʾtnw ʾnḥnw ʾlh ph hywm klnw ḥyym “It was not with our fathers that Yahweh carved this covenant, but rather with us, even us – these here today, all of us living.” The vagueness of the deixis used here makes it just as applicable to the reader as to the audience in the narrative. While it is possible to use the narrative to supply specific geographic and historical referents for “here” and “today,” the introduction never specifies what they refer to. This laid the foundation for reapplying the text to new generations in new places. Otto thus argues that there are two audiences addressed here – the one within the narrative and the one addressed by the narrative (that is, the readers or hearers at the time of experiencing the text) (Otto 2012b, 2:680–81). Or, as Green observes more broadly, passages like this make explicit a simultaneous connection and separation between the community being described in the text and the community being constituted by engaging the text (Green 2005, 9–10). Even where geography remained explicit in the texts surrounding the Decalogue, postmonarchic editors could reapply it to the diaspora. This is most apparent in Deut 29–30. Structural similarities between these chapters and Deut 4 suggest that postmonarchic editors shaped them concurrently to create a new frame around the book of Deuteronomy as a whole (Otto 1996a, 201–9). In addition to new materials in Deut 1–3, these chapters shift engagement with the Decalogue away from Sinai, Shechem, and even Jerusalem and reset communal engagement in Moab (Otto 2012a, 1:231–57; 2013b, 228). While this new setting served multiple purposes, the most important was that it created a connection to the postmonarchic ending to the book of Kings.13 13

More broadly, resetting the text in Moab cemented a link between Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic history. This moved the wandering Israelite community from the south

Transposing the Decalogue onto New Artifacts in New Settings 225 The disastrous end of the kingdom of Judah in 2 Kgs 24–25 can be read as a fulfillment of the prophetic curses in Deut 29–30 (Markl 2014). This new postmonarchic ending placed Deuteronomy in an awkward position vis-à-vis its relationship to the so-called Deuteronomistic history. Deuteronomy now points to not the conquest of the land but rather the loss of the land. As such, the many references to the “place of the name” became an obscure reference without a concrete locality to connect it to (Green 2005, 5–7). However, the intentionally laconic and tragic end to the book of Kings also implicitly points the reader to the next part of the passage in Deuteronomy, in which Moses promises the eventual return to the land. Markl argues that this complex of texts was constructed in the postmonarchic period to create a hopeful expectation for the community’s later return from exile (Markl 2014, 723–28; cf. Noth 1943, 107–8; 1991, 142–43; von Rad 1957, 332–44). This postmonarchic redaction thus afforded a special meaning to the community in exile. Like the Israelites in the narrative of the Moab covenant, the Judeans were now in the east looking toward the land with expectancy. In this regard, it is worth noting that the exodus tradition took on a new meaning during the exile as well. While I maintain that this tradition was much older, it became relevant in a new way to the exiled Judeans, who projected their own experiences onto the stories of the exodus (Assmann 2018, 52–54). We should recall that the Decalogue itself – especially in Deuteronomy – was redacted to have a stronger emphasis on the exodus. This refugee experience was given as the new motivation for the Sabbath commandment in Deut 5:14. As a result, the transition between the Sabbath commandment and the honor commandment became fixated on a transition from “the land of Egypt” to “the land Yahweh your God is giving you.” The Decalogue itself can thus be read as constructing a memory of the exodus as a model for exile living, while simultaneously looking expectantly toward the land to which the community longed to return (Markl 2014, 724–26; Nicholson 2014, 59–63). The transposition of the Decalogue14 away from a concrete location facilitated its application to a new generation in exile as well as later end of Canaan, as in Num 27, to the east side of the Jordan (Ska 2006, 146–53; Erisman 2013, 784–85). This facilitated a direct transition into the conquest narrative of Joshua, in which the Israelites enter Canaan from the east (Sumner 1968, 217; Erisman 2013, 773, 784). 14 When Deut 29–30 is read together with Deut 4, it is clear that the postmonarchic scribes understood the content of the covenant to be centered on the Decalogue. Deuteronomy 4:13 specifies that the covenantal text was ʿs´rt hdbrym “the Ten

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diaspora generations, who lacked a temple for engaging their deity. As a result, the text could now be similarly applied to any future generation as well. This represented a radical and arguably unique shift in the Decalogue’s monumentality. It could now afford meaning from any location. While the “here” of Deut 5:3 may internally refer to the plains of Moab, externally the reader transforms it into wherever and whenever the text is read. The audience “alive here today” are invited to see themselves among the Israelites at Sinai, Shechem, Jerusalem, and Moab. Moreover, the text now functioned explicitly as a cognitive pathway – a means of imaginary travel between the world of the text and the environment of the reader. Prophetic Sight and Verbal Theophany The text’s function as a cognitive pathway is also apparent in new additions to the Decalogue’s context in Exod 19 and 24. The first indication that postmonarchic communities were taking advantage of this function is their own appearance within the narrative. As discussed previously, various groups were inserted into the rituals surrounding the Decalogue at Sinai at different points in the text’s history in order to legitimate their authority (Ska 2006, 30, 228). The latest addition appears in Exod 24:10– 11, where a resumptive repetition encloses yet another group placed on the mountain. These verses contain a repeated description of seeing Yahweh (wyrʾw ʿt ʾlhy ys´rʾl . . . wyḥzw ʾt-hʾlhym “they saw the God of Israel . . . they saw the God”) that brackets new material. The inserted material reveals that the ʾs ̣yly bny ys´rʾl “the nobles of the people of Israel” were also present at Sinai, even though they appear nowhere else in the narrative nor anywhere else in the Hebrew Bible for that matter. The term ʾs ̣yl “noble” as well as the verb ḥzh “to see” that opens the repetition are both eastern Aramaic loanwords that most likely entered Hebrew during the Persian period (Hurvitz 1968). Whoever the “nobles of the people of Israel” were, the concentration of Aramaic loanwords in these verses suggests that they were a group significant in the postmonarchic period, and it was thus necessary to transport them to Sinai (Schniedewind 2004, Words” or “the Decalogue.” While the original meaning of this phrase is somewhat mysterious, later tradition transformed this into a designation for the Decalogue as preserved in Ex 20 and Deut 5. Deut 4’s exegetical content suggest that this transformation occurred in the postmonarchic period (Childs 1974, 608–9; Whybray 1995, 116). As a result, the Decalogue became the primary text to be engaged in subsequent performances of the covenant.

Transposing the Decalogue onto New Artifacts in New Settings 227 123; Ska 2006, 213–14; Chavel 2015, 202–7). These time-traveling nobles serve as an implicit model for later receptions of the text. By engaging it properly, later readers could also be present at Sinai. This is also implied by the other material inserted within this resumptive repetition. Exod 24:10–11 includes a qualifying statement regarding the visual apprehension of Yahweh in the passage. Instead of seeing him directly, the group on the mountain apparently only saw Yahweh’s feet through a screen of clear sapphire (Childs 1974, 506; Hartenstein 2001, 140; Schniedewind 2004, 128–29; Dozeman 2009, 567; Chavel 2012, 43–45; Smith 2016, 19; Tov 2017, 16–17).15 Furthermore, while the original account affirmed that the group on the mountain wyrʾw “saw” God, the group in the resumptive repetition wyḥzw “perceived” God. Though it was a generic verb of seeing in Aramaic, in Hebrew ḥzh often refers to a visionary experience rather than literal sight. Along the same lines, John Levison argues that the noun ʾṣyl should be understood as referring to some sort of prophetic office (Levison 2003, 514–16). Schniedewind notes that the root ḥzy took on a very particular meaning in the postmonarchic period. It was used with reference to the action of prophets (who receive the title ḥozeh “seer”) and especially with regard to “the seer’s role in writing historical records” (Schniedewind 1995, 40). This was one part of a broader transition in the postmonarchic period. Prophecy was increasingly understood in terms of inspired exegesis rather than the delivery of oral messages from God (Schniedewind 1995, 231–41). If this connotation holds for Exod 24:11, then we have a group of exegetes prophetically perceiving God at Sinai, perhaps via textual means.

15

Simeon Chavel analyzes this passage as representing the ineffability of Yahweh and the decorum that required the group on the mountain to avert their eyes. In his words, “the narrative works hard to convey and elicit a sense of wonder” (Chavel 2012, 43). As Umberto Cassuto very eloquently described the scene, “it is fitting that the happening should be shrouded in the mists of sanctity” (Cassuto 1951, 225). A similar effect was accomplished by additions to Exod 19. In verses 18, for example, a waw explicativum introduces the fire theophany at Sinai, in contrast to the storm theophany of the framing narrative. Juxtaposed, these two accounts of the theophany highlight the uncanniness of Yahweh’s appearance and his otherworldliness. Moreover, the addition of verses 21–25 further convolute the already difficult narrative with an additional ascent and descent by Moses as well as two new warnings to the people to stay away from the mountain. The resultant triple repetition of the warning that the people cannot approach the mountain serves as “a compositional device aiming at inculcating God’s awe upon the people” (Niccacci 1997, 220). These additions all highlight the ineffability and inaccessibility of Yahweh. Nevertheless, the fact that Israelite leaders described in Exod 24:10–11 still see God is not redacted. Later tradition did attempt to explain away this passage, however (Schniedewind 2004, 128).

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By implication, other such receptions of the text could transport one to Sinai as well (Robinson 2011). A similar fixation on textual engagement is implied in Deuteronomy’s insistence on the verbal nature of the theophany at Sinai. In Exod 20:18, all the people rʾym ʾt hqwlt “saw the thunder.”16 In Exodus 24:10, wyrʾw ʾt ʾlhy ys´rʾl “they saw the God of Israel.” While later editors of the Exodus account softened the directness of this encounter somewhat, they did not completely obfuscate it. In Deut 4, the postmonarchic scribe simply rewrote this account. Deuteronomy 4:12 reads: qwl dbrym ʾtm šmʿym wtmwnh ʾynkm rʾym zwlty ql “You heard the sound of words, but you did not see a form. There was only a voice.” The qwlt “thunder” that the Israelites saw in Exod 20 here becomes merely a qwl “voice” or qwl dbrym “the sound of words.” Emphatically, there was no tbnyt “form” at all – the Israelites witnessed no visual manifestation of Yahweh. The theophany is thus no longer something to be visually apprehended but rather something that must be aurally apprehended. The next verse – Deut 4:13 – makes explicit that the revelation at Sinai was ultimately delivered in the form of a text rather than vision. This emphasis on a purely verbal theophany might also be seen in changes to the Decalogue’s aesthetic discourse, especially its transposition onto amulets and scrolls. From Monument to Amulet The reinterpretation of the image commandment as a prohibition of monumental images introduced a new tension into the Decalogue’s afterlife. Such artifacts were now categorically forbidden, whereas before certain legitimated ones were permissible. Of course, this made perfect sense within the postmonarchic period and especially during the exile, when the community was incapable of producing their own monuments and were primarily exposed to those of their oppressors. But this raises the question: how is a monumental text to be preserved – whether in the communal imagination or in physical space – if it cannot be inscribed in stone? This was accomplished in the Hebrew Bible by associating the Decalogue with amulets and scrolls. This association began during the late Judean monarchy, but it took on new significance in the wake of the exile. The ancient Levant attests a number of interactions between monuments and personal articles even well before the Judean exile. Irene Winter 16

In fact, this is a very old tradition drawing upon earlier Canaanite images of storm theophanies (Schniedewind 2017).

Transposing the Decalogue onto New Artifacts in New Settings 229 demonstrated that the iconography on the monumental orthostats at Tell Halaf, for example, was actually appropriated from that of ivory furniture inlays (Winter 1989). At Zincirli, many typical scenes from monumental orthostats were repeated on personal articles like seals, amulets, and plaques (Hogue 2022c, 37). An inscribed incantation plaque recently discovered at Zincirli even styled its text like an “I Am” monument (Pardee and Richey forthcoming). Broadly speaking, the practice of producing inscribed amulets using words otherwise familiar in a monumental context was common throughout ancient West Asia and North Africa (Ramos 2021, 138–39). There is a rich history of personal articles offering their aesthetic discourse to monuments and vice versa. Ancient Judah was no exception to this pattern. For our present purposes, one of the most significant examples of the transposition of monumental discourse onto personal artifacts are the Ketef Hinnom amulets. These silver amulets were discovered in a tomb dated to the sixth century BCE. They were designed to look like miniature silver scrolls. When the excavators unrolled them, they discovered that the amulets were even inscribed. Though none are quoted exactly, the amulet inscriptions reproduce several lines otherwise known from biblical texts, making them the oldest witnesses to portions of the Hebrew Bible yet discovered. More importantly, the amulets specifically reproduce texts that borrow their phrasing and themes from monumental inscriptions. Most prior research has drawn attention to the amulets’ reproduction of the Priestly blessing known from Num 6:24–26. Like the Decalogue, this blessing imitates monumental inscriptions and in the context of Numbers should be understood as the literary depiction of a monument (Smoak 2017a; 2017b). What has received less attention is that the first Ketef Hinnom amulet also quotes a line from the Decalogue’s image commandment prior to repeating the Priestly blessing. The inscription is fragmentary, but lines 5–7 read as follows: [h]ḥsd lʾhbw[y]w wšmry mṣ[wtw] Graciousness to them that love him and keep his commandments

This is almost an exact quote of Exod 20:6 and Deut 5:10. Outside of the Decalogue, this line is only repeated in Deut 7:9’s innerbiblical exegesis of the Decalogue (Levinson 2008, 72–81; Ramos 2021, 141).17 Though no

17

Deut 7:9 is an exact match for the line on the amulet, though Deut 5:10 shows signs of having been modified to accommodate that reading. The scribe mistakenly included the third-person

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other material from the Decalogue is preserved, the appearance of this line alongside the Priestly blessing suggests that it was included for the same purpose. It represents the transposition of a monumental text onto a personal article, in this case a piece of jewelry. More than this, the ritual specialists chose a line that had already been reworked to reapply the Decalogue to individuals. The Ketef Hinnom amulets thus demonstrate the same impulse to reapply monumental discourse to the individual but now in the form of a new epigraphic support. Jeremy Smoak has produced an innovative analysis of the amulets in light of this transposition. He argues that “the ritual specialist who scratched the writing onto their surfaces used the technique of transposition to miniaturize and personalize temple ritual for use on the body” (Smoak 2019, 440). More than this, the miniaturization of monumental texts provided a cognitive pathway between the body and the temple, which the wearers could now access via their jewelry and their imagination. Just as a reader might revisit the temple via literature, the wearer of these amulets could visit it as often as they saw or touched the amulet (Smoak 2019, 441–46). Even more significantly, this miniaturization of monumental texts applied the liminality of theatre and spectacle to the body and the house (Stavrakopoulou 2013a, 550–52). The house and the body thus became spaces for transformation – for the creation of ideal community members. These amulets thus constituted another means of domesticating temple ritual. In this case, wearing the words of the Decalogue provided an imaginary means to access the spectacle they implied. The use of such amulets for domestic spectacle is made explicit in the book of Deuteronomy. Deut 6 – a chapter specially concerned with the Decalogue, as we have already discussed – commands the transposition of divine words onto the structure of the home and the individual body. This comes especially in the Shema – a centerpiece of domestic spectacle even now. This prayer explicitly provides directions for disciplining individuals in particular ways to incorporate them into the community. One of the primary disciplines of the Shema is the transposition of divine words. Verse 6 reads: whyw hdbrym hʾlh ʾšr ʾnky mṣwk hywm ʿl-lbbk These words I command you today shall be upon your heart.

rather than first-person pronoun on the word mṣwtw in the Deuteronomic Decalogue, perhaps indicating a mnemonic error in which a postmonarchic copier substituted the form from Deut 7 (Carr 2011, 17–18; 2015).

Transposing the Decalogue onto New Artifacts in New Settings 231 While “upon your heart” may be interpreted metaphorically, it is possible to read it as a literal command to wear the words as jewelry on one’s body.18 This is made explicit in verse 8, which reads: wqšrtm lʾwt ʿl-ydk whyw lṭt ̣pt byn ʿynyk You shall bind them as a sign upon your hand, and they shall be as phylacteries between your eyes.

Finally, verse 9 demands that wktbtm ʿl-mzwzt bytk wbšʿryk You shall write them on the doorposts of your house and within your gates.

The Shema thus demands that the divine words be transposed to the body and the home. They are to be written on the structure of the individual’s house and worn as jewelry on the arm, head, and possibly even the chest. Again, this transposition of divine words onto the house and the body transformed those spaces into liminal spaces (Stavrakopoulou 2013a, 547–52). This practice allowed Judahites and later Judeans to transform themselves into Israelites, with or without access to public spectacle and in fact even without access to the land. The Ketef Hinnom amulets provide evidence for an early material instantiation of this practice (Ramos 2021, 141). The words that are transposed in Deut 6:6 – described as hdbrym hʾlh “these words” – may be understood as a reference to the Shema itself, but this interpretation may not have been obvious in antiquity. This was also the title for the Decalogue used in Exod 20 and Deut 5, and references to “the commandments” within the Shema may point outside of Deut 6 as well (Ramos 2021, 143). The earliest known examples of mezuzot – doorpost inscriptions made in response to this passage – highlight this ambiguity, in that they contain both the Shema and the Decalogue. For example, the Nash Papyrus is now thought to have originally been used as a mezuzah in a second-century BCE Jewish community in Egypt, and it contains the oldest known full copy of the Decalogue immediately preceding the Shema. A number of tefillin and mezuzot discovered at Qumran also contain the Decalogue (Albright 1937; Eshel 1991, 122–23).

18

A similar connotation may hold for the command to set (s´ym) Yahweh’s name upon the Israelites after the Priestly blessing in Num 6:27. The Israelites were meant to hear a recapitulation of the blessing in the form of an amulet (Milgrom 2003, 52; Smoak 2015, 88).

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Postmonarchic communities and even antique Jewish communities thus applied the aesthetic practices described in the Shema to the Decalogue as well. While the earliest transposition of some of the Decalogue onto personal articles happened during the late monarchic period in Judah, this practice undoubtedly took on new significance in the postmonarchic period. Especially during the exile, the community was incapable of engaging texts in large-scale theatres and spectacular performances, which simply no longer existed. Jewelry, however, and mezuzot provided an opportunity to imaginatively reconnect with the lost theatres of the preexilic period (Hendel 2008, 188). While not precisely monumental, in that these artifacts did not appeal to a community, these were nevertheless icons and reproductions of divine presence utilizing previously monumental texts (Smoak 2019). They transposed the monumental onto the personal and thus allowed engagement with the Decalogue and similar texts to persist into the postmonarchic period. This did not mean, however, that the aesthetic discourse of the Decalogue was limited to individual reapplications. The community was still able to engage the monumental text, but now in the form of scrolls. From Tablet to Scroll The Ketef Hinnom amulets provide one more very important piece of evidence for the evolution of epigraphic supports for monumental texts among the Judahites and later the Judeans. The text of the inscriptions – particularly the portions of the Priestly blessing and Decalogue that are reproduced – are typical of monumental inscriptions that might be carved on stelae or wall reliefs, such as the Ekron Inscription (KAI 286) (Smoak 2017b; Ramos 2021, 139–40). Furthermore, the practice of miniaturizing monuments to be worn as jewelry is attested elsewhere in the Iron Age Levant. However, the Ketef Hinnom amulets are not miniaturizations of stelae or iconographic motifs from monumental orthostats. They are miniature scrolls. The impulse to miniaturize monumental texts in the form of scrolls points to the importance of scrolls as far back as late monarchic Judah. Furthermore, this miniaturization of monument and temple ritual in scroll-form implies three things about monumental texts like the Decalogue during this period: (1) they had already been transposed onto full-size scrolls, (2) those scrolls were monumental in that they were utilized in communal meaning-making, and (3) those scrolls played a role in public spectacles (Smoak 2019, 443).

Transposing the Decalogue onto New Artifacts in New Settings 233 Despite their perishability, scrolls were ripe for monumentalization. Apart from Torah scrolls, the most important example of monumental scrolls in ancient West Asia and North Africa were those that contained the Egyptian Book of the Dead. Somewhat surprisingly, these artifacts had a history not unlike what I propose here for the Decalogue. The oldest portions of the Book of the Dead were originally inscribed on pyramids and later transposed onto the walls of tombs as well as onto coffins. Later these texts were recorded on linen shrouds for display in tombs as well as on personal artifacts like scarabs and amulets. Finally, these various corpora were collected, expanded, and redacted on scrolls (Munro 2010; Dorman 2017). Though their contents varied, the largest of these scrolls could measure up to 40 m long and cost as much as half a year’s wages (Kockelmann 2017, 73). Certainly, these were artifacts of special social significance intended for display in addition to reading. While these scrolls could play a very individualized role in specific funerary rituals and tombs, they were also utilized in more communal practices like temple liturgies (Barbash 2017). A similar monumentality may have been possessed by early examples of scrolls containing what would become biblical texts. Another important example of a monumental text transposed onto a scroll comes from Achaemenid Persia. The Behistun Inscription of Darius the Great was famously carved in three languages on a rock wall, where it is still visible today. While it is difficult to say how the tradition may have spread to Persia, it is worth noting that both the Babylonian and Elamite versions of this text open with the words “I am,” though the rest of the inscription shares little in common with Levantine “I Am” monuments like the Decalogue.19 More importantly for our present purposes, these inscriptions in stone were not the only media for transmitting Darius’ monument. They were also translated into Aramaic and circulated as scrolls. A similar transposition occurred in the transmission of the Decalogue. In Chapter 3, I argued that the Judahite reception of the Decalogue transposed it from stelae onto tablets that were subsequently deposited

19

The use of an “I Am” formula to open Darius’ inscriptions may in fact be an adaptation of a separate Elamite practice. Many Elamite royal inscriptions opened with the pronoun u “I” followed by the king’s name. Most importantly, this practice was followed by the Elamite king Shutruk-Nahhunte in the inscription he carved on the Stele of Naram-Sîn after capturing it and taking it as booty to Elam. Marian Feldman has demonstrated that the iconography of the Behistun Inscription – especially the depiction of Darius himself – was inspired by that on the Stele of Naram-Sîn, so it is likely that Darius’ inscriptions also borrowed their discourse from that artifact (Feldman 2007).

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into the Ark of the Covenant. The Decalogue was thus made to closely resemble contemporary temennu monuments from Mesopotamia and similar foundation deposits from Egypt. A foundation deposit also appeared in 2 Kgs 23:2, 21, where it was labeled the spr hbryt “inscription of the covenant.” While the term spr is typically translated “scroll” or “book,” its use in inscriptions like that on the Kulamuwa Orthostat (KAI 24:14–15) and the Sefire Stelae (KAI 222 A2:28) reveal that it initially referred generally to inscribed artifacts. The ambiguity of this term made possible the transposition of the Decalogue onto a scroll. In Exod 24:7, a redactor working no earlier than the Josianic period inserted the spr hbryt into the monumental assemblage at Sinai alongside the stelae and altar and ultimately the tablets as well (Schniedewind 2004, 124–27; Monroe 2011, 133–37). Later redactors subsequently conflated this artifact with another – the spr htwrh “Scroll of the Torah.” A scroll thus became the next epigraphic support for the Decalogue, replacing the tablets that were themselves already replacements for stelae. The equation of the Inscription of the Covenant and the Scroll of the Torah was accomplished via later redactions in two contexts – Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic history. The Inscription of the Covenant itself appears only three times in the Hebrew Bible: Exod 24:7 and 2 Kgs 23:2, 21. There is undoubtedly a connection between these contexts, but the artifact is otherwise unknown. The resumptive repetition enclosing the Inscription of the Covenant in Exod 24:7 is a sign that the phrase originates in Kings and was then transposed into Exodus. In a later redaction of 2 Kgs 22, however, the foundation deposit in the Temple is not the Inscription of the Covenant but rather the Scroll of the Torah. This artifact appears ten times in the Hebrew Bible: Deut 28: 61; 29:20; 30:10; 31:26; Josh 1:8; 8:34; 2 Kgs 22:8, 11; 2 Chr 34:15; and Neh 8:3. Other than the obviously postmonarchic instances in Chronicles and Nehemiah, all of the other occurrences are in Deuteronomistic contexts that were redacted in the postmonarchic period. On the basis of lectio difficilior – which posits that the more difficult reading is probably earlier – we can conclude that the Inscription of the Covenant was the earlier artifact. Its conflation with the Scroll of the Torah represents a redactor’s attempt to bring this artifact into conversation with later writings. The most instructive text for understanding this conversation is Deut 31. Deut 31 originated as a composite appendix to the book of Deuteronomy, and it may consist of both preexilic and postmonarchic materials (Tigay 1996, 503–5). As was the case in Exod 24, this chapter depicts the addition of a new artifact to the monumental assemblage

Transposing the Decalogue onto New Artifacts in New Settings 235 associated with the Decalogue – this time the Scroll of the Torah. In verse 26, Moses commands the Levites to place the scroll beside the Ark of the Covenant.20 By integrating scrolls into these assemblages, the redactors implied that these artifacts were of comparable authority and that they were inscribed with the same text originally held by the stelae and tablets (Britt 2000; Green 2005, 12). Of course, we have seen this sort of monument aggregation before, in both the Hebrew Bible and the surrounding region. New monuments were typically erected alongside older ones; the older ones could not be replaced because the new ones derived their own authority from the older productions. Nevertheless, new monuments could subvert and surpass older monuments even as they derived their own monumentality from them by association (Hogue 2022c). James Watts argues that this aggregation in Deut 31 permitted the “identification between Decalogue and Torah” as “the ark of the covenant evolved into the Torah scroll” (Watts 2016, 34). This identification was especially necessary in the postmonarchic period, when communities needed a new monumental artifact to take the place of those they had lost. In addition to becoming a part of the earlier monumental assemblages in Exodus and Deuteronomy, the Scroll of the Torah also absorbed those assemblages. Watts suggests that this was possible because the scroll could function as a reliquary, much as the Ark of the Covenant had done previously. While the Ark physically contained the stone tablets – on which the late monarchic community imagined the Decalogue – the Scroll of the Torah literarily contained the tablets as well as all the other inscribed artifacts associated with the Decalogue and other monumental texts. This function is borne out in postmonarchic narratives – such as the redaction of 2 Kgs 22–23 or the reading ceremonies in Ezra–Nehemiah – where the scroll fulfills a ritual and iconic function akin to the Ark (Green 2014, 122; Watts 2016, 32–34; Ramos 2021, 135). In fact, unlike other reliquaries, the scroll could even absorb the theatres where these artifacts were originally engaged in public spectacles. Like amulets, literature

20

Some scholars suggest that the physical placement of the scroll mirrors the literary arrangement of the book of Deuteronomy. If the Ark is understood as containing the Decalogue and the Scroll of the Torah is understood as containing the Deuteronomic Code, then placing the artifacts beside one another creates a similar arrangement of materials as is seen in the Decalogue preceding the Deuteronomic Code in the book of Deuteronomy itself (Lester 2020; 2023; van der Toorn 1997, 246). However, there is some debate about the potential referents of both “Torah” and “the Scroll of the Torah” in Deuteronomy, and the postmonarchic communities almost certainly conceptualized it as a much larger literary work (Blum 2011a, 58–62).

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provides a means of imaginary travel – a cognitive pathway to the times and places it depicts. This may explain why the ritual practice of reading became so central to public spectacles in the postmonarchic period. While the public reading of monumental texts was already associated with Levantine “I Am” monuments and other West Asian monuments, it was not the only nor the primary means of engaging the monument. Among the postmonarchic communities, however, reading was the central practice of public ritual. The most extreme development of this is seen in Neh 8, where the public spectacle consists only of reading and interpreting the Scroll of the Torah. All other ritual elements of preexilic spectacles like the loyalty oath ceremonies had disappeared. Reading alone remained as the ritual means of activating the text in the postmonarchic period (Cleath 2016, 288–92). Moreover, even after the Temple was rebuilt in the postexilic period, these reading ceremonies were somewhat distanced from it. In Neh 8, the ceremony notably takes place at the gates of Jerusalem rather than the temple, which had become unnecessary to the ritual in the intervening period (Wright 2007, 21–22; Cleath 2016, 226–27; Watts 2016, 22 n. 3). Even in narratives like 2 Kgs 22–23 that take place at the Temple, postmonarchic redaction shifted emphasis to reading as opposed to other ritual practices (Na’aman 2011). The emphasis on rituals of reading likely originated as a response to the exile. During this period, the only way to access monumental theatres and spectacles was by reading. Furthermore, texts like the Shema in Deut 6 attest to the emergence of private reading and recitation as a means for ritually engaging the text during this period (Otto 2012b, 2:786–87; MacDonald 2017, 770). This shift away from public spectacles to private reading would allow the exilic and diaspora communities to continue interacting with the text in a significant way apart from any monumental theatre (Nielsen 1995, 63; Otto 1996a, 208; Green 2005, 6). While this was perhaps initially intended as a compensatory measure, even when public spectacle was reintroduced in the postexilic period these reading practices proceeded to become the central feature of them as well. Neither monumental scrolls nor ceremonial reading practices were new in ancient West Asia and North Africa. But the unique history of the postmonarchic Judean community led to a new development in this monumental discourse that reverberates to the present day. In other cultures from the same time and place, scrolls, personal artifacts, and reading ceremonies were just some of the many artifacts and practices available for developing textual authority. Among the postmonarchic Judeans, however, these were in many cases the only practices available.

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Large-scale monuments could not be produced. Amulets and scrolls could be. Especially in the exile, festivals – particularly the communal feasts and urban processions that dominated them – could not be performed. Reading, however, could be practiced. Accordingly, the scroll became a literary reliquary that absorbed all of the monuments prior to it and even the theatres they were placed in. Personal artifacts reproduced these scrolls on an individual scale. By reading the scrolls, Judeans could encounter monuments like the Decalogue and visit Sinai no matter where they were in reality. By developing this monumental discourse in the wake of the exile – generally in the absence of other discourses – the postmonarchic community gave birth to an entirely new kind of monumentalization: scripturalization (Schniedewind 2015; Watts 2016).

from inscription to scripture The postmonarchic period saw the Decalogue and other texts like it maintained in ingenious ways. Some of the shifts in the Decalogue’s monumental discourse discussed here may have occurred as early as the late monarchic period in Judah. Nevertheless, the postmonarchic period saw these shifts crystallize into what was undoubtedly the Judean community’s most enduring contribution to human civilization. Scripturalization – a new form of monumentalization – arose as a means for maintaining texts like the Decalogue, especially in contexts where more traditional practices of monument production and reception were no longer possible. The Decalogue was originally a reembodiment of Yahweh accomplished by giving his words material presence in stone and ritual agency in patterned performances in specific locales. This period saw the materials for accomplishing this shift from stone to velum and papyrus. The shape of the Decalogue changed from stone tablets to a scroll. The location of the monument changed from a ceremonial theatre to the home and the body. The spatial discourse of the monument in the narrative became a means of looking toward the land rather than an assumption of being in it. Even the words of the monument were more easily applied to the individual in addition to the community. In short, the afterlife of the Decalogue – and other texts like it – in the postmonarchic period was realized by nothing short of the invention of Scripture. In this new form, the monumentality of the Decalogue was, in a sense, freed from the discursive practices of Levantine “I Am” monuments to continue evolving in surprising ways among countless communities down to the present day.

Conclusion The Monumentality of the Decalogue

“Our ancestors worshipped on this mountain, but you say that the place where people must worship is in Jerusalem.” Jesus said to her, “Woman, believe me, the hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem.” – John 4:20–21 And ˹remember˺ when We took a covenant from the children of Israel ˹stating˺, “Worship none but Allah; be kind to parents, relatives, orphans and the needy; speak kindly to people; establish prayer; and pay alms-tax.” But you ˹Israelites˺ turned away – except for a few of you – and were indifferent. – Quran 2:83

This book has primarily been concerned with the innerbiblical history of the Decalogue’s monumentality – that is, its potential to make special meaning for communities. Monumentality is a relational quality. As such, it constantly changes as a function of how different communities relate to artifacts at various points in their history. The early history of the Decalogue’s monumentality was thus inextricable from the history of monuments in the Iron Age Levant. The production and reception of those artifacts impacted the reception and transmission of the Decalogue, because it was intended to communicate in ancient Israel and Judah using the same monumental discourse. The fundamental purpose of these artifacts was to reembody an elite agent and constitute a community in relation to them. Whatever else it may be, first and foremost the Decalogue is a reembodiment of Yahweh intended to constitute his people – Israel. Various communities have laid claim to this monument and engaged it in different ways throughout history, but that 238

I Am: A History of Monuments

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essential function of reembodiment and constitution has remained the same. In this conclusion, I will revisit this history of monuments and monumentality, but I will then briefly explore how this history laid the foundation for what happened next.

i am: a history of monuments The Decalogue developed the discourse of one particular type of monument – Levantine “I Am” monuments. These artifacts served various purposes in the ancient Levant, but they all alike began by announcing “I am . . .” As such, they departed from other monumental traditions in ancient West Asia, which tended to draw attention to the artifact or its commissioner. Instead, “I Am” monuments combined these roles. From an ancient perspective, these artifacts spoke of their own accord with the voices of their commissioners. They thus reembodied that elite and became agents in their own right, interacting with the people engaging them as though they were persons as well. The “I Am” monument was thus a significant means of imbuing a text with agency and thereby with authority. “I Am” monuments first appeared in the Levant in the Late Bronze Age, but it was not until the Iron Age that they became the royal monument of choice. In the Age of Civic Ritual (950–850 BCE), rulers began producing these monuments en masse. Though the epigraphic supports for these monumental texts were diverse, their contents tended to rely upon a few recognizable verbal strategies. Their inscriptions presented the ruler as the center of an ideological system. That ruler was then presented as narrating a version of history that centered upon him, and he proceeded to make demands of his audience in light of that narrative. Rulers distributed these monuments throughout large ceremonial theatres in order to reproduce their own agency in multiple places simultaneously. This allowed them to address a larger community than ever before. More than this, these artifacts actually constituted that community by promoting specific ways of relating to the ruler and other users. By following the ritual and moral prescriptions of “I Am” monuments in their theatrical settings, the monuments’ users were molded into ideal subjects. During the Age of Territorial Theatre (870–745 BCE), this monumental discourse was expanded to a region-wide scale. Instead of distributing “I Am” monuments only within particular cities, Levantine rulers began distributing them between cities. In so doing, they implied that these cities should be understood as complementary to one another, just as the

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monuments of the previous age erected along the borders of ceremonial plazas were. They thus transformed entire regions into theatres intended to mold their denizens into ideal subjects. It was especially during this time that stelae became the most prominent form for these monuments. Though the verbal discourse of these monuments remained mostly unchanged, a stronger emphasis on conquest emerged to match the monuments’ regional distribution. Gods also began to play a larger role in royal narratives, and they regularly appeared to issue commands directly to the king. As such, many Levantine “I Am” monuments now explicitly constituted communities in relation to a particular king, his patron deity, and the territory he claimed to control. In the Age of Court Ceremony (790–600 BCE), these artifacts evolved once again. Gone were the territorial theatres of the previous age. They were replaced instead by smaller-scale theatres centered on royal courts. This likely first appeared in imitation of the practices at the Assyrian court, where Levantine elites were regularly expected to appear. In fact, many of the changes to verbal discourse in “I Am” monuments during this period appear designed to accommodate the encroachment of the Assyrian empire in the region. At the same time, these changes were also responding to increasing social complexity in the Levant, especially the emergence of powerful nonroyal elites among the common populace. During this period, “I Am” monuments were increasingly used to direct loyalty oath ceremonies and similar court protocols to cement a hierarchical relationship between the elites they reembodied and the communities they constituted. To accommodate this function, more centralization was favored over wider distribution of these monuments. While aspects of their inscriptions and epigraphic supports changed as well, it was this shift in the spatial discourse of “I Am” monuments that best reflects the new kinds of elite authority and social structures they constituted. The growing social complexity of the Levant during this period may have ultimately spelled the demise of “I Am” monuments. The Assyrian kings eventually claimed the exclusive prerogative in utilizing monumental discourse of this type. After the collapse of the Assyrian empire, some elements of “I Am” monuments limped on for a few more centuries in the Levant, but they were never produced in such numbers as during the earlier Iron Age. By the end of the Persian period and into the Hellenistic period, “I Am” monuments – if they can still be considered the same type of monument – survived only as artifacts inscribed with the “I Am” formula and nothing else. Finally, they disappeared altogether.

I Am Yahweh: A History of Monumentality

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i am yahweh: a history of monumentality The earliest form of the Decalogue recoverable in the Hebrew Bible was most likely produced during the Age of Territorial Theatre. This is most apparent in the book of Exodus, in which the Decalogue reembodied Yahweh as a divine king by combining aspects of royal and divine rhetoric known from the “I Am” monuments of that period. In the text, Yahweh adjures his addressees to recognize his divine kingship alone, to produce no competing monument, to refrain from effacing his own, and to properly embed it within ritual practice. He also provides them with ethical expectations in their dealings with each other, demonstrating his justice and magnanimity. In Exodus, this text is inscribed not on stone tablets but rather on stelae accompanied by an altar and other ritual paraphernalia that facilitated engagement with the Decalogue by means of sacrifices, incantations, blood manipulation rituals, and feasting. The location of this installation implied that the boundary of Yahweh’s kingdom was not in one of the southern cities of Israel like Bethel or Beersheba but rather in Sinai, along the frontier of his primary rival in the book of Exodus – the Pharaoh. In the narrative, these artifacts and practices produced a liminal space, allowing proper ritual engagement at Sinai to transform the mixed multitude that left Egypt into a community subject to Yahweh – that is, into Israelites. While all of this is typical of “I Am” monuments of the period, the Decalogue produces a unique effect through its combination of divine and royal rhetoric. Yahweh addressed his users almost exclusively in secondperson injunctions, as was typical for divine speech at this time. Yahweh is thus depicted speaking to all his addressees with the same intimacy typically reserved for kings. It is that intimacy with Yahweh afforded by the monument that constituted Israel as his people. That intimacy was fragile, however, as revealed by the poetics of the Decalogue. While those who observed the injunctions of Yahweh’s monument could safely count themselves among the community of Israelites thus constituted, those who violated them faced dire repercussions. The Israel of the narrative was not all that different from the historical Israel that existed during the Age of Territorial Theatre. Under the Omrides and the Nimshides following them, the polity of Israel was expanded to its greatest extent. Under the Nimshides, the kingdom even held a southern frontier in Sinai, not to mention a northern frontier at Dan with a ritual installation remarkably similar to the one described in Exodus. Just like the community in the book of Exodus, the population

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of this greater Israel was a mixed multitude from settlements that were increasingly distant from Samaria and the Israelite heartland in the Central Highlands. In such a potentially divided social context, the Decalogue afforded a transregional Israelite identity centered on the divine kingship of Yahweh to promote communal cohesion. In Deuteronomy, the Decalogue was updated to better approximate the monumentality of the most prestigious monuments of the Age of Court Ceremony. Instead of distributing his monuments to the frontiers of his territory, Yahweh demands that they be centrally installed. Accordingly, he requires that his people come to pay homage at his court, engaging in loyalty oath ceremonies centered on the updated Decalogue and related texts in Deuteronomy. In a departure from other Levantine “I Am” monuments of this age, however, the Decalogue does not recognize the hegemony of encroaching empires but instead subverts them. Setting aside the kingly discourse of the Age of Territorial Theatre, Yahweh instead addresses his people as an emperor more akin to the rulers of Assyria and Egypt. The text of the Decalogue was modified to more closely resemble the law codes known both within the Hebrew Bible and in Mesopotamia. Instead of being inscribed on stelae, this new Decalogue was inscribed on stone tablets that were installed the Ark of the Covenant, perhaps in imitation of Mesopotamian adê and temennu monuments. Thus, while the Decalogue in Deuteronomy does center on court ceremony like other Levantine monuments from the same era, Deuteronomy construes that court as that of a divine emperor rather than a petty king. Apart from updating the Decalogue’s monumentality, these initial changes to the text and its context had a significant purpose in the real world. During the Age of Court Ceremony, the kingdom of Israel fell and the kingdom of Judah absorbed many of its traditions and people. By recasting the Decalogue in this way, the Judahite monarchy could now take advantage of the social formation it made possible. They thus recast Jerusalem as the center of Yahweh’s empire. They also created a concrete way for Judahites to become Israelites as the southern kingdom reconfigured that identity. This was especially realized as the Decalogue provided a means for integrating the Judahite and Israelite communities into a single community after the fall of the northern kingdom. Once again, the Decalogue created an opportunity for social cohesion in an otherwise turbulent and divided social context. After the Age of Court Ceremony, Levantine “I Am” monuments all but disappeared. The Decalogue, however, did not. Later redactions and reflections on the Decalogue reveal that it continued to develop in ways

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that were predictable in light of the history of “I Am” monuments. However, these took on new significance in the postmonarchic period. Like other Levantine monuments, the Decalogue was transposed onto smaller-scale artifacts like amulets. In tandem with this aesthetic shift, the verbal discourse of the text was reinterpreted to better apply to individuals in addition to communities. Spatial discourse too was adjusted to focus on the spectacle of daily life carried out on an individual body or within a single household. These shifts found their greatest utility in the exilic and postexilic periods. Due to the great social upheaval experienced by the Judeans in these periods, these transpositions became the only means of accessing monumental artifacts like the Decalogue. Accordingly, they transitioned from a minor reiteration of monumental discourse into its primary realization. These provided a means of maintaining the community and ensuring its survival in the wake of Judah’s collapse. The most significant evolution that occurred during the Decalogue’s afterlife, however, was the introduction of the Scroll of the Torah to the monumental assemblages in Exodus and Deuteronomy. As the newest in a long sequence of monuments, this artifact claimed authority by association and purported to contain the same monumental text as the earlier monuments. Again, this shift was prefigured by similar transpositions of monumental texts onto scrolls elsewhere in ancient West Asia and North Africa. However, in the wake of the Babylonian destruction of Judah, the scroll was the only monument left standing in the community. Accordingly, all of the practices intended to form an Israelite community via engagement with monuments were reconfigured in relation to the scroll and both private and public readings of it. The result was the birth of an entirely new kind of monumental text. Despite the greater perishability of the material of this new kind of monument, it proved to be the most enduring monument type ever created. The Decalogue’s final evolution in the Hebrew Bible was from a monumental inscription into Scripture, and this laid the foundation for all subsequent engagements with it.

from monument to scripture and back again Unlike most other “I Am” monuments, the history of the Decalogue’s monumentality did not end in the Age of Court Ceremony. It did not even come to a close with the exile or the postexilic period. Instead, the Decalogue has continued to make meaning for communities down to

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the present day. As such, a full history of the Decalogue’s monumentality is far beyond the scope of this book and will require more scholars than the present author. I conclude by simply pointing forward toward what happened next and how the early history of the Decalogue laid the foundation for it. Most fundamentally, the Decalogue constitutes a community – “Israel” – relative to divine kingship. Once the text was scripturalized, subsequent interactions seem to revolve around one question in particular: whom does Yahweh rule? In other words, if many communities can now engage the text, which community is “Israel”? As already alluded to, antique Jewish interactions with the Decalogue largely followed the lead of the postmonarchic communities. During the Second Temple period, for example, Jews continued inscribing the Decalogue on mezuzot and tefillin, installing it in their homes and on their bodies. Eventually, this practice disappeared, however. A related development may be observed in Jewish liturgy. There was a time when the Decalogue was recited every day in synagogues, but this was later abandoned in response to the practices of competing communities. Instead, Jewish communities shifted to reciting the text only once a year, standing as they did so. Nevertheless, a sense remained that the text was deserving of more engagement than this. Berakhot accordingly reflected that, “It would be proper to read the Ten Commandments every day. And why don’t we? Because of the zeal of the heretics, lest they say: These alone were given to Moses at Sinai” (Berakhot Y 1:3c). Apparently, even though the Decalogue had been transposed onto the Scroll of the Torah, it retained enough of its own monumentality to potentially compete with the Torah. To counteract this competition, Jewish communities emphasized that the Decalogue was one piece of a greater assemblage. That assemblage – the Torah – derived much of its meaning from its different pieces interacting together. By laying claim to this configuration of the assemblage, in contrast to the assemblages of other communities, Jewish communities laid claim to “Israel” – the identity marked by a special relationship with the divine king. In contrast to this, the Samaritans offered the Decalogue pride of place in their version of the Torah and in other locations in their community. The Samaritans famously inscribed the Decalogue on not only mezuzot but also newly erected stone monuments. The Samaritan Pentateuch even adds an eleventh commandment requiring that such stone monuments be set up and inscribed with the Decalogue. By conflating material from Ex.

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13:11a; Deut. 11:29b, 30; 27:2b–3a, 4a, 5–7, the Samaritan Decalogue closes as follows: And when Shehmaa your Eloowwem will bring you to the land of the Kaananee which you are going to inherit it you shall set yourself up great stones and lime them with lime. And you shall write on them all the words of this law. And when you have passed over the Yaardaan (Jordan) you shall set up these stones, which I command you today, in Aargaareezem (Mt Gerizim). And there you shall build an altar to Shehmaa your Eloowwem, an altar of stones. You shall lift no iron on them. And you shall build the altar of Shehmaa your Eloowwem of complete (uncut) stones. And you shall offer burnt offerings thereupon to Shehmaa your Eloowwem and you shall sacrifice offerings and shall eat there. And you shall rejoice before Shehmaa your Eloowwem. (Anderson and Giles 2012, 96)

This Samaritan engagement with the Decalogue recapitulates the earlier emphasis on stelae, sacrifice, feasting, and geography as essential parts of its monumental discourse. The Samaritans used these features of the Decalogue’s earlier discourse – which they incorporated into the text of the Decalogue itself – to imply that their community on Gerizim was the true Israel constituted by the Decalogue. Early Christians too laid claim to the Decalogue, and it is the center of various exegetical passages in the New Testament. The Sermon on the Mount (Matt 5–9) in particular establishes the Decalogue as one of the primary Pentateuchal texts for Christian reinterpretation. Various Christian sects have claimed that the Decalogue is to be understood as the summary of the entire legal portion of the Pentateuch. Though the Decalogue was not originally conceived as a legal text, this Christian understanding perhaps follows the same impulse evident in Deuteronomy, wherein the Decalogue was updated with insertions from all of the major legal codes in the Pentateuch. Furthermore, Christians did maintain the older Jewish practice of reciting the Decalogue once weekly, at least in some churches. In fact, this practice continues down to the present among some Christian groups. Christians also placed a special emphasis on “I Am” statements like that of the Decalogue. Jesus’ reiteration of the words “I Am” in passages like John 8:58 and 18:5 is recognized as a claim of divinity. In effect, Jesus took hold of the original function of the “I Am” formula and claimed to be the final reembodiment of Yahweh by employing it. As a result, at least among some sects, “Israel” is defined by its relationship to Jesus. Of course, this brief summary cannot capture the great diversity of engagements with the Decalogue among Jews, Samaritans, and Christians – not to mention still other groups – throughout the nearly 3,000 years of the text’s history. The Decalogue was not the only text

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utilized in this sort of religious competition, but it is telling that it was a primary locus for defining subsequent communities in contrast to others. I would argue that these engagements were subsequent stages in the Decalogue’s monumentality. The text was still being used to present Yahweh as a divine king and to answer questions about who his people were. These engagements continued throughout the following two millennia, and the Decalogue has been repeatedly reimagined in not only religious interpretation but also new material forms like mosaics, stained glass, paintings, music, and most recently in film and television. None of these developments would have been possible, however, had the text not begun its life as a monument. As a monument, the Decalogue invites communities to continually reimagine it in new forms and in new places. Its monumentality is the foundation for the continuous engagement with it today. That is the source of the Decalogue’s power. Because it is an artifact that makes meaning for communities, it continues to make meaning in manifold ways even now. The Decalogue’s potential to constitute communities has even led to its modern inscription on stone monuments, an atavistic return to the art form that inspired it. In this regard, it may be worthwhile to conclude where we began: with the Decalogue monuments in the United States. In our era, debates continue to rage about American identity and its relationship to monuments. While the Decalogue no longer features prominently in these discussions, the conflict over Decalogue monuments in previous decades certainly prefigured current struggles with Confederate monuments and the many memorials in Washington, DC. What is at stake is that these artifacts propose an idea of what it means to be an American and what values underly that identity. The Decalogue kicked off these debates because it was designed to answer the question of what it meant to be an Israelite and to transform its users accordingly. Certain segments of American society attempted to co-opt that monumental discourse for themselves and thus redefine “America” in terms of “Israel” (Joselit 2017). While they were ultimately unsuccessful, they were only the most recent in a long line of interpreters of the Decalogue who have claimed its discourse as their own and, in the process, been transformed by it.

the eternal monument of the divine king The Decalogue has achieved that which no other “I Am” monument ever could. Its monumentality never fades away. It is the center of engagement and interpretation for countless communities even now. While various

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sociohistorical circumstances have contributed to its perennial relevance, surely the most important factor is the Decalogue’s agent. The Israelites’ unique fixation on divine kingship motivated them to define their burgeoning community in relation to Yahweh’s rule. It was their shared reverence for Yahweh that led the Judahites to adapt this originally Israelite text. In the absence of major human institutions, the Judeans of the postmonarchic period maintained their community by relating to a divine ruler through the Decalogue. The evolution of Yahweh-worship in Judaism, Samaritanism, and Christianity led these communities to define themselves relative to the Decalogue as well, even as their competition with one another led to distinct engagements with it. And this continued religious importance has put the Decalogue in the cross hairs of new political forces, even though the human regimes that first sponsored the text have been dead for millennia. By virtue of being the monument of a divine king, the Decalogue continues and will continue to make meaning for communities today and for the foreseeable future. Though every monument-maker’s ambition is for their work to last forever, only the Decalogue can reasonably claim to be eternal.

appendix 1 Corpus of Levantine “I Am” Monuments

Here I present a list of all the monuments consulted for my history of monuments in Chapter 1. These are listed in roughly chronological order according to the periodization proposed in that chapter, but not according to precise relative dates between individual artifacts. Unless otherwise noted, editions of Northwest Semitic inscriptions can be found in Donner, Herbert, and Wolfgang Röllig. Kanaanäische und aramäische Inschriften. Band 1. 3 vols. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2002. In listing these inscriptions in each period, I have kept them organized geographically. Unless otherwise noted, editions of Hieroglyphic Luwian inscriptions can be found in J. David Hawkins, Corpus of Hieroglyphic Inscriptions, I. Inscriptions of the Iron Age, Volume I (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2000). For ease of reference, these inscriptions follow the same order as in Hawkins’ corpus, which is organized geographically.

late bronze age (ca. 1500–1200 bce) 1. Idrimi Statue1 2. NIŞ ANTAŞ 2 3. KBo 12.38 (Col. II line 22 and following)3

early iron age (ca. 1200–950 bce) 4. KARKAMIŠ A14a

1

For a recent edition of the text see Lauinger (n.d.). Unfortunately, an up-to-date edition of this inscription has yet to be produced. It was most recently addressed in Schachner et al. (2016, 31–34) 3 For edition, see Güterbock (1967). 2

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Appendix 1 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

KARKAMIŠ A14b KARKAMIŠ A1b KELEKLİ MARAŞ 8 İ SPEKÇÜR DARENDE IZGIN 1–2 ALEPPO 64

age of civic ritual (ca. 950–850 bce) 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29.

KARKAMIŠ A11a KARKAMIŠ A11b+c KARKAMIŠ A2+3 KARKAMIŠ A12 KARKAMIŠ A13d KARKAMIŠ A23 TELL AHMAR 2 BOROWSKI 3 TELL AHMAR 5 ALEPPO 2 TELL AHMAR 1 TELL AHMAR 65 MARAŞ 13 BABYLON 1 ARSUZ 1 ARSUZ 26 Kapar(r)a Statue7

age of territorial theatre (ca. 870–745 bce) 30. 31. 32. 33. 34.

4

KARKAMIŠ A6 KARKAMIŠ A15b CEKKE KÖRKÜN MARAŞ 4

5 For edition, see Hawkins (2011). For edition, see Payne (2012), 91–94. For editions of ARSUZ 1 and ARSUZ 2, see Dinçol et al. (2015), 59–77. 7 For edition, see Meissner (1933). 6

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35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

MARAŞ 1 MARAŞ 2 SHEIZAR HAMA 4 RESTAN QAL’AT EL MUDIQ HINES TALL ŠṬI¯B8 HAMA 8 HAMA 1 HAMA 2 HAMA 3 HAMA 6 HAMA 7 BEIRUT Kulamuwa Orthostat (KAI 24) Hadad Statue (KAI 214) Zakkur Stele (KAI 202) Tel Dan Stele (KAI 310) Dibon Stele (KAI 181) Kerak Statue (KAI 306)

age of court ceremony (ca. 790–600 bce) 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66.

8

ADANA 19 KARKAMIŠ A5b KARKAMIŠ A17a KARKAMIŠ A18a MARAŞ 14 KÜRTÜL PALANGA KIRÇOĞ LU KULULU 1 KULULU 4 Çİ FTLİ K

This inscription is a recently discovered duplicate of RESTAN. For editions and some discussion, see Gonnet (2010), 97–99; Payne (2012), 61. 9 This inscription is listed in Hawkins’ corpus but not transliterated or translated. An edition of it may be found in Hawkins, Tosun, and Akdoğ an (2013).

Appendix 1 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87.

251

SULTANHAN KAYSERİ BOHÇA Hİ SARCIK 1 KULULU 2 KULULU 3 EĞ REK Hİ SARCIK 2 ANDAVAL BOR BULGARMADEN PORSUK Çineköy Statue (ÇINEKÖY)10 Azatiwada Orthostats (KAI 26 A & B/KARATEPE 1 Hu. & Ho.) Azatiwada Statue (KAI 26 C) Katumuwa Stele11 Ördekburnu Stele12 Bar-Rakib Palace Orthostat 1 (KAI 216) Bar-Rakib Palace Orthostat 2 (KAI 217) Bar-Rakib Palace Orthostat 3 (KAI 218) Ninurta-be¯lu-us ̣ur Portal Lions (Tiglath-Pileser 2001)13

afterlife period (ca. 600–200 bce) 88. Sarıaydın Inscription (KAI 261) 89. Yehawmilk Stele (KAI 10) 90. Tabnit Sarcophagus (KAI 13)

10

ÇINEKÖY refers to the Luwian portion of the Luwian–Phoenician bilingual from Çineköy. It is standard practice for Luwian inscriptions to be labeled in all caps in contrast to Northwest Semitic inscriptions. This inscription may be found in Tekoglu et al., “La bilingue royale louvito-phénicienne de Çineköy.” 11 For edition, see Pardee (2009). 12 For editions of this inscription, see Lemaire and Sass (2013); Younger Jr. (2020). 13 For editions of these, see Tadmor and Yamada (2011), 161–63.

appendix 2 Transcription and Translation of Texts in Chapter 1

KARKAMIŠ A2+31 §1 I am Katuwas the Righteous,2 A2 I §1 EGO ka-tu-wa/i-sa |“IUDEX”-sa Country-Lord of Karkamiš, son of kar-ka-mi-si-za-sa(REGIO) REGIO the Country-Lord Suhis. DOMINUS-ia-sa Isu-hi-si-sa | REGIO-ni DOMINUS-ia-i-sa | (INFANS)ni-mu-wa/i-za-sa §§2–5 When the Storm God gave me my §2 wa/i-mu-´ |ku-ma-na (DEUS) paternal succession, this Storm God TONITRUS-sa || |á-ma-za |tá-ti-ia |(“LIGNUM”)sà-la-ha-za |pi-ianeither for my father, nor for my ta grandfather had he exalted (it), but §3 a-wa/i |za-a-sa |kar-ka-mi-si-za-sa for me, Katuwas the Country-Lord of (URBS) (DEUS)TONITRUS-sa NEG2Karkamiš, he exalted the person. ha mi-i-´ |tá-ti-i |“COR”-tara/i-na POST-ni a-tá |BONUS-li-ia-ta §4 NEG2-ha-wa/i-sa mi-i-´ AVUS-ha POST-ni a-tá |BONUS-li-ia||-ta §5 wa/i-sa-´ mu-´ ka-tu-wa/i-ia karmi-si-za(URBS) REGIO DOMINUSia “COR”-tara/i-na POST-ni a-tá BONUS-li-ia-ta §6 wa/i-mu-ta |su-ha-na-ti-'(“FRONS”) §§6–9 And he regarded me with a smiling(?) face and in my days ha-ta-ti a-tá LITUUS+na-tà brought forth the Grain God and the §7 wa/i-ta-´ mi-ia-za-´ LITUUS+AVIS-taWine God in the country. In my days ni-ia-za |REGIO-ni-I a-tá (DEUS) (continued)

1 2

This transliteration and translation are adapted from Payne (2012, 73–76). The Luwian term tarwan- or tarrawann(i)- is typically translated “ruler” and treated as a title, but Craig Melchert has recently offered a convincing argument that it should be taken instead as an adjectival epithet meaning “just,” “upright,” or “righteous.” It is the Luwian parallel to Northwest Semitic sḍ q “righteous” (Melchert 2019).

252

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253

(continued) KARKAMIŠ A2+3 ten homers (of barley) stood for BONUS-na (DEUS)VITIS(-)ti-PRAEa sheep. And I myself then ia-ha|| ARHA (CAPERE2)u-pa-ta constructed(?) these temples for the §8 a-wa/i mi-ia-za-´ |LITUUS+AVIS-taStorm God with goodness. ni-ia-za |OVIS(ANIMAL)-i 10 ASINUS CRUS+RA/I §9 mu-pa-wa/i-tu-´ |za-ia (DEUS) TONITRUS-sa DEUS.DOMUS-tà BONUS-sa5-ti-i za-la *261. PUGNUS-ru-ha §§10–15 But who(ever) erases my §10 á-ma-za-pa-wa/i-ta á-lá/í-ma-za name, for him may this Storm God of REL-i-sa ARHA MALLEUS-i Karkamiš trample on the ruins! May §11 pa-ti-pa-wa/i-ta-´ |za-sa kar-ka-mihe not even WASALALI his place(?)! si-za-sa(URBS) (DEUS)TONITRUSIn future, who(ever) shall block up sa || |(“*464”)ha-tà-ma |(PES2.PES) these temples, whether he (be) a king, tara/i-pi-i-tu or he (be) a Country-Lord, or he (be) §12 wa/i-tu-ta-´ |LOCUS-lá/í-wa/i-za-ha a priest, may the Storm God of |NEG3-sa |CUM-i wa/i-sa-la-li-ti-i Karkamiš trample the house of his §13 |POST+RA/I-wa/i-sà-ti-pa-wa/i | father in(to the ground) with (his) REL-sa |za-a-ia DEUS.DOMUS(-)hahooves! tà a-tá |*261(-)ta-pa-i §14a wa/i-sa-´ |ma-na REX-ti-sa|| §14b |ma-pa-sa |REGIO DOMINUS-sa §14 c |ma-pa-sa *355-li-sa §15 wa/i-ta-´ pa-sa-´ |tá-ti-ia-za | DOMUS-ni-za |kar-ka-mi-si-za-sa (URBS) |DEUS.TONITRUS-sa | (CORNU)ki-pu-tà-ti-i a-tá |(PES2. PES)tara/i-pi-tu-u|| A3 §§16–21 The Country-Lord Katuwas §16 |za-ti-pa-wa/i |kar-ka-mi-si-za(URBS) gave those who were master (DEUS)TONITRUSti-i Ika-tu-wa/i-sa | craftsmen to this Storm God of Karkamiš. Whether one (be) REGIO-ni-ia-si |DOMINUS-ia-sa a libation priest(?), or whether one REL-i-zi (be) a MIZINALA, or whether one |(“*273”)wa/i+ra/i-pa-si |DOMINUS-ia (be) a baker, or whether they (be) -zi-i pi-ia-tá KUKUSATIs, who live in the village §17a ma-wa/i-sa |(CAELUM.*286.x) of Urhisarmas: whoever goes after sá-pa-tara/i-i-sa |ma-pa-wa/i-sa | them in future, whether he (be) (*265)||mi-zi-na-la-sa |ma-pa-wa/i-sa a king, or whether he (be) a country |(SCUTELLA)tu-ni-ka-la-sa ma-palord, and takes them away from this wa/i-tà |(DIES.OVIS)ku-ki-sà-ti-zi | Storm God of Karkamiš, may this MAGNUS+ra/i-hi-sa5+ra/i-ma-sa-wa Storm God of Karkamiš curse him! /i-tá?!(URBS) |URBS(-)hu-tá-ni-i | REL-i-zi |SOLIUM+MI-ti (continued)

254

Appendix 2 (continued) KARKAMIŠ A2+3

§18 |POST+RA/I-wa/i-sà-ti-pa-wa /i-ma-za-´ |REL-i-sa |POST-ni |a-tá CRUS-i|| §19 |ma-wa/i-sa REX-ti-sa ma-pa-wa /i-sa |REGIO-ni-ia-si DOMINUS-iasa §20 wa/i-tà-tá-´ |za-a-ti-i (DEUS) TONITRUS-ti-i ARHA |CAPERE-i §21 |pa-pa-wa/i-´ |za-a-sa (DEUS) TONITRUS-sa (LOQUI)tá-tara/i-iatu §22 wa/i-sa-´ |ku-ma-na sa-ti-´ |pa-la-sa- §§22–24 When he shall be dead, let him ti-i not behold the faces of the Storm God §23 a-wa/i (DEUS)TONITRUS -sa|| and Kubaba, and let him be made (DEUS)ku+AVIS-pa-sa accursed by the Storm God before |(“FRONS”)ha-tá |NEG3-sa |LITUUS gods and men! +na-ti-i §24 wa/i-sa-´ |DEUS-na-za |CAPUT-táza-ha |*366-na-na |(DEUS) TONITRUS-tá-ti-i |(LOQUI)ta-tara /i-ia-mi-sa i-zi-ia-ru

KARKAMIŠ A11a3 §1 I am Katuwas the Righteous, Coun §1 EGO-wa/i-mi Ika-tú-wa/i-sa | [try-Lord] of Karkamiš, son [of the (IUDEX)tara/i-wa/i-ni-sa |kar-kamiCountry-Lord Suhis], grandson of the si-za-sa(URBS) RE[GIO DOMINUS . . . I Country-Lord Astuwalamanzas. su-hi-si REGIO DOMINUS]-‹ia-i-sa› [|(INF]ANS)ni-mu-wa/i-za-sa Iá-sa-tú -wa/ i-la/i-ma-za-si-i |REGIO-ní DOMINUSia-i-sa |INFANS.NEPOS-sa §2a wa/i-m[u-x] DE[US . . . (b) . . . “MA] §§2–4 The god[s . . . raised] me by the hand, and they gave to me my NUS”-tara/i-ti |PUGN[US . . . || . . .] paternal succession. And because of §3 [wa/i-mu . . . á-ma-za t]á-ti-ia-za “LIGNUM”[. . .]-za [|]pi-‹ia›-tá (continued) 3

Transliteration and translation adapted from Payne (2012, 66–68).

Appendix 2

255

(continued) KARKAMIŠ A11a §4 wa/i-mu-´ DEUS-ní-zi mi!?-ia-ti-´ IUSTITIA”-wa/i-ní-ti PUGNUSmi-la/i/u |PUGNUS-ri+i-ta §5 mi-zi-pa-wa/i-mu-ta-´ |20-tá-ti-zi ARHA CRUS+RA/I §6 [wa/i-m]a-tá-[´]‹|›REGIO-ní-ia |*314 (-)sá-pa-za |REL-a-ti SUB-na-na ARHA (PES2)tara/i-za-nu-wa/i-tá §7 wa/i-mu-´ mi-i-sa-´ DOMINUS -nani || (DEUS)TONITRUS-sa (DEUS) kar-hu-ha-sa (DEUS)ku+AVIS-pa-saha mi-ia-ti-´ |“IUSTITIA”-na-ti (LITUUS)á-za-tá §8 wa/i-mu-tá-´ á-ma |tá-ti-ia AVUS-hati-ia |REGIO-ní-ia (*33(1))mi-tà-sa5 +ra/i-i-na REL-a-ti a-tá i-zi-ia-tá §9 (DEUS)BONUS-pa-wa/i-mu (DEUS)“[VITIS]”(-)t[i-PR]AE-i [a-ha . . . §10 [a]-wa/i mi-ia-za-´ DEUS.AVIS-taní-ia-za OV[IS . . .]-wa/I [ARGENTUM].DARE [x] ASINUS(ANIMAL) “HORDEUM” || |CRUS+RA/I §11 mu-pa-wa/i-´ pi-na-´ LINGERE-sati kar-ka-mi-si-za(URBS) (DEUS) TONITRUS-ti DEUS.DOMUS-tà [*261.] PUGNUS-ru-ha §12 wa/i-tú-ta-´ PANIS(-)ara/i-si-na PONERE-wa/i-ha §13 |za-ia-ha-wa/i “PORTA”-la/i/u-na á-ma |AVUS-ti-ia mu-´ |PRAE-na CRUS.CRUS-ta §14 a-wa/i PURUS-MI-ia DEUS. DOMUS-sa(?) ku-ma-na AEDIFICARE+MI-ha §15 wa/i-mu-tá-´ |za-zi (SCALPRUM) ku-ta-sa5+ra/i-zi |POST-ní || |PES-wa /i-ta §16 a-wa/i za-ia “PORTA”-na | SCALPRUM-sa5+ra/i-ha §17 wa/i-tà-´ |FRONS-la/i/u ARGENTUM.DARE-si-ia sa-tá-´

my righteousness the gods raised me in strength. §§5–6 But my relatives revolted against me, and therefore they caused the lands to break away from under me.

§§7–10 My lord the Storm God, Karhuhas and Kubaba loved me because of my righteousness, and therefore made my father’s and grandfather’s lands MITASARI for me. And for me [they brought forth] the Grain God and the Wine god, and in my days stood the cost for a sheep of [so many] homers barley.

§§11–13 But I myself then constructed (?) the temples for the Storm God of Karkamiš with that abundance, and I established for him seasonal bread (offerings). And these gates (of) my grandfathers passed down to me.

§§14–20 While I built the Holy (One’s) temple, these orthostats came to me later, and I adorned these gates with orthostats. They were very expensive: I built them with wood, and these upper floors I made into TAWANI apartments for my beloved wife Anas. And I seated this god Atrisuhas at these gates with goodness. (continued)

256

Appendix 2 (continued) KARKAMIŠ A11a

§18 wa/i-tà-´ “LIGNUM”-wa/i-ia-ti AEDIFICARE-MI-ha §19 |za-zi-pa-wa/i (DOMUS)ha+ra/i-sàtá-ni-zi Iá-na-ia BONUS-sa-mi-i FEMINA-ti-i DOMUS+SCALA(-)táwa/i-ni-zi i-zi-i-ha §20 |za-ha-wa/i (DEUS)á-tara/i-su-ha-na za-ti-ia-za |PORTA-na-za BONUS-sa5 +ra/i-ti (SOLIUM)i-sà-nu-wa/i-ha §§21–27 If in future they shall pass §21 POST+RA/I-wa/i-sà-pa-wa down to (one), who shall . . ., and /i-tà |REL-a-ti || PRAE-na CRUS. shall overturn these orthostats from CRUS-i (their) places, or shall overturn this §22 wa/i-tà-´ |SCRIBA+RA/I CAPERE-i god from (his) place, or shall erase my REL-i-sa name, may the Storm God, Karhuhas, §23 |za-zi-pa-wa/i-tá (SCALPRUM)kuand Kubaba prosecute him! May they ta-sa5+ra/i-zi LOCUS-za-' (SA4)sá-nínot accept from him bread and ti libation! §24 NEG2-pa-wa/i-tá |za-na DEUS-nína LOCUS-za-' (SA4)sá-ni-ti §25 |NEG2-pa-wa/i-tá á-ma-za á-lá/íma-za ARHA MALLEUS-i §26 wa/i-tú-ta-´ (DEUS)TONITRUS-sa (DEUS)kar-hu-ha-sa (DEUS)ku+AVIS-pa-sa-ha LIS-la/i/u-zatú §27 wa/i-tú-ta-´ (PANIS)tú+ra/i-pi-na (LIBARE)sa5+ra/i-la||-ta-za-ha NEG3 -sa ARHA |CAPERE-ti-i

KARKAMIŠ A11b+c4 A11b §1 I am Katuwas the Righteous, loved §1 EGO-wa/i-mi Ika-tú-wa/i-sa by the gods, Country-Lord of Karkamiš, son of the Country-Lord “IUDEX”-ni-i-sa DEUS-ni-ti-I Suhis, grandson of the Country-Lord (LITUUS)á-za-mi-i-sa kar-ka-mi-si-zaAstuwalamanzas. sa(URBS) |REGIO-ni DOMINUS-sa I su-hi-si |REGIO-ni DOMINUS-ia-i-sa (continued) 4

Transliteration and translation adapted from Payne (2012, 68–72).

Appendix 2

257

(continued) KARKAMIŠ A11b+c |INFANS.NI-za-sa Iá-sa-tú-wa/i-lá/íma-za-si REGIO-ni DOMINUS-i-sa |INFANS.NEPOS-si-i-sa §2 a-wa/i za-a-sa URBS+MI-ni-i-sa mi- §§2–8 This city of my father and grandfather belonged to Ninuwis, sá-´ |tá-tà-li-sa AVUS-ha-tà-li-sa || I but it stretched out empty.5 I legally *447-nu-wa/i-ia-si sa-tá-´ §3 wa/i-sa-´ VACUUS-ti-i-sa |ARHA obtained6 it from the grandsons of (“LONGUS”)ia+ra/i-ia-ta Ura-Tarhunzas, and from them [I . . . §4 wa/i-na-´ IMAGNUS+ra/ ed] my SAPALALI city of Ipani and also my SAPALALI land(?) of i-TONITRUS-tá-sa-za |INFANS. Muziki. I (re)built it for myself. In NEPOS-sa-za CUM-ní |(LOCUS)pithe year in which I drove the city ta-ha-li-ia-ha Kawa’s chariotry (in) the city: to §5 wa/i-ma-zá-´ mi-i-na-´ |sá-pa-la/i-lithose fields my fathers, grandfathers na |URBS+MI-ni i-pa-ni-si-ná(URBS) and ancestors had not marched. |á-ma-ha-wa/i |sá-pa-la/i-li-ia TERRA.PONERE-ru-tà mu-zi-ki-ia (URBS) |[. . .]|| §6 wa/i-ma-na-´ |AEDIFICARE-MI-ha §7 a-wa/i |REL-a-ti-i |(ANNUS)u-si-i ka-wa/i-za-na(URBS) |(CURRUS)wa/ i+ra/i-za-ni-ná |PES2-za-ha §8 pa-tá-za-pa-wa/i-ta-´ (TERRA+LA +LA)wa/i-li-li-tà-za mi-izi-´ |tá-ti-i-zi AVUS-ha-ti-zi-ha |*348(-) la/i/u-tà-li-zi-ha |NEG2‘' (PES2)HWIHWI-sà-tá-si §9 mu-pa-wa/i-´ mi-i-sa-´ DOMINUS-na- §§9–14 But because of my righteousness, my lord, celestial ní-i-sa || CAELUM (DEUS) Tarhunzas, Karhuhas, and Kubabas TONITRUS-sa (DEUS)kar-hu-ha-sá loved me. For me they sat on the war (DEUS)ku+AVIS-pa-pa-sa-ha mi-ia-ti-´ chariot(?), they ran before me. And “IUSTITIA”-wa/i-na-ti I wasted the lands, and I brought the (LITUUS)á-za-tá trophies inside, and I came up §10 wa/i-ma-tá-´ (“LIGNUM”)hu-hú glorified from those lands. +ra/i-pa-li |(SOLIUM)á-sa-tá §11 wa/i-ma-tà-´ |PRAE-na (PES2) HWI-ia-ta (continued)

5

The implication here is that the city apparently entered a state of decay under the usurper Ninuwis. 6 The precise meaning of this verb is unknown, but it likely describes some method of legal acquisition (Melchert 2011, 77).

258

Appendix 2 (continued) KARKAMIŠ A11b+c

§12 a-wa/i pa-ia-´ |REGIO-ni-ia (“VACUUS”)ta-na-tá-ha §13 wa/i-ta-´ (SCALPRUM.CAPERE2) u-pa-ní-zi a-tá |(”CAPERE2”)||u-pa-ha §14 a-wa/i pi-i-na-´ |REGIO-ni-ia-ti (FULGUR)pi-ha-mi-sa SUPER+ra/i‘' | PES-wa/i-i-ha §§15–18 These upper floors I built §15 |za-zi-ha-wa/i-mi-i (DOMUS. myself in that year, and I saw the SUPER)ha+ra/i-sà-tá-ni-zi pa-tiprocession of my lord Karhuhas and i-´ (“ANNUS”)u-si |AEDIFICARE-MIKubabas for myself, and I seated ha them on this podium, and the sacrifice §16 wa/i-mi-ta-´ mi-i-na-´ DOMINUS-na for them (shall be) this: with the gods -i-ni-i-na (DEUS)kar-hu-ha-si-na annual bread, for Karhuhas, an ox (DEUS)ku+AVIS-pa-si-ha CRUS. and a sheep, for Kubabas, an ox and CRUS(-)ní-ia-sa-ha-na |LITUUS+na-ha a sheep, for Sarkus, a sheep and §17 wa/i-ma-tá-´ |za||-ti-i |(“PODIUM”) a KUTUPILI, one sheep for the male hu-ma-ti |(SOLIUM)i-sà-nú-wa/i-ha gods, [one she]ep for the fe[male §18 a (“*350”)á-sa-ha+ra/i-mi-sà-pagods, . . .] wa/i-ma-za |za‘' DEUS-ní-za |CUM-ni ANNUS-sa-li-za-sa |(“PANIS”)tú+ra/ i-pi-sa b (DEUS)CERVUS2+ra/i-hu-ha-ia 1 BOS(ANIMAL)-sa OVIS-sa-ha c (DEUS)ku+AVIS-pa-pa 1 BOS(ANIMAL)-sa 1 OVIS(ANIMAL)-wa/i-sa-ha d (DEUS)sa5+ra/i-ku OVIS-wa/i-sa (“*478”)ku-tú-pi-li-sa-ha e 1 OVIS(ANIMAL)-wa/i-sa |VIR-ti-iatà-za DEUS-ní-za|| A11 c §18 f [1 OVIS(ANIMAL)-wa/i]-sa [FEMINA-ti]-ia-[ta]-za [DEUS-niza] . . . §19 [. . .]-sa z[a-ti]-ia-za [DEUS-n]i?-za §§19–25 [. . . wh]o(?) comes toward these [gods] with badness, or comes MALUS-la/i-ti-i‘' ||VERSUS-ia-ni | toward these upper floors with PES-wa/i-ti badness, or if it shall pass down to §20 |NEG2-pa-wa/i-sa |za-ti-ia-za (someone), who takes them/it . . . and (DOMUS.SUPER)ha+ra/i-sà-tá-na-za [overthr]ows these orthostats in their MALUS-la/i-ti-i‘' |VERSUS-ia-ni places or erases my name on these [PES]-wa/i-ti orthostats, against him let the 21 [|]NEG2-[pa]-wa/i-tà CRUS.CRUS celestial Tarhunzas, Karhuhas, and [(-)ni?]-ia-za-i REL-a-ti PRAE-na Kubabas, the Storm-God of the §22 [wa/i]-tà-´ [SCRIBA+RA/I] Arputaean mountain and the CAPERE-‹i› ‹|›REL-i-sa (continued)

Appendix 2

259

(continued) KARKAMIŠ A11b+c Sakuraean gods of the river land §23 |za-a-zi-pa-wa/i-tá [(SCALPRUM)] litigate! ku-ta-sa5+ra/i-zi-I LOCUS-la/i-za [. . .]||-i-t[i] §24 |NEG2-pa-wa/i-tá |za-a-ti-ia-za | (“SCALPRUM”)ku-ta-sa5+ra/i-za |áma-za |á-lá/í-ma-za |ARHA |“MALLEUS”-la/i/u-i §25 pa-ti-pa-wa/i-tá-´ CAELUM (DEUS)TONITRUS-sa (DEUS)karhu-ha-sá (DEUS)ku+AVIS-pa-pa-sáha (MONS)a+ra/i-pu-tá-wa/i-ni-sáha (DEUS)TONITRUS-sa (“FLUMEN+MINUS”)sà-ku+ra/ i-wa/i-ni-i-zi-ha (FLUMEN.REGIO) ha||-pa-tà-si DEUS-ní-zi |LIS-la/i/u-satú §26 wa/i-tú-´ |VIR-ti-ia-ti-ia-za-ha | §§26–29 Let them sever(?) his (“CULTER”)pa+ra/i-tú-ní-tú-u masculinity, let them sever(?) her §27 FEMINA-ti-ia-ti-ia-za-ha-wa/i-tú-u femininity, and they shall not take to |(“CULTER”)pa+ra/i-tú-ni-i-tú him male seed, (or) take to her female §28 wa/i-tú‘' |VIR-ti-ia-ti-i-na |(*462) seed!” mu-wa/i-i-tà-na NEG3-sa |CAPEREti-i §29 FEMINA-ti-i[a]-ti-pa-wa/i-tú (FEMINA.*462)||4?-tà |ni-I | CAPERE-ti-i §30 |za-pa-wa/i-tá |URBS+MI-ni-i-na §§30–34 If I myself took away this city mu-´ |REL+ra/i-i IMAGNUS +ra/ from Ura-Tarhunzas’s grandsons by i-TONITRUS-ta-sa-za INFANS. force, and did not legally obtain it, let NEPOS-sa-za |(“*314”)ha-sá-ti-i these gods be heard! Because wood ARHA |CAPERE-ha came to me afterwards for these §31 |NEG2-wa/i-na |REL+ra/ upper floors, in that year I built these upper floors of the gates for my i-i (LOCUS)pi-ta-ha-li-ia-ha beloved wife Anas with goodness. §32 à-wa/i |za-a-zi |DEUS-ní-i-zi | AUDIRE+MI-ta+ra/i-ru §33 “LIGNUM”-sa-pa||-wa/i-mu-tá‘' | REL-a-za za-a-ti-ia-za |(DOMUS. SUPER)ha+ra/i-sà-tá-na-za POST-ni | PES-wa/i-tà §34 a-wa/i |za-a-zi “PORTA”-la/i/ u-ni-si-i-zi (DOMUS.SUPER)ha+ra/ i-sà-tá-ní-zi Iá-na-ia mi-i-´ |BONUSsami-i FEMINA-ti-i |(BONUS)wa/isa5+ra/i-ti-i pa-ti-i-´ |(ANNUS)u-si-i AEDIFICARE-MI-h[a]

260

Appendix 2 KARKAMIŠ A127

§1 EGO-wa/i-mi-i Ika-tú-wa/i-sa |“IUDEX”-ní-i-sa DEUS-ní-ti (LITUUS) á-za-mi-sa kar-k[a]-mi[i-si-za-sa(URBS) REGIO]DOMINUS[. . .] Isu-h[i- . . . §2 [. . . . . .]-ti-[zi]-ha |NEG2 (PES2)HWIHWI-sà-ta-si §3 mu-pa-wa/i-´ (DEUS)TONITRUS-sa (DEUS)kar-hu-ha-sa (DEUS)ku+AVISpa-sa-ha |PRAE-na |PES2(-)wa/i-sà-i-ta §4 wa/i-tá-´ (CURRUS)wa/i+ra/i-za-ní-na a-tá [|]PES2(-)wa/i-[z]a-ha §5 [. . . . . .] || |CAPERE-ha §6 (LIGNUM)sa-pi-si-za-pa-wa/i(URBS) FLUMEN-pa-ti-na (VACUUS)tá-na-taha §7 á-wa/i-ia-na-wa/i-na-pa-wa(URBS) “CASTRUM”-sà 100 CURRUS(-)ku-sà -ti |lNFRA-tá “PUGNUS”-sá-ha §8 wa/i-mu-tá-´ |(“*273”)wa/i+ra/i-pi | *275-i-ta §9 a-wa/i [. . . . . . §10 m[u?-pa-wa/i]-tú-tá-´ mi-ia-ti-´ |“IUSTITIA”-ni-ti-i |(LITUUS)ti-ti-ti-i |(PES2)[. . .] §11 wa/i-tú-[ta]-´ (“*350”)á-sa-ha+ra/ i-mi-sà |(PES2)pa-za-ha §12 |(*273)wa/i+ra/i-pi-ha-wa/i-tú (“SCUTUM”)hara/i-li-ha | ARGENTUM.DARE/pi-ia||-[ta]ra/ i-[. . .] |(PES2)pa-za-ha §13 wa/i-tú-wa/i-na-´ |PRAE-na |“*30”(-) ri+i-nu-wa/i-ha §14 . . . a-[wa/i] p[i- +frag. 11? : p]i-na-´ VIA-wa/i-[. . .] “FULGUR”-ha[. . .) frag. 5: [. . . (DE]US?)[h]i-pu-tà-[. . .]

7

I am Katuwas the Righteous, beloved by the gods, the Country-Lord of Karkamiš, [son of] Suhis [. . . [To those fields my fathers] and [grandfathers had not marched, but the gods Tarhunzas, Karhuhas and Kubaba walked (?) before me, and I carried in the chariot(ry), [and . . .] I took. I wasted the river-land of the city Sapisi, and the walls/fortresses of the city Awayana I . . . ed down with 100 . . . One/they . . . ed me for skill, and [. . . By my righteousness [I] we[nt] in the “apple of his eye” (“pupil”), I went to him (as) a living sacrifice, I went to him for skill and protection (“shield”) [and] profit (“selling”). And it before him I caused to . . . and (frag. 11 here?: then glori[fied by] the expedition [. . .) . . . the god]dess Hebat[. . .

Transliteration and translation follow Hawkins (2000, Volume I:113–14).

Appendix 2

261

KARKAMIŠ A13d8 §1 EGO-wa/i-mi-i Ika-tú-wa/i-sa5 \kar-ka -mi-si-za-sa(URBS) |REGIO DOMINUS-s[a . . . §2 [. . . . . .]PONERE-wa/i-há §3 (DEUS)TONTTRUS-tá-sa-pa-wa/i-tá | REL-i-sa |á-tá-na-wa/i-na||-´ |kar-ka-mi -si-za(URBS) (DEUS)TONITRUS-ti | SUB-na-na[. . . §4 “9”-wa/i-i-za-ha-wa/i-tú |DARE-i §5 |NEG2-pa-wa/i-tá || za-α-ti | ("SCALPRUM”)ku-ta-sa5+ra/i-i |REL +ra/i-i Ika-tú-wa/i-[. . . . . . || . . .] §6 [. . . . . .]-ru-ti §7 a-wa/i (DEUS)ka+ra/i-hu-ha-ia (DEUS)ku+AVIS-pa-ia-ha 9?!-wa/i ||-i-za |pi-ia-tú §8 wa/i-na-´ *261.PUGNUS-ru-tú §9 pa-sá-⸢pa-wa/i-na⸣ [. . . . . . || . . .] §10 [. . . |R]EL-i-sa |za-a-ti CAELUM (DEUS)TONITRUS-ti-i DEUS-ní-za || | CUM-ní |(“ANNUS”)u-sa-li-za-ná [. . .

I am Katuwas, the Karkamišean Country Lord . . . . . . I put. He who . . . the ATANAWA(NA) of Tarhunzas under Karkamišean Tarhunzas . . . He shall give nine/a ninth to him. Or if to this orthostat Katuwas . . . . . . he shall (construct?). Let him give nine/a ninth to Karhuhas and Kubaba, And let him construct it. But his . . . him . . . He who . . . annual bread for this celestial Tarhunzas with the gods . . .

KARKAMIŠ A239 §1 EGO-wa/i-mi-i k[a-t]ú-wa/i-sa kar-k §1 I am Katuwas, the Karkamišean Country-Lord, beloved by the gods. [a-m]i-si-[z]a-sa⸢(URBS)⸣ REGIO DOMINUS-sa DEUS-ni-ti (LITUUS)áza-mi-sa §2 wa/i-mu[. . . || . . . (A26a1 +2) §a-b LE] §2 Me . . . of authority (s)he/they -ed PUS+ra/i-ia-sa SUPER+ra/i-´ up, and the person . . . CAPERE2.CAPERE2-tà CAPUT-pawa/i [. . . §3 [. . . m]i[-i-sa]-´ DOMINUS-na-ni-sá §3 [me] my sovereign Kubaba, Queen of Karkamiš, raised by the hand. (DEUS)ku+AVIS-pa-sa kar-ka-mi-siza-sa(URBS) MAGNUS.DOMINAsa5+ra/i-sa “MANUS”-ti |PUGNUS-ta (continued) 8 9

Transliteration and translation follow Hawkins (2000, Volume I:115–16). This transliteration and translation are adapted from Hawkins and adopt his proposed join of A23 with A26a1 + 2 (2000, Volume I:116–19).

262

Appendix 2 (continued) KARKAMIŠ A23

§4 wa/i-mu-´ mi-zi || (a-)la-ni-zi-´ |pi-pasa-ta §5 mu-pa-wa/i (a-)la-na-za-´ |NEG2 |pi-ia -ta §6 mu-pa-wa/i-´ pi-na-´ |LINGERE-ha-sati za-ia [. . .]mi[. . . (A26a1 +2) §c-d . . .] (DEUS)ku+AVIS-pa-pa AEDIFICAREMI-[ha] || . . .]-zi-[. . . || . . .]tá-ti-zi (AVUS)hu-ha-zi |[. . . §7 wa/i-tà-´ |NEG2 |REL-a-ha |sá-ha-si §8 wa/i-tà-´ mu-´ sá-ha-si §9 wa/i-tà-´ |(CRUX)wa/i-la-ha REL-i §10 wa/i-tà-´ (DEUS)ku+AVIS-pa-na | kar-ka||-mi-si-za-na(URBS) MAGNUS.DOMINA-sa5+ra/i-na | POST-ni |SOLIUM-nu-wa/i-ha §11 wa/i-ti-´ pa-sa-´ tá-ti-ia DOMUS-ni | BONUS-ia-ta §12 mu-⸢ha⸣-wa/i ti-[. . .]|[. . .]|[. . . (A26a1 +2) §e wa/i-sa-[tá/tà]-´ |FRO[NS]-la/i/ u-za DEUS.DOMUS-tà[. . .

§4 To me she always gave my enemies, §5 but me to (my) enemies she did not give. §6 And I myself then [constructed(?)] these [buildings(?)] with luxury . . . for Kubaba I built . . . fathers (and) grandfathers . . . §7 “You will cure no one! §8 But you will cure me!” §9 While I was ill, §10 I re-established Kubaba, Queen of Karkamiš.

§11 She was good to/for.in her paternal house, §12 and I/me . . . and (s)he the foremost temple . . .

The Mesha Stele (KAI 181) 1

ʾnk · mšʿ · bn · kmš[yt] · mlk · mʾb · hd 2 1 I am Mesha, son of Kemosh[yat], king of Moab, the 2 Dibionite. ybny | ʾby · mlk · ʿl · mʾb · šlšn · št · 3 wʾnk · mlk ty · ʾḥr · ʾby | wʾʿs´ · hbmt · My father ruled over Moab thirty years. Then I ruled 3 in my father’s place. zʾt · lkmš · bqrḥh | bm[t · y] 4 s´ʿ · ky · hšʿny · mkl · hmlkn · wky · hrʾny · bkl Now, I have made this high place for s´nʾy | ʿmr 5 y · mlk · ys´rʾl · wyʿnw · ʾt Kemosh in Qarḥo. · mʾb · ymn · rbn · ky · yʾnp · kmš · bʾr A high pla[ce of sal]vation 4 because he 6 saved me from all kings and because ṣh | wyḥlph · bnh · wyʾmr · gm · hʾ · he caused me to look upon my ʾʿnw · ʾt · mʾb | bymy · ʾmr · k[n] 7 wʾrʾ enemies. · bh · wbbth -wys´rʾl · ʾbd · ʾbd · ʿlm · wyrš · ʿmry · ʾt · ʾ[r] 8 ṣ · mhdbh | wyšb 5 Omri was king of Israel, and he · bh · ymh · wḥs ̣y · ymy · bnh · ʾrbʿn · št oppressed Moab many days because · wyš 9 bh · kmš · bymy | wʾbn · ʾt · Kemosh was angry with his land. bʿlmʿn · wʾʿs´ · bh · hʾšwḥ · wʾb[n] 10 ʾt 6 And his son succeeded him, and he also · qrytn | wʾš · gd · yšb · bʾrs ̣ · ʿṭrt · mʿlm said, “I shall oppress Moab.” (continued)

Appendix 2

263

(continued) The Mesha Stele (KAI 181) · wybn · lh mlk · y 11 s´rʾl · ʾt · ʿt ̣rt | wʾltḥm · bqr · wʾḥzh | wʾhrg · ʾt · kl · hʿ[m · m] 12 hqr · hyt · lkmš · wlmʾb | wʾšb · mšm · ʾt · ʾrʾl · dwdh · wʾ[s] 13 ḥbh · lpny · kmš · bqryt | wʾšb · bh · ʾt · ʾš · šrn · wʾt · ʾ[š ·] 14 mḥrt | wyʾmr · ly · kmš · lk · ʾḥz · ʾt · nbh · ʿl · ys´rʾl | wʾ 15 hlk · bllh · wʾltḥm · bh · mbqʿ · hs´ḥrt · ꜥd · hṣhrm | wʾḥ 16 zh · wʾhrg · kl[h] · šbʿt · ʾlpn [·] g[b]rn w[gr]n | wgbrt · w [gr] 17 t · wrḥmt| ky · lʿštr · kmš · hḥrmth | wʾqḥ · mšm · ʾ[t · k] 18 ly · yhwh · wʾsḥb · hm · lpny · kmš | wmlk · ys´rʾl · bnh [·] ʾt [·] 19 yhṣ · wyšb · bh · bhltḥmh · by | wygršh · kmš · mpny [| w] 20 ʾqḥ · mmʾb · mʾtn · ʾš · kl · ršh | wʾs´ʾh · byhṣ · wʾḥzh 21 lspt · ʿl · dybn | ʾnk · bnty · qrḥh · ḥmt · hyʿrn · wḥmt [·] 22 hʿpl | wʾnk · bnty · šʿryh · wʾnk · bnty · mgdlth | wʾ 23 nk · bnty · bt · mlk · wʾnk · ꜥs´ty · klʾy · hʾšw[ḥ · bmʿ] yn · bqr[b ·] 24 hqr | wbr · ʾn · bqrb · hqr · bqrḥh · wʾmr · lkl · hꜥm · ꜥs´w · l 25 km · ʾš · br · bbyth | wʾnk · krty · hmkrtt · lqrḥh · bʾsr 26 y [·] ys´rʾl | ʾnk · bnty · ʿrʿr · wʾnk · ʿs´ty · hmslt · bʾrnn | w 27 ʾnk · bnty · bt · bmt · ky hrs · hʾ | ʾnk · bnty · bṣr · ky · ꜥyn [·] 28 [hʾ ·]b[ʾ] š · dybn · ḥmšn · ky · kl · dybn · mšmʿt | wʾnk · mlk 29 t[y · ʿl · h]mʾt · bqrn · ʾšr · yspty · ʿl · hʾrs ̣ | wʾnk · bnt 30 y · [gm · mhd]bʾ · wbt · dbltn | wbt · bʿlmʿn · wʾs´ʾ · šm · ʾt · n[q] 31 [dy · lrʿt · ʾt ·] ṣʾn · hʾrs ̣ | wḥwrnn · yšb · bt [d]wd · b[–] wq[–] ʾš [–] 32 [–wy]ʾmr · ly · kmš · rd · hltḥm · bḥwrnn | wʾrd · w[ʾl] 33 [tḥm · bqr · wʾḥzh · wyšb ·]bh · kmš · bymy ·

In my days he spoke th[us,] 7 but I looked upon him and his house. And Israel utterly perished forever! Omri had taken possession of the land of 8 Medeba. Then he dwelled in it in his days and half the days of his son, forty years. 9 Then Kemosh restored it in my days. Then I built Baʿal-meʿon, and I made in it a reservoir. Then I bui[lt] 10 Qiriaten. Now, the men of Gad had lived in the land of Ataroth from ancient times, and the king of 11 Israel built for himself Ataroth. But I made war against the city, and I captured it. Then I killed all the peo[ple from] 12 the city. It became Kemosh’s and Moab’s. Then I removed from there the ʾrʾl dwdh10 and 13 I dragged it before Kemosh in Qiryat. Then I settled in it the men of Sharon and the m[en of] 14 Maḥarit. Then Kemosh said to me: “Go, take Nebo from Israel.” So I 15 went at night, and I made war with it from the break of dawn until noon. Then I 16 seized it, and I killed everyone, seven thousand male citizens and male foreigners, and women citizens and female foreigners 17 and servant girls. I devoted it to Ashtar-Kemosh. Then I took from there [the] 18 [ves]sels of Yahweh, and I dragged them before Kemosh. (continued)

10

This is almost certainly some cult artifact, but its precise meaning remains elusive.

264

Appendix 2 (continued) The Mesha Stele (KAI 181)

wʿl [–]dh · mšm · ʿs´[–] 34 [–] št · šdq | Now the king of Israel had built 19 wʾn[k ·] 35 [–] Yahas ̣, and he dwelled in it while making war with me. Then Kemosh drove him out from before me. 20 Then I took from Moab two hundred men, every head. Then I led them up to Yahas ̣, and I seized 21 in order to add it to Dibon. I have built Qarḥo, the wall of the forest, and the wall of 22 the citadel. Indeed, I have built its gates, and I have built its towers. Then I 23 built the palace of the king, and I made the retaining walls for res [ervoir at the spr]ing with[in] 24 the city. Now, there had been no cistern within the city, in Qarḥo, and I said to all the people, “Make for 25 yourselves each man a cistern in his house.” Then I cut out the channel to Qarḥo with the captives 26 of Israel. I built Aroer, and I made a road in the Arnon. Then 27 I rebuilt Bet-Bamot because it had been destroyed. I rebuilt Bes ̣er because it was ruins. 28 [Behold the men of] Dibon were arrayed for battle, for all Dibon obeyed. Then I ruled 29 [over the] hundreds of cities that I added to the land. Then I built 30 [also Mede]ba and the temple of Diblaten, and the temple of Baʿal Meʿon, and I have brought up there shepherds to watch the flocks of the land. Now, as for Ḥ awronen, the House of [Da]vid had dwelled in [it –] 32 [Then] Kemosh said to me, “Go down, make war on Ḥ awronen.” So I went down and [I made] 33 [war on the city and I seized it and] Kemosh [restored] it in my days. And [–] dh from there ʿs´ [–] 34 [–] št šdq And I[–] 35 [–]

Appendix 2

265

The Kerak Inscription (KAI 306)11 1

[ʾnk · mšꜥ · bn · k]mšyt · mlk · mʾb · hd [ybny · –] 2 [–bb]t · kmš · lmbʿr · ky · ʾh[–] 3 [–]nh · whn ·ꜥs´ty ·ʾt [–]

1

[I am Mesha, son of K]emoshyat, king of Moab, the D[ibonite . . .] 2 [. . . in the tem]ple of Kemosh for the altar because ʾh[. . .] 3 [. . .]nh and behold I have built the [. . .]

Bar-Rakib Palace Orthostat 1 (KAI 216)12 1. ʾnh . b[r]rkb . 2. br . pnmw . mlk . šm 3. ʾl . ʿbd . tgltplysr . mrʾ . 4. rbʿy . ʾrqʾ . bṣdq . ʾby . wbṣ

1. I am Ba[r]-Rakib, 2. son of Panamuwa, king of Sam3. ʾal, servant of Tiglathpileser, the lord 4. of the four corners of the earth. Because of the loyalty of my father and my 5. qy . hwšbny . mrʾy . rkbʾl . 5. loyalty, my lord Rakib-El 6. wmrʾy . tgltplysr . ʿl . 6. and my lord Tiglathpileser enthroned me on 7. krsʾ . ʾby . wbyt . ʾby . [ʿ] 7. the throne of my father. My father’s dynasty has 8. ml . mn . kl . wrs ̣t . bglgl . 8. [l]abored more than anyone, and I have run at the wheel 9. mrʾy . mlk . ʾšwr . bmṣʿ 9. of my lord the king of Assyria in the midst 10. t . mlkn . rbrbn . bʿly . k 10. of great kings – lords of 11. sp . wbʿly . zhb . wʾḥzt . 11. silver and lords of gold. But I have taken 12. byt . ʾby . whyṭbth . 12. my father’s dynasty and improved it 13. mn . byt . ḥd . mlkn . rbrb 13. more than any dynasty of the great kings, 14. n . whtnʾbw . ʾḥy . mlky 14. and my brother kings were envious 15. ʾ . lkl . mh . t ̣bt . byty . w 15. of everything good in my dynasty. 16. by . ṭb . lyšh . lʾbhy . m 16. Now, there was no suitable palace for my fathers, 17. lky . šmʾl . hʾ . byt . klm 17. the kings of Samʾal. That–the palace of Kulamuwa– 18. w . lhm . phʾ . byt . štwʾ . l 18. was theirs. Moreover, that was a winter palace for 19. hm . whʾ . byt . kyṣʾ . w ʾnh . 19. them, and that was also a summer palace. But bnyt . bytʾ . znh . I have built this palace.

11 12

The reconstruction of the first line here follows Freedman (1964). The transliteration and translation of this and the following two inscriptions follow Hogue (2022c).

266

Appendix 2

Bar-Rakib Palace Orthostat 2 (KAI 217) 1. ʾnh . brrkb . br . pnmw . mlk . 1. I am Bar-Rakib, son of Panamuwa, king of šmʾ[l . ʿbd . tgltp] Sam’[al, servant of Tiglathpi]leser, 2. lysr . mrʾ . rbʿy . ʾr[qʾ . wrkbʾl] 2. lord of the four corners of the ear[th, and Rakib-El,] 3. wʾlhy . byt . ʾby . ṣ[dq . ʾnh . ʿm 3. and the gods of my father’s dynasty. I was . m] loyal to14 4. rʾy . wʿm . ʿbdy . byt [. mrʾy . 4. my lord and to the servants of the house [of mlk . ʾšwr] my lord, the king of Assyria,] 5. wṣdq . ʿnh . ʿm[h . mn . kl . 5. and I was loyal to [him more than anyone, ws ̣dqn . bny] and my sons were loyal] 6. mn . bny . [kl . mlkn . rbrbn] 6. more than the sons [of any other great kings.] 7. nbšt . hm . [ʾḥry . mrʾy . wytn . 7. These avatars [are behind my lord. And let r] 8. kbʾl . ḥny . qd[m . mrʾy . mlk] 8. Ra]kib-El grant me favor befo[re my lord, ʾšwr . wqdm . b[nwh?]13 the king] of Assyria and before [his sons?]

Bar-Rakib Palace Orthostat 3 (KAI 218) mrʾy . bʿlḥrn . ʾnh . brrkb . br . My lord is Baʿal-Ḥ arra¯n. I am Bar-Rakib, son of pnm[w] Panamu[wa].

13

Note that the inscription breaks off at this point but undoubtedly continued for several more lines. 14 The literal translation of the Aramaic phrase s ̣dq ʿm is “to be loyal with,” but I have adjusted it to the English idiom.

appendix 3 Translation of the Narrative in Exodus 19–24:11 with Editorial Insertions Marked

In the table below, I provide a translation of the narrative portions of Exod 19–24:11. I have noted where the Decalogue, Covenant Code, and Altar Law appear in this narrative, but I have not reproduced those passages. I provide this translation in a table to draw attention to the editorial markers present in the text. I have marked repetitive resumptions in bold and epexegetical markers (such as the waw explicativum) in italics. Key words used to tie sections of the passage together have been underlined. This exercise is not intended to present a source critical analysis of the Sinai Pericope. The marked insertions certainly appear to be composites in some cases, and this may be true of the isolated primary narrative as well. Instead, this is meant to draw attention to redactional material that was explicitly marked as such by the ancient scribes themselves. The remaining primary narrative represents what an ancient audience may reasonably have perceived as the throughline of the text, given that the other material is clearly marked as separate by standard scribal conventions. My analysis of the structure of the narrative framing the Decalogue in Chapter 2 is based on the primary narrative isolated here.

267

268

Primary Narrative

Appendix 3

Insertions Marked by Repetitive Resumptions

Insertions Marked by Epexegetical Markers

On the third new moon after the children of Israel set out from Egypt – on the very day – they arrived in the wilderness of Sinai. They had set out from Rephidim, and they arrived in the wilderness of Sinai.1 And they camped in the wilderness. Now, Israel camped opposite the mountain.2 Then Moses went up to God, and Yahweh called to him from the mountain, “Thus you shall say to the house of Jacob and report to the children of Israel: ‘You saw what I did to Egypt. But I lifted you up on eagles’ wings and brought you to me. And now, if you indeed hear my voice and keep my covenant, you will be my special possession out of all the peoples, though all the earth (continued)

1

In addition to being framed by a Wiederaufnahme, this itinerary notice is typically considered a redactional insertion along with the other itinerary notices as discussed above. It is often, though not universally, assigned to a priestly editor (Roskop 2011, 136–78). 2 In addition to functioning as an apparent gloss on “the wilderness,” this has also been determined to be an interpolation based on the double arrival in Sinai. This makes explicit that the setting of the following material is at a mountain (Cassuto 1951, 224; Albertz 1994, I:53; Van Seters 1994, 153–64; Smith 1997, 189, 230, 234; Roskop 2011, 182–84, 218–23). Alternatively, Alviero Niccacci sees the repetition of the verb ḥnh as a Wiederaufnahme designed to introduce the following material, rather than bracket the material preceding it (Niccacci 1997, 213).

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is mine. But you shall be to me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation. These words you shall speak to the children of Israel.” Then Moses came and spoke to the elders of the people, and he set before them all these words which Yahweh had commanded him. And the whole people answered together and said, “All that Yahweh has said, we will do.”3 Then Moses reported the words of the people to Yahweh.4 And Yahweh said to Moses, “Behold I have come to you in a thick cloud that the people may hear my words with you.” By the way,5 this is also that they may believe you forever.6 And Moses reported the words of the people to Yahweh. (continued)

3

This key phrase in Exod 19:8 is repeated in Exod 24:3 to form an inclusio around the entire pericope. This phrase will be repeated a third time in slightly modified form in Ex 24:7. 4 The repetition in Ex 19:8–9 has also been identified as a Wiederaufnahme by Niccacci (1997, 217–18). 5 The epexegetical marker wgm typically introduces tangentially related information, thus I have chosen to translate it “by the way.” This may be interpreted as a compound epexegetical marker, or as the epexegetical explicative waw + focusing particle gm (Muraoka 1985, 143; van der Merwe 1992; 1993, 35–37; 2009; Schniedewind 1995, 136). 6 Carr identifies this interpolation as a post-D expansion (Carr 2011, 271).

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Then Yahweh said to Moses, “Go to the people and consecrate them today, and tomorrow they shall wash their clothes. And they shall make ready for the third day – the day that Yahweh shall descend before the eyes of all the people upon Mount Sinai. But you shall restrain the people, saying, “Take care that you do not approach the mountain nor touch its edge. Anyone who touches the mountain shall surely die. You must not reach out your hand for it. The one who does will surely be stoned or shot. Whether animal or man, he must not live. But at the sounding of the trumpet, they may go up the mountain.” Then Moses descended from the mountain, consecrated the people, and washed their clothes. And Moses said to the people, “Make ready for three days; do not go near a woman.” And it happened on the third day in the morning that there was thunder and lightning and a heavy cloud upon the mountain. And the sound of the trumpet was very loud. Then all the people in the camp trembled. And Moses brought out the (continued)

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people from the camp before God, and they stood at the base of the mountain. Now,7 Mount Sinai was full of smoke because Yahweh descended upon it in fire. And the smoke was like the smoke of a kiln, and the whole mountain trembled greatly. And the sound of the trumpet was continuing very loudly. Moses spoke, and God answered him with thunder. Then Yahweh descended upon Mount Sinai – to the summit of the mountain. Then Yahweh called Moses to the summit of the mountain, and Moses went up. But Yahweh said to Moses, “Go down and warn the people not to defile Yahweh by looking, or else many of them may fall. (continued)

7

This clause is further set off from the material framed by the double Wiederaufnahme by the use of an explicative waw, especially as indicated by the inverse word order of this clause (Childs 1974, 343; cf. Meek 1945, 6–7; Fishbane 1985, 199).

272

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Insertions Marked by Epexegetical Markers By the way, the priests who have access8 to Yahweh consecrate themselves, so Yahweh doesn’t break out against them.

But Moses said to Yahweh, “The people cannot come up to Mount Sinai, because you already warned us to put a boundary around it and consecrate it.” But Yahweh said, “Go down, [and you will come up, you and Aaron with you as well as the priests,] but the people will not dare to look upon Yahweh, or he shall break out against them.” So Moses went down to the people and spoke to them.9 Then God spoke All These Words,10 saying: (continued)

On this translation of the verb ngš as “to have access,” see Milgrom (1970, 35). In addition to being marked by Wiederaufnahmen and epexegetical markers, the material in Ex 19:20–25 is typically considered a secondary priestly expansion (Childs 1974, 361– 64; Smith 1997, 240). 10 In addition to acting as a key phrase to structure the passage, this label for the Decalogue in Ex 20:1 also functions as the opening of an inclusio that will close in Exod 24:3 (Smith 1997, 234). 8 9

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[Decalogue] Meanwhile,11 the whole people saw the thunder and lightning and the sound of the trumpet and the smoking mountain; they saw and were afraid, so they stood far away. And they said to Moses, “You speak with us and we will listen, but do not let God speak with us lest we die.” And Moses said to the people, “Do not fear. God came to test you and to set the fear of him before you so that you might not sin.” But the people stood far away. But Moses approached the deep darkness, in which God was. Then Yahweh said to Moses: [Altar Law] And these are the Ordinances12 that you shall set before them: [Covenant Code] Now, to Moses he had said:13 (continued)

11

The repetitive resumption can also function to denote that actions are simultaneous. In this case, the people perceive the storm theophany as Yahweh speaks. I provide “meanwhile” in the translation to draw attention to this function (Ska 2006, 78). 12 This label for the Covenant Code in Ex 21:1 opens an inclusio that will close in Ex 24:3 (Smith 1997, 234). 13 There is no subject in this clause, resulting in a significant disconnect from what precedes and follows it. Baden suggests that it resumes the narrative line from Ex 19:24, because

274

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Insertions Marked by Epexegetical Markers “Come up to the mountain, you and Aaron and Nadab and Abihu14 and seventy from the elders of Israel.15 But you will worship from afar.”16 However, Moses alone shall approach Yahweh, but they shall not (continued)

Moses again is directed to ascend the mountain with Aaron and a variety of other figures while the people are kept away. Baden considers this to be part of a non-priestly layer, but if the connection to Ex 19:24 is correct we might also assign this to a priestly hand on the basis of the priestly character of the material it connects to as well as the focus on priestly figures and ritual segregation. The framing narrative that ended in Ex 19:19 and continued in the materials narrating the giving of the Decalogue and Covenant Code resumes in Ex 24:3 (Smith 1997, 240; Schniedewind 2004, 123–25; Baden 2012, 77–78, 117–18). In addition, this clause appears to be marked by a waw explicativum, which is further indicated by its inverse word order. 14 The mention of Nadab and Abihu here is worthy of special comment. These names appear to be based on those of Jeroboam I’s sons – Nadab and Abijah. It has been suggested, therefore, that the inclusion of these characters serves as a further indication that one version of the book of Exodus was written to mirror the life of Jeroboam. The possible assignment of this section to a priestly hand is not necessarily problematic to this view, as some priestly strata have been distinguished as preexilic and northern in character (Greer 2010; 2019; forthcoming; Carr 2011, 477). 15 This phrase in Ex 24:1 will be resumed in Ex 24:9, perhaps providing a secondary frame around the material in verses 3–8. Verses 1–2 were probably introduced by a later editor in order to connect verses 3–8 to verses 9–11 (Smith 2016, 126 n. 47). This section in particular has attracted multiple critical approaches with varying solutions to its difficulties (cf. Perlitt 1969, 190–203; Nicholson 1976, 148–60; McCarthy 1978, 264–69; Hendel 1989; Blum 1990, 51–52; Ska 1993a, 311–12; 1993b; Hartenstein 2001, 136– 37; Propp 2006, 147–48; Dozeman 2009, 567). 16 This repetition of the Wiederaufnahme from the previous narrative interpolation likely functions to connect this interpolation with that one, as opposed to the primary narrative.

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Insertions Marked by Epexegetical Markers approach him, and the people shall not go up with him.

Then Moses came and recounted to the people All the Words of Yahweh and All the Ordinances,17 and the whole people answered with one voice and said, “All of the words that Yahweh said we will do.”18 Then Moses wrote all the words of Yahweh, and he got up early and built an altar beneath the mountain and twelve stelae for the twelve tribe of Israel. And he sent the youths of the people of Israel, and they offered up offerings and sacrificed whole sacrifices to Yahweh: bulls. And Moses took half of the blood and put it in bowls, and half of the blood he sprinkled on the altar. And he took the scroll of the covenant and read it in the ears of the people and they said, “All that (continued)

17

These repetitions of the labels for the Decalogue and Covenant Code close the inclusio bracketing the Decalogue and the Covenant Code and resume the framing narrative (Beyerlin 1965, 16; Childs 1974, 500; Ginsberg 1982, 46; McCarter 1988, 149; Smith 1997, 234). 18 This line in Ex 24:3 is an exact duplication of the phrase in Ex 19:8, closing the inclusio that opened there to bracket the entire passage (Perlitt 1969, 192; Ska 2006, 29).

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Yahweh has said, we will do and we hear.”19 And Moses took the blood and sprinkled the people and said, “Behold the blood of the covenant that Yahweh cut with you concerning All These Words.” Then Moses went up, along with Aaron and Nadab and Abihu and seventy of the elders of Israel.20 Then they saw the God of Israel. Now, beneath his feet was a pavement of sapphire as clear as the sky. Now, against the nobles of the people of Israel, he did not stretch out his hand, and they saw God. Then they ate and drank.

19

Schniedewind takes this repetition as a resumption of verse 3. Given that it occurs within another Wiederaufnahme, though, it may be repetition designed to better incorporate the insertion into the passage rather than to bracket verses 4–6. This does, however, serve as an additional editorial marker that material has been inserted, as Schniedewind already argued. Also, this insertion does indeed create an intertextual link to 2 Kgs 23:2, 21, and may represent a Deuteronomic or Deuteronomistic redactional layer (Schniedewind 2004, 124–26). 20 With this repetition, the narrative of verses 1–2 resumes (Schniedewind 2004, 127).

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Scripture Index

Hebrew Bible Exodus 1:1–7, 120 1:8–22, 121 1–15:21, 122 2:4–6, 85 2:5–10, 134 2:13–15, 134 2:11–12, 134 2–6, 121 4:19–20, 134 4:28, 104 5:1–5, 134 5:6–14, 134 7–10, 121 7–14, 134 11a, 187 11b, 184 11–12, 121 12:37, 119 13:20, 119 13:11a, 245 13:17–14:4, 121 13:17–18, 120 14:5–12, 121 14:13–31, 121 14–15, 120 15, 121 15:22–18:27, 122 16:1a, 119 16–19, 121 17, 120 17:1a, 119

18, 117 19, 116, 151, 226, 227 19:1, 135 19:1–24:11, 103 19:2, 119 19:6, 114 19:7–8, 103 19:8, 106, 111, 113, 269, 275 19:8–9, 269 19:18, 227 19:19, 274 19:20–25, 80, 272 19:21–25, 227 19:24, 274 19:25, 80 19–24:11, 116, 117, 131 19–40, 122 20, 88, 103, 111, 112, 140, 151, 154, 164, 172, 216, 226, 228, 231 20:1, 79, 80, 103, 272 20:2, 77, 78–81, , 83, 100 20:3, 77, 81, 82, 83, 100 20:4, 77, 85, 86, 87, 89, 99, 215 20:4–6, 84, 85, 100 20:5, 77, 88 20:5–6, 85, 89, 217 20:6, 77, 229 20:7, 77, 90, 100 20:8, 77, 92 20:8–11, 92, 100 20:9, 77 20:23, 86 20:10, 77

317

318

Scripture Index

Hebrew Bible (cont.) 20:11, 77, 93, 99 20:12, 78, 95, 97, 100 20:13, 78 20:13–17, 100 20:14, 78, 98 20:15, 78 20:16, 78, 98, 165 20:17, 78, 98 20:18, 228 20:24–25, 125 20:24–26, 104, 109 20:25, 152 20–40, 121 21:1, 273 21–23, 103, 104, 122, 151 23:9, 157 23:12, 156, 157, 158, 164, 220 23:16, 135 23:17–19, 135 23:24, 104, 167 24, 104, 106, 108, 109, 110, 113, 114, 115, 117, 122, 131, 135, 167, 168, 169, 172, 179, 184, 226, 234 24:1, 103, 274 24:1–2, 115, 139, 191, 274, 276 24:1–11, 190 24:3, 103, 106, 111, 112, 113, 269, 272, 273, 274, 275, 276 24:3–4, 104 24:3–8, 95, 103, 104, 106, 111, 114, 115, 125, 131, 139, 152, 168, 179, 184, 187, 190, 191, 274 24:4, 104, 105, 107, 112 24:4–6, 276 24:5, 113 24:6, 110, 113 24:6b, 106 24:7, 106, 112, 113, 234, 269 24:8, 103, 106, 113, 173 24:9, 274 24:9–11, 131, 274 24:9–11a, 115, 139, 191 24:9–11b, 114 24:10, 228 24:10–11, 226, 227 24:11, 227 24:11a, 152 24:11b, 95, 114, 115, 139, 191 24:12, 102, 172 24:26, 235

25, 174 25–31, 120, 122 25–40, 10 26, 174 28:12, 90 29, 90 30, 174 30:37, 86 31, 220 31:13–16, 154 31:18, 102, 172 32:1–6, 134 34, 103 34:1, 87 34:4, 87 34:37, 86 34:11–26, 103 34:27, 103 34:28, 103 35–40, 120, 122 40, 174 Leviticus 19:3, 154 19:12, 219 23:24, 200 23:34–39, 161 24:1, 124 26:1, 167 26:1a, 86 26:1b, 86 26:2, 154, 167 26:26, 189 30, 154 Numbers 6:5–7, 229 6:24–26, 229 6:27, 231 10:12, 119 10:33, 174 14:44, 174 16:21, 86 16:22, 86 20:21, 119 20:22, 119 21:11, 119 21:20, 119 27, 225 Deuteronomy 1–3, 224 4 161, 103, 172, 215, 216, 224, 225, 228

Scripture Index 4:1–44, 172, 214 4:6, 156 4:12, 228 4:13, 225, 228 4:16, 215 4:23, 155, 215 4:25, 215 4:35, 216 4:39, 216 4:45, 171, 214 4:45–11, 172 4:45–11:31, 151 4:45–29*, 152 5, 88, 92, 140, 151, 167, 172, 187, 188, 189, 200, 215, 226, 231 5:1, 156, 187 5:1–5, 224 5:2, 123 5:3, 224, 226 5:3–4, 187 5:5, 187 5:6, 153 5:6–21, 153 5:7, 153 5:8, 86, 153, 215 5:9, 153 5:9–10, 217 5:10, 153, 229 5:11, 153, 165, 218 5:12, 92, 153, 154, 155, 164 5:13–14, 156, 157 5:14, 153, 164, 165, 225 5:15, 153, 155, 157, 164 5:15–16, 155 5:16, 153, 163 5:17, 154 5:18, 154 5:20, 90, 165, 218 5:21, 164, 165, 172, 222 5:22, 172 5:23–26, 187 5:26, 82 5:32, 156 5–11, 156, 172 5–26*, 157 6, 219, 230, 231, 236 6:3, 156 6:6, 230, 231 6:8, 231 6:9, 231 6:10–15, 219

6:13, 219 6:25, 156 7, 230 7:9, 229 7:9–10, 217 7:11–12, 156 8:1, 156 9:7–10:11, 172 9:9, 172 9:15, 103 9–10, 189, 200 10, 175, 181 10:1, 87 10:2, 87 11, 125 11:22, 156 11:29, 124 11:29b, 245 11:30, 245 11:32, 156 12:1, 156 12:2–3, 167 12:5, 124, 183 12:11, 124 12:12, 164 12:18, 156 12:21, 124, 183 12:28, 156 12:30, 156 12–26, 124, 141, 151 13, 200 13:1, 156, 170 13:6, 155 13:7, 156 13:19, 156 14:23, 124 14:24, 124, 183 15:5, 156 15:15, 157, 165 16:1, 156 16:2, 124 16:6, 124 16:11, 124, 156, 164 16:12, 156, 157, 165 16:14, 156, 164 17:10, 156 17:18, 178 17:19, 156 18, 124 18:16, 124 18:18, 164

319

320

Scripture Index

Hebrew Bible (cont.) 19:9, 156 20:17, 155 22:17, 156 23, 156 23:24, 156 24:8, 156 24:18, 157, 165 24:22, 157, 165 26:2, 124, 183 26:8, 157, 165 26:16, 156 27, 125, 126, 137, 138, 167, 168, 169, 170, 178, 184, 185, 188, 189, 191, 199, 200 27:1–8, 124, 166, 168, 187 27:1–14, 185 27:2b–3a, 245 27:4, 104 27:4a, 245 27:5–7, 125, 152, 245 27:8, 168 27:9, 190 27:9ff, 187 27:15–24, 189 27–28, 168, 170 27–29, 147, 152, 187, 188, 189, 196, 202 27–30, 184, 187 28, 189, 190 28:1, 156 28:13, 156 28:15, 156 28:15–19, 189 28:21–22, 189 28:23–24, 189 28:25, 189 28:26–33, 171 28:26–35, 189 28:27–29, 189 28:30–33, 189 28:34, 189 28:37, 189 28:45–46, 189 28:48, 189 28:51, 189 28:58, 156 28:59–61, 189 28:61, 234 28:63, 171 28:65–67, 189

28:69, 173 28–29, 200 29, 172, 195 29:8, 156 29:10–15, 195 29:20, 234 29:28, 172 29:29, 178 29–30, 224, 225 30:10, 234 30:19, 185, 186 31, 199, 234, 235 31:9–13, 199, 200 31:10, 161 31:12, 156 31:24–27, 199 31:26, 234 32:46, 156 Joshua 1:8, 234 3:6, 175 3:8, 175 3:11, 175 3:14, 175 4, 125, 137 4:6–7, 17 4:9, 175 6:6, 175 8, 125, 137 8:33, 192 8:34, 234 8:30–35, 125 24, 125, 137 24:19, 82 1 Samuel 4–7:1, 181 13:14, 155 2 Samuel 6, 181, 182 1 Kings 5:32, 87 6–8, 181, 182 8:43, 182 11:28, 134 11:36, 183 11:40, 134 11:43–12:3, 134 12, 133, 135 12:4, 134 12:4–5, 134 12:6–14, 134

Scripture Index 12:16, 134 12:26–30, 134 12:28, 134 13:21, 155 2 Kings 3, 49 3:2, 167 10:26–27, 167 18:25, 200 21:7, 215 22, 234 22:8, 234 22:11, 234 22–23, 235, 236 23, 148, 149, 179, 180 23:2, 106, 234, 276 23:21, 106, 234, 276 24–25, 225 Isaiah 10:9, 168 56, 220, 221 56:2, 154, 220, 221 56:4, 154, 220, 221 56:6, 154, 220, 221 66:19, 168 Jeremiah 3:16–17, 175 7, 151, 196, 218 7:10, 219 7:11, 219 7:14, 219 7:30, 219 16:2, 86 32:21, 157

Ezekiel 20, 220 Hosea 2:11, 196 4:2, 196 9:5, 196 2:13, 135 Micah 2:2, 164 5:12, 167 Habakkuk 2:18, 87 Psalms 16, 90 16:4, 90 20, 183 50, 133, 135, 196 78, 183 81, 133, 135, 196 Nehemiah 8, 196, 236 8:3, 234 13:24, 211 2 Chronicles 33:7, 215 34:15, 234 New Testament Matthew 5:33, 219 5–9, 245 John 4:20–21, 238 8:58, 245 18:5, 245

321

Subject Index

Adad-nerari III, 66 adultery, 97, 98, 219, 223 aesthetic discourse, 24, 29, 30, 32, 38–42, 52–55, 64–67, 71, 100, 101, 107, 110, 129, 131, 133, 141, 152, 166, 171, 179, 180, 222, 223, 228, 229, 232 afterlife, 28, 71–73, 74, 208–9, 211–14 Age of Civic Ritual, 28, 32–33, 45, 49, 55, 78, 79, 89, 111, 239, 249 Age of Court Ceremony, 28, 61–62, 67, 69, 79, 114, 115, 139, 141, 143, 144, 145–49, 150, 152, 166, 169, 175, 183, 186, 190, 200, 201, 203, 204, 207, 240, 242, 243, 250–51, See also Bar-Rakib; loyalty oaths ceremonies Age of Territorial Theatre, 28, 49–50, 52, 54, 55, 56, 67, 76, 79, 89, 93, 98, 111, 123, 131, 133, 136, 139, 141, 142, 200, 207, 239, 241, 242, 249–50 Ahab, 49, 50, 91, 109, 130, 136, 139 Akkadian inscriptions, 23, 27, 88, 90, 161, 162, 177, 181 ALEPPO 2, 90 “All the Words of Yahweh,” 103, 104, 117, 168 “All These Words,” 79, 103, 104, 111, 113, 117, 168 altars, 55, 109, 115, 125, 166, 190, 241 and Decalogue, 104–5, 106, 109, 110, 112, 128, 172 in Lower Palace Area, 44 and Sinai assemblage, 108, 122, 234 amulets, 8, 19, 213, 228–32, 233, 237, 243

Antakya Stele, 67, 169, 186 Aram, 49, 136 Ark of the Covenant of Yahweh, 174–80, 181, 192, 202, 234, 235, 242 Arslan Tash Amulet, 186 ARSLANTAŞ , 23 Aššurbanipal II, 148 Aššurnas ̣irpal II, 57, 67, 119, 131, 132 Assyrians, 61, 65, 67, 68, 72, 121, 144, 147, 148, 150, 170, 195, 198, 201, 204 akitu festivals. See akitu festivals court ceremonies, 67, 68, 132, 137, 143, 145, 173, 186, 240 Esarhaddon’s treaty with Tyre, 188 and festivals, 68 and Galilee, 146 and Levant. See Levant, and Assyria loyalty oath ceremonies, 194, 196, 197 monuments, 56–58, 60, 62, 72, 169 portable monuments, 173 rituals, 182 stelae, 66, 169, 186 tuppi adê. See tuppi adê Athens, 73 Azatiwada Orthostats and Statue, 55, 82, 83, 86, 98 Babylonians, 182, 209, 211 akitu-festival, 197–200 invasions, impact of, 208, 209–11 Bar-Rakib, 61–71, 84, 100, 141, 144, 169, 206 battle narratives, 34, 35, 50, 62

322

Subject Index Behistun inscription of Darius the Great, 72, 233 Berakhot, 244 Bet Shean, 108 blessings, 33, 36, 89, 92, 95, 100, 124, 192, 198, 217 generational, 85, 88, 217 Priestly Blessing, 229, 230, 232 blood rituals, 109, 173, 241 and Decalogue, 113–14, 115, 128 and Exodus, 95, 106 Katuwas monument, 44, 45, 94 ʾbnym stones, 103 Book of the Dead, 233 Book of the Temple, 10 BOYBEYPINARI 2, 52, 91 Bronze Age Egypt, 127, 178 BULGARMADEN, 168, 185, 189 Byblos inscriptions, 97 CEKKE, 60, 113, 168, 169, 185–86, 188, 189 ceremonial plazas, 42, 43, 48, 49, 52, 56, 57, 58, 60, 67, 69, 111–15, 117, 237, 239, 240 ceremonies, 6, 173, See also Age of Court Ceremony court ceremonies, 173 covenant renewal, 111, 114–15 feasts, 68, See also feasting at Kalḫ u, 68, 132 loyalty oath ceremonies. See loyalty oath ceremonies reading ceremonies, 235, 236 ÇINEKÖY, 55, 96 Covenant Code, 79, 111, 131, 133, 151, 156, 157, 160, 162, 163, 201 cultural memory, 16, 17, 76 curses, 33, 35, 36, 89, 91, 98, 100, 168, 185, 188, 189–90, 192, 217, 223, 225 generational, 85, 88, 217 Cyprus, 73, 81, 101, 121 Dagan, 45, 94, 114, 182 dating biblical texts, 74, 127 Davidic dynasty, 183, 207, 212 Deir Alla, 109, 126, 138 Deir el Medina, 17 Deuteronomic Code, 124, 145, 147, 151, 156, 157, 160, 163, 165, 201 Deuteronomistic History, 181, 225, 234 Deuteronomy, 18, 19, 123, 192, 200–1

323

history of, 141, 142, 149–52 and Holiness Code, 154–55 loyalty oath ceremony in, 169 Ebal, 124, 125, 126, 137, 152, 192, 199, 200 EGO2 hieroglyph, 40, 65, 192 Ekron Inscription, 97, 232 Elamite royal inscriptions, 233 Elephantine, temple at, 210 Emar, 45, 94, 113, 159 enchantment, 93, 94, 154, 220 enemy, notion of, 34, 49, 51, 83, 89, 119, 121, 123, 136 epexegetical markers, 116 Epic of Gilgamesh, 177, 178, 200, 206 Esarhaddon’s Succession Treaty (EST), 150, 171, 186, 189, 194, 195, 197, 198 exiles, Judean, 133, 207, 211–13, 215, 218, 220, 223, 225, 228, 232, 236, 237, 243 feasts/feasting, 44, 46, 71, 94, 95, 114–15, 129, 161, 185, 197, 198, 221, 237, 241 festivals, 68, 94, 135, 221, 237, See also Sabbath akitu festivals, 182, 197–200 Autumnal New Year Festival, 94, 135, 196 Mesopotamian, 161–63 Sukkot festival, 94 Zukru festival, 45, 94, 113, 182 Foundation Deposit of Amenhotep son of Hapu, 10 Galilee, 146 Gerizim, 125, 126, 192, 199, 200, 210–11, 245 Gezer, 136 Gilgal, 125 Gilibert, Alessandra, 27, 43, 111, 114, 144, 201, 209 Golden Calf, 122 Guennol Lioness, 3, 13 Hadad Statue, 84, 93, 94, 95, 98, 99, 100, 114 HAMA 4, 90, 91, 108 HAMA 5, 90 Hamath, 42, 49, 50, 90, 106, 130, See also Urhilina (Hamathite king), monuments of and Israel, 50

324

Subject Index

Hazael (Aramaen king), monuments of, 49, 50, 54, 56, 60, 65, 82, 109 Hazor, 108, 136, 145 Hellenistic period, 25, 73, 209, 211, 240 hemerological texts, 158–63 Hittites, 23, 25, 31, 32, 79, 81, 101, 121 Holiness Code, 154–55, 161, 167, 180, 202, 219 Honor Commandment, 95–97, 99, 100, 130, 163, 225 Horeb, 123, 124, 151 Hyrcanus, John, 211 “I Am” formula, 27, 29, 30, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 100, 101, 130, 219, 245 Hittite adaptation, 31 in Mesopotamia, 72 “I Am” monuments, 7, 10–13, 21, 22–24, 27–28, 33, 36, 37, 41, 42, 52, 56, 61, 71–75, 99, 131, 165, 239–40, See also specific monuments identity, 14, 246 communal, 35, 36, 129, 135, 174 contrastive, 212 Israelite, 123, 131, 137, 138, 204, 242 Judean, 213 political, 50 transformation of, 100 idols, 81, 87, 212, 215, 218 Idrimi (King of Alalaḫ ), monument of, 25, 28–32, 37 Image Commandment, 85, 89, 93, 99, 130, 131, 215, 217 Inbu series, 160 incantations, 43, 44, 93, 107, 112, 117, 186, 187, 189, 190, 241 INCIRLI, 23 Iqqur ¯ıpuš, 159 ISKENDERUN, 91 Israel, 23, 68, 77, 78, 84, 91, 125, 126, 133, 145–49, 194, 203 and origin of Decalogue, 133–39 Autumnal New Year Festival, 94, 135, 161, 196, 199 Israelite refugee crisis, 146, 147 Jeroboam I, 134, 135, 137 Jeroboam II, 68, 130, 132, 136, 137, 138, 145, 181, 204 Jerusalem, 147, 171, 174, 175, 180–84, 196, 198, 199, 202, 207, 210, 223–26, 242

Jezreel, 136 Josiah, 106, 131, 148, 149, 150, 155, 179, 181 Judah, 19, 68, 107, 126, 133, 143, 152, 155, 164, 174, 180, 203, 211 in the Age of Court Ceremony, 145–49 and akitu festival, 198, 199 divine emperor concept, 143–45 late monarchy, 196 Kalḫ u, 68, 173, 174 akitu festivals, 197–200 court ceremonies at, 68, 132, 145 Ninurta Temple, 132 palaces, 132 Kamanis, 60, 192, 193 KARABURUN, 168, 188 Karatepe, 90, 91, 96, 108 Karkamiš, 27, 32, 42, 45, 60, 108, 186, See also Katuwas’ monuments and Aramaic inscriptions, 65 blood rituals of, 45, 94, 113 gods and deities of, 32, 33, 52, 95 Lower Palace Area, 32, 39, 41, 42–43, 44, 45, 46, 48, 192, 193 monuments of, 39, 41, 44, 45, 46, 48, 64, 65, 84, 95, 168, 185, 192, 196, 248, 249, 250 social structure of, 49 urban layout of, 42 Katumuwa Stele, 63, 86, 94 Katuwas’ monuments, 32–49, 58, 69, 71, 86, 94, 115 KBo, 32, 34, 81, 101, 121 Ketef Hinnom amulets, 229, 230, 231, 232 Kiriath Jearim, 181 Kulamuwa’s monument, 34, 62, 63, 65, 69, 70, 71, 96, 99, 141, 206, 234 KULULU 2, 168, 185, 189 Kuntillet Ajrud, 126, 137, 138 Levant, 9, 18, 42, 67, 112, 132, 158, 168, 176, 203, 228, 239, 240, See also specific monuments and Assyria, 62, 67, 68, 143, 145, 194 “I Am” monuments. See “I Am” monuments lapidary tradition, 168–69, 170 loyalty oaths, 188 and Mesopotamia, 158, 160, 162, 186 northern, 23, 28, 42, 93, 109, 114, 122, 183

Subject Index polities, 60, 67, 71, 72, 169, 183, 187 southern, 23, 28, 126, 148, 150, 183 levirate marriage, 98 loyalty oath ceremonies, 168, 169, 184–200, 240 Luwian, 11, 22, 23, 27, 31, 36, 37, 50, 63, 65, 72, 81, 82, 86, 90, 91, 96, 130, 181, 186 Maqlu, 162, 189 maṣsẹ bot, 105–10, 112, 128, 131, 168, 172 materiality, 7, 8, 10, 101, 126 McCreary County Courthouse, display of Ten Commandments in, 4–6 Mesha, 49–61, 67, 71, 84, 85, 89, 98, 106, 108, 119, 123, 223 Mesopotamia, 42, 72, 102, 112, 143, 158, 177, 183 akitu festivals, 182 corpus of narû-literature, 11 festivals, 161–63 hemerologies, 159 “I Am” inscriptions from, 27, 72 law codes, 163, 201, 242 and Levant, 158, 160, 162, 186 royal ideologies, 145 and Sabbath, 156 tablet monuments, 174 temennu monuments, 175, 178–80, 234 mezuzot, 231, 232, 244 military narratives, 120, 121, 122, 129 miniaturization, 230, 232 Moab, 23, 49, 51, 56, 57, 136, 224, 226, See also Mesha’s monuments Monolatry Commandment, 81, 82, 83, 100, 131 monumentality, 1, 8–9, 74, 140 history of, 15–18, 241–43 of texts, 4–7 monuments, 1, 2–3, 13–14, 22, 34, 55, 140, 141, 166, 208, 217, 244, 246, See also specific monuments Decalogue as, 8 definitions of, 2–3 history of, 15–18, 75, 130, 149, 150, 168, 200, 206, 238, 239–40 of Iron Age, 6, 22, 25, 32, 33, 34, 45, 76, 77, 95, 97, 110, 127, 128, 217, 238, 248–49 mountain of God, 123, 124, 133, 151

325

Nabopolassar, 177 Name Commandment, 90–92, 93, 100, 124, 130, 165, 216, 218–19 Name Theology, 181, 183 narû-literature, 11, 176, 179, 202 Nash Papyrus, 231 Necho II, Pharaoh, 148 Neirab Stele, 97 Neo-Assyrians, 121 annals, 120, 132 artifacts, 150 inscriptions, 72 monuments, 27 texts, 132 Neo-Babylonian period, 72, 159, 176, 177, 207 Nimshides, 136–37, 139, 144, 241 Nine Tripods, 8–9, 11, 16, 17, 18, 200 Ninurta Temple, Kalḫ u, 132 NIŞ ANTAŞ , 31, 81 Northern Kingdom of Israel, 132, 133, 134, 135, 139, 151, 180, 204, 242 Omrides, 136, 139, 241 oral tradition, 17, 18, 44, 106, 112, 163, 187, 218 Panamuwa I, 52, 55, 60, 98 Panamuwa II, 86, 94, 95, 96 Pazarcık Stele, 169 Pentateuch, 111, 116, 120, 125, 137, 142, 154, 175, 244, 245 peripheral monuments, 56–58, 67, 119, 123, 183, See also Hazael (Aramaen king), monuments of; Mesha’s monuments; Urhilina (Hamathite king), monuments of Assyrian, 170 Sinai, 121 Persian period, 73, 126, 131, 132, 158, 176, 210, 226, 240 Pharaoh, 82, 83, 119, 120, 123, 241 pilgrimage networks, 61 plastered inscriptions, 109, 125, 126, 138 postmonarchic period, 141, 153, 158, 205, 207, 210–11, 212, 213, 214, 215, 217, 220, 221, 223, 224, 225, 227, 228, 234, 235, 236, 237, 243, 247 priests, 187, 190, 192, 195

326

Subject Index

processions, 45–49, 94, 116–18, 237 during Age of Court Ceremony, 69 of Katuwas, 32, 41, 45–49, 71, 193 of Mesha, 71 to Tel Dan, 109 and tuppi adê, 173 QAL’AT EL MUDIQ, 59, 84, 106, 108 Qarḥoh, 51, 55 reading, 214, 215, 218, 219, 220, 236 ceremonies, 235, 236 private, 236, 243 public, 236, 243 recitation, 18, 111, 112, 173, 184, 187, 190, 192, 218–20, 236, 244, 245 reembodiments, 11, 22, 24, 30, 31, 36, 38, 39, 42, 44, 45, 54, 55, 57, 65, 69, 71, 75, 76, 80, 85, 87, 88, 90, 93, 95, 105, 107, 108, 127, 128, 129, 180, 182, 200, 203, 237, 238, 241, 245 RESTAN, 59, 84, 106, 108 resumptive repetition, 106, 113, 116, 155, 156, 164, 226, 227, 234 Ritual Decalogue, 103 royal annals, 119, 121, 129 Sabbath, 220–22 merging Seventh Day with, 157–63 Sabbath Commandment, 92–95, 100, 165, 225 original form, 135 revisions to, 154–57, 163–66 Sabū tu festival, 162 sacrifices, 44–45, 79, 94, 113, 114, 157, 173, 187, 190, 241, See also blood rituals Samʾal (Zincirli), 27, 42, 60, 62, 63, 64, 65, 69, 71, 86, 93, 94, 108, 141, 144, 206, 229, See also Bar-Rabik Samaria, 125, 136, 146, 147, 242 Samaria Ostraca, 137 Samaritan Decalogue, 244, 245 Samaritan monuments, 125 Šamaš Tablet from Sippar, 177, 178 Samerina (Assyrian province), 148, 171, 174, 186, 198 Sargon II, 132 Sargonids, 144, 146 scripturalization, 237

Scroll of the Torah, 234, 235, 236, 243, 244 inscription of the covenant, 106, 179, 234 scrolls, 8, 19, 106, 213, 232–37 Second Temple period, 220, 244 second-person commands, 52, 79, 84, 85, 91, 99, 241 Sefire treaties, 168, 188, 191, 234 Seidel’s Law, 164, 217, 219 Sennacherib, 132, 148, 197 sense-making, 24, 112, 129 Shalmaneser III, 57, 119, 121, 122 Shechem, 108, 125, 147 Shema, 230–32, 236 Sîn, 66–67, 71 Sinai, 12, 106–10, 122, 126, 152, 200, 234, 241 as ceremonial theatre, 111–15 Sinai Pericope, 103, 104, 111, 116, 151, 152, 163, 206 Small Covenant Code, 103 Social Commandments, 97–99, 100, 222–23 social formation, 14–15 spatial discourse, 24, 29, 31, 39, 42–49, 55–61, 67–71, 77, 95, 110–11, 115, 116, 118, 119, 127, 129, 141, 152, 173, 180, 185, 199, 202, 222, 223, 237, 240, 243 speech of deities, 85 stealing, prohibition against, 223 stelae, 8, 53, 74, 95, 115, 166–70, 186, 188, 233, 234, 240, 241 aniconic, 45, 52, 53–55, 105, 108 Antakya Stele, 169, 186 Assyrian stelae, 66, 169, 186 and blood manipulation ritual, 94, 113 Cekke Stele, 60 Dibon Stele, 51, 52, 57, 84, 85, 106, 108, 123, 223 of Esarhaddon, 199 Katumuwa Stele, 63, 86, 94 maṣsẹ bot, 105–6 Neirab Stele, 97 Pazarcık Stele, 169 Sefire Stelae, 168, 169, 234 Tel Arad, 126 Tel Dan Stele, 54, 82, 109 treaty stele, 188 Yehawmilk Stele, 73 storm theophany, 117, 124, 131, 133 Suhis II, 32

Subject Index Sukkot festival, 94, 135, 161 Sultantepe, 159 Šuppiluliuma II, 31, 57, 81, 101, 121 Šurpu, 162, 186, 189 Tabernacle, 10, 88, 102, 103, 115, 133, 172, 174 tablets, 8 boxes, 8, 175, 176, 178 Tablets of Stone, 87, 102, 172 Tablets of the Covenant, 170–74, 188, 199 Tabnit Sarcophagus, Sidon, 73 TALL ŠṬI¯B, 59, 84, 106, 108 tefillin, 231, 244 Tel Arad, 105, 108, 126 Tel Dan, 69, 109–10, 113, 114, 133, 135, 138, 190 Tel Dan Stele, 82, 109 Tell Fekheriyeh Inscription, 97 Tell Halaf, 69, 109, 229 Tell Tayinat, 69, 159, 171, 173, 194, 195, 198 temennu monuments, 88, 175, 176, 178–80 “Ten Words, the,” 103 Tiglath-Pileser I, 86 Tiglath-Pileser III, 6, 61, 62, 67, 68, 71, 131, 132, 144, 146 Timna, 108 Tirzah, 125, 147 Tudḫ aliya IV, 31 TÜNP 1, 168, 186, 188

327

tuppi adê, 144, 170, 171, 172, 173, 174, 182, 194, 197, 198, 200 and akitu festivals, 198 ceremonies related to, 173 curses from, 189–90 and Deuteronomy, 170, 171 installation in Jerusalem, 174, 198 monumentality of, 173 Ugarit, 159 United States Constitution, 2, 4, 8 Urhilina (Hamathite king), monuments of, 50, 54, 56, 59, 60, 91, 106, 108, 119, 123 Usurpation Commandment, 164–66, 222 verbal discourse, 24, 29, 32, 33–38, 50–52, 62–64, 152, 180 Wu, Hung, 2, 8–9, 15, 101, 200 Yahweh, 12, 76, 78, 79, 81–84, 89, 91, 92, 97, 100, 119, 120, 123, 124, 127, 129, 131, 144, 187, 198, 199, 241 kingship, 95, 126, 145, 242 Yariris, 192, 193 Yehawmilk Stele, 73 ZA 31 inscription, 25 Zakkur Statue, 34, 52, 55, 63, 82, 112 Zincirli. See Samʾal (Zincirli) Zukru festival, 45, 94, 113, 161, 182