Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature 9781119158233, 9781119158257, 9781119158271, 1119158230

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The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature

The Wiley Blackwell Companions to Religion The Wiley Blackwell Companions to Religion series presents a collection of the most recent scholarship and knowledge about world religions. Each volume draws together newly commissioned essays by distinguished authors in the field, and is presented in a style which is accessible to undergraduate students, as well as scholars and the interested general reader. These volumes approach the subject in a creative and forward‐thinking style, providing a forum in which leading scholars in the field can make their views and research available to a wider audience.

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The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature Edited by

Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff

This edition first published 2020 © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except as permitted by law. Advice on how to obtain permission to reuse material from this title is available at http://www.wiley.com/go/permissions. The right of Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff to be identified as the authors of the editorial material in this work has been asserted in accordance with law. Registered Offices John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 111 River Street, Hoboken, NJ 07030, USA John Wiley & Sons Ltd, The Atrium, Southern Gate, Chichester, West Sussex, PO19 8SQ, UK Editorial Office The Atrium, Southern Gate, Chichester, West Sussex, PO19 8SQ, UK For details of our global editorial offices, customer services, and more information about Wiley products visit us at www.wiley.com. Wiley also publishes its books in a variety of electronic formats and by print‐on‐demand. Some content that appears in standard print versions of this book may not be available in other formats. Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty While the publisher and authors have used their best efforts in preparing this work, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this work and specifically disclaim all warranties, including without limitation any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. No warranty may be created or extended by sales representatives, written sales materials or promotional statements for this work. The fact that an organization, website, or product is referred to in this work as a citation and/or potential source of further information does not mean that the publisher and authors endorse the information or services the organization, website, or product may provide or recommendations it may make. This work is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering professional services. The advice and strategies contained herein may not be suitable for your situation. You should consult with a specialist where appropriate. Further, readers should be aware that websites listed in this work may have changed or disappeared between when this work was written and when it is read. Neither the publisher nor authors shall be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damages, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages. Library of Congress Cataloging‐in‐Publication Data Names: Adams, Samuel L., editor. | Goff, Matthew, editor. Title: The Wiley Blackwell companion to wisdom literature / edited by Samuel L. Adams, and Matthew Goff. Description: Hoboken, NJ, USA : Wiley, 2020. | Series: The Wiley Blackwell companions to religion | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019031710 (print) | LCCN 2019031711 (ebook) | ISBN 9781119158233 (hardback) | ISBN 9781119158257 (adobe pdf) | ISBN 9781119158271 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Wisdom literature–Criticism, interpretation, etc. Classification: LCC BS1455 .W525 2020 (print) | LCC BS1455 (ebook) | DDC 223/.06–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019031710 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019031711 Cover Design: Wiley Cover Image: © Swedish Marble/Shutterstock Set in 10.5/13pt Photina by SPi Global, Pondicherry, India Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Contents

Notes on Contributors viii Acknowledgmentsxiii Abbreviationsxiv Editors’ Introduction Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff

I. Texts

1

11

1 Proverbs Jacqueline Vayntrub

13

2 Job Davis Hankins

30

3 Ecclesiastes Jennie Grillo

49

4 Psalms William P. Brown

67

5 Sirach/Ben Sira Bradley C. Gregory

87

6 Wisdom of Solomon Randall D. Chesnutt

104

vi

II. 

contents

7 Wisdom Texts From the Dead Sea Scrolls Elisa Uusimäki

122

8 Proverbs, Job, and Ecclesiastes in the Septuagint (LXX) Patrick Pouchelle

139

 Themes 9 The Figure of Solomon Blake A. Jurgens 10 Female Imagery in Wisdom Literature Tova Forti

157 159 177

11 Scribes and Pedagogy in Ancient Israel and Second Temple Judaism 195 Matthew Goff 12 God in Wisdom Literature James L. Crenshaw 13 Jewish Wisdom in the Contest of Hellenistic Philosophy and  Culture: Pseudo‐Phocylides and Philo of Alexandria Michael Cover

213

229

14 Wisdom and Apocalypticism Jason M. Zurawski

248

15 The Orality of Wisdom Literature Timothy J. Sandoval

267

III. Antecedents

287

16 Ahiqar and Other Legendary Sages Seth A. Bledsoe

289

17 Wisdom Literature in Egypt Samuel L. Adams

310

18 Mesopotamian Wisdom Nili Samet

328

IV.  Reception 19 Wisdom in the New Testament Benjamin Wold

349 351

contents

20 Wisdom and the Rabbis Ari Mermelstein

vii 368

21 The Wisdom Tradition in Early Christianity through Late Antiquity 389 Carson Bay 22 Jewish Sapiential Traditions in the Nag Hammadi Library Dylan M. Burns

412

23 The Sapiential Books in the Latin Middle Ages Gilbert Dahan

429

24 The Reception History of Job Mark Larrimore

447

25 Wisdom from African Proverbs Meets Wisdom from the Book of Proverbs 464 Madipoane Masenya (Ngwan’a Mphahlele) 26 Cinematic Wisdom: Film and Biblical Wisdom Literature Matthew S. Rindge

479

Index 496

Notes on Contributors

Samuel L. Adams is the Mary Jane and John F. McNair Chair of Biblical Studies at Union Presbyterian Seminary. He received his PhD from Yale University in 2006. He is the author of monographs on wisdom literature and economics in the biblical world and is editor of the journal Interpretation. Carson Bay received his PhD from the Religions of Western Antiquity track of the Department of Religion at Florida State University. He is now a Postdoctoral Researcher in the Theology Faculty at the Universtät Bern, Switzerland. During the present volume’s writing, he was a Fulbright Graduate Fellow at the Institutum Judaicum Delitzschianum of Westfälische Wilhelms‐Universtät Münster, Germany. Seth A. Bledsoe is Assistant Professor of Textual Sources of Judaism and Christianity in the Faculty of Philosophy, Theology, and Religious Studies at Radboud University in Nijmegen, in the Netherlands. His research focuses on wisdom literature and ancient narratives from the Second Temple period, with special attention to Jewish communities in Egypt. He has published several articles and a (forthcoming) monograph on Ahiqar. William P. Brown is the William Marcellus McPheeters Professor of Old Testament at Columbia Theological Seminary. He received his PhD from Emory University in 1991. He has written widely on the Psalms and the wisdom literature, as well as on the intersections between science and theology. Dylan M. Burns is a research ­associate at the Egyptological Seminar of the Freie Universität Berlin. Co‐managing editor of Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies (Brill), he is the author of Apocalypse of the Alien God: Platonism and the Exile of Sethian Gnosticism (University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014), and co‐editor of New Antiquities: Transformations of Ancient Religion in the New Age and Beyond (Equinox, 2019).

notes on contributors

ix

Randall D. Chesnutt is the William S. Banowsky Chair in Religion at Seaver College, Pepperdine University, where he has served on the faculty since 1984. He is the author of From Death to Life: Conversion in Joseph and Aseneth (Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), and various other studies of Jewish life and literature in the Hellenistic period. Michael Cover is Assistant Professor of Judaism and Christianity in Antiquity at Marquette University. His research and teaching interests include the Pauline Epistles, Philo of Alexandria, the historical Jesus, the enculturation of Judaism and Christianity within the Greco‐Roman world, and the development of Trinitarian thought. He is the author of Lifting the Veil: 2 Corinthians 3:7–18 in Light of Jewish Homiletic and Commentary Traditions (Walter de Gruyter, 2015). His current project is a commentary on Philo’s allegorical treatise, On the Change of Names, for the Brill Philo of Alexandria Commentary Series. James L. Crenshaw is Robert L. Flowers Emeritus Professor of Old Testament, Duke University and has published extensively on wisdom literature, including commentaries on Job, Ecclesiastes, and Sirach. A Guggenheim Fellow and Phi Beta Kappa, he has devoted much attention to theodicy, culminating in the publication of Defending God: Biblical Responses to the Problem of Evil (Oxford University Press, 2005). Gilbert Dahan is Emeritus Director of Research at the National Center for Scientific Research (Paris) and Research Professor at the Ecole pratique des hautes études (chair of the unit “History of Christian Exegesis in the Middle Ages”). He has written numerous studies on the exegesis of the Bible in the medieval Christian West, particularly in the twelfth to fourteenth centuries. His publications include L’exégèse chrétienne de la Bible en Occident medieval (Cerf, 1999); Lire la Bible au moyen âge. Essais d’herméneutique médiévale (Droz, 2007); Interpréter la Bible au moyen âge. Cinq écrits du XIIIe siècle sur l’exégèse de la Bible traduits en français (Parole et Silence, 2007), and most recently Dominique et ses frères lecteurs de la Bible au XIIIe siècle (Cerf, 2016). He has directed several symposia on medieval exegetes and is the author of numerous articles on the subject. Tova Forti is Associate Professor in the Department of Bible, Archaeology and Ancient Near East at Ben‐Gurion University of the Negev. Her research interests include wisdom literature (Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, wisdom psalms, and Ben Sira). She has published the following books on animal imagery: Animal Imagery in the Book of Proverbs (Leiden: Brill, 2008), and “Like a Lone Bird on a Roof”: Animal Imagery and the Structure of Psalms (Eisenbrauns and Pennsylvania State University Press, 2018). She is currently collaborating with Katharine Dell (Cambridge University) on a commentary on Ecclesiastes (International Exegetical Commentary on the Old Testament).

x

notes on contributors

Matthew Goff is a Professor in the Department of Religion at Florida State University. He received his PhD in 2002 from the University of Chicago, and his research focuses on the Dead Sea Scrolls. He is the author of three monographs, including most recently 4QInstruction (Society of Biblical Literature, 2013). Bradley C. Gregory is Associate Professor of Biblical Studies in the School of Theology & Religious Studies at the Catholic University of America in Washington, DC. His research focuses on the deuterocanonical books and sapiential ethics. He is the author of Like an Everlasting Signet Ring: Generosity in the Book of Sirach (Walter de Gruyter, 2010). Jennie Grillo is Tisch Family Assistant Professor of Theology at the University of Notre Dame. She is the author of The Story of Israel in the Book of Qohelet: Ecclesiastes as Cultural Memory (Oxford, 2012), and articles on subjects including wisdom literature, the Daniel tradition, and the interactions of early Jewish and early Christian biblical interpretation. Her current project is a study of the history of interpretation of the Additions to Daniel. Davis Hankins is Assistant Professor of Religious Studies in the Department of Philosophy and Religion at Appalachian State University. He also serves as faculty affiliate in the Center for Judaic, Holocaust, and Peace Studies and in the Gender, Women’s, and Sexuality Studies program. He is the author of The Book of Job and the Immanent Genesis of Transcendence (Northwestern University Press, 2015) as well as articles on Job, Ecclesiastes, Proverbs, and 4QInstruction, among other texts and topics. Blake A. Jurgens is a graduate of Princeton Theological Seminary and a doctoral candidate at Florida State University. His research interests include sapiential literature, the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Testament of Solomon, and ancient and antique demonologies. Recent publications of his have appeared in the Journal for Biblical Literature, the Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha, and the Journal for the Study of Judaism. Mark Larrimore is Associate Professor of Religious Studies at Eugene Lang College of Liberal Arts, The New School. He is editor or co‐editor of The Problem of Evil: A Reader (2001), The German Invention of Race (2006), and Queer Christianities: Lived Religion in Transgressive Forms (2014), and the author of The Book of Job: A Biography (2013). His current research explores modern manifestations of religion and the politics of their study. Madipoane Masenya (Ngwan’a Mphahlele) is Professor of Old Testament Studies in the Department of Biblical and Ancient Studies at the University of South Africa, Pretoria. She has published numerous scientific articles and chapters in ­specialist books in the area of the Hebrew Bible and gender, especially in African contexts. She served as one of the associate editors of The Africana Bible: Reading

notes on contributors

xi

Israel’s Scriptures from Africa and the African Diaspora (Fortress, 2010). Her book How Worthy is the Woman of Worth? Rereading Proverbs 31:10–31 was published by Peter Lang (2004). She has recently (2018) co-edited with Kenneth N. Ngwa a volume titled, Navigating African Biblical Hermeneutics: Trends and Themes from our Pots and our Calabashes (Cambridge Scholars). Ari Mermelstein, Associate Professor of Bible at Yeshiva University, holds a PhD in Judaic Studies from New York University (NYU) and a JD from NYU Law School. His first book, Creation, Covenant, and the Beginnings of Judaism: Reconceiving Historical Time in the Second Temple Period, was published by Brill in 2014. His research spans the Hebrew Bible through rabbinic literature, and he is currently at work on a monograph devoted to the relationship between emotion and power in ancient Judaism. Patrick Pouchelle is an Associate Professor in the Centre Sèvres, Paris. He published his dissertation Dieu éducateur: une nouvelle approche de la théologie biblique entre Bible hébraïque, Septante et litérature grecque in 2015 (Mohr Siebeck). He is a member of the editorial team of the Historical and Theological Lexicon of the Septuagint. He has organized two conferences on the Psalms of Solomon and published the ­proceedings in Psalms of Solomon: Language, History, Theology (Society of Biblical Literature, 2015). He had the distinction of being a member of the Seminar of Advanced Jewish Studies in Oxford University in 2018. Matthew S. Rindge is Professor of Religious Studies at Gonzaga University (Spokane, WA). He is the author of Jesus’ Parable of the Rich Fool: Luke 12:13–34 among Ancient Conversations on Death and Possessions (Society of Biblical Literature, 2011) and Profane Parables: Film and the American Dream (Baylor University Press, 2016). He is currently writing Bible and Film: The Basics (Routledge). From 2012–2018 he chaired the Bible and Film section in the Society of Biblical Literature. Nili Samet teaches Bible and Assyriology in the Department of Bible at Bar‐Ilan University, where she has been a faculty member since 2011. One of her main research interests is biblical and Mesopotamian wisdom literature. Samet is the author of The Lamentation over the Destruction of Ur: A Revised Edition (Eisenbrauns, 2014), and several articles in the fields of Sumerian and Akkadian wisdom literature, the books of Proverbs and Qoheleth, and biblical Hebrew. Elisa Uusimäki is Associate Professor of Hebrew Bible at Aarhus University and holds the title of docent at the University of Helsinki. Her first book Turning Proverbs towards Torah: An Analysis of 4Q525 was published by Brill in 2016. Uusimäki’s research focuses on ancient Jewish wisdom and virtue discourses. She has published articles on topics such as wisdom and torah, the Dead Sea Scrolls, early biblical interpretation, the figure of the sage, exemplarity, and travel in the ancient world.

xii

notes on contributors

Timothy J. Sandoval is Associate Professor of Hebrew Bible at Brite Divinity School at Texas Christian University. He is the author of The Discourse of Wealth and Poverty in the Book of Proverbs (Brill, 2005), Money and the Way of Wisdom (SkyLight Paths, 2008), and “Wisdom and Worship: Themes and Perspectives in the Poetic Writings” in The Fortress Commentary on the Bible: The Old Testament and Apocrypha (Fortress Press, 2014). Jacqueline Vayntrub is Assistant Professor of Hebrew Bible at Yale Divinity School, with expertise in biblical poetry, wisdom literature, Semitic philology, ­literary criticism, and the history of biblical scholarship. She is the author of Beyond Orality: Biblical Poetry on its Own Terms (Routledge, 2019), and over a dozen articles and essays in peer‐reviewed journals and edited volumes. Benjamin Wold is Assistant Professor in Early Judaism and Early Christianity at Trinity College Dublin, the University of Dublin. His research interests include ­sapiential literature of the Second Temple period, the Jewish context of Christian origins, and especially the Dead Sea Scrolls. Jason M. Zurawski earned his PhD in Second Temple Judaism from the University of Michigan in 2016, and he is currently a postdoctoral fellow at the Qumran Institute, Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies, University of Groningen (Netherlands). His research focuses on Jewish paideia (education) during the Second Temple period and the relationship between education and identity formation. He is currently ­preparing his monograph, Jewish Paideia: Education, Enculturation, and the Discourse of Identity in the Hellenistic Diaspora, for publication.

Acknowledgments

A volume of this size is very much a collective effort. The editors would like to acknowledge the many different people without whom this project would not have come to fruition. This large group of people includes first and foremost the ­contributors and of this group Jacqueline Vayntrub deserves special thanks. The editorial assistants, Blake Jurgens (who is also a contributor) and Megan Strollo, did excellent work in terms of getting the chapters into final shape. We thank Giancarlo Angulo and Emily Olsen for compiling the index. Special thanks go to Rebecca Harkin, formerly an editor at Wiley Blackwell, who initially suggested this project. The editors are also grateful to Juliet Booker and Richard Samson, both ­editors at Wiley Blackwell who helped see this manuscript to publication.

Abbreviations

Abr. Philo, On the Life of Abraham (De Abrahamo) ADRN Avot de‐Rabbi Nathan Adv. Her. Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses Ag. Ap. Josephus, Against Apion Ahiq. Ahiqar Ant. Josephus, Antiquities Ap. John Apocryphon of John Auth. Log. The Authoritative Teaching Avod. Zar. Avodah Zarah b. Babylonian Talmud Bar. Baruch 2 Bar. 2 Baruch B. Qam. Bava Qamma Ber. Berakhot BG Berlin Gnostic Codex Borysth. Dio Chrysostom, Borysthenitica (Borysthenic Discourse) CD Damascus Document Cels. Origen, Contra Celsum Cert. Contest of Homer and Hesiod (Certamen Homeri et Hesiodi) 1 Chr 1 Chronicles 2 Chr 2 Chronicles Col Colossians Contempl. Philo, On the Contemplative Life (De vita contemplativa) 1 Cor 1 Corinthians 2 Cor 2 Corinthians Dan Daniel

abbreviations

DER Derekh Erets Rabbah Deut Deuteronomy DEZ Derekh Erets Zuta Dial. Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho Dial. Sav. Dialogue of the Savior Eccl Ecclesiastes 1 En. 1 Enoch Ep. Jerome, Epistulae Eph Ephesians Erub. Eruvin 2 Esd 2 Esdras Eug. Eugnostos the Blessed Exod Exodus Ezek Ezekiel Fug. Philo, On Flight and Finding (De fuga et inventione) Gen Genesis Git. Gittin Gos. Thom. Gospel of Thomas Hab Habakkuk Hag. Hagigah Heb Hebrews Her. Philo, Who is the Heir? (Quis rerum divinarum heres sit) Hos Hosea Hul Hullin Hyp. Arch. The Hypostasis of the Archons Isa Isaiah Jas James Jer Jeremiah Jub. Jubilees Judg Judges J.W. Josephus, Jewish War 1 Kgs 1 Kings 2 Kgs 2 Kings 1 Kgdms 1 Kingdoms (LXX) 4 Kgdms 4 Kingdoms (LXX) KJV Kings James Version Lam. Rab. Lamentations Rabbah Leg. Philo, Allegorical Interpretation (Legum allegoriae) Let. Aris. Letter of Aristeas Lev Leviticus Lev. Rab. Leviticus Rabbah Lk Luke

xv

xvi

abbreviations

LXX Septuagint 1 Macc 1 Maccabees 2 Macc 2 Maccabees 3 Macc 3 Maccabees 4 Macc 4 Maccabees Makk. Makkot Mal Malachi Matt Gospel of Matthew Mek. R. Ish. Mekhilta de Rabbi Ishmael Midr. Prov. Midrash Rabbah MT Masoretic Text Neh Nehemiah NHC Nag Hammadi Codices NJPS New Jewish Publication Society NJV New Kings James Version NRSV New Revised Standard Version Num Numbers Num. Rab. Numbers Rabbah Op. Hesiod, Works and Days (Opera et Dies) Opif. Philo, On the Creation of the World (De opificio mundi) P. Insing. Papyrus Insinger Pan. Epiphanius, Panarion Pesiq. Rab. Pesiqta Rabbati Pesiq. Rab. Kah. Pesiqta de‐Rab Kahana PGM Greek Magical Papyri Praep. ev. Eusebius, Praeparatio evangelica Prot. Plato, Protagoras Prov Proverbs Ps Psalm Ps.‐Phoc. Pseudo‐Phocylides Pss Psalms Q Qumran Qidd. Qiddushin Qoh Qoheleth Qoh. Rab. Qoheleth Rabbah Quaest. conviv. Plutarch, Table Talk in Nine Books (Quaestionum convivialum libri IX) 1QM War Scroll 4QMMT Miqsat Maase Ha‐Torah 1QpHab Habbakuk Pesher a 11QPs Qumran Psalms Scroll (11Q5) 1QS Community Rule

abbreviations

xvii

Rev Revelation Rom Romans Ruth Rab. Ruth Rabbah 1 Sam 1 Samuel 2 Sam 2 Samuel Sanh. Sanhedrin Sent. Sext. Sentences of Sextus Sept. sap. conv. Plutarch, Dinner of the Seven Wise Men (Septem sapientium convivium) Shabb. Shabbat Sib. Or. Sibylline Oracles Sir Ben Sira Song Song of Songs Song Rab. Song of Songs Rabbah Soph. Jes. Chr. Wisdom of Jesus Christ Spec. Philo, On the Special Laws (De specialibus lebigus) Strom. Clement, Stromata t. Tosefta TAD Bezalel Porten and Ada Yardeni, Textbook of Aramaic Documents (4 vols. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 1986‐1999) T. Dan Testament of Dan Teach. Silv. Teachings of Silvanus T. Gad Testament of Gad Theog. Hesiod, Theogony Thund. Thunder: The Perfect Mind T. Iss. Testament of Issachar T. Naph. Testament of Naphtali Tob. Tobit T. Sol. Testament of Solomon Vit. Mos. Philo, The Life of Moses (De vita Mosis) Wis Wisdom of Solomon y. Jerusalem Talmud Yad. Yadayim Yeb. Yevamot Yom. Yoma

Editors’ Introduction Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff

T

his handbook is designed to give the reader, whether an advanced scholar or an undergraduate student, a basic introduction to and overview of wisdom literature. The volume will also provide an impression of how this material has been read and interpreted in various contexts and historical periods. The authors engage the topic from a variety of approaches, asking historical, literary, theological, and f­eminist questions (among others) about wisdom literature. The chapters offer detailed and thorough studies of the relevant texts and also discuss a number of issues that are pertinent to the study of wisdom literature, such as the figure of Solomon, pedagogy in the ancient world, and the oral transmission of sayings. While many of the chapters focus on antiquity and the context in which wisdom literature was produced, the contributors deal with later periods as well, including our own context, as in, for example, Chapter  26 on sapiential themes in contemporary cinema. The cultural contexts that the contributors take into consideration include both the ancient world, as in Chapters 17 and 18 on, respectively, Egypt and Mesopotamia, and also settings that are traditionally not prominent in the study of wisdom literature, such as Chapter 25, which compares the book of Proverbs to didactic and gnomic traditions in Africa. This volume and its contents raise two essential questions: What is wisdom? And what is wisdom literature? As our introduction and the subsequent chapters demonstrate, this is not always an easy question to answer. The editors have not imposed a single, monolithic definition of wisdom or wisdom literature upon the contributors. The extent to which wisdom literature is a viable or coherent category is a topic of

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

2

editors’ introduction

debate (Weeks 2016; Kynes 2015, 2019). The authors of the chapters that follow in general lay out how they understand these topics. Yet a basic overview about how to understand the terms wisdom and wisdom literature is necessary.

Wisdom as a Concept: A Pedagogical Ideal and Expansive Knowledge Wisdom (hokmah in Hebrew; sophia in Greek) is an important and somewhat ambiguous term in the literature of ancient Israel and beyond. It is difficult to define, because it encompasses knowledge and learning in a broad sense. In the ancient instructions, wisdom can denote the desire and ability to study and learn, and the act of doing so, and it can also signify the knowledge or comprehension that one has attained. For many of the ancient texts classified as wisdom literature, the primary aim is stated from the outset. For example, the book of Proverbs begins with an explicitly pedagogical prologue: “for learning about wisdom and instruction” (1:2). In addition to signifying knowledge in a broader sense, wisdom can denote specific skills or types of comportment that one might develop, including a virtuous disposition. In the book of Exodus, for example, the term signifies crafts of various sorts, including metalworking and embroidery, in which Bezalel and Oholiab, who are commissioned to help construct the tabernacle, are skilled (35:30–35). In this example, wisdom indicates a specific skill set. In another example, King Solomon famously prays to God for wisdom in 1 Kings 3–4 (see Chapter 9 in this volume), and the wisdom he receives includes extensive knowledge regarding plants and animals (4:33). Solomon’s legendary wisdom also includes the ability to rule with “righteousness,” which is required of any king considered good in the ancient world. This designation suggests that wisdom signifies not only having a wide range of knowledge but also a predilection to be virtuous. Relatedly, wisdom can denote a mental aptitude – an ability to understand the world accurately and prosper as a result. A person with wisdom can make appropriate and apt decisions with regard to basic but important spheres of life, such as marriage and finance. A wise person is portrayed as someone who leads a long and fulfilling life. The rewards of wisdom are famously described in Proverbs 3. This chapter depicts personified “Wisdom” as both a woman and a “tree of life” (Prov. 3:18), a figure one should embrace (in pointed contrast to the tree of the knowledge of good and evil in Genesis 3). She holds in her hands “long life” and “riches” (Prov. 3:16). Envisioning Wisdom as a woman and a tree constitutes a colorful effort to give concrete expression to a vague and abstract concept. The portrayal of Wisdom as a woman is multifaceted (see Chapter 10), but the metaphor thrives and develops in the context of pedagogy.

editors’ introduction

3

Such depictions of the figure of Wisdom raise the question of ancient educational practices. While much about education in ancient Israel remains unknown, it is reasonable to understand it as by and large a male enterprise, in terms of both teachers and students. The personification of Wisdom seems targeted at male addressees, students who are supposed to be on the proper path (toward virtuous behavior). A fundamental goal of this literature is to inculcate a desire for and even, as some texts say, a love for Wisdom (e.g. Prov 8:17), which will then lead to success. The figure of Wisdom as a tree of life helps signify human flourishing, the ability of people to thrive and lead fulfilling lives, with regard to material success and harmonious family relations. The promise of such benefits is critiqued in certain texts, giving the impression that wisdom, as represented in Proverbs and other instructions, was a subject of debate in the ancient world. The viability of wisdom to result in fulfillment is famously questioned in the book of Job, with its poignant investigation of a man trying to understand why he has lost his family, prosperity, and health (see Chapter 2). Job 28 paints a poetically rich picture of people striving for wisdom, like miners digging through the earth for precious metals, and the chapter seems to conclude that wisdom (the ability to understand and succeed in the world) is not accessible in our earthly realm. This is in contrast to the book of Proverbs, where Wisdom, personified as a woman, calls out to passers‐by, urging them to study with her and acquire understanding (Prov. 8:1–9). According to Proverbs, if one desires wisdom, it can be attained. Ecclesiastes, offering a different critique of wisdom than Job, presents wisdom as something that can be acquired, but the book (as Chapter 3 examines) questions one’s ability to make a lasting or substantive difference, even with the requisite knowledge. In some of the passages addressed in this volume, wisdom can be understood as an attribute of God rather than something that people can acquire. There is human wisdom, and there is divine wisdom. God’s wisdom helps explain why the wise person can predict outcomes and make good and apt decisions in life. The world has a rational structure that can be apprehended by someone who is wise. It is understandable, because God made it that way. According to Proverbs 3:19, for example, the Deity fashioned the created order “with wisdom.” Wisdom allows one to understand the world, because God used divine wisdom when creating it. Another example of this perspective is Proverbs 8, which offers a fascinating autobiographical account of personified Wisdom being present at the dawn of creation and providing essential help to God. The idea that wisdom is embedded in the created order and can be apprehended by discerning individuals appears regularly in Proverbs, is questioned in Job, and is taken up and extended in later texts. Ben Sira (chapter 24) poetically expands the account of personified Wisdom found in Proverbs 8. The book also includes ­extensive poetic praise of the cosmic order, the perception of which, the book urges, should elicit exaltation of God and be considered a source of wisdom (Sir. 42:15–44:33;

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see Chapter 5 in this volume). The Wisdom of Solomon, which combines sapiential traditions found in Scripture with Hellenistic philosophy, envisions Wisdom not only as a woman (as in Proverbs) but also as a benevolent spirit that extends throughout the cosmos and binds all things together (1:7; for an overview of this composition, see Chapter 6). There is something similar at work in the Qumran wisdom text 4QInstruction, which encourages its addressees, who are part of an elect community, to study the raz nihyeh. This Hebrew phrase can be translated “the mystery that is to be” (see Chapter 7 in this volume; Goff 2013). The addressee (called a mebin, or “understanding one”) is urged repeatedly to contemplate this mystery. That it is a “mystery” denotes that it is esoteric, supernatural revelation disclosed to this select group (the “understanding ones”). The term raz denotes revelation in apocalyptic texts (e.g., Daniel 2), not traditional wisdom texts, suggesting that in the late Second Temple period some wisdom texts could be heavily influenced by the apocalyptic tradition (see Chapter 14).

Wisdom as a Textual Category As the discussion so far has implied, there is a delineated group of texts that scholars traditionally turn to when discussing wisdom. Wisdom is itself a theme in these texts – a basis for the label wisdom literature – works that praise learning and encourage proper behavior in the world are often grouped into this category. The fact that some texts pursue the same themes across generations and centuries indicates noteworthy continuity. For example, it is no coincidence that Ben Sira and the Wisdom of Solomon present a personified Wisdom figure, just as we find in Proverbs 8. Scholars generally use the term wisdom to denote a group of texts – in particular biblical texts: in the Hebrew Bible, Proverbs, Job, and Ecclesiastes, and in the Apocrypha or Deuterocanonical books (canonical in the Catholic and Orthodox traditions but not the Protestant Old Testament or Jewish scriptures), Ben Sira and the Wisdom of Solomon (Collins 1997a). The term is also used to describe didactic literature produced in Egypt and Mesopotamia, and also some texts from Qumran, such as 4QInstruction (see Chapters 17, 18, and 7 respectively). Yet some interpreters have suggested in recent years that the wisdom label causes more problems than it solves and should be abandoned. One basic critique is that wisdom literature is a creation of modern scholarship, and many interpreters have identified false coherence for this category (Kynes 2015, 2019). A related charge is that the wisdom label is not only vague but, through the application of this category to a diverse group of works, it becomes difficult to appreciate the particularities and idiosyncrasies of each text so classified (Weeks 2016; cf. Sneed 2011). Such critiques force the careful interpreter to articulate how they understand wisdom as a textual category. Scholars generally delineate wisdom as a category on the basis of commonalities between the texts so‐categorized in terms of literary

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form, theme, content, worldview, function, and social setting. The texts praise instruction and learning as a virtue and were in general circulated in pedagogical contexts, transmitted across generations from teacher to student (some of whom would become teachers themselves who would in turn have their own students). In the specific context of ancient Israel and Second Temple Judea, the texts so‐categorized often have terminological and thematic affinities with the book of Proverbs. Wisdom is not a literary genre in the sense that to be classified as such a member must adhere to a rigid or formalized literary form as with, for example, a sonnet or a haiku. Collins for example has stated “there is universal agreement that wisdom does not constitute a literary genre and that it can find expression in various literary forms” (1997b, 265; cf. Goff 2010). Rather, wisdom literature encompasses a somewhat eclectic body of literature in which one finds a diversity of themes and literary structures that together comprise a category on the basis of their common features. Recognizing this understanding of the category can prevent us from failing to appreciate the subtleties of each text. We as editors maintain, as do the contributors to this volume, that there is a constellation of texts about proper human behavior, the search for knowledge, and reward and punishment (or the lack thereof) that can accurately be called wisdom or sapiential literature. Many of the texts that fall under the wisdom label are properly labeled instructions, and these works have common generic features and themes. Specifically, one finds in these texts monostich (one‐line) sayings, two‐line sayings, and warnings or admonitions. Different aspects of human existence and the natural world are compared through the use of poetic parallelism. Through this formal content, the instructions offer perspectives on appropriate conduct and the role of the Deity in adjudicating fair outcomes. Early works like the Egyptian Instruction of Ptahhotep self‐identify as instructions and offer timeless maxims on such topics as careful speech, corruption, and marital relations. The Israelite book of Proverbs can also be classified as an instruction, and the two‐line saying is its common structural feature, especially in chapters 10–30. These sayings are often practical and relate to everyday human existence: “Fools think their own way is right, but the wise listen to advice” (Prov. 13:15). This type of observation epitomizes the wisdom tradition that will be explored in this book, both in terms of form and content. The works explored in this volume are appropriately classified as wisdom literature, and many of them are more specifically instructions. As editors, we are proceeding with the understanding that wisdom literature is an etic category, a designation by modern interpreters that must be explored thoroughly and with the caveat that we are dealing with a diverse group of texts in this volume. Yet the works that are analyzed here have many common elements, from similar structural features to an abiding interest in the meaning of everyday experience, how best to conduct oneself, and the manner in which God(s) intervenes to shape events and judge human ­outcomes. The chapters in this volume demonstrate that wisdom literature is not nebulous, but a category with coherence and viability.

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The Contents of the Volume This volume is arranged into four Parts: Texts, Themes, Antecedents, and Reception. These various sections allow for comprehensive exploration of wisdom literature and invite consideration of areas that have not gained enough attention in more traditional and limited treatments of this topic. The first Part (Texts) addresses the major texts in the ancient Israelite and Second Temple Judean context that are usually grouped in the wisdom literature category. Chapter 1 by Jacqueline Vayntrub considers the book of Proverbs, usually seen as the clearest example of wisdom literature in the Hebrew Bible. Vayntrub does not dispute the significance of this instruction for sapiential discourse in ancient Israel, but she cautions against using Proverbs as the template for judging subsequent texts, and she includes some groundbreaking work on how we should understand this collection. In the next chapter, Davis Hankins provides a creative treatment of the enigmatic book of Job. The human protagonist in the story repeatedly protests his innocence to God and his associates, and Hankins’s provocative chapter explores the depiction of gross unfairness in Job, along with God as a dysfunctional force of plasticity in the world. In Chapter 3, Jennie Grillo offers a remarkably astute introduction to the book of Ecclesiastes. The author of this ancient work, Qoheleth, harps on the brevity of life and the frequent unfairness of human outcomes and relationships. Grillo explores the probable Hellenistic‐era milieu for this text and the timeless questions addressed by its author. Chapter 4 by William P. Brown focuses on the book of Psalms and whether some of the content can accurately be designated as wisdom literature. Brown’s helpful overview of the debate over classifying certain psalms as wisdom highlights the difficult nature of what we group into this category and the importance of sapiential ideas in ancient Israel. Next, in Chapter 5, is the exploration of the book of Sirach or Ben Sira by Bradley C. Gregory. This instruction can be dated with relative precision because of a prologue by the Jewish author’s grandson, and Gregory explores the combination of traditional discourse (sayings, warnings) and the explicit invocation of Israelite legal and prophetic traditions, a feature that is notably absent from the books of Proverbs, Job, and Ecclesiastes. The Wisdom of Solomon was influenced by Greek ideas and philosophical systems, and in Chapter 6 Randall D. Chesnutt offers a lucid exposition of how the author (Pseudo‐Solomon) depicts the righteous life and accompanying rewards, including the possibility of individual immortality. This text, written in Greek around the turn of the common era (CE), contains a fascinating amalgam of Middle Platonic ideas and the traditional subject matter of earlier instructions (e.g. adultery). The discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls in 1947 has transformed our understanding of ancient Jewish and Christian texts, including wisdom literature. Archaeologists found a trove of fragmentary texts near Qumran that have been identified as wisdom literature. In her lucid chapter (Chapter  7), Elisa Uusimäki

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explores the combination of apocalyptic and instructional motifs in these texts. She demonstrates the manner in which the esoteric mystery language in such works as 4QInstruction and 4QMysteries forces us to reevaluate our narrow, traditional criteria for what constitutes wisdom. The last chapter in this first section is from Patrick Pouchelle, who analyzes the Greek translations of various wisdom texts that appear in the Septuagint (LXX). Pouchelle considers how certain translations depart from the original Hebrew texts with a “divine revealed wisdom” (e.g., Proverbs), while others (Ecclesiastes) seek to follow the Hebrew more faithfully. Pouchelle’s chapter demonstrates that an author’s time period and religious beliefs influence translation decisions. Part II (Themes) looks at some of the important motifs and subtopics in wisdom literature. In Chapter  9, Blake A. Jurgens takes up the figure of Solomon and explores why this famous Israelite king came to be identified as the author of Proverbs and a person of immense knowledge. According to Jurgens, the abiding interest in Solomon illustrates the importance of this king in the cultural memory of Jews and Christians in the ancient world. Solomon’s reputed wisdom in the book of 1 Kings became an important touchpoint for determining how ancient authors and audiences constructed their perspectives on wisdom. Moving to another important theme, the book of Proverbs and other ancient instructions are replete with female imagery involving the figure of Wisdom, and in Chapter 10 Tova Forti considers this type of language and its significance. As a close reader of Hebrew texts, Forti provides a helpful overview of such pivotal figures as Lady Wisdom and the Other Woman in Proverbs 1–9 and what they symbolized to their audiences. Ancient instructions often contain vivid female imagery, and Forti offers helpful context on the function of these varied depictions. Ancient scribal and educational practices are not fully understood, but it is indisputably clear that the sayings and discourses that we identify as wisdom literature were gathered and in some cases authored by learned scribes. In Chapter 11 Matthew Goff explores the scribal culture undergirding much of this literature, and he pays close attention to the social location of the scribe (whether in the temple, royal court, or some other setting) and the manner in which Greek ideas influenced the authors and compilers of these texts. The next chapter addresses the nature of the God we meet in these ancient works and comes from one of the most accomplished scholars of wisdom literature, James L. Crenshaw. According to his argument, there is an evolution in these texts, from God as parent in Proverbs to a merging of sacred traditions with wisdom in later instructions (e.g. Ben Sira). Crenshaw pays special attention to the complex and memorable portrait of God in Job. As our introduction has already stressed, one of the most significant features of this literature is the influence of Greek ideas. In Chapter 13, Michael Cover provides a lucid overview of the numerous examples in this regard. Specifically, he examines two important authors of the late Second Temple period, Pseudo‐Phocylides and

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Philo, and the manner in which they utilized Hellenistic concepts and thereby transformed Jewish wisdom. Cover pays particular attention to the interplay of Hellenistic and Jewish ideas in diasporic settings like Alexandria. Next is the relationship between wisdom and apocalyptic in a helpful chapter from Jason M. Zurawski. In recent decades, scholars have paid closer attention to the fact that generic categories were not rigidly observed in the ancient world. Contrary to the frequent assertion that wisdom and apocalypticism are fundamentally distinct modes of discourse, Zurawski successfully demonstrates how much fluidity there was between these two categories in the late Second Temple period. The final chapter in the Themes section examines the oral transmission of sayings in the ancient world, particularly the maxims found in the book of Proverbs. Timothy Sandoval considers the likely origin for the sayings in Proverbs and how people in the ancient world collected and shared their gnomic traditions. The next part of this volume is Antecedents, by which we mean the instructions in the ancient Near East that had an impact on Israelite and Jewish wisdom. Israelite and Jewish instructions were heavily dependent on an international wisdom tradition that existed millennia before the first books of the Bible were ever composed. Chapter  16 by Seth A. Bledsoe examines the legends involving the sage Ahiqar, most notably the Aramaic text found among those Judeans living in fifth‐century BCE Egypt. Bledsoe provides a comprehensive overview of how the legend of Ahiqar developed and the pairing of this colorful story with timeless wisdom sayings. Next is the chapter by Samuel L. Adams on the wisdom tradition in Egypt. Adams considers how the shape and tenor of instructional literature remained a critical aspect of this ancient culture, including the justice principle known as Maat, and he also examines how one Egyptian text (Amenemope) became the model for a section of the biblical book of Proverbs. The last chapter in this part analyzes the relevant Mesopotamian texts. Nili Samet points to the heterogeneous character of the Mesopotamian works commonly placed under the wisdom banner, and she offers a helpful overview of the various works that contain sapiential elements, ­particularly Sumerian and Akkadian literature. The final part of this volume considers Reception, specifically how later voices utilized the wisdom tradition and interpreted it in new contexts. Commentators often pay insufficient attention to the sapiential themes and elements in the New Testament, but Chapter 19 by Benjamin Wold offers a necessary corrective to this tendency. Like the authors of other chapters in the volume, Wold is careful with definitions of wisdom, and he offers helpful analysis on the sayings in the Synoptic Gospels, especially the material labeled as “Q” and the Letter of James. This chapter also considers the pivotal question of whether the historical Jesus can be labeled a “wisdom teacher.” For Chapter 20, Ari Mermelstein addresses the myriad ways in which the rabbinic literature utilized and built upon the sapiential texts of the Hebrew Bible and early Judaism. Mermelstein carefully examines the mishnaic

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tractate Avot and the manner in which it is similar to and different from earlier wisdom literature. Along similar lines, Chapter 21 by Carson Bay considers the continuation of the wisdom tradition in early and late antique Christianity. These interpreters made extensive use of Jewish wisdom, including Ben Sira and the Wisdom of Solomon, but framed their discussion through a Christian lens, both on the allegorical and more mundane levels (e.g., financial matters). The texts of the Nag Hammadi library have captivated interpreters since their discovery in 1945, particularly with regard to the light they shed on long lost gnostic forms of Christianity. This corpus also includes wisdom literature. In Chapter 22, as an expert on this literature, Dylan M. Burns analyzes the Teachings of Silvanus, the so‐called Sentences of Sextus, and the utilization of Wisdom/Sophia traditions in the Nag Hammadi texts. These texts build on the content of earlier Jewish wisdom and the New Testament, but they also contain ascetic elements that are so characteristic of the Nag Hammadi corpus. Moving to a later period, the ancient wisdom literature also captivated Christian interpreters of the Middle Ages. Gilbert Dahan, in Chapter 23, considers the medieval interpretations of sapiential texts (excluding Job, which was not attributed to Solomon) and the fascinating exegetical moves of many later commentators. Dahan includes some important discussion on the interpretation of Ben Sira and the Wisdom of Solomon in the Middle Ages. When considering the reception history of the wisdom texts, the book of Job deserves special consideration. In Chapter 24, Mark Larrimore gives a dazzling survey of the different responses to Job in artistic representations and commentaries throughout the ages. He notes the ways in which interpreters have struggled with the theodicy question in the book, the relationship between the prose and poetic sections, and the profound theological issues raised by this timeless classic. Wisdom literature has not just flourished in the Middle East and Europe: there is a rich and diverse heritage of sayings in Africa. Madipoane Masenya is one of the foremost experts on wisdom traditions in this context, and in Chapter 25 she offers readers of this volume a useful introduction to this material, both in terms of form and content. With a primary focus on her South African context, Masenya shows how proverbs can function as social commentary, shape human behavior, and influence cultural norms. This chapter also reveals remarkable similarities between African wisdom and the book of Proverbs, even though there is no direct connection between these traditions. Finally, Matthew Rindge examines wisdom themes in modern cinema. Some of the primary questions in the ancient texts, such as the existence of a just God, whether a fair relationship between act and consequence exists, and the best standards for human conduct, are also explored in contemporary films. Rindge shows that the wisdom literature being examined in this volume addresses timeless and fascinating questions, and a vibrant interpretive process continues to the present day.

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References Collins, John J. 1997a. Jewish Wisdom in the Hellenistic Age. Louisville: Westminster John Knox. Collins, John J. 1997b. Wisdom reconsidered, in light of the Scrolls. Dead Sea Discoveries 4: 265–281. Goff, Matthew. 2013. 4QInstruction. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Goff, Matthew. 2010. Qumran wisdom literature and the problem of genre. Dead Sea Discoveries 17: 315–335. Kynes, Will. 2015. The modern scholarly wisdom tradition and the threat of pan‐sapientialism: A Case report. In:

Was There a Wisdom Tradition? New Prospects in Israelite Wisdom Studies (ed. Mark R. Sneed), 11–38. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature Press. Kynes, Will. 2019. An Obituary for “Wisdom Literature.” New York: Oxford University Press. Sneed, Mark R. 2011. Is the “wisdom tradition” a tradition? Catholic Biblical Quarterly 73: 50–71. Weeks, Stuart. 2016. Is “wisdom literature” a useful category? In: Tracing Sapiential Traditions in Ancient Judaism (ed. Hindy Najman, Jean‐Sébastien Rey, and Eibert J.C. Tigchelaar), 3–23. Leiden: Brill.

Further Reading Crenshaw, James L. 2010. Old Testament Wisdom: An Introduction. 3rd ed. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. A leading introduction to the subject. Perdue, Leo G. 2008. The Sword and the Stylus. An Introduction to Wisdom in the Age of Empires. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. An introduction to the topic with an expansive understanding of wisdom texts.

Perdue, Leo G. 2007. Wisdom Literature: A Theological History. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. A theological overview of wisdom literature. Rad, Gerhard von. 1972. Wisdom in Israel. London/Valley Forge: SCM Press/Trinity Press. This book helped spark contemporary interest in wisdom literature.

I. Texts

CHAPTER 1

Proverbs Jacqueline Vayntrub

Introduction The book of Proverbs is a multifaceted collection of instructions, allegorical poetry, sayings, and riddles, with many of its aphorisms and themes making their way into Jewish and Christian liturgical traditions. The reception of this work in biblical scholarship has greatly influenced the study of biblical wisdom literature as well as theories of biblical poetry. The following overview covers the predominantly canonical lens through which Proverbs has been received in scholarship and how this lens has shaped the scholarly category of biblical wisdom literature. Throughout, the overview considers the form and content of texts contained within Proverbs against the background of ancient Near Eastern instructional literature, as well as various themes explored in Proverbs, such as speech, skill, deception, beauty, desire, and the acquisition of wisdom. A single, unifying form, principle of organization, or thematic focus cannot be identified for the book of Proverbs. However, the broader ancient Near Eastern and Mediterranean literary genre of the “instruction” – as well as the relationship between instructor and student (frequently, father and son) which this genre configures and also the promises and obligations implied by the genre – can contextualize much of what is found formally and thematically in the book of Proverbs.

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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Organization and Presentation As a collection of poetry, the book of Proverbs is in some ways comparable in its most superficial presentation as a text to other collections of poetry found in the Writings of the Hebrew Bible. Narratives in the Hebrew Bible, like Ruth and Esther, are organized through the chronology of unfolding events and a narrative voice (Vayntrub 2018). Poetry in the Hebrew Bible is either presented within a story in the voice of speaking characters or it is outside of a narrative framework, organized in collections. A good example of such a collection of poetry, where the organization follows a principle rather than the chronological sequence of events is the book of Psalms. Like Psalms, Song of Songs, and Lamentations, the book of Proverbs can be seen as a collection of self‐contained poetic units. But unlike these works, and therefore unique within the Hebrew Bible, the book of Proverbs presents itself as a collection of collections. As an anthology that brings together units attributed to individuals other than its titular King Solomon – for example, “The Wise” in 24:23 (and reconstructed in 22:17) and “King Lemuel” in 30:1  –  the book of Proverbs resembles Psalms in its presentation. In Psalms, there are 150 more or less self‐contained poems, many with titles that attribute and dedicate them to a variety of figures, such as David, Solomon, Sons of Korah, and Asaph. But while in the Masoretic version, the Psalter is divided into five books (Psalms 1–41; 42–72; 73–89; 90–106; 107– 150), there is little other than the closing doxological statements of each “book” within the Hebrew Psalter (for example, at 41:13, 72:19, etc.) to identify these as independent collections (Kraus 1988, 16–20). By contrast, the collections brought together in the book of Proverbs, whether or not these were in fact originally independent collections, the titles and distinct attributions framing these sections give the sense that Proverbs brings together a variety of preexisting collections. This is because while each “book” of the Hebrew Psalter indicates a division between sections, the individual psalms are still self‐contained and delimited poems with their own individual titles and attributions. The comparison to the manner in which Proverbs is presented – since both of these works are collections bearing multiple titles and attributions  –  helps to contextualize what ancient authors and readers may have understood in the organization of these texts. The various sections of Proverbs – Chapters 1–9; 10:1–22:16; 22:17–24:22; 24:23–34; 25–29; 30; 31:1– 9; and the alphabetic acrostic in 31:10–31 – are designated by initial titles attributing the respective sections to a variety of figures. The rearrangement of these sections by the Septuagint (in which the book is ordered 1:1–24:34; 30:1–31:9; 25–29; and the alphabetic acrostic in 31:10–31) only reinforces the sense that these sections are self‐contained collections, delineated by their framing title (see also Chapter 8 in this volume). The Sections “Proverbs and the Question of Solomonic attribution” and “Sections of Proverbs” below will deal with the distinction between the Masoretic and Septuagint arrangements of the collections and offer some suggestions as to what these different arrangements might communicate to readers.

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The title for the work in 1:1 in Hebrew is a framing statement of attribution similar to those found in Eccl. 1:1, Song 1:1, and various psalms. The title is translated simply in nearly all English Bible translations as “The proverbs of Solomon, son of David, king of Israel,” which is where the common English title for the work, “Proverbs,” seems to derive. How we ended up with “Proverbs” as the work’s title is a bit more complex than a straightforward translation of the Hebrew into English may appear. The Hebrew term translated for “proverbs” is mishle, the first word of the entire work. First words, or “incipits,” functioned frequently as the titles of works in antiquity. Mesopotamian cuneiform tablets written in Sumerian and Akkadian were often identified by their incipits, a practice that continues in our reference to some of these more famous works today. For example, the Babylonian epic of creation, Enuma Elish (meaning “When above”), is named for the opening two words of the work. This practice continues in the biblical literary tradition as well, where Genesis is referred to in Hebrew, for example, as Bereshit, Lamentations is called Eicha, and Song of Songs as Shir HaShirim, etc. However, this is not a consistent practice. A number of works are named in Hebrew for their protagonists (e.g. Ruth, Esther, Jonah, and Job) or main speakers (e.g. most of the latter prophets, Qoheleth), while others are named for their contents (Psalms, as Tehillim, and Chronicles, as Divre HaYamim). The Hebrew title for the book of Proverbs is an intersection of the practice of naming a work by its incipit and a term that in some way designates the work’s contents. The Hebrew term mishle often translated in English as “proverbs of,” is the plural construct form of the term mashal. However a brief study of how the incipit mishle shelomoh has been translated by the Greek and Latin versions gives a glimpse into the complicated past lying behind the English title for the work. The translation of mashal as “proverb” is not reflective of the term’s usage in Biblical Hebrew more broadly. The term is used in three titles in the work, always attributed to Solomon, in 1:1, 10:1, and 25:1. English “proverb” might be an appropriate description of the numerous brief prosodic sayings in Chapters 10:1–22:16 and 25–29. An accepted broad definition of “proverb” among folklorists is that they are “traditional expressions in which there is a topic and a comment” (Vayntrub 2019b). However, the material that the term mashal is meant to describe in chapters 1–9 could hardly account for the type of texts found there: father‐to‐son instructions interspersed by poetic interludes on Lady Wisdom and her adversary, Lady Folly. The book’s title in English appears to derive from the Latin Vulgate but not from the work’s incipit in that translation, since in 1:1, mishle is translated parabolae. The Latin title, proverbium (later appearing in the Douay‐Rheims 1582 English translation of the Vulgate as “Proverbs”), appears to derive from the incipit of the Greek version, the Septuagint, which gives the term paroimiai. The Septuagint, as mentioned, attests a distinct organization from the Masoretic text. It varies in its titles for the various collections, and so where the Hebrew has two distinct titles in 1:1 and 10:1, defining these two sections as distinct collections, the Greek has only the one title in 1:1, with no heading in 10:1. Therefore the title in 1:1 governs the entirety

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of 1:1–22:16, that is, until a separate title is given in 22:17 identifying it as a new section: logois sophōn, “The Words of the Wise.” But the Greek does not consistently translate mishle in the titles for sections of Proverbs as paroimiai. This leads us to conclude that the title Proverbs for the entire work – first paroimiai, as incipit in the Septuagint for all of 1:1–22:16, next as in the Vulgate title, yet in the work’s incipit in 1:1, and subsequently as “proverbs” in English – as we have received it, is the result of ancient and early modern reception of the work as mostly, but not entirely, comprising proverbial statements. As discussed below, an accurate translation of the Hebrew mishle, given this complex history and the way the term is used in the rest of the biblical text “proverbial statements,” but is not limited to this translation. A better translation would be “saying” or even “instruction.” While many have focused on the Solomonic attribution to Proverbs, discussed below, equal if not more attention should be given to Proverbs’ anthological and multivocal character. As a collection of multiple collections, attributed not only to Solomon, but to a slew of abstract, unknown, or obscure characters such as “The Wise,” “Agur,” and “King Lemuel,” the work reads distinctly, if not intentionally, as a curated, irreducible collection of the best of ancient advice.

Proverbs and the Question of Solomonic Attribution How might we understand the attribution of Proverbs to Solomon in 1:1, as well as his appearance in 10:1 and 25:1? The first hint as to how we might understand the Solomonic attribution in Proverbs is understanding Solomon’s character in the Deuteronomistic History – his gift for wisdom, his penchant for excess, and in particular, his performance of many sayings. To understand the array of Solomonic ideals evoked in the attribution in Proverbs, we must first outline how Solomon’s literary character integrates his divine gifts of wisdom, his material success and penchant for excess, and the collection of speech‐items such as the mashal (see also Chapter 9 in this volume). In 1 Kings, as David is on his deathbed, he instructs his son Solomon who is to succeed him to “walk according to [God’s] ways,” to follow his laws in order to find success, that this path will lead to an eternal dynasty (1 Kgs. 2:1–4). While the language echoes Deuteronomy (“with all of their mind and all of their being,” e.g. 6:5), the description of behavior as a “path” also recalls much of the language and thematic focus on walkways and correct action in Proverbs. Shortly after Solomon assumes the throne of his father David, the Israelite deity appears to Solomon at night. The Deity grants Solomon a wish, to which Solomon responds by affirming the continuity of relationship between the king and the Deity from the previous generation to the present. Solomon laments his youth and lack of knowledge and requests “a wise and discerning mind” from the Deity, who bestows this unto him, in addition to the traditional rewards of wisdom: long life, material wealth, and

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glory (a weighty reputation). These rewards, the Deity says, are granted so long as Solomon walks according to God’s ways (3:14). It is on this background, on the knowledge of Solomon’s gifted wisdom and success, that his great achievements are enumerated in 1 Kings 5, in particular, how his great wisdom manifested itself. The Israelite deity “granted Solomon wisdom and great discernment, and a mind as vast as the grains of sand on the seashore,” (5:9). It is particularly the description of Solomon’s breadth of mind (leb) that contextualizes the Solomonic attribution in Proverbs. Only a few verses later, Solomon is described – among the many of his enumerated excesses in this chapter – as having performed “3000 mashal” and that “his shir (songs) numbered 1005” (5:12). This excess of speech is, in fact, directly related to his “breadth of mind,” in that speech‐items, like instructions, are stored and collected in the body. Speech, as text‐ like instructions, is described in Proverbs as an object that is transmitted from the teacher to the passive, attentive student without any alteration. These instructions are attributed with life‐protecting properties, and described as amulets, necklaces, or objects fastened around one’s head or fingers. In Prov. 3:3, the instructed son is told “Do not let devotion and fidelity forsake you, tie them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your mind” (emphasis added). Not only are these instructions life‐saving, and amulet‐like, they are also collected in the leb, the mind. Likewise, Prov. 7:3 instructs the son to “Tie them,” that is, the words of the teacher, “around your fingers, write them on the tablet of your mind” (emphasis added). Throughout the father to son instructions of Proverbs 1–9, the mind (leb) is where these instructions are stored, fully intact. A particularly rich literary ­tradition of Solomon as an exemplary collector of instructions, one whose mind is broad enough to contain vast numbers of mashal, is evoked in the attribution to him in the titles of Proverbs. While the narrative background evoked by these titles seems more or less clear, the actual role Solomon plays both in these titles – as well as in 1 Kgs. 5:12 as the speaker of many mashal – requires some further discussion. In ancient reception of this title, as early as the second century CE, Solomon was understood to be the work’s author. Traditionally, Solomon is connected to three works: Proverbs, Song of Songs, and Ecclesiastes (Qoheleth). Origen explained that Solomon first “taught” morals in Proverbs, the course of nature in Ecclesiastes, and loving communion with God in Song of Songs (Wright 2005, 287; Greer 1979, 217, 219). In Shir HaShirim Rabbah 1.6, the pattern of three is extended to the works themselves. Solomon was believed to have spoken  –  not authored in the contemporary sense  –  three sets of mashal in Proverbs (according to the Hebrew titles framing chapters 1–9; 10–22:16; 25–29); three “vanities” in Ecclesiastes (hebel as one, and habalim as two or more); and three “songs” in Song of Songs (shir as one, and shirim as two or more). There was even speculation among the rabbis as to which of these three works came first in the course of Solomon’s lifetime, with Ecclesiastes as the work of Solomon’s old age, and Proverbs as either first, according to the order in

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1 Kgs. 5:12 (mashal, then shir), or as the mark of mature wisdom, coming after his youthful songs (Vayntrub 2019b, 26–27). Modern biblical scholarship, however, does not find historical value in the Solomonic attributions; as one scholar notes, “[they are] of a fanciful kind, surely marked by legendary tendencies, useful for canonical consideration, but out of which no certain historical judgement can be made” (Brueggemann 1990, 118–19; see also Vayntrub 2019b, 183–84). Another writes, “Historically, it is improbable that many – if any – of the proverbs were written by Solomon,” but adds, “Solomon was famed as an author of wisdom” (Fox 2000, 56). The important distinction, therefore, to make in understanding the attribution of Proverbs and its sections to Solomon is that while the titles should not be looked at as historical claims to actual Solomonic authorship, the titles themselves are not unimportant elements of the composition. In fact, when seen outside of the category of authorship, and in alignment with ancient Near Eastern and Mediterranean practices of text production, it becomes clear that attribution designates not authorship, in the modern sense, but a blend of literary genre designations, narrative situating of non‐narrative texts, and broad characterization of legendary voices (Vayntrub 2018). Solomon, for example, functions in the title of Proverbs as a figure of wisdom, just as David functions in Psalms as a figure of prayer. As legendary voices framing non‐narrative collections, the poems are resituated in a broad literary context that evokes the narrative biography of these characters, or in the words of Eva Mroczek (2016, 75), the work done by attribution is more biography than bibliography. Two important pieces of evidence lend themselves towards this reading. The first is simply the way Solomon is described in 1 Kgs. 5:12 as the figure associated with mashal and shir: he is said to have spoken them, not written them. Related to this notion is a text, known as “David’s Compositions,” found in the Psalms scroll from Qumran. The text, identified by scholars as 11QPsa XXVII, describes David’s compositional activity in very similar phrasing as Solomon’s performance and compositional activity in 1 Kgs. 5:12. The text states that “David the son of Jesse was wise,” that “Yahweh gave him a discerning spirit,” and that he “composed three thousand six hundred psalms.” A further accounting is given in this text enumerating David’s composition of “song” (shir), a total of 450. Altogether, the text enumerates 4050 compositions of David. In 1 Kgs. 5:12, Solomon is credited with 4005 total compositions – 45 fewer than the number David claims in the Psalms scroll. Beyond the clear competition between the compositional activity of Solomon and David set up by this remarkable text in the Psalms Scroll, we should note that David is not only appropriating Solomon’s “wisdom and discernment” in claiming success; David is also appropriating Solomon’s characteristic excess in the process: to be a Solomonic voice, one must configure oneself as a prolific voice. As one scholar helpfully describes, wisdom in the biblical literary tradition has an “anthological temper” (Kugel 1997). Proverbs, in its curation of multiple collections of self‐contained instructions, allegories, riddles, and advice, evokes this characteristic prolific

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notion – a Solomon with a mind as vast as the sands on the seashore, containing and giving voice to multitudes. A second reason to understand Solomonic attribution, and attribution in biblical texts more generally, as reflections of literary practices rather than actual historical claims, is that ancient scribes frequently attributed their texts to much older, possibly fictional, figures of renown. This was especially the case with Egyptian and Mesopotamian instruction texts. Naming the text for a famed figure from the hoary past did not simply authorize the advice for its readers, it provided a narrative frame for the advice. These were not disembodied bits of wisdom collected up on one tablet or sheet of papyrus, they were the displaced words of known figures of wisdom spoken to a passive listening son. Their advice, which had led them to considerable success, was therefore reliable in a similar way. Mesopotamian instruction texts, such as the Instructions of Shuruppak, and Šimâ Milka, and Egyptian instruction texts, such as the Instruction of Prince Hardjedef, Instruction to Kagemni, the Instruction of Ptahhotep, the Instruction of Amenemope, and the Instruction of Ani, frame their advice as speech from a famed father to his son – often hailing from a period much earlier than the work’s composition, and in the case of the Instructions of Shuruppak, featuring altogether literary characters: Shuruppak’s son Ziusudra who is the recipient of his father’s wisdom in the text, was also, according to the Sumerian flood account, the figure whose wisdom enabled his survival and immortality (see Chapters 17 and 18 in this volume). The notion that Proverbs’ Solomonic attribution is either an indication of authorship or otherwise a false historical claim neglects these rich dimensions of compositional practices in biblical and wider ancient Near Eastern literary traditions. The distinct arrangement of Proverbs in the Septuagint is in itself significant for considering both the anthological nature of the work and its Solomonic attributions. Some scholars have seen the Septuagint’s arrangement and titles as privileging a notion of Solomonic authorship and resisting the multivocality of the distinct sections attributed to other characters (Fox 2000, 56; Cook 2012, 94). It has been argued, in particular, that the Septuagint order of the work may have been a deliberate change in the Greek translation for the specific purpose of promoting Solomon as the work’s primary compositional figure. It remains, however, a curiosity of Proverbs that Solomon, the work’s patron, never appears beyond the titles, and even from these titles, never speaks. This stands in contrast to ancient Near Eastern instruction texts, where as an authorizing feature of the text’s frame the named instructor speaks his wisdom for the benefit of his student. In this sense, the Solomonic figure remains even more distant in Proverbs than he does in Song of Songs, where Solomon is directly addressed by one of the speakers in 8:12, or in Ecclesiastes, where the main speaker, Qoheleth, is never Solomon by name but a former king and son of King David who frequently evokes a Solomonic voice.

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Sections of Proverbs The book of Proverbs, if divided by its headings, can be seen as a compilation of at least eight discrete sections. Following the order of the Hebrew these are: (i) chapters 1–9, “proverbs of Solomon”; (ii) 10–22:16, “proverbs of Solomon”; (iii) 22:17– 24:22, “words of the wise”; (iv) 24:23–34, “also words of the wise”; (v) 25–29, “also proverbs of Solomon…transcribed by Hezekiah’s men”; (vi) 30, “words of Agur”; (vii) 31:1–9, “words of Lemuel,” an instruction issued by his mother; (viii) 31:10– 31, the alphabetic acrostic poem of the “Woman of Valor.” While the final section does not bear its own heading as the others do, it is a clearly self‐contained work in its alphabetic structure, with the first line beginning with aleph and the final line beginning with the letter tav. As previously noted, the title of the third section, 22:17–24:22, is not found in the Hebrew in v. 17 but is found in the Greek. “Proverbs of Solomon” as Instruction and Allegory (Prov. 1–9) This initial section can be described as a series of 10 father‐to‐son instructions, framed by an initial statement of purpose (1:2–7), and interspersed with five poems that do not take the form of instruction but rather the form of extended imagery of personified Wisdom, Folly, and their respective benefits and dangers. As Fox outlines in his commentary, the 10 instructions follow a particular shared structure that can be compared to Egyptian and Mesopotamian instructions (Fox 2000). They begin with a call to attention in which the relationship between the speaker (the father) and the addressee (the son) is identified. The father usually begins, therefore, with a vocative “My son!” or “My children!” A command that the addressee listens usually follows, along with the speaker’s identification of the source of the advice, “My son, listen to my words,” and once as advice that the speaker had himself received from his father (4:1–4). In the case of the latter, it is unclear whether the words spoken are those of the speaker or a quotation of words his own father had spoken to him. Perhaps such a distinction, in the context of transmitted instruction, is unnecessary in any case, since instruction transmission in biblical and ancient Near Eastern literature appears to be shaped by an underlying concept of the unaltered and complete transmission of words from one generation to the next (Vayntrub 2019a). The instruction’s “call to attention” continues with a claim of the potential benefits of the instruction to the addressee, often a praise of its life‐preserving qualities. The instructions in Proverbs 1–9 do not identify specific situations but tend to speak in generalities, for example, that the son not be lured into criminal behavior (1:8–19), the path and benefits of wisdom (2:1–22; 3:1–12; 3:21–35), and the distinct attitudes one should have towards good and bad choices (4:1–9; vv. 10–19; vv. 20–27). These more general instructions on behavioral choices, described as paths, lead to instructions on correct choice of women – to

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choose one’s own wife and not be seduced by desire of the wife of another (5:1–23), and how the incorrect choice will lead to death (6:20–35). Anne Stewart (2016, 3) has argued that Proverbs, particularly in this section, uses not only message but poetic form to shape “emotions, motivations, desires, and imagination, not simply [one’s] rational capacities.” Stewart shows how the poetic compositions, particularly the personifications of Wisdom and Folly, hone desire and shape choice using extended imagery and activating visualization through language. These messages as well as these rhetorical techniques are resumed and reconfigured in the acrostic poem concluding the work, in 31:10–31.

“Proverbs of Solomon” as Pithy Statements (Prov. 10–22:16) While this collection is also designated as the “proverbs of Solomon,” its form and structure are distinctive from the preceding chapters. A notable feature of this section, analyzed at great length by Patrick Skehan (1948, 117), is that the collection contains “precisely 375 single‐line proverbs, and that the numerical value of the Hebrew name Solomon in the title ‘Proverbs of Solomon’ (10:1) is likewise 375.” While readers should be cautious with such claims to numerical architecture in the composition of biblical texts given their largely unknown redaction history and frequently spotty manuscript history, this particular datum is of interest given the fact that a related type of scribal game – an alphabetic acrostic – concludes the entire work, with other potential compositional games lurking elsewhere in the text. Whatever the provenance of the numerical game, it allows for a loose organizational principle that would make otherwise hundreds of independent poetic units seem completely arbitrary. The form of these sayings was described by scholars as “sentence literature,” to be distinguished from the longer and thematically connected poetic units of the preceding chapters, 1–9 (von Rad 1972, 26). A number of scholars have attempted, rather unsuccessfully, to find other types of unifying schemes in this collection and in the following collections. Several attempts have been made, specifically, through identifying patterns in the repetition of various “expressions” (Snell 1993; Heim 2013). A number of scholars divide Prov. 10–22:16 into two sections, with disagreement on where the division exactly should be located, but with the notion that the sayings in the first section, from chapter 10 to somewhere in chapter 15, are more structurally similar (for example, a high concentration of “antithetical” sayings) than those in the second section (Fox 2009, 509). Many of the sayings in this section focus on distinguishing between the consequences of good and bad behavior and the relationship of this behavior to wisdom and folly, respectively. There are a number of approaches to thematizing and organizing the material of these chapters (along with the similarly anthological section of chapters 25–29). One approach already mentioned, is to explore the repetitions of verses, half‐verses,

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and phrases found throughout (Snell 1993; Heim 2013). Snell finds several, usually pairs, of whole verses and half‐verses repeated in 10–22:16 (1993, 35–54). The “antithetical” structure Fox observes corresponds to commonly found themes in this section of the rewards of the righteous and the punishment of the wicked (2009, 509). Chapters 16:1–22:16 are more diverse in the topics covered (Fox 2009, 509). The theme of speech, specifically the effects of the speech of the righteous and of the wicked, is prominent in this collection of sayings. For example, the words for organs of speech (“mouth” and “tongue”), occur many more times in this collection than they do in chapters 1–9 or chapters 25–29. Likewise, deception appears more frequently in this section than elsewhere. For example, the term sheqer (“lie”), appears over a dozen times in this section and only a handful of times in both chapters 1–9 and 25–29 combined. Falseness is connected in this section to the speech and activities of the wicked (10:18; 12:17, 19; 13:5; 14:5; 17:4, 7; 19:5, 9; 21:6). At times the sayings evoke images of physical pain and sensory discomfort in false speech. For example in 20:17, profit born of deceit, while initially filling one’s mouth with food, will eventually “fill one’s mouth with gravel.” In 10:31, the lying tongue itself will be cut off. As in chapters 1–9, the imagery of following a particular pathway is prominent and evocative: the path of the righteous is straight, unencumbered by blockages or sharp and dangerous objects, and leads directly to reward, while the path of the wicked, foolish, and lazy is winding, full of dangers, and leads to death. Another theme, more prominent in chapters 16:1–22:16 than in chapters 10–15, is the figure of the king. In this section, kings are idealized as figures of truth in speech (16:10, 13; 20:28; 22:11) but also as paradigmatic figures of authority and judgment (16:14–15; 19:12; 20:2; 21:1). Finally, the figure of the “lazy” man and “laziness” feature as a recurring theme in chapters 10:1–22:16. The lazy man is not exactly wicked, but his path ends similarly: the lazy do not plow in winter and do not reap their harvest (20:4), they go hungry for their laziness (13:4; 19:15), their path is paved with thorns (15:19), and their laziness leads them ultimately to their demise (21:25).

“Words of the Wise” and Amenemope (Prov. 22:17–24:22) This particular section of Proverbs is known for its relationship to an Egyptian instruction text, the Instruction of Amenemope. A curious phenomenon of modern biblical scholarship is that the book of Proverbs  –  now frequently studied against the background of ancient Near Eastern instruction literature – was seen outside of this international wisdom context prior to the publication of landmark studies by Adolf Erman and Hugo Gressmann in 1924, which identified affinities between this section of Proverbs and the Egyptian text. These comparisons were made possible by the translation and edition of the Egyptian text by E. A. Wallis

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Budge in the previous year. These publications significantly shifted scholarship in Proverbs towards comparative studies. For example, Crawford H. Toy’s commentary, published in 1899, did not compare Proverbs to other arguably similar texts outside of the biblical corpus, such as the works of Hesiod, even though those texts were readily available in Toy’s time. Thus, the comparison of Proverbs to broader ancient Near Eastern literary traditions comes out of a particular set of interests and discoveries of modern scholarship in the twentieth century. Proverbs 22:20 can be understood to refer to 30 instructions, “Have I not written for you thirty,” although the Hebrew text has a reading tradition in which the text says not thirty but “threefold” or “noble words” (Fox 2009, 710). The Instruction of Amenemope refers to itself as an instruction of “thirty chapters.” Some scholars even identify 30 instructions in this section of Proverbs, though others disagree (Shupak 2005). While the earliest manuscript fragment of the Egyptian text dates no earlier than the eleventh‐century BCE and was copied for hundreds of years, it is believed that the text itself originates from an even earlier period. The exact nature of the relationship between the Egyptian instruction and this section of Proverbs remains a matter of debate among scholars. What can be observed between the two texts, regardless of the perspective taken, is shared themes, specific advice (e.g. diligence in one’s work, avoiding confrontation, and not stealing from the poor), and terminology (e.g. to store up instruction in one’s “belly”). The advice seems to be directed towards skilled professionals, possibly those employed by the court. Following the identification of a strong relationship between Prov. 22:17–23:11 and the Egyptian Instruction of Amenemope, scholars have also in more recent years identified affinities between 23:12–24:22 and other Egyptian instruction texts, suggesting “a general connection” with Egyptian wisdom but not an explicit connection as we see with the Instruction of Amenemope (Shupak 2005). The title of the section, “Words of the Wise,” only appears in the Greek but can be reconstructed by the Hebrew of 22:17, where the advice opens: “Incline your ear, attend to the words of the wise.” Considering the title of the subsequent section, “These too are the words of the wise,” perhaps here we have a case of scribal erroneous deletion, where seeing the title and the initial call to attention, inadvertently erased the title.

“These Too are the Words of the Wise” (Prov. 24:23–34) Unlike the preceding section, there seems to be a looser organization of the material in this very short section. It is singled out as its own section here because the author(s) and/or collector(s) of Proverbs gave it a title of its own, connecting it to the preceding section but also distinguishing it from it. The advice is focused on professional behavior, whether in the specific context of a court (vv. 23–28), or more generally in advocating for a diligent disposition (vv. 30–34).

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“These Too are the Proverbs of Solomon, ‘Copied’ By Hezekiah’s Men” (Prov. 25–29) Like 10–22:16, scholars continue to debate whether an overall structure or intricate organizational pattern governs this section. A curiosity of this section has to do with its title, which not only attributes it to Solomon, but identifies a legendary transmission of the collection, from Solomon to Hezekiah’s men, who “copied” or “collected” them. The “these too” element of the title, like the similar phrasing in Prov. 24:23, imparts the sense of a larger collection, accreted over time, whether or not this was actually the case or deliberate design in its presentation. Another feature shared between the sayings in 10–22:16 and this collection is a focus on the wisdom of kings: over a dozen references to kings can be found in 10–22:16 and seven in 25–29. Chapter 25 opens with an explicit discussion of the role of kings in uncovering wisdom concealed by God. Some scholars conclude that such sayings originated in a court setting, though there is little in the texts themselves to corroborate such a claim. A more sustainable line of interpretation is that instruction as a discourse, both in Proverbs and in ancient Near Eastern literary traditions, are closely connected to kingship and the anxieties surrounding succession. We see in this section a number of themes and rhetorical strategies used elsewhere in Proverbs, such as the observation of natural phenomena and animal behavior to make analogies to human relationships and behavior, as well as praises of “true” speech and recurring warnings against deceptive speech and its connection to an “other” or a “foreigner.” “The Words of Agur” (Prov. 30) The title of Proverbs 30 is similar to titles of other sections of Proverbs that describe the contents as “words of,” and not “proverbs of.” The latter, of course, is only used to attribute sections of Proverbs to Solomon, whereas the former is attributed to any of the other figures in the titles of Proverbs, for example, “the wise,” or “Lemuel.” Proverbs 30:1a begins with the formula similar to these other sections identifying the type of speech (“words” or “proverbs”), the name of the figure and the patronymic, or name of the father: “The words of Agur, son of Jakeh.” The second half of the title is distinct from the others found in Proverbs, linking it with titles found in prophetic collections: “the pronouncement: the utterance of the man.” Sometimes the term which I have translated here as “pronouncement” is identified as a geographic designation, since other titles like those in Prov. 1:1 or Eccl. 1:1, indicate a title (“king”) or a geographic designation (“Israel” or “Jerusalem”) following the attributed figure’s name and patronymic. In the Septuagint, neither Agur’s name nor his title are given, and the Aramaic translation helps us read the term as “pronouncement” instead of a title or a place name, since it reads “the utterance of the man who received prophecy” (emphasis added). The remainder of

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the title in 30:1 is difficult to translate: the Hebrew might read “To Ithiel: to Ithiel and to Ukal,” but none of those figures are known. The Greek gives an entirely different frame than the Hebrew: “My son, fear my words, and repent when you receive them, this is what the man says to those who believe in God, now I stop.” Another interesting feature of this section is how it is introduced with first‐person speech. The speaker makes an unusual statement – particularly given that the context of his speech is instruction or knowledge more broadly – that he has no authority to give advice: “Indeed, I am more ignorant than any man, I do not possess human discernment, I have not acquired wisdom, nor do I have knowledge of holiness” (30:2–3). While many scholars divide the chapter into two sections, at vv. 1–14 and vv. 15–33, one scholar divides the chapter into two discrete sections, vv. 1–9 and vv. 10–33, arguing that vv. 1–9 “form a cohesive first‐person meditation,” and that its subsections “cohere and presuppose one another” (Fox 2009, 849). In this scheme, the speaker builds towards a message of freedom from deception and simple living in four steps: an initial statement of ignorance (vv. 1–3); a claim structured as four rhetorical questions, the final one a double rhetorical question, on the limitation of human knowledge and ability (v. 4); a statement regarding the Deity’s perfection in speech (vv. 5–6); and “a prayer for honesty and simplicity” (Fox 2009, 850–60). The significance of this section for broader themes meditated upon in Proverbs, however, is not limited to the unusual first‐person orientation of the speech or the message of human inadequacy in the face of divine capability. The passage in vv. 5–6 blends a concern throughout Proverbs for faithfulness in speech – a concern observed in the depiction of the “foreign” or “strange” woman’s deceptive and “slick” speech in Proverbs 1–9 – with a broader scribal statement for faithfulness and obedience in the transmission of words. This passage reads, “The entirety of God’s speech is pure, he is a shield for those who trust in him. Do not add to his words, lest he rebuke you and you are discovered a liar.” This recalls other warnings, scattered throughout the biblical text, to those reading or hearing instructions that they should maintain these instructions intact as they received them. These warnings command the reader to neither add nor subtract from these instructions. For example, in Deut. 4:2, the Israelites are told to preserve God’s commandments as transmitted to them: “Neither shall you add to what I command you, nor shall you take from it.” One scholar has made the connection between these warnings found in biblical literature and ancient Near Eastern treaties and instructions that bear a similar message, that those who encounter the words are prohibited from adding to them or subtracting from them (Weinfeld 1972, 262; 1991, 200). Many versions of this warning, such as Ben Sira’s, that “Nothing added and nothing taken away, he has no need in his understanding” (42:21) appear to refer to the completeness of God’s wisdom and revelation to the scribe. However the version in Prov. 30:5–6 makes an important connection of the completeness of instruction to a native concept of “truth,” connecting this so‐called “scribal principle” of neither adding nor subtracting to the dangerous potential of speech to prove deceptive

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(Vayntrub 2019a, 514). The remaining section, 30:10–33, has been described as a “miscellany of epigrams,” with numerically structured riddles similar to those found in the mishnaic tractate Avot, chapter 5.

Lemuel and his Mother (Prov. 31:1–9) This section and the alphabetic acrostic which follows can be seen as bookends that thematically, and in some ways generically, link themselves to the initial section of the work, Proverbs 1–9. First, the form of instruction, a major feature of chapters 1–9, is the structuring element of 31:1–9, though in this case it is not the father’s instruction to the son (King Lemuel) but the mother’s. Instruction from a woman is otherwise unknown from the broader ancient Near Eastern record. Second, the categorizing and stereotyping of feminine characters is a shared focus in Proverbs 1–9 as well as in 31:1–9 and the acrostic poem in 31:10–31. In both bookends of the work, these feminine characters are explored through the lens of male desire and choice, and presumably, this advice is directed towards an audience of young men. For example, in Proverbs 7, the father warns his son against “strange” and “foreign” woman whose speech is deceptive and can lead one towards the dangers of adultery. The father illustrates this point through describing a hypothetical situation where a particular type of (married) woman seduces a young, naïve man to commit adultery and transgress the exclusive rights of her husband by appealing to the young man’s desire for the momentary pleasures of feasting and sex. The point of the instruction appears to be a call to temper and thoughtfully direct desire, away from temporary and harmful pleasures of folly, toward the long‐term but hard‐ fought pleasures afforded by wisdom. This notion is resumed in the instruction of Lemuel’s mother in 31:1–9, who warns him against giving his “valor” or “strength” to women (v. 3). This oblique warning is contextualized by the subsequent warning (in vv. 4–5) against the dangers of intoxicating drink and its interference with the responsibilities of ethical leadership: “Wine is not for kings … lest they drink and forget the rules, and undermine the rights of the poor.” We learn from the juxtaposition of these two warnings  –  one against women who might diminish a king’s ability to rule and a second against drink that might do the same – that an important aspect of “knowledge of good and bad” is maintaining one’s basic capacity to make discerning judgments. This is the skill of choice at a fundamental level.

Eshet Hayil, “Woman of Valor” (Prov. 31:10–31) This cleverly and well‐crafted alphabetic acrostic links, in the Hebrew, with the word for “strength” (hayil) in the instructions of Lemuel’s mother in vv. 1–9. This is not the order, however, of the Greek, where the alphabetic acrostic poem is preceded

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not by the “Words of Lemuel” but by the “Proverbs of Solomon” in chapters 25–29. The poem, a praise of the female subject, the “Woman of Valor,” describes the woman’s work, growing skill, and success from her selection as a wife (v. 10: “A woman of valor, that one might acquire!”), her handiwork (vv. 13–19), her growing reputation as successful in the wider community (vv. 20–25), the transmission of her skill to others (vv. 26–27), and finally, her praise by her family, who have benefited from her (vv. 28–29). The poem concludes with a statement on beauty’s ephemerality and deceptiveness and the superiority for adherence to a system (the “fear of Yahweh”) which admits to the Deity’s determination of reward and punishment (v. 30), and praises the woman for her handiwork (v. 31). Within (or without) the context of the warnings of Lemuel’s mother in Prov. 31:1–9 on the dangers of women to diminish a man’s potential success, the entire poem is framed as a prediction of how correct choice of wife and her subsequent acquisition of skills lead to overall success for the extended family and community. The poem, an extended meditation on how handiwork leads to skill and success, weaves this message through its choice of phrasing and an ingenious construction within the device of the alphabetic acrostic itself in the poem’s center (Vayntrub forthcoming). The words for “hand” and “palm” are used throughout the poem to express the woman’s growing skill: she seeks out raw materials with “her willing hands” (v. 13); she plants a vineyard with the “fruit of her hands” (v. 16); the poet calls on the audience to praise her for the “fruit of her hands” in the poem’s conclusion (v. 31). The most remarkable intersection of this theme of “handiwork” and the structure of the alphabetic acrostic in the poem, however, comes in vv. 19–20, the only chiastic (ABB’A’) structure of the poem. There, the verses pivot on the words for “hand” and “palm” in alternation, in coordination with the very same names of the letters of the alphabet which open these lines: “Her hands, she sends out to the distaff, her palms grasp the spindle, her palm, she spreads out to the poor, her hands she sends out to the needy.” These two poetic lines, vv. 19 and 20, begin with the sequential letters of the Hebrew alphabet, yod and kaf – letters whose very names correspond to the words used in the poem: yadeha, “her hands,” and kappah, “her palm” (Vayntrub forthcoming). The book thus concludes with a poem whose clever arrangement of the intersection of verbal arts with a message of skilled living resumes calls in Proverbs 1–9 for correct choices in life and in language.

Conclusion The book of Proverbs, as we might see from its various titles found in the Masoretic version, delineates distinct collections and attributes them to a variety of figures  –  legendary (Solomon, Hezekiah’s men), abstract (The Wise) and obscure (Agur, Lemuel’s mother). The speakers and figures depicted in these various collected sayings are paradigmatic as they are impersonal and unnamed: they are the

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wise, the foolish, the father, the son, Lady Wisdom, Lady Folly, and the king. Beyond the Solomonic attribution, the various collections and their sayings, in their own self‐presentation and organization, stand outside of historical narrative. This feature of the work frustrates scholars seeking to place the collections in broader geopolitics or even trends in textual production. At the same time, this feature is perhaps part of the anthology’s continued relevance to contemporary readers seeking the “self‐help section” of the biblical literary tradition. The advice contained within the work cannot be systematized or reduced, and often one piece of advice can be seen to contradict or cut against another saying. Two conclusions may be drawn of this work. The first is that whatever any given saying may emphasize, claim, or advocate, its aim is to sharpen the intelligence of the reader: wisdom can be acquired, and skill of speech seems to be directly related to skill of good living. The second conclusion has to do with the work’s self‐presentation: its diversity and anthological nature is not a bug or problem for scholars to solve but rather a feature. Proverbs, for whatever reasons due to its compositional and editorial history, comes to the reader as a carefully organized display of the best of ancient advice. References Brueggemann, Walter A. 1990. The social significance of Solomon as a patron of wisdom. In: The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. John G. Gammie and Leo G. Perdue), 117–132. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Budge, E.A. Wallis. 1923. Facsimiles of Egyptian hieratic papyri in the British Museum, Second Series. London: British Museum. Cook, Johann. 2012. The Septuagint of Proverbs. In: Law, Prophets, and Wisdom (ed. Johann Cook and Arie van der Kooij), 84–174. Leuven: Peeters. Erman, Adolf. 1924. Eine ägyptische Quelle der “Spruch Salomos.” Sitzungsberichte der königlich preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch‐ historische Klasse 15: 86–93. Fox, Michael V. 2000. Proverbs 1–9. New Haven: Yale University Press. Fox, Michael. V. 2009. Proverbs 10–31. New Haven: Yale University Press.

Greer, Rowan A. (trans.) 1979. Origen: An Exhortation to Martyrdom, Prayer, and Selected Writings. New York: Paulist Press. Gressmann, Hugo. 1924. Die neugefundene Lehre des Amen‐em‐ope und die vorexilische Spruchdichtung Israels. Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 42: 272–294. Heim, Knut Martin. 2013. Poetic Imagination in Proverbs: Variant Repetitions and the Nature of Poetry. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Kugel, James L. 1997. Wisdom and the anthological temper. Prooftexts 17: 9–32. Kraus, Hans‐Joachim. 1988. Psalms 1–59: A Commentary. Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg. Mroczek, Eva. 2016. The Literary Imagination in Jewish Antiquity. New York: Oxford University Press. Shupak, Nili. 2005. The Instruction of Amenemope and Proverbs 22:17–24:22

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from the perspective of contemporary research. In: Seeking out the Wisdom of the Ancients: Essays Offered in Honor of Michael V. Fox on the Occasion of his Sixty‐Fifth Birthday (ed. Ronald Troxel, Kelvin G. Friebel, and Dennis R. Magary), 203–220. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Skehan, Patrick. 1948. A single editor for the whole book of Proverbs. Catholic Biblical Quarterly 10: 115–130. Snell, Daniel C. 1993. Twice‐Told Proverbs and the Composition of the Book of Proverbs. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Stewart, Anne. 2016. Poetic Ethics in Proverbs: Wisdom Literature and the Shaping of the Moral Self. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Vayntrub, Jacqueline. 2018. Before authorship: Solomon in Prov 1:1. Biblical Interpretation 26: 182–206. Vayntrub, Jacqueline. 2019a. Like father, like son: Theorizing transmission in

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biblical and ancient Near Eastern literature. Hebrew Bible and Ancient Israel 7: 500–526. Vayntrub, Jacqueline. 2019b. Beyond Orality: Biblical Poetry on its Own Terms. London: Routledge. Vayntrub, Jacqueline. Forthcoming. Beauty, wisdom, and handiwork in Prov 31:10–31. Von Rad, G. 1972. Wisdom in Israel (trans. James D. Martin). Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press. Weinfeld, Moshe. 1972. Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School. Oxford: Clarendon. Weinfeld, Moshe. 1991. Deuteronomy 1–11: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. New York: Doubleday. Wright, J. Robert. (ed.) 2005. Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Song of Solomon. Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture, Old Testament 9. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press.

Further Reading Bellis, Alice Ogden. 2018. Proverbs. Collegeville: Liturgical Press. A recently published commentary on Proverbs. Kynes, Will. 2019. An Obituary for “Wisdom Literature.” New York: Oxford University

Press. This book challenges the viability of wisdom literature as a textual category. Loader J.A. 2014. Proverbs 1–9. Leuven: Peeters. A relatively recent commentary on the first chapters of Proverbs.

CHAPTER 2

Job Davis Hankins

If only my words were written down! If only they were inscribed in a book! With an iron pen and lead, carved in a rock forever! (Job 19:23–24)

Introduction My favorite sculptures are those like Bernini’s David that compel viewers to orbit them like satellites, because every viewpoint always appears to lack something that you want to see in order to get a sense of the whole statue. Most forms of sculpture are rather like Michelangelo’s David; one can sit before it and stare despite knowing that the statue continues in unseen spaces. This form achieves its fullest expression in the ancient statues of a Sleeping Hermaphroditus, one of which currently reclines in the Louvre on a mattress that Bernini sculpted. That statue is so enjoyable precisely because it juxtaposes two opposing sides, each uninterrupted by the other. Bernini’s David, however, offers an unfolding scene where every view is interrupted by some intrinsic limit that fails to satisfy one’s desire to view it from a single perspective. Similarly, the book of Job never satisfies the reader’s desire to grasp an overall message. One can say that the book participates critically in ancient Israel’s wisdom tradition since it shockingly dismisses conventional pieties such as one finds The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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in the book of Proverbs. Or one can characterize the book as an honest and unflinching drama that stages the unavoidable yet irresolvable questions, deadlocks, and contradictions that beset every human experience of trauma or evil. Yet such broad characterizations all seem to detract from the profound insights that reward close consideration of its component parts because each is so distinct that the book ultimately appears more like an unstable collection than a cohesive unity. It opens with a prose tale that introduces profound problems of suffering, legitimacy, moral agency, and theology (Job 1–2), which is followed by a round of poetic dialogues in which characters dispute, accuse, and articulate various positions (3–27); then readers confront a series of distinct poetic speeches that are not clearly related to each other (28:1–42:6), and Job ends by briefly returning to prose for a short conclusion (42:7–17). Even the significance of each part never stabilizes. The prose introduction, for example, alternates between scenes on earth (1:1–5, 13–22; 2:7–10) and in heaven (1:6–12; 2:1–6), yet the two never intersect in the narrative. Their juxtaposition is never resolved or explained. Similarly, the poetic dialogue places distinct voices in an unsettled dispute. And each successive section of the book compels readers to reconsider, retroactively, the meanings of the preceding parts. Like Bernini’s David, every particular viewpoint on this book seems interrupted by some intrinsic limit that demands the reader’s attention. Consider the epigraph in 19:23–24 that is cited at the beginning of this chapter. In the story it presents Job’s unmet desire. But readers encounter it in a book (or engraved on a tombstone, where it appears frequently), which makes it a fulfilled wish. There is no singular meaning of these verses; they always already mean both desire and satisfaction, but that does not settle their meaning since each of those precludes the other. To read it as an expression of desire, one must ignore its satisfaction, and vice versa. The entire book is like this. It teems with intrinsic limits that make the character memorable and the book malleable, and that instigate countless imaginative (re)interpretations. Like Bernini’s David, this book has kept readers in ­endless orbit.

The Content of Job The book of Job is difficult for many modern readers, not least because it is, in so many respects, non‐linear. It juxtaposes and oscillates among conflicting perspectives and genres, and no clear resolutions are presented. Pivotal characters appear and abruptly disappear. A single character can adamantly espouse one perspective and then say something entirely different without adequate explanation. Sometimes these shifts correspond to changes in genre (e.g. Yhwh rebukes Job in the poetry and then praises him in the prose conclusion), but not always (e.g. Eliphaz praises Job’s piety and then attacks his wickedness). Even still, such tensions and abrupt swings

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seem rather appropriate in a book concerned with traumatic violence, loss, and their consequences for ethics, theology, and social relations. These tensions are apparent in the structure of the book. Structural Outline1 I.  1–2: Prose Introduction II.  3–27: Three Rounds of Poetic Dispute a. Job’s Lament (3) b. Eliphaz (4–5) Bildad (8) Zophar (11) c. Eliphaz (15) Bildad (18) Zophar (20) d. Eliphaz (22) Bildad (25)

Job (6–7; 9–10; 12–14) Job (16–17; 19; 21) Job (23–24; 26–27)

III.  28: Wisdom Poem IV.  29:1–42:6: Extended Disquisitions a. 29–31: Job’s Final Oration b. 32–37: Elihu’s Speeches c. 38:1–42:6: God’s Speeches (38:1–40:2; 40:6–41:34), with Job’s Brief Replies (40:3–5; 42:1–6) IV.  42:7–17: Prose Conclusion Prose Introduction (Job 1–2) The book of Job begins with what sounds like a folktale: Job is introduced as the wealthiest and wisest of all those who live in the east (1:1–3). Although most English translations ignore it, the Hebrew includes a seemingly innocent conjunction at the beginning of 1:2. Job 1:1 informs us of Job’s unmatched piety, and then verses 2–3 relate his vast wealth. So the tiny conjunction – it is one Hebrew letter – between v. 1 and vv. 2–3 paradoxically bears all the weight of the ethical questions that the prose tale poses. Is this an innocent conjunction – i.e. Job was pious and happened also to be wealthy? Or does it suggest a more intrinsic connection – i.e. Job was pious and therefore he was wealthy? If the latter, then one may eye Job’s piety suspiciously, as a socially acceptable cover that obscures what actually drives him: the desire for wealth. This suspicion is voiced in 1:9–10, which leads to the destruction of Job’s wealth – including his children – to see if he remains pious. The uncertain relationship between intentions and actions thus drives the entire plot. The fairytale functions like a Trojan horse for complex moral and theological questions about innocent suffering, authentic piety, how life circumstances relate to ethical decisions, and how people respond to trauma, violence, and suffering (Clines 1985). The character that casts doubt on Job’s piety is called “Satan” in most English translations. However, readers should not here envision the Devil that appears as

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God’s divine opponent in the dualistic worldviews that characterize parts of later Judaism and Christianity in the Hellenistic period (see, e.g. Mark 3:22–30; Rev. 20:1–10). “Satan” in the prologue to Job actually transliterates a common Hebrew noun meaning “accuser” or “advocate” (cf. Num. 22:22; 1 Sam. 29:4; Ps. 109:4). In Job, it appears with the definite article, which suggests that the figure is a type (“the accuser”) rather than a proper name (“Satan”). The accuser is a position in the divine council that this character plays quite effectively by casting doubt on the typically reliable voices that announce and celebrate Job’s piety: the narrator (1:1) and Yʜᴡʜ (v. 8). This story thus draws on the ancient idea that gods assembled periodically for various purposes, which appears both outside the Bible in myths like Gilgamesh and in other biblical texts (e.g. 1 Kgs. 22:19–23; Ps. 29:1). The accuser proposes that Job would curse God if God removed “all that he has” (1:11). The wager contains a well‐known ambiguity. The word translated “curse” is not a Hebrew word that means curse but rather its antonym, bless. Some surmise that pious scribes were averse to writing “curse” so close to God’s name, so they wrote “bless,” but expected readers to understand it as the opposite, i.e. “curse.” The term continues to be used – six times in the prose tale – ambiguously. Tod Linafelt (1996) argues that this ambiguity becomes a motif that actually captures a profound effect of this story, because the tale undermines one’s sense of the difference between blessing and cursing. Furthermore, if the accuser’s challenge implies that genuine piety is unmotivated, how could the affliction create conditions that would enable Job to fear God unconditionally? In 2:3 Yʜᴡʜ claims to have carried out Job’s destruction “for nothing,” using the same term as in 1:9. So Yʜᴡʜ acts “for nothing,” which creates the conditions in which Job can fear God “for nothing.” In response to the loss of his wealth and children, Job’s voice fills the poignant moment of silence: Naked I came out of the womb of my mother And naked I will return there. The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. (1:21)

Job does not try to make sense of his experience, nor does he make recourse to another, ideal perspective from which his experience would make sense. Job simply voices the liminal state into which his experience has brought him. For some, Job here describes life as a zero‐sum equation, guaranteed and carried out by a sovereign God. If so, does Job sound indifferent to his life? Or is he in denial about the power of death? Or is he a profound believer who perceives, beyond the contingent, random violence that has destroyed him, the invisible, providential control of God? Alternatively, one may object to this reading of Job’s words. While the term “there” metaphorically substitutes for “the grave” or “Sheol” (the Hebrew term for the

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underworld), Job uses it in parallel with “womb,” which in the Bible is always the site of generation, birth, and new life. Far from a zero‐sum equation, and rather horrifyingly, Job’s experience has placed him back at the site from which a new life will emerge. And while Job attributes to God the giving and taking away of his life, he does not indicate what this might mean. We only hear that his experience has returned him to the site of his birth. The scene shifts back to heaven for another gathering of the divine court (2:1). Yʜᴡʜ claims to have “devoured” Job and yet, echoing the judgment of the narrator in 1:22, Job “persists in his integrity” (2:3). This accuser is thorough, however, and suggests that Job may yet bless/curse God if his body is afflicted (v. 5). Cutting back to earth, Job appears at the boundary between the human and the non‐human: on the trash heap – where the social body externalizes the waste it produces – with the potsherd – with which he scrapes the pus that his corporeal body excretes through his boils into the external world (v. 8). The scene is deeply symbolic. Job sits on and stands for the excesses that are produced by and yet are afforded no place within town and body. Neither human nor non‐human, Job has become inhuman. Job’s wife seems to want to shut down Job’s emergence into this strange new place. Speaking words found earlier in the tale, first from Yhwh and then from the accuser, she says, “Do you still persist in your integrity? Curse [Bless] God, and die” (v. 9). Job neither curses nor blesses God, but again insists that God is the agent responsible for his experiences (v. 10). Job’s identity gets altogether swallowed up, as Yhwh puts it, but he continues to survive in a world where he is unknown and unrecognizable, even to his friends (2:12). Job emerges unmoored from his former identity and lacking a place in society. He becomes more a placeholder of a person than an actual person. His friends will soon try to root him back in his former identity. But Job begins to speak in new ways about God, human experience, and himself. Only in the dialogues do readers begin to sense the consequences of this new insight. Before turning to the dialogues, two common reactions to the prologue are worth noting here. First, many express frustration that God seems dishonest if not deceptive for failing to disclose anything about this initial wager in the remainder of the book (the accuser never appears again after chapter 2). Second, readers also commonly disparage the prose tale as an obscene depiction of a petty God who extinguishes innocent lives to test one person’s faith. Both reactions adopt perspectives that abandon the difficult issues that the story raises. As soon as one reads the prose tale as a window onto divine reality, as unveiling something about God, it becomes impossible to consider some of the difficult ethical questions the tale is primarily staged to pose, namely: Is it possible to fear God for nothing? What might that look like? What could make such piety possible? If one reads the prose tale as teaching something substantial about the nature of God, or if the drama in heaven were revealed to the inhabitants on earth, the possibility of fearing God for nothing would be undermined because these revelations would provide conditions on the

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basis of which one could fear God or not. The heavenly drama is like scaffolding that the authors(s) erect to construct questions about authentic piety, and which then have to be discarded for those questions to be entertained. One can raise questions about that scaffolding, of course, but they should not come at the cost of the primary questions that the tale raises: namely, will Job respond to this disaster by appealing to or allying himself with some principle or condition, or will he persist in faithfulness to the divine disaster that transforms him?

Poetic Dispute (Job 3–27) The prose tale ends by introducing the three friends who exchange speeches with Job in the poetic dispute (2:11–13). After the concern with whether Job would curse/bless God following the afflictions and the narrator’s assurances that “Job did not sin” (1:22; 2:10), there is an exquisite poem in Job 3, which is shocking for the extent to which it depicts Job cursing his own life (vv. 3–10), lamenting that he did not die at birth (vv. 11–19), and mourning that those who are miserable do not die when they desire (vv. 20–26). If it remained possible to read Job’s responses to the afflictions in the prose tale as expressions of traditional deferential piety – as many do – then I think that such a reading becomes implausible after this lament. Neither collectively nor individually do Job’s three friends advance a cohesive, unified perspective. This is not a criticism, for ancient consolatory speeches aimed to perform a function, not deliver a consistent message (Newsom 2003a). Thus the different opinions offered in the speeches should not be read as indications of what each character “really thinks” about Job’s circumstances. They are instead various efforts aimed to move Job from grief – a state in which one withdraws from routine activities – to consolation, a state in which one begins to resume normal pursuits. Although one can parse intriguing differences among the friends’ voices (Newsom 2003b, 96–129; Clines 1982), they consistently advance certain core messages. These appear at the outset in Eliphaz’s first speech (chs. 4–5), and one can begin to discern them by keying on the repeated occurrences of the Hebrew verb ʾbd (“to perish”) in the first half of the speech. Eliphaz initially seems to want to assure Job, through a series of axioms, to be confident and hopeful (4:2–11). Troublemakers perish (v. 9), he declares, whereas the innocent do not perish (v. 7). The latter point is apparently so obvious that he forms it as a rhetorical question. Although his words are perfectly clear, and although he apparently intends to encourage Job’s confidence, exactly what he means to say by proclaiming this message of retribution to someone whose children just perished in an apparently senseless accident remains uncertain. While some give Eliphaz the benefit of the doubt, others view such readers as overly naïve, and many bristle at Eliphaz’s insensitivity if not brazen aggression toward Job and his dead children. “Perish” appears again in another rhetorical question in v. 20. Eliphaz proclaims that no human being is

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righteous (v. 17) and that all “whose foundation is in dirt”  –  i.e. human beings – “perish forever” (v. 20) and “die without wisdom” (v. 21). One finds confident assertions of these same seemingly contrary positions across the friends’ speeches: they are certain that proper retribution for the righteous and the wicked is guaranteed (8:20–22; 20:4–7), that no mortal can be righteous before God (15:14–16; 25:2–6), and that the ways of God are unknown and unknowable to mere mortals (11:5–9; 15:7–11). The latter two claims may seem difficult to square with the first, but traditional wisdom can say them all because of its fundamental tenet that true wisdom and knowledge of God escape human beings. The consequence is not a naïve retribution ideology that sees wickedness in every instance of pain, and pleasure as indicative of righteousness. The friends readily admit that the wicked prosper and the righteous suffer. Bildad acknowledges that the wicked can be secure (8:14; 18:14), but does so in the interest of assuring Job that such security is not truly secure. Eliphaz admits that the righteous can suffer violence, destruction, and famine (5:20–21), but promises Job that such experiences cannot devastate one who seeks God’s instruction (v. 17). Being a sage begins by taking it as axiomatic that “the fear of Yʜᴡʜ is the beginning of wisdom” (Prov. 1:7; 9:10; see also Job 4:6; 15:4; 22:4; 28:28), and that the epitome of folly is “being wise in one’s own eyes” (Prov. 3:5, 7; 12:15; 16:2; 21:2; 26:5, 12, 16; 28:11; see also Job 11:4–6; 15:8–9). The friends’ affirmations of God’s ultimate goodness and justice despite their experiences to the contrary are thus faithful to the traditional wisdom that they represent. Job is unable to assume the friends’ deferential fear before a transcendent God. First, he lacks any sense of what separates God from himself. He repeatedly asks God to let him be (7:16) and leave him alone (v. 19). Because God terrorizes him, his own “throat chooses strangulation” (v. 15). God multiplies his wounds (9:17), wears him out (16:7), and shatters him into pieces (16:12–14). God prevents him from experiencing a stable sense of self, and repeatedly causes him to experience himself as other than he intends. If he tries to sleep, God brings nightmares (7:13– 14). God even prevents Job from catching his own breath (9:18). Although he is innocent, his own mouth condemns him (v. 20). Although he washes, God plunges him into filth (vv. 30–31). God is an agent of disruptive subversion that keeps everything that Job experiences plastic, that is, undetermined and open to transformation. His experiences turn on him, against him, and into him; he himself is obliterated, and even God seems nothing more than this destabilizing, devastating force. The friends’ subjective positions of fear are predicated upon their presumptions about God’s distance from reality, in an ideal space that is “higher than heaven,” and “deeper than Sheol” (11:8). Thence God can act and thus be identified by God‐fearing sages as the agent “behind” various phenomena that cannot be understood through recourse to causal relations with other phenomena. Job’s anxiety, however, is triggered by his inability to be at one with himself, which he attributes to God. For Job, God is neither the external reference for phenomena that do

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not fit, nor their synthesis or background. Job insists that God is immanent to reality, but God is not present like other things that one can identify in reality. Job perceives God when he encounters something that does not coincide with itself or transforms into something else (e.g. when his throat strangles him or when he is treated as guilty while innocent). The friends think anxiety must be replaced with fear, a posture that assures them that while they may be deceived about God, God is nevertheless too wonderful for their knowledge. Job, however, cannot escape his anxiety because he is consistently undone by God. For Job, God is not distanced from reality; God is what distances reality from itself. Given their different understandings of Job’s situation, Job’s hope unsurprisingly differs from their prescriptions. One difficulty for understanding Job’s hope arises because of the seemingly contradictory desires he expresses for God to leave him alone and to meet him. Yet these desires are really two sides of a single coin. Whether Job complains that God is all over him (e.g. 7:16, 19; 10:20; 14:6) or laments that he cannot find God (e.g. 13:3, 24; 19:26; 23:3–9), Job’s problem is that he lacks any mediating distance from God by which he could differentiate himself from God and relate to God as an other, whether present or absent (9:17–24; 10:1–22; 13:20–21; 16:6–17; 19:6–12). At times Job imagines a courtroom where he might relate to God as one to another (see 9:1–3, 14–16). He even personifies various figures of justice – an arbiter, umpire, witness, and mediator (9:32–35; 13:18–23; 16:18–22; 19:23–27). Most famously, Job proclaims, “For I know that my redeemer [goʾel] lives” (19:25). Many Christians have read these figures with special interest, finding in them anticipations of Christ’s salvation. But as often as Job expresses his desire for vindicating mediation, he complains that it is impossible: “God has wronged me.… I shout, but there is no justice.… He uproots my hope like a tree” (19:6, 7, 10). His impossible desire for saving justice indicates what is unavailable to him, but it does not exhaust his hope. At other times Job invests hope in the transformational experience of God that his speech affords him. In several passages Job describes the sentiment of his experience as something like shame, and he expresses his resolve to persist into the adverse conditions that he suffers: “the adversity of my spirit” (7:11), “the bitterness of my soul” (10:1), and “the face of darkness” (23:17). In his resolve to pursue his bitterness, he no longer speaks about his dignity, innocence, and guilt. His attention turns instead to what it is that survives with him. Readers can think of the former, futile hope as a desire for guilt. This desire is clearly distinct from his subsequent drive into his bitter experience of shame. Only in this latter drive does Job find a potential source for hope and salvation that he does not disdain as futile. Job’s experience convinces him that escape is impossible, yet he does not lose hope in the possibility of overcoming his experience through the same divine force behind escape’s impossibility. Job hopes not in something other than what he has, but rather in the potential for transformation that keeps him open and becoming different. In his confrontation

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with his plastic, undetermined conditions, Job seems to find hope in that his conditions are not indefinitely determined (13:13–16). The dispute ends with Job’s speech in chapter 27. He begins by characteristically reiterating his unwavering insistence concerning his righteousness and the truth of his testimony (v. 4), God’s responsibility for the injustice and bitterness of his experience (v. 2), and his resolve to persist in his righteousness (vv. 5–6). After expressing his desire that his enemy and opponent would be like the wicked (v. 7), Job asks a series of questions that rhetorically deny that God could be a source of hope for anyone like himself (vv. 8–10). Job then declares that the wicked are destined to be overtaken and overturned by terrors and destruction from God. So Job, who insists on his righteousness, here describes the fate of the wicked in ways that his own experiences clearly illustrate. The speech seems distanced from the speaker, which leads some to attribute 27:12–23 to Zophar (and similarly, 24:18–25 to Bildad).

Wisdom Poem (Job 28) Job 28 is the first of four poetic speeches that stand apart from the preceding dispute in chapters 3–27. Nothing explicitly indicates that the poem stands out, but its style, perspective, and reflections on the (in)accessibility of wisdom differ from the previous voices. It does not address any previously mentioned characters, and it is unacknowledged in subsequent speeches. Yet it is a masterpiece of Hebrew poetry and it resonates in intriguing ways with other parts of the book (Hankins 2013). Because it does seem to emanate from an unlocatable voice, some speculate that it must be displaced from its proper place in the book. But this book is filled with parts that are not smoothly integrated with each other and, moreover, by standing out the poem aligns with what it describes about wisdom. Job 28 begins by celebrating human capacities to seek, discover, and transform what they find into valuable preciosities (vv. 1–11). In verses 12–19, however, this celebration is exposed as a ruse setting up the one thing – i.e. wisdom – that humans are incapable of finding, exchanging for, or even valuing on the basis of their most prized riches. That vv. 20–27 begin just like the previous section (vv. 12–14//vv. 20–22) only highlights the contrast between vv. 23–27 and vv. 15–19. Unlike humans who fail to find wisdom when they seek it as they seek riches, God encountered wisdom in the acts of creation, and thereby discovered the way to it. Yet God does not access wisdom directly or immediately. God encounters wisdom as something other than God and other than what God is creating. This encounter is made available through God’s creative activities, but wisdom is not something that God creates. It’s as if wisdom surprises God by appearing – seemingly by means of, but nevertheless as – displaced from God and from what occupies God’s attention – i.e. the wind, water, rain, and thunderous lightning.

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After contrasting wisdom as displaced and unavailable to human beings with wisdom as displaced but available to God, the initial line of the poem’s final verse becomes an interpretive crux. God informs humans, “Truly the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom.” For some, this contradicts the poem by claiming that humans can actually access what the poem previously denied them. But this poem never suggests that wisdom is directly accessible. Whereas wisdom is inaccessible to humans who seek it directly like a precious object, the final line suggests that it is available to them indirectly through the fear of the Lord. Elsewhere the fear of God is more like a path toward wisdom – e.g. “the fear of Yʜᴡʜ is the beginning of wisdom” (Prov. 1:7; 9:10). Yet Job 28:28 baldly juxtaposes the two like an appositive metaphor such as “love is war.” Such metaphors juxtapose two terms not because their meanings are related but in order to create new meanings. If we read 28:28 as an appositive metaphor claiming that wisdom is available to humans through the fear of the Lord as it was to God at creation, then the character of Job seems a perfect example. Job, one might say, incarnates the coincidence of fear/anxiety and wisdom by arriving at new knowledge through his experience of the fear/terror of God that displaces Job from himself. The poem itself provides another example. Its interruption in the book is not an embarrassment in need of correction through relocation, but rather illustrates brilliantly what the poem teaches about wisdom. Just as wisdom appears as displaced, so too does this poem. Readers are thus encouraged to trust that the poem is indeed wise.

Job’s Extended Monologue (Job 29–31) Job’s final speech resembles a closing argument. He (i) elaborates the position of security, responsibility, social ties, and privilege that he lost (ch. 29); (ii) laments the undeserved neglect and abuse that he suffers from God and neighbor “now” (ch. 30; see vv. 1, 9, 16); and (iii) registers the injustice and his incomprehension of his situation by detailing a series of eight counterfactual conditions  –  some of them quite complex – that might begin to make some sense of his experience but do not because they are untrue. If he were deceitful (31:5), covetous (v. 9), abusive or neglectful of slaves (v. 13), widows, orphans, the poor (v. 16), or even the land (v. 38), then he could make some sense of his plight (see also vv. 7, 24, 29). But of course, he will concede none of that. More than anything, Job’s final speech depicts a person inexplicably plunged into the otherness that he previously related to as alien. In threefold alienation, (i) Job is distanced from himself: “And now my self has poured out of me; miserable days have seized me … my bowels roil and won’t shut up … my skin flays from me and my bones burn” (30:16, 27, 30); (ii) God becomes other: “you have turned cruel to me; with your mighty hand you oppress me” (v. 21); and (iii) the world turns against this drastically transformed character: “I lived

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as someone who consoled mourners, but now those younger than I deride me” (29:25–30:1). The counterfactual conditions in chapter 31 also attest to the topsy‐ turvy world that keeps Job’s present far from his past. Job concludes this speech by revisiting his futile hope that some mediation might relate God to himself (31:35–37). Here at least, Job does not return to his hope that he might find a potential source of further transformation within his life’s conditions. Although we are told that “the words of Job are complete” in 31:40, he utters more words in 40:4–5 and 42:2–6. There he speaks again about his condition as containing some capacity for transformation that he had not previously imagined. What actually comes to an end in this “final speech,” therefore, is Job’s futile desire that he and God might find some means of mediation. The verb “complete” is from the same Hebrew root (tmm) which is used in the prose introduction to describe Job as “blameless” and with “integrity” (1:1, 8; 2:3). Thus, the formula in 31:40 also invites readers to conclude that Job has persevered with integrity throughout his responses to the disasters and to his three friends.

Elihu’s Extended Monologue (Job 32–37) Otherwise unmentioned and unacknowledged throughout the rest of the book, Elihu speaks for six uninterrupted chapters in a section that modern scholars almost universally consider a later (and lesser) addition dividing the concluding formula in 31:40 from the introduction in 38:1 – “Then Yʜᴡʜ answered Job from the whirlwind.” Case in point, the prose conclusion mentions Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar, but not Elihu (42:7–9). Nevertheless, Elihu directly engages other parts of the book. He begins with a lengthy comment on the dispute, criticizing Job as well as the three friends (32:6–33:2). He actually engages the precise language of the others more often than they do, which entangles his speeches with theirs more than they are with each other (33:8–12; 34:2–6; 35:1–8). Furthermore, Elihu shares deep commonalities with other voices in the book. In 36:36–37:24, he reflects hymnically about how the unknowable foundations of the cosmos and the inanimate elements in creation relate to the limits of human knowledge. Such reflections resemble content in the wisdom poem (ch. 28) and God’s speeches (esp. 38:1–38) such that some disdain Elihu for impudently scooping God’s message. But from a different perspective, God’s speeches respond more to topics raised by Elihu than any other character. Despite his garrulity (see 33:31–33) and some overlap with other perspectives, Elihu contributes a distinct voice to the book. Righteously indignant, Elihu attacks two impressions he has of Job’s speeches: Job stubbornly insists upon his own innocence (33:9–11; 34:37; 35:2), and Job naïvely thinks that God is not communicating through his trying experiences (33:13–18). For Elihu, as for the three other friends, Job’s claims to innocence are self‐defeating because they render

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him guilty (34:5–7). And whether “God speaks in one way and in a second, yet no one notices it” (33:14), or God does not answer an outcry because God chooses to disregard it (35:12–14), for Elihu there is always a divine lesson to be learned from experiences. Although Elihu emphasizes God’s unassailable justice throughout, he also surprisingly speaks about God as unaffected by the sinfulness or righteousness of humans (35:6–7). His voice thus resonates in intriguing ways with others in the book.

God’s Extended Monologues (Job 38–41) God, now identified with the personal name Yhwh for the first time since the prose tale, finally intervenes into the story in the form of a whirlwind (38:1). Storms regularly carry God’s presence in the Bible (see Exod. 19:16; 2 Sam. 22:8–18; 1 Kgs. 19:11–18), but here the storm’s significance is enhanced since it doesn’t disturb a tranquil scene; it resonates with Job’s own agitated life (Job 14:18–22; O’Connor 2003, 173). Yʜᴡʜ speaks twice, pausing only once to demand a response from Job (40:1–2). Both speeches begin as if Yʜᴡʜ will speak directly to Job’s challenges in the poetic dispute (38:1–2; 40:6–8), but God’s extended attention focuses instead on creation and wild creatures. Of course, the speeches are all staged for Job – a fact that Yʜᴡʜ keeps reminding us – but the nature of the relationship between Job and what they describe remains unclear. The world that Yʜᴡʜ describes is a loosely connected tangle of spaces inhabited by creatures that are wildly unpredictable. Balentine (2006, 638) notes that where there are boundaries, they are “porous and permeable.” According to Brown (2010, 133), “Creation is polycentric … Earth itself is a multiverse!” In 38:8–9 Yʜᴡʜ describes the sea and deep darkness – traditional symbols of chaos, violence, and death  –  in surprisingly intimate terms as precious elements within  –  and not opposed to – creation. O’Connor (2003, 175) warns that “control is not the primary issue behind God’s questioning … each of these animals is unbounded, fearless, and beautiful. Each follows its own way that Job (and God) can neither know nor control.” This “multiverse” is not a place that fosters intimate relationships. It is rather a space where heterogeneous elements coexist, collide, or are cut off from one another. After an extended direct address to Job (40:6–14), the second speech turns to two monstrous representations of chaos of mythic proportions: Behemoth (vv. 15–24) and Leviathan (41:1–34 [Heb.: 40:25–41:26]). Yʜᴡʜ begins by likening Job to Behemoth (40:15), and proceeds to describe it and Leviathan as existing at the boundaries of all life: Behemoth is chief among the acts of God (40:19), and no other creature can approach Leviathan (41:1–11). The message to Job is at least that the alienation he suffers from his world and others is something that he shares with other creatures.

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Although Yʜᴡʜ’s rhetorical mode of address suggests that the content of his speech opposes Job, remarkable overlap exists between their perspectives. Job imagines God responding to him in 9:17–20: “God will crush me with a tempest …. he is the strong one …. my own mouth will condemn me … [and] will prove me perverse.” When Yʜᴡʜ shows up, it is indeed in a tempest, with speech that celebrates Yʜᴡʜ’s strength and declares that Job’s mouth condemns him (38:1–3; 40:6–8). Yʜᴡʜ asks (rhetorically) whether Job has commanded the dawn (38:12), when this is actually one of the first things that Job does in the poetry (3:9). Finally, Job laments that God oppresses him with excessive attention as if he were a chaos monster (7:12). Then Yʜᴡʜ attends intimately to the sea (38:8–11) and even to the space that separates and joins the individual scales on Leviathan’s back (41:12–17). In these and other examples, the apparent opposition between Yʜᴡʜ and Job, which is created by their tones and rhetorical forms, actually obscures substantial overlap between their perspectives. Concluding Reparations (Job 42) This congruence between the perspectives of Job and Yʜᴡʜ becomes especially intriguing at the beginning of the book’s final chapter as Job quotes Yʜᴡʜ twice, apparently approvingly, during his notoriously difficult final response (42:1–6; Hankins 2015, 215–221). In v. 3a Job nearly repeats one of Yʜᴡʜ’s questions (38:2), which implicated him for “obscuring counsel,” and then in v. 3b he acknowledges that he spoke of wonders beyond his understanding. He then quotes Yʜᴡʜ again in v. 4, this time echoing God’s demands for Job to listen (see 38:3b; 40:7b), and in v. 5 he assures us that he has indeed “heard” and even now “sees” God. Job’s final statement in the book (v. 6) can be translated legitimately into at least four, quite distinct claims (Newsom 1996, 638; Erickson 2016). Job apparently claims to both reject and be consoled about his condition of “dust and ashes.” Multiple meanings are possible, from repentance to defiance, resignation, or more, and the point may in part be that it is impossible to secure Job’s meaning once and for all. Yet we can make some sense of what he says, for it is not difficult to imagine what Job rejects – he speaks of terror, injustice, duplicity, and more. And in what has he found consolation? It seems that he finally realizes the truth of what he has said all along, namely, that the limits of his knowledge and experience (his status as “dust and ashes”) do not distance him from God or wonders that are, he admits, “beyond him.” This condition is precisely what opens him to radical transformation. So Job might understandably reject the traumas that have overturned him in this book, yet he can ultimately find consolation, however minimal, in the hope that his condition remains open to new futures that are no less different from his present circumstances than the latter are from his past. The book returns to prose to conclude with a short story that suggests, however briefly, that the disconnections highlighted throughout the book may be re‐paired.

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As mentioned above, following God’s speeches that oppose Job, Job pivots from opposing God to quoting God approvingly. God then pivots from opposing Job as “without knowledge” (38:2) to commending Job as “my servant” (4 times in 42:7–8!) who has “spoken truthfully of me” (v. 7). The book does not entertain any possible synthesis of Job and God after their surprising validations of each other. Instead, God demands that the friends publicly display their reliance upon Job’s good graces by asking him to pray for them and by offering sacrifices for failing to have spoken rightly about God (vv. 8–9). A larger community emerges, with Job at its center (v. 11). They share a meal and their wealth with Job, who also receives gifts from God (vv. 10, 12–13). The story ends with a curious pause over Job’s children, giving extra attention to his three daughters. Their inheritances equal their brothers, suggesting equal status. Unlike their seven brothers, we learn their names, each of which is unusual in the Bible. Their names engage our senses  –  “Dove,” “Cinnamon,” and “Horn‐of‐Eyeshadow” – and the terse narrative stalls with attention to their incomparable beauty (v. 15). The conclusion thus paints a brief, ­suggestive picture of a community with the following characteristics: • • • •

Beauty and desire are apparent and valued. Equity is maintained through the efforts of each on behalf of others. Grace is available when one fails to speak or act rightly. Various forms of difference and diversity are celebrated: e.g. • sexual difference between the sisters and brothers, • generational differences among Job, his children, and his children’s children (42:16), • and ethnic/racial differences (Job, Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar are all from different places; 1:1; 2:11). • The flourishing of the non‐human world is celebrated (42:12). For some, the prose conclusion is a shallow, even obscene return to the folktale world of the story’s beginning that betrays the deeper issues that the majority of the book raises about violence, death, suffering, and trauma. For others, the conclusion suggests that a community can be bound together by a shared conviction that Job’s experience and the testimonies of Job and Yhwh convey truths about the world and what it means to live in the world. Moreover, the conclusion advances a fitting and valuable shift from the book’s focus on an individual to depict a community that is oriented toward  –  rather than aimed at excluding  –  the truth of Job’s testimony. However brief, the conclusion suggests that such a community would be aesthetically and erotically charged, host to the equitable and generous redistribution of wealth, and sustainable and viable for human and non‐human generations. Amazingly, it is based not on an ideal to strive toward but a fundamental limit that keeps everyone and everything from ever achieving any sense of a final solution.

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Job’s Emergent Properties Job is a peculiar book. Its distinct voices never cohere into a unified whole, yet ­features that are intrinsic to each voice resonate deeply with each other. Even those perspectives that seem to stand alone can turn around and reshape the meanings of their surrounding materials. Consider the conclusion to Job’s “final” speech in 31:40. If it alludes to the prose introduction’s descriptions of Job’s integrity, thus subtly suggesting that Job’s integrity persists through the poetic dispute, readers surely must rethink what the prose tale means when it speaks of Job’s integrity. The screw turns again when the whirlwind speeches accuse Job of speaking “words without knowledge” (38:2), for this undermines our sense that Job speaks with integrity. But then Yʜᴡʜ repeatedly refers to Job as “my servant” and judges that Job has spoken rightly about God whereas the friends have not (42:7–8). Readers must again reconsider Job’s words as true testimony about God. This book’s succession of new voices resists any attempt to read any as isolated from the others, yet they never cohere into a unified whole even though each is reshaped by the others. I like to think of Job as having emergent properties such as one sees when birds flock in magnificent, swirling synchrony. No single bird possesses the properties necessary to do this. No overarching or central agent determines the unpredictable, collective movements of the flock. And yet nothing other than the intrinsic qualities of each bird enables them to generate together such monstrous yet beautiful collective action. Similarly, no part of the book of Job contains the key to grasping it on the whole. Neither do the parts cohere into a unified sum. And yet, because of characteristics intrinsic to each part, the book as a whole flocks with unpredictable harmony. It consistently articulates and stages consequences of its fundamental insight into the deep dysfunction that pervades everything that seems predictable or reliable about human beings, the created world, and God. Nothing grounds or makes sense of this dysfunction. The book thus exemplifies its fundamental lesson that a weak, inconsistent, self‐disrupting, “ground” can generate monstrous and beautiful consequences beyond the control of its parts.

Job in Historical and Literary Contexts Author, Date, Location, and Setting No solid evidence exists for identifying who wrote Job, or when and where it was written. Even the setting is uncertain. The name, “Job” (Hebrew ʾiyyob), has received numerous explanations (Seow 2013, 265–66). For some it combines ʾy (“where”) and ʾab (“father”), meaning “where is the father?” But it also evokes the Hebrew root meaning “to be an enemy” or “to be hostile” (ʾyb), as in “the hated one.” The Babylonian Talmud, a later collection of Jewish writings dating to the sixth century

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CE but containing traditional material dating several centuries earlier, rewrites Job’s complaints about being treated as an enemy in 13:24 as follows: “Job said to God: ‘Perhaps a tempest has passed before thee, and caused thee to confuse Iyob [Job] and Oyeb [enemy]’” (b. B. Bat. 16a). The Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible known as the Septuagint (LXX) and other ancient texts conflate Job’s character with Jobab, an Edomite king who appears in Gen. 36:33 (see LXX Job 42:17d and T. Job 1:1; see also Chapter 8 in this volume). This likely facilitated a common attribution of authorship to Moses, since Moses was supposed to have written the Torah. But debates about who wrote Job and when flourished even in antiquity. While some dated Job in the Persian period and others suggested the period of the Judges (see b. B. Bat. 14b–15b), many sources such as the Testament of Job (see 1:6) identify Job with Jobab and his wife with Jacob’s daughter Dinah, which places him in the ancestral period of Genesis 12–50. The book’s language is also odd. Nearly 150 words occur in Job that appear in no other book in the Hebrew Bible, and many of the book’s terms and forms are unique. Some scholars speculate that the Hebrew version of Job is a translation from another Semitic language, while others view its linguistic peculiarities as a deliberate attempt to create an aura of foreignness (Greenstein 2003; Seow 2013). On the basis of intertextual resonances and vague but plausible historical allusions, most scholars date the book to the post‐exilic period (late sixth–fourth centuries BCE), which would add Job to the astonishing corpus of literature produced by Jews in the aftermath of the disasters that unfolded in Judah in the early sixth century BCE. Even if the book as it now appears dates to the Persian period, readers since the early modern period have surmised that it comes from more than one author. Job is clearly more than the biblical book. Ezekiel (14:14, 20) mentions Job and his reputation for righteousness and for saving others, which likely reflects a story other than the biblical one. The book’s distinct genres, especially the prose frame around the poetic middle section, plus the tensions that many detect between the characters of Job and of God in the prose versus the poetry, have led to proposals that the prose or poetry predated the other. But no manuscripts support this hypothesis, and other texts from the ancient Near East have a prose narrative framing poetic dialogues (e.g. the ancient Egyptian Eloquent Peasant). Also, neither the prose nor the poetry can be read in isolation. So, several prominent critics have recently devoted more effort to grasping the significance of the book’s combination of distinct yet unmerged genres and voices (e.g. Newsom 2003b).

Job in the Wisdom Tradition Eliphaz, Bildad, Zophar, and Elihu variously articulate a traditional perspective within early Jewish wisdom literature such as one finds in the book of Proverbs. Many therefore view Job as a challenge to that tradition. Scholars typically

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­ istinguish the knowledge content of various sapiential teachings (i.e. wisdom) d from ideal Wisdom, which unifies and consummates those teachings in all their multiplicity. Job challenges traditional wisdom by rejecting that its limits indicate that an ideal, fuller Wisdom transcends human intelligibility. Instead, Wisdom emerges out of conditions that do not cohere and so are endlessly open to unpredictable transformation. The prose introduction transforms the possibility of being wise into an emergent phenomenon that is generated at the moment of a rupture that opens life to new, unanticipated potential directions. After two short chapters, being wise is no longer about conforming to an ideal way of life that promises various benefits. In the poetic dialogue, Eliphaz is the most prominent “friend” and a clear spokesperson for traditional wisdom. When he experiences anxiety and terror (4:13–14), he recalls that God exists far beyond human beings who are destined to live their lives devoid of ideal Wisdom (vv. 17–21). Eliphaz encourages Job to take confidence in his fear of God (v. 6) and to believe in God’s ultimate goodness (5:18–27) despite the finitude of human knowledge. Eliphaz can still make meaning out of what he cannot understand by viewing it as indicative of God’s transcendence. One might say that the friends adopt a viewpoint above their standpoint, and they promise Job relief if he would follow suit. Job’s preafflicted life also embodies this posture that characterizes traditional wisdom. As Kevin Schilbrack shows (2014, 31–51), religious practices can and in fact should be seen as cognitive activity. Job’s repeated ritual acts of sacrifice originate in Job’s sense that some truth about others exceeds the limits of his knowledge: “It may be that my sons have sinned, and cursed God in their hearts” (1:5). These ritual acts enable Job to displace his anxiety at not knowing his sons’ hearts into acts of pious devotion aimed at a divine Other whom, he supposes, knows the truth about his sons’ hearts. Prior to the afflictions, Job acts as a traditional sage. He treats the limits of his knowledge as limits with respect to a fuller truth beyond him. After the afflictions, Job begins to embody and speak for an alternative way of understanding himself, God, and the world in relation to the limits of his knowledge and experience. For Job, wisdom’s intrinsic limits indicate God’s presence  –  not absence – which he describes as a productive force of plasticity that keeps anything from being at one with itself and everything open to transformation. The problem is not that God is unreachably “higher than heaven” (11:8), but rather that God cannot be disentangled from material objects in the world, including Job. Consider 9:33–35: “There is no arbiter between us who would set his hand on the two of us, so that [God] would divert his rod away from me, and his terror would not frighten me, and I would speak and not fear him. Truly I am not with myself.” Job can find no basis on which he could relate to God as one to another because God keeps making Job other than himself. God’s whirlwind speeches continue this radical reorientation of traditional wisdom. God draws excessive attention to limits that keep the world at odds with itself.

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The speeches actually culminate with a close‐up view of “the infinitesimal space that separates one scaly shield from another” on the underside of Leviathan (Brown 2010, 126). In the prose conclusion, Job occupies the center of an emergent community. We learn little about this community, but perhaps what matters most is that Job is at its center, no longer outside. The book ends with a brief but beautiful social picture of the theological position that it struggles to articulate throughout. Like refugees or those living in contemporary slums, Job represents those who are unmoored from defined social spaces. No longer an unforeseeable misfortune, this community makes such persons the most visible index of its health. Such persons become the bearers of the community’s truth, and the book’s conclusion thus invites readers to join its table and persist in its integrity. Note 1 For this outline see Breed and Hankins 2011.

References Balentine, Samuel E. 2006. Job. Macon, GA: Smith & Helwys. Breed, Brennan W. and Hankins, Davis. 2011. The Book of Job. In: The Oxford Encyclopedia of the Books of the Bible (ed. Michael D. Coogan), 434–450. New York: Oxford University Press. Brown, William P. 2010. The Seven Pillars of Creation: The Bible, Science, and the Ecology of Wonder. London: Oxford University Press. Clines, David J.A. 1982. The arguments of Job’s three friends. In: Art and Meaning: Rhetoric in Biblical Literature (ed. David J.A. Clines, David M. Gunn, and Alan J. Hauser), 199–214. Sheffield: JSOT. Clines, David J.A. 1985. False naivety in the Prologue to Job. Hebrew Annual Review 9: 127–136. Erickson, Amy. 2016. Job’s last words. Accessed July 2016. http://www. bibleodyssey.org/passages/main‐articles/ jobs‐last‐words.

Greenstein, Edward L. 2003. The Poem on Wisdom in Job 28 in its conceptual and literary contexts. In: Job 28: Cognition in Context (ed. Ellen Van Wolde), 253–280. Leiden: Brill. Hankins, Davis. 2013. Wisdom as an immanent event in Job 28, not a transcendent ideal. Vetus Testamentum 63: 210–235. Hankins, Davis. 2015. The Book of Job and the Immanent Genesis of Transcendence. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press. Linafelt, Tod. 1996. The undecidability of BRK in the Prologue to Job and beyond. Biblical Interpretation 4: 154–172. Newsom, Carol A. 1996. The book of Job. In: The New Interpreter’s Bible, Volume IV (ed. Leander E. Keck), 317–637. Nashville, TN: Abingdon. Newsom, Carol A. 2003a. “The consolations of God”: Assessing Job’s friends across a cultural abyss. In: Reading from Right to

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Left: Essays on the Hebrew Bible in Honour of David J. A. Clines (ed. J.C. Exum and H.G.M. Williamson), 347–358. London: Sheffield. Newsom, Carol A. 2003b. The Book of Job: A Contest of Moral Imaginations. New York: Oxford University Press. O’Connor, Kathleen M. 2003. Wild, raging creativity: The scene in the whirlwind (Job 38–41). In: A God so Near: Essays on

Old Testament Theology in Honor of Patrick D. Miller (ed. Brent A. Strawn and Nancy R. Bowen), 171–179. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Seow, C.L. 2013. Job 1–21: Interpretation and Commentary. Grand Rapids, MI/ Cambridge, UK: William B. Eerdmans. Schilbrack, Kevin. 2014. Philosophy and the Study of Religions: A Manifesto. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell.

Further Reading Seow, C.L. 2013. Job 1–21: Interpretation and Commentary. Grand Rapids, MI/ Cambridge, UK: William B. Eerdmans. A detailed commentary on the first half of the book of Job (second half forthcoming) that also introduces readers to the book as a whole and especially its fascinating history of interpretation and use in the cultural forms of Jewish, Christian, Muslim, and non‐religious communities.

Larrimore, Mark. 2013. The Book of Job: A Biography. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. An accessible and lively tour through the history of the uses of the book of Job and the various interpretive strategies that have been brought to bear on it, which highlights the enduring power of the book to produce new meanings and speak to ever‐changing circumstances with depth and honesty.

CHAPTER 3

Ecclesiastes Jennie Grillo

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rapped around the dome of the Royal Albert Hall in London, a line from the book of Ecclesiastes runs as the caption to a mosaic frieze in classical style: the frieze depicts an allegorical parade of crafts and technologies, suggesting the products of empire streaming from all over the world to the Great Exhibition of 1851 held in the Hall below. Within a pastiche of biblical quotations are Qoheleth’s words, “The wise and their works are in the hand of God” (9:1). Those works are, implicitly, the astronomy and horticulture, pottery and glassmaking here given permanence in terracotta, and the wise are the inventors and artisans triumphantly pushing f­orward “the advancement of arts and sciences,” in the words of the inscription (Sheppard 1975, 177–195). But the verses in Ecclesiastes go on ­differently: c­ ontinuing after the citation breaks off, the inscription’s King James Version (KJV) text itself reads, the righteous and the wise and their works are in the hand of God; no man knoweth either love or hatred by all that is before them. All things come alike to all: there is one event to the righteous, and to the wicked…. This is an evil among all things that are done under the sun, that there is one event unto all: yea, also the heart of the sons of men is full of evil, and madness is in their heart while they live, and after that they go to the dead.

For the architects of the Royal Albert Hall, Qoheleth was the ghost at the festivities, bringing his talk of death into every aspect of human effort; he had to be cut short. A monument to mid‐nineteenth‐century confidence has thus smoothed the The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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­ ifficult words of a strange book into, instead, a ringing affirmation of worldwide d pax Victoriana and classical culture. That smoothing of the message of Ecclesiastes in the Royal Albert Hall frieze is just one example of the way that readers have characteristically found the book too stark to face. It is a restless worrying‐away at intractable problems of human experience: the speaker, Qoheleth, turns over and over in his mind the frustration, pain, and puzzlement of creaturely life. Not only death but also loneliness, hard labor, bad government, the inequity of wealth, the impossibility of certain knowledge, mob folly, divine inscrutability, and a host of other sore points form the substance of his meditations. Perhaps it is for all these reasons that the book has proved so attractive to modernity, and to analysts of modern anxieties (Johnston 2004; Leithart 2008; Ellul 1990; Fiddes 2013). Yet its literary beauty, no less than the jagged edges of its theology, has also made it a touchstone for poets from John Donne to T.S. Eliot, and especially for modern Israeli writers probing the poetic possibilities of Hebrew, such as Yehuda Amichai in his Patuakh sagur patuakh (Open Closed Open) (Amichai 2000; see Berk and Cutter 2010; and for Ecclesiastes in English poetry, see Christianson 2007). Perhaps the most striking among the book’s alarming traits is its contradictoriness: for Michael V. Fox (1989), the contradictions Qoheleth sees – and the existential despair they provoke  –  make him a natural companion to the great existentialist Albert Camus. Contradictory statements pepper the book: “I know that it will be well with those who fear God, because they stand in fear before him, but it will not be well with the wicked,” asserts the speaker in 8:12–13, and yet the very next verse immediately registers a counterexample, “There is a vanity that takes place on earth, that there are righteous people who are treated according to the conduct of the wicked, and there are wicked people who are treated according to the conduct of the righteous” (8:14). Or, “A good name is better than precious ointment” (7:1), and yet “there is no enduring remembrance of the wise or of fools, seeing that in the days to come all will have been long forgotten” (2:16). The world is a contradictory place: God has made everything beautiful in its time (3:11), yet he has also made things crooked (7:13). Although the earlier Hebrew wisdom tradition specialized in the careful balancing of competing goods, there is nothing quite like this pitch of tension in the book of Proverbs. Ecclesiastes is singular – and in its time certainly new  –  within the Hebrew Bible for the sharpness of its dialectical thought, and for the way that the raw edges of opposing sentences grate up against each other.

Date and Language While there is a palpable shock of the new about Ecclesiastes, it has always been hard to determine exactly when it should be dated. The questions of date and language are bound together, although language is only one datum in the range of

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factors that give a sense of the book’s period; conversely, there is also more strangeness in the language than the chronological axis alone can account for. A pre‐exilic date seems to be ruled out by the Persian loan‐words pardes (“park”; 2:5) and pitgam (“verdict”; 8:11); even a scholar as cautious as Franz Delitzsch (1891, 190) could conclude that “If the Book of Koheleth were of old Solomonic origin, then there is no history of the Hebrew language.” The language of the book immediately strikes the reader as different from most other kinds of Biblical Hebrew: often, it reads more like the quoted speech within biblical narrative, or more like the Mishnaic (rabbinic) Hebrew of later generations. Some features are common to late Biblical Hebrew, like the decline in frequency of the waw consecutive and the use of the participle as a present tense. There is also a strong concentration of Aramaisms: while Aramaisms do occur in biblical texts from all periods, a high occurrence of them is an indicator of a post‐exilic date, and it is significant that Qoheleth’s Aramaisms reflect the Official Aramaic of the Persian empire rather than the Old Aramaic of earlier northwest Semitic inscriptions (Sáenz‐Badillos 1993, 112–129; Schoors 1992). Language and other factors have prompted hypotheses of some very late dates for Ecclesiastes, particularly in older scholarship: the great German Jewish historian Heinrich Graetz (1871, vi–viii, 9–18) dated the book to the time of Herod the Great (37–4 BCE; for an opposite conclusion, see Young 1993, 140–57). Those very late dates are now disproved by the manuscript evidence of the book found at Qumran: there, the oldest fragment of Qoheleth (known as 4QQoha) dates to the second quarter of the second century BCE. Overall, the strangeness of the book’s language can only be partly chronological, since it has no very close parallels in any period; register and possibly dialect are also factors which give Qoheleth’s speech its singular character. For instance, we might detect colloquialisms in Qoheleth’s slightly haphazard attention to the gender of nouns and to the rules for their definite articles. And even if the Hebrew is late, that still leaves open a wide chronological range, from the immediate post‐exilic period right into Hellenistic age. Alongside language, then, we must turn to other indicators of a possible date and background for the book. Using a combination of linguistic and other factors, C.‐L. Seow (1997; 1996; 2008) proposes a Persian period setting (fifth century BCE) for Ecclesiastes. This is partly on the basis of close parallels in the life and language of the fifth‐century Jewish settlement at Elephantine in Egypt: this diaspora community has left us a cache of records, mostly in Aramaic, documenting daily life under Persian rule through the evidence of marriage contracts, property deeds, private letters, and official instructions. Among these, many economic and financial terms build up a picture of a social world similar to the one reflected in Ecclesiastes: the daily business of life is rents, taxes, loans, wages, fines, inheritance, and payment, and the anxieties inherent in all of these dealings find voice in the words of the papyri just as they do in Qoheleth’s observation that “the protection of wisdom is like the protection of money” (7:12; cf. 5:10–12; Kugel 1989). For example, an Egyptian

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named Psamshek writes to the satrap (or local governor), called Arsham, to ask permission to carry on the grant of royal land given to his father Ahhapi, under the Persian system of land grants (TAD I, 6.4; see Porten 1986–1999); Seow (1997, 23–25) compares this situation with Eccl. 5:18–6:2, which speaks with the same terminology about God granting to the recipients of his favor the authority to enjoy his gifts. The specific language of economic power in the Aramaic documents from Elephantine may furnish a context for some of Qoheleth’s vocabulary: the two sources share a cluster of terms including yitron (“surplus”; 1:3; 2:11, 13; 3:9; 5:8, 15; 7:12; 10:10, 11), khesron (“deficit”; 1:15) and kheshbon (“account”; 7:25, 27, 29; 9:10). Or, in Persian‐ruled Mesopotamia, records show instances of rich people employing substitutes (usually poor ones) to fulfill their military duty: Seow (1997, 28–29) finds a wry allusion to this practice in Eccl. 8:8, “No one has power over the wind to restrain the wind, or power over the day of death; there is no discharge from the battle.” All this is suggestive, but not conclusive; the plight of small individuals sensing their own instability in a time of economic and social change could equally well speak of later periods. A Hellenistic date for Ecclesiastes  –  the third century BCE, in Qoheleth’s Palestine – is favored by the majority of modern commentators, and that backdrop also has the potential to throw into sharp relief many aspects of the book (Crenshaw 1987; Whybray 1989; Murphy 1992; Krüger 2004). The economic and social milieu of Ecclesiastes finds close comparisons in the Zeno papyri, a cache of documents recording the business and travels of a certain Zeno. He was the agent of an Egyptian official, and his errands on his master’s behalf took him throughout Coele‐ Syria (Rostovtzeff 1992; Grabbe 2004, 52–53). His correspondence speaks of buying slaves, collecting debts, dealing with extensive layers of bureaucracy, eliciting taxes from tenant farmers, and running a successful wine‐producing venture, all set against the background of a trade in imported luxury goods, and new agricultural methods producing new species with the help of artificial irrigation. All of this offers striking parallels with Qoheleth’s world of risk and gain, delicacy and excess, and a basic pattern of inequality: we might hear in Zeno’s records echoes of the oppression which Qoheleth observes when “the high official is watched by a higher, and there are yet higher ones over them” (5:8) or the “grievous ill” of a stranger – perhaps the hungry Ptolemaic court in Alexandria? – enjoying the wealth of the hapless rich people that Qoheleth sees around him (6:1–2) (Krüger 2004, 19–21). Perhaps the most persuasive argument for a Hellenistic date is the way that Ecclesiastes seems to engage Greek ideas and to reflect Greek second‐order thinking, at least at a popular level: this author appears to know a smattering of Hellenistic philosophical ideas. Eclectically, Qoheleth echoes some of the anxieties of the Skeptics when he tests the limits of human knowledge; he sounds like a moderate Epicurean in some of his more careful moments of probing at pleasure; and he shares a little of his physics with the Stoics in the revolving creation of the opening poem (Hengel 1974, 1.115–116; Machinist 1995; Weeks 2011). Noting these

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overlapping philosophical frameworks, Norbert Lohfink (2003) saw the book as an attempt to provide an alternative Hebrew curriculum for young Jewish men tempted by Greek education. Qoheleth’s signature phrase “under the sun” may even be a Greek calque in its usage in the book: the phrase has an ancient background in northwest Semitic inscriptions, but in Ecclesiastes an older idiom is perhaps reactivated under the pressure of the common Greek phrase hyper heliou (“under the sun”). In Greek tragedy just as in Ecclesiastes, “under the sun” is the place of human action, represented on the sunlit stage of an open‐air amphitheater: actors call upon the sun as a witness of human suffering, and playwrights speak of their audiences as sharing the same perspective as the sun’s all‐seeing celestial eye, looking down from above on all that happens “under the sun” (Hall 2010, 1–3, 93–94, 344). Overall, while a Persian date remains possible, the Hellenistic period is the most persuasive environment for the genesis of a book like this one, and certainly makes a compelling context for its early reception and impact.

Qoheleth and Solomon In Jewish and Christian antiquity Ecclesiastes was read as one of three “Solomonic” books, alongside Proverbs and Song of Songs, and the book does indeed align itself with an existing body of Hebrew literature by invoking the famously wise figure of Solomon (see Chapter 9 in this volume). When the narrative begins with the speaker’s splendid accumulation of wisdom and wealth, “surpassing all who were over Jerusalem before me” (1:12–2:11), the allusion to Solomon is clear. Spoken in the voice of one called “the son of David, king in Jerusalem” (1:1), these claims of riches, wisdom, exotic palaces, and lush gardens have been read against the backdrop of Solomon’s reign as narrated in 1 Kings 3–5; until the modern era, Solomon was thought to be the author of Ecclesiastes. But the use of Solomon in the book is probably more playful than pseudepigraphical: his oblique presence in Ecclesiastes makes a critical argument. As an archetype of wisdom and wealth, Solomon provides the focus for a searching examination of both of these: the wisest of all kings is reduced to despair when death levels the wise and the foolish (2:12–17). This royal guise is held at arms’ length, to be worn more loosely after the first two chapters, and the name of Solomon is never used. Instead, creating some distance from the Solomonic fiction, the speaker in the book is introduced as “Qoheleth” (or occasionally, “the Qoheleth,” in 12:8 and probably 7:27). This is a puzzling form, which may be either a name or a title. The word comes from the Hebrew root qhl, meaning “assemble,” and could allude to the assemblies convened by Solomon and many kings of Israel and Judah besides him; whether qoheleth would be the speaker in an assembly (Luther’s Prediger) or a member (the Septuagint’s ekklesiastes) is hard to decide, though the form of the word may suggest someone with a task in the ­assembly (Joüon 1921, 53–54; Weeks 2011, 180–196).

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Structure Along with most ancient wisdom collections, Ecclesiastes evades attempts to describe its structure. Just like the book of Proverbs, thematic clusters of sayings on a given topic do emerge, but the links are often associative and unsystematic, and multiple threads of connections across the whole collection make any divisions untidy. Nevertheless, Ecclesiastes is not a completely homogenous heap of observations with no beginning, middle, and end: recent scholarship has drawn attention to elements of story in the book, with features such as characters, plot, prolepsis and suspense, change and choice (Christianson 1998). A broad outline is clearly discernible, and the text’s use of storytelling genres invites us to compare this ­outline to a narrative arc. It is worth considering the traces of this narrative shape in more detail. First, the chief structuring device in Ecclesiastes is the first‐person voice which narrates the body of the book. This fictional persona acts as a filter for the whole range of utterances assembled in the text; in the words of Michael V. Fox (1999, 151), “The book’s cohesiveness inheres above all in the constant presence of a single brooding consciousness mediating all the book’s observations, counsels, and evaluations.” That narrating voice lends an organizing principle to the book by fitting its material onto the frame of a backwards look at a life, or in modern terms, something like an autobiography. This is established near the beginning, when the first‐person voice begins to speak self‐referentially, in the past tense: “I, Qoheleth, was king over Israel in Jerusalem” (1:12). These words borrow from a genre well known in the ancient Near East: that is, the record of a king’s accomplishments, cast in the first person and usually pressed into clay or inscribed on stone, inspiring shock and awe with details of enemies subdued, rivers crossed, palaces built, and cities razed (Longman 1991; Seow 1995). Qoheleth thoroughly subverts this convention, with his despairing conclusion that none of his accomplishments will last (2:11–23), but the genre does provide a framework for what follows in the body of the book. A long string of continuing past‐tense forms like “I saw,” “I turned to see,” and “I said” continue to tell a story of unfolding events, even though as the book goes on these are predominantly mental events in an intellectual autobiography. In the opening chapters, though, those events happen out in the world, in a parodic rendition of a standard royal boast: having set himself to study and observe human life (1:13, 17), Qoheleth plunges into an experiment with wealth and pleasure (and even folly), growing spectacularly rich and piling up houses, vineyards, exotic gardens, slaves, livestock, and luxuries (2:1–10). This career path to becoming, in his own words, “richer and wiser than anyone before me in Jerusalem” (2:9) is the lived context for the observations and reflections which follow for the rest of the book, and it is worth noting that this more reflective material is also cast in narrative forms, and takes the shape of a continuing journey. Certainly, the section in 1:12–2:26 is more clearly focused as autobiographical narrative: Qoheleth’s outline of his quest is substantially

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c­ omplete by the close of chapter 2. But this tale of a quest then provides the t­ emporal frame for all of the book’s ongoing enumeration of things Qoheleth saw, or thought, or found out: the mixing of these reports with present‐tense proverbs and ­exhortations in the rest of the book makes it into an evaluation of the opening investigation. The reader is invited to listen to Qoheleth as he mulls over what he has seen, what he now sees, and what he makes of it all; and as we read  –  and ­especially reread – this internal conversation as Qoheleth tells it, it too becomes a narrative in which the initial story is embedded. Observing Qoheleth’s framing of his own story leads to consideration of the broader frame for the book of Ecclesiastes: the first‐person voice of Qoheleth is not the only voice present in the book. An editorial hand has added an opening verse, “The words of Qoheleth son of David, king in Jerusalem” (1:1), and has introduced the whole collection with a citation of Qoheleth’s own leitmotif: “‘Vanity of vanities’ said Qoheleth, ‘All is vanity.’” (1:2). That editorial reference to Qoheleth in the third person recurs at a climax of the quest in 7:27: “See, this is what I found, says the Teacher, adding one thing to another to find the sum.” Finally, and most significantly, the book ends with a return to the editorial reporting of Qoheleth’s words – “Vanity of vanities, says the Teacher; all is vanity” (12:8) – followed by five verses of closing material, which scholars have regarded as one or more epilogues. This final material is spoken in the voice of a teacher in the classical wisdom mode, addressing the reader as “My son” (12:12), and it first approves Qoheleth’s work as that of another wisdom teacher: he “taught the people knowledge, weighing and studying and arranging many proverbs” (12:9). But then the verdict becomes harder to assess: the editorial voice sounds a note of deuteronomistic piety – “Fear God, and keep his commandments” (12:13) – which some regard as doing violence to the unconventional words of Qoheleth. It is even possible that this epilogue warns the reader against taking too seriously everything that has gone before in the book: 12:11 praises “the sayings of the wise” – presumably the teaching of Qoheleth – and the following verse cautions the reader to beware “of anything beyond these,” or does it? It is also possible to read that clause as “Furthermore – beware of these!” At one extreme, this reading of the closing material has led some to regard 12:9–13 as a dismissal of the entire book of Ecclesiastes (Shields 2006; Longman 1998). Others, however, read the epilogue as a partial but not unsustainable summary of the whole: Qoheleth has already told us to fear God (5:6; 7:18), and judgment is not an altogether new idea here (cf. 2:26; 3:17; 8:12–13). In Fox’s words (1977, 103), “In a sense this is a call for tolerance of expression of unorthodox opinion; it allows everything to be heard and considered as long as one reaches a proper conclusion.” In practice, the singular wisdom of Qoheleth has not been silenced; his speaking voice and its epitomizers both continue to be heard, stretching the dialectical tension of the book right to its outer limits. Within this overarching framework, various commentators observe different themes, moods, and emphases which all come to particular prominence at one

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point or another. The second half of chapter 2 circles particularly around death, and its way of annulling gain; in chapter 4, there is new attention given to the cruelty of humans to one another, with examples of oppression, competition, and isolation, as well as counterexamples of solidarity and companionship. Wisdom is again explicitly thematized at 7:23–8:2, 16–17; differently, 4:17–5:6 is one of the few places in the book to offer specifically religious instruction. Perhaps most significantly, the overall balance between observational material (“I saw”; “I found”) and traditional wisdom material (maxims, examples, exhortations) shifts over the course of the book: very broadly, chapters 1–6 contain more observations and chapters 7–12 offer more counsel. For example, 7:1–12 is a collection of proverbs cast in the standard wisdom form of “better than” sayings, while chapter 10 is predominantly advice about conduct before rulers. This drift from observation toward instruction is particularly discernible in the two final chapters: as the book draws to its close, the mood shifts toward a fragile resolution. The instruction at 11:1–6 arrives at a new calm, resting on a frank embrace of risk: there is the chance of loss, but there is also the chance of gain. Life’s contingencies now generate action rather than paralysis: “Send out your bread upon the waters…. in the morning sow your seed, and at evening do not let your hands be idle; for you do not know which will prosper, this or that, or whether both alike will be good” (11:1, 6). The mood is now very like the mood toward the close of another work which gives broken voice to the agonies of its age, T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land”: “I sat upon the shore / Fishing, with the arid plain behind me / Shall I at least set my lands in order?” This gently upward arc of Ecclesiastes, from anguished witnessing to a chastened resolve, is shadowed by another, parallel, line running throughout the book, or rather a series of points arranged in a line. These points are the seven “joy sayings” which punctuate Ecclesiastes, beginning with 2:24: “There is nothing better for mortals than to eat and drink, and find enjoyment in their toil.” These sayings offer the simple pleasures of food, drink, and work (and later also clothing, marriage, and merriment) as instances of “what is good” in the midst of disillusion. As Qoheleth’s words unfold, the commendation of joy gets stronger and stronger. The grammar of the sentences moves from the indicative to the imperative mood, and from the impersonal, “There is nothing better,” to the positive personal affirmation of “I have seen” and “I commend”: in order, the sequence runs through “There is nothing better for them than to be happy” (3:12–13; cf. v. 22); “This is what I have seen to be good: it is fitting to eat and drink and to find enjoyment” (5:18); “So I commend enjoyment” (8:15); “Go, eat your bread with enjoyment” (9:7–10); ending with a final urgent injunction to “Rejoice, young man” (11:9–10) (Whybray 1982). The “joy sayings” thus follow the book’s drift toward a tentative resolution. Seeing Ecclesiastes as plotted on a narrative line, unfolding in time, begins to ease some of the pressure of its internal contradictions: these are not all final conclusions which clash i­ rreconcilably,

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but rather way‐stations along a mental journey. They are positions provisionally taken up, only to be renegotiated over and over again. A final structural feature of Ecclesiastes is the inclusion of three poetic p ­ assages. One poem begins the book (1:4–9), one ends it (12:1–7), and one marks the transition from Qoheleth’s initial autobiographical narrative to the more back‐and‐forth recounting of his ongoing observations (3:1–8). Calling these three sections poems is a judgment based in part on the way their phrases fall into the parallel pairs typical of Hebrew poetry; of the three, only the passage in chapter 3 is arranged in the distinctive stichometry sometimes used for poetry and lists in the Leningrad Codex. But the recognition of these three sections as poetry is also partly an aesthetic response: these passages do a lot of the cinematic work of pinpointing the beauty of small things in Ecclesiastes, and this strong streak of beauty in the book pulls against the despairing tone of many of Qoheleth’s more explicit formulations. When he finally concludes that “Light is sweet, and it is good for the eyes to see the sun” (11:7), this affirmation is implicitly underscored by many unmarked instances of the goodness of the seeing eye: almond‐blossom and caper‐berries, silver and gold, the “beautiful in its time” rhythm of polarities in human life. In the overall architecture of Ecclesiastes, the opening and closing poems also each work to form bookends for the whole: the first two and last two chapters of the book create brackets, opening and closing Qoheleth’s speech, and each of these brackets makes use of a poem. The opening poem at 1:4–9 takes the natural world as a canvas to illustrate Qoheleth’s hypothesis that all is vanity (v. 2) and nothing is ever new (vv. 9–10): human generations, sun, wind, and waters all repeat themselves without progress, trapped in a fruitless cycle. This poem provides the basis for Qoheleth’s quest to amass wealth and wisdom which follows it in 1:12–2:10: he needs to find out what is worth doing in the wearying world that the poem has described. At the end of the book and the end of the quest, a different picture of the natural world gives rise to a poem that dismantles the splendid establishment described in 2:4–10. When Qoheleth returns again to describing clouds, wind, and water in 11:1–6, the movement is no longer cyclical but dramatically linear: here, rainstorm, falling trees, and harvest all suggest final losses and gains, rather than endless repetition. The world is now a place not of ennui but of change, including catastrophic change. The closing poem in 12:1–7 envisages just such a catastrophe, using the language of apocalypse and city‐lament to conjure up the decline and fall of a scene which sounds like Qoheleth’s establishment built back in chapter 2: there, he constructed houses, plantations, irrigation canals, treasuries, a household of servants, and singers; here, we see houses shuttered up, servants dwindling, singers being silenced, plants withering, irrigation failing, and treasures shattering. Threads of language thus tie the two ends of the book together, and within this web of connections the opening and closing poems do their overarching thematic work.

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Qoheleth and Wisdom Whatever else the book of Ecclesiastes may be, it is an engagement with the wisdom tradition. Qoheleth speaks in the native terms and forms of Israel’s earlier wisdom literature, and announces his whole project as one that takes wisdom as its instrument (1:13; 2:3; 7:23) and its end (1:17; 2:12; 7:25). He returns again and again to describe and define wisdom from numerous angles. Wisdom is better than folly as light is better than darkness (2:13); it protects and gives life to the one who possesses it (7:12); it gives strength to the wise (7:19) and makes the face shine (8:1); but it also brings vexation (1:18), remains elusive (7:23), goes unheeded (9:16), can be lost in the course of life’s struggles (7:7), and is easily outweighed by folly (10:1). Qoheleth’s observations persistently take the form of noting glitches in the wisdom project of identifying predictable outcomes for action in the world. It is worth noting this pattern across a number of traditional wisdom topics. Work and its Rewards The programmatic question of Ecclesiastes is about work: “What do people gain from all the toil at which they toil under the sun?” (1:3). Qoheleth’s initial feeling about his own work is a negative answer to this question: “Then I considered all that my hands had done and the toil I had spent in doing it, and again, all was vanity and a chasing after wind, and there was nothing to be gained under the sun” (2:11). And his own projects are just a larger canvas to show what is true of human work everywhere. Work demands still more work, in a wearisome spiral of deferred satisfaction: “All human toil is for the mouth, yet the appetite is not satisfied” (6:7). The goodness of work is vitiated by the corruption that Qoheleth sees in human hearts: “Then I saw that all toil and all skill in work come from one person’s envy of another” (4:4). The nexus between work and its rewards is vulnerable to bad luck: “the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to the skillful; but time and chance happen to them all” (9:11). Death, finally, annuls any permanent gain from work: “As they came from their mother’s womb, so they shall go again, naked as they came; they shall take nothing for their toil, which they may carry away with their hands” (5:14).

Wealth and Poverty Ecclesiastes shares with the earlier wisdom tradition a belief in the goodness and usefulness of honestly acquired wealth (“For the protection of wisdom is like the protection of money,” 6:12), but alongside this, there is a greater nagging awareness of the frailty of wealth and the unpredictability of inheritance: “I hated all my

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toil in which I had toiled under the sun, seeing that I must leave it to those who come after me – and who knows whether they will be wise or foolish? Yet they will be master of all for which I toiled and used my wisdom under the sun” (2:18, 19). Even the possession of wealth in the present does not guarantee the capacity to enjoy it: there are “those to whom God gives wealth, possessions, and honor, so that they lack nothing of all that they desire, yet God does not enable them to enjoy these things, but a stranger enjoys them” (6:2).

Political and Social Life As in Proverbs, the social world Qoheleth describes is hierarchical and traditional, but here things seem to go awry more often than they run to established paradigms. The blessing of a good ruler is more rare than the curse of a bad one: this is a world where “one person exercises authority over another to the other’s hurt” (8:9), and where “folly is set in high places” (10:6). Institutions fail at dispensing justice (“I saw under the sun that in the place of justice, wickedness was there, and in the place of righteousness, wickedness was there as well,” 3:16; cf. 8:10–11), and Qoheleth sometimes looks at the world with the anger of a prophet rather than the equanimity of a sage: “Again I saw all the oppressions that are practiced under the sun. Look, the tears of the oppressed – with no one to comfort them! On the side of their oppressors there was power – with no one to comfort them” (4:1). The conventional upward path of the wise courtier now seems to be one with more snakes than ladders: “Keep the king’s command because of your sacred oath. Do not be terrified; go from his presence, do not delay when the matter is unpleasant, for he does whatever he pleases. For the word of the king is powerful, and who can say to him, ‘What are you doing?’” (8:2–4; cf. 9:16–17; 10:4, 20).

Death In wisdom teaching, life is the great good toward which wisdom leads her followers: “She is a tree of life to those who lay hold of her” (Prov. 3:18). By contrast, Ecclesiastes is haunted by death: in the words of H. Wheeler Robinson (1946, 248), it has “the smell of the tomb about it” (see also Perdue 1994; Burkes 1999). Death is the acid that eats away at all human gains: “For the fate of humans and the fate of animals is the same; as one dies, so dies the other. They all have the same breath, and humans have no advantage over the animals; for all is vanity” (3:19). At times in the course of Qoheleth’s inquiries, life ceases to seem like a good – “I hated life” (2:17) – leading him even to flirt with a wish for death: “And I thought the dead, who have already died, more fortunate than the living, who are still alive; but better than both is the one who has not yet been, and has not seen the evil deeds that are

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done under the sun” (4:2–3; cf. 6:3–6; 7:1). However, this is not his final word: there is nothing in the book quite like the settled embrace of death expressed in an Egyptian text often compared with Ecclesiastes, the Dispute Between a Man and His Ba: “Death is before me today / Like the fragrance of myrrh, / Like setting under sail on breeze day” (Lichtheim 1975, 163–169). Death is not to be welcomed, though it must be faced: “A living dog is better than a dead lion,” says Qoheleth, in a characteristically sardonic quip which then refuses its own hollowness with a sudden turn to wistful elegy: “the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing; they have no more reward, and even the memory of them is lost. Their love and their hate and their envy have already perished; never again will they have any share in all that happens under the sun” (8:4–6).

Knowledge Where the sages of Proverbs are sanguine about the possibility of growing in knowledge and understanding, Qoheleth is overwhelmed. Knowledge in Proverbs is hard‐won and requires discipline, but is attainable; in Ecclesiastes it is an impossibly receding horizon. This is not a principled skepticism, simply a feeling of despair at the scope of the task: “All this I have tested by wisdom; I said, ‘I will be wise,’ but it was far from me. That which is, is far off, and deep, very deep; who can find it out?” (7:23–24). The mystery of God’s dealings with humans is especially unfathomable: “He has made everything beautiful in its time; moreover he has put a sense of past and future into their minds, yet they cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end” (3:11; cf. 8:16–17). When a fragile sense of resolution is achieved in chapter 11, this is partly founded on an acceptance of the difficulty of knowing: here, a more serene version of the unknowability of God’s work and the times for human activity is expressed as “You do not know the work of God, who makes everything. In the morning sow your seed, and at evening do not let your hands be idle; for you do not know which will prosper” (11:5–6; cf. 3:1–8, 11). The patristic commentator Jerome, of all people, captures this quite well when he makes 1 Cor. 13:9, 12 into something of a motto for the book: knowing wisdom is really only seeing in a glass darkly (Goodrich & Miller 2012, 90). This epistemological humility qualifies the extent to which Qoheleth can really be claimed as an “empiricist” (Fox 1999, 85). Certainly, the weight of all Qoheleth’s “I saw” statements give the book the character of the accumulated witness of a single observer, but knowledge can still be inherited in Ecclesiastes (“I know” as well as “I saw”) just as it can still surprise in Proverbs; the contrast between them is at least in part a sharp rhetorical contrast. Qoheleth’s characteristic verdict of hebel is something of a master category across topics, or at least an expression of the dynamic common to all of these

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problems. It is a cry of frustration which gives Qoheleth much of his reputation as a skeptic or a pessimist, demolishing every accomplishment and value. The word hebel is variously translated as “vanity,” “transitory,” and “folly” (Gordis 1951), “futile and fleeting”/“fleeting and futile” (Krüger 2004), “enigma” (Bartholomew 2009), “absurd” (Fox 1989), “brevity” (Fredericks 1988), “a breath” (Lohfink 2003). Earlier in Biblical Hebrew, the word is used in polemic against the nothingness of idols (e.g. Deut. 32:21; Isa. 30:7; Jer. 10:8), and this usage is closely derived from its literal meaning “breath” or “vapor.” A word for a puff of air, then, has become lexicalized as a dead metaphor. But as Seybold (1977, 336–337) has observed, onomatopoeic words are more likely to stay “live” as metaphors: every time you say hebel, you make the sound of a breath (for a strikingly live instance of the hebel‐metaphor in the Bible, see Ps. 62:10). The close association of hebel with “chasing the wind” (reʿut ruakh or raʿayon ruakh) argues against it being a dead metaphor; even a dead metaphor of breath, in fact, would be reactivated in the skillful hands of Qoheleth by this juxtaposition with wind. In the words of Norbert Lohfink, “It looks to fleetingness, inevitable death, the uncertain linkage between effort and enjoyment of its fruits” (2003, 57). The sense is captured by a medieval lyric which paraphrases Ecclesiastes: “This world is false, fickle and frail, and fareth but as a fantasy” (see Hirsh 2005, 64–69). Jerome has been the preeminent exponent of an ascetic reading of Ecclesiastes grounded on the translation of hebel as vanitas, paralleled in the KJV’s influential choice of “vanity.” This is given vivid expression in the vanitas painting tradition, most profoundly in Dutch paintings of the seventeenth century: here we find the words of Ecclesiastes represented alongside skulls and blossoms, hourglasses and lutes to symbolize the passing of all worldly gains and the inevitable approach of death. It is easy to parody the “vanity” reading for the way Qoheleth’s vexation is displaced by a wan renunciation, and for the pietistic tilt it gives to the book, but it does capture well Ecclesiastes’ undeniable element of disgust with life: in Qoheleth’s impatience with human idiocy there is a strongly ascetic streak of disgust, including self‐disgust. The use of hebel certainly has a bearing on Qoheleth’s valuation of wisdom: hebel tends to function as a protest against things which disrupt the act–consequence relationship, like death (“How can the wise die just like fools? … all is hebel and a chasing after wind,” 2:16–17), or the unpredictable returns of labor (“the lover of money will not be satisfied with money, nor the lover of wealth with gain. This also is hebel,” 5:10), or the fickleness of memory (“I saw the wicked buried … and they were praised in the city where they had done such things. This also is hebel,” 8:10). Like Job, Ecclesiastes has therefore often been read as representing a crisis in wisdom thinking: in the words of James Crenshaw (2013, 1), Qoheleth “had seen the assumptions of the intelligentsia and the practical guidelines of ordinary citizens give way under the heavy questioning of poets such as the genius behind the book of Job.” But while Ecclesiastes is a challenge to wisdom’s

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confidence, it is ultimately not an assault on the wisdom tradition. Wisdom itself is never hebel in Ecclesiastes. In Fox’s analysis (1999, 92), “Qoheleth’s complaints are not an attack on wisdom, but a complaint against life on wisdom’s behalf. In complaining about the limits of wisdom, then, Qoheleth’s stance is not polemical but protective.” Qoheleth’s problem is really that he is more wooden than wisdom: he speaks passionately from within the wisdom tradition, and rails at a world which disregards its precepts. The formal features of Ecclesiastes place it firmly within a wisdom milieu: Qoheleth still offers proverbs, even if they are often cautionary tales rather than confident expectations. Even Qoheleth’s contradictions themselves have a wisdom style: the rabbinic dispute over Qoheleth in b. Shabb. 30b is often cited as evidence of the book’s marginal status, but in fact the rabbis go on to make the same observation about Proverbs directly afterwards – contradictoriness is a formal feature of wisdom literature. In terms of content too, both the perplexity and the shock of Qoheleth’s observations on wisdom and the world can be paralleled, though sparsely, in some undercurrents of the book of Proverbs: “Sometimes there is a way that seems to be right, but in the end it is the way to death” (16:25); “The field of the poor may yield much food, but it is swept away through injustice” (13:23). Likewise, the bittersweet tone of the book is already amply exemplified in the Egyptian precursors to Israelite wisdom literature, such as the Harper’s Song from the Tomb of King Intef, where skepticism about any lasting memory for the passing generations is met by advice to “Follow your heart and your happiness” (Lichtheim 1975, 194–198). Ecclesiastes, then, still sits within the wisdom tradition which it interrogates, and wisdom remains a value in the book, although vulnerable; Qoheleth’s is a chastened wisdom, but tenaciously held.

Qoheleth Beyond Wisdom Ecclesiastes is a cosmopolitan amalgam of literary sources: the enjoyment saying at 9:7–10 seems to depend on the Epic of Gilgamesh (Dalley 1998, 150); at 10:20, the proverb about birds carrying gossip may derive from the Aramaic sayings of the Assyrian sage Ahiqar (“More than all watchfulness, watch your mouth, and harden your heart against him who is listening; for a word is a bird, and anyone who releases it is lacking in common‐sense”; TAD III, 1.1.82). But perhaps more surprisingly, recent scholarship has argued that Ecclesiastes rereads and rewrites more Hebrew Bible texts than simply wisdom literature: law, history, and creation traditions are all among Qoheleth’s sources (Dell and Kynes 2014). James Kugel (2001, 15) has spoken of Ben Sira as the first of Israel’s sages to exchange the observation of the natural world for Torah study (“Thus, it happened that the sage, who had previously walked about the world or stood at his window looking out, now sat

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down at his table and opened the book”); but although Qoheleth never relinquished the evidence of his eyes, he may in fact be the first who turned from the window to the book. In the small and increasingly literary world of Second Temple scribal ­culture, it is plausible to hear in Ecclesiastes echoes of earlier biblical texts: we might expect this author, more than earlier wisdom writers, to be reflecting on Israel’s national story. It is certainly true that Ecclesiastes has nothing to say about the great founding tales of the nation’s origins, like the Exodus and Conquest, but in its language and motifs there are perhaps traces of the literary memory of national decline and historical collapse, and especially the trauma of the fall of Jerusalem and the Exile. For example, the Catalogue of Times in 3:1–8 reaches beyond a list of general truths to echoes of Israel’s particular historical experiences: the poem ruefully recollects Jeremiah’s litany of paired opposites “to uproot and pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant” (Jer. 1:10, with variations throughout that book); likewise in “a time to tear and a time to sew” Qoheleth uses an image which had been emblematic of the division of the kingdom ever since Saul tore the hem of Samuel’s robe, in a motif that is repeatedly reworked in later biblical texts; seeking and losing have likewise become marked as ciphers for the nation’s collective experience by a saying like Ezek. 34:6, 16, “My sheep were scattered over all the face of the earth, with no one to search or seek for them…. I will seek the lost and I will bring back the strayed.” Or, to take another example, the closing poem of Eccl. 12:1–7 describes a house or a city collapsing in what has often been read as an allegory of old age; yet it would have been impossible in Qoheleth’s period to speak of strong men shaking in a wrecked city with the lights going out and the mourners starting to sing without immediately evoking a literary memory of the disaster of the fall of Jerusalem to the Babylonians, which was becoming the template on which every subsequent destruction of Jerusalem was described throughout antiquity. This poem speaks of “days of trouble (yemei ha‐raʿah)” coming; in the literature of Qoheleth’s readers, “the day of trouble (yom raʿah)” was the name for the day Nebuchadnezzar sacked Jerusalem (Jer. 17:17–18). That was the central catastrophe in their collective remembrance, preserved in the book of Lamentations, with its deserted city once full of people, roads and gates mourning, gold scattered in the streets, music stopping, agriculture silenced, and wild animals and birds moving in. These same images, when reused within the final poem of Ecclesiastes, become a historically rooted and learned means of processing a community’s memory (Barbour 2012). Tracing these textual connections to Israel’s remembered history prevents us from reading the book in the universalizing manner of the Royal Albert Hall frieze, as though Ecclesiastes were a purely Greek‐inflected book of general wisdom. While Qoheleth reflects the wide horizons of his philosophical and literary culture, nevertheless he still speaks with a distinctively Israelite voice.

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References Amichai, Yehudah. 2000. Open Closed Open (trans. Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld). New York: Harcourt. Barbour, Jennie. 2012. The Story of Israel in the Book of Qohelet: Ecclesiastes as Cultural Memory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bartholomew, Craig G. 2009. Ecclesiastes. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Berk, Eric and Cutter, William. 2010. Opening and closing with Qohelet: the late work of Yehuda Amichai: a discussion of Patuakh Sagur Patuakh (Open Closed Open). Hebrew Studies 51: 175–201. Burkes, Shannon. 1999. Death in Qoheleth and Egyptian Biographies of the Late Period. Atlanta GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Christianson, Eric S. 1998. A Time to Tell: Narrative Strategies in Ecclesiastes. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic. Christianson, Eric S. 2007. Ecclesiastes Through the Centuries. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Crenshaw, James L. 1987. Ecclesiastes: A Commentary. Philadelphia, PA: Westminster Press. Crenshaw, James L. 2013. Qoheleth: The Ironic Wink. Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press. Dalley, Stephanie. (trans.) 1998. Myths from Mesopotamia. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Delitzsch, Franz. 1891. Commentary on the Song of Songs and Ecclesiastes. Edinburgh: T&T Clark. Dell, Katharine and Kynes, Will. 2014. Reading Ecclesiastes Intertextually. London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark.

Ellul, Jacques. 1990. Reason for Being. Grand Rapids, MI: W.B. Eerdmans. Fiddes, Paul S. 2013. Seeing the World and Knowing God: Hebrew Wisdom in a Late‐Modern Context. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fox, Michael V. 1977. Frame‐narrative and composition in the book of Qohelet. Hebrew Union College Annual 48: 83–106. Fox, Michael V. 1989. Qohelet and His Contradictions. Sheffield: Almond Press. Fox, Michael V. 1999. A Time to Tear Down and a Time to Build Up: A Rereading of Ecclesiastes. Grand Rapids MI: W.B. Eerdmans. Fredericks, Daniel C. 1988. Qoheleth’s language: Re‐evaluating its nature and date. Society of Biblical Literature Lewiston, NY: E. Mellen Press. Goodrich, Richard J. and Miller, David J.D. (eds. and trans.) 2012. St. Jerome: Commentary on Ecclesiastes. New York: Newman Press. Gordis, Robert. 1951. Koheleth: The Man and His World. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America. Grabbe, Lester L. 2004. A History of Jews and Judaism in the Second Temple Period. Vol 2. New York: T&T Clark International. Graetz, Heinrich. 1871. Kohélet, oder der salomonische Prediger. Leipzig: C.F. Winter’sche Verlagshandlung. Hall, Edith. 2010. Greek Tragedy: Suffering Under the Sun. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hengel, Martin. 1974. Judaism and Hellenism: Studies in their Encounter in Palestine during the Early Hellenistic Period. 2 vols. London: SCM.

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Hirsh, John C. (ed.) 2005. Medieval Lyric: Middle English Lyrics, Ballads and Carols. Oxford: Blackwell. Johnston, Robert K. 2004. Useless Beauty: Ecclesiastes Through the Lens of Contemporary Film. Grand Rapids MI: Baker. Joüon, Paul. 1921. Sur le nom de Qoheleth. Biblica 2: 53–54. Krüger, Thomas. 2004. Qoheleth: A Commentary. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Kugel, James L. 1989. Qohelet and money. Catholic Biblical Quarterly 51: 32–49. Kugel, James L. 2001. Ancient biblical interpretation and the biblical sage. In: Studies in Ancient Midrash (ed. James Kugel), 1–26. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Leithart, Peter J. 2008. Solomon Among the Postmoderns. Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos. Lichtheim, Miriam. 1975. Ancient Egyptian Literature, Vol. 1: The Old and Middle Kingdoms. Berkeley: University of California Press. Lohfink, Norbert. 2003. Qoheleth: A Continental Commentary. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress. Longman, Tremper. 1991. Fictional Akkadian Autobiography. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Longman, Tremper. 1998. The Book of Ecclesiastes. Grand Rapids, MI: W.B. Eerdmans. Machinist, Peter. 1995. Fate, miqreh and reason: Some reflections on Qohelet and biblical thought. In: Solving Riddles and Untying Knots: Biblical, Epigraphic and Semitic Studies (ed. Ziony Zevit, Seymour Gitin, and Michael Sokoloff), 159–175. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.

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Murphy, Roland E. 1992. Ecclesiastes. Dallas, TX: Word Books. Perdue, Leo. 1994. Wisdom and Creation. Nashville, TN: Abingdon Press. Porten, Bezalel. 1986–1999. Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Ancient Egypt. 4 vols. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Robinson, H. Wheeler. 1946. Inspiration and Revelation in the Old Testament. Oxford: Clarendon. Rostovtzeff, Michael. 1922. A Large Estate in Egypt in the Third Century BC. Madison: University of Wisconsin. Sáenz‐Badillos, Angel. 1993. History of the Hebrew Language. New York: Cambridge University Press. Schoors, Antoon. 1992. The Preacher Sought to Find Pleasing Words. Leuven: Peeters. Seow, C.L. 1995. Qohelet’s autobiography. In: Fortunate the Eyes that See: Essays in Honor of David Noel Freedman in Celebration of his Seventieth Birthday (ed. Astrid B. Beck, Andrew H. Bartelt, Paul R. Raabe, and Chris A. Franke), 257– 282. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Seow, C.L. 1996. Linguistic evidence and the dating of Qoheleth. Journal of Biblical Literature 115: 643–666. Seow, C.L. 1997. Ecclesiastes: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Seow, C.L. 2008. The social world of Ecclesiastes. In: Scribes, Sages and Seers: The Sage in the Eastern Mediterranean World (ed. Leo G. Perdue), 189–217. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Seybold, Klaus. 1977. hebel. In: Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Alten Testament: Gillulim – Hms, vol. 2 (ed. G. Johannes Botterweck, Helmer Ringgren,

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and Heinz‐Josef Fabry), 334–343. Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer. Shields, Martin. 2006. The End of Wisdom. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Sheppard, F.H.W. (ed.) 1975. Royal Albert Hall. In: Survey of London: Volume 38, South Kensington Museums Area, 177–195. London: London County Council.

Weeks, Stuart. 2011. Ecclesiastes and Skepticism. New York: T&T Clark. Whybray, R.N. 1982. Qoheleth, preacher of joy. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 23: 87–98. Whybray, R.N. 1989. Ecclesiastes. London: Marshall, Morgan, & Scott. Young, Ian. 1993. Diversity in Pre‐Exilic Hebrew. Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr.

Further Reading Boda, Mark J., Longman III, Tremper, and Rata, Cristian G.(eds.) 2013. The Words of the Wise are Like Goads. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. A recent collection of essays devoted to Ecclesiastes. Davis, Ellen F. 2000. Proverbs, Ecclesiastes and the Song of Songs. Louisville, KY: Westminster. Brief commentaries on three biblical books mainly for a Christian audience. Gordis, Robert. 1951. Koheleth: The Man and His World. New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America. An older but still valuable commentary.

Fox, Michael V. 2004. Ecclesiastes. Philadelphia, PA: The Jewish Publication Society. A helpful commentary intended primarily for Jewish readership. Krüger, Thomas. 2004. Qoheleth (trans. O.C. Dean, Jr.). Minneapolis, MN: Fortress. A leading commentary on this biblical book. Seow, Choon‐Leong. 1997. Ecclesiastes. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. A useful and important commentary on Ecclesiastes. Weeks, Stuart. 2007. Ecclesiastes and Scepticism. A close reading of an important theme in Ecclesiastes.

CHAPTER 4

Psalms William P. Brown

Introduction Despite the placement of this chapter between the chapters on Ecclesiastes and Sirach in this volume, the book of Psalms is typically excluded from the biblical wisdom corpus.1 There are good reasons for this. On the one hand, much of psalmic discourse is oriented toward God, whether in the form of prayer and complaint or praise and thanksgiving, both individual and communal. The rhetoric of the wisdom literature, on the other hand, lacks such a prominent orientation.2 The Psalter, furthermore, makes frequent reference to foundational events set within ancient Israel’s historiography, events of critical national import, from the exodus and the choice of Zion to the traumatic experience of exile (e.g. Pss. 44; 74; 78; 79; 80; 81; 105; 106; 114; 135; 136). Such is not the case in the wisdom literature. Other than Solomon (and a single reference to Hezekiah), Israel’s history‐making figures find no place in the wisdom corpus.3 In place of a cultic context, much of Proverbs, for example, portrays a distinctly familial setting. The one instance of familial direct address in the Psalms is found in 34:11[Heb. v. 12], a common didactic feature found in Proverbs 1–9 (cf. Ps. 82:6). Broadly put, the wisdom corpus contains primarily human‐to‐human discourse,4 whereas most of Psalms consists of human‐to‐God address. While such general distinctions prevent the Psalms from being included in the wisdom corpus wholesale, that does not preclude exploring affinities that particular psalms might have with the wisdom literature, such as shared language, themes, The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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concepts, and manner(s) of discourse. Indeed, identifying bona fide “wisdom psalms” has been a staple of Psalms research since its form‐critical origins, beginning with Hermann Gunkel (1862–1932). Yet it has also been one of the most contentious issues in Psalms research.5 This chapter explores the challenges of identifying so‐called wisdom psalms with the heuristic aim of uncovering points of affinity and difference between Psalms and the wisdom books of the Hebrew Bible (see Brown 2005).

Wisdom in the Psalms Certain psalms signal instructional or didactic intent.6 Psalm 1, for example, commends the study of YHWH’s instruction (torah). Psalms 32 and 34 indicate the importance of teaching (32:8–9; 34:11[12]). Psalm 49 opens with the speaker’s intent to impart “wisdom” and “understanding” in the form of a “proverb” and a “riddle” (vv. 3–4[4–5]; see also 78:1–2). Some of these psalms are categorized as wisdom psalms, depending on who is doing the categorizing (see below). In any case, such psalms, in addition to others, present the Psalter as a book of instruction and devotion – a textbook of sorts – in addition to being a book of prayer and praise. Hymnbook, prayer book, textbook: such are the three broad discursive dimensions of the book of Psalms – the Psalter in 3D, one could say. It is this last dimension, the didactic dimension, that is the focus of this chapter. Identifying wisdom in the Psalms has always been marred by methodological vagueness (Forti 2015; Whybray 1995, 152–153; cf. von Rad 1972, 48), in part because “wisdom” in the biblical literature resists tidy definition. One can, to be sure, identify various marks or “salient features” (Cheung 2015, 22–52) within the wisdom corpus, from concrete guidance for success and moral instruction to contemplative reflection on the vagaries of life and the wonder of creation and God (Brown 2014, 24–27). But there is no one‐size‐fits‐all definition, given the sheer diversity of the literature, and it is even questionable whether wisdom constitutes a discrete “tradition” (Sneed 2011). Whereas Proverbs, for instance, affirms a bond between human act and consequence, the example of Job severs the connection, and Qoheleth leaves it all to chance (Eccl. 9:11; see Adams 2008). Where Proverbs finds cosmic order, Job finds profound disorder, and Qoheleth inscrutable mystery. The wisdom books, moreover, cover the epistemological spectrum from confident certainty to unsettling uncertainty. In short, the three books of the Hebrew Bible categorized as wisdom literature do not agree on much, but that may be of secondary importance when it comes to recognizing wisdom. Recognition requires criteria, to be sure, but not necessarily a self‐contained definition. Recognizing wisdom in non‐sapiential corpora, in other words, requires more than “I’ll know it when I see it” (the so‐called “pornographic” approach to defining something), but less than “I’ll know it only when I can fully define it.”

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Defining the wisdom of (or in) the sapiential literature in terms of a common outlook is difficult, or in the eyes of some an impossible task (Weeks 2016, 12–13). Nevertheless, one can carve out wisdom’s broad domain, at least negatively. Hebrew biblical wisdom is non‐historiographical, non‐prophetic, and by and large (but not exclusively) non‐cultic in its orientation. Instead of national interests, the wisdom literature concerns itself primarily with the individual. In the place of national history, there is creation. Instead of the sanctuary, there are the city gates, the marketplace, and the home. Wisdom’s primary orientation, in the broadest possible terms, is human living, both private and public. Drawing largely from the varieties of human experience,7 much of biblical wisdom addresses issues of character and conduct. It is broadly didactic or instructional in its various modes of discourse. One abstract way of putting it is to claim that biblical wisdom operates in a “mode of reflective deliberation” (Saur 2015, 181) or with an “intellectual tone” (Cheung 2015, 30–33). But even this definition does not quite cover the spectrum that wisdom covers; it works well with Job and Ecclesiastes, but many proverbial sayings address the everyday vagaries of human existence and are distinctly lacking in intellectual reflection (e.g. Prov. 12:5, 8, 17; 13:16; 14:33; 19:20). Perhaps the most (or least) that can be said about wisdom is that wisdom imparts wisdom. Although this sounds tautological, such a claim highlights two critical dimensions: (i) the active, dynamic nature of wisdom, and (ii) wisdom’s goal. First, wisdom is something to be shared, whether widely or selectively. It is to be given and received by many, or by only a few. Moreover, wisdom is hardly static; the ideational diversity of the wisdom literature is testimony enough. Second, in the imparting of wisdom, there is a broad goal in view, namely human edification of some sort, which builds or empowers human agency and guidance in the challenging, encompassing task of living beyond merely surviving, of living with understanding. Wisdom, therefore, is not so much a genre indication as it is a description of the purpose or function of such literature. Such a broad orientation leaves open a number of possibilities for examining the Psalms in view of wisdom. But here we address the most typical, and most problematic, line of investigation.

Wisdom Psalms? In biblical scholarship, the issue of wisdom vis‐à‐vis the Psalms has typically been focused on identifying particular wisdom psalms, with the assumption that such psalms reflect sapiential influence, that is, influence from an allegedly distinct group of literati or elite scribal class in ancient Israelite society – the sages. Among the hymns, laments, and thanksgiving songs that he identified throughout the Psalms, the famous form critic Hermann Gunkel posited a separate category called wisdom poems (Gunkel and Begrich 1998, 295–305). This generic category was unlike all others,8 because these psalms shared no common form, or Gattung in

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German, and their alleged setting was up for grabs. Gunkel himself preferred to talk about wisdom poetry, which addressed matters of “human life” (293), with varying forms ranging from short sayings to more extensive poetic instructions (299–301). Greater reticence in identifying (and appreciating) wisdom poetry is evident in Sigmund Mowinckel (1884–1965), who largely avoided the classification, replacing it with “learned psalmography” and in particular “didactic poem” (1962, 2.104–106, 112). It was Mowinckel’s assessment that such non‐cultic writing marked a “disintegration” of psalmic style (2.111). Nevertheless, credit is given where credit is due: the “learned psalmographers,” while littering the Psalter with their allegedly inferior psalms, were also the “guardians of the spiritual and literary traditions of the Temple” (2.114). Without them, there would be no Psalter. Even from the outset, there has been ambivalence about identifying wisdom psalms form‐critically, since such psalms do not share common form, a seeming necessity of classical genre analysis. But this has not prevented various attempts at classifying a group of wisdom psalms, as indicated in the following lists identified by various scholars over the years:9 Gunkel and Begrich (1998 [1933]) – 1, 37, 49, 73, (91), 112, (127), 128, (133) Mowinckel (1955) – 1, 19b, 34, 37, 49, 78, 105, 106, 111, 112, 127 Murphy (1962) – 1, (25), (31), 32, 34, 37, (39), (40), 49, (62), (92), (94), 112, (119), (127), 128 Von Rad (1972) – 1, 34, 37, 49, 73, 111, 112, 119, 127, 128, 139 Perdue (1977) – 1, 19, 32, 34, 37, 49, 73, 105, 112, 119, 127 Gerstenberger (1974, 1988) – 1, 8, 14, 19, 25, 33, 34, 37, 49, 62, 73, 78, 90, 112, 119, 127 Hurvitz (1988) – 34, 37, 112, 119 Whybray (1995) – 8, 14, (18), 25, (27), (32), 34, 39, 49, 73, 78, (86), 90, (92), (94), (105), (107), (111), 112, 119, 127, 131, 139, (144), (146) Kuntz (2000) – 1, 32, 34, 37, 49, 73, 112, (119), 127, 128, 133 Crenshaw (2000; 2003) – Ø Weeks (2005) – 1, 10, 14, 19b, 25, 32, 34, 37, 49, 52, 73, 90, 94, 112, 125, 128 Oeming (2008) – the Psalter Cheung (2015) – 37 and 49 (as prototypical), 73, and 19, 32, 39, 128 (as “on the fringe”)10 While Gerstenberger and Whybray champion the maximalist side, Hurvitz represents the minimalist, and Crenshaw remains unwaveringly skeptical. Complexifying the issue even further, Katharine Dell offers both a minimalist and a maximalist list, depending on the criteria employed (2004, 452). And that is the point. With various criteria employed, ranging from identifying specific sapiential words and modes of discourse to common themes and concepts (e.g. “world order”

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[see Ceresko 1990, 222–226]),11 differing identifications of wisdom psalms are the result. However, one thing is certain. Regarding overall form or Gattung, comparable to a lament or thanksgiving form, there is little to work with. The psalms most often identified as wisdom psalms comprise a relatively diverse literary group. In order to group these psalms together, content must take precedence (Kuntz 2003, 151),12 although not without a side glance toward discursive features that serve a particular psalm’s didactic goals. Each psalm contains instructive discourse, frequently cast as a second‐person address (i.e. admonition). But then Psalms 1 and 112 lack direct address; instead, they commend the qualities of the righteous person, as indicated in the opening ’ashre saying (“Happy/blessed is the one …”). Such profiles are intended not to be objective descriptions but as commendations; hence, they too are to be regarded as instructional. Throughout this discussion, the reader may rightly wonder about the purpose of placing certain psalms within a distinctly sapiential orbit. If it is purely taxonomic, that is, to classify them form‐critically, the project fails. In addition to the variety of forms evidenced among the psalmic candidates for wisdom, we do not know enough to assert that they were produced non‐cultically by a separate circle of sages (see Dell 2004; Whybray 1995, 154). Nevertheless, I would submit that such attempts are not in vain. Continued investigation of so‐called wisdom psalms bears the potential of discerning an ongoing dialogue between Psalms and wisdom, whether historically or canonically. By whatever criteria they are identified, I prefer to think of the wisdom psalms as points of contact between Psalms and the wisdom corpus, as snippets of a larger, sustained dialogue over what it means to live. That is to say, the end goal of identifying wisdom psalms may very well be heuristic. The following discussion explores certain psalms frequently labeled “wisdom psalms” with the aim of exploring not just their similarities but also their dialogical differences with the wisdom books. Therein lies the payoff.

Psalm 1 Unlike most psalms, the first psalm of the Psalter does not address God in any way, shape, or form. Instead, it commends the righteous individual over and against the wicked. Psalm 1 paints a binary world, but it does so not by actually enumerating the moral qualities of the righteous and, in turn, the immoral characteristics of the wicked, as found, say, throughout Proverbs (e.g. 8:20; 10:31–32; 11:28; 12:5, 10; 13:5; 15:28; 21:15, 26; 24:15–16; 29:7; 31:9). The actual ways of the righteous and the wicked remain undefined in the end (v. 6). The opening verse, an ’ashre saying, does no better; it only makes the claim that the righteous and the wicked are mutually exclusive character types. The lesson: the wicked will not endure while the righteous will prevail. How so? Not so much by dint of the latter’s character as by divine protection (v. 6).13

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There is, however, one specific mode of conduct that the psalm does highlight as central, but it is unprecedented in the Hebrew wisdom corpus. The righteous individual is one who engages YHWH’s torah (“instruction” or “teaching”) with both alacrity and diligence (v. 2). As the source of delight and direction, torah is central to the psalm, as it is in other psalms (e.g. 19; 37; 78; 89; particularly 119). But what precisely is torah in Psalm 1? Its grammatical construction in verse 2 claims God as its source; torah is quintessentially divine instruction,14 the object of the psalmist’s “meditation” (see the verb hgh [“meditate”] in Pss. 37:30; 35:28; 38:12[13]). There is no comparable use of torah in the wisdom literature except in Job 22:22, in which Eliphaz exhorts Job to return to God and “receive torah from [God’s] mouth.” Job himself avoids the term altogether. In the first nine chapters of Proverbs, moreover, torah is associated not with the Deity but with parents: “Listen, my son, to your father’s discipline (musar) and do not forsake your mother’s teaching (torah)” (1:8; cf. 3:1; 4:2; 6:20; 7:2). Proverbs 13:4 refers to the “torah of the wise” (cf. 31:26). Three sayings in Proverbs 28 are more ambiguous (vv. 4, 7, 9), with v. 4 coming closest to Psalm 1: Those who forsake instruction (torah) praise the wicked, but those who keep instruction (torah) strive against them.

As in Psalm 1, the wicked are cast as opponents. But torah even here is not e­ xplicitly associated with God/YHWH. In short, Psalm 1 and the wisdom corpus, particularly Proverbs, profile the righteous in different ways, specifically in relation to torah. Psalm 1 is interested more in the destiny of the righteous (and the demise of the wicked) than in delineating the moral qualities that make for righteousness, except for one defining, all‐encompassing mode of activity, namely diligent engagement with YHWH’s torah (cf. Deut. 17:18–20). This is not the case for wisdom texts. In Proverbs, estimable character is cultivated via the appropriation of parental torah, or familial teaching, and more broadly the torah of the wise (13:14). Lacking in Proverbs is an explicit theocentric casting of instruction, so central to Psalm 1 and much of the Psalter.15 Does Psalm 1 represent a “Torah‐ization” of wisdom (see Saur 2015, 201)? This seems overstated. Other than a common concern for the righteous over and against the wicked, there is nothing more to say about the “wisdom” of, or in, Psalm 1. The presence of an ’ashre (“Blessed are”) saying, which is far more represented in Psalms (26x) than in Proverbs (4x) and Job (1x), is by no means decisive form‐critically. Indeed, it would be safer to say that, along with Psalms 19 and 119, Psalm 1 represents a Torah‐ization of Psalms, rather than of wisdom per se. So is Psalm 1 a wisdom psalm or not? Yes. It is sapiential only insofar as it depicts the opposing ways of the righteous and the wicked, along with their opposite outcomes. But Psalm 1 is not sapiential to the extent that torah as divine instruction is

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considered central, a distinction that the wisdom corpus simply does not carry to any significant degree. Perhaps it is more accurate and useful to say that Psalm 1 and wisdom represent a dialogue or debate about what is definitive regarding the righteous life. For Psalm 1, righteousness is rooted firmly in God’s torah, that is, in divine instruction. In Proverbs, however, righteousness stands on its own; it is its own virtue, with or without reference to God.

Psalm 34 A thanksgiving psalm cast as an acrostic, Psalm 34 opens with words of praise (vv. 1–3[2–4]) and concludes with references to the righteous and the wicked (vv. 15–22[16–23]). The righteous enjoy God’s protective favor in the face of their “afflictions” (v. 19[20]), whereas “evil” and “condemnation” are the designated lot of the wicked (v. 21[22]). Between these two sections is the speaker’s testimony of divine deliverance (vv. 4–10[5–11]), followed by a didactic address (vv. 11–14[12– 15]). Like the instructional material in Proverbs, this address opens with a call to attention that casts the audience (“sons” [banim]) as recipients of moral counsel,16 matched by the speaker’s intention to “teach … the fear of YHWH” (v. 11[12]; cf. v. 9[10]). The initial exhortation is followed by a statement of motivation (v. 12[13]), cast as a rhetorical question, which leads to a series of general admonitions (vv. 13–14[14–15]). This section is followed by concluding observations about YHWH’s orientation toward the righteous and the wicked (vv. 15–22[16–23]). As a whole, the moral admonition of vv. 11–14[12–15] not only imbues the psalm with didactic intent; it renders a strikingly complex profile of the speaking voice, the righteous speaker. The “afflicted person” who is “saved from every trouble” (v. 6[7]) is also the one who teaches (vv. 11–12[12–13]). This teacher counts himself among “the broken of heart” (v. 18a[19a]), “crushed in spirit” (v. 18b[19b]), and “the humble” (v. 2b[3b]), as well as among “the righteous” (v. 15[16]) and YHWH’s “servants” (v. 22[23]). The speaker’s character provides testimonial credence to the claim that YHWH delivers the righteous. Along with the ethical admonitions (vv. 12–14[13–15]), deliverance from God forms an integral part of the psalmist’s teaching. His or her testimony of deliverance provides the basis for thanksgiving and admonition. As is often recognized, instruction is contextualized as an outgrowth of thanksgiving and personal testimony (Mowinckel 1962, 112– 113; Murphy 1962, 161; Ceresko 1990, 218). The admonition to “fear YHWH” encapsulates the prescriptive force of the psalm as a whole. A motif of both psalmic and sapiential literature, divine reverence is the expressed object and objective of the psalmist’s teaching (vv. 9, 11[10, 12]), yet it lacks the distinctly cognitive orientation given in Proverbs 1–9.17 In the psalm, reverence is not so much the object of understanding and knowledge18 as it is the subject of personal testimony and holy orientation. Such “fear” is life‐giving (v.

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12[13])19 and sufficient for all needs (v. 9b[10b]).20 To “fear YHWH” is to “seek YHWH” (v. 10[11]) and, thereby, to reflect God’s holy effulgence (v. 5[6]). Reverential “fear” casts out “all … fears” (v. 4[5]). Such reverence, moreover, has its home in “refuge,” which confers happiness (v. 8b[9b]) and security (see v. 7[8]). By coordinating refuge and reverence, the “fear of YHWH” is charged with salvific significance (v. 22[23]; cf. 52:8). To sum up, where psalmic teaching and sapiential admonition find a point of contact in Psalm 34:11–14[12–15], the shared motif of divine reverence functions differently in each. In the psalm, reverence establishes refuge from evil‐doers. Such fear is apotropaic or evil‐averting. In Proverbs, the fear of YHWH provides insight and builds integrity; it is the beginning point of knowledge and wisdom (Prov. 1:7; 9:10). Such fear is, yes, sapiential. For the psalmist, however, protection and salvation – rather than intellectual formation – are paramount.

Psalm 37 Roland Murphy declared, “If ever a psalm could be classified as wisdom, it is this one” (2000, 88). Its tone is thoroughly admonitory, and profiles of the righteous and the wicked are sharply contrasted, as they are in much of Proverbs. The psalm’s central theme is indicated in the opening verse, paralleled nicely in Prov. 24:19, and effectively summarized in v. 7: Be still21 before YHWH, and wait fervently22 before him. Do not get worked up about the one who makes his way prosperous, about the one who carries out evil schemes.

Characteristic of the psalm as a whole, this verse is balanced by positive and negative commands. The positive imperatives profile a particular posture before YHWH (v. 7a), namely that of patient longing, whereas the negative command does the same vis‐à‐vis the wealthy wicked (v. 7b). The juxtaposition of commands results in a striking irony: a posture of restraint is commanded before both the wicked and the deity! They require concomitant orientations. This paradox of God and the wicked sharing the same syntactic stage, however, applies only here. The ­commands in vv. 1, 7b, and 8 exhort an attitude of restraint vis‐à‐vis only the wicked. But much more is enjoined regarding one’s proper orientation toward God, as indicated in the positive commands: “Trust in YHWH” (v. 3a; cf. v. 5b); “Take delight in YHWH” (v. 4); “Commit your way to YHWH” (v. 5a); and “Wait for YHWH, and keep to his way” (v. 34). Most explicit in v. 7a, the temptation toward anger against the wicked is transformed into fervent longing for God (cf. Ps. 73:25–26).

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The problem of the wicked and their attendant success is both acknowledged and resolved in a series of assurances regarding their imminent destruction23 and the vindication of the righteous.24 The present condition of disparity is to be reversed: “The meek shall inherit the land and delight themselves in abundant riches” (v. 11; cf. vv. 9, 22). In the meantime, the psalmist offers a “better‐ than” saying in v. 16 (cf. Prov. 15:16; 16:18). The righteous are to be, for the time being, content with their meager resources (“little”). Thus, to wait for YHWH is, in part, to wait with assurance for the passing of the wicked “yet in a little while” (v. 10). This wisdom psalm bears certain rhetorical similarities to sapiential texts, specifically Proverbs, while exhibiting its own distinctive emphases. Both Psalm 37 and Proverbs affirm the connection between human act and consequence, or to put it more broadly (and simply): character determines destiny (vv. 3, 14–15, 27). However, the psalmist also gives equal if not more weight to YHWH’s intervention to ensure, on the one hand, that the righteous are victorious and, on the other, that the wicked meet their demise (vv. 4, 5, 13, 17, 23, 24, 28, 33, 34), as particularly evident in the concluding lines: Salvation of the righteous is from YHWH, their refuge in the time of distress. YHWH helps them and delivers them; he delivers them from the wicked and saves them, because they take refuge in him. (vv. 39–40)

Such statements do more than simply guarantee by God the “act–consequence connection” (contra Saur 2015, 196). These statements testify to divine salvific activity, which is not well represented in Proverbs, or more generally, throughout the wisdom corpus. In Proverbs, righteousness wields its own salvific power: it “delivers from death” (Prov. 10:2; 11:4), saves (11:6), and guards (13:6). A telling example is Prov. 14:32: The wicked are overthrown by their evildoing, but the righteous find refuge in their integrity.25

Proverbs 11:6 puts it even more pointedly: The righteousness of the upright saves them, while the desire of the treacherous captures (them).

Such a salvific view of human righteousness is unprecedented in the Psalms, ­including the so‐called wisdom psalms.

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Comparing Psalm 37 and Proverbs highlights another significant distinction. Although the players remain the same by name or role (i.e. the righteous, the wicked, and the speaking voice of experience), Psalm 37, like Psalm 1, places proportionally greater emphasis on the destiny and condition of the wicked and the righteous than on the nature of their conduct, on what distinguishes them ethically. The conduct of the wicked is an issue primarily insofar as it impacts the welfare of the righteous (vv. 12, 14, 21, 32, 35). Only peripherally are the wicked indicted for their unethical behavior apart from their persecution of the righteous. Conversely, the righteous are distinguished primarily by the protective favor they receive from God. The wicked are destined by God for destruction; the righteous, for prosperity in the land. Akin to wisdom’s laughter over the imminent destruction of scoffers (Prov. 1:26–27), “YHWH laughs at the wicked, for he sees that their day is coming” (Ps. 37:13), and on that day the righteous shall “inherit the land” (vv. 9, 22, 29, 34).26 In the meantime, however, the righteous assume a distinctively unsapiential profile: they are both vulnerable and victimized; they have “little” (v. 16).27 They are the “meek” and the “poor and needy” (vv. 11, 14).28 Such identification of the righteous is largely absent in Proverbs. As in Psalm 34, at stake in the psalm is primarily the vindication of the righteous (v. 6). Only at one point in the psalm are the righteous ethically defined by both their mouth and their heart. The mouths of the righteous utter wisdom, and their tongues speak justice. The teaching (torah) of their God is in their hearts; their steps do not slip. (vv. 30–31)

Wisdom and justice characterize the discourse of the righteous, but an inner source is identified that is not given significant play in Proverbs, namely divine torah lodged in the “heart,” the seat of volition. In Proverbs, it is wisdom that is implanted in the heart (e.g. Prov. 2:2, 10; 14:33). But in Psalm 37, it is torah, which is directly tied to the deep desires of those who “trust in YHWH” (v. 4). Finally, the familiar metaphor of the “way” winds through this psalm, as it does through much of Proverbs. In the psalm, there is YHWH’s way (v. 34a), as enjoined by the speaker, and there is the way of the righteous, whose “steps” are “made firm by YHWH” (vv. 23–24, 31). The way of the wicked, so prevalent in Proverbs, is scarcely mentioned in the psalm (only obliquely in v. 7). Indeed, like Proverbs 1–9, two distinct ways are mapped in Psalm 37. But, unlike Proverbs, the two ways in the psalm are not diametrically opposed, as evident in the following two injunctions: Commit your way to YHWH; trust in him, and he will act. (v. 5)

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Wait for YHWH and keep to his way, and he will exalt you to inherit the land. (v. 34a)

The merging of YHWH’s way and the addressee’s way, of divine guidance and human conduct, is rife with soteriological significance. Compared to Proverbs, reference to the via Dei, “the way of God,” in this psalm is distinctive, but it is common throughout the Psalter.29 The two ways in Proverbs are those of the righteous and the wicked,30 but explicit reference to the Deity’s “way” is scarce.31 Telling are the injunction in Ps. 37:5, cited above, and a parallel in Prov. 16:3a: Commit your work to YHWH, and your plans will be established.

Developed throughout the psalm, the force of the injunction in Ps. 37:5b (“trust”) bears far less rhetorical weight in Proverbs.32 Similarly, the motif of waiting for God is virtually absent in Proverbs.33 Thus, the psalmist’s call for restraint has a distinctly theocentric cast, with God playing a more active role in the outcome.

Psalm 49 A song of trust, Psalm 49 offers “an educational reflection” (Saur 2015, 192), which is encapsulated in the penultimate verses: Do not fear when a man becomes rich, when his house expands to glorious proportions. For upon his death he will not take any of it; his glory will not descend after him. (vv. 17–18)

The psalm builds up to this admonition by first issuing a call to attention that ­comprises a series of wisdom terms: wisdom, insights, proverb, and riddle (cf. Prov. 1:2–5), giving the psalm a sapiential hue, at least at the outset. But unlike a typical sapiential summons, the psalmist’s call has a broad, specifically international scope (“all you peoples,” “all you inhabitants”), not unlike what is found in various psalms of praise (e.g. Pss. 33:8; 47:1; 96:3; 99:2; 117:1).34 This would suggest a rather unique mixture of sapiential and psalmic rhetoric. Following the psalmic‐sapiential summons, the speaker testifies to his confidence before his “assailants,” whose “sin surrounds [him]” (v. 6). Such language suggests a situation of distress. The psalms frequently speak of surrounding enemies (e.g. Pss. 17:11; 22:12[13], 17[18]; 59:6[7]; 88:17[18]; 109:3; 118:10–12;

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140:9[10]). In the case of Psalm 49, the enemies are defined as those who “trust in their wealth” (vv. 6–7[7–8]; cf. 17–18[18–19]). The speaker exudes confidence that they, particularly their “sin,” present no threat to him. In between this initial testimony of confidence and the concluding admonition, the speaker highlights the universal nature of death, a message that resonates with certain observations featured in Ecclesiastes: the wise and the fool die together (v. 10a[11a]; Eccl. 2:15–16); in death wealth is left for others (vv. 10b[11b], 12a[13a], 17[18]; Eccl. 5:15–16); and humans die like animals (vv. 12b[13b], 14[15]; Eccl. 3:19–21). The negative admonition not to fear the rich (v. 16[17]) evidently stems from a felt sense of unfairness that the wealthy are somehow able to retain their wealth even unto death. Not so, claims the psalmist. Material glory cannot descend to Sheol along with the rich (v. 17[18]). All the wealth in the world, let alone the amassed wealth of one person, is not able to ransom one’s life from death (vv. 8–10[9–11]). Yes, both the psalmist and Qoheleth highlight the indiscriminate nature of death, its ability to strike “rich and poor alike” (v. 2b[3b]), wise and foolish (v. 10[11]), animal and human (v. 12[13]). But the psalmist and the sage do so for different purposes. Qoheleth makes such observations to demonstrate the utter “vanity” (hebel) of life and, in turn, to highlight the importance of enjoying momentary pleasures (e.g. Eccl. 2:24–25; 8:15). The psalmist, quite in contrast, stresses the all‐encompassing scope of death in order to bolster trust in God, in opposition to trust in wealth (vv. 5–6[6–7], 12[13]). Immortality is not for sale. Such trust reaches its apotheosis in the startling statement in v. 15[16]: Even so, God will ransom my soul from Sheol’s power, for he shall take me.

Only God, not wealth, has the power to ransom the speaker from death. Such a statement finds no warrant in Ecclesiastes; Qoheleth grants no exceptions, including himself. Indeed, the sentiment behind such a statement is nowhere felt throughout the wisdom corpus. Whether or not Psalm 49 is touting immortality is not the presenting issue here; either way the statement represents a culmination of the psalmist’s trust in God. Trust in God’s power to “ransom” or “redeem” the individual or the community from dire straits is common throughout the Psalms; it is frequently the stuff of prayer and testimony.35 The psalmist, in short, presses a Qohelethian view of death toward a very un‐ Qohelethian conclusion yet espouses an entirely psalmic point of view pressed to its logical, if surprising, conclusion: God can redeem even unto death. The psalmist’s testimony of trust, in other words, undercuts Qoheleth’s argument by positing an exception from death, an exception cast in a very unsapiential statement: a profession of radical trust in God’s saving power coram morte (“before death”). Is Psalm 49, then, a wisdom psalm or not? Yes. More accurately, it is a psalm that critically

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engages the wisdom of Ecclesiastes from a distinctly psalmic perspective, from an expression of radical trust in God.

Psalm 73 Psalm 73 resembles something of both a confessional psalm minus the appeal to God for forgiveness and a song of thanksgiving but without the testimony of deliverance (cf. vv. 23–25). It is a personal testimony to God not of guilt but of ignorance and, in turn, of gaining new understanding. The opening verse makes a claim about divine favor that could be called proverbial in its simplicity: “Truly God is good to Israel, to the pure in heart.” But then the psalm launches immediately into recounting a time in which the speaker severely doubted such a claim  –  a near “stumbling” (v. 2). The speaker calls into question the psalm’s opening thesis as he bears witness to the prosperity of the wicked (vv. 3b–5), a prosperity that slides inexorably into self‐pride (v. 6) and sin (v. 7), including oppression (v. 8) and defiance of God (vv. 9, 11) – from prosperity to impunity. The speaker finds the wealth of the wicked to be both offensive and perplexing. The speaker returns to self‐reflection in v. 13, as he calls into question the efficacy of his own “pure” conduct. Two inseparable issues come to the fore: (i) Why do the wicked prosper? and (ii) Why lead an “upright” life? Cognitive dissonance (v. 16) leads to ethical crisis (v. 13). But suddenly and decisively the dissonance/crisis is resolved: And when I pondered how to understand this, it was toilsome in my eyes, until I entered the sanctuary of God, and discerned their end. (vv. 16–17)

Frustratingly terse, this whiplash moment in the psalm’s overall movement, not unlike the movement from complaint to praise in other psalms, identifies the sanctuary as the setting of resolution; it is there that he or she envisions the demise of the wicked, vividly described in vv. 18–20. In so doing, the lament, one might say, of the psalm’s first half leads to unwavering trust in the second. As the locus of revelation, the sanctuary serves as a temple of (proleptic) doom for the wicked. Verses 21–22 recapitulate the earlier confession but quickly transition into a profession of allegiance to God (vv. 23–24), culminating in a declaration of ultimate allegiance (vv. 25–26). The psalm concludes with a reaffirmation of its opening claim in a heightened, twofold manner: God will destroy those who are “far” and “unfaithful” (v. 27), while “refuge” is given to those who are near to God (v. 28a).

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Psalm 73 offers not so much a theodicy as an anthropodicy. The central question is: How should one respond to the swelling prosperity and flagrant impunity of the wicked? The answer is trust in God, in the God who will surely destroy the wicked, sooner rather than later. Somehow the “sanctuary of God” serves as both a demonstration and a confirmation of such trust. The final verse offers a clue: the sanctuary is a refuge, a place in which one can “recount all of [God’s] works,” including God’s works against the wicked. The sanctuary is a place of recounting, rehearsing, and thus reliving God’s mighty works of deliverance for the faithful and of destruction for the unfaithful. It is often noted that Psalm 73 and Job share in common the vexing issue of the prosperity of the wicked.36 Less acknowledged, however, is that both press the issue in different ways. Whereas Psalm 73 presents the issue as an anthropodicy, Job (the character) casts the issue primarily as a matter of theodicy. More contrastive still, God’s answer in Job bypasses the issue entirely, and in so doing dismantles the notion of divine retribution. There is, moreover, no sanctuary to speak of either by Job, his friends, or God. Instead, there is creation with its cosmic indifference to the problem. Whatever qualities Psalm 73 and the book of Job share in common, their resemblance comes down to addressing a common problem. Their respective solutions are worlds apart.

Psalm 112 Opening with a call to praise and an ’ashre saying, Psalm 112 presents a paradigmatic profile of the righteous (male) individual. It is, as Beth Tanner has insightfully pointed out, a fitting counterpart to the acrostic poem that concludes the book of Proverbs, featuring the profile of the wise matriarch (Tanner 2001, 141–157), a profile replete with comparable descriptors. Curiously, however, “righteousness” is nowhere attributed to this “woman of strength” (’eshet chayil), suggesting that it is indelibly associated with an androcentric construction of virtue. In any case, both the righteous man and the resourceful woman are profiled as generous, industrious, steadfast, and therefore prosperous characters. So also their respective households (Ps. 112:3; Prov. 31:11, 18). But that is where the similarity ends. Psalm 112 finds no precedent in Proverbs, let alone in the wisdom corpus, for it is inextricably tied to its theological “twin,” Psalm 111. In Psalm 111, God is profiled as righteous, gracious, and merciful, identical terms for how the righteous person is described in Psalm 112 (111:3–4; 112:3–4). The theocentric focus of Psalm 111 perfectly complements the androcentric orientation of Psalm 112. Wedded together, the two psalms fill out a profile of righteousness and prosperity in which God has an active hand. Human righteousness is modeled after divine righteousness, but the fact that Psalm 111 is placed first suggests that the divine/human relationship also bears something of a causal

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relationship: God’s righteousness, evidenced in divine deed and covenant, enables the righteous. Whereas Psalm 112 could easily find a home in Proverbs, its compositional link with Psalm 111 cannot be severed, ensuring that human righteousness cannot stand on its own, in contrast to Proverbs, as we have seen. In isolation, Psalm 112 offers a portrayal of the righteous that is unique among the Psalms and seemingly more at home in Proverbs. Nothing in the psalm is said of the righteous being dependent upon God. But coupled to Psalm 111, human righteousness in Psalm 112 becomes derivative. God is not simply a model for the righteous but the very source of righteousness.

Conclusion Ever since Gunkel’s groundbreaking work, the notion of genre has remained a focal point, if not a flash point, in Psalms study. While genres have traditionally been viewed taxonomically, as a means of classifying texts under discrete categories, recent studies tend to view genres more flexibly and realistically. Texts, with their irreducible particularity, do not so much belong to genres as they participate in them (Newsom 2005, 439). As Newsom writes, “Every instance of a genre can be understood as a reply to other instances of that genre and as a reply to other genres” (447). Indeed, one reason why genres or forms do not exist in pure form is that they “interact with each other” (Buss 1999, 256). If measured by purity of form, then there are no wisdom psalms. But if measured by their hermeneutical potential to interact with or reply to the wisdom corpus, then we can identify certain psalms that apply to such a category. Each wisdom psalm imparts wisdom that both resonates with and distinguishes itself from the wisdom corpus of the Hebrew Bible. God is given a more prominent role in psalmic wisdom; righteousness bears a more pronounced theocentric cast; trust in God takes precedence over ethical norms; the destiny of the righteous receives greater emphasis; and an existential conundrum receives a distinctly cultic resolution. Such wisdom proves to be more psalmic than sapiential. Therein lies the ambiguity, and therein holds the promise of interaction. Notes 1 A recent exception is Oeming 2008, 154–155, who includes the Psalms in the “wisdom literature,” due to its sapiential editing and various rhetorical features. 2 No prayer is featured in Ecclesiastes, and only one is found in Proverbs (30:7–9). Job’s discourse, however, is littered with prayers: 7:12–21; 9:27–31; 10:2–22; 13:20–28; 14:36, 13–22; 30:20–23; cf. 42:9. While the wisdom literature is not devoid of cultic matters (cf. Eccl. 5:4–6[3–5]), communication with God is not a primary concern (see Perdue 1977 for references).

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  3 In the wisdom literature, Solomon and Hezekiah are merely objects of literary attribution (Prov. 1:1; 10:1; 25:1; Eccl. 1:1, 12; cf. the superscriptions in Psalms 72 and 127), whereas David and Moses (sometimes with Aaron), as well as Samuel and a host of other characters, are given historical significance in the Psalms (e.g. 18:50[51]; 77:20[21]; 78:70; 89:3[4]; 99:6; 103:7; 105:27; 106:16, 23, 32). The so‐called “historical psalms” are rich in historiographical narrative (78; 105; 106; 136).   4 In addition to the occasional prayer, the major exception is God’s address to Job in chs. 38–41.   5 See, e.g., the exchange between Kuntz 2003 and Crenshaw 2003.   6 Weeks calls “didactic purpose” the “least satisfactory [criterion] of all” because of its ties to an allegedly identifiable compositional setting (2005, 295). But the term need not carry such heavy form‐critical baggage. Didactic can simply refer to anything meant for instruction. In fact, Weeks’s definition of wisdom as “advice literature” (2005, 296; 2010, 1–5) is itself a didactic designation.   7 With the exception of Job 38–41, which features God’s revelatory address.   8 With the exception of the “royal psalms.”   9 As conveniently tabulated in Jacobson 2014 (except for the last three entries). The psalms contained in parentheses are those that contain wisdom elements. 10 Cheung considers this list to be non‐exhaustive. 11 Ceresko ultimately includes the Psalter as a “wisdom book” (1990, 227–230). 12 Analogous to the royal psalms and songs of Zion. 13 Note also that the language of planting in v. 3 implies a divine subject. 14 It is often assumed that torah in Psalm 1 designates the Psalter as a whole, thereby effecting “a strange transformation” by which “Israel’s words of response to her God have now become the Word of God to Israel” (Wilson 1985, 206–207; see also Childs 1979, 513; Clifford 2002, 40). Such a view, however, dismisses the notion of torah as divinely wrought instruction, as claimed frequently elsewhere in the Psalms. See the numerous examples in Psalm 119, the quintessential torah psalm: vv. 15, 23, 48, 78, 97, 99. In each case, the object of “meditation” is on YHWH’s instructions (e.g. precepts, statutes, decrees, torah). Verse 27 even lifts up YHWH’s “wondrous works” as an object of “meditation.” 15 The only exception is Ps. 78:1, a call to attention by the human speaker: “Listen, my people, to my teaching (torah); incline your ear to the words of my mouth” (cf. v. 5). 16 Cf. Prov.4:1; 5:7; 7:24; 8:32. 17 See, especially, Prov. 1:7; 2:5. The latter verse places fear and knowledge in parallel positions. Fox defines this fear as “conscience” or “deep knowledge” (2000, 70). 18 Cf. Prov. 1:7, 29; 2:5; 9:10; 15:33. 19 See Prov. 10:27; 14:27; 19:23. 20 Parallels in older wisdom material include Prov. 10:27; 14:26–27; 19:23. 21 For the use of this verb (dom; “be still”), which does not occur in Proverbs, see Pss. 4:4[5]; 31:17[18]; 62:5[6]; 131:2. 22 The verb hitholel (“to wait fervently”) can suggest writhing (Job 15:20), as in the case of giving birth (Isa. 51:2), dancing (Judg. 21:21), and anxiety (Est. 4:4). The parallelism suggests that waiting for God is at least no passive exercise; rather, it involves pathos.

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23 Verses 2, 9, 10, 13, 15, 17a, 20, 28bβ, 36, 38. 24 Verses 11, 17b, 18–19, 23‐24, 25–26, 28abα, 29, 33, 34b, 37b, 39–40. 25 Read betummo (“in their integrity”) in place of MT’s bemoto (“in his death”), which likely arose accidentally through metathesis (the accidental rearrangement of sounds in a word) of the taw and mem. See Fox 2009, 585–586; contra Clifford, who finds the meaning of the emendation “insipid.” Clifford wrongly assumes that “refuge” takes God as the subject here, as it does in the Psalms (1999, 142–143, 148). 26 The expression is not found in Proverbs, but see Prov. 2:21–22; 10:30. The figure of the righteous in Psalm 37 takes on a more disenfranchised position than in Proverbs with respect to the land. 27 Several psalms identify the righteous person or speaking voice of the psalms with the “poor” and “needy” (e.g. Pss. 40:17[18]; 70:5[6]; 86:1; 109:22). For a general description of the vulnerable righteous in the Psalter, see McCann 2002, 141–142. 28 The “poor” and the “needy” are referenced in altogether four passages in Proverbs, and in no instance are these categories identified with the righteous (Prov. 14:31; 30:14; 31:9, 20). Indeed, it is the righteous who are consistently in the position of helping the needy (cf. 31:9, 20; see also 29:7). 29 See Pss. 44:18[19]; 77:13[14], 19–20[20–21]; 85:13[14]; 119:3, 27, 32, 33, 35, 37. 30 For the way of the wicked, see Prov. 1:15, 31; 2:12, 18; 4:14, 19; 7:27; 8:13; 12:15 (“fools”); 26; 13:15; 15:19 (“lazy”). For the way of the righteous, see 2:8, 20; 3:23; 4:11 (“wisdom”); 5:8; 6:23 (“way of life”); 8:26; 9:6 (“insight”); 13:6. 31 Only Prov. 10:29 (“The way of YHWH is a stronghold for the upright”). 32 Only Prov. 3:5; 16:20; 22:19. 33 Only Prov. 20:22 provides a parallel. 34 Nowhere in the wisdom corpus is such language deployed. The object of sapiential address is typically much more limited. See, e.g. Prov. 4:1; 5:7; 7:24; 8:6, all of which begin with the plural command (shimʿu; “listen”). 35 E.g. 25:22; 26:11; 31:5[6]; 33:18–19; 34:22[23]; 44:27; 55:18[19]; 69:19; 71:23; 78:42; 119:34; 130:8. 36 Compare, e.g. Job 21:13–14 and Ps. 73:11. For a discussion of the intertextual correspondences, see Kynes 2012, 161–179, who argues that the Joban poet commented on the psalm.

References Adams, Samuel L. 2008. Wisdom in Transition: Act and Consequence in Second Temple Instructions. Leiden: Brill. Brown, William P. 2005. “Come, O children … I will teach you the fear of the LORD” (Psalm 34:12): Comparing Psalms and

Proverbs. In: Seeking Out the Wisdom of the Ancients: Essays Offered to Honor Michael V. Fox on the Occasion of His Sixty‐Fifth Birthday (ed. Ronald L. Troxel, Kelvin G. Freibel, and Dennis R. Magary), 85–102. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.

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Brown, William P. 2014. Wisdom’s Wonder: Character, Creation, and Crisis in the Bible’s Wisdom Literature. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Buss, Martin J. 1999. Biblical Form Criticism in its Context. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic. Ceresko, A.R. 1990. The sage in the Psalms. In: The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. John G. Gammie and Leo G. Perdue), 217–230. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Cheung, Simon Chi‐chung. 2015. Wisdom Intoned: A Reappraisal of the Genre “Wisdom Psalms.” London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark. Childs, Brevard. 1979. Introduction to the Old Testament as Scripture. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress. Clifford, Richard J. 1999. Proverbs: A Commentary. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Clifford, Richard J. 2002. Psalms 1–72. Nashville, TN: Abingdon. Crenshaw, James L. 2000. Wisdom Psalms? Currents in Research: Biblical Studies 8: 9–17. Crenshaw, James L. 2003. Gold dust or nuggets? A brief response to J. Kenneth Kuntz. Currents in Biblical Research 1: 155–158. Dell, Katharine J. 2004. “I will solve my riddle to the music of the lyre” (Psalm xlix 4[5]: A Cultic setting for wisdom psalms? Vetus Testamentum 54:445–458. Forti, Tova. 2015. Gattung and Sitz im Leben: Methodological vagueness in defining wisdom psalms. In: Was There a Wisdom Tradition? New Prospects in Israelite Wisdom Studies (ed. Mark R. Sneed), 205–220. Atlanta, GA: SBL Press. Fox, Michael V. 2000. Proverbs 1–9. New York: Doubleday.

Gerstenberger, Erhard S. 1974. Psalms. In: Old Testament Form Criticism (ed. John H. Hayes), 179–223. San Antonio, TX: Trinity University Press. Gerstenberger, Erhard S. 1988. Psalms, Part I, with an Introduction to Cultic Poetry. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Gunkel, Hermann, and Joachim Begrich. 1998 [1933]. Introduction to Psalms: The Genres of the Religious Lyric of Israel (trans. James D. Nogalski). Macon, GA: Mercer University Press. Hurvitz, Avi. 1988. Wisdom vocabulary in the Hebrew Psalter: A contribution to the study of “wisdom psalms.” Vetus Testamentum 38: 41–51. Jacobson, Diane. 2014. Wisdom language in the Psalms. In: The Oxford Handbook of the Psalms (ed. William P. Brown), 147–57. New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kuntz, J. Kenneth. 2000. Wisdom psalms and the shaping of the Hebrew Psalter. In: For a Later Generation: The Transformation of Tradition in Israel, Early Judaism, and Early Christianity (ed. Randal A. Argall, Beverly Bow, Rodney Alan Werline, et al.), 144–160. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press. Kuntz, J. Kenneth. 2003. Reclaiming biblical wisdom psalms: A response to Crenshaw. Currents in Biblical Research 1: 145–154. Kynes, Will. 2012. My Psalm Has Turned into Weeping: Job’s Dialogue with the Psalms. Berlin: de Gruyter. McCann, J. Clinton, Jr. 2002. “The way of the righteous” in the Psalms: Character formation and cultural crisis. In: Character and Scripture (ed. William P. Brown), 135–149. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Mowinckel, Sigmund. 1955. Psalms and wisdom. In: Wisdom in Israel and in the

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Ancient Near East (ed. Martin Noth and D. Winton Thomas), 205–224. Leiden: Brill. Mowinckel, Sigmund. 1962. The Psalms in Israel’s Worship, Volumes 1 and 2 (trans. D.R. Ap‐Thomas. Oxford: Blackwell. Reprinted 2004. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Murphy, Roland E. 1962. A consideration of the classification “wisdom psalms.” In: Congress Volume, Bonn 1962, 156–167. Leiden: Brill. Murphy, Roland E. 2000. The Gift of the Psalms. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson. Newsom, Carol A. 2005. Spying out the land: a report from genology. In: Seeking Out the Wisdom of the Ancients: Essays Offered to Honor Michael V. Fox on the Occasion of His Sixty‐Fifth Birthday (ed. Ronald L. Troxel, Kelvin G. Freibel, and Dennis R. Magary), 437–450. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Oeming, Manfred. 2008. Wisdom as a hermeneutical key to the book of Psalms. In: Scribes, Sages, and Seers: The Sage in the Eastern Mediterranean World (ed. Leo G. Perdue), 154–162. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Perdue, Leo G. 1977. Wisdom and Cult: A Critical Analysis of the Views of Cult in the Wisdom Literature of Israel and the Ancient Near East. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press.

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von Rad, Gerhard. 1972. Wisdom in Israel (trans. James D. Martin). Nashville, TN: Abingdon. Saur, Markus. 2015. Where can wisdom be found? New perspectives on the wisdom psalms. In: Was There a Wisdom Tradition? New Prospects in Israelite Wisdom Studies (ed. Mark R. Sneed), 181–204. Atlanta, GA: SBL Press. Sneed, Mark. 2011. Is the “wisdom tradition” a tradition? Catholic Biblical Quarterly 73: 50–71. Tanner, Beth LaNeel. 2001. The Book of Psalms through the Lens of Intertextuality. New York: Peter Lang. Weeks, Stuart. 2005. Wisdom psalms. In: Temple and Worship in Biblical Israel (ed. John Day, 292–307. London: T&T Clark. Weeks, Stuart. 2010. The Introduction to the Study of Wisdom Literature. London/New York: T&T Clark. Weeks, Stuart. 2016. Is “wisdom literature” a useful category? In: Tracing Sapiential Traditions in Ancient Judaism (ed. Hindy Najman, Jean‐Sébastien Rey, and Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar). Leiden/Boston: Brill. Whybray, R.N. 1995. The wisdom psalms. In: Wisdom in Ancient Israel (ed. John Day, Robert P. Gordon, and H.G.M. Williamson), 152–160. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wilson, Gerald H. 1985. The Editing of the Hebrew Psalter. Chico, CA: Scholars Press.

Further Reading Anderson, Bernhard W. with Stephen Bishop. 2000. Out of the Depths: The Psalms Speak for Us Today. 3rd ed. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. A standard, engaging introduction to the study of the Psalms.

Brown, William P. 2010. Psalms. Nashville, TN: Abingdon. An “invitational introduction” to the Psalms that explores poetic form, genre (including the “didactic psalms”), different interpretive approaches, and theological themes.

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Brown, William P. (ed.) 2014. The Oxford Handbook of the Psalms. Oxford: Oxford University Press. A representative survey of various interpretive approaches to the Psalms, from the poetic and form‐critical to rhetorical and homiletical. Brueggemann, Walter. 1995. The Psalms and the Life of Faith (ed. Patrick D. Miller). Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. The insights of the one of the greatest contemporary interpreters of the Psalms are conveniently collected in this readable volume. Crenshaw, James L. 1969. Method in determining wisdom influence upon “historical” literature. Journal of Biblical Literature 88: 129–142. Crenshaw, James L. 2001. The Psalms: An Introduction. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

Crenshaw, James L. 2010. Old Testament Wisdom: An Introduction. 3rd ed. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Kuntz, J. Kenneth. 1974. The canonical wisdom psalms of ancient Israel – their rhetorical, thematic, and formal dimensions. In: Rhetorical Criticism: Essays in Honor of James Muilenburg (ed. Jared J. Jackson and Martin Kessler, 186–222). Pittsburg, PA: Pickwick. McCann, J. Clinton, Jr. 1992. The psalms as instruction. Interpretation 46: 117–128. Perdue, Leo G. 2008. The Sword and the Stylus: An Introduction to Wisdom in the Age of Empires. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Clear survey of the historical context for wisdom literature in ancient Israel, including the Psalms.

CHAPTER 5

Sirach/Ben Sira Bradley C. Gregory

Introduction The book of Sirach, also known as Ben Sira, is a wisdom book that is part of the Old Testament for Catholics and Orthodox Christians, but is not canonical for Jews and Protestants. According to Sir. 50:27 the author’s name was Yeshua, ben (“son of ”) Eleazar, ben Sira of Jerusalem but by convention he is called just “Ben Sira.” Among Latin‐speaking Christians in antiquity the book was so popular in catechesis it became known as Liber Ecclesiasticus (“the church book”). It represents a lifetime of learning by this Jewish sage, incorporating observations, sapiential instructions, hymns, and prayers, all aimed at successfully navigating the complexities of life in the Hellenistic period.

Historical and Social Setting Ben Sira lived in the late third and early second centuries BCE in Jerusalem. Since his book describes the high priest Simon II, who died early in the second century as a figure of the recent past (50:1–24) but appears unaware of the crisis under Antiochus IV in 175–164 BCE, it can be easily dated to around 180 BCE. Politically, this means that Ben Sira’s book was crafted in the wake of the Seleucids’ wresting control of Jerusalem away from the Ptolemies at the battle of Panion (c. 200 BCE)

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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during the Fifth Syrian War (202–195 BCE). It therefore reflects the difficulties and cultural tensions of Jewish life under foreign domination. Socially, Horsley (2007, 53–70) has argued persuasively that during the Hellenistic period Judah was essentially a temple state with the features of an agrarian society. As such, there was a very small upper class consisting of the governing elite, nobles, and the priestly aristocracy as well as their retainers. The lower class was much larger and consisted of skilled workers, farmers, and peasants. In Ben Sira’s catalog of professions in 38:24–39:11 it is clear that he belonged to the retainer class of scribes and scholars who assisted the aristocracy in their administration of Judean society and also preserved and transmitted texts that were central to cultural identity. On the positive side, this opened up opportunities for status and influence (20:27–28; 38:31–39:4), the enjoyment of the finer things in life (14:3– 19; 31:12–32:13), and travel abroad (39:4; 51:13). At the same time, the precarious standing of these scribal retainers as dependent on the rich and powerful (who sometimes acted unethically) resulted in a noticeable tone of caution in Ben Sira’s teaching (e.g. 8:1–19; 13:1–13). Within this society Ben Sira’s role also included the instruction of students by drawing on the resources of accumulated wisdom, life experience, and sacred texts (51:22–28). In codifying his oral instruction into written form one can see Ben Sira adroitly blending the concrete particularities of his own sociopolitical context with the conviction that wise living has a universal dimension. It is ultimately his belief that the structure of all reality is divinely ordered through wisdom that underlies the conviction that the lessons learned in his own circumstances can be applied to both his current students and future generations who will read his book.

Texts and Versions Ben Sira composed his book in Hebrew but only about two‐thirds of the book has survived in its Hebrew form. Around 117 BCE his grandson translated the book into Greek and added a prologue which commends the value of the work while also conceding that there is “no small difference” between his translation and the Hebrew form of the book. Around the turn of the third century CE the book was translated from Greek into Latin and about a century later a Hebrew copy was translated into Syriac. As the book circulated in these various forms scribes altered, edited, and even added material, producing a diversity of forms of the book in antiquity. These changes frequently elaborated the attributes and greatness of God and Wisdom, emphasized the dynamic of punishment and reward, and accented the importance of classic virtues and vices (Kearns 2011). Depending on which version or versions they were based, modern translations also sometimes differ from one another in both content and verse numbering. All references in this chapter follow that of the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV) translation of the Bible.

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Structure of the Book The structure of Sirach continues to be debated among scholars but there are some points of consensus (Corley 2008). In broad strokes Ben Sira appears to have adapted the form of Proverbs, beginning with a discussion of the nature of wisdom and its relation to the fear of the Lord (1:1–31; Prov. 1:1–7) and ending with an alphabetic acrostic (Sir. 51:13–30; Prov. 31:10–31). Further, a first person speech in which Woman Wisdom exalts herself stands at the conceptual center of both books (Sir. 24:1–34; Prov. 8:1–36). Most scholars also agree that the poems that exalt wisdom (1:1–10; 4:11–19; 6:18–37; 14:20–15:10; 24:1–34; 32:14–33:18; 38:24–39:12; 42:15–43:33; 51:13–30) functionally divide the book into nine sections. The authorial notes at the end of the fifth, sixth, and seventh poems (24:30–34; 33:16–18; 39:12) suggest that the book may have been compiled in four or more stages. Often these wisdom poems are viewed as introducing their respective sections but they are better understood as Janus‐faced, bridging from one section to another. For example, the poem in 6:18–37 both draws on the motifs of testing in 2:1–11 and 6:5–17 and prepares the reader for the following discussions regarding the difficulties of navigating social situations. Within the nine sections there are self‐contained lessons that consist of sustained instruction on a particular topic, but the relation of these lessons to adjacent ones is frequently tenuous and difficult to discern.

The Centrality of Wisdom in Ben Sira At the heart of Ben Sira’s thought is the importance of wisdom. Most of the essential lines of thought regarding wisdom are introduced in the initial poem in 1:1–10 but are further elaborated in subsequent passages: the relationship between wisdom and God, the relationship between wisdom and the created world, and the relationship between wisdom and piety. Each of these three themes can be examined by taking their introduction in 1:1–10 as a point of departure.

The Figure of Wisdom and her Origin in God Ben Sira opens his book by claiming that all wisdom has its origin in Israel’s God (1:1). This God is both the creator of the world and the one who has chosen Israel. God is good, just, and merciful (17:25–18:14). Throughout history God has intervened in history, especially on behalf of those who obey, worship, and seek after the deity. While wisdom’s origin in God means that wisdom is consistent with the character of God, this conviction also makes the attainment of wisdom dependent on God’s willingness to disclose it. In 1:2–6 Ben Sira employs rhetorical questions to

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show that humans are too finite and limited to grasp it comprehensively. He thereby subtly undercuts other potential means of pursuing wisdom such as apocalyptic visions or Greek philosophy and science. As with other Jewish wisdom texts such as Proverbs and the Wisdom of Solomon, Ben Sira personifies wisdom as a woman and even has her speak in the first person at points in the book (e.g. Prov. 8:22–31; Wis. 7:22–8:1). Scholars have suggested several origins for this feature of Israelite wisdom which are not mutually exclusive. Some suggest that the personification of wisdom as a woman derives from the fact that the word for wisdom, hokmah, is grammatically feminine; others have noted that because the figure of Wisdom parallels the figures of Egyptian goddesses such as Maʾat (order, truth, justice) and Isis (knowledge and intelligence), Woman Wisdom may have arisen as the Israelite equivalent of goddesses in other cultures; still others postulate that Woman Wisdom reflects the social roles and experiences of actual or ideal Israelite women. By the time of Ben Sira such personification was standard in Jewish wisdom literature and functioned to inculcate desire for wisdom in the sages’ young male students. Indeed, wisdom as the object of love and desire is a strong theme in Ben Sira’s presentation of this figure. The allure of this marvelous woman is what keeps the students in pursuit even as Woman Wisdom subjects them to difficult tests and harsh discipline (4:11–19; 6:18–37). At the end of the pursuit, Ben Sira assures his readers, the embrace of Woman Wisdom is sweet satisfaction and delight and well worth the arduous quest for her (see especially 6:18– 37 and 51:13–30).

Wisdom and Creation A second important theme that arises in 1:1–10 is wisdom’s intimate connection with creation. Not only was wisdom’s origin in God, wisdom was the first of God’s creations (1:4) and was then “poured out” on the rest of the created order (1:9– 10a). For Ben Sira, the character of wisdom is woven into the fabric of creation such that the structure of the world is an aesthetic manifestation of wisdom’s nature. Several discussions later in the book elaborate the implications of this view. In 16:24–17:10 Ben Sira describes God’s creation of the world as orderly, emphasizing the spatial and temporal logic of creation as well as the functional perfection of each aspect. Humanity stands as the crowning achievement of the created order, endowed by its creator with wisdom and reflecting the image of God. For Ben Sira the goodness and beauty of creation consists of the harmonious interplay of each diverse element operating in its divinely appointed role, at the appropriate time. The importance of assigned roles is at the heart of Ben Sira’s description of creation in 33:7–15. Here he correlates the different kinds of people that God has created within human society to the temporal order of the calendar. Just as some days and seasons are holier and more exalted than others, so

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God has created a variety of people, each one having his or her role to play in relation to others. The most elaborate description of creation occurs in a hymn near the end of the book. In 42:15–43:33 Ben Sira describes the glory of creation and how this reflects the greatness of God. The core of this hymn surveys features of creation, especially the sources of light (the sun, moon, and stars) and meteorological phenomena such as lightning and storms (42:22–43:26). These features reveal the beautiful orderliness of creation and reflect both God’s glory and power. Ben Sira’s description of these phenomena draws on ancient hymnic celebrations of God as the Divine Warrior (cf. Exod. 15:1–18; Deut. 33:2–3; Judg. 5:2–5; Hab. 3:3–15; Ps. 18:7–19) in order to argue that the natural world obediently carries out the will of its divine master (see Goering 2009, 35–45). Ben Sira’s reflections on creation are then framed by descriptions of the greatness of God in 42:15–21 and 43:27–33. God is viewed as the incomprehensible source, sustainer, and director of everything. God’s design through wisdom thereby produces a rhythmic predictability and stability to the created order. Indeed, throughout his contemplation of creation Ben Sira notes that observation and study of the world lead to understanding (42:15– 16, 22, 25; 43:11; cf. 33:15), although incomplete (43:32). This belief underlies Ben Sira’s conviction that both pragmatic and moral knowledge can be discerned in the way the world works. Like the sages of Proverbs before him, Ben Sira believes that through the operations of the created order God enforces justice by rewarding the righteous and punishing the wicked (see Adams 2008, 153–213; Gregory 2010, 38–56). Throughout his book Ben Sira repeatedly supports his teaching by claiming that more often than not people get what they deserve; actions produce corresponding and predictable rewards and punishments (e.g. 2:7–8; 11:22–26; 21:3; 27:10; 39:24–27). Living life in a wisdom‐saturated world is a pedagogical experience and the wise are those who perceive these patterns of justice and make decisions accordingly. However, Ben Sira is well aware that the operations of justice in the world often break down, as the incisive critiques of Job and Ecclesiastes had made clear. It is clear that his motivation for describing the world as fundamentally just is pedagogical, to encourage his students to pursue wisdom and righteousness as reliably beneficial. In some places in his book, however, he addresses the problem of injustice in the world and wrestles with the problem of theodicy. Because he did not espouse a belief in an afterlife or postmortem judgment, Ben Sira had no recourse to eternal judgment as a solution (a belief in the afterlife and postmortem judgment does begin to appear in the Greek version and is even more prominent in the Latin version). The most sustained discussion of this topic appears in 15:11–18:14. Ben Sira begins his argument by asserting that humans have free will and God is completely uninvolved in their decisions to sin (15:11–20). Next, Ben Sira assures his students that justice never fails and righteousness really is beneficial (16:1–14) before

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e­ ntertaining the objection that consequences for actions are too inconsistent to form a reliable basis for acting righteously (16:17–22). In order to answer this problem of injustice in the world, Ben Sira returns to his doctrine of creation to argue that God’s meticulous care for the ordering of creation implies that God will continue to maintain the moral order as well (17:1–24). If there is a delay in the execution of justice this is not a sign of God’s injustice, but of God’s mercy. God knows humans are frail and so provides extended opportunities for them to repent and turn from evil, but eventually justice will be served and all accounts brought to balance (17:25–18:14). Similarly, in 11:20–28 Ben Sira emphasizes that God is able to set things right at a moment’s notice, even at the very end of a person’s life. While the deferral of justice to the future is Ben Sira’s main strategy for dealing with injustice in the world, he adopts other strategies as well. In 2:1–18 he argues that trials serve to test and refine a righteous person and that an eventual reward is assured. Ben Sira also suggests that the wicked suffer psychological torment which is hidden from the view of others (40:1–10), an unprecedented strategy in Jewish wisdom literature. Perhaps Ben Sira’s most potent strategy for dealing with a lack of justice in the world is to offer his students as an invaluable reward the possibility of an honorable legacy, either through their children (30:4; 44:11) or through the acclaim of their peers and sagely successors (10:19–11:6; 44:1–15).

Wisdom and Piety Returning to the opening passage in 1:1–10, a third important theme in Ben Sira’s thought is the relationship of wisdom to piety. This passage ends by juxtaposing two apportionments of wisdom. While a certain amount of wisdom has been poured out on all creation and is accessible to all people (1:9), a further, special allotment of wisdom has been granted to a subset of humanity, those who love God (1:10). Thus, there is a close relationship between piety and the acquisition of wisdom. In Israelite wisdom literature, the “fear of the Lord” is the traditional expression for piety. It goes beyond merely a feeling of reverence for the deity by incorporating a moral dimension. According to Prov. 1:1–7 the fear of the Lord is not only related to intelligence and skill, but also is closely aligned with righteousness, justice, and equity. It is thus a reverential ordering of life to align with the character of God and the nature of created reality, and it is the path to a life of success and happiness. Understood in this way, the wisdom and piety given expression in the phrase “fear of the Lord” mutually reinforce and lead to one another: the wiser one becomes the clearer and more appealing the benefits of piety will be and the more pious one becomes the more receptive to the insights of wisdom one is (see, e.g. Prov. 1:7; 2:5; 9:10). Like Proverbs, Ben Sira also perceives a close relationship between wisdom and fear of the Lord. In 1:11–30 he provides a description of the importance of the fear

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of the Lord. Its benefits are similar to those of wisdom: honor, wealth, and joy as well as length and quality of life. Importantly, Ben Sira says that the fear of the Lord is the beginning and root of wisdom (1:14, 20) as well as the fullness and crown of wisdom (1:16–18). Later in the passage he simply says that the fear of the Lord is wisdom and instruction (1:27). This raises the question of how exactly the two are related. Although an argument that the fear of the Lord is the central theme of the book and that the importance of wisdom derived from its relation to piety was argued by Haspecker (1967), several other scholars have argued persuasively that wisdom has the better claim to be the primary theme (see Marböck 1971; Skehan and Di Lella 1987, 75–80). Further, Goering (2009, 129–186) points out that the large majority of Ben Sira’s statements about the fear of the Lord refer to a piety that is of specifically Jewish character. It would therefore constitute the special allotment of wisdom to those who love God, mentioned in 1:10. This explains why Ben Sira sometimes connects both wisdom and fear of the Lord with obedience to God’s commandments (1:26–28; 2:15–17; 10:19; 19:20). These commandments include both “moral” laws and cultic regulations (e.g. 7:29–36). In general, then, wisdom is the broader category and the fear of the Lord, understood normally as Jewish piety based on God’s revelation, is a special kind of wisdom that belongs exclusively to God’s elect people, Israel. The privileged access to wisdom given to Israel can be seen especially in Woman Wisdom’s self‐glorification in chapter 24, which is similar in style to Prov. 8:22–31, Job 28, and Bar. 3:9–4:1. This passage also bears a number of similarities to Egyptian aretalogies in which the goddess Isis recounts her greatness, but the significance of these parallels is disputed (see Sanders 1983, 45–50). In any case, the thematic progression of the chapter provides an integration of all three of the major themes considered above: the relationship of wisdom to God, the connection between wisdom and creation, and the link between wisdom and Jewish piety. The scene opens with personified wisdom singing her own praises in the heavenly divine assembly (24:1–2) by announcing her origin in God (24:3) in language reminiscent of the creation account in Genesis (Gen. 1:2). Her supreme authority as the preeminent creation of God is demonstrated by her throne in the heavens (24:4) and is manifested through her reign and influence over the entire created order and among all people (24:5–6). This is the universal dimension of wisdom that is written into the world and accessible to anyone who studies the world and the nature of life. Yet in 24:7–12 Wisdom pivots from the universal to the particular. Wisdom sought a dwelling place and found it in Israel and, more specifically, in the Jerusalem temple. The implications of this movement are striking. First, unlike other biblical traditions which place Israel’s election as an event within sacred history, Ben Sira roots it in creation (cf. Deut 32:8–9; Mermelstein 2014, 17–33). Second, the fact that personified wisdom is portrayed as a priest ministering in the Jerusalem temple also roots Israel’s worship in the created order. This is further seen in the correspondence of the arboreal imagery used for wisdom in 24:13–17 with not only the

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Tree of Life (cf. Gen. 2:9; Prov. 3:18), but also the garden imagery used in the construction of the tabernacle/temple (Exodus 30) and the description of the high priesthood in Sir. 50:1–21. Thus, the movement of 24:1–22 mirrors the juxtaposition of 1:9–10. While Wisdom’s heavenly reign and role in creation results in a universal dimension, Israel as the elect people has a special allotment and access to Wisdom by virtue of her presence in the Jerusalem temple. An additional aspect of this particularity is found in 24:23. Here Ben Sira famously links wisdom and the “book of the covenant,” i.e. the Torah. Here again, scholars have debated how these two should be related but it is unlikely either that Torah is understood as simply one among many equivalent sources of wisdom or that wisdom is so limited to Torah that it loses any universal dimension. Rather, Goering (2009, 4–9) is surely correct that Torah is understood to be a special portion of wisdom which has been uniquely revealed to God’s elect people, Israel. Both universal wisdom accessible through creation and particular wisdom accessible through the divinely revealed Torah have their origin in God. Further, just as Israel’s election is rooted in creation in 24:7–12, the revelation of the Torah to Israel at Sinai is portrayed as the logical conclusion of creation in 17:1–24. So while the piety that personified wisdom teaches to all people through creation is not the same as Jewish piety, the two are not in conflict either.

Ben Sira’s Sources of Knowledge and Wisdom The correlation between universal wisdom and the particular wisdom of Judaism affects how and where Ben Sira seeks knowledge and truth. Most broadly, Ben Sira seeks wisdom through the observation of natural phenomena and his own experience, just as previous sages had done (cf. Prov. 6:6; 30:18–31). For example, he sees in animal behavior and the natural elements analogues for human behavior (Sir. 13:15–20; 28:12; 33:7–15). This, of course, derives from his view of creation as ordered by Wisdom and reflecting her principles. Yet, also like sages before him, he believed that growth in wisdom was greatly facilitated by the study of the intellectual traditions handed down from previous generations. Each generation was responsible for mastering the tradition and teaching it to the next generation, resulting in a cumulative growth in wisdom as each new generation adds their own insights to those who came before. Among the literature in which wisdom could be found, most important for Ben Sira were books which would eventually comprise the Hebrew Bible. Proverbs and the Torah were the most influential on his thought, though he never cites them specifically as scripture. Rather, he sometimes makes vague references to a commandment (e.g. 29:1, 9, 11), but more frequently simply alludes to, or adapts, the content of a biblical injunction without any mention of his source. He apparently expected his students to know the content of the authoritative books, allowing him

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to recast the material according to his own concerns (Wright 2011). This explains why after the reference to the Torah as wisdom in 24:23, he likens the wisdom/ Torah tradition to a stream which no single person ever exhausts (vv. 24–29). He goes on to cast himself in a prophetic role as someone who delivers a fresh understanding of this tradition to subsequent generations (24:30–34). Later in the book Ben Sira contemplates the glory of the scribe who studies intensely the Torah, the prophets, and the wisdom literature and then depends on God’s willingness to grant insight and understanding (38:34–39:11). In addition to the Torah and Proverbs, it appears clear that Ben Sira knew and drew upon the Former and Latter Prophets of the Hebrew Bible, Psalms, and Job. Possible literary connections with the other books found in the Hebrew Bible are still being debated. Interestingly, Ben Sira’s discussion of the Jewish scribe’s glory in 38:34–39:11 simultaneously reveals his openness to non‐Jewish literature. The belief that valuable wisdom also can be found in other cultures results from the conviction that God has poured out general wisdom on all humanity. In this passage Ben Sira’s discussion of various professions (38:24–39:11) bears a striking resemblance to the Egyptian instruction known as “The Satire of the Trades” (early second millennium BCE), except that Ben Sira views other professions more positively even if still inferior to that of the scribe. Further, many parallels between Ben Sira’s teaching and the corpus of wisdom texts from Egypt have been adduced and some scholars believe it even likely that Ben Sira drew directly on a roughly contemporary Egyptian Demotic text known as Papyrus Insinger (Sanders 1983, 61–106; but see Goff 2005). Ben Sira also shows awareness of some Greek literature. There is general agreement that he used the elegiac poetry of Theognis (Sanders 1983, 29–38) and at times he seems to incorporate literary motifs found in other Greek literature. For example, his comparison of human life to the cycles of trees reflects a widespread trope going back to Homer (Iliad 6.146–49). Other scholars have noted that Ben Sira’s discussions of divine providence, human freedom, and theodicy have points of contact with Stoic thought (see Adams 2008, 173–177). Although the availability of such non‐Jewish literature in Seleucid Judah is not completely clear, Ben Sira may have encountered various works during his travels (39:4; 51:13). Nevertheless, it can be safely assumed that in Ben Sira’s time there was a degree of cultural fluidity in the flow of ideas around the Mediterranean world. In any case, Ben Sira’s use of earlier literature, whether Jewish, Egyptian, or Greek, reveals a commonality even though these works held a different level of authority for him. In each case he felt free to select and adapt his sources for his own pedagogical purposes. It is a mistake, therefore, to approach his book as if it were a pastiche of material found elsewhere. Instead, each passage is crafted as a new synthesis of the various sources of knowledge available to him. A careful comparison of Ben Sira with other authors often illuminates his own distinct view on a given topic.

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Ben Sira’s Ethics Concepts of Morality As with earlier biblical writings, Ben Sira adopts multiple models of ethical reasoning. Barton (2014) has shown that three of the most common approaches to ethics in ancient Israel were divine command theory, an ethics based on the natural moral order, and virtue (or character) ethics. These three approaches are distinct but not mutually exclusive. In the first, ethics are grounded in the revealed commandments of God, though they are often presented not as arbitrary but as wise and beneficial. Ben Sira evinces this approach when he sets forth the Torah as the preeminent source of wisdom and admonishes his students to study it thoroughly. On various topics he appeals to God’s commandments to encourage obedience, e.g. to avoid adultery (23:28) and anger (28:6–7) or to assist the needy (29:1–20). Importantly, this also includes the commandments related to temple worship (7:29–31; 35:1– 13). Frequently, Ben Sira warns of divine punishment for sin (e.g. 7:8; 12:6; 28:1) and promises divine blessing for the righteous (e.g. 2:8; 11:2; 51:30). The second model, an ethics based on the natural moral order, is grounded in Ben Sira’s conviction that the world was constructed through Wisdom and so operates in accord with her character. On the basis of this model, Ben Sira believes that the natural order is designed in such a way that people’s actions elicit from the created world appropriate and symmetrical rewards and punishments (e.g. 39:24–27). For example, if someone lays a snare for another person, poetic justice will result in his own ensnarement (27:26; cf. Prov. 26:27). These kinds of warnings are common in wisdom literature in general and in Ben Sira in particular. Another way this dynamic shows up in Ben Sira is through the personification of sin as a dangerous animal that turns back to attack the sinner (21:2–3; 27:10). The third model is that of virtue or character ethics. In this model, moral choices are at once a product of one’s character and a further contributor to the ongoing cultivation of character. More important than particular choices is the formation of the interior virtues and the overcoming of their corresponding vices, both of which derive from the “fear of the Lord.” In this view, the practice of virtue produces a good, happy, and satisfying life. Sin, on the other hand, often has a magnetic quality that anesthetizes people to its destructive effects and makes alternate choices increasingly difficult to make. In Ben Sira, the virtue ethics approach is seen clearly in the amount of attention he devotes to certain topics related to the formation of his students’ character. Virtuous Character For Ben Sira one of the most important character issues is that of pride and humility. In fact, he ties it into his central concerns by correlating pride with sin and humility with wisdom. Ben Sira first broaches the topic in 3:17–29 when he argues

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that intellectual humility is found in the study of the Torah, which is reliable, rather than in the vain pursuit of what God has not chosen to disclose, either by pursuing Greek philosophy or apocalyptic visions (he takes a similar approach to dreams in 34:1–8). The most extensive discussion of this topic, though, is found in 9:17–11:6. Here Ben Sira argues that pride is inconsistent with humanity’s created nature as frail and dependent on God. Pride is a failure to understand humanity’s true place in the world and is rooted in a defiance in abandoning God. It therefore tends to proliferate wickedness and so is judged swiftly and harshly by God. By contrast, humility reflects an accurate perception of oneself and one’s place before God, which is why humility naturally leads to obedience to God’s commands. Ironically, Ben Sira argues, humility not pride leads to true and lasting honor. A second important character issue for Ben Sira is anger. After noting the self‐ destructive nature of anger at the beginning of the book (1:22–23), he provides a sustained lesson on the topic in 27:30–28:11. As in the modern West, heat and pressure are the primary metaphors for describing the nature of anger and Ben Sira identifies impatience, stubbornness, and a craving for power as common fuels. Yet, anger is also self‐compounding and builds on itself. Ben Sira tries to dissuade his students from anger by highlighting its destructiveness, describing it as a characteristic of foolishness, reminding them of God’s commands, and warning that forgiveness of their own sins depends on it. Notably, Ben Sira shares with other early Jewish and Christian thinkers the conviction that whether people forgive or take vengeance, it will result in similar treatment by God regarding their own sins (e.g. T. Gad 6:3–7; Matt. 6:14–15). The metaphor of heat is also used by Ben Sira to portray the vice of illicit desire. Because the danger of this vice consists in its ability to engulf a person, he advocates strongly for the need for self‐control. In 6:2–4 he vividly portrays desire as a vice that unexpectedly takes control of people before leaving them withered and humiliated. He returns to the topic in 18:30–19:4 and characterizes it as leading to poverty, a life that is out of control, and an early death. In 23:16–27 Ben Sira shows psychological insight in discussing the rationalizations of people who are engaged in sexual immorality and are blind to their loss of control. While they believe they are free from accountability and will escape the consequences of their actions, they cannot hide from God who sees all and is certain to punish. Consonant with the metaphor of “burning” lust, Ben Sira again portrays the end result of desire as a withered tree in deliberate contrast to the flourishing tree of Wisdom (24:13–17). As was common in the Greco‐Roman world, Ben Sira perceives a close connection between control over one’s desires and control over the tongue. All three major passages about illicit desire are juxtaposed with instructions about speech ethics (5:9–6:1; 19:5–17; 22:27–23:15). In fact, it is an indication of their importance that one of Ben Sira’s three prayers implores God for the necessary self‐control in speech and desire (22:27–23:6). The prominence of the topic of speech and the nature of his views are largely consistent with wisdom literature in both Israel and Egypt. He advocates for honesty, consistency, and a preference for silence over

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t­ alkativeness. Likewise, he condemns lying, gossip, and slander. Similar to the issue of desire, the enjoyment of speech sins masks their ultimately self‐destructive nature. If there is interpersonal conflict, one should approach the person directly and seek resolution. As with Proverbs, Ben Sira often portrays a person’s speech as indicative of his or her character and as a mark of wisdom or foolishness, particularly in speaking at the right time and in the right context (20:1–31). Yet, as a sign of how difficult it can be to control one’s tongue, Ben Sira concedes that sometimes even wise people lose control and slip with their tongues (19:13–17).

Relationships and Social Ethics A substantial amount of material in Ben Sira deals with everyday relationships with family, friends, and fellow members of society. Ben Sira’s view of the family is shaped by his patriarchal culture and the attendant issues of honor and shame in Mediterranean societies. Honor and obedience are owed to one’s parents even into adulthood (3:1–16; 7:18–28). Honoring parents by caring for them in their old age will be rewarded by God while dishonoring one’s parents is akin to blasphemy. In addition to appealing to the divine commandments and the possibility of reward, Ben Sira also encourages honoring one’s parents out of gratitude for the gift of life. Regarding children, Ben Sira advises strict discipline, especially over daughters, in order to protect the family from dishonor (30:1–11; 42:9–14). While such instruction naturally appears overly harsh to many modern readers, it is a telling indicator of how detrimental and long‐lasting familial shame was in his society. In fact, Ben Sira apparently regarded such stringent discipline as a sign of love since it was for the ultimate good of the child as well as the whole family. Further, it was analogous to the strict but beneficial training that Wisdom administers to her children (6:18–37). For Ben Sira, perhaps no relationship was more crucial to happiness than a good marriage and therefore his instructions regarding various kinds of women are replete with caution and hyperbole (25:13–26:18; 36:26–31). While marriages were arranged between households, the preferences of the groom were often taken into account. Ben Sira characterizes a good wife as one who is virtuous, intelligent, and beautiful and whose value surpasses all wealth because she brings health, prosperity, and honor. Conversely, a bad spouse can bring inestimable damage to a person’s life. A realist about the power of desire and the potentially severe consequences of illicit sex, Ben Sira strongly advises his students to avoid getting involved with married women, promiscuous women, and female performers at banquets (9:1–9). Beyond viewing women as posing a potential temptation, at times Ben Sira is quite negative about women in general. He pins the origin of sin on Eve (25:24) and sometimes makes negative generalizations about the trouble women can bring. While his views on gender are often characterized as misogynistic today, they were

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not extreme in the ancient world. Nevertheless, there are also some positive aspects of Ben Sira’s view of women. For example, his commendation of a wife’s intelligence (7:19; 25:8) is rare in wisdom literature (cf. LXX Prov. 31:30) and while the association of gossip with femininity was ubiquitous in ancient literature it is absent from Ben Sira. The topic of friendship receives more attention in Ben Sira than in any other biblical book (6:5–17; 9:10–16; 22:19–26; 27:16–29; 37:1–6). He shares with contemporary Greek authors a concern for distinguishing between genuine and fake friends and echoes Aristotle’s famous dictum that a true friend is “another self ” (6:11, 17; cf. Nichomachean Ethics 9.4). While it is good to be friendly with everyone, he repeatedly warns that the trustworthiness of a genuine friend can be revealed only through testing and the shared experience of adversity. Therefore, the trust and depth characteristic of true friendship emerges slowly over time, making good friendships a priceless rarity. In addition to companionship, true friends provide a social safety net when troubles come. Because friends mutually shape each other’s character, one should seek to form friendships with the wise and pious. However, there is an asymmetry in friendships in that a relationship built over a long period of time can be destroyed in an instant. Since trust and loyalty are essential foundations for friendship, dishonesty or a betrayal of trust can do sudden and irreparable damage. Therefore, Ben Sira urges, his students should constantly exercise vigilance to protect their friendships. Ben Sira devotes considerable space to the topic of relationships among the upper classes within Judean society. As members of the retainer class who were particularly vulnerable to the political maneuverings of the elite, Ben Sira’s advice is marked by caution and reserve. In 8:1–19 he outlines a number of social relationships and insists that a proper assessment of other people’s character and one’s own potential vulnerabilities is the key to self‐preservation and even success. The more significant the disparity in wealth and power between two people, the more careful the weaker party must be. Because powerful people are frequently experts in exploiting inequity to their advantage and the stakes are so high, Ben Sira urges his students to consider carefully the dynamics of the situations in which they find themselves. The life experiences of the elderly sages provide the best resource for succeeding in these perilous relationships (8:8–9). Ben Sira returns to this topic in 13:1–24 where he balances caution with shrewdness. He highlights the exploitive tendencies of the rich and powerful, noting how they abuse the poor when it suits their interests. Yet, he also tempers this warning by acknowledging the potential usefulness of these powerful people to his students. While they must be on their guard, relationships with the powerful are key to their own social advancement. One of the clearest indications of Ben Sira’s elevated place within his own society is his lengthy discussion of table etiquette in 31:12–32:13. While much of Ben Sira’s advice about proper conduct at banquets is in line with earlier advice on ­dining with the powerful from Proverbs (e.g. 23:1–5), the overall structure of this

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passage reflects the form of a Greek symposium  –  dinner followed by drinking and entertainment. He even addresses the possibility of the student’s appointment as symposiarch, who leads the banquet (32:1–2). In his instruction Ben Sira emphasizes caution, moderation, and proper concern for others but also the intrinsic goodness of fine food and good entertainment. This is a striking instance of the possible compatibility of some aspects of Greek culture and Jewish values in Ben Sira’s view. Although Ben Sira’s social location was among the elite, his approach to wealth and poverty is multifaceted (see Gregory 2010). He views wealth as essentially neutral, albeit a significant temptation, and focuses on the ethics of how it is acquired and then used (31:1–11). He condemns greediness and miserliness, and enjoins his students to use their money to enjoy the finer things in life, embracing a kind of carpe diem outlook (14:3–19). He also advocates giving the Jerusalem priesthood their due (7:29–31) and for using money strategically to foster beneficial relationships. Importantly, however, he also commends assistance to the poor within his society. Over against those who would blame the poor for their condition, Ben Sira prohibits ignoring or ridiculing them (4:1–10; 18:15–18). Instead, he adopts the traditional biblical notion that the poor enjoy a special relationship with God, analogous to that of the priests in particular and to Israel as a whole (cf. 7:29–36; 35:1– 13). Therefore, social justice is an essential element of Jewish piety (34:21–31). Drawing on passages such as Prov. 19:17, Ben Sira holds that generosity to the poor is reckoned as a loan to God, who is certain to repay it. This “heavenly treasury” of stored credit can be accessed to pay down the debt of sin (3:30–31) or for future help (29:8–13). In fact, various kinds of financial generosity such as interest‐free loans, almsgiving, and going surety for a neighbor are all understood to be part of a Torah‐grounded ethic of mercy (29:1–20; cf. Deut. 15:1–11).

Wisdom and History in Ben Sira Unlike earlier wisdom literature such as Proverbs, Ben Sira shows a concern for the history of Israel. Given the choice of Jerusalem as Wisdom’s choice for a home, he viewed Judah’s current subjugation to foreign empires, such as the Ptolemies and the Seleucids to be problematic. Following upon his assurance that God will vindicate both Israel and the poor from their oppressors in 35:14–26, Ben Sira includes a prayer imploring God to deliver Israel from its present situation as God had done in the past (36:1–22). Then, he anticipates, Jerusalem will be fittingly glorified and there will be universal acknowledgment of God’s greatness. Some scholars suspect this prayer is a later insertion to the book because of its sharp tone and eschatological outlook, but others consider it original to Ben Sira as an understandable elaboration of his view of the reality of sociopolitical oppression found in other passages.

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While Ben Sira occasionally mentions episodes from sacred history in his instructions (e.g. 16:7–9; 17:1–4), the final major section of the book is a retelling of significant portions of biblical history (44:1–50:24). Ben Sira’s “Praise of the Ancestors” in chapters 44–50 shows rhetorical affinity with the Hellenistic genre of the encomium in which figures of the past or present are celebrated and praised, but it also has a mythic yet epic quality in that it interprets the important characters of Israel’s history from a decidedly covenantal and theological point of view (Mermelstein 2014, 33–51). As the conclusion to Ben Sira’s book, the “Praise of the Ancestors” serves multiple functions. First, the symmetry between 44:1 and 42:15 indicates that the “Praise of the Ancestors” provides the historical complement to the praise of God’s supremacy, visible in the glory of creation in 42:15–43:33. Second, this historical review mirrors the journey of Woman Wisdom through the created order before finally inhabiting the Jerusalem temple in 24:1–12, thus suggesting that the wisdom found in creation is instantiated in the heroes of Israel’s sacred past. Along these lines, it is notable that both chapter 24 and the “Praise of the Ancestors” culminate with the glory of priestly figures, Wisdom and Simon II, in the resplendent beauty of the temple. As Mermelstein has shown, the implication of this parallel is that Israel’s history up to Ben Sira’s contemporary Simon II is understood as an extension of the process of creation. Third, throughout the book Ben Sira emphasizes repeatedly that in the absence of any hope for an afterlife the honor of a lasting memory serves as the best postmortem reward (15:6; 37:26; 39:9–11; 41:6–13). In the “Praise of the Ancestors” he puts this conviction into practice for the heroes of the past and implicitly presents them as exemplars of piety for his readers (44:1– 15). This piety consists above all in covenant faithfulness and reliance upon God. Ben Sira’s review of sacred history is carefully structured. In the prologue (44:1– 15) he sorts the heroes into twelve categories, symbolic for Israel, with a particular emphasis on the importance of sages. In 44:16–45:26 Ben Sira highlights seven figures from the Pentateuch who received a covenant: four from Genesis (Noah, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob) and three related to the establishment of the priesthood (Moses, Aaron, and Phinehas). The lengthy description of Aaron in 45:6–22 echoes the language in 44:1–15 and anticipates the description of Simon II in 50:1– 24. In some sense the high priestly covenant is viewed as continuing the royal covenant with David (45:25–26). In his discussion of the monarchy Ben Sira follows the conclusion of the Deuteronomistic Historian that only David, Hezekiah, and Josiah were truly righteous (49:4). All partially good rulers found in 1–2 Kings have been omitted except for Solomon, whom Ben Sira addresses in the second person as a tragic figure who fell from overflowing wisdom to a life of immorality (47:12–25). Alongside the disappointment of the monarchy Ben Sira presents prophets as faithful characters who worked miracles and were (and continue to be) sources of hope. In 49:14–16 Ben Sira returns to three heroes from Genesis and uses the figure of Adam to transition to the high priest Simon II (50:1–24). In his

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high priestly role, enveloped in the glory of the temple, Simon practically functions as the archetype of humanity who reflects Wisdom’s presence on earth (cf. 24:1–29). While earlier scholars sometimes characterized Sirach as an unoriginal repackaging of the wisdom in Proverbs, recent scholarship has been illuminating Ben Sira’s fresh, creative approach to the Jewish wisdom tradition. His synthesis of a variety of traditions and authoritative texts in service of educating Jewish youth during the Hellenistic period provides an interesting window into the hermeneutical challenge of mediating religious beliefs in a new intellectual milieu. As future research continues to contextualize Ben Sira’s thought within the complex world of Hellenistic Judaism, the importance and originality of his thought will surely become even clearer. References Adams, Samuel L. 2008. Wisdom in Transition: Act and Consequence in Second Temple Instructions. Leiden: Brill. Barton, John. 2014. Ethics in Ancient Israel. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Corley, Jeremy. 2008. Searching for structure and redaction in Ben Sira: An investigation of beginnings and endings. In: The Wisdom of Ben Sira: Studies on Tradition, Redaction, and Theology (ed. Angelo Passaro and Giuseppe Bellia), 21–47. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Goering, Greg Schmidt. 2009. Wisdom’s Root Revealed: Ben Sira and the Election of Israel. Leiden: Brill. Goff, Matthew. 2005. Hellenistic instruction in Palestine and Egypt: Ben Sira and Papyrus Insinger. Journal for the Study of Judaism 36: 147–172. Gregory, Bradley. 2010. Like an everlasting signet ring: generosity in the book of Sirach. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Haspecker, Josef. 1967. Gottesfurcht bei Jesus Sirach: Ihre religiöse Struktur und ihre literarische und doktrinäre Bedeutung. Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute.

Horsley, Richard A. 2007. Scribes, Visionaries, and the Politics of Second Temple Judah. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Kearns, Conleth. 2011 (orig. 1951). The Expanded Text of Ecclesiasticus: Its Teaching on the Future Life as a Clue to its Origin (ed. Pancratius C. Beentjes). Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Marböck, Johannes. 1971. Weisheit im Wandel: Untersuchungen zur Weisheitstheologie bei Ben Sira. Bonn: Peter Hanstein. Mermelstein, Ari. 2014. Creation, Covenant, and the Beginnings of Judaism: Reconceiving Historical Time in the Second Temple Period. Brill: Leiden. Sanders, Jack T. 1983. Ben Sira and Demotic Wisdom. Chico, CA: Scholars Press. Skehan, Patrick W., and Di Lella, Alexander A. 1987. The Wisdom of Ben Sira. New York: Doubleday. Wright, Benjamin G. III. 2011. Biblical interpretation in Ben Sira. In: A Companion to Biblical Interpretation in Early Judaism (ed. Matthias Henze), 361–386. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

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Further Reading Beentjes, Pancratius C. 2006. “Happy the One who Meditates on Wisdom” (Sir. 14,20): Collected Essays on the Book of Ben Sira. Leuven: Peeters. Collection of essays by an important scholar of Ben Sira, covering both individual passages and major themes of the book. Collins, John J. 1997. Jewish Wisdom in the Hellenistic Age. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. A balanced and insightful discussion of the major themes in Ben Sira as well as other Jewish wisdom books. Gilbert, Maurice. 2014. Ben Sira: Recueil d’Études–Collected Essays. Leuven: Peeters. A collection of studies on perennial issues in the interpretation of Ben Sira, key passages, important themes, and the early reception of the book. Especially valuable are the essays on the expansions in the Greek and Latin versions. Harrington, Daniel J. 2005. Jesus Ben Sira of Jerusalem: A Biblical Guide to Living Wisely. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical

Press. Excellent, introductory survey of issues related to the interpretation of Ben Sira. Marböck, Johannes. 2010. Jesus Sirach 1–23. Freiburg: Herder. The most up‐to‐ date commentary currently available. Rich in historical, literary, and theological analysis. Perdue, Leo G. 2007. Wisdom Literature: A Theological History. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Provides a chronological study of Israelite wisdom literature, focusing on the relationship of creation and wisdom in each book. Pays particular attention to the social and political background of each book’s theology. Wright, Benjamin G. III. 2008. Praise Israel for Wisdom and Instruction: Essays on Ben Sira and Wisdom, the Letter of Aristeas and the Septuagint. Leiden: Brill. Collection of important essays on aspects of Ben Sira’s social location, place within Second Temple Judaism, and his role as scribe, sage, and teacher.

CHAPTER 6

Wisdom of Solomon Randall D. Chesnutt

Introduction The Wisdom of Solomon (or Book of Wisdom) is a sapiential work written in Greek around the turn of the Common Era that advocates the pursuit of wisdom. The author assumes the identity of Israel’s wise King Solomon but was actually a much later Jew steeped in Greek language, philosophy, and rhetoric as well as Israel’s biblical heritage. Drawing on the Hebraic wisdom tradition but also incorporating Hellenistic reasoning and philosophical concepts, the unknown author (hereafter, Pseudo‐Solomon) makes the case that appropriating wisdom leads to righteousness and immortality, whereas failing to do so dooms one to destruction.

Contents and structure The book falls into three major sections often designated as follows, although the three interconnect and therefore the points of transition specified are indistinct: 1. The Book of Eschatology (1:1–6:21) 2. The Book of Wisdom (6:22–9:18) 3. The Book of History (10:1–19:22)

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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The Book of Eschatology (1:1–6:21) contrasts the destinies of the righteous and wicked and admonishes readers to seek wisdom, live righteously, and thereby gain immortality. According to the opening address to the rulers of the earth (1:1–15), evil leads to judgment and death, whereas “righteousness is immortal.” Wisdom is introduced as God’s spirit, a cosmic force that fills the world and “holds all things together.” Through this all‐pervading spirit, God both indwells the righteous to lead them to immortality and sees the evil deeds that banish the ungodly to death. God did not make death and takes no pleasure in it. He created humankind for immortality; those who commit evil deeds bring death on themselves. Materialists who suppose this life to be the whole of reality are shown to be gravely mistaken and are said to have made a covenant with death. In the first of two speeches placed on their lips (2:1–20), the ungodly assert that death is inevitable and amounts to annihilation, and therefore that life is meaningless and one should do as one pleases and get the most out of it by exploiting the weak. In their view the righteous person, who presumes to consider himself “a child of the Lord,” will prove by his own suffering and death that there is no divine retribution and trust in God is unfounded. In the second speech (5:4–13), the ungodly, now facing judgment, realize their miscalculation and recant; at last they see that they are the ones facing annihilation, while those whom they ridiculed as “children of God” are saved. Between the two speeches by the ungodly, the author offers his own rebuttal of a materialistic perspective (2:21–4:20). God created human beings in his image and destined them for immortality; death entered the world only “through the devil’s envy.” The souls of the righteous are immortal and secure in God’s hand. Apparent tragedies that befall them are in fact God’s means of disciplining them. Barren women and eunuchs who are righteous will be blessed despite their apparent fruitlessness, whereas the apparent fruit of the ungodly will come to nothing. The early death of a virtuous youth is not necessarily tragic but may be God’s gracious way of sparing the youth from calamitous evil. In no way does the death of the righteous support the nihilist’s case. Indeed, the righteous do not die in any ultimate sense; through physical death they actually pass into the fullness of immortality and will judge the ungodly who  –  despite any temporary benefits of their behavior  –  are cursed to extinction. After the second speech by the ungodly, the author reiterates that the righteous “will receive a glorious crown” and “live forever.” God will arm creation itself to protect them and oppose their adversaries (5:15–23). The section ends, as it begins, with an appeal to rulers of the earth to pursue wisdom and avoid judgment by God, who confers all dominion (6:1–11). Because Wisdom takes the initiative to make herself known, the search for her is not futile. As Wisdom is personified in Proverbs as a woman who cries out in the streets for people to heed her teaching (1:20–33; 8:1–21), here Wisdom is already sitting at the gate of those who rise early to meet her. “Radiant and unfading,” she is readily found by those who seek her and leads them to immortality and a kingdom (6:12–21).

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The second section, the Book of Wisdom proper (6:22–9:18), shifts from third‐ person narrative to the first‐person speech of Pseudo‐Solomon: “I will tell you what wisdom is and how she came to be.” Without mentioning Solomon by name, the author tacitly adopts the persona of Israel’s celebrated king to recount his personal quest for wisdom and to describe and extol Wisdom so that others, too, may benefit from knowing her. Solomon’s royal pedigree was not the source of his wisdom; he was conceived in the usual way and was subject to normal human limitations. He rather obtained wisdom through prayer – the same means open to everyone. Along with the precious gift of wisdom came “all good things,” including riches, power, and comprehensive knowledge (7:1–22a). Then follows a litany of praise for this supreme gift (7:22b–8:1), beginning with a list of 21 attributes borrowed from Hellenistic cosmology that balance Wisdom’s transcendence and immanence. She is the fashioner of all that exists but also indwells individuals and enables them to understand the dynamics of the cosmos. She is proximate to God as the breath of his power, pure emanation of his glory, reflection of his eternal light, mirror of his activity, and image of his goodness, but also relates indomitably to human beings by entering holy souls to bring them close to God. She is one and remains in herself but is also infinitely mobile and penetrates and renews all things. She is all‐knowing and all‐powerful but immanent to human beings as a guide for life. She surpasses the heavenly bodies in brilliance, permeating the cosmos and ordering all things well. She is also a moral being: she is uncontaminated and loves the good. Having established Wisdom’s credentials, Pseudo‐Solomon describes his pursuit of her in terms of courtship: “I desired to take her for my bride” (8:2–21). Additional benefits that warrant the courtship are specified: she is God’s associate in creation and knows him well; she is the “active cause of all things”; she teaches the cardinal virtues of self‐control, prudence, justice, and courage; and she knows both past and future. All of Solomon’s successes as king resulted from his acquisition of Wisdom as his wife. The second section ends with the prayer through which Solomon sought to gain wisdom (9:1–18). He acknowledges his human limitations and prays that the wisdom present at creation be granted him as the guide and guardian needed if he is to accomplish his assigned tasks. Without her one cannot succeed, for “a perishable body weighs down the soul” and dooms human endeavors to failure; only if God grants wisdom and sends his holy spirit from on high can people have their paths set right and be “saved by wisdom.” The allusion at the end of Solomon’s prayer to those “saved by wisdom” anticipates the third section, the Book of History (10:1–19:22). The thesis of this historical retrospective is that Wisdom is the managing force in Israel’s early history. Chapter  10 reviews Wisdom’s activity in the lives of seven righteous persons or groups and their wicked counterparts (all unnamed but easily identifiable by anyone familiar with the patriarchal narratives): Adam and Cain; Noah and the victims of the flood; Abraham and the nations confused at the tower of Babel; Lot and

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the Five Cities; Jacob and Esau; Joseph and Potiphar’s wife; and Israel under Moses’s leadership and the Egyptians under pharaoh’s leadership. In each case it was Wisdom who delivered the hero(es) and thwarted the villain(s), as, for example, when she rescued the righteous Lot from Sodom but destroyed with fire the depraved cities that “passed wisdom by.” Chapter 11 begins a lengthy meditation on the exodus and desert wanderings in the form of seven pairs of incidents in which God’s provision for the Israelites is contrasted with his punishment of the Egyptians (again without giving names). The guiding principle is stated at the outset: the same means used to bless the righteous are used to punish the ungodly (11:5, 13); creation itself works in unison with God on the side of the just and against the unjust. The seven pairs cited to sustain this intrinsic cosmic principle are: (i) the abundant provision of water for Israel in the desert and the pollution of Egypt’s water (11:1–14); (ii) Israel’s gift of quail in the desert and the plagues of various animals upon Egypt (16:1–4); (iii) Israel’s deliverance from venomous snakebites and Egypt’s affliction with lethal insect bites (vv. 5–14); (iv) manna from heaven for Israel and hail and lightning from heaven upon Egypt (vv. 15–29); (v) Israel’s illumination by the pillar of fire and Egypt’s plague of darkness (17:1–18:4); (vi) the rescue of the Israelite children from death and the death of the Egyptian firstborn (18:5–25); and (vii) Israel’s deliverance through the Red Sea and the drowning of the Egyptians there (19:1–17). Two excursuses appear as the second antithetical pair is introduced. An excursus on God’s justice and mercy (11:15–12:27) contends that there is proportionality and harmony even in God’s acts of punishment. “One is punished by the very things by which one sins” (11:16); thus the Egyptians’ worship of animals led to their punishment with animal plagues. God, who loves all that he made and placed his immortal spirit in all things (11:26–12:1), showed moderation and gave the Egyptians and Canaanites opportunities to repent by punishing them incrementally rather than with his full might all at once; his justice is always “by measure and number and weight” (11:20). The second excursus (chapters 13–15) is a tirade against idolatry from the least to the most reprehensible forms. Those who worship natural forces or celestial bodies fail to recognize the creator behind the creation. More foolish are those who worship lifeless idols made with human hands. Images that originated to honor a deceased child or a distant king soon become objects of worship; artistic embellishments augment the deception, and the cult degenerates into “a hidden trap for humankind” with sinister rituals and every kind of immorality. Most debased is the Egyptian worship of repulsive animals. Again there is equanimity in God’s justice: the Egyptians were punished by the very creatures they considered gods. The mention of punishment by animals for the sin of worshiping animals brings the argument back to the series of antitheses from which the two excursuses had digressed. After completing the seven antitheses with their recurring theme of the corresponding means for blessing the righteous and punishing the ungodly, the

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author adduces a musical metaphor to reiterate the same principle of coherence: as notes on a harp can be arranged to create different symphonic melodies, God constantly rearranges the elements of nature to help the righteous and hinder the wicked (19:18–21). The book closes with a doxology in which God is praised for his providential care for his people in all times and places (v. 22).

Language and Setting Despite occasional arguments by earlier scholars for a Hebrew original, there is now a solid consensus that Greek is the original language. Distinctive Greek vocabulary and elements of style appear throughout (Reese 1970, 1–31). Hebraic modes of thought and expression, such as poetic parallelism, are commonplace in Hellenistic Jewish works written in Greek and do not indicate a Hebrew original. Dependence on the Septuagint in places where it differs from the Hebrew text, the regular use of Greek rhetorical devices, an Aeschylus‐like fondness for compound words, and the expression of key ideas with Greek philosophical terms that have no Hebrew equivalents all point to composition in Greek. Occasionally the author even constructs sentences in periodic style, shows touches of Greek lyric poetry, and writes in an iambic or hexameter rhythm (Winston 1979, 15–16). If there are underlying Semitic sources, they have not been simply translated but assimilated into a new literary product. Stylistic features not only confirm composition in Greek but also substantiate the unity of the work over against older theories of composite authorship. The place of writing is uncertain, but cumulative evidence favors Alexandria in Egypt. This center of Jewish life in a Hellenistic milieu provides the most likely matrix for the social and religious conflicts reflected in the book as well as the philosophical traditions it appropriates. The special interest in the exodus, bitter hostility toward Egyptians, sharp polemic against cultic practices characteristic of Egypt such as the worship of animals or gods depicted as animals, close affinities with the language and thought of Philo of Alexandria, and extensive use of the work by early Alexandrian Christians all support composition in Alexandria. The date of writing is more difficult to determine. Suggested dates range from the second century BCE to the mid‐first century CE. Dependence on the Septuagint version of Isaiah establishes a terminus a quo in the late second century BCE. Acquaintance with the work by New Testament authors (see “Transmission and Reception” below) is possible but too uncertain to fix a terminus ad quem; the earliest clear quotations are in patristic sources of the second century CE, beginning with Clement of Rome around 110 CE. In discussing Solomon’s temple the author shows no awareness of its destruction in 70 CE and thus surely wrote before that date. The reference to the cult of monarchs who rule from a distance (14:16–20) more aptly describes the decentralized imperial cult of the early Roman period than the

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c­ entrally organized dynastic cult of the preceding Ptolemaic era. Similarly, the address in 6:1–4 to rulers of the far reaches of the earth who “rule over multitudes and boast of many nations” fits the Roman Empire better than Ptolemaic rule. In 6:3 the Greek term kratēsis (“dominion”) may be a technical term for the Roman conquest of Egypt, as it is in several other sources, and in 14:20 the word sebasma (“object of worship”) is especially fitting for the illustrious statues of Augustus (= Sebastos) and his successors. The reference to the ruthless exercise of power that is misnamed “peace” in 14:22 may be a subtle critique of the pax Romana, and 17:17 may allude to the well‐documented phenomenon in Roman Egypt of impoverished peasants becoming fugitives to escape oppressive Roman fiscal policy. Linguistic evidence favors the same rough time frame: a number of words and constructions in the book are not attested elsewhere prior to the first century CE (Winston 1979, 22–23). If a specific occasion in the early Roman period is to be identified, the aftermath of the reign of the Emperor Caligula (37–41 CE) and the prefecture of Flaccus in Egypt (32–38 CE) best fits the bill. In 38 CE smoldering tensions over relative civic status erupted into bloody riots against Alexandrian Jews by Greek nationalists and native Egyptians, who destroyed some Jewish synagogues and desecrated others with images of the emperor. Flaccus revoked the Jews’ civic rights, declaring them “aliens and foreigners” in Alexandria and confining their residence to one section of the city. Many Jews were robbed, tortured, and murdered. Although Flaccus was soon deposed and the new Emperor Claudius reaffirmed Jewish rights in 41 CE after competing delegations to Rome (the Jewish one led by Philo) argued their case, the status of Jews was actually degraded further. In a series of edicts Claudius restored the Jews’ religious liberty and status as resident aliens to the pre‐Flaccus status quo, but also sternly warned them not to seek further rights “in a city which is not their own” and banned them from participation in the gymnasium, effectively excluding them from seeking Greek citizenship (Philo Flaccus; Embassy to Gaius; and Josephus Antiquities 18.8.1). In such a contentious climate Pseudo‐Solomon’s critique of unjust rule, polemic against Egyptian religion, and argument that the Jewish faith embodies respectable Hellenistic philosophical ideals, find a plausible setting. The reference in 19:16 to the Egyptians’ inhospitable treatment of those who had “shared the same rights” is an apt description of the Jewish struggle for rights and respectability in precisely such a situation of ethnic oppression and segregation. However, there are no sure connections with the events of 38–41 CE. After the Roman annexation of Egypt in 30 BCE, Jews lived in constant rivalry with their neighbors over relative civic status and imperial favor. Conflicts punctuated the period even if the especially virulent ones in the time of Flaccus are best known. Whether the writing was occasioned by particular hostilities or a general climate of social and religious strife is impossible to say. Therefore it is precarious to date the book more precisely than sometime in the early Roman period, between c. 30 BCE and the mid‐first century CE.

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Genre and Purpose The Wisdom of Solomon is a sapiential or wisdom writing in the tradition of the wisdom books in the Hebrew Bible (Proverbs, Job, and Ecclesiastes) and the book of Sirach (or the Wisdom of Jesus Ben Sira, also written in Hebrew but fully extant only in Greek). Common to these books is belief in an intrinsic order in the world which has its source in God, which is discernible from experience and the accumulated wisdom of the past, and with which human beings must learn to cope in order to live well. The word “wisdom” and its cognates appear regularly for this understanding of reality and sometimes for a personified female figure to be embraced. Along with pragmatic instruction about everyday conduct are more theoretical explorations of how the world works and efforts to explain apparent anomalies such as the suffering of the just. Authorship by King Solomon, whose wisdom was legendary (1 Kgs. 4:29–34; 10:1–25), is claimed for two of the sapiential works named in addition to Wisdom of Solomon (Proverbs and Ecclesiastes). Although these works employ diverse literary forms and styles, they comprise a distinct Jewish wisdom tradition to which Wisdom of Solomon clearly belongs. Beyond its broad classification within the Jewish wisdom tradition, the Wisdom of Solomon is thoroughly Hellenistic and invites comparison to Greek literary types. Two major views of the literary genre of the work, both based on Aristotelian rhetorical models, have been proposed: the protreptic discourse or didactic exhortation to pursue a certain course of action (Reese 1970, 117–121; Winston 1979, 18–20); and the encomium, an epideictic form of rhetoric designed to inspire admiration for someone or something rather than to exhort listeners or move them to action (Gilbert 1984, 306–309). In fact, features of both are present in different parts of the book and it seems unwise to squeeze the whole into one macro‐genre. The Book of Eschatology is hortatory and resembles the protreptic model. The rest of the book is more epideictic: the Book of Wisdom praises Wisdom as in an encomium, and the Book of History makes a sustained case for Wisdom’s ordering role in history (Collins 1997, 181–182). Moreover, these generic categories are not watertight: epideictic rhetoric functions at least implicitly to convince listeners to follow the admired value, and protreptic discourse can praise and demonstrate as well as exhort. Within the larger generic patterns, the author deftly employs standard rhetorical devices such as synkrisis (comparison of two things in order to show the superiority of one), soritēs (a chain of propositions in which the predicate of one becomes the subject of the next), and at least some features of the diatribe (speech by an imaginary adversary followed by a refutation), to structure the material. The question of the book’s purpose is bound up with the issues of its genre and target audience. Although ostensibly addressed to kings and rulers of the earth (1:1;

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6:1, 9, 21), the work is ill‐suited for Gentile rulers and seems instead to have an intramural aim. Because just rulers govern by wisdom according to Prov. 8:15–16, they are apt models for others to follow and may be addressed to strengthen the book’s appeal for its actual readers. The popular Hellenistic discourses on kingship were likewise addressed to the ruling class although their moral instruction was in fact suitable for any who aspired to the moral status of those worthy to rule. According to Musonius Rufus, a Stoic philosopher of the first century CE, anyone is a “king” who has the moral character and ability to rule, even if he has only a few others, or indeed only himself, as subject(s) (frg. 8.66.14–16). The address to kings and rulers in the Wisdom of Solomon also reflects a democratization of kingship in which all who live wisely are accorded royal dignity (Newman 2004). Already in the biblical account of creation humankind is assigned dominion over the earth (Gen. 1:26– 28). In Isa. 62:3 the restored Zion is described as God’s “crown of beauty” and “royal diadem.” Daniel refers to the receiving of an eternal kingdom by the holy ones of the Most High (7:17, 28) and exaltation of the wise to the rank of angelic courtiers (12:3). According to Sir. 4:15 those who obey wisdom “will judge the nations” (cf. LXX Prov. 29:9a; 1 Cor. 6:2). In this vein the Wisdom of Solomon couches the present hope and eschatological destiny of the righteous in royal imagery: “They will govern nations and rule over peoples” (3:8); “they will receive a glorious crown and a beautiful diadem from the hand of the Lord” (5:16); “the desire for wisdom leads to a kingdom” (6:20). From the address to rulers and kings it should not be supposed, therefore, that Gentile officials are the target audience, although the author’s estimation of just and unjust rule was no doubt shaped in part by contemporary leaders. For this author all righteous persons are royal insofar as they reign over their thoughts and actions and thereby rank as angelic attendants in the heavenly court (5:5) destined to judge and rule the nations (3:7–8; 4:16; 5:16) In adopting Solomon’s identity without naming him and building a case on characters from the Pentateuch without naming them, the author evidently targets Jewish readers well‐versed in their religious heritage. Even the sharp polemic against idolatry need not suggest Gentile recipients but could serve to fortify Jews in their convictions and dissuade them from assimilating to the surrounding culture. While a mixed audience is possible, the primary target audience seems to have been Jews who were enamored with Hellenistic thought and needed assurance that their own tradition was compatible with it. The cosmic entity who was present at creation and had an ongoing role in the management of the cosmos for the benefit of humankind was none other than Israel’s own Wisdom figure, who operated precisely and paradigmatically in the foundational events of Israel’s own history. Whether under physical assault or simply threats to their religious identity and self‐ esteem, Jews could draw strength and pride from a tradition that was superior to the idolatrous polytheism and immorality of their neighbors and that epitomized Hellenistic philosophical ideals.

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Formative Influences As a wisdom writing the book is heavily indebted to the Israelite wisdom tradition represented by Proverbs, Job, Ecclesiastes, and Sirach. In direct continuity with that tradition are the appeal to pursue wisdom, the dispensing of instructions and admonitions for wise living, the focus on universal human values rather than the distinctive revelatory and covenantal traditions of Israel, the effort to make sense of apparent anomalies in the just operation of the world and maintain a sense of divinely ordained order, the personification of Wisdom as a woman, and the attribution to Solomon as the great sage. In addition to the wisdom literature, the biblical narratives of Solomon’s acquisition of wisdom are used; thus the prayer for wisdom in 8:21–9:18 expands upon the accounts of God’s appearance to Solomon to grant him any request in 1 Kings 3 and 2 Chronicles 1. The Pentateuch supplies the characters and events developed in the Book of History to illustrate Wisdom’s (or God’s) activity in history from the beginning through the Exodus and entry into Canaan. To a lesser degree the Deuteronomistic History and the books of the prophets supply language for Israel’s Canaanite adversaries and God’s just dealings with them. The influence of the Jewish apocalyptic tradition (e.g. Daniel and the works that comprise 1 Enoch) is evident in the elaborate depiction of the postmortem judgment of the wicked and vindication of the righteous (2:1–5:23) as well as other ideas (see “Key Ideas” below). The scene of the persecuted righteous person’s vindication is also heavily influenced by the servant poems in Isaiah 40–55 (Nickelsburg 1972, 62–82). The language of the Psalms also surfaces regularly, as in the address to the rulers of the earth (Wis. 6:1, 21; cf. Ps. 2:10) and the talk of the fragility of life (Wis. 5:14; cf. Ps. 102:3). The polemic against idolatry in Wisdom 13–15 recalls numerous idol parodies in the Hebrew Bible (Pss. 115; 135; Hab. 2:18–19; Isa. 44:9–20; Jer. 10:1–16) and other Jewish sources (e.g. Jub. 12:2–5; 20:8–9; Let. Aris. 134–38; Bel and the Dragon). The author may have been a conduit for stock Jewish exegetical traditions as well as an interpreter of the Bible; in adapting the exodus story he shows awareness of certain exegetical traditions that were current at the time, although in some cases known to us only from rabbinic literature and other late sources (Enns 1997; e.g. Wis. 19:7; cf. Jub. 48:18; Ezekiel the Tragedian, Exag. 162–66; Philo, Vit. Mos. 1.25; and Mek. R. Ish. 13.126–29 on the Israelites’ plundering of the Egyptians as just payment for years of servitude). Along with these Jewish sources are formative influences from Hellenistic philosophy, especially Middle Platonism with its blend of Stoic and Platonic ideas. From Stoicism came the concept of the cosmos as an organic whole bound together by a pervasive ordering principle. This principle that the Stoics called logos (“word”) or pneuma (“spirit”) Pseudo‐Solomon calls sophia (“wisdom”), although he retains the language of logos and pneuma as well (1:6; 9:1–2; 18:14–16). In keeping with Stoicism, human fulfillment means living in harmony with this cosmic principle of order. The description of wisdom as philanthropos (benevolent or human‐loving;

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1:6; 7:23; cf. 12:19) echoes the doctrine of philanthropia in the Stoic understanding of the moral structure of the universe, and the discussion of the divine oversight of creation reflects the Stoic concept of pronoia, “providence” (14:3; 17:2; cf. 6:7). The conviction that the cosmos is so structured that it “exerts itself to punish the unrighteous, and in kindness relaxes itself on behalf of those who trusted in you [God]” (16:24; cf. 19:18–21) draws on the popular Stoic image of the “tensing” and “relaxing” of passive matter by the logos or pneuma to maintain cosmic order. Despite the utility of Stoic thought for Pseudo‐Solomon, it was ultimately problematic. Stoicism’s pervasive active principle was too closely associated with the material order to describe the transcendent God of Jewish conviction. On the other hand, the transcendent first principle of Platonism was too distant from the material order. Middle Platonism, a revival of Platonism that flourished around the turn of the eras, afforded a solution. This intellectual system retained Platonism’s transcendent supreme principle, but also Stoicism’s force that permeates the material world, by positing an intermediate entity related to both realms. Construals of this intermediary doctrine varied, but the common feature was an entity ontologically related to the transcendent being, instrumental in both the creation and ongoing administration of the world, and available to human beings for their benefit (Cox 2007, 28–55). Into this philosophical framework, Pseudo‐Solomon could readily integrate the figure of Wisdom from his Jewish heritage. His indebtedness to Middle Platonism, in specific language as well as broad conceptual framework, is unmistakable: Wisdom, like the Middle Platonic intermediary principle, is God’s breath, emanation, reflection, and image; she penetrates and orders all things; by virtue of her ontological essence, cosmogonic function, and continuing cosmological agency, she is a worthy guide for human life. Other elements of Platonic and Stoic thought, perhaps also mediated through the Middle Platonists, are palpable. Ideas from Platonism include the immortality of the soul (complete with a reference to the soul’s preexistence [8:19–20] and a statement that the body weighs down the soul [9:15]), the concept of creation out of “formless matter” (11:17), Solomon’s temple as a “copy” of the heavenly temple (9:8), and the popular triad of “measure, number, and weight” to express cosmic harmony and balance (11:20). The benefits of wisdom enumerated in 8:7 (self‐control, prudence, justice, and courage) are the four cardinal virtues that are staples of Stoic and Platonic thought. The copious elements of Greek style and argumentation mentioned above further demonstrate the author’s indebtedness to Hellenistic literature, philosophy, and rhetoric. Even many words shared with other works of the Septuagint have different connotations and find closer parallels in classical Greek or Hellenistic usage (Reese 1970, 3–5). The caricature of the materialist’s perspective in 2:1–20 may be indebted to Epicureanism, and certain epithets used to describe Wisdom may be modeled on language used to praise Isis in the cult of that Egyptian goddess (Kloppenborg 1982). The explanation of

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the origin of idolatry in 14:12–21 is reminiscent of Euhemeristic theory about the origin of the gods and is dependent, directly or indirectly, on the fourth century BCE Greek writer, Euhemerus. Traceable to the Pythagoreans, among other motifs, is the metaphor of musical harmony for the order and harmony of the universe (19:18). Pseudo‐Solomon’s closest affinities are with his near contemporary, Philo of Alexandria, although the similarities are not such as to indicate direct borrowings either way. Both are interpreters of the biblical text and bring it together with Hellenistic philosophy, although Philo’s philosophical skills are more sophisticated. In particular, Philo’s concept of the logos as an intermediate reality between the transcendent deity and the world bears close kinship to Pseudo‐Solomon’s figure of Wisdom. Many of the Middle Platonic terms and concepts that Philo uses with reference to the logos are those that Pseudo‐Solomon appropriates with reference to Wisdom (Cox 2007, 57–140). In both there is the tendency to vacillate between ascribing certain things to the agency of logos/Wisdom and ascribing them directly to God (Winston 1979, 226). Despite major differences with the much more extensive and diverse writings of Philo, Wisdom of Solomon shares much with and is best read in conjunction with the Philonic corpus.

Key Ideas The most central and important theological contribution of the Wisdom of Solomon is its developed concept of wisdom. Already in the Hebraic wisdom tradition, Wisdom is personified, depicted as present at creation, and therefore considered preeminently able to benefit humankind (Prov. 8:22–31; Sir.1:4–10; 24; cf. Job 28:20–28); but the Wisdom of Solomon, under the influence of Hellenistic metaphysics, greatly expands her cosmic nature and function. Here she is said not only to have been present at creation (9:9) but also to be the means by which God created the world (vv. 1–2); indeed she is “the fashioner of all things” (7:22; 8:6), “the active cause of all things (8:5). As in the Hebraic tradition, she is an “associate” in God’s works (8:3–4), but now she is explicitly related ontologically to God as his breath, emanation, reflection, and image (7:25–26). Her ongoing cosmological role is also developed along the lines of Stoic and Middle Platonic thought: she is the spirit of the Lord that fills the world and “holds all things together” (1:5–7); she “pervades and penetrates all things” (7:24); she reaches mightily throughout the cosmos and “orders all things well” (8:1). It was she who orchestrated the events of Israel’s early history (10:1–19:22, although after chapter 10 Wisdom recedes into the ­background and what was previously ascribed to Wisdom is ascribed to God). Her aptness as a guide for life is grounded in her ontological essence and her cosmogonic agency as well as her association with God and her historic and ongoing management of the world.

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Human well‐being and destiny, according to Wisdom of Solomon, are tied to this cosmic principle of order. Because wisdom integrates all of reality into a harmonious whole, human beings participate in the salvific forces of the world by living in harmony with wisdom: “the multitude of the wise is the salvation of the world” (6:24). “Wisdom will not enter a deceitful soul, or dwell in a body enslaved to sin” (1:4), but in every generation she enters holy souls to make them friends of God and prophets (7:27). She loves all humankind and indwells those who seek her to guide, correct, and impart encyclopedic knowledge (7:15–27). Those who come to know her gain righteousness and hence immortality (5:15; 15:3; 6:17– 20; 8:9–21). On the other hand the ungodly, who have “reasoned unsoundly” (2:1) and are blinded to “the secret purposes of God” (2:22), are thwarted by the very forces of the c­ osmos they failed to appreciate. By his pervasive spirit God “will arm all creation to repel his enemies” (5:17) and punish them by the very ­instruments of their sin (11:16). The Wisdom of Solomon contains one of the earliest and clearest Jewish expressions of the Platonic idea of the immortality of the soul. Physical death is not the end for the righteous; their souls survive bodily death in an incorruptible and immortal state that is God’s original intention for humankind (1:15; 2:23; 3:4; 6:18–19; 8:17; 15:3). However, here immortality is not an inherent quality of the soul, as Platonists usually assumed, but conditional: a life of justice leads to immortality, but a life of wickedness leads to death (1:16; 2:24; 5:1–23). For the wicked physical death is indeed final; at death they cease to exist (5:19–24), although this fate that they bring upon themselves is not God’s design (1:12–15; 2:24). Neither are the righteous inherently immortal. God did not create human beings immortal but for immortality (2:23; 1:14). To lay claim to the immortality for which they were created they must live virtuously; “righteousness is immortal” (1:15). Neither the immortality that is the reward of the righteous nor the death that is the fate of the ungodly awaits the hereafter. Immortality and death are states in which the righteous and the ungodly, respectively, participate both before and after the body expires. Along with Platonic conceptions of immortality, the Wisdom of Solomon envisions a postmortem judgment where the righteous and evildoers receive their just rewards (chs. 3–5). In so doing the book dismantles the outmoded caricatures according to which wisdom writers offer only this‐worldly advice about the inequities of life (other than the “name” or reputation that survives when one dies), whereas apocalyptic writers resort to an eschatological resolution. Pseudo‐Solomon does both: evildoers are punished by their own devices in an ordered world wherein actions generate predictable consequences, but there is also a final judgment in which the righteous are vindicated and the ungodly are cursed to extinction. Such a blending of apocalyptic perspectives into a wisdom writing is now also attested in the Dead Sea Scrolls, most notably the second century BCE work designated 4QInstruction (Goff 2013). The Wisdom of Solomon shares with the apocalyptic

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tradition this appeal to an inevitable final judgment even if it lacks the vivid descriptions of the afterlife found in some apocalypses. It is also reminiscent of apocalyptic thought in its language about knowing “the secret purposes (mystēria) of God” (2:22), including “the beginning and end and middle of times” (7:15–22); “the devil” as one who stands in dualistic opposition to God (2:24); the “arrogant giants” who perished in the flood (14:6); the righteous shining forth like sparks “in the time of their visitation” (3:7; cf. Dan. 12:3; 1 En. 104:2; 4 Ezra 7:97); and the reckoning of the righteous as “sons of God” whose lot is among the holy ones (5:5; cf. Dan. 12:1–3; 1 En. 39:5; 104:4–6; 2 Bar. 51:5–13; 1QS 11:7–8). Such connections show the porosity of the categories “wisdom” and “apocalyptic” and invite constant reassessment of this once‐assured distinction. The Wisdom of Solomon stands out in the wisdom tradition for its extensive rehearsal of Israelite history. The wisdom writings of the Hebrew Bible show scant interest in the nation of Israel or its history and instead emphasize universal human experiences that transcend any defining narrative. Ben Sira incorporated Israel’s sacred story into his wisdom instruction by praising a select group of exemplary ancestral heroes (44:1–50:24), but Pseudo‐Solomon goes farther by weaving people and events from Israel’s early history into the very fabric of his argument. Over half the book is a narrative review of biblical episodes that demonstrate Wisdom’s (or God’s) governance of the world. The just order that is inherent in the very structure of the world and constantly maintained by rearrangements in the elements of nature is borne out vividly by episodes from Israel’s past where the just were helped and the unjust hindered by corresponding means, and the unjust were punished by the very instruments of their evil. Thus the point of the historical review is not salvation history per se or even the praise of national heroes, but a more fundamental concept of cosmic harmony that the past serves to illustrate. Natural and historical processes cooperate to sustain a just cosmic order and benefit those who recognize and conform to it. Pseudo‐Solomon is poised precariously between the exclusive nationalist tradition of Israel and the universalist impulses of Hellenistic metaphysics. If, as the book indicates, Wisdom is a cosmic principle of order that is immanent in the universe, her benefits of righteousness and immortality are not confined to Israel and should be equally accessible to all. Moreover, the author is explicit that God loves all that he has created and that his “immortal spirit is in all things” (11:23–12:1). Nothing suggests that anyone is bound by distinctive requirements from God’s special revelation to Israel, such as circumcision, Sabbath observance, or dietary restrictions. Israel’s High Priest apparently intercedes for all humanity (18:24). While chapters 10–19 present key figures from the Pentateuch as types of the righteous and wicked, proper names are consistently avoided and the ancestral history is universalized so that these types could be appropriated by anyone. Nevertheless, Israel’s forebears are the book’s only concrete paradigms for righteous behavior, and their role as types does not eliminate their ethnic and religious

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particularity. In contrasting Israel and her enemies, the author unequivocally affirms Israel’s privileged position. Addressing God, the author calls Israel “your people … your children … your servants … your children, to whose ancestors you gave oaths and covenants full of good promises!” Egyptians and Canaanites, on the other hand, are enemies of God’s servants and deserve death (12:18–22). That this dichotomy informs the author’s concept of the people of God in his own time is shown by his use of first person pronouns: the biblical forebears are “our ancestors” and their ancient adversaries “our enemies.” Whether the author believed one could achieve righteousness and immortality apart from God’s special manifestations to Israel is unclear. In theory it is possible. To the rulers of the earth in the opening address he declares that God “is found by those who do not put him to the test, and manifests himself to those who do not distrust him” (1:2), and in 13:1–9 he insists that failure to know God through human reason is inexcusable (cf. Rom. 1:19–20). However, the disparaging assessment of human reasoning in 9:13–17 makes it questionable whether that which he allowed in theory he considered possible or likely in actual practice.

Transmission and Reception The Greek text is well‐preserved in five codices written in majuscules (large, disconnected letters comparable to modern capital letters) and several papyrus fragments that date from the third to the eighth centuries, as well as in more than 40 later minuscule manuscripts (written in smaller letters in a running hand, comparable to modern cursive writing). The critical edition produced as part of the Göttingen Septuagint (Ziegler 1980) relies most heavily on the great fourth and fifth century majuscule manuscripts Vaticanus, Sinaiticus, and Alexandrinus, but also incorporates the data from other known manuscripts, citations, and versions. Ancient versions in Latin, Coptic (Sahidic and Bohairic), Syriac (three recensions), Ethiopic (Geʿez), Arabic, and Armenian survive in whole or in part. Of these, the most valuable for textual criticism is the Old Latin, which Jerome left mostly intact when he generated what became the Latin Vulgate. Produced in North Africa in the late second century CE, the Old Latin preserves some readings that are earlier than have survived in any Greek manuscripts as well as glosses that are revealing about early interpretation of the book. The two titles that have endured, “Wisdom of Solomon” and “Book of Wisdom,” derive, respectively, from the Greek manuscripts and the Old Latin‐Vulgate tradition. The Syriac Peshiṭta ̣ version entitles the work the “Book of the Great Wisdom of Solomon, son of David,” and the Arabic calls it the “Book of the Wisdom of Solomon, son of King David, who ruled over the children of Israel.” It is unlikely that the ­original bore any title, but the titles affixed in the manuscript tradition accurately represent the book’s theme of wisdom and the Solomonic guise of its author.

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The book had no discernable impact on subsequent Jewish thought but has been used widely in Christian tradition. A number of elements illuminate the New Testament, although there are no explicit citations and it is debatable whether the New Testament writers drew directly from Wisdom of Solomon or from traditions in common with it. Representations of Christ as the one “through whom are all things and through whom we exist” (1 Cor. 8:6), “the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation” (Col. 1:15; cf. 2 Cor. 4:4), the son through whom God “created the worlds,” who is “the reflection of God’s glory and the exact imprint of God’s very being” and who “sustains all things” (Heb. 1:1–4), and the divine logos through whom all things were made (John 1:1–18) are closely related to Wisdom’s portrayal in Wis. 7:25–26, 8:5–6, 9:1, and elsewhere (Cox 2007, 1–275). The depiction of wisdom as a spirit with cosmic, personal, and historical dimensions may have influenced Paul’s concept of the Holy Spirit; especially striking are parallels with 1 Cor. 2:6–16, where the wisdom or spirit of God is both the object and the medium of the revealed mysteries. Paul’s “natural theology” and critique of human depravity in Rom. 1:18–27 is reminiscent of the argument in Wis. 13:1–9; and Paul’s image of a mirror reflecting God’s glory resonates with Wis. 7:26. The depiction of the persecuted righteous person in Wis. 2:12–20 may be reflected in Matt. 27:43. Other possible resonances include the description of God’s armor in Eph. 6:11–17 ­ (cf.  Wis. 5:17–20) and Paul’s description of God as a sovereign potter who fashions out of the same clay objects for both noble and common purposes (Rom. 7:21; cf. Wis. 15:7). Patristic writers cited the work frequently, especially in formulating Christological and trinitarian doctrine. Thus Ignatius applied to Christ language from 7:29–30 about Wisdom, and from 18:14–15 about the logos (Ephesians 18.2–3; Magnesians 8.2). Origen cited Wisdom’s attributes in 7:22–8:1 to support the eternal generation of the Son by the Father and the sharing of the Father and Son in the same essence (On First Principles 1.2.5, 9; Against Celsus 5.10; 8.14). Augustine used the same passage to argue for the full equality of the persons of the trinity (On the Gospel of John 21.2; 22.10; 111.2; On the Trinity 2.5, 8; 4.20). Augustine also drew often on 9:15–17, according to which the perishable body weighs down the soul and spiritual insight requires the gift of the spirit, to formulate his anthropology (e.g. Confessions 7.17; City of God 19.24; Enchiridion 64); and he saw in the portrayal of the persecuted righteous one in 2:12–20 a prediction of Christ’s passion (City of God 17.20). Ambrose, among others, found a foreshadowing of the crucifixion in the reference to the saving wood of Noah’s ark: “Blessed is the wood by which righteousness comes” (14:7; Ambrose, Commentary on Psalm 118 8.23). The Wisdom of Solomon is considered part of the Apocrypha in Protestant tradition but is included in the Roman Catholic and Orthodox canons of the Old Testament. This divergence is traceable to two towering figures in late fourth and early fifth century Christianity: Jerome and Augustine. Jerome distinguished sharply between the works in the Hebrew Bible and those preserved only in Greek in

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the Septuagint. Although he considered these latter works edifying and included them in what became the Latin Vulgate, he judged them “apocryphal” and not authoritative for establishing doctrine. Martin Luther’s placement of the Apocrypha in a separate collection between the Old and New Testaments in his German Bible of 1534 solidified the Protestant canonical perspective. Roman Catholic tradition, on the other hand, took its cue from Augustine, who argued against Jerome and endorsed the wider canon that included the Wisdom of Solomon. This position was formalized by the Council of Trent in 1546, where all of the works found in the Latin Vulgate were declared “sacred and canonical.” Even so, what are called “Apocrypha” in Protestant tradition came to be designated “deuterocanonical” in Catholic tradition in recognition of the fact that they are absent from Hebrew Scripture and were Greek latecomers to the collection. Orthodox churches have likewise generally accepted the wider canon (explicitly so at the Council of Jerusalem in 1672), though with considerable tolerance of diverse regional practices and with acknowledgement from as early as the fourth century that the deuterocanonical works are not on a par with other Old Testament books. Greek‐speaking Orthodox churches tend to subscribe to the broader Old Testament canon without differentiating between canonical and deuterocanonical, but there is ongoing discussion in some Orthodox communities, especially Russian Orthodoxy, about the status of the works not found in the Hebrew Bible. While the deuterocanonical status of the book has limited its role in doctrinal formulation, liturgical and other uses have continued unabated in both Catholicism and Orthodoxy. Thus, for example, Wis. 3:1 provides language for widely used Catholic prayers for the dead. In Orthodox liturgy, the Wisdom of Solomon is second only to the book of Psalms among the Old Testament books in frequency of usage; Vesper services draw especially heavily from the book. Nor are significant doctrinal uses lacking; the book has figured prominently in the Catholic doctrines of the immortality of the soul and the possibility of knowing God through nature and reason. The Wisdom of Solomon has the distinction of being the only book found in ancient canon lists of both the Old and New Testaments. Indeed, it is included in what is perhaps the earliest known New Testament canon list  –  the Muratorian Fragment, probably from the late second century. Such status for the book does not find support elsewhere, but the Muratorian Fragment does further attest its popularity in early Christianity.

Conclusion The Wisdom of Solomon represents a remarkable confluence of Israelite wisdom traditions and Hellenistic philosophical ideas; monotheistic devotion to a ­transcendent deity and belief in an immanent managing force in the cosmos;

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r­ ecognition of this‐worldly consequences of just or unjust behavior and anticipation of postmortem apocalyptic resolution; Israel’s unique historical consciousness and the universalist impulses of Hellenistic metaphysics; and antagonism toward Hellenistic culture and the representation of Judaism as embodying the highest philosophical ideals of that culture. As such this work deserves the serious ­attention of all students of early Judaism and Christian origins. It is a vital source both for tracing the Israelite wisdom tradition beyond the Hebrew Bible and for understanding the rich and diverse currents of Jewish life and thought in the Greco‐ Roman era.

References Collins, John J. 1997. Jewish Wisdom in the Hellenistic Age. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Cox, Ronald. 2007. By The Same Word: Creation and Salvation in Hellenistic Judaism and Early Christianity. Berlin: De Gruyter. Enns, Peter. 1997. Exodus Retold: Ancient Exegesis of the Departure from Egypt in Wis 10:15–21 and 19:1–9. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Gilbert, Maurice. 1984. Wisdom literature. In: Jewish Writings of the Second Temple Period (ed. Michael E. Stone), 283–324. Assen: Van Gorcum. Goff, Matthew J. 2013. 4QInstruction. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Kloppenbrg, John S. 1982. Isis and Sophia in the Book of Wisdom. Harvard Theological Review 75: 57–84.

Newman, Judith H. 2004. The democratization of kingship in Wisdom of Solomon. In: The Idea of Biblical Interpretation: Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel (ed. Hindy Najman and Judith H. Newman), 309–328. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Nickelsburg, George W.E. 1972. Resurrection, Immortality, and Eternal Life in Intertestamental Judaism. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Reese, James M. 1970. Hellenistic Influence on the Book of Wisdom and its Consequences. Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute. Winston, David. 1979. The Wisdom of Solomon. New York: Doubleday. Ziegler, Joseph. 1980. Sapientia Salomonis. 2nd ed. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht.

Further Reading Calduch‐Benages, Nuria, and Jacques Vermeylen. (eds.) 1999. Treasures of Wisdom: Studies in Ben Sira and the Book of Wisdom. Leuven: Peeters. An important collection of articles on wisdom literature.

Grabbe, Lester L. 1997. The Wisdom of Solomon. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. An accessible and concise study of the Wisdom of Solomon. Kolarcik, Michael. 1991. The Ambiguity of Death in the Book of Wisdom 1–6. Rome:

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Pontifical Biblical Institute. An engaging examination of the theme of death in the Wisdom of Solomon. Larcher, C. 1983–1985. Le Livre de la Sagesse ou la Sagesse de Salomon. 3 vols. Paris: Gabalda. A foundational commentary on the composition.

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Mack, Burton L. 1973. Logos und Sophia: Untersuchungen zur Weisheitstheologie im hellenistischen Judentum. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. An important study of the theme of wisdom in the Wisdom of Solomon.

CHAPTER 7

Wisdom Texts From the Dead Sea Scrolls Elisa Uusimäki

Introduction Ancient manuscripts discovered at several sites in the Judean desert comprise the Dead Sea Scrolls, although the expression often refers to the finds from the Qumran caves alone. The latter corpus, found in the late 1940s and early 1950s, became accessible to all scholars in the 1990s, although some of the writings had already been known for decades. The texts from Qumran include works that belong to the Hebrew Bible or the Septuagint as well as a myriad of other texts from late Second Temple Judah. A portion of the material was composed by the members of a Jewish sectarian movement (hereafter “the Qumran movement”). Identifying the movement has proved to be challenging, but it has often been associated with the Essenes known from Greek sources such as Josephus and Philo. Nevertheless, many texts from Qumran shed light on late Second Temple Judaism beyond the interests of one particular group. This chapter examines the wisdom texts, mostly non‐sectarian in origin, which have highlighted the inner variety of Jewish wisdom discourse and thus prompted critical reflection on the category of “wisdom literature.”

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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What is a “Wisdom Text” in the Context of the Qumran Corpus? The term wisdom (hokmah in Hebrew, sophia in Greek) signifies various types of expertise in ancient texts but often designates a body of knowledge in Jewish literature from the Second Temple era. As such, it reminds one of philosophy, the search and love for wisdom, in ancient Greece and Rome. The related, heuristic term wisdom literature is an etic category developed by scholars. It refers to a vast body of ancient Jewish texts, yet it is by no means clear that ancient authors thought of wisdom as a literary genre. The wisdom corpus has been identified in an impressionistic manner, specifically on the basis of the occurrence of the word “wisdom” in texts classified as wisdom texts. Even so, the concept of wisdom and other derivatives of the Hebrew root hkm are not central in all texts classified as sapiential literature. Other features may also result in such categorization, including the use of specific terminology (esp. the roots ydʿ, byn, skl) and elements pertaining to literary form (instructions, sayings, exhortations, poems, speeches, dialogues, etc.), content (themes such as practical ethics and the created order), and function (typically didactic or formative). Jewish wisdom texts often share these traits with other similar texts known from elsewhere in the ancient Near East, thus suggesting that they have formative traditions in common. In biblical studies, the Jewish wisdom corpus has normally referred to three texts of the Hebrew Bible (Job, Proverbs, Qoheleth) and three texts of the Greek Septuagint (Ben Sira, Wisdom of Solomon, Bar. 3:9–4:4), in addition to which wisdom‐related elements appear in psalms, prophetic books, and narratives. This understanding of wisdom literature is problematic, however, because it entails only a portion of ancient Jewish wisdom texts. This set of six works mirrors later canonical boundaries that continue to have an unwarranted effect on modern research, although it is now known that the boundaries of the Jewish wisdom corpus are not those of the closed canons. Several ancient texts, many of which are available to us via the Qumran collection, demonstrate that the category is considerably larger. The finds from Qumran highlight the difficulty of textual classification insofar as characteristics that were previously linked with rather distinct literary traditions (e.g. wisdom, apocalypticism, prophecy, liturgy, halakhah) tend to blend and merge in the Dead Sea Scrolls. The same fluidity applies to the category of wisdom: several types of writings attest to features linked with the wisdom tradition(s), including the motifs of wisdom, insight, and understanding, a didactic or generally reflective ethos, and specific idioms. Scholars have observed the presence of such wisdom‐related features, for example, in sectarian rule books such as the Community Rule (1QS 3:13–4:26), in the Hodayot (a collection of thanksgiving hymns), and in 1 Enoch (e.g. ch. 42). This lack of clear generic boundaries has raised discussion on whether the category of “wisdom texts” remains helpful in textual classification (e.g. Collins 2010; Wright 2010). Acknowledging the diversity of the extant material, scholars have sought to observe parallels between different texts without compiling precise lists of

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generic criteria, thus attempting to find justifiable ways to employ the ambiguous term wisdom text. In principle, the approach taken in this chapter holds that the Qumran wisdom corpus potentially encompasses all texts that provide insights into wisdom and related concepts, but the core wisdom texts are those in which wisdom terminology and related themes feature prominently. Although any composition with reflection on wisdom might represent wisdom literature in one way or another, the reflection on and engagement with wisdom is more central in some of the wisdom‐related works more than others. In scholarly discussion, “Qumran wisdom literature” usually refers, therefore, to those compositions that can primarily be associated with wisdom tradition(s). The inclusion of certain texts in the category has been done particularly on the basis of parallelistic style and similarities to those wisdom texts of the Hebrew Bible and the Septuagint that were later canonized in Jewish and Christian communities. Simultaneously, the wisdom texts from Qumran attest theological ideas and introduce topics, such as divine revelation and eschatological dualism, which are only nascent or partially visible in the canonical sapiential texts. The impact of earlier Hebrew wisdom on the texts from Qumran typically concerns style and motifs. Wisdom instruction in the Dead Sea Scrolls “is not a collection of proverbs as in Proverbs 10–22 but rather an address in the style found in Proverbs 1–9 and 22–24 and in Sirach” (Harrington 1996, 89). Apart from more general influence that covers numerous texts, Proverbs 1–9 inspired the creation of new Proverbs‐related texts: the largest portion of Wiles of the Wicked Woman (4Q184) portrays an evil woman based on Proverbs 7, while the author of Beatitudes (4Q525) reuses Proverbs 1–9 in several occasions in order to demonstrate the nexus between wisdom and torah (Uusimäki 2016; for this chapter’s lack of capitalization regarding “torah,” see later in this section). The effect of Qoheleth and Job on the Qumran wisdom corpus is, generally speaking, less prominent than that of Proverbs or Ben Sira. Lange (1995) argues that the Qumran wisdom text Instruction (1Q26; 4Q415–418, 4Q418a, 418c, 4Q423) may react to the “wisdom crisis” that was purportedly trigged by the critique of the traditional wisdom of Proverbs by Job and Qoheleth. Goff observes, however, that both the theme of theodicy and “epistemological despair” are absent in this Qumran text, which suggests that “Job and Qoheleth are not consistent with the emphasis on divine praise and worship in Qumran wisdom” (2007, 303). These texts seek to provide their audiences with divine knowledge and help them in difficulties. Even if the impact of Job and Qoheleth on specifically instructional wisdom texts is weak, they may have affected reflection on wisdom elsewhere; at least parts of the Hodayot use wisdom‐related idioms (discussed further in the subsection “Interaction between wisdom and liturgical traditions”) and contain echoes of Job. Despite the engagement with earlier Hebrew traditions, the wisdom texts from Qumran attest a plethora of ideas and developments that are foreign to those predecessors. Importantly, the concept of wisdom serves many types of discourses: some

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are rather pragmatic and focus on proper behavior, while others reach more philosophical issues related to anthropology, divine revelation, and cosmic order. In some texts, wisdom (hokmah) is explicitly associated with the concept of torah; the latter term is not capitalized here in order to highlight its multiple meanings that range from “instruction” to “Pentateuch” and “law” (see further below). A Qumran text entitled Beatitudes, for example, contains a lengthy section on the pursuit of wisdom and, as its culmination, equates wisdom with torah (4Q525 2 ii 3–4; Uusimäki 2016). Other texts, in turn, leave the word hokmah aside and rather speak about knowing (ydʿ) divine secrets (razim) and thus focus on the esoteric aspect of wisdom. One prominent example is the Qumran text known as the Book of Mysteries, which emphasizes the true knowledge of, and the need of a person to gaze upon, eternal secrets (e.g. 1Q27 1 i 3, 7; 4Q299 3c 2). To take another example, the speaker in the Community Rule points to the divine origin of his wisdom: “From the source of his [God’s] justice is my judgment; the light in my heart is from his wonderful mysteries” (1QS 10:5).1 Wisdom is occasionally described by means of metaphors. In the Hebrew Bible and the Septuagint, Wisdom is portrayed as a female figure and linked with the exemplary path to be followed (esp. Proverbs 1–9). Other images of wisdom concern the prerequisites of life: water (Prov. 18:4; Sir. 24:30–34), trees (Sir. 24:13– 17), or light (Sir. 24:32; Wis. 6:12; 7:10, 26, 29). Similar metaphors appear in the Dead Sea Scrolls. Certain texts discuss two opposed ways of life (one positive, one negative) and/or identify a life dedicated to wisdom with the positive type (4Q420 1; 4Q421 1 ii; 4Q525 2 ii; 4Q525 5). The image of water is compared with wisdom and/or torah on several occasions (4Q418 81 + 81a 1; 4Q418 103 ii 6; 4Q525 21 7; 4Q525 24 ii 8–9). A sage confesses that his inner light emanates from God’s fountain of knowledge (1QS 11:3b–5a), and light imagery is further connected to a future moment of eschatological justice in a wisdom context (1Q27 1 i 5–6).

The Major Wisdom Texts Known from Qumran The Qumran collection contains, with the exceptions of Baruch and the Wisdom of Solomon, at least some portion of all the wisdom texts that are known from the Hebrew Bible and the Septuagint. Yet the poor state of preservation of these manuscripts decreases their text‐critical value to a large extent. Cave 4 contains Hebrew fragments of Job (4Q99–101), Proverbs (4Q102–103, 4Q103a), and Qoheleth (4Q109–110). Hebrew passages of Job were also discovered in a Cave 2 manuscript (2Q15), while translations of Job into Aramaic (targums) were found in Cave 4 (4Q157) and Cave 11 (11Q10). One more collection of proverbs is represented in Cave 6 (6Q30, or 6QpapProv?). Regarding Ben Sira’s instruction, fragments of either chapter 1 or chapter 6 were found in Cave 2 (2Q18; its poor state of preservation prevents a precise textual identification). Also a version of Sir. 51:13–30 is

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contained in the Psalms Scroll from Cave 11 (11Q5 21:11–17, 22:1). Parts of Sir. 39:27–43:30 exist in another manuscript from Masada (MasSir), a Jewish fortress located about 30 miles south of Qumran along the western coast of the Dead Sea. Since the boundaries of the ancient Jewish wisdom corpus are ambiguous, it is not surprising that scholars have outlined slightly different lists of the wisdom texts from Qumran. However, certain compositions tend to be included in the category rather consistently. These involve the largest wisdom‐related writings, known as Instruction or Musar le‐Mevin (Hebrew for “Instruction for an Understanding One”) and Mysteries (1Q27; 4Q299–301). The relatively large number of discovered manuscripts suggests that both Instruction and Mysteries were probably of great significance for those people who copied, collected, and hid the Qumran collection. Instruction, published partially in the 1950s (Milik 1955a) and later in the 1990s (Strugnell, Harrington, and Elgvin 1999), encourages the audience, described as poor, to seek truth and gain understanding. It offers both practical admonitions and reflective sections, without any clear organizing principle. The pragmatic instruction of the composition deals with social relations, financial affairs, and moderation in terms of food, drinking, and luxuries. Its more philosophical material discusses the idea of revealed wisdom, embodied in the concept of raz nihyeh (see the subsection “Wisdom and esoteric revelation”). The worldview of this composition is shaped by dualistic and deterministic beliefs: the division of history into periods and the idea of eschatological judgment and punishment. Instruction seems to imply an early notion of the double creation of humankind, including “the people of spirit” and “the spirit of flesh” (Collins 1999, 616). The former group likely denotes the elect and the rest of humankind probably comprises the second. This dualistic anthropology affects the work’s stance on moral agency, to the extent that the capacity of the non‐elect to act ethically is denied (Newsom 2012). The publication of Mysteries also began soon after its discovery (Milik 1955b) and was completed by Schiffman (1997). The text is addressed to the chosen, righteous people. In order to strengthen their self‐understanding, the author engages in cosmic speculation: the text refers to divine secrets, focuses on the revelation of esoteric knowledge, and looks forward to the final judgment. Mysteries has prophetic overtones as it speaks of visions, typically linked with prophets in the Hebrew tradition, and describes the future elimination of iniquity. Similarly to Instruction, the enigmatic concept of raz nihyeh, roughly translated “the mystery that is to be,” is central, to the extent that it serves as a means to separate the righteous, wise people from the foolish, wicked ones; the latter do not know this mystery and thus fail to distinguish between truth and falsehood. Hence, raz nihyeh even comes to mark people’s eschatological fates (Harrington 1997, 250–251). Manuscripts that are more poorly preserved but nonetheless include major portions of text include Wiles of the Wicked Woman (4Q184), Sapiential ­ Admonitions B (4Q185), Ways of Righteousnessa–b (4Q420–421), and Beatitudes

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(4Q525). The Wiles of the Wicked Woman (4Q184) was published by Allegro (1968). The manuscript contains one major piece, fragment 1, and the smaller fragments 2–6. The latter imply an instructional flavor, but due to the poor condition of these fragments only fragment 1 allows for a close scrutiny of content. The narrative poem of this fragment describes the power and actions of an evil woman who resides in the underworld, lures the audience, and causes damage: “Alas! (She is) the destruction to all who inherit her, and the devastation to a[ll] who grasp her. For her paths are paths of death, and her paths are roads of sin” (4Q184 1 8–9). This section in fragment 1 clearly builds on those passages of Proverbs 1–9 that deal with the strange or foreign woman, although her portrayal in 4Q184 is not identical to the source text. Traits of the figure of folly in Proverbs 7 are integrated, yet the wicked woman is not portrayed as a first‐person speaker as in Proverbs. The woman of 4Q184 is also cast in a slightly more abstract and less erotic way (Goff 2008). Some demonic colors also seem to be added, be they metaphorical or not. Beatitudes (4Q525), officially published by Puech (1998), has specific connections with Proverbs 1–9 as well. The modern title was given to the text, which consists of 50 leather pieces, because of fragment 2 ii, which has a list of five extant macarisms or beatitudes, similar to those known from many late Second Temple texts and particularly from the Gospel of Matthew (see the Sermon on the Mount in ch. 5). For example, the last macarism of the series in Beatitudes proclaims “happy is the person who attains wisdom” (4Q525 2 ii 3). Drawing on the motifs, language, and structure of Proverbs 1–9, the author of 4Q525 integrates torah devotion into this wisdom frame, to the extent that the concepts of wisdom and torah are identified with each other (2 ii 3–4; cf. frgs. 5, 24 ii). Apart from the ethical concerns of considerate behavior and careful speech, the author treats deeply religious or spiritual topics such as the power of divine protection and blessings against the prospect of judgment and eternal curses that are expected to occur in the end‐times (esp. frgs. 14 ii, 15). Both the Wiles of the Wicked Woman and Beatitudes illustrate the reception and renewal of the Proverbs tradition in the late Second Temple era. 4Q185 was entitled Sapiential Work when it was first published (Allegro 1968). The latest edition names the manuscript Sapiential Admonitions B in order to better characterize the content of the remaining fragments, which contain a wisdom admonition built on the topos of two opposed ways of life, iniquity and righteousness (Pajunen 2016). The text represents torah‐focused instruction directed to an audience characterized as “simples ones,” “my sons,” and “my people.” The audience is exhorted not to defy “the words of the Lord” and to remember the ancestral story of the marvels God performed in Egypt. Similarly to Beatitudes, an ambiguous feminine suffix (denoting “her”), which can refer to both wisdom and torah, appears throughout the text (see further in the subsection “The integration of torah devotion into wisdom discourse”). The text also discusses the transitory nature of the human life and the future judgment to be executed by angels:

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Who can endure to stand before his [God’s] angels? For with flaming fire he will judge […] his spirits. But you, sons of man, w[oe to you!] For see, (a person) sprouts like grass from the earth and his graciousness blooms like a flower. (Then) his wind blows [over him] … and nothing is found but the wind (4Q185 1–2 i 8–12).

Two substantially overlapping manuscripts of the Ways of Righteousnessa–b (4Q420–421) were published by Elgvin (1997). The work presents an exemplary, faithful figure who possesses wisdom, knowledge, and understanding; such a ­person does not turn away from the ways of righteousness. Apart from wisdom maxims which contain advice particularly on the topic of prudent speech, there are references to the organization of the target community. The text’s explicit interest in the temple, sacrifices, and “matters of holiness” is another distinctive feature since priestly issues are rather rarely discussed in Hebrew wisdom. In addition, several manuscripts, many of which consist of a single readable fragment, are commonly identified as wisdom texts: the Words of the Maśkil to All Sons of Dawn (4Q298), Admonitory Parable (4Q302), Meditation on Creationa–c (4Q303–305), Sapiential‐Didactic Work A (4Q412), Composition Concerning Divine Providence (4Q413), Instruction‐like Composition A (4Q419), Instruction‐ like Composition B (4Q424), Sapiential‐Didactic Work B (4Q425), Sapiential Hymn (4Q411), Sapiential‐Hymnic Work A (4Q426), Hymnic or Sapiential Work B (4Q528), and The Two Ways (4Q473). 4QInstruction‐like Composition B has received some attention (e.g. Goff 2007, 179–197). This text contains a set of teachings that give advice on money affairs and social interaction. The Words of the Maśkil to All Sons of Dawn has also prompted discussion due to its cryptic form of Hebrew and likely sectarian origin. Finally, scholars have treated other miscellaneous cases in the context of Qumran wisdom literature. These include parts of the Community Rule (1QS) that refer to the figure of the maskil (see the section “Wisdom with a purpose”), including the “Treatise on the Two Spirits” (1QS 3:13–4:26) and the poetic material in the end of the work (1QS 9:12–11:22). Moreover, the fragmentarily preserved texts Admonition Based on the Flood (4Q370), Sapiential Papyrus A–B? (4Q486–487), Sapiential Papyrus/Hymn (4Q498), and Songs of the Sagea–b (4Q510–511) have been linked with the wisdom tradition due to their attestation of specific vocabulary, style, and/or themes that resonate with this tradition. The origins of the wisdom texts from Qumran are difficult to analyze because all the manuscripts remain in fragments. Also, the interests of these compositions rarely address specific sociohistorical concerns. Only the Words of the Maśkil to All Sons of Dawn has been unanimously identified as being produced by the sectarian movement which produced some of the Dead Sea Scrolls. The rest of the finds illuminate aspects of Early Judaism more broadly. Their inclusion in the Qumran collection shows, however, what the members of the Qumran movement regarded as worthy of study and transmission (Harrington 1996, 3).

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Previous Research on the Wisdom Texts from Qumran Research on the aforementioned wisdom texts played a minor role in Qumran studies for many decades because relatively little of such material was included in the first publications, the major exceptions being two early volumes (Barthélemy and Milik 1955; Allegro 1968), which contain one small fragment of 4QInstruction (1Q26), a key text of Mysteries (1Q27), Wiles of the Wicked Woman (4Q184), and Sapiential Admonitions B (4Q185). Even so, the first 40 years of research witnessed the publication of several monographs on the theme of wisdom in the sectarian documents and shorter overviews of wisdom in the context of the Qumran corpus (see Kampen 2011, 1–4). The wisdom texts from Qumran have received considerably more attention since their completed publication in the late 1990s. Books that examine the wisdom corpus as a whole have been written by Harrington (1996), Goff (2007), and Kampen (2011). Several articles or chapters comment on the Qumran wisdom texts on a general level (e.g. van der Woude 1995; Harrington 1997; Collins 1997). Collections of essays have also been dedicated to the material (esp. Falk, García Martínez, and Schuller 2000; Hempel, Lange, and Lichtenberger 2002; Collins, Sterling, and Clements 2004). Now that the editions and commentaries on Qumran wisdom texts are widely available, more work remains to be done from new conceptual and methodological angles. It is also necessary to explore the importance and function of these materials within the sectarian movement who produced and used them (Brooke 2016).

Major Topics in the Wisdom Texts from Qumran The variegated contents of the Qumran wisdom corpus could be approached from numerous angles. I focus on three central topics, with no claim to be exhaustive in regard to the collection’s thematic richness and relevance. First, I will discuss the link between wisdom and esoteric revelation, including the dualistic framework in which such speculations are placed. Second, I will examine the integration of the concept of torah and related expressions of torah piety into wisdom discourse. Third, I will consider specific points of contact that arise between sapiential and liturgical traditions in the Qumran texts.

Wisdom and Esoteric Revelation Many wisdom texts from Qumran imply a cosmic awareness concerning the place of the humankind as part of a divine plan which extends from creation to the end‐ times. Sometimes the understanding of this schema results from receiving esoteric

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revelation. Wisdom’s association with esoteric revelation is particularly clear in Instruction and Mysteries: the addressee of Instruction is encouraged to seek truth so that he would become wise and distinguish between good and evil (4Q416 1 15; 4Q417 1 i 8; 4Q418 2 7), while Mysteries speaks of knowing secrets and receiving true knowledge (e.g. 1Q27 1 i 7). In both cases the question is about the transmission of knowledge through divine revelation. A hallmark is the emphasis on the accomplishment of raz nihyeh, a source of wisdom that is accessible to a select few, at least in Instruction. The Hebrew expression raz nihyeh appears more than twenty times in Instruction, twice in Mysteries (1Q27 1 i 3–4), and once in a hymn embedded in the Community Rule (1QS 11:3–4). The phrase consists of the Persian loanword “mystery” and the passive (niphal) participle of the verb “to be.” The expression resonates with the apocalyptic tradition. In the Book of Daniel, for example, the term raz appears nine times (e.g. 2:27–29). The exact meaning of raz nihyeh has been debated, but it is typically translated as the “mystery of being” or the “mystery to come.” The audience is encouraged to search for and study this mystery: “Seek the mystery of being, and consider all the paths of truth, and gaze at all the roots of injustice” (4Q416 2 iii 14). Indeed, raz nihyeh serves as a means to attain knowledge, truth, and wisdom, as is shown by the following quotation from Instruction: […day and night meditate on the mystery of b]eing and seek (it) continuously. Then you will know truth and injustice, wisdom … then you will know (the difference) between [goo]d and [evil in their] work[s,] for the God of knowledge is the scheme of truth, and by the mystery of being he explained its basis (4Q417 1 i 6–9).

Temporally, both the history of the humankind (4Q418 77 2) and the future judgment (1Q27 1 i 3–4) are associated with the raz nihyeh. However, this mystery should not be radically contrasted with the revelation embodied in torah; Instruction, in particular, indicates that raz nihyeh covers but is not confined to it. Lange gathers these various dimensions of the concept together as he describes raz nihyeh as an “order of being,” which “functions as a blueprint for creation, encompasses the history of the universe from creation to the eschaton, is an instrument of eschatological punishment, includes ethical standards, and articulates itself in the shape of the Torah” (2010, 459). Instruction and Mysteries present divine revelation in a dualistic framework concerned with the expectation of the end‐times, including a belief in divine judgment and speculation on afterlife (see Chapter 14 in this volume). While eschatological tones are common in the Dead Sea Scrolls, including many wisdom texts, the ­mixture of wisdom and cosmic matters is emphatic in Instruction and Mysteries. They imply that the conflict between good and evil in the world is developing towards a climax. Hence, the authors look for the time of eschaton when the wicked will be punished and the pious rewarded. Mysteries, for example, presents itself as

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an oracle about a coming moment when iniquity will vanish and knowledge fill the world (esp. 1Q27 1 i 5–7): This will be for you the sign that it will happen. When those born of injustice are apprehended, evil will disappear before justice as [da]rkness disappears before light. As smoke vanishes, and n[o] longer exists, thus will evil vanish forever. Justice will be revealed like the sun which regulates the world, and all those who grasp the wonderful mysteries will no longer exist. Knowledge will pervade the world, and folly will ne[ver] be there.

Instruction, for its part, refers to the sinners’ future devastation and the eternal life of the righteous (e.g. 4Q418 69 ii 6–14). The worldview of the text composed with these deterministic elements divides people into the “sons of truth” who are to expect a joy after death and the wicked who shall die. The blessed future of the righteous is described as follows: “Then you will lie down with the truth, and when you die your memory will blos[som forev]er, and your descendants will inherit joy” (4Q416 2 iii 7–8). The presentation of Mysteries as an oracle (1Q27 1 i 5) also points to the ongoing presence of prophetic elements in esoteric wisdom discourse. Similarly, the wise figure designated as the maskil, a term for an important teaching office in the Dead Sea sect, is portrayed as undertaking prophetic activity towards the end of the Community Rule: “He should perform God’s will in compliance with all revelation for every period; he should learn all the insight that has been achieved according to the periods and the decree of the period; he should separate and weigh the sons of Zadok according to their spirits” (1QS 9:13–14). The underlying idea is that the revelation of Sinai was first transmitted by Moses, then by the classical prophets, and finally by the sectarian movement (Jassen 2008).

The Integration of Torah Devotion Into Wisdom Discourse The interest in divine revelation is not restricted to contexts that explore an esoteric type of wisdom. There are prime examples of torah piety in the Qumran corpus. The mixture of wisdom and torah, the concept of divine revelation revealed to Israel, reminds one of several Hebrew texts where the same association is nascent (esp. Deut. 4:5–6; Ezra 7:14, 25; Jer. 8:8; cf. Pss. 1, 19, 119) and of Sir. 24:23 which brings a long line of development to a culmination by means of identifying wisdom with torah/law and the book of the covenant. The Dead Sea Scrolls, together with other Early Jewish texts, such as Baruch (3:9–4:4) and the Wisdom of Solomon (e.g. 6:17–18; 9:9), prove that this link was articulated by many authors in the Hellenistic and early Roman periods. The exact content of the concept of torah is, however, difficult to define. In the context of late Second Temple Judaism, the Hebrew term retained a connection to the etymological meaning of an instruction, yet it had gained nuances that were related to

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the developing collection of scripture, especially the Pentateuch, and even the more static sense of law. The ambiguous concept should not be confused with a book in the modern sense of the word: ancient Judeans rarely thought of “specific titles with particular textual forms” when they referred to torah. Rather they viewed the concept in question as a “loose ideal type of divine instruction or writing” (Mroczek 2011, 251). The forms of torah influence on the wisdom texts from Qumran are diverse. Some references are made in passing: the author of Instruction, for example, presumes that his audience values the commandments of torah since the text contains an order not to abandon the statutes (4Q416 2 ii 8–10) and also an order to walk according to the commandment (4Q417 19 4). Pentateuchal themes, figures, and idioms are used on many occasions (e.g. 4Q415 2 ii 1; 4Q416 2 iii 15–iv 5; 4Q423 1–2 i 1–7). Legal discussion in Qumran wisdom texts includes an interest in specific rules on the sacrifice of firstborn animals (4Q423 3 4), the law of mixed things (4Q418 103 ii 6–9; cf. Deut. 22:9–11; Lev. 19:19), and a woman’s oaths and vows (4Q416 2 iv 8–10; cf. Num. 30:6–14). Moreover, there are fragmentary references to feasts and seasons (4Q416 1 3) and impurity (4Q417 4 ii 2; 4Q418 20 2). The interest in the concept of torah is most apparent in Sapiential Admonitions B and Beatitudes. The latter text proclaims that the wise person “walks in the torah of the Most High” (4Q525 2 ii 4). In spite of such an explicit claim, the principal way to speak about torah and torah‐devotion is rather abstract. These texts frequently employ the Hebrew third‐person singular feminine suffix ‐he (“her”), which serves as a literary device that can refer to both wisdom and torah, both feminine terms. In Beatitudes, for example, those “who hold fast to her statutes” are proclaimed happy (4Q525 2 + 3 ii 1) and the fortunate one is said to “reflect on her” (l. 6). The audience is further instructed as follows: Those who fear God keep her ways and they walk in […] her statutes and her reproofs do not deny. The discerning ones attain […] Those who walk in perfection turn aside injustice and do not deny her corrections […] they are laden. The prudent recognize her ways and in her depths […] they gaze. Those who love God humble themselves in her (4Q525 5 14–18).

Sapiential Admonitions B contains two related macarisms which state that “happy is the person to whom she has been given” and “happy is the one who performs her” (4Q185 1–2 ii 8, 13). These statements appear in a context discussing the gift of wisdom and/or torah which is given by God to Israel and to be passed on as ­inheritance (4Q185 1–2 ii 10–12). Torah discourse can be figurative as well. This is suggested by water imagery which may stand for torah piety (Goff 2007, 216–17). The image of water appears in pedagogical texts from Qumran (CD 6:2–7; 4Q418 81 1; 4Q418 103 ii 6; 4Q525 21 7; 4Q525 24 ii 8–9), as well as in other Jewish literature from the late Second Temple and rabbinic eras (e.g. Sir. 24:25–33; Bar. 3:12; b. B. Qam. 82a).

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Interaction between Wisdom and Liturgical Traditions Similarly to works such as Ben Sira and the Wisdom of Solomon, the Qumran wisdom texts occasionally reflect the impact of liturgical traditions. On a general level, particular psalms, for example, have shaped the construction of sections such as the list of macarisms in Beatitudes (4Q525 2 ii). Parts of Beatitudes and Sapiential Admonitions B also display performative, hymn‐like elements (e.g. 4Q525 14 ii; 4Q185 1–2 ii 8–15). 4Q525 14 ii 4–14, for example, depicts the actions of the pious person, hence strengthening the intended audience: … you shall pr[ai]se, and because of your word th[ey] beco[me] stron[g …] You shall not totter […] you shall be blessed. In the time of your reeling you find s[upport …] and the blasphemy of the enemy does not bring you … and you shall delight in G[od] when [they] are corrupted [… He frees you] for the width of your foot. You shall tread upon the high places [of] your [en]emies. […] He shall deliver you from all evil and terror shall not come to you. […] He gives you to possess. He fills your days with goodness, [and] you shall [walk] in an abundance of peace […] you shall inherit honor.

Meanwhile, the influence has another direction: many liturgical texts from Qumran such as the Hodayot and various psalms collections reflect wisdom‐related concepts. Most famously, the large Psalms Scroll from Cave 11 contains a number of Hebrew wisdom‐related psalms: Psalm 154 (11Q5 18:1–16), part of Sirach 51 (11Q5 21:11–17; 22:1), Apostrophe to Zion (11Q5 22:1–15), Psalm 155 (11Q5 24:3–17), Hymn to the Creator (11Q5 26:9–15), and Psalm 151 (11Q5 28:3–14). Some of the wisdom texts from Qumran attest a particular concern for cultic and priestly matters. This is distinctive in that ritual and cultic practice are rather sparsely discussed in wisdom texts that ended up in the Hebrew Bible (yet see Prov. 15:8; 17:1; 20:25; 21:27; 28:9). The relevant passages are poorly preserved, but several sections of Mysteries mention the temple (4Q301 5 2), Aaron (4Q299 79 6), priests and atonement (1Q27 3 2; 1Q27 6 2–3), the offering of sacrifices (4Q299 79 7), and the cultic practice of Urim and Thummim, ritual implements mentioned in scripture (4Q299 69 2; cf. Exodus 28). Another relevant text is the Ways of Righteousnessb with (unfortunately fragmentary) material on the temple service (4Q421 12–13). One fragment of Sapiential Work B also refers to Aaron and priests (4Q419 1 3–4). The figure of the maskil, a wisdom teacher of the Qumran movement (discussed further in the section “Wisdom with a purpose”), is relevant regarding the sphere of liturgy as well. In the Hebrew Bible, the term maskil is mentioned 13 times in psalms headings. In the Dead Sea Scrolls, too, he is associated with variegated liturgical materials, including a hymn embedded in the Community Rule, the Rule of Blessings, the Hodayot, the Songs of the Sage, and the Songs of the Sabbath

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Sacrifice. One thanksgiving hymn of the Hodayot, for example, begins with a statement “[A psalm for the ma]skil that he may prostrate himself befor[e God” (5:12), while its didactic purpose, “that the simple may understand,” is expressed soon after (l. 13); the maskil also (re)confesses the divine source of his knowledge (ll. 35b–36). Another fascinating liturgical passage appears in the Songs of the Sage where the maskil serves an apotropaic purpose: And I, a maskil, declare the splendor of his radiance in order to frighten and terri[fy] all the spirits of the ravaging angels and the bastard spirits, demons, Lilith, owls and [­jackals …] and those who strike unexpectedly to lead astray the spirit of u ­ nderstanding, to make their hearts forlorn (4Q510 1 4–9).

Wisdom with a Purpose: On the Formative Functions of Wisdom Texts The underlying purpose of wisdom texts is typically formative: the aim is to shape the character of the addressee, as well as his or her way of seeing the world and acting in it. In the Qumran corpus, this formation has two central intentions: educational and spiritual. Beginning with the former, pedagogical or more generally noetic (intellectual) functions are typical of Jewish wisdom texts. As for the Qumran texts, the literary forms employed, such as calls to hear instruction, exhortations, and admonitions, reflect this basic intention to guide and teach the audience. While the state of being a sage is nearly unattainable in ancient Greek philosophy, the Hebrew texts, in general, have an optimistic trust in the capability of a human being to achieve wisdom through efforts and leading a virtuous life. Although some of the works emphasize wisdom as the possession of the select few, there is a strong didactic ethos and concern for performed, lived wisdom in the wisdom compositions from Qumran. These pedagogical ideals are often linked with the figures of the maskil and the mevin. The Hebrew word maskil designates a prudent person in Proverbs (10:5, 19; 19:14). In the Qumran corpus, the same term denotes an officer of some sort with diverse pedagogical, performative, and administrative responsibilities. The etymological meaning of the Hebrew term maskil is the one who teaches or creates understanding, and the maskil indeed serves as a wisdom teacher in the Dead Sea Scrolls (esp. 4Q298 1–2 i 1). Rulebooks and liturgical texts from Qumran further imply that he is imagined as uttering teachings on cosmic, eschatological, and halakhic matters (esp. 1QS 3–11; 1QM 1:1). Apart from the didactic sphere, the maskil is connected with liturgical and ritual material, including diverse hymns (esp. 1QS 9–11; 1QHa 5:12; 7:21; 20:7, 11; 25:34), mystical songs (4Q400 1 i 1; 4Q400 3 ii 8; 4Q401 1–2 1; 4Q403 1 i 30; 4Q403 1 ii 18; 4Q405 20 ii 6; 4Q406 1 4; 11Q17 7 9), the performance of blessings (1QSb), and the execution of exorcisms (4Q510–511).

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The maskil’s various functions probably result from a transmission process whereby preexisting texts became attributed to him over the course of time. As a whole, the Dead Sea texts create an impression that this wise person, described as the “spiritual maestro” of the Qumran movement (Newman 2014), embodies ideals of the sectarian movement and thus represents an exemplary sage to be emulated (e.g. CD 12:21; 13:22; 1QS 9–11). In the words of Newsom: “If one is properly shaped by the teachings and disciplines of the community … then this is the kind of voice with which one will speak” (2004, 167). If the maskil models an ideal teacher to be emulated, the figure of the mevin, “an understanding one,” stands for a responsive student. In the Hebrew Bible, the term mevin designates a skillful person (1 Chron. 25:7; 2 Chron. 34:12) or an intelligent human being who can interpret people, acts, and signs (Dan. 8:27; Prov. 8:9; 17:10; 28:11). In the Qumran texts – Instruction in particular – the mevin features as a discerning pupil who receives the instruction. A passage in Beatitudes further implies that the mevin will later become a teacher who has his own pupils and followers: “When you are swept away to eternal rest, they shall inherit […] and in your teaching all those who know you shall walk together. […] together they shall mourn, but in your ways they shall remember you” (4Q525 14 ii 14–16; cf. l. 18). The aims of the character formation that is to take place through the study of wisdom texts are not limited to human pedagogy. Instead, the nature of this process is deeply religious: wisdom is often linked with divine blessings and protection and with avoiding the threat of future judgment and curses. One should respect the divine, as is spelled out, for example, in Instruction: He has separated you from every spirit of flesh. And you, keep yourself apart from everything he hates, and abstain from all abominations of the soul. [Fo]r he has made everyone, and has given each of them his inheritance. He is your portion and your inheritance among the sons of Adam (4Q418 81 1–3).

The recurrent connections between wisdom, understanding, and revelation shape the texts’ agenda; the question is about spiritual formation in which the audience is encouraged to find wisdom with the help of divine intervention. Bardtke (1956, 231–32) described the recitation of the Hodayot as a spiritual exercise, and the same can be applied to the wisdom‐related materials; the internalization of these texts ultimately serves as a means to construct one’s spiritual self. The goal is not to become a good person in general, but a good person in the sense of being both an ethically alert human being and a devout Jew. Such a mixture of didactic, moral, and religious intentions is manifested, for example, in the following passage of Beatitudes: Happy are those who hold fast to her [wisdom’s and/or torah’s] statutes and do not hold fast to the ways of injustice. vacat Hap[py] are those who rejoice in her and do not pour out into the ways of folly. vacat Happy are those who seek her with pure hands

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and do not search for her with a deceitful heart. vacat Happy is the one who attains wisdom. vacat He walks in the torah of the Most High. He establishes his heart in her ways. vacat He restrains himself with her teachings and favors her chastisements const[an]tly. He does not leave her in the face of [his] affliction[s], during the time of distress does not abandon her, does not forget her [in the day] of terror, and in the humility of his soul does not despise [her] (4Q525 2 ii 1–6).

Conclusions The Qumran finds have expanded the material to be included in Jewish wisdom literature. These texts have also increased our knowledge about the diversity of ancient wisdom traditions. The newly discovered materials demonstrate that the concept of wisdom found its way into several types of discourse around the turn of the Common Era, including but not being limited to the type of instruction that resembles Proverbs. The intermingling of, and the overlap between, different literary traditions which is visible in the Qumran texts demand that scholars reject simple generic categorizations and look for alternative ways to speak about types of literature. In particular, many wisdom texts from Qumran indicate an active engagement with other central phenomena of the late Second Temple period, such as apocalypticism, prophecy, torah piety, and liturgy. The reevaluation of the character of wisdom literature should not, however, deal with content alone. It is also necessary to explore the functions of these texts with particular attention given to character formation; the Qumran wisdom corpus with a myriad of authentic material from ancient Jewish communities points to various formative processes with both pedagogical and spiritual dimensions. Note 1 The English translations of the Dead Sea Scrolls are, with modifications, from García Martínez and Tigchelaar 1997–1998.

References Allegro, John M. 1968. Qumrân Cave 4, I (4Q158–4Q186). Oxford: Clarendon. Bardtke, Hans. 1956. Considérations sur les cantiques de Qumrân. Revue Biblique 63: 220–233. Barthélemy, Dominique and Milik, Józef T. 1955. Qumran Cave 1. Oxford: Clarendon.

Brooke, George J. 2016. The place of wisdom in the formation of the movement behind the Dead Sea Scrolls. In: Goochem in Mokum, Wisdom in Amsterdam: Papers on Biblical and Related Wisdom Read at the Fifteenth Joint Meeting of the Society of Old Testament Study and

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the Oudtestamentisch Werkgezelschap, Amsterdam, July 2012 (ed. George J. Brooke and Pierre Van Hecke), 20–33. Leiden: Brill. Collins, John J. 1997. Wisdom reconsidered, in light of the Scrolls. Dead Sea Discoveries 4: 265–281. Collins, John J. 1999. In the likeness of the holy ones: The creation of humankind in a wisdom text from Qumran. In: The Provo International Conference on the Dead Sea Scrolls: Technological Innovations, New Texts, and Reformulated Issues (ed. Donald W. Parry and Eugene Ulrich), 609–618. Leiden: Brill. Collins, John J. 2010. Epilogue: Genre analysis and the Dead Sea Scrolls. Dead Sea Discoveries 17: 429–430. Collins, John J., Sterling, Gregory E., and Clements, Ruth A. (eds.) 2004. Sapiential Perspectives: Wisdom Literature in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Proceedings of the Sixth International Symposium of the Orion Center, 20–22 May, 2001. Leiden: Brill. Elgvin, Torleif. 1997. 4QWays of Righteousnessa–b. In: Qumran Cave 4, XV: Sapiential Texts, Part 1 (ed. Torleif Elgvin, Menachem Kister, Timothy Lim, et al.), 173–202. Oxford: Clarendon. Falk, Daniel K., Florentino, García Martínez, and Schuller, Eileen M. (eds.) 2000. Sapiential, Liturgical and Poetical Texts from Qumran: Proceedings of the Third Meeting of the International Organization for Qumran Studies, Oslo 1998. Leiden: Brill. García Martínez, Florentino, and Eibert J.C. Tigchelaar. 1997–1998. The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition. 2 vols. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Goff, Matthew J. 2007. Discerning Wisdom: The Sapiential Literature of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Leiden: Brill.

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Goff, Matthew J. 2008. Hellish females: The strange woman of Septuagint Proverbs and 4QWiles of the Wicked Woman (4Q184). Journal for the Study of Judaism 39: 20–45. Harrington, Daniel J. 1996. Wisdom Texts from Qumran. London: Routledge. Harrington, Daniel J. 1997. Ten reasons why the Qumran wisdom texts are important. Dead Sea Discoveries 4: 245–254. Hempel, Charlotte, Lange, Armin, and Lichtenberger, Hermann (eds.) 2002. The Wisdom Texts from Qumran and the Development of Sapiential Thought. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Jassen, Alex P. 2008. The presentation of the ancient prophets as lawgivers at Qumran. Journal of Biblical Literature 127: 307–337. Kampen, John I. 2011. Wisdom Literature. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Lange, Armin. 1995. Weisheit und Prädestination: Weisheitliche Urordnung und Prädestination in den Textfunden von Qumran. Leiden: Brill. Lange, Armin. 2010. Wisdom literature and thought in the Dead Sea Scrolls. In: The Oxford Handbook of the Dead Sea Scrolls (ed. Timothy H. Lim and John J. Collins), 455–478. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Milik, Józef T. 1955a. Un Apocryphe. In: Qumran Cave 1 (ed. D. Barthélemy and J. T. Milik), 101–102. Oxford: Clarendon. Milik, Józef T. 1955b. Livre des Mystères. In: Qumran Cave 1 (ed. Dominique Barthélemy and Józef T. Milik), 102– 107. Oxford: Clarendon. Mroczek, Eva. 2011. Thinking digitally about the Dead Sea Scrolls: Book history before and beyond the book. Book History 14: 241–269.

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Newman, Judith H. 2014. Speech and spirit: Paul and the Maśkil as inspired interpreters of scripture. In: The Holy Spirit, Inspiration, and the Cultures of Antiquity: Multidisciplinary Perspectives (ed. Jörg Frey and Jack R. Levison), 243–266. Berlin: de Gruyter. Newsom, Carol A. 2004. The Self as Symbolic Space: Constructing Identity and Community at Qumran. Leiden: Brill. Newsom, Carol A. 2012. Models of the Moral Self: Hebrew Bible and Second Temple Judaism. Journal of Biblical Literature 131/1: 5–25. Pajunen, Mika S. 2016. Creating a synthesis of Torah‐centered and Proverbial Admonitions: The direction and significance of the textual connection between 4Q185 and 4Q370. Journal of Ancient Judaism 7: 354–384. Puech, Émile. 1998. Qumrân Grotte 4, XVIII: Textes Hébreux (4Q521−4Q528, 4Q576−4Q579). Oxford: Clarendon.

Schiffman, Lawrence H. 1997. 4QMysteriesa–b, c?. In: Qumran Cave 4, XV: Sapiential Texts, Part 1 (ed. Torleif Elgvin, Menachem Kister, Timothy Lim, et al.), 31–123. Oxford: Clarendon. Strugnell, John, Harrington, Daniel J., and Elgvin, Torleif. (eds.) 1999. Qumran Cave 4, XXIV: Sapiential Texts, Part 2. Oxford: Clarendon. Uusimäki, Elisa. 2016. Turning Proverbs towards Torah: An Analysis of 4Q525. Leiden: Brill. Woude, Adam van der. 1995. Wisdom at Qumran. In: Wisdom in Ancient Israel: Essays in Honour of J.A. Emerton (ed. John Day, R.P. Gordon, and H.G.M. Williamson), 244–256. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wright, Benjamin G. III. 2010. Joining the club: A suggestion about genre in early Jewish texts. Dead Sea Discoveries 17: 289–314.

Further Reading Brooke, George J. 2002. Biblical interpretation in the wisdom texts from Qumran. In: The Wisdom Texts from Qumran and the Development of Sapiential Thought (ed. Charlotte Hempel, Armin Lange, and Hermann Lichtenberger), 201–220. Leuven: Peeters. An examination of the types of scriptural interpretation found in the wisdom material from Qumran. Collins, John J. 1998. Jewish Wisdom in the Hellenistic Age. Edinburgh: T&T Clark. An investigation of the variety of Jewish wisdom in the late Second Temple era. Goff, Matthew J. 2009. Recent trends in the study of early Jewish wisdom literature: The contribution of 4QInstruction and other Qumran texts. Currents in Biblical Research 7: 376–416. A helpful overview

of research on the wisdom texts from Qumran. Goff, Matthew J. 2010. Qumran wisdom literature and the problem of genre. Dead Sea Discoveries 17: 315–335. An analysis of the Qumran wisdom corpus from the viewpoint of literary categorization. Goff, Matthew J. 2013. 4QInstruction: A Commentary. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. A recent line by line exposition of the wisdom text 4QInstruction. White Crawford, Sidnie. 1998. Lady Wisdom and Dame Folly at Qumran. Dead Sea Discoveries 6: 355–366. A study of female imagery in the Qumran wisdom texts.

CHAPTER 8

Proverbs, Job, and Ecclesiastes in the Septuagint (LXX) Patrick Pouchelle

Introduction Strictly speaking, the Septuagint (LXX) can be defined as the Greek text of the Pentateuch. According to early Jewish legends (cf. the Letter of Aristeas), the first five books of the Hebrew Bible were translated by 70 translators (hence the Latin name septuaginta [“seventy”], from which the term “LXX” derives) sometime around the third century BCE in Alexandria. However, on a broader level, the term Septuagint could be defined less precisely as the Greek “Old Testament” of early Christianity which is still used today by the Greek Orthodox Church. According to this latter definition, the canon of the Septuagint is broader than that of the Hebrew Bible. It is not known, however, whether Christians had adopted an older Jewish canon or had gathered and adopted diverse Greek Jewish texts inde­ pendently. The Septuagint is composed of translated texts that correspond to the books of the Hebrew Bible, including the Pentateuch, prophetic books like Isaiah, and sapiential literature like Job. In addition, the Septuagint contains several texts absent from the Hebrew Bible, including forms of the book of Ben Sira (written originally in Hebrew) and the Wisdom of Solomon (written originally in Greek; for more on these compositions see Chapters 5 and 6, respectively, in this volume). These two latter texts are called deuterocanonical books by Catholics and for Protestants are among the Apocrypha. This chapter will focus particularly on the wisdom literature of the Hebrew Bible that was translated into Greek in antiquity: Job, Proverbs, and Ecclesiastes. These translations were made by various ­translators, The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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in various places, with various purposes. These translated texts frequently ­thematize wisdom differently from how it is presented in the sapiential texts of the Hebrew Bible. In other words, this study will show how the translation of Proverbs, Job, and Ecclesiastes into the Greek language altered the way these texts dealt with wisdom, including whether some hermeneutical tendencies in regards to wisdom can be detected. In order to address the issue adequately, it is important first to have a general idea about methodological approaches to the Septuagint. Idealistically, a translated text transfers the same meaning found in the original text (sometimes called the Vorlage), and as such studying the former should not add anything to the study of the latter. However, even a casual reading of the Septuagint reveals that there are many places where the Greek translation is not identical to the Hebrew Bible (hereafter called Masoretic text, MT). These differences can be attributed to three main factors: 1. The original Hebrew text translated by the translator(s) was not identical to the version of the Hebrew Bible used today (the Masoretic text). Indeed, as the bib­ lical scrolls found near Qumran have shown, multiple different textual tradi­ tions of the Hebrew Bible were circulating during the Hellenistic period. Moreover, each individual book had its own textual history, meaning that the Hebrew texts which were used as the base for the Septuagint, were, like the text which became the MT, one among many different collections of Hebrew scriptures. 2. The translator(s) themselves introduced some differences. Sometimes these changes simply consisted of mistakes made in the deciphering of their Hebrew texts, but other times these changes stemmed from the creative interpretation of the Hebrew text by the translators. Modern scholars have paid a great deal of attention to how these translators adopted certain “translation techniques” in order to render linguistic, semantic, and exegetical features of their original Hebrew text. Along these lines, the translation technique employed by an indi­ vidual translator naturally will depend upon his/her background, purpose, and the time of the translation of each text. Therefore, each text of the LXX should be studied in its own right, as the production of an individual, rather than treated as a portion of a unified and uniform composition. 3. The LXX itself comes to us in several forms transmitted by various scribes in the history of its transmission in Christianity, some of whom changed their text for their own purposes. Moreover, the LXX was also revised by ancient Jewish scribes in order to make the Greek closer to their Hebrew text. Finally, owing to the multiple versions of the LXX circulating during their lifetimes, Christian thinkers such as Origen and Lucian independently gathered various Greek wit­ nesses to the Old Testament and subsequently produced their own versions of the Greek. Origen’s rendition of the LXX in particular was extremely influential among early Christians, but like other translators of the Hebrew Bible, he also

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possessed his own tendencies. More specifically, Origen often tended to choose the Greek variants closer to the Hebrew text that he knew, which is, here again, close to the MT. Although important, these alterations mainly aimed to bring the Greek text closer to what would eventually become the MT. As can be gathered from these three points, proper analysis of the Septuagint involves much more than simply investigating how the Greek differs from the Hebrew. Studying how a Semitic text was translated into the Greek language and how the translation alters the way in which the text deals with the theme of wis­ dom is a first step. If a particular difference stems from a variant in the original Hebrew text which the Greek text was translating, then this change belongs to the inner‐Semitic process of the standardization of the text and thus defies clear dating. On the other hand, if the difference is due to the translator(s) own creative adapta­ tion of the text, then these changes can plausibly be dated to the Hellenistic period when the text was translated. It is sometimes difficult, however, to determine whether a certain difference is due to the work of a translator or to the presence of a different reading in the original Hebrew text. In their analysis of these many dif­ ferences, the final assessments of modern scholars may be dictated by their own biases concerning the minimization or the maximization of the plurality of the texts that were in circulation during the Second Temple period. The work of the translator(s), however, could be misunderstood because of the reception history of the LXX. Indeed, a Jewish Hebrew‐Greek bilingual translator of the third or the second century BCE would not interpret the Septuagint in the same fashion as Philo, a Jewish Greek philosopher contemporary to Jesus Christ with a modest knowledge of Hebrew, or a Christian of the fourth century CE trained in Greek and Latin culture as well as in the Greek Bible but with no knowledge of Hebrew at all. Along these lines, different translators may well have chosen very different Greek words to render a particular Hebrew term, each for their own spe­ cific reason. In addition, later readers of the Greek text, without knowledge of Hebrew, may have understood a particular term or concept in a way that is quite different from what was intended by the original translator due to their own cul­ tural or ideological worldview. In other words, the interpretation of the LXX in antiquity could introduce new understandings of the text which may have diverged from the original meaning intended by the translator(s). Thus, the translator(s) may have selected particular Greek words to represent Hebrew ones, whereas a later reader might build a synthesis based primarily on his or her knowledge of bib­ lical Greek and contemporary Greek culture, without expertise in Hebrew. As such, studying the reception of the LXX, notably without referring to its Hebraic back­ ground, is necessary but should be done as a second step. For the sake of brevity, we will not go deeply into the topic of the reception history of the LXX in this chapter. There is no systematic study of how books of the LXX deal with the concept of  wisdom. Nearly 50 years ago, Bertram (1969) wrote an article in which he

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s­ uggested that the Septuagint was translated in a sapiential way so that the whole Septuagint became a book of learning. This article has, however, some methodo­ logical problems. To begin with, Bertram does not pay sufficient attention to the possibility of a Hebrew Vorlage different from the MT or to the diversity of the trans­ lators. More recently, Küchler (1992) analyzing Job 28 and Proverbs 8 in the LXX has suggested that God is conceived in these texts as a mighty creator who is the real possessor of wisdom and has a special intimacy with her (i.e. wisdom personified as a woman). People thus cannot attain her unless God reveals her to them. Similarly, Schwienhorst‐Schönberger (2012) has classified the types of wisdom sayings found in the MT in two main categories: wisdom based on experience and wisdom based on divine revelation. He has suggested that the Septuagint emphasizes the latter over the former; the Hellenistic Jewish writings pay more attention to revealed divine wisdom than to experiential sayings. The two contributions of Küchler and Schwienhorst‐Schönberger are convincing, but determining how to explain this conceptual change remains an open question. We turn now to focus on the three main texts: Proverbs, Job, and Ecclesiastes. For each of these books, the section will begin with an introductory paragraph dealing with the date, provenance, and issues related to the Greek translation of the book. Subsequent paragraphs will deal with features related to how the book treats the subject of wisdom.

Proverbs While some scholars suggest a Palestinian provenance for the translation of Proverbs, it was probably made during the second century BCE in Egypt (Aitken and Cuppi 1995, 343–344). A typical feature of the LXX of Proverbs is the presence of many verses absent from the MT (Fox 2014, 12–13). The opposite phenomenon, that verses found in the MT are missing in the LXX, is also attested but with much less frequency. The translation of Proverbs is often characterized as free or loose. Although this is often true, one should not neglect the fact that many Greek verses represent a fairly close translation of a Hebrew text which resembles the MT (van der Louw 2007, 349; Fox 2014, 6–7). Nevertheless, the free character of the trans­ lation can be detected on three different levels: structure, additional or absent verses, and textual differences. As such, it is often difficult to assess whether a spe­ cific difference is due to the creative work of the translator or to a variation in the Hebrew text that was translated. Individual differences should therefore be ana­ lyzed on a case‐by‐case basis. Surprisingly, the LXX of Proverbs does not contain a substantial amount of intertextual allusions to other books of the Bible. One key example which does appear, however, can be found in LXX Prov. 1:7, which begins with a quotation of LXX Ps. 110 [MT 111]:10. This produces an inclusio with 9:10 (“The beginning of wisdom is the fear of the Lord”), thereby delineating the first

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part of the book of Proverbs more clearly than the MT (Schwienhorst‐Schönberger 2012, 117–118; Cuppi 2013, 93–103). In the LXX the entire structure of Proverbs differs from the MT between 24:22 and 31:10. Indeed, in the MT Solomon is mentioned three times (1:1; 10:1; and 25:1) as the author/collector of certain sections of Proverbs, but some collections of proverbs in the book are ascribed to other figures, including anonymous wise men (22:17; 24:23), Agur (30:1), and Lemuel (31:1). In the LXX, however, the so‐ called sayings of Agur (30:1–14) are inserted before 24:23 and the numerical proverbs, together with the teaching of King Lemuel’s mother (30:15–31:9), are placed between Prov. 24:34 and 25:1. In doing this, the LXX relocates all the say­ ings not attributed to Solomon in the MT within the first collection of the wise say­ ings of Solomon. This alteration emphasizes Solomon’s unique role as the authorship of the book (see also Chapter 9 in this volume). This is true, for instance, in the saying of Agur where his humility (Prov. 30:3) in MT corresponds to the praise of Solomon being taught by God (Schwienhorst‐Schönberger 2012, 114– 115). Moreover, the emphasis on the first‐person singular and the removal of the term Lemuel as a personal name, since it is interpreted in LXX Prov. 31:1 as mean­ ing “from El (God),” essentially function as ways to clearly ascribe authorship of the book of Proverbs to Solomon alone, a feature which is probably due to the influence of the so‐called prayer of Solomon (1 Kgs. 3:1–15; Schwienhorst‐Schönberger 2012, 113). Indeed, the increased emphasis in the LXX on Solomon’s status as the royal author of the text corresponds to the conceptualization of the Hellenistic king as a sage par excellence. A perfect example of this is the Letter to Aristeas, which depicts a Ptolemaic king as an important and intelligent person, able to discuss complex top­ ics with wise people. Accordingly, some of the proverbs are interpreted as if they should be used by advisors of kings. The whole addition of Prov. 24:22a–e in the Greek may well allude to the literary genre of the kingship hymn that was popular in the Hellenistic period: “Let no falsehood be spoken to the king from the tongue, and no falsehood will proceed from his tongue” (24:22b). The more pronounced attribution of Proverbs to Solomon in the LXX is also a clue to better understanding the whole corpus as a gathered collection of wise sayings dedicated to a Hellenistic king or his servants. This is one of the main reasons which leads d’Hamonville (2000, 137–138) to suggest that the Jewish philosopher Aristobulus was a possible translator, even if Cook (1997a, 130–131) sees in Prov. 30:29–31 a slight critique of the king because of its comparison of the king with a chicken and a male goat. Another typical feature of the LXX of Proverbs is that the Greek text contains more explicit parallelism than the Hebrew (Tauberschmidt 2004). When compared to the MT, many verses of the LXX are better balanced or more precise either ethi­ cally or logically. Hence, “It is better to be poor than a liar” (MT Prov. 19:22) corres­ ponds in the LXX to “A poor righteous person is better than a rich liar” (emphasis added). In the MT the opposition between the poor and the liar is curious because

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“poor” belongs to semantic field of wealth and “liar” to the field of ethics. As a result, the parallelism in the MT leads the reader to compare an economic qualifica­ tion with a moral vice, an issue which may have been considered problematic by the Greek translator. The adjectives “righteous” and “rich” were added, perhaps by the translator, in order to render the comparison more equivalent (see Fox 2014, 7–15, for other examples). But it is difficult to know if this alteration was originally found in the Hebrew and transmitted during the translation into Greek, or was added sometime during the reception of the Greek text. The same could be said about many other sayings in the Greek of Proverbs which expand upon the MT with adjectives belonging to the semantic field of ethics and correct behavior: “right­ eous,” “good,” “unrighteous,” or “bad” among others (d’Hamonville 2000, 64–65). The work of the translator can be observed in his choice of specific words. For instance, many verses seem to have been updated or modernized, as in Prov. 29:13 where the translator shows his knowledge of technical judiciary vocabulary by using “creditor” and “debtor,” as opposed to the Hebrew which uses the more generic “poor” and “oppressor.” According to Gerleman (1956, 36–57) another noticeable shift in the Greek of Proverbs is the tendency to present certain proverbs in a more theological way than the MT. Accordingly, the divine name kurios (“Lord”) corresponding to the Tetragrammaton (“YHWH”) in the MT is frequently present in the Greek without a Hebrew counterpart. Moreover, one can notice a corollary shift in how the Greek version of Proverbs conceptualizes the concept of retribution and its relationship to death. Although one does not observe the development of a concept of postmortem afterlife in Proverbs (see also below the discussion of this topic in the Greek text of Job), one can notice a greater emphasis on both dying and the memory of the right­ eous dead as a theory of retribution (Prov. 11:3; 13:2). Hence the difference between the fate of the righteous and that of the wicked is life (d’Hamonville 2000, 127– 128). This emphasis, however, should not solely be attributed to the influence of Greek culture, since the Hebrew of Eccl. 7:17 offers a similar perspective. The LXX of Proverbs also tends to show, more so than the MT, an interest in wealth. Indeed, in the LXX of Proverbs, ploutos (“wealth”) corresponds to three dif­ ferent Hebrew roots and is frequently associated with wisdom (Giese 1992, 412– 413). This is not to say that wealth by itself is a blessing of God, but rather that wealth is understood in relation to wisdom (see further Giese 1990). For instance, the LXX of Prov. 30:8 emphasizes that the real divine gift is the equilibrium between richness and poverty. Thus, while the MT reads “feed me with the food that I need” the Greek instead states “But order what is necessary (or sufficient) for me.” Following the LXX of the Pentateuch, Proverbs maintains a correspondence between Hebrew hokmah (“wisdom”) with the Greek sophia (“wisdom”), and the root yasar (“to discipline”) with the Greek verb paideuō (“to educate”) and the noun paideia (“education”). Surprisingly, however, this relationship between a Hebrew root and a Greek family of words is rather infrequent in the LXX of Proverbs. Hence,

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contrary to nearly all the rest of the books of the LXX, the Greek text of Proverbs does not systemically use the Greek nomos (“law”) to translate the Hebrew torah. Many scholars have proposed that this suggests that Greek Proverbs shows very lit­ tle concern with divine law (e.g., Dick 1990; d’Hamonville 2000; Fox 2014), whereas Cook (1999) has argued for the opposite thesis. The only clear attestations of divine law in the Greek Proverbs are found in verses with no correspondence in the MT, such as Prov. 3:16a (“Wisdom carries law”), and Prov. 9:10a and Prov. 13:15b, which both read “to know the law is the sign of a sound mind.” There is disagreement as to whether these verses were written by the translator (Cook 1997a, 328, 330) or are later glosses (d’Hamonville 2000, 53–55). Something else which is a matter of debate is whether these facts mean that LXX Proverbs was influenced by Hellenistic literature. One case which proves enlighten­ ing is the addition to the example of the ant (Prov. 6:8) and the bee (6:8a–c) in the Greek, both of which may refer to Aristotle, Hit. An. 627a (Gilbert 2016) or to Egyptian wisdom traditions (van der Louw 2007, 278–279): Or go to the bee, and learn how industrious she is and how seriously she performs her work whose products kings and commoners use for their health. Yes, she is desired by all and honored. Although she is physically weak, by honoring wisdom she was promoted.

Other examples in Greek Proverbs show that the translator may have been familiar with Greek paideia. In Prov. 9:12a the reference to herding winds is quite similar to a proverb of Zenobius (“you plough winds: refer to those who work hard and get nothing in return”; I.99) and the reference to pursuing birds may be compared to Plato, Euthyphr. 4a. The same could be said of Prov. 23:27, in which the Greek expression “a pierced jar” may allude to the myth of the Danaids. However, the pierced jar also features prominently in Greek proverbial sayings, for instance Aristotle, Oec. 1344b21–25 (“the proverbial wine‐jar with a hole in the bottom”). Likewise, Hengel (1974, 1:162–169) has tried to show that the LXX of Prov. 8:22–31 is influenced by the Timaeus of Plato (34b–37c). This is however debat­ able. The form of this wisdom hymn in the LXX deviates significantly from the ver­ sion found in Proverbs 8 of the MT. All these differences cannot be explained by a different Vorlage. For instance, the first strophe, dedicated to the creation of wisdom is characterized by the presence of the preposition pro (“before”), which appears six times in the LXX, emphasizing that wisdom was fashioned before God’s creation of the universe. The second strophe, where wisdom appears alongside God for the cre­ ation of the universe, is marked by the presence of many prepositions that mean “when.” This song may well have been conceived by the Greek translator to be com­ menting upon Gen. 1:1 and thus was modified in order to implicitly associate wis­ dom with the primeval light (d’Hamonville 2000, 90–91). To conclude, one should not underestimate the proximity of the Greek text of Proverbs to the MT. However, the main differences explained above all contribute to

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a very different conceptualization of wisdom in the LXX of Proverbs than in the Hebrew. For Fox (2014, 16–17), many of the differences described above may be due to the translator, who shows what he calls a “control” over what the reader should understand about the text. Moreover, he compares the process of translation to the process of making scribal copies of texts (1995, 121–128). He suggests that the translator and the scribe share similar concerns, which include: • Normalization, simplification, and modernization: rare or dated words are replaced by simpler ones; • Exegetical and explicatory changes: a difficult text is made easier to understand; • Expansions and doublets: scribes do not hesitate to reformulate or create a dou­ blet, or a later scribe may feel free to put two doublets in a single place without choosing between two; • Displacement: whether by accident or intentionally, the scribal process could lead to the displacement of a verse in other places of the text. This proximity between the function of the scribe and of the translator makes it more difficult to assess a case like Proverbs and whether a particular difference in the Greek is due to the process of translation or, rather, due to the translator’s own creative adaptation of the text. Too often, scholars are not sufficiently cautious in their treatment of these differences and attribute them to the translator only. This may be often the case but cannot be taken for granted.

Job The Book of Job as it is currently found in the Septuagint is a composite text. Origen, when he edited the Greek text of the Septuagint, at times added Greek text where, according to him, there was no extant correspondence to a specific Hebrew verse. These additions were marked with a specific sign, an asterisk (※). The Old Greek (OG) of Job (i.e. the Greek which Origen encountered) was considerably shorter than the Hebrew. Moreover, whereas the Old Greek of Job could be qualified as a free rendition of the Hebrew text, the added asterisked material by Origen is often a more literal word‐for‐word translation. It is not known exactly what source Origen took his asterisked material from. Gentry’s (1995) study has shown that it is not a revision of the Old Greek but comes from an independent source. This section will focus on the Old Greek of Job (see also Dhont 2018). Probably translated in Alexandria in the second century BCE (Cox 2015, 388), the free and loose character of the translation of Job and Proverbs led Gerleman (1946, 15–17) to postulate one single translator for both texts. It is true that both translations are quite free and similar in their mutual avoidance of ambiguities,

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preference for learned wording, and variation in the translation when the Hebrew repeats words, as well as favoring or recreating assonances or alliterations (Fernández Marcos 1994, 259). The differences between the Greek of Job and Proverbs are, however, sufficient enough to refute the hypothesis of Gerleman. Indeed, while the translator of Proverbs tends to expand the text, the translator of Job in contrast tends to abbreviate it. Additionally, the semantic choices of both translators exhibit differences. For instance, in Greek Proverbs, the Hebrew ʿebed (“servant”) is mainly translated by the Greek oiketēs, whereas the translator of Job uses therapōn, both words being Greek synonyms denoting “servant.” Examples like this make the hypothesis that the translator of Proverbs is different than the one of Job more convincing (see also Cook 1997b; 2010). Many grammatical devices show that the translator of Job had acquired a good level of Greek education (Gerleman 1946, 7–9). The translator is frequently inclined to use refined vocabulary, such as brotos (“mortal”) instead of anthrōpos (“human”) or anēr (“man”). One can also note the presence of neologisms and the use of sev­ eral Homeric words in this translation, both signs of a high level of Greek education (Ziegler 1985, 110–112). Particularly noticeable in the Old Greek of Job is the translator’s apparent knowledge of Greek mythology. The name of Job’s third daughter, “Horn of Amalthea” (Job 42:14), refers to the cornucopia (which in Greek myth is the horn of a goat named Amalthea), and the mention of the phoenix (Job 29:18) also shows continuity with Greek myth (Fernández Marcos 1994, 258– 259; see also Gerleman 1946, 44–48). Additionally, the multiplicity of divine names in the Greek of Job is greatly reduced as well (Schwienhorst‐Schönberger 2012, 131). In many places, the text is updated or modernized. This is evident, for instance, in the use of the Greek monetary amount of “four drachmas” in the gifts of the three friends to Job in 42:11 (Cox 2015, 394–395). As noted above, one typical feature of the Old Greek of Job is that it is shorter than MT Job. The fact that the translation is shorter than the MT does not prove that the Vorlage of the translator was very different from the MT. In many cases, these reductions can be explained by noting that the translator often truncates the text in order to avoid repeating similar lines of arguments. For example, where there are two parallelisms in the Hebrew, the Greek text tends to retain only one of them (Fernández Marcos 1994, 263–264). In addition, long sections of speeches found in the MT are at times summarized in a few verses, as in Job 36:5–12. There the Old Greek (expurgated of the material asterisked by Origen) reads: But know that the Lord will not reject the innocent, rather he will listen to the right­ eous, but the impious he will not deliver, because they do not wish to know the Lord and because when they were being admonished they were unreceptive.

This short statement summarizes the longer version found in MT Job 36:5–12 (for other examples, see Gerleman 1946, 23–27). Curiously, the closer the t­ranslator

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comes to the end of the book, the more he tends to abridge the text compared to the MT (Cox 2015, 386) most notably the discourse of Job in chapters 26–27 and the discourse of Elihu in chapters 32–37. Nevertheless, despite its tendency to shorten the length of the Hebrew text in its translation (or at least when compared to the MT version of the Hebrew), the Old Greek of Job does contain some “additions.” Especially noteworthy are the discourse of the Job’s wife (Job 2:9a–d) and the expanded ending (Job 42:17a–e), the latter of which Cox (2015, 386) divides into two subsections: an identification of Job with Jobab (Job 42:17b–e; cf. Gen. 36) and a reference to the resurrection of Job: “And it is written that he will rise again with those the Lord raises up” (42:17a). In con­ trast, the MT only states that Job lived to a great age. This final addition in particular raises the question of the belief of the translator in life after death; this is a difficult issue, mainly because, while the final addition of Job 42 in the Greek is clear regard­ ing the question of life after death, in contrast the rest of the OG of Job does not convey this idea with any great clarity. In particular, none of the Hebrew allusions to the definitive and irrevocable nature of death in Job are altered or modified in the Greek (see, e.g., Job 7:9; 16:23). Likewise, the conception of humankind as made from clay and thus mortal is emphasized at times in the Greek text (e.g., Job 4:19 and 38:14, probably under the influence of 36:10; Heater 1982, 137). This empha­ sis on human mortality and the inevitability of death seems to contradict any pro­ nounced understanding of an afterlife for human beings. It seems likely that both the Greek and the Hebrew versions of Job hold no concrete belief in resurrection, although an eschatological interpretation which includes resurrection as a possible but delayed cosmological event could be present (see for instance Ausloos 2016 and his interpretation of Job 14:12). Heater (1982) has argued that the translator of Job exhibits use of the technique of “anaphoric translation” or “associative translation,” where the translator “replaces a translation of the parent text with parts of verses drawn from elsewhere in Job or from elsewhere in the LXX corpus” (Cox 2015, 387–388). One example is “Or why was I not like a premature birth that comes from a mother’s womb or like infants that did not see the light?” (OG Job 3:16), in which the mention of the pre­ mature birth that comes from a mother’s womb is absent from the MT text of Job but derives directly from Num. 12:12. Regarding the theme of wisdom, the Old Greek text of Job 28 is very different from the MT. Impressively, the description of the work of miners is transformed into a praise of God’s divine creation and its consequence for the divine retribution: [Miners] put an end to darkness, and search out to the farthest bound the ore in gloom and deep darkness. They open shafts in a valley away from human habitation; they are forgotten by travelers, they sway suspended, remote from people. (MT 28:3–4) He imposed order on darkness, and those of mortals who kept forgetting the right­ eous way became weak (OG 28:3–4)

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In the Hebrew text, the way of wisdom is described as a hidden “thing” within the universe, independent but known to God; this remark is absent from the OG of Job: God understands the way to it [i.e. wisdom], and he knows its place. For he looks to the ends of the earth, and sees everything under the heavens. (MT 28:3–4) God has well established its way, and he himself knows its place, for he observes all that is under heaven, since he knows all the earth contains, that which he made. (OG 28:3–4)

Unlike the MT, which depicts wisdom primarily as understood by God, the OG esca­ lates God’s superior relationship to wisdom by stating that it was actually established by God (see also Küchler 1992, 131) and taught by him (LXX Job 21:22). The sub­ servience of wisdom to God reappears later in chapter 28: It is hidden from the eyes of all living, and concealed from the birds of the air. Abaddon and Death say, “We have heard a rumor of it with our ears.” (MT 28:21–22) It has escaped notice by any human, ※ and it was hidden from birds of the air. ※ Destruction and death said: “but we have heard of its renown.” (LXX 28:21–22)

In the Old Greek (leaving out the asterisked material added by Origen, here in ital­ ics), “we” could be understood as Israel (cf. Sir. 24; see Küchler 1992, 131–132) or Job (Schwienhorst‐Schönberger, 2012). In either case the OG depicts wisdom as a creation of God and not an independent entity. Then, following this, the say­ ing of Job 28:28 (“And he said to humankind, ‘look, the worship of God is wis­ dom, and to stay away from evil is knowledge’”) is addressed to other people than “we” (Küchler 1992, 132), denoting a kind of common minimal wisdom for all humankind. The question of retribution is also an issue for the translator. While the descrip­ tion of the wicked in chapter  24 of Job in the MT emphasizes the misery of the wicked, the OG reworks these phrases in order to depict the wicked as oppressors rather than sufferers (Heater 1982, 137–138). For example, “They lie all night naked, without clothing” (MT Job 24:7) can be compared to “They made many go to sleep naked, without clothes” (OG 24:7, see also v. 10). Moreover, in the Old Greek the wicked are accused of turning aside the poor from the just way. This expression is emphasized three times, in Job 24:4, 11, 13, where the Hebrew has either only the word “way” (vv. 4, 13) or something entirely different (v. 11). This shift may well refer back to Ps. 1:6, Prov. 10:17, or other sapiential texts (Heater 1982, 77 n. 189). In fact, in the Old Greek retribution is not a question of wealth but a hope that wicked people will encounter judgment (Gerleman 1946, 49–50). Many shifts of this nature radically transform the book of Job. For instance, the Old Greek often revises and softens potentially blasphemous expressions made by Job which condemn God. Accordingly, while Job is portrayed in the Hebrew text as somewhat defiant, this rebellious attitude toward God is somewhat muted in the

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LXX. Rather, in the LXX Job is conceived as righteous (Schwienhorst‐Schönberger 2012, 130–131; Cook 2012, 182–183). The innocence of Job found in the Greek should be noted against a background where the superiority of God and the weak­ ness of humankind are more stressed in the Greek text than the Hebrew (Fernández Marcos 1994, 260).

Ecclesiastes Unlike the translations of Proverbs and Job, the translation of Ecclesiastes is often literal to a fault. For example, the Hebrew word ʾet – a particle used to mark the direct object and usually left untranslated in other Greek books – is systematically translated in Ecclesiastes by the Greek sun (“with”), because ʾet can also have this meaning in Hebrew. This rendition of ʾet found in the LXX of Ecclesiastes is shared by Aquila in his revision of the LXX. This is notable, for example, in his version of Gen. 1:1: en kephalaiō ektisen ho theos sun ton ouranon kai sun tēn gēn (“At the head [i.e. first] God created with the sky and with the earth”). This has led some scholars to think that Aquila himself was actually the author of this translation of Ecclesiastes (see the discussion in Vinel 2002, 26–29). However, this should be con­ sidered unlikely. The translation of Ecclesiastes should be dated after the first Jewish revisions of the LXX (first century BCE/CE) but before Aquila in the second century CE, and should be located in Palestine (Aitken 2015, 356–357). This is therefore one of the latest texts of the LXX. The literal translation technique is clearly aimed to lead the Greek reader through a close replica of the Hebrew text. In this case, this translation may well be per­ ceived as not pertinent for studying the specificity of the theme of wisdom in the Septuagint of Ecclesiastes. Positively stated, if the translator wanted to serve the Hebrew text as best as he could, a specific tendency in his treatment of wisdom could be impossible to detect. However, historically, after the aftermath of the first Jewish war, during the attempt to reconstruct Judaism, it seems hard to believe that the translator was completely transparent toward a text that is so skeptical. In that respect, the few differences between LXX and MT may be significant but are difficult to assess. One typical example is Qoh 3:21: Who knoweth the spirit of man that goeth upward, and the spirit of the beast that goeth downward to the earth? (MT according to AV [Authorized Version]; here the NRSV [New Revised Standard Version] translates according to the LXX Septuagint.) And who knows the spirit of humans, whether it ascends upward, and the spirit of cattle, whether it descends downward to the earth (LXX)

Here the difference between MT and LXX is based on the vocalization of the Hebrew text. The MT reads an article (translated as “that” by AV) whereas the Greek

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t­ ranslator has read a question mark (translated as “whether” by NETS [New English Translation of the Septuagint]). The LXX, skeptical about life after death, better fits the context so that one can presume that the MT is probably secondary here. Indeed the Masoretes, the Jewish scribes responsible for the MT we possess today, may have been behind this slight alteration of the vocalization, thus confirming their own belief in the immortality of the human soul. Aside from minute examples such as the one above, the Greek version of Ecclesiastes is very close to the MT. Generally, a Hebrew root is rendered by the same Greek family word. Some of these relationships are similar to those of the other books of the LXX, like sophia and hokmah. Others are peculiar to Ecclesiastes and show the translators at work. Along these lines, the translators at times exhibit a free or loose attitude, introducing in the Greek text some intertextuality with other biblical books which is absent in the Hebrew (Vinel 2002, 66–70). An example could be found in the way the translators render the chorus stich (e.g., Qoh 2:11): “all is vanity and a chasing after wind.” The relationship between the Greek mataiotēs (“vanity”) and the Hebrew hebel (“breath,” “vanity”) is infrequent and only found elsewhere in the LXX of Psalms, particularly in Psalm 38[MT 39]:6, “Surely everyone stands as a mere breath” (NRSV). The translator probably noticed the proximity between Ecclesiastes and this psalm and chose to follow the Greek Psalms in their translation (Vinel 2002, 71–72). One should also note that the Greek lexeme mataiotēs is also used in the translation of the historical books to denote the futile behavior of a king (LXX 1 Kgdms. 13:13; 26:21; 4 Kgdms. 17:15; 1 Chr. 21:8). In the Greek text of Ecclesiastes, kingship is criticized several times, as in Qoh 5:5 which may well be an allusion to 1 Kgdms. 14:24 (see other examples in Vinel 1998, 296–301). Another interesting feature of the Greek of Ecclesiastes is the rendering of the second hemistich of the chorus in Qoh 2:11. While the translation of the Hebrew ruah by Greek pneuma (“wind,” “spirit”) is quite common in the Septuagint and probably no more than a mechanical choice, the rendering of the Aramaic reʿūt (“chasing after”) by the Greek proairesis (“preference,” “choosing”) may well reflect an anthropological idea meant to express the trope that each human is responsible for his/her own choices. Finally, the choice of rendering the Hebrew root ʿamal (“trouble,” “harm”) by the Greek mochtos (“labor,” “hardship”), which is usually rendered by ponos (“pain”) elsewhere in the LXX, could provide a final interesting insight into the pessimistic mindset of the translator. Indeed, mochtos is a Homeric word, dealing with labor as well as with weariness. In the Pentateuch mochtos corresponds to several Hebrew words that always denote the affliction of Israel in the wilderness (e.g., Exod. 18:8; Num. 20:14). Accordingly, the choice of the translator of Ecclesiastes may well be an alluded criticism of the history of Israel. Everything is vain, even the tribulation of the people in the wilderness, the foundation of Israel. Should this be true, this may reflect the date of the translation, after the destruction of 70 CE.

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All these brief insights about the work of the translators show that even if a translation is literal, they always offer an interpretation of the text they are translating.

Conclusion As this brief chapter has shown, the Septuagint forms of Proverbs, Job, and Ecclesiastes were translated in different ways: 1. The translator of Proverbs looks like a scribe whose aim is to transmit his text by both controlling its reception and sometimes updating it. 2. The translator of Job reshapes the text dramatically. 3. The translator of Ecclesiastes tries to faithfully reproduce his Hebrew text. All these texts show some differences with the MT, specifically when dealing with wisdom. As shown by Schwienhorst‐Schönberger (2012), the shifts exhibited in all these Greek translations leads toward an identification of wisdom with divine and revealed wisdom. Hence the texts open a window to the process of the formation and reception of early Jewish sapiential traditions. They interpret the this‐worldly sayings of everyday wisdom in a religious way. This is not to say that all the changes seen in the Greek versions of these texts derive from the ideological views of the translators. Many of the deviations of the LXX from the MT can be plausibly attrib­ uted to variations in the Hebrew base text underlying a translator’s work, thus attesting to the plurality of textual recensions of Hebrew sapiential traditions. Such differences, however, between the MT and the Greek could likewise be the result of the Greek translator attempting to adapt a thoroughly Hebrew concept into a Greek linguistic context. Much research still needs to be done, carefully comparing the way wisdom is presented in the sapiential literature of the MT versus how it is presented in the Greek translations of these books. One particular avenue of research worth exploring may be the relationship between Hebrew hokhmah and the Greek sophia. Both are translated by “wisdom” in English, but for what particular reasons did each of the many different translators of the LXX choose the latter to render the former? What could explain this ubiquitous terminological correspondence throughout the Septuagint? The same kind of study may well be done for other wisdom vocabulary. Other questions could also be raised: To what extent was the concept of wisdom found in the Septuagint influenced by Hellenistic thought, and to what extent by Hebrew beliefs? Relatedly, did Greek sapiential vocabulary and thought have an influence upon later Hebrew wisdom texts, such as Sirach or those found at Qumran, or upon later Christian texts, such as the New Testament?

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References Aitken, James K. 2015. Ecclesiastes. In: The T&T Clark Companion to the Septuagint (ed. Aitken, James K.), 341–369. London: Bloomsbury. Aitken, James K. and Cuppi, Lorenzo. 2015. Proverbs. In: The T&T Clark Companion to the Septuagint (ed. Aitken, James K.), 341–355. London: Bloomsbury. Ausloos, Hans. 2016. “A man shall not rise again …”: Job 14:12 in Hebrew and Greek. In: Septuagint, Sages, and Scripture: Studies in Honour of Johann Cook (ed. Randall X. Gauthier, Gideon R. Kotzé, and Gert J. Steyn), 159–171. Leiden, Brill. Bertram, Georg. 1969. Weisheit und Lehre in der Septuaginta. In: XVII deutscher Orientalistentag vom 21. bis 27. Juli 1968 in Würzburg (ed. W. Voigt), 302–310. Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner. Cook, Johann. 1997a. The Septuagint of Proverbs – Jewish and/or Hellenistic Proverbs? Concerning the Hellenistic Colouring of LXX Proverbs. Leiden: Brill. Cook, Johann. 1997b. Aspects of the relationship between the Septuagint versions of Proverbs and Job. In: IX Congress of the International Organization for Septuagint and Cognate Studies Cambridge, 1995 (ed. Bernard A. Taylor), 309–328. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Cook, Johann. 1999. The Law of Moses in Proverbs. Vetus Testamentum 49: 448–461. Cook, Johann. 2010. Were the LXX versions of Proverbs and Job translated by the same person? Hebrew Studies 51: 129–156. Cook, Johann. 2012. The Septuagint of Job. In: Law, Prophets and Wisdom: On the Provenance of Translators and their Books

in the Septuagint Version (ed. James Cook and Arie van der Kooij), 175–221. Leuven: Peeters. Cox, Claude. 2015. Job. In: Aitken, The T&T Clark Companion to the Septuagint (ed. Aitken, James K.), 385–400. London: Bloomsbury. Cuppi, Lorenzo. 2013. Concerning the origin of the addition found in LXX Prov 1:7. In: XIV Congress of the International Organization for Septuagint and Cognate Studies, Helsinki, 2010 (ed. Melvin K. H. Peters), 93–103. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. d’Hamonville, David‐Marc. 2000. Les Proverbes. Paris: Cerf. Dhont, Marieke. 2018. Style and Context of Old Greek Job. Leiden: Brill. Dick, Michael B. 1990. The ethics of the Old Greek book of Proverbs. Studia Philonica Annual 2: 20–50. Fernández Marcos, Natalio. 1994. The Septuagint reading of the book of Job. In: The Book of Job (ed. Willem A. M. Beuken), 251–266. Leuven: Peeters. Fox, Michael V. 1995. LXX‐Proverbs as a text‐critical resource. Textus 22: 95–128. Fox, Michael V. 2014. A profile of the Septuagint Proverbs. In: Wisdom for Life: Essays Offered to Honor Prof. Maurice Gilbert, SJ on the Occasion of his Eightieth Birthday (ed. Núria Calduch‐Benages), 3–17. Berlin: de Gruyter. Gentry, Peter J. 1995. The Asterisked Materials in the Greek Job. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Gerleman, Gillis. 1946. Book of Job. Vol. 1 of Studies in the Septuagint. Lund: Gleerup. Gerleman, Gillis. 1956. Proverbs. Vol. 3 of Studies in the Septuagint. Lund: Gleerup.

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Giese, Ronald L. 1990. Wisdom and wealth in the Septuagint of Proverbs. PhD dissertation. University of Wisconsin, Madison. Giese, Ronald L. 1992. Qualifying wealth in the Septuagint of Proverbs. Journal of Biblical Literature 111: 409–425. Gilbert, M. 2016. La fourmi et l’abeille, selon le livre des proverbes. Revue Théologique de Louvain 47: 178–198. Heater, Homer. 1982. A Septuagint Translation Technique in the Book of Job. Washington, DC: The Catholic Biblical Association. Hengel, Martin. 1974. Judaism and Hellenism: Studies in their Encounter in Palestine during the Early Hellenistic Period. London: SCM Press. Küchler, Max. 1992. Gott und seine Weisheit in der Septuaginta (Ijob 28; Spr 8). In: Monotheismus und Christologie: Zur Gottesfrage im ­hellenistischen Judentum und im Urchristentum (ed. H.‐J. Klauck), 118–143. Freiburg: Herder.

Schwienhorst‐Schönberger, Ludger. 2012. Weisheit und Gottesfurcht: Ihr Verhältnis zueinander in den weisheitli­ chen Schriften nach MT und LXX. In: Die Septuaginta – Entstehung, Sprache, Geschichte (ed. Siegfried Kreuzer, Martin Meiser, and Marcus Sigismund), 112–134. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Tauberschmidt, Gerhard. 2004. Secondary Parallelism: A Study of Translation Technique in LXX Proverbs. Leiden: Brill. van der Louw, Theo A. W. 2007. Transformations in the Septuagint. Towards an Interaction of Septuagint Studies and Translation Studies. Leuven: Peeters. Vinel, Françoise. 1998. Le texte grec de l’Ecclésiaste et ses caractéristiques: une relecture critique de l’histoire de la royauté. In : Qohelet in the Context of Wisdom (ed. A. Schoors), 283–302. Leuven: Peeters. Vinel, Françoise. 2002. L’Ecclésiaste. Paris: Cerf. Ziegler, Joseph, 1985. Beiträge zum griechischen Iob. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

Further Reading Cook, Johann and van der Kooij, Arie. (eds.) 2012. Law, Prophets and Wisdom: On the Provenance of Translators and their Books in the Septuagint Version. Leuven: Peeters. This book contains valuable introduc­ tions to LXX Proverbs and Job. Dines, Jennifer. 2004. The Septuagint. London: Bloomsbury. A short and clear introduction on the Septuagint. Fernández Marcos, Natalio. 2000. The Septuagint in Context: Introduction to the Greek Version of the Bible. Leiden: Brill. A precise and learned introduction to the Septuagint.

Jobes, Karen H. and Silva, Moisés. 2015. Invitation to the Septuagint. 2nd ed. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. An insightful and thorough introduction to the Septuagint. Law, Timothy M. 2013. When God Spoke Greek: The Septuagint and the Making of the Christian Bible. New York: Oxford University Press. An accessible and broad overview of the Septuagint. Pietersma, Albert and Wright, Benjamin G. III. (eds.) 2009. A New English Translation of the Septuagint and the Other Greek Translations Traditionally

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Included Under that Title. 2nd ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press. A leading and recent translation of the Septuagint in English. Witte, Markus. 2007. The Greek text of Job. In: Das Buch Hiob und seine

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Interpretationen (ed. Thomas Krüger, Manfred Oeming, Konrad Schmid, Christoph Uehlinger, et al.), 33–54. Zürich: Theologischer Verlag. This article is an excellent synthesis of what we know about LXX Job.

II. Themes

CHAPTER 9

The Figure of Solomon Blake A. Jurgens

Introduction In a scene from the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, the escaped slave Jim expresses doubts regarding Solomon’s renowned wisdom to a frustrated Huck, humorously arguing that a truly prudent man would have never married so many quarrelsome wives or attempted to slice a child into two. While the fictional Jim may have shown some reservations regarding the Israelite king’s status as a sage par excellence, a v ­ ariety of traditions extending from the Hebrew Bible well into antiquity consistently present the figure of Solomon as an unprecedented purveyor of knowledge and wisdom. In addition to his well‐known wisdom, ancient lore regarding the famous monarch attributes many other qualities to Solomon, including lavish wealth, a ­crucial role in the construction of the Temple, and even a reputation as a powerful exorcist and mas­ ter of other arcane arts. As this chapter will show, the figure of Solomon, the types of special knowledge accorded to him, and other prominent attributes of the king undergo several transformations through the course of history, resulting in a florid and multifaceted body of traditions regarding this iconic figure.

Solomon in the Hebrew Bible In the Hebrew Bible, Solomon first appears briefly in the book of Samuel as the second son of King David and Bathsheba (2 Sam. 12:24–25; cf. 5:14). The young The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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Solomon is not mentioned again until the so‐called “Succession Narrative” of 1 Kings 1–2 which chronicles the last days of King David, the subsequent political turmoil among David’s children following his death, and the eventual accession of Solomon as the third ruler of the united kingdom of Israel. While Solomon is often lauded in the Hebrew Bible for his many positive attributes (e.g. wisdom, wealth, a stable reign) at times this praise stands in stark juxtaposition to his less admirable traits, including his lust for foreign women and fall into idolatry. This tension is most apparent in the account of Solomon’s life found in 1 Kings 3–11 which describes the major events of Solomon’s rule, including his construction of the tem­ ple, his solidification of Israel’s political situation, and his unceremonious downfall. In recent years, scholars have debated whether 1 Kings 3–11 paints Solomon in an optimistic or pessimistic light. On the one hand, Gary Knoppers (1993) and others have argued that Solomon’s early life and reign is unambiguously branded by suc­ cess and typified as an idyllic period for Israel. On the other hand, Marvin Sweeney (2007) has made the case that the final form of 1 Kings 1–11 subtly critiques Solomon and ultimately offers a negative evaluation of the monarch culminating in his collapse in 1 Kings 11. After his ascent to the throne, the first major event in Solomon’s life in 1 Kings is his acquisition of wisdom. Following his marriage to Pharaoh’s daughter (1 Kgs. 3:1–2) the newly coronated Solomon goes to Gibeon to offer sacrifices and receives a vision from God. In this vision, God invites the young king to “ask what I might give to you” (v. 5). Solomon responds by requesting “an attentive mind to govern your people, to discern between good and evil” (v. 9). Pleased with Solomon’s wish, God rewards him not only with “a wise and discerning mind” but also “riches and glory” such that “no other king will compare to you” (vv. 10–14). The wisdom awarded to Solomon here is judiciary in nature and meant to equip the inexperi­ enced king with the prudence and intelligence to rule over Israel justly (Gray 1970, 126). Later in 1 Kgs. 4:29–34 [Heb. 5:9–14] Solomon’s wisdom is expanded to include his composition of 3000 proverbs (mashal) and 1005 songs (shir) (4:32) as well as knowledge concerning flora and fauna (v. 33). The version of 1 Kings in the Septuagint, a later Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible, even augments Solomon’s poetic output from 1005 songs to 5000 songs. Returning to the Hebrew form of the book, the description of Solomon’s “encyclopedic” wisdom in 1 Kgs. 4:29–34 emphasizes the incomparability of Solomon’s wisdom to all other rulers and sages (Crenshaw 1998, 35–44; Gillmayr‐Bucher 2011). Unlike 1 Kings 3, however, Solomon’s wisdom in 4:29–34 stresses his composition of intellectual literature and knowledge of the natural world rather than his ability to rule astutely over Israel. In addition to describing Solomon’s sagacity, two episodes in 1 Kings 3–11 fur­ ther exemplify the eminence of the king’s God‐given wisdom. In 1 Kgs. 3:16–28 Solomon is given the near impossible task of judging between two women who

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each  claim parentage of the same infant. Neither party backing down, Solomon proposes slicing the child in two, splitting it evenly between the two women. While the first woman agrees to these terms, the other vehemently objects, causing Solomon to rule correctly that the latter woman who pleaded for the child’s life was the true mother, leaving all witnessing the event awestruck. Like Solomon’s vision in 1 Kgs. 3:3–14, the type of wisdom exhibited in this anecdotal story is judicial in nature, enabling Solomon to procure an answer to a seemingly impossible case (cf. 3:28; Beuken 1988). While the judgment episode of 1 Kings 3 displays Solomon’s practical wisdom, the visit from the Queen of Sheba in 1 Kgs. 10:1–13 exhibits the cerebral wisdom and prosperity of the king. After hearing of Solomon’s wisdom, the queen comes to Jerusalem in order “to test him with riddles” (v. 1). Not only does Solomon answer all her queries, but he also reveals to the queen the splendor of his domain, causing her to admit that his intelligence and opulence far exceeded her expectations (vv. 6–9). The topic of Solomon’s great affluence is developed fur­ ther throughout the remainder of chapter  10, including references to his abun­ dance of gold and silver, his great ivory throne, and his fleet of ships and collection of horses (vv. 14–29; cf. 4:26; 9:26–28). Besides his possession of wisdom and riches, Solomon is acknowledged as the builder of the temple. The central portion of 1 Kings 1–11 (chs. 6–9) describes Solomon’s construction of the temple, including his inquiry to Hiram king of Tyre for materials (5:1–12 [Heb. vv. 15–26]), his conscription of laborers (5:13–18 [Heb. vv. 27–32]), the erection of the temple itself, and the inaugural festival com­ memorating its opening (Knoppers 1995). Scholars have debated the significance of this meticulously detailed account of the construction of the temple in 1 Kings and its extravagant materials. Some have argued that this description of Solomon’s temple in 1 Kings serves as a structural Doppelgänger to the post‐exilic Jerusalem temple, while others have asserted that the account is simply a grandiose report of the splendor of the building. Despite his many accolades, the end of Solomon’s reign in 1 Kings is marked by a number of problematic traits. In chapter 11, Solomon’s love of foreign women climaxes in his unruly procurement of 700 non‐Israelite princesses and 300 con­ cubines, thereby violating the Deuteronomistic command to avoid foreign women due to their tendency to encourage the worship of foreign gods (Deut. 7:1–4; cf. 17:17). Indeed, as 1 Kgs. 11:4 states, once Solomon grew old “his wives turned his heart after other gods” (cf. v. 33; 2 Kgs. 23:13). As a consequence of his actions, God proclaims that Solomon’s kingdom will be divided between his son Rehoboam and his official Jeroboam following his death (1 Kgs. 11:26–12:20; cf. 11:11–13). Solomon’s predilection for foreign women and its negative effects are also men­ tioned in Neh. 13:26. Like 1 Kings, Nehemiah 13 maintains the tension between Solomon’s incomparable regal authority and his status as beloved by God (cf. 1 Sam. 12:25) with his weakness for foreign women. In doing so, Nehemiah uses

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Solomon as an example illustrating the dangerous repercussions of mixed mar­ riages in order to further support the intermarriage prohibitions implemented among post‐exilic Jews (cf. Pichon 1997). In stark contrast to the somewhat irresolute approach to Solomon found in 1 Kings, the later account of Solomon found in 1 and 2 Chronicles draws a fairly dif­ ferent picture of the Israelite ruler. To start, in their retelling of the monarchic his­ tory of ancient Israel, 1 and 2 Chronicles streamline several of the features of Solomon’s character found in 1 Kings in order to emphasize his (and David’s) role in the construction of the temple while simultaneously sterilizing or removing many of the negative characteristics of the king (e.g. Braun 1973; Throntveit 1997). For example, unlike 1 Kings 1–2 which depicts Solomon’s rise to power as tumultuous and impromptu, Chronicles instead portrays the transition from David to Solomon as fluid and uncontested, even establishing that Solomon was “chosen” by God both to rule (e.g. 1 Chr. 22:6–18; 28:5; 29:1) and build the temple (e.g. 28:10; Williamson 1976). Additionally, an even greater portion of the Solomonic narrative in Chronicles (2 Chr. 2:1–7:11) is dedicated to his construction of the temple than in 1 Kings, while significantly less space is given in Chronicles to Solomon’s wisdom and wealth. Along these lines, certain episodes, such as Solomon’s judgment (1 Kgs. 3:16–28) and his acquisition of judicial knowledge (4:29–34) are omitted in their entirety from Chronicles’ account. One other notable shift in Chronicles is its omission of Solomon’s love of foreign women and fall into idolatry. In doing so, Chronicles essentially accords Solomon no fault in the division of the kingdom, a stark contrast to the bleak portrait of him in 1 Kings 11. In this fashion, Chronicles offers a much more optimistic and even utopian portrait of the king. While Chronicles truncates the treatment of Solomon’s exceptional wisdom, his reputation as a wise and productive author of proverbs and songs motivated a num­ ber of other Jewish authors to adopt Solomon as the pseudonymous persona behind their own compositions, either explicitly or implicitly. Within the Hebrew Bible, three books and two psalms are associated with Solomon. The book of Proverbs attributes to Solomon authorship of individual sections of its adages (10:1; 25:1) as well as the whole collection (1:1), a nod to Solomon’s 3000 proverbs mentioned in 1 Kgs. 4:32 (Fox 2000, 53–58; for more on Proverbs see Chapter 1 in this volume). Another sapiential text attributed to Solomon is the book of Qoheleth, also known as Ecclesiastes (cf. Qoh. Rab. 1.1). While Qoheleth never explicitly mentions Solomon by name, the title of the work “the words of the teacher (qohelet), the son of David, king in Jerusalem” (1:1; cf. 1:12–2:11) at least suggested for later readers an ­underlying association with the erudite king (Koh 2006). Despite not being con­ ventionally identified as a wisdom text, the love poetry found in the Song of Songs possesses the full title “The Song of Songs which is by Solomon” (1:1) and also ­mentions Solomon a number of times (1:5; 3:7, 9; 8:11–12). The attribution of the  Song of Songs to Solomon probably stems from his composition of 1005

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songs (1 Kgs. 4:32) and his notorious penchant for women (11:1–3) (Dell 2005). Two psalms are also attributed “to/for/regarding Solomon” (li‐shlomo). Psalm 72 recalls several Solomonic tropes, including allusions to royal justice (vv. 1, 2, 4), a geographically extensive monarchical dominion (v. 8), and Sheba (vv. 10, 15; Barbiero 2008). While Psalm 127, one of the “Psalms of Ascent” (Pss. 120–137), lacks any explicit links to Solomon outside its titular “to/for/regarding Solomon,” certain references to the Lord building a house (v. 1) and “his beloved” (v. 2: yedido; cf. Solomon’s name Yedidiah in 2 Sam. 12:25) may hint that the linking of this psalm to Solomon was intentional (German 2012). This association of the saga­ cious king Solomon with the production of texts imparting his wisdom not only continued to inspire the Solomonic works of later Jewish and Christian authors, but also serves as a defining attribute of the modern category of wisdom literature.

Solomon in Non‐biblical Texts Composed During the Second Temple Period Many of the attributes Solomon receives in the Hebrew Bible – including his wealth, power, construction of the temple, prolific authorship, and wisdom – reemerge in non‐biblical Jewish literature composed during the Second Temple period (c. 530 BCE–70 CE). To start, like 1 Kings and Chronicles, Solomon’s construction and ded­ ication of the temple are mentioned in a number of places (e.g. 2 Macc. 2:8–12; 1 Esd. 1:3, 5; Sib. Or. 1.376; 3.214; cf. 4 Ezra 7:108), as are his other building ven­ tures near Jerusalem (e.g. 4 Ezra 10:46; cf. Lives of the Prophets 1:10–12). Not unlike Proverbs and the Song of Songs, other compositions during this period were also pseudonymously associated with the king. One example is the Wisdom of Solomon, a first century CE Greek composition which praises personified wisdom and exhorts its readers to follow her ways (see Chapter 6 in this volume). Despite never mention­ ing Solomon by name outside of its title, chapters 6–9 evoke a number of Solomonic themes, including his self‐identification as king (Wis. 7:5; 9:7), his prayer request­ ing wisdom (7:7–14; cf. 1 Kgs. 3; 2 Chr. 1), and his construction of the temple (9:8; McGlynn 2010). Like the Wisdom of Solomon, the Psalms of Solomon, a poetic col­ lection composed during the first centuries BCE and CE, ascribes all 18 of its psalms individually to Solomon. Outside of its Solomonic headings, a few elements of Psalms of Solomon – such as the parallels to Psalm 72 in chapter 17 and its recapitu­ lation of Solomon’s status as a songwriter – draw some conceptual resonances with earlier portrayals of the Israelite king (Gordley 2015). A brief, albeit more comprehensive, treatment of Solomon and his life is found in the “Praise of the Ancestors” (chs. 44–50) of Ben Sira, a wisdom text originally composed in Hebrew in the early second century BCE and later translated into Greek (see Chapter  5 in this volume). Much like 1 Kings 1–11, this homage to Solomon maintains a balance between the laudable characteristics of Solomon’s

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youth and his later fall from favor (Beentjes 2006, 135–144). In the first half (47:12–18), Ben Sira typifies Solomon’s reign as one of “an age of peace” – ­associating Solomon’s name with the Hebrew word shalom (“peace”; cf. 1 Chr. 22:9) – during which the “house of God” (i.e. the temple) was built. Next, the young Solomon is praised for his exceptional wisdom, his worldwide fame due to his “songs, proverbs, and parables” (Hebrew: shir mashal hida; Greek: ōdais kai paroimiais kai parabolais), and his accumulation of precious metals. In the second half (vv. 19–22), Ben Sira describes the fall of Solomon. Unlike 1 Kings, Ben Sira omits any mention of idolatry and attributes Solomon’s demise solely to his inordinate sexual desire (Camp 2016). A similarly brief assessment of Solomon is found in 2 Baruch (2 Bar.), a late first century CE Jewish apocalypse that deals with the fall of the Second Temple through the pseudonymous prayers, discourses, and prophetic visions of Baruch, the scribe of the prophet Jeremiah. A part of Baruch’s second major vision (2 Bar. 52:8–76:5), chapter  61 describes the time of David and Solomon positively, noting the building of Zion, the inauguration of the sanctuary, and the defeat of the sinful nations (vv. 1–2). Besides references to the sanctuary, other Solomonic tropes in 2 Baruch 61 include nationwide “rest and peace” (v. 3), “wisdom” and “understanding” among the people (v. 4), and the concluding remark that Zion “ruled over all countries and lands at that time” (v. 7). Like Ben Sira, 2 Baruch recalls many of Solomon’s major characteristics (his wisdom, the temple, his successful reign), although like Chronicles goes to length to omit any negative attributes of the king (Lied 2008, 64–70). The fullest account of Solomon composed around this period can be found in the  late first century CE Antiquities of the Jews written by the Jewish historian Josephus (7.337–8.212). Like Chronicles, Josephus highlights Solomon’s role as the divinely chosen builder of the Jerusalem temple (e.g. 7.337–340, 371–379; cf. 8.109–110), meticulously describing the elegant details of its construction and the subsequent festive sacrifices and dedicatory prayers made by Solomon (8.66–129). As Louis Feldman notes (1995, esp. 143–148), besides emphasizing Solomon’s role in the construction of the temple, Josephus also elaborates upon Solomon’s other building projects, including the walls of Jerusalem, several cities, and his own ­palace. These details concerning the temple and Solomon’s other building projects contribute to Josephus’s overall objective of amplifying Solomon’s reputation as a wealthy and powerful king (Begg 2006). To this end, Josephus even doubles the length of Solomon’s reign from 40 years (1 Kgs. 11:42; 2 Chr. 9:32) to 80 (Ant. 8.211), by far the longest of any Israelite king, to further exemplify Solomon’s grandeur and prestige. In addition to highlighting Solomon’s outstanding domestic royal achievements, Josephus also describes his fame in international affairs. Besides increasing the amount of praise given to Solomon by the queen of Egypt and Ethiopia during her visit (Ant. 8.164–175), Josephus expands upon his positive relationship with Hiram of Tyre (8.143–149; cf. Ag. Ap. 1.106–127), recording not only their agreements

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regarding the export of raw materials, but even claiming that the king of Tyre would send “sophisms and riddling statements” for the “clever and intelligent” Solomon to solve (Barclay 2006, 67–77). Traditions concerning Solomon’s inter­ national affairs are not restricted solely to Josephus; the second century BCE Jewish author Eupolemus likewise purports to preserve a series of letters sent between Solomon and the kings of Egypt and Tyre requesting laborers and materials for the construction of the temple (see Eusebius, Praep. ev. 9.30.1–9.34.18). For both Josephus and Eupolemus, the mention of Solomon’s amicable interactions with notable foreign rulers enunciates his international celebrity and his unprecedented regal standing. While Solomon’s wealth, power, and international reputation are certainly marked characteristics of the king for Josephus, arguably the most prominent attribute of Solomon in the Antiquities is his remarkable wisdom. Josephus often associates Solomon’s wisdom with intelligence and ethics. Throughout his work, Josephus refers to Solomon as possessing “wisdom” (sophia; e.g. 8.34, 49, 182) and “understanding” (phronēsis; e.g. 8.23, 34, 165) alongside “virtue” (aretē; e.g. 8.49, 53) and a dedication to the law (e.g. 8.21, 90, 94, 120; Feldman 1995, 111–140; Spilsbury 1998, 179–181). Like 1 Kgs. 4:29–31 Josephus contrasts the superlative sagacity of Solomon with that of all other rulers and peoples, including the Egyptians and other kings and queens (e.g. Ant. 8.24, 42–43, 165–175, 190; cf. 211). Josephus likewise recalls Solomon’s visionary encounter with God (cf. 1 Kgs. 3; 2 Chr. 1), depicting the king as explicitly requesting “a sound mind and good understanding” from God (Ant. 8.23) and receiving “understanding and wisdom” in return (8.24). In the episode that follows, Josephus construes Solomon’s judg­ ment of the two women as “a great sign and exhibition of the king’s understanding and wisdom” to his subjects (8.34). Josephus also enlarges Solomon’s erudite out­ put found in 1 Kgs. 4:29–33, increasing his composition of 1005 songs and 3000 proverbs to 1005 books of “songs and melodies” (ōdōn kai melōn) and 3000 books of “parables and similitudes” (parabolōn kai eikonōn; 8.44). The most significant expansion regarding Solomon’s wisdom in the Antiquities lies in Josephus attributing the skill (technē) of demonic exorcism to Solomon (Duling 1985; Deines 2003). According to Josephus, God enabled Solomon to com­ pose “incantations” (epōdas) to relieve physical ailments caused by demons and to exorcise them (8.45). The Greek word epōdas (“incantations”) derives from the same term for “songs” (ōdē) found both in the Septuagint of 1 Kgs. 4:32 and Ant. 8.44 (cf. Sir. 47:16–17). It is possible then that this emerging association of Solomon with incantatory power may have arisen as an expansion of Solomon’s status as a song­ writer. Josephus further exemplifies Solomon’s exorcistic powers by recalling the story of a certain Eleazar who, in an audience before the Roman emperor Vespasian, used a magical ring prescribed by Solomon in order to draw out a demon from the nose of an afflicted man, thus demonstrating the “skill and wisdom of Solomon” (8.46–49). Josephus was not alone in his association of Solomon with exorcism.

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An allusion to Solomon in chapter 60 of the first century CE Latin Biblical Antiquities of Pseudo‐Philo contains an apotropaic song by David for Saul (cf. 1 Sam. 16:14– 23) which foretells a time when one born from David (i.e. Solomon) is to rule over the malevolent spirits (Duling 1975). Another early association of Solomon with apotropaic songs and demonic entities occurs in the Apocryphal Psalms scroll (11Q11) of the Dead Sea Scrolls. In a fragmentary portion of column 2, the scroll mentions Solomon’s name prior to an exhortation for God to combat afflicting spirits and demons, suggesting that this text was perhaps composed as a Davidic psalm which was subsequently recited by Solomon (Pajunen 2015). One more expansive analysis of the forms of wisdom possessed by Solomon is found in chapter 7 of the Wisdom of Solomon. There Solomon iterates the sorts of wisdom awarded to him by God, including knowledge of the cosmos and the ele­ ments, the arrangement of the stars, the powers of roots, and even “the forces of spirits” (v. 20). This latter reference to the forces of spirits may echo his demonologi­ cal abilities found in Josephus, Pseudo‐Philo, and the Dead Sea Scrolls. Unlike descriptions of Solomon’s wisdom, such as the one found in 1 Kings 3, which focus primarily upon his judicial knowledge or his production of proverbs and songs, in Wis. 7:15–22 the focus shifts towards Solomon’s understanding of cosmological, astrological, and biological knowledge. Along these lines, the Wisdom of Solomon thoroughly Hellenizes the king’s wisdom, making it more attractive to the Greco‐ Roman sociocultural standards of its day (Torijano 2002, 90–95; McGlynn 2010). One final feature of Josephus’s account of Solomon deserving attention is his vivid description of Solomon’s downfall (Ant. 8.190–211; Begg 1997). Much like Ben Sira, Josephus equates Solomon’s youth with success and his old age with fail­ ure. More specifically, Josephus correlates Solomon’s final years with an apparent lapse of proper judgment, noting that old age caused him to act irrationally (alogiston) and thereby led him to gradually disregard the laws and customs of his people (8.194; cf. 190). Josephus thereby construes Solomon’s libidinous weakness for women as a “madness” (ekmaneis) which caused him to transgress “the law of Moses” that forbids marriage to foreign women (8.191), a sin leading to Solomon’s worship of other gods and adherence to foreign customs (192–193; cf. 211; Verheyden 2013, 99–102).

Solomon in the New Testament, Early Christianity, and Later Jewish Traditions It is somewhat surprising to note that Solomon is a fairly marginal figure in the first century of the emerging Christian movement. The name Solomon appears only 10 times in the entire New Testament and never outside of the Gospels or Acts. Apart from cursory remarks about Solomon and the temple (John 10:23; Acts 3:11; 5:12; 7:47) and his place in Matthew’s genealogy of Jesus (Matt. 1:6, 7),

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Solomon is mentioned twice in two parallel episodes in Matthew and Luke. In the first (Matt. 6:28–29//Luke 12:27–28) Jesus positively contrasts the beauty of the lilies of the field to Solomon’s own glorious clothing in order to dispel human anxi­ eties over earthly possessions, thus acknowledging the king’s reputation for resplendent riches (Davies and Allison 1988, 650–655; Carter 1997). In the sec­ ond (Matt. 12:38–42//Luke 11:29–32) Jesus responds to the request by the scribes and Pharisees for a sign by referring to Jonah and Solomon. Regarding Solomon in particular, Jesus states that the “Queen of the South” (Sheba; cf. 1 Kgs. 10) will “condemn this generation” on the day of judgment because “she came from the ends of the earth to hear the wisdom (sophian) of Solomon, and behold, something greater than Solomon is here!” (Matt. 12:42). While the full meaning of this epi­ sode is not entirely clear, it appears that Jesus, the greater sage, is being compared with Solomon, the lesser sage. If this is the case, then Jesus’s words most likely sug­ gest that if the Queen of the South – a foreign dignitary – was so aptly convinced by the wisdom of Solomon, then for the scribes and Pharisees – educated and well‐ revered Jews  –  to remain unconvinced by Jesus’s superior wisdom affirms their ignorance and status as an “evil and adulterous generation” (Correns 1980). One other element of the New Testament which may reflect early Solomonic tra­ ditions is the “Son of David” moniker which is applied to Jesus 17 times in the gos­ pels (10 in Matthew; 3 in Mark; 4 in Luke). At times, depictions of Jesus casting out demons and/or healing the sick are accompanied by individuals alluding to him as a “Son of David” (e.g. Matt. 12:22–32//Mark 3:19b–30//Luke 11:14–23; Matt. 15:21–28//Mark 7:24–30), a feature which Duling (1975) and most recently Dvořáček (2016) have argued draws on traditions that attribute exorcistic powers to David’s son, as seen in Pseudo‐Philo’s Biblical Antiquities. Such allusions to Jesus as a “Son of David,” especially in an exorcistic context, could potentially be juxtaposing Jesus the superior exorcist to Solomon. That being said, the phrase “Son of David” also carries a significant amount of non‐Solomonic messianic signi­ ficance, suggesting that if the title “Son of David” in the gospels does allude to Solomon, such significance cannot overshadow its broader messianic implications (Novakovic 2003). Outside the New Testament, the earliest Christian theologians (e.g. Clement of Rome, Polycarp, the Didache) never mention Solomon by name and only occasion­ ally reference his attributed works. The first early Christian author to concretely speak of Solomon is Justin Martyr (d. c. 165 CE). Besides occasionally associating Solomon with wisdom and the book of Proverbs in his Dialogue with Trypho (e.g. 61, 87), most of Justin’s discussions regarding Solomon concern his connection to Psalm 72. Arguing against his Jewish interlocutor Trypho, Justin asserts that Psalm 72 cannot properly be referring to Solomon, as the psalm’s message of worldwide kingship and dominion was only insufficiently achieved during Solomon’s lifetime. According to Justin, despite being “a renowned and excellent king,” Solomon nev­ ertheless succumbed to foreign women and idol worship (Dial. 34, 36, 64, cf. 85).

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Like other early Christians, Justin interpreted Psalm 72 as a messianic prophecy, meaning that Trypho’s claim that Solomon (and not Jesus) was the exhaustive sub­ ject of the Psalm potentially threatened Justin’s christologically oriented interpreta­ tion of the Psalm (Poorthuis 2007). A similar concern is voiced by Tertullian (d. c. 225 CE), who in his Against Marcion disassociates Solomon from Psalm 72 by posit­ ing Jesus Christ as its more sufficient messianic fulfillment (5.9). Like Justin, Tertullian appeals to Solomon’s flaws (i.e. love for foreign women, idol‐worship) as evidence supporting Christ as the only appropriate fulfillment of the psalm (Adv. Marc. 2.23; 3.20; see also Against the Jews 7, 14). An even more outspoken objection to Solomon being equated with Christ is found in the Second Treatise of Great Seth (NHC VII,2), a second‐ or third‐century gnostic text from Nag Hammadi written from the first‐person perspective of Jesus. In one section of the treatise, Jesus derides a series of prolific biblical figures as mere “laughingstocks,” including Solomon who was “a laughingstock for he thought that he was Christ” (NHC VII,2 63.11–13). While Justin Martyr and Tertullian cautiously diverted potential christological prophecies away from Solomon and toward Jesus, by no means did all early Christians perceive Solomon solely as a nefarious figure (Hanig 1993). Both Tertullian (e.g. Against Valentinus 2; On Modesty 18) and Irenaeus (d. c. 200 CE) (e.g. Adv. Her. 3.9.3; 4.27.1; 5.24.1) acknowledge Solomon’s exceptional wisdom and cite his works, as does Clement of Alexandria (d. c. 215 CE), who quotes Solomon’s proverbs throughout his Paedegogos (e.g. 1.9–10; 3.11) and his Stromata (e.g. 1.1, 5; 2.2, 15; 5.3; 6.7, 11), even occasionally mentioning the king alongside Greek philosophers like Plato and Heraclitus (Strom. 2.5; 4.3). Much like Clement, Origen of Alexandria (d. c. 254 CE) positions Solomon’s renowned wisdom alongside Hellenistic thought, supporting his christology with quotations from Solomon’s works in tandem with prevalent Middle Platonic ideas (e.g. On First Principles 1.2.1–2, 5; 1.3.3) and even accrediting the origins of Greek philosophy to Solomon in the prologue to his Commentary on the Song of Songs (Cacciari 2009). Origen also discusses Solomon’s wisdom in his Against Celsus, citing examples of Solomon’s intelligence in 1 Kings as a paradigm for the Christian pursuit of wisdom (c. Cels. 3.45) and naming Solomon “the wisest of men” (6.44). Besides embracing Solomon as a source of wisdom, Origen also interpreted Solomon and his temple as typologi­ cal precursors to the true Christ (e.g. Commentary on the Song of Songs; Commentary on John 10.23; cf. 6.1) as did Eusebius of Caesarea (d. c. 339 CE) in his Demonstration of the Gospel (e.g. 6.12.9; cf. 4.16.60; 7.2) and Hippolytus (d. c. 235 CE) in his Expository Treatise Against the Jews (8–10; cf. On Proverbs). Besides Solomon’s status as a sage and precursor to Jesus, his position as a pro­ ductive author of sapiential and poetic works persisted among early Christians both in their citation of older Solomonic texts such as Proverbs or the Wisdom of Solomon (e.g. Lactantius, Divine Institutes 4.6.6) and in the attribution of new texts to Solomon. Most notable here is the Odes of Solomon, a late first to third century CE collection of 42 odes attributed to Solomon (Lattke 2002: 2009). Like the Psalms of

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Solomon, the Odes lacks any overt references to the king outside of its title, although as Angela Kim Harkins (2016) has recently pointed out, a few potential allusions to Solomon in the Odes could exist. During this period a number of authors also continued to attribute to Solomon power over demonic beings (e.g. Giversen 1972). For example, in the Questions of Bartholomew Jesus informs Bartholomew not to fear the monstrous Beliar as “by the will of my Father the spirits (i.e. demons) were subjected to Solomon” (4.18). The Nag Hammadi Testimony of Truth describes Solomon as “the one who built Jerusalem by means of the demons” and then, having completed the temple, imprisoned the demons in seven waterpots where they remained until the Romans freed them, thus allowing them to wreak havoc upon the earth ever since (NHC IX,3.70.5–30). Similar allusions to Solomon entrapping demons in bottles are found in the writings of the fourth century CE mystic Zosimus of Panopolis, who claims that Solomon composed a book about these bottles (entitled The Seven Heavens) and even collabo­ rated with Mambres the Egyptian magician (cf. Exodus 7–9). Solomon’s use of demons for tasks also appears in the Apocalypse of Adam which mentions how Solomon sent out an “army of demons” to seek out a certain virgin (NHC V,5.78.30– 79.19). Additional Solomonic writings said to contain demonological information are mentioned in the Coptic On the Origin of the World which states that the names and effects of the 49 androgynous demons begotten from the offspring of death can be found in a “Book of Solomon” (NHC II,5.107.2–3). The most thorough description of Solomon’s exorcistic abilities during this period is the Testament of Solomon, a collection of Solomonic demonological lore written in Greek and compiled in several forms probably sometime between the fourth and sixth centuries CE (Duling 1983; Busch 2006). Written from the per­ spective of Solomon, the Testament offers his first‐hand account of the construc­ tion of the temple by means of demonic laborers whom Solomon (much like Eleazer in the Antiquities) enslaves by means of a magical ring engraved with a seal (sphragis) given to him by Michael the archangel (T. Sol. 1:5–7). While the manu­ scripts vary considerably in terms of content, many of the renditions of the Testament of Solomon consist of Solomon’s interrogation of numerous demons (e.g. Beelzeboul, Asmodeus) from whom he procures esoteric information con­ cerning their names, physical appearances, powers, astrological associations, and how to ritually expel them and counteract their ill‐effects. Some recensions even depict Solomon, much like in the Testimony of Truth and Zosimus, entrapping the demons in jars in the temple (T. Sol. 15:9–12). In turn, most of the manuscripts of the Testament portray their demons alluding to Jesus as the ultimate power thwart­ ing their devious effects, sometimes alongside disparaging remarks predicting Solomon’s impending fall in the final chapter (26:1–8). Like the text traditions produced by early Christians, Jewish literature composed after the beginning of the Common Era exhibits similar emphases in its description of Solomon (Ginzberg 2003, 2.945–980). Certain Solomonic tropes, such as his

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critical role in the construction of the temple, remain fairly prominent (e.g. b. Makk. 10a; b. Yom. 39b; Num. Rab. 22.4). Solomon’s exceptional wisdom is also praised on a number of occasions (e.g. b. Ber. 57b; Qoh. Rab. 7.23; Song Rab. 1.1.78) and often expanded in its scope and application. For instance, many times Solomon’s wisdom becomes associated with the interpretation of Torah (e.g. Pesiq. Rab. 14.8; Song Rab. 1; b. Shabb. 14b), with b. ʿ Erub. 21b going as far as to say “the Torah at first resem­ bled a basket that had no handles until Solomon came along and made handles for it.” This saying conveys the growing idea that Solomon and older Jewish wisdom provided insight into the study of Torah. Case in point, in the same section of the tractate ʿ Erubim we also find it said that Solomon’s three thousand proverbs expounded every word in Torah. While Solomon’s temple and wisdom remained the subject of praise in later Jewish traditions, a fairly pronounced criticism of Solomon is articulated as well. A number of rabbinic texts stress Solomon’s preference for foreign women as the major error leading to his ruin. Solomon’s marriage to Pharaoh’s daughter (b. Yeb. 76a–b) was viewed as especially nefarious, with Rabbi Isaac identifying this marriage as the causative act leading to the origins of Rome (i.e. the enemy of  the Jews) (b. Sanh. 21b; y. ʿ Avod. Zar. 39c). Other issues, such as Solomon’s inordinate love of possessions, were also perceived as playing a crucial role in his downfall (Pesiq. Rab. Kah. 26.2). In Lev. Rab. 19.2, for example, Rabbi Simeon son of Yohai teaches that rather than adhere to the statute of Deut. 17:16–17 that the king should not acquire many horses, wives, and riches, Solomon did the exact opposite and erred greatly. Similar to Josephus in his Antiquities, these rab­ binic texts usually juxtapose the idyllic reign of Solomon’s youth to the marred rule of Solomon’s old age. Thus, while the young Solomon ruled over the entire world, including the upper realms of the heavens (e.g. Song Rab. 1.1.10; Midr. Prov. 20) the domain of the aged Solomon was reduced to merely the city of Jerusalem (b. Sanh. 20b). A few traditions even assert that Solomon was removed from his throne by a lookalike king and forced to wander the world as a beggar, an ironic move orchestrated by an angel (e.g. Ruth Rab. 2.14; y. Sanh. 2.6) or alternatively by the demon Ashmedai (b. Giṭ. 68b). The interaction of Solomon and Ashmedai (Asmodeus; cf. Tob. 3.8, 17) found in Babylonian Talmud and elsewhere (e.g. Pss. Rab. 78.12; Num. Rab. 11.3) is often discussed (cf. also Pesiq. Rab. Kah. 5.45b; Song Rab. 1.1.5; Exod. Rab. 30, 52.4; Kalmin 2014, 95–129). In b. Giṭ. 68a–b Solomon subdues Ashmedai with his magic ring and subjugates him to assist in the building of the temple, ordering the demon to bring him the Shamir (probably a monstrous stone‐cutting worm) in order to cut the stones for the temple without iron tools (cf. 1 Kgs. 6:7). After the temple is built Ashmedai tricks Solomon into giving him the magical ring and, as a result, casts Solomon 400 miles away while masquerading as the king until finally being discovered upon Solomon’s return. Like the Testament of Solomon, b. Giṭṭin

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portrays Solomon utilizing his extensive demonological knowledge and his magical ring in the construction of the temple, a tradition extant in later Arabic traditions regarding Solomon as well (Shalev‐Eyni 2006).

Solomon as a Source of Ritual Power and Esoteric Knowledge The expansion of Solomon’s wisdom to include exorcism, magic, and other forms of esoteric knowledge continued to burgeon from antiquity onwards (Horbury 2006). The Sepher Ha‐Razim (The Book of Mysteries), a collection of Jewish mystical rites compiled sometime between the second and seventh cen­ turies CE, prefaces itself by describing its transmission from the angel Razael to Noah, and then to Solomon who learned all its secrets, including how to rule “over all the spirits and the demons that wander in the world, and from the wisdom of this book he imprisoned and released, and sent out and brought in, and built and prospered” (1.25–30; Morgan 1983). An association of Solomon with magical power also appears in the so‐called Greek Magical Papyri from Egypt. One spell (PGM IV.850–929), entitled “Solomon’s Collapse,” contains secretive instructions regarding how to induce a trance upon a subject in order to procure information. Another charm, attributed to Pibechis an Egyptian magician (PGM IV.3007–86), contains a conjuring spell which exclaims “I conjure you, every demon‐spirit, to say what you are, for I conjure you by the seal that Solomon put upon the tongue of Jeremiah” (PGM IV.3039–3040). The “seal of Solomon” (sphagidos Solomōn), and the related “seal of God” (sphagis theou) are sources of ritual power frequently found on numerous amulets and inscribed gems. Dozens of these objects unearthed in Asia Minor depict Solomon as a victorious rider on a horse subduing a groveling female demon with the phrase sphagis theou (“seal of God”) inscribed on the back. This por­ trayal of Solomon as a horseman defeating a demon draws upon earlier horse­ man iconography and bears many of the same characteristics as the depiction of later Christian “Warrior Saints” such as Sisinnius and St. George (Grotowski 2010, 74–85). Another Solomonic tradition prominently featured on antique ritual objects is Solomon’s magical ring, a foundational trope in the Testament of Solomon. A number of sixth to eighth century Aramaic incantation bowls from Mesopotamia and Syria that were intended to trap demons mention the “signet‐ring of Solomon” (e.g. bowls 6 and 28 of Moriggi 2014; bowl 46 of Shaked, Ford, and Bhayro 2013). Post‐Constantine Christian pilgrimage accounts, such as the Pilgrimage of Egeria, refers to encounters with Solomon’s magic ring. Like Zosimus and other texts, another pilgrimage account known as the Brevarius mentions 12 silver bowls which Solomon used to entrap demons. Pilgrimage tokens (or eulogia) have also been found, suggesting that

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those visiting Solomonic shrines would take back these devotionalistic objects as a sort of memento (Rahmani 1999). Besides exorcism, many of these ritual objects and manuals attribute several other esoteric arts to Solomon, including divination, alchemy, and astrology (Johnston 2002; Torijano 2013). The Hygromanteia of Solomon (also known as the Epistle of Rehoboam), dated by some as early as the sixth century CE, contains a collection of planetary and astrological divination instructions supposedly passed down from Solomon to his son Rehoboam. Solomonic alchemical knowledge con­ tinued to be circulated well into the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, as evi­ denced by works like Michael Maier’s 1620 Septimana Philosophica (“The Philosophical Week”), which professes to contain secret knowledge regarding worldly materials passed on by Hiram of Tyre, the Queen of Sheba, and, most nota­ bly, Solomon himself. During this period, we also find a variety of books composed which chronicle Solomon’s demonic knowledge. One example is the Lesser Key of Solomon (also known as the Lemegeton), a collection of five separate books com­ piled sometime before the seventeenth century which contains a variety of infor­ mation about demons, including a list of 72 demon names and rituals meant to summon angels.

Conclusion As this chapter has demonstrated, the figure of Solomon served as an emblematic symbol of erudite wisdom and knowledge for many Jews and early Christians. While the earliest depictions of the king found in the Hebrew Bible emphasize his role in the construction of the temple, his (mostly) successful rule over Israel, and his acquisition of wisdom and knowledge, later authors were quick to expand upon this portrait of the famed monarch. In particular, the characterization of Solomon as one who possessed exceptional wisdom functioned in a variety of capacities throughout the centuries. Solomon’s prolific composition of songs and proverbs found in 1 Kings led to his association with various collections of wisdom sayings and poetry, a feature which contributed greatly to post‐Enlightenment attempts to define the literary category of wisdom literature. Knowledge of flora and fauna attributed to this king in the Hebrew Bible was expanded during the Hellenistic period to include understanding of the stars, the seasons, and even demons. Likewise, later Jews and Christians continued to build upon these traditions, con­ ceptualizing Solomon as a purveyor of magical knowledge and a source of ritual power. In this fashion, the malleability of the figure of Solomon and his association with wisdom facilitated a robust body of traditions and texts that both reaffirm his long established character traits found in the Hebrew Bible and reflect shifting understandings of wisdom in antiquity.

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nature and function of attribution to Solomon in a pseudonymous Psalm collection. Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha 25: 52–88. doi: 10.1177/0951820715605684. Gray, John. 1970. I and II Kings. 2nd ed. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Grotowski, Piotr. 2010. Arms and Armour of the Warrior Saints: Tradition and Innovation in Byzantine Iconography. Leiden: Brill. Hanig, R. 1993. Christus als “wahrer Salomo” in der fruhen Kirche. Zeitschrift für die Neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 84: 111–134. Harkins, Angela Kim. 2016. The Odes of Solomon as Solomonic pseudepigrapha. Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha 25: 247–273. doi: 10.1177/0951820716651222. Horbury, William. 2006. The Books of Solomon in ancient mysticism. In: Herodian Judaism and New Testament Study (ed. William Horbury), 47–58. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Johnston, Sarah Iles. 2002. The Testament of Solomon from late antiquity to the Renaissance. In: The Metamorphosis of Magic from Late Antiquity to the Modern Period (ed. Jan N. Bremmer), 35–50. Leuven: Peeters. Kalmin, Richard. 2014. Migrating Tales: The Talmud’s Narratives and Their Historical Context. Berkeley: University of California Press. Knoppers, Gary. 1993. Two Nations Under God: The Deuteronomistic History of Solomon and the Dual Monarchies. Volume 1: The Reign of Solomon and the Rise of Jeroboam. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Knoppers, Gary. 1995. Prayer and propa­ ganda: Solomon’s Dedication of the Temple and the Deuteronomist’s

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program.” Catholic Bible Quarterly 57: 229–254. Koh, Yee‐Von. 2006. Royal Autobiography in the Book of Qoheleth. Berlin: de Gruyter. Lattke, Michael. 2002. Titel, Uberschriften und Unterschriften der sogenannten Oden und Psalmen Salomos. In: For the Children, Perfect Instruction: Studies in Honor of Hans‐Martin Schenke (ed. Hans‐Gebhard, Stephen Emmel, Karen L. King, and Imke Schletterer Bethge), 439–447. Leiden: Brill. Lattke, Michael. 2009. Odes of Solomon: A Commentary (trans. Marianne Ehrhardt; ed. Harold W. Attridge (Hermeneia), xxxviii, 678. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress. Lied, Liv Ingeborg. 2008. The Other Lands of Israel: Imaginations of the Land in 2 Baruch. Leiden: Brill. McGlynn, Moyna. 2010. Solomon, Wisdom and the philosopher‐kings. In: Studies in the Book of Wisdom (ed. Géza G. Xeravits and József Zsengellér), 61–81. Leiden: Brill. Morgan, Michael (trans.) 1983. Sepher ha‐Razim: The Book of Mysteries. Chico, CA: Scholars Press. Moriggi, Marco. 2014. A Corpus of Syriac Incantation Bowls: Syriac Magical Texts from Late‐Antique Mesopotamia. Leiden: Brill. Novakovic, Lidija. 2003. Messiah, the Healer of the Sick: A Study of Jesus as the Son of David in the Gospel of Matthew. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Pajunen, Mika. 2015. How to expel a demon: Form‐ and tradition‐critical assessment of the ritual of exorcism in 11QApocryphal Psalms. In: Crossing Imaginary Boundaries: The Dead Sea Scrolls in the Context of Second Temple Judaism (ed. Mika Pajunen and Hanna Tervanotko),

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128–164. Helsinki: The Finnish Exegetical Society. Pichon, Christophe. 1997. La Prohibition des Mariages Mixtes par Néhémie (XIII 23–31). Vetus Testamentum 47: 168–199. Poorthuis, Marcel. 2007. King Solomon and Psalms 72 and 24 in the debate between Jews and Christians. In: Jewish and Christian Liturgy and Worship: New Insights into its History and Interaction (ed. Albert Gerhards and Clemens Leonhard), 257–278. Leiden: Brill. Rahmani, L.Y. 1999. The Byzantine Solomon “Eulogia” tokens in the British Museum. Israel Exploration Journal 49: 92–104. Shaked, Shaul, James Nathan Ford, and Siam Bhayro. 2013. Aramaic Bowl Spells: Jewish Babylonian Aramaic Bowls. Leiden: Brill. Shalev‐Eyni, Sarit. 2006. Solomon, his demons, and jongleurs: The meeting of Islamic, Judaic, and Christian culture. Al‐Masaq 18: 145–160. Spilsbury, Paul. 1998. The Image of the Jew in Flavius Josephus’ Paraphrase of the Bible. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Sweeney, Marvin. 2007. I and II Kings: A Commentary. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Throntveit, Mark. 1997. The idealization of Solomon as the Glorification of God in the Chronicler’s royal speeches and royal prayers. In: The Age of Solomon: Scholarship at the Turn of the Millennium (ed. Lowell K. Handy), 411–427. Leiden: Brill. Torijano, Pablo. 2002. Solomon the Esoteric King: From King to Magus, Development of a Tradition. Leiden: Brill. Torijano, Pablo. 2013. Solomon and magic. In: The Figure of Solomon in Jewish, Christian and Islamic Tradition: King, Sage

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and Architect (ed. Joseph Verheyden), 107–125. Leiden: Brill. Verheyden, Joseph. 2013. Josephus on Solomon. In: The Figure of Solomon in Jewish, Christian and Islamic Tradition: King,

Sage and Architect (ed. Joseph Verheyden), 85–106. Leiden: Brill. Williamson, H.G.M. 1976. The ascension of Solomon in the book of Chronicles. Vetus Testamentum 26: 351–361.

Further Reading Brueggemann, Walter. 2005. Solomon: Israel’s Ironic Icon of Human Achievement. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press. An accessible summary of Solomon’s varied roles in the Hebrew Bible and New Testament. Handy, Lowell K. (ed.) 1997. The Age of Solomon: Scholarship at the Turn of the

Millennium. Leiden: Brill. A collection of essays dealing with various ele­ ments of Solomonic traditions, including archeological, sociological, and literary‐historical analyses of sources including the Hebrew Bible, Josephus, and rabbinic literature.

CHAPTER 10

Female Imagery in Wisdom Literature Tova Forti

Female Terminology and Imagery The depiction of wisdom in the Hebrew Bible and beyond frequently involves female attributes and an array of feminine nouns. Although the most prevalent and ­common Hebrew term for wisdom – hokmah – and its numerous (near) synonyms (ʿetsah, “design/advice/counsel”; binah/tebunah “understanding”; ʿ ormah ­“cunning”; mezimmah “shrewdness”; tahbulah “strategy”; and tushiyyah “competence/wit”) are all feminine nouns (Fox 2000, 29–38), some scholars question the determinative significance of grammatical gender (Hermisson 1990), arguing that (some of) the feminine characteristics attributed to Lady Wisdom are based on the actual roles played by women in patriarchal, monotheistic cultures (Camp 1985; Schroer 1996; McKinlay 1996; Baumann 1996, 50–54, 316–325; Brenner 1995; Fontaine 2002; Forti 2014). Whether pejoratively or not, women have been – and still are – associated with passion and emotions in many cultures (Helleman 2009, 8–30). As Schökel notes, Lady Wisdom thus “parades through the pages of Proverbs, Ben Sira, and Wisdom as a courted bride, a hospitable wife, a mother, a rich lady who invites people to a banquet, and as a heavenly character who collaborates in the creation and ordering of the world” (1988, 125). Rather than being depicted as an inanimate object to be obtained, wisdom and  its benefits  –  long life, wealth, and honor  –  are embodied as an alluring ­figure who vaunts her credentials (Chi‐Chung Cheung 2015, 23). The personification of  Wisdom in Proverbs thus evolves from a trope into a fully fledged The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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“­character/protagonist” who possesses the physical and spiritual, mental, and emotional attributes of the feminine ideal (cf. 1:20–21; 6:22; 8:4; Fox 2000, 332, 339). Despite representing an attribute to be sought by all, the gaining of which is a constant active process – “Happy is the one who listens to me, watching daily at my gates, waiting beside my doors. For whoever finds me finds life and obtains favor from the LORD” (Prov. 8:34–35), wisdom is difficult to precisely define.1 Fox (2000, 32) observes that it is the word that wisdom literature most frequently uses to designate the intellectual and moral quality it sets as its goal, combining broad faculties such as the powers of reason, discernment, cleverness, and communicable knowledge.

Female Imagery as a Metaphor, Personification, and Allegory The references to women in the ancient biblical/Jewish wisdom corpora are fiercely debated by scholars, the personifications that feature so prominently in this literature compounding the issue (Lang 1972; Murphy 1995, 222–233; Clifford 1993, 61–72). Are such figures as Wisdom, Lady Folly, the Other Woman, and the Woman of Valor embodiments of the quality they most prominently exhibit, functioning as representatives of an attribute or type of woman, or do they represent real flesh‐ and‐blood women? As von Rad (1970, 24) notes, ancient peoples commonly expressed their perception of truth through poetic language – a form that reflects “a very discriminating power of intellectual distinction.” Concretizing human experience and setting socially constructed reality in a fresh, more complex light, metaphors function as an interpretive tool for the critical analysis of social policy (Schön 1993, 137–163; Lakoff 1987, 377, 438; Lakoff and Johnson 1980, 3; Camp 1993, 3–36). The remarkable degree to which Wisdom and Folly are personified in the biblical wisdom literature suggests that this approach is not merely a literary device but also serves as a vehicle to convey basic tenets and thought paradigms in the wisdom literature. Personification – a device whereby an abstract quality is portrayed as a human being (Schökel 1988, 123) – is a frequent phenomenon in the biblical texts, applied to both God (cf. “Faithfulness and truth meet; justice and well‐being kiss” [Ps. 85:11 (NJPS [New Jewish Publication Society]); cf. Isa. 59:14–15]) and human entities (cf. “Awake, awake, put on your strength, O Zion! Put on your beautiful garments, O Jerusalem, the holy city” [Isa. 52:1]). It is sometimes difficult to distinguish from allegory – as in the case of the depiction of Samaria and Jerusalem in Ezekiel 23. Allegory, however, creates a strict correspondence between the intellectual perception of an element and its imaginative projection. It thus also contrasts with metaphor, which substitutes one element for another (Schökel 1988, 108, 109).

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The Female Personification of Wisdom The three most prominent passages in which wisdom is personified occur in Prov. 1:20–33, 8:1–36, and 9:1–6. The first portrays Wisdom as a woman who, standing in public places, appeals to men to receive her instruction: “Wisdom cries out in the street; in the squares she raises her voice. At the busiest corner she cries out; at the entrance of the city gates she speaks: ‘How long, O simple ones, will you love being simple? How long will scoffers delight in their scoffing and fools hate knowledge?’” (1:20–22). In Proverbs 8, she takes her stand on the heights, advertising her wares at the bustling crossroads, beside the gates in front of the town, and at the entrance of the portals (vv. 2–3). Here, as well as transmitting wise sayings and advice on how to live a righteous, productive, and happy life and denouncing those who refuse to heed her advice (1:22–32), she embodies concrete feminine features (Camp 1985, 209–222). In 9:1–6, she appears as a gracious host inviting passers‐by to feast with her. One of her principal characteristics is justice. She takes her stand at public spots – the high places, crossroads, and city gates – to proclaim her message (1:20– 21; 8:1–3; 9:3), the latter being the center of social, commercial, and legal activity (cf. Ruth 4:1, 10–11; 2 Sam. 15:2; Isa. 59:14; Job 29:7). In this context, she seeks integrity, fairness, and righteousness (8:6–9, 20; cf. 2:8–9). “Wisdom insists that she speaks only true, straight things; never a contorted word. And as Wisdom speaks, so do the wise, all of them” (Fox 2000, 270). She also embodies the ʿetsah (“counsel”) and tushiyyah (“competence”) essential for good statecraft: “I have good advice and sound wisdom; I have insight, I have strength. By me kings reign, and rulers decree what is just” (8:14–15).2

Lady Wisdom, Lady Folly, and the Other Woman Wisdom is personified as female in both positive and negative aspects, one of the latter taking the form of “Lady Folly” (ʾeshet kesilut) (cf. 9:1–6, 11, 13–18). Like Lady Wisdom, the figure of Folly invites the simple to enter her dwelling (“Whoever is naive, let him turn in here!” [9:4, 16; New American Standard Bible]). Yet Lady Folly offers bread and water rather than meat and wine, wandering around in the streets boisterously exhibiting her ignorance instead of standing still and displaying dignified authority. In contrast to the knowledge and long life that Lady Wisdom imparts (9:8–11), following Lady Folly leads to death (v. 18), her efforts being dedicated to enticing callow lads to partake of forbidden waters that submerge them in the netherworld (vv. 17–18). The “Other” or “strange woman” (ʾishah zarah nokriyyah) is referred to in Proverbs 1–9 (2:16–22; 5:1–23; 6:20–35; 7:1–27), and 22:14 and 23:27 (Streete 1998).

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She symbolizes the seductive, adulterous woman, the dangers of association with whom are highlighted by her personification. She is generally assumed to be married, being called the “wife of another” (6:24) and intimated to have abandoned the “companion of her youth” (2:17). As Fox (2000, 134, 252–262) notes, she is variously understood to be a foreigner, a secular harlot, a foreign devotee of a foreign god, a foreign goddess, a social outsider, a native prostitute, and another man’s wife. Both Lady Folly and the Other Woman are associated with Sheol (9:18; cf. 2:18; 7:27), addressing the callow lad with similar erotic references to “stolen water,” his “own cistern,” and “springs” (9:17; cf. 5:15–20; 6:25–26; 7:9–14).3 McKane (1970, 318–319) interprets 5:15  –  “Drink water from your own cistern, the streams which flow from your own well” – as “Have sexual intercourse only with your wife.” Since late antiquity, the affinities between Lady Folly and the Other Woman have prompted an allegorical reading of the latter as symbolizing danger and/or foreign attractions.4 Rabbinic literature, for example, understands the Other Woman as a reference to heresy (cf. t. Hul. 2:24; b. Abod. Zar. 17a; Mid. Prov. ad loc.). Numerous modern scholars identify Lady Folly with the Other Woman, understanding the conflated figure as the negative counterpart of Lady Wisdom (Murphy 1995, 222–233; 1998, 281–287). Clifford maintains that the warnings against the deceiving woman are not mere “exhortations to the young men to control their sexual appetite” but a call to prefer Wisdom as his lover (i.e. “Say to wisdom, ‘You are my sister,’ and call insight your intimate friend” [Prov. 7:4]) and protector against the Other Woman’s solicitations (1999, 85). Viewing the figurative description of Sheol that appears in these passages as demonstrating their association with the epic genre, he stresses the metaphoric dimension of Lady Wisdom over mere physical sexual seduction (1993, 61–72; 1999, 23–28). Some modern scholars of the Greek text of Proverbs similarly read the Other Woman passages as symbolizing Greek philosophy, adducing the expanded versions in LXX Prov. 9:12a–c and 9:18a–d in support of this argument (see Chapter 8 in this volume). The former contains a parable about going astray in alien fields; the latter replaces the foolish woman with the metaphor of “strange water” – frequently understood as a reference to foreign cultures (Cook 1994).5 Allegorical readings of the Other Woman sections of Proverbs are also popular amongst feminist scholars. Newsom (1989, 148–149), for example, asserts that she represents the “radical other,” a locus of gender conflict, “the symbolic figure of a variety of marginal discourses.” Taking the multiple meanings of the epithets for “strange” or “foreign” in the Hebrew Bible into consideration, Camp (2000, 64) suggests that the figure symbolizes the foreigner, non‐conformist, or Other (i.e. one not bound by the levirate law or a member of the priestly caste), thus serving as a metaphor for defilement. Identifying the sociohistorical context as the post‐exilic Persian period, other scholars associate the Other Woman with the dangers of exogamous marriage (cf. Ezra 9–10; Neh. 13:23–27) (cf. Washington 1994, 217–242; Maier 1995, 177–214; Nam Hoon Tan 2008; Yee 2003, 135–158).6

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Although many of these arguments are cogent, several factors favor a more l­ iteral understanding of the Other Woman. Proverbs is first and foremost a manual of conduct, many of its aphorisms being devoted to family ethos, parental teaching, domestic harmony, and social stability. In this context, the Other Woman – who acts against these values and threatens their existence – is more likely to represent a real woman than function as an allegory of foreign cults/philosophy or the Other. The references to the Other Woman are also embedded within the didactic pattern of lessons taught by a father/teacher to his son/pupil. These usually take the form of direct‐speech admonitions and the pedagogical employment of imperatives/motive clauses – the sole exception being a dramatic scene presented in the first person in 7:1–27. Warnings against associating with adulterous women (would) form a natural part of the rhetorical emphasis laid herein upon not consorting with robbers and murderers (1:10–19), violent gangs (2:12–15), providing surety (6:5), and being lazy (6:6) – all of which help maintain domestic peace and social order. The admonitions also call for clarity and precision in contrast to the hidden figurative symbolism of allegory. Here, too, understanding the Other Woman as representing foreign wisdom or philosophy does not fit the didactic framework of Proverbs. Finally, from an editorial perspective, the instructions against associating with the immoral woman in the opening collection (Proverbs 1–9) and the encomium to the Woman of Valor in the closing section (31:10–31) form a framework for the book as a whole (Whybray 1995, 70). Understanding the Other Woman must also take into consideration the meaning of the terms zar and nokri in Proverbs. The English translations of the phrase ʾishah zarah/nokriyyah exemplify the difficulties they pose: KJV: “strange woman”; NRSV: “loose woman”; NJV: “forbidden woman.” Zar and nokri both variously signify “stranger,” “(ethnic) foreigner,” “(family, tribe, nation) outsider,” “Other” (Fox 2000, 139–141; Forti 2007, 98–99). In most of the passages in Proverbs, however, they denote other people rather than ethnic foreigners: “The heart alone knows its bitterness, and no one else shares its joy” (14:10 [my translation]; cf. 20:16; 27:13, 22). Even the contextual use of zarim in one of the Other Woman’s exhortations  –  “Let them be for yourself alone, and not for sharing with others” (Prov. 5:17) – refers to Israelites rather than ethnic foreigners. The Other Woman is thus “another/unfamiliar” woman – specifically, “a woman not your own” (i.e. another man’s wife). Neither metaphor nor allegory, it refers to everyday life, like so many other topics in Proverbs.

The Woman of Valor The poem at the end of Proverbs in praise of the ʾeshet hayil – literally, a “woman of strength” (Prov. 31:10–31)  –  is a 22 line acrostic that lauds the ideal wife. Her activities range from supplying provisions for her family and the daily fare of her

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maids (v. 15) and spinning and weaving (v. 19) to taking care of the crops (v. 16) and commerce (v. 23). The same hands and palms so industriously employed in spinning inside the house are also stretched out to the needy  –  a chiasm in vv. 19–20 links her industriousness and generosity (Clifford 1999, 275). The poem highlights the parts of the body she employs for her physical labor (hands/palms) and the strength she possesses (loins/arms). Wolters (1988, 446–457) suggests that in describing mighty feats rather than inner feelings or physical appearance, this text forms part of the tradition of heroic poetry, constituting a hymn to a warrior adapted to feminine accomplishments. Other scholars regard the woman as an “idealized portrait of a wise wife in an ideal household in an ideal society” (Camp 1985, 92) or a symbol of Wisdom (Bonora 1988, 160). Exhibiting a number of affinities with Wisdom – her teaching (cf. Prov. 31:26 with 1:8) and great value (cf. 31:10 with 3:14–15; 8:11, 21), for example – some regard her as synonymous with Wisdom (Yoder 2001). The poem functions both as a summary of Proverbs and, with the Lady Wisdom of 1–9, its frame (McCreesh 1985, 25–46; Clifford 1999, 271–77).

The Wife of One’s Youth The antithesis of the Other Woman is the “Wife of One’s Youth” (5:15–20). “A lovely deer, a graceful doe. May her breasts satisfy you at all times; may you be intoxicated always by her love,” she is defined as a man’s own well/cistern whose waters should be only his alone to enjoy, being constant in her affections (cf. Song 2:9, 17; 4:5, 12b, 15). Having married their “childhood sweetheart,” men are not to “two‐ time.” As in 9:17, “drinking” symbolizes sexual pleasure. Ben Sira associates the Wife of One’s Youth with maternal Wisdom: “[Wisdom] will come towards him like a mother, and like the Wife of One’s Youth she will receive him. And she will feed him the bread of intellect, and give him the water of understanding to drink” (Sir. 15:2–3 [MS A]).7

Wisdom as Mother Wisdom also exhibits some of the features of the mother who rears her offspring. Several passages in Proverbs associate instruction with mothers: “Hear, my child, your father’s instruction, and do not reject your mother’s teaching” (1:8//6:20; cf. Exod. 20:12; Deut. 5:16); “The rod and reproof give wisdom, but a mother is disgraced by a neglected child” (29:15); “Listen to your father who begot you, and do not despise your mother when she is old … buy wisdom, instruction, and understanding … Let your father and mother be glad; let her who bore you rejoice” (23:22–25); “A wise child makes a glad father, but a foolish child is a mother’s grief ”

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(10:1); “A wise child makes a glad father, but the foolish despise their mothers” (15:20). The Wisdom of Solomon and 2 Esdras also speak of wisdom in maternal terms: “I rejoiced in them all, because wisdom leads them; but I did not know that she was their mother” (Wis. 7:12); “you have devoted your life to wisdom, and called understanding your mother” (2 Esd. 13:55).8

Wisdom and Lemuel’s Mother (Prov. 31:1–9) “The words of Lemuel, king of Massa, whom his mother instructed” (Prov. 31:1) are those taught to him by his mother. Herein, the queen mother urges her son to avoid inebriation and refrain from dissipating his strength on women in order to pursue justice: “It is not for kings, O Lemuel, it is not for kings to drink wine, or for rulers to desire strong drink; or else they will drink and forget what has been decreed, and will pervert the rights of all the afflicted” (vv. 4–5; cf. 20:8; 29:4a, 12, 14; Ps. 72:1–4). This royal instruction is commensurate with various other wisdom sayings particularly pertinent to kings/princes (cf. Prov. 16:10–15; 28:2, 15–16; 29:2, 4, 12, 14, 26). It thus forms part of a broad ancient Near Eastern tradition of royal fathers instructing their princely sons (Shupak 2016), corroborating the scholarly claim that much didactic teaching derived from the royal court (Skladny 1962, 57–58; von Rad 1970, 15).

Wisdom as Hostess Proverbs 9:1–5 presents Wisdom as a woman who builds a house, prepares a feast, and issues an open invitation to come and dine with her (McKinlay 1996). This recalls the aphorism in Prov. 14:1: “The wise woman builds her house, but the foolish tears it down with her own hands” (cf. 24:3). Wisdom as hostess is also linked with the Woman of Valor, who “looks well to the ways of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness” (Prov. 31:27). Some of the ancients believing that the world stood on seven pillars (Fontaine 1992, 156), and this image may reflect aspects of a Mother‐goddess (Perdue 2000, 103; McKinlay 1996, 19–26).9

Wisdom and the Ideal Wife Wisdom and the ideal wife are pursued in very similar ways, characterized by the motif of “seeking” and “finding” (Mazzinghi 2007, 91–120).10 The verb for “finding” occurs four times in Proverbs 8 (vv. 9, 12, 17, 35) where Lady Wisdom presents herself as the embodiment of knowledge and discretion (v. 12), promising those who seek her that they will find her and gain her benefits (v. 17): “For

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whoever finds me finds life and obtains favor from the LORD” (v. 35). The ideal wife in Prov. 18:22 similarly brings God’s blessing upon her husband: “He who finds a wife has found happiness, and he will win the favor of the LORD.” The ideal wife is the “intelligent and successful wife” (Forti and Glatt‐Gilad 2015, 390–400) whose attributes are more precious than inherited wealth: “House and wealth are inherited from parents, but a prudent wife is from the LORD” (Prov. 19:14; cf. Sir. 40:23b [MS B]). The motif of searching and finding also appears in the well‐known question: “A capable wife who can find?” (Prov. 31:10). While this anticipates a negative answer, the following lines extol the exemplary woman who, although she may be rare, is a cherished treasure when found (Estes 2014, 125). In 7:28, Qoheleth states: “That is what my soul has sought again and again but not found. One human being in a thousand I have found, but a woman among all these I have not found.” Ben Sira employs the same formula in relation to the trustworthy person: “May those whom you greet be many, but may your adviser be one in a thousand” (Sir. 6:6[5] [MS A]; cf. Prov. 20:6). The phrase “one in a thousand” thus denotes the search for the (virtually unattainable) ideal woman.11 Ben Sira similarly adduces the value of searching for wisdom and a good wife in two adjacent “better than” sayings: “A child and a city will preserve one’s name, but better than either is finding wisdom. Cattle and orchards make a person flourish, but better than either, a devoted wife” (40:19 [MS B]).

Women and Wisdom as Treasure The treasure imagery compares the student’s diligent memorizing and reflecting on the teacher’s words to seeking gems (Fox 1994, 242). The mind of the intelligent (Prov. 15:14) and ear of the wise (18:15) seek knowledge as if it consists of gold, silver, rubies, and other treasures – precious objects of incomparable value typically worn by women. For example, “If you seek wisdom like silver, and search for it as for hidden treasures then you will understand the fear of the LORD and find the knowledge of God” (2:4). The Woman of Valor is said to be “more precious than jewels” (31:10), symbolizing the profit those who pursue wisdom gain: “Happy are those who find wisdom, and those who get understanding, for her income is better than silver, and her revenue better than gold. She is more precious than jewels, and nothing you desire can compare with her” (3:14–15). In Proverbs 8, Lady Wisdom employs the same imagery to extol the value of her teachings: “Take my instruction instead of silver, and knowledge rather than choice gold, for wisdom is better than jewels, and all that you may desire cannot compare with her” (vv. 10–11; cf. vv. 18–19; 3:14–15; 16:16). Proverbs 20:15 likewise asserts that “lips of knowledge” are more valuable than gold or pearls.

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The book of Job similarly adduces an exotic array of precious metals and stones to claim that Wisdom has no commercial equal: It cannot be gotten for gold, and silver cannot be weighed out as its price. It cannot be valued in the gold of Ophir, in precious onyx or sapphire. Gold and glass cannot equal it, nor can it be exchanged for jewels of fine gold. No mention shall be made of coral or of crystal; the price of wisdom is above pearls. The chrysolite of Ethiopia cannot compare with it, nor can it be valued in pure gold. (Job 28:15–19)

In his encomium to Wisdom, Ben Sira asserts that whoever acquires wisdom acquires silver and gold (51:28 [MS B]), also using the image of “pearls” or “corals” in 7:19 (MS A) to praise good wives: “Dismiss not a sensible wife; a charming wife is more precious than corals” (Skehan and Di Lella 1987, 203).

Wisdom as Adornment The wisdom teacher’s request that his listeners absorb and retain wisdom is framed in terms of hanging ornaments around the neck: “Do not let loyalty and faithfulness forsake you; bind them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart” (Prov. 3:3//6:21; cf. Exod. 13:9; Deut. 6:6–9) (Fox 1994, 242; 2000, 84). Proverbs 1:9 similarly juxtaposes ʿanaqim (“necklace”) with liwyat hen (“garland”) in designating mnemonic devices: “Hear, my child, your father’s instruction, and do not reject your mother’s teaching; for they are a fair garland for your head, and pendants for your neck” (Prov. 1:8–9). The singular form ʿanaq (“necklace”) denotes the jewel worn by the bridegroom in Song 4:9: “You have ravished my heart, my sister, my bride, you have ravished my heart with a glance of your eyes, with one jewel of your necklace” (cf. Isa. 61:10).12 Ben Sira adduces an elaborate set of finery to encourage his addressee (“my son”) to strive for wisdom: “You will wear her as your glorious apparel, bear her as your splendid crown (6:31) (Skehan and Di Lella 1987, 191), the “bonds” of wisdom becoming a “golden adornment,” “purple cord,” “glorious garment,” and “beautiful crown” to her lovers (Balla 2011, 186–187). The teacher of Proverbs also urges young men to embrace Lady Wisdom as a bride: “Do not forsake her, and she will keep you; love her, and she will guard you … prize her highly, and she will exalt you; she will honor you if you embrace her.

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She will place on your head a fair garland (liwyat hen); she will bestow on you a beautiful crown (ʿ ateret tipʾeret) (Prov. 4:6–9). While the term ʿateret (“crown”) is most frequently associated with royalty, the Woman of Valor is said to be her husband’s crown (Prov. 12:4), with wisdom also “crowning” the wise (14:24).

Intimate Language Von Rad (1970, 166) and Murphy (1988, 600–603) define the love language prevalent in Proverbs 1–9, Ben Sira, and the Wisdom of Solomon as a form of “intellectual love.” The attraction between human beings and Wisdom draws on terminology that describes the allures of wives and temptresses (Fox 2000, 295). The wisdom teacher urges his student: “Love her and she will guard you” (Prov. 4:6b). Wisdom is portrayed as a lover who seeks and is sought by her beloved: “I love those who love me, and those who seek me diligently find me” (Prov. 8:17). Similarly, Ben Sira imbues the desire to achieve wisdom with erotic overtones with the Hebrew verb qarab, which signifies “to approach/come near a woman for sexual intercourse” in some biblical texts (cf. Gen. 20:4; Lev. 18:6, 14, 19; Isa. 8:3; Ezek. 18:6). The usage of this verb is similar in Ben Sira: “Come to her like one who plows and sows, and wait for her good harvest … Come to her with all your soul, and keep her ways with all your might …” (6:19, 26: see Balla 2011, 184). In the acrostic poem at the end of Ben Sira, he speaks of wooing and passionately consuming Wisdom: “When I was young, I delighted in her and sought her … I burned with desire for her, never relenting. I became preoccupied with her, never weary of extolling her” (51:13, 19–20 [MS B]) (Skehan and Di Lella 1987, 573). The Wisdom of Solomon depicts Sophia/Lady Wisdom “with a luminous and passionate intensity” (Winston 1981, 40): “Wisdom is radiant and unfading, and she is easily discerned by those who love her, and is found by those who seek her. She hastens to make herself known to those who desire her … she graciously appears to them in their paths, and meets them in every thought” (6:12–13, 16; cf. Prov. 8:17; for more on this book see Chapter 6). The author declares his love for her: “I fell in love with her and sought her from my youth and sought to take her as my bride and become a lover of her beauty … When I enter my house, I shall rest beside her, for there is no bitterness in keeping company with her, only gladness and joy” (Wis. 8:2, 16) (von Rad 1970, 168). Women and Wisdom as Hunters My own analysis of the “hunting” metaphor (Forti, accepted for publication) suggests that it demonizes adulterous women in order to illustrate the dangers of being beguiled by them. In Eccl. 7:26 – “I find more bitter than death the woman whose

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heart is snares and nets, whose hands are chains; the one who pleases God escapes her, but the one who is errant is trapped by her” (my translation) – the sage warns of a type of woman with whom it is dangerous to associate, the participle motzeʾ (“I find”), indicating that his caution is based on long experience. Qoheleth adduces his own heart in v. 25: “I turned, I and my heart/mind, to know and to search around and to seek wisdom and an account of things, so as to know the wickedness of folly and the foolishness which is madness.” The juxtaposition of the compound “I and my heart” with the seductive woman in v. 26 suggests that Qoheleth feels that such women’s wiles “capture” his heart, drawing him into their deadly embrace. As Fox notes, “The irony [is] heightened by the play on ‘heart’; Qoheleth’s heart, which accompanies him on his investigation in verse 25, leads him to an awareness of the woman’s ‘heart’ in verse 26” (1989, 241; cf. Pahk 1999). Having beguiled men, the adulterous women then grasp them firmly in their hands. “Hooked” by her, they fall into her “trap,” whence there is no escape. Here, Qoheleth deliberately reverses the customary verbal phrase “will be caught in the trap” (cf. Isa. 24:18; Jer. 48:44) in order to highlight their power: the “errant” will be trapped by her. Proverbs 7 portrays how youth are seduced by married women who with a “set purpose lurk at every corner” in order to entrap the unwary in the dark (vv. 10b, 12b). Unerringly finding her prey (Prov. 7:15), the enticer describes her bed as ­covered with fine Egyptian linen and sprinkled with fragrant spices (vv. 16–17). Using her female wiles, she beguiles her victims with her eloquence, turning them aside with her smooth talk (Prov. 7:21; cf. 2:16; 5:3; 6:24) and leading them like captured animals to their death: “Right away he follows her, and goes like an ox to the slaughter, or bounds like a stag toward the trap, until an arrow pierces its entrails. He is like a bird rushing into a snare, not knowing that it will cost him his life” (7:22–23) (Forti 2008, 44–49). Proverbs 6:26 describes women who “hunt down cherished souls.” Although the text is obscure – literally reading “For on behalf of a woman, a harlot, unto a loaf of bread; and the wife of a man hunts a precious soul” – it appears to suggest that while a man risks impoverishment by frequenting harlots, adultery exacts his very life (Murphy 1998, 36). Fox renders: “For a whore costs but a loaf of bread, but a married woman hunts for a precious life” (2000, 228). Proverbs 5:4 similarly refers to the poison and deadly threat the adulterous woman poses: “She is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two‐edged sword.” Keeping company with her ensnares a man in her wiles, leading him straight into the arms of death. Ben Sira employs the metaphor of hunting in relation to both women and wisdom. In 25:19 (MS C), female wickedness entraps innocent victims. Similarly, 26:22b–23 states: “A married woman is a deadly snare for those who embrace her. An impious woman will be given as spouse to the lawless man, but a devout wife is given to whoever fears the LORD” (Skehan and Di Lella 1987, 345). Or Sir. 9:3: “Do not go near a strange woman, lest you fall into her snares,” using the biblical root qarab to indicate sexual intercourse, thereby equating sex with entrapment.

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Wisdom’s “snares,” in contrast, are positive and benevolent: “Put your feet into her fetters, and your neck into her collar. Bend your shoulders and carry her, and do not fret under her bonds … Then her fetters will become for you a strong defense, and her collar a glorious robe. Her yoke is a golden ornament, and her bonds a purple cord” (6:24–25, 29–30 [MS A]) (Skehan and Di Lella 1987, 191–196; Balla 2011, 185–186).

Ben Sira and Women Ben Sira’s attitude toward women has been widely discussed, with some scholars arguing that he displays an androcentric or patriarchal attitude towards women and accusing him of being “motivated by a personal negative bias against them” (Trenchard 1982, 332–334) or a misogynist (McKeating 1973). Others maintain that while many of his statements offend contemporary Western sensibilities, he was merely a “typical oriental male” whose outlook is dictated by the norms and conventions of a society in which women were denied any free or independent existence (Skehan and Di Lella 1987, 90). Camp (1991, 20–39; 1997, 171–187) argues that the ideology/cultural system of honor‐shame depicted in Ben Sira lies behind his warnings against women. Collins (1997, 104–162) contends that his misogyny is due neither to Hellenistic influences nor to his urban context. His individual personality playing a central role, he merely favors passive women disinclined to question patriarchal authority. His warnings against associating with women who lead the unthinking astray – with the resulting dangers to marital harmony and social stability – thus belong to the same type of moral conduct and family ethos as that promulgated in Proverbs and Qoheleth (Balla 2011, 169–218; Forti 2007, 89–100).

4Q184 The titles given by scholars to 4Q184, a document from the corpus of the Dead Sea Scrolls, indicate that it is frequently understood as a personification of the wicked woman (see also Chapter 7 in this volume). Originally entitled “The Wiles of the Wicked Woman” by Allegro (1964, 53–55; cf. 1968: 82–85), one scholar (Vermes 2004) subsequently renamed this text “The Seductress.”13 Numerous scholars have noted the close affinities the scroll exhibits with the Other Woman and Lady Folly in Proverbs 1–9 (cf. Strugnell 1970, 263–268; Moore 1981, 505–519; Goff 2007, 104–118). On the basis of Strugnell’s reconstruction of the fragmented Hebrew text (1970, 264), line 2 should be read as follows: “Her heart prepares snares and her inner being/kidneys tr[aps. Her lips].”14 The idea of the woman who roams

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streets ambushing men is reflected in phrases such as “she seeks continually” and “lies in wait” in lines 1 and 11. The association with hunting recalls the “lies in wait at every corner” language of Prov. 7:12. 4Q184 also makes extensive use of the image of the pit: “The depth of the pit”/“the pit of her legs.” As in the biblical texts (cf. Ps. 30:3; Prov. 1:12; Isa. 38:18; Ezek. 31:16), the terms for “pit” are synonymous with Sheol (lines 3, 5 [x 2], 6, 11, 17). Hereby, female genitalia are associated with destruction. The victim of the wicked woman’s entrapment is identified by a striking list of pietistic terms: the “righteous man,” “upright man,” “those who keep the commandments.” The seductress “preys upon” his guilelessness and “her perverted heart,” thereby exploiting his “purity of heart” and ensnaring him in her trap. Having been thus ambushed, he falls into the pit, falling off the path that leads to life and prosperity. Unlike Proverbs and Ben Sira, 4Q184 offers no practical instruction regarding marriage or women in general. It also differs markedly from the biblical wisdom texts in its “mythological” dualism (Jones 2003, 65–80; Goff 2007, 104–118). While the seductress’s boudoir, dyed Egyptian linen bedcovers, and perfumed spices carry overtly erotic connotations in Proverbs, the woman in 4Q184 represents darkness and death: “Her hands go down to the pit, her feet sink to act wickedly” (line 5) (Crawford 1998). Scholars who view the figure as a metaphor or allegory thus contend that it represents the Roman Empire, a rival sect, “women” in general, or evil personified.15

Conclusion All these depictions, especially the ones of Wisdom, the Woman of Valor, the Woman of Folly, and the Strange Woman share similar features, reflecting the practice of employing hyperbolic figures of speech – both positive and negative – and sensual expressions in order to instill moral and social values and condemn undesirable behavior. Female imagery is used for both, whether the subject is an actual portrayal of a human woman – a wife, adulterous woman, or mother – or a personification of abstract concepts and values. Notes 1 Unless otherwise noted, translations of the Hebrew Bible follow the New Revised Standard Version. 2 See below, Wisdom and Lemuel’s mother. 3 Sheol is the final destiny of the fool/wicked in Prov. 1:12; 15:11; 23:14; 27:20; 30:16 (Waltke 2004, 116). 4 As in 4Q184 (“The Wiles of the Wicked Woman”): see below.

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5 For a critical review of recent scholarship of LXX Proverbs, see Fox 1996; 2000, 418–21; Forti and Talshir 2005, 129–167. 6 A similar approach can be found amongst scholars of Ecclesiastes, see Newsom 1989, 142–160; Washington 1994, 207–232. 7 For the Hebrew text of Ben Sira, see Beentjes 2006. 8 Cf. also Prov. 7:4: “Say to wisdom, ‘You are my sister,’ and call insight your intimate friend” (cf. Cant. 4:9–12; 5:1). For “sister” and the wife‐sister motif in the Bible and Apocrypha, see Pope 1977, 480–81. 9 McKinlay’s discussion of Ashera also recalls Wisdom as the Tree of Life (Prov. 3:18; cf. 15:4). 10 This discussion relates to the Hebrew wisdom texts. 11 While Qoheleth’s negative remarks about women in 7:26, 28 seem rather out of place in his literal‐philosophical discourse, he typically shifts from one topic to another without any apparent organizing principle. 12 Kayatz (1966, 107–18) associates these ornaments with Egyptian practices, particular Maat, the goddess of Truth and Justice. For a critical discussion of this argument, see Fox 2000, 84–85. 13 See more recently García Martínez and Tigchelaar 1994, 1:376–79. 14 Allegro (1964, 53–55; 1968, 82–85) reads “her heart’s perversion prepares ­wantonness – the theme of licentiousness clearly appearing in lines 13 and 15. 15 Cf. Licht 1971; Broshi 1983; Moore 1981, 506; Allegro 1964, 53; Carmignac 1965; Baumgarten 1991; Maier 2000, 2:976.

References Allegro, John. 1964. Wiles of the Wicked Woman: A sapiential work from Qumran’s fourth cave. Palestine Exploration Quarterly 96: 53–55. Allegro, John. 1968. Qumrân Cave 4.1 (4Q 158–4Q186). Oxford: Clarendon. Balla, Ibolya. 2011. Ben Sira on Family, Gender, and Sexuality. Berlin/New York: de Gruyter. Baumann, Gerlinde. 1996. Die Weisheitsgestalt in Proverbien 1–9. Tübingen: Mohr‐Siebeck. Baumgarten, Joseph. 1991. On the nature of the seductress in 4Q184. Revue de Qumran 15: 133–143. Beentjes, Pancratius C. 2006. The Book of Ben Sira in Hebrew. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press.

Bonora, Antonio. 1988. La donna eccellente, la sapienza, il sapiente. Rivista biblica italiana 36: 137–164. Brenner, Athalya. 1995. Some observations on the figurations of woman in wisdom literature. In: A Feminist Companion to Wisdom Literature (ed. A. Brenner), 50–66. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Broshi, Magen. 1983. Beware of the Wiles of the Wanton Woman. Biblical Archaeology Review 9: 54–56. Camp, Claudia. 1985. Wisdom and the Feminine in the Book of Proverbs. Sheffield: Almond. Camp, Claudia. 1991. Understanding a patriarchy: Women in second century Jerusalem through the eyes of Ben Sira. In: “Women Like This”: New Perspectives

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on Jewish Women in the Greco‐Roman World (ed. Amy‐Jill Levine), 20–39. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Camp, Claudia. 1993. Metaphor in feminist Biblical interpretation: Theoretical perspectives. Semeia 61: 3–36. Camp, Claudia. 1997. Honor and shame in Ben Sira: Anthropological and theological reflections. In: The Book of Ben Sira in Modern Research: Proceedings of the First International Ben Sira Conference, Soesterberg, Netherlands, 28–31 July 1996 (ed. Pancratius C. Beentjes), 171–187. Berlin: de Gruyter. Camp, Claudia. 2000. Wise, Strange and Holy: The Strange Woman and the Making of the Bible. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press / JSOT. Carmignac, Jean. 1965. Poème allégorique sur la secte rivale. Revue de Qumran 5: 361–374. Chi‐Chung Cheung, Simon. 2015. Wisdom Intoned: A Reappraisal of the Genre “Wisdom Psalms.” London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark. Clifford, Richard. 1993. Woman Wisdom in the Book of Wisdom. In: Biblische Theologie und gesellschaftlicher Wandel: Festschrift N. Lohfink (ed. G. Baraulik. W. Gross, and S. McEvenue), 61–72. Freiburg: Herder. Clifford, Richard. 1999. Proverbs: A Commentary. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Collins, John. 1997. Marriage, divorce, and family in Second Temple Judaism. In: Families in Ancient Israel (ed. Leo G. Perdue), 104–162. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. (Proverbs Cook, Johann. 1994. 1–9 Septuagint): A metaphor for foreign wisdom? Zeitschrift für die alttestamentlicshe Wissenschaft 106: 458–76.

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Crawford, Sidnie White. 1998. Lady Wisdom and Dame Folly at Qumran. Dead Sea Discoveries 5: 355–366. Estes, Daniel. 2014. Seeking and finding in Ecclesiastes and Proverbs. In: Reading Ecclesiastes Intertextually (ed. Katherine Dell and Will Kynes), 118–129. London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark. Fontaine, Carole. 1992. Proverbs. In: The Women’s Bible Commentary (ed. Carol A. Newsom and Sharon H. Ringe), 153– 160. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Fontaine, Carole. 2002. Smooth Words: Women, Proverbs and Performance in Biblical Wisdom. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Forti, Tova and Zipora Talshir. 2005. Proverbs 7 MT and LXX: Form and content. Textus 22: 129–167. Forti, Tova. 2007. The Isha Zara in Proverbs 1–9: Allegory and allegorization. Hebrew Studies 48: 89–100. Forti, Tova. 2008. Animal Imagery in the Book of Proverbs. Leiden: Brill. Forti Tova. 2014. The feminine personification of Wisdom and the “Wise Woman” as “Persona.” In: A Life in Parables and Poetry: Mishael Maswari Caspi (ed. John T. Greene), 201–209. Berlin: Klaus Schwarz. Forti, Tova. (accepted for publication). Hunting and searching: Contrasting patterns of female behavior in wisdom literature. Journal of the Ancient Near East Society 34. Forti, Tova, and Glatt‐Gilad, David A. 2015. The function of the root s ḱ l in shaping the ideal Figure of David in 1 Samuel 18. Vetus Testamentum 65: 390–400. Fox, Michael. 1989. Qoheleth and His Contradictions. Sheffield: Almond. Fox, Michael. 1994. The Pedagogy of Proverbs 2. Journal of Biblical Literature 113: 233–243.

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Fox, Michael V. 1996. The Strange Woman in Septuagint Proverbs. Journal of Northwest Semitic Languages 22: 31–34. Fox, Michael. 2000. Proverbs 1–9. New York: Doubleday. García Martínez, Florentino and Tigchelaar, Eibert. 1994. The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition. 2 vols. Leiden: Brill. Goff, Matthew. 2007. Discerning Wisdom: The Sapiential Literature of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Leiden: Brill. Helleman, Wendy. 2009. The Feminine Personification of Wisdom: A Study of Homer’s Penelope, Cappadocian Macrina, Boethius’ Philosophia and Dante’s Beatrice. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press. Hermisson, Hans‐Jürgen. 1990. Zur “feministischen” Exegesis des ATs. EpD/ Evangelische Information 52a/90: 3–7. Jones, Scott. 2003. Wisdom’s pedagogy: A comparison of Proverbs VII and 4Q184. Vetus Testamentum 53: 65–80. Kayatz, Crista. 1966. Studien zu Proverbien 1–9. Neukirchen‐Vluyn: Neukirchen. Lakoff, George. 1987. Women, Fire and Dangerous Things: What Categories Reveal About the Mind. Chicago. IL: University of Chicago Press. Lakoff, George and Johnson, Mark. 1980. Metaphors We Live By. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Lang, Bernhard. 1972. Die weisheitliche Lehrrede. Stuttgart: KBW. Licht, Jacob. 1971. The Wiles of the Wicked Woman. In: Bible and Jewish History: Studies Dedicated to J. Liver (ed. Benjamin Uffenheimer), 289–296. Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Press (Hebrew). Maier, Christl. 1995. Die “Fremde Frau” in Proverbien 1–9. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Maier, Johann. 2000. Wiles of the Wicked Woman. In: The Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls (ed. James VanderKam and

Lawrence H. Schiffman), 2:976. 2 vols. New York: Oxford University Press. Mazzinghi, Luca. 2007. The verbs “to find” and “to search” in the language of Qohelet. In: The Language of Qohelet in its Context: Essays in Honour of Prof. A. Schoors on the Occasion of His Seventieth Birthday (ed. A. Berlejung and P. Van Hecke), 91–120. Leuven: Peeters. McCreesh, Thomas. 1985. Wisdom as Wife: Proverbs 31:10–31. Revue Biblique 92: 24–46. McKane, William. 1970. Proverbs: A New Approach. Philadelphia, PA: Westminster. McKeating, Henry. 1973. Jesus ben Sira’s attitude to women. Expository Times 85: 85–87. McKinlay, Judith. 1996. Gendering Wisdom the Host: Biblical Invitations to Eat and Drink. Sheffield: JSOT. Moore, Rick. 1981. Personification of the seduction of evil: “The Wiles of the Wicked Woman.” Revue de Qumran 10: 505–519. Murphy, Ronald. 1988. Wisdom and Eros in Proverbs 1–9. Catholic Biblical Quarterly 50: 600–603. Murphy, Ronald. 1995. The personification of Wisdom. In: Wisdom in Ancient Israel (ed. John Day, Robert P. Gordon, and H.G.M. Williamson), 222–234. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Murphy, Ronald. 1998. Proverbs. Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson. Nam Hoon Tan, Nancy. 2008. The “Foreignness” of the Foreign Woman in Proverbs 1–9: A Study of the Origin and Development of a Biblical Motif. Berlin: de Gruyter. Newsom, Carol. 1989. Woman and discourse of patriarchal wisdom: A study of Proverbs 1–9. In: Gender and Difference in Ancient Israel (ed. Peggy L. Day, 142–160. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress.

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Pahk, Johan. 1999. Women as snares: A metaphor of warning in Qoh 7:26 and Sir 9:3. In: Treasures of Wisdom: Studies in Ben Sira and the Book of Wisdom Festschrift M. Gilbert (ed. N. Calduch‐ Benages and J. Vermeylen), 397–404. Leuven: Peeters. Perdue, Leo. 2000. Proverbs. Louisville, KY: John Knox. Pope, Marvin. 1977. Song of Songs. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Rad, Gerhard von. 1970. Wisdom in Israel (trans. James D. Martin). Nashville, TN: Abingdon. Schökel, Luis. 1988. A Manual of Hebrew Poetics. Rome: Pontificical Biblical Institute. Schön, Donald. 1993. Generative metaphor: A perspective on problem setting in social policy. In: Metaphor and Thought (ed. Andrew Ortony), 137–163. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schroer, Silvia. 1996. Die Weisheit hat ihr Haus gebaut. Mainz: Grünwald. Shupak, Nili. 2016. “No Man is Born Wise”: Ancient Egyptian Wisdom Literature and Its Contact with Biblical Literature. Jerusalem: Bialik Institute (Hebrew). Skehan, Patrick and Di Lella, Alexander, 1987. The Wisdom of Ben Sira. New York: Doubleday. Skladny, Udo. 1962. Die ältesten Spruchsammlungen in Israel. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

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Streete, Gail. 1998. The Strange Woman: Power and Sex in the Bible. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Strugnell, John. 1970. Notes en marge du volume V des “Discoveries in the Judaean Desert of Jordan.” RevQ 7: 163–276. Trenchard, Warren. 1982. Ben Sira’s View of Women: A Literary Analysis. Chico, CA: Scholars Press. Vermes, Geza. 2004. The Complete Dead Sea Scrolls in English. New York: Penguin. Waltke, Bruce. 2004. Proverbs 1–15. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Washington, Harold. 1994. The Strange ) of Proverbs 1–9 Woman ( and post‐exilic Judean Society. In: Second Temple Studies 2: Temple and Community in the Persian Period (ed. Tamara C. Eskenazi and Kent H. Richards), 217–242. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Whybray, Roger. 1995. The Book of Proverbs: A Survey of Modern Study. Leiden: Brill. Winston, David. 1981. The Wisdom of Solomon. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Wolters, A. 1988. Proverbs XXXI 10–31 as heroic hymn: A form‐critical analysis. Vetus Testamentum 38: 446–457. Yee, Gale. 2003. Poor Banished Children of Eve: Woman as Evil in the Hebrew Bible. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress. Yoder, Christine. 2000. Wisdom as a Woman of Substance: A Socio‐Economic Reading of Proverbs 1–9 and 31:10–31. Berlin: de Gruyter.

Further Reading Camp, Claudia. 1990. The female sage in ancient Israel in the Biblical wisdom literature. In: The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. John G. Gammie and Leo G. Perdue), 185–204. Winona

Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Provides an introductory discussion of female figures as wise sages. Dell, Katharine. 2000. “Get Wisdom, Get Insight”: An Introduction to Israel’s

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Wisdom Literature. London: Darton, Longman and Todd. A lively and accessible introduction for readers approaching biblical wisdom. Goff, Matthew. 2008. Hellish females: The Strange Woman of Septuagint Proverbs and 4QWiles of the Wicked Woman (4Q184). Journal for the Study of Judaism 39: 20–45. A comparative study of Proverbs and 4Q184. Moore, Michael. 1993. “Wise Women” or Wisdom Woman? A Biblical study of women’s roles. Restoration Quarterly 35: 147–158. Discusses female roles in the context of biblical wisdom. Perkins, Pheme. 1988. Sophia as goddess in the Nag Hammadi Codices. In: Images of the Feminine in Gnosticism (ed. Karen L. King), 96–112. Philadelphia: Fortress. A study of Wisdom as a female goddess in Gnostic texts. Shupak, Nili. 2011. Female imagery in Proverbs 1–9 in the light of Egyptian sources. Vetus Testamentum 61: 310–323. An examination of a central biblical wisdom text in the light of parallel Egyptian texts.

Shupak, Nili. 2014. Straightening the crooked stick: The boundaries of education in the Ancient Egyptian ­wisdom tradition. Maarav 21: 251–270. A discussion of the Egyptian instruction genre and its wisdom features that forms the context for a comparative study of the biblical and ancient Near Eastern wisdom corpora. Sneed, Mark R. (ed.) 2015. Was There A Wisdom Tradition? New Prospects in Israelite Wisdom Studies. Atlanta, GA: SBL Press. An up‐to‐date survey of theories and methods in the study of wisdom literature. Szlos, Beth. 2005. Body parts as metaphor and the value of a cognitive approach: A study of the female figures in Proverbs. In Metaphor in the Hebrew Bible (ed. Pierre Van Hecke), 185–95. Leuven: Peeters. A comprehensive analysis of female figures from the perspective of body parts as metaphor.

CHAPTER 11

Scribes and Pedagogy in Ancient Israel and Second Temple Judaism Matthew Goff

Introduction Wisdom literature is explicitly didactic and pedagogical. The prologue of Proverbs, for example, unambiguously presents the book that follows as promoting learning (1:1–7). The theme of pedagogy is not, however, limited to sapiential texts. Pedagogy raises a number of important issues for understanding ancient Israel and Second Temple Judaism. These include literacy, writing, textuality, and the extent to which expertise in these fields should be understood as predominantly restricted to official domains of power, such as the temple or the court. Ancient Mesopotamia and Egypt preserve extensive evidence regarding the nature of education in those regions. In Mesopotamia, for example, a relatively small segment of society received a formalized education that involved the study and memorization of lists of Sumerian words as training for a range of administrative professions (Carr 2005, 17–90). There is also extensive evidence for education in ancient Greece (Bloomer 2015). There is, by contrast, no lengthy account detailing formalized pedagogical processes from ancient Israel. While scholars have argued for the existence of schools in ancient Israel (e.g. Lemaire 1981), education did not exist there in the modern sense of a public institution with a standardized curriculum. It was possible, however, during the Iron Age and the Second Temple period to become highly educated. Corpora of written texts, such as the Dead Sea Scrolls, are the products of individuals who attained not only basic literacy but achieved sophisticated levels of textual expertise. There are depictions of learned men, such as Ben Sira, a teacher The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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who lived in Jerusalem in the early second century BCE. Such evidence allows us to make inferences regarding what sort of education people received. A key issue in this regard is the relationship between education and the state. Official centers of power, such as the temple and the royal court, were among the few social spheres in antiquity that required written literacy. Such bureaucrats are often called “scribes” (Heb. sopher; Gk. grammateus). The term “scribe” at its most basic level denotes someone who can write. It often signifies someone who practiced writing as a professional, technical skill. The Hebrew term sopher evokes not simply writing but also counting (cf. the related word mispar, “number”), which helps convey the writing scribes carried out as a technical, administrative activity (cf. b. Qidd. 30a). The term “scribe,” as discussed below, had a wide semantic range, being able to signify officials who were low‐level bureaucrats as well as individuals who had a great deal of political power (Adams 2016; van der Toorn 2007, 76–82). Scribes can also be understood in a broader sense not restricted to the attestation of sopher and grammateus in our sources, to denote individuals who were participants in the textual and scholarly culture that produced ancient Israelite and Jewish writings (Sanders 2016; Horsely 2009). In addition to “scribe,” there are other terms for learned individuals, such as “sage” (Heb. hakam; lit. “wise person”), commonly used to describe rabbis in later rabbinic literature, or “instructor” (maskil, “one who causes understanding”), a leadership position in the Dead Sea sect (see Chapters 7 and 20 in this volume). This chapter examines forms of education and the training of learned individuals in ancient Israel and Second Temple Judaism. Spheres of authority such as the court and temple are important loci of pedagogy and writing. However, while the literacy rate was quite low in terms of society as a whole, it was possible for Jews to attain sophisticated levels of education, including the ability to write complicated texts, outside of any sort of official bureaucracy. The Dead Sea sect offers the clearest example of this phenomenon. The scrolls from Qumran, a crucial source for understanding ancient Jewish education, do not demonstrate the existence of institutionalized schools within Judaism during the late Second Temple period. They do, however, demonstrate that in this period the Torah played a central role in pedagogy and that one was encouraged to study it under the guidance of an authoritative teacher.

Education and Learned Individuals in Ancient Israel Scribes and Educated Bureaucrats in the Hebrew Bible Sections of what became the Hebrew Bible began to circulate as authoritative scripture in the Second Temple period, preserving texts and traditions about earlier times. The biblical text provides ample accounts of learned, literate persons involved in the administration of the Davidic monarchy. The court of King David includes scribes (e.g. 2 Sam. 8:17; 20:25), as does that of Solomon and other kings (e.g. 1 Kgs. 4:3; 2

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Kgs. 12:11; Grabbe 2014, 107). The names of individual scribes are preserved, such as Shebna, Shapan, or Elishama (2 Kgs. 18:18; 22:8–10; Jer. 36:20–21). Jeremiah is imprisoned in the house of a scribe named Jonathan, one of the many court officials infuriated by the prophet’s proclamations against the Judean monarchy (Jer. 37:15, 20). Jeremiah, whose prophetic activity is dated to the late seventh to early sixth centuries, famously complains that while the people of Israel confidently say that they have the Torah of God, “the false pen of the scribes (sopherim) has made it into a lie” (8:8; cf. 2:8; Hos. 8:12). This may be a polemic allusion to priestly authority over Torah texts, or perhaps a derisive comment against written forms of the law in general, as opposed to older forms of it preserved orally (van der Toorn 2007, 77). In any case, Jer. 8:8 is an early witness to the term “scribes” denoting officials who have some sort of scholarly responsibility, transmitting a form of the written Torah. Some scribes are associated with priests, such as Zadok (2 Sam. 8:17; 1 Kgs. 4:4; cf. 2 Kgs. 12:2), suggesting that scribes were involved in the administration of the temple. There are also indications that authoritative scriptures were preserved and even taught by sacerdotal officials. Deuteronomy mandates that Levites teach Israel the “Torah,” which in the context of the book may only refer to Deuteronomy itself (33:10; cf. 32:46). While this does not necessarily reflect the historical reality of ancient Israel, Deuteronomy suggests that by the seventh century BCE (a general date for the origins of the book) authoritative writings were highly valued by the scribal professionals who produced them and they regarded them as material all of Israel should revere (see also the next section). According to the Hebrew Bible scribes had a range of functions. Some, particularly figures whose names are preserved, are depicted as high‐level officials who interacted directly with kings, as is the case, for example, with Shebnah in 2 Kings 18 and Isaiah 36. The term “scribe” can denote figures who did not simply perform administrative tasks that required writing but wielded great political power. The “scribe of the king,” for example, is depicted alongside the high priest in 2 Kings 12, distributing money to pay carpenters and stonemasons whose labor repaired the temple (cf. 2 Chr. 24:11; Carr 2005, 117). Shebnah is called “master of the royal household” (lit. “one over the house”) in Isa. 22:15. Scribes were also employed in less prestigious positions involved in the basic administration of the state, as discussed further below. There are also other terms for bureaucrats in the Hebrew Bible aside from sopher (“scribe”). Joah ben Asaph, for example, is called a “recorder” (mazkir), a term that suggests the office involved the composition of court annals and the memorialization of the king’s reign (2 Kgs. 18:18; cf. 1 Kgs. 4:3; Isa. 36:3).

Forms and Loci of Education in Ancient Israel The various scribal figures mentioned in the Hebrew Bible, whether they represent genuine historical figures or not, highlight the fact that core social and political

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institutions of ancient Israel – the monarchy and the temple – required bureaucrats and officials who had acquired various levels of education. For lower level officials this required literacy sufficient for basic clerical tasks, whereas others with more power required training in a range of more advanced topics, such as law, ethics, and international affairs. A basic locus of education in ancient Israel was the family (Crenshaw 1998, 86; Carr 2005, 13). It is reasonable to suppose that men employed as scribes of various sorts handed down their craft to their sons. In sayings preserved in wisdom literature the student is often addressed as “my son.” While this language surely helped construct teachers’ status by appropriating the authority of the father, the usage of “my son” in wisdom texts likely often had a literal meaning in the context of ancient Israel, reflecting the education of children in the home. (Note that Proverbs repeatedly urges one to heed learning from one’s father and mother; 1:8; 4:3; 6:20; 23:22.) While the formats of education involved in the training of scribal officials cannot be reconstructed with full confidence, wisdom literature, above all the book of Proverbs, preserves material used in this process (for more on this text, see the volume in this essay by Vayntrub). The traditional attribution of the book to King Solomon, hailed in the Hebrew Bible both for his wisdom and the establishment of the administrative structure of the Judean kingdom, unites an emphasis on learning with statecraft (1 Kings 4). Some material in Proverbs is clearly designed for upper class students in a bureaucratic setting. Proverbs 22:29, for example, reads “Do you see those who are skillful in their work? They will serve kings; they will not serve common people.” The very next saying (23:1) gives instruction on the proper etiquette one should follow when at a banquet with a “ruler” (or “official”). Proverbs 25:1, the beginning of a unit of the book (25:1–29:27), claims that what follows are proverbs which “the men of King Hezekiah of Judah copied.” The exact textual activity attributed to these officials is ambiguous; the act of copying by officials perhaps presumes they collected and preserved traditional sayings that were in circulation throughout Israel (see also the following section). In any case, Prov. 25:1 suggests that the Judean court in the seventh century BCE exhibited an interest in proverbs. The court’s concern for sayings was likely not simply motivated by a desire to preserve them but also because of their value in the instruction of court officials (see, for example, Prov. 28:3, 16; 29:16). The book of Proverbs emphasizes that one write down teachings “on the tablet of your heart,” a metaphor that conveys memorization and recitation (of proverbs, presumably) as pedagogical exercises (3:3; 6:20–21; 7:3; Carr 2005). This allows one to infer reasonably that such techniques were conducted in the process of training people to assume various bureaucratic positions in the monarchy. Not only wisdom texts played a role in the training of bureaucrats (Carr 2005, 132, 157). As indicated by some of the texts that have already been discussed (e.g. Jer. 8:8; Deut. 33:10), early versions of Torah texts were taught and transmitted by the seventh or sixth century BCE. This suggests that these scriptural writings, whatever

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their pre‐exilic forms, played some role in the education of scribes ensconced in either a royal or temple bureaucracy. Other texts likely did as well. The monarchic history mentions several now lost annalistic books that recounted the reigns of kings, such as “the Book of the Annals of the Kings of Judah” (e.g. 1 Kgs. 14:29). Such writings would have been produced and transmitted by court scribes. King David orders that the people of Israel be taught the “Song of the Bow,” a lamentation over King Saul and his son Jonathan that is written in the now lost Book of Jashar (2 Sam. 1:8–19; see esp. v. 8). While the historicity of this event is dubious, its verisimilitude suggests that its authors considered it reasonable and possible that royal officials had the training to disseminate and teach a text (presumably in oral form) to a very broad audience (cf. Deut. 31:19, 22; 32:44–46). The teaching of the Song of the Bow throughout Israel raises the issue of education beyond the narrow confines of the temple and the court. Deuteronomy praises the promotion of learning and study as valuable for all Israel (4:6–8; 6:7). The book stresses that the process of enculturating the new generation in Mosaic law should involve the parents writing down commandments, with such texts affixed to arm and head bands (phylacteries) and doorposts (mezuzot) (vv. 8–9; cf. 11:18–21). While the didactic ideal espoused in Deuteronomy does not necessarily reflect the historical ­reality of Judah in the seventh century BCE, it suggests that forms of e­ ducation  – including training in literacy  –  were possible in ancient Israel in non‐elite settings. Deuteronomy also refers to aspects of culture that involved writing, such as bills of divorce (24:1–4). Wisdom literature also acknowledges education beyond elite or official circles. As mentioned above, Prov. 25:1 suggests that officials in the court of Hezekiah (late seventh–early sixth century BCE), may have collected folk wisdom from rural areas. Some sayings in this unit (Prov. 25–29) reflect a pastoral, agricultural setting (e.g. 26:3; 27:23; cf. 24:30–34). Aside from the relationship of this material to the monarchy, it suggests that proverbial sayings developed in rural areas, which would indicate that they played a role in pedagogical practices, presumably including techniques of memorization and recitation, which took place in such ­settings (cf. Deut. 6:7). That education, including training in literacy, was possible in locales removed from official power is also suggested by the prophetic books of the Hebrew Bible. Baruch is called a “scribe” (e.g. Jer. 36:32) but he does not work for the court. Rather he writes on behalf of Jeremiah, that fierce critic of Judean kings (e.g. v. 4). In Isa. 8:16 Isaiah is urged to “bind” his testimony among his disciples (lit. “­students”), which portrays the prophet as a teacher‐figure whose students have the skills to affix his proclamations, which are in general oral, in written form (cf. 29:11).

Epigraphic Evidence for Education Numerous non‐biblical, primarily epigraphic (inscriptional) sources help us understand pedagogical practices and literacy in ancient Israel (Rollston 2010; Schmidt 2015).

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There are a range of abecedaries, or written alphabetic sequences of letters, found in sites such as Izbet Ṣarṭah (twelfth century BCE), Lachish (eighth and sixth centuries), and Kuntillet ʿAjrud (late ninth–early eighth centuries) (Crenshaw 1998, 100–108; Lemaire 1981, 7–32). Such evidence indicates that written texts played a role in people’s acquisition of the Hebrew alphabet in locales throughout Israel. This transfer of knowledge was not restricted to official bureaucratic settings. Continuity with regard to how Hebrew is written in inscriptions over several centuries (ninth to sixth centuries BCE) testifies to a degree of standardization in writing (Rollston 2010, 95; Sanders 2009, 126). This would imply some form of scribal education by which techniques and styles of writings were preserved and transmitted. There are also ostraca (potsherds), a common and easily available material, on which words and letters are repeated, such as inscription 99 from Arad (eighth century BCE). Such texts are likely practice exercises that were carried out by individuals at early stages of acquiring basic literacy (cf. Isa. 28:9–13; Carr 2005, 123). Some of the epigraphic sources attest writing conducted in administrative capacities. The phrase l‐mlk (“belonging to the king”) is written on several hundred jar handles from the time of Hezekiah. These jars likely attest governmental distribution of rations during the siege of the Assyrian king Sennarcherib (Schniedewind 2004, 99). Such material gives an impression of the kinds of official writing carried out by relatively low‐level scribes working for the monarchy. Inscribed weights and bullae (seal impressions used to authenticate documents) also attest the role of literacy in ordinary life in ancient Israel. A series of ostraca found at Lachich (early sixth century) includes a letter from a junior military officer (Hoshayahu) to his superior (Yaush), in which the former is offended by the latter’s assertion that he cannot read (Lachish Letter 3). The text suggests that while one did not expect a low‐level officer to be literate, it was possible. While written literacy was not widespread in ancient Israel, both biblical and non‐biblical sources suggest that education, including training in written literacy, was possible outside official, elite circles.

The Torah, Scribes, and Priestly Intellectuals in the Persian Period During the era between the Babylonian Exile and the advent of Alexander the Great, Judah was known as Yehud, a province in the powerful Persian empire (539–323 BCE). There is extensive evidence from this period for both advanced and basic levels of education in a Jewish context, including training in written literacy. Often the relevant material is in Aramaic, which was used extensively throughout the Persian empire. The Elephantine papyri include numerous Aramaic documents written by Jews stationed at a military fortress in Upper Egypt during the fifth century BCE. Persia controlled Egypt at the time. The Elephantine horde includes written correspondence between this community and Persian officials, testifying to scribes and

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written literacy in a military context. These letters accord with the Persian era book of Ezra, discussed further below, since this text likewise purports to contain copies of official correspondence with Persian rulers in Aramaic (Ezra 4:11–22; 5:6–17; 7:11–26; cf. 6:6–12). Several of the Elephantine documents include the names of the scribes who produced them. The end of a document regarding a dowry states, for example, that it was written by Haggai son of Shemaiah (B44; Porten et  al. 2011, 244). Such material provides an impression of the role written documents had in the lives of ordinary Judeans. The term “scribe” in the Elephantine texts can also signify bureaucrats with decision‐making authority. In one document a person named Shelomam has a complaint about non‐payment of salary and is urged to take his grievance to “the scribes” (B8; Porten et al., 2011, 109). A letter to Arsames, the Persian governor of Egypt, lists “scribes of the province” (spry mdyntʿ ) along with other officials (B10, Porten et  al. 2011, 114). The sapiential text Ahiqar is included among the Elephantine horde, suggesting that it played a role in education among Jews stationed there (see Chapter  16 in this volume). This text, in which Ahiqar is a powerful advisor to the Assyrian king, begins by stating that it contains the words of a “wise and skillful scribe” (spr hkym w‐mhyr) to his son. This is another indication that the word “scribe” can denote important officials, while also invoking the trope that learning in the ancient Near East was often transmitted within elite, intellectual families. Books of the Hebrew Bible produced in the Persian period emphasize the importance of priests as teachers. 1–2 Chronicles, which reformulates the monarchic history recorded in the Samuel‐Kings books, not only preserves references to scribes made in these earlier books (e.g. Shaphan in 2 Chr. 34:15). These writings, in passages with no exact parallel in Samuel‐Kings, describe Levites as “scribes” (1 Chr. 24:6; 2 Chr. 34:12–13). 2 Chronicles 24, which is part of a reformulation of the account in 2 Kings 22 regarding renovations to the temple made during the time of King Josiah (seventh century BCE), portrays Levites as priestly “scribes” who supervise the laborers carrying out these renovations (cf. Neh. 13:13). Jonathan, a figure whom Chronicles depicts as an uncle of King David who is never mentioned in Samuel‐Kings, is a powerful scribe with close proximity to the king as his counselor (1 Chr. 27:32). In the Persian period the temple is restored but the Davidic monarchy is not, leading to the dominance of the temple as a focal point in Judean political life. This helps explain the prominence of levitical scribes in Chronicles when compared to Samuel‐Kings. Also, 1 Chr. 2:55 mentions the “families of scribes that lived at Jabez,” suggesting that during this period scribal craft was transmitted and preserved within particular families (cf. 2 Chr. 26:11; Schams 1998, 69). Scriptural books from the Persian period also testify to the importance of the Torah in Jewish education. 1–2 Chronicles present Levites and priests as teachers of Torah, expanding the older trope expressed in Deuteronomy (33:10) discussed above. 2 Chronicles 17, which reformulates the reign of King Jehoshaphat, makes a claim not found in the corresponding material in 1 Kings 22: that several named

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princes and Levites, along with two priests, “taught in Judah, having the book of the law (torah) of the Lord with them; they went around through all the cities of Judah and taught the people” (v. 9; cf. Mal 2:6–8). Whereas “the book of the law” in Deuteronomy often signifies Deuteronomy itself, “the book of the law of the Lord” in 2 Chr. 17:9 is likely an early reference to the Pentateuch. This is suggested by the books of Ezra and Nehemiah. They are written in the Persian period and there is overlap between the circles that produced these writings and Chronicles (compare 2 Chr. 26:22–23 and 1 Ezra 1:1–4). Ezra and Nehemiah quote early forms of pentateuchal writings. Ezra is described as a priest and a “scribe of the law of the God of heaven” (Ezra 7:12, 21; cf. vv. 6, 11; Neh. 8:9) (see the chapter by Kratz in Perdue 2008). Like Ahiqar in the Elephantine text, Ezra is called a “skilled” (mahir) scribe (7:6; cf. Ps. 45:2). “Scribe” in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah can denote someone who is both a powerful official and a scholar of the Torah. Ezra is loyal to the Persian throne, appointed by the Persians to be a ruler in Judah with a great deal of power. Ezra 7:25 states that he has the authority to appoint judges and he forcibly divorces marriages of mixed ethnicity (9:1–10:5; cf. Neh. 13:23–30). Ezra’s extensive authority rests upon the twin pillars of Persian imperial authority and the “law of your God” (Ezra 7:26). He presents this divine “law” as a book, which he associates with Moses (3:2; 7:6; cf. Neh. 8:1, 14). Ezra cites passages from this “law,” suggesting that the term denotes in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah an early form of the Pentateuch, or at least of its legal material (compare, for example, Ezra 9:11–15 with Lev. 18:24–30 and Deut. 7:3–4; Neh. 8:14–15 with Lev. 23:39–43). Ezra wants to ensure that people know and obey this Torah. Nehemiah 8 depicts him reading from it during a public assembly in Jerusalem, an act that implies the people needed to know it better (cf. 13:1). Consistent with the assertion in 2 Chr. 17:9 that Levites teach Israel the Torah, Ezra’s reading is accompanied by Levites who “helped the people to understand the law” (Neh. 8:7; cf. v. 13). The Torah, it is assumed, must be elucidated by learned experts to be understood properly. Ezra, as priest and scribe, is not simply one learned individual but a leading representative of a class of priestly literati whose learning is grounded in Pentateuchal writings. The authority of the Torah is presented in a “trickle‐down” format, imposed upon the Judean people with the authority of the Persian empire. This material in Ezra and Nehemiah constitutes an important early step in the development of the Torah into authoritative scriptures that are crucial to the education and identity formation of the Jewish people (discussed further in the next section). The emergence of some form of the Torah as authoritative writing in the Persian period is also suggested by Hecataeus, a Greek philosopher from the fourth century BCE, who, in one of the earliest descriptions of Jews written in Greek, describes them as guided by the laws of Moses (Diodorus Siculus 40.3.1–8). The books of Ezra and Nehemiah also testify to the importance of priests and Levites as scribes and bureaucrats in the Persian period in other ways. They pre-

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serve and produce a range of other documents, such as genealogical records (Ezra 2:62; cf. Neh. 7:7) and putative correspondence with Persian officials (e.g. Ezra 4:11–16; cf. Neh. 6:17, 19). They also produce a document that summarizes the commitment of priests and Levites to God and the covenant that lists the names of these sacerdotal individuals who have made this decision (Neh. 9:38–10:27). The book of Ecclesiastes (Qoheleth) is a scriptural book that may date to the Persian period, although it could have been written when the Ptolemaic dynasty of Egypt controlled much of Palestine (third century BCE). The book sheds light on pedagogical practices of this general period (for a full discussion of Ecclesiastes, see Chapter 3 in this volume). The book offers a rich portrait of a learned individual. Ecclesiastes is a teacher whose students preserve and revere his words (12:9–10). He is never called a “scribe” (sopher), unlike Ezra. Moreover, also in contrast to Ezra, the Torah does not seem to have been an important source for the book of Ecclesiastes. Much of the composition consists of sayings, some of which cohere well with material in Proverbs (compare Eccl. 10:8 and Prov. 27:26). The book suggests, as does the Elephantine book of Ahiqar, that written collections of proverbs circulated among literate Jews in the Persian period, and that some form of the book of Proverbs helped shape the content of these collections. Much of the book of Ecclesiastes contains ruminations on the nature of the cosmos and the human condition. Relatively few of its sayings seem well suited to training people for administrative positions (e.g. 7:21). Ecclesiastes does not seem to have been co‐opted for use in an official or bureaucratic setting, in contrast to Proverbs. The book of Ecclesiastes, which appears to have been produced in an upper‐class setting, suggests that sophisticated levels of learning were possible in that milieu without an emphasis on training for scribes required to carry out their administrative duties.

Scribes, Sects, and the Study of the Torah in Hellenistic Judaism Greek Learning in Jewish Contexts The Hellenistic age, which spans approximately three centuries (323–31 BCE), is characterized by a range of developments and innovations that impacted the nature of education and the formation of learned individuals in Judaism. These developments constitute an important foundation for later periods, such as the first century CE, when Rome controlled Judea. The Ptolemaic and Seleucid empires, founded by the generals of Alexander the Great, assumed control over a vast range of territory, from Egypt to Iran (Goff 2016). Greek learning (paideia), which included training in the Greek language and textual study, typically centered upon the memorization and recitation of Homer, spread throughout the region. Jewish literature from this period from the Diaspora (outside of Palestine) is typically written in Greek. Some Diaspora Jews, such as Philo and Aristobulus, were steeped in Jewish

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tradition while having also received an extensive Greek education (see Chapter 13). Both authors synthesize a range of disparate themes, such as Jewish monotheism, biblical interpretation and Greek philosophy. The Septuagint (also called the LXX), the translation of Hebrew scriptures into Greek first carried out in the third century BCE, indicates that some Jews during the period were textual scholars who had a sophisticated mastery of both Hebrew and Greek. They were also familiar with Greek culture. Occasionally a LXX translator appeals, for example, to Greek myth to make a Hebrew idiom intelligible. Whereas Sheol, for instance, is the common name for the underworld in the Hebrew Bible, it is called Tartarus in the Greek versions of Proverbs and the book of Job (LXX Prov. 30:16; Job. 40:20; 41:32). This is the name of the underworld in Greek myth (Hesiod, Theog. 726–825). There is substantial evidence for Greek learning in Palestine as well. Some Jewish writings from the land of Israel written in this period are in Greek, such as Theodotus and Pseudo‐Eupolemus (for an overview of these texts, see Collins 2000). No Jewish Palestinian text attests, however, the extent of Greek learning found in Philo. Manuscripts discovered in the Judean desert include several Greek manuscripts, including scriptural texts, such as versions of the minor prophets books found at Nahal Hever (8HevXIIgr; first century CE). The Maccabean books report that a gymnasium, a classic center of Greek paideia, was built in Jerusalem (1 Macc. 1:14; 2 Macc. 4:9). This assertion, if historically valid, would indicate that Homer was studied, at least by a small number of elite males, in Jerusalem in the early second century BCE.

Hellenistic Textuality and the Centrality of the Torah Hellenistic modes of learning, with a focus on written textuality, shape the expression of Jewish pedagogy in this era. 2 Maccabees claims that Nehemiah founded a library and that Judas after the Maccabean war collected all the books that were lost during this conflict, including the scriptures that form the Hebrew Bible (2:13–15). The period includes an expansive production of literature attributed to Enoch, collectively titled 1 Enoch, which present him as a “scribe” who writes documents and as an all‐knowing antediluvian sage (1 En. 12:4; 13:1; see Chapter 16 in this volume). Enoch is never associated with writing or books in the Hebrew Bible. The transformation of Enoch into a pseudonymous author and a scribe with heavenly knowledge attests the increased interest in writtenness within Judaism during the Hellenistic period. The Dead Sea Scrolls constitute a massive horde of texts, approximately 930, mostly composed in the second and first centuries BCE, which testify to a robust and expansive degree of textual study and education. As discussed above, the earlier testimony from Ezra depicts the Torah as forced upon Judea with the imprimatur of  the Persian state. In the Hellenistic period the Torah becomes an authentic,

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if  ­disputed, source of Jewish identity. It has been proposed by scholars such as Bickerman that the rise of the Torah as the fundamental educational document of Judaism developed as an effort to oppose the dominance of Greek learning, in which Homer is paramount (Goff 2017). While there is no explicit evidence for this position, it makes sense to understand the centrality of the Torah in Hellenistic terms. It is not simply an issue of Hellenistic cultural norms fomenting increased interest in written textuality among Jews. This process is likely also shaped by the anti‐Judaism policies of the Seleucid ruler Antiochus IV, which triggered the Maccabean revolt in the early second century BCE (for an overview of this event, see Goff 2016, 248– 251). During this crisis copies of the Torah were purportedly burned and women could be killed for having their sons circumcised (1 Macc. 1:55, 60). The Maccabean crisis was an important catalyst in the development of the Torah becoming central to Jewish identity. It forced Jews to articulate their relationship to, and understanding of, the Torah. After this crisis there is a proliferation of Jewish sects during the Hasmonean dynasty (142–63 BCE), which wrested control of Judah from the Seleucid Empire. The interpretation of Torah emerges as a paramount and divisive issue in this period. The sectarian movement responsible for the Dead Sea Scrolls (more on which below), has a polemical relationship with various other sects, including the Pharisees. Their disagreements are predicated on the conviction that understanding the Torah properly is required to obey God’s covenant, and that this crucial knowledge is acquired by following interpretations of the law promulgated by an authoritative teacher. Halakhic (legal) opinions comprise a major source of sectarian division. One Qumran text, entitled “Some Works of the Torah” (4QMMT), depicts adherents of the Dead Sea sect debating with non‐group members. In this composition they defend a number of halakhic positions which they persuade their addressees to adopt (4Q398 [4QMMTe] 14–17 ii 3–7). Halakhic intellectuals produce a range of major texts in this period, such as Jubilees and the Temple Scroll, which rework scripture in intricate and sophisticated ways to articulate a range of interpretations of biblical law (Najman 2003, 41–69). The Torah was also a central text in synagogues, centers of Jewish worship that were prevalent by the first ­century CE, in which the study of the Torah in both Israel and the Diaspora was commonplace (Josephus, Ag. Ap. 2.175; Philo, Embassy 156; cf. Luke 4:16–30; Acts 15:21). A combination of broad Hellenistic and inner‐Jewish factors helps explain the prominence of the Torah in this period.

Education in the Dead Sea sect The scrolls found in the caves near Qumran by the Dead Sea, many of which were written during the second and first centuries BCE, have in recent years been fully published. This large horde of texts, written primarily in Hebrew and Aramaic, opens up new opportunities to understand ancient Jewish education (Goff 2017).

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The texts constitute material artifacts of written literacy and allow insight into techniques of scribal craft (Tov 2004). The classification of the handwriting attested in the scrolls into distinct types classified by period (Hasmonean, Herodian, etc.) suggests a degree of standardization in writing and thus some degree of formalized training regarding writing and the production of texts. While none of the Qumran scrolls extensively describes the pedagogical process that endowed the people with the scribal skills required to produce these documents, they offer a detailed portrait of a sectarian community with a rigorous devotion to learning and textual study. This group is referred to in the scrolls as the yahad (Hebrew for “unity”) or the “sons of light.” The study of Torah was a central preoccupation of this group. According to the Community Rule, a rulebook which provides guidelines for the daily life of sect members, when at least 10 adherents of the group are together, one of them should be reciting and interpreting Torah (1QS 6:6–8). They evaluated members annually on the basis of their deeds and “insight” (skl; 5:23–24; cf. CD 13:11), a term that denotes intelligence in Proverbs (e.g. 1:3; cf. Neh. 8:8). Proverbs encourages one to strive for this type of “insight.” This suggests that values enshrined in Proverbs helped shaped the pedagogical program of the Dead Sea sect. The scrolls include numerous sapiential texts, such as 4QInstruction, which in various ways encourage study and learning (see Chapter 7 in this volume; Goff 2007). One major leadership office of the sect is the Instructor (maskil, related to the root skl). According to the Community Rule, one of his key duties is to instruct group members in “the mysteries of wonder and of truth, so that they walk perfectly … in all that has been revealed to them” (1QS 9:18–19). Several texts describe songs the maskil is to learn and recite (e.g. 4Q510–511), suggesting that music may have played some role in the education of sect members. The book of Daniel also describes learned men as “instructors” (maskilim) who helped give the people of Israel understanding during the Maccabean crisis (11:33). This probably involved teaching the apocalyptic visions of the book that envision the downfall of the violent king Antiochus (e.g. ch. 7). The maskilim of Daniel, like those of the Dead Sea sect, are teachers whose pedagogical authority is based in part on their ability to transmit supernatural revelation. The Dead Sea sect’s devotion to the Torah is shaped by the conviction that its members possess privileged divine knowledge about how it should be understood (1QS 5:9–11; CD 3:13–15). The group is devoted to preserving and carrying out the teachings of the founder of the group, whom the scrolls refer to as the Teacher of Righteousness (CD 1:11, 20:27–32). He is revered as an exceptional individual to whom God revealed heavenly knowledge about how the Torah and other authoritative writings should be interpreted (1QpHab 7:4–5). The material evidence of the Dead Sea Scrolls adheres with the perspective that this corpus of texts was produced by a sect committed to studying scriptural texts. This is suggested by the sheer volume of such writings found at Qumran. Of the approximately 930 Qumran texts, well over 200 correspond to material in our

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Hebrew Bible. These manuscripts provide opportunities to understand Torah‐based pedagogical techniques carried out at the time. There is a rich variety of textual variation among these texts. The pluriform and fluid nature of the Torah in the Hasmonean period can be explained in part by positing that people were copying out scriptural texts from memory. This diversity may also indicate that the memorization and copying of Torah passages was at times carried out as pedagogical exercises. For example, one Qumran text of Genesis, 4QGenf (4Q6), contains the text of Gen. 48:1–11. It is on a single sheet without any evidence that it was ever sewn to others. It appears not to have been produced as part of a scroll of the book of Genesis. 4Q6 was likely copied out, perhaps from memory, as a didactic exercise, testing one’s scribal acumen and knowledge of scripture (Tov 2004, 14). Ancient Mesopotamia and Egypt contain numerous examples of “schoolboy” exercises, texts with poorly written letters, or repetition of words or letters, by students learning to write. The Dead Sea Scrolls have no analogous material. The scrolls include no abecedaries which, as mentioned above, were used to teach the alphabet in ancient Israel. An abecedary was, however, found at the Qumran site itself (KhQOstracon 3). Three texts from the Qumran horde can be construed as exercises by people learning to write (4Q234, 4Q360, and 4Q341). They attest seemingly random repetition of words and phrases. These manuscripts may be material evidence for writers testing the functionality of their writing utensils, rather than early stages of literacy acquisition (Goff 2017). There is no explicit evidence that the stringent education conducted within the Dead Sea sect included basic literacy. The documents proceed with the assumption that sect members have the ability to read, recite, and study texts. It is possible that such training was carried out by the sect but is not described in its extant literature. This basic education may have been acquired in the home by individuals who joined the group later in life. Virtually none of the learning and textual study carried out by yahad is driven by professional scribal concerns. The writings of the Dead Sea sect often evince disdain towards official centers of power of Judean society, such as the Jerusalem temple and the Hasmonean court (e.g. CD 6:11–14; 1QpHab 9:1–7). This posture may explain the odd phenomenon that despite the sect’s voluminous scribal activities, no Qumran text ever describes a member as a “scribe” (sopher; Adams 2016, 59). One of the few instances of this word is in the Psalms Scroll, which describes David as a “scribe” (11Q5 27:2; cf. 4Q461 2 1). The cognate term in Aramaic (spr) is used for Enoch (e.g. 4Q203 8 4; cf. 4Q550 2 4). Relatedly, only 13 of the over 900 Qumran texts are documents regarding sales or contracts – the exact sort of textual work that scribes were employed in antiquity to do (4Q344–358; cf. 6Q26). There is no sense whatsoever that sect members engaged in their intensive regimen of study in order to secure bureaucratic positions that required advanced training in written literacy. The driving incentive is rather the desire to obey God and follow his commandments. The Dead Sea Scrolls provide decisive proof that advanced forms of literacy and textual study could flourish outside official centers of power in Judea during the first century BCE.

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Scribes in the Hellenistic Age There is extensive evidence in the Hellenistic period, as one would expect, for people with training in literacy and textual production who are employed by the state. The Zenon archive preserves extensive correspondence in Greek of an agent by the name of Zenon who was employed by a wealthy individual, Apollonius, who was the finance minister of the Egyptian king Ptolemy II in the middle of the third century BCE. At this time the Ptolemaic dynasty ruled Palestine. Zenon traveled extensively throughout the region on behalf of Apollonius, conducting various business arrangements, such as the management of estates and the collection of debts. Zenon, though not called a scribe (grammateus), can be reasonably understood as one in the broad sense described above – someone who not only writes texts but also wields extensive power within a government bureaucracy (Grabbe 2014, 110). The depiction of scribes as powerful officials is also evident in the apocryphal Maccabean books. 2 Maccabees 6 offers an account of a man named Eleazar who is tortured to death during the Maccabean crisis for refusing to eat pork. He is described as an elderly man of noble comportment who is “one of the scribes in high position” (v. 18; cf. LXX Esth. 3:12; 9:3; 3 Macc. 4:17). 4 Maccabees, a later text (first century CE), describes Eleazar as an expert in the law (5:4), supporting the view that the education acquired by elite scribes was centered on the Torah. 1 Maccabees uses the term “scribe” to denote a group of people with considerable influence. They seek to negotiate terms of peace with the high priest Alcimus and a top Seleucid official (Bacchides) around 160 BCE (7:12–13). The passage likely presents these scribes as including the “Hasideans” (the pious ones), a group which elsewhere in the Maccabean books is described as militaristic and zealously devoted to the Torah (1 Macc. 2:42–48; 2 Macc. 14:6; Schams 1998, 117–20). This would also support the plausible perspective that scribal training in Palestine in this period was bound to studying the Torah. Josephus, writing in the late first century CE about the history of Judaism, claims to include a copy of a decree from the Seleucid king Antiochus III (198 BCE) which mentions the “scribes of the temple” (Ant. 12.142; cf. 11.128; J.W. 1.529; 5.532; 6.291). Scribes affiliated with the temple were likely not only involved in its administration but also responsible for the copying and preservation of sacred texts. An Aramaic text from Qumran depicts the patriarch Levi, from whom priests traced their descent, telling his sons to teach their own sons “reading (spr), instruction and wisdom” (4Q213 1 i 9; cf. T. Lev. 8:17; 13:2; Jub. 45:15; van der Toorn 2007, 91). The New Testament gospels, set in Judah during the first century CE, also describe “scribes” as learned individuals with power and wealth (Matt. 23:2–7; cf. Mark 7:1; Luke 5:21; Acts 23:9; Saldarini 1988). There is also some evidence for scribes connected to official bureaucracies who are in relatively low positions. Josephus mentions “village scribes” (J.W. 1.479; Ant. 16.203), administrative officials who wielded power in particular rural settings rather than throughout Judea as a whole (Adams 2016, 54; Grabbe 2014, 110–114). There

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were also scribes who were administrative officials in the military (1 Macc. 5:42; cf. LXX Isa. 36:22; Schams 1998, 115–116).

Ben Sira and Torah‐Centered Scribal Training The suggestion that administrative scribes in Palestine were steeped in Torah learning is strongly suggested by Ben Sira. The book of Ben Sira, written in Hebrew during the early second century BCE, is the lengthiest example of a Jewish wisdom text from the Hellenistic period (see Chapter 5 in this volume). The composition describes Ben Sira as having attained a pinnacle of Jewish learning. He can be reasonably characterized as a sage. An important source of his erudition is the wisdom tradition. The composition draws extensively from some form of the book of Proverbs, as is evident from the well‐known adaptation in Ben Sira 24 of the figure of personified wisdom from Proverbs 8. Much of the book of Ben Sira constitutes collections of proverbs, showing extensive use of a literary form that is ubiquitous in Proverbs (cf. 4 Macc. 18:16). The sage Ben Sira is also an expert in the Torah, which he praises and utilizes extensively, even though the precise form of the Torah was somewhat fluid in this period. He is, moreover, a teacher. He invites students to learn from him, boasting that he can serve as the conduit through which the divine wisdom contained in the Torah can be transmitted to them (24:30–34; cf. 6:34– 37). Though likely a later addition to the text, Sir. 51:23 invites people to study at the sage’s “house of instruction”; the Hebrew for this phrase is bet midrash, an important term in rabbinic Judaism for a place of Torah study (cf. 44:3–4). The book of Ben Sira endorses the perspective that Torah study was to be conducted under the tutelage of a teacher. The composition is a key witness to the importance of both the book of Proverbs and Torah in Jewish pedagogy in the late Second Temple period. The Qumran text 4QBeatitudes (4Q525) also attests the educational importance of both textual sources (see Chapter 7). The envisioned students of Ben Sira are from an upper class milieu. Ben Sira encourages them to lend money to those in need (29:9–12), without consideration of the possibility that they themselves would ever need charity. The book provides instruction on conduct during banquets and how to comport oneself when speaking before powerful and influential people (13:9–11; 31:12–32:13). Ben Sira also advocates loyalty to mainstream institutions such as the temple, in stark contrast to the Dead Sea sect (7:29; 50:1–24). Ben Sira can be reasonably understood not just as a sage in the sense of a man steeped in Jewish learning but also as a scribe, i.e. signifying that he is an educated man who is loyal to and exercises power as part of the bureaucracy of the state. He can be reasonably understood as training students to become scribes at various levels of service. Ben Sira 38:24–39:11 offers his students an elaborate portrait of the scribe (sopher). The office is praised as superior to professions that involve physical labor, such as being a farmer or smith. The vignette

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portrays the scribe as one who studies the Torah and proverbial sayings, twin pillars in the acquisition of wisdom (38:34–39:2). The scribe also travels throughout the world and gives counsel to kings. This passage is further evidence that the term “scribe” can denote not simply one who writes but also a court intellectual with great power. The text’s portrait is highly idealized. Ben Sira 39:10, for example, states that a scribe’s wisdom acquires a legendary reputation throughout the world. It is reminiscent of what the Bible says about the legendary wisdom of King Solomon (1 Kgs. 4:29–31).

Conclusion The evidence, both textual and epigraphic, illustrates that experts in writing were critical for the functioning of official loci of power such as the temple and the royal court. Such individuals are generally called scribes but the term can denote both low‐level bureaucrats and officials with political power. Forms of education also took place outside official realms of power, as the Dead Sea Scrolls amply demonstrate. The Torah as a collection of authoritative scriptures appears in Ezra and in the Hellenistic period it becomes a central focus of Jewish identity and pedagogy. While scholars have traditionally sought to delineate the presence of schools, the evidence from the Persian and Hellenistic periods regarding the study of the Torah suggests that this learning was not conducted in the context of formalized schools, but rather via clusters of individuals, with each group devoted to a particular teacher and his interpretation of Torah. The Hebrew Bible and various others sources, both early and late, suggest that education, including training in written literacy, was an important element of the culture of both ancient Israel and Second Temple Judaism.

References Adams, Samuel L. 2016. The social location of the scribe in the Second Temple Period. In: Sibyls, Scriptures, and Scrolls: John Collins at Seventy, Volume 1 (ed. Joel Baden, Hindy Najman, and Eibert Tigchelaar), 22–38. Leiden: Brill. Bloomer, W. Martin (ed.) 2015. A Companion to Ancient Education. Oxford: Wiley Blackwell. Carr, David M. 2005. Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature. New York: Oxford University Press.

Collins, John J. 2000. Between Athens and Jerusalem: Jewish Identity in the Hellenistic Diaspora. 2nd ed. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Crenshaw, James L. 1998. Education in Ancient Israel: Across the Deadening Silence. New York: Doubleday. Goff, Matthew J. 2007. Discerning Wisdom: The Sapiential Literature of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Leiden: Brill. Goff, Matthew J. 2016. The Hellenistic period. In: The Wiley Blackwell Companion

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to Ancient Israel (ed. Susan Niditch), 241–256. Oxford: Wiley Blackwell. Goff, Matthew J. 2017. Students of God in the house of Torah: Education in the Dead Sea Scrolls. In: Second Temple Jewish ›Paideia‹ in Context (ed. Gabriele Boccaccini and Jason M. Zurawski, 71–89. Berlin: de Gruyter. Grabbe, Lester L. 2014. Scribes, writing, and epigraphy in the Second Temple period. In: “See, I Will Bring a Scroll Recounting What Befell Me” (Ps 40:8): Epigraphy and Daily Life from the Bible to the Talmud: Dedicated to the Memory of Hanan Eshel (ed. Esther Eshel and Yigal Levin), 105–122. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Horsely, Richard A. 2009. Revolt of the Scribes: Resistance and Apocalyptic Origins. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Lemaire, André. 1981. Les Écoles et la formation de la Bible dans l’ancien Israël. Fribourg: Éditions Universitaires. Najman, Hindy. 2003. Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple Judaism. Leiden: Brill. Perdue, Leo G. (ed.) 2008. Scribes, Sages, and Seers: The Sage in the Eastern Mediterranean World. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Porten, Bezalel with Farber, J.J, Martin, C.J, Vittmann, G., et al. 2011. The Elephantine Papyri in English: Three Millennia of Cross‐Cultural Continuity and

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Change. 2nd rev. ed. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Rollston, Christopher A. 2010. Writing and Literacy in the World of Ancient Israel: Epigraphic Evidence from the Iron Age. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Saldarini, Anthony J. 1988. Pharisees, Scribes and Sadducees in Palestinian Society: A Sociological Approach. Wilmington, DE: M. Glazier. Sanders, Seth L. 2009. The Invention of Hebrew. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Sanders, Seth L. 2016. From Adapa to Enoch: Scribal Culture and Religious Vision in Judea and Babylonia. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Schams, Christine. 1998. Jewish Scribes in the Second‐Temple Period. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Schmidt, Brian B. (ed.) 2015. Contextualizing Israel’s Sacred Writings: Ancient Literacy, Orality and Literary Production. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Schniedewind, William M. 2004. How the Bible Became A Book: The Textualization of Ancient Israel. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tov, Emanuel. 2004. Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the Texts Found in the Judean Desert. Leiden: Brill. Van der Toorn, Karel. 2007. Scribal Culture and the Making of the Hebrew Bible. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

Further Reading Collins, John J. 2017. The Invention of Judaism: Torah and Jewish Identity from Deuteronomy to Paul. Oakland: University of California Press. A recent and concise overview of the significance and various

conceptions of the Torah in the Second Temple period. Hogan, Karina Martin, Goff, Matthew, and Wasserman, Emma. (eds.) 2017. Pedagogy in Early Judaism and Early

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Christianity. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. A current collection of essays on pedagogical issues in ancient Judaism and early Christianity. Kalmin, Richard. 1999. The Sage in Jewish Society of Late Antiquity. London: Routledge. A helpful study of the rabbinic sage in late antiquity. Marrou, Henri I. 1956. A History of Education in Antiquity. New York: Sheed & Ward. A classic examination of education in the ancient Greco‐Roman world. Quick, Laura. 2014. Recent research on ancient Israelite education: A bibliographic essay. Currents in Biblical Research 13 (2014): 9–33. An up‐to‐date review of scholarship on education in ancient Israel and early Judaism.

Vermes, Geza. 2012. The Complete Dead Sea Scrolls in English. rev. 7th ed. London: Penguin Classics. A standard and accessible translation of the Dead Sea Scrolls. VanderKam, James C. and Flint, Peter. 2002. The Meaning of the Dead Sea Scrolls: Their Significance for Understanding the Bible, Judaism, Jesus, and Christianity. San Francisco, CA: HarperSanFrancisco. A leading introduction to the Dead Sea Scrolls. Vayntrub, Jacqueline. 2016. The book of Proverbs and the idea of ancient Israelite education. Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 128: 96–114. This recent article questions the place of the book of Proverbs in forms of education in ancient Israel.

CHAPTER 12

God in Wisdom Literature James L. Crenshaw

Introduction This chapter will examine the concept of deity in each of the five books commonly known as wisdom literature and inquire about the way in which the changing ideas of God reflect human need. In short, the evolution of God in the eyes of the sages will occupy center stage. Deeply embedded in two divisions of the Hebrew Bible  –  Torah and the Prophets – is the concept of a deity, called Yahweh, who was constantly involved in the lives of human beings, especially Abraham and his descendants. Claus Westermann (1976) has called this special deity a “saving” God in contrast to the “blessing” God of wisdom literature. The saving god applies best to patron deities in ancient Near Eastern texts, whereas the blessing god resembles high gods in Egypt and Mesopotamia. Only a selective use of “saving” justifies this language for the biblical Deity (Crenshaw 1993). To be sure, “saving” often works when one thinks of the descendants of Abraham, but the chosen people were frequently viewed as objects of divine wrath. Unfaithfulness on the part of Israel and Judah was thought to have led to defeat at the hands of foreign powers, especially Assyria and Babylon, and to exile beyond the homeland. And yet, according to the gifted poet who composed Isaiah 40–55, Yahweh did not give up on a chastened people but remained in the fray as redeemer, inaugurating a new exodus and restoring hope to the forlorn.

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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For those who did not descend from Abraham, according to sacred narrative, the language of a saving deity when applied to Yahweh is seldom apt. It does not do justice to the complex literary character of the God who dominates the pages of the Bible. The masses swept away by the flood could hardly praise their destroyer as a redeemer. Nor could the Egyptians who mourned the loss of their firstborn, the inhabitants who resided in the “promised land” in the thirteenth century, the Ammonites, Edomites, and countless others who, according to biblical tradition, were born to the wrong parents. The sages who collected, revised, and wrote the sayings in Proverbs, and the authors of the books of Job and Ecclesiastes, considered God the sovereign of all peoples, not the patron of a single ethnic group. Then does the term “blessing” accurately describe the God of the sages? It does not. First, because at least two of these books, Job and Ecclesiastes, characterize the Deity as bestowing misery rather than blessing on humankind. Often in the Hebrew Bible the word ʿamal is used to describe loathsome aspects of the human condition. For the unknown author of Gen. 3:9, a single word sufficed to describe the human condition as loathsome. That word, ʿamal, occurs 75 times in the Bible, 10 of which are in the book of Job and 35 in Ecclesiastes. Drawing on terminology from agriculture and anthropology, the author of Job links this word with “trouble” and “deceit” (Job 4:8; 15:35). The Psalms also employ ʿamal for the human condition. A change takes place in Ecclesiastes, however; this author, Qoheleth in Hebrew, never uses ʿamal to describe the lot of humankind; for that, he prefers hebel, a word with various nuances but essentially transience, lack of meaning, futile, and absurd. In Eccl. 2:18–23, the 10 uses of ʿamal indicate disquietude but the human condition is a state beyond misery, something futile, absurd, and ephemeral (Crenshaw 2014). A second reason “blessing” is not quite correct when referring to the God of the sages is that two other books in the wisdom corpus (in the Catholic but not the Jewish and Protestant canons) try to hold in tension competing views: particularism and universalism. The choice of one nation over others does not fit well with the idea of a “blessing” God. That leaves Proverbs as the sole arbiter of a blessing deity, and benefits received in it are said to have been earned, not given as a special favor. This diversity in wisdom literature suggests that the sages were uncertain about God’s actual role in the affairs of humans. In their view, has God withdrawn from the human scene, or was the Deity still in the fray? Perhaps this ambiguity explains why “creator” has replaced the language of blessing in discussions of the God of the sages. Walter Zimmerli (1964, 146–158) writes that “wisdom thinks resolutely within the framework of a theology of creation.” When Leo G. Perdue (2008) studied the theology of wisdom literature, creation became for him the central image for describing God. He chose rubrics about creation and providence, creation and anthropology, and creation and the Goddess Wisdom. It should be noted, however, that the sages were not alone in speaking of God as creator (Clifford and Collins 1992).

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The emphasis on the individual rather than the nation partly explains why the sages thought of God as creator. An accompanying change in nomenclature can be detected, although the shift is inconsistent. Yahweh (usually translated as “Lord”) dominates in Proverbs, appears sporadically in Job, and is missing in Ecclesiastes, where ʾelohim (translated as “God”) alone is found. With Sirach, that trend stops abruptly. The author, Ben Sira, introduces the history of the “chosen people” into his teachings despite viewing Yahweh as universal sovereign.

God in Proverbs At the very heart of Proverbs is the notion of Yahweh as parental. An important duty of parents was discipline. According to Prov. 3:11–12, Yahweh was not slack in correcting loved ones. The reversal of a familiar expression, “image of God,” yields a striking analogy; instead of humans modeling their behavior on Yahweh’s actions, the Deity is said to act like parents who discipline children out of love. The rarity of language about Yahweh as father throughout the Hebrew Bible makes this parental reference stand out, despite the resemblance to the more common depictions of the Deity as a physician who both wounds and binds up the injured (Crenshaw 2013b; for an overview of Proverbs, see Chapter 1 in this volume). Not surprisingly, a deity who disciplines the beloved also protects them from harm, but not always. Proverbs refers to Yahweh as a guardian who watches over those he loves and hears their prayers. That solicitous care is predicated on conduct becoming to those who fear God; otherwise divine demeanor turns hostile. Central to Proverbs is the idea that Yahweh oversees the working of reward and retribution, but not its timing. Exactly how Yahweh does this is unclear. Lennart Boström (1990) distinguishes between God’s working actively, social processes at work, and individuals determining outcomes, as well as psychological factors influencing them. A few texts suggest that deeds themselves set into motion the consequences of action. Occasional cracks in the principle of deed/consequence occur, even though justice is thought to prevail in the end. For example, the sages declare of the righteous that “though they fall seven times, they will rise again” (Prov. 24:16). Did the sages responsible for Proverbs believe anyone was special in Yahweh’s eyes? The answer is a decisive “yes.” Instead of a nation, certain types of individuals enjoyed divine favor: widows, orphans, and the righteous poor (e.g. Prov 22:22– 23). Some poor people were considered lazy and according to the principle of reward and retribution did not qualify for Yahweh’s largesse. Others, however, could rely on Yahweh’s strength to provide a safe refuge. Did divine surveillance extend beyond external deeds? Again the answer is a positive one. Yahweh is said to discern the inner being, the psychic ambivalence that preceded action (Prov. 14:10, 13). Even unexpressed thoughts did not escape Yahweh’s attention. At times, it seems that such close spying on people led to

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something approximating that of a puppeteer, with individual actions being overridden by a power beyond human control (16:33). Above all, Yahweh was believed to weigh the spirit and test human hearts (24:12), condemning the proud but repaying kindness to the impoverished. Does the overwhelming emphasis on Yahweh’s likeness to loving parents exclude the notion of creator? No, but the cosmological focus that characterizes other descriptions of God as creator is almost entirely absent. Instead, the idea of Yahweh as creator functions to legitimate the personification of Wisdom. In Prov. 8:22–31, Wisdom is said to have preceded cosmogony, indeed to have witnessed the origins of both worlds, heaven and earth. In her own words, she is the first of Yahweh’s creations. Still, the idea that Yahweh created the entire world is echoed here and elsewhere in Proverbs. The maker of heaven and earth also made the hearing ear and seeing eye (20:12), as well as rich and poor (22:2). In Prov. 16:4, it is claimed that Yahweh made everything for its purpose. This telic idea is less developed than the theme of historical movement toward a divine goal that runs through the Torah and Prophets. It will be taken up once more and given flesh and blood in Sirach and Wisdom of Solomon. The emphasis on Yahweh as creator places a certain distance between humans and God. It is not surprising that the sages also refer to divine mystery despite placing a premium on knowledge. Kings inquire into things, while Yahweh conceals things (Prov. 25:2). Divine mystery includes impartiality (29:13), a point similar to that enunciated in the New Testament, although stated as causing the sun to shine on the just and the unjust.

The Book of Job The dialogic nature of the Book of Job assures that the Deity will be viewed in a variety of ways (see also Chapter 2 in this volume). The prose framework describes a multivalent deity: one easily lured into destroying his faithful servant’s family and possessions “without cause,” and yet a deity who fully trusts that servant to remain loyal; one who requires sacrifice and intercessory prayer to assuage divine anger; and who rewards faithfulness with abundance, even giving a new family to replace the seven sons and three daughters who perished. Job’s three friends differ only slightly in their concept of deity. A single thought unites these men who came from far away to comfort him: God can do no wrong. Humans, however, are lowly worms, creatures so inconsequential that their goodness adds nothing to God. Eliphaz thinks the just God momentarily rolls back the curtain concealing divine mystery (Job 4:12–17). This revelatory experience, likened to a frightening nightmare with a ghostlike visitor, ends in an ambiguous message. Either it questions anyone’s ability to be more just than God or it asks whether a mortal can ever be just in God’s eyes. Eliphaz goes on to say that God

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wounds and binds up and does wonders, just what one expects from a deity, but this God is also suspicious, trusting no one. Bildad excludes nothing except God from the stain of filth, whereas Zophar thinks God possesses a modicum of compassion, exacting less than humans deserve. Like Eliphaz, Zophar stresses the mystery engulfing God. The fourth friend, Elihu, concurs with Eliphaz that God makes the divine will known through dreams and visions, although the purpose is to frighten (Job 33:14– 18). Elihu also contrasts God’s greatness with humanity’s puniness and views the Deity less as a parent than as a teacher who is perfect in knowledge. For Elihu, God is absolutely just and gets no benefit from human virtue. As a literary transition from the friends to God who is manifest in a tempest, Elihu stresses God’s control over the wind, and Yahweh’s chariot and mode of disclosure in chapters 38–41. The poet who composed chapter 28 describes amazing feats by which precious gems are extracted from deep within the earth. Edward Greenstein (2003) argues that the subject of this activity is God. He arrives at this conclusion by assuming a textual dislocation in which the ending of Elihu’s speech has been transferred to this position in the manuscript. Behind this imagery, he posits two models for describing the Deity: the heavenly, primarily solar, one, and that of depth, an abyss. Others take the subject to be human beings; their accomplishments are then contrasted with Yahweh’s successful search for and discovery of wisdom, which even Sheol and Abaddon only know from rumor. In an unexpected conclusion to this poem, Yahweh is said to have made this secret known to those worthy of receiving it. Worth, that is, implies the fear of Yahweh, which Proverbs uses almost in the sense of religion. Once again, then, revelation enters the picture; God is one who reveals secrets from another world. What did Job say about God? The negative tone matches his extreme misery. God is a cruel antagonist, a play on Job’s name, which means “enemy.” Accordingly, this God is wholly unjust, the destroyer of the good and the bad, even of hope itself. God pays no attention to the prayers of the dying, keeps the mighty in power, and cannot be trusted. To be sure, Job occasionally offers dubious praise of God, recognizing sheer power. The disorganized nature of the final round of debate between Job and his three friends makes it difficult to determine exactly who says what. There is no doubt that some attitudes are attributed to him that are more typical of what the friends have been saying. To get around the problem, it is often said that these words are either irony or sarcasm aimed at the friends. Does Job change his mind about God after being berated for four chapters? The linguistic ambiguity of Job 42:5–6 makes it impossible to say. Carol A. Newsom (1996, 629) conveniently summarizes the five possibilities for translating Job 42:6 and the reference to “dust and ashes,” and this does not rule out other nuances that may be heard behind this enigmatic verse. Capitulation on Job’s part would have discouraged honest questioning of divine activity, central to the lament tradition at the heart of Psalms, Lamentations, Job, and elsewhere. Refusal to acknowledge the

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vast scope of human ignorance with respect to God’s nature and activity would have encouraged an exaggerated self‐esteem among certain members of the human species. What is the divine self‐perception in the speeches from the whirlwind? A single word sums up the emphasis: cosmogony. Clifford and Collins (1992) claim that in the ancient Near Eastern world sages understood beginnings as fixed things according to divine intent. That is why the moment of creation loomed so large in their teachings. Cosmogonies explain why a temple is sacred to a god, why some days are more special than others, why supremacy is attributed to a particular member of the pantheon, and much more. In Mesopotamia, the origin of everything was viewed as a union of Heaven and Earth, construed as male and female, or as a fertilizing act by a goddess, with water, the semen of Enki the bull as agent. The Babylonian creation poem Atrahasis blends two traditions: creation of humans as substitute workers and the expansion of the human race prompting a flood and a repopulation with sufficient controls to assure that people do not keep the gods awake again. Egyptian cosmogonies add a concept of nothingness called Nun that becomes differentiated at creation. In these traditions, the human race is not distinct from creation; it is considered an integral part of beginnings. In the book of Job, God’s enthusiasm over the newly created cosmos seems boundless, matching the jubilation of the stars. That excitement continues when Yahweh refers to the creatures of the wild, whose continued existence is made possible by divine provision, even if it means predation as the norm. Yahweh can hardly contain excitement over the war horse, but knows no bounds when the topic of Behemoth and Leviathan comes up. These two creatures, who represent chaos and who resemble the hippopotamus and crocodile of Egyptian iconography, although with mythic elements, are represented as sport for Yahweh. Notably, mortals are mentioned only with reference to these two awesome creatures, and the emphasis falls on pride. Wonder abounds; God, not humans, is the center of attention. William P. Brown (2014) thinks wonder is the central theme of sapiential teaching, not just the book of Job. Convinced that homo sapiens is best described as homo admirans, he links wonder and creation in Proverbs, Job, and Ecclesiastes.

Ecclesiastes While Job’s understanding of God was fashioned in the crucible of undeserved suffering, Qoheleth’s view arose from ordinary human experience, which he considered burdensome (see Chapter  3 in this volume). Not everyone agrees with this pessimistic assessment of his teaching. The reason: seven exhortations to make the most out of life, the last one expressed in imperatives (“Rejoice, young man, in your youth, let your mind be happy in your youthful days, and walk in the ways of your mind and in the sight of your eyes, but know that God will bring you into judgment

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because of these things,” Eccl. 11:9). For me, the warning, akin to Num. 15:39, is decisive, especially when considered alongside the inclusio in Eccl. 1:2 and 12:8 that everything is hebel. Even if the summary of his teachings is secondary, it reflects the earliest reading of this strange book (Crenshaw 2013a), one that also takes into account the other major thematic statement of the composition that denies profit to human endeavor (1:3). For Qoheleth, life is wholly without meaning. Two reasons led to this extraordinary conclusion. First, nothing that humans do has lasting effect, memory being short and death canceling every achievement. Second, life is too short, like a breath, ending in oblivion. Rather than easing the angst arising from this conclusion, belief in God has exacerbated it. How so? God dwells far away, seemingly not interested in petitions or praise from below. Still, this remote Deity controls events like an impersonal fate, making a mockery of individual effort. The proper attitude toward this Deity is fear. That which God created is unalterable, even things hostile to daily existence. What is the best way to unravel the mystery of a hidden deity? Johannes Fichtner (1933) used divine names as the interpretive clue when comparing Jewish wisdom literature with that of Egypt and Mesopotamia. A somewhat different approach is adopted by Antoon Schoors (2002, 251–270); he examines the specific verbs that have God as subject to describe Qoheleth’s deity. These verbs are ʿasah (“to do, make”), natan (“to give, grant”), shapat (“to judge”), barar (“to separate”), ʿanah (“to answer, afflict”), ratsah (“to please”), yareʾ (“to fear”), and radap (“to chase”). The verb ʿasah occurs seven times with God as subject. It indicates everything that takes place among humans (Eccl. 3:11), divine action aimed at instilling fear (8:14), something akin to creatio continua (7:13–14), and things made straight (7:29). God is the subject of natan 11 times; it refers to the miserable lot bestowed on mortals (1:13), trouble given to those not enjoying God’s favor (2:26), something hidden in the heart, either mystery or eternity (3:11), a possibility (3:13, 7:14), and human breath that returns to its giver (12:7). The context of the unknown element in Eccl. 3:11 has a Hebrew word that can mean at least two things depending on how one points the consonants. Because time occupies the center of attention in the familiar poem in Eccl. 3:1–8, many interpreters follow the Masoretic pointing haʿolam and see in it a meaning best labeled a sense of eternity. The intervening verses, vv. 9–10, introduce a hiatus with the emphasis on a profitless life that is decidedly unpleasant, even if divinely bestowed. With beʿitto and meroʾsh weʿad sop in Eccl. 3:11, time returns, but the point seems to be the human inability to grasp the import of the key word. That would suggest pointing it haʿelem, signifying the unknown and hidden. Did Qoheleth think God was a judge? The verb shapat in Eccl. 11:9b certainly suggests that, although it is often thought to be a gloss. The reason: given Qoheleth’s pessimism about equity or fairness in daily life, it is hard to think he really believed that God paid attention to justice. The statement in the second epilogue that God will bring everything into judgment (Eccl. 12:14) may have led to the addition of

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the warning about a judgment. The use of shapat with reference to a postmortem judgment in 12:14 is more in line with later tradition than with anything Qoheleth ever suggested. An alternative reading of Eccl. 11:9b has been posited by L. Gorssen (1970). He thinks the verb shapat means “to put one in the proper condition.” In other words, Qoheleth says that whatever takes place is the result of divine determinism. This means that God places human beings in exactly the situation in which they find themselves, and it is proper because God did it. Resistance is therefore futile. Justice is not a major theme in Ecclesiastes. It seems to fall in the face of descriptions of God as acting capriciously and randomly. Nevertheless, Stuart Weeks (2016) thinks divine judgment is a theological datum that Qoheleth feels obliged to square with his ideas, something ill‐fitting in the monologue but also ill‐ defined. Weeks adds that this concession about an operative retributive system with basic flaws was Qoheleth’s way of illustrating faulty human perception. It can be argued that human beings lack the knowledge to assess divine treatment of individuals, or that God’s justice transcends whatever anyone thinks is just (Wilson 2015). This argument is often used to soften the impact of biblical incidents depicting Yahweh as behaving in a way that even mortals condemn as evil. It is far better to recognize evolution in the concept of Yahweh without assuming that “later” always means “purer.” The approach of Saadia Gaon, an important medieval rabbi, does justice to both God and humankind. Saadia thinks God has bestowed the greatest gift on us, namely life. Everything above that is pure grace. Another verb, yareʾ (“to fear”) has a wide scope, ranging from religious adoration to sheer terror before a mysterious deity. For Qoheleth, it indicates a response to the numinous. He never uses the technical words for religion, yereʾ ʾelohim (“fear of God”). Yet another verbal form has something of the obscure. In Eccl. 3:15, nirdap seems to suggest that God chases things that have taken place in the past, only to bring them around once more. This idea accords well with Qoheleth’s emphasis on cyclic movement of everything in the cosmos. The same thought occurs in Sir. 5:3. Two participles with God as the subject reveal the difficulty in perceiving what Qoheleth says about God. In Eccl. 5:19, maʿanehu implies that God either keeps a person occupied with joy or that the Deity afflicts the individual with impossible pleasures. Norbert Lohfink (1990) opts for a spiritual meaning of the participle, which he renders as revelation by joy. This interpretation overlooks the ironic, perhaps even sarcastic, sense that seems to linger. The peculiar form, borʾeyka, in Eccl. 12:1 has traditionally been understood as creator, but there are strong reasons to view it as a pun on wife and grave. The meanings are not farfetched; they simply require different pointing of the Hebrew word from the received text. According to early rabbinic interpretation, all three meanings may be implied: creator, wife, and grave. This view has been advanced recently (Seow 1997, 352). Even when the verbs with God as subject are studied, difficulty remains. The book is riddled with contradictions, as Michael V. Fox has underlined with the title

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of his book Qoheleth and His Contradictions (1989), although a later book of his has a title that instead emphasizes times for opposing actions in the composition (1999). The contradictions have been explained as uncertainty on Qoheleth’s part, changes over time, and secondary attempts to make his teachings more palatable. Naturally, competing interpretations follow. For Thomas Krüger (2007), the ambiguities are meaningful, reflecting as they do the ambiguities of life itself. This much is certain: for Qoheleth God was the source of human misery and a threat to individuals who made vows without paying and who spoke too quickly in the holy place. Job’s God is an oppressive presence; Qoheleth’s God is distant and unmoved by the human condition. A saving God seems never to have entered Qoheleth’s mind. With the books of Job and Ecclesiastes the sages broke away from proverbial sayings in favor of poetic dialogue and debate as the chief medium of discourse. For the former, dialogue and debate involved more than a single individual. Qoheleth, however, carries on an internal dialogue, debating with his own mental faculties and employing a rhetoric of indecision, one in which he had difficulty making up his mind on several issues. The reason: life’s absurdities. Drawing on deconstructionism in literary theory, Benjamin Lyle Berger (2001) thinks of Qoheleth’s rhetoric as one of erasure. Unfortunately, the erasure was not enough to remove the contradictions.

Sirach Sirach is the only one of the five wisdom books that can be reliably dated (see Chapter  5 in this volume). Its author, Ben Sira, was active during the first two decades of the second century BCE. He had fallen under the influence of Greek culture in the wake of the conquest of the region by Alexander the Great. There are several ways that influence is best recognized: (i) Ben Sira’s positive attitude toward the practice of medicine (38:1–8). For a long time, sickness had been viewed as punishment for sin; trying to heal the sick was thought to be interfering with God’s work; (ii) by participating in the banquets of non‐Jews; (iii) by accepting Stoic concepts, especially the universalism that gave rise to the words, “He is the all” (43:27). Ben Sira returns to the earlier practice of teaching by means of brief sayings and instructions, but these are often arranged in larger paragraphs as in Sir. 41:14– 42:14 where two topics are treated: shame and the care for daughters. (In a few instances, Proverbs deals with a single topic at some length, such as drunkenness in Prov. 23:29–35, and many other sayings may be linked in some fashion.) Ben Sira is thoroughly Hebraic in his reliance on proverbial wisdom. Moreover, Ben Sira introduces a new element into sapiential discourse: traditions from Yahwistic sacred narratives. The early wisdom emphasis on the individual now rests securely alongside the national interests of Torah and Prophets. How

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does this strange combination affect Ben Sira’s view of God? Above all, it infuses his thought with a kinder, gentler deity than the one proclaimed by his predecessors who composed Proverbs, Job, and Ecclesiastes. For the first time, a sage calls special attention to Yahweh as compassionate and prone to mercy. Fichtner (1933) writes that, unlike Mesopotamian wisdom, early Israelite wisdom literature was silent about divine mercy. Similarly, J. Coert Rylaarsdam (1946) thought the dominant principle of reward and retribution left little room for divine mercy. How so? Everyone got what was deserved. In times of prosperity, it is natural to think that the good things one is experiencing have been earned. When the tide turns and historical circumstances appear to be inimical in the extreme, belief in self‐sufficiency can give way to cries for divine compassion. The liturgical prayers in Ezra, Nehemiah, and Daniel show how self‐indictment and petition for mercy go hand in hand. Ben Sira goes one step further; for him, human mortality and life’s brevity aroused divine compassion (Sir. 18:9, 13). He considers this compassionate side of Yahweh so important that he underscores it when inviting potential students to don the yoke of his instruction (51:23–30). If the prayer in chapter  36 is genuine, he even implores the Deity to extend mercy to “us.” Who is that? “The people called by your name” (36:1, 12). The power of the retributive system can be seen by the fact that it rears its ugly head in the book of Job. Though broken, according to a suffering innocent, it dominated his thought and that of his friends. Although Qoheleth considered the system shattered, he did not contemplate a new order in which divine mercy would shine. In sacred narrative, there had always been tension between the insistence on moral culpability and belief in a gracious Yahweh. For some, Israel was chosen in an act of pure grace, not because of its worth. For others, divine favor depended on obedience to God’s law. The tension almost reaches a breaking point in a text that is partially recited again and again within the canon. That text names the 13 attributes of Yahweh announced to Moses (Exod. 34:6–7). They are weighted toward mercy but include a chilling feature of punishment across generations. This acknowledgment of reality  –  children suffering because of the sins of their parents  –  results in the tarnishing of Yahweh’s reputation through no fault of his own. The impact of Exod. 34:6–7 is far‐reaching (Crenshaw 2005). Ben Sira goes a long way toward resolving the tension on the side of mercy. Another tradition, this one of foreign extraction, influenced Ben Sira’s idea of God in positive directions. The philosophical belief in a universe consisting of balanced opposites provides a response to a perennial problem, the presence of evil. Joseph Blenkinsopp (1995) thinks this idea was present in Eccl. 3:1–8, which he considers an embedded Stoic poem, possibly the product of a Jewish sage who had come under the influence of a Stoic teacher. Yet there is a significant difference between Eccl. 3:1–8 and Ben Sira’s teaching. For the latter, the opposing forces of

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nature keep evil at bay. In short, Ben Sira employs this philosophical concept in a theodicy that also includes a psychological element, angst (Crenshaw 1975). He thinks Yahweh created opposites to offset one another; by this means, the wicked received just punishment from nature itself. In a sense, Ben Sira is himself an example in contrasts. By joining Israel’s sacred traditions with the teachings of sages, he casts a vote in favor of a particular religious tradition, but by adopting Stoic language implying a universal sovereign, he also moves in the direction of monotheism. The only God, so Ben Sira thought, was both eternal and invisible, and yet that God has worked wondrously with the descendants of Abraham. While Prov. 3:11–12 compares Yahweh to a loving parent, Ben Sira does not hesitate to use the noun “father” with reference to God. In a prayer he combines this intimate imagery with the less comforting notion of God as ruler, a customary title for deity in the ancient world (Sir. 23:1, 4). Except for Isa. 64:8, biblical authors had scrupulously avoided the epithet “father” even though using a much bolder anthropomorphism, Yahweh as Israel’s husband (cf. Hos. 2:16). The designation “father” draws Yahweh close to worshipers, whereas one of Ben Sira’s favorite expressions, the “Most High,” stresses the Deity’s transcendence. Nevertheless, Ben Sira asserts that distance does not weaken Yahweh’s vision, which lets no adulterous act go unpunished. The idea of ruler left room for a concept of the Deity as puppeteer, which compromises moral responsibility for action. In Prov. 8:22–31, personified Wisdom boasts that Yahweh created her before everything else, even the heavens and the earth. In Sir. 24:3, she insists that she issued from the mouth of the Most High. In other words, she claims to be the prophetic word that in the view of some had become silent. That appears to be the implication of the inability to decide what to do with recovered sacred items reported in 1 Macc. 4:45–46. Due to the absence of a living prophet, they were stored for safe keeping until a prophet should rise up. On the basis of a reading of Deut. 18:15, the expectation of a prophet like Moses who would eventually appear gave rise to the question addressed to John the Baptist: “Are you the prophet?” (John 1:21). The precise status of prophecy in the second century BCE is uncertain, but a definite change had taken place, for the formula that designated speakers as delivering divine words, koh ʾamar ʾadonai, (“Thus says the Lord”) was no longer used. Instead, words of earlier prophets were quoted to provide a semblance of authority. Wisdom also makes another extraordinary claim in Sirach: that she is identical to the law of Moses (24:23). In short, Ben Sira thinks of personified Wisdom as God’s new mode of self‐disclosure, one that continues law and prophecy. In his eyes, such a deity is worthy of praise. Hence he lauds Yahweh with almost mathematical precision, although conceding that whoever has finished praising God has only just begun the act of adoration.

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The Wisdom of Solomon Ben Sira dipped his toes in the Hellenistic river, but the Alexandrian author of Wisdom of Solomon wholly immersed himself (Winston 1997; Reese 1970; Bellia and Passaro 2005; see also Chapter 6 in this volume). For him, Wisdom was a divine emanation, radiating the full spectrum of divine attributes just the way the rays of the sun reflect the fullness of their source (Wis. 7:22b–26). Furthermore, she assumed the role of God in guiding the chosen people through the desert to the promised land, protecting them in the vicissitudes of history. That guidance included psychological angst in the struggle against idolatry, but it also involved nature as a force for good in the exodus, here represented in the form of a midrash (Wis. 11–19). Greek and Hebraic emphases come together in a remarkable “mercy dialogue” (McGlynn 2001) that functions as a defense of Yahweh’s justice in meting out punishment to Egyptians and Canaanites (11:15–12:27). Influenced by language from a growing religious movement, Wisdom is said to initiate people into the knowledge of God, thus assuring salvation to the initiate. With this language, the creator is also said to be savior. For this author, God brooked no doubting thought. This negative attitude toward questioning the givens of a religious tradition goes beyond Ben Sira’s warning not to investigate more than has been assigned, presumably by the teacher (Sir. 3:21– 23). God may subject mortals to a test as in the case of Abraham or Job, but they are not permitted to tempt their creator. God’s testing is fair, his judgment just, or so the author would have us believe. Even death does not throw into question divine goodness, for God did not create it (Wis. 11:13). Instead, human sinfulness introduced death into the world; as for everything else, God made it. This author’s God is the glue that holds all things together, the physician whose word heals the sick, the guardian who sees into the inner heart, the comforter who keeps the souls of the righteous at peace. This God assigns rulers to their rightful stations, watches over the holy ones, and keeps secrets hidden from mortals. And yet this awesome Deity can be addressed as father (Wis. 14:3).

Wisdom Psalms and Sapiential Texts from Qumran Some scholars think a few psalms should be classified as wisdom literature (see also Chapter 4 in this volume). This view rests on certain emphases, especially theodicy (Ps. 73), human existence as brief (Ps. 49), a teacher’s instruction (Ps. 34), and linguistic similarities with Qoheleth (Pss. 39:4–11 and 94:8–11). The justice of God, however, is a fundamental issue in Deuteronomy and in the history based on the principle of reward and retribution (Joshua through 2 Kings). It is often treated in prophetic literature, sometimes in a questioning manner. Moreover, ephemeral existence is regularly acknowledged in most sections of the Bible, and teaching is the essence of

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Deuteronomy. Only the references to life as hebel in the Psalter, reminiscent of Qoheleth, reflect distinctive sapiential instruction. In them, life is compared to a breath and Yahweh is said to be both the hope and the destroyer of the psalmist. The other psalms in the above list praise Yahweh as a savior who is near to the brokenhearted, who will ransom the psalmist from Sheol’s power, who is good to the upright, or to Israel, and who is a counselor, guide, and precious treasure. One additional psalm, 37, is sometimes linked to these because of the testimony of an old person that he, or she, has never seen the righteous forsaken or descendants begging for bread. Notably, many viewpoints in these psalms are more typical of the rest of the Bible than of wisdom literature. Sapiential texts from Qumran, the so‐called Dead Sea Scrolls, heighten the telic features evident in Sirach and Wisdom of Solomon, becoming palpably eschatological (see Chapter 7 in this volume). Accordingly, God has a rational plan for the elect, determines their ultimate destiny, and sits in judgment on humankind. Members of the sect are admonished to meditate on the raz nihyeh, which can be translated “mystery that is to be” or “mystery of existence.” This strange expression adds an object of meditation other than Torah and God. Knowledge, central to these texts, issues from God as revelation. From such disclosure, followers of the Teacher of Righteousness learn that Yahweh is a God of truth who created everything and causes everyone to inherit a proper portion, language reminiscent of Qoheleth. This God opens the ears, allowing individuals to understand the mystery of existence. Notably, the role of personified Wisdom is muted, with maximal eroticism and minimal speaking (Goff 2007).

The Evolution of God When humans think about God, they inevitably ponder beginnings. By beginnings they mean creation of the world as we know it. But does God have a beginning? Stated differently, is the idea of deity a creation of the imagination? Jack Miles (1995) has maintained that God is a literary character like Falstaff or Captain Ahab, and Thorkild Jacobsen (1976) has shown how societal changes in ancient Mesopotamia shaped the concept of deity. Robert Wright (2009) thinks belief in God has brought improved morality to humankind. For him, God is the conscience of the universe. Does God as portrayed in wisdom literature challenge these conclusions? Did necessity and wonder give rise to belief in a power that could provide the essentials of existence and open the door to a sense of awe in the presence of the unexplainable? Answering this question by “yes” has far‐reaching consequences. In receptive minds, the need for food, water, clothes, and shelter, or even the desire for a less spartan lifestyle that added fire, iron, salt, milk, honey, wine, and oil (Sir. 29:21 and 39:25–27) is met by the comforting belief in a force more powerful than the dangers facing individuals. Even birth and death are no match for this

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power. The fulfillment of desire yields something else: a feeling of gratitude, even wonder at the manifestation of nature’s bounty and ferocity. Can the unfolding of the universe into vast galaxies beyond counting and a wish to be known help to explain widespread belief in a deity? Without revelation, the expression of human vulnerability and wonder is a figment of the imagination. God may, or may not, correspond to reality out there. Revelation is thus necessary for the belief in God to be more than a product of human need. That is why the Bible puts such store in divine disclosure. Still, the testimony of its authors is not verifiable, and we are left with human vulnerability and awe. According to a major segment of the Bible, that vulnerability also applies to the God of Abraham (Crenshaw 2016). Biblical proverbs show no signs of Jacobsen’s first stage, an identification of God with the forces of nature – clouds, wind, sun, moon, and vegetation – or with the animal kingdom. They do reflect aspects of his second and third stages, the royal and parental. God as king, however, plays a much greater role in the prophetic tradition than in the sapiential. The reason may be the national focus in both the Former and Latter Prophets. The sages’ emphasis on the individual inclines them toward the family. Only when a sage begins to think nationally does the title “ruler” occur (Sir. 23:1). Even then, however, Yahweh’s reign is thought to be universal. The linking of Yahweh with a particular nation did not end well. Once the Davidic line ended and the fate of Judah was fixed, authority returned to priests and family. It was only natural in these circumstances to think of God as a parent. Here, too, the actual designation of God as father came long after the application of the analogy in daily life. Thinking of God as parent enabled sages to give a credible response to a perennial question: “Why evil?” The answer: evil is a form of discipline; it builds character and assists in moral formation. No sage makes this point more effectively than Ahiqar, who compares parental discipline to manure for a garden. Did the sages ever view belief in God from the divine perspective? How else could they have come up with the personification of Wisdom? Behind this rhetorical gem is the notion that God makes the divine self known to flesh and blood. That explanation, and not merely the desire to create a rival to personified folly, goes a long way toward explaining this fascinating figure. Wisdom could no more keep silent (Sir. 24) than the rays of the sun could conceal themselves (Wis. 6:12). References Bellia, Guiseppe and Pasarro, Angelo. (eds.) 2005. The Book of Wisdom in Modern Research. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Berger, Benjamin Lyle. 2001. Qoheleth and the exigencies of the absurd. Biblical Interpretation 9: 141–179.

Blenkinsopp, Joseph. 1995. Ecclesiastes 3:1–15: Another Interpretation. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 66: 55–64. Brown, William P. 2014. Wisdom’s Wonder: Character, Creation, and Crisis in the Bible’s Wisdom Literature. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

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Boström, Lennart. 1990. The God of the Sages: The Portrayal of God in the Book of Proverbs. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Clifford, Richard J. and Collins, John J. (eds.) 1992. Creation in the Biblical Traditions. Washington, DC: The Catholic Biblical Association of America. Crenshaw, James L. 1975. Theodicy in Sirach: On Human Bondage. Journal of Biblical Literature 94: 49–64. Crenshaw, James L. 1993. The concept of God in Old Testament wisdom. In: Essays in Memory of John G. Gammie (ed. Leo G. Perdue, Brandon B. Scott, and William J. Wiseman), 1–18. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Crenshaw, James L. 2005. Defending God: Biblical Responses to the Problem of Evil. New York: Oxford University Press. Crenshaw, James L. 2013a. Qoheleth: The Ironic Wink. Columbia: The University of South Carolina Press. Crenshaw, James L. 2013b. Divine discipline in Job 5:17–18, Proverbs 3:11–12, Deuteronomy 32:39, and beyond. In: Reading Job Intertextually (ed. Katharine Dell and Will Kynes), 178–189. London: Bloomsbury. Crenshaw, James L. 2014. Qoheleth’s hatred of life: A passing phase or an enduring sentiment?” In: Wisdom for Life: Essays Offered to Honor Prof. Maurice Gilbert, S.J. on the Occasion of his Eightieth Birthday (ed. Núria Calduch‐Benages), 119–131. Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter. Crenshaw, James L. 2016. Divine vulnerability: Reflections on Genesis 22. In: Bridging Between Sister Religions: Studies in Jewish and Christian Scriptures Offered to Honor Prof. John T. Townsend (ed. Isaac Kalimi). Leiden and Boston: Brill. Fichtner, Johannes. 1933. Die Altorientalishche Weisheit in ihrer israelitisch‐jüdischen Ausprägung. Giessen: Töpelmann.

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Fox, Michael V. 1989. Qohelet and His Contradictions. Decatur: Almond Press. Fox, Michael V. 1999. A Time to Tear Down and A Time to Build Up. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Goff, Matthew J. 2007. Discerning Wisdom: The Sapiential Literature of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Leiden: Brill. Gorssen, L. 1970. La coherence de la conception de Dieu dans l’Ecclesiaste. Ephemerides Theologicae Lovanienses 46: 282–324. Greenstein, Edward L. 2003. The poem on Wisdom in Job 28 in its conceptual and literary contexts. In: Job 28 (ed. Ellen van Wolde), 253–280. Leiden: Brill. Jacobsen, Thorkild. 1976. The Treasures of Darkness. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Krüger, Thomas. 2007. Meaningful ambiguities in the book of Qoheleth. In: The Language of Qohelet in Its Context: Essays in Honour of Prof. A. Schoors on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday (ed. A. Berlejung and P. van Hecke), 63–74. Leuven: Peeters. Lohfink, Norbert. 1990. Qoheleth 5:17– 19 – Revelation by joy. Catholic Biblical Quarterly 52: 625–635. McGlynn, Moyna. 2001. Divine Judgment and Divine Benevolence in the Book of Wisdom. Leiden: Brill. Miles, Jack. 1995. God: A Biography. New York: Knopf. Newsom, Carol A. 1996. The book of Job. In: Introduction to Hebrew Poetry, Job, Psalms, and 1 & 2 Maccabees. Vol. 4 of New Interpreters Bible (ed. Robert Doran, Carol A. Newsom, and Clinton Jr. McCann), 317–637. Nashville, TN: Abingdon. Perdue, Leo G. 2008. The Sword and the Stylus: An Introduction to Wisdom in the Age of the Empires. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

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Reese, James. 1970. Hellenistic Influence on the Book of Wisdom and Its Consequences. Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute. Rylaarsdam, J. Coert. 1946. Revelation in Jewish Wisdom Literature. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago. Schoors, Antoon. 2002. God in Qoheleth. In: Schöpfungsplan und Heilsgeschichte (ed. Renate Brandscheidt and Theresia Mende), 251–270. Trier: Paulinus. Seow, Choon‐Leong. 1997. Ecclesiastes. Anchor Bible, 18C. New York: Doubleday. Weeks, Stuart. 2016. Divine judgment and reward in Ecclesiastes. In: Goochem in Mokum, Wisdom in Amsterdam: Papers on Biblical and Related Wisdom Read at the Fifteenth Joint Meeting of the Society for Old Testament Study and the

Oudtestamentisch Werkgezelscahp, Amsterdam July 2012 (ed. George J. Brooke and P. van Hecke), 155–166. Leiden: Brill. Wilson, Lindsay. 2015. Job. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Westermann, Claus. 1979. What Does the Old Testament Say about God? London: SPCK. Winston, David. 1997. The Wisdom of Solomon. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Wright, Robert. 2009. The Evolution of God. New York: Little, Brown, and Company. Zimmerli, Walter. 1964. The place and the limit of the wisdom in the framework of the Old Testament theology. Scottish Journal of Theology 17: 146–158.

Further Reading Adams, Samuel L. 2008. Wisdom in Transition: Act and Consequence in Second Temple Instructions. Leiden: Brill. Examines the shift in teaching brought on by belief in an afterlife, with special attention to social context. Crenshaw, James L. 2010. Old Testament Wisdom: An Introduction. 3rd ed. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Emphasizes the literary and theological dimensions of sapiential teachings within their larger context. Dell, Katharine. 2000. “Get Wisdom, Get Insight”: An Introduction to Israel’s Wisdom Literature. Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys. Stresses the social context for wisdom, especially the Yahwistic tradition behind the teaching of sages. Gammie, John G. and Perdue, Leo G. (eds.) 1990. The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Essays by various authors on the sage with attention to social location and symbolic universe.

Perdue, Leo G. (ed.) 2008. Scribes, Sages, and Seers: The Sage in the Eastern Mediterranean World. FRLANT 219. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Updates the study by Gammie and Perdue 1990, with a broad definition of sage to include seers and priests. Murphy, Roland E. 1990. The Tree of Life: An Exploration of Biblical Wisdom Literature. New York: Doubleday. Sees no hiatus between biblical and deuterocanonical wisdom. Rad, Gerhard von. 1971. Wisdom in Israel. Nashville, TN: Abingdon. An introduction from one of the most seminal minds of the twentieth century; sees a continuation from sage to apocalyptic. Weeks, Stuart. 1994. Early Israelite Wisdom. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Seeks to demolish the view that sages were courtiers and that theological wisdom was inserted into earlier sayings.

CHAPTER 13

Jewish Wisdom in the Contest of Hellenistic Philosophy and Culture: Pseudo‐Phocylides and Philo of Alexandria Michael Cover Introduction Wisdom discourse in Greek culture possessed from its inception an agonistic inflection (Griffiths 2012). When Jews of the Hellenistic and Roman eras sought to translate Hebrew wisdom into the language and genres of the Greeks, they entered into a kind of double competition. The first was the more obvious contest of sages – to pit Moses or Solomon against Homer or Plato, often claiming the dependence of the latter on the former (i.e. “the theft of philosophy”). The second, more difficult task was to enter fully into the intra‐Greek contest of wisdoms that had already been volleying back and forth for centuries and which became increasingly pronounced with the proliferation of Hellenistic philosophical schools and the heightened literary culture of the Second Sophistic. This chapter will study two remarkable examples of the Jewish entry into this double competition: the Sentences of Pseudo‐Phocylides (c. 100 BCE–100 CE) and the writings of Philo of Alexandria (c. 15 BCE–c. 50 CE). Both authors flourished at a time when the Diaspora Jewish community, particularly in Philo’s Alexandria, was undergoing a change in status, both legal and cultural. The Jews of Alexandria had blossomed, literarily and politically, under the Ptolemies from roughly 323 to 145 BCE – the era which had supported the Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible, the Septuagint. In the ensuing two centuries, however, Jews and native Alexandrians found themselves continually at odds with one another, due in large part to their patronage of opposing Ptolemaic claimants to the throne. Hostilities toward the The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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Jews reached a nadir under the Roman governor of Alexandria, Flaccus (38 CE), whose violence was given tacit support by the emperor Gaius Caligula (Smallwood 1976). Particularly during this Roman period, entry into the double competition of Greek wisdom by Hellenized Jews was no longer driven simply by the excitement of new synthesizing horizons or the glory attendant upon winning approbation at the theater or in the games. It had become a matter of cultural survival. It would be a distortion of the evidence, however, to suggest that the political was the most important aim or accomplishment of these authors. Entering into the Greek contest of wisdom was perhaps primarily an opportunity for Jews to transform their own wisdom discourse and plumb its innately universalistic vision. By entering into the centuries‐long symposium of the sages, Hellenistic Jews discovered the continuities of their oldest poetic wisdom traditions with archaic Greek gnomic wisdom, while also forging for the first time a fully philosophical Jewish discourse capable of synthesizing the wisdoms of Moses and Plato. Pseudo‐Phocylides and Philo of Alexandria are optimal figures for introducing the Jewish dialogue with Greek philosophy and culture, because they represent distinct but equally sophisticated entries into the double competition. Not only do Philo and the author of the Pseudo‐Phocylidean Sentences adopt different genres of Greek wisdom – prose commentaries, diatribes, biographies, and dialogues, on the one hand, and hexameter gnomic poetry, on the other – but they also follow diametrically opposed rhetorical strategies for integrating Jewish thought into Hellenized Roman culture. Philo, for his part, enters the contest at the first level, creating an explicit dialogue between Moses and Plato and coopting the most popular forms in use by the Middle Platonists for the Jewish community. The author of the Sentences, on the other hand, enters at the second level of the contest, imitating Greek forms anonymously and competing with them in a kind of poetic “mimicry,” which is both constructive and defensive. Refusing to reveal his true identity, Pseudo‐Phocylides (discussed further below) instead performs the unity of archaic Greek and Jewish wisdom by a tactic of “camouflage” (Wilson 2005).

The Agōn of Wisdom in Greek Poetry and Philosophy To understand better the decisions and contributions of each Jewish author, it will be helpful to begin with a brief survey of the relative genres of Greek wisdom. The Greek contest can be classified historically with the help of a threefold heuristic taxonomy: the hexameter poets, the lyric statesmen, and the prose philosophers. These three groups of authors  –  and the intellectual movements that they represent – will supply the primary framework for the dialectic with Greek culture in which Pseudo‐Phocylides and Philo engage. At the dawn of the Second Sophistic – a period of renewed Greek literary production during the first through third centuries CE  –  all three of these types of wisdom discourse were thought

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worthy of emulation, inspiring new compositions and prompting fusions of their various elements. That Pseudo‐Phocylides and Philo opted to enter the contest of Greek wisdom by emulating opposite ends of the generic spectrum underscores the diversity of aims of Jewish engagement with Greco‐Roman philosophy and culture in this period.

The Contest of Wisdom in Hexameters: Hesiod, Homer, and Phocylides The contest of wisdom in Greek culture reaches back into antiquity. Of the poets writing in dactylic hexameters – the meter of epic poetry – the name most readily associated with wisdom literature is Hesiod (West 1978a). There is good reason, however, to include his famous rival, Homer, in this earliest stage of the contest of wisdom. As Alan H. Griffiths (2012) summarizes the early period: Sophia, which may cover the domains of wisdom, cleverness, and poetic skill, had always been admired in Greek society, as the character of Odysseus demonstrates; and with the rise of the agonistic spirit (zēlos), fostered by the Panhellenic games … there developed the idea that in wisdom too the Greek poleis should put up competing rivals.

Framed in this light, the famed contest between Hesiod and Homer emerges not merely as a rivalry of poetic glory, but also as a contest of wisdoms. The Iliad and the Odyssey, in Griffiths’s analysis, are performances of sophia, particularly in the figures of Nestor and Odysseus who serve as exemplars of practical wisdom. Hesiod is clearly the more didactic of these two poets, and his work shows strong affinities with the classical Near Eastern and Jewish gnomic wisdom. In addition to the Works and Days, his most famous piece, Hesiod also composed the Great Works and the Precepts of Chiron, detailing the advice of the famed centaur to a youthful Achilles (West 1978a, 22–23). This list demonstrates Hesiod’s sustained efforts at developing a wisdom discourse. The idea that hexameter poets competed with one another has its roots in an enigmatic passage in the Works and Days, where Hesiod describes his own victory at a poetic competition in Chalchis (Op. 654–657). This reference gave rise to legends of an explicit rivalry between Homer and Hesiod at the funeral games of King Amphidamas. The most extensive account is the The Contest of Homer and Hesiod, a text which in its current form can be dated to c. 160 CE, even if it transmits earlier traditions (Cert. 33; Koning 2010, 248). The contest between Homer and Hesiod in this text is framed as a threefold contest of wisdom (Cert. 65), pertaining to (i) “knowledge and factual accuracy”; (ii) “moral and educational integrity”; and (iii) “technical skill and aesthetic/ emotional impact” (Koning 2010, 249). Homer remains the crowd favorite, “but the king crowned Hesiod, saying that it was just for the man to conquer who

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summoned forth agriculture and peace, rather than the one who narrated wars and slaughters” (Cert. 207–210; cf. Hesiod, Op. 14). His tombstone epitaph bears his legacy: Hesiod remains the victor, “so long as men judge by the touchstone of wisdom” (Cert. 253). One further figure in the contest of hexameter wisdom warrants introduction here: Phocylides of Miletus. Phocylides’s sayings date from the late seventh to mid‐ sixth century BCE. The rhetor Isocrates sets Phocylides in a triptych, flanked by Hesiod on one side and Theognis of Megara on the other, as “the best counsellors of human life, although their advice is seldom followed” (West 1978b, 164). Unfortunately, we have only 16 or 17 fragments of Phocylides from which to reconstruct his thought. Despite the paucity of evidence, several facets of his writing can be reconstructed with certainty. First, it appears that he did compose gnomic sentences in hexameter verse, the shortest of which are one line long and the longest of which is eight hexameters (Diehl and Young 1971, frgs. 9, 10, 12, and 13). Second, he seems to have begun many couplets with the following “seal” or tagline: “this also is a [saying] of Phocylides.” From this seal, particularly the word “also,” Martin West hypothesizes that Phocylides concatenated his sayings, much in the form we have in the Pseudo‐Phocylidean Sentences (West 1978b). A poem of two‐ or three‐hundred hexameters is not unimaginable. The fragments cover a range of topics, including marriage, good governance of a city, keeping good company, the promise of agriculture, the importance of moderation, and one’s responsibility to educate the young. For some ancient literary critics, the seal of Phocylides was the key to explaining his position vis‐à‐vis the sapiential contest between Hesiod and Homer. By giving up the first half of a line to insert his name, Phocylides reveals a wisdom whose profundity stems from its verbal simplicity. Phocylides’s brevity is not a mark of parochialism but a means of competition with his overly loquacious competitors (Dio Chrysostom, Borysth. 11–12). And while a recitation of Phocylides’s Sentences at the Classical Panhellenic games would likely not win against a recitation of Hesiod or Homer, by the time of the Second Sophistic a rhetor like Dio Chrysostom could poke fun at the Hellenizing barbarian (non‐Greek) Callistratos, precisely because he lauded Homer but had no knowledge of Phocylides (Borysth. 10). Viewed in this light, the Jewish pseudepigraphist’s option to imitate Phocylides rather than Homer appears to be a mark of sophistic refinement, as well as a reasonable generic fit for his material.

The Contest of Wisdom Among the Elegiac Statesmen: Theognis of Megara, Solon of Athens, and the Seven Sages Among the preeminent wise men of Greece, perhaps the most proverbial are the “Seven Sages,” traditionally identified as Thales, Bias, Cleobulus, Pittacus, Solon,

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Chilon, and Periander (Griffiths 2012; Plato, Prot. 343a; Plutarch, Sept. sap. conv. 152a–b). There is no reason, however, to circumscribe this epoch of lyric statesmen and sages to seven. Theognis of Megara, who was named by Isocrates alongside Hesiod and Phocylides as a purveyor of good council, was also highly influential in the Roman period. He and Solon will serve as representatives of this group, not only because they are roughly contemporaneous, each composing gnomic elegiac couplets (a dactylic hexameter plus an iambic trimeter) and living in neighboring cities, but also because of their influence on Pseudo‐Phocylides and Philo. Theognis is probably the younger of the two, but better attested and also more conservative. A large corpus of 1400 lines make up the Theognidea, about 300 of which are genuine (West 2012). The hallmark of his elegiac couplets is the address to one Cyrnus, to whom he speaks as an “adviser, lover, and confederate.” He evidently lived in Megara at a time of civil upheaval and “writes from the point of view of a landed aristocrat appalled by the rise to power by the merchant and peasant classes, indignant at the loss of his farmlands and property” (Campbell 2001, 245–246). In almost direct contrast to Theognis’s disgruntled aristocrat, the older Solon plays the reforming liberal statesman. He was involved in the Athenian war against Megara over Salamis in 600 BCE and “his poems show that [in his later reforms] he was trying to achieve a compromise between the demands of the rich and the privileged and of the poor and unprivileged, and that he satisfied neither” (Griffiths et al. 2012). The contest of elegiac wisdom and statecraft, in which Theognis and Solon participated, is not as famous as that between the hexameter giants of the previous generation, but it did play itself out in subtle ways. Take, for instance, Theognis’s apparent imitation and adaptation of one of Solon’s maxims, as represented by Clement of Alexandria (Strom. 6.2.8; cf. Solon, fr. 5.9–10; Theog. 1.153–154): As Solon composed the line: “Having too much begets insolence, when great wealth attends people whose right mind is gone.”

In response, Theognis writes: Having too much, let me tell you, begets insolence, whenever wealth attends a bad man, whose right mind is gone.

In a manner not unsurprising from a plutocrat, Theognis emends “great wealth” to simply “wealth” – suggesting that quantity is not the issue. Rather, it is the individual wicked person who puts money to bad use. What the Contest of Homer and Hesiod did to remythologize the epic competition of wisdom in the Second Sophistic, the first century (CE) priest and Middle Platonist, Plutarch of Chaeronea, does for the lyric statesmen in his dialogue, The Symposium

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of the Seven Sages. Here, at a fictional meeting of the seven hosted by Periander near Corinth, Solon is declared wisest by Thales (Sept. sap. conv. 147c) and awarded the principal place of honor due to his political successes. Plutarch’s symposium reveals that the contest of Greek wisdom in the first century was focused not only on Homer and Hesiod, but also on the wisdom of a wider slate of poetic sages.

The Contest of Wisdom Among Greek Philosophers The final idiom of the contest of wisdom in Greece – that of the Classical, Hellenistic, and Roman philosophical schools – is perhaps the one that most readily comes to mind in comparisons of Jewish and Greek wisdom literature, particularly in studies of Philo. The first relevant phase is that of the Presocratic philosophers. Although some of the Presocratics, like Parmenides, did write in verse, two of the most important for understanding Philo’s oeuvre are two prose philosophers: Pherecydes of Syros (fl. 544 BCE) and Heraclitus of Ephesus (fl. 500 BCE). Pherecydes is the first Greek prose author extant from antiquity (Schibli 1990). He composed a theogonic text that reinterprets elements of Hesiodic myth in natural philosophical categories. In his rationalization of mythic narrative, ­ Pherecydes stands as an important predecessor to the philosophical tradition, in which Philo stands. Another important Presocratic figure for Philo, cited ­explicitly by the Alexandrian 26 times (more than even Plato, who is explicitly cited only 18 times), is Heraclitus (Lincicum 2014, 101). Not only did Heraclitus develop a theory of the human psychē  – so important for Philo’s allegory of the soul; he also argued that there was a Logos (“reason”) pervading the multiplicity of the perceptible universe. Of course, Philo’s estimation of the Ephesian philosopher is not uniformly positive (Leg. 7; Spec. 1.208; Wolfson 1947, 1.108). Nonetheless, if Philo’s synthesis of Genesis and the Timaeus in works like On the Creation of the World bears an analogical resemblance to the cosmogonic ­speculation of Pherecydes, his doctrine of the divine Logos and discourse on the soul were conceived in explicit dialogue with Heraclitus (Sterling 2014, 145–146). A third Presocratic figure, Pythagoras (fl. c. 530 BCE), left perhaps the greatest mark on Philo, despite never having written anything. A student of Pherecydes and a major influence on Plato, Pythagoras’s view of myth, his reincarnational psychology, and his arithmology shaped Philo’s allegoresis of the laws in many ways. The influence was so profound that Clement of Alexandria was able to refer to Philo as “the Pythagorean” (Strom. 1.360; 2.482; Otto 2013). For Philo, however, the winner of the philosophical contest of wisdom was undoubtedly Plato. So integral is Plato to Philo’s thought that scholars from Saint Jerome to the French Franciscan André Thevet (c. 1516–1592), have continued to cite the bon mot: “either Plato philonizes or Philo platonizes.” Unlike many of his

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contemporaries, Philo seems to have known many of the writings of Plato firsthand, and drew directly on their ideas, language, and myths in his biblical interpretations. The heir of Socrates’s feud with the sophists, Aristotle (384–322 BCE) was both Plato’s most famous student and his principal rival. The death of Alexander the Great (323 BCE), whom Aristotle had tutored, led to a proliferation of new philosophical schools, which expanded the participants in the contest. In addition to the Platonic Academy and the Aristotelian Lyceum, the Hellenistic era saw the rise of Stoicism and Epicureanism. The contest of the Hellenistic philosophical schools did not abate in the Roman era. Each school continued to adapt, borrowing from and polemicizing against each other’s traditions. This later philosophical contest is dramatized in Cicero’s dialogue, On the Nature of the Gods. Philo’s own “Middle Platonism” – the name given to Platonic thinking after the demise of the Skeptical Academy (a Platonic school of thought that came to an end around 90 BCE), but before the great Neoplatonist teacher Plotinus  –  owes much to both Aristotle and the Stoics, even as Plato remained his master. This completes the survey of the contest of wisdom in among epicists, lyricists, and philosophers as it was received by Pseudo‐Phocylides and Philo. We turn now to see how our two Jewish authors enter into this contest of Greek wisdom, how they attempt to influence it, and how that contest, in turn, reshapes their own tradition.

The Sentences of Pseudo‐Phocylides The Sentences of Pseudo‐Phocylides (first century BCE  –  first century CE) are a compilation of 230 hexameter verses comprised largely of one‐ and two‐sentence maxims (Wilson 2005, 5). It is striking that Pseudo‐Phocylides appears to bypass the prose philosophers and explicitly to emulate the earlier hexameter contest  – although, as we will see, he manages to smuggle in the philosophers as well. The author of the Pseudo‐Phocylidean sentences was not the first or only Jew to compose poems and attribute them to a pagan seer or sage. The most well‐known example of this kind of pseudepigraphy is the Sibylline Oracles, a Jewish adaptation of a pagan genre of prophecy. The fragments of the Alexandrian Jewish author Aristobulus (c. 180–145 BCE) – an alleged follower of Aristotle and scriptural allegorist, who anticipates Philo – contain a gnomologion (a collection of didactic sayings) of forged verses of Homer, Hesiod, Pythagoras, Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, among others, which likely date to the Ptolemaic era (Attridge 1985). None of these, however, provides us with anything like the kind of witness preserved in the Pseudo‐Phocylidean sentences. The strategy of imitating Phocylides has a number of advantages. Practically speaking, Phocylides was easier to imitate than Homer or Hesiod (given his hallmark brevity). The adoption of a Phocylidean persona, rather than a Homeric or Hesiodic

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one, is also fitting for a Hellenizing Jew wishing to “translate” traditional Jewish wisdom into its Greek cultural equivalents. From the book of Proverbs onwards, Jewish sapiential discourse had expressed itself in parallel sayings, not unlike the authentic Phocylidean Sentences. But so long as it was not expressed in Greek meter, Jewish wisdom would always remain a foreign wisdom, one step removed from the highest echelons of the Alexandrian competition (cf. Philo, Contempl. 80). A third reason was socio-rhetorical: as Dio Chrysostom points out (Borysth. 10), any barbarian can recite Homer; only more refined thinkers know about Phocylides. Judging by the fact that at least some in later generations thought the Sentences to be authentic (Wilson 2005, 6), a few words are in order regarding the author’s success at imitating Phocylidean style and themes. A first point regards Phocylides’s trademark seal (“this also is a [saying] of Phocylides”) mentioned above. Although Pseudo‐Phocylides does not adopt the seal verbatim, his first lines pay tribute to it, while also setting him in direct competition with Homer and Hesiod: These are the counsels of God in accordance with holy judgments, which Phocylides, the wisest of men, reveals as precious gifts. (Ps.‐Phoc. 1–2)

The opening demonstrative pronoun “these” echoes Phocylides’s hallmark “this,” and suggests a string of individual sayings like those already in circulation in antiquity. The superlative “the wisest,” used of Homer by Solon (and of Solon by Thales) in Plutarch (Sept. sap. conv. 164d), establishes the author’s place as a contender in the ancient hexameter contest. Although several late words betray Pseudo‐Phocylides’s Hellenistic or Roman dating (Wilson 2005, 7), the Jewish pseudepigraphist masterfully imitates Phocylidean style and meter. He draws widely on the vocabulary of all three hexameter sages in what Walter Wilson has described as “non‐allusive epicism” (2005, 14). His preference in the Sentences for the masculine caesura (a poetic line break after the first long syllable in the ̮ third of six feet of the metrical form dactylic hexameter [–|–̮ ]) rather than the feminine ̮ is often considered caesura (a break after the first short syllable in the third foot: [– |̮ ]) evidence of post‐classical composition, as epic meter generally prefers a balance of masculine and feminine caesuras (Wilson 2005, 7; Derron 1986, lxvii–lxviii). A careful reading of the fragments of the authentic Phocylides, however, reveals that roughly 70% of his hexameter couplets have lines with a masculine caesura. This suggests that the Jewish pseudepigraphist recognized and emulated Phocylidean meter quite closely. Phocylides’s preference for the masculine caesura has a clear rationale: the Greek of his seal (kai tode Phōkylideō) produces one after the last long syllable. This tendency is also in keeping with the gnomic sections of Hesiod’s Works and Days, which use masculine ­caesuras in 60.5% of its hexameters (West 1966, 94). Despite such attentions to Phocylides’s archaic style, the Jewish pseudepigraphist does not directly contend with his epic namesake. Instead, he offers advice on

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Table 13.1  Allusions to Greek Poetry in the Sentences Pseudo‐Phocylides

Greek Predecessor

5 7 48 49 92 138 142–143 152 183 195–197 201–204

Theognis, El. 145–146 Hesiod, Op. 788–789 Homer, Il. 9.312–313 Theognis, El. 213–218 Theognis, El. 115–116 Hesiod, Op. 368–369 Theognis, El. 105–106 Theognis, El. 105–106 Hesiod, Op. 328–329 Homer, Od. 6.182–184 Theognis, El. 183–188

a number of themes including marriage, graceful speech, good order, friendship, farming, how to get a living, justice as a chief virtue, the goods of moderation, and prudent wine‐drinking (Wilson 2005, 15–16). Pseudo‐Phocylides does, however, engage in a more critical dialectic with Hesiod, Homer, and Theognis. Wilson (2005, 15) notes 11 loci containing allusions to Greek poets, which are represented in Table 13.1. While the poetic sages emerge as Pseudo‐Phocylides’s main contributors and competitors, the influence of the philosophers is evident in the Sentences as well. At times, the pseudepigraphist echoes or alludes to these Greek sages, weaving from their words a new hexameter Jewish discourse. At other times, his adherence to Jewish wisdom compels him to compete with certain Greek sages in favor of others. In Ps.‐Phoc. 5–6 we see an example of the former, constructive kind of composition; in Ps.‐Phoc. 48–50, we find an example of the latter oppositional contest. Pseudo‐Phocylides 5–6 is part of a larger first unit following the seal (ll. 3–8), which has been critical in arguments for the Jewish character of the pseudepigraphon. (The author’s Jewish identity remains the critical consensus, despite occasionally being questioned [Klawans 2017].) It is generally agreed to be a summary of the second table of the Decalogue. Pseudo‐Phocylides does not follow the scriptural order; rather, his pattern follows traditional Second Temple Jewish summaries, reminiscent of the summaries of two other first century Jewish sages (see ­ Table 13.2). Both Pseudo‐Phocylides and Jesus in the Gospel of Mark adopt a pedagogical strategy of introducing the Decalogue by way of its moral precepts rather than its explicitly theological demands. Like Philo, however, Pseudo‐Phocylides follows the Septuagint sequence for the sixth and seventh commandments (the Masoretic Text puts murder before adultery). Pseudo‐Phocylides has uniquely inverted the biblical

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Table 13.2  Second Table of the Decalogue and Summaries LXX Exod. 20:12–17

Ps.‐Phoc. 3–8

Philo, Dec. 121–153

Mark 10:19

Honor Father/ Mother Adultery Theft Murder False Witness Coveting –

–

–

–

Adultery Murder Theft Coveting False Witness Honor Parents & God

Adultery Murder Theft False Witness Coveting –

Murder Adultery Theft False Witness Coveting Honor Father/Mother

order of false witness and coveting to string together two parallel sentences on the wrong way to acquire possessions (theft, coveting): Do not be rich unjustly, but make your living by holy means Be content with what you have, and keep away from the belongings of others. (Ps.‐Phoc. 5–6)

While the twin topics of this couplet are clearly biblical, Pseudo‐Phocylides also echoes several poetic and prose sages (Wilson 2005, 80–81). The verb “make your living,” for instance, echoes the actual Phocylides. The phrasing of verse 5 “against theft,” on the contrary, takes a major cue from Theognis: Prefer to dwell with few possessions among the pious than to be rich, enjoying possessions unjustly. (Theognis, El. 145–146)

The rephrasing of the command not to covet in verse 6 strays even further from the biblical vocabulary, but likely echoes a proverb known from both Plato and Aristotle, “keep away from the belongings of others” (Plato, Resp. 360b; cf. Aristotle, Eth. Nic. 4.1.39). Pseudo‐Phocylides is not always so accommodating to Greek wisdom, however, particularly when it disagrees with Jewish tradition. Take, for example, Ps.‐Phoc. 49: Do not, as the rocky polyp, alter [your character/speech] depending on your location.

This sentence stands in direct opposition to Theognis’s El. 213–218, which recommends the protosophistic virtue of personal and rhetorical malleability. Wilson argues that this council of duplicity challenges the broader Jewish wisdom to which

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Pseudo‐Phocylides adheres, as represented by Prov. 17:20 and Sir. 27:11 – verses which recommend transparent speech and behavior. Wilson also notes Plutarch’s similar criticism of Theognis in Amic. mult. 96f–97b. As such, we see here how the Jewish pseudepigraphist also pitted sages against sages, in this case siding with Solomon, Ben Sira, and Plutarch over Theognis. Of course, the deeper irony is that the author of the Sentences has himself adopted the polyp’s camouflage strategy by imitating the Greek poetic culture, hiding his Jewish identity and adopting a “variable” posture toward Theognis  –  at times embracing him, and at other times refuting him. If Pseudo‐Phocylides is therefore partially guilty of imitating the polyp, the underlying unity of his thought remains secretly secured by his steadfast adherence to the rock of Jewish wisdom. Having looked closely at Pseudo‐Phocylides’s contest with the Greek sages, what one can say about his date, provenance, and the purpose of his work? Pseudo‐ Phocylides’s dating remains a matter of contention. Wilson suggests that there is simply not enough evidence to place Pseudo‐Phocylides geographically and temporally. An Alexandrian location is most likely; a Hellenistic dating is possible (Wilson 2005, 13). A second position is more particular: it locates Pseudo‐ Phocylides in Roman Alexandria, during the time of the pogrom against the Jews under Flaccus in 38 CE, thus making him a contemporary of Philo. Although this second position cannot be irrefutably proven, it warrants serious consideration. An Alexandrian setting makes sense in light of the history of poetic Jewish pseudepigraphy there, witnessed by Aristobulus’s gnomologion. The prohibition of medical dissection in the Sentences (Ps.‐Phoc. 102; Wilson 2005, 12) may also point to Alexandria. In addition, Greek metrical epitaphs, usually in elegiac couplets, are attested at Jewish burial sites outside of Alexandria in Leontopolis and Demerdash to the south and in Schedia to the east (Horbury and Noy 1992). This suggests that Pseudo‐Phocylides’s composition would have been appreciated by a wide audience in Lower Roman Egypt. The metrical sophistication of the Sentences and its echoes of the Contest of Homer and Hesiod and Dio Chrysostom make Alexandria in the first century CE a plausible provenance for the text. Can one determine when in the first century we ought to date the Sentences? Although it remains speculative, the time of the Alexandrian pogrom suggests itself for several reasons. First, many have noticed that the topical structure of the Pseudo‐Phocylidean Sentences as a whole mirrors a common Jewish tradition found also in Philo’s Hypoth. 7.1–9 and Josephus’s Cont. Ap. 2.190–219 (Sterling 2003; Wilson 2005, 71). The common tradition behind this presentation of Judaism may stem from synagogue education. It is worth noting, however, that the works of both Philo and Josephus are explicitly apologetic – Philo’s penned particularly as a ­ preparation of his speech to Gaius (Cover 2010). Pseudo‐Phocylides may ­participate in the same discourse of apologetic wisdom. Wilson has argued that in the case  of Pseudo‐Phocylides, “any distinctively apologetic elements are obscured” (2005, 22). It would not be surprising, however, if the contest of wisdom

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looked different in poetry than it does in prose, as it trades on more subtle intertextual polemics. The Pseudo‐Phocylidean sentences may evince a different kind of apologetics. John J. Collins, for instance, finds a hidden transcript in Ps.‐Phoc. 39–41 from c. 38 CE, when Jews in Alexandria faced persecution (1997, 164). While the poem may still have been composed decades earlier, the plea for “foreigners to be held in equal honor” as well as the other evidence above suggests (at least) a potential redaction in the late 30s of the Common Era. Viewed in light of its differences from the Hypothetica and the Contra Apionem, the contribution of the Pseudo‐Phocylidean Sentences to the contest of Jewish wisdom in Hellenistic Alexandria comes into full view. If the text was composed for educational use, it might have been introduced at an early stage under a grammaticus (primary‐level instructor). Shaping this part of the curriculum with Jewish wisdom disguised as the maxims of a revered Greek sage allowed the author of the Sentences to “get in on the ground floor” and shape the theology and ethics of the young. Jews who read this text would have become prepared for cultural success in the ephebate and in professional careers in a highly literate polis; if young Alexandrians read it, it would have served to prepare young readers for the kind of apologetics that Philo and others would launch against their Egyptian and Alexandrian adversaries. If the text were recited at a dinner party, to the contrary, it would give its reciter the air of cultured sophistication – even beyond that of Homer and Hesiod.

Philo of Alexandria If the author of the Sentences performs the role of a “Jewish Phocylides,” Philo of Alexandria has been aptly described as a “Jewish Plato” (Jerome, Ep. 70.3.3; Sterling 2014, 140). The contest of the philosophical schools plays a key role in each division of his fourfold corpus, and Philo handles the changes of its various genres with skill. Philo’s introductory work, his two‐volume Life of Moses, conforms to the pattern later adopted by the Neoplatonist Porphyry in his Life of Plotinus, which was intended to introduce the unifying figure in a philosophical corpus (Sterling 2001). Philo’s apologetic works, particularly the Hypothetica and On the Contemplative Life, present Judaism as a branch of philosophy. In the latter, Philo depicts the Therapeutae, a contemplative Jewish group which lived, studied, and worshiped according to the philosophy of Moses on the shores of Lake Mareotis, as participants in a kind of Jewish symposium, taking a cue from Plato’s eponymous dialogue. Philo’s philosophical (non‐biblical) works adopt a number of genres, including a Stoic thesis argued in On the Eternity of the World; the diatribal defense of the Stoic premise That Every Good Man is Free; and two dialogues, following Plato’s favorite genre, engaging his apostate nephew Tiberius Julius Alexander, Whether Animals Have Reason and On Providence, which are preserved only in Armenian (Royse 2009). Philo’s most extensive and sophisticated project, his three series of biblical

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commentaries, also bear the mark of the Platonist tradition. In particular, in his Allegorical Commentary (a broad title that designates many treatises by Philo) Philo follows the commentary practices of Middle Platonism, as exemplified by the Anonymous Theaetetus Commentary, while significantly expanding this genre, introducing homiletic technique and giving each treatise a thematic focus. To limit this study to Philo’s dialogue with philosophy, however, would not do justice to the way the Alexandrian engages the three part competition surveyed above. In what follows, I will treat Philo with respect to all three levels of the contest of wisdom.

Philo and the Hexameter Sages Although one might have expected Philo to latch onto Hesiod, given their shared interests in cosmogony, creation, and agriculture, the singer from Ascra receives relatively scant attention in the corpus Philonicum (but cf. Friesen 2015). Hesiod is mentioned by name only twice, perhaps expectedly in Aet. 17–18, as a follower of Moses’s argument in Genesis that the world is created and eternal. He is otherwise only quoted or alluded to five and six times, respectively (Lincicum 2014, 101). Homer, to the contrary, is cited 24 times – receiving more explicit citations than even Plato – and is alluded to another 48 times (Lincicum 2014, 101). While this might be attributed to Homer’s role in ancient Greek education, David Lincicum has tallied the distribution of Homeric loci in Philo’s works and plausibly suggested that Philo “had a more significant and ongoing exposure to Homer than merely what he might have derived from his initial education” (Lincicum 2014, 106). Undergirding this is the unusual esteem in which Philo holds Homer. For Philo, Homer is “the greatest and most renowned of the poets” or simply, “the poet” (Conf. 4; Mut. 179; Abr. 10; Mig. 156, 195; Her. 189; Fug. 61), whereas Hesiod remains merely “one of the ancients” (Ebr. 150). That Philo seems to have adopted certain principles of inquiry and textual commentary, also known from the Alexandrian scholiasts on Homer like Aristarchus, suggests that he conceived Mosaic authority on a kind of rough analogy with the authority that Homer held for Stoic and Platonist allegorists (Niehoff 2011; Hernández 2014). But despite Philo’s occasional concatenation of Mosaic and Homeric verses in the Allegorical Commentary, there can be no question that Homer’s truth deficit as a polytheist (QG 4.2) rendered him ultimately a lesser authority in the Alexandrian’s estimation. The depth of Philo’s debt to Homer is revealed in the Alexandrian’s preference for exemplaric over gnomic wisdom. In the hexameter contest of wisdom, Odysseus stands out as Homer’s alternative to the maxims of Hesiod and Phocylides. Philo adopts Homer’s “strategy” throughout his commentaries – perhaps most clearly in his Exposition of the Law (another series of exegetical treatises by Philo) where he fashions Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as an “ethical trinity,” laws “endowed with life

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and reason” and “archetypes” of the particular written copies (Abr. 48; cf. 3–5). Philo’s allegorical reading of the lives of the patriarchs, moreover, in terms of the allegory of the soul, owes a debt to Stoic and Platonizing allegoresis of Homer, which views Odysseus in a similar light (see, e.g. Plutarch, Quaest. conviv. 745d–f). In addition to raising up these patriarchal exemplars, Philo also conversely problematizes gnomic wisdom of exactly the sort proffered by Pseudo‐Phocylides: What city is there, in whose center people do not sing a hymn to virgin virtue? They rub the ears of their hearers raw, spewing out (diexiontes) truisms, like: “Practical w ­ isdom is necessary, and lacking it is harmful. Temperance is a choice virtue, but incontinence is hateful … Forever stringing together (suneirontes) these and similar maxims, they deceive the courts, council chambers, theatres, and every human society and sodality. They are like those who put beautiful masks on the most shameful of faces, with the thought of not being discovered by those who see them (Mut. 196–197).

Here, wisdom is praised in mock antithetical parallelism, on the lips of a sophistic hypocrite. It is striking that Philo uses the same two verbs, diexienai and (sun)eirein, to criticize Phocylides‐esque maxims that Dio Chrysostom uses to undermine Homer (see Borysth. 11–12; cf. Certamen 210). While Philo can at times cite gnomic wisdom positively, he here exposes its Achilles heel: the potential for performative duplicity. It is actions, not just words, required by the virtuous. In the contest of hexameter wisdom, Homer, rather than Hesiod or Phocylides, charts the most stable pedagogical path according to Philo.

Philo and the Elegiac Statesmen Just as Philo and Pseudo‐Phocylides align themselves with contrasting figures in the epic contest of wisdom, so the two adopt different models from the era of the Seven Sages. Pseudo‐Phocylides, as we saw, shared strong affinities with Theognis. Philo, to the contrary, like Plutarch, suggests that Solon is the wisest of the lyric sages. This may not be immediately evident from Philo’s limited references to Solon (Opif. 104 contains Philo’s only citation). Solon’s appreciation of the number seven, however, and his key title, nomothetēs (“lawgiver”; Philo, Opif. 104; Spec. 3.22; cf. Prob. 47), suggest that Philo viewed the Athenian as an important sapiential parallel to Moses. According to Plutarch, Solon’s preeminence among the seven is warranted because he has actually created a new constitution (Plutarch, Sept. sap. conv. 151– 152). Moses’s foundational role for the Jewish constitution, according to Philo, is both the model for Solon’s success and a superior example (see Philo, Spec. 3.22). For Philo, particularly in the Exposition of the Law where Solon’s presence is most  felt, the consummate sage must be able not only to express wisdom like

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Theognis, but also to translate it into law and a constitution capable of sanctifying a whole people. Solon achieved that; and Moses has surpassed Solon, while remaining in his camp.

Philo and the Wisdom of the Philosophers: Sophia and Logos If Homer and Solon, through their emphasis on ethical exemplars and civic lawgiving, shape Philo’s externalization of wisdom in his apologetic writings and his Exposition of the Law, the Alexandrian’s great cosmological and psychological allegories, which detail the divine origin of wisdom and its internalization in the human soul, engage primarily in a dialogue with the contestants of the philosophical arena: above all, Heraclitus, Pythagoras, Plato, Aristotle, the Stoics, and the Middle Platonists (like the Alexandrian Eudorus). Space does not permit a full treatment of the relative influences of each of these schools on Philo’s exegesis and thought (see Sterling 2014). In keeping with the theme of this volume, instead, I ask with the prophet Job (28:12): where is wisdom to be found in Philo of Alexandria? Philo, of course, knows many of the books of the biblical and Second Temple wisdom literature. He cites or alludes to Proverbs, Job, and Ecclesiastes, and likely knows Sirach and Wisdom of Solomon (Sterling 2012). For Philo, however, sophia is not primarily a body of texts, nor even, strictly, the aim of education, but above all an incorporeal person. In this, Sophia is quite similar to another figure in Philo’s doctrine of God: the Logos (“Word/Reason”). Determining the relationship between God’s Wisdom and God’s Word in Philo’s thought is a difficult task  –  given the Alexandrian’s multiple sources and hallmark inconsistency. Investigating this crux, however, will illustrate how Philo reshapes Platonic and Stoic vocabulary in service of a biblical theology. The need for a second divine figure in Philo’s thought depends, at least in part, upon one of Philo’s strongest theological commitments: the transcendence of God. By far the most prominent of the intermediaries mentioned in Philo’s biblical commentaries are God’s Wisdom and God’s Word. This raises an important question: are Wisdom and Word identical figures for Philo, or is the Word a second entity? Both positions have arguments to commend them. Karl‐Gustav Sandelin notes the inactive, heavenly character of Wisdom and the more active role of the Word in creation and thus suggests that Wisdom and Word represent “two important powers mediating between God and humankind” (2014, 34–39; Mack 1973). This position is supported by a text like Fug. 108–112, in which the Word is said to have God as father and Wisdom as mother. Other scholars recognize that Philo often uses the same images to describe both Wisdom and Word, and also ascribes similar functions to the two (Radice 2009, 139). On this view, Philo holds a double Logos doctrine, in which the Word signifies

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not only the summation of all God’s active powers – God’s reason from eternity – but also a more passive heavenly archetype – the created noetic universe. On these or similar grounds, Roberto Radice suggests that “one can generally say that Logos and Sophia are equivalent for Philo”; the two have “an essential identity” (2009, 139–140; Goodenough 1935, 23–24; Wolfson 1947, 1.253–255). If Radice is correct in emphasizing the identity rather than the distinction between Sophia and Logos, why does Philo give his primary mediator two names? One answer, offered by Radice, is that Sophia and Logos represent Philo’s two major thought worlds: the world of Mosaic scripture and the world of Middle Platonism: If the Logos has origins that are in large measure philosophical, those of Sophia are ­scriptural … [T]he near equivalence of the two could be seen as a proof of the truth of the Bible in its relationship to philosophical knowledge, because an essentially biblical entity appears to correspond to an essentially philosophical entity. (Radice 2009, 138–139)

While Radice’s insight is correct, it warrants some additional comment. Philo’s essential identification of Sophia and Logos does suggest the united truth of scripture and philosophy; both Sophia and Logos, however, are scriptural mediators; and both are philosophical figures. That Philo, as a biblical interpreter, thinks of Sophia as the name of God’s primary intermediary hypostasis is no surprise, given texts like Proverbs 8, Wisdom of Solomon 6–9, and Sirach 24. But Sophia also resonates in the philosophical tradition most dear to Philo’s heart: the dialogues of Plato. Take, for instance, Socrates’s claim in the Philebus (30c) that there exists in the universe … a presiding cause of no mean power, which orders and regulates the years, the seasons, and the months, and has every claim to the names of wisdom (sophia) and reason (nous).

If wisdom is a biblical character, she is also, in Plato, a cosmic principle. Taking a cue from passages like this one from the Philebus, Middle Platonists like Philo also adopted the notion of a divine mind (nous), renaming it according to the Presocratic/Stoic nomenclature as the Logos – divine Reason permeating the universe. Philo’s Logos may also have biblical origins (although these are not as clear as in the case of Sophia) in the scriptural Word of the Lord (logos kyriou) – the preferred divine intermediary of the prophets. The impact of the prophetic corpus on Philo’s work is clearly muted in comparison to the Pentateuch. Certain passages, however, like Ebr. 143 (citing 1 Sam. 1:11) and Mut. 139 (citing Hos. 14:9–10) demonstrate that Philo saw these texts also as the “holy word” (hieros logos), the locus of the Word’s instruction to human beings and important complements to the prophecies of Moses. Philo’s double nomenclature for his primary divine hypostasis, Sophia and Logos, thus signifies the commensurability of Scripture and

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philosophy, on the one hand, and the co‐laboring of Wisdom and the Prophets, as handmaids of the Pentateuch, on the other.

Conclusion If we step back now and survey the results of this study, the most salient point is that Philo and the author of the Pseudo‐Phocylidean Sentences not only enter the contest of Greek wisdom at different points (in the life of their readers), they also utilize different genres to carry out the task of harmonizing Jewish and Greek wisdom. Pseudo‐Phocylides aims to form the minds of Alexandrian youths, be they Jewish or Greek, perhaps in the first stage of education, while also appealing to a more recherché hexameter poet, and thereby to the sophistic elite. Philo, to the contrary, aims to educate older adolescents and adults and likely ran his own private school, in which the methods of Homeric and especially Platonic commentary were employed by the advanced few – even as he also adopted more popular prose genres as well. If the size and variety of Philo’s corpus suggests his greater impact on subsequent philosophy and theology, the accomplishment of Pseudo‐Phocylides should not be underrated. These works were not intended to accomplish the same thing. They testify, instead, to the variegated ways Jews forged a new pedagogical wisdom for all educational levels to suit their communities’ changing needs in the Roman Diaspora. References Attridge, Harold. 1985. Fragments of the Pseudo‐Greek poets. In: The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha (ed. James H. Charlesworth), 2.821–830. 2 vols. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Campbell, David A. 2001 [1982]. Greek Lyric Poetry. London: Duckworth. Collins, John J. 1997. Jewish Wisdom in the Hellenistic Age. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Cover, Michael B. 2010. Reconceptualizing conquest: Colonial narratives and Philo’s Roman accuser in the Hypothetica. The Studia Philonica Annual 22: 183–207. Derron, Pascale. 1986. Pseudo‐Phocylide: Sentences. Paris: Société d’Edition «Les Belles Lettres».

Diehl, Ernst and Young, Douglas (eds.) 1971. Theognis, Ps.‐Pythagoras, Ps.‐Phocylides, Chares, Anonymi aulodia, Fragmentum teliambicum. 2nd ed. Leipzig: Teubner. Friesen, Courtney. 2015. Hannah’s “Hard Day” and Hesiod’s “Two Roads”: Poetic wisdom in Philo’s De ebrietate. Journal for the Study of Judaism 46: 44–64. Goodenough, Erwin R. 1935. By Light, Light: The Mystic Gospel of Hellenistic Judaism. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Griffiths, Alan H. 2012. Seven Sages. In: The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 4th ed. (ed. Simon Hornblower, Antony Spawforth, and Esther Eidinow), 1357. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Griffiths, Alan H., et al. 2012. “Solon.” In: The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 4th ed. (ed. Simon Hornblower, Antony Spawforth, and Esther Eidinow), 1380–1381. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hernández, Pura Nieto. 2014. Philo and Greek poetry. Studia Philonica Annual 26: 135–149. Horbury, William, and Noy, David. 1992. Jewish Inscriptions of Graeco‐Roman Egypt. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Klawans, Jonathan. 2017. The Pseudo‐ Jewishness of Pseudo‐Phocylides. Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha 26: 201–233. Koning, Hugo H. 2010. Hesiod: The Other Poet: Ancient Reception of a Cultural Icon. Leiden: Brill. Lincicum, David. 2014. Philo’s library. The Studia Philonica Annual 26: 99–114. Mack, Burton. 1973. Logos und Sophia: Untersuchungen zur Weisheitstheologie im hellenistischen Judentum. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Niehoff, Maren. 2011. Jewish Exegesis and Homeric Scholarship in Alexandria. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Otto, Jennifer. 2013. Philo, Judaeus?: A Re‐evaluation of Why Clement Calls Philo “The Pythagorean.” The Studia Philonica Annual 25: 115–138. Radice, Roberto. 2009. Philo’s theology and theory of creation. In: The Cambridge Companion to Philo (ed. Adam Kamesar), 124–145. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Royse, James R. 2009. The Works of Philo. In: The Cambridge Companion to Philo (ed. Adam Kamesar), 32–64. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Sandelin, Karl‐Gustav. 2014. Philo as a Jew. In: Reading Philo: A Handbook to Philo of Alexandria (ed. Torrey Seland), 19–46. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Schibli, Hermann Sadun. 1990. Pherekydes of Syros. Oxford: Clarendon. Smallwood, E. Mary. 1976. The Jews under Roman Rule: From Pompey to Diocletian. Leiden: Brill. Sterling, Gregory E. 2001. General introduction. In Philo of Alexandria: On the Creation of the Cosmos according to Moses (by David T. Runia), ix–xiv. Leiden: Brill. Sterling, Gregory E. 2003. Universalizing the particular: Natural law in Second Temple Jewish ethics. The Studia Philonica Annual 15: 64–80. Sterling, Gregory E. 2012. The interpreter of Moses: Philo of Alexandria and the Biblical text. In: A Companion to Biblical Interpretation in Early Judaism (ed. Matthias Henze), 415–435. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Sterling, Gregory E. 2014. “The Jewish philosophy”: Reading Moses via Hellenistic philosophy according to Philo of Alexandria. In: Reading Philo: A Handbook to Philo of Alexandria (ed. Torrey Seland), 129–154. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. West, Martin L. 1966. Hesiod: Theogony. Oxford: Clarendon. West, Martin L. 1978a. Hesiod: Works and Days. Oxford: Clarendon. West, Martin L. 1978b. Phocylides. Journal of Hellenic Studies 98: 164–167. West, Martin L. 2012. Theognis (1). In: The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 4th ed. (ed. Simon Hornblower, Antony Spawforth, and Esther Eidinow), 1459–1460. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Wilson, Walter T. 2005. The Sentences of Pseudo‐Phocylides. Berlin: De Gruyter. Wolfson, Harry Austryn. 1947. Philo: Foundations of Religious Philosophy in

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Judaism, Christianity, and Islam 2 vols. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Further Reading Birnbaum, Ellen. 1996. The Place of Judaism in Philo’s Thought: Israel, Jews, and Proselytes. Atlanta, GA: Scholars. Examines issues of Jewish identity in Philo’s writings. Borgen, Peder. 1997. Philo of Alexandria: An Exegete for His Time. Leiden: Brill. A classic study of Philo’s biblical exegesis. Dillon, John. The Middle Platonists: 80 BC to AD 220. Rev. ed. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1996 [1977]. The seminal discussion of Philo’s Middle Platonism, with reference to Eudorus. Runia, David T. 1986. Philo of Alexandria and the Timaeus of Plato. Leiden: Brill. A

pioneering study of Philo’s firsthand indebtedness to Plato’s dialogue on creation. Tobin, Thomas H., SJ. 1983. The Creation of Man: Philo and the History of Interpretation. Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America. A source‐critical reading of Philo’s On the Creation of the World, looking at the Jewish philosophical traditions woven together in Philo’s treatise. Whitmarsh, Tim. 2005. The Second Sophistic. Oxford: Oxford University Press. An introduction to the literary‐ rhetorical climate of the Second Sophistic.

CHAPTER 14

Wisdom and Apocalypticism Jason M. Zurawski

Introduction In the third century BCE, a seemingly innovative type of Jewish literature emerged, unique in both its form and the view of the world it espoused. The Jewish apocalypse and related apocalyptic literature would come to play a pivotal role in the literary landscape of the Second Temple period, introducing many concepts now considered as part and parcel with Judaism, Christianity, or both. Notions about heaven and hell, the devil, demons, and evil spirits, resurrection and the afterlife, the end of days, and a future immortal, perfect world to come all became fundamental to much Jewish piety and ideology, and from there nascent Christianity, thanks to texts and viewpoints we now call “apocalyptic.” Apocalyptic literature was at once exploring new ground and tackling common questions, often in ways antithetical to what we find in the texts of the Hebrew Bible, but also deeply embedded within and influenced by those texts and traditions. The study of ancient Judaism, particularly that influenced by the history of religions school, has often been consumed with a quest for origins, and the study of Jewish apocalyptic literature is no exception, with much early scholarship committed to locating the source of this new literary form and these new ideas. International influences have regularly been cited, primarily Babylonian, Zoroastrian, or the general milieu of the early Hellenistic period, but scholars have also sought answers from within Jewish tradition (in early scholarship, meaning the Hebrew Bible). An early favorite explanation was to locate the source in some of the late prophetic The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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texts from the period during or after the Babylonian exile. An influential German biblical scholar, Gerhard von Rad, instead posited that the origins of apocalyptic literature were to be found in the biblical wisdom tradition. While von Rad’s theory failed to gain much traction, his provocative claim nevertheless forced his contemporaries to acknowledge the many commonalities between two traditions often viewed as incompatible: wisdom and apocalyptic. The study of the relationship between these two today has largely moved past the quest for origins to a more general understanding of the extremely diverse literary and cultural world of ancient Judaism and the ways in which different texts participate in a shared world of thought, though situated in unique social, cultural, historical, and political contexts.

Defining our Terms: Apocalyp*** Questions regarding the relationship between these two begin from how one defines “wisdom literature” and “apocalyptic literature” and what one includes as the essential components of each, keeping in mind that this terminology is largely the result of modern, scholarly constructs not necessarily reflective of ancient categories (Collins 2014). The English term “apocalypse” comes from the Greek word apokalypsis, which means “uncovering,” “disclosing,” or “revealing.” The first attested work introduced as an apocalypse is the Apocalypse of John in the late first century CE, though it is not certain whether it is being used yet to indicate a distinct literary form (Smith 1983). Nevertheless, since the nineteenth century, scholars have generally recognized that there existed a group of apocalyptic texts which shared several features and viewpoints (Lücke 1832). Today, many understand apocalypse as a literary form or type: “a genre of revelatory literature with a narrative framework, in which a revelation is mediated by an otherworldly being to a human recipient, disclosing a transcendent reality which is both temporal, insofar as it envisages eschatological salvation, and spatial insofar as it involves another supernatural world” (Collins 2014, 2; 1979). Classic illustrations of the genre include parts of 1 Enoch, Daniel 7–12, 4 Ezra, 2 Baruch, the Apocalypse of John (Revelation), and the Apocalypse of Abraham. “Apocalypticism” describes the ideology or worldview implied by the genre. An apocalyptic worldview is typified by influential supernatural beings (angels and/or demons), the expectation of the end of times and a final judgment, a world corrupted by sin and evil, and the resultant need for wisdom revealed by a heavenly mediator. Importantly, the worldview is found in many different types of texts, not just formal apocalypses. Thus, “apocalyptic literature” can include all those texts which share in these features. Not all scholars have agreed with the form‐critical analysis and the definitions which derive from it, whether because of the ahistorical or anachronistic nature of

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the category (García Martínez 1986; Tigchelaar 1987) or because of the limitations placed upon the individual texts by subsuming them under a single genre label (Newsom 2005). Some prefer to view apocalyptic as a conceptual current (García Martínez 1992) or an intellectual mode (Tigchelaar 1996) rather than a literary form. In part because of the problems with the limiting nature of genre definition and categorization, the resolution at the close of the 1979 Uppsala conference on apocalypticism was contra definitionem, pro descriptione (Hellholm 1983, 2), a call for detailed description and analysis over the struggle to provide overarching definitions.

Defining our Terms: Wisdom While the debates over the category of apocalyptic literature and whether it should entail a genre, a worldview, or something else continue unabated, the category of “wisdom literature” is perhaps even more problematic, as it has not been subjected to nearly the same level of scrutiny (Tanzer 2005; though see recently Sneed 2015 and Weeks 2016). While several texts are similar enough in form and content to constitute a literary genre of apocalypse, from which scholars can then identify central and peripheral traits of one or more apocalyptic worldviews, there is no single, central wisdom genre from which to begin. The category of wisdom literature or “biblical wisdom,” which includes the texts of Proverbs, Job, and Qoheleth (Ecclesiastes) from the Hebrew Bible and Ben Sira (Sirach, Ecclesiasticus) and the Wisdom of Solomon from the Protestant Apocrypha or Catholic Deuterocanon, is a grouping inherited by scholars from ecclesiastical usage rather than a development based on perceived common traits (Murphy 1981). From this artificial category, scholars then attempted to define a genre or set of genres and a sapiential (from the Latin sapientia, “wisdom”) worldview which might encompass this group of diverse texts. Some biblical scholars then transferred the title of “wisdom” to those texts from Mesopotamia and Egypt that resembled in some way the biblical texts, though the term was not always utilized in those fields (Lambert 1960; Buccellati 1981; Beaulieu 2007; see also Chapter 18 in this volume). This comparative material was then used to bolster the existence of a wisdom tradition, ideology, or school in Israel. The danger of circularity at every stage in this process is evident. In the attempt to better understand these so‐called biblical wisdom texts, scholars identified several commonalities, both in form and in content. Genres typically associated with wisdom literature are proverbial sayings, commands, admonitions, instructions, and disputations (Murphy 1981, 2002). A sapiential worldview has also been suggested as a common approach to reality, which prioritizes the orderliness of the created world, the availability of wisdom via that order, the resultant value of experience over revelation, and the central place of humankind within the natural order. The diversity of the texts and the vagueness of the category have led

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many to see the categorization as an intuitive enterprise, a seeking of that “mysterious ingredient” which holds the category together (Crenshaw 2010, 10). Most commonly accepted was that “a marriage between form and content” was required to have wisdom literature (Crenshaw 2010, 12).

Wisdom versus Apocalypticism, or Wisdom and Apocalypticism? Given the above depictions of apocalyptic literature on the one hand and wisdom literature on the other, it is unsurprising that the two have often been viewed as mutually exclusive traditions. For if the former espouses a view of a world which is utterly out of order and in crisis, where salvific knowledge is only available to those elect few worthy of receiving the heavenly revelations, and the latter understands a world in perfect harmony, where wisdom is freely available to all who seek it out and where knowledge of that world and experience passed on through generations insures a successful and joyful life, how could the two viewpoints possibly coexist? In addition to this seemingly inseparable divide, the other factor which led to the two being treated as separate and opposing entities was the question of the origins of the apocalyptic genre and ideology. From the start of its critical study, apocalyptic literature was understood as having close historical, ideological, or literary connections to the prophetic literature of the Hebrew Bible (Rowley 1944; Russell 1964; Hanson 1975). Several post‐exilic prophetic texts, which bore some nascent similarities to the eschatologies found in apocalyptic texts – such as Isaiah 24–27; Second and Third Isaiah; portions of Ezekiel; and Zechariah  –  were sometimes labeled as “Proto‐apocalyptic,” suggesting a continuous line of development: with the end of prophecy came apocalyptic. Enter von Rad’s thesis that the views of history in prophetic and apocalyptic texts were too dissimilar to allow for any sort of genetic relationship between the two. Apocalypticism should thus be viewed as the child of wisdom rather than prophecy, the wisdom tradition moving genetically from “old wisdom” to “theological wisdom” and finally to “apocalyptic wisdom” (von Rad 1965, 1972). While von Rad’s thesis was not adopted in toto for several valid reasons, his bold contention was intriguing enough to encourage a renewed interest in wisdom literature generally and the complex relationship between wisdom and apocalypticism specifically. Scholars began to reassess both past theories of the origins of apocalyptic literature and, more importantly, the strict divisions and categorizations into which these texts where often unfairly cornered. Several scholars, beginning from the 1970s, contributed to the move of reading apocalyptic and sapiential literature together. The culmination of this trend can be found in the creation of the Society of Biblical Literature Wisdom and Apocalypticism group in 1994. In his programmatic paper given at the first meeting, one of the

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founders of the group, George Nickelsburg, sets out many of the objectives and ­considerations which would occupy the group for many years. The first consideration to guide the discussion is the problem of scholars reifying the scholarly abstractions of wisdom and apocalyptic as if they represented historical movements or traditions (Nickelsburg 2005, 19), and he cautions against confusing scholarly (but necessary) terminology with historical reality: The history of scholarship indicates that we have sometimes confused our scholarly abstractions and heuristic categories with flesh and blood realities in the ancient culture that we study. Terms such as sapiential, apocalyptic, and eschatological are useful and, indeed, necessary, but they must be seen for what they are: windows into another world, means for trying to understand that to which we do not have first‐hand access. It is imperative that the means not be construed as the end, or the window confused with the landscape. The history of scholarship also attests the ways in which our categories have become hermetically sealed compartments that give the impression that each refers to, or contains something totally different from the other. Thus “wisdom” or “sapiential” is distinct from “apocalyptic.” By focusing intently on one or the other, as the thing itself, we fail to see that in the world from which they have come to us, they were related parts of an organic whole, each with some of the same genes as the other (Nickelsburg 2005, 36).

Here Nickelsburg highlights a major obstacle to a better understanding of the ancient literature and the social and cultural contexts from which it emerged: taking modern, artificially crafted but heuristically useful categories as historically situated, mutually exclusive traditions, conflating the etic with the emic. Therefore, Nickelsburg lays out a thesis, not only for his initial paper, but also for the group as a whole: The entities usually defined as sapiential and apocalyptic often cannot be cleanly separated from one another because both are the products of wisdom circles that are becoming increasingly diverse in the Greco‐Roman period. Thus, apocalyptic texts contain elements that are at home in wisdom literature, and wisdom texts reflect growing interest in eschatology. Moreover, claims to revelation, inspiration, or divine enlightenment can be found in both “sets” of texts (Nickelsburg 2005, 20).

That it is difficult and largely unproductive to try separate the two into distinct categories was an important statement on the nature of ancient literature and intellectual culture and the ways in which scholars approach these texts. Nickelsburg was not alone in this assessment, and his view that both sapiential and apocalyptic texts ultimately derived from wisdom speculation or discourse was also recognized as a fruitful line of approach by some scholars who sought to develop a typology of wisdom in an attempt to make better sense of both the vagueness of “wisdom” as a category and the connection with the unique means of gaining knowledge found in apocalyptic literature.

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Typologies of Wisdom Many of the standard descriptions of wisdom literature or the sapiential worldview better match what some call “traditional wisdom,” a category primarily reflecting the view of one text, the book of Proverbs. The idea that wisdom offers a view of a world in perfect harmony whose structure – and thus, God’s will – is observable to humankind is surely reflected in Proverbs, but vehemently argued against in Job and Qoheleth. In recognizing such diversity within the inherited corpus of wisdom literature, scholars have devised typologies of wisdom views. At first, these taxonomies were designed so as to include the diverse and sometimes conflicting views found in the standard biblical wisdom corpus, but they later came to highlight a foundational commonality between wisdom and apocalyptic: an earnest quest for understanding. In 1969, James Crenshaw, in responding to increased  –  and, to him, uncritical – studies on wisdom influences on non‐wisdom literature, sets out a threefold typology of wisdom in order to base such comparisons on a more rigorous methodology. For Crenshaw, wisdom represents a search for meaning which moves on three levels: (i) nature wisdom, which includes the study of natural phenomena and attempts to master things for human survival and well‐being; (ii) juridical or practical wisdom, which focuses on the human relationships which form an orderly society; and (iii) theological wisdom, which concerns, primarily, questions of theodicy (Crenshaw 1969, 132). Beginning from this division, John Collins (1997, 385–404) developed a fivefold typology of wisdom, adding insights from Müller and Hengel. Shortly after von Rad’s controversial thesis about the sapiential origins of apocalyptic literature, Hans‐Peter Müller argued that mantic wisdom might provide the intermediary link between the two (1969; 1972). Mantic wisdom is a type of wisdom derived not from experience or tradition from but divination or dream interpretation. Importantly, it is not a form of wisdom represented by the standard corpus of biblical wisdom texts, though it is found in the first half of the book of Daniel. Martin Hengel, in his influential study Judaism and Hellenism, included this in another category Collins would later utilize, “Wisdom through revelation” or “Higher wisdom through revelation” (1974, 1.202– 217). Hengel’s category was designed specifically to highlight the commonality between wisdom and apocalyptic in their “striving for knowledge” (1.208). Hengel also demonstrated how the idea of revealed wisdom was not a unique Jewish phenomenon but was characteristic of much religious thought beginning from the Hellenistic period, found in Greek, Babylonian, Persian, and Egyptian sources among others, a commonality which does not insinuate direct influence or shared origins but rather the prevailing spiritual and intellectual milieu of the Hellenistic period. Building on the work of Crenshaw, Müller, and Hengel, Collins’s fivefold typology of wisdom includes: (1) wisdom sayings; (2) theological wisdom; (3) nature wisdom; (4) mantic wisdom; and (5) higher wisdom through revelation, including

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apocalyptic revelations. Collins notes, “While these types are not mutually exclusive, and the first three are intermingled in the biblical wisdom books, they are, nonetheless, distinct. To say that apocalypticism is an example of wisdom by revelation (type 5) or is influenced by mantic wisdom (type 4) does not imply any necessary connection between apocalypticism and the experiential wisdom of Proverbs” (Collins 1997, 388). The point is well taken, that though all of these are types of wisdom speculation, it does not follow that they must be related. Nevertheless, Collins maintains the distinction between apocalypticism and biblical wisdom when he goes on to distinguish the sapiential worldview from the apocalyptic. In an earlier essay focused on the rapprochement between wisdom and apocalyptic in the Wisdom of Solomon, Collins (1997, 330) emphasizes the fact that “Any comparison of wisdom and apocalypticism in the Jewish tradition must start from the fact that the apocalypses are presented as one kind of wisdom.” This idea and his typology which is based on it should naturally lead to comparisons between the texts all as unique types of wisdom speculation. If all are set as subcategories under the broader umbrella of wisdom, the comparison should be between not biblical wisdom and apocalypticism but Proverbs and Job and Daniel, etc., without prioritizing modern etic categories over emic self‐designations. If we follow the notion of Hengel’s “higher wisdom through revelation” and Collins’s typology to their logical conclusion, all of the texts which exhibit this eager desire for wisdom should be read on equal terms. The idea of prioritizing biblical texts over those outside of the canon fell out of favor in critical scholarship decades ago, yet we still talk of biblical wisdom, maintaining this category as somehow contextually valid and insinuating a greater degree of connectedness between those five texts than between those texts and others not included in the corpus. If one were to treat all of these texts (and many others) under the large and admittedly general category of wisdom, we might find that the differences between, for example, Proverbs and Job are no less significant than those between Job and 1 Enoch or 1 Enoch and Proverbs. Nickelsburg (2005, 35) argued that the authors of Ben Sira, 1 Enoch, and Daniel were “different species of the same genus,” and it is this sort of taxonomical relationship which could prove helpful for understanding the commonalities and differences generally between and among those texts traditionally held to be wisdom and apocalyptic.

Wisdom as Genus If we begin from the general and obvious basis that sapiential literature is fundamentally concerned with sapientia, with wisdom – seeking it, finding it, developing it, explaining it – then apocalyptic texts like 1 Enoch and biblical wisdom texts like Proverbs, not to mention much other literature often not brought into this

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conversation, begin from a common baseline. Crucial differences can emerge, however, in several areas, among them: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

The means of acquiring wisdom The presentation of wisdom The content of wisdom The transmission and purview of wisdom The purpose of wisdom.

There are several ways in which wisdom can be acquired, such as through education, contemplation of nature and the cosmos, human experience, divine inspiration, mediated revelation, or exegetical study of the Jewish law. This wisdom can then be presented through various different forms or genres, such as pithy sayings, instructions, admonitions, apocalypses, diatribes, or philosophical discourses. The content of wisdom could include, as many Greek, Roman, and Jewish philosophers had it, all knowledge of matters human and divine, from information about human associations to that about the mysteries of the universe and about the past and the future and the heavenly realms. Wisdom may be available to all humankind or it could be transmitted to only an elect few or even not available on earth at all. Finally, the purposes of wisdom too are diverse, perhaps as the means to live a successful, happy existence in this world or to secure a future immortal existence in the world to come. Nickelsburg (2005, 35) went on to say about the different species of the same genus: “as is often the case, one argues most heatedly with those most similar to oneself, or those using different methods to draw divergent and sometimes conflicting conclusions from a common starting point.” By acknowledging the common basis from which the texts begin, we are better able to make sense of both the divergences and commonalities, not only between apocalyptic and biblical wisdom texts, but also within and outside the categories. This recognition too helps to avoid the compartmentalization and reification of our modern scholarly categories as if they reflect irresolvable differences rather than points of dialogue.

The Species of (Lady) Wisdom The personification of wisdom as a female figure is a literary motif found both in the traditionally understood biblical wisdom texts (Qoheleth not included) and in the apocalyptic Book of the Parables of Enoch (1 Enoch 37–71). The way in which a text depicts this figure provides keen insight into several of the above‐mentioned categories and the overall worldview of a text, showing both the commonalities and differences among several different species of wisdom. Thus, the figure of Lady Wisdom becomes for us a vivid symbol of the applicability of this sort of taxonomy.

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Proverbs’ Wisdom figure is preexistent to creation, “acquired” (or “created” in the LXX) by God, and then utilized by God to create the world (3:19; 8:22, 30). Wisdom is thus inherent and evident in creation, a fact the author emphasizes by having her calling out from the street corner for all to find her (1:20–22; 8:1–5). This portrayal well reflects the typical descriptions of the sapiential worldview. Here we find a perfectly ordered creation, imbued with wisdom and able to be comprehended by those who desire it. Observation and the accumulated experience of the family and the ancients is sufficient to insure a happy, productive life. The reciprocity is straightforward and absolute: if you accept Wisdom’s guidance, follow the order of nature and the experience of your ancestors, life will be very good; if you do not, life will be difficult and unhappy and come to an untimely end. There is no hint of nationalism, esotericism, or sectarianism here. Wisdom is universally available to all. The Wisdom figure in Job 28 looks very different. In Job we do find an uncreated, preexistent Wisdom (28:25–27), but one who has no role in the creation of the world. Wisdom, therefore, is not apparent in the world. While mortals are able to find amazing things on and in the earth, they cannot find Wisdom, because she is “not in the land of the living” (v. 13), and she is “hidden from the eyes of all living” (v. 21). Wisdom, in Job, is the sole provenance of God (v. 23). The contrast with Proverbs here could not be starker. While Proverbs’ Wisdom is publicly calling out, begging to be found, Job’s Wisdom is utterly inaccessible to humankind. The worldview this reflects is surely not that of Proverbs, the “traditional” sapiential worldview. The book of Job calls the simple quid pro quo of Proverbs and covenantal theology into question, becoming the quintessential challenge to the problem of theodicy. The just and blameless Job who is brutally tortured as part of a divine bet is proof that God’s wisdom is nowhere to be found. The universality of Proverbs is still here, but only in the negative: no one has access to wisdom. The idea that Proverbs and Job share a common worldview because they both belong to the corpus of biblical wisdom is directly called into question by their divergent pictures of Lady Wisdom. Ben Sira’s Wisdom has been transformed in many ways from her earliest depictions (for an overview, see Chapter 5 in this volume). First, Wisdom is now unmistakably created by God, the first creation (1:4, 9). Next, in her autobiographical monologue in chapter 24, Wisdom is calling out not from the street corner to the lowly simpleton as in Proverbs, but instead telling her story from heaven, in the midst of the angelic host (vv. 1–2). Wisdom’s creative function sits between the two spectrums of Proverbs and Job. God did not use Wisdom in creating the world, but instead “poured her out upon all of his works” (1:9). Wisdom is not as rooted in creation as in Proverbs, but rather added by God after creating the world. She “veiled the earth like a mist” (v. 3). Wisdom is on not in nature. The difference may seem slight, but it signals a shift from the universality in Proverbs to the ultimate nationalization of wisdom. Early in her career, Wisdom traveled widely, over the entire

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earth and beyond (24:5–6). At some point, however, she sought a place of permanent residence (v. 7). God finds her a home “in Jacob and in Israel” (v. 8), and she comes to reside in or as the Torah of Moses (v. 23). Only once taking root among the Lord’s chosen does wisdom fully flourish and blossom (vv. 13–17). So, while wisdom is found throughout the world, the wisdom outside of Israel and the Torah is necessarily inferior. This move reflects a major departure from Proverbs’ view of the world, which had little concern for the nation or for the law of Moses. In Ben Sira’s worldview, the connection between wisdom and the Jewish law is fundamental, and this is vividly portrayed by the author’s personified Wisdom. The skepticism of Job is gone, with Ben Sira maintaining the justice of God and a straightforward system of retribution (e.g., 16:12–13), though now in Deuteronomistic terms rather than the sapiential terms of Proverbs. This nationalization of wisdom will be strengthened further in the book of Baruch. The final picture of Wisdom to discuss comes not from the biblical wisdom corpus but from an apocalyptic text, the Parables (or Similitudes) of Enoch, chapters 37–71 of 1 Enoch. While the appearance of the personified figure of Wisdom in an apocalyptic text may occasion surprise, it need not. As we have seen, the authors of apocalyptic texts are as concerned with seeking out wisdom and knowledge as are those of the biblical wisdom texts. In fact, the opening of this text explicitly sets it out as a type of wisdom literature: “The vision of wisdom that Enoch saw … And this is the beginning of the words of wisdom, which I took up to recount to those who dwell on the earth” (1 En. 37:1–2). A depiction of Wisdom reflecting a unique apocalyptic worldview, as we find it in the Parables, is, therefore, perfectly reasonable. In 1 Enoch 42 we meet a Wisdom figure directly at odds with Ben Sira and Proverbs, but, in some ways, akin to Job’s hidden Wisdom. As in Ben Sira, Wisdom first dwells in heaven and then travels out to find a place to rest on earth. But, instead of dwelling with Israel as the Torah, “she did not find a dwelling. Wisdom returned to her place and sat down among the angels” (v. 2). Instead of Wisdom finding a place on earth, Iniquity comes forth, dwells among humankind, and flourishes (v. 3). Not only do we find here an explanation of the origin of evil and the corruption of the world, but, in a way, the author may be seen answering the problem of the book of Job. If humans have no access to God’s wisdom on earth, in creation, then it must be available through different means, that is through apocalyptic revelation, Enoch’s own “vision of wisdom.” Wisdom is no longer evident in creation, as in Proverbs, or in the Mosaic law, as in Ben Sira. Wisdom is available only to the elect worthy to receive revelation. These differences, however, need not compel us to question the text’s self‐designation as a type of wisdom. These unique pictures of Wisdom personified highlight the strength of viewing the heuristic category of wisdom as a sort of genus to several diverse species. By doing so, we are compelled to compare and contrast equally the different texts, not prioritizing one sort over another as being more appropriately “wisdom.” In looking

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at the depictions of Wisdom, we did not contrast the biblical wisdom view of the first three texts to the apocalyptic of the last, but rather each text individually. Only in this way, can we fully appreciate both the commonalities and the uniqueness among all of the species.

Interspecific Commonality and Hybridity In biological taxonomies, different species of the same genus share many common attributes, and sometimes, whether in laboratory conditions or due to environmental and population anomalies, interspecies hybrids can occur, fully integrating the characteristics of both parents and developing new, unexpected traits. Our literary taxonomy is no different. Many of the texts which might be considered under the genus of wisdom evince traits from several different subtypes. For example, experiential, ethical sayings are found not only in a text like Proverbs, but also in apocalyptic texts like the Epistle of Enoch (1 En. 91–104) and 2 Enoch (Collins 1997, 395–396). Apocalyptic texts often explicitly describe their contents as wisdom, which, like that in Proverbs, is to be passed on from father to son (e.g. 1 En. 82:1–3), and apocalyptic seers like Enoch, Ezra, and Daniel are presented as scribes and wise men, just as Solomon is in other texts. Reflection on theodicy and the problem of innocent suffering has typically been viewed as a unique wisdom occupation, based on the example of the book of Job, but many of those elements which are said to make up the apocalyptic worldview  –  e.g. dualisms, eschatological judgment, demons, and the superhuman origin of evil – derive exactly from contemplation on the problem of suffering in the world and God’s justice (Segal 1999, 2004). Even texts as seemingly disparate as Ben Sira and 1 Enoch have been shown to operate in a shared conceptual framework, utilizing similar literary forms and engaging several common themes or problems (Boccaccini 1991; Argall 1995). Beyond such similarities, two texts have regularly been singled out as unique in their combination of apocalyptic and sapiential traits: 4QInstruction and the Wisdom of Solomon.

4QInstruction The discovery and publication of the Dead Sea Scrolls illumined and complicated much of what was known of Jewish literature and culture during the late Second Temple period, the relationship between wisdom and apocalypticism certainly included. While there are no proper apocalypses among the so‐called sectarian texts, according to the above terminological definitions, the community at Qumran – or as depicted in several of the texts – could be (and has been) classified as an apocalyptic community, a group where revealed esoteric knowledge, eschatological speculation, and a pronounced dualistic view of the world were integral to

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its self‐understanding and self‐presentation. But, the Qumran yahad could just as easily be described as a wisdom or sapiential community. The leader or figurehead of the group, according to several of the documents, is the Teacher of Righteousness, who is both an apocalyptic visionary, having received the revelation of the mysteries of God, and a wisdom teacher, passing down that knowledge to those in the elect community. And, many of the texts found at Qumran display apocalyptic and sapiential elements concurrently. Over 50 years after their discovery, the publication of the Dead Sea Scrolls was finally completed in 2002. Two of the last volumes published were devoted to a group of texts found primarily in Cave Four which the editors termed “Sapiential Texts” (Elgvin et al. 1997; Strugnell, Harrington, and Elgvin 1999; see also Goff 2007 and Kampen 2011), including 4QInstruction, 4QMysteries, 4QWiles of the Wicked Women, 4QSapiential Work, and 4QBeatitudes, among others (see Chapter 7 in this volume). While some of these texts have much in common with the nationalistic wisdom of Ben Sira or Baruch, such as 4QSapiential Work (4Q185) and 4QBeatitudes (4Q525), with wisdom more fully subsumed within the confines of the Jewish law, others, instead, display clear signs of an apocalyptic worldview and have significantly complicated traditional understandings of sapiential literature and the relationship between wisdom and apocalypticism. 4QInstruction (1Q26, 4Q415–418, 423) often appears very similar in form to instructional wisdom texts like Proverbs or Ben Sira (Goff 2013, 12–14). The text is addressed to a mevin (“understanding one”) as the student – thus the other common scholarly title for the work, Musar Le‐Mevin (“instruction for the understanding one”) – and it offers much mundane, practical advice on such topics as finances and interpersonal relationships. However, even such common sapiential fare derives ultimately from revelation, not from experience or observation of the world, making this wisdom ultimately distinct from Proverbs or Sirach (García Martínez 2003). Several other elements and themes in the text reflect a worldview more in line with apocalyptic/revelatory wisdom than the idealistic wisdom of Proverbs. While it shares the strong urge and dire necessity to seek out wisdom, the means of accessing it, the purpose and content of that wisdom, and those deemed worthy of access, all fundamentally conflict with Proverbs. The stark contrast in perspective is most readily seen in the text’s central wisdom element, the raz nihyeh, commonly translated as “mystery that is to be” or “mystery of existence.” The student is encouraged to “study the mystery that is to be” (4Q416 2 iii 14), which has been given via revelation (4Q416 2 iii 18). Through studying the mystery, the student will come to distinguish between truth and iniquity, wisdom and folly, and good and evil (4Q417 1 i 6–7), and meditation upon the mystery reveals the true nature of humankind and the cosmos (ll. 18–19). This is because God utilized the raz to create the foundations of the world (ll. 8–9). However, while in Proverbs Wisdom’s creative role is meant to insinuate the orderliness of the cosmos and the ability for all to understand through observation, the creative function of the raz is designed to show the deceptiveness of

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nature and the necessity of revelation to understand it. With this shift also comes the esoteric nature of the knowledge and a particularistic determinism, where only the elect are granted access. Thus, the student (the mevin) has his lot with the angels (4Q418 81 4–5), and it was only to the people of the spirit, not of the flesh, that God revealed the vision of the mystery (4Q417 1 i 17–18). Whereas the wicked are destined for eternal punishment (4Q418 69 ii 6), the angels – and presumably those of their lot – will enjoy eternal life (ll. 12–13). The connection between one’s ability to understand the raz nihyeh and the resultant eschatological fate is made even more explicit in 4QMysteries (1Q27, 4Q299–301). On this combination of traditional sapiential and apocalyptic elements, Lange argued that 4QInstruction was a response to the skepticism of Job and Qoheleth and that it provides the missing link between theological and apocalyptic wisdom in von Rad’s line of genetic development (Lange 1995), as opposed to the text’s editors, who saw 4QInstruction as the missing link between Proverbs and Ben Sira (Strugnell, Harrington, and Elgvin 1999). Elgvin (2000) would take a source critical view of the composition and argue that the text comprises two distinct literary strata, one containing the traditional, practical wisdom instruction, which was then reworked and incorporated into a larger apocalyptic framework. Where Lange saw continuity with the past wisdom tradition, Elgvin sees in the final product a decisive break between two mutually exclusive traditions. Both Collins and Goff would argue against Lange’s strict genetic development and Elgvin’s source criticism. For Collins, 4QInstruction, like so many contemporary texts, was “an exercise in bricolage, piecing together a new view of the world that drew motifs and ideas from many sources” (Collins 2004, 63). Goff understands 4QInstruction and the other Qumran wisdom texts as a coherent collection and in line with the standard corpus of wisdom literature. He does so by rethinking the category of wisdom and its essential components. Instead of a common form or worldview lying behind this diverse group of texts, Goff (2010, 299) argues that all wisdom literature, first, is instructional or pedagogical or “noetic” – i.e. focused on the search for an understanding of the cosmos – and, second, participates in “sapiential discourse” – i.e. it engages in some fundamental way with the “traditional wisdom of Israel” as found in the book of Proverbs. While the pedagogical function and context of standard wisdom texts like Job, Qoheleth, and even Proverbs has been called into question (Weeks 2016), if we were to remove the restriction of “traditional wisdom,” Goff ’s notion of sapiential discourse is extremely helpful in highlighting the commonality behind the diverse species of the genus.

Wisdom of Solomon The Wisdom of Solomon has long been included within the corpus of biblical wisdom literature, though it is distinct from the others in several ways. It was written later, likely in the first half of the first century CE. It was written in Greek, not Hebrew.

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And it was written in Alexandria, Egypt, not Palestine. Additionally, this text exhibits far more interaction with Hellenistic intellectual culture – particularly Stoic and Platonic philosophy – than the other texts. All these factors should prepare us for a text which engages wisdom in its own unique manner. In many ways, one might see the Wisdom of Solomon representing a return to the traditional wisdom of Proverbs – in outlook though not in form – particularly in the inclusivity and accessibility of wisdom (Kolarcik 1999). The nationalism of Ben Sira’s wisdom is gone in favor of Proverbs’ universalism. Personified Wisdom does not come to dwell with Israel alone as the Torah, but rather is the “fashioner of all that exists” (7:22; cf. 8:4, 6), whose pure essence pervades all of creation (7:24). Against Job’s skeptical view, Wisdom is not hidden from humanity, but rather is available to all who seek her. And, quite amazingly, this includes the “rulers of the earth” to whom the text is addressed, gentile kings and judges who are encouraged to heed the author’s instruction, seek wisdom, and thereby earn immortality (1:1; 6:1–21). Reflective of the Greek philosophical milieu, the purpose of wisdom in the Wisdom of Solomon is not to enjoy a happy long life in this mortal world, but rather to secure the true life of the soul after it departs the corruptible body (9:15), to the extent that torture, humiliation, and even the death of the body are understood as God’s education and testing of humankind to determine those worthy of attaining immortal life (3:1–6). This shift from the world of the body to the world of the soul is fundamental to the text’s outlook, and it leads to a rather biting critique of the sort of simplistic quid pro quo found both in covenantal theology and in the book of Proverbs. Things like childlessness and dying young – traditional indications of a life devoid of wisdom – now are considered a blessing if the individual is righteous (3:13–14; 4:7–14), while the gift of many children and old age – traditional indications of a life devoted to wisdom – now count as nothing for the impious, as the offspring will be miserable and without honor (3:16–19; 4:3–6). Despite this fundamental shift, the world as described in the Wisdom of Solomon, where wisdom is freely available to all, where God and Wisdom are firmly in control, and where there is no crisis or corruption, would seem to have no need for apocalyptic revelations of knowledge, evil spirits or fallen angels, or an eschaton, a final destruction followed by a new creation. However, scholars have routinely pointed out that some elements in the text are more typically associated with apocalyptic literature, such as references to the mysteria (of God) (2:22; 6:22), a veiled reference to Enoch (4:10–14), and an apparent eschatological judgment of the wicked (4:20–5:14). The contrast with the traditional “sapiential” elements in the text led Weber (1904) to conclude that the first part of the work, which he dubbed the “Book of Eschatology” originated as a separate, autonomous composition. Fichtner (1937) described the text as an “apokalyptisches Weisheitsbuch.” Collins (1974) saw a rapprochement between wisdom and apocalyptic taking place in the text’s unique

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eschatology, combining the Greek notion of the immortality of the soul with apocalyptic eschatology, though he later would make clear that the apocalyptic elements do not ultimately impact the overall sapiential worldview espoused in the text (2005). Kolarcik (2010) too sees the sapiential winning out over the apocalyptic elements, which, according to him, are entertaining literary motifs used by the author in service to traditional sapiential values. Conversely, Burkes (2002) would argue that the Wisdom of Solomon, while maintaining sapiential language, actually manifests an apocalyptic worldview.

Conclusions: The Genus and Genius of Wisdom Fundamental to most reviews of these texts, no matter how nuanced and complicated the discussion, still stands the dichotomy between the apocalyptic and sapiential worldviews, the latter taken to mean the traditional wisdom as expressed in Proverbs. However, to reduce texts like the Wisdom of Solomon or 4QInstruction to this simplistic and specious binary is to do a disservice to the literature. These are both texts which identify themselves as participating in wisdom discourse. To do so, they each draw on their own unique influences and views, with their own unique aims in mind, within their own unique historical and cultural contexts. In attempting to understand these texts, we should not aspire to determine whether they are sapiential or apocalyptic, but rather how exactly each participates in this shared discourse. The wide‐ranging and imprecise nature of wisdom – as term, concept, and category – necessitates such an approach. While scholars continue to argue about the details, apocalypticism is, at least relatively, well‐defined; the notion that wisdom can only come via mediated r­ evelation – the starting point for the genre and the worldview – comes with a number of stable correlates necessarily attached. When we look without presupposition at the nature of wisdom, we do not find the same type of stability, the vagueness of the concept coming with a far more varied and dynamic set of correlates. Therefore, we can either try to limit the nature of wisdom based on an inherited grouping of a few texts, or we can embrace the ambiguity of wisdom and include under it all those texts or traditions which participate in wisdom discourse, in whatever form that might take. The former method is how wisdom has traditionally been handled and understood. However, this method is too restrictive and is still based, even if subconsciously, on scholarship that prioritized canonical texts over non‐canonical ones, and it ignores those texts that actually self‐designate as a type of wisdom. Therefore, the latter method is to be preferred, and we should accept and celebrate the indeterminate nature of wisdom as a category. The advantages of understanding wisdom as a genus to a wide variety of species are several. First, it does not prioritize one uncertain form of wisdom – biblical wisdom – over all others, and it takes seriously the ways in which the texts themselves

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are actually presented. In this, it reveals the great diversity within the genus and the uniqueness of the individual texts. The Wisdom of Solomon does not evince the apocalyptic worldview of 1 Enoch, but neither does it share in the sapiential idealism of Proverbs nor the skepticism of Job nor the nationalistic wisdom of Ben Sira, etc. Elements of each are present, but they are utilized in the depiction of a unique view of the world that cannot be adequately appreciated within the confines of the traditional binary. The Wisdom of Solomon was also profoundly influenced by Hellenistic philosophy and rhetoric, the kinds of influences often overshadowed when viewing a text through such a limited lens. Finally, wisdom as genus helps to avoid the reification of the different subcategories, either as genetically related or as mutually exclusive traditions. While various sorts of relationships surely do exist, the category itself is not the decisive factor. Wisdom as genus does not mean that we will not find clusters of texts that share in more significant features than others, but it does mean that we will approach all of the texts on equal terms. Though the taxonomy attempts to take into account the ways in which the texts are presented, it must be made clear that this is assuredly a modern, scholarly construction, a heuristic model to help us try to better understand the ancient literature. As such, the taxonomy does not negate other clusters of texts based on different criteria or based on one’s particular angle of investigation – e.g. apocalyptic texts with prophetic texts or philosophical wisdom with Philo or Plutarch or Seneca. This is the great benefit of a modern heuristic device over a historically positioned tradition. However, we must not confuse our artificially created categories with historical realities. Nickelsburg’s caution bears repeating: “It is imperative that the means not be construed as the ends, or the window confused with the landscape.”

References Argall, R.A. 1995. 1 Enoch and Sirach: A Comparative Literary and Conceptual Analysis of the themes of Revelation, Creation and Judgment. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Beaulieu, Paul‐Alain. 2007. The social and intellectual setting of Babylonian wisdom literature. In Wisdom Literature in Mesopotamia and Israel (ed. Richard J. Clifford), 3–19. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Boccaccini, G. 1991. Middle Judaism: Jewish Thought 300 BCE to 200 CE. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press.

Buccellati, Giorgio. 1981. Wisdom and not: The case of Mesopotamia. Journal of the American Oriental Society 101: 35–47. Burkes, S. 2002. Wisdom and apocalypticism in the Wisdom of Solomon. Harvard Theological Review 95: 21–44. Collins, John J. 1974. Apocalyptic eschatology as the transcendence of death. Catholic Biblical Quarterly 36: 21–43. Collins, John J. (ed.) 1979. Apocalypse: The Morphology of a Genre, Semeia 14. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press.

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Collins, John J. 1997. Wisdom, apocalypticism, and generic compatibility. In: Seers, Sibyls, and Sages Hellenistic-Roman Judaism, 385–404. Leiden: Brill. Collins, John J. 2004. The eschatologizing of wisdom in the Dead Sea Scrolls. In: Sapiential Perspectives: Wisdom Literature in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Proceedings of the Sixth International Symposium of the Orion Center for the Study of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Associated Literature, 20–22 May, 2001 (ed. J.J. Collins, G.E. Sterling, and R.A. Clements), 49–65. Leiden: Brill. Collins, John J. 2005. The reinterpretation of apocalyptic traditions in the Wisdom of Solomon. In: The Book of Wisdom in Modern Research: Studies on Tradition, Redaction, and Theology (ed. Angelo Passaro and Giuseppe Bellia), 143–157. Berlin: de Gruyter. Collins, John J. 2014. What is apocalyptic literature? In: The Oxford Handbook of Apocalyptic Literature (ed. John J. Collins), 1–16. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Crenshaw, J. 1969. Method in determining wisdom influence upon historical literature. Journal of Biblical Literature 88: 129–142. Crenshaw, James L. 2010. Old Testament Wisdom: An Introduction. 3rd ed. Atlanta, GA: John Knox. Elgvin, T. 2000. Wisdom and apocalypticism in the early second century BCE – The evidence of 4QInstruction. In: The Dead Sea Scrolls Fifty Years after Their Discovery: Proceedings of the Jerusalem Congress, July 20–25, 1997 (ed. L. H. Schiffman, E. Tov, J. VanderKam, and G. Marquis), 226–247. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. Elgvin, T., et al. (eds.) 1997. Qumran Cave 4.XV: Sapiential Texts, Part 1. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Fichtner, J. 1937. Die Stellung der Sapientia Salamonis in der Literature und Geistesgeschichte ihre Zeit. Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 36: 113–132. García Martínez, F. 1986. Encore l’apocalyptique. Journal for the Study of Judaism 17: 224–232. García Martínez, F. 1992. Qumran and Apocalyptic: Studies on the Aramaic Texts from Qumran. Leiden: Brill. García Martínez, F. 2003. Wisdom at Qumran: Worldly or heavenly? In: Wisdom and Apocalypticism in the Dead Sea Scrolls and in the Biblical Tradition (ed. F. García Martínez), 1–15. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Goff, M. 2007. Discerning Wisdom: The Sapiential Literature of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Leiden: Brill. Goff, M. 2010. Qumran wisdom literature and the problem of genre. Dead Sea Discoveries 17: 286–306. Goff, M. 2013. 4QInstruction. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Hanson, Paul D. 1975. The Dawn of Apocalyptic. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press. Hengel, M. 1974. Judaism and Hellenism. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press. Hellholm. D. (ed.) 1983. Apocalypticism in the Mediterranean World and the Near East: Proceedings of the International Colloquium on Apocalypticism, Uppsala, August 12–17, 1979. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Kampen, J. 2011. Wisdom Literature. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Kolarcik, M. 1999. Universalism and justice in the Wisdom of Solomon. In: Treasures of Wisdom: Studies in Ben Sira and the Book of Wisdom; Festschrift M. Gilbert (ed. Núria Calduch‐Benages and Jacques Vermeylen), 289–301. Leuven: Leuven University Press.

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Kolarcik, M. 2010. Sapiential values and apocalyptic imagery in the Wisdom of Solomon. In: Studies in the Book of Wisdom (ed. Géza G. Xeravits and József Zsengellér), 23–36. Leiden: Brill. Lambert, W. G. 1960. Babylonian Wisdom Literature. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Lange, A. 1995. Weisheit und Prädestination. Weisheitliche Urordnung und Prädestination in den Textfunden von Qumran. Leiden: Brill. Lücke, Gottfried Christian Friedrich. 1832. Versuch einer vollständigen Einleitung in die Offenbarung Johannis und die gesamte apokalyptische Literatur. Bonn: Weber. Müller, Hans‐Peter. 1969. Magisch‐mantische Weisheit und die Gestalt Daniels. Ugarit‐Forschungen 1: 79–94. Müller, Hans‐Peter. 1972. Mantische Weisheit und Apokalyptik. In: Congress Volume: Uppsala, 1971, 268–293. Leiden: Brill. Murphy, Roland E. 1981. Wisdom Literature: Job, Proverbs, Ruth, Canticles, Ecclesiastes, and Esther. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Murphy, Roland E. 2002. The Tree of Life: An Exploration of Biblical Wisdom Literature. 3rd ed. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Newsom, Carol. 2005. Spying out the land: A report from genology. In Seeking Out the Wisdom of the Ancients (ed. R.L. Troxel, K.G. Friebel, and D.R. Magary), 437–450. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Nickelsburg, George W.E. 2005. Wisdom and apocalypticism in early Judaism: Some points for discussion. In: Conflicted Boundaries in Wisdom and Apocalypticism (ed. Benjamin G. Wright III and Lawrence M. Wills), 17–37. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. von Rad, Gerhard. 1965. Old Testament Theology. Volume II: The Theology of

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Israel’s Prophetic Traditions (trans. D.M.G. Stalker). New York: Harper and Row. von Rad, Gerhard. 1972. Wisdom in Israel (trans. J.D. Martin). London: SCM. Rowley, H.H. 1944. The Relevance of Apocalyptic: A Study of Jewish and Christian Apocalypses from Daniel to the Revelation. London: Lutterworth. Russell, D.S. 1964. The Method and Message of Apocalyptic. Philadelphia, PA: Westminster. Segal, A.F. 1999. Apocalypticism and life after death. Proceedings of the Irish Biblical Association 22: 41–63. Segal, A.F. 2004. Life after Death: A History of the Afterlife in the Religions of the West. New York: Doubleday. Smith, M. 1983. On the history of Apokalyptō and Apokalypsis. In: Apocalypticism in the Mediterranean World and the Near East: Proceedings of the International Colloquium on Apocalypticism, Uppsala, August 12–17, 1979 (ed. D. Hellholm), 9–20. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Sneed, M.R. (ed.) 2015. Was There a Wisdom Tradition? New Prospects in Israelite Wisdom Studies. Atlanta, GA: SBL Press. Strugnell, J., Harrington, D.J., and Elgvin, T. (eds.) 1999. Qumran Cave 4.XXIV: Sapiential Texts, Part 2, 4QInstruction (Mûsār LeMēvîn): 4Q415ff. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Tanzer, Sarah J. 2005. Response to George Nickelsburg, “Wisdom and apocalypticism in early Judaism.” In: Conflicted Boundaries in Wisdom and Apocalypticism (ed. Benjamin G. Wright III and Lawrence M. Wills), 39–49. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Tigchelaar, E.J.C. 1987. More on apocalyptic and apocalypses. Journal for the Study of Judaism 18: 137–144.

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Tigchelaar, E.J.C. 1996. Prophets of Old and the Day of the End: Zechariah, the Book of Watchers and Apocalyptic. Leiden: Brill. Weber, W. 1904. Die Komposition der Weisheit Salomos. Zeitschrift für wissenschaftliche Theologie 48: 145–169.

Weeks, S. 2016. Is “wisdom literature” a useful category? In: Tracing Sapiential Traditions in Ancient Judaism (ed. H. Najman, J.‐S. Rey, and E.J.C. Tigchelaar), 3–23. Leiden: Brill.

Further Reading Collins, John J. 2016. The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to Jewish Apocalyptic Literature. 3rd ed. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. A standard, accessible introduction to Jewish apocalyptic literature by a leading scholar in the field. DiTommaso, Lorenzo. 2007. Apocalypses and apocalypticism in Antiquity (Part I). Currents in Biblical Research 5: 235–286; and Apocalypses and apocalypticism in Antiquity (Part II). Currents in Biblical Research 5: 367–432. These two extensive articles cover the history of research on all matters apocalypticism in great detail, especially since 1991. Invaluable for understanding the major problems, questions, and potential solutions up to that point. García Martínez, Florentino (ed.) 2003. Wisdom and Apocalypticism in the Dead Sea Scrolls and in the Biblical Tradition.

Leuven: Leuven University Press. Papers originally given at the 51st Colloquium Biblicum Lovaniense in 2002. An important volume for seeing the early impact the recently published Cave Four sapiential texts had on the correlation between wisdom and apocalypticism. Goff, Matthew. 2003. The Worldly and Heavenly Wisdom of 4QInstruction. Leiden: Brill. This University of Chicago dissertation forms the basis of much of the subsequent research of one of the leading scholars of Qumran wisdom literature. Goff Matthew. 2009. Recent trends in the study of early Jewish wisdom literature: The Contribution of 4QInstruction and Other Qumran Texts. Currents of Biblical Research 7: 376–416. An excellent survey of research on the study of wisdom literature in light of the Qumran sapiential texts.

CHAPTER 15

The Orality of Wisdom Literature Timothy J. Sandoval

Introduction That the Bible comes to us from an oral culture, and so often preserves in its written words traces of earlier oral traditions, is a commonplace assumption of both biblical scholars and general readers of the Jewish and Christian scriptures. Scholars have in fact long sought to discern the oral background or origins of Israel’s stories and laws, its psalms and songs, and its wisdom literature. Even if most interpreters agree that large sections of the Bible have oral roots, there is hardly consensus on how much of the biblical text originated orally or about how one might establish which parts did. As Robert C. Culley (1986, 56) has put it, “Almost all agree that the Bible probably has oral antecedents, but there is little agreement on the extent to which oral composition and transmission have actually left their mark on the text or the degree to which one might be able to establish this lineage.” Several related questions often swirl in debates about the orality of biblical texts – including and perhaps especially with wisdom books. One set of questions has to do with the nature and extent of literacy in ancient Israel and the scribal culture that might have produced long and complex works like the books of Proverbs, Job, Ecclesiastes, and other wisdom texts. This question about literacy and scribal culture in turn is often related to the issue of whether schools existed in ancient Israel and the characteristics of any such ancient educational institutions. Finally, queries regarding how one can determine if a written text does or does not

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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represent an originally oral composition, or at least is ultimately derived from an oral work or utterance, are also regularly posed. Interpreters have offered solutions to all these questions and have debated the answers, with no absolute consensus. What seems certain is that a hard and fast distinction between oral and written literature, which to many modern people may seem like a natural division to make (cf. Sanders 2009, 13–35), may not result in a helpful conceptual framework for understanding the nature of the orality of ancient Hebrew texts like the biblical wisdom literature. Yet because most biblical literature originated in what was fundamentally an oral world where the ability to read, copy, and compose complex texts like biblical wisdom works was not widespread, it is hardly surprising that much of the written literature of the Bible that has come down to us today would have been expressed originally as oral words. The literate persons who preserved these oral words did not, however, do so purely through transcribing and then copying the once spoken, but now written, word. Rather memorization and oral performance of texts were key components of ancient educational contexts where the production and transmission of literary works that would later come to be fixed in writing, canonized as scripture, and finally find their place in the Bible, happened. The question of the orality of wisdom literature (indeed of biblical literature as whole) thus need not be reduced to deciding whether works that have been handed down in the Bible in writing have an oral background or were originally oral compositions. Even if some biblical texts were originally fully written works, they would have been profoundly impacted by oral modes of discourse, both in their composition and in their transmission.

The Orality of Biblical Literature The books of the Bible in many instances have oral roots. In the late nineteenth century Julius Wellhausen (1844–1918), most famous for his hypothesis that distinct literary sources (designated J, E, D, and P) were combined to form the Pentateuch, believed the Pentateuchal sources were themselves at points built up from originally oral stories (Culley 1986, 32). Somewhat later, Martin Noth (1902– 1968), who meticulously sought to discover the history of the traditions that lay behind much of the biblical text – both the Pentateuch and the Deuteronomistic History of Joshua through 2 Kings  –  also understood that these traditions were likely based on oral traditions. Hermann Gunkel (1862–1932), the “founder” of biblical form criticism, however, was more interested in the oral traditions that may have shaped biblical literature than most other scholars, either before or after him. Gunkel’s form critical project was concerned to identify the form or genre (Gattung) of any particular biblical text (e.g. as a hymn, lament, legend, or something else). Yet Gunkel also believed that the various forms of biblical literature first emerged orally within a distinct Sitz im Leben (“setting in life”) or social context in the life of

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the Israelites – whether in temple worship, the storytelling of households, or some other context. Form criticism thus reveals how specific, real‐life social and institutional contexts in ancient Israel may have given birth to the oral traditions that lie behind some of the written texts of the Bible. Yet if critical biblical scholars had long either passively assumed or passionately insisted on the oral background and development of much biblical literature, by the second half of the twentieth century, the investigation of the matter in some circles had begun to shift in an important way. This was due in large part to the influential work of Milman Parry and Albert Bates Lord, which soon reached biblical studies, on the oral traditions of Serbo‐Croatian epic poems and the practices of the bards that performed those traditions. By the mid‐1960s, studies on the orality of biblical literature were undertaken in explicit dialogue with the work of Parry and Lord (Coote 1976, 51; cf. Culley 1986, 39–51; Carr 2011, 13–18). This intellectual climate permitted biblical scholars to found their investigations of the Bible’s orality on more solid methodological ground than was possible earlier (Coote 1976, 58). Rather than assuming the oral background of biblical texts based merely on broad beliefs about oral traditions prior to the rise of writing, or on allusions to oral teaching in the biblical texts, now biblical scholars could conduct their studies in light of living oral traditions. Subsequently, commentators began to recognize more fully in the Bible characteristics of texts that typically play important roles in oral compositions: e.g. the duplication of typical phrases and syntactical configurations, or the repetition of fixed themes and narrative patterns, such as the wife‐sister motif in Genesis 12, 20, and 26 (Coote 1976, 57; cf. Culley 1986, 42). The identification of such features of oral composition in written biblical literature made arguments about how it may have originally been oral literature, or at least significantly impacted by oral culture, much more compelling.

The Orality of Wisdom Texts Questions about the oral background or origins of wisdom books have most fully revolved around the book of Proverbs (see below). However, the opening and closing lines of the book of Job – the so‐called prose narrative (Job 1–2; 42:10–17) that frames the book – is also often assumed to have originated as an oral tale. The poetic dialogues between Job and his friends (Job 3–27), including Job’s defense (Job 29–31) and the divine speeches (Job 39–41), which together make up much of the rest of the book, are likewise sometimes imagined as having originated as oral compositions. An early Job oral composition, however, may not have included the Elihu speeches (Job 32–37), nor perhaps the great poem to Wisdom in Job 28. Aspects of Ecclesiastes (Qoheleth), such as the famous lyrics regarding the times and seasons (Eccl. 3:1–8), and some of the book’s proverbs (e.g. Eccl. 7:1–13; 9:16 – 11:4), because they are sometimes thought to be independent compositions

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incorporated into the book, might also derive from an oral context. Yet the book is more usually regarded as essentially the written work of scribes or of Qoheleth ­himself – the main character of the book who may have also presented some of his teachings orally in Jerusalem in the Hellenistic period. The possible oral aspects and background of two further works in the biblical wisdom tradition – the Wisdom of Ben Sira (Sirach) and the Wisdom of Solomon – is also not much discussed since, like Qoheleth, both are regularly regarded as “late,” Hellenistic‐Jewish works and scribal compositions. They are thought to have emerged in a time when literacy was more widespread than in earlier ages and are understood as the work of those who had quite fully mastered reading and writing through training in more formal scribal schools, such as the “house of learning” (oikō paideias) mentioned in Sir. 51:23. Although the authors of both books can, like Qoheleth, be imagined as perhaps offering aspects of their teachings orally in public venues, the Hellenistic age seems to have witnessed a “transition from oral authority … to written authority,” a shift from “orality to textuality” (Camp, 2013, 9).

Proverbs 1–9 Despite the likely oral nature and origins of parts of works like Job and to a lesser extent Ecclesiastes, none of the biblical wisdom books has provoked the sort of robust scholarly discussion regarding their imagined oral origins as Proverbs (for more on this book, see Chapter 1 in this volume). This is especially true with regard to the short sayings of that book’s later chapters. Yet the question of the orality of biblical wisdom texts can also be broached in relation to the instructional poems of Proverbs 1–9 and similar material in 22:17 – 24:22. The instructional sections of Proverbs deploy several key terms that perhaps hint at the oral traditions that lie behind the poems, but more likely point to the oral transmission of the book’s teaching. On a number of occasions, for instance, an instructing voice in the book (either a parent’s voice or personified Wisdom’s) exhorts its addressees – literally a “child” or “children” (though perhaps not merely biological offspring but metaphorically “students”) – to “hear” or “listen to” instruction (1:5, 8, 33; 4:1, 10; 5:7, 13; 7:24; 8:6, 32–34). The one who would be wise by following the instruction in Proverbs should also “incline” or “stretch out” one’s “ear” and attend well to instruction (2:2; 4:20; 5:1, 13). In Prov. 4:4, too, the instruction the father “gives” his child or student is no textbook for reading. Rather he pronounces the teaching that his own father had spoken to him, while in 1:20 and 8:1, 3 (cf. 9:3–4) Woman Wisdom likewise “cries out” and “speaks” and “raises her voice” to those in need of her teaching. Similarly, the instructing voice in 22:17  –  the beginning of that section of Proverbs (22:17–23:11) that is almost certainly related to the Egyptian Instruction of Amenemope – also exhorts its audience to “hear” the teaching that follows in the text. Proverbs 23:19 rings out the same

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call exclaiming, “Hear my child,” while 23:22 invokes the teaching of a father and mother (cf. 1:8; 6:20) that the addressee likewise should “hear.”

Orality and Scribal Education It is not, however, only the rhetoric of the instructional material in Proverbs that suggests the oral nature of the book’s teaching. Ancient education practices imply as much too – though the evidence for literacy and schools in ancient Israel is vigorously debated (see also Chapter 11 in this volume).1 Most scholars agree there likely did not exist early in Israel’s history the sort of sophisticated educational apparatuses associated with temples and royal courts like those of the great river cultures of Egypt and Mesopotamia (Fox 2000, 10–11). Yet some sort of basic educational institutions would have been necessary even for rudimentary literacy to take hold among a small, but significant portion of ancient Israel’s population. More advanced education would have been required for some individuals to acquire the skilled hands necessary to compose inscriptional texts on a range of materials (stone, clay, velum, metals) with the linguistic and orthographic (handwriting) consistency to which the documentary evidence seems to witness (cf. Rollston 2010). Advanced education would also be necessary for some individuals to achieve the ability to read, copy, transmit, and compose long and complex (written) works like the biblical wisdom books. Such educational institutions  –  located perhaps within the households of some modestly learned individuals and a few expert scribes or master sages  –  would probably have emerged most fully only in the late ninth or eighth centuries BCE, when ancient Israel’s political institutions had developed to the point that they required a significant scribal apparatus for their operation. Those in ancient Israel who attained some literacy and education, however, were not exclusively literacy specialists, “sages” or “scribes.” Various other members of the retainer classes  –  those soldiers, merchants, and priests who along with scribes held key positions in the maintenance of ancient societies – also would have possessed some reading and writing ability, as would have some of those who belonged fully to the ruling class (Carr 2011, 404–407). The advanced education of students, some of whom would become highly trained scribes or master sages who would teach others, did not consist merely of learning to read and write, however. It also likely demanded that students learn to work with numerals, master certain textual genres (letter writing, economic ledgers, and so forth), and study other languages such as Aramaic, which from about the ninth century BCE on was the lingua franca of the ancient Near East. Moreover, ancient intellectual elites developed in their educational spaces a mode of literacy – the ability to read and write basic texts and to compose and transmit complex literary works – that was also oral in nature. Advanced education of scribes and others in ancient Israel likely demanded that students learn intimately  –  by heart and

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through oral recitation – extended portions of culturally important texts or “long‐ duration literature” (Carr 2011, 34). As Carr has explained, “students in a culture such as Israel’s learned the written tradition in an oral performative and communal context” (2011, 5; italics original). In such an educational context, written texts supported a largely oral study of compositions that were “transmitted from one generation to another by performance and memory” (Carr 2011, 5). As students and scribes memorized and orally reproduced compositions, they sometimes added to them or reshaped them, or even perhaps on occasion created fundamentally new compositions out of the oral‐written texts they studied. Only at a later date, perhaps in the Hellenistic period, did a more professional class of scribes develop a strong concern to copy and preserve precisely a “finished literary product” (Tov 2012, 165; cf. Camp 2013, 9). Wisdom literature like the book of Proverbs, or the distinct collections of instructions, sayings, and acrostic poems that would eventually come to make up Proverbs (e.g. Prov. 1–9; 10–15; 25–29; 31:10–31), likely constituted a portion of the culturally significant literature that was deployed in ancient Israel’s educational curriculum. Proverbs itself hints at the importance of memorization for those students  –  scribes and others  –  who worked with Israel’s wisdom books. Several verses, for instance, suggest that wisdom teaching was not to be forgotten but internalized; it was to be written on “the tablet of the heart” (see Prov. 3:1, 3; 7:1, 3; 22:18; cf. Carr 2011, 25; 2005). Students, however, would not merely learn to write and copy texts and perform them orally with skill and eloquence, thereby gaining valuable practical abilities for success in an oral world. The study of long duration texts was also an important instrument of moral and social education, the enculturation of ancient students into a way of life. What was written on the tablet of the heart of scribes and educated others was more than words. It included the moral provisions and social visions of the scrolls that were studied (Carr 2005), for example wisdom literature’s strong concern for fair economic practices and paternalistic forms of legal and social justice (e.g. Prov. 1:3; 2:9, 20; 8:15–20; 11:1, 30; 12:12, 17; 13:23; 14:21, 31, 34; 16:8, 11; 17:5, 26; 19:17; 20:10; 21:3, 13, 15, 26; 22:9, 16, 28; 23:10; 24:15, 24; 28:3, 8, 15, 27; 29:7, 14; 31:9; Job 5:16; 29:12; 30:25; 31:16, 19; 34:19).

Proverbs 10–29 If the instructional material of Proverbs 1–9 emerged from a learning tradition that was concerned not merely with written texts but was the product of a significant oral tradition, the short, image‐rich, sentence sayings of Proverbs 10–29 likely were preserved and transmitted in the same sort of context. Yet the question of the orality, or oral background, of this sentence material is more complex.

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Folk or Scribal Wisdom? Because the brief sayings of Proverbs 10–29 sometimes seem to resonate with the folk proverbs of peoples from around the globe and in different epochs, many scholars of the wisdom literature believe that a good number of the maxims of Proverbs (and proverbs in other biblical books) originated as oral compositions in rural or agricultural contexts in ancient Israel. As the folklorists who study folk sayings make clear, such proverbs share a number of features. They are usually terse, pithy sayings, and though they may eventually be recorded in written collections, they are originally and fundamentally oral utterances. People utter(ed) such proverbs in a range of social situations or performance contexts for a variety of social and rhetorical ends: for example, in order to bring hearers to an awareness of a specific facet of a situation, to argue for a certain decision to be taken at a particular moment, to instruct another on a course of action, or to underscore the importance of a particular virtue. The form, images, topics, motifs as well as rhetorical and moral force of sayings in Proverbs 10–29 have most often been compared with the character of oral proverbs from a range of African cultures (see Chapter 25 in this volume). For example, sayings about the king in Proverbs might be compared with any number of folk proverbs of African provenance that allude to tribal leaders. If the first half of Prov. 19:12 (cf. 20:2; 28:15) says, “A king’s anger is like the growling of a lion,” a saying from the Tsonga‐Shangaan people declares, “Don’t open the mouth of the roaring bull” (cited from Golka 1993, 19) to warn against speaking with an enraged chief. A folk proverb from the Fante people says, “There are no bad chiefs, only bad messengers” (Golka 1993, 22) spoken, perhaps, in order to shield chiefs from popular criticism. Proverbs 16:10 likewise might have served to protect the king’s reputation: “Inspired decisions are on the lips of a king; his mouth does not sin in judgment.” Other scholars of biblical wisdom literature, however, have not been so convinced that many of the sayings of Proverbs were, in any full sense, originally oral, folk utterances. For these interpreters the maxims of Proverbs are best regarded as the literary creation of learned scribes, not the transcribed oral compositions of the collective folk (most prominently Hermisson 1968). Indeed, most sayings in the book of Proverbs are easily understood as the literary product of learned scribes. Such intellectual elites may have themselves originally composed many sayings in Proverbs and/or refashioned some oral folk sayings to such an extent that they have been quite fully transformed into scribal literature (Fox 2000, 6–12). To adjudicate between these positions is not simple. Granting the obvious fact that the book of Proverbs as we now have it has been preserved and transmitted by scribes, it is nonetheless hard to deny the resonances between any number of biblical sentence sayings and some folk proverbs. Yet it can be difficult to decide whether a particular topic or motif in a given saying in Proverbs – say, “royalty” – suggests an original folk context for the statement rather than a courtly scribal milieu. Vague

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arguments about the literary artistry and sophistication of the sayings in Proverbs as necessarily pointing to the efforts of educated individuals, for instance, are not always compelling since they may overlook the literary complexity and artistic achievements of much oral literature. What is more, it is surely also the case that if scribes early on in ancient Israel recorded folk sayings in what would become their book of Proverbs, they were not concerned, as modern folklorists are, to transcribe these oral proverbs in an exact way, to note each saying’s precise context of use, or to inquire with the utterer of the saying about the intended social and rhetorical effects of her proverbial speech act (Fox 2000, 10). If ancient scribes drew on oral folk proverbs for their written collections of maxims, they likely were not only selective in the sayings they preserved, but to some extent also edited the proverbs they did record to fit their own literary, educational, and ideological purposes. The question of whether sayings in Proverbs 10–29 were originally oral, folk or literary‐scribal compositions is complicated by another matter: the fact that the form and didactic thrust of many verses in the book do not always appear to correspond in any precise way to typical oral folk sayings like those folklorists collect. It is true, of course, that both folk proverbs and the sayings in Proverbs are usually cast as indicative statements. It is also true that sayings in Proverbs and folk proverbs cover some of the same topics and moral concerns: “harvest, poor, rich, idle, diligent” and “authority, service, hospitality and much more” (Westermann 1995, 145). Yet many folk proverbs sound quite distinct from verses in Proverbs 10–29. Consider, for example, the following folk proverbs from African cultural contexts (cited by Westermann 1995, 140, 148) in light of Proverbs: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

He ate food and it killed him One fly catches another He has the kindness of a witch The child who refuses to run an errand says he does not know the way He works as long as he is fresh

There is no doubt that some of these sayings can be said to resonate with certain aspects of the maxims in Proverbs. Proverb number one, for instance, might be concerned with the importance of moderate behavior, number three with the virtue of kindness, and number five with diligence, all moral qualities that are also the concern of the sentence literature of Proverbs. Number four likewise has a rhetorical logic quite similar to Prov. 22:13 and 26:13. Just as the child in the African proverb says “he does not know the way,” so the sluggard in the verses from Proverbs exclaims that a lion lurks in the streets. Both hope thereby to avoid work. Yet despite the importance of these sorts of similarities that might be discovered between some folk sayings and some of the maxims of Proverbs 10–29, it is also the case that biblical proverbs often take a quite different rhetorical shape than many folk proverbs. For example, folk proverbs are regularly brief, one‐line utterances,

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while the sayings of Proverbs are usually two‐line statements that parallel one another in some fashion. The sentence sayings in Proverbs are also often more ­morally charged or ethically marked than folk sayings typically are. Sayings in at least large swaths of Proverbs 10–29, for instance, persistently speak of the actions or ways of particular moral types – e.g. the wise and the fool or the wicked and the righteous – thereby making explicit what sort of conduct the text regards as desirable and what sort is censured. The sayings of Proverbs 10–15 – the first group of sentence sayings in the book – in particular represent this tendency. Proverbs 10:1, with its tight parallelism and wisdom rhetoric, is illustrative: A wise child makes a glad father, but a foolish child is a mother’s grief. (New Revised Standard Version [NRSV])

Many oral folk sayings, by contrast, do not regularly highlight desirable virtues or reproachable acts by naming positive and negative moral types in parallel lines. Rather they derive their specific meanings from the social context or moment in which they are uttered. Indeed, what exactly does proverb number two above (“One fly catches another”) mean? Is it a comment on the self‐destructive behavior of certain character types, who in their conflicts will inevitably destroy one another? Or, is it a suggestion that one sometimes has to “play the chameleon” to be successful, to get the upper hand? Without knowing the particular social moment in which the saying was uttered, it is difficult to know. Similarly, number one (“He ate food and it killed him”), as mentioned earlier, might be a saying that values moderation. But it could just as easily – without a performance context to direct interpretation – warn of the unpredictability of human endeavors. A well‐known proverb in the United States can illustrate the differences between oral folk proverbs and the written sayings of Proverbs. “Look before you leap,” on its own (listed for example in a collection of English language proverbs), without a performance context to guide interpretation, might reasonably be thought to promote something like the virtue of cautiousness. Yet its full meaning and rhetorical force comes only from an oral performance context – as when a person attempts to dissuade her friend from pursuing a risky business venture by uttering the proverb. By contrast, one might imagine a literary composition like the book of Proverbs would promote the same virtue in a somewhat fuller and more morally explicit fashion, perhaps molding the oral saying into something like: A righteous person is cautious and looks before he leaps; But the wicked are always in a hurry and fall.

Or: To look before one leaps is wise, And folly rewards those who take a decision rashly.

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Or even: It is better to look before you leap than to jump blindly and fall.

Imaginary commentators on these imaginary Proverbs‐like sayings, equipped with literary sensibilities and a knowledge of US history and American folklore might suggest (as easily as scholars of wisdom literature do with the sayings of Proverbs) that such lines represent either the literary work of an intellectual elite figure (a scribe like Ben Franklin), or they point to the more original oral wisdom of the (American) folk. Or, it might be determined that they represent some hybrid of elite and folk wisdom.

Folk Proverbs and the Book of Proverbs Like the African folk sayings noted above, which are simply listed and contain no comment about their typical contexts of use, so too the lists of sayings in the book of Proverbs do not provide readers with a guide to when and how they might have originally been uttered – if they are regarded as folk sayings. Rather, the only firm context by which to interpret any of the maxims of Proverbs is provided by the other sayings and poems in the text. For Proverbs, that is, knowledge of the larger literary context of the book itself in a sense replaces the performance context, or context of use, that one needs to understand in order to interpret folk proverbs fully. Understanding the literary, rhetorical, and moral shape of the book of Proverbs is thus most important for discerning the basic gist of any particular saying in the composition and for understanding what values and virtues the text as a whole wishes to promote in a reader – even an ancient “reader‐hearer‐performer” of the book. Consequently, even when sayings in Proverbs make no mention of typical moral characters like the righteous and wicked, or the wise and foolish, it is relatively easy to discern what aspect of the line is regarded by the book as the way of the wise and just, and what is not. Proverbs 21:13, for example, claims, “If you close your ear to the cry of the poor, you will cry out and not be heard.” By stating the negative possibility that a person might not receive aid in a time distress if that person does not respond to the needs of others, the verse exhorts a reader‐hearer to show kindness and fairness to the poor. But these virtues elsewhere in Proverbs belong clearly to the way of the wise and just. Other verses, such as Prov. 29:7, simply make the moral perspective of 21:13 explicit: “The righteous know the rights of the poor: the wicked have no such understanding” (emphasis added). Nonetheless, despite the importance of the literary context that the book of Proverbs provides interpreters of its sayings, it is likely that at least some verses – or better, parts of some verses – in the book were in fact originally formulated as oral folk sayings. A number of half verses in Prov. 10–29, for example, not only share

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images and motifs with some oral folk proverbs, but when these words are extracted from the other half of the verse in which they appear, they also approximate the same terse form as oral folk proverbs. For example, in isolation either half of a verse such as Prov. 18:6 resonates with oral folk wisdom. A fool’s lips bring strife, and a fool’s mouth invites a flogging. (NRSV)

Together, however, the lines sound like a literary maxim. It may thus be best to conclude  –  as many scholars in fact do with different emphases – that the short written sayings in Proverbs, which in their final form are ultimately the work of scribes, sometimes might transmit oral folk wisdom. The question as to whether, or what part of, a verse in Proverbs 10–29 is best regarded as (originally) an oral folk proverb or the written wisdom of formally educated individuals – or some combination of these options – thus probably ought to be made on a case‐by‐case (i.e. verse‐by‐verse) basis. Wondering about the folk or scribal origin of a saying in Proverbs, however, is no mere academic concern. There is something critical at stake in raising the issue: namely, discerning whose wisdom we are reading in chapters 10–29 of Proverbs. Do the sayings point to the wise insights of common people and agricultural peasants? Or do the sayings reflect the moral and social visions of a literate retainer class, some of whom may have been aligned to some extent with the political and economic elites of their day? Answers to such questions are important, since they may impact how the moral and theological perspective of Proverbs is evaluated and appropriated by those who are concerned with the normative role biblical texts play in contemporary communities of faith. Some readers of the book today, for example, may find much worth in the communitarian values and egalitarian concerns of the folk wisdom of an agricultural society, but only reluctantly wish to align themselves with the wisdom of learned scribes whose words might in part have been designed to preserve the social, economic, and political advantages of ruling elites. Consider, for example, sayings like Prov. 13:23 and 22:2 that might be read in two diametrically opposed ways depending on whether (and to what ideological extent) one believes them to be either the literary product of elite scribes or the transcribed oral wisdom of the folk: The field of the poor may yield much food, but it is swept away through injustice. (NRSV)

The rich and the poor have this in common: the Lord is maker of them all. (NRSV)

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Read forcefully as the ideological and literary product of the urban literati who identified strongly with the ruling class, these sayings might be thought to suggest both that the poor’s own moral failings account for their poverty and that the existence of poor people is part of the natural order of things since “the Lord is the maker” of both the rich and the poor. By contrast, understood as the folk wisdom of agricultural peasants, one might hear in the sayings an implicit theological leveling of social‐economic hierarchies and a critique of elite economic practices. All are God’s children and the poor have their livelihoods swept away not because of their own moral failings, but because of social injustices perpetuated by others.2 Yet if at times we may have to say that what we read in Proverbs could be the wisdom of either the rural folk or intellectually elite scribes (or a combination of both), is there a way to discern which possibility is more likely, which voices resound more clearly? Probably not one that will fully satisfy all those who have staked out strong positions on the question. Yet attending to two issues can help clarify the possibilities and difficulties of offering such judgments about the origins and nature of biblical proverbs. The first task is to present a view of the social locations and interests of ancient literate, educated individuals that is more nuanced than that which is sometimes explicitly or implicitly suggested in discussions of wisdom books like Proverbs. When an understanding of the social location and ideological interests of scribes is made more complex, however, determining whether the sayings in Proverbs should be regarded as scribal insight or folk wisdom likewise becomes a more complicated task. It also demands reflection on a second matter – the articulation of a theoretical position and certain methodological procedures to be deployed when one strives to discern or hear distinct voices at work in wisdom texts.

The Social Location(s) of Scribes Scholars often explicitly or implicitly identify the authors and redactors of wisdom texts as an urban, intellectually elite class of scribes whose ideological interests would have corresponded with the economic and political elites of their day. Rollston (2010, 85), for instance, while recognizing some diversity in the roles of ancient specialists in literacy, writes that the scribe in the ancient Near East, including Israel, was generally “an elite member of society, often present in powerful circles.” On such a view the social interests and ideological orientations of such elite scribes – their wisdom – would have been distant from that of the peasant class who traded in folk wisdom and who, as the Egyptian Satire of the Trades and Sir. 38:24– 39:11 make clear, had no means to pursue a full life of study and moral reflection. However, the rather stark binary that aligns scribes with the political economic elite and sets them up over and against the rural folk may not be the best or only way of imagining the social location of literate, educated individuals in ancient

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Israel and the attendant ideologies or class interests at play in wisdom works. The simple binary – farm vs. school or folk vs. scribe – requires greater nuance. Certainly some scribes and other significantly literate individuals were fully members of political and economic elite circles – and probably not only those whom the Bible names as high officials of the royal apparatus (2 Sam. 8:17; 20:25; 2 Kgs. 12:11; 18:18; 22:3; Jer. 36:12; cf. Rollston 2010, 89). What’s more, all persons who had secured some significant level of education and literacy – whether those soldiers, priests, merchants, and scribes who constituted the retainer classes, or others who were fully members of the political and economic elite  –  would have been socially distinguished from peasant agriculturalists whose literacy and education levels would not have been significant. Yet even granting rather full and broad literacy among the retainer classes, and acknowledging their distinct social status vis‐à‐vis rural agriculturalists, certainly not all educated persons in ancient Israel – i.e. scribes, priests, and others – would have themselves constituted, or ideologically aligned themselves with, the political and economic elite of their day. Although the social and economic status of ancient scribes would have to an important extent been linked to that of their political and economic overlords, the social or class interests of these literate individuals should not simply be collapsed into that of their political and economic masters. Different scribes (and educated others) would have identified differently with, and had different degrees of regular contact with, central institutions and the powerful elites at the pinnacle of those institutions. There is little reason to think they would have been mere pawns in elite exercise of ideological and social power. (Nor, of course, would one necessarily expect intellectually elite scribes to be unequivocal champions of the subsistence agricultural population.) Between and among those who shared (to different degrees) a significant ability to read, compose, and transmit a range of different sorts of oral‐written texts that was attained in particular educational‐enculturation contexts, the emergence of a distinct and shared (but not monolithic), social identity and moral vision is easily imaginable. On occasion some of those who participated in such an identity likely would have striven to manage others ideologically and socially, whether the peasant population or the political‐economic elite. Consider, for example, a saying like Prov. 20:28: Loyalty and faithfulness preserve the king, and his throne is upheld by righteousness. (NRSV)

The verse affirms the right of kings to reign and could easily be regarded as scribal blandishment directed toward rulers and an ideological affirmation of elite prerogatives. Yet Prov. 20:28 (and verses like it) also surely represent a rhetorical effort at a kind of social control of royal power. For those scribes and others who held significant influence and responsibility in the day‐to‐day management of key social and political institutions in

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ancient Israel, the proverb would not serve as a mere celebration of the virtues of a monarch. Implicit in the verse is also the notion that if a king’s reign is not characterized by loyalty, faithfulness, and righteousness – e.g. social justice, right or true judgment of the poor (as 29:14 insists) – his rule could be considered illegitimate. Although it is a far cry from modern liberal or revolutionary calls for social and economic equity, sayings like 20:28 (and 29:14; cf. 16:10–13; 20:8, 26, 28; 21:1; 25:2–5; 29:2) can nonetheless suggest that scribes and others from educated groups were able to exercise their own social and rhetorical power for their own ideological and ethical ends – e.g. to restrain elite economic abuses and thereby preserve social stability. Those who had been morally and socially shaped through long and intense study of key texts like the biblical wisdom literature, with its emphasis on social virtue, were able through their proverbial rhetoric to foster their own moral and social visions among others. What is more, as in the case of 20:28 (and other verses) the scribal view of things sometimes aligned with – though only in part – the interests of the poor and/or marginalized peasant populations over and against elite classes with their proclivities to dominate and exploit. This is hardly surprising when we recall that scribes likely incorporated folk wisdom and perspectives into their own texts of moral instruction. The complexity of analysis required for understanding how sayings in Proverbs may reflect scribal or folk perspectives can be illustrated further by verses such as 10:4, which speak of the lazy person. A slack hand causes poverty, but the hand of the diligent makes rich. (NRSV)

Here, and in a number of other sayings (cf. 10:22; 12:27; 13:18; 14:23; 20:13; 23:20–21; 24:3–4, 34; 28:19), Proverbs seems to suggest that some are poor (or are not members of elite classes) because of moral shortcomings (e.g. laziness) while being rich (signaling one’s elite economic and political status) is evidence of a person’s moral superiority (e.g. diligence). Some scholars believe verses like 10:4 are therefore evidence that the scribes who produced Proverbs strongly identified with the political and economic elite of their day and linked that socio‐economic position to their own alleged moral superiority. Yet a proverb like 10:4 is also easily imagined as reflecting oral folk wisdom deriving from rural, peasant life where subsistence agricultural practices were the norm (Boer 2015). In such settings the lazy sayings of Proverbs would surely not have had the same sort of rhetorical effects as they might for social and economic elite readers of written collections of sayings. Rather than celebrating the moral superiority of economic and political elites, a saying like 10:4 might have originally been performed by village elders or leaders to quite different ends: to motivate members of the community to the hard work of farming in a time and place where sloth in

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fact could not merely impoverish an individual, but also negatively impact the ­economic well‐being of the larger social unit – whether the household, the clan, or the village. However, there is a further interpretive possibility related to sayings like 10:4: namely, scribes adopted, and through their own educational institutions subtly shaped, the messages of originally oral folk sayings. Those sages who constructed the wisdom tradition of ancient Israel may have preserved a saying like 10:4 not to promote a crass ideological belief about the superiority of ruling elites nor to motivate peasant agriculturalists. Rather they would have most likely been intent on promoting the virtue of diligence in their own ranks, among those students who heard, memorized, and orally performed their collections of sayings. If in a subsistence agricultural context the diligence promoted by Prov. 10:4 was highly valued, so too such a virtue would have been held in high regard by Israel’s literate classes, charged as they were with responsibly maintaining a range of social institutions. By incorporating folk wisdom like Prov. 10:4 into their foundational texts, those who produced and transmitted wisdom works like Proverbs thereby shaped their own scribal moral and social identity in ways that both overlapped with, and was distinct from, the perspectives of others, whether the rural, peasant classes or political‐­economic elites.

Scribal and Folk Voices: Theoretical Foundations and Analytical Procedure Yet if literate individuals in ancient Israel, who were positioned in‐between the political‐economic elite and the peasantry, incorporated folk wisdom into their foundational texts, the question remains as to how one might identify such wisdom in a text like Proverbs. A theoretical foundation and a pragmatic procedure of analysis is required to identify traces of folk sayings in a wisdom work such as Proverbs. The twentieth‐century Russian literary critic and philosopher Mikhail Bakhtin (1981, 1984, 1986) provides one possible theoretical foundation for discerning aspects of folk wisdom in and through the written, scribal wisdom of Proverbs 10–29. For Bakhtin, language use is a deeply social enterprise. Language is, Bakhtin would say, fundamentally “dialogic.” No one – except the mythical Adam – ever has spoken a completely new word or has offered an entirely novel utterance. All aspects of language always come to its users already marked or accented by the way others have previously spoken in distinct social locations for their own rhetorical ends. Put otherwise, language is a site of social interaction and sometimes conflict. I may agree with, modify, or actively contest the sorts of meanings that others have already inscribed on the language I use. But I cannot completely eliminate them. My words always carry something of the implications and values others have dialogically inscribed on the language available to me.

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Yet how does one disentangle the traces of the different social voices that inevitably leave their mark on an utterance? How can one discern that this aspect of an utterance’s rhetoric, and not some other feature, points to that particular social voice and not another? In terms of the rhetoric in Proverbs, how does one know that this aspect of a sentence saying points to the oral voice of the folk, and some other part preserves the literary voice of scribes? Bakhtin might simply say one needs to discover how distinct voices typically speak and then listen closely for those accents and intonations in any particular utterance. Yet this may be no easy task. Just as some people do not have the ear to hear much of a difference between a good high school trumpeter’s recital and, say, the erudite performances of Arturo Sandoval, some may not have developed the listening skills necessary for hearing distinct voices within particular discourses. This is especially so, perhaps, with the utterances of those who have striven in their speaking to overcome or conceal the accents or meanings others inevitably have inscribed on their words. When it comes to Proverbs, then, how can one best decide if a particular saying (or portion of a saying) in the book represents an originally oral folk utterance or not? What sort of exegetical and analytical procedures ought to be joined to the theoretical foundation that Bakhtin offers in order to justify a claim that a particular verse (or half verse) in Proverbs is sufficiently similar to oral folk sayings to conclude that it too was likely originally, in some form, an oral folk saying? First, an interpreter who will compare one or more oral folk proverbs with the sentence sayings in Proverbs must possess a trained ear. She should have studied ancient Israel’s history, culture, and literature – especially, of course, the maxims of Proverbs; and she should have been raised (or at least been immersed) in the language and culture of the folk proverb(s) with which a verse (or half verse) in Proverbs is being compared. Next, the interpreter should be able to demonstrate specific similarities between a saying from Proverbs and the folk proverb(s) from another culture – in terms of form, images, topic, rhetorical logic, moral perspective, and so forth. What is more, such a skilled listener ought to be able to imagine, by analogy with her own culture’s proverb use, the sorts of ancient contexts in which the biblical saying might have been performed. She ought also to be able to point to or demonstrate how an Israelite oral folk saying may have been accented with a scribe’s (or some other literate person’s) rhetoric. That is, she should be able to show what aspects of a particular verse likely belongs to an oral folk voice and how an intellectually elite voice may be adding to, nuancing, or contesting the folk voice in its appropriation of the oral folk utterance. No claims about the presence or absence of distinct folk or scribal voices and perspectives in Proverbs, of course, will ever find universal support among readers of the book. This is in part because the identification of such voices can

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never be exact. It is never a cut‐and‐dried affair: as Bakhtin’s notions make clear, no voice in any rhetorical context is ever a pure, undialogized voice. Yet with the theoretical apparatus Bakhtin provides, and through the above sorts of analytical procedures, some claims about how the written scribal book of Proverbs preserves the oral wisdom of the agricultural folk can be warranted. Interpreters, however, will potentially be left with the task of reading any saying in Proverbs 10–29 in more than one way – listening closely for both the wisdom of the folk and the insights of the sages (much like what was attempted with 10:4, as discussed above). Again, none of this should be surprising given the in‐between status and social location of scribes and the fact that divisions between the educated urbanites of the retainer classes and the agricultural folk in the ancient world were likely not as sharp or vast as urban‐rural distinctions are in contemporary, Western societies. The small city‐states of Samaria and Jerusalem, for instance, were likely much more closely tied to their agricultural hinterlands socially and culturally than modern metropolises are connected to theirs. Though important social differences between educated and non‐educated classes were far from nil, the moral and cultural distinctions between, say, an educated priest or mid‐level scribe associated with temple or court in Samaria or Jerusalem and the peasantry of those cities’ rural surroundings were perhaps not as wide as is sometimes imagined. Finally, it should be recalled that even if all the sentence sayings in Proverbs were originally and completely the literary product of sages, they should still in some sense be regarded as oral wisdom and perhaps even in some sense folk wisdom. This is because, as was noted, the sayings now written in Proverbs 10–29, like the collections of instructional poems in chapters 1–9, were in all likelihood transmitted by students and teachers living in a fundamentally oral culture who were trained in writing supported educational contexts that made significant use of memorization and oral performance. The written text of much wisdom literature is, in other words, a product of those who lived and breathed deeply their own broader oral contexts.

Notes 1 For the range of positions carved out by scholars in debates about literacy and education in ancient Israel, see Carr (2005, 2011), Rollston (2010), Sanders (2009), Chapter 11 by Goff in this volume, and the literature cited by these writers. 2 The example is heuristic. Most contemporary scholars in fact understand the injustice of 13:23 not as the poor person’s but others’, and 22:2 to suggest the equal worth of rich and poor is divinely ordained.

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References Bakhtin, Mikhail M. 1981. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays (ed. Michael Holquist; trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist). Austin: University of Texas Press. Bakhtin, Mikhail M. 1984. Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics (ed. and trans. Caryl Emerson). Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press. Bakhtin, Mikhail M. 1986. Speech Genres and Other Late Essays (ed. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist; trans. Vern W. McGee). Austin: University of Texas Press. Boer, Roland. 2015. The Sacred Economy. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Camp, Claudia V. 2013. Ben Sira and the Men Who Handle Books: Gender and the Rise of Canon‐Consciousness. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix. Carr, David M. 2005. Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Carr, David M. 2011. The Formation of the Hebrew Bible: A New Reconstruction. New York: Oxford University Press. Culley, Robert C. 1986. Oral tradition and biblical studies. Oral Tradition 1: 30–65.

Coote, Robert B. 1976. The application of the oral theory to Biblical Hebrew Literature. Semeia 5: 51–64. Fox, Michael V. 2000. Proverbs 1–9: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. New York: Doubleday. Golka, Friedemann W. 1993. The Leopard’s Spots: Biblical and African Wisdom in Proverbs. Edinburgh: T&T Clark. Hermisson, Hans‐Jürgen. 1968. Studien zur Israelitischen Spruchweisheit. Neukirchen‐ Vluyn: Neukirchener. Rollston, Christopher A. 2010. Writing and Literacy in the World of Ancient Israel: Epigraphic Evidence from the Iron Age. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Sanders, Seth L. 2009. The Invention of Hebrew. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Tov, Emmanuel. 2012. Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible. 2nd ed. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress. Westermann, Claus. 1995. Roots of Wisdom. The Oldest Proverbs of Israel and Other People. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox.

Further Reading Crenshaw, James. 1998. Education in Ancient Israel: Across the Deafening Silence. New York: Bantam Doubleday. A useful overview of education in ancient Israel by a leading authority on the topic. Fox, Michael V. 2009. Proverbs 10–31: A New Translation with Introduction and

Commentary. New Haven/London: Yale University Press. A standard and influential commentary on Proverbs 10–31. Heim, Knut M. 2001. Like Grapes of Gold Set in Silver: An Interpretation of Proverbial Clusters in Proverbs 10:1–22:16. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. An exegetical analysis

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of Prov. 10:1–22:16 that focuses on the literary arrangement of proverbial statements. Jameison‐Drake, David W. 1991. Scribes and Schools in Monarchic Judah: A Socio‐ Archaeological Approach. Sheffield: Almond. A leading study that is important for understanding education in ancient Israel. Niditch, Susan. 1996. Oral World and Written Word. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. An influential study on the complex interaction

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between orality and textuality in ancient Israel. Ong, Walter J. 2002. Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word. 2nd ed. New York: Routledge. A classic study on innovations with regard to writing and texts and how these changes impact human society. Schniedewind, William M. 2000. Orality and literacy in ancient Israel. Religious Studies Review 26 4: 327–332. A concise review of publications pertaining to schools and education in ancient Israel.

III. Antecedents

CHAPTER 16

Ahiqar and Other Legendary Sages Seth A. Bledsoe

Introduction The legend of the wise sage Ahiqar had a broad and lasting reception in antiquity. His fame depends on two complementary aspects: (i) a dramatic tale of unjust ­suffering, betrayal, loyalty, and eventual restitution; and (ii) a compilation of wise instructions. The story is set in the Neo‐Assyrian court of the kings Sennacherib and Esarhaddon. Briefly, the prominent court adviser is betrayed by his nephew Nadan, to whom Ahiqar had taught his wisdom in a series of wise sayings. The betrayal results in Ahiqar being sentenced to death by the king, yet he is saved by the executioner Nabusumiskun, whom Ahiqar had previously aided. Eventually Ahiqar is restored and Nadan is punished. Ahiqar’s story and wisdom spread far and wide as evidenced through numerous secondary sources from antiquity to the early modern period that borrowed from, alluded to, or were clearly inspired by the famed sage. Several medieval manuscripts of the book of Ahiqar  –  in languages including Syriac, Arabic, Old Slavonic, Armenian, among others – also exist, with each example comprising a unique iteration of the basic plot as well as a distinct collection of sayings. However, the oldest attestation of the book of Ahiqar dates to the fifth century BCE. Interestingly, especially for biblical scholarship, this very ancient manuscript belonged in all likelihood to a community of Aramaic‐speaking Judeans who were living at Elephantine, a Nile‐island settlement at the edge of Achaemenid (Persian) control in southern Egypt. Except for a few fragments of Ahiqar in Demotic (a late form of ancient Egyptian), the remainder of the ancient The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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evidence is secondary, but it is substantial and geographically and culturally diverse. Ahiqar came to be a touchstone figure of legend for numerous intellectual and literary traditions throughout the eastern Mediterranean and Mesopotamia, including early Jewish and Hebrew literature. Ahiqar’s fame and legendary status not only echo, but directly touch upon other legendary sages from antiquity.

Texts and Versions As mentioned, the book of Ahiqar – also known as The Story and The Proverbs of Ahiqar – is extant in several different versions, most of which come from medieval and early modern manuscripts in over a dozen languages – the most prominent are Syriac, Armenian, Arabic, and Old Slavonic. Ahiqar, however, was seemingly just as popular in Greco‐Roman antiquity. Though a Greek version is not extant, a lengthy pericope in the famed Aesop Romance reads like a direct borrowing from Ahiqar’s tale. A great deal of other secondary evidence from antiquity attests to Ahiqar’s popularity, but there are at least two ancient, albeit fragmentary, versions of Ahiqar. One is in Demotic and dates to the early Roman era; only a few fragments survive (Zauzich 1976; Quack 2011). The oldest and most substantial extant version of Ahiqar, however, can be confidently dated to the fifth century BCE (Berlin P. 13446 + Cairo P. 34651). The language is Aramaic, which is presumably the composition’s original (Kottsieper 1990), and comprises a set of 11 loose‐leaf papyri fragments that were found in an excavation at Elephantine. Fourteen columns preserve portions of both the narrative (cols. 1–5) and sayings (cols. 6–14). Ada Yardeni and Bezalel Porten’s is the premier English edition and includes a translation of the approximately 200 lines of text as well as careful reconstructions and some notes (1993). Also of note, the Elephantine manuscript is a palimpsest with an erased customs account underlying the main text on the recto. Yardeni’s decipherment of the rigidly formulaic underlying account led to a reasonable estimation of not only the original order of the now detached sheets but also of an approximate total length, including a hypothesis on the intermittent, now missing, columns (Yardeni 1994). A conservative estimate sets the original length at a minimum of 21 columns, though it is not clear how many more columns could have been attached at the end. There are further complications. For example, cols. 1–12 belong to what was originally one sheet and contain the erased customs accounts, while cols. 13–14 are a separate sheet that was later added by the Ahiqar scribe. Notably, they are also a palimpsest, containing not only another, different erased customs account on its recto but also a second (likely incomplete) erased version of Ahiqar on the verso. Despite the missing columns – especially the uncertainty it brings concerning the resolution of the narrative – the extant 14 columns of Ahiqar’s story and instructions give a strong, if incomplete, impression of the text’s contours, themes, and basic outlook.

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Although they share the same basic plot, it is important to recognize that the much later medieval versions differ in some substantial ways from the Elephantine text. In their broad structure, the later versions generally follow a pattern where the narrative is very early interrupted by an initial set of instructions (from Ahiqar to his nephew Nadan), then after the bulk of the plot is recounted, including a lengthy episode where Ahiqar travels to Egypt (a part of the story that is not extant in the ancient Aramaic version), there is a second set of instructions that are predominately accusatory and formally different. There is no initial break before the betrayal in the Aramaic version. The columns of sayings then must either come as an addendum to the story after it has been resolved, or perhaps while Ahiqar is still in hiding. If the former is the case, then the lengthy redemption arc set in Egypt, which is well known from the Syriac and Armenian versions (among others), is unlikely to have appeared in the Elephantine text given that there are probably only two missing columns of narrative between the last extant one (col. 5) and the first column with sayings (col. 6). As for the sayings, while one can find a few close and approximate parallels between the Aramaic and the later collections (Bledsoe 2014), they are, by and large, very different. For consideration of Ahiqar’s ancient legacy, therefore, focus rests chiefly on the Elephantine Aramaic version, although consideration of the later recensions may, at times, be helpful. Still, the sage’s legacy extends far beyond a single attestation from the southern edge of the Achaemenid Empire. Even a cursory look at Ahiqar’s legendary status among Greek, Egyptian, and Semitic‐speaking groups in the ancient Mediterranean demonstrates there was a robust discourse on the sage and his wisdom.

Historical Settings and Contexts According to the legend, Ahiqar was a court adviser to the Neo‐Assyrian kings Sennacherib and his successor Esarhaddon. However, there are no Neo‐Assyrian records that mention anyone by that name working for either king. When ­discussing the contexts of Ahiqar, therefore, one should distinguish between the literary setting of the Neo‐Assyrian court and the historical setting of the text’s composition and reception. As for the narrative context, even if fictional, it certainly could depend on memories of the Neo‐Assyrian period – an empire whose conquests had a strong impact on the cultural memory of several cultures, from Mesopotamia to Egypt. Indeed, the Neo‐Assyrian period was a seemingly favorite setting for several narratives, whose material provenance, like Ahiqar’s, was Egypt, including several Egyptian (Demotic) and Aramaic examples (Holm 2014; Dalley 2001). When assessing details of the story, then, it is important to question to what extent they are ­accurate reflections of historical recollections or simply an effort of verisimilitude.

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For example, the story accurately describes Esarhaddon as the successor of Sennacherib. This may seem a trivial detail, but when one considers the many historical inaccuracies  –  especially relating to kings and their succession  –  found among similar fictional narratives (e.g. Daniel, Esther, Judith), it is worth acknowledging. Further, many of the details of the story resonate with events that transpired during the tumultuous period of Assyrian rule. For example, the betrayal by one’s own kinsman carries some weight in light of Esarhaddon’s well‐known struggles against his brothers for the throne. The character Nabusumiskun, in addition to being a name attested among documents of the period, may be an indication of a Babylonian perspective and thus may be invoking the burning of Babylon by Esarhaddon’s successor Ashurbanipal. Also, if the Egyptian contest is indeed ancient, the composition’s battle of wits and wisdom, in which Egypt is defeated by the Assyrian “invader” Ahiqar, could stand as a symbolic dramatization of the memory of Esarhaddon’s invasion of Egypt. Thus, much like the Danielic tales which are set largely in the Neo‐Babylonian period and yet were probably written or compiled under Hellenistic rule, the Neo‐Assyrian context of the Ahiqar tale could stand as a literary representation of a dynamic cultural memory that extended to later generations. Lastly, mention should be made of a Mesopotamian inscription that has often played a part in conversations about Ahiqar’s historicity and/or legendary status. It reads: “During the reign of Esarhaddon, the king, Abu‐Enlil‐dari was a scholar (ummānu), whom the Arameans call Ahiqar” (Lenzi 2008, 141; cf. Cazelles 1995). This passage comes from a Seleucid‐era inscription (second century BCE) that comprises a list of Mesopotamian kings (antediluvian and postdiluvian) as well as the apkallu and ummānu for each respective ruler. (Apkallus are important primordial sages in Mesopotamian mythology). On the one hand, the tablet coincides with the story of Ahiqar, which situates the sage in the Neo‐Assyrian court during the first decades of the eighth century BCE. Yet, as Tawny Holm (2014, 302) rightly notes, “The Uruk text only attests to a Seleucid‐era tradition of Ahiqar, however, and does not necessarily represent a historical reality five centuries earlier.” Even if the king‐list was complete and accurate in all its details, Holm’s point would still be true: the inscription only bears witness to a second century BCE understanding about a centuries‐prior set of events. What takes away any further historical reliability, though, are the tablet’s several problems. For instance, the list is not exhaustive, only including seemingly famous figures from Mesopotamian literary tradition – such as Adapa and Gilgamesh, whose existence is impossible to distinguish from their legendary status  –  and there are clear mistakes, with the most obvious being that Nebuchadnezzar is listed before Esarhaddon (Lenzi 2008). So, while a Mesopotamian‐provenanced artifact seems to offer a “native” tradition about Ahiqar as an ancient Assyrian sage, the tablet’s date and problematic list undermines any historical value it might add to Ahiqar’s credentials as a historical persona. This does not, however, detract from the tablet’s testament to Ahiqar’s fame and, at least for one community, very prominent legendary status (see ­discussion below).

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Turning to the historical context, the compositional history of the book of Ahiqar is complex, with many of the specific details still up for debate among ­scholars. Linguistic analysis for the past half‐century has settled on Aramaic as the original language of the text (Greenfield 1978), but many scholars understand the narrative and sayings to reflect chronologically (and, perhaps, geographically) ­different dialects of Aramaic (Kottsieper 2008). A few of the sayings reflect an older form of the language, with suggestions ranging from the tenth to seventh centuries BCE. The narrative, on the other hand, has a strong Reichsaramäisch or Standard Literary Aramaic character and thus may date to the sixth or even fifth centuries BCE. There is also some debate about the provenance based on the linguistic markers. While most dismiss a Mesopotamian origin, despite the story’s setting, there is disagreement between a Northern Syrian (Lindenberg 1983; Weigl 2010) and Southern Syrian (Kottsieper 2008) context. Nevertheless, in both the narrative and sayings one can detect redactional activity (Kottsieper 2009) that not only suggests a possible Neo‐Babylonian or Achaemenid date, but puts to question the very assumption of an original version in the first place. As the later recensions indicate, the Ahiqar tradition was a tremendously fluid one (Lindenberger 1983, 6–8); hypothesizing an Urtext and a precise historical setting based on the Elephantine manuscript obscures the polymorphous transmission activity that is likewise ­apparent among other ancient literary works that had long and diverse representations (e.g. Gilgamesh, biblical texts). Nevertheless, the material evidence does offer a specific setting in which ­investigators can try to understand and contextualize the message of Ahiqar: the  Aramaic‐speaking community at Elephantine in fifth century Achaemenid‐­ controlled Egypt. In the early part of the twentieth century French and German excavations at Elephantine unearthed large caches of papyri and ostraca, among other material artifacts. Over half a dozen languages are represented among the papyri (e.g. Demotic Egyptian, Aramaic, Greek, Coptic, and Arabic) and they date from the beginning of the second millennium BCE all the way up to the early Islamic era. For biblical and early Jewish scholars, the most important texts were the hundreds of Aramaic papyri and ostraca, nearly all of which date to the fifth century BCE. The Ahiqar fragments were found among these documents, the majority of which belonged to Aramaic‐speaking peoples who identified as “Judean” (“Jewish”). Most of the Elephantine papyri are the commercial, legal, financial, and various social records of a community of Judeans living in Persian‐controlled Egypt, where they largely were stationed as mercenaries of the empire. The records give many details about daily life in this community: what they ate; whom they married; what they argued about; how legal issues like inheritance and transfer of property worked, and so on (Porten 1968). The documents show that while Judeans ­worshipped the god “Yahu” – for whom a temple stood on the island – they also acknowledged other deities and intermarried with several different ethnicities ­present. A few letters also describe the destruction of the temple of Yahu at the hands of unruly Egyptian priests, perhaps carried out during one of the many

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rebellions against the Persian rulers (Porten 2011). This diaspora community of  Judeans lived at the fringes of empire and had a complicated relationship with  both their Persian masters  –  upon whom they depended but also were ­subjugated – and neighboring communities – with whom they at times conflicted and at times interacted intimately. Much like Daniel’s purported chaotic social and historical setting in the early second century BCE, the fifth century Aramaic readers of Ahiqar (as we have it) were living a tenuous existence as soldiers (or relatives thereof) on foreign soil, where they were both representatives and, at times, oppressed subjects of empire. The historical setting and interpretive contexts of Ahiqar, therefore, vary greatly, depending on where the reader places her focus, whether in terms of critical approach (linguistic, narratological, material) or the meaningful historical‐­ interpretive backdrop (Aramean, Neo‐Assyrian, Achaemenid‐Egyptian), or some combination thereof. This can make interpretation difficult, but one of the ­characteristic features of the Ahiqar tradition was his mass appeal, such that many different groups, in many different areas, at many different times found meaning in the message of this legendary figure and his wisdom.

Expansive Outline and Variations of the Legend The tale begins with Ahiqar already established as a wise and trusted counselor in the royal court of King Sennacherib, who promptly dies and is succeeded by his son Esarhaddon (1).2 Ahiqar begins to contemplate his old age (17) and the fact that he has no sons to succeed him (2–3). He then decides to train his nephew Nadan in order to establish him as his successor, and de facto “son,” in Esarhaddon’s court. After a brief training or testing before the king (10), Ahiqar retires to his home (22), leaving Nadan in his place at the palace gate. Nadan immediately betrays Ahiqar, however, presumably by accusing him of some treason or rebellion against the crown (25–31). Unfortunately, the column is not well preserved here. Many of the later versions include a much longer plot by Nadan, who tricks his uncle into approaching the gates of the capital at the head of an army, thus physically appearing to the king as a leader of an armed rebellion. There is little room for this in the Aramaic version; instead, he must have simply slandered him. The king is outraged and orders Ahiqar to be executed without trial (32–36). This follows a typical ­depiction in court tales of a hot‐tempered, capricious monarch. Ahiqar is saved, however, by some providence, because the executioner turns out to be one Nabusumiskun, whom we come to find out had previously been saved by Ahiqar from a similar “undeserved execution” (46). Nabusumiskun proves to be a loyal friend – thus standing as a direct foil to the ungrateful Nadan – and saves Ahiqar by hiding him in his own house and executing a eunuch in his place (63–77). At this point the Aramaic narrative breaks off. The later recensions continue with a lengthy story where the Egyptian king, hearing of the famed Ahiqar’s “demise,” challenges

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the Assyrian king to a battle of wits. Seeing Esarhaddon fret over the predicament, Nabusumiskun presents Ahiqar as alive and the solution to this imperial contest. Ahiqar then comes out of hiding and travels to Egypt, where he performs several impossible challenges laid on him by the pharaoh. He returns to Assyria victorious, laden with treasure. With his reputation restored, he then berates his nephew to death, literally (Conybeare et al. 1913). The Aramaic story’s abrupt end due to the fragmentation of the papyrus leaves the question open as to exactly how and where (relative to the sayings) the story ends. A shorter resolution, without the formally distinct Egyptian episode, is ­possible; in which case the overall structure of the text is simpler: a narrative about the sage followed by a collection of his wise sayings. One could hypothesize more narrative columns after the sayings columns, leaving open the possibility of a frame narrative around a central set of sayings – a structure similar to Job. It is not clear, then, at what point in the narrative Ahiqar recites his sayings. At this point, one can only speculate on the possibilities; the only clear thing is that the structure ­differs at least somewhat from the later versions.

Structure and Content of the Sayings Among Aramaic papyri containing the sayings there are around 100 reasonably understandable extant lines. Unfortunately, there are at least the same number of  sayings not preserved (based on the Yardeni’s estimation). Many of the later ­versions have upwards of 300 sayings, but only a few parallels are evident, making it imprudent to interpret the fragmentary Aramaic text in light of the later recensions. Still, there is a relatively broad selection of topics and formal structures attested among the extant Aramaic sayings. Broadly speaking, much like Proverbs and other sayings collections, there does not seem to be an overall organizational pattern. Nevertheless, in the same way as Proverbs there are traces of clusters or linking‐devices, whether by common topic (e.g. the discipline of sons in 175–178) repetition of form (e.g. a series of topically unrelated prohibitions in 146–148), or a connecting word (e.g. “heart” in 95–99). Michael Weigl has made a convincing argument that at least a few columns may have a more elaborate arrangement (2010). Column 6 is the best example where a series of sayings about controlling one’s “words” is seamlessly connected to sayings about the king; both of which are framed by poetic refrains (79, 91–92) that are strikingly similar (e.g. the repetition of the word “precious”). Individually, the sayings reflect a variety of forms and topics. There are several admonitions, especially in the negative (136–137), as well as fables (166–168), maxims (99, 161), rhetorical questions (88, 174), and even a graded numerical saying of the form x/x+1 (187–189; cf. e.g. Amos 2:1, 4). Parallelism occurs regularly, though there are many monostichic sayings (95) as well as tripartite (178) and even more complex structures (e.g. ABAB parallelism in 126–129).

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As for content, many are typical of other ancient collections: discipline of children (175–177); controlled or honest speech (81–83, 132–134); financial matters (129–131); caution in certain social interactions (99–100); propriety (126, 128), including around one’s superiors (142, 143); retributive justice (107, 156). Also, there are a few lines that seem to directly invoke the narrative context. Lines 139–140 read: From out of my house went my accursedness, so among whom will I be found innocent? The son of my belly has spied on my house, so how will I speak to the foreigners? My son was a criminal witness against me, so who then will find me innocent? From out of my house went my fury, so with whom can I dispute and contend.

Lines such as these would be difficult to understand without the narrative c­ ontext and do not seem to be universal in their ethics. Many other sayings also share thematic or verbal resonances with the narrative but generally are of a more superficial correspondence. As with many sayings collections, the exhortations, prohibitions, and miscellaneous proverbial utterances are pliant in meaning, adaptable to many situations beyond the immediate literary one.

Wise Behavior and the Vagaries of Reality in the Story and Sayings of Ahiqar The thematic and ethical outlook of the book of Ahiqar vacillates between, on the one hand, a practical exhortation of righteous, wise behavior founded upon principles of caution and reciprocity and, on the other hand, a persistent attention to injustice and suffering, whether due to the vagaries of reality or, perhaps more sobering, to the inexplicable, yet ferocious nature of those in power: namely, the king and, by extension, the divine. These two competing impulses propel the plot of the narrative and form an almost dialogical back‐and‐forth among the sayings.

Irony, Betrayal, and the Golden Rule The story of Ahiqar’s betrayal, suffering, and subsequent redemption plays on two consistent threads that operate, at least in the social world of the narrative, along the vertical and horizontal axes. The horizontal is the easiest to understand and to account for, despite the problems it creates. Ahiqar’s turmoil hinges, in part, on his nephew’s betrayal. Granted, there is a hierarchical relationship, with Ahiqar as sage and Nadan as student, but eventually Nadan graduates to being “established in the gate of the palace” of the king and thus on relatively equal footing with Ahiqar (23). Despite the unclear motivations, Nadan’s decision to slander Ahiqar

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clearly strays from the expected behavior, not only because Ahiqar is family but also because of the good that Ahiqar had shown Nadan by “raising” him up (25). In an ironic reversal, Ahiqar’s raising up of Nadan leads to Ahiqar’s own descent both metaphorically  –  on the social ladder Ahiqar moves from adviser to the king “upon  whom all Assyria” relied (2) to one who was “like a servant” (72)  –  and physically – from the throne‐room of the capital where he stood next to the king down to the basement of Nabusmiskun’s house (72; cf. Tobit 14:10). Much of the story and, later, sayings of Ahiqar depend on these stark contrasts. Most notably, again on the horizontal axis, is the mirrored portrayals of the two side‐characters: Nadan and Nabusumiskun. Nadan’s ungrateful behavior has already been discussed, but one can find an exact opposite in the character Nabusumiskun: one is a relative, the other a foreigner; one betrays Ahiqar to seek his own advancement, the other remains loyal to Ahiqar despite the risk; one returns Ahiqar’s beneficence with “damage” (44), the other returns Ahiqar’s beneficence with precisely commensurate action. This latter point is, perhaps, the emotional crux of the narrative. From the reader’s point of view, Ahiqar has been sentenced to death and is about to die at the hands of Nabusumiskun. At this point, we do not know what to expect, and, according to conventional wisdom, any wise person would “swiftly” (38) and surely carry out a king’s orders – a wise sentiment iterated precisely in the sayings (87–88). Yet, Nabusumiskun, rather than kill Ahiqar as commanded, tears his garments (41) like Mordecai before Esther (Esth. 4:1). Ahiqar, we discover, is “sorely afraid” (45). But he reminds Nabusumiskun, and informs the reader, that the executioner was once in the same predicament (“an undeserved killing”), but Ahiqar rescued him (46). Nabusumiskun, thereafter, decides to save Ahiqar, just as he had saved him. This literal act of reciprocity is encapsulated in the core ethical message of the narrative, set on Ahiqar’s lips in his impassioned plea to Nabusumiskun: “Just as I have done for you, so, then, do also for me” (52). This utterance is a dramatically contextualized expression of the golden rule: an expectation of mutual beneficent reciprocity in behavior, one to which Nabusumiskun lives up but Nadan contravenes. There is a significant irony to this diametric opposition between Nadan and Nabusumiskun, aside from the otherwise superficial expectations one might have about familial fidelity (Chyutin 2011, 33). Ahiqar lifts Nadan up to a position of  authority only to be brought down by Nadan’s accusations. Nabusumiskun, ironically, also brings Ahiqar down, by establishing him in his household as a slave, yet this “bringing down” is a salvific act, rather than an aggressive one. The dramatic and situational irony are acutely apparent when one turns to the vertical axis: namely, the seemingly incontestable power and authority of the king and the gods. The category of king and divine may seem separate (one horizontal and human, the other vertical and divine), but for Ahiqar the power, authority, and requisite fear‐inducing awe of the gods is equally due to the king, with whom the divine is related (ll. 79, 91–92). Granted, no gods are mentioned in the story, but in

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Ahiqar’s narratival world (and in the historical context in which it was produced) the king, like the gods, cannot be questioned. And yet, both Ahiqar and Nabusumiskun do this very thing, despite it being extremely foolhardy, as Ahiqar himself attests in his wise sayings (84–90). The ironic opposition between Nadan and Nabusumiskun, thus, is also mediated through the characters’ actions vis‐à‐vis the royal decree. Nadan betrays Ahiqar by, coincidentally, accusing Ahiqar of betraying the king (note that the word Nabusumiskun uses to describe Nadan’s betrayal, “damage” [44], is the same word Esarhaddon uses to describe Ahiqar’s presumed betrayal, “damage” [36]). Nabusumiskun, on the other hand, demonstrates his loyalty to Ahiqar by, in fact, disobeying (i.e. betraying) the king’s command – a loyally disobedient act that, ironically, Ahiqar had previously done on  behalf of Nabusumiskun during Sennacherib’s reign. Adding further fuel to the  burning irony of the situation, Ahiqar’s previous act of disobedient‐loyalty (and likely also Nabusumiskun’s) is described as something that Sennacherib “loved” (51). The actions of the protagonist Ahiqar and the two supporting characters Nabusumiskun and Nadan become even more ironic when one considers the ­ethical instructions among the sayings (some of which have already been noted). For example, one saying makes it clear that one should not only obey the word of the king, but do it quickly: “If (something) is commanded to you it is a burning fire. Hurry, do it!” (87). Failure to do so would be disastrous because “his rage is swifter than lightning” (85) and he has been endowed with the authority (lit. “tongue”) to destroy even the “leviathan” (90). Reconciling the otherwise respectably loyal behavior of Ahiqar and Nabusumiskun with the terrible risk it entails is difficult, but it adds to an overall ambiguity in the wisdom text’s outlook, an ambiguity that appears in other circumstances as well.

Reversal of Fortunes and Retributive Justice in the Sayings of Ahiqar The particulars of Ahiqar’s tale both uphold and put to question any sort of predictability that one might expect of a wisdom text. On the one hand, the story champions the notion of reciprocity  –  do good and it will be returned unto you  –  just as Ahiqar did for Nabusumiskun, so also did Nabusumiskun do for Ahiqar. Yet, the kindness Ahiqar shows to Nadan is not returned in kind. Moreover, Ahiqar, who is constantly described by the king as dependable (4, 14, 28, 36), is swiftly and unexpectedly condemned to death by that very same monarch. Or, more generally, like the more familiar biblical figure Job, Ahiqar, whose wisdom and status is ostensibly without parallel, suffers a tremendous and unjust downfall. The very story of Ahiqar, therefore, challenges an ethical outlook that depends on retributive justice, even as the wisdom that the story and sayings espouse ­promotes such a view.

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The injustice of Ahiqar’s reversal of fortune, while raised indirectly by the c­ ircumstances of the narrative, is directly questioned in the sayings. On the one hand, many of them are instructional in nature and depend on an assumption that adherence to a particular behavior will result in a successful or, at the very least, a secure life (this will be discussed in more detail below). Yet, many of the sayings directly challenge this assumption and thus evoke not only the ambiguity raised by the narrative but also undermine, ironically, the ethical presuppositions upon which the wisdom instructions are built. This is clear from the very first column (col. 6). Line 80 reads: “My son, do not damn the day until you see the n[ight].” This sentiment carries a certain poignancy in light of the narrative context, but even detached from Ahiqar’s predicament this bleak estimation of life throws shade on all subsequent instruction. It is a demonstrably bitter motif that persists throughout (89, 90, 96, 99, 139–140, 159–160, 166–172, 183–184). The contrast between the expected security that wise and righteous living should bring and the vagaries of reality is expressed most clearly in lines 95–96. The key text reads: “A man whose stature is beautiful and whose heart is good is like a strong city in [whose] midst there is water.” The simile is clear: righteous living should give a person security, just as a city with a water source is secure if there is a siege. However, this optimism is immediately followed by the saying: “[But] how can a man guard himself against the gods and how can he guard against his inner ­wickedness?”3 This saying is extremely telling for understanding Ahiqar’s message. Despite the otherwise dependable assumption that wise and righteous living gives one security if not prosperity (95), there are two frustratingly powerful and unpredictable forces that can throw a wrench into the system: the inscrutable will of the gods and the wickedness of humanity.

The Inscrutability of the Divine and Wickedness of Human Nature Ahiqar’s story and sayings testify to these two troublesome aspects of life. The story tells of betrayal by one’s own family, even one to whom a tremendous kindness has been shown. While there is no clear explanation in the narrative (perhaps due to the corruption of the manuscript and not any intentional silence), a reasonable assumption is the greed and desires of Nadan, who thus represents the evil inclination of humanity, while Nabusumiskun represents humanity’s capacity for wisdom and righteousness. Further, while the gods do not seem to show up in the narrative (again this could be an accident of preservation), their representative on earth, the king, demonstrates an unfortunate capriciousness backed by seemingly unchallengeable authority. These two issues are tackled directly in the sayings. We have already given attention to the king’s swift and powerful anger in the series of sayings in column 6, but there are two passages (79, 91–92) that bracket this column and directly connect the king’s authority with the divine. Line 79 is

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enigmatic due to it likely being the second half of a poetic pericope whose ­beginning is lost. Earlier arrangements of the Ahiqar sayings suggested that “­wisdom,” perhaps in some personified form, was the subject of this line; however, Porten and Yardeni’s updated edition make this unlikely (Bledsoe 2013). As it stands, though, the mention of “kingdom/kingship” and “the gods” together with the term “precious,” which is repeated in line 92, suggests that this line has something to do with the king’s authority having a divine backing. This is ­ ­unquestionably clear in lines 91–92: “A king is like the Merciful; moreover, his voice is high. Who is there who can stand before him but he with whom El is? Beautiful is the king to see like Shamash and precious is his glory to (them that) tread the earth (as) free men.” With the close association between the king and the gods in mind, several of the sayings directly touch on the frustrating, even disappointing, inscrutable nature of the gods that recalls the narrative’s portrayal of the king. This is, perhaps, most apparent in the several fables found among the sayings (166–168a, 168b–171a, 209–210). The clearest example is that of the bear and the lambs (168b–171a): “The bear went to the lambs … [and said … ] ‘I will be silent.’ The lambs answered and said to him, ‘Carry (away) what you will carry from us. We ….’ For it is not in the hands of the individual to carry their feet and put them down apart fr[om the gods]; for it is not in your hands to carry your foot or to put it down.” Although fragmentary, the basic outline and message of the fable is discernible. A bear comes upon a group of lambs and makes some proposition. The lambs answer that any response they make is futile since the bear is obviously much more powerful than they are and thus whomever he decides to eat/destroy is out of luck because they would be unable to resist. In the same way, Ahiqar (the narrator) likens this to an individual’s lot in life. Whether good or bad – metaphorically illustrated by the  ­picking up and putting down of one’s feet  –  it is up to the gods. The saying acknowledges the incontestable power of the gods, but also their inscrutability. This message is echoed elsewhere in the column (162–163, 171b–173). It depends, however, not only on the power and unpredictability of the divine will, but also on the limits of human knowledge (164). As for the other chaos‐inducing aspect of life – the wickedness of humanity – this too is expressed throughout the sayings, but also quite poignantly in one of the fables. Immediately preceding the bear and lambs is a fable about a leopard and a goat: “The leopard happened upon the goat and she (i.e. the goat) was naked. The leopard answered and said to the goat, ‘Come and I will cover you with my skin.’ The goat [answered] and said to the leopard, ‘Why do I (need) your covering? Do not take my hide from me.’ For [the leopard] will not [see]k the welfare of the gazelle but instead to suck its blood” (166–168a). Despite the lacunae and odd switch from “goat” to “gazelle” in the explanation, the fable’s lesson is clear. Do not put your trust in individuals, even if they are offering you a boon. Who exactly the leopard ­represents is not easily detectable, but the verb “happened upon” may suggest that

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the predatory animal stands for any given person rather than someone specific. This sentiment is echoed elsewhere in sayings that even more directly advise against trusting people, even those upon whom one would normally depend. Line 141, for example, cautions against sharing secrets with your friends (notably, this prohibition follows directly after the passage mentioned above about being betrayed by  one’s own son, [139–140; cf. Sir. 6:13]). One saying expresses doubt about knowing anyone’s true intentions, even a close colleague (99). What is clear, then, from both the narrative and the sayings is that Ahiqar espouses a profound uncertainty about life, one that acknowledges the vagaries of reality – which, in the ancient worldview are characterized by the actions of the divine  –  and questions the motivations and trustworthiness of humanity. This Qoheleth‐like skepticism is juxtaposed with several practical instructions that, at the very least, offer Ahiqar’s students the best chance, even if not a completely secure one, of survival.

Conventional Wisdom in the Ahiqar Sayings Alongside the more profound reflections that the narrative and several sayings bring to mind, one finds many practical instructions that echo the conventional wisdom found in similar collections, such as the book of Proverbs in the Hebrew Bible. Additionally, there are several examples of financial advice that speak, at least rhetorically, to the Sitz im Leben of the imagined audience.

Practical Instruction Practical advice in the book of Ahiqar covers many traditional topics, as indicated above. The most prominent topic is the common theme of discretion in speech. Carelessness, particularly in respect to what one says, is strongly denounced. For example, a series of sayings in column 6 read: “More than anything else that is guarded, guard your mouth, and concerning that which you have heard, make (your) heart heavy, for a bird is a word, and the one who releases it is a person ­without sense” (82). Reckless or dishonest speech is dangerous and leaves one susceptible to personal attack: “Keep in mind that in every place are their eyes and their ears. And concerning your mouth: Guard yourself! Do not let it be their prey!” (81). In general, silence is preferred: “A good vessel covered a word in its heart, but one which is broken let it go outside” (93). Variations upon the theme of controlled speech are found in subsequent columns. Lying, of course, is strongly discouraged (133–134). Ahiqar warns against false speech as something the gods are sure to punish: “El will twist the mouth of the twister (i.e. one who twists words or is disingenuous)” (156). Other ethical

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directives are frequently expressed in terms of what one should or should not say. For example, being content with one’s situation is articulated by an admonition against “cursing” one’s deficiency of goods (136); similarly, a warning against having a haughty demeanor is described as “a little man (whose) words soar above him” (162). The familiar advice of respecting one’s parents is likewise portrayed as an exhortation to “exalt in the name of one’s father and mother” (138).

Economic Advice Among the more pragmatic instructions in Ahiqar, there are several sayings that speak to social and financial matters. Specifically, a series of sayings in column 9 addresses the issue of loans (129–131). Ahiqar offers the reader several specific instructions when entering in a financial contract: borrow (only) so that you and your family may eat (129); do not borrow from a disreputable person (130); avoid  borrowing too heavily (130); and do not rest until you pay back the loan (130–131). Advice about loans and going surety (that is, giving a deposit on behalf of a loan given to another person) is not unusual for wisdom collections (e.g. Prov. 6:1, 22:26; Sir. 29:1–7), where the instructions range from avoiding such risky procedures to intentionally taking such risks as an act of charity for the poor. In Ahiqar, however, this advice has a strikingly distinguishable character: rather than imagining the addressee as the one giving out the loan or going surety on behalf of another, the speaker gives instructions to those who are in need of the loans. This distinction can best be illustrated by comparing Ahiqar line 130 (“[Do not take] a heavy loan and do not borrow from an evil person”) with Sir. 8:12–13 (“Do not lend to one who is stronger than you … do not give surety beyond your means …”; New Revised Standard Version). Both texts advise their readers about the significance of the transaction and the type of person with whom one should not do business; yet whereas the sage in Ben Sira imagines the addressee as the one doing the lending (cf. Prov. 19:17), Ahiqar presumes his audience is the one doing the borrowing. Ahiqar’s addressee is presented as one who is in financial distress, perhaps even to the point of starvation (127, 129). This may have significant implications for the Sitz im Leben of the book of Ahiqar. In contrast to the royal, upper elite setting of the narrative, these sayings suggest that the actual reading (or hearing) audience may have come from a more meager station. Another saying, for example, hints that poverty is a real possibility in terms of the social setting presumed by the text. Line 89a reads: “I have tasted bitter medlar and its [taste] is strong, but there is nothing which is more bitter than poverty.” On the one hand, this could be read as a simple warning about how miserable life is for one who is poor, and thus the presumption being that obeying the wise advice of the sage will help one avoid such a bitter predicament. Yet, like the instructions about loans, it is worth highlighting the point of view. What does it mean that the speaker adopts the position of one

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who has tasted the bitterness of poverty, rather than, say, the more distanced, third‐ person configuration (e.g. Prov. 10:4; Sir. 11:12). Notably, the socioeconomically diminutive perspective adopted by Ahiqar – whether simply for rhetorical effect or reflecting the actual Sitz im Leben of the text’s intended audience  –  is echoed in 4QInstruction, whose addressee is often told directly “you are poor” (Goff 2013, 23–26). As intriguing as Ahiqar’s economically minded formulations are, it is better to be cautious when it comes to extrapolating any direct correspondence between the status imagined in the sayings (or narrative) and the potential Sitz im Leben of Ahiqar’s audience. While the Elephantine audience – possibly one full of soldiers whose pay, often in the form of grain, was far from secure in the less‐than‐ ideal context of Persia’s insecure hold on Egypt – may have found something relatable in the tenuous social and financial situation expressed by these sayings, Ahiqar’s audiences, like many proverbial collections, were clearly diverse.

Ahiqar’s Legendary Status The reception of Ahiqar is impressive. In addition to the numerous medieval and early modern recensions in over a dozen languages (e.g. Syriac, Armenian, Arabic, Old Slavonic, Ethiopic, Old Turkish, Romanian, Georgian, Sogdian), there are a ­several ancient witnesses testifying to the fact that Ahiqar had a broad and lasting influence. These include not only biblical and early Jewish connections, but a number of other ancient Mediterranean cultures. Indeed, Ahiqar’s legendary status invites comparison with a diverse set of other legendary sages whose legacy, like Ahiqar’s, can be detected in several different contexts.

Ahiqar’s Fame in Greco‐Roman Antiquity The evidence for Ahiqar’s fame in Greco‐Roman antiquity is tremendous in its breadth, even if many of the examples are simply passing references and secondary in nature. Still, the sheer diversity in terms of geographic and cultural provenance where Ahiqar’s name or influence are evident is staggering and nearly unparalleled. With evidence from Greece, Syria, Judea, Egypt, and Mesopotamia, it is not unreasonable to conclude that any given individual among the literati of the ­western Mediterranean during the latter part of the first millennium BCE would have been familiar with the figure of Ahiqar in some capacity. Besides the Elephantine manuscript, the best and most direct evidence also comes from Egypt. Small fragments of a Demotic translation of Ahiqar (c. first century CE), mentioned above, demonstrate that Ahiqar’s fame in the Egyptian milieu was not restricted to Judean (or other strictly Aramaic‐speaking) expats. In fact, Ahiqar may have had a strong impact on native Egyptian literature when one

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c­ onsiders the Demotic Instruction of Ankhsheshonqe, in which a sage is imprisoned, not unlike Ahiqar. Lichtheim argued convincingly that this Late Period Demotic instruction, noticeably distinctive when compared with the ancient Middle and New Kingdom examples, owes much of its structural and narratival ingenuity to Ahiqar (Lichtheim 1983). Further, a handful of Greek authors throughout the Mediterranean in the late Hellenistic and early Roman periods make at least passing reference to the fame of Ahiqar’s wisdom, with one example of an expansive borrowing. The most prominent is the Aesop Romance, which appropriated Ahiqar’s tale directly, casting its titular character as undergoing the very same trials, though set in the Babylonian court rather than the Neo‐Assyrian (Marincˇicˇ 2003). The second century CE Christian author Clement mentions Ahiqar (Strom. 1.15.69), claiming that the Greek philosopher Democritus plagiarized from a “stele of Akikaros.” References to Ahiqar as a wise sage are also found in Strabo (Geography 16.2.39) and Diogenes Laertius (5.50). The Uruk tablet, written in cuneiform Akkadian, demonstrates Ahiqar’s prominence among southern Mesopotamian tradition, since in that text he is ranked among other legendary figures.

Ahiqar’s Fame Among the Biblical and Early Jewish Tradition When considering the biblical and early Jewish literature, especially the court tales (e.g. Joseph, Daniel, Esther, and Tobit) and proverbial collections (e.g. Proverbs and Ben Sira), Ahiqar’s literary and thematic character fits neatly into the conversation. There are several correspondences, though it is unclear to what extent many of the biblical and early Jewish authors were familiar with Ahiqar directly. The book of Tobit is the most prominent example, in that it explicitly references the ancient sage, making it abundantly clear that at least some Second Temple Jewish audiences were familiar with Ahiqar’s story and wisdom. Tobit refers to Ahiqar several times in the narrative (Tob. 1:21–22; 2:10; 11:18; 14:10), and in at least one case (14:10) Tobit appears to assume that his audience was already familiar with Ahiqar’s drama, including Nadan’s betrayal and later punishment. Perhaps most outstanding, though, is Tobit’s portrayal of Ahiqar as part of the Jewish fold, casting him as the nephew of Tobit himself (1:21). It is difficult to say how widespread was the view that Ahiqar was “Jewish” – that is, whether this was a novelty of Tobit’s or a more widespread assumption among some Jewish audiences. When considering the ostensibly “Judean” Elephantine manuscript, one could reasonably surmise that Ahiqar had at very early stage been integrated into the Jewish tradition, perhaps in a similar way that the originally foreign sages Job, Agur (Prov. 30:1), and Lemuel (Prov. 31:1) were incorporated into the Hebrew tradition. As for the wisdom sayings, many of Ahiqar’s proverbs have parallels (of varying degrees) with Hebrew wisdom in Proverbs, Ben Sira, and to a lesser extent Qoheleth.

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Some, such as Michael Fox (2009, 767–769), have argued that the Aramaic ­sayings inspired or perhaps were even a direct source for compilers of the book of Proverbs. Besides a number of Aramaisms in the Hebrew Proverbs that add some weight to a general dependency, there are numerous parallels, but given the nature of individual utterances it is difficult to determine a literary relationship. Still, some are close enough to warrant consideration. A notable example is Ahiqar 176–177 (“Do not spare your child from the staff; if not, you will not be able to save him … If I strike you, my son, you will not die, but if I leave you to your own heart …”) and Prov. 23:13–14 (“Do not withhold discipline from [your] child; if you beat him with a rod, he will not die; if you beat him with a rod, you will deliver his life from Sheol”), whose correspondences extend beyond just the thematic, but also to specific lexical and conceptual aspects, suggesting a possible direct borrowing (Fox 2009, 767). Qoheleth lacks any direct parallels to Ahiqar, though they share a distinctive expression that compares a carelessly uttered word to the releasing of a bird (Eccl. 10:20; Ahiqar 82). Still, the two share a general skepticism that is untidily mixed with ­conventional expressions of wisdom. Ahiqar’s relationship with Ben Sira is probably more profound but, at the same time, more complex, as many of the closer parallels are between Ben Sira and the much later Syriac and Arabic versions of Ahiqar. Of note, as well, is an obscure reference in the Talmud (b. B. Bat. 98b) that claims to be quoting Ben Sira but does not appear in any extant version of Ben Sira; instead, the proverb does appear in Syriac Ahiqar. As for the ancient Aramaic version and Ben Sira, few close correspondences are observable. One example may be Ahiqar 159 (“I have carried sand and loaded salt, but there is nothing which is heavier than a stranger”) and Sir. 22:15 (“Sand, salt, and a piece of iron are easier to bear than a stupid person”); both of which are similar in form and feature an otherwise unattested combination of the elements “sand” and “salt” in a single proverb. A more thorough investigation of Ahiqar and Ben Sira’s potential overlap is warranted. For the most part, the correspondences of theme and structure between Ahiqar and other Second Temple literature texts are superficial. Direct dependence in either direction is not easily established. As for the many examples of Jewish court narratives  –  Daniel, Esther, Joseph, etc.  –  all of which share several tropes with Ahiqar, only Tobit can be said to directly depend on Ahiqar’s tale.

Ahiqar and Other Legendary Sages Ahiqar is a figure of legend. As with any legend, what is essential to such a status is not only their popularity but their proclivity for attracting and eliciting subsequent traditions such that one might speak of an “Ahiqar discourse.” A comprehensive description of the “Ahiqar discourse” has yet to be written, but one could generally follow an approach taken to comparable biblical figures, especially Ezra, Moses, and

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Solomon (Najman 2007). Briefly, there exists a collection of traditions, ideas, texts, and attitudes associated with a particular personality. What is outstanding, though, is that Ahiqar’s legendary status does not simply span several centuries or multiple iterations – as many others do – it extends beyond a specific cultural milieu. Ahiqar was, in all likelihood, based on an Aramean sage from the time of the great Mesopotamian empire Assyria, but he became, relatively quickly, a legend for Judean, Egyptian, Greek, and Babylonian audiences. This fame extended even more dramatically as the centuries progressed. The evidence from Tobit and the Uruk ­tablet exemplify the legendary aspects of Ahiqar. The former is the best attestation of Ahiqar’s fame in Aramaic garb, and represents the Jewish author’s argument to his audience (or an acknowledgment of their already‐held assumption) that Ahiqar was “one of them.” The latter demonstrates both his cross‐cultural impact and his aggrandizement. While the text recognizes his special connection to “the Arameans,” at the same time Ahiqar’s appearance on a very short list of famous figures from Mesopotamian myth and legend indicates that, at least for the Seleucid audience, Ahiqar had a worldly impact on par with Gilgamesh, Enmeduranki, and  the like. In other words, he may have been Aramean, but his importance ­transcended that identity (Lenzi 2008). This should be kept in mind as we consider Ahiqar in the context of other legendary sages from the Second Temple period. Depending on how one defines “sage,” and if one restricts the focus to figures associated in some way with sapiential or proverbial literature, Solomon, as a source of wisdom in the form of transmitted proverbs and poetry, is the greatest example of a sage among the Hebrew tradition. Proverbs, Wisdom of Solomon, and Song of Songs present a generically colorful picture of traditions attached to this legendary sage. He became the barometer against which subsequent Hebrew wisdom was judged and, moreover, the central figure toward which subsequent proverbial traditions gravitated and from which a diversity of poetic and legendary traditions developed. In this respect, the Ahiqar discourse, with its relatively stable narrative and proverbial collection, is more conservative than the Israelite king’s. (To my knowledge there are no traditions linking Ahiqar with songs, love poetry, lengthy discourses, or any more speculative or ­apocalyptic type of expressions  –  as, say, we find with Ezra, who was connected with  Torah in both the book of Ezra and 4 Ezra and also, in the latter text, with ­otherworldly apocalyptic visions.) Solomon’s generic diversity, though, is countered by his relatively restricted reception to primarily Jewish circles (at least in antiquity); while Ahiqar’s fame rippled throughout the eastern Mediterranean and Mesopotamia (in antiquity and beyond). Another figure worth comparing is Enoch. There is a vast literary tradition connected to Enoch, and this antediluvian figure complicates the boundaries between the apocalyptic and wisdom traditions, in that he is portrayed in 1 Enoch, an apocalyptic text, as a source of wisdom (Goff 2014, 60–61). Like Ahiqar, much of the legendary status depends on a narrative hook; Enoch’s ascension into heaven

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allowed him access to otherwise unattainable wisdom that he then shared with humanity. However, as with Solomon, despite the prolific literature and discourse surrounding the figure of Enoch, his fame was relatively provincial, being limited to Jewish circles. There is, however, a potential point of contact with Ahiqar. Notably, the Uruk tablet also mentions the antediluvian king Enmeduranki; a figure whom some have argued bears some affinity with Enoch (Borger 1974). Lastly, a brief consideration of Daniel or Danel in light of Ahiqar should be made. The Jewish court tales are strikingly similar to Ahiqar’s narrative, not only in the general contours of the plot but linguistically and thematically, as well. Daniel, like Ahiqar, suffers unjustly as a result of the jealous contrivances of fellow courtiers (Daniel 3 and 6 especially). Also, like Ahiqar, Daniel’s ultimate redemption depends on his unique abilities, but his are similar to Enoch’s in that his special knowledge is a matter of divine revelation through dreams and visions. Beyond the biblical book, however, the name “Daniel” has a special connection to a much more ancient legendary sage: Danel. There is some disagreement among scholars about how, if at all, the legendary figure of Danel, mentioned in Ezekiel 14 and the Ugaritic tale of Aqhat, relates to the Babylonian courtier who is the main focus of the book of Daniel (Day 1980). Nevertheless, even if we only consider the Ezekiel passage, there seems to have been in the Judean tradition a figure by the name of Danel/Daniel who was likened to both the antediluvian legend Noah and the famous wise man Job (Ezek. 14:20). Job, as indicated above, presents a strong parallel to Ahiqar, both in terms of the overall structure of the books associated with them and in that they are both foreigners. What is even more notable is how Ezekiel later references Daniel as a measure against which one’s wisdom can be assessed (Ezek. 28:3: “Behold, you are wiser than Daniel”). The way the exilic prophet alludes to this legendary sage recalls a similar strategy in Tobit, where the sage’s fame precedes him as a comparative foil against which the Jewish narrative is evaluated. The book of Ahiqar tells an engaging story of a famous sage who falls from power and is restored. The association of an extensive collection of proverbs attributed to him is an important indication of his status as a sage. The book of Ahiqar constitutes important evidence for understanding how sages and their teachers were ­conceptualized in antiquity. Notes 1 Although these two manuscripts have separate catalogue numbers and are at different institutions, it was realized that they are from the same composition. 2 References to the Ahiqar story and sayings are from the Aramaic Elephantine ­version (unless otherwise noted) and follow the line numbers in Porten and Yardeni’s edition (1993). 3 An alternative translation to this last phrase is: “how can he rely on his inner strength.”

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References Bledsoe, Seth A. 2013. Can Ahiqar tell us anything about personified wisdom? Journal of Biblical Literature 132: 119–137. Bledsoe, Seth A. 2014. The relationship between the Elephantine Ahiqar sayings and later recensions: A preliminary analysis of the development and diffusion of the Ahiqar tradition. In: Enoncés sapientiels: traductions, traducteurs et contextes culturels (ed. Marie‐Christine Bornes‐Varol and Marie‐Sol Ortola), 223–250. Nancy: Presses Universitaires de Nancy. Borger, Rykle. 1974. Die Beschwörungsserie Bı̄t mēseri und die Himmelfahrt Henochs. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 33: 183–196. Cazelles, Henri. 1995. Aḥiqar, Ummân and Amun, and Biblical Wisdom. In: Solving Riddles and Untying Knots: Biblical, Epigraphic, and Semitic Studies in Honor of Jonas C. Greenfield (ed. Ziony Zevit, Seymour Gitin, and Michael Sokoloff), 45–55. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Chyutin, Michael. 2011. Tendentious Hagiographies: Jewish Propagandist Fiction BCE. London: T&T Clark. Conybeare, F.C., Rendel Harris, J., and Smith Lewis, Agnes.1913. The Story of Aḥiḳar: From the Aramaic, Syriac, Arabic, Armenian, Ethiopic, Old Turkish, Greek and Slavonic Versions. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dalley, Stephanie. 2001. Assyrian court narratives in Aramaic and Egyptian: Historical fiction. In: Historiography in the Cuneiform World: Proceedings of the XLVe Recontre Assyriologique Internationale, Part 1 (ed. T. Abusch, P.‐A. Beaulieu, J. Huehnergard, P. Machinist, and P. Steinkeller), 149–161. Bethesda, MD: CDL Press.

Day, John. 1980. The Daniel of Ugarit and Ezekiel and the hero of the book of Daniel. Vetus Testamentum 30: 174–184. Fox, Michael. 2009. Proverbs 10–31. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Goff, Matthew J. 2013. 4QInstruction. Atlanta, GA: SBL. Goff, Matthew J. 2014. Wisdom and apocalypticism. In: The Oxford Handbook of Apocalyptic Literature (ed. John J. Collins), 52–68. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Greenfield, Jonas C. 1978. The dialects of early Aramaic. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 37: 93–99. Holm, Tawny. 2014. Memories of Sennacherib in Aramaic tradition. In: Sennacherib at the Gates of Jerusalem (701 B.C.E.): Story, History and Historiography (ed. Isaac Kalimi and Seth Richardson), 295–323. Leiden: Brill. Kottsieper, Ingo. 1990. Die Sprache der Ahiqarsprüche. Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter. Kottsieper, Ingo. 2008. The Aramaic tradition: Ahikar. In: Scribes, Sages, and Seers: The Sage in the Eastern Mediterranean World (ed. Leo G. Purdue), 109–124. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Kottsieper, Ingo. 2009. “Look, son, what Nadab did to Ahikaros …”: The Aramaic Ahiqar tradition and its relationship to the book of Tobit. In: The Dynamics of Language and Exegesis at Qumran (ed. Devorah Dimant and Reinhard G. Kratz), 145–167. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Lenzi, Alan. 2008. The Uruk list of kings and sages and late Mesopotamian scholarship. Journal of Near Eastern Religions 8: 137–170.

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Lichtheim, Miriam. 1983. Late Egyptian Wisdom Literature in the International Context: A Study of Demotic Instructions. Freiburg: Universitätsverlag. Lindenberger, James. 1983. The Aramaic Proverbs of Ahiqar. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins. Marincˇicˇ, Marko. 2003. The Grand Vizier, the Prophet, and the Satirist: Transformations of the oriental Ahiqar romance in ancient prose fiction. In: The Ancient Novel and Beyond (ed. Stelios Panayotakis, Maaike Zimmerman, and Wytse Keulen), 53–70. Leiden: Brill. Najman, Hindy. 2007. How should we contextualize pseudepigrapha? Imitation and emulation in 4 Ezra. In: Flores Florentino: Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Early Jewish Studies in Honor of Florentino García Martínez (ed. Anthony Hilhorst, Émile Puech, and Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar), 529–536. Leiden: Brill. Porten, Bezalel. 1968. Archives from Elephantine: The Life of an Ancient Jewish Military Colony. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Porten, Bezalel. 2011. The Elephantine Papyri in English: Three Millennia of Cross‐Cultural Continuity and Change. 2nd ed. Atlanta, GA: SBL.

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Quack, Joachim Frederick. 2011. The interaction of Aramaic and Egyptian literature. In: Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context (ed. Oded Lipschitz, Gary N. Knoppers, and Manfred Oeming), 375–401. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Weigl, Michael. 2010. Die aramäischen Achikar‐Sprüche aus Elephantine und die alttestamentliche Weisheitsliteratur. Berlin: De Gruyter. Yardeni, Ada. 1994. Maritime trade and royal accountancy in an erased customs account from 475 B.C.E. on the Ahiqar scroll from Elephantine. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 293: 67–78. Yardeni, Ada and Porten, Bezalel. 1993. Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Ancient Egypt. Vol. 3: Literature, Accounts, Lists. Jerusalem: Hebrew University Press. Zauzich, Karl‐Th. 1976. Demotische Fragmente zum Ahikar–Roman. In: Folia Rara: Wolfgang Voigt LXV. Diem natalem celebranti ab amicis et catalogorum codicum orientalium conscribendorum collegis dedicata. (ed. Herbert Franke et al.), 180–185. Wiesbaden: Steiner.

Further Reading Briant, Pierre. 2002. From Cyrus to Alexander: A History of the Persian Empire (trans. Peter T. Daniels). Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. An influential history of the Persian empire, including its period of domination in Egypt. Crenshaw, James L. 2010. Old Testament Wisdom: An Introduction. 3rd ed. Louisville, KY: Westminster John

Knox Press. A leading survey of the wisdom literature of the Hebrew Bible. Perdue, Leo G. The Sword and the Stylus: An Introduction to Wisdom in the Age of Empires. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2008. An important study that emphasizes the political contexts in which wisdom literature was produced.

CHAPTER 17

Wisdom Literature in Egypt Samuel L. Adams

Introduction The ancient Egyptians developed a rich heritage of wisdom literature that persisted throughout the history of this great civilization. These texts offer a window into the cultural mores and guiding principles that many Egyptians – especially members of the upper‐classes – considered essential for virtuous living. Scribes developed a specific genre to express their perspectives in this regard. Known as the sebayit (usually translated as “instruction”), the Egyptian texts identified as “wisdom literature” had cultural relevance and a common‐sense timelessness that made the sebayit a popular type of discourse. In addition, other texts from ancient Egypt contain ­features that we can justifiably label as instructional. In terms of content, Egyptian instructions contain pithy advice on how to conduct oneself in the public sphere and with family members. Through colorful ­scenarios, wisdom texts from Egypt present ethical requirements and vivid motifs in the pursuit of character formation. Favorite themes include honesty – especially in the marketplace  –  and preserving one’s reputation. The advice encourages the faithful pupil to show deference to authorities, refrain from excessive talking and angry outbursts, and exhibit fairness in financial transactions. Vivid analogies often accentuate the point being made in a particular maxim. There is an ethical principle in the Egyptian texts known as “Maat” that encourages upright behavior. This concept will receive significant attention in the current chapter, since it lies at the heart of the instructions. Maat often appears as a goddess The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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in Egyptian art and sacred texts, but in the instructional literature it functions more as an abstract term that denotes integrity. Specifically, Maat means fairness and honesty, the maintenance of virtuous behavior in the public sphere. The person who “seeks” Maat is an ideal pupil in Egyptian wisdom literature. Egyptologists debate whether at a certain point Maat receded as a pivotal concept in the ­wisdom  texts, particularly in the instructions written in the New Kingdom (1550–1070 BCE). Some have argued that the correlation between observing ­correct behavior (Maat) and receiving just rewards is no longer operative in the later instructions, so that any act–consequence nexus is lost. This questionable ­theory will receive attention in our discussion. Finally, one of the later Egyptian instructions, Amenemope, contains perhaps the clearest example of external borrowing by the authors of the Hebrew Bible. The  compiler(s) responsible for Prov. 22:21–24:22 are clearly dependent on the antecedent Egyptian text and offer a number of the same warnings. This ­connection between Amenemope and the biblical book of Proverbs demonstrates the international reach of Egyptian instructions and the willingness of the scribes responsible for the Hebrew Bible to borrow from neighboring cultures when it suited their p ­ urposes. This chapter will pay close attention to the content and import of the Egyptian instructions, including an overview of the connections between Proverbs and Amenemope.

Identifying Egyptian Wisdom, Basic Structural Components, and Key Concepts With regard to identifying a specific body of texts, it is somewhat challenging to determine exactly what constitutes Egyptian “wisdom.”1 This difficulty of genre identification arises, because many narratives and biographical texts contain instructional elements and practical advice, and ancient scribes often worked across generic categories. For example, the famous Tale of the Eloquent Peasant includes reflections on Maat, narratival elements, and longer discourses that move beyond the sharing of pithy maxims for living a virtuous life (Williams 1980). It is important to note that no Egyptian term for “wisdom” exists that is equivalent to Hebrew hokmah (“wisdom”). Yet there is a specific genre within the corpus of ancient Egyptian literature that focuses on character formation among young, impressionable pupils: the sebayit. The sebayit is presented as practical advice from a father to his son, and the maxims are placed in the mouth of a senior Egyptian official. In most cases, this type of pseudepigraphic attribution to a famous official was intended to elevate the text and give it credence among the upper classes (Lichtheim 1996, 244). This is similar to the attribution of collections in the biblical book of Proverbs to King Solomon. A close variant of the sebayit is the so‐called “royal testament,” where a future ruler

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receives instruction in matters of statecraft (e.g. the Instruction of Merikare and the Teaching of Amenemhet I for His Son Senwosret; the biblical book of Ecclesiastes/ Qoheleth also has certain features of a royal testament). Most scholars categorize both of these types (the sebayit and the royal testament) as wisdom literature. With regard to format, the sebayit generally has a prologue with biographical information on the famous author, followed by a series of maxims (or chapters) on different themes. The most common topics are honesty, family life, conduct before a powerful official, and temperate speech. Scribes arranged maxims topically so that each one has its own internal logic, often a particular character trait (positive or negative) or a real‐life situation that one should avoid (or seek). A useful example is the Instruction of Amenemope, which contains 30 chapters on a variety of social issues: the risk of being verbally impetuous (a “hothead”), greed, financial corruption, and theft. Most texts follow a relatively consistent internal structure, including the earliest and most famous Instruction of Ptahhotep. While it does not have the chapter ­headings one finds in Amenemope, there is a threefold structure to most of the 37  maxims in Ptahhotep: (i) conditional clause; (ii) series of imperatives; (iii) ­summary statement(s) that restate and accentuate the point being made (Lichtheim 1983, 2–3). The following maxim (24) is a useful example: If you are a man / of trust, One who sits in the council of his lord, Direct your attention toward excellence. Your silence will be more profitable than babbling, So speak only when you know you are qualified (to do so). It is (only) the proficient who should speak in council, For speech is more difficult than any craft, And only the competent can endow it with authority. (11,9–11,12)2

The tripartite structure of this maxim presents a hypothetical situation through a conditional clause (if you are a powerful man, a “man of trust”), followed by a series of imperatives that outline how such a man should conduct himself in the public sphere.3 Finally, the maxim contains a summary statement that emphasizes the difficulty of cultivating a successful public persona through careful speech. With regard to the other structural features of these texts, negative imperatives appear in all the Egyptian instructions (McKane 1970), and the two‐line unit is the most common form for a particular saying (Kitchen 1979, 254). Since most instructional texts employ the two‐line saying, parallelism such as one finds in the book of Proverbs, whether synonymous or antithetic (the contrasting of two ­behaviors or occurrences), is a prominent feature. One trait or thing is likened to or contrasted from another through strategic placement in a two‐line saying. For example in Amenemope, “Humanity is clay and straw, and the Deity is the potter” (24,13–14; translation mine). The parallelism between clay/straw and the potter

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offers a ­powerful theological assertion on the creative activity of the Deity in this  instruction. The idea of God as a potter also appears in the Hebrew Bible (e.g. Isa. 45:9). For the most part, individual maxims do not have a definitive length in the Egyptian instructions, and the compilers of these texts often introduce new material to make a related point. It is often through secondary statements and incidental references that one glimpses underlying theological beliefs, such as allusions to an afterlife. When examining the later texts, the (New Kingdom) instructions written in Demotic (a later form of ancient Egyptian) are radically different, since the advice is placed in monostich form, meaning that the warnings and advice appear in a series of single‐line sayings (see below). As with wisdom literature in any number of cultural contexts, the fundamental goal of the Egyptian instructions is character formation. The sages responsible for these texts attempt to inculcate proper behavior in the family and public sphere, the correct “way of life” (Vernus 2001, 42 n. 77). Egyptian wisdom literature has a didactic quality, and the primary targets seem to be young people at an impressionable stage whose critical‐thinking skills are tenuous and who might be susceptible to malicious influences. These instructions were almost certainly taught in schools as a means of instilling character, literacy, and writing skills (some of the extant manuscripts seem to be school exercises). The primary tactic is to encourage honest behavior by offering witty reflections on human experience, along with vivid ­warnings about what happens to those who do not heed the advice. The sebayit does not generally focus on death and the afterlife, but on everyday human existence. The elaborate world of deities and other realms of existence (e.g. the underworld) that occupy many Egyptian texts does not receive much attention in the wisdom instructions, especially the earlier ones. Rather, these texts generally address daily interactions and the dynamics of human relationships. The sebayit seeks to answer practical questions, such as the following: How should one behave before a superior? What happens to the person who moves boundary markers in order to enlarge his territorial holdings? How should a parent raise an honest child who might succeed in a hierarchical social structure?

Maat in the Egyptian Instructions If interpersonal dynamics are the primary concerns of the Egyptian instructions, then the template for good behavior in this regard is Maat, usually translated as “justice” or “truth.” In order to understand the ethical outlook of the instructions, it is necessary to explore the Maat concept.4 In many of the texts and iconographic representations of ancient Egypt, Maat, as mentioned above, is a goddess who ­represents goodness and truth. She (as a goddess) is a cosmic counterpoint to chaos (Assmann 1989, 63–64). Yet in the instructional literature, Maat is a more abstract principle that relates to honesty in the public sphere.

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In order to understand how Maat works in wisdom literature and ancient Egyptian thought in general, one must consider the pivotal work of Jan Assmann on the topic. A noted Egyptologist, Assmann (1990) has tried to clarify the meaning and significance of Maat in Egyptian thought and culture. He claims that Maat means public (“connective”) justice and respect in human relationships. In Egyptian literature, Maat often indicates the kind of mutual support and fairness that can create a healthy society. Assmann has sought to counter the idea that Maat refers to the casual link between a good deed and its reward or to some kind of “world order” (e.g. Morenz 1973, 113; Frankfort 1948, 63–64). Rather, Assmann emphasizes the connective dimension and the belief that Maat creates “social solidarity.” Maat is pivotal in the Egyptian instructions, since one’s public behavior becomes a litmus test for rewards/advancement and divine acceptance. The person who reflects Maat through his actions has the potential for prosperity. Assmann outlines the manner in which Maat is revealed in the human sphere, according to the Egyptian instructions. The public expression of Maat involves three basic features: solidarity, reciprocity, and retribution. For the first feature, ­solidarity, the person who communicates well and demonstrates kindness towards others becomes a living embodiment of truth. This is illustrated quite clearly in maxim 39 of Ptahhotep, where the individual who listens to family members and friends enjoys divine rewards and a good reputation. The second component, reciprocity, requires cooperation in human relations. In the instructions, Maat is not some sort of mythical substance that binds humanity together; rather, it functions as a kind of contract encouraging social cohesion and reciprocity (Assmann 1990, 89–90). In this respect, greedy actions are the opposite of reciprocity, since avarice usually leads to self‐serving behavior at the expense of communal solidarity. The Egyptian instructions do not require that one should act from altruistic motives; the point is that a person should play a positive, supportive role in the family unit and larger society, with the understanding that good deeds lead to personal success. With regard to the last element, retribution, the Egyptian instructions do not usually focus on a private judgment between an individual and the Deity or an impersonal cosmic force, but rather a social network of mutual respect and ­responsibility (Assmann 1990, 66). A person reaps what he or she sows by living according to the truth/Maat. The Teaching for King Merikare offers a useful illustration of this retributive principle, as the ruler is advised on how to conduct himself: Observe Maat, that you may endure long upon the earth. Console him who weeps, and oppress not the widow. Do not expel a man from the property of his father, And do not demote the officials from their positions. (46–47)

This command to the king encapsulates Assmann’s threefold definition of Maat. The successful ruler should be kind to the vulnerable (solidarity), and he should

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act in the interest of his own reputation and longevity. A retributive principle is ­certainly at work here: “Observe Maat, that you may endure long upon the earth” (emphasis mine). The official or pupil who seeks “to know” truth, whose actions are a living embodiment of Maat, will reap considerable benefits. Such passages as the one from Merikare demonstrate that Maat becomes manifest through the honest behavior and kindness of those who make good choices. As Michael Fox (1995, 41) argues, “Maat is not an automaton maintaining justice by impersonal processes.” In the Egyptian literature, justice and truth are revealed by the decisions of gods, kings, and people. According to Fox, when an official or individual “lives on Maat,” this expression relates to whether that person is trying to conduct himself in an upright manner; in this sense, Maat is not a grand ­theological concept (Lichtheim 1992, 37). Honest relationships are the essence of Maat: “Far from being a blanket term for virtuous behavior, Maat meant specifically veracity and fair dealing” (Fox 1995, 37). Such a definition is confirmed by the Egyptian instructions, which emphasize this justice concept as a bulwark against numerous vices, including financial corruption, errant speech, and betrayal at the household level. A closer analysis of some of the more famous instructions will allow us to unpack the vision for fairness and honesty in the wisdom texts and how this plays out in terms of practical advice.

The Instruction of Ptahhotep The Instruction of Ptahhotep, one of the earliest and best‐preserved of the sebayit texts, in many respects set the template for the wisdom tradition in ancient Egypt. The extant manuscripts of Ptahhotep all date from the Middle Kingdom (c. 2040– 1742 BCE), but many Egyptologists place the instruction during the Old Kingdom, perhaps as early as the Sixth Dynasty (c. 2323–2150 BCE; see Simpson 2003, 129; Eichler 2001). The framework for the instruction is advice from a senior official under the ruler Isesi, and the focus is honesty and pragmatism. The larger purpose is set forth in the prologue: to transmit the “wisdom” or “plans” (Egyptian shr.w) of earlier sages for this official’s son. The lad, representing the audience for the text, hears advice on topics that include banquet etiquette, careful speech, behavior around women, and marital relations. The maxims usually focus on integrity and fairness (Maat). Chapters 2–4 describe etiquette and honesty in public, depending on whether one is in the presence of a superior, equal, or subordinate. Then the beginning of chapter 5 implores a powerful person to act with fairness. The praise of Maat in this maxim presents the underlying principle of the instruction: Great is Maat, the effect is long‐lasting, It has not been confounded since the time of Osiris. The transgressor of laws is punished,

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but it is an oversight in the eyes of the greedy. It is baseness that takes away riches, and wrongdoing has never brought its venture to port. He (the greedy individual) might say, “I will acquire for myself.” He cannot say, “I will acquire because of my effort.” In the end, Maat will endure. (6,5–7, translation mine)

According to this maxim, corruption may provide temporary gain, but the greedy individual cannot achieve (literally “moor”) lasting success. One should strive to live in accordance with Maat, because that is the only path to success (Adams 2008, 27–36). Reward and Punishment in Ptahhotep One of the more important questions to consider with Egyptian wisdom is the issue of causality/reward. Ptahhotep seems to offer a predictable framework based on Maat and God (the instructions frequently refer to “the god,” a generic designation for the panoply of deities in ancient Egypt). For example, “Do not stir up fear in ­people, or God (or “the god”) will punish in equal measure” (6,8). The use of “in equal measure” suggests appropriate punishment for the troublemaker, with God functioning as the retributive agent, the one who holds a wicked individual accountable. This is the same basic concept as God returning or repaying wrongful actions back upon the sinner in the biblical book of Proverbs (e.g. 24:12). When considering the references in Ptahhotep to divine control over human affairs and to Maat, there is a marked emphasis on accountability and self‐­improvement. A person should exhibit virtuous behavior, while also trusting in Maat/the Deity. Reward for good behavior (“It is the man of integrity who is the possessor of wealth”; 7,5) and divine intervention (“But what God determines comes to pass”; 6,10) are clearly mentioned in this early instruction. As Lichtheim explains, “Wisdom and piety were partners in the endeavor to formulate and teach the right kind of living” (1992, 100). Language about divine power and deterministic f­ormulations involving Maat are counterbalanced by appeals to personal initiative. A command in the prologue underscores the need for self‐improvement: “Instruct him, for no one is born wise” (5,5). Much of the subsequent material in the various maxims of Ptahhotep functions as a self‐help guide for bureaucrats, members of the upper classes, and other interested persons on how to attain success. Heart Expressions in Ptahhotep This instruction also many employ heart (Egyptian jb) expressions to describe proper conduct. Such expressions are common in Egyptian wisdom texts in general. Within the ethical framework of the instructions, the heart usually dictates

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i­ ntelligent decision‐making (rather than emotions) and is the seat of the conscience. For the authors of Ptahhotep, heart language provided a useful means of describing appropriate/sinful behavior and the need to listen to one’s conscience before ­making a decision (Piankoff 1930). Of particular interest are the phrases sms‐jb and hrp‐jb. With regard to the first expression, there is heart language in maxim 11: Follow your heart (sms‐jb) as long as you live, Do no more than is required (lit. “said”), Do not shorten the time of “follow‐the‐heart,” Trimming its moment offends the ka. (7,9, translation from Lichtheim 1975).

Egyptologists have puzzled over the meaning of sms‐jb here and elsewhere (Shupak 1993, 303). Some examples of the phrase in Egyptian texts encourage pleasure‐ seeking (cf. a parallel expression in the book of Ecclesiastes: “Follow the inclination of your heart” [11:9]). Yet this seems to be a multivalent expression, and it is unlikely that its usage in Ptahhotep relates to satisfying desire. While some have proposed a pleasure‐seeking reading (Assmann 2005, 275–276), this is more likely a call for proper behavior. In Ptahhotep and many other Egyptian texts, “following” one’s heart means engaging in righteous behavior/Maat and keeping attentive to daily responsibilities (Piankoff 1930, 86). Another difficult heart expression occurs in chapter 2: “If you meet a disputant who is driven of heart (hrp‐jb) and more skillful than you …” (5,10–11, translation mine). Egyptian literature contains other examples of the heart driving a person to appropriate action. Hellmut Brunner (1988, 3–4) has demonstrated the Egyptian belief in the gods communicating through an individual’s heart, so that certain people have direct contact with the divine plan and therefore access to wisdom. In this respect, the heart is “the residence of divine inspiration in man, the organ that transmits God’s will” (Shupak 1993, 208). In Ptahhotep, a faithful person can “hear” the divine plan and attain success. A person who is “driven of heart” must be internally motivated, and the steady pupil reaches old age because of his heart. The following serves as an illustrative example: It is the heart which causes its possessor to be One who hears or who does not hear. The “life, prosperity, and health” of a man are his heart (16,8).

The Goal of Ptahhotep This last citation from Ptahhotep encapsulates the goal of the instruction, which is for a faithful pupil to enjoy “life, prosperity, and health” (a common Egyptian expression) because of adherence to the maxims of Ptahhotep. Much of the senior sage’s

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advice describes how pupils can attain success. If an individual exhibits good ­manners before his master, he will receive sustenance (ch. 27). Social mobility is possible (ch. 10), and a successful person should not be boastful once he has wealth (ch. 30). Like most ancient Near Eastern instructions, Ptahhotep is conservative in  orientation, and the advice typically applies to members of the upper‐classes. The advice on women presumes a patriarchal context, where females are to play a submissive role and be monitored (e.g. 10,9–10,11). The author affirms the status quo, does not challenge existing social structures, and is generally optimistic about an individual’s possibilities for success, especially if a pupil commits to the advice in the maxims and clings to Maat.

Other Instructions Other texts fall under the general category of wisdom literature. Even if some of the content is distinctive from a classic sebayit like Ptahhotep, a number of Middle Kingdom texts have didactic elements, such as praising Maat and extolling the ­benefits of honesty and pragmatism. A brief survey of some of these texts further underscores the importance of sapiential discourse in ancient Egypt.

Merikare This text dates to the early Middle Kingdom (213–52040 BCE, Dynasties 9–11), even if the setting is the First Intermediate Period. The advice comes from a monarch named Cheti to his son and successor Merikare. This didactic work is usually classified as a “royal instruction” or “royal testament,” but it falls into the larger category of wisdom literature. The advice in Merikare describes royal duties and how rulers should conduct their affairs. The king receives warnings about political instability, suggesting an era of uncertainty (the First Intermediate Period). In  such circumstances, it is the job of the pharaoh to observe dynamics in the land,  eliminate any rebellious elements, and tend to the religious needs of the ­community. Above all other responsibilities, the king must “Shepherd the people, the cattle of God, For it is for their sake that He created heaven and earth” (131). The successful ruler accomplishes his shepherding responsibilities by “speaking” and “observing” Maat. Merikare is perhaps most famous for referring to the afterlife as the consequence of righteous conduct during the ruler’s lifetime. Here is the relevant passage: Be not confident in length of years, For they (the gods) regard a lifetime as but an hour. A man will survive after his death,

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His deeds will be set beside him as (his) reward, And existence in the beyond is for eternity. A fool is he who does what offends them; But as for him who reaches them having done no wrong, He will exist there like a god, Walking proudly like the Lords of eternity (54–57).

According to this image, the deeds of the ruler, including his misdeeds, are placed by his side in piles as part of an elaborate judgment scene. This type of judgment recalls Spell 125 of the Book of the Dead and any number of iconographic representations of Osiris, the god of the netherworld, presiding over a trial to determine how closely the deceased has observed Maat. A person’s deeds are weighed to determine whether or not a beatific immortality awaits the individual. According to this ­ethical framework, the gods are aware of everything human beings have done and will judge accordingly. The ruler should not believe that a lengthy reign guarantees eternal existence (“Be not confident in length of years”; 54). On the contrary, what matters is whether the future king reaches the afterlife. With regard to the significance of this promise of eternal life, the question arises as to whether this guarantee extends to other persons beyond the king. The most common perspective during this earlier period in Egyptian history was that the majority of the population did not have the possibility of eternal life, since they could not provide a proper burial for themselves (an essential requirement for the afterlife). In Merikare, the mortality of most persons is clear, regardless of earthly conduct: “The man who walked in accordance with Maat shall depart, Just as he whose life was pleasure filled will die” (42). This is similar to what we find in the book of Ecclesiastes/Qoheleth (2:15). Subsequent readers of Merikare took a more inclusive view and applied this judgment scene to a broader cross‐section of the  population, rather than just the king (Assmann 2005, 74–77, 383–384). In any case, Merikare is somewhat exceptional in the sense that most instructions do not dangle the afterlife as a reward for good behavior, but instead focus on earthly ­conduct and its more immediate rewards.

Amenemhet Another early instruction from this period is Amenemhet, a text that dates from the early portion of the Middle Kingdom (2040–1650 BCE). The instructional document comes from King Amenemhet I to his son and successor Sesostris I. The subject matter is a palace coup that has threatened the stability of the kingdom (Amenemhet may have been assassinated), and the king is apparently speaking from the afterlife in this instruction. The thrust of the advice is that rulers should be on guard at all times and not trust even their closest advisors (Fox 2000, 20).

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Admonitions of an Egyptian Sage This text is also known as the Admonitions of Ipuwer and dates from the late Middle Kingdom. The poor preservation of this instructional document makes it difficult to determine the precise meaning of every section (the beginning and ending of the text are no longer extant), but the overall thrust is clear enough. The author contrasts honesty and order (Maat) from chaos. The scribe addressing the king in this text encourages the ruler to reestablish some sense of unity in the land and to reverse the anarchic mood.

Prophecies of Neferty One of the more famous Egyptian texts, this vivid work describes a world in turmoil, where the normal social order is in complete disarray. The Prophecies of Neferty addresses the political instability of the First Intermediate Period, although the setting is the Old Kingdom court of the ruler Snefru I, where a lector‐priest offers a colorful oration to the ruler. The topsy‐turvy situation is such that “He who was weak of arm is (now) a possessor of might” (54). The speaker foretells the rise of Amenemhet I (see above), who will observe Maat and restore stability to the land. Although not technically an instruction, this text speaks to the desire for order, stability, and honesty, such that social hierarchies can be retained, and Maat can endure. Such a perspective clearly reflects an upper‐class provenance.

The Instruction of Amenemope Moving to later, New Kingdom instructions, one of the more important wisdom texts is Amenemope.5 The language, grammar, and vocabulary are indicative of a New Kingdom setting, most likely the late Ramesside period (Lange 1925). A date during the Twentieth Dynasty (twelfth‐century BCE) seems most likely (Vernus 2001, 300). Not only is this a lengthy sebayit in the tradition of Ptahhotep, but large portions of this text were a key source for the biblical book of Proverbs (see below). Although much later than Ptahhotep and other Middle Kingdom instructions, Amenemope is largely consistent with Egypt’s longstanding wisdom tradition. The maxims emphasize careful speech and honesty. Two major themes illustrate these goals: a vivid exploration of the foolish “hotheaded man” and a polemic against corruption. With regard to the hothead, the compilers of Amenemope warn against profane individuals throughout the instruction (chs. 2, 3, 4, 8, 9, 10, 12, 22). If a person encounters intemperate, loquacious speech, he should avoid the fellow spouting it (5,14–17). According to this logic, the hothead is not merely a talkative person, but a dangerous boor who has lost self‐control. In a famous comparison

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involving two trees, the hothead will dry up and die in the same manner as a lifeless bush (6,3–6). This is in contrast to the one who can control his speech (“the truly temperate man”) and therefore enjoys shade and sweet fruit (6,10–12). The maxims of Amenemope target a more diverse audience than many of the earlier instructions (Vernus 2001, 304), and this is a primary reason why financial corruption is the second major theme. Mundane administrative matters, petty transactions, and graft are all central concerns, and such interests point to a more diverse target audience than a royal testament like Merikare. External documents indicate that grain shortages, corruption, and frequent robberies were widespread during the New Kingdom period (Washington 1994, 52–83). Amenemope rails against greedy impulses and their negative impact on building a culture of trust. The maxims of Amenemope criticize the wretch who would take from a crippled man, strike an elder, or engage in covetous behavior (e.g. 4,4–7). Among the biggest sins in this regard are tampering with boundary markers and seizing arable land: Do not be covetous for a single cubit of land, Nor encroach upon the boundaries of a widow. One who transgresses the furrow shortens a lifetime, One who seizes it for fields And acquires by deceptive attestations, Will be lassoed by the might of the Moon (7,14–19).

The “the might of the Moon” refers to Thoth, the Egyptian scribal god who watches over all measurements and lassoes anyone engaging in deceitful transactions. Along with the warnings against greed, the content of Amenemope seeks special protection for the poor. Chapter 13 encourages lenders to forgive the debts of the needy individual, offering a “path of life” to such a generous individual (16,5–8). The Deity sides with the poor in Amenemope: “God loves him who cares for the poor, More than him who respects the wealthy” (26,13–14; cf. Prov. 22:22–23). Such divine advocacy appears in other texts from the late Ramesside period (Washington 1994, 104–107).

Does Maat Disappear in Amenemope? Many scholars have argued that the chain of act and consequence is broken in Amenemope, representing a shift away from Maat/causality and towards “personal piety” and greater unpredictability (Brunner 163, 103–120). According to the argument, passages such as the following indicate a breakdown of Maat: “Indeed, you cannot know the plans of God; you cannot perceive tomorrow” (22,5–6). It is true that there are more references to prayer, cultic practice, and the power of God in Amenemope, suggesting a heightened emphasis on personal piety. Yet Maat is not replaced in this text by a capricious god. Earlier instructions had also allowed for

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divine freedom, unpredictability, and the possibility of honest persons encountering problems. For example, the Teaching for the Vizier Kagemni (preserved with Ptahhotep) declares that “One does not know what will happen nor what God does when he punishes” (2,2). Perhaps another passage in chapter  20 of Amenemope reflects greater uncertainty about an act–consequence connection, as some have argued. The central verse of the chapter is usually translated as follows: “Maat is a great gift of God, He gives it to whom he wishes.” Many interpreters follow Brunner in claiming that these lines indicate belief in an arbitrary deity and a break from earlier understandings of causality (e.g., Grumach 1975, 137–138). Yet this is not the best translation of the Egyptian phrase, as Goedicke (1995, 102) and others have argued. Simpson (following Goedicke) offers a more reliable translation: “As for the just man who bears the greatness of God, He will render himself as he wishes.” If this reading is correct, the topic is a judicial proceeding and how the righteous man will conduct himself. The assumption of a pioneering theological shift in chapter 20 would then rest on an inaccurate translation. When examining this and other passages, it is clear that Maat does not disappear. Both early and late Egyptian instructions affirm the significance of Maat, the profitability of righteousness, and the possibility of God altering the seemingly logical course of events.

Amenemope and the Biblical Book of Proverbs Amenemope is most famous for being a clear source for the biblical book of Proverbs, specifically Prov. 22:17–24:22 (22:17–23:11 in particular). This link was first noted by Adolf Erman (1924, 89) in a famous article on the connections between the two texts. Specifically, Erman noticed that Prov. 22:20–21 contains the following question: “Have I not written for you thirty sayings of admonition and knowledge, to show you what is right and true?” Similarly, the conclusion to Amenemope declares the following: “Make for yourself thirty chapters, They please, they instruct” (27,9). This can hardly be a coincidence. Another noteworthy parallel concerns treatment of the poor: “Do not rob a lowly man because he is lowly, and do not oppress the poor man at the gate. For the Lord will strive on their behalf, and will steal away the life of those who steal from them.” (Prov. 22:22). The source language in Amenemope takes up an entire maxim (ch. 2) and has very similar content, including parallel uses of “lowly.” A few more examples are in order, since this is one of the clearest examples of direct borrowing by a biblical author of a non‐Israelite source text. The “hothead” appears in this section of Proverbs (e.g. 22:24: “Make no friends with those given to anger, and do not associate with hotheads”), and we have already seen an extended critique of this figure in Amenemope (5,14–17; 6,10–12). Another passage in this section warns against the unbridled pursuit of wealth: “Do not wear yourself out to get rich; be wise enough to desist. When your eyes light upon it, it is gone; for

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s­ uddenly it takes wings to itself, flying like an eagle toward heaven” (Prov. 23:4–5). The language in chapter 7 of Amenemope is difficult, but similar: “Do not set your heart on seeking riches … If riches come to you by thievery … they will make ­themselves wings like geese, and fly up to the sky” (9,10–10,2). When considering the nature of this connection, some interpreters have claimed that Amenemope is actually dependent on Proverbs or a Canaanite source (Oesterly 1927), although this is highly improbable. In her critical edition of Amenemope, Irene Grumach (1972) proposes that both Amenemope and the book of Proverbs rely on a common Egyptian source. Yet it is far more likely that the author/compiler of Prov. 22:17–23:11 had direct knowledge of Amenemope and adapted the maxims to suit his purposes (Römheld 1989; Shupak 2005). Amenemope predates Proverbs by many centuries, and so the influence can only run in one direction, from Egypt to Israel. In certain instances, there is a direct recitation of a particular saying, and in other cases Israelite/Jewish sages seem to have adapted material from Amenemope (and other Egyptian instructions), tailoring the advice to suit a different cultural context (Fox 1980, 126). In assessing exactly how the scribes responsible for Proverbs came to know Amenemope, Fox (2009, 705–733) argues persuasively that a scribal editor translated Amenemope into Aramaic at some point between the eighth century BCE and the Babylonian exile (probably in the seventh century BCE). After the initial translation, another editor(s) drew selectively from this Aramaic translation, creating a short section that incorporates the content of Amenemope into the cultural framework of ancient Israel. The compiler of Prov. 22:17–23:11 made sweeps through the Aramaic translation and engaged in a process of reshaping. According to Fox’s convincing chart (2009, 757–760), this editor made five passes through the Egyptian text. These respective sweeps largely follow the sequential order of Amenemope and each focus on a particular theme: sweep one relates to the overall benefits of heeding this advice; sweep two to oppression of the poor and taming the tongue; sweep three to proper etiquette at a public banquet hall; sweep four to the pitfalls of seeking wealth; and sweep five to moving boundary markers. The editor had a tendency to pick the first lines of new maxims, and of the 487 main lines in Amenemope, 41 have parallels in Proverbs. This example of dependency is critically important for two primary reasons. First, this and other examples demonstrate the far‐reaching, international influence of the wisdom tradition in Egypt. Maxims from Ptahhotep, Amenemope, and other instructions remained famous for centuries and even millennia, and the compilers of Proverbs decided to include some of the more colorful language from Amenemope, especially the advice that pertains to financial matters. Second, this dependence shows that the authors/editors of the Hebrew Bible did not compose their works in a vacuum. They shared a dynamic and fluid context with neighboring cultures and were willing to borrow from foreign sources when it suited their purposes. They did not completely replicate what they found in Amenemope (e.g. there is no explication of the Maat concept), but the compilers of Proverbs did make

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use of this earlier instruction as an essential resource. This connection has significant implications for those who would seek to draw impermeable boundaries between the biblical writers and the cultures that influenced them, including the wisdom tradition in Egypt. The sharing of materials was far more fluid and open than many biblical interpreters allow.

Demotic Instructions Finally, a set of instructional texts from the Late Period of Egyptian history (c. 664– 332 BCE) demonstrates the persistence of the wisdom tradition, even as external cultural forces, such as Greek ideas, began to influence Egypt. These later texts are preserved in Demotic, which is an offshoot of the Middle Egyptian hieroglyphs and hieratic/cursive script. These Demotic instructions generally come in monostich form, meaning a series of single‐line sayings. For example, Papyrus Insinger is a text  that contains hundreds of single‐line maxims and prohibitions, broken into 25 chapters. Each chapter contains the sebayit heading, reflecting continuity with earlier instructional literature (another Demotic instruction, Anksheshonqy, does not have the same formal organization). The date for these instructions is uncertain, but based on the manuscript evidence a setting at some point prior to the first century BCE seems likely (Lichtheim 1983). The advice in these Demotic texts is in many respects a continuation of the wisdom tradition: one should be honest, not fall prey to the enticements of a temptress, refrain from financial corruption, and seek to be industrious. A contrast between the “wise” or “pious man” and the fool recurs throughout P. Insinger. Moreover, there is a sense of resignation and divine determinism in these instructions that is reminiscent of Amenemope. A refrain in P. Insinger reflects a certain fatalism: “The fate and the fortune that come, it is God who sends them” (note the same impersonal reference to God or “the god” that we saw in earlier instructions). Here and elsewhere, Demotic texts like P. Insinger have probably been influenced by Hellenistic conceptions of fate and some of the particularities of Greek philosophy (Lichtheim 1983, 151–52).

Ben Sira and Demotic Instructions One open question is whether the Jewish figure Ben Sira (late‐third–early‐second century BCE) was directly acquainted with these Demotic instructions and incorporated them into his maxims. This would be another example of direct borrowing from an Egyptian text by a Jewish sage. Some interpreters have claimed direct dependence in this regard (Sanders 1983). In support of this, the similar use of proverbs about the busy little bee (Sir. 11:3; P. Insing. 25,3) might demonstrates Ben Sira’s acquaintance with sayings from non‐Israelite collections. There are also

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remarkably similar passages on how a master should treat slaves (Sir. 33:24–28; cf. P. Insing. 14,4–11). Whether these passages point to direct dependence is an open question. Some of the examples cited by Sanders are found in other Israelite/Jewish instructions, including Proverbs (e.g. the treatment of corporal punishment in Sir. 30:1–3; cf. Prov. 13:24; 19:18; 23:13–14; 29:15; Ahiq. 79–83). Even if Ben Sira knew some of the content of these Demotic texts, perhaps through the oral sharing of sayings, neither Ankhsheshonqy nor P. Insinger provided Ben Sira with a base model for his work (Goff 2005). What is more striking about Ben Sira and the Demotic instructions are the similar theological assumptions, particularly with regard to the act–consequence relationship and death. For example, Ben Sira states that “A stubborn mind will fare badly in the end, and the one who loves what is good will be driven along by it” (Sir. 3:26, MS A, translation mine). Monostich sayings in Ankhsheshonqy reflect the same mentality: “He who is patient (lit. ‘wide of heart’) in a bad situation will not be harmed by it” (14,6).6 In drawing any conclusions about such parallels, the most likely explanation is that the sharing of maxims and theological ideas occurred both directly and indirectly during the Hellenistic period in Judea, and a prominent Jewish sage (Ben Sira) came to know some of the proverbs from Demotic instructions. This is yet another indicator of the international reach of Egyptian wisdom.

Conclusion Our discussion has demonstrated a wisdom tradition in ancient Egypt that had remarkable continuity. Scribes regularly taught and spread maxims about how to lead a righteous life, maintain an honest disposition, and rise to a position of social prominence. The overarching Maat principle provided a template in this regard. The widespread appeal of these instructions is apparent in the borrowing of maxims by those responsible for the book of Proverbs. The sharing and dissemination of sayings occurred throughout the ancient Near East and into the Hellenistic period, and no cultural context witnessed such a sustained and lively exchange of pithy observations about how to conduct oneself as that of ancient Egypt. Notes 1 Some of the discussion in this chapter is adapted from Adams 2008, 15–52. 2 Unless otherwise noted, translations of the Egyptian instructions come from Simpson 2003. 3 Other texts do not include the introductory conditional clause, demonstrating that the Egyptian scribes did not slavishly follow one structural model. 4 For more of my discussion on Maat, see Adams 2008, 19–26. 5 Some of the discussion on Amenemope is loosely adapted from Adams 2008, 39–49. 6 Translations of the Demotic texts are from Lichtheim 1980.

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References Adams, Samuel L. 2008. Wisdom in Transition: Act and Consequence in Second Temple Instructions. Leiden: Brill. Assmann, Jan. 1989. State and religion in the New Kingdom. In: Religion and Philosophy in Ancient Egypt (ed. William K. Simpson), 55–88. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Assmann, Jan. 1990. Ma‘at: Gerechtigkeit und Unsterblichkeit im alten Ägypten. Munich: Beck. Assmann, Jan. 2005. Death and Salvation in Ancient Egypt (trans. David Lorton). Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Brunner, Hellmut. 1963. Der freie Wille Gottes in der ägyptischen Weisheit. In: Les Sagesses du Proche‐Orient Ancien, Colloque de Strasbourg, 17–19 mai 1962, 103–120. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Brunner, Hellmut. 1988. Das hörende Herz: kleine Schriften zur Religions‐ und Geistesgeschichte Ägyptens. Fribourg/ Göttingen: Universitätsverlag/ Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Eichler, Eckhard. 2001. Zur Datierung und Interpretation der Lehre des Ptahhotep. Zeitschrift für ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde 128: 97–107. Erman, Adolph. 1924. Eine ägyptische Quelle der “Sprüche Salomos.” Sitzungsberichte der preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften 15: 86–93. Fox, Michael V. 1980. Two decades of research in Egyptian wisdom literature. Zeitschrift für ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde 107: 120–135. Fox, Michael V. 1995. World order and Ma’at: A crooked parallel. Journal of Near Eastern Studies 23: 37–48. Fox, Michael V. 2000. Proverbs 1–9. New York: Doubleday.

Fox, Michael V. 2009. Proverbs 10–31. New York: Doubleday. Frankfort, Henri. 1948. Ancient Egyptian Religion. New York: Columbia University Press. Goedicke, Hans. 1995. The teaching of Amenemope, Chapter XX. (Amenemope 20, 20–21,20). Revue d’Égyptologie 46: 99–106. Goff, Matthew J. 2005. Hellenistic instruction in Palestine and Egypt: Ben Sira and Papyrus Insinger. Journal of Jewish Studies 36: 147–172. Grumach, Irene. 1972. Untersuchungen zur Lebenslehre des Amenope. Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag. Kitchen, Kenneth A. 1979. The basic literary forms and formulations of ancient instructional writings in Egypt and Western Asia. In: Studien zu altägyptischen Lebenslehren (ed. Erik Hornung and Othmar Keel), 235–282. Fribourg/Göttingen: Universitätsverlag/ Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Lange, Hans O. 1925. Das Weisheitsbuch des Amenemope aus dem Papyrus 10,474 des British Museum herausgegeben und erklärt. Copenhagen: Andr. Fred Høst. Lichtheim, Miriam. 1975. Ancient Egyptian Literature: Volume II, The New Kingdom. Berkeley: University of California Press. Lichtheim, Miriam. 1980. Ancient Egyptian Literature, Volume III: The Late Period. Berkeley: University of California Press. Lichtheim, Miriam. 1983. Late Egyptian Literature in the International Context: A Study of Demotic Instructions. Fribourg/ Göttingen: Universitätsverlag/ Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Lichtheim, Miriam. 1992. Maat in Egyptian Autobiographies and Related Studies.

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Fribourg/Göttingen: Universitätsverlag/ Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Lichtheim, Miriam. 1996. Didactic Literature. In: Ancient Egyptian Literature: History and Forms (ed. Antonio Loprieno), 243–263. Leiden: Brill. McKane, William. 1970. Proverbs. Philadelphia, PA: Westminster Press. Morenz, Siegfried. 1973. Egyptian Religion (trans. A.E. Keep). London: Methuen and Co. Oesterly, W.O.E. 1927. The teaching of Amen‐em‐ope and the Old Testament. Zeitschrift for die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 45: 9–24. Piankoff, Alexandre. 1930. Le « cœur » dans les Textes égyptiens depuis l’Ancien jusqu’à la Fin du Nouvel Empire. Paris: Libraire orientaliste Paul Geuthner. Römheld, Diethard. 1989. Wege der Weisheit: die Lehren Amenemopes und Proverbien 22,17–24,22. Berlin: de Gruyter. Sanders, Jack. 1983. Ben Sira and Demotic Wisdom. Chico, CA.: Scholars Press. Shupak, Nili. 1993. Where Can Wisdom Be Found? The Sage’s Language in the Bible

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and in Ancient Egyptian Literature. Fribourg/Göttingen: Universitätsverlag/ Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Shupak, Nili. 2005. The instruction of Amenemope and Proverbs 22:17–24:22 from the perspective of contemporary research. In: Seeking Out the Wisdom of the Ancients: Essays Offered to Honor Michael V. Fox on the Occasion of His Sixty‐Fifth Birthday (ed. Ronald L. Troxel, Kelvin G. Friebel, and Dennis Robert Magary), 203–220. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Simpson, William K. 2003. The Literature of Ancient Egypt. 3rd ed. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Vernus, Pascal. 2001. Sagesses de l’Égypte pharaonique/ présentation, traduction et notes. Paris: Imprimerie nationale. Washington, Harold. 1994. Wealth and Poverty in the Instruction of Amenemope and the Hebrew Proverbs. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Williams, Ronald J. 1981. The sages of ancient Egypt in the light of recent scholarship. Journal of the American Oriental Society 101: 1–13.

Further Reading Shaw, Ian. (ed.) 2000. The Oxford History of Ancient Egypt. Oxford: Oxford University Press. A useful collection of essays on ancient Egyptian history and culture. Shupak, Nili. 1993. Where Can Wisdom Be Found? The Sage’s Language in the Bible and in Ancient Egyptian Literature. Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis 130. Fribourg/ Göttingen: Universitätsverlag/ Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. A lively and

incisive exploration of the terms used in Egyptian and Israelite instructions, the influence of Egyptian ideas on Israelite/ Jewish conceptions of wisdom, and the theological assumptions in the sapiential texts. van de Mieroop, Marc. 2011. A History of Ancient Egypt. West Sussex: Blackwell. A lucid, accessible, and thorough overview of all periods of Egyptian history.

CHAPTER 18

Mesopotamian Wisdom Nili Samet

Introduction The definition and identification of wisdom literature in ancient Mesopotamia is a complicated issue. Scholars have described wisdom as philosophical (Lambert 1960) or existential (Alster 2005) literature, but these definitions do not encompass all the different texts grouped under this label. In his magnum opus on Mesopotamian wisdom, Lambert (1960, 1) made it clear that wisdom is “a misnomer applied to Babylonian literature,” that is, the ancient Mesopotamians did not recognize wisdom as a separate literary category. In the absence of a native basis for the identification of wisdom, Lambert and some of his successors borrowed biblical criteria to define this corpus. Thus compositions which seem to parallel, in one way or another, the biblical books of Proverbs, Job, and Ecclesiastes were considered wisdom. Acknowledging the arbitrary nature of this dependence on a foreign criterion and the extremely heterogeneous character of the texts involved, later scholars doubted the usefulness of the label “wisdom” for understanding Mesopotamian literature (Buccellati 1981; Vanstiphout 1999; Roest and Vanstiphout 1999; ­ Veldhuis 2003; George 2007). A contrary trend was presented in a recent study by Yoram Cohen (2013, 3–77), who attempted to reclaim the legitimacy of Mesopotamian wisdom as a genre. Among other arguments, Cohen pointed to the scribal habit of assembling different wisdom texts on the same compilation tablet or in the same section of a literary catalogue. One catalogue even refers to different The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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wisdom compositions as an organic literary series, reportedly created by an esteemed sage named Sidu. The evidence gathered by Cohen shows that Mesopotamian scribes intuitively detected some kind of connection between several wisdom texts, but it is still far from supplying a well‐established framework for defining wisdom as a native genre, that is, a genre recognized by the ancients themselves. The current review takes wisdom to be a critical genre, created by modern scholarship for the sake of convenience.1 In an attempt to give the reader the broadest possible picture of what is referred to as Mesopotamian wisdom, this review adopts an inclusive approach: the large majority of texts classified as wisdom at some point are p ­ resented here.2 The issue of the justification of grouping these texts together remains open. Wisdom was composed and transmitted continuously during Mesopotamian history. However, two historical periods stand out as the most fertile sources of wisdom compositions: the Old Babylonian period, from the twentieth to the ­ ­seventeenth century BCE, with its rich yield of Sumerian wisdom; and the Kassite period, from the sixteenth to the twelfth century BCE, which provides us with many important Akkadian wisdom texts.

Proverbs, Instructions, and Admonitions Also known as practical wisdom, this type is considered the most basic and “pure” form of wisdom literature in the ancient Near East in general, and Mesopotamia in particular. It consists of sayings of different types, which are focused on everyday life of ancient Mesopotamia and show little interest in historical and political events, cult, or theology.3 Practical wisdom includes two main sub‐types: proverbs and instructions.

Proverb Collections Known already from the third millennium BCE, proverb collections were a central feature of the Sumerian scribal tradition. More than 30 different proverb collections are known to us (Alster 1997, 2005, 393–403; 2007), mostly in copies from the Old Babylonian period (2000–1600 BCE). These collections may be considered “canonical” in that they played a key role in the school curriculum, each following a more or less fixed order of sayings. In addition, numerous small tablets inscribed with a single proverb or a few proverbs are known to us. These were used in the initial stages of scribal training, serving as material for beginners’ exercises (Alster 2007, 2–3; Veldhuis 2000a, 2000b). Proverb collections, like other Sumerian belles‐lettres flourished during the first half of the second millennium (Alster 1997, 2007). Scribes of later generations

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who wrote in Akkadian seem not to have shared the Sumerian enthusiasm for this genre: the large majority of proverb collections were lost with the demise of the Sumerian literary tradition. However, several bilingual Sumerian‐Akkadian collections (Lambert 1960, 222–275; Alster 2007 29–30 et passim; Frahm 2010), as well as a few fragments of unilingual Akkadian collections (Lambert 1960, 213–278; George and Al‐Rawi 1998, 203–206),4 demonstrate that the genre was not entirely forgotten until late in the first millennium BCE (Frahm 2010). Proverb collections have a mixed content. Aside from proverbial sayings per se, which form the bulk of the collections, they also include other wisdom materials such as instructions, fables, parables, riddles, jokes, among other types of writing. In addition, the collections contain short quotes of different literary genres, such as laments and hymns, and even technical expressions and formulas relating to specific professional fields (Lambert 1960, 222; Alster 1997 xvi; 2005, 391–392; Taylor 2005; Alster and Oshima 2006; Gabbay 2011). The latter may reflect the function of proverb collections in scribal education (Veldhuis 2000b; Taylor 2005).5 The main focus of the proverbs is the everyday life of urban Sumer. Often ­characterized by humor and wit, they give us a glimpse into the lives of farmers, craftsmen, scribes, priests, slaves, and other typical figures of Sumerian society. The social worldview of the proverbs is often described by scholars as conservative and bourgeois (Alster 1997, xxiv–xxvii). In essence however, this characterization is better applicable to didactic instructions (see below). Unlike instructions, proverbs are often subversive in their tone and message, representing a popular, humoristic, and sometimes even disrespectful viewpoint on social norms and institutions. Quoted proverbs. Popular proverbs sometimes found their way into literary and non‐literary sources (Lambert 1960, 280–282; Marzal 1976; Hallo 1990). Of special interest are those that are cited in letters (Albright 1943; Moran 1992, 144: 6; Cohen 2013, 213–231), because they are likely to reflect living popular maxims. The identification of the relevant materials as proverbial may be based on style and context or parallels occurring in wisdom collections. In several cases we are lucky enough to find an explicit statement regarding the proverbial nature of the relevant verse – as in the following quote from a letter found in Ugarit: “A proverb of the men of Hatti says: ‘A certain man was held in prison for five years, and when they said “In the morning they will release you,” then he choked (himself)’” (Hallo 1990, 209; compare 1 Sam. 24:14).6

Instruction Collections Whereas proverbs tend to speak of their protagonists in the third person, instructions address their young recipient in the second person. Characterized by a moral tone and conservative message, the instructions typically teach wise, decent

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behavior and good manners. They promote personal qualities such as cautious and thoughtful behavior, self‐restraint, diligence, and modesty, and praise values such as matrimonial and social peace. As for the religious aspect, some instruction ­collections pay great attention to religious and cultic duties (see the Instructions of Ur‐Ninurta and Akkadian Counsels of Wisdom below). Others more closely resemble proverb collections in their relative lack of interest in religious issues. In some cases, the religious focus has been shown to result from a secondary addition to the text (Samet, forthcoming). Mesopotamian instruction collections are normally framed as the teaching of a father to his son, a pattern that dominates wisdom collections throughout the Fertile Crescent. Interestingly, this framing is absent from proverb collections, ­perhaps due to their diverse messages, which are much less didactically oriented. The following Mesopotamian instruction collections are known to us: Instructions of Shuruppak: Documented already in the twenty‐fifth century BCE, this is probably the oldest piece of wisdom known in world literature.7 It contains didactic advice and proverbs presented as the teachings of a “man of Shuruppak” to his son (Alster 2005, 31–220; Samet, forthcoming). In most versions, this man of Shuruppak is presented as the father of the famous ­ Mesopotamian flood survivor, Ziusudra (= Ut‐napishti). This setting lends the Instructions the prestige of an antediluvian legacy and the authority of a royal command to a (crown) prince. Shuruppak’s instructions were popular among Mesopotamian scribes. Three different versions have been preserved: a Sumerian archaic version from the mid‐third millennium BCE; a Sumerian classic version from the beginning of the second ­millennium BCE; and an Akkadian translation currently known from the end of the second millennium BCE, which in turn gave rise to a Hurrian translation. The content of the Instructions of Shuruppak is typical of instruction collections: they include didactic advice regarding proper social behavior and business management, admonitions against criminal activity, popular proverbs, and literary clichés from various Sumerian genres. The Instructions of Ur‐Ninurta: A mixed-genre Sumerian piece8 that combines a royal hymn dedicated to King Ur‐Ninurta of Isin (1859–1832 BCE) with wisdom instructions (Alster 2005, 221–240). The text begins with a hymnic prologue that elaborates on the election of the king by the gods in primeval times, followed by two wisdom sections. The first is labeled as “the instructions of the god” and the second “the instructions of the farmer.”9 The “instructions of the god” (ll. 19–37) recommend proper religious and moral behavior by contrasting the reward of the god‐ fearing with the punishment of the disobedient. The “instructions of the farmer” include agricultural advice.10 It seems to be implied that these instructions are given by the king to his subjects, although the connection is somewhat vague. The instructions conclude with a section advising the king’s subjects as to how to treat him respectfully.

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Following its composition by Ur‐Ninurta’s courtiers, the text seems to have failed to gain scribal popularity. Its few surviving duplicates show formal and thematic peculiarities that indicate their limited distribution in standard Sumerian schools (Alster 2005, 224). Ur‐Ninurta’s instructions are one of several wisdom texts traditionally inscribed on compilation tablets next to other wisdom materials.11 Farmer’s Instructions: A Sumerian set of agronomic instructions presented as an old farmer’s teaching to his son. The father describes the annual agricultural cycle, from preparing the irrigation system to harvesting and processing the grain (Civil 1994). The subscript ascribes the text to the farmer‐god Ninurta. Judging by its content and style, the text could have been classified as a technical manual for professional purposes. However, there are signs that it was authored during the Old Babylonian period (Civil 1994, 4), when Sumerian was no longer used as a spoken language. In this context, a Sumerian‐written manual would not have been useful for real farmers. It may therefore be understood as a pedagogic text designed, at least secondarily, for the instruction of Sumerian in Old Babylonian schools.12 This setting, taken together with the father‐to‐son frame, the didactic tone and sporadic inclusion of moralistic concerns, make this text related to wisdom. Sumerian Counsels of Wisdom: A fragmentary Sumerian text whose scope, integrity, and content are only partially discernible. In its current state of preservation, it begins with a description of a king who builds a palace, followed after a gap by a series of religious and moral instructions. It is unclear whether the text was part of the Instructions of Ur‐Ninurta or an independent piece. Nor is it clear whether in its current state it should be read as a single composition. It may constitute two ­unrelated texts (Alster 2005, 228–264). Akkadian Counsels of Wisdom: A collection of wisdom instructions partially reconstructed on the basis of seven manuscripts from the first millennium BCE (Lambert 1960, 96–107; von Soden and Römer 1990, 163–68). The text may have been composed prior to the date of the currently known copies, but in the absence of solid data the time of composition remains a matter of scholarly conjecture.13 Rather than the traditional short, single‐versed instructions, this text consists of lengthier passages, referring to their addressee in the second person and including proverbial epigrams that stress their message. Each passage is dedicated to a different typical wisdom concern: avoidance of bad companions; proper speech (focused on in two different passages); avoidance of involving oneself in quarrels; avoidance of intercourse with bad women (slave girls and prostitutes); an admonition for a vizier against acting disloyally toward his master; fulfilling religious duties such as daily prayers and sacrifice; and loyalty in friendship. We are ignorant as to the original content of the currently broken opening lines of the Counsels. Judging from the appeal “my son” preserved at the beginning of line 81, the lost prologue might have contained a typical father‐to‐son formula.14

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Advice to a Prince: An enigmatic Akkadian piece currently known in two copies (Lambert 1960, 110–111).15 The text consists of a series of conditional clauses referring to the king’s proper treatment of his subjects. Each clause presents a desirable or an undesirable deed alongside its consequence. For instance: “He does not listen to his counselors: his land will rebel against him”; “he takes the silver of the people of Babylon, adding it to his own property … Marduk, the lord of heaven and earth, will set his enemies upon him.” While the moral content and didactic tone accord with other instruction collections, the casuistic formulation  –  reminiscent of omen literature  –  distinguishes this text from the wisdom tradition. Similarly uncharacteristic of wisdom is the text’s apparent particularistic agenda: many of the admonitions, which are formulated as conditional statements, warn the king against violating the rights of three specific sacred cities in Babylonia: Nippur, Sippar, and Babylon. The problems of genre, contextualization, and interpretation are still debated; scholars suggested mantic or prophetic literature as a possible context. Hurowitz (1998) has drawn attention to the fact that the text consists of 60 lines, the symbolic number of the god of wisdom, Ea. He thus posits that the text was considered Ea’s divine message to the king.

Vanity Literature Next to traditional, “positive” wisdom, Mesopotamian sapiential literature also attests a critical, “negative” wisdom (Cohen 2013, 14–15). The latter type is referred to here as “vanity literature”. Vanity texts focus, in one way or another, on the futility of life. They typically argue, not unlike Ecclesiastes, that life is fleeting, human deeds and achievements are worthless, and that the only valuable activity is enjoying life to the full as long as possible. In some cases, this attitude also involves a direct negation of traditional values and institutions.16 Aside from sharing the vanity theme, the texts below differ from one another in origin, content, and tone.17 Yet they sometimes share common phraseology (Samet 2010) and some appear within or next to various wisdom pieces (Samet 2015).18 Nothing is of Value (nigˆ2‐nam nu‐kal): A short Sumerian essay on the futility of life that opens with the incipit line nigˆ 2‐nam‐nu‐kal, literally: “Everything is worthless.” The text elaborates on the uselessness of property, wisdom, and life in general, and recommends enjoying the good life of the moment. Nothing is of Value is currently known in 11 manuscripts dated to the Old Babylonian period. These represent different versions of the text (Alster 2005, 266–287). Interestingly, two of these versions deviate from the original vanity message, suggesting religious devotion instead of carpe diem as a solution for the problem of life’s futility. This variation should be understood as a secondary scribal attempt to soften the original message and accommodate it to conservative values (Samet 2015).

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The Ballade of Early Rulers: This poem enumerates the glorious dead rulers of the past whose grandeur is now forgotten, arguing that humankind’s days are numbered and transient. Even renowned heroes of the past were not granted eternal life, despite their glorious deeds. Human focus should thus lie on enjoying the present and rejecting sorrow while it is still possible (Dietrich 1992; Klein 1999; Alster 2005, 288−320; Cohen 2013, 129–150). The Ballade was originally composed in Sumerian during the Old Babylonian period and then translated into Akkadian and transmitted in various scribal centers on the periphery of Mesopotamian culture. The latest known copy comes from the seventh century library of King Ashurbanipal. The reference to the beer goddess Sirash at the conclusion of the text has led to the suggestion that the poem was a drinking song (Wilcke 1988). Instructions of Shupe‐Ameli (“Hear the Advice”): This Akkadian text forms an interesting variation on the traditional father–son instruction pattern. The composition begins with an appeal to a son to listen to the divinely inspired advice of a father named Shupe‐Ameli. Next come the father’s instructions, which reflect a traditional view on everyday concerns such as business, marriage, and agriculture.19 Following these conformist instructions, however, comes the son’s response, which is far from conservative. The son rejects his father’s advice, suggesting instead his own view of life: life being short and death eternal, there is no benefit in hard work or accumulating property. Both are worthless in the face of death. The piece concludes with the subscription “This dispute the father (and) his son disputed together” (Cohen 2013, 81–128). The text thus seems to combine three wisdom types: instruction collections, dispute poems, and vanity literature. The message that results from this generic mixture is probably critical of traditional wisdom, although the extent and nature of this criticism is disputed among scholars (Seminara 2000; Hurowitz 2007; Sallaberger 2010; Cohen 2013, 122). Shupe‐Ameli’s instructions are also exceptional in regard to their distribution patterns. Although the text was composed in Mesopotamia, probably during the Old Babylonian period,20 it is presently unknown in any copy found in Mesopotamia itself. The extant copies originate from western scribal centers outside Mesopotamia, where Akkadian was taught as a lingua franca, including the cities of Ugarit, Emar, and Hattusha. The latter supplies us with a bilingual Akkadian‐Hittite version. Enlil and Namzitarra: A wisdom tale about a meeting between Enlil, the Sumerian chief god, and Namzitarra, a priest of his temple. The tale is known to us in two principal versions: a Sumerian version from the Old Babylonian period (Civil 1974; Alster 2005, 327–335), and a later, reworked version in Akkadian, which reached us from the periphery of Mesopotamian culture (Alster 2005, 336–38; Cohen 2013, 151–163). It is only in this later version that Enlil and Namzitarra can really be classified as vanity literature. The original Sumerian version tells how going home after finishing his shift at Enlil’s temple, Namzitarra suddenly meets Enlil himself along the way. Enlil decides not to reveal his real identity, however, but to appear as a raven. The disguise is probably designed to test the priest’s wisdom and

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sophistication, as well as the degree of his intimate knowledge of his patron Enlil. Namzitarra passes the test, immediately recognizing the disguised Enlil. Pleased Enlil then offers Namzitarra a reward: silver, precious stones, cattle, and sheep. Namzitarra rejects Enlil’s generous suggestion, claiming that life is short and property is therefore useless. In response, Enlil promises him a reward of eternal value: everlasting priesthood in his temple for his offspring. The focus of this original ­version seems to be on explaining or protecting the birthright of the Namzitarra family to a prebend (a hereditary position) in Enlil’s temple (Civil 1974). The later Akkadian version, however, focuses on Namzitarra’s rejection of Enlil’s gifts, ­putting a passionate speech into his mouth relating to the transiency of life and worthlessness of material goods.21 In this version, after elaborating on the uselessness of property in the face of death, Namzitarra ends the dialogue and goes home,22 without being offered any alternative benefit. The author(s) of the late ­version thus altered its main message and recreated it in the form of a sapiential vanity piece (Cohen 2013, 151–163). Counsels of a Pessimist: Only an excerpt of this curious Akkadian text has reached us, in the form of a fragmentary tablet from the library of the seventh century BCE King Ashurbanipal (Lambert 1960, 107–109).23 The preserved lines begin with a (currently fragmentary) declaration regarding to life’s vanity: “… is dust … is finished … turns to clay … fire burns it … [does not] continue for eternity. Humankind and its achievements alike come to an end” (Lambert 1960, 109). This vanity statement is then followed by traditional advice recommending piety, diligence, and taking care of one’s livestock and family.24 The final preserved lines advise the reader on how to avoid the anxiety caused by bad dreams. If there is an organizing principle behind these different issues, it might lie in the concern of overcoming the depression triggered by unpleasant thoughts. In the case of thoughts on life’s vanity, one is encouraged to stick to soothing and confidence‐inspiring traditional practices. In the case of bad dreams, practices of cheering up are recommended (Hurowitz 2012, 60). However, this interpretation is uncertain due to the text’s partial preservation. Dialogue of Pessimism: A dialogue on the meaninglessness of life (Lambert 1960, 139–149), probably composed in the eighth or seventh century BCE (von Soden and Römer 1990, 158–163). The text elaborates on the theme of vanity via a subtle dialogue between a master and his slave that falls into 10 short stanzas. In each stanza, the master suggests pursuing a certain course of action – dining, falling in love, sacrificing to the gods, etc. – for which the slave provides good reasons. The master then abruptly changes his mind, proclaiming that he will not take the action under consideration. The slave immediately provides equally good reasons for the new decision. The last stanza concludes that the only valuable action is committing suicide, but the master and slave cannot agree which of the two should take this action first. The general tone of the dialogue is humoristic (Speiser 1954; Samet 2008), and its main message is that all is vanity, including common values and

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traditional social institutions. The dialogue has reached us in two versions, one from seventh century Assur and one represented by a tablet from Seleucid period Mesopotamia (312–63 BCE; Samet 2010, 11 n. 33).

Pious Sufferer Compositions The texts classified under this label typically describe a sufferer who attempts to find a theological reason for his affliction (Sitzler 1995). Most of these compositions clearly belong to a specific literary tradition, as they closely resemble one another thematically and structurally (Klein 2006; Oshima 2014, 19–24). Pious sufferer compositions have often been characterized by scholars as theodicies and compared to the biblical book of Job. However, some scholars have noticed that many of them do not deny the sufferer’s sins or question divine justice. In this respect, they are more similar to biblical psalms of complaint or even thanksgiving (von Soden 1965; Lambert 1987; Weinfeld 1988; Bricker 2000; Foster 2005, 394).25 Several pious sufferer compositions nonetheless bear features of wisdom literature: some tend to exhibit a didactic tone (Klein 2006) and other sapiential traits, such as a dialogical form and proverbial language. Sumerian Man and His God: Probably composed in the late third millennium BCE (Klein 2006), this is the earliest Mesopotamian exemplar of pious sufferer compositions known to us. The work begins with a didactic counsel expressing the piece’s overall moral: a man should always glorify his personal god, that is, even in cases of divine neglect, the believer must keep praising his god until his supplication is accepted. This general lesson is followed by a story exemplifying it, which is about a young man with social and physical afflictions. The sufferer prays and laments before his god, pleading for mercy. His prayer includes confession of sins, both ­witting and unwitting. Finally, the god accepts the sufferer’s prayer and delivers him. In response, the young man utters a thanksgiving psalm. The text combines different genres: while the didactic framework is sapiential in nature, the sufferer’s prayer, which occupies the bulk of the text, is an individual lament psalm, and his final appeal to the god should be classified as a thanksgiving psalm (Lambert 1987; Klein 2006).26 Babylonian Man and His God: An Akkadian text from the Old Babylonian period, currently known in a single broken manuscript (Lambert 1987). Similar in tone and content to Sumerian Man and His God, the text tells of a sufferer who continuously laments and prays before his god over his afflictions. As in the Sumerian counterpart, here the prayer itself occupies the lion’s share of the piece, but its content is only partially comprehensible due to the tablet’s poor state of preservation. The prayer’s better preserved parts refer, inter alia, to unwitting sins that might have caused the suffering. The sufferer is eventually delivered by his god, at which point the text introduces a slight innovation: unlike its Sumerian predecessor, here

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the god speaks to his devotee in the first person. His reassuring message includes a promise of long and healthy life and instructions for living life happily and justly.27 Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi: An Akkadian pious sufferer composition named after its incipit (in Akkadian, “Let me praise the lord of wisdom”). The sufferer, identified by the name Šubši‐mešrê‐Šakkan, describes his suffering and salvation by the god Marduk in the first person (Lambert 1960, 212–262; Annus and Lenzi 2010; Oshima 2014). The lengthy monologue begins with a praise to Marduk, the source of good and bad alike. Then comes a vivid depiction of the protagonist’s sudden misfortunes: Marduk decides to punish him and his fortunes change. In the social realm, he loses his position in the royal court and his friends and family turn against him. In the physical realm, he becomes ill with various sicknesses, which gradually grow stronger until he lies on his deathbed. These afflictions, the sufferer claims, have befallen him despite his strict piety and devotion to the gods. The tone of the latter arguments seems to be more of wonderment than rebellion (Oshima 2014, 56–70).28 A turning point arrives when the almost‐dead sufferer sees a series of dreams announcing his deliverance. Marduk then takes away all his sicknesses, makes him go through a cleansing ritual, and probably also restores him to his former high social status (this section is broken: see Oshima 2014, 12). As part of the process of redemption, the sufferer seems to acknowledge that his suffering originated from his cultic negligence toward Marduk’s temple, Esagil, which he subsequently visits on pilgrimage. As he goes through each of the gates of Esagil he regains his lost blessings one by one, until his restoration is finally complete. He then expresses his gratitude to Marduk by prayer, sacrifice, and public praise. Here the monologue ends and several lines speak of Šubši‐mešrê‐Šakkan in the third person, blessing him and pleading for his well‐being. Ludlul is basically a thanksgiving psalm, probably authored around 1300 BCE for a historical figure named Šubši‐mešrê‐Šakkan. The latter may have proclaimed it before Marduk after recovering from a major misfortune. Later on, Ludlul became popular in scribal circles, being copied in dozens of manuscripts during the first millennium BCE (Lambert 1960, 21–22; Oshima 2014, 14–34). Ancient scribes even composed a commentary for the piece (Oshima 2014, 5–9). The Babylonian Theodicy: An Akkadian dialogue between a sufferer and his friend about divine righteousness. The sufferer argues against the concept of divine justice, while his friend defends it (Lambert 1960, 1995; Oshima 2014). The sufferer’s principal complaints relate to social afflictions: he is an orphan with no one to protect him and is poor despite his piety. Beyond his personal misfortune, the sufferer also protests against general social injustice, pointing out that the righteous are poor and mistreated by rich evildoers. He therefore concludes that there is no point in worshipping or honoring the gods.29 In his responses, the friend seeks to comfort the sufferer while insisting that piety brings wealth. The evildoers’ prosperity, he claims, is temporary, whereas divine favor for those patient enough to maintain the rituals is eternal. He also appeals to the traditional claim that human

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beings cannot understand the gods. Towards the end of the dialogue, the friend partially recognizes the sufferer’s assertions and agrees that there is a certain injustice in reality because the gods have created humans as prone to injustice. The ­sufferer, in response, presents his final speech, in which he abandons his harsh accusations toward the gods and pleads for the friend’s mercy and the gods’ deliverance. Hereby he seems to finally accept the friend’s position (Denning‐Bolle 1992, 150). The text concludes with a short appeal to the king for the establishment of faith and piety (Oshima 2014, 142). The Theodicy is probably the only known pious sufferer composition that fully deserves to be classified as a wisdom text. Its dialogical form, contemplative tone, and use of the individual story to represent a universal issue are all trademarks of Mesopotamia wisdom. It is thus also the only Mesopotamian piece truly reminiscent of the book of Job. The Theodicy’s sufferer is also the most rebellious of all the Mesopotamian pious sufferers: he speaks of the gods in a blasphemous tone and occasionally suggests that he should become a criminal and abandon social and religious norms, as the impious are rich and healthy. The dialogue consists of 27 stanzas of 11 lines each. All the lines in each stanza begin with the same sign, creating a 27‐sign acrostic. The acrostic presents the text’s author in the following Akkadian sentence: “I am Saggil‐kı̄nam‐ubbib, an incantation‐priest, the one who worships the gods and the king.” Saggil‐kı̄nam‐ ubbib probably lived and composed the Theodicy in the eleventh century BCE (Oshima 2014, 121–125). However, the nine extant manuscripts of the text all originate from first millennium BCE. The same is true of the text’s ancient commentary.

Perceptive Hymns Coined by Lambert, this term refers to hymns with sapiential content or contemplative qualities.30 The two hymns included by Lambert in this category are presented below. The Shamash Hymn: An Akkadian hymn of 200 lines glorifying Shamash, the Mesopotamian sun god (Lambert 1960, 121–138; Foster 2005, 536–544). As the source of light from which nothing is hidden, Shamash was identified by the Mesopotamians with justice and law. Part of the hymn thus presents a moral code for human beings, similar in tone and motifs to instruction collections. This encourages judges to refuse to accept bribes, have pity on the poor, and judge justly; guides moneylenders to treat their debtors generously; and instructs tradesmen to use their scales honestly. The reward for those who follow the instructions and the ­punishment for the disobedient ones, both of which are detailed in the hymn, are similarly reminiscent of the instruction tradition. The rest of the hymn, however,

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is not related to wisdom, elaborating on other characteristics of Shamash – his cosmic function as the source of light and the daily and annual cycle, and his care of all creatures. The hymn’s date of composition is unknown. Its extant, extensively elaborated version might be a reworked recension, predated by earlier versions to which we have no access (Lambert 1960, 121–138). A Bilingual Hymn to Ninurta: Currently known from a single fragment, only an excerpt from this Sumero‐Akkadian hymn has reached us. The hymn was dedicated to Ninurta, the god of war and agriculture. The preserved part includes a series of ethical admonitions warning against adultery, slander, oppression of the poor, and trespass, all of which are well‐known motifs in instruction literature (Lambert 1960, 118–120).

Miscellaneous Riddles Riddles were a native Sumerian literary genre (Civil 1987). This is indicated not only by their occasional grouping in collections but also by the use of the Sumerian formula ki‐bur2‐bi (“its solution”) at their end, followed by the solution itself. Like proverbs, riddles belong to the Sumerian literary tradition, while in Akkadian they are very rarely documented (Veldhuis 2000a, 72).31 Riddles are known on both single-riddle school tablets and larger tablets which include riddle collections. Mesopotamian riddles vary in their logical mechanisms. Some are similar to modern cryptic crosswords clues (Civil 1987, 28) while others use various types of double meanings, puns, etc.: When I am a child, I am the son of a furrow; when I am grown up, I am the body of a god; when I am old, I am the physician of the country. Its solution: linen.

This riddle was convincingly interpreted by Civil (1987, 24) as follows: “The linen starts as flax in a field; once processed it is used for garments for the statues of the gods; and old linen rags are used as bandages.” We also know of riddles that are not followed by the formula “its solution” or lack a solution clause at all. These are usually scattered throughout proverb collections (Alster 2005, 137), although an ancient example of a collection of unsolved riddles is also known (Biggs 1973). A unique Sumerian text suggests a morally oriented riddle preaching against adultery (Alster 2005, 368–369). Naturally, such riddles are more difficult to identify and classify (Alster 2007, 13 n. 55).

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Fables and Disputation Poems A fable is a fictional story in which animals, plants, or other inanimate entities act like humans. Sumerian and Akkadian proverb collections include hundreds of proverbial fables (Falkowitz 1984; Lambert 1960, 213–220; Alster 2005, 342, 362– 367). Some longer fables have also been preserved outside the collections (Alster 2005, 346–351). An important subtype of Mesopotamian fables is the disputation poem. These poems present a debate between two rival animals, plants, or objects,32 each attempting to establish its superiority. Debate poems typically open with a cosmogonic prologue describing the creation of the two litigating entities. The prologue is followed by a dialogue where each party boasts its virtues and stresses its adversary’s weaknesses, often using a subtle and scornful tone. The disputation is then resolved by a god or king who announces the winner. Like other wisdom types, disputation poems are strongly rooted in the Sumerian scribal tradition, yet several fragments of Akkadian exemplars of the genre are also known (Vanstiphout 1990, 1992). The following disputation poems have been discovered to date: Sumerian: The Hoe and the Plough; The Sheep and the Grain; The Tree and the Reed; Winter and Summer; The Bird and the Fish; Silver and Copper (ETCSL 5.3); The Heron and the Turtle (Gragg 1973; ETCSL 5.9.2); The Herdsman and the Farmer (Sefati 1998); The Goose and the Raven (Alster 2005, 352–361); and The Upper and Lower Millstones.33 Sumero‐Akkadian: The Date Palm and the Tamarisk (Lambert 1960, 151–164; Cohen 2013, 177–198). Akkadian (Vogelzang 1991): The Ox and the Horse; The Fable of the Willow; Nisaba and the Wheat; The Fable of the Fox;34 The Fable of the Mule (Lambert 1960, 164–212); and Hamanirru and Iškapiṣu (Bottéro 1985, 313–316).35 Disputation poems are frequently labeled by the Sumerian term a‐da‐min3 dug4‐ ga, probably meaning “a debate for two.” This may indicate that they were considered a defined group, if not a native genre.36 Scholars believe that disputation poems were originally created for court entertainment, perhaps during royal banquets (Vanstiphout 1990, 1992). Later on, they were transmitted by school scribes who probably appreciated them as a way of practicing the art of debate.

Folktales Folktales are sometimes classified as wisdom literature. This has been justified by several arguments: they may appear on compilation tablets with other wisdom materials or be quoted in wisdom texts; they occasionally refer to wise scholars or

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courtiers; they use humor and wit; and some have an allegedly moralistic lesson (Alster 2005, 376, 384–385). In essence however, the connection of folktales to wisdom is ambiguous, and the differences outweigh the similarities. Below are ­references to the main folktales that have been associated with wisdom in one way or another: Sumerian: The Three Ox Drivers from Adab and The Old Man and the Young Girl (Alster 2005, 373–390). Sumero‐Akkadian: The Fowler and His Wife (Alster 2005, 371–372). Akkadian: The Poor Man of Nippur (Ottervanger 2016); Why Do You Curse Me?; The Jester; The Bird’s Purchase (Foster 2005, 931–43).

Conclusion This review of what scholars refer to as “Mesopotamian wisdom literature” encompasses a wide variety of compositions of different types, moods, attitudes, and functions. If they have anything in common, it seems to be their keen interest in everything human. Nothing human is alien to wisdom, from daily life to existential problems. As such, wisdom texts share a timeless quality which frequently makes them relevant to modern readers. Notes 1 The terms “critical genre” and “ethnic genre” were coined by genre theorists and introduced into the discussion of Mesopotamian literature by Tinney (1996, 11, 25). 2 There are several exceptions, the most striking of which is the group of texts describing school life and scribal culture, including scribal dialogues (e.g. Kramer 1949; Sjöberg 1973; Civil 1985; Volk 1996; Vanstiphout 1997; Johnson and Geller 2015). This corpus is sometimes considered to be related to wisdom but not considered here due to lack of space. 3 Note that the above is a generalization. For the question of religious content in Mesopotamian wisdom, see Taylor 2005, 20–21; Klein and Samet 2015. 4 We also know of two Akkadian proverb collections translated into Hittite (Lambert 1960, 279; Cohen 2013, 201–206) and one Akkadian‐Hurrian exemplar (Cohen 2013, 207–211). These indicate the circulation of Mesopotamian wisdom in western centers. 5 For a different explanation see Alster 2007, 6–7. Some scholars suggest that Sumerian proverbs were artificial literary creations composed by Old Babylonian school teachers as a pedagogical vehicle for instruction in Sumerian (Gordon 1960, 124–35; Falkowitz 1980, 4; Veldhuis 2000b, 383–399). This thesis seems far‐fetched (Alster 1997, xix–xx; 2005, 34–35, 45; 2007, 2; Klein and Samet 2015, 297–298). 6 Additional examples of similar introductory formulas can be found in CAD T, 332–333, s.v. tēltu.

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7 The Egyptian Instructions of Hardjedef are ascribed to a mid‐third‐millennium prince, but their earliest known manuscripts are much later and their time of composition is disputed. 8 The text is currently known from five manuscripts, three from the Old Babylonian period and two – rather exceptionally for a Sumerian text – from the Kassite period. One of the latter manuscripts includes Akkadian glosses (Alster 2005, 225). 9 Alster 2005, 231:37, 234:64. 10 Interestingly, the “instructions of the god” are formulated in the third person while the “instructions of the farmer” refer to their addressee in the second person. The latter style is more typical of the instruction tradition. 11 In two of the five known manuscripts of the text, it is followed by “counsels of wisdom.” It is possible that other currently broken tablets, which in their present state include only “counsels of wisdom,” originally opened with Ur‐Ninurta’s instructions (Alster 2005, 221–226). 12 The popularity of this text is indicated by dozens of Old Babylonian school copies, as well as several references in literary catalogues (Civil 1994, 7–11). 13 Lambert (1960, 97) opined that the “tone and type of piety” suggest the Kassite period as the time of composition. Others suggest the Old Babylonian period. 14 Lambert (1960, 96) suggested that a small fragment in which a wise man instructs his son might constitute the beginning of Akkadian Counsels of Wisdom. This speculation awaits further evidence. 15 One of the copies originates from Nineveh (Lambert 1960, 110–111), the other from Nippur (Cole 1996). For the date and place of composition, see Lambert, 1960. 16 This is especially true in the case of Dialogue of Pessimism, but is also evident in Nigˆnam and probably also in the Instructions of Shupe‐Ameli. 17 For occurrences of the vanity theme outside wisdom literature, see e.g. George 2003, vol. I, pp. 200–201, ll. 140–43; pp. 278–279, ll. 1−15; Klein 1990, 59–60 (Marriage of Martu). 18 For further information regarding the occurrence of vanity texts on the same compilation tablets with other wisdom materials see Alster’s discussion of the texts presented below. See also Cohen (2013, 151, 158) for the secondary embedding of sapiential sayings into vanity texts, which indicates that they were associated with wisdom. 19 Although referred to, religious piety does not play a central role in the instructions (Cohen 2013, 81). 20 The work is classified in an Old Babylonian catalogue under its incipit “Hear the advice” (Cohen 2013, 115–116). The implications of this fact for the text’s dating remain a matter of conjecture, however (Seminara 2000; Cohen 2013, 124–127). 21 According to some commentators, it is Enlil rather than Namzitarra who utters this speech. See Civil (1974); Klein (1990); Alster (2005, 328); Cooper (2011). 22 Alster (2005, 330) suggested that Namzitarra’s going home is a metaphor for death. 23 The date of authorship is unknown, except for the obvious fact that Assurbanipal’s days should be taken as a terminus ante quem.

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24 Samet (2015) suggests that the occurrence of pious and conservative instructions next to a bold vanity statement might be the result of some form of redaction. 25 Indeed, many Mesopotamian psalms and prayers elaborate on the pious ­sufferer  motif. Most of them have (correctly) never been classified as wisdom and are omitted from the current survey. The same is true for the Hymn to Marduk from Ugarit (contra Cohen 2013, 165–175). The generic aspects of the pious ­sufferer theme require further study: see Hallo (1968); Bricker (2000); Oshima (2014, 24–28). 26 In several manuscripts, the piece is labeled – probably due to the sufferer’s prayer – as er2‐ša3‐ne‐ša4, a Sumerian generic term for a type of supplication. This label may ­indicate that the text was, at some point, used in worship (Klein 2006). 27 A two‐line appendix appears at the end which includes a further petition on behalf of the sufferer. Its interpretation and function are debated (Nougayrol 1952; Lambert 1987; Klein 2006). Nougayrol suggests an interpretation of the entire text that differs from that presented herein. 28 At some point, the sufferer attempts to solve the theological problem by the original hypothesis that human ethical standards diverge from divine ones: what he considered decent behavior was regarded by the gods as an abomination (II, 33–47). This explanation should be taken as a sharper expression of the more common assumption that human beings cannot understand the gods. 29 Interestingly, unlike other Mesopotamian sufferers the protagonist of the Theodicy does not suffer physical illnesses. 30 For the parallel genre in the Bible, see Hurvitz 1991. 31 The few Akkadian examples of riddles bear witness to Sumerian influence: they either appear in a bilingual Sumerian‐Akkadian version, or employ the Sumerian designation ki‐bur2‐bi. 32 In one case (The Disputation between the Herdsman and the Farmer) the two litigants are human, but they figure as representations of their professions. 33 No edition or translation of the latter is currently available. For a short review, see Vanstiphout (1990, 276). 34 The latter is somewhat exceptional, having three rather than two litigants. In addition, some of the texts listed above also deviate, to a greater or lesser degree, from the classic formula of disputation poems (see esp. The Heron and the Turtle, The Goose and the Raven, and The Herdsman and the Farmer). Their classification as disputation poems is thus doubtful (Vanstiphout 1988, 1990). 35 The meaning of the litigants’ name is uncertain. It has been suggested that these are two types of spiders. Lambert (1960, 211–212) presents another fragmentary text which might join the list, but its state of preservation is too poor to determine its genre and content. 36 It is, however, unclear whether this Sumerian term is intended to be a generic label. It does not consistently appear in all of the relevant texts and occurs on occasion at the conclusion of other texts (Falkowitz 1984, 3; Alster 1990; Vanstiphout 1990).

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in Honor of Stip (H. L. J. Vanstiphout) (ed. Piotr Michalowski and Niek Veldhuis), 123–143. Leiden: Brill. Klein, Jacob and Samet, Nili. 2015. Religion and ethics in Sumerian proverb literature. In: Marbeh Ḥ okmah, Studies in the Bible and the Ancient Near East in Loving Memory of Victor Avigdor Hurowitz (ed. Shamir Yona, Edward L. Greenstein, Mayer I. Gruber, et al.), 295–322. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Kramer, Samuel N. 1949. Schooldays: A Sumerian composition relating to the education of a scribe. Journal of the American Oriental Society 69: 199–215. Lambert, Wilfred G. 1960. Babylonian Wisdom Literature. Oxford: Clarendon. Lambert, Wilfred G. 1987. A further attempt at the Babylonian “Man and his God.” In: Language, Literature, and History: Philological and Historical Studies Presented to Erica Reiner (ed. Francesca Rochberg‐Halton), 187–202. New Haven: American Oriental Society. Lambert, Wilfred G. 1995. Some New Babylonian wisdom literature. In: Wisdom in Ancient Israel: Essays in Honour of J. A. Emerton (ed. John Day, Robert P. Gordon, and H.G.M. Williamson), 30–42. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Marzal, Angel. 1976. Gleanings from the Wisdom of Mari. Rome: Biblical Institute Press. Moran, William L. 1992. The Amarna Letters. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Nougayrol, Jean. 1952. Une version ancienne du juste souffrant. Revue biblique 59: 239–250. Oshima, Takayoshi. 2014. Babylonian Poems of Pious Sufferers. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

Ottervanger, Baruch. 2016. The Tale of the Poor Man of Nippur. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Roest, Bert and Vanstiphout, Herman. 1999. Postscriptum: Generic studies in pre‐modern traditions: Why and how? In: Aspects of Genre and Type in Pre‐ Modern Literary Cultures (ed. Bert Roest and Herman Vanstiphout), 129–139. Groningen: Styx. Sallaberger, Walther. 2010. Skepsis gegenüber väterlicher Weisheit: zum altbabylonischen Dialog zwischen Vater und Sohn. In: Your Praise is Sweet: A Memorial Volume for Jeremy Black from Students, Colleagues and Friends (ed. Heather D. Baker, Eleanor Robson, and Gábor Zólyomi), 303–317. London: British Institute for the Study of Iraq. Samet, Nili. 2008. The Babylonian dialogue between a master and his slave – A new literary analysis. Shnaton: An Annual for Biblical and Near Eastern Studies 23: 99–130 (Hebrew). Samet, Nili. 2010. “The tallest man cannot reach heaven; the broadest man cannot cover earth” –Reconsidering the proverb and its biblical parallels. Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 10. Samet, Nili. 2015. Religious redaction in Qohelet in light of Mesopotamian vanity literature. Vetus Testamentum 65: 1–16. Samet, Nili. (forthcoming). Instructions of Shuruppak. In: The Library of Wisdom: An Encyclopedia of Ancient Sayings Collections (ed. Walter Wilson). Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Sefati, Yitschak. 1998. Love Songs in Sumerian Literature: Critical Edition of the Dumuzi‐Inanna songs. Bar‐Ilan Studies in Near Eastern Languages and Culture. Publications of the Samuel N. Kramer

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Institute of Assyriology. Ramat‐Gan: Bar‐Ilan University Press, 324–343. Seminara, Stefano. 2000. Le Istruzioni di Šūpē‐amēlı̄. Ugarit‐Forschungen 32: 487–529. Sitzler, Dorothea. 1995. “Vorwurf gegen Gott”: Ein religiöses Motiv im Alten Orient (Ägypten und Mesopotamien). Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Sjöberg, Åke W. 1973. Der Vater und sein missratener Sohn. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 25: 105–169. von Soden, Wolfram. 1965. Das Fragen nach der Gerechtigkeit Gottes im Alten Orient. Mitteilungen der Deutschen Orient‐Gesellschaft 96: 41–59. von Soden, Wolfram and Römer, Willem H. Philibert. 1990. Weisheitstexte, Mythen und Epen. Volume 3.1 of Texte aus der Umwelt des Alten Testament. Gütersloh: G. Mohn. Speiser, Ephraim A. 1954. The case of the obliging servant. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 8: 98–105. Taylor, Jon. 2005. The Sumerian proverb collections. Revue d’assyriologie et d’archéologie orientale 99: 13–18. Tinney, Steve. 1996. The Nippur Lament. Philadelphia, PA: Samuel Noah Kramer Fund, University of Pennsylvania Museum. Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 1988. The importance of the Tale of the Fox. Acta Sumerologica 10: 191–227. Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 1990. Mesopotamian debate poems: A general presentation (Part I).” Acta Sumerologica 12: 271–318. Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 1992. The banquet scene in the Mesopotamian debate poems. In: Banquets d’Orient (ed. Rika Gyselen and Marthe Bernus‐ Taylor), 9–22. Bures‐sur‐Yvette: Groupe pour l’étude de la civilization du Moyen‐Orient.

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Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 1997. Sumerian canonical compositions. C. Individual focus. 6. School dialogues. In: Canonical Compositions from the Biblical World. Vol. 1 of The Context of Scripture (ed. William W. Hallo), 588–593. Leiden: Brill. Vanstiphout, Herman L.J. 1999. The use(s) of genre in Mesopotamian literature: An afterthought. Archiv Orientální 67: 703–717. Veldhuis, Niek. 2000a. Kassite exercises: Literary and lexical extracts. Journal of Cuneiform Studies 52: 67–94. Veldhuis, Niek. 2000b. Sumerian proverbs in their curricular context. Journal of the American Oriental Society 120: 383–399. Veldhuis, Niek. 2003. Sumerian literature. In: Cultural Repertoires: Structure, Function and Dynamics (ed. Gillis J. Dorleijn and Herman L.J. Vanstiphout), 29–43. Leuven: Peeters Publishers. Vogelzang, Marianna E. 1991. Some questions about the Akkadian disputes. InL Dispute Poems and Dialogues (ed. Gerrit J. Reinink and Herman L.J. Vanstiphout), 47–57. Leuven: Peeters Publishers. Volk, Konrad. 1996. Methoden altmesopotamischer Erziehung nach Quellen der altbabylonischen Zeit. Saeculum 47: 178–216. Weinfeld, Moshe. 1988. Job and its Mesopotamian parallels: A typological analysis. In: Text and Context: Old Testament and Semitic Studies for F. C. Fensham (ed. Walter Claassen), 217–26. Sheffield: JSOT Press. Wilcke, Claus. 1988. Die Sumerische Königsliste und erzählte Vergangenheit. In: Vergangenheit in mündlicher Überlieferung (ed. Jürgen von Ungern‐ Sternberg and Hans‐Jörg Reinau), 113–140. Stuttgart: Teubner.

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Further Reading Bottéro, J. 1992. Mesopotamia: Writing, Reasoning, and the Gods. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. An important collection of essays that examine writing and ways of thinking in ancient Mesopotamia. Bottéro, J. 2001. Religion in Ancient Mesopotamia (trans. Teresa Lavender Fagan). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. An influential treatment of ancient Mesopotamian religion. Jacobsen, T. 1987. The Harps that Once …: Sumerian Poetry in Translation.

New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. An accessible translation of ancient Sumerian poetry. Kuhrt, Amélie. 1995. The Ancient Near East, c. 3000–330 BC. 2 vols. London and New York: Routledge. A useful survey of the history of the ancient Near East. Oppenheim, Leo. 1964. Mesopotamia: Portrait of a Dead Civilization. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. A classic and influential survey of ancient Mesopotamia.

IV. Reception

CHAPTER 19

Wisdom in the New Testament Benjamin Wold

Introduction Any treatment of wisdom in the New Testament faces a number of thorny issues in terms of definitions and controversies about what “wisdom” means with regard to subdisciplines of New Testament studies, such as disputes about the historical Jesus, the letter of James, and the Sayings Source Q (a putative collection of Jesus sayings used by the gospels of Matthew and Luke). The following categories help to organize the presentation here: (i) wisdom teachings attributed to Jesus, (ii) the sapiential discourse of James, and (iii) the identification of Jesus with personified wisdom (“wisdom christology”). In addition to providing an overview of key issues in the study of wisdom in the New Testament, this chapter also seeks to make a narrower contribution to the reception of Jewish wisdom literature among the producers of the literature of the New Testament. As demonstrated especially by 4QInstruction, wisdom is in transition in the Second Temple period (c. 530 BCE–70 CE; see Adams 2008), so much so that it has become cliché to speak about “conflicted boundaries between ‘wisdom’ and ‘apocalyptic.’” However, research among New Testament scholars on wisdom often does not yet reflect major shifts in the understanding of wisdom literature – in terms of genre, form and content – that has defined the last decade and more of studies in ancient Jewish literature.

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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Jesus as a Teacher of Wisdom: The Synoptic Gospels and Q Within the synoptic gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke), and especially the double‐tradition particular to Matthew and Luke, Jesus’s teachings use a number of forms that resonate with the wisdom tradition, such as admonitions, prohibitions, instructions, proverbs, parables, aphorisms, and beatitudes. Therefore, it would seem rather straightforward to conclude that the historical Jesus (that is, the actual person who existed) was a Jewish teacher of wisdom; however, several factors problematize this conclusion. Most significantly, many of these wisdom teachings in Matthew and Luke are held by the majority of New Testament scholars to belong to a source that predates the synoptic gospels and that was used by the evangelists; this composition is called “Quelle” (German for “source”) and now referred to simply as “Q.” This lost composition or collection of sayings is preserved only in the double‐tradition of Matthew and Luke from which it is reconstructed. There is disagreement about the compositional history of Q and its genre – some scholars are not convinced that Q ever even existed  –  and these disputes often focus on its sapiential, and/or prophetic, and/or apocalyptic characteristics. Therefore, concluding that Jesus was, simply, a Jewish sage shaped by the wisdom tradition is complicated by the gospels’ wisdom material itself because, in the Q‐tradition, sapiential instructions are found alongside and interwoven with apocalyptic notions; for instance, future reward and punishment are envisaged (e.g. Lk. 3:7–9) and there is acknowledgement in Q of angelic and demonic beings (12:8–9). The Q‐tradition has been studied at times with emphasis on its sapiential characteristics. Patterson comments that “even with all of its radicality [Q] is still best described as wisdom,” even if “in many ways it defies what we have come to expect of wisdom” (2013, 160). Other studies focus on prophetic features of Q. An important example of this approach is Richard Horsley (1991), who suggests that Q represents a genre of prophetic sayings. How this unusual material in the Q‐tradition has been accounted for varies. It is unclear what material found in Q should be attributed to the historical Jesus and what should be seen as the work of later scribes and redactors. One view put forward is that of Burton Mack who differentiates strata in Q and suggests that “wisdom” and “apocalyptic” developed in layers and that “the languages of wisdom and apocalyptic assume different views of the world” (1993, 31, 37–38). John Kloppenborg does not delineate between strata, but rather understands Q as a radical form of wisdom and that its apocalyptic language “is used creatively to dramatize the transfiguration of the present” (1987a, 304). The presence of apocalyptic in the wisdom of Q continues to receive attention even in recent studies on Q (Tuckett 2015). A particularly interesting line of questioning that will likely garner more attention in the future relates to scribalism. William Arnal and Richard Horsley posit different literate scribal classes behind Q which would have left their mark on this source; Horsley views Q scribalism in terms of Judean scribes who produced apocalyptic texts (2009, 8–14; Arnal 2001).

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How Q relates to other wisdom traditions  –  whether Jewish wisdom, early Christian writings, or traditions from the ancient Near East more broadly  –  has been the subject of several studies. Notably, John Kloppenborg has set the Q sayings alongside nearly a hundred other sapiential instructions (1987b, 263–316, 329–341) to demonstrate continuities and discontinuities. Q’s relationship to the sayings in the Gospel of Thomas has also received a great deal of attention (Patterson 2013; see also Chapter 22 in this volume), with members of the Jesus Seminar, a group of scholars devoted to the study of the historical Jesus, proposing that Q and Thomas are closely related. How Q and the book of James relate to one another and participate in the transformation of wisdom in the period is another critical stream of inquiry (Hartin 1991, 45–81). This issue is overdue for a fresh assessment in light of the Qumran text 4QInstruction (for more on this text, see Chapter 7 in this volume; Wold 2018). Wisdom topics known in many sapiential teachings relate to financial matters (prosperity, poverty), marriage and family, social relations, relationships with God, and happiness. However, according to many, Jesus’s teachings in Q are confrontational, reject family ties, and undermine religious traditions by stressing the imminence of God’s kingdom (e.g. Lk. 14:26–27). Moreover, unlike several sapiential writings in the period it is also noteworthy that Torah is never thematized in Q. Marcus Borg (1984) sets up a contrast between teachers of “conventional wisdom” and those of “another way,” concluding that Jesus chose the latter and taught an alternative wisdom. In Borg’s view Jesus’s wisdom utilized well‐known sapiential forms, such as proverbs and parables, which he used to teach countercultural wisdom that was highly critical of social conventions. 4QInstruction has changed the understanding of wisdom because it presents wisdom as obtained through revelation, asserts that the righteous and wicked shall receive rewards and punishments in the hereafter, and otherworldly beings (i.e. angels) are acknowledged throughout. These are all characteristic features of the apocalyptic tradition. Yet the sapiential discourse of 4QInstruction also uses well‐ known wisdom forms, including paraenesis, admonitions, and poetic parallelism. In 4QInstruction, as in Q, wisdom is not explicitly identified with Torah, nor is wisdom personified and related to any particular figure. Moreover, this composition is not attributed to a specific sage, but rather the speaker is fairly impersonal; it is not a collection of sayings like the Gospel of Thomas. 4QInstruction is significant not only because it redraws categorical lines and notions of stratification, but also because it problematizes assessments of Q as a radical form of wisdom, a conclusion that is made against the backdrop of assumptions about “mainstream” or “­traditional” wisdom in the period (Goff 2005). A stark separation between “wisdom” and “apocalyptic” simply cannot be sustained and any treatment of wisdom in the New Testament should take this into account. Among mainstream views on the historical Jesus, few today conclude that Jesus’s main identity was that of a sapiential sage, despite members of the Jesus Seminar in

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decades past repeatedly emphasizing this point. In a lopsided debate published at the beginning of this millennium Marcus Borg, John Dominic Crossan, and Stephen Patterson, all leading members of the Jesus Seminar, contended with Dale Allison that Jesus’s identity as a wisdom teacher, or Cynic sage, is more convincing than as an apocalyptic prophet (Miller 2001). However, this is not a snapshot of scholarly consensus in contemporary historical Jesus scholarship; indeed, the opposite is the case, with E.P. Sanders and Bart Ehrman, among many others, concurring with Allison that Jesus was an apocalyptic prophet. Nonetheless, whether Jesus was a sage steeped in traditional wisdom or not depends on the definition of this role vis‐à‐vis problematically defined categories; the roles of a sage in the period were diverse and also in transition. The view that wisdom and apocalyptic are mutually exclusive has rightfully been called into question, and the same can be said for “wisdom sage” and “apocalyptic prophet.” Indeed, in assessments of the role of the maskil in literature discovered at Qumran it is clear that these figures were sages who operated within an apocalyptic worldview. Jesus as sage or prophet and his message as wisdom or apocalyptic need not be assessed as an either/or issue; the historical Jesus may be described as a sage whose teachings are shaped by both the sapiential and apocalyptic traditions.

James James, like 1 Peter, begins by greeting the twelve tribes in the diaspora and yet despite its opening salutation it is debated whether it was composed as a letter; indeed, there is no farewell or authorial attribution in conclusion. Moreover, the instruction found throughout James appears to be impersonal, which is typical of wisdom writings. The text teaches “traditional” sapiential themes such as humility (4:6b, 10; cf. Prov. 11:2; Sir. 3:17–24), the folly of wealth (Jas. 1:10–11; cf. Prov. 14:24), care for widows and orphans (Jas. 1:27; cf. Sir. 4:10), and God’s authority (Jas. 4:14; cf. Prov. 8:15). Instruction takes on typical wisdom forms, including several proverbial sayings such as Jas. 1:19, “Let every man be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger” (compare Prov. 17:27, “One who spares words is knowledgeable; one who is cool in spirit has understanding”); Jas. 3:8, “but no human being can tame the tongue – a restless evil, full of deadly poison” (cf. Prov. 10:19, “When words are many, transgression is not lacking, but the prudent are restrained in speech”); and Jas. 4:14, “you boast in your arrogance, all such boasting is evil” (cf. Prov. 27:1, “Do not boast about tomorrow, for you do not know what a day may bring”). James frequently uses admonitions and exhortations, such as “be doers of the word” (1:22); “let not many of you become teachers” (3:1); “do not boast and be false to the truth” (3:14); and “do not speak evil against one another” (4:11). A sapiential form used on only one occasion in James is the macarism, which is an ascription of blessedness. Similar to the beatitudes in Matt. 5:1–12 or

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4QBeatitudes (4Q525) the macarism in James has an eschatological dimension. James 1:12 begins with “blessed is the man who endures trial,” which is followed by a promise of future reward: “for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life which God has promised to those who love him.” The promise of eschatological rewards for the righteous is also found in Jas. 5:3 (“you have treasures laid up for the last days”) and in 2:5 the righteous are “heirs of the kingdom.” End‐time judgment for the wicked is found in Jas. 5:8–9, which describes the impending coming of the Lord as “the judge standing at the doors” (cf. 1:21; 5:20). With regard to form or content, how James relates to ancient Jewish and Christian sapiential traditions has been a topic of considerable debate with little agreement. Apropos of the assessment of wisdom and apocalyptic in Q, the departure point here is a brief assessment of James in light of 4QInstruction, since it is a wisdom text that draws extensively from the apocalyptic tradition (Hartin 2005; Goff 2005). Similar to Q, within the sapiential discourse of James are several curious characteristics that break with, inaccurately termed, “traditional wisdom.” One of the most striking features of James’s paraenesis is the nature of wisdom as revealed (1:5) and given by God from above (3:15). This feature indicates apocalyptic transcendence by deriving understanding from the heavenly realm as opposed to the earthly. As demonstrated in the macarism of 1:12, James’s teaching about wisdom has an eschatological aspect and the consequences for wise and ethical behavior are not only found in the here and now, but also rewards and punishments are allocated in the future. However, James may not simply be setting wisdom paraenesis within an eschatological framework, as Darian Lockett (2005) and Todd Penner (1996) suggest, but rather the shift in the wisdom paradigm extends beyond eschatologizing wisdom. 4QInstruction shares a number of notable commonalities with James, including revealed wisdom, eschatology, and a cosmological framework. The first column of 4QInstruction (4Q416 1) describes the heavenly hosts, God’s rule over the cosmos, future reward for the righteous, punishment for the wicked and humanity’s responsibility to live rightly in light of how the cosmos has been ordered. Reading James in light of 4QInstruction provides the opportunity to appreciate the relationship of cosmology to the sapiential teaching of James.

Wisdom and James’s Cosmology Determining the meaning of “foolishness,” the antithesis of “wisdom,” is crucial when establishing how James’s wisdom instruction relates to other sapiential writings from the period. James’s discourse implies that foolish behavior is to show partiality to the wealthy and to speak idly. These traditional wisdom themes represent one way that foolishness and wrongdoing are portrayed. While issues of wealth and the dangers of the tongue illustrate what it is to act foolishly, why human beings do wrong, or “sin,” may also be considered. The human capacity to sin is the subject of

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Jas. 1:13–15. That James teaches an ethic of doing what is right is well‐known; what is “good” belongs to God and what is “evil” does not belong to God, but rather to human speech and thought. In Jas. 2:4 “thought” is described as evil; in 3:8 the tongue is a “restless evil” full of deadly poison; and in 4:16 human boasting is evil. Especially telling is that the sinner in Jas. 1:13–15 is not simply someone who opposes the good, but much more. He has inherited a human nature that includes “desire,” which is connected to evil and leads to death. We read in Jas. 1:13–15 that No one, when tempted, should say, “I am being tempted by God”; for God cannot be tempted by evil and he himself tempts no one. But one is tempted by one’s own desire, being lured and enticed by it; then, when that desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin, and that sin, when it is fully grown, gives birth to death.

These lines have implications for how human nature is to be understood and yet how “desire” is realized is not made explicit. Both desire and sin are personified in these verses and as such questions arise as to whether good and evil are part of either a theological or a cosmological dualism. Desire entices and lures a person, which leads to sin and is a path to death. Parallels may be found with 4 Ezra 3:21 and Romans 7–8. In Jas. 1:15 when the trio of desire, sin, and death come together they stand as the background to wicked human activity. The cosmology of James includes belief in the existence of the devil and demons (e.g. 2:19; 4:7). Whether the author avoids cosmological dualism and instead builds a negative anthropology is open to question. Even if James avoids explicitly expressing a cosmological dualism, that does not mean he is not indebted to a larger cosmological framework where supernatural powers oppose God. On the one hand, the author is never concerned to describe the heavenly realm and angels are not mentioned. On the other hand, there is interest in what is above; in Jas. 3:15 heavenly wisdom stands in contrast to what is earthly and below. James 1:16–18 has the statement: “Every generous act of giving, with every perfect gift, is from above, coming down from the father of lights.” God the father is above in the heavens, which is a place of light where there are no shadows, and from where he gives gifts to his children. Those below are exhorted not to become sullied by this world; in 1:27 one reads: “religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the father, is this: to care for orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world.” The world represents what is impure and below while God and light signify what is above; these two spheres serve the author when formulating his ethical exhortations even if he is not interested in describing them. This contrast is nowhere sharper than in 4:4 where “friendship with the world” is “enmity with God.” This description anthropomorphizes the world; those who are friends with the world are God’s enemy. This description begs the question: what exactly is the “world” – is the personified world a way to express a power that is in opposition to God? The author does not explicitly answer this question, and his

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interest is in the consequences of unethical behavior more than spelling out his worldview, but the association of the world with what is devilish suggests that it does denote a power opposed to the deity. Although angels are absent from the discourse of James, demons are present, even if they are never thematized. In references to demons we find glimpses of the author’s cosmology, but it is not entirely clear how exactly 3:15 is to be understood, where two types of wisdom are allocated to different spheres, one above and one below, the latter of which is described as demonic. The “demonic” may refer to a negative aspect of human nature; the author could be drawing upon a general designation of evil in the earthly sphere. James 3:6 contains a rhetorical use of “Gehenna,” a term for the netherworld (“the tongue … is itself set on fire by hell”), which emphasizes the destructive force of speech and capacity for evil rather than designating a location where future judgment occurs as a consequence of sinful behavior (e.g. 2:13; 3:1; 5:1–11). The descriptions of false wisdom as devilish in 3:15 and Gehenna serving to kindle a blaze in 3:6 are not, however, analogously drawing upon general descriptions of evil. The personification of the world and the description of it as “devilish” is not simply rhetorical (Wischmeyer 2016, 163). In Jas. 4:7 the author speaks about the devil: “Submit yourselves to God, resist the devil and he will flee from you.” The opposition in this verse is not between God and the devil directly, but rather the devil is humanity’s opponent. On the one hand this may imply that James is not reflecting upon good and evil, or upon God and the devil, within a dualistic framework. Instead the devil appears in 4:7 within an ­ethical appeal and is part of the rhetorical and polemical strategy of the author. Humanity in this verse stands between God and the devil and the key question is how one relates to each: the addressee resists the devil by drawing near to God (4:8, “draw near to God and he will draw near to you”). James reflects a cosmology wherein there is God and the devil, respectively representing good and evil, and yet the author’s concern is not to portray a conflict between them, but rather humanity’s need to respond to them. Rather than describing the conflict between two cosmic powers James is interested in locating humanity between them and their ethical responsibilities. The focus is on right human behavior within cosmology as well as the actions of the addressees in relationship to God and against the devil. In Jas. 2:14–26, the well‐known passage where we read that “faith without works” is dead, the author says to his theoretical opponent in 2:19: “You believe that God is one; you do well, even the demons believe and shudder.” For the author the question at hand is about the correct meaning of “belief ” and in this example even the demons believe rightly, in that they acknowledge the power of God. The emphasis is that correct belief is not so much the issue, as is again the act of doing what is right. Demons and the devil are part of the author’s larger worldview and not merely used as rhetorical instruments and the background against which the author appeals to his audience. Moreover, as discussed below, when Jas. 2:19 uses

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the oneness of God to illustrate correct belief this specific example is significant because it evokes a response from the demons. Whether the root of James’s ethical instruction is a cosmological worldview or that otherworldly and eschatological dimensions function pragmatically to evoke the correct ethical response is at the crux of assessments of “wisdom” and “apocalyptic” in the composition. The author may be constructing a rhetoric of trepidation and impending wrath driven by concern over the danger of sin and its consequences. The text’s ethical teachings would then provide a way of deliverance from wrath and destruction. James also offers a solution for its negative anthropology: human beings are creatures able to do good, but this ability is reliant upon God who is the revealer of good and true wisdom. Revealed wisdom in James is clearly paramount in triumphing over sin and evil. The balance in James is weighted to ethical instruction to do what is right, which is most often expressed in relationship to the internal desire to sin. What precisely desire in Jas. 1:14–15 is and how it relates to cosmology cannot be entirely summed up under the umbrella of “rhetoric.” James 1:15 mentions fulfilling the desire to sin without spelling out how this is done; so too he admonishes one to resist the devil but does not make explicit how. Indeed, if the devil is in the details, then James is not terribly helpful in providing them. Desire in Jas. 1:14–15 may be set within broader discussions about the yetzer, a Hebrew word for “inclination” or “disposition,” in ancient Judaism. The “evil inclination” in Qumran literature is often seen as either part of a human being or reflecting a dualistic cosmology; however, the evil inclination in the Dead Sea Scrolls, which attest the earliest instances of this term, has a complex variety of meanings. For instance, in the hymn Plea for Deliverance it has been viewed as moving from within the human being to an outward force (11Q5 19:15–16). Such personification is part of a broader development demonizing sin and may be similar to Barkhi Nafshi (4Q436 1 i–ii) where the evil inclination is rebuked; indeed, if this is the case in Barkhi Nafshi, the context would describe the warding off of a demonic being or evil spirit. In 4QInstruction – and this is especially significant for the assessment of Jas. 1:13–15 – a fragmentary sentence reads: “Let not the thought of an evil inclination mislead you …” (4Q417 1 ii 12). Similarly, desire in Jas. 1:15, although described as “one’s own desire,” moves in the direction of an active agent when it is presented as “luring” and “enticing”; indeed the particular Greek verb “to entice” (deleazō) is not frequent in the New Testament, occurring only in 2 Pet. 2:14 and 18 where false teachers “entice” others to indulge in sinful passions of the flesh. James and 4QInstruction share a combination with regard to how they express an internal aspect of sin; in 4QInstruction it is the “thought” of an evil inclination and in James it is “one’s own” desire, while both also couple this with active agency. In light of this observation, the “evil thought” found later in Jas. 2:4, which is at times drawn upon to illustrate James’ negative anthropology, need not be seen as exclusively belonging to human nature and an innate capacity to sin. The activity

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ascribed to an evil thought and desire is alien; the human mind and emotions are within the demonic forces’ field of play, which is particularly frightening because one cannot trust oneself or one’s own judgment, and therefore a person requires wisdom that comes from above and outside humanity and the world. Human responses to evil reflect James’s cosmology. The notion of resisting the devil and the devil fleeing, found in Jas. 4:7, is well known from Tob. 6:17, where Tobias confronts a jealous demon in the bridal chamber (cf. 8:3; T. Iss. 7:7; T. Dan 5:1; T. Naph. 8:4). The imagery of resisting the devil also evokes images of battle between the saints and demonic forces (e.g. Eph. 6:11; Rev. 12:7–8; 20:8–9); however, “combat” may also take on apotropaic or exorcistic connotations (Allison 2013, 625). Submitting and drawing near to God in Jas. 4:6–8 is an integral and instrumental part of resisting the devil, which suggests petitioning and worshipping God. When prayer is mentioned later in 5:16, in reference to confessing sins in order to be healed (cf. v. 13), James comments that “the prayer of a righteous man has great power in its effects.” The power of petitionary prayer is at times associated with a specific righteous figure, such as David, as a means of healing and warding off evil (e.g. 11Q11 5). 4Q560 col. i is concerned with the physical effects of demons and col. ii presents exorcistic incantations. The petitionary prayer in Jub. 10:3–6 is against the physical influence of evil spirits. This suggests that Jas. 5:16 expresses that evil, as manifested in sickness, may be resisted by the prayer of a righteous person. So too, drawing near to God, perhaps in prayer, is a practice wherein the devil is resisted. James 2:19 (“You believe that God is one; you do well, even the demons believe and shudder”) explicitly recollects the Shema prayer of Deut. 6:4–9. There is a well‐ established tradition known as early as the Second Temple period in which the Shema was used to ward off evil by means of an apotropaic petition (Lange 2010). While Jas. 2:19 is not offering instruction in the practice and use of apotropaic prayer or amulets, this verse resonates within a larger discourse that locates demons and the devil within a wider cosmological framework. To depict demons as shuddering in response to the declaration of the oneness of God in the Shema is to evoke an apotropaic image that would have been known to the audience. As an example of faith alone, without works, this statement draws upon a well‐known practice used to ward off external evil. This particular example of belief would have demonstrated quite powerfully the absurdity that faith alone is sufficient. James does not just locate the human capacity to sin within human nature. The temptation to sin is also associated with the activity of demonic beings; right action takes place between, and in relationship to, two contrasting places: the world below and the heavens above as well as their respective actors. True wisdom is from above and not from below; revealed wisdom is an integral part of James’s cosmology – this‐ worldly wisdom is simply inadequate to deliver one from the dangers of sin. Although desire in Jas. 1:13–15 is expressed as part of human nature, in addition to this description is an active and alien enticement not simply to walk in the ways

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of foolishness, but to succumb to sin and death. How one responds to temptation is also explicitly expressed in relationship to cosmology: resist the devil and draw near to God in prayer. Similarly to Q, James participates in a wisdom trajectory in which conceptions of wisdom and apocalyptic as mutually exclusive do not apply.

Wisdom Christology Divine wisdom is often equated with Torah, most notably in Ben Sira 24 where Lady Wisdom issues forth from the mouth of God, in heaven, down to Israel. Wisdom as Torah and the personification of wisdom, as well as other bridging concepts such as the divine Logos (“word”) or spirit, were ways of portraying God’s revelatory activity in an intelligible way within the context of the ancient Mediterranean world. Wisdom personified expressed God’s activity in the world, his nearness to his people, and involvement in creation. Within ancient Judaism, wisdom was also a way to communicate God’s involvement with humanity without compromising monotheism. Personified wisdom was often portrayed as preexistent (e.g. Prov. 8:2–31; Job 28; Bar. 3:9–4:4; Wis. 6:12–11:1; 1 En. 42:1–3), which may have influenced how Christ is depicted in several passages of the New Testament where he is identified with her.

Pauline Epistles James Dunn, whose important treatment of wisdom christology in Pauline writings has become a standard, discusses whether personification involves attributes of God (e.g. the “arm of the Lord”) or hypostasis (as an intermediary position or being) and concludes that personified wisdom is not so much personification of divine “attributes,” but rather “a function of Yahweh, a way of speaking about God himself, of expressing God’s active involvement with his world and his people without compromising his transcendence” (1980, 176). In two passages found in Pauline epistles Christ is identified with personified wisdom: Col. 1:15–20 and 1 Corinthians 1–2 (cf. 8:6). It is questionable whether Rom. 10:6–10 should be added, where Paul uses Deut. 30:12–14 when he asks: “Who will ascend into heaven?” (that is, to bring Christ down); Baruch 3:29 also uses Deut. 30:12–14 and interprets it in regard to wisdom when the text asks: “Who has gone up in heaven and taken her, and brought her down from the clouds?” That Christ in Romans is likewise identified with wisdom as in Baruch is doubtful. Instead both interpret Deuteronomy but to different ends; for Paul it serves to form a contrast between what is far and near and not to identify Christ with wisdom. 1 Corinthians is the most prominent and earliest example of Paul speaking about Christ with wisdom terminology. He refers to Christ as “the power of God and the

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wisdom of God” (1 Cor. 1:24) and Christ “whom God made our wisdom” (1:30). Paul writes that “we impart a secret and hidden wisdom of God, which God decreed before the ages for our glorification” (2:7). Wisdom terminology is used of Christ and his role in creation: “there is one God, the Father … and one Lord, Jesus Christ, through whom are all things and through whom we exist” (1 Cor. 8:6). Divine wisdom in 1 Corinthians 1–2 is used by Paul to proclaim Christ crucified and that the cross is the very definition of God’s wisdom; as such, it is part of God’s plan for salvation. Another important feature of wisdom in these first two chapters is that wisdom is hidden and revealed not in the Torah (the “law”), but rather in the Christ event. 1 Corinthians 8:6 is striking because it is a statement about Christ’s cosmic ­significance framed within a declaration that God is one (Deut. 6:4; cf. Jas. 2:19). How Paul reconciled Jesus as Lord, through whom all things come into being, with Jewish monotheism may be best explained by appeal to the Jewish wisdom ­tradition. The creative activity of God is shared with wisdom (e.g. Ps. 104:24, “in wisdom you have made them all”; Philo, Her. 199, “the whole world which was created by divine wisdom”; cf. Det. 54; Prov. 3:19, “the Lord by wisdom founded the earth”; Wis. 8:4–6). Interpreting 1 Cor. 8:6 vis‐à‐vis divine wisdom, Paul’s statement is not a break with Jewish monotheism but rather an identification of Christ with the creative activity of God. The hymn describing Christ in Col. 1:15–20 is widely regarded as having been composed prior to the rest of the letter and originally applied to wisdom. Colossians itself is likely not one of Paul’s letters, but rather reflects “Paulinism” and the final form may be attributed to one of his followers, perhaps within Paul’s lifetime or shortly thereafter. Even if the hymn is pre‐Pauline and interpolated at a later stage to refer to Christ, it has been integrated into the whole of the letter. The hymn celebrates Jesus as the fullest extent of God’s wisdom, and directly after the hymn the author speaks of a “mystery hidden for ages and generations but now made known to his saints” (1:26) “which is Christ in you” (1:27) and that in Christ “all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge” are hidden (2:3). Near the end of the letter the speaker urges his audience to “walk in wisdom” (4:5). The hymn of Col. 1:15–20 consists of two stanzas, verses 15–18a and verses 18b–20, both heavily influenced by wisdom motifs. The first stanza of the hymn portrays Christ as personified wisdom who plays a role in creation. He is “the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation” (v. 15). In the first line of the second stanza Christ is also a firstborn son: “the beginning, the firstborn of the dead” (v. 18b). Wisdom as firstborn is a development from other wisdom traditions, most likely Prov. 8:22–27 and Sir. 24:1–9, where she is the first created work of God. Philo similarly describes personified wisdom as “firstborn mother of all things” (QG 4.97) (see also Chapter 13 in this volume). Wisdom as the “image” of God’s goodness is known from Wis. 7:26 (cf. Philo, Leg. 1.43). Colossians 1:16 (“in him all things are created”) alludes to wisdom as the agent through which God creates. Christ is “before all things and in him all things hold together” (v. 17), which also

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evokes the divine Logos (Sir. 43:26, “by his word all things hold together”). In the second stanza, the statement that in Christ “all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell” (Col. 1:19) expresses a notion that is suited to wisdom, Logos or spirit, namely the manifestation of the presence of God. However, these personifications do not typically reside in a single being (as with Christ), but pervade the whole world (e.g. Wis. 7:24, “because of her [Wisdom’s] pureness she pervades and penetrates all things”; cf. Ps. 139:7), although there are exceptions such as Philo’s description of Moses: “the spirit which is upon him is the wise, the divine, the indivisible … the spirit which is everywhere diffused, so as to fill the universe” (Gig. 27). The Colossians hymn identifies Christ with divine wisdom in order to assert his significance in terms his audience would have understood. Dunn concludes that in the key Pauline passages (1 Cor. 1:25, 30; 8:6; Col. 1:15–20) wisdom terminology was “an important tool for asserting the finality of Christ’s role in God’s purpose for man and creation” (1980, 194). Because personified wisdom is preexistent, Dunn also questions whether Paul intentionally asserted that Christ is likewise preexistent. If Paul wanted to express the cosmic significance of Christ, divine wisdom was an excellent vehicle for doing so; he did not need to convince his audience of the preexistence of wisdom because it was already part of the texture of their worldview and common language. Whatever “wisdom” meant for his audience, Paul presents Jesus as the embodiment of divine wisdom. Paul was not so much interested in promoting Christ’s preexistence as such, but his wisdom christology serves to express the fullness of God’s work in him.

Hebrews By the time that the Letter to the Hebrews was composed it had likely already become traditional to describe Christ’s cosmic significance in terms drawn from the portrayals of personified wisdom in the sapiential tradition. Hebrews 1:1–3 presents a prominent expression of wisdom christology; here Christ is the “son” through whom God makes the world. He is the “radiance” (apaugasma) of God’s glory, “stamp” or “exact imprint” (charakter) of God’s being, and through him God sustains the world. Similar to Col. 1:15–18 the influence of depictions of wisdom as God’s companion and co‐creator is discernible; creation is sustained by the son (cf. v. 17, “in him all things hold together”), which evokes an association of wisdom with the logos (cf. Philo, Migr. 6).

Matthew’s Gospel When the producers of the gospel of Matthew edited and adapted the Sayings Source Q, it appears that they developed a wisdom christology and did so, chronologically,

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after Paul has identified Christ with wisdom in 1 Corinthians. Despite a diversity of views about the historical Jesus and questions about Q, there is some consensus that the historical Jesus was regarded as wisdom’s messenger and neither he nor Q equated Jesus with wisdom herself. The redactional activity of Matthew, in which the gospel maintains this christology, is reflected in four passages found in the double‐tradition (= Q). These are in Matt. 11:19 (= Lk. 7:35); 11:25–30 (= Lk. 10:21– 22); 23:34–36 (= Lk. 11:49–51), and 23:37–39 (= Lk. 13:34) (Suggs 1970; Dunn 1980). Ben Witherington (2000) does not accept this theory and argues instead that Matthew is presented as a scribe, clearly depicted as an author and Jesus as teacher, so that the wisdom teachings are Jesus’s own and not the result of editorial activity by Matthew. Other scholars have put forward strong objections that wisdom christology is even present in Matthew; however the case for it remains reasonably strong. In the Q‐tradition, wisdom is either justified by her “children,” as found in Luke 7:35, or by her “deeds,” as in Matt. 11:19. When Matthew speaks of deeds, this is to associate wisdom with Christ. Jesus is personified wisdom whose deeds reveal God, whereas “children” refers most immediately to Jesus and John the Baptist, as well as others who acknowledge and adhere to wisdom and her ways. Luke’s version of this saying is widely accepted as the earliest and most original form. Matthew appears to have changed his source in order to identify Christ with wisdom. The saying of Jesus in Matt. 11:28–30  –  “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” – is not found in Luke and is an editorial insertion; however, the immediately preceding context in vv. 25–27 and Luke 10:21–22 share a common source. Jesus’s words in Matt. 11:28–30 are remarkably similar to the words of the speaker in Sir. 51:23–26 who teaches about wisdom: “Draw near to me, you who are uneducated, and lodge in the house of instruction. Why do you say you are lacking in these things, and why do you endure such great thirst? I opened my mouth and said, ‘Acquire wisdom for yourselves without money. Put your neck under her yoke, and let your souls receive instruction; it is to be found close by’” (cf. 11Q5 18:3a–4 where wisdom is a gift to the simple without understanding). In Ben Sira the sage invites students to put their neck under wisdom’s yoke, whereas in Matthew it is Jesus’s own yoke that he calls people to take upon themselves, which is quite convincingly interpreted by Dunn as equating Jesus with wisdom (1980, 200–201). One reason that Jesus is identified with wisdom in Matthew may be part of a wider polemic between his community and Jewish communities that rejected its Christian message; Jesus as divine wisdom helps to establish the authority of his disciples who become wisdom’s emissaries. In Luke 11:49 the wisdom of God says, “I will send them prophets and apostles,” whereas in Matt. 23:34 Jesus himself speaks saying, “I send you prophets and wise men and scribes.” Matthew transforms

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the saying of personified wisdom into a saying of Jesus himself, and the messengers he sends suffer persecution, are killed, and some are scourged in “your synagogues” (23:34), thereby amplifying this rejection as that of wisdom’s messengers. Finally, the lament over Jerusalem in Matt. 23:37–39 (Lk. 13:34) has direct speech in which a simile is made about a hen that gathers her brood under her wings. In this speech the first person singular form is used when posing the question: “How often would I have gathered (you prophets)?” The “I” in this statement may be attributed to personified wisdom because she is the one who sends prophets (Prov. 9:3; Sir. 24:7– 12; 1 En. 42:1–3) and is also motherly (Sir. 1:15). 11QApocryphal Psalms (11Q11) 6:5–6 uses similar imagery in reference to God as protector (“with his feathers he will cover you and under his wings you shall lodge”), which makes it more difficult to discern whether the gospel of Matthew is straightforwardly alluding to wisdom. However, if Matthew attributes the “I” of this statement to Jesus rather than wisdom it would reinforce the conclusion that Matthew has a developed wisdom christology.

John’s Gospel The introductory hymn of John’s gospel (1:1–18) was most likely an ode written by early Christians and later adapted by the evangelist as the prologue. In the estimation of many scholars the message of the hymn was particularly suited to present the message of Christ in terms that interested Greek readers. The poetic style and several themes in the prologue are not shared by the rest of the gospel, especially the incarnation (John 1:1, 14, “the logos became flesh”), although the preexistence of Christ in 1:1–2 (“He was in the beginning with God”) is also found in John 17:5 when Jesus prays: “glorify me … with the glory which I had before the world was made.” Lady Wisdom existed with God from the beginning even before there was an earth; Christ as the Logos, a bridging concept in the Hellenistic world that finds parallels with wisdom, is “with God” (cf. Prov. 8:22–23; Sir. 24:9; Wis. 6:22) and “was God” (John 1:1) and as such participated with him in the creation of the world (v. 3, “all things were made through him”; cf. 1 Cor. 8:6; Col. 1:15–18a). The presentation of personified wisdom in Wis. 7:25–26 shares important commonalities with the portrayal of Christ as the Logos in the prologue of John. In the hymn and elsewhere in the gospel Christ has the father’s glory (John 1:14; cf. 8:50; 11:4; 17:5, 22, 24); wisdom is the pure emanation of God’s glory in Wis. 7:25. In John 1:4–5 and throughout the Johannine literature (8:12; 11:5; 1 John 1:5) God is light and Jesus comes forth from God as the light of the world and men; wisdom is said to be a reflection of the everlasting light of God in Wis. 7:26 and she is also preferred to any natural light (vv. 10, 29; cf. Bar. 3:33). The Logos as the “only son from the father” comes down from heaven to earth (John 1:14), which is a theme related to wisdom making her habitation with God’s people (Sir. 24:8) and humanity (Bar. 3:37; Wis. 9:10).

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There are indications that even after the prologue the fourth gospel identifies Christ with wisdom. In John 3:13 it is written of the Son of Man that only he has ascended and descended from heaven, an activity explicitly associated elsewhere with personified wisdom (Bar. 3:29; Wis. 9:16–17). On several occasions in John’s gospel Jesus foretells his return to the father (13:3; 16:28; 20:17), which is similar to the return of wisdom to heaven in the Similitudes of Enoch (1 En. 42:2). At the end of the prologue (John 1:18) Jesus is the one who exclusively reveals God to humanity, which is a function of wisdom among humankind, instructing in ways pleasing to God (Wis. 8:4; 9:9–10; Sir. 4:12; Bar. 4:1) and teaching what is from above (Job 11:6–7; Wis. 9:16–18). Finally, the “I am” statements which are found more than 40 times in the gospel often express Jesus’s divine and celestial origins, further strengthening the view that Jesus is purposefully identified with divine wisdom (Brown 1966, cxxii–cxxvi).

Summary and Conclusion Wisdom in the New Testament is expressed in a wide variety of ways. At times traditions found in the New Testament are participating in a sapiential discourse similar to that attested by ancient Jewish wisdom literature (esp. 4QInstruction); in other instances early Christian authors adapt and transform the sapiential tradition. In regard to the latter, a well‐established concern about the dwelling place of wisdom is resolved by identifying Christ with wisdom. In Proverbs 8, Sirach 24, and the Wisdom of Solomon, personified wisdom is a figure present with God in heaven; in the Similitudes of Enoch (1 En. 42) wisdom goes forth to find a place to dwell on earth but, finding none, returns to heaven. The wisdom christology found in several places in the New Testament takes quite a different approach, making wisdom accessible through Christ. Finally, since the publication of the critical edition of 4QInstruction in 1999 (Strugnell, Harrington, and Elgvin), our understanding of wisdom in the Second Temple period has undergone significant revision; the Sayings Source Q and the letter of James are poised for fresh assessments in light of new discoveries. References Adams, Samuel L. 2008. Wisdom in Transition: Act and Consequence in Second Temple Instruction. Leiden: Brill. Allison, Dale C. 2013. James: A Critical and Exegetical Commentary. London: T&T Clark. Arnal, William E. 2001. Jesus and the Village Scribes: Galilean Conflicts and the Setting of Q. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press.

Borg, Marcus M. 1984. Conflict, Holiness and Politics in the Teaching of Jesus. New York/London: Continuum. Brown, Raymond E. 1966. The Gospel According to John (i–xii). Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Dunn, James D.G. 1980. Christology in the Making: A New Testament Inquiry into

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the Origins of the Doctrine of the Incarnation. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Goff, Matthew J. 2005. Discerning trajectories: 4QInstruction and the sapiential background of the Sayings Source Q. Journal of Biblical Literature 124: 657–673. Hartin, Patrick J. 1991. James and the Q Sayings of Jesus. Sheffield: JSOT Press. Hartin, Patrick J. 2005. “Who is wise and understanding among you?” (James 3:13): An analysis of wisdom, eschatology, and apocalypticism in the letter of James. In: Conflicted Boundaries in Wisdom and Apocalypticism, (ed. Benjamin G. Wright and Lawrence M. Wills), 149–168. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Horsley, Richard A. 1991. Logoi Prophētōn: Reflections on the genre of Q. In: The Future of Early Christianity: Essays in Honor of Helmut Koester (ed. Birger Pearson), 195–209. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Horsley, Richard A. 2009. Revolt of the Scribes: Resistance and Apocalyptic Origins. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Kloppenborg, John S. 1987a. Symbolic eschatology and apocalypticism in Q. Harvard Theological Review 80: 287–306. Kloppenborg, John S. 1987b. The Formation of Q: Trajectories in Ancient Wisdom Collections. Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress. Lange, Armin. 2010. The Shema Israel in Second Temple Judaism. Journal of Ancient Judaism 1: 207–214. Lockett, Darian. 2005. The spectrum of wisdom and eschatology in the Epistle of James and 4QInstruction. Tyndale Bulletin 56: 131–148.

Mack, Burton. 1993. The Lost Gospel: The Book of Q and Christian Origins. San Francisco, CA: HarperSanFrancisco. Miller, Robert J. (ed.) 2001. The Apocalyptic Jesus: A Debate. Santa Rosa, CA: Polebridge Press. Patterson, Stephen J. 2013. The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins: Essays on the Fifth Gospel. Leiden: Brill. Penner, Todd. 1996. The Epistle of James and Eschatology: Re‐reading an Ancient Christian Letter. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Strugnell, John, Harrington, Daniel J., and Elgvin, Torleif (eds.) 1999. Qumran Cave 4, XXIV: Sapiential Texts, Part 2. Oxford: Clarendon. Suggs, Jack M. 1970. Wisdom, Christology and Law in Matthew’s Gospel. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Tuckett, Christopher. 2015. Apocalyptic – in Q? In: Q in Context I: The Separation between the Just and Unjust in Early Judaism and in the Saying Source (ed. Markus Tiwald), 107–122. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Wischmeyer, Oda. 2016. Zwischen Gut und Böse: Teufel, Dämonen, das Böse und der Kosmos im Jakobusbrief. In: Das Böse, der Teufel und Dämonen–Evil, the Devil and Demons (ed. Jan Dochhorn, Susanne Rudnig‐Zelt, and Benjamin Wold), 153–68. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Witherington III, Ben. 2000. Jesus the Sage: The Pilgrimage of Wisdom. Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress. Wold, Benjamin. 2018. 4QInstruction: Divisions and Hierarchies. Leiden: Brill.

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Further Reading Dunn, James D.G. 1998. The Theology of Paul the Apostle. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. This is Dunn’s magnum opus on Paul in which he offers lucid presentations of a wide array of Paul’s intellectual contributions. Ehrman, Bart D. 2015. The New Testament: A Historical Introduction to the Early Christian Writings. 6th ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press. One of the finest introductions to the New Testament available today, in which Ehrman provides an accessible introduction to the compositions and themes discussed here.

Harrington, Daniel J. 2009. Wisdom in the NT. In: The Interpreters Dictionary of the Bible, Vol. 5 (ed. Katharine Sakenfeld), 865–869. Nashville, TN: Abingdon. This brief but learned article offers insights, in summary form, from a leading scholar of both the early Jewish and early Christian wisdom traditions. Hedrick, Charles W. 2014. The Wisdom of Jesus: Between the Sages of Israel and the Apostles of the Church. Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock. Offers a synthesis of the Jesus Seminar’s findings on the historical Jesus with special attention to how these relate to wisdom.

CHAPTER 20

Wisdom and the Rabbis Ari Mermelstein

Introduction The literary legacy of the late antique rabbis is as diverse as it is large. Though especially associated with halakhah and biblical interpretation, the rabbinic corpus also features texts that resemble biblical and Second Temple wisdom literature. This chapter will consider that material through both diachronic and synchronic lenses and will explore the rabbinic perspectives on wisdom, their relationship with the larger network of rabbinic values, and their impact on rabbinic attitudes toward other forms of wisdom and earlier wisdom literature. The trajectory from the biblical books generally regarded as wisdom literature – Proverbs, Qoheleth (Ecclesiastes), and Job – through late antique rabbinic literature is not linear. Biblical wisdom books left their imprint on material as diverse as the Dead Sea text 4QInstruction, the Hebrew Wisdom of Ben Sira, and the Wisdom of Solomon, composed in Greek. While the wisdom material in rabbinic literature is reminiscent of earlier wisdom literature in certain respects, there is much material that, in both form and substance, sets it apart. The sections of rabbinic literature usually classified as “wisdom” are likewise distinctive in relation to the other works produced by late antique rabbis. The literary style of wisdom is neither that of law nor of midrash, and its substance tends more toward the ethical than the legal. Scholars justifiably highlight these areas of difference but often overlook degrees of similarity in the process. Scholars of biblical wisdom literature who question the existence of a wisdom “tradition” have cautioned The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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against a facile distinction between law and wisdom, and the same observation holds true for rabbinic texts (Kynes 2015). Rabbinic wisdom materials thus elude simple description and classification in relation to both earlier and contemporaneous literature. By examining the form and substance of rabbinic wisdom, the scope and definition of wisdom in rabbinic literature, and the reception of biblical and Second Temple wisdom by late antique rabbis, this chapter considers the complex and multifaceted nature of rabbinic wisdom. It seeks to address one overarching question: What, exactly, is the place of wisdom within a rabbinic worldview?

Tractate Avot Based on considerations of form and substance, several works within the rabbinic corpus can be classified as wisdom literature. The earliest and most prominent of these is the mishnaic tractate Avot (Lerner 1987a, 267–272). This composition begins by describing a chain of transmission that extends back to Sinai, through the prophets, and down to the Men of the Great Assembly, the last of whom, Simeon the Righteous, is the first sage to whom Avot attributes a wisdom teaching (Herr 1979; Davies 1984; Boyarin 2003). From there, the opening two chapters trace the transmission of Torah, teacher to student, down through the students of R. Yohanan b. Zakkai in the aftermath of the destruction of the Second Temple. Chapters three and four, on the other hand, are arranged chronologically by generations of sages rather than by the teacher–disciple relationship (Tropper 2004, 24). Chapter five consists of anonymous statements comprising numerical lists. Chapter six, known as Qinyan Torah (“the acquisition of Torah”) was added at a later point (Lerner 1987b, 273–274). A critical edition of Avot is included in Sharvit 2004. The date of the book’s redaction is contested. Many scholars assume that Avot was redacted contemporaneously with the rest of the Mishnah, in which case “the question of the origin and date of Aboth is … in some respects only one part of the larger question of the origin and date of the Mishnah” (Herford 1925, 2), likely at the beginning of the third century CE. A smaller number of scholars date the redaction of Avot to the generation following the redaction of the Mishnah (Frankel 1859, 216) or even to the beginning of the fourth century (Guttmann 1950; Stemberger 1996). In order to appreciate Avot as wisdom literature, it is necessary to situate it within three contexts: earlier wisdom literature, especially Proverbs and Ben Sira; rabbinic literature, especially the Mishnah; and Greco‐Roman literature. Avot and Earlier Wisdom Literature Generally speaking, the Talmud’s characterization of Avot as facilitating piety captures the thrust of its contents (b. B. Qam. 30a). Much of this piety approximates

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that of Proverbs and other works in biblical and Second Temple literature: a man should not socialize excessively with women (Avot 1:5), should distance himself from evil neighbors (1:7), should not become overly friendly with the ruling authorities (1:10; 2:3), and should be slow to anger (2:10). The themes of justice (1:8), determinations about which paths in life are worth pursuing (2:1), reflections upon death (3:1), and virtue as its own reward (1:3) echo the major concerns of biblical wisdom literature (Gottlieb 1990). In addition to shared themes, Avot betrays the influence of earlier wisdom literature in its vocabulary and style, including proverbs, riddles, dialogue, metaphor, and tripartite and numerical sayings (Gottlieb 1990; Melamed 1986, 212–252; Tropper 2004, 62–85). In fact, the statement assigned to Samuel the Younger in Avot 4:19 is simply an unattributed quotation of Prov. 24:17–18. More remarkable than the similarities between Avot and biblical wisdom, however, are the differences. The value of Torah study (1:15) and the ramifications of refraining from it (3:5) are ubiquitous themes in Avot (Gottlieb 1990, 161–162). The objective of Torah study is not solely to acquire wisdom but also to receive reward (3:2). In particular, study enables a person to acquire a portion in the world to come (2:7). Conversely, neglecting Torah study results in punishment – according to one extreme formulation, one who forgets even one teaching deserves capital punishment (3:8)! And in spite of the similarities between Avot and biblical wisdom, nominal forms of hokhmah (“wisdom”) appear only five times in Avot (2:8; 3:9, 13, 17, 18); the word torah is featured far more prominently. The relationship between Avot and earlier wisdom literature such as Proverbs can be appreciated by considering the range of topics treated by biblical wisdom literature: “Self‐evident intuitions about mastering life for human betterment, gropings after life’s secrets with regard to innocent suffering, grappling with finitude, and quest for truth concealed in the created order and manifested in a feminine persona” (Crenshaw 2010, 12). Avot evinces an interest in many of these areas, but with several important differences from earlier wisdom. First, the quest for truth is not manifested in a feminine persona but rather in the Torah. In fact, Avot seems to avoid the feminine persona in biblical wisdom literature, invoking Prov. 4:2, rather than Prov. 8:22, as the basis for the belief in the Torah’s preexistence (3:14). The quest for truth is likewise not conducted by reflecting on the created order but rather by attending to the teachings of rabbinic sages. In that regard, the chain of transmission in Avot 1:1 functions as the source, or at least a basis, of wisdom. The quest to “master life for human betterment” is the most salient link between Avot and wisdom literature, yet Avot provides a distinctive definition of “human betterment”: a Torah‐oriented life, in its broadest sense, as defined and lived by the rabbinic sages. In associating the Torah and commandments with wisdom, Avot is much closer  to the worldview of the Wisdom of Ben Sira (for more on this book, see Chapter 5 in this volume).1 Ben Sira often connects wisdom with observance of

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the ­commandments, and he famously links wisdom and Torah in ch. 24. Chapters 44–50 in Ben Sira, like the opening chapters of Avot, trace the passage of wisdom through history (Mermelstein 2014, 58–80). As in Avot, Jewish history becomes a factor in the transmission of wisdom in Ben Sira, though, in Ben Sira, the figure of Wisdom’s journey begins at creation rather than at Sinai. That distinction points to a more fundamental difference between Avot and Ben Sira: in Ben Sira, Torah is a development, albeit the supreme form, of universal wisdom (Mermelstein 2014, 16–51). Aside from the explicit statement in Sirach 24 that links the Wisdom figure of Proverbs 8 with Torah, there are few traces of this equation elsewhere in Ben Sira.2 In addition, Ben Sira associates wisdom with observance of the commandments without speaking of reward for that observance. On the other hand, Torah and wisdom seem inextricably linked in Avot; there is no indication that Avot associates Torah with universal wisdom in any way. The rabbinic tradition of wisdom originated with Sinaitic revelation rather than at creation. Given the similarities to and differences from earlier wisdom literature, Avot can be described as a “collection of wisdom sayings organized to establish the authority of a continuous and coherent group of teachers and teachings and centered around the major emphases of that group, Torah and Torah study” (Saldarini 1982, 21). Wisdom, Torah, and rabbinic values are intimately bound together.

Avot and Rabbinic Literature Yet Avot is not completely at home in rabbinic literature either. The chain of transmission with which Avot begins and the total absence of dispute set this tractate apart from the rest of the mishnaic corpus (Steinmetz 2002, 68–78). Many of the rabbis quoted in Avot are either seldom or never quoted elsewhere in rabbinic literature (Schremer 2015, 297). Aphorisms of the type attested in Avot are found throughout rabbinic literature, but Avot is the only mishnaic tractate that contains no legal material. Finally, Avot is not cited frequently in the talmudim, leading some scholars to propose that it did not occupy a prominent place within the world of the rabbis (Stemberger 1996, 526). The exceptional aspects of Avot have led several scholars to interpret it as a polemical, or at least ideologically tinged, text. Adiel Schremer (2015) argues that Avot was produced by a school associated with R. Eliezer b. Hyrcanus, the paradigmatic rabbinic outcast (cf. Gilat 1984).3 In line with R. Eliezer’s reputation as a traditionalist, Avot introduces the chain of transmission in order to argue that the entire rabbinic tradition is of Sinaitic origin.4 In a slightly different direction, Devora Steinmetz suggests that the choices to focus on wisdom materials, omit disputes, attribute statements to many obscure rabbis (including several well‐known dissidents), and open the tractate with the chain of transmission are meant to project the vision of a community that is “neither fragmented by dispute nor forced to expel

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dissident members” (2002, 88). The ethical principles communicated by wisdom materials become the domain which unifies the community: anyone who subscribes to principles such as fear of sin and primacy of Torah study can maintain her/his standing within the group (Steinmetz 2002, 72–73). This wisdom text thus becomes a counterpoint to the rest of the mishnaic corpus, which is replete with dispute and dissent. At the very least, the relationship between Avot and the rest of the Mishnah demonstrates the problem with the traditional opposition between law and wisdom. Many of the tradents in Avot are known from elsewhere in rabbinic literature (Gottlieb 1990, 163). The editor of Avot, by turning to wisdom materials, delineates a roadmap for human flourishing and a view of the good life in general which focuses on the rabbinic lifestyle and the teachings of its authorized sages. Even traditional, universalistic wisdom themes such as justice and divine goodness are presented in Avot in the service of rabbinic authority and life. Both the chain of transmission and the tractate’s contents serve to cement rabbinic authority. According to Tropper (2004, 48), the chain “offers a blanket justification for the tannaitic interpretative project as a whole.” The content of Avot likewise supports the rabbinic worldview; for the tractate’s editor, “the ideal rabbinic Jew behaves righteously, studies the Torah as interpreted by the rabbis, and fulfills its commandments, since he believes that this way of life saves him from sorrow, secures him everlasting rewards and, most importantly, stems from the will of God” (Tropper 2004, 49). Avot may have been transmitted to a different demographic or in a different setting than rabbinic law, making the study of rabbinic wisdom a complement to engagement with halakhah.5 The truism that, in rabbinic literature, wisdom comes to be identified with Torah is accurate. However, Avot demonstrates that the relationship between wisdom and Torah is more complicated than that: wisdom becomes a medium through which the rabbis present Torah as the centerpiece of a fulfilling and good life.

Avot and Greco‐Roman Literature Both in style and substance, Avot bears a striking resemblance to literature from the wider Greco‐Roman world. Avot can be described as a mishnaic tractate in the spirit of biblical wisdom using Greco‐Roman literary conventions, especially of literature produced by Greco‐Roman schools. To fully appreciate this exceptional text, we must therefore turn not only to biblical and rabbinic literature but also to literature produced by the ambient culture. Sayings collections such as Avot are attested elsewhere in antiquity (Saldarini 1982, 19–21). The literature produced by these schools coupled chains of transmission to sayings and stories, thus grounding its teaching in an authoritative line. Avot thus portrays “Judaism as a school, and the appeal is made to the listeners to

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become students of Torah” (Saldarini 1982, 77). The parallels between Avot and roughly contemporaneous works by Philostratus and Diogenes Laertius are especially revealing. All three compositions record the history of an intellectual tradition that was transmitted from master to disciple in a scholastic setting (Tropper 2004, 136–156). The chain of transmission in Avot 1:1 and the subsequent description of that transmission through the first two chapters of the tractate bears a striking resemblance to the genre of Greco‐Roman succession lists, which for centuries, beginning in the second century BCE, was the “medium for writing the history of an intellectual discipline” (Tropper 2004, 163). The chain of tradition also bears a striking resemblance to a rhetorical form, the “transmissional sorite,” found among Greco‐Roman philosophical schools during the first centuries CE (Fischel 1973). Likewise, a collection of aphoristic sayings attributed to individual sages resembles closely the Greek literary form known as the chreia, “a pointed saying … defined by its explicit attribution to a particular person” (Tropper 2004, 180). Scholars have also invoked gnomai, collections of pithy maxims, as a Greco‐Roman parallel to Avot (Lerner 1987b, 263). Avot, then, is a product of three different traditions: biblical wisdom literature, rabbinic values, and Greco‐Roman literature. Of course, Avot is greater than the sum of its parts. Its editor has produced a distinctive roadmap for a good life, understood as one lived in accordance with rabbinic values and available by submitting to the will of authoritative tradents.

Other Wisdom Compositions Although it is the best‐known, Avot is not the only example of wisdom literature to emerge from rabbinic circles. Most prominently, The Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan (=Avot de‐Rabbi Natan or ADRN), Derekh Erets Rabbah, and Derekh Erets Zuta should be classified as works of rabbinic wisdom. Avot de‐Rabbi Natan is an expansion of Avot whose base text is different from, shorter than, and in many cases preserves traditions earlier than the mishnaic version of Avot (Finkelstein 1938).6 But the majority of ADRN reads alternately like a midrashic exposition of Avot and a Tosefta‐like collection of additional sayings and traditions not preserved or found in Avot (Lerner 1987a, 369). The text’s modern editor, Solomon Schechter (1997), distinguished two recensions of the text, labeled A and B, though more recent scholars have noted that the manuscript tradition is far more complex (Kister 1998, 6–7; Bregman 1983). The dating of ADRN is notoriously complex. It certainly contains much tannaitic material but also a sizable amount of post‐tannaitic traditions, with the eventual editing having occurred sometime between the sixth and ninth centuries (Schechter 1997, 26; Kister 1998, 217–220). The ethos of ADRN has been described as “scholastic,” setting out a vision for how members of a circle of disciples should relate to each other, their teacher, and outsiders such as

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Romans, women, and non‐rabbinic Jews (Saldarini 1982; Schofer 2005, 30–41). In contrast to Avot, ADRN does not simply articulate this vision in the form of wisdom statements but illustrates it through numerous narratives about rabbis behaving in accordance with that vision (Schofer 2005, 49–53). Derekh Erets is the subject of two of the so‐called “minor tractates,” Derekh Erets Rabbah (DER) and Derekh Erets Zuta (DEZ). The concept of derekh erets refers to “experiences and observations that are universally human, concerning both man himself and his relation with surrounding nature and its laws” (van Loopik 1991, 4). The term was broad enough, however, to also encompass practices of an explicitly Jewish nature (van Loopik 1991, 5). The content and style of DER and DEZ resembles wisdom literature, including Avot, very closely (Krauss 1898, 205; Stemberger 2008, 305–306). Both are composite texts consisting especially of subunits of pithy maxims edited independently and then combined to create larger tractates (Lerner 1987a, 381–387; Sperber 1990). The contents of DER are highly eclectic, covering topics such as acceptable sexual ethics and practice (ch. 1), correct treatment of sages (4:3), behavior toward one’s host (6:1), behavior at meals (6:6), toilet etiquette (7:6), bathing practices (10:7), habits that promote good health (11:6), and proper manners generally (8:8). This range of practical ethics and advice, however, has an overtly religious dimension: many provisions in DER are modeled upon divine behavior (5:2), or at least upon the conduct of rabbinic sages. The piety outlined in DEZ is explicitly that of the scholar (1:1). In contrast to DER, most of the provisions in DEZ are stated anonymously. Religious themes such as love of Torah (2:6), the importance of Torah study (8:1) and observance (3:4), and the afterlife and divine reward and punishment (4:6) alternate with reflections upon friendship (2:10), measuring one’s speech (3:1), exercising caution in one’s financial relationships (3:8), and death (9:14). The Talmud (b. Ber. 22a) refers to “a chapter of laws (hilkhot) of derekh erets” which R. Judah b. Ilai, a Tanna (early rabbinic teacher) of the mid‐second century, taught his students, suggesting that statements such as those found in the Derekh Erets tractates were extant during the tannaitic period, though the final date of redaction of both is likely in the eighth or ninth centuries.7 The reference to these teachings as “laws” is of particular importance. Despite its resemblance to wisdom literature in both form and content, the category of derekh erets is now subsumed under the umbrella of halakhah. Ben Sira first identified wisdom with Torah, but the rabbis extend this association a significant step further. In the form of derekh erets, wisdom has become for the rabbis a virtual halakhic category.

The Relationship Between Wisdom and Torah In Avot and the Derekh Erets tractates, wisdom both promotes the importance of the rabbinic lifestyle and constitutes a virtual halakhic category within that system. Moreover, Torah is often identified with wisdom in Avot (Rosen‐Zvi 2016, 177–178).

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The locus classicus for this identification in rabbinic literature is the opening pericope of Genesis Rabbah, which, in the spirit of Ben Sira, associates Torah with Prov. 8:22– 31. Do these developments leave room for forms of wisdom outside Torah and the rabbinic life? And, if such non‐Torah wisdom does exist, may rabbis acquire it? In pursuing these questions, we extend our earlier discussion about the nexus between wisdom and rabbinic values: if rabbinic wisdom was deployed in the service of rabbinic values, could a rabbinic life accommodate forms of wisdom that were either unrelated or even antithetical to those values? Gentile Wisdom Not surprisingly, rabbinic literature lacks a uniform position on whether there is wisdom among the nations. According to one minority perspective, “Four kingdoms ruled Israel, and none of them had a sage nor one with discernment” (Sifre Deut. §304). Rabbinic literature, however, generally admits the existence of non‐ Jewish forms of wisdom, including domains such as astrology, astronomy, divination, and medicine (Veltri 1998; Labendz 2013, 148). Gentiles can thus achieve the status of a hakham (“wise person”) according to the third century Palestinian Amora (a type of early rabbinic scholar) Rabbi Yohanan: “Whoever says something wise, even if he is from the nations of the world, is called a wise man” (b. Meg. 16a). Gentile wisdom is even described as a divine gift: “God established wise men for every single nation that exists in the world to serve it. Not only that, but God also gave them three things: wisdom (hokhmah), discernment (binah), and strength (gevurah)” (Gen. Rab. §89). In areas of non‐Jewish wisdom, such as aspects of the physical universe, the rabbis are sometimes willing to defer to the opinion of non‐ Jews, as in the following text: The Jewish sages say that during the day the sun travels beneath the firmament and, at night, above the firmament. And the sages of the nations of the world say that during the day the sun travels beneath the firmament and, at night, beneath the earth. Rabbi (Yehuda ha‐Nasi) said: “And the statement of the sages of the nations of the world appears to be more accurate than our statement.” (b. Pes. 94b)

Wisdom is thus not limited to Torah, and non‐Jews might possess superior wisdom in certain domains. Not all rabbis, however, are willing to concede the superiority of gentile sages: The Emperor once asked R. Joshua b. Hananiah: “How long is the period of gestation and birth of a serpent?” – He replied to him: “Seven years.” “But did not the Sages of the Athenian school couple [a male serpent with a female] and they gave birth in three years?” – “Those had already been pregnant for four years.” “But did they not have sexual contact?” – “Serpents have sexual intercourse in the same manner as human

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beings.” “But are not [the sages of Athens] wise men [and surely they must have ascertained the true facts about the serpent]?” “We are wiser than they.” (b. Bekh. 8b–9a)

In the continuation of that pericope, R. Joshua travels to Athens to debate with the Athenian sages about the physical universe. Not only did he take an interest in these matters, but he also asserted the supremacy of the rabbis over the sages of other nations. Nevertheless, there is no indication that R. Joshua regarded this knowledge as Torah, only that Jewish knowledge was comprehensive and included forms of wisdom that were outside of Torah proper. Rather, those who possess the wisdom of Torah also enjoy superior wisdom in other domains. Rabbis are hakhamim (“wise men”) in the widest possible sense. On the other hand, some sources discourage Jewish engagement with gentile wisdom entirely: Ben Damah, the son of R. Ishmael’s sister, once asked R. Ishmael: “May one such as I who have studied the whole of the Torah learn Greek wisdom?” He thereupon read to him the following verse: “Let this book of the law not cease from your lips, but recite it day and night (Josh. 1:8). Go then and find a time that is neither day nor night and learn then Greek wisdom.” (b. Men. 99b)

This source accepts the existence of “Greek wisdom” as an independent category of knowledge but looks askance at Jewish exposure to it.8 There might be wisdom outside of Torah, but it is not a form of wisdom available for Jewish consumption. The requirement to study Torah is all‐encompassing and therefore does not admit the possibility of studying other forms of knowledge. If, as we saw earlier, the rabbis associated wisdom with the wider network of rabbinic values, forms of wisdom that defied those values could not be part of a rabbinic curriculum. The question posed by Ben Damah to Rabbi Ishmael – “May one such as I who have studied the whole of the Torah learn Greek wisdom?” – is the subject of another rabbinic text: And talk about them (Deut. 6:7) – make them primary and not secondary. That your give and take will only be about them. That you do not mix other things in them, like so‐and‐so. Lest you say: “I have learned the wisdom of Israel, I will proceed to learn the wisdom of the nations,” it teaches, saying, to walk in them (Lev. 18:4), and not to leave them. And so it says, let them be for yourself alone (Prov. 5:17). And it says, when you walk it will lead you, when you lie down it will guard you, and when you awake it will speak to you (Prov. 6:22). When you walk it will lead you: in this world. When you lie down it will guard you: at the time of your death. And when you awake: in the days of the Messiah. It will speak to you: in the world to come. (Sifre Deut. §34)

Like the previous source, this one does not deny the existence of wisdom aside from the Torah but rather affirms the need to study Torah exclusively. Jewish w ­ isdom is

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not simply a discipline that one must learn before progressing to gentile forms of wisdom but rather a brand of knowledge that makes exclusive demands of the Jew, accompanying a person as he or she sleeps, wakes, and walks. In contrast to the prooftext that Rabbi Ishmael offered to Ben Damah forbidding him from studying Greek wisdom, this source draws upon verses from Proverbs that describe the relationship between a Jew and the wisdom of the Torah in more intimate terms (Rosen‐Zvi 2016, 173). Non‐Jewish wisdom is problematic because it is not Jewish wisdom. For this perspective, there is wisdom outside of Torah, but the rabbinic hakham may not engage in its study. This definition of a hakham as one completely absorbed with the study of Torah is found in the following passage from Sifre Deuteronomy: What is the difference between a wise person (hakham) and a discerning person (navon)? A wise person resembles a rich money changer. When someone brings him [money] to examine, he examines it, and when no one brings him [money] to examine he takes out his own and examines it. A discerning person resembles a poor money changer. When someone brings him [money] to examine he examines it, and when no one brings him [money] to examine he sits waiting anxiously (§13).

The hakham, according to this passage, “spends his time absorbed in study for its own sake and not … only when his expertise is sought for a practical application” (Fraade 1990, 427). The sources that forbid one from pursuing other forms of wisdom seem to have in mind this model of a hakham. The sentiment that Torah wisdom stands out as singular and is the unique heritage of the Jews also means that the nations of the world cannot enjoy access to the Torah. Thus, “If one tells you that there is wisdom among the nations, believe it, for it says, I will make the wise vanish from Edom, understanding from Esau’s mount (Obad. 1:8). [But if one tells you that] there is Torah, do not believe it” (Lam. Rab. 2:13). Just as (according to the above sources), there is no room for general wisdom in Israel, so too (according to this source), there is no place for Torah among the nations. Other sources describe the relationship between Israel and the Torah in sexual terms, according to which only Israel can have access to Torah (e.g. Sifre Deut. §345). Non‐Rabbinic Wisdom The question of whether non‐rabbinic Jews can possess a form of wisdom that stands independent of Torah resembles that concerning the existence of gentile wisdom. In more than one hundred instances in the Babylonian Talmud (Pomeranz 2016, 25), rabbis attribute Aramaic proverbs  –  the classic medium of wisdom extending back to ancient Near Eastern wisdom – to the masses, always introducing the proverb with the same formula: “as people say.”9 In most instances, these

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proverbs lack religious overtones; their content sometimes resembles closely Aesop’s fables and Greek proverbs more generally (Lieberman 1942, 144–60; Friedman 2003). These popular proverbs are typically quoted as part of a rabbinic discussion in order to elaborate upon or support a rabbinic teaching, often in discussions about biblical passages (e.g. b. Shabb. 62b). In some cases, these folk proverbs are endowed with such authority that they can serve as the basis for challenging a rabbinic statement (e.g. b. B. Metsiʿa 59a), explaining the rationale underlying a rabbinic law (e.g. b. B. Metsiʿa 51a), or even as the source for rabbinic law (b. Yeb. 114b). The rabbis thus recognize and endorse the independent wisdom of the commoner as embodied in folk proverbs. However, some rabbinic sources actually characterize those proverbs as simply restatements of biblical verses. The following passage is illustrative: A certain man used to say: “It is good for a person to hear and be silent. One hundred evils pass him by.” Samuel said to Rav Yehuda: “This is a written verse: To start a quarrel is to open a sluice; [before a dispute flares up, drop it.]” (Prov. 17:14). (b. Sanh. 7a)

Samuel accepts the wisdom of the proverb but claims that it is unoriginal, having been anticipated by a biblical verse. The pericope proceeds to give another six examples of proverbs recited by “a certain man” that Samuel and, in one instance, Rav Huna, alleged were simply reiterations of a biblical statement (Pomeranz 2016, 30). They do not reject the authentic wisdom of these proverbs, but, at least for Samuel and Rav Huna, the link between Torah and wisdom is so comprehensive as to neutralize all other forms of wisdom.

The View of Biblical Wisdom in the Rabbinic Literature The rabbinic understanding of wisdom as oriented toward a rabbinic lifestyle did not only affect the way competing forms of wisdom were viewed but also earlier forms of wisdom  –  that is, the literary heritage of biblical and Second Temple wisdom literature. Those earlier works, too, were not always consistent with a rabbinic lifestyle. However, while the rabbis could dismiss foreign or non‐­rabbinic forms of wisdom, they could not similarly dispense with the wisdom of biblical books like Qoheleth and Proverbs. If the rabbis assimilated wisdom into both Torah and the rabbinic lifestyle, how did they view earlier wisdom literature, especially Qoheleth and Proverbs, which do not seem to espouse the same view of wisdom?10 And how did they evaluate the Wisdom of Ben Sira, a book whose outlook on wisdom approximates that of the rabbis and yet is not included in their biblical canon? We turn now to consider the reception of earlier wisdom literature by interpreters who conflated wisdom and Torah and who viewed ­wisdom through a rabbinic lens.

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Qoheleth The earliest sources in rabbinic literature do not seem to object to the content of Qoheleth (Hirshman 2001, 88; for more on this book, Chapter 3 in this volume). Rather, they question its canonicity because it appears to be human rather than divine wisdom (t. Yad. 2:14). As non‐canonical wisdom, however, Qoheleth is no worse than any other book that did not merit inclusion in the canon. Qoheleth thus appears in Tosefta Yadayim on a list of non‐canonical works that includes the Gospels, Homer, and the Wisdom of Ben Sira (Herford 1966, 155; but cf. Boyarin 2004, 57–58). Post‐tannaitic sources, however, do not debate whether or not Qoheleth should be included in the canon but rather whether it should be taken out of circulation entirely (Leiman 1991, 72–86).11 The Rabbis identify two problems with the ­content of Qoheleth: first, its contents are self‐contradictory (b. Shabb. 30b), and second, its contents are religiously offensive (Lev. Rab. §28). The latter is also a type of contradiction, namely between the contents of Qoheleth and those of other biblical books.12 The sources suggest that the heretical overtones of the book were more troubling to the rabbis than its internal contradictions. The rabbis concluded that the skeptical formulation of Eccl. 1:3, “What do people gain from all the toil?” does not include “labor in the study of Torah,” because it reads toil rather than toils (Lev. Rab. §28). Once the book could be reconciled with religious norms, the rabbis could more easily resolve its internal contradictions (Dell 1994, 318; Fox 1989, 19). Thus, the rabbis elsewhere assert that the book was not hidden away, despite its apparent self‐contradictions, because the book both began in 1:3 and concluded with “words of Torah.” In other words, because the rabbis can now simply presuppose that Eccl. 1:3 affirms rabbinic values, they can likewise assume that the book is not truly self‐contradictory. Once in the canon, Qoheleth was read alongside and consistent with other canonical works (Halbertal 1997, 24). This does not only mean that the differences between Qoheleth and other biblical books are effaced but also that other texts can be used to reinterpret Qoheleth. Thus, the word “pain” in Eccl. 11:10, “Banish anger from your mind, and put away pain from your body,” is taken to refer to Gehinnom, a belief apparently denied by Qoheleth elsewhere but supported here with reference to Prov. 16:4 (b. Ned. 22a). The rabbis will also routinely read Qoheleth as referring to individuals elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible, with negative statements referring to biblical villains and positive statements alluding to biblical heroes (e.g. Gen. Rab. §93). The effect is to further bridge the gap between Qoheleth and the rest of the canon (Hirshman 1988, 158). As a canonical work, Qoheleth is read as representative of the rabbinic lifestyle. Perhaps the most audacious example of this trend is a statement in Qohelet Rabba that “all the references to eating and drinking in this book signify Torah and good deeds” (Halbertal 1997, 25). Qoheleth can teach that one should provide material

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to support rabbinic sages (b. Pes. 53b) and that one who studies Bible, Mishnah, and proper conduct will not sin (m. Qidd. 1:10). Even verses that explicitly condemn wickedness in general can refer narrowly to inappropriate rabbinic behavior. Thus, Qoheleth’s condemnation of the “wicked who do not fear God” whose “days will not lengthen like a shadow” (8:13) refers, according to one rabbinic statement, to those who do not stand in the presence of their teachers (b. Qidd. 33b). In order to produce such readings of Qoheleth, many rabbis offer metaphorical or allegorical interpretations of the text (Hirshman 1988, 158–159). For example, when Qoheleth writes that he “tried cheering myself with wine,” the rabbis take “wine” as referring to “the wine of Torah” (Qoh. Rab. to 2:3). In many other cases, the rabbis interpret the practical advice that is one of the hallmarks of wisdom statements as referring to rabbinic values related to piety and Torah‐study. In such cases, it seems that the rabbis presuppose that a canonical work will not simply provide details of practical wisdom – a form of omnisignificance. Thus, Eccl. 9:8 (“Let your garments always be white; do not let oil be lacking on your head”) is taken to mean that a person should repent lest s/he die tomorrow (b. Shabb. 153a). Yet the rabbis did not always identify lofty religious themes in their readings of Qoheleth. The same verse could in fact contain both a rabbinic value and a practical insight. Thus, Eccl. 10:18, “Through slothfulness the ceiling sags,” is taken both to mean that the neglect of Torah study leads God to withhold rain (b. Taʿ an. 7b) and as anticipating a popular proverb (b. Sanh. 7a). In reading Qoheleth through a rabbinic lens, the rabbis did not necessarily overlook or disregard themes in the book that were not religious in nature.

Proverbs While Proverbs does not share Qoheleth’s skeptical outlook on life, it did not avoid controversy entirely. In fact, several sources say that Proverbs was initially taken out of circulation for similar reasons as Qoheleth: it is self‐contradictory (e.g. b. Shabb. 30b) and contains inappropriate content (e.g. ADRN A §1). In both instances, however, the rabbis indicate that later authorities offered interpretations that resolved the difficulties. Once again, a canonical work of wisdom would necessarily have to align with rabbinic values. As a canonical book, Proverbs is read through the lens of rabbinic norms. The rabbis do indeed read Proverbs as wisdom, that is, as containing observations and truths about the world, the nature of human flourishing, and the natural order. However, while the wisdom contained in the biblical book is largely universalistic, the rabbis often read Proverbs in particularistic terms. At the most fundamental level, this reading expresses itself in the consistent equation of wisdom with Torah (e.g. b. Ber. 32b). Naturally, the rabbis also read instances of the word torah in Proverbs as referring not to instruction generally but to rabbinic Torah more

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­specifically (e.g. b. Sukkah 49b). The book’s observations thus concern laws and beliefs consistent with the ideology of rabbinic Judaism. For example, the rabbis take the statement in Prov. 30:18, “Three things are beyond me, four I cannot fathom” as a perplexed question by the wise Solomon about the biblical source for the four species on the feast of Tabernacles (Lev. Rab. §30), and Prov. 29:21, “A slave pampered from youth will come to a bad end,” refers to the effect of the evil inclination in both this world and the next (b. Sukkah 52b). As in their treatment of Qoheleth, the rabbis do not only read Proverbs in light of their own values but also in light of the larger canon. This process further obscures the broad wisdom themes in Proverbs. For example, many verses are taken by the rabbis as referring to specific biblical characters rather than as general statements of wisdom (e.g. Gen. Rab. §91). In order to read general observations as rabbinic lessons, the rabbis often take the verses out of context. Thus, whereas Prov. 7:26, “For many are those she has struck dead, and numerous are her victims,” refers in context to the Strange Woman, the rabbis read the first part of the verse as referring to an unqualified scholar who rendered a halakhic judgment and the latter part of the verse to a qualified scholar who refrained from rendering a judgment – and this in spite of the fact that, grammatically, the verbs require a feminine subject (b. Sotah 22a). In other cases, the rabbis read the text allegorically (e.g. b. Ber. 35b), or else via other creative methods, such as notariqon (understanding a letter of one word as the initial letter of another word; b. ʿ Erub. 64a). But the rabbis did not always read Proverbs as a particularistic text. Jewish law might depend on an understanding of human nature or society in general, a mainstay of wisdom thought, and for that the rabbis would turn to Proverbs. Thus, they interpreted Prov. 14:10, “The heart knows its bitterness,” to conclude that we listen to sick patients who affirm that they need to eat on Yom Kippur even if their doctor disagrees (b. Yoma 83a). In this way, Proverbs is not always approached through a rabbinic lens even if it does generate or at least support rabbinic law. As with Qoheleth, the rabbis did not necessarily overlook or reinterpret passages in Proverbs that are of a practical or non‐religious nature. In fact, the rabbis used Proverbs in order to produce their own proverbial wisdom. For example, “Rabbi (Yehuda Ha‐Nasi) says: One should never have too many friends in his house, as it is stated: There are friends that one has to his own hurt (Prov. 18:24)” (b. Ber. 63a).

The Wisdom of Ben Sira The book of Ben Sira, a work at the fringes of the Jewish biblical canon, posed a different sort of problem for the rabbis.13 The rabbis affirm that Ben Sira is not included in the biblical canon (t. Yad. 2:13). Nevertheless, it is clear that the book enjoyed widespread popularity in both rabbinic and non‐rabbinic circles (Leiman 1991, 99–102). Indeed, the content of Ben Sira is consistent with rabbinic wisdom statements

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and is cited frequently in rabbinic literature (Segal 1958, 37–42); several rabbis even take credit for teachings found in the book (m. Avot 4:4; b. Shabb. 11a). There is not an obvious pattern to the subject matter or verses that the rabbis cite, although Tal Ilan (2000) notes that a significant percentage of them concern women. Other subject matter quoted include attitudes toward esoteric knowledge, appropriate social conduct and manners, and hospitality (Labendz 2006, 381). Of course, Ben Sira’s famous identification of wisdom with Torah resembles that found in rabbinic literature, even if the rabbis never quote Sirach 24. Whether the rabbis would be willing to rely upon a non‐canonical work as a source of wisdom regardless of its content, however, was an open question. The dominant approach by the rabbis was to use the book selectively. As a non‐ canonical work, Ben Sira could not fully represent the rabbinic worldview, but it nonetheless contains ideas that resonated with the rabbis. Some sources – ­especially Palestinian sources  –  rabbinized Ben Sira (Labendz 2006), neatly distinguishing between biblical and post‐biblical wisdom (e.g. y. Hag. 2:1 [77c]). In such cases, Ben Sira is cited as if he were a member of the academy without reference to his book. The rabbis could thus cite “Rabbi Ben Sira” when it suited them without having to endorse his entire book. A similar solution was offered by the Babylonian Amora Rav Yosef (b. Sanh. 100b), who advocated publicizing only those teachings found in the book that are “lofty” or “excellent,” particularly those concerning women and what Rosen‐Zvi (2016, 180) labels an “ethic of caution.” The difference between those two selective approaches to Ben Sira is important, however. The first approach apparently believed that wisdom is only authentic or at least acceptable when it emerges from a rabbinic sage. In contrast, the second approach acknowledges the validity of wisdom outside of rabbinic circles provided that its content resonates with a rabbinic outlook. Put differently, the first approach to Ben Sira focused on the book’s authority, while the latter focused on its content. Either way, the rabbis generally objected to those who read Ben Sira as a canonical work rather than to those who would mine it for wise insights.14 Of course, such a solution is potentially dangerous, and other rabbis  – Babylonian Amoraim, who encountered Ben Sira at a much later date (Labendz 2006, 361–63)  –  offered content‐based reasons that would prohibit one from reading the book (b. Sanh. 100b). Interestingly, they struggled mightily to isolate problematic material in the composition. Before finally pinpointing the offending passages, the rabbis first considered numerous other passages throughout the book that, they were told, were perfectly acceptable. Ultimately, they honed in on passages in Ben Sira that suggest his book is full of nonsense, including “One who has a passage in his beard, the entire world is unable to overcome him” and “A sparse‐bearded man is clever; a thick‐bearded man is a fool.”15 The rabbis were not required to reinterpret such passages in a non‐canonical work as they were in canonical works such as Qoheleth; if the content of Ben Sira did not comport with a rabbinic outlook, it had no place in a rabbinic curriculum.

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Our survey of rabbinic treatments of Ben Sira reveals an important point about rabbinic attitudes toward earlier wisdom literature: wisdom works would have to reflect rabbinic values in order to receive the endorsement of the rabbis. Canonical works were necessarily reinterpreted to bring them into alignment with a rabbinic worldview, while non‐canonical works received a less charitable reception. Rosen‐ Zvi (2016, 180) sums up the rabbinic perspective on the non‐canonical work of Ben Sira well: “When they reflect on its content, they see mainly differences” from their own set of values and tradition. The rabbis did not shoulder the responsibility of actively transforming the entire book into a rabbinic work.

Conclusion The rabbis  –  in tractates explicitly devoted to wisdom and in comments sprinkled throughout the corpus of rabbinic literature – viewed wisdom as communicating the central components of a good life. In this way, rabbinic wisdom was very traditional. Radically new, however, was the link between wisdom and the rabbinic lifestyle. Wisdom would now shine a light on the rabbis as the authoritative teachers and their values and norms as the keys to human flourishing. The association between wisdom and the rabbinic life meant, for some rabbis, that wisdom could not exist outside of such a life. Some were receptive to non‐rabbinic forms of wisdom, but other rabbis distanced themselves from forms of wisdom that could not be reconciled with rabbinic values. On the other hand, the association between wisdom and a rabbinic perspective focused on piety and Torah‐study demanded that the rabbis bring into alignment canonical works of wisdom such as Qoheleth and Proverbs with their own set of values. The rabbis were not similarly required to afford a non‐canonical work such as Ben Sira the benefit of the doubt, and they seem to use it selectively or not at all. Notes 1 Scholars have noted that Avot 4:4 appears to be based upon Sir. 7:17 (Labendz 2006, 348–349). 2 On Sir. 1, see Goering 2009, 21–25. 3 The locus classicus for the ban imposed on R. Eliezer is b. B. Metsiʿa 59b. Though scholars question the historicity of that account (Rubenstein 1999, 34–63), third century Palestinian rabbis took the ban for granted (Schremer 2015, 291 n. 15). 4 For arguments against Schremer’s thesis, see Rosen‐Zvi 2016, 188. 5 For the possibility that Avot was intended for young adults as a type of initiation into a rabbinic life, see Tropper (2004, 184). For the possibility that it was transmitted in more informal settings, see Stemberger (2008, 316). B. Berakhot 22a describes the transmission of rabbinic wisdom literature occurring when R. Judah (b. Ilai) was ritually impure and therefore unable to teach rabbinic law.

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6 Kister (1998, 123–30) accepts Finkelstein’s basic observation but suggests that variants are often the result of paraphrase, textual corruption, or intentional change. 7 On the possibility that much of DEZ 1–4 is of tannaitic origin, see Sperber (1982, 177– 178). For a possible early recension of DER, see Lerner 1987a, 387. On the manuscript traditions of DER and DEZ, see van Loopik 1991, 11–13; Lerner 1987a, 380–81. 8 See m. Sotah 9:14, which prohibits the teaching of “Greek wisdom” to one’s son. Stern (1994, 176) distinguishes between general wisdom, which the rabbis do not generally oppose, and Greek wisdom, which they do oppose. However, the text in Sifre Deuteronomy to be analyzed below addresses the same question of whether one who has mastered Torah may progress to other forms of knowledge but speaks of the “wisdom of the nations” in general. 9 Other rabbinic collections quote similar types of folk proverbs, though with different introductory formulae; see Friedman 2003. 10 On Qoheleth in rabbinic literature, see, e.g. Sandberg 1999; Ginsburg 1970; Schiffer 1884. On Qoheleth Rabba, a midrashic work that contains much earlier material even though it most likely was edited in the seventh (Hirshman 1983) or eighth (Herr 1972) centuries, see Wachten 1978; Hirshman 1983; Hirshman 1988. The interpretations in the other post‐talmudic work on Qoheleth, Targum Qohelet, exhibit a “close relationship” with those in Qohelet Rabba (Knobel 1991, 14), likely indicating that they were redacted at approximately the same time (Knobel 1991, 14). 11 On the complications associated with Qoheleth, see Lieberman (1967, 163–69). 12 See Lev. Rab. §28, which notes the contradiction between “Follow the inclination of your heart and the desire of your eyes” (11:9) and “Do not follow the lust of your own heart and your own eyes” (Num. 15:39). ADRN A §1 also mentions Qoh. 11:9 as the reason that the book was taken out of circulation. However, whereas Lev. Rab. consequently characterizes Qoheleth as “leading toward heresy,” ADRN describes the book as “mere parables.” The tension between these verses is also noted by the Tanna R. Ishmael (Sifre Num. §155), but, consistent with the general tannaitic reticence to criticize the contents of the book, he does not object to the formulation in Qoheleth. 13 Scholars have paid particular attention to identifying the form of the book that the rabbis possessed and its relationship to extant versions; see, e.g. Wright 2008. Labendz (2006, 369–379) has suggested distinguishing between Palestinian and Babylonian sources, with the former containing citations of the book much closer to the surviving Hebrew manuscripts. 14 This formulation assumes that R. Akiva’s statement that one who “reads from the external books forfeits one’s place in the world to come” refers to those who treat the book as canonical rather than as a work of wise instruction; see Steinberger 1996, 432–434; Leiman 1991, 92. 15 Interestingly, these passages, all quoted in Aramaic, do not appear in any extant manuscript of Ben Sira. This need not mean that the Talmud invented these passages, however; as Wright (2008, 192) notes, these sayings could have been extracted from “popular anthologies” attributed to Ben Sira, expansions of the book that would have been a product of Ben Sira’s authority and popularity.

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References Boyarin, Daniel. 2003. The diadoche of the rabbis; or, Judah the patriarch at Yavneh. In: Jewish Culture and Society Under the Christian Roman Empire (ed. Richard Kalmin and Seth Schwartz), 285–318. Leuven: Peeters. Boyarin, Daniel. 2004. Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo‐Christianity. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Bregman, Marc. 1983. An early fragment of “Avot de Rabbi Natan” from a scroll. Tarbiz 52: 201–222. Hebrew. Crenshaw, James L. 2010. Old Testament Wisdom: An Introduction, 3rd ed. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Davies, W.D. 1984. Reflections on tradition: The ʾAbot revisited. In: Jewish and Pauline Studies (W.D. Davies), 27–48. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press. Dell, Katharine J. 1994. Ecclesiastes as wisdom: Consulting early interpreters. Vetus Testamentum 44: 301–329. Finkelstein, Louis. 1938. Introductory study to Pirke Abot. Journal of Biblical Literature 57: 13–50. Fischel, Henry A. 1973. The uses of sorites (Climax, Gradatio) in the tannaitic period. Hebrew Union College Annual 44: 119–151. Fox, Michael V. 1989. Qohelet and His Contradictions. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Fraade, Steven D. 1990. The early rabbinic sage. In: The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. John G. Gammie and Leo G. Perdue), 417–436. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Frankel, Zacharias. 1859. Introduction to the Mishna. Leipzig: H. Hunger. Hebrew. Friedman, Shamma. 2003. The Talmudic proverb in its cultural setting. Jewish

Studies, an Internet Journal 2: 25–82. Hebrew. Gilat, Yitzhak. 1984. R. Eliezer ben Hyrcanus: A Scholar Outcast. Ramat‐Gan: Bar‐Ilan University Press. Ginsburg, Christian D. 1970. Coheleth. New York: Ktav. Goering, Greg Schmidt. 2009. Wisdom’s Root Revealed: Ben Sira and the Election of Israel. Leiden: Brill. Gottlieb, Isaac B. 1990. Pirqe Abot and biblical wisdom. Vetus Testamentum 40: 152–164. Guttmann, Alexander. 1950. Tractate Abot: Its place in rabbinic literature. Jewish Quarterly Review 41: 181–193. Halbertal, Moshe. 1997. People of the Book: Canon, Meaning, and Authority. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Herford, R.T. 1925. Pirke Aboth: The Tractate “Fathers”, from the Mishnah, Commonly Called “Sayings of the Fathers.” New York: Jewish Institute of Religion Press. Herford, R.T. 1966. Christianity in Talmud and Midrash. Clifton, NJ: Reference Book Publishers. Herr, M.D. 1972. Ecclesiastes Rabbah. In: Encyclopedia Judaica (ed. Cecil Roth), 6.335. 16 vols. Jerusalem: Macmillan. Herr, M.D. 1979. Continuum in the chain of Torah transmission. Zion 44: 43–56. Hebrew. Hirshman, Marc G. 1983. “Midrash Qohelet Rabbah: Chapters 1–4 Commentary and Introduction.” PhD dissertation. The Jewish Theological Seminary of America. Hebrew. Hirshman, Marc G. 1988. The Greek Fathers and the aggada on Ecclesiastes: Formats of exegesis in late antiquity.

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Hebrew Union College Annual 59: 137–165. Hirshman, Marc G. 2001. Qohelet’s reception and interpretation in early rabbinic literature. In: Studies in Ancient Midrash (ed. James L. Kugel), 87–99. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Ilan, Tal. 2000. Ben Sira’s attitude to women and its reception by the Babylonian Talmud. Jewish Studies 40: 103–111. Hebrew. Kister, Menahem. 1998. Studies in Avot de‐ Rabbi Nathan: Text, Redaction and Interpretation. Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben‐ Zvi. Hebrew. Knobel, Peter S. 1991. The Targum of Qohelet: Translated, with a Critical Introduction, Apparatus, and Notes. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press. Krauss, S. 1898. Le traité talmudique «Déréch Éréç». Revue des études juives 37: 205–221. Kynes, Will. 2015. The modern scholarly wisdom tradition and the threat of pan‐sapientialism: A case report. In: Was There a Wisdom Tradition? New Prospects in Israelite Wisdom Studies (ed. Mark R. Sneed), 11–38. Atlanta, GA: SBL. Labendz, Jenny R. 2006. The book of Ben Sira in rabbinic literature. Association for Jewish Studies Review 30: 347–392. Labendz, Jenny R. 2013. Socratic Torah: Non‐Jews in Rabbinic Intellectual Culture. New York: Oxford University Press. Leiman, Sid Z. 1991. The Canonization of Hebrew Scripture: The Talmudic and Midrashic Evidence. New Haven, CT: Connecticut Academy of Arts and Sciences. Lerner, M.B. 1987a. The external tractates. In: The Literature of the Sages, Part 1 (ed. Shmuel Safrai). Van Gorcum: Assen.

Lerner, M.B. 1987b. The tractate Avot. In: The Literature of the Sages, Part 1 (ed. Shmuel Safrai), 263–276. Van Gorcum: Assen. Lieberman, Saul. 1942. Greek in Jewish Palestine: Studies in the Life and Manners of Jewish Palestine in the II‐IV Centuries C.E. New York: The Jewish Theological Seminary of America. Lieberman, Saul. 1967. Notes to chapter one of Kohelet Rabbah. In: Studies in Mysticism and Religion Presented to Gershom G. Scholem on His Seventieth Birthday by Pupils, Colleagues, and Friends (ed. E.E. Urbach, R.J. Zwi Werblowsky, and Ch. Wirszubski), 163–179. Jerusalem: Magnes. Hebrew. Loopik, Marcus van. 1991. The Ways of the Sages and the Way of the World: The Minor Tractates of the Babylonian Talmud: Derekh ʾ Eretz Rabbah, Derekh ʾ Eretz Zuta, Pereq ha‐Shalom. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Melamed, E.Z. 1986. Essays in Talmudic Literature. Jerusalem: Magnes. Hebrew. Mermelstein, Ari. 2014. Creation, Covenant, and the Beginnings of Judaism: Reconceiving Historical Time in the Second Temple Period. Leiden: Brill. Pomeranz, Jonathan A. 2016. “Seven pits for the good man”: Torah and popular wisdom in rabbinic Babylonia. Jewish Studies Quarterly 23: 22–46. Rosen‐Zvi, Ishay. 2016. The wisdom tradition in rabbinic literature and Mishnah Avot. In: Tracing Sapiential Traditions in Ancient Judaism (ed. Hindy Najman, Jean‐Sébastien Rey, and Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar), 172–190. Leiden: Brill. Rubenstein, Jeffrey L. 1999. Talmudic Stories: Narrative Art, Composition, and Culture. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press.

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Saldarini, Anthony J. 1982. Scholastic Rabbinism: A Literary Study of the Fathers According to Rabbi Nathan. Chico, CA: Scholars Press. Sandberg, Ruth N. 1999. Rabbinic Views of Qohelet. Lewiston, NY: Mellen Biblical Press. Schechter, Solomon. 1997. Avoth de‐Rabbi Nathan: Solomon Schechter Edition. New York: The Jewish Theological Seminary of America. Hebrew. Schiffer, Sinai. 1884. Das Buch Kohelet nach der Auffassung der Weisen des Talmud und Midrasch und der jüdischen Erklärer des Mittelalters: nebst zahlreichen kritischen Noten und einer grössern Abhandlung ueber den Abschluss des alttestamentlichen Kanon und die Abfassungszeit des Buches Kohelet. Frankfurt am Main: J. Kauffmann. Schofer, Jonathan Wyn. 2005. The Making of a Sage: A Study in Rabbinic Ethics. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press. Schremer, Adiel. 2015. Avot reconsidered: Rethinking rabbinic Judaism. Jewish Quarterly Review 105: 287–311. Segal, M.Z. 1958. Sefer Ben Sira ha‐Shalem. Jerusalem: Bialik Institute. Sharvit, Shimon. 2004. Tractate Avoth Through the Ages: A Critical Edition, Prolegomena and Appendices. Jerusalem: Bialik Institute. Hebrew. Sperber, Daniel. 1982. Masechet Derech Eretz Zutta and Perek Ha‐Shalom. Jerusalem: Tsur‐Ot. Hebrew. Sperber, Daniel. 1990. Manuals of rabbinic conduct during the Talmudic and rabbinic periods. In: Scholars and Scholarship: The Interaction Between Judaism and Other Cultures (ed. Leo Landman), 9–26. New York: Yeshiva University Press.

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Steinberger, Yeshaya. 1996. The book of Ben Sira and the prohibition against reading it: The beginning of the struggle in acculturation. Shanah be‐Shanah: 430–439. Hebrew. Steinmetz, Devora. 2002. Distancing and bringing near: A new look at Mishnah tractates ʿ Eduyyot and ʾAbot.” Hebrew Union College Annual 73: 49–96. Stemberger, Günter. 1996. Die innerrabbinische Überlieferung von Mischna Abot. In: Geschichte–Tradition– Reflexion: Festschrift für Martin Hengel zum 70. Geburtstag (ed. Hubert Cancik, Hermann Lichtenberger, and Peter Schäfer), 511–527. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Stemberger, Günter. 2008. Sages, scribes, and seers in rabbinic Judaism. In: Scribes, Sages, and Seers: The Sages in the Eastern Mediterranean World (ed. Leo G. Perdue), 295–319. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Stern, Sacha. 1994. Jewish Identity in Early Rabbinic Writings. Leiden: Brill. Tropper, Amram D. 2004. Wisdom, Politics, and Historiography: Tractate Avot in the Context of the Graeco‐Roman Near East. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Veltri, Giuseppe. 1998. On the influence of “Greek wisdom”: Theoretical and empirical sciences in rabbinic Judaism. Jewish Studies Quarterly 5: 300–317. Wachten, Johannes. 1978. Midrasch‐ Analyse: Strukturen im Midrasch Qohelet Rabba. Hildesheim: Olms. Wright, Benjamin G. 2008. B. Sanhedrin 100b and rabbinic knowledge of Ben Sira. In: Praise Israel for Wisdom and Instruction: Essays on Ben Sira and Wisdom, the Letter of Aristeas, and the Septuagint (Benjamin G. Wright), 183–193. Leiden: Brill.

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Further Reading Kugel, James. 1997. Wisdom and the anthological temper. Prooftexts 17: 9–32. An important article on the ancient wisdom practice of creating anthologies. Perdue, Leo G. 2008. The Sword and the Stylus: An Introduction to Wisdom in the Age of Empires, 388–411. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. A survey of rabbinic

literature and its themes against the background of earlier wisdom literature. Viviano, Benedict T. 1978. Study as Worship: Aboth and the New Testament. Leiden: Brill. Comparative analysis of the theme of Torah study as a form of worship in Tractate Avot, pre‐rabbinic sources, and the Synoptic Gospels.

CHAPTER 21

The Wisdom Tradition in Early Christianity through Late Antiquity Carson Bay

Introduction and Scope “Wisdom” occupied major real estate on early Christianity’s conceptual map. Origen (c. 184–254) stated that the “object of Christianity” is to become wise (Against Celsus 3.45.9). The foundation of Christian wisdom was the Jewish wis­ dom tradition, including its literary corpus, several stock sages and seers, and a plethora of gnomic themes and sayings. This chapter is therefore predominantly a study in reception history, and presents the kinds of ways early Christian authors understood their inherited wisdom tradition and the types of uses to which early Christians put this tradition. The first three sections treat Christian reception of (1) biblical wisdom literature attributed to Solomon (Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Song of Songs); (2) Job and certain psalms that resonate with the wisdom tradition; and (3) the Wisdom of Solomon and Ben Sira. All of these books held some authority among early Christians and all were considered canonical at times. While some of these had a vague canonical status, as we will see below, even those which were not routinely considered canonical (Wisdom of Solomon, Ben Sira) were key compo­ nents in the persistence of wisdom traditions within early Christian circles. The next section presents a short case study of perhaps the most widely cited wisdom text in early Christianity, Prov. 8:22, and a fifth section tackles the question of the wisdom tradition as such among ancient Christians. Together, these sections review and assess the formative influence wisdom texts and traditions had upon early Christianity from its nascent stages through late antiquity. While the following The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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chapter is a sampling designed to demonstrate the diversity of early Christianity, and hence the wisdom tradition’s growth therein, even this representative sample supports several larger observations: 1. Wisdom literature  –  especially texts found in the Old Testament  –  comprised one of the most important, authoritative literary corpora for early Christians formulating their theology, addressing pastoral concerns, and explaining man­ ifold versions of the Christian philosophy of life. 2. The wisdom tradition appears in early Christianity as a particularly versatile source of textual authority. Individual portions of Jewish wisdom texts were appropriated by early Christians to support practical, philosophical, and politi­ cal positions, with the same passage often used for several different goals. Wisdom literature, with its usable format and broad subject matter, was for early Christian writers a malleable medium employed for countless purposes. 3. Early Christianity’s inherited wisdom tradition was, because of its versatility, pointedly ad hoc in deployment. Early Christians used wisdom texts to speak to issues immediately at hand within a given author’s social context, and often did so despite inconsistency or contradiction. This is doubly noticeable in ­homilies, sermons, and letters where old and (usually) canonical – and there­ fore authoritative – wisdom texts served to construct “orthodox” perspectives regarding money, gender relations, and the ritual and ethical habits of Christian life. Early Christian use of older Jewish wisdom texts is thus “characterized by the inconsistencies and by the multiplicity of meanings we associate with folk­ lore and proverbial wisdom” (Brown 2012, 55). 4. Wisdom literature was ubiquitous within early Christian culture, and its use was as diverse as its users. While certain authors – such as Origen, Athanasius, Jerome, and Augustine – hold pride of place in the study of the wisdom tradi­ tion’s reception history, recent scholarship has become increasingly aware of the diversity which characterized ancient Christian thought, and thus also Christianity’s appropriation of older wisdom traditions; aside from those men­ tioned above, certain authors writing in languages less universal than Latin and Greek also played very important parts in the wisdom tradition’s reception history, such as Ephrem (who wrote in Syriac) or Shenoute and Besa (who wrote in Coptic). Certain authors necessarily appear prominently in a survey like this, but let us remember the diversity that characterized the early Christian “wisdom tradition”; this chapter is written with this goal in mind. The above points emerge naturally out of the survey that follows. The importance, versatility, and diversity of the emergent Christian wisdom tradition as it adopted Jewish texts (even literary forms) is unmistakable. In a sometimes fractured and  internally dissonant nascent Christianity, widely shared acceptance of the Jewish wisdom tradition and its attendant corpus can help the student of history

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conceptualize the Christianity of the second through seventh centuries as evincing some kind of intellectual coherence. The enthusiastic use of the same texts, often for identical purposes – for example, see below how often Christians of various eras made use of wisdom texts to prove points about Jesus’s divinity or preexist­ ence  –  makes visible a commonality within the diversity of early Christianity. Despite different and sometimes divisive viewpoints, ancient Christians across the board appreciated and deployed in various ways the wisdom texts and tropes that it had appropriated from its Jewish beginnings.

Reception History 1: Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Song of Songs The three Old Testament books almost unanimously attributed to Solomon by early Christians constitute a kind of core to the early Christian wisdom tradition. They appear virtually everywhere in early Christian literature either by explicit reference or implicit allusion. These three books, which trendsetters like Origen and Jerome (c. 347–420) creatively associated with different stages of Solomon’s life (youth, mature adulthood, old age), were, among early Christians, useful texts which could be adapted readily to essentially innumerable applications.

Proverbs Origen  –  a Christian Neoplatonist of early third century Alexandria who would become one of the most influential voices in the history of Christianity – thought of Proverbs as a genre of pithy sayings (paroimiai) containing “literal” (saphēs) mean­ ings but also constituting ainigmata (“riddles”; Against Celsus 4.87); he used the lat­ ter to make essentially whatever point was convenient (for more on Proverbs, see Chapter 1 in this volume). But then Proverbs’ format naturally lends itself to argu­ ment, which was not lost on the prominent arguers of early Christianity. Their uni­ versality, penchant for memorability, and pithiness made Proverbs’ sayings favorites of many early Christian apologists and polemicists. The same proverbs which pepper Origen’s Against Celsus are used by Justin Martyr (c. 100–165) in his Dialogue with Trypho (62), Athenagoras (c. 133–190) in his Plea for the Christians (18), Tertullian (c. 155–240) in his Prescription Against Heretics (43), and Dionysius of Rome (d. 268) in his Against the Sabellians (2). And Proverbs could be used for many kinds of arguments. For instance, Clement of Alexandria (c. 150–215) used Prov. 3:32b and 4:10–11 to argue that Greek philosophy is a useful tool for “leading pagans to God” and that divine revelation and pagan philosophy represented “different paths to sal­ vation” (Strom. 1.5.28.1–29.3). In their love of Proverbs, such early Christian apol­ ogists embody a microcosm of a much more intellectually and literarily diverse movement which placed a premium on this collection of versatile sayings.

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It was not only in argument that Proverbs figured prominently within early Christian discourse: it was at the forefront of Christianity’s crossing of linguistic thresholds. The fifth‐century Armenian translation of the Bible began with Proverbs (Cox 2006, 1). Proverbs survives in the earliest extant Coptic Bible man­ uscript (Papyrus Bodmer VI). Ever popular and eminently practical, Christians of various languages utilized Proverbs. Proverbs served as musical fodder (Ephrem the Syrian, Hymns Preserved in Armenian 1.1) and facilitated biblical interpreta­ tion (Athanasius, Letter 2.1). It also lent practical direction to Christian life. This is evident in Christian engagement of the maxim of the ant in Prov. 6:6–8, to which the Septuagint, the Greek translation that was the Old Testament for most early Christians (see Chapter 8 in this volume), adds a parallel saying about the bee (in bold): Go to the ant, O lazybones, And zealously observe its ways, and Become wiser than it; for without having any cultivated land nor anyone that forces it nor being under any master, it prepares its food in summer, and it makes its provision plentiful in harvest time. Or go to the bee, and learn how industrious she is and how seriously she performs her work whose products kings and commoners use for their health. Yes, she is desired by all and honored. Although she is physically weak, By honoring wisdom she was promoted. (NETS)

The obvious application of this text is as exhortation against laziness and the pro­ motion of industry, a theme Christian leaders loved to expound upon (e.g. Ambrose, Six Days of Creation 6.14.16; Basil the Great, The Long Rules 37). However, the mul­ tiplicity of applications hewn from this stone is surprising. Augustine (c. 354–430) reads Prov. 6:6–8 as an allegory for the spiritual life (Explanations of the Psalms 67.3). For Jerome, the bees and ants are reminiscent of monastery life, a place of exemplary discipline to whose communal lifestyle he wished to return (Life of Malchus 7; Letter 125.11). More creative is Cyril of Jerusalem (c. 313–386) who compares the bees hovering over flowers to young Christians “hovering” over scrip­ tures (Catechetical Lectures 9.13). John Chrysostom (c. 349–407) was convinced that the ants and bees were models of selflessness, the latter of whose work benefits

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humans (Homilies Concerning the Statues 12.5); he also compared bees to the Church, an institution preparing for the future (eternity) and not just the present (Commentary on the Proverbs of Solomon frag. 6.8). Evagrius of Pontus (c. 345–399) developed a lengthy allegory of this Proverb where the “ant” signifies the “practi­ cal” life and the “bee” the “contemplation” of creation and creator (Scholia on Proverbs 72.6.8). As the above example shows, any given proverb could make any number of points for early Christian theologians. Another crucial role Proverbs facilitated was the formulation of Christian gender norms. Proverbs 1–7 uses pointedly female imagery to talk about wisdom and folly, and Proverbs 31 describes in detail the ideal housewife/mother. Such material early Christians could use. But of course, such use was not slave to Proverbs’ original context or meaning. Gregory of Nyssa’s (c. 335–394) On Virginity trumpets the ideal of female celibacy, appealing to Prov. 4:6–8 and its treatment of Lady Wisdom (20), a far cry from Proverbs’ own pragmatic aims. A bit closer to Proverbs’ own concerns, John Chrysostom in his Homilies Concerning the Statues (14.10) borrows the depiction of Dame Folly in Prov. 5:1–14 in polemicizing against the dangerous deception of the “loose woman.” Early Christians also used Proverbs to encourage exemplary models of marital life. The Apostolic Constitutions (375–380) uses Proverbs 31 to encourage men to “have” a godly wife (1.3.8) and Gregory of Nazianzus (c. 329–390) positively com­ pares the virtues of his parents (Oration 18.7) and sister (Oration 8.9) to the same text. While some allegorized Proverbs 31 and understood that chapter to refer to the Church (Caesarius of Arles, Sermon 139.1; Augustine, Sermon 37.4–5) or heresies (Sermon 37.27; Leander of Seville, Homily on the Triumph of the Church), its literal reading as a description of domesticity suited well the articulation and legitimiza­ tion of Christian marital norms. Yet proverbs were also useful in instructing unmar­ ried females. The fifth century Besa the Copt, who inherited an indefatigable interest in female behavior, especially that of nuns, from his mentor Shenoute of Atripe (d. 465), employed Prov. 14:1 to put a leash on female speech in the convent (frag. 29; Letter to Antinoe 2.3.4). Proverbs addressed for Christians many issues, and female disposition and behavior was not least among these. Proverbs harps constantly on the problems and uses of money – so did early Christians. One relentless ancient Christian position was that giving to the poor was a good, even God‐like, and certainly non‐negotiable, deed. Caesarius of Arles (c. 470–542) uses Prov. 19:17 to argue that giving to the poor will give one con­ fidence before God’s judgment seat (Sermon 158.6). In their attempts to address issues of inheritance and socioeconomic disparity, authors like Jerome and Cyprian enlisted Proverbs to ease the natural tensions accompanying economic inequality (Brown 2012, 318), instructing both the poor and the rich in how to use, and think about, wealth. Besides using Proverbs to promote generous giv­ ing, early Christians also used the text to forewarn the dangers of avarice and wealth itself. Gregory the Great (c. 540–604), citing Prov. 5:10 (which states that adultery jeopardizes wealth) and 28:20 (which implies that scrambling for

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wealth is foolish) in a text replete with wisdom references, effectively condemns capitalism: Now to be sure, the one who strives to cultivate riches (augere opes) ignores the ­shunning of sin; caught like a bird, while fixating hungrily upon the bait of the things of this world (terrenarum rerum), he does not know by what kind of noose of sin he is strangled. (Pastoral Care 3.20)

Gregory acts as spokesman for a generation of enormously wealthy churches that, somewhat ironically, insisted upon the transience and vacuity of wealth. The wis­ dom tradition helped to establish this point. The reception of Proverbs exemplifies the Jewish wisdom tradition’s early Christian afterlife, in that its pragmatic approach to practical issues such as money and marriage found interested readers in early Christians for whom such matters were daily, practical concerns. Ecclesiastes In its pithy and universal common‐sense wisdom, Ecclesiastes is a lot like Proverbs (for an overview of this book, see Chapter 3 in this volume). Yet it lacked the ubiqui­ tous use Proverbs enjoyed: while it appears early in texts like the Shepherd of Hermas, neither Justin nor Irenaeus quoted it (Plumptre 2013, 89). Nevertheless, its often recognized canonical status guaranteed its endurance in Christian tradition (Ecclesiastes’s canonical status was debated at least through the fourth century, but its connection to Solomon ensured its canonicity in most cases). Moreover, due to the pithiness and generality of its statements, it is no surprise that Christian writers used Ecclesiastes ex tempore. For example, Origen uses Eccl. 1:10 – “Is there any­ thing of which one could say, ‘Look, this is new’? Already it existed for ages which came before us” – to discuss multiple worlds! Yet one ought not suppose that multiple worlds existed at the same time, but rather that after this present world ends, others will make a beginning. (On First Principles 3.5.3) Origen’s student Clement of Alexandria used Eccl. 1:16, where Solomon describes how he acquired great wisdom and knowledge, to endorse his habit of arguing for use of pagan and Christian texts in the pursuit of wisdom (Strom. 1.13). Tertullian also applies Ecclesiastes awkwardly to a pet project: modifying Pauline concessions to (re)marriage, he argues that “the Christian present is not the ‘time’ for the ‘embraces’ of Ecclesiastes 3:5” (On Monogamy 3.6–8; Clark 1999, 272); even if Paul allowed marriage and sex for a time, Tertullian’s interpretation main­ tains that these issues no longer have any place in the Christian life. Ecclesiastes’s presence in the works of particular authors often depended on the earlier Christian authors on which they themselves depended; for example, the fact

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that Origen quotes Ecclesiastes virtually guaranteed its use in Eusebius, for whom Origen was a major literary influence. A characteristic passage like Eccl. 5:5 – “It is better for you not to vow, than to vow and not pay” – could be absent from the work of the Cappadocians and “the most renowned theologians” and yet concurrently maintain a strong presence in a lineage of numerous writers like Origen, Eusebius, Evagrius, and a plethora of connected authors, such as Ephrem the Syrian (c. 306– 373), John Cassian (360–435), Pseudo‐Dionsysius the Areopagite (fifth–sixth cen­ turies), Maximus the Confessor (c. 580–662), Antiochus of Palestine (seventh century), John of Damascus (679–749), and Theodore the Studite (759–826; Tzamalikos 2012, 331–332). Biblical interpretation was often a hereditary game, and thus sometimes which wisdom texts a particular author tapped, and what they were used for, was all but predestined. One author who was particularly important as an engine of tradition in Ecclesiastes’s reception was Jerome. Jerome was one of few Christians who knew well both the Hebrew Qoheleth and the Greek Ecclesiastes, and he translated the book into Latin – twice. One of these translations included an extensive commen­ tary. Ecclesiastes was not wildly popular in Jerome’s Latin West (Wright 2005, xxiv), so his work on the book is significant, and it is in this work we find an example of just how influential one author’s use of Ecclesiastes could be. Jerome popularized a “two level” literal/spiritual hermeneutic for Ecclesiastes. It was Jerome who anchored within Christendom the Jewish tradition that Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and the Song of Songs constitute the work of Solomon in youth, middle age, and old age respectively (following Origen, Commentary on the Song of Songs, Prologue). The tremors of Jerome’s influence reverberated through the Middle Ages  –  see Bonaventura’s commentary, written 1253–1257 – and even influenced the famous King James translation of Ecclesiastes’s famous dictum: “Vanity of vanities, all it vanity,” (Longman 2008, 143–145; see also Chapter 23 in this volume). Early Christians did not always accept the authority of wisdom texts like Ecclesiastes at face value, however. Often a text’s use was conformed to a particular author’s needs, as is always the case with the interpretation of authoritative scripture. Jerome exemplifies how one author’s reading of a book like Ecclesiastes could be impressively multifaceted. Jerome challenged the teaching of Ecclesiastes when his dogma required it (Holm‐Nielsen 1974, 175–176), following Gregory Thaumaturgus’s (c. 213–270) Metaphrase of the Book of Ecclesiastes. Jerome’s overall reading encouraged asceticism, since for him Ecclesiastes “teaches its readers to despise this world and its attractions” (Longman 2008, 143). At times, however, Jerome engaged in alle­ gorical/typological readings: for example, Jerome understood the references to “eat­ ing” in Ecclesiastes (e.g. 2:24–25) to refer to the Eucharist, as did Dionysius of Alexandria (c. 260–265), Philastrius (c. 330–397), Ambrose (c. 340–397), Augustine, and many others (Christianson 2007, 25). Yet allegory did not deter­ mine all Christian interpretations of Ecclesiastes. Theodore of Mopsuestia’s “unu­ sually literal approach” – “distinctly at odds” with such allegorical interpretation

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(Christianson 2007, 26)  –  must have contributed to his condemnation at the Second Council of Constantinople in 553 (that and the fact that he was seen as denying Ecclesiastes’s canonical status; Jarick 1995, 306–307). Christians did not always have to choose between allegorical and literal interpretations of Ecclesiastes either: this became true, for example, with the rise of catenae, anthologies of com­ mentaries which, like Jewish midrash, collected previous wisdom without major interpretive sculpting. Procopius of Gaza’s (c. 465–538) Catena on Ecclesiastes is among the first of this genre, and as such draws from eclectic sources “without try­ ing to arrive at a disciplined articulation of the exegetical possibilities” of Ecclesiastes (Hirshman 1988, 155). As with other scriptural texts, so with wisdom literature: some early Christians held fast to particular hermeneutical idiosyncrasies, while others were content simply to list the interpretive possibilities. Ecclesiastes, like Proverbs, demonstrates in its early Christian reception trends that characterize Christian use of its inherited wisdom tradition. Notable among these are the substantial influence of particular authors, the importance of alle­ gory, and the late antique development of anthologizing that combined diverse types of scriptural commentary into interpretive compendia. Indeed, these are trends applicable across early Christian culture, and that this can be demonstrated via wisdom texts suggests the sapiential tradition’s gravitas in Christianity’s forma­ tive centuries.

Song of Songs The Song is unique in the wisdom tradition, attributed to Solomon but not univer­ sally classified as sapiential literature by modern scholars. This erotically charged love poem lent itself in early Christian interpretation more to creative allegory than piecemeal, ad hoc use. And this caught on. Ann Matter has claimed that the Song later became “the most frequently interpreted book of medieval Christianity” (1990, 6). How did it get there? Scholars have conventionally attributed to Origen the lion’s share of influence in subsequent Christian interpretation; following upon the first Song commentary by Hippolytus (170–235), Origen’s influence allowed the Song’s bride to signify “both the corporate church and the individual soul” (Shuve 2016, 2). However, Karl Shuve has identified a parallel reading of the Song in North African and Spanish Latin Christianity which he traces to Cyprian of Carthage (d. 258); Cyprian used the Song in his On the Unity of the Catholic Church to circumscribe the Church’s boundaries amidst events anticipating the Donatist controversy, a North African dispute during the fourth and fifth centuries over whether or not sacraments per­ formed by clergy who had surrendered sacred texts during the earlier Diocletianic Persecution (303) were valid. (Christian texts were outlawed and confiscated dur­ ing this difficult crisis; afterward, having given sacred books over to the authorities

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was often viewed as damnable betrayal.) Cyprian used his interpretation of the Song to clarify who had authority and could administer sacraments (e.g. baptize), and who could not (Shuve 2016, 23–48). Thus, the Song had a diverse reception and was used for a variety of political and pastoral purposes. If certain authors overtly influenced the Song’s interpretation, they did not hold a monopoly on its exegesis. In the fourth century, Origen’s allegorical interpretation(s) were broadly influential, but his influence was not absolute (Clark 1992). He impacted the Song’s use in Ambrose, Jerome, Rufinus of Aquileia (c. 345–411), and Gregory of Elvira (d. 392), but these authors drew upon other sources as well (Shuve 2016, 1–3). In the West, Cyprian’s interpretation influenced authors who were arguing over the nature and boundaries of the Church; these included Parmenius and Optatus within the early fourth century Donatist debates; the fourth century Pacian in Barcelona (c. 310–391) and his interlocutor Simpronian; the lay Donatist Tyconius (d. c. 390); and numerous others, including Augustine, Gregory of Alvira, Victorinus of Pettau (d. 303), Reticius of Autun (d. c. 334), and (again) Ambrose (Shuve 2016). The Song also became weaponized in debates over the relative merits of marriage and celibacy; in Ambrose’s On Virgins and his later On Virginity “the Song served as a crucial set piece in his defense of the heavenly character of virgin­ ity” (Shuve 2016, 109–137). Jerome also utilized the Song to codify the “dos” and “do‐nots” of the female body, specifically regarding sex. Others, like Jovinian (c. 340– 405) dared to reference the Song in defense of marriage as a respectable institution, in stark contrast to the prevailing ascetic tenor of the time (Shuve 2016, 200–205). The Song’s undeniably “romantic” subject matter made it obvious ammunition for Christian debates about sex, women, and marriage, and when Christian authors were not busy applying the Song to the Church or the soul on a spiritual level, they were making it speak to the kind(s) of love life appropriate for Christians. The interpretation of the Song illustrates a principle applicable to the wisdom tradition generally: not only did interpretive traditions snowball through early Christian centuries, but multiple traditions coexisted and interacted, making more of an interpretive avalanche. Certain authors predominated, but Christians could use the Song for different purposes, and social circumstances often dictated use; when debates concerned virginity/marriage/sex/abstinence, the Song’s allegory could be traded to make way for construction of a “biblical” position concerning these. However, into late antiquity allegorical readings often carried the day. To appreciate how creative such allegory could be, observe Gregory the Great’s treat­ ment of Song 1:7 and 2:9: The Lord is called a “young stag of a deer” (2:9) in regard to the flesh he adopted as a son of ancient fathers. Heat always grows more intense at midday, and the young stag seeks a shaded place which the intensity of the heat does not affect. Likewise the Lord rests in those hearts not inflamed with the longings of the flesh, which, while enflamed, do not burn in their anxious concupiscence of this world. (Forty Gospel Homilies 33.7)

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Gregory’s literary conceits are conspicuous in his play on different meanings of “flesh” and “heat/burning.” More important is Gregory’s use of already figurative imagery in the metaphor of a young, virile deer (Song 2:9). Under Gregory’s pen a stag in the shade becomes the Lord in Christian hearts. This innovation suggests not only how free Christians in late antiquity were to postulate meanings for bibli­ cal texts, but also the Song’s intertextually interpretive potency. Intertextuality was a sine qua non of late antique biblical interpretation, and a text like the Song, when read as concerning Christ and the Church (or Christ and the Christian’s soul), served to engage scriptural interpretation and theological discussions (e.g. Nilus of Ancrya, Commentary on the Song of Songs 64–66; Gregory of Nyssa, Commentary on the Song of Songs 1). The Song in early Christian hands spoke truth about Christ and the Church, Christ and the Christian’s soul, and the insistent realities of marriage and sex that foisted themselves upon more or less willing Christian interpreters of every genera­ tion. It received authoritative interpretation at the hands of influential authors while also witnessing diverse interpretive history mirroring early Christianity’s kaleidoscopic identity. The Christian Old Testament’s erotic love poem encompassed in its reception the multifaceted nature of early Christian reality, where sexual angst, ecclesial politics, and personal religious experience all had a part to play.

Reception History 2: Wisdom Psalms and Job There are several psalms in the Old Testament whose use of sapiential themes and language has often led scholars to refer to them as “wisdom psalms,” though this category has been rejected by many recent scholars. Unlike so‐called wisdom psalms, the book of Job fits neatly within the wisdom genre but is idiosyncratic within biblical literature in its combination of a robust narrative framework with long series of long series of gnomic apophthegms and pithy adages. Job held imme­ diate appeal to Christians who were routinely fixated upon the book’s main subject (theodicy) and ancillary topics (cosmology; anthropology; nature). And while Job may not have been as popular as other wisdom texts, this book was a fixture, and Job a household name, within the ancient Christian wisdom tradition.

Wisdom Psalms: An Example from Psalms 1 and 37 Origen insisted in his Against Celsus that a perusal of the Psalms would confront the reader with “many wise maxims” (3.45). In particular, Origen thought Psalm 1 con­ tained the secret of life: meditation upon the law and “perfect living” according thereto (Selections from the Psalms 1.2), the whole point of the wisdom tradition. And, as was so often the case, when Origen stressed something, the Christian tradition

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after him did too. Many Christians agreed that Psalm 1 lent proverbial pithiness to structuring a “Christian law”: concentration upon God’s law, through reading and practice, changes the Christian person and guarantees spiritual flourishing (Hilary of Poitiers, Homily on Psalm 1 12; Jerome, Homily on Psalm 1; Theodore of Mopsuestia, Commentary on Psalms 1.2; Caesarius of Arles, Sermon 75.3; Sahdona the Syrian, Book of Perfection 61). Consequently, it was in Psalm 1 that early Christians saw the promise of the renewed Edenic reality of a world before “the fall,” or before sin (Hilary of Poitiers, Homily on Psalm 1 14–15; Basil the Great, Homilies on the Psalms 10.3; Arnobius the Younger, Commentary on the Psalms 1). Even if it was not wisdom litera­ ture as such – early Christians did not use the categories modern scholars do to talk about wisdom literature (see further below) – Psalm 1 and other psalms like it acted as guidebooks to wisdom by not a few early Christians. Fourth and fifth century Christian interpreters consistently used Psalm 1 to direct Christians toward this same essence of wisdom: right understanding and right prac­ tice (Athanasius, Festal Letter 5.1; Ambrose, Commentary on Twelve Psalms 1.13) – as opposed to its opposite (“foolishness”), implied in Psalm 1:1. Also, early Christians easily found Christ in Psalm 1 (Eusebius, Commentary on the Psalms 1.1; Jerome, Brief Commentary on Psalms 1; Augustine, Expositions on the Psalms 1.1), sometimes as personified wisdom (Jerome, Homily on Psalm 1; Hilary of Poitiers, Homily on Psalm 1 14–15). This helped apply Psalm 1’s botanical metaphor – the righteous person is “like a tree” which “yields fruit” and whose “leaf does not wither”  –  to Christian life: to be like a tree was to be like Christ (Augustine, Homilies on 1 John 2.10.2). A different plant metaphor stars in Ps. 37:2, where the psalmist mirrors Ecclesiastes’s wisdom, stating that human life withers like grass. This sentiment delighted Augustine, who hybridized Psalm 37 with Colossians 3 to make a philo­ sophical point about life’s transience and the practical point that “charity” (charitas) is therefore the “deep root” (alta radix) of Christian faith (Expositions on the Psalms 36.3). If human life is fleeting, like grass, as Psalm 37 insists it is (and Eccl. 3:19; 6:12; 12:5; cf. Ps. 103:15; Isa. 40:6–8), Augustine maintains both that this fact is worth considering, and that in view of life’s fleeting nature we need something to give life meaning; for Augustine, Christian charity helps provide this meaning. Psalm 37’s sapiential bent lent itself readily to the combination of christocentric theology and practical instruction, especially in the context of suffering, since the psalm is one long exposition contrasting the wicked and the righteous; such con­ trasts, common also in Proverbs, explain how to come to grips with and how to deal with suffering, especially in scenarios where the righteous suffer or where the unrighteous do not. Augustine excelled at this, and his christocentric framework for Psalm 37 contextualizes the suffering of the righteous: Have you believed in Christ? Why have you believed? What did he promise you? If Christ promised you happiness in this age, complain against Christ – complain against him when you see the unfaithful (infidelis) happy. (Expositions on the Psalms 36.9)

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Psalm 37, like Job, contained for Augustine the grist necessary to construct a robust theodicy: why do the righteous suffer? Because God’s promises apply to the resur­ rection. This psalm also combines theodicy with practical pedagogy, mirroring por­ tions of Proverbs and Ecclesiastes. For early Christians Psalm 37 exposed the emptiness of worldly goods (Origen, Commentary on the Gospel of John 32.106), highlighted the foolishness of anger (Basil the Great, Homily Against those Prone to Anger; Ambrose, Commentary on Twelve Psalms 37.18), while predicting punish­ ment of the wicked (Theodore of Mopsuestia, Commentary on Psalms 37.8–9; Theodoret of Cyrus, Commentary on the Psalms 37.3). For these interpreters Psalm 37 explained life’s fundamental dynamics and guaranteed the eschatological hope that wisdom literature’s insistence upon the blessedness of the righteous had always seemed to suggest, from Christianity’s beginnings (1 Clement 14) through late antiquity (Cassiodorus, Explanation on the Psalms 37.11–13). If not always considered strictly to be “wisdom books” themselves by modern interpreters, several psalms in particular were very much a part of the way that early Christians developed the trope of wisdom in their thought, writing, and teach­ ing; thus, whether or not any psalms appear in a survey of wisdom literature in the Jewish scriptures, certain psalms do belong in a survey of wisdom literature as it was received by ancient Christians. These psalms were interpreted christologically and adapted to various rhetorical, theological, and pastoral purposes. They functioned as instruments for explaining and encouraging, arguing and preaching about the real world, connecting observations about life and correct behavior.

Job If “interest in the book of Job … was not strong in the first Christian generations,” it picked up traction quickly (Simonetti and Conti 2006, xvii). This was partly because the book has a protagonist thought to embody the Christian ideal: perfect righteous­ ness mixed with humility. Job modeled paradigmatic righteousness for the first cen­ tury author of 1 Clement (17:3–4). Justin Martyr and Clement of Alexandria exploited Job as paragon in their respective Dialogue with Trypho (46.3) and Stromata (4.19.2), and Cyprian of Carthage lionized the suffering saint more than once. Clement’s famous student Origen later demonstrated a true love for Job, penning the first “systematic interpretation” of Job via 22 homilies (Simonetti and Conti 2006, xviii; Jerome, Letter 33). Even more widespread interest in Job emerged in later Christian centuries (see Chapter 24 in this volume on the reception history of Job). In the late fourth and fifth centuries, theological conversation apparently became normal within the urban Christian populace (Gregory of Nyssa, Oration on the Divinity of the Son and the Holy Spirit). In this context, Job gained a broad, intense Christian readership, following upon Hilary of Poitiers’s (c. 300–368) translation of Origen’s homilies on Job from Greek to Latin (Jerome, Letter 33). Because of Job’s

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themes concerning guilt/innocence, (in)justice, and suffering, it is no surprise to find this book surging in popularity at a time in which the Roman Empire, east and west, witnessed considerable social tension (Simonetti and Conti 2006, xviii–xix). In fact, two commentaries from this period come from Arian Christians, a group under intense scrutiny during the fourth and fifth centuries (“Arians” being a cat­ egory used to describe those Christians who followed a certain Arius in maintaining that Jesus was begotten by God at a certain point in time, and was thus not co‐eternal with him). Julian, a later fourth century Arian author, produced a full‐length com­ mentary on Job, as did others who defended an “Arian” position. These are joined by commentaries which tend toward ideological poles later deemed “orthodox,” by writers like John Chrysostom in Greek and Ambrose in Latin, along with a Syriac commentary possibly by Ephrem the Syrian translated into Armenian in the early fifth century. Also, Jerome translated Job from Hebrew to Latin sometime in the late fourth or early fifth century, and his disciple Philip the Priest quickly adopted this for use in his Commentary on the Book of Job (Simonetti and Conti 2006, xxiii). Some Job commentaries, like that of Didymus the Blind, won recognition at first before being condemned with the rest of his works at the Second Council of Constantinople (though he was an ardent opponent of Arianism). As hinted above, Job was used within the combative fourth and fifth Christian centuries in establishing polemical theological claims. Augustine relied upon Job for pointed arguments against Pelagius and Julian of Eclanum; so‐called “Pelagians” argued for the essential goodness of human nature, and Job, as Augustine was only too happy to point out, makes a fairly clear argument in the opposite direction. Yet the dense theological discourse within the Job narrative allowed authors of diverse theological persuasions to proffer various  –  often competing  –  pronouncements concerning divine nature, while also providing fodder for discussions about suffer­ ing and martyrdom (Athanasius, Life of Saint Antony 24; Hesychius of Jerusalem, Homilies on Job 10.7.2–3). These discussions took on a distinctly christological fla­ vor quite often, as they did when Christian authors saw Job’s suffering and speech therein as predicting Christ’s own suffering (Julian of Eclanum, Exposition on the Book of Job 9.24), or, more famously, when they understood Job’s famous words in Job 19:25 to refer to prophetically to Christ: “For I know that my redeemer lives, and at the last he will stand upon the earth” (see 1 Clement 26.3). This verse, taken to predict Christ’s resurrection, may explain why Job appears on early Christian sar­ cophagi (Hanson 2002, 16); it was without doubt one of the more important indi­ vidual verses from the wisdom texts in the entire early Christian tradition (Breed 2014, 142–200). In the sixth century, earlier commentaries like Chrysostom’s and Polychronius’s begat commentaries by authors like Olympiodorus. An interesting feature of Olympiodorus’s commentary is its adoption of Job for reinforcing a mechanical the­ ology of the physical world. Commenting upon Job 26:7–9, Olympiodorus states that “Indeed, unless God commands the clouds to rain, they do not release upon the

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earth the amount of rain he ordered” (Commentary on Job 26.7–9, emphasis added). Job’s lengthy digressions on nature and cosmos make it well‐suited to such expatia­ tion, and John Philoponus (c. 490–570) capitalized upon this as well in his On the Creation of the World. Still, Job’s larger refrain on theodicy and punishment remained the typical target of Christian exegetes of the sixth and seventh centuries. Perhaps no one exploited such themes in Job as well as Gregory the Great (c. 540–604). Gregory’s massive Morals on the Book of Job rails against the wicked, unrighteous, and foolish ad nauseam, explaining God’s judgment upon them in exacting detail (e.g. 18.32–38). His Morals also creates a powerful rhetorical binary between the “good” and the “bad” (e.g. 8.81–85), and he routinely expatiates upon the future judgment of the latter: At that time those who now, as if strangers to common sense, sin with joyful hearts, remember their actions while being punished; they there recognize how much they ought to have rejected the things that they loved; they there understand how awful the sinful things which they now embrace were. (8.88–90)

When Gregory completed his Morals, he was the Pope. The most important Christian voices of late antiquity used Job as a biblical tool for various ends, emblazoning its themes upon their social contexts and paving the way for future work on what would be a rather popular book in the Middle Ages. Like the other canonical wis­ dom texts, Job’s effect on early Christian discourse is impossible to overestimate, and Job proved just as versatile as other Jewish wisdom texts when enrolled for Christian purposes.

Reception History 3: Other Wisdom Texts Jewish wisdom literature naturally attracted Christians, as it was understood as early as the second century to constitute part of the inherited Jewish scriptures. The catalogue of Jewish scriptures compiled by Melito of Sardis (d. c. 190) preserved in Eusebius’s Church History (4.26.13–14)  –  the “first known Christian list of the ­contents of the ‘Jewish’ scriptures and the first occurrence of the phrase ‘Old Testament’” (Holmes 2008, 411)  –  lists Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Song of Songs, and Job among the Old Testament scriptures. And while authors like Theodore of Mopsuestia (c. 350–428) periodically challenged the canonicity of some of these books, early widespread agreement guaranteed the enduring author­ ity of these sapiential texts in the hermeneutical, theological, philosophical, and social discussions of early Christians. But these were not the only wisdom texts early Christians knew, nor were they alone in the authority they wielded. Several other texts played important parts in the Christian reception of the wisdom tradition, and in places these seem to have

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been just as authoritative – if not just as canonical – as the books mentioned above. The two most prominent among these – the Wisdom of Solomon and Ben Sira – were extremely popular among early Christians, and any line we would like to draw within the early Christian imagination between these two texts and Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and the Song of Songs (with which they were often grouped), ought to be a very thin line indeed and is at times quite fuzzy. 1 Clement 57:3–7 seems to quote the “all‐virtuous” book of Wisdom (the Wisdom of Solomon) as scrip­ ture – Eusebius uses the same language to talk about Proverbs (Ecclesiastical History 4.22) – and Eusebius also has very nice things to say about this “excellent” book (Demonstration of the Gospel 8.2). Less clear, but more provocative, are early Christian authors who apparently cite the Wisdom of Solomon (Clement of Rome, Epistle to the Corinthians 27.5; Irenaeus, Against Heresies 4.38.3; Tertullian, Against the Valentinians 2.2) or Ben Sira (Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechetical Lectures 6.4, 11.19, 22.8) as authorities; such citation prompts the question whether these authors saw themselves in such instances as citing authoritative scripture or simply tradition­ ally recognized texts. Sometimes, an understood, if embattled, distinction existed between canonical or biblical texts (like the five treated above) and others (like the two treated below) which were, if beneficial for reading, still on the fringes or out­ side of the stubborn boundaries of Christian canonicity (Athanasius, Easter Letter 39; Epiphanius, Panarion 76.1; Ellis 1991). At other times, as is the case with the second or third century Muratorian Canon (ll. 68–70), texts like the Wisdom of Solomon were, if attributed to Solomon’s friends and not the king himself, still freighted with scriptural authority (and here within the New Testament!). The Muratorian Canon is one of many texts that make crystal clear that any Christian canon was ambiguous and in flux during the early centuries of the Common Era, and that this was especially true in regard to particular books, such as Ben Sira and the Wisdom of Solomon.

The Wisdom of Solomon The Book of Wisdom, or the Wisdom of Solomon, was extraordinarily popular among early Christians for a text that would eventually lack canonical status in pockets of Christianity (for an overview of the composition, see Chapter 6 in this volume). It is truly ubiquitous, for example, in Origen’s Against Celsus and Ambrose’s Exposition on the Christian Faith. Cyprian, in a discussion of resurrection and the afterlife, quotes Wis. 4:10–14 between citations of Genesis and the Psalms, appar­ ently as authoritative scripture that teaches something about mortality (namely, that God takes the righteous from this life earlier to spare them from suffering). Both he and Lactantius (Divine Institutes 4.16) name Solomon as Wisdom’s author. Augustine, on the other hand, groups it together with Ben Sira (Ecclesiasticus) as having been written by Ben Sira (lit. the “son of Sirach” named Jesus), both of

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which he categorizes, somewhat obliquely, as prophetic books within the biblical canon. Wisdom is also officially “on the books” as canonical in the proceedings of the Council of Rome (382 CE), where it appears after Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and the Song of Songs, just as it does in two of the most important early Bible codices: Sinaiticus and Alexandrinus. The earlier Council of Laodicea (363–364 CE) had not contained the book in its canon list at all, while the later Council of Hippo (393 CE) had even more, listing Wisdom and Ben Sira among the “five books of Solomon” (see also the discussion below). The Wisdom of Solomon was instrumental both for Christians who considered it canonical, and for those who did not. The Dialogue of Timothy and Aquila, a late antique text of unknown date, relates a discussion between a Christian and a Jew where they seem to agree that, along with the Book of Tobit, the Wisdom of Solomon and Ben Sira are apocryphal, asserting that they are “of doubtful origin,” having been written in Greek by the legendary translators of the Jewish scriptures, which were otherwise written in Hebrew (3:11a–21). And the language in which a book was originally written was very important: in Jerome’s preface to his Vulgate trans­ lation of the Books of Kings (1–2 Kings), he places Wisdom and Ben Sira among the apocryphal books which are “not in the canon,” his canon being comprised solely of books he claims to have translated from Hebrew into Latin. Yet even for those who did not ascribe canonicity to the Wisdom of Solomon, its influence is witnessed by the fact that it routinely appears in discussions of canon. And again, the Book of Wisdom was known and loved by many early Christians through late antiq­ uity – Shenoute cites the book with the formula (“as it is written”) used for scripture (Timbie 2010, 102) – and when philosophizing about cosmology and teleology, the Wisdom of Solomon was alongside Philo’s corpus arguably the most important source for patristic theologians. Whether or not it was considered canonical, Wisdom remained influential through late antiquity and would eventually gain a confirmed place, alongside Ben Sira, in certain canons (e.g. in the Catholic and Eastern Orthodox Bibles today). The way that Wisdom appeared in later tradition owes much to Jerome, who included both Wisdom and Ben Sira with books like Judith, Tobit, and the books of the Maccabees, as those that were read in church but were not considered canonical. Jerome exhorted: “Let these two volumes be read for peoples’ edification, but not for confirming the authority of church dogma” (Prologue to the Books of Solomon).

Ben Sira Ben Sira, or the Wisdom of Sirach (or Ecclesiasticus), was like Wisdom widely cited by early Christians (for an overview of the composition, see Chapter 5 in this vol­ ume). Its pithy quotes helped Origen’s argumentation in Against Celsus (e.g. 4.28; 7.12; 8.68), and numerous Christian authors used Ben Sira to confirm, for example,

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important postulates like the finitude of human life (Sir. 1:2 at Alexander of Alexandria, Epistle 1.5; Ambrose, Exposition 5.19.235), and even to formulate Christology (Ambrose, Exposition 4.8.88). Ben Sira had a similar utility for Christian writing that books like Proverbs and Ecclesiastes did, and Ben Sira’s relative unpopu­ larity compared to these books must stem from the fact that in Athanasius’s three­ fold canonical classification system (Easter Letter 39) and similar lists (e.g. Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechetical Lectures 4.35–36; cf., however, 9.2 and 9.16), Ben Sira fell within the “approved but non‐canonical books” category between authoritative scripture and rejected‐as‐heretical apocrypha (Ellis 1991, 21). This does not mean, however, that early Christians did not read, repeat, and know well the contents of Ben Sira. It appears (as does the Wisdom of Solomon) in some of the first major codices, books that contained the entire Bible (and perhaps more): Sinaiticus and Vaticanus in the fourth century, and Codex Alexandrinus in the fifth. And we should remember that Ben Sira was one of a very few books often deemed non‐ or semi‐canonical which were nevertheless used all the time by those who consistently quoted scripture to confirm their points. John Chrysostom, for example, an inconceivably influential rhetorician and preacher of the late fourth century, pulls out Ben Sira as a proof text just as he would any biblical text in his numerous Homilies on the Statues: at Homily 1.23 he quotes Sir. 2:3 – “as gold is tested in a furnace, so is an approved man in the furnace of humiliation” – along­ side citations from the Gospels and Pauline epistles. Canonical or not, Ben Sira was still one of a few very special texts in early Christianity.

A Short Case‐Study: Proverbs 8:22 Given this chapter’s summary nature, a case study shows better the continuity which could exist across generations of a particular wisdom text’s interpretation. It also provides an impression of the influence a pericope could have. Here we discuss briefly early Christian treatments of Prov. 8:22, arguably the most cited and influ­ ential passage of all Jewish wisdom literature in early Christian circles, which reads as the first in a series of statements by wisdom personified: “The Lord possessed me at the beginning of his work, the first of his acts of old.” By and large, in antiquity the idea of a beginning to the universe would have sounded absurd to anyone but a Jew or a Christian; ancient Greeks and Romans, for example, thought that it was obvious that the universe was eternal (Blowers 2008, 911). To explain internally and defend externally this idiosyncrasy, and to explain Christology in relation to creation and divinity, Christians early on identified the Logos (Jesus) of John 1:1  –  that is, the “Word” who was “in the beginning with God” – with the personified Wisdom of Proverbs 8 (esp. v. 22) and thus inserted Jesus as the divine agent of creation into the narrative of Genesis 1 (Theophilus of Antioch, To Autolycus 2.10; Tertullian, Against Hermogenes 20; Origen, Homilies on

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Genesis 1; Eusebius, Life of Constantine 12.4–16; Blowers 2008, 911–912). Proverbs 8:22 became the locus classicus by which early Christians explained cosmology and Christology to such an extent that it is unusual for Christian discussions of these topics not to enlist that verse. Given its salience for articulating Christology – the study of who and what Christ is – it was inevitable that Prov. 8:22 would have a major impact in early christologi­ cal arguments, where the verse was wrenched from its original context of contem­ plating the nature of wisdom. Arians, for their part, who, as discussed earlier, denied or at least questioned Jesus’s divinity, in fact used Prov. 8:22 in their argu­ ment that Christ was created, not co‐eternal with the Father (Matheney 2000, 149). Authors like Marcellus of Ancyra (c. 285–374) raged against Arius and his followers with personified Wisdom in hand, and generations of Christian interpret­ ers returned perennially to Prov. 8:22 to explain the precise relationships between Christ and humanity, divinity, and cosmology (Wright 2005, 59–67). This verse thus embodied the center‐point of the Arian controversy: Epiphanius of Cyprus (c. 310–403), in his work the Medicine Chest (69.12.1–3), saw all of Arius’s false beliefs as originating in a “persistent misreading” of this one scripture verse (Jacobs 2016, 86). As late as the seventh and eighth centuries Bede took care to elucidate Christ via Prov. 8:22, “lest someone should think that the Son ever began to exist” (Commentary on Proverbs 1.8.22–30). All of this is to say that Prov. 8:22 illustrates how one single verse could become a touchstone upon which diverse parties from varying regions and time periods based arguments, drew boundaries, defined them­ selves and described others. An American political equivalent to this might be found in the historical treatment of the First Amendment to the Constitution or a land­ mark court case like Roe v. Wade, where multiple political parties use the same texts/traditions for a variety of purposes. Even so, Prov. 8:22 became a landmark for Christian interpretation and was touched upon by virtually every major Christian interpreter. This shows how influential one verse could be amongst early Christians, and how integral the wisdom tradition came to be, often through verses like this.

Conceptualization and Genre: The Early Christian Wisdom Tradition as such The Jewish wisdom tradition was wildly popular within early Christianity. Its heroes, like Solomon and Job, found themselves inserted into expanded traditions where tropes of Jewish wisdom literature were imbued with pressing Christian obsessions such as martyrdom, demonology, and theodicy. Beginning in the first Christian centuries, homilies and commentaries began to proliferate, running the gamut from strictly literal to fabulously allegorical interpretation, addressing both local and universal questions of theological argument and pastoral concern. Early Christians spoke of sapiential texts as a more or less defined corpus (and arena of

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knowledge), but we should not expect them to speak in the same terms as contem­ porary scholarship. It is better simply to observe several representative kinds of ­classification that early Christians fitted to the wisdom tradition. Origen, who probably spoke about sophia more than any ancient Christian author, understood a particular textual corpus, with Solomon as its gravitational center, to comprise an assumed traditional authority in regard to “wisdom.” Yet he subdivided this tradition. For Origen, Proverbs is “one of the kinds (eidē) [of writ­ ing]” that means one thing literally (dēlounta) and another thing in some “deeper sense” (en hyponoia; Against Celsus 4.87). Origen’s understanding of a Solomonic center to a wisdom tradition was widely shared through late antiquity (although most Christians, like Origen, followed Paul [1 Cor. 3:19] in separating true and “worldly” wisdom). This often consisted, however, of five books of Solomon (Salomonis libri quinque) as in several sources mentioned above as well as the fourth century’s Second Council of Carthage (397), the fifth century Innocentius (d. 417), the sixth century Cassiodorus, and the seventh century Isidore of Seville (560– 636); the latter, however, detached the Book of Wisdom and Ben Sira from this group, attributing them to Jesus ben Sira and thus leaving the three canonical books: Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and the Song of Songs. But the books and figures Christians inherited from its ancient parent religion, Judaism, are only one key to configuring an early Christian wisdom tradition. Christianity did not just inherit and preserve Jewish wisdom texts and traditions; rather, as one might expect, a number of ancient Christians created their own. For one thing, wisdom literature comprised the backbone of Christianity’s later “monas­ tic paideia” embodied in Evagrius, whose communiqués To the Monks and To a Virgin are metrically modeled upon Proverbs (Harmless 2004, 321, 342). The ascetic Christian tradition promulgated a lifestyle that in many ways comes straight from the wisdom tradition handbook, and it produced its own literature akin to the Jewish wisdom tradition in the form of hagiography. The exemplar of this genre, the Sayings of the Desert Fathers – which gained unprecedented popularity, as evidenced by its survival in a whole host of different languages  –  offers the same brand of real‐world common sense as Proverbs and Ecclesiastes in slightly extended minia­ ture narratives with an ascetic‐mystical bent. This was the “monastic wisdom tradi­ tion” (Blowers 2009, 192). Sometimes Christian ascetics recreated their inherited wisdom tradition: the History of the Monks of Egypt (c. 395) in one section (1.32– 36) relates a narrative which “subtly evokes” the episode of the young man and the adulteress of Proverbs 7 in a similar episode involving a young monk and a demon appearing as woman (Cain 2016, 79–80). John Cassian reworks the Job tradition in Conferences 6.9 as a model of austerity in spiritual warfare. In many ways the Christian monastic tradition’s literary output reads like an updated edition of its inherited wisdom tradition. Early Christians implicitly understood a wisdom tradi­ tion in the Jewish scriptures, and certain Christian monks and ascetics eventually (re)created their own, largely from this tradition’s fertile soil.

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I mention monastic literature here because much of these monks’ literary ­ roduction shares defining characteristics with traditional wisdom literature: an p assumed student–teacher relationship between author and reader, a focus on right (often practical) knowledge and associated action, and an unflagging emphasis upon the value of anecdotal observation, learning, and self‐control. Consider the pedagogical bent of this short story among the Sayings, typical in its form, content, and emphasis: Someone said to blessed Arsenius, “How is it that we, with all our education and our wide knowledge get nowhere, while these Egyptian peasants acquire so many virtues?” Abba Arsenius said to him, “We indeed get nothing from our secular education, but these Egyptian peasants acquire the virtues by hard work.” (§5; Ward 1975, 15)

While formatted as a catchy episode and concerned with class distinctions from a perspective quite different from many of the educated authors of older Jewish wis­ dom texts, this story still carries a message quite at home in the wisdom tradition: hard work is a good thing (Sir. 7:15). Yet monastic literature remains readily distin­ guishable in form from the wisdom texts we have surveyed above. Other early Christian texts come much closer to these in structure. The most famous example would have to be the Didache (the “Teaching” of the Twelve Apostles), a very early (first or second century) Christian behavior manual. This book begins by describing two ways, “one of life and one of death” (1.1), a framework applied in Psalm 1, enlisted throughout Proverbs and Ben Sira, and implicit in the classic wisdom dichotomy between wisdom/righteousness and foolishness/evil. It goes on at length to contrast right and wrong behaviors, and while largely modeled upon Jesus’s famous Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5–7), the Didache often parallels quite closely individual sayings from wisdom material. For example: Judge righteously; do not take account of status when reproving transgressions. (Didache 4.3) Open your mouth, judge righteously; defend the rights of the poor and needy. (Prov. 31:9) Incline your ear to the poor … Deliver the wronged from the hand of the wrongdoer, and do not be faint‐hearted when you render judgment. (Sir. 4:8–9)

The kinds of concerns that permeate the Didache, though they appear in the guise of consciously Christian language, routinely mirror those found in Jewish wisdom texts. Thus the Didache might be considered a witness to an early, specifically Christian, wisdom tradition. There are other early Christian texts with generic and thematic ties to wisdom litera­ ture. One obvious example is Clement of Alexandria’s The Instructor; in this Clement casts Christ as the reader’s tutor and is explicit about the work’s goal of encouraging practical, not theoretical, virtue, by the twin formation of understanding (or character) and p ­ ractice

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(1.1). Yet despite this similarity to Jewish wisdom texts, Clement’s Instructor is, in fact, much more theologically and philosophically nuanced than these, and is imbued with the Greco‐Roman literature which Clement knew and loved so well. The Apostolic Constitutions, a kind of Didache on steroids which came several centuries later, also has a great deal in common with Jewish wisdom literature, which it cites often, but testifies at the same time to the increasingly complex and codified Christianity of the late Roman Empire. In short, early Christianity definitely had what could be called wisdom texts and a wisdom tradition, but these have yet to receive any comparative or systematic study.

Conclusion This chapter’s diverse sampling should make at least one thing clear: the Jewish wisdom tradition which early Christianity subsumed, and Christianity’s own subse­ quent wisdom tradition, were enormously influential. Christians in all corners of the ancient Mediterranean – lay and clergy, “orthodox” and otherwise, preachers and philosophers – had much to say about and to do with wisdom and wisdom lit­ erature. The eminently usable format of Proverbs’ sayings, the poignancy of suffer­ ing in Job, the austere practicality of Ecclesiastes, the versatile romantic glow of the Song of Songs – all provided leverage for Christian writers attempting to live, teach, and define the Christian life. But Christians mixed this literature thoroughly into a tradition with its own concerns that drew upon already multivalent literary tradi­ tions in which wisdom was genetically related to apocalyptic, poetic, and prophetic heritages especially. The wisdom tradition was absolutely integral to early Christian thought; at the same time, it became part of an irreducibly complex matrix of theo­ logical creativity and sociopolitical exigency. Finally, Christianity forged its own wis­ dom tradition in writings like the Sayings of the Desert Fathers; and this work  –  flourishing long after the heyday of Christian monasticism in late antiq­ uity – is, if we are to believe Peter Brown, “the last and one of the greatest products of the Wisdom Literature of the ancient Near East” (1978, 82).

References Blowers, Paul M. 2008. Doctrine of creation. In: The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Studies (ed. Susan Ashbrook Harvey and David G. Hunter, 906–931. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Blowers, Paul M. 2009. Eastern Orthodox biblical interpretation. In: A History of Biblical Interpretation, Volume 2 (ed. Alan

J. Hauser and Duane F. Watson, 172–185. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Breed, Brennan W. 2014. Nomadic Text: A Theory of Biblical Reception History. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Brown, Peter. 1978. The Making of Late Antiquity. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.

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Brown, Peter. 2012. Through the Eye of a Needle: Wealth, the Fall of Rome, and the Making of Christianity in the West, 350–550 AD. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Cain, Andrew. 2016. The Greek Historia Monachorum in Aegypto: Monastic Hagiography in the Late Fourth Century. Oxford Early Christian Studies. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Christianson, Eric S. 2007. Ecclesiastes through the Centuries. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Clark, Elizabeth A. 1992. The Origenist Controversy: The Construction of an Early Christian Debate. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Clark, Elizabeth A. 1999. Reading Renunciation: Asceticism and Scripture in Early Christianity. Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press. Cox, Claude E. 2006. Armenian Job: Reconstructed Greek Text, Critical Edition of the Armenian with English Translation. Leuven: Peeters. Ellis, Earle E. 1991. The Old Testament in Early Christianity: Canon and Interpretation in the Light of Modern Research. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Hanson, R.P.C. 2002. Allegory and Event: A Study of the Sources and Significance of Origen’s Interpretation of Scripture. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. Harmless, William. 2004. Desert Christians: An Introduction to the Literature of Early Monasticism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hirshman, Marc. 1988. The Greek Fathers and the aggada on Ecclesiastes: Formats of exegesis in late antiquity. Hebrew Union College Annual 59: 137–165. Holm‐Nielsen, Svend. 1974. On the interpretation of Qoheleth in early

Christianity. Vetus Testamentum 24: 166–177. Holmes, Michael W. 2008. The biblical canon. In: The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Studies (ed. Susan Ashbrook Harvey and David G. Hunter), 402–426. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jacobs, Andrew S. 2016. Epiphanius of Cyprus: A Cultural Biography of Late Antiquity. Oakland, CA: University of California Press. Jarick, John. 1995. Theodore of Mopsuestia and the interpretation of Ecclesiastes. In: The Bible in Human Society: Essays in Honor of John Rogerson (ed. M. Daniel Carroll R., David J.A. Clines, and Philip R. Davies, 306–316. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic. Longman, Tremper, III. 2008. Ecclesiastes 3: History of interpretation. In: Dictionary of the Old Testament: Wisdom, Poetry & Writings – A Compendium of Contemporary Biblical Scholarship (ed. Tremper Longman III and Peter Enns), 140–149. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Matheney, M. Pierce, Jr. 2000. An introduc­ tion to the history of interpretation. In: An Introduction to Wisdom Literature and the Psalms: Festschrift for Marvin E. Tate (ed. H. Wayne Ballard, Jr. and W. Dennis Tucker, Jr.), 129–153. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press. Matter, Ann. 1990. The Voice of My Beloved: The Song of Songs in Western Medieval Christianity. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Plumptre, E.H. 2013 (1881). Ecclesiastes, or The Preacher, with Notes and Introduction. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Shuve, Karl. 2016. The Song of Songs and the Fashioning of Identity in Early Latin Christianity. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Simonetti, Manlio, and Marco Conti (eds. 2006). Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture: Old Testament VI—Job. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Timbie, Janet A. 2010. Coptic Christianity. In: The Blackwell Companion to Eastern Christianity (ed. Ken Parry), 94–116. Malden, MA: Wiley Blackwell. Tzamalikos, Panayiotis. 2012. The Real Cassian Revisited: Monastic Life, Greek

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Paideia, and Origenism in the Sixth Century. Leiden: Brill. Ward, Benedicta. 1975. Selections from the Sayings of the Desert Fathers. Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian. Wright, J. Robert. (ed.) 2005. Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture: Old Testament IX—Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Song of Solomon. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press.

Further Reading Frend, W.H.C. 1984. The Rise of Christianity. London: Darton, Longman, and Todd. A standard history of early Christianity. Kugel, James L. 1998. Traditions of the Bible: A Guide to the Bible as it Was at the Start of the Common Era. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1–42. A holistic introduction that situates ancient Christian and Jewish interpretation within its larger canonical and intellectual world. Longman, Tremper III, and Enns, Peter. (eds.) 2008. Dictionary of the Old

Testament: Wisdom, Poetry & Writings – A Compendium of Contemporary Biblical Scholarship. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. A useful reference work covering scholarship on biblical wisdom literature. Schneemelcher, Wilhelm. 2003 (1992). New Testament Apocrypha. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox. A standard collection of ancient Christian texts that are not in the New Testament.

CHAPTER 22

Jewish Sapiential Traditions in the Nag Hammadi Library Dylan M. Burns

Introduction The corpus of 12 papyrus codices preserving works written in Coptic – the last stage of the Egyptian language, which flourished among late ancient and medieval Egyptian Christians  –  discovered near Nag Hammadi (Upper Egypt) in 1945 is among the most important archaeological discoveries of the twentieth century, rivaled in importance for our understanding of early Christianity only by the Dead Sea Scrolls (see Lundhaug and Jenott 2015). The Nag Hammadi Codices (henceforth “NHC”) are best known as a goldmine of texts belonging to the ancient school of thought known today as “Gnosticism”, i.e. the perspective that human beings are consubstantial with God and superior to the material cosmos and its creator, who is a subdivine being often identified with the creator‐deity of the Hebrew Bible (Burns 2016). The Nag Hammadi find also presents us with an overwhelming quantity of fascinating data concerning the development of wisdom in ancient Christianity, whether we speak of instructional texts of pithy advice, dialogues of Jesus with his disciples about the nature of humanity and the cosmos, or myths about the adventures and travails of Sophia, the incarnation of the wisdom of this world – and beyond. Indeed, most of what we see in the transmission of wisdom at Nag Hammadi tells us about diverse transformation of wisdom in early Christianity, not in Gnosticism. Indeed, the Nag Hammadi corpus preserves two indisputably sapiential texts, neither of which is Gnostic. Other works at Nag Hammadi possess affinities to the The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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Jewish sapiential tradition, insofar as they are sayings‐gospels which ostensibly package the words of Jesus as the words of the wise, or revelation‐dialogues of Jesus with his disciples that contain sapiential content. Central to this body of evidence is the identification of the figure of personified Wisdom with the Logos, and in turn Jesus Christ, a hermeneutical move widespread in early Christianity hearkening back to the Fourth Gospel and Paul’s Corinthian correspondence (see Rudolph 1996b, 177; Schenke 2012; note also Chapter 19 in this volume). Related but distinct is the central importance to Gnostic myths of the Jewish legend of Wisdom’s descent into the cosmos (cf. Sir. 24; 1 En. 42). In fact, scholarship long regarded some kind of myth of a “fall” of Wisdom – in her personified form referred to here as “Sophia” – from the divine, resulting in the production of the cosmos and all its attendant problems, as a sine qua non of Gnosticism (e.g. MacRae 1970, 98–99; Rudolph 1996b, 173). The Nag Hammadi corpus preserves many Gnostic myths, complete with many renditions of Sophia’s escapades. While space does not permit sustained comparison and analysis of these myths, the present chapter will identify broad trajectories in the transformations of Wisdom at Nag Hammadi, while the greater question of the relationship between Wisdom and Gnosticism will be treated in the conclusion.

The Sentences of Sextus There are two tractates within the Nag Hammadi collection which may be formally denoted as “Christian sapiential literature” in roughly the same vein as the classic group of Jewish sapiential texts of Proverbs, Qoheleth, Job, Ben Sira, and Wisdom of Solomon: the Sentences of Sextus (NHC XII,1) and the Teachings of Silvanus (NHC VII,4). Both of these works are characterized, to differing degrees, by “proverbial sentence or instruction, debate, (and) intellectual reflection” on “human betterment, groping after life’s secrets with regard to innocent suffering, grappling with finitude, and quest for truth concealed in the created order and manifested in Dame Wisdom” (Crenshaw 1981, 19). The first tractate of NHC XII contains a hitherto unattested, Coptic version of the Sentences of Sextus, an early Christian sapiential work well‐known even in the early Church, originally written in Greek in the late second or early third century CE. The Sentences of Sextus makes use of pious Neopythagorean maxims – also known to the third‐century CE Platonist Porphyry of Tyre, and the anonymous Pythagorean Sentences – expanded and revised in light of Christian thinking, although there are no explicit references to Jesus or Scripture (on Sent. Sext., see Wilson 2012; Pevarello 2013). NHC XII is very fragmentary, preserving approximately one quarter of the text known from other versions. This Coptic version appears to be a fairly literal translation of the Greek (Wilson 2012, 5–6). The Sentences of Sextus is a remarkable treatise consisting of brief, memorable maxims blending a variety of schools of thought, chief amongst them

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Pythagoreanism, Stoicism, gospel teachings, and, perhaps to a lesser extent, Jewish wisdom. It emphasizes the human likeness to the divine, particularly amongst those extraordinary people who attain genuine self‐control: “as for whoever makes his mind resemble God – to the extent of his power – it is this one who [greatly] honors God” (NHC XII 33.19–21 [sentence 381]; see further Wilson 2012, 1–4; Pevarello 2013, 50–51).1 Such people are called “wise” (16.20–22, 27.1–12 [sent. 176, 307–313]). This self‐mastery is expressed above all through restraint of the body, i.e. asceticism: “say in [your] mind that the garment of your soul [is] the body; therefore, keep it pure, for it is innocent” (30.11–14 [sent. 346]). Restraint must also extend to the tongue: “[speak when] it is not right [to be silent], but [about] the things that you know  –  (only) [when] it is fitting to speak” (15.5–8 [sent. 161– 162b]; see further Wisse 1975, 74–76). The Sentences of Sextus’s emphases on asceticism and so‐called esotericism likely explain the presence of the text in the Nag Hammadi collection. It is undeniable that many works preserved at Nag Hammadi have a pronounced ascetic character and Sent. Sext. is among them; taken together, this evidence mitigates the old slanders of Gnostics as sexual libertines (Wisse 1975). At the same time, it is entirely possible that those responsible for copying and collecting the Nag Hammadi Codices were attracted to other qualities of Sent. Sext. than its asceticism (Pevarello 2013, 52). Indeed, the Coptic version is followed in NHC XII by a fragmentary copy of the famous Valentinian homily the Gospel of Truth, reminding us that the text was read in antiquity alongside Gnostic literature (Wisse 1975, 57). Its Pythagorean esotericism thus would have been attractive to Gnostics and monks alike (Wisse 1975, 56; Pevarello 2013, 189). In any case, it is certain that the circulation of the work in Coptic in fourth–fifth century Egypt testifies to its popularity in the cradle of monasticism (Pevarello 2013, 52).

The Teachings of Silvanus The other Christian sapiential work preserved at Nag Hammadi is the Teachings of Silvanus. It is also a Hellenistic Christian sapiential work, indebted to Egyptian, Jewish, Christian, and especially Greek philosophical influence (Schoedel 1975; Wisse 1975, 77; Janssens 1983, 4; Peel 1995, 260–263; van den Broek 1996a, 259). Unlike Sent. Sext., Teach. Silv. was entirely unknown to scholarship prior to the Nag Hammadi find. Its discovery revealed that two medieval manuscripts (one Coptic, one Arabic) preserved material from Teach. Silv. associated with the name of St. Antony, apparently revised over the course of its transmission to reflect monastic interests (Funk 1976; Peel 1995, 270–271). It is a lengthy work occupying 36 manuscript pages that segue back and forth between proverbs concerned with ethical matters and more lengthy discourses devoted to Christian theology. Commentators generally consider the Hellenophile, philosophical Christianity of

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Clement of Alexandria (early third century CE) to be the work’s closest ancient analogue (e.g. Schoedel 1975, 170–171, 194–197; Peel 1995, 263–297; van den Broek 1996b, 236). Morality is a central topic to Teach. Silv, and its perspective is every bit Stoic as Christian, particularly as regards its teaching on mastering the passions (Janssens 1983, 17). Yet other aspects of its ethical teaching – both in content and presentation – recall Jewish wisdom (Schoedel 1975, 174–183; Peel 1995, 251–253, 259; van den Broek 1996a, 259–260; van den Broek 1996b, 236). The narrator addresses the reader repeatedly as “my son” (e.g. NHC VII,4.85.29–30, etc.), as we find in Proverbs or Ben Sira. The old parallelisms between wisdom and folly, or the wise man and the foolish man, appear, albeit on the margins of the work (88.35– 90.21, 97.3–12). The Teachings of Silvanus goes so far as to address the fool directly, a manner “more characteristic of the diatribe” (Schoedel 1975, 184, on 89.8, 90.28, 107.12). There is even advice about friendship (97.18–33, 98.3–10), but the theme is transposed onto the cosmic scale of Christian battle with the devil and the passions. The wise man’s best friends are reason, Christ, and the angels (86.13– 16, 90.33–91.1, 91.30–34, 110.14–15), while the Adversary will approach one like a deceitful friend (95.4–33). Notably, the figure of Sophia is here assimilated to Greek education (paideia), along with “teaching” or “wisdom” (in Coptic sbō), likened to a crown or a robe to wear (87.4–14). A brief reference to Wisdom as mother – “Now, my son, return to your first father, God, and (to) Wisdom, your mother …” (91.14–16) – seems at first sight to recall the incarnated Wisdom of Gnostic myth, but the metaphors comparing wisdom to a robe (also 89.5–12, 89.19–21, 107.5–7), or that declare wisdom to be something that is spoken aloud (111.26) show that what is meant is the concept of wisdom, in the sense of teaching and comprehension (Janssens 1983, 14–15). Above all, however, Sophia is to be identified with Jesus Christ: “for he (Christ), being Wisdom, makes the foolish one wise” (107.3–4; Janssens 1983, 5–10, 14–15; Schenke 2012, 410). It is through Christ that one escapes the clutches of sin (103.25–28, 104.8–14, 109.9–11); indeed, “the Wisdom of God became a sort of fool, for your sake …” (107.9–11). “For the Tree of Life is Christ. He is Wisdom. Verily, he is Wisdom. He is also the Word. He is the life, the power, and the door. He is the light and the messenger, and the good shepherd” (106.21– 28). “It is you who has glorified your Word, who saves everyone, merciful God, he who came from your mouth and has risen from your heart, the first‐born, Wisdom, the Prototype, the primal light” (112.31–37; see also 113.13–19). The equation of Wisdom, Word, and God is vintage Alexandrian biblical theology, traceable back to Philo in the first century and writ large across the thought of thinkers like Clement, as well as Justin Martyr (second century CE), Origen of Alexandria (mid‐third century CE), and others (Janssens 1983, 6–7, 21; strangely neglected by Schenke 2012, 410).

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Wisdom, education, and Christ are thus bound together in Teach. Silv. as humanity’s protector from the beasts of passion, to whom anyone who is distant from Christ falls prey (110.8–14). These beasts – and they are legion – are led by a Satanic figure dubbed the “Adversary”: If you cast from yourself desire, which has many tricks, you will free yourself from the sins of lust. Listen, dear soul, to my advice. Do not become a hole foxes and snakes, nor a pit of serpents and asps, nor a den of lions, nor a place of refuge of basilisk‐ snakes. When these things happen to you, dear soul, what will you do? For these are the powers of the Adversary. (105.22–106.1)

Notably, the same Greco‐Coptic word for “adversary” (antikeimenos) is used in a classic Gnostic work, the Apocryphon of John, to denote the spirit of false prophecy (NHC II 24.29–32 and parallels, passim). One might see here an echo of the old doctrine of the “two ways” and corresponding “two spirits” (one good, one evil) traceable back, through The Doctrine of the Twelve Apostles, the Didache, and the Epistle of Barnabas, to the Treatise of the Two Spirits (1QS 3:13–4:26). The Teachings of Silvanus is probably a work of the fourth century CE. Several of its theological passages are difficult to extricate from a fourth‐century environment – replete with formulations known from Origen, Athanasius of Alexandria, and Eusebius of Caesarea – some of which are in conflict with ideas from the ethical portions of the work. Thus, “the materials contained in the Teachings of Silvanus come from different times and represent different stages of early Alexandrian theology” (van den Broek 1996b, 255). It has also been argued that while the text seems to post‐date the floruit of Origen, its theology is pre‐Nicean (Peel 1995, 273–274). Given the ascetic tendency of the work, the fact that a section of it came to be known amongst monks under the name of Antony, and the likelihood that the work as preserved in Coptic is a product of at least the second quarter of the fourth century CE, an attractive hypothesis is “that it was added to the Nag Hammadi collection by the Coptic monks who were responsible for the production of the codices” (van den Broek 1996b, 257; see also Lundhaug and Jenott 2015, 256–257).

Sapiential Literature at Nag Hammadi The Sentences of Sextus and the Teachings of Silvanus have much in common: they both take upon the classical sapiential forms of instruction and gnomologion (i.e. a collection of pithy sayings giving life advice); they both weave together themes drawn from Jewish wisdom, the New Testament, and Greek philosophy; and they both espouse an otherworldly, philosophical asceticism foreign to classical Jewish wisdom (Schoedel 1975, 177–178). Yet from this common ground, the works strike out in very different directions. In terms of literary form, Teach. Silv. often

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eclipses the gnomic form, sliding into extended, theological meditations. The Teachings of Silvanus explicitly refers to Christ and scripture, while Sent. Sext. does not (van den Broek 1996a, 261; Pevarello 2013, 53). The Teachings of Silvanus goes so far as to identify Wisdom with Christ, while in Sent. Sext., Wisdom does not appear as a character at all, but as an abstraction (at Nag Hammadi, see XII 16.1–4 [sent. 167–168]). Meanwhile, the asceticism of Teach. Silv. is less pronounced than Sent. Sext. (Pevarello 2013, 53). Similarly, Teach. Silv. alludes to worldly pursuits familiar from Jewish wisdom like friendship (even if they are at times rendered on an unworldly scale); such issues are absent from Sent. Sext. Finally, Teach. Silv. is concerned with present ethical action as well as the horizon of future eschatological judgment. In this regard, its closest analogue in the greater wisdom tradition is 4QInstruction (on the latter, see Goff 2005). This latter, future horizon is absent from Sent. Sext., whose approach to eschatology – i.e. practically none at all – reflects its background in Hellenistic thought. Interestingly, a number of passages of Teach. Silv. are dependent on material we also find in Sent. Sext.; for instance, NHC VII 102.7–22 combines Sext. sentences 22 and 352, a combination also known to Origen and Epiphanius of Salamis, a theologian of the later fourth century CE (van den Broek 1996a, 264–270, followed widely, e.g. by Pevarello 2013, 53). This demonstrates that Sent. Sext. already exerted a strong influence very early in its transmission, in the first half of the third century CE (van den Broek 1996a, 270; Pevarello 2013, 53). Moreover, “the agreements between Silvanus and Porphyry show that Porphyry’s combinations of sentences which are still separated in the Sentences of Sextus and the Pythagorean Sentences are not always his own work but could have been taken over from a now lost gnomic source” (van den Broek 1996a, 278).

The Gospel of Thomas – a Sapiential Sayings Source? The Nag Hammadi evidence is also of paramount of importance for scholars interested in the reception and transformation of Jewish wisdom in literary traditions of the sayings of Jesus of Nazareth. The key document here is the Gospel of Thomas (NHC II,2), a work of 114 cryptic sayings (logia) of Jesus, many of which we also find, in some form, in the Synoptic Gospels. For example, logion 66 – “Jesus said, show me the stone that the builders rejected. That one is the cornerstone” – is familiar to us from Matt. 21:42, Mark 12:10, and Luke 20:17; yet logion 108 – “Jesus said, he who shall drink from my mouth shall be like me; I, too, shall become him, and what is hidden shall become manifest to him” – was unknown prior to the discovery of NHC II. In Gos. Thom. these sayings are bereft of any and all narrative; missing as well are Jesus’s ministry, miracles, crucifixion, death, and resurrection (see Gathercole 2014). In a highly important essay, the biblicist and Copticist James M. Robinson argued that Gos. Thom. belongs to a hypothetical wisdom‐genre best

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termed “the sayings of the wise” (logoi sophōn) that we can glimpse in Q (“Quelle”; the German word for “source,” here denoting a sayings source used in the composition of the gospels of Matthew and Luke), Mark’s parables (4:1–34), and Jewish sapiential and apocalyptic texts (Robinson 1971, 103–113; see also Koester 1971, 179–184). According to Robinson, this very early genre of Christian writing – earlier than the canonical gospels themselves – evolved into the later “revelation‐dialogues” so abundant in Coptic Gnostic literature (Robinson 1971, 71–85). Robinson’s thesis was and remains influential in many quarters (recent proponents include e.g. Siverstev 2000, 323–324; Patterson 2013, 145–147). Scholars of the New Testament have used it as a foundation for investigation into the development of Q. John Kloppenborg, for instance, argued that the oldest of the (ostensibly) three identifiable strata within the Q source may be characterized as “the radical wisdom of the kingdom of God,” a gnomologium best positioned in the greater trajectory of ancient Jewish wisdom literature (Kloppenborg 1987, 242; followed by Patterson 2013, 148, 155–161). From this perspective, Nag Hammadi’s Gos. Thom. is, like Q, a first‐century sapiential gnomologium offering the wisdom of Jesus. Other scholars prefer to situate Gos. Thom. in Syria, the undeniable center of forms of Christianity that venerated the Apostle Thomas, and so propose that the text is the product of a second–third century Syrian environment indebted to earlier, Jewish wisdom like that which Robinson describes, but focused rather on soteriology and even human deification (Siverstev 2000; cf. DeConick 2008, 217–220). There are no consensus positions regarding Gos. Thom., and these theses are no exception (Gathercole 2014, 108–109, 531). The occasional presence of the term logoi within sayings collections does not mean that a proper genre of such collections ever existed (Gathercole 2014, 138–139). The positioning of Gos. Thom. in the greater trajectory of Jewish sapiential literature remains conjectural as well; problematic is that “sophia or its cognates are never mentioned in the common material” shared by Q and Gos. Thom. (Patterson 2013, 151). In fact, wisdom terminology is entirely lacking from Gos. Thom. (pace e.g. Siverstev 2000, 325–329). It is undeniable that certain logia recall sapiential themes and forms (see Gathercole 2014, 331, 531–532, on log. 28, 90). In logion 28, for instance, Jesus appears to speak as Wisdom, following her descent to humankind: “Jesus said, I stood in the midst of the world, and I appeared to them in flesh. I found all of them drunk; I did not find any of them thirsty …” (NHC II 38.10–14). Logion 90, meanwhile, recalls the book of Ben Sira: “Jesus said, come unto me (cf. Sir. 24:19), for easy is my yoke (51:26), and my lordship is gentle, and you shall find repose for yourselves (6:28)” (NHC II 48.16–20). Many further examples may be adduced (DeConick 2008, 207, on log. 17, 26, 31–35, 38–39, 45, 47, 67, 77, 92–94). Yet Gos. Thom.’s aphoristic and paradoxical character is ultimately reminiscent of nothing other than Jesus’s preaching as found in the canonical gospels. The ironic quality of Jesus’s sayings is a departure from pre‐Christian Jewish wisdom and its “proverbial preoccupations with hard work, communication, loose women, and the like” (Dell 2008, 417).

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Revealed Wisdom in the Revelation‐Dialogues of Nag Hammadi Another ripple effect of Robinson’s work was that many scholars began to speak of the “dialogue” or “sayings‐wisdom” (Spruchweisheit) as the favored genre of ancient Gnostic literature (esp. Rudolph 1996a, 121–122; 1996b, 179; Schenke 2012, 411–412; cf. Hartenstein 2000, preferring the term “Gospel Dialogues”). Given that the genre logoi sophōn is hypothetical and its existence tenuous, the characterization of Coptic Gnostic revelation‐dialogues as belonging to a genre of “Gnostic dialogue” that is a direct outgrowth of the logoi sophōn is all the more hypothetical and tenuous. Rather, what the Gnostic revelation‐dialogues share is their emphasis on the figure of Jesus as revealer of otherworldly knowledge. Formally speaking, they are simply apocalypses that do not have a heavenly journey, like Daniel (Burns 2014, 360). Nag Hammadi has furnished us with many such Gnostic revelation‐dialogues. Among the best‐known of them is the Dialogue of the Savior (NHC III,5). Although its sayings are considerably more primitive than the elaborate theological discourses typical of other Gnostic revelation‐dialogues, like Pistis Sophia (in the Askew Codex, one of the few Coptic Gnostic codices discovered prior to the Nag Hammadi collection), Dial. Sav. is a compelling work, a composite text assembled from multiple preexisting sources (Koester and Pagels 1984, 2). One of these sources is a dialogue featuring sayings of Jesus given to his disciples about cosmological and ethical matters of Gnostic valence. Many of the sayings closely recall some of those in Gos. Thom., which has led scholars to speculate that Dial. Sav. and Gos. Thom. rely upon a shared sayings source (Koester and Pagels 1984, 6). Some scholars characterize this sayings source as sapiential, presumably due to its cosmological and ethical concerns (e.g. Létourneau 2003, 19–24). Others point to a “cosmological wisdom list” (NHC III 133.23–134.24) on the nature of the four elements as “a telling example of a Christian soteriological interpretation of older wisdom material” (Koester and Pagels 1984, 8–9). One might be tempted to read scholarly disagreement regarding the sapiential character of Dial. Sav.’s sources as a reductio ad absurdum of the use of the terms “sapiential” and “wisdom” in the first place. However, in loosely characterizing ancient sayings sources of Jesus as “sapiential” due to their vaguely cosmological content, these scholars are using the term “wisdom” very much as did ancient Christian writers themselves, as we see in the case of the work titled the Wisdom of Jesus Christ (Berlin Gnostic Codex [BG] 2; NHC III,4). This revelation‐dialogue revises and significantly expands another cosmological tractate preserved at Nag Hammadi, Eugnostos the Blessed (NHC III,3; V,1). This text describes the invisible, metaphysical heaven of light, where various preexistent beings  –  identical with eternal structures of thought and logic  –  generate more beings and heavenly realms, including the preexistent archetypes of divine humanity (the “Immortal Man”) and worldly wisdom (“Sophia”). The Wisdom of Jesus Christ expounds at

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length upon the structure of this heavenly world as well, but it goes beyond the former text in also describing the birth of the malevolent demiurge and the creation of humanity and the material cosmos. Moreover, while Eug. is written in the genre of a letter and does not refer to Christ at all, Soph. Jes. Chr. (the Wisdom of Jesus Christ) drops the epistolary pretense entirely, instead having Jesus Christ reveal Eug.’s teaching about the number of heavens and their inhabitants to his disciples. In other words, an early Christian author who found Eug.’s Gnostic, cosmological teaching to be compelling wished to furnish the work with the frame‐narrative of a Christian revelation‐dialogue, and then titled it the The Wisdom of Jesus Christ. The title Wisdom probably does not refer to the hypostasis Sophia, because she appears only occasionally in the text. For this ancient writer, an explanation of the aeons above and how the world and humanity came from them was true “wisdom,” and the authoritative revealer of this wisdom was Jesus Christ.

Is the Gnostic Sophia Jewish Wisdom? As mentioned earlier, myths of a so‐called “fall of Sophia” are widespread indeed in the Nag Hammadi corpus (surveys include MacRae 1970, 88–94; Good 1987; Rudolph 1996b, 171–173; Pleše 2006, 161–162). A fine example is to be found in the aforementioned Apocryphon of John: Then, the Wisdom of Consciousness, being an aeon, began to produce thought from deep in herself, with the contemplation of the Invisible Spirit, and the foreknowledge. She desired to manifest a likeness out of herself, without [the will] of the Spirit – he did not consent – and without her consort, and without his consideration. So, despite the person of her maleness not having consented, and without her having found her ­partner, she fell deep into thought – without the will of the Spirit, and the knowledge of her partner – and she brought something forth … His mother (Wisdom) cast him away from herself, outside of those places, so that no one amongst the immortals would see him, for it was in ignorance that she had created him. She surrounded him with a luminous cloud, and she placed a throne in the middle of the cloud, lest anyone see him, except for the Holy Spirit, who is called, “the mother of the living.” And she named him Yaltabaoth; he is the first archon. (NHC II 9.25–10.20)

The biblicist and Copticist George MacRae famously demonstrated that these myths, to a large extent, expand upon themes explored in Jewish sapiential literature (1970; Rudolph 1996b, 174–178): Sophia as the mediator of divine and human wisdom (Prov. 8); Sophia as creatrix, second only to God in power and authority (Wis. 7–9; see Rudolph 1996b, 177); and Sophia’s descent to dwell with humanity, subsequent rejection, and return to heaven (1 En. 42; also 4 Ezra 5:9–10; 2 Bar. 48:36). In Ap. John, Sophia, anguished over the misdeeds of her son, moves “to and fro” over the waters of primordial creation – a scene that presumes the equation of

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Wisdom and Spirit (Pleše 2006, 236–237, on NHC II 13.18–26; cf. Ps. 103:24, 30; Prov. 8:22–31; Sir. 24:3–5; Wis. 7:22–24). Of course, Gnostic Sophia myths go beyond Jewish sapiential texts in rendering the figure of Wisdom as culpable for the creation of the present cosmos, a flawed world ruled by malevolent or at least unpleasant beings. MacRae argued that the scriptural subtext of this transformation of Sophia is the sin of Eve and the Fall of Humankind in Genesis 3, for four reasons: both Eve and Sophia are female; they are both motivated by a desire to be like God; both are identified with Life; and there is an implicit identification of Sophia and a celestial Eve in Soph. Jes. Chr. (BG 118.15–17; MacRae 1970, 99–101; Rudolph 1996b, 178). MacRae’s thesis commands general scholarly assent, despite some complications. First, it has been argued that the notion of any “fall of Sophia” is misleading in itself, since our patristic evidence about Gnosticism does not describe her tumbling down from heaven, but making an error in thought  –  which, in a heaven defined by its mental character, is a generative act with serious consequences. According to this view, we should speak rather of “Sophia myths” or the like, rather than a “fall of Sophia” (Good 1984). The Nag Hammadi evidence shows this view to be half‐right: while no Nag Hammadi text explicitly describes a fall or descent of Sophia into the cosmos, several do say, in no unclear terms, that following her ­mental error, Wisdom came to exist outside of heaven – along with the subdivine demiurge – and needed to repent in order to return above. To revisit Ap. John: But when his (Yaldabaoth’s) mother recognized that the garment of darkness2 was not perfect, she understood that her consort had not agreed with her, (and) she repented, weeping pitifully. And the entire Fullness of the Invisible Virgin Spirit heard the prayer of her repentance, and praised (the Spirit) on her behalf, (and) the Holy Spirit poured (itself) out over her, through the entire Fullness. For it is not that her consort (simply) came (back) to her, but rather, it is that he came (back) to her through the Fullness, so that he might come to rectify her fault. And she was not taken up to her own aeon (from before), but (to a station) above her son (Yaltabaoth), so that she would be in the ninth (sphere), until she corrected her fault. (NHC II 13.32–14.15; see also Orig. World [NHC II 100.26–29, 106.5–14])

Meanwhile, Sophia’s desire to conceive without the consent of the first principle (in Ap. John above, the Great Invisible Spirit) or her partner‐aeon, and the ­concomitantly monstrous nature of her offspring, have no precedent in Jewish wisdom. (Possible intertexts regarding these aspects of the myth are to be found in classical Greek sources relating Hera’s conception and birthing of the monster Typhon; Goehring 1981.) Nonetheless, a cornerstone of gnostic ­cosmogonies – the very emanation of reality itself from the transcendent deity, envisaged as an outpouring of self‐reflecting light which produces divine ­mirror‐images of God – appears to be derived from Wis. 7:25–27, where Sophia is a “breath of God’s power, and a pure emanation of the glory of the ruler of

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the universe … For she is a reflection of eternal light, and a spotless mirror of God’s activity and an image of His goodness” (Sevrin 1986, 21). Thus does Eugnostos declare that God “is the source‐less Forefather, gazing at Himself in Himself – like a mirror, since He has appeared in His likeness as self‐father – which means, the self‐begetter – and as one ‘being face to face,’ preexistent, unbegotten” (NHC III 7[5].2–9, with many parallels).

The Many Faces of Sophia at Nag Hammadi Finally, Sophia finds herself in a greater diversity of roles in the Nag Hammadi corpus than one might imagine after reading MacRae. These are most succinctly explained with reference to the three main strands of Gnostic literary tradition: Sethianism, Ophitism, and Valentinianism (Layton 1987). Sethian literature – so‐ called due to its focus on the personage of Seth, third son of Adam and Eve, as revealer and savior – usually does portray Wisdom herself as a problematic figure (Rasimus 2009, 148). In the Egyptian Gospel, for instance, two demiurgic figures – Sakla (who is good) and Nebrouel (evil) – emerge from a cloud (cf. Sir. 24:3– 4) that is called “material Wisdom” (NHC III 56.26–[57].21; see further Pleše 2006, 163–164). The Platonizing Sethian apocalypse Zostrianos states explicitly that Sophia produced “darkness” (NHC VIII 9.16–17). The meaning and function of the mytheme of Sophia’s error and subsequent creation is relatively clear: “by placing responsibility for ‘violation’ on God’s Wisdom, the highest expression of cosmic order,” it introduces “a crack into all rationalist systems of the period – it discloses the impossibility of an adequate rational representation of God’s inexpressible nature” (Pleše 2006, 141). Meanwhile, the so‐called “Ophite” corpus  –  texts characterized, foremost, by their valorization of the advice of the serpent (ophis) in Eden to eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge  –  tends to portray Sophia in a more positive light (Rasimus 2009, 129–154). Ophite works identify Wisdom with a heavenly Eve figure (also named simply “Life”  –  zoē) as well as a benevolent celestial being named “Faith” (pistis). These permutations of Wisdom figures multiply throughout the Ophite corpus; the aforementioned cosmology Eugnostos, for instance, features nine(!) permutations of Sophia‐Eve‐Life‐Faith (Rasimus 2009, 136; more widely, see Good 1987). Other texts, such as Ap. John (which draws freely from both Sethian and Ophite themes), distribute the Jewish Sophia’s more positive qualities over a variety of goddesses personifying cognitive faculties such as “forethought” (pronoia) and “consciousness” (epinoia) (MacRae 1970, 91; Rudolph 1996b, 180–181; Bak Halvgaard 2015, 79, 118). To make matters even more complicated, some Ophite texts also refer to a malevolent, archontic power named “Wisdom” – likely a snipe at the notion of worldly wisdom associated with political order (e.g. Orig. World [NHC II 101.24–102.2 passim]).

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Meanwhile, several Nag Hammadi texts seem to attempt to abrogate Sophia’s culpability for creation: Trimorphic Protennoia, a document attested in the remains of a codex found inside Nag Hammadi Codex VI (thus labeled NHC XIII,1, after the twelve main Nag Hammadi codices), declares Sophia “innocent” and lays the blame for the appearance of the demiurge on the angel Eleleth. Despite the reference to the  cloud of “material Wisdom,” the Egyptian Gospel also has Eleleth  –  not Sophia – announce the creation of the cosmos (Bak Halvgaard 2015, 77, on NHC XIII 39.13–31; NHC III 56.22–24). Notably, the angel Eleleth appears in another work, The Hypostasis of the Archons (NHC II,4) simply as a benevolent revelator who appears to the Jewish heroine Norea, Seth’s naughty sister who burns down Noah’s ark. Here, he declares: “It is I, Eleleth, Wisdom (sophia), the Great Angel who stands in the presence of the Holy Spirit. I have been sent to speak with you, and to save you from the clutches of the lawless ones” (NHC II 93.8–12). Like other angels who appear in Gnostic literature, Eleleth seems to have belonged to the pantheon of divine beings who populate Christian magical and angelological literature writ large throughout the first millennium CE. In Hyp. Arch. Wisdom has become one such angel. Despite the importance of Sophia‐figures in the school of thought known as Valentinianism (since it was developed by second-century disciples of the thinker Valentinus), there are few references to Sophia in what Valentinian literature is extant at Nag Hammadi. An important passage is found in work called today A Valentinian Exposition (NHC XI,2), which contains an account of Sophia’s passion and repentance following her production of the demiurge (NHC XI [33].35– [34].38). Other Valentinian works echo the hesitance of Trim. Prot. and Gos. Eg. to lay blame for creation of the world at Sophia’s feet: these include the theological treatises known as The Tripartite Tractate (NHC I,5; see e.g. Rudolph 1996b, 172), where the deviation from God belongs to the Word (logos!) and The Interpretation of Knowledge, where the fallen, female divine entity is usually simply called the “Virgin,” but on one occasion “Wisdom” (NHC XI [12].29–33; see Linjamaa 2016, 34–35). Meanwhile, two texts relating allegories of the soul’s descent into bodies are “red herrings” for traces of the Valentinian Sophia: the Exegesis of the Soul (NHC II,6), and the Authoritative Teaching (NHC VI,3). Scopello has speculated that these two works comprise “Gnostic novels” narrating the adventures of Wisdom, rebellious “prostitutions and adulteries” resulting in her fall into matter, and her repentance and ensuing restoration to the divine realm (1988, 76–77). However, both works are entirely intelligible without reference to Gnostic myth – and to the descents of Jewish wisdom. The Exegesis of the Soul is dependent on biblical themes regarded as purely “orthodox” in the third century CE (Lundhaug 2010, 137–40); Auth. Log. relies on philosophical and apocalyptic themes (Tervahauta 2015, 88–94). In any case, the figure of Wisdom does not explicitly appear in either text. Conversely, two “higher” and “lower” wisdom figures appear in the Gospel of Philip (NHC II 60.10–15),

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a pairing that appears at first sight to refer to the upper and lower Sophias of Valentinian myth; in this case, the metaphor is entirely intelligible without r­ eference to Valentinianism (Lundhaug 2010, 387 n. 887).

Wisdom, Eve, and Thunder Perhaps the most fascinating “sighting” of Wisdom at Nag Hammadi is in the mysterious and difficult poem The Thunder: Perfect Mind (NHC VI,2), which consists entirely of the paradoxical, first‐person cadences of an anonymous feminine revealer. This work is certainly inspired by Jewish wisdom literature, but also shows the influence of Isis‐aretalogies (i.e. ancient texts that describe the vast power of the goddess Isis – MacRae 1977, 115–116; Poirier 1995, 157–161) and Stoic philosophy of language (Bak Halvgaard 2015, 106–107, 121–125). For instance, the goddess here declares: “and it is he (i.e. God) who [sired] me before time, in a ” (NHC VI [1]4.1–2, on Prov. 8:22–23 and Sir. 1:4; Poirier 1995, 158). She states further, “for I am the wisdom [of the] Greeks and the knowledge [of the] barbarians” ([1]6.3–5). Scholars disagree on whether one is to detect hints of a “fallen” Sophia here. One scholar argues that “the predications in the form of antithesis and paradox are used to show that the Gnostic revealer, whether Sophia or another, is of a totally other order that transcends cosmic, social, ethical and religious values. The deity is not the source of order in the cosmos, but is wholly transcendent with respect to the cosmos …” (MacRae 1977, 121). On the other hand, the goddess often seems to describe herself in quite the opposite terms – as an imminent, divine being (Poirier 1995, 161). In any case, such riddling language associated with a female revealer – perhaps another transformation of Sophia – extends beyond Thunder in the Nag Hammadi corpus. The Thunder‐goddess’s pronouncements are echoed, this time with regards to a legend of Eve’s parthenogenesis in the Ophite tractate On the Origin of the World (NHC II,5): Eve thus is the first virgin who, without a male, gave birth. It is she who served as her own midwife. For this reason, it is said of her that she said, “It is I, the part of my mother,” and “It is I, the mother; it is I, the woman; It is I, the virgin; it is I, the pregnant one; it is I, the midwife; it is I, she who alleviates birth‐pangs; it is my husband who bore me, and I am his mother, and he is my father, and my lord; he is my power. Whatever he desires, he speaks rightly. I exist, but I gave birth to a man as Lord.” (NHC II 114.4–15)

Some form of this passage is also preserved in Hyp. Arch. (NHC II 89.14–17) and Thund. (NHC VI 13.19–[1]4.1), which has led some to regard the revelatrix of Thund. to be not Sophia, but Eve or a composite of the two – perhaps the same Eve of the legendary Gospel of Eve (Layton 1986; Poirier 1995, 120–132; Bak Halvgaard

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2015, 108–109, 120–121). In this lost pseudepigraphon, said by Epiphanius of Salamis (late fourth century CE), to have served as a proof‐text amongst “Gnostics,” Eve obtained knowledge in Eden from the serpent – and the sound accompanying a revelatory angel is “a sound of thunder” (Pan. 36.2.6–3.1).

Conclusion: Trajectories of Wisdom at Nag Hammadi Many trajectories of wisdom lead into or are transformed within the Nag Hammadi corpus. Here, we find instructional texts (Sent. Sext., Teach. Silv.), dialogues and sayings‐gospels thought to be informed by sapiential gnomologia (Gos. Thom., Dial. Sav.), cosmological teaching said to be Jesus’s “wisdom” (Soph. Jes. Chr.), and a great many incarnations of the hypostasis wisdom‐goddess, Sophia, whether as creatrix, disgraced mother of the demiurge, revelatory Eve‐figure, or the person of Jesus Christ himself. It is also significant which trajectories of wisdom do not reach Nag Hammadi. In none of the texts discussed here is wisdom identified as Law or Torah. Rather, wisdom is to be found, above all, in the person of Jesus, inside human beings (rendered divine by virtue of their rational faculty), or in works of esoteric lore. Nag Hammadi is thus a rich depository of early Christian wisdom. And yet one cannot speak of wisdom at Nag Hammadi without speaking of Gnosticism, for in many of these texts, wisdom is to be found in the present, broken cosmos. One often reads about a central tenet of sapiential Jewish literature being the ordering of the world according to wisdom (e.g. Collins 1997, 58–59, 83–85, 198–207). Notably, this theme is taken up in the Nag Hammadi works that treat the incarnation of Sophia in a way that is so obvious it may elude notice: tractates that (like many Jewish apocalyptic texts) assume that the created, material universe is in need of rectification often, as we have noted above, pin the blame for this fault on none other than Wisdom herself – a startling inversion of Wis. 8:1: “And she extends from one end of the world to the other, concrete, and orders everything well.” If one accepts the first line of the verse but rejects the second – for things on earth do not seem to be ordered well, at all – then the foundation of the cosmic order must not be well either (Rudolph 1996b, 182). It would be mistaken to dub this perspective “pessimism,” or simply to draw a straight line from “sapiential and apocalyptic dualism” to “Gnostic dualism” (cf. Rudolph 1996b, 185–187; Lahe 2012, 119). The possibility of the redemption of human beings from the cosmos via realization of kinship with the divine (Burns 2016) is hardly a pessimistic perspective. On the contrary, its elevation of the human to the divine in the face of worldly obstacles is a case of extreme optimism, even exuberance – an attitude distant from the sober resignation of Proverbs and Job, but not at all far from the sense found in much apocalyptic literature that while conflict and tribulations are assured, one is permitted not just to hope, but to rejoice. As Norea is told by Eleleth, “Wisdom”:

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You and your offspring belong to the Father who has existed from the beginning; it is from heaven above, out of the imperishable light that your souls have come. For this reason, the authorities will not be able to approach them, thanks to the Spirit of Truth who dwells in them. And whosever has come to know this path shall be immortal amongst the mortal human beings! (Hyp. Arch. NHC II 96.19–27)

Notes 1 All translations given in the present chapter are my own, from the critical editions available in the Coptic Gnostic Library (Brill). 2 There is some corruption of the text here. The short recension of the text refers to a “dark abortion”—i.e. the monstrous child of Wisdom, Yaltabaoth.

References Bak Halvgaard, Tilde. 2015. Linguistic Manifestations in the “Trimorphic Protennoia” and the “Thunder: Perfect Mind”. Analysed against the Background of Platonic and Stoic Dialectics. Leiden: Brill. Burns, Dylan M. 2014. Apocalypses amongst Gnostics and Manichaeans. In: The Oxford Handbook of Apocalyptic Literature (ed. John J. Collins), 358–372. New York: Oxford University Press. Burns, Dylan M. 2016. Providence, creation, and Gnosticism according to the Gnostics. Journal of Early Christian Studies 24: 55–79. Collins, John J. 1997. Jewish Wisdom in the Hellenistic Age. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Crenshaw, J.L. 1981. Old Testament Wisdom: An Introduction. Atlanta, GA: John Knox Press. DeConick, April. 2008. Mysticism and the Gospel of Thomas. In: Das Thomasevangelium. Entstehung– Rezeption–Theologie (ed. Jörg Frey, Enno E. Popkes, and Jens Schröter, with Christine Reiher), 206–221. Berlin: De Gruyter.

Dell, Katherine J. 2008. Wisdom. In: The Oxford Handbook to Biblical Studies (ed. J.W. Rogerson and Judith M. Lieu), 409–419. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Funk, Wolf‐Peter. 1976. Ein doppelt überliefertes Stück spätägyptischer Weisheit. Zeitschrift für Ägyptische Sprache 103: 8–21. Gathercole, Simon. 2014. The Gospel of Thomas: Introduction and Commentary. Leiden: Brill. Goehring, James. 1981. A classical influence on the Gnostic Sophia myth. Vigiliae Christianae 35: 16–23. Goff, Matthew J. 2005. Discerning trajectories: 4QInstruction and the sapiential background of the Sayings Source Q. Journal of Biblical Literature 124: 657–673. Good, Deirdre. 1984. Sophia in Valentinianism. The Second Century 4: 193–201. Good, Deirdre. 1987. Reconstructing the Tradition of Sophia in Gnostic Literature. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature.

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Hartenstein, Judith. 2000. Die zweite Lehre. Erscheinungen des Auferstandenen als Rahmenerzählungen frühchristlicher Dialoge. Berlin: De Gruyter. Janssens, Yvonne. 1983. Introduction. In: Les Leçons de Silvanus (NH VII, 4) (ed. Yvonne Janssens), 1–23. Québec: Les Presses de l’Université Laval. Kloppenborg, John S. 1987. The Formation of Q: Trajectories in Ancient Wisdom Collections. Harrisburg: Fortress Press. Koester, Helmut. 1971. One Jesus and four primitive gospels. In: Trajectories through Early Christianity (ed. James M. Robinson and Helmut Koester), 158–204. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press. Koester, Helmut and Elaine Pagels. 1984. Introduction. In: Nag Hammadi Codex III,5. The Dialogue of the Savior (ed. Stephen Emmel), 1–18. Leiden: Brill. Lahe, Jaan. 2012. Gnosis und Judentum: Alttestamentliche und jüdische Motive in der gnostischen Literatur und das Ursprungsproblem der Gnosis. Leiden: Brill. Layton, Bentley. 1986. The riddle of the Thunder (NHC VI, 2): The function of paradox in a Gnostic text from Nag Hammadi. In: Nag Hammadi, Gnosticism, and Early Christianity (ed. Charles W. Hedrick and Robert Hodgson), 37–54. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson. Létourneau, Pierre. 2003. Introduction. In: Le Dialogue du Sauveur (NH III,5) (ed. and trans. Pierre Létourneau), 1–48. Québec/Leuven/Paris: Les Presses de l’Université Laval/Peeters. Linjamaa, Paul. 2016. The female figures and fate in the interpretation of knowledge, NHC XI,1. Journal of Early Christian Studies 24: 29–54. Lundhaug, Hugo. 2010. Images of Rebirth: Cognitive Poetics and Transformational Soteriology in the “Gospel of Philip” and the “Exegesis on the Soul.” Leiden: Brill.

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Lundhaug, Hugo and Jenott, Lance. 2015. The Monastic Origins of the Nag Hammadi Codices. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. MacRae, George. 1970. The Jewish background of the Gnostic Sophia myth. Novum Testamentum 12: 86–101. MacRae, George. 1977. Discourses of the Gnostic revealer. In: Proceedings of the International Colloquium on Gnosticism, Stockholm, August 20–25, 1973 (ed. Geo Widengren and David Hellholm), 111–124. Stockholm/Leiden: Almqvist & Wiksell/Brill. Patterson, Stephen. 2013. Wisdom in Q and Thomas. In: The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins: Essays on the Fifth Gospel (ed. Stephen Patterson), 141–174. Leiden: Brill. Peel, Malcolm. 1995. The Teachings of Silvanus: Introduction. In: Nag Hammadi Codex VII (ed. Birger Pearson), 249–276. Leiden: Brill. Pevarello, Daniele. 2013. The Sentences of Sextus and the Origins of Christian Asceticism. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Pleše, Zlatko. 2006. Poetics of the Gnostic Universe: Narrative and Cosmology in the Apocryphon of John. Leiden: Brill. Poirier, Paul‐Hubert. 1995. Introduction. In: Le Tonnerre, Intellect parfait (NH VI,2) (ed. and trans. Paul‐Hubert Poirier), 1–174. Québec/Leuven/Paris: Les Presses de l’Université Laval/Peeters. Rasimus, Tuomas. 2009. Paradise Reconsidered in Gnostic Mythmaking: Rethinking Sethianism in Light of the Ophite Evidence. Leiden: Brill. Robinson, James M. 1971. LOGOI SOPHON: On the Gattung of Q. In: Trajectories through Early Christianity (ed. James M. Robinson and Helmut Koester), 71–113. Philadelphia PA: Fortress Press.

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Rudolph, Kurt. 1996a. Der Gnostische “Dialog” als Literarisches Genus. In: Gnosis und spätantike Religionsgeschichte (ed. Kurt Rudolph), 103–122. Leiden: Brill. Rudolph, Kurt. 1996b. Sophia und Gnosis: Bemerkungen zum Problem “Gnosis und Frühjudentum.” In: Gnosis und spätantike Religionsgeschichte (ed. Kurt Rudolph), 170–189. Leiden: Brill. Schenke, Hans‐Martin. 2012. Die Tendenz der Weisheit zur Gnosis. In: Der Same Seths: Hans‐Martin Schenkes “Kleine Schriften” zu Gnosis, Koptologie, und Neuem Testament (ed. Gesine Schenke Robinson, Gesa Schenke, and Uwe‐ Karsten Plisch), 401–423. Leiden: Brill. Schoedel, William R. 1975. Jewish wisdom and the formation of the Christian ascetic. In: Aspects of Wisdom in Judaism and Early Christianity (ed. Robert L. Wilken), 169–199. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Scopello, Madeleine. 1988. Jewish and Greek heroines in the Nag Hammadi library. In: Images of the Feminine in Gnosticism (ed. Karen L. King), 71–90. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press. Sevrin Jean‐Marie. 1986. Le dossier baptismal séthien: Études sur la sacramentaire gnostique. BCNH Section

“Études” 2. Québec: Presses de l’université Laval; Leuven: Peeters. Siverstev, Alexei. 2000. The Gospel of Thomas and Early stages in the development of the Christian wisdom literature. Journal of Early Christian Studies 8: 319–340. Tervahauta, Ulla. 2015. A Story of the Soul’s Journey in the Nag Hammadi Library. A Study of “Authentikos Logos” (NHC VI,3). Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Van den Broek, Roelof. 1996a. The Teachings of Silvanus and the Greek Gnomic tradition. In: Studies in Gnosticism and Alexandrian Christianity (ed. Roelof Van den Broeck), 225–258. Leiden: Brill. Van den Broek, Roelof. 1996b. The theology of the Teachings of Silvanus. In: Studies in Gnosticism and Alexandrian Christianity (ed. Roelof Van den Broek), 259–283. Leiden: Brill. Wilson, Walter T. 2012. The “Sentences” of Sextus. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Wisse, Frederik. 1975. Die Sextus‐Sprüche und das Problem der gnostischen Ethik. In: Zum Hellenismus in den Schriften von Nag Hammadi (ed. Alexander Böhlig und Frederik Wisse), 55–86. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz.

Further Reading Brakke, David. 2012. The Gnostics: Myth, Ritual, and Diversity in Early Christianity. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. A recent and influential treatment of Gnostic traditions. King, Karen L. 2005. What is Gnosticism? Cambridge: Belknap Press. An influential review of scholarship on and critical reflection on the concept of Gnosticism.

Layton, Bentley. 1987. The Gnostic Scriptures. New York: Doubleday. Remains the best introduction to Gnostic literature available; includes original translations of texts (mostly but not limited to Nag Hammadi) with introduction and commentary. Robinson, James M. 2000. The Coptic Gnostic Library. 5 vols. Leiden: Brill. An authoritative edition and translation of the Nag Hammadi corpus.

CHAPTER 23

The Sapiential Books in the Latin Middle Ages Gilbert Dahan

Introduction As shall become clear when analyzing the place of sapiential texts in the divisions of the Bible, our modern classification of “wisdom literature” did not constitute a proper unit or category in the Middle Ages. Instead, the most common collective category during this period was the “books of Solomon,” which, in addition to Proverbs (Prov.), Ecclesiastes (Eccl.), and the Song of Songs (Song), included the Wisdom of Solomon (Wis.) and the book of Ben Sira or Sirach (Sir., also known as Ecclesiasticus). The book of Job, while an important book in the medieval period, was not understood to be written by Solomon the famous Israelite king, and was therefore left completely outside of this set; for this reason, it will be excluded from this study (for the reception history of Job, see Chapter 24 in this volume). We will limit ourselves to the compositions typically attributed during this period to Solomon (Prov., Eccl., Wis., and Sir.). The Song of Songs, which may be related to the wisdom tradition, is not conventionally classified as such by scholars today (Tromp 1990). The exegesis of this book in the Middle Ages is a vast topic and beyond the purview of the present chapter. After a brief discussion of the role of commentaries during this era, this chapter will examine the place of these writings in medieval Bibles, highlight characteristics of their exegesis (including links with the secular sciences), and try to understand the concept of wisdom in a few of these commentaries.

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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The medieval commentaries, written in Latin, analyze the biblical text of the Vulgate, the common Latin translation of the Bible. The text of the Vulgate translation was diffused throughout the West from the fifth century onwards (Berger 1893) and became fixed under Charlemagne, who decided to make it the “official” text of his empire. The work was done by one of the scholars of his court, known as Alcuin of York (730–804). At the same time, Theodulf of Orléans revised the Latin text by incorporating textual variants from the Hebrew. Attempts to revise these editions were made in the twelfth century (notably by Stephen Harding), but they remained limited to restricted circles. In the thirteenth century, with the birth of universities, many Bibles were copied with varying success. Collections of critical notes were written (“correctories”), but no “editing” was done in the modern sense. The first authoritative print edition of the Latin Bible was the Vulgata Sixto‐Clementine, composed in the late sixteenth century and authorized by Pope Clement VIII. It is a text in the tradition of the work of Alcuin of York with diverse variants and forms the basis of the commentaries that we will examine.

Medieval Commentaries on Wisdom Books Wisdom writings were not the subject of numerous commentaries written by the Church Fathers. While the exegesis of these books developed during the Carolingian period (the ninth century), the number of medieval commentaries on these compositions still remains lower than those on other biblical books that were at the center of teaching, such as Genesis, Psalms, and the epistles of Paul.1 Commentaries on the four books attributed to Solomon that are the focus of this chapter (Prov., Eccl., Wis., and Sir.) were included in the composition which provided commentary on the entire corpus of scripture. The Glossa (known later as the ordinaria) emerged out of the Laon School of northern France in the early twelfth century and was expanded during the following decades in Auxerre and Paris. The Glossa commentary consists of two levels: the interlinear gloss, which is a short commentary on both the literal and spiritual sense of the text (that is, its plain or surface meaning and its deeper or allegorical significance); and the marginal gloss, a collection of extracts of earlier commentators (e.g. the Church Fathers and others from the High Middle Ages). For each of the four books that constitute our focus, the commentary in the Glossa is based on a specific commentary that has been reworked: for Proverbs, the commentary of the Venerable Bede; for Ecclesiastes, Jerome’s commentary (Gregory the Great is also quoted several times); for the Wisdom of Solomon and Sirach, those of Rabanus Maurus (776–856). The Glossa was consistently used from the twelfth to the fifteenth century and served as a major reference text for the study of the Bible. It was printed until the seventeenth century.

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In the thirteenth century, another commentary on the entire Bible was done by the Dominicans of Paris under the direction of Hugh of St. Cher (d. 1263), between 1230 and 1240 (Bataillon, Dahan, and Gy 2004). This biblical commentary has been named the Postille, derived from the Latin post illa verba textus (“after these words”) and, as the title suggests, is composed of rather short glosses on the biblical text. The explanations found in the Postille are mostly literal in their interpretation, but Hugh does occasionally give way to some more spiritual interpretations. It is unclear whether this Postille was designed to replace the Glossa at a time when there was renewed interested in exegesis. But it seems to have never outshined the Glossa, regardless of its richness (it did, however, continue to be printed until the eighteenth century). Finally, another commentary on the entire Bible, which also receives the name of Postille, is that of the Franciscan Nicholas of Lyra (c. 1270–1349) (Krey and Smith 2000; Dahan 2011). This commentary is distinguished by its use of Jewish sources, including the Targums (Aramaic translation of the Bible) and Rashi, i.e. Solomon ben Isaac of Troyes (1040–1105), whose commentary plays the same role for the Jews as the Glossa ordinaria plays for the Christians. Nicholas of Lyra’s Postille exegesis, especially of the Old Testament, was used often up through the sixteenth century (it was printed with the Glossa until the seventeenth century). Let us now consider the commentaries book by book.

Proverbs There are hardly any extant commentaries on the book of Proverbs from the Church Fathers of Early Christianity (Berndt 1994; see also Chapters 1 and 21 in this volume). We possess a commentary in the form of questions and answers by Salonius, Bishop of Geneva (d. after 451). Gregory the Great produced a commentary on Proverbs, but it is not extant in any available manuscripts. The commentary on Proverbs that would prove to be very important in the Middle Ages is the one authored by Venerable Bede (673–735; it was also published under the name of Rabanus Maurus), which served as the basis for the Glossa. In the twelfth century, several other commentaries were composed which are available to us, including one by Honorius Augustodunensis (twelfth century), which summarizes Salonius’s commentary; the literalist commentary of Andrew of St. Victor (d. 1175); the commentary of Richard, Abbot of Préaux from 1101 to 1131; and the commentary by the masters of the “Biblical‐Moral School,” Peter the Chanter (c. 1130–1197) and Stephen Langton (c. 1150–1228). In the thirteenth century, several other commentaries on Proverbs were written. The main ones are those of Alexander Nequam (1157–1217); Nicholas of Tournai (thirteenth century); William of Auvergne (c. 1180–1249) whose commentary only covers the beginning of Proverbs up to 14:28; Guerric of Saint‐Quentin, OP; Stephen of Venizy, OP (who taught in Paris

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1240–1243); William of Alton, OP (who also taught in Paris, c. 1260); and John of Varzy, OP (d. 1278). There are also commentaries by Robert Holcot, OP (d. 1349) and Denis the Carthusian. Additionally, there are a few other partial commentaries on Proverbs. There is one on chapters 25 to 31 by William of Flay, OSB (first half of twelfth century; Prévot 2014), and also commentaries on the “strong woman” (Prov. 31:1–10) by Bruno of Segni (c. 1045–1123), Albert the Great (c. 1200– 1280), and Richard Rolle (c. 1300–1349).

Ecclesiastes Though the book of Qoheleth, the Hebrew version of Ecclesiastes, was the subject of discussions among the Jews concerning its inclusion into the canon of the Jewish Bible, analogous discussions did not take place in a Christian context (Dahan 2005, 2009, 2016; Mellerin 2016). (For more on this book see Chapter 3 in this volume.) Jerome’s translation of Ecclesiastes made from the Hebrew was rigorous (there are some omissions of individual words) although he did adapt the occasionally difficult text of the original into the structures of Latin language. This involved alterations in terms of syntax (such as insertions of conjunctions or changes in the use of tenses) and vocabulary (i.e. avoidance of repetition). The tradition of the Latin text, established by Alcuin, is relatively stable, hence the low number of remarks regarding this book in correctories. Jerome also produced a commentary on Ecclesiastes which had a great influence on medieval exegesis of the book. (Jerome’s commentary also uses Book IV of Gregory the Great’s Dialogues regarding Eccl. 3:8, which systematized the theory of personification, or concionator, in which Solomon makes various people speak.). The Expositio of Pseudo‐Salonius (who was active between 800 and 1000) presents in dialogue form the main themes of the commentary of Jerome. The commentary of Alcuin uses Jerome as well. In the twelfth century we have a series of rich commentaries on Ecclesiastes starting with that of Rupert of Deutz (c. 1075–1129). While the attribution of this work is uncertain, it is nevertheless especially interesting because of the richness and novelty of its interpretation of the book (Leanza 1985). There are also the 19 Homilies of Hugh of St. Victor (1096–1141) which goes up to Eccl. 4:8. He develops major themes of Ecclesiastes, such as the futility of the world, and his homilies became as influential as Jerome’s work. Honorius Augustodunensis wrote the Quaestiones which was a commentary on Ecclesiastes composed of questions about difficulties in the text. Also Andrew of St. Victor wrote a very succinct literal commentary on Ecclesiastes. Two of the main teachers in the Parisian schools during the second half of the twelfth century who wrote commentaries on Ecclesiastes were Peter the Chanter and Stephen Langton. In the thirteenth century, we have a series of very rich commentaries by authors including William of Auvergne, Guerric of Saint‐Quentin, OP, Stephen of Venizy, OP, William of Alton, OP, John of Varzy, and Nicholas of Gorran, OP (d. c. 1295).

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The commentary of the important bishop and theologian Bonaventure, OFM (1221–1274), is particularly representative since it is structured very much according to the schema of a university lesson in the medieval period: the divisio textus provides the detailed structure of the text, the expositio litterae is the explanation of the words, and the quaestiones addresses questions on doctrinal subjects mentioned in the text. Many commentaries from the period follow this format. Research to determine the relationship between these works should be conducted. Subsequently, the most important commentaries coming out of the fourteenth century are the Moralitates by James of Lausanne, OP (d. 1322), the commentary of Robert Holcot, OP, the commentary of Thomas Waleys, OP (d. 1349), and finally that of Denis the Carthusian.

The Wisdom of Solomon and Ben Sira (Ecclesiasticus) It is reasonable to treat the Wisdom of Solomon and Ben Sira together, as several medieval authors wrote commentaries on both of these books (see Chapters 6 and 5 in this volume, respectively). There are no known patristic commentaries on either composition. The first commentary on the two books is that of Rabanus Maurus which would serve as the base for the Glossa ordinaria and influence later authors. Principal commentators include Peter the Chanter, William of Middleton, Nicholas of Gorran, and Denis the Carthusian. Meister Eckhart (1260–1328) discusses only some verses of Wisdom and Sirach. Interestingly, several times he mentions the Jewish thinker Maimonides (who does not appear to know either of the books). Robert Holcot also wrote a commentary on the Wisdom of Solomon and Ben Sira. His commentary on the Wisdom of Solomon in particular quickly became popular and was copied into numerous manuscripts. It was also printed several times in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Concerning the Wisdom of Solomon, one should also note the commentaries of William of Alton and John of Varzy. Bonaventure compiled a commentary on the Wisdom of Solomon that does not use the form of a commentary produced in the context of teaching at the university (the questions, being brief, are integrated into the exposition of the text). The commentaries of William of Middleton (thirteenth century) on Ecclesiasticus could be attributed to various other authors (such as Alexander of Hales and Nicholas of Gorran).

The Wisdom Books in Medieval Bibles A medieval Bible (as is also the case in contemporary Bibles) is not a bare text. It was accompanied by various elements which had become somewhat standardized by the thirteenth century. We have seen that the text was not fixed. But in the early

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thirteenth century, a new chapter numbering system was established which spread quickly (it is sometimes attributed to Stephen Langton; it is roughly the one we use today). Prior to this, the text was divided into sections generally shorter than our chapters (De Bruyne 1914). Thus, we find in these manuscripts 55, 59, or 60 divisions of the book of Proverbs (as opposed to 31 chapters today), as well as one tradition which divided the book into only seven segments. For Ecclesiastes, which today has 12 chapters, these manuscripts often contain 31 or 20 divisions, and the Wisdom of Solomon 48, 49 or 51 divisions (as well as 13). Ecclesiasticus is divided into as many as 83, 126, or even 163 divisions, or as few as 30 in some manuscripts. In addition, there are also summaries and divisions given in the modern edition of the Vulgate (Biblia Sacra 1957, 1964). The titles of the books of the Bible were fixed before the thirteenth century. The Hebrew name is often added. For the four books under discussion here are the main designations: Proverbs: Liber Prouerbiorum Salomonis, quem Hebraei vocant Masloth; Parabolae Salomonis Ecclesiastes: Liber Ecclesiastes quod Hebraei Coeleth vocant; Ecclesiastes Wisdom of Solomon: Liber Sapientiae Salomonis; Liber Sapientiae Ben Sira: Liber Ihesu filii Sirach; Ecclesiasticum (Salomonis) Also, in many Bibles the individual books are preceded by what is called a “summary,” a kind of short overview of each section of the text. Here, for example, is the beginning of the summary in one biblical manuscript (ms. Paris, BnF lat. 15475; thirteenth century) for Proverbs: I. Proverbs of Solomon. The title establishes the usefulness of the book. It recommends that the son should heed wisdom. He is warned against falling to seductions and not to follow the ways of sinners or heretics: Proverbs (1:1). II. Wisdom cries out openly. She departs from those who have despised her since childhood and threatens those who oppose [her]: Wisdom cries without (1:20).

These summaries are usually brief. They constitute initial exegesis of the books and often provide insight for us into interpretations that were prevalent at the time. Another important element in medieval Bibles are the prologues or “arguments,” which present the book and give an impression of its contents. Present from the early Middle Ages, they are usually taken from Jerome and standardized in the Bibles of the thirteenth century. With regard to Proverbs, the most common prologue is that which begins Iungat epistola (“Let the letter be joined”). It is a letter to the fourth ­century bishops Chromatius and Heliodorus. The text serves, in fact, as a general prologue to the Solomonic books, including Wisdom and Sirach. Jerome sent his translation to Chromatius and Heliodorus and noted the ambiguous canonical status

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of Ecclesiasticus, a book “full of virtue” (panaretos), and the Wisdom of Solomon, which he negatively describes as “pseudepigrapha.” He asserts that both books are appropriate for moral guidance but should not be used for church doctrine. He also refers to a tradition that the Wisdom of Solomon is attributed to the Jewish philosopher Philo. There are two other prologues, one that starts with Tres libros Salomonis (“three books of Solomon”) addressed to Paula and Eustochius, and one that begins with Tribus nominibus (“three terms”) which is the beginning of the commentary of Jerome on Ecclesiastes. Ecclesiastes is preceded by a prologue Memini me hoc (“I remember that …”), which is the preface with which Jerome presents his commentary, written in Bethlehem, to Paula and Eustochius. For the Wisdom of Solomon, the short prologue Liber Sapientiae apud Hebraeos (“The Book of Wisdom among the Hebrews”) is not written by Jerome. Rather, it is a passage from a chapter in the Etymologies in which Isidore of Seville (570–636) lists the books of the Bible. He observes the absence of the Wisdom of Solomon in Hebrew and its attribution to Philo (referring to the Jews). For Ecclesiasticus, the prologue consists of the initial statement of the book that the grandson of Jesus (Joshua) claims to have translated the work of his grandfather into Greek which serves as a prologue in medieval Bibles. Ben Sira’s prologue in Latin begins with Multorum nobis. (It begins in English [NRSV] “Many great teachings …”) In his Postille, Hugh of St. Cher adds a prologue attributed to Rabanus Maurus, but it does not appear in the commentary written by the latter. It is a rewriting of Jerome’s prologue on the books attributed to Solomon. The exegetes of the thirteenth century, such as Hugh of Saint‐Cher, John of Varzy, and Bonaventure, often discuss these prologues. In medieval Bibles, the five books attributed to Solomon (including the Song of Songs) are given successively, after the Psalms and before the Prophets, in a fixed order: Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, the Song of Songs, the Wisdom of Solomon, and Ben Sira. However, Theodulf Bibles (produced by Theodulf of Orléans in the ninth ­century) follow the order of the Hebrew Bible: Proverbs (after the Psalms) and Ecclesiastes (after Proverbs and before the Song of Songs) are in the third section of the Bible known as the “Writings” (after the Law and the Prophets). The Wisdom of Solomon and Ben Sira are in the “fourth order,” the Apocrypha, which follows Esther and begins with the Wisdom of Solomon and Ben Sira (with the title Liber Ecclesiasticus Hiesu filii Sirach).

The Classification of Wisdom Books Canon Problems The five biblical books of Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, the Song of Songs, the Wisdom of Solomon, and Ben Sira, constitute a set in the Middle Ages. The canonical status of two of them could have posed a problem (note that the canon was not definitively

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fixed until the Council of Trent in 1546). One especially remembers Jerome for holding on to the Old Testament idea that 22 books constitute the Hebrew canon. One of the first legislative texts of the Christian West is called the “Decree of Damasus” (Damasus was pope 366–384) or “Decree of Gelasius” (pope 492–496). The first part of this text is undoubtedly from the Roman Council of 382. This decree gives us the list of “divine scriptures” that were received by “all the Catholic Church,” as well as those which Christians should not read. Key for our purposes, the text mentions “the three books of Solomon: Proverbs, a book; Ecclesiastes, a book; Song of Songs, a book” then “Item Wisdom, a book; Ecclesiasticus, a book.” In this list then there is no hesitation concerning the canonical status of both the Wisdom of Solomon and Ben Sira. The term item here means “furthermore” and thus probably does not convey an attribution of these two books to Solomon. Codes of canon law from the Middle Ages continue this tradition: Burchard of Worms (tenth–eleventh centuries) speaks of “five books of Solomon,” without giving details, as in some canon lists (e.g. the Council of Hippo, 393 CE). Yves of Chartres, an eleventh‐­ century bishop who refers to Gelasius, mentions “three of Solomon.” The status of the Wisdom of Solomon and Ben Sira as Solomonic books was more open to question in the medieval period than Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, or the Song of Songs. Other Christian authors display a range of perspectives regarding the canonicity of all five wisdom books. Junilius (Junillus) Africanus (sixth century) whose work generally followed the Antiochian tradition (which promoted a literalist mode of exegesis) made an interesting distinction with regard to the wisdom books. On the one hand, he considered three of these texts “books of perfect authority,” including the Proverbs of Solomon and Ben Sira, together with the “simple teaching” (simplex doctrina) of Ecclesiastes. On the other hand, Africanus mentions two other categories, one of which comprises “books of an average authority that most authors adjoin to the canonical books (2 Chronicles, Job, Judith, etc.),” whereas regarding the other includes “those that certain individuals adjoined to the canonical books,” namely the Wisdom of Solomon and the Song of Songs. Isidore of Seville mentions “books that are not in the Hebrew canon: Wisdom, Ecclesiasticus (and others); although Jews put them among the apocrypha, the Church of Christ honored and preached them as divine books” (Etymologiae 6.1–2). It appears that Rupert of Deutz (a late eleventh–early twelfth‐century author) also considered the Wisdom of Solomon not to be canonical. With regard to Gen. 3:24, he quotes Wis. 10:1, which discusses Adam, and notes that this book is not part of the canon and that the quoted sentence was not taken from any canonical text. Hugh of St. Victor, after listing the 22 books of the Hebrew canon, observes: “There are also some books like the Wisdom of Solomon, the book of Jesus son of Sirach, the book of Judith … that are read but not written in the canon.” In the chapter on the authors of sacred books, he notes that “the Book of Wisdom is nowhere among the Hebrew [­scriptures] … and some Jews say that it is by Philo; the book of Ecclesiasticus has

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definitely been composed by Jesus, grandson of the High Priest whom Zechariah mentions” (De scripturis, chs. 6–7; Didascalicon 4.2–3). Hugh of St. Victor also asserts the non‐canonical status of Wisdom of Solomon and Ben Sira. Denis the Carthusian notes at the end of his prologue to Ben Sira that “this book is not part of the canon, that is to say, that it is not to be counted among the canonical scriptures. And it is very close to Proverbs in its meaning and style.” But the general opinion is that the Wisdom of Solomon and Ben Sira, despite their somewhat separate status, were consistently conceived as canonical or at least honored and useful by the Church (see also Zarb 1934, 216–231; Larcher 1969, 63–68). The location of readings from particular books during the liturgical year also allows verification of the integration of biblical books into the canon: thus, in his handbook Gemma animae (4.118), Honorius Augustodunensis writes that one must read “from the calends of August to September: Proverbs of Solomon, Ecclesiastes, the Song of Songs, the Book of Wisdom, all that Solomon wrote; and the book of Ecclesiasticus, that was composed by Jesus son of Sirach.” In the prologue to his commentary on Wisdom of Solomon, William of Alton states, among the arguments in favor of attributing the book to Solomon, the fact that it is read at Mass on the Thursday after Pentecost. Proverbs, Wisdom of Solomon, and Ben Sira are often used in the liturgy (especially their praise of wisdom), in contrast to Ecclesiastes which almost never appears in this context (see Marbach 1907).

Classification Aside from the sequence of sapiential books, it is also interesting to see what place the individual books occupy in the divisions of the Bible. For this, a particular literary genre is important in a medieval context that develops in the university system: the principium or opening lecture of someone teaching the Bible. The principium consists of two parts, a section of praise and an explication based on a division of scripture (Spatz 1992; Prügl 2007). The division is not the mechanical application of the sequence of books in the Bibles. Rather each lecture offers a reasoned effort at classification according to criteria determined by the teacher. Here we are only taking into account the wisdom books. In his inaugural lesson (shortly before 1238), the Franciscan John of La Rochelle, after having divided the Old Testament into three parts (Law, Prophets, Psalms), gives the classification which would become the most common: the Law contains commandments of teaching (the Pentateuch), education by examples (the historical books or prophets), and education by “admonitions” contained in five volumes: Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Song of Songs, the Wisdom of Solomon, and Ben Sira. He asserts that admonition can be general, which is the purpose of Proverbs, or specific, as in the other four books. Regarding the purpose of these four latter books, John states that Ecclesiastes expresses contempt for all fleeting possessions; the particular

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concern of the Song of Songs is love and desire for the highest good; and the Wisdom of Solomon and Ben Sira both give reasons for the admonitions: terror inspired by justice in the Wisdom of Solomon, and blessings of mercy associated with divine wisdom in Ben Sira. John of La Rochelle added a comment indicating that the Wisdom of Solomon and Ben Sira are considered to be of “secondary authority” because they are not included in the volumes in Hebrew (Delorme 1933). The classification of the Bible into lessons of commands, admonitions, and examples can be found, for example, in Henry of Ghent and Nicholas Gorran (both thirteenth century). For both authors, the features are the same as in previous commentaries. One notes the inclusion of the invocation of God’s mercy in the case of Ben Sira. The principium of the Dominican bishop and theologian Albert the Great, (in his inaugural lecture in Paris in 1245?), has for its theme a portion of Sir. 24:33: “Moses instructed us in the Law: the precepts of justice, the inheritance of the house of Jacob, and the promises to Israel.” This theme creates a division of scripture based on a conception of law, of which the first part deals with the precepts of justice. His schema offers a tripartite division of scripture on the basis of three different issues that relate to the law: the actions themselves (the five books of the Pentateuch), the determination of the virtues (the “five books of Solomon”), and rewards and punishments (the Prophets and the Psalms). The portion relating to the determination of the virtues is itself divided according to whether one considers the primary causes of actions and virtues (Prov., Eccl., Song) or what simply helps one achieve virtuous acts, from the contemplation of higher or divine realities (Wis.), or of lower creatures (Sir.). Additionally, the principium of Albert the Great characterizes each book according to this classification. In Proverbs, one learns to avoid excesses and vices and to be closer to the right balance of virtues. Ecclesiastes provides an inventory of what one should choose and the futility of created things, once they have been rejected. The book urges one to fear God and keep his commandments (12:13). The Song of Songs prescribes the practice of virtuous acts (this is a fairly idiosyncratic understanding of the Song in the Middle Ages). Albert does not say anything else about the Wisdom of Solomon, but with regard to Ecclesiasticus he distinguishes between near and distant causes for the practice of virtuous acts (Fries 1952). The principium “Hic est liber” (“Here is the book”) of Thomas Aquinas,2 whose theme is Bar. 4:1, divides the Old Testament according to the traditional Jewish division (Pentateuch, Prophets, Writings), albeit with some differences, mainly that Thomas includes the Apocrypha as part of the Writings. The sapiential books (including Job) are in the Writings, appearing after Psalms. The books that constitute the Writings (and Apocrypha) are subdivided into two parts according to whether the teaching of virtue is given by actions or by word. By word, by supplication (Psalms), or by teaching, one can distinguish between that which exposes statements of “falsehood” (Job, which utilizes the form of an

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argument) and that which is only truth. Aquinas also arranges the five books associated with Solomon into three types: (1) the recommendation of wisdom (Wis.); (ii) the three precepts of wisdom (living in the world, contempt for the world, and the virtues of the purged soul, denoting a person purified of worldly concerns who focuses solely on the contemplation of wisdom) signified, respectively, by Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Song; and (iii) instruction by both word and deed (Sir.). These examples illustrate how freely medieval authors divided the Bible, although there are consistencies among them in terms of how they would classify scriptural texts.

Progression Another medieval classification of wisdom literature is provided in the prologues of commentaries. As early as Jerome’s commentary on Ecclesiastes, the three biblical books attributed to Solomon have been understood to each address a different age group with regard to education. Thus, for Jerome, Proverbs was addressed to children (parvuli), Ecclesiastes to men coming to maturity, and the Song of Songs to “perfected” men. In similar fashion, other authors viewed these books as progressing from the beginner (Prov.), the proficient (Eccl.), and the perfect (Song). For example, the prologue of John of Varzy’s commentary on Ecclesiastes ends with a question about the order of the books of Solomon: It must be said that these three books are distinguished according to three statuses: of those who are beginners, those who are progressing, and of the perfect. In Proverbs, Solomon teaches beginners how to live in the middle of an evil and perverse nation; this is discussed in Phil 2(:15). In Ecclesiastes, he teaches those progressing how they should move away from the futility of the world, Eccl. 1(:2), “Futility of futilities.” In the Song of Solomon, he teaches those who are perfect how they should attach themselves to God by love. Song 1(:1), “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth” (ms. Paris BnF lat. 12459, f. 124VA).

Nicholas of Lyre, an important medieval exegete of the Bible, shares a list purportedly developed by the ancient Greek philosopher Empedocles according to which there are three things that elevate wisdom: contempt for fleeting riches, the desire for future happiness, and that which illuminates the spirit. But this sequence does not correspond to the order of the biblical books since the last corresponds to Proverbs, the first to Ecclesiastes, the second to the Song of Songs. In the prologue to his commentary on Proverbs, Hugh of St. Cher summarizes ways these three books were thought to correspond to various virtues and metaphors, as show in Table 23.1.

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Table 23.1  Hugh of St. Cher’s summary of virtues and metaphors in Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and Song of Solomon Beginning

Progress

Completion

Proverbs Virtue and good behavior The active life Feeding children with milk Moral philosophy (ethics) Barley bread

Ecclesiastes Teaches contempt for material things Transition to the contemplative life Feeding adults with bread Physics Wheat bread

Song of Solomon Teaches to adhere to God alone Contemplative life Eating solid food Theology Fine flour bread

The Relationship Between Wisdom Literature and the Sciences One of the common themes of the commentaries on wisdom literature is its relationship to the secular sciences. Such a connection seems straightforward in the case of Ecclesiastes since, as discussed above, the book teaches contempt for the things of this world. This interest in the sciences, however, is evident throughout the three books of Solomon. In two remarkable studies, Beryl Smalley (1949–1950, 1950–1951) noted the use of writings by non‐ecclesiastical authors, scientists, and philosophers – including Aristotle (Meteors, De caelo et mundo, De animalibus, Nicomachean Ethics, Politics), Seneca, and Avicenna (De anima) – in commentaries by medieval exegetes from the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, such as William of Auvergne, Hugh of St. Cher (and those he influenced), Nicholas of Gorran, and Robert Holcot. In his commentary on the Wisdom of Solomon, Robert Holcot continues to quote Aristotle. In the prologue, he repeatedly refers to Seneca, Ethics, and Metaphysics of Aristotle – without mentioning Ovid or any Christian authors.

The Division of Sciences It appears that the Church Father Origen (third century) was the first to relate Solomon’s books to parts of philosophy. Indeed, in the prologue to his commentary on the Song of Songs, he presents a tripartite division that correlates Solomonic books to types of “science” (Dahan 1985): Ethics ‐‐> Proverbs Physics ‐‐> Ecclesiastes “Epoptics” ‐‐> Song of Songs The term “epoptics” (or “enoptics”) is problematic. Latin authors often translated this Greek term as inspectiva and they usually viewed it as equivalent to

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theology. But Origen’s list presented a difficulty since it differed from the two ­common schemas, that of Aristotle (mathematics, physics, and theology) and that of the Stoics (logic, ethics, and physics). Origen’s list, which was subsequently accepted by Augustine and Isidore of Seville, therefore made room for logic. One can still find it in Letter 30 of Jerome, which organizes each category in relation to the biblical books: physics with Genesis and Ecclesiastes, ethics with Proverbs (and, Jerome tells us, all other books). As for logic, Jerome understands it as a problem and replaces it with theology, placed in relation to the Song of Songs and the Gospels, while also noting that the letters of Paul because of their use of reasoning could correspond to logic. This schema for theological reflection is also in Jerome’s commentary on Ecclesiastes. Relayed through Gregory the Great (in his commentary on Song of Songs) and Isidore of Seville, these corresponding categories are continued in many medieval commentaries. Latin terms that were used to describe aspects of philosophy include moralis, naturalis, contemplativa, and inspectiva. To my knowledge, only Denis the Carthusian presents a different schema at the beginning of his commentary on Proverbs: As philosophy is threefold, consisting of ethics, logic and physics, the book of Proverbs relates to ethics, that is to say, morality, especially as it deals with moral virtues; the book of Ecclesiastes relates to logic, since it uses scholastic methods of disputation; as for the Song of Songs, it relates to physical or natural science, since all of nature and the entire order of creatures lead, stimulate, and result in love of the Creator, the embraces of the heavenly Bridegroom, and the contemplation of the eminent and incomparable truth.

One observes that the problem of the occasionally scandalous or unsettling content of Ecclesiastes (e.g. 4:2–3) is resolved by recourse to the disputation format, giving another form to the theory that the book involves several speakers (“theory of the concionator”). The relation of each book of Solomon to a type of philosophy is expressed in a different manner in the principium (introductory lesson) of the Dominican Peter of Scala (d. 1295). For him the three books concern “the exercise of the good life.” If, as is common, one relates the virtues of purification with Ecclesiastes, and contemplation to Song of Songs, it is politics, as a specific aspect of ethics, which corresponds to Proverbs (Sulavik 2002, 119). But it is above all the Wisdom of Solomon that is designated as political, which makes sense since at the beginning of the work the author addresses those “who judge the earth” (1:1). Early in his great commentary, when establishing the objectives of the book (finis), Robert Holcot ranks first “the government of the civil community.” He writes: “Indeed, the beginning of the binding of laws and the establishment of the human republic was wisdom guided by eloquence, as Tullius [Cicero] said in the prologue of his Rhetoric.”

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The Concept of Wisdom The concept of wisdom is a theme that appears, not surprisingly, in sapiential literature. It is impossible to examine this theme comprehensively in the four Solomonic books that are the focus of this chapter, since it is such a prominent topic in these writings (see also the introductory essay in this volume). Wisdom appears constantly in these four books. One thinks particularly of Prov. 1:20–32; 8:1–31 (with the most important passage being vv. 22–31 on wisdom and creation); 9:1–6; Eccl. 2:12–23; 7:12; 9:16–18; Wis. 1:4–6; 6:1–7:30; Sir.1:1–10; 6:10–37; 14:20–27; 19:20–30; and 24:1–34. All these passages are discussed in medieval commentaries and provide valuable reflections on the nature of wisdom. Here we limit ourselves to three texts that give an accurate impression of the development of speculation on wisdom, starting with the commentaries of Rabanus Maurus, an early medieval figure who argued for the equivalence of the term “wisdom” in scripture with Christ. For example, in the first chapter of Commentariorum in Ecclesiasticum (his commentary on Ben Sira), he read Sir.1:1 in light of the prologue of the Gospel of John: “All wisdom is from the Lord God and has always been with him, and is before time” … This is consistent with the Gospel of John (1:1): “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and Word was God.” So all wisdom comes from the Lord God, because Christ, who is life and “the true light that enlightens every man who comes into the world” (1:9), born of God the Father “and everything was done by him and without him nothing was made” (1:3). (Migne 1864, 109:765)

The equivalence of wisdom and Christ exists elsewhere throughout the Middle Ages, but reflection on wisdom in this period is much broader than this simple identification. In the thirteenth century, for example, William of Alton’s prologue to his commentary on the Wisdom of Solomon follows the schema of the four Aristotelian causes, developed from the theme of 1 Kgs. 10:8: “Happy are your servants, who stand before you and hear your wisdom.” The author first defines wisdom negatively in several different ways: 1. The wisdom of the flesh is hostile to God and, as the Glossa says, exists when someone accomplishes too zealously that which is in the order of the flesh; 2. The wisdom of the world, regarding wealth; it is that which is said in 1 Cor. 3:19: “The wisdom of this world is foolishness before God.” 3. The wisdom of the Devil, which concerns tricks, is that which Jer. 4:22 says: “They are wise at doing evil.” (ms. Paris, BnF lat. 14260) This wisdom, which is not higher but earthly, sensual, and diabolical, is then ­differentiated from another kind of wisdom which the author describes when he

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discusses the phrase “Your wisdom” from 1 Kgs. 10:8. This wisdom is threefold, according to St. Bernard of Clairvaux. It concerns the heart (pain because of past sins, the desire of future rewards, contempt for present worldly goods), the mouth (confessions of sins, the glorification of God, the edification of one’s neighbor), and action (a reserved, patient, and obedient attitude). Wisdom is the material cause (i.e. the subject) of the book: it deals with created wisdom, but also uncreated wisdom, namely the Son of God, who is called the wisdom and power of God (1 Cor. 1:24). William of Alton is distinguished by his “ascetic” conception of wisdom. Following the apostle Paul, he opposes the wisdom of this world and divine wisdom and also makes a distinction between created and uncreated wisdom by means of the equivalence Wisdom = Christ. Robert Holcot’s substantial fourteenth‐century commentary on the Wisdom of Solomon includes extensive discussion on the nature of wisdom (ed. Haguenau 1494). His exposition of Wis. 1:1, after a fairly general prologue, gives a specific introduction to the book. Holcot distinguishes three types of wisdom, but does so in a way that is quite different from other schemas we have examined. It sets forth conceptions of wisdom utilized by the peripatetic philosophers (the disciples of Aristotle), theologians, and Stoics and moral philosophers. For peripatetic philosophers, wisdom is the noblest of intellectual virtues. Holcot refers here to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics (6.6) and Metaphysics (1.5): one who is wise (sapiens) knows everything, including difficult things, with certainty and according to their supreme causes, and he seeks her (wisdom) and persuades others to do the same. Pythagoras is held up by Holcot as an example of the wise. Among theologians, wisdom is viewed as a supernatural gift, by which humankind has knowledge of things divine and human, whether by special inspiration or by a graceful proximity to God. Pseudo‐Dionysius is cited by Holcot as an example of such a theologian. Holcot also argues that just as acquired natural wisdom is more perfect than science and allows one to attain an understanding of the basic principles of nature, so this gift presupposes faith. This perspective is based upon Isa. 11:2: “The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him, the spirit of wisdom.” For the Stoics and moral philosophers, Seneca and Boethius, wisdom is nothing but a collection of intellectual and moral virtues. The wise one is perfectly virtuous, he cannot be offended, and his soul is always at peace. Holcot notes that Lactantius (a second to third century Church Father) agrees with this perspective. As the Wisdom of Solomon does not deal with one intellectual or moral virtue in particular, the term wisdom used here does not correspond to a particular supernatural gift or an intellectual virtue. Instead, the Stoic conception of wisdom, which considers all the virtues together, is what shapes the book. Also, according to Holcot, the prologue affirms that the Book of Wisdom (the Wisdom of Solomon) is so named because it speaks of the coming of Christ and of his passion (i.e. his suffering and crucifixion). Holcot’s independence with respect to his essentially christological reading is highly unusual in the medieval period.

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Finally, Denis the Carthusian illustrates conceptions of wisdom in the fifteenth century. Each of the prologues of his commentaries contains interesting reflections on wisdom. In the one on Proverbs, he distinguishes three types of wisdom, as did Robert Holcot, but in a rather different way. First, there is the wisdom that is one of the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit and thus a habitus (a “disposition” of the soul), supernaturally infused. Wisdom knows that it is only possible to enjoy God through a trained knowledge that touches the soul. Another is supernatural wisdom, a gift or habitus given graciously by which a person knows and can declare, prove, and defend the truths of the faith. This wisdom can be learned by reading, hearing, and studying the texts of Holy Scripture. It is this type of wisdom which was enjoyed by Solomon, although not on the same level as Moses. Finally, there is the natural and philosophical wisdom that can be obtained through inherent intelligence or by study. Strictly speaking, this type of wisdom signifies the knowledge of divine and intangible things. This is regarded by Denis as an ancient definition of wisdom. Solomon reached the pinnacle of this wisdom and it was also possessed by Aristotle. Denis remarks that Solomon’s wisdom preceded that of all the sages of the East and Egypt (1 Kgs. 4:30). His prologue to the Wisdom of Solomon immediately raises the issue of divine wisdom, “by which God is wisdom,” an uncreated wisdom and common to the three persons of the Trinity. Then he distinguishes created wisdom as multiple, innate, or acquired. In his brief prologue to his commentary on Ben Sira schematizes this understanding of wisdom: As in the books of Solomon, here wisdom is discussed extensively and from diverse perspectives: sometimes wisdom is uncreated and not begotten; sometimes wisdom is uncreated and created; sometimes wisdom is created, innate, or acquired; sometimes it denotes every virtue. (Leone 1899, 1)

In conclusion, this brief review demonstrates the richness and complexity of medieval exegesis of the wisdom books, especially in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. A more extensive study would include particular methods of exegesis to illustrate the integrity and competence with which the commentators resolved the difficulties posed by the texts which they expounded, be they problems related to the text, grammar, or doctrine. The perspectives are not the same as in contemporary exegesis, but, when reading the medieval commentators, one discovers how they penetrated the spirit of the texts and contributed to steady progress in the knowledge and elucidation of the Word of God. Note: This chapter was translated from French by Eric Naizer. Notes 1 To identify the manuscript editions of the cited commentaries, see Stegmüller and Reinhardt 1950–1980. 2 Two principia of Thomas Aquinas are extant. The second, Regans montes (the theme of which is Ps. 103:13), only includes praise of scripture.

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References Bataillon, Louis‐Jacques, Gilbert Dahan, and Pierre‐Marie Gy (ed.) 2004. Hugues de Saint‐Cher († 1263), bibliste et théologien. Turnhout: Brepols. Berger, Samuel. 1893. Histoire de la Vulgate pendant les premiers siècles du moyen âge. Paris: Berger‐Levrault. Berndt, Rainer. 1994. Skizze zur Auslegungsgeschichte der Bücher Prouerbia und Ecclesiastes in der abendländischen Kirche. Sacris erudiri 31: 5–32. Biblia Sacra iuxta versionem Latinam vulgatam. 1957, 1964. Vols. 11 and 12. Rome: Typis Polyglottis Vaticanis. Dahan, Gilbert. 1985. Origène et Jean Cassien dans un Liber de philosophia Salomonis. Archives d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du moyen âge 52: 135–162. Dahan, Gilbert. 2005. L’Ecclésiaste contre Aristote? Les commentaires de Eccl 1,13 et 17–18 aux XIIe et XIIIe siècles. In: Itinéraires de la raison. Études de philosophie médiévale offertes à Maria Cândida Pacheco (ed. José F. Meirinhos, 205–233). Louvain‐la‐Neuve: Fédération internationale des Instituts d’études médiévales. Dahan, Gilbert. 2009. … et omnia vanitas. Les commentaires d’Ecclésiaste 1, 2 aux XIIe et XIIIe siècles. In: Florilegium mediaevale. Études offertes à Jacqueline Hamesse (ed. José Meirinhos and Olga Weijers), 129–153. Louvain‐la‐Neuve: Fédération internationale des Instituts d’études médiévales. Dahan, Gilbert (ed.) 2011. Nicolas de Lyre, franciscain du XIVe siècle, exégète et théologien. Paris: Institut d’études augustiniennes. Dahan, Gilbert. 2016. Le roi et l’enfant: l’exégèse médiévale de Qo 4,13–14. In: La réception du livre de Qohélet, Ier‐XIIIe

siècle (ed. Laurence Mellerin), 223–241. Paris: Cerf. De Bruyne, Donatien. 1914. Sommaires, divisions et rubriques de la Bible latine. Namur: Auguste Godenne. Delorme, Ferdinand. 1933. Deux leçons d’ouverture de cours biblique données par Jean de La Rochelle. La France Franciscaine 16: 347–360. Fries, Albertus. 1952. Principium biblicum Alberti Magni. In: Studia Albertina. Festschrift für Bernhard Geyer (ed. Heinrich Ostlender), 128–147. Münster: Aschendorff. Krey, Philip D.W. and Smith, Lesley. (eds.) 2000. Nicholas of Lyra: The Senses of Scripture. Leiden: Brill. Larcher, C. 1969. Études sur le livre de la Sagesse. Paris: Gabalda. Leanza, Sandro. 1985. Un capitolo sulla fortuna del Commentario all’Ecclesiaste di Girolamo: il commentario dello Ps. Ruperto di Deutz. Civiltà classica e cristiana 6: 357–359. Leone, M. 1899. Doctoris Ecstatici D. Dionysii Cartusiani opera omnia … Vol. 8: In Ecclesiasticum et in Isaiam. Montreuil: Typis Cartusiae S. M. de Pratis. Marbach, Carolus. 1907. Carmina Scripturarum. Strasbourg: F. X. Le Roux. Mellerin, Laurence. (ed.) 2016. La réception du livre de Qohélet, Ier‐XIIIe siècle. Paris: Cerf. Migne, Jacques‐Paul. 1864. Patrologia Latina. Vol. 109. Paris: apud J. P. Migne editorem. Prévot, Brigitte. 2014. Le commentaire du livre des Proverbes de Guillaume de Flay. In: L’exégèse monastique au moyen âge (XIe‐XIVe siècle) (ed. Gilbert Dahan and Annie Noblesse‐Rocher), 209–228. Paris: Institut d’études augustiniennes.

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Prügl, Thomas. 2007. Medieval biblical principia as reflections on the nature of theology. In: What is “Theology” in the Middle Ages? Religious Cultures of Europe (11th–15th Centuries) as Reflected in their Self‐Understanding (ed. M. Olszewski), 253–275. Münster: Aschendorff. Smalley, Beryl. 1949–1950. Some thirteenth‐century commentaries on the sapiential books. Dominican Studies 2: 318–355; 3: 41–77, 236–274. Smalley, Beryl. 1950–1951. Some Latin Commentaries on the sapiential books in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. Archives d’histoire doctrinale et littéraire du moyen âge 18: 103–128. Spatz, Nancy. 1992. Principia. A study and edition of inception speeches delivered before the Faculty of Theology at the

University of Paris, c. 1180–1286. PhD. dissertation. Cornell University. Stegmüller, Fridericus and Reinhardt, Nicolaus.1950–1980. Repertorium biblicum medii aevi. 11 volumes. Madrid and Barcelona: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, Instituto “Francisco Suárez.” Sulavik, Athanasius. 2002. An unedited Principium Biblicum attributed to Petrus de Scala, O.P. Angelicum 79: 87–126. Tromp, Nicolas J. 1990. Wisdom and the canticle. Ct., 8,6c–7b: Text, character, message and import. In: La Sagesse de l’Ancien Testament. Nouvelle édition mise à jour (ed. Maurice Gilbert), 88–95. Leuven: Peeters Press. Zarb, Seraphinus M. 1934. De historia canonis utriusque Testamenti. Rome: Institutum Angelicum.

Further Reading Dahan, Gilbert. 1999. L’exégèse chrétienne de la Bible en Occident médiéval (XIIe‐XIVe s.). Paris: Cerf. An authoritative examination of the study of the Bible in the Middle Ages. Liere, Frans van, 2014. An Introduction to the Medieval Bible. Cambridge: University of Cambridge Press. A recent and accessible study of the topic. Nelson, Jinty and Kampf, Damien. (eds.) 2015. Reading the Bible in the Middle Ages. London: Bloomsbury Academic Publishing. A recent helpful collection of

essays on the medieval biblical interpretation. Lubac, Henri de. 1959–1964. Exégèse médiévale. Les quatre sens de l’Écriture. 4 volumes. Paris: Aubier. An important and extensive resource for the study of the Bible in the Middle Ages. Smalley, Beryl. 1983. The Study of the Bible in the Middle Ages. 3rd ed. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. A standard and important introduction to the Bible in the medieval period.

CHAPTER 24

The Reception History of Job Mark Larrimore

Introduction The book of Job has perhaps never been as broadly popular as it is today. It is widely cited in sermons and by pundits, engaged in the arts, and read in college great books curricula. Because it has always been poised on the edge of universality, it is savored and celebrated even by those who do not consider it a sacred text. Today, when the book of Job has been published as a stand‐alone book for the first time, Job’s wish that his words be “inscribed in a book” (19:23) seem finally to have come true. Yet if there has been a shift over time from understanding the book of Job as part of a larger scriptural whole to seeking to understand it on its own terms, the book continues to challenge readers. Like other works of wisdom literature, it confronts some of the starkest questions in human experience outside the constraints – and without the comforts  –  of a historical covenant or church community. Its challenges have always driven interpreters to make connections with other texts and stories, and to interrogate them. Reception history is the way a tradition makes sense of itself. There is, however, not a single Joban tradition. Jews and Christians read it in the context of different canons, questions and oral traditions, and appropriately so. Within traditions, too, Job lives in multiple iterations. In this necessarily compressed discussion, I emphasize moments when the reception of the book of Job pushed and crossed lines dividing interpretive traditions. This risks downplaying historical divisions but fits better our contemporary experience, where all biblical texts – not least the book of The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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Job – are seen as shared, and are known to be read differently by others, with different faith commitments or none at all (Taylor 2007). After a survey of mostly theological and philosophical interactions with the book of Job, I offer a sampling of Joban reception in the arts. From metaphysical speculations to compassionate gestures by way of cries of abandoned distress, there will be new chapters to the reception history of the book of Job as long as people encounter what Simone Weil called “affliction” (malheur) (Weil 1951, 120).

Biblical Reception of Job The reception of Job begins in the Bible itself, a reception that does not give the book of Job the last word. Four passages are explicit. Ezekiel mentions three righteous ancients whose virtue saved the lives of their children, “Noah, Daniel, and Job” (14:14). The book of Tobit, included in Orthodox and Catholic Bibles, explicitly likens its long‐suffering protagonist’s patience to that of “holy Job” (2:12, 15). In his first letter to the Corinthians, Paul preaches “the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. For it is written, ‘He catches the wise in their craftiness’” (1 Cor. 3:19) – a reference to Job 5:13. Finally, and most influentially, in the Epistle of James we read of the prophets who spoke in the name of the Lord. Indeed we call blessed those who showed endurance. You have heard of the patience of Job, and you have seen the purpose of the Lord, how the Lord is compassionate and merciful. (5:10–11)

But the Job we know from the biblical book is hardly “patient” – at least not in the sense we are familiar with. His virtue in the story does not save his children. There is nothing in the book to tell us that Job is holy or a prophet. Moreover, the line Paul quotes to the Corinthians is spoken not by Job but by his friend Eliphaz, whom God condemns for not having spoken rightly (Job 42:7)! Are there other versions of Job’s story? James implies as much: the patient Job encountering a merciful God is not the one you have read about, but the one you have heard about.

The Legend of Job The reception of the book of Job is constantly engaged with the largely oral tradition that Lawrence Besserman (1979) called the “legend of Job.” The Testament of Job, dating from some time between the second century BCE and the second century CE is our best source for this largely oral tradition. Narrated by Job himself, the Testament tells of a battle with Satan which Job, an Egyptian king, knowingly undertakes. Job knows that Satan will despoil him of his goods and kill his children, but presses ahead anyway, God’s prize fighter. Job’s wife stands by him, supporting him

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when nobody else will, at great personal cost. Her exhausted death turns happy, however, as Job directs her to see their lost children alive in heaven. Job suffers for decades until Satan concedes defeat. The Testament is delivered to the restored Job’s second set of children, born to his second wife Dinah, and in service of the moral that “patience is better than anything” (Thornhill 1984, 634). While it was probably written for a community in Alexandria, the Testament of Job has commonalities with other early written versions, including a Targum found at Qumran, the Syriac Peshitta, and various midrashim. The Septuagint (LXX), which somewhat streamlines the Masoretic version of Job, includes a longer speech for Job’s (first) wife with analogs in the legend of Job (2.9–9e; see also Chapter 8 in this volume). The tradition we see in the Testament also squares with the Job to whom James refers. Since the whole thing is initiated by Job, it gets God off the hook, but this also means that Job knows exactly what will happen and why. His suffering, while grueling, is chosen. His triumph is foretold. Yet the experience of cognitive dissonance we think of as Joban persists – but as his first wife’s. Job’s complaints persist, too, voiced by his (female) servants, while his responses to them echo the canonical book’s theophany. Throughout the history of the reception of Job, stories of knowing endurance and unknowing persistence struggle to displace each other.

Early Christian Interpretations The reference to Job in Ezekiel suggests that the legend of Job is older than the biblical book. The tradition of this other, earlier Job was strong enough still for Theodore of Mopsuestia (c. 350–428) to challenge the canonicity of the biblical book. Theodore thought it a slander on a historical hero, a work of literature written by someone whose head had been turned by Greek tragedy. Theodore’s view was posthumously condemned, but the existence of his protest suggests that it’s not only a modern thing to wonder how the Job of the book of Job can be squared with the legendary patience of Job, or to think that some – or even all – of the book of Job was the work of flawed human hands. For early Christians, Job was a model of faith in adversity (see also Chapter 21 in this volume). He was also a kind of Christian before the faith tradition even existed. Evidently a Gentile (although many also tried to find a place for him in the family tree of Abraham), he seemed to have had a brilliant career before and outside the law. The church fathers Origen and Chrysostom placed him before Moses. According to their interpretation, Job accepted suffering, even unto death, as a test, sometimes in terms redolent of Stoic philosophy, sometimes more in terms of an athlete or military man strengthened by adversity. Glossing over the angrier portions of his poetry as symptoms of pain or allegorizing them, these readers saw him even as a second Isaac, who faithfully accepted an unmerited death. This made Job a ready mascot for individuals and communities experiencing martyrdom and persecution.

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Jerome’s Latin translation of the Christian Bible solidified an understanding of Job that would last through the Middle Ages. “Job dolens interpretatur, typum Christi ferebat,” he wrote: Job’s name means suffering, and he was a “type” of Christ. Not just a prefiguration, Job was a prophet of the resurrection of the body in the afterlife: Jerome’s understanding of 19:25–27 made clear that Job knew he would meet his redeemer in the flesh. Also fateful, C. L. Seow has shown, was Jerome’s rendering of 7:1 (Seow 2013, 187, 203–206). The Hebrew word tsaba (“service,” “hardship”) which in the Septuagint was rendered peiratērion (“trial”) was in the Vulgate translated as militia. Job’s struggle was warfare, and it ultimately helped sanction the Christian militias of the Crusades. Because of his apparent ability to resist all tests by his own power (starting with his ability to eschew evil, commended by Origen), Job was “the hero of the Pelagians” (Brown 1967, 350), proof in the flesh that human nature was capable of sinlessness. Augustine, recanting an earlier view of Job as moral exemplar, objected. Drawing attention to Job’s own admission of sin (14:4‐5), he argued that Job’s virtue should not be seen as his own. Job was protected by divine providence when God put limits on how far Satan might torment him, but more fundamentally Job was able to persevere only because he was “endowed with patience” (Seow 2013, 186). In the first centuries of the Common Era, the book of Job was read historically as well as allegorically. Gregory the Great (c. 550–604) brought these interpretive pieces together for his massive Moralia in Iob, a work of considerable importance for the Christian reception of Job. Its intertextual links to the rest of Christian scripture made it  –  and so Job  –  indispensable in the understanding of Christian life as a whole. Starting with the “historical/literal” sense, Gregory’s destination was the moral, but not through seeing Job as a moral exemplar. Gregory’s Job did not claim to be sinless, but rather a penitent sinner. His curse of the day he was born is skillfully turned inside out: Job was cursing temporality, this fallen world – he curses not the day of creation but the day of his birth (4.1.4)! While there are things to be learned from the literal story, Gregory sought to demonstrate its greater value lay in its prefiguring Christ and the Church, without whose assistance no human could prevail against Satan and the Anti‐Christ (Behemoth and Leviathan). The book of Job chronicles a process of learning to “put aside the chaff of the history and […] feed on the grain of mysteries” (35.16.36) possible only through pain. From Job’s willing suffering we learn that “holy men are in greater dread of prosperity in this world than of adversity” (5.1.1).

Early Jewish Interpretations Perhaps in response to his Christian valorization, most of the rabbis whose interpretations are gathered in the Babylonian Talmud take a dimmer view of Job – some wondering even if he was more than a fable (b. B. Bat. 15a). Where Christian art often

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paired Job with Adam, whom he bests by ignoring the satanically inspired blandishments of his wife, in Jewish contexts Job is often compared unfavorably with other biblical heroes, especially Abraham, who are found to demonstrate greater patience, faith, and better self‐control. Although one must not judge people by what they say in great affliction, Job crossed a line in describing a God indifferent to questions of justice (b. B. Bat. 16a–b). That Job’s story was understood as generally unedifying helps explain the relative exclusion of Job from subsequent Jewish liturgy. There were more worthwhile, more wholesome texts and figures to engage and model oneself after.

Job in Islam Job (Ayyub) is mentioned four times in the Quran (4:163–64; 6:84; 21:83–84; 38:41–44). Two of these references include Job in brief lists of prophets, while the others provide snapshots from a story presumed familiar. In what ways was Job prophetic? The traditional Stories of the Prophets tell a story largely consonant with Jewish and Christian traditions, both textual and oral, although more of the divine speeches survive here than in the Testament of Job. Job is a man from Byzantium, a descendent of Esau. Written on his forehead are the words “the afflicted, forbearing man” (Al‐Tha’labi 2002, 254). He responds to afflictions sent his way by an envious devil (Iblı̄s) with equanimity, except, briefly, at the loss of his children – a lapse for which he quickly repents. His feckless friends are dispatched quickly. His wife is faithful, though she too falters when Iblı̄s reminds her of their lost prosperity and happiness, and Job vows to beat her in punishment, a vow he soon regrets; Sura 38 tells him how to carry out his vow in the most merciful manner. Job complains of abandonment by God but is set right: “Behold, I have come near you, and have never ceased being near you” (Al‐Tha’labi 2002, 262). Job’s prophetic message seems to be about the afflictions to which prophets are particularly exposed.

Medieval Jewish Interpretations The most significant of the many medieval Jewish commentaries on the book of Job emerged in the Muslim world. The Islamic context is taken up in the naturalistic, almost psychological commentary of Saadia ben Gaon (1998), who sees the friends as representing Muslim and Christian critics of Judaism. Elihu alone apprehends that suffering might be not punishment but a test – and that suffering might be for the sake of others, not the sufferer. His view alone remains unrefuted: Elihu is not reproved by God, nor does Job answer him. Saadia stresses that the divine speeches, when they come, do not address human questions. Their message and their power come precisely from bypassing these questions. Divine providence in human affairs is not available for us to comprehend – but understanding this is wisdom.

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Maimonides’s (1963) influential account of Job in the Guide of the Perplexed argues that Job was not history but parable, and found the most precious teaching hidden in a parable within the parable – again in Elihu’s words. Elihu’s words emerge in the apophatic opening created by the stalemate of received opinions of Job and his friends. Job’s initial views are consistent with Aristotle’s dismissal of providence for individuals, Maimonides argues, while the views of Eliphaz, Bildad and Zophar correspond to the Jewish Law, the rationalist Mu’tazila, and the voluntarist Ash’ariyya schools of Islamic theology, respectively (III.23). Job is morally perfect but not intellectually so (III.2), which is why he is at first subject to the “evil inclination” represented by Satan. The perfection of the intellect, in which a “good inclination” grows, offers access to the care of providence (III.17). Job’s eyes are opened by Elihu’s obscure reference to an interceding angel, “one of a thousand,” and the suggestion that God shows the “light of life” to save mortals “twice, three times” (III.23, referencing Job 33:23, 29–30).

Medieval Christian Interpretations That Elihu was not condemned by God could be contested. Elihu is the last person to speak before God rages from the whirlwind. Especially considering his later praise of Job’s words, might not God’s angry words at 38:2 (“Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?”) refer to Elihu? So argues Thomas Aquinas in his Literal Exposition of Job. In his “literal” reading, the words of Job and his friends are understood not as sites for allegorical discovery but as a real dialogue, with claims, counterclaims, misunderstandings, and recriminations. What Aquinas finds in Job is a primer in how to talk about ultimate things. Job has prophetic knowledge of immortality. His friends, aware only of this life, profess to see an order in human events that is not, in fact, there. Without the afterlife, Aquinas insists, this world does not make sense (Aquinas 1989, 150). Job pushes his friends to recognize this not as a way to indict God but to open their eyes to the incompleteness of this world. He fails, of course, and is reproved by God for producing “scandal” in their hearts (1989, 415). But the greater reproof is for Elihu who presumed to be able to “decide the debate” – something only God could do.

Reformation With the Reformation, the Renaissance, and the advent of modernity, the book of Job began to be understood in new ways. Earlier forms of reception continued to be relevant and vital but the book begins to look different as it becomes available to more people in vernacular translation (and printing), as received translations are supplemented by study of the original Hebrew text and comparative linguistic and religious discoveries, and as interpreters ultimately start to question the work’s

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integrity. This was the result of many factors, including the fragmenting of religious authority, and the challenge to all religion by humanistic values. Whereas Martin Luther could still look at the apparent contradiction between Job’s sinfulness and God’s crediting him with righteousness and see a mortal at once sinful and redeemed, interpreters were soon seeing something else. At least part of the text seemed to tell of a virtuous man poorly treated by God. This new landscape of reception is clear in the cycle of 159 sermons on Job that John Calvin delivered in 1554–1555, whose published edition was among his most widely read works. While Job furnishes important proof texts regarding the transcendence of God in the Institutes of the Christian Religion, Calvin’s attention to the plain sense of the text in the sermons led him to the book’s textual difficulties. Every line had to be parsed and a moral drawn at the end of each sermon. What was one to make of Job’s “desperate” words (Calvin 1574, 1b)? Or, on the other hand, of the theologically impeccable claims which make up most of his friends’ speeches? Calvin’s Job is no paragon, but if his view of an unjust God is mistaken, so too are the glib views of providence put forward by his friends, which, while theologically correct, are incorrect as applied to the particular case. Through his travails Job learns about the hidden justice of God, a second justice beyond that “stammer[ed] and lisp[ed]” for human comprehension (Calvin 1574, 689a). Providence – verified by the order of nature – is to be believed in general but cannot be understood in any particular case, whether that of one’s own suffering, which one should accept, or that of others, whom one should not judge but console.

Enlightenment Responses to Job As religious authority fragmented, Church‐sanctioned allegories and sacraments lost their unquestioned power. The Bible had to stand on its own, and Job stood out. The man from Uz’s essentially ethical relationship with God, unmediated by the salvation history of the covenant with Israel or the Christian Church, took on a particular resonance. The shift can be discerned in the transition from John Milton’s Paradise Lost (1667) to its successor Paradise Regained (1671). The latter poem recapitulates the structure of the book of Job, but the man tested is Jesus. Satan is vanquished, of course, yet the saving work is not done by Christ’s crucifixion (as foretold in Paradise Lost) but by the ethical perfection of his human life and integrity. This is a Joban Jesus prophesying against theological politics (Kahn 2009). In 1791 Immanuel Kant made the book of Job his proof text in an essay on the “Miscarriage of all philosophical trials in theodicy.” Theodicy had been pilloried already in Voltaire’s Candide, which he described as “Job brought up to date” (Senior 1973, 344). Kant showed how “doctrinal theodicies” are doomed to fail as they claim to connect elements of reason we cannot. He contrasted these with the “authentic theodicy” of sincerely admitting our confusion. What makes it authentic

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is that we know we cannot know, as the impossibility is itself a deliverance of the very reason that entitles us to have a “moral faith” in God. Kant found this philosophical argument given expression in Job, who “proved that he did not found his morality on faith, but his faith on morality” (Kant 2001, 33) – and in the process, showed that this was possible, even in the face of the greatest affliction. The only appropriate response to the evident absence of moral sense in experience is “honesty in openly admitting one’s doubts; repugnance to pretending conviction where one feels none” and persisting in one’s integrity (he cites Job 27:5–6) in moral striving (2001, 33).

Sublimity The divine speeches, emphasizing not only what is “purposive” but what is “counterpurposive” in nature, offer Job a sublime experience. Robert Lowth’s influential Lectures on the Sacred Poetry of the Hebrews made the book of Job a model of the “sublimity” characteristic of biblical poetry, a form of writing which, Lowth argued, “insinuates or instils into the soul the very principles of morality itself ” (Lowth 1787, I.35–37). More even than the divine speeches, Lowth found Job’s words sublime. Especially in chapter  3, they convey his “violent affection” directly to the reader. Rudolf Otto turned to the book of Job with a keener sense of the strangeness of non‐human creation in his The Idea of the Holy (1917). He emphasized that the divine speeches do not just show a nature which works in a different way than human nature does, but one which is monstrous, a mysterium tremendum. It is in God’s accounts of the eagle, the ostrich, the unicorn (39:9), the crocodile, and the hippopotamus that Job is confronted by the non‐rational in its purest form; our souls find rest as his does (Otto 1950, 78). G. K. Chesterton (1916) lauded the book of Job for demonstrating that the encounter with this mystery and paradox affords a kind of religious comfort which cannot otherwise be achieved or conceived.

Jewish Interpretations Before and After the Shoah The book of Job was one of the “sources of Judaism” out of which German Jewish neo‐Kantian Hermann Cohen found a “religion of reason” (Cohen 1972). Job teaches that one is never to assume the position of a judge of the suffering of another. Rather one should assume the responsibility for the suffering of others and welcome one’s own as if merited. “Suffering is a force in God’s plan of salvation,” he argued. “This plan however, is obscured and dissipated unless the sufferer is considered as suffering for the sake of others” (1972, 227). The Jewish people know this story intimately. “As a Job it wanders through world history. And always and everywhere the surrounding contemporary world destroys itself through the self‐righteousness with which it interprets for itself Israel’s suffering as the result of

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Israel’s unworthiness” (1972, 229). During the Second World War, Margarete Susman argued that the book of Job had been revealed by history to be the true Schicksalsbuch des jüdischen Volkes (“fate book of the Jewish people”). The Shoah (Holocaust) was a turning point in Jewish and Christian reception of the book of Job. If Job was a gentile before, his was now unquestionably a Jewish story. Elie Wiesel put it eloquently. Through the suffering of Jewish history, Job – who might have been fiction before  –  became real (Wiesel 1996, 211–215). Wiesel engaged with Job’s story over seven decades, reading Job in the concentration camp, seeing Job‐like figures on every road of postwar Europe, finding different parts of the book salient as the Jewish calamity was first ignored, then glibly explained or explained away (Larrimore 2013, 220–229). Wiesel found that Job’s apparent capitulation into silence must be listened to more carefully. He had once thought that Job must have originally had a different ending, but now found the book powerful as it stood. Job’s protest does not stop but goes underground, continuing in “revolutionary silence.”

Responses to a Conflicted Text In finding a way to value the text as it came down to him, despite the temptation to cut it up and reconstitute it, Wiesel enacted a struggle at the heart of contemporary Job reception. Biblical scholarship starting with Robert Simon had already presented a picture of the book of Job as a composite text, the work of multiple authors with evidently disparate aims. Shaped by philological discoveries and by the changing topography of modern faith, nineteenth‐century interpreters thought the poem primary, while in the twentieth the idea that the prose frame story must have come first became dominant. Even within the poetic heart of the book, scholars found serious textual challenges (Pope 1965). The “Hymn to Wisdom” (chapter  28), which had served as a fulcrum of premodern readings, now seemed an interloper in the text. What came to seem indisputable was that the book told of two Jobs (Kushner 2012, 15). God’s commending of Job’s words could not have referred to Job’s angry denunciations of divine indifference. And the epilogue seemed to bear out all the claims for which Job’s friends had been condemned (Clines 1994). Cynthia Ozick’s indignation at Job’s final acquiescence is representative: “it is not only Job’s protests that are stilled; it is also his inmost moral urge. What has become of raging conscience? What has become of loving‐kindness? … Is Job’s lesson from the whirlwind finally no more than the learning of indifference?” (Ozick 1998, 23–24). In a kind of inversion of the argument of Theodore of Mopsuestia, the “patient” Job of the frame story is now commonly seen as the travesty, muzzling the deeper, truer Job of the poem, who is now celebrated as “impatient.” David Rosenberg’s poetic rendering of Job (2009, 393–491), omitting all but the poetic speeches clearly attributed to Job, is perhaps the most extreme version of a tendency to prune away

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what were seen as inferior, banalizing additions. A similarly truncated text was the subject of the provocative reading by René Girard (1987), who saw in Job an illustration of the ancient problem of the scapegoat – albeit one who nearly broke the mold by refusing to play his part. Other interpreters see Job’s message conveyed in its very polyphony, a message lost when the text is disaggregated (Newsom 2003). Literary interpreters by contrast work with the text as they find it. The artifact that effectively moved through Western history seems to them to work the better for its tensions. C. G. Jung’s Answer to Job (1952) found the book’s truth in its conflicts: it depicted an unconscious God. The book of Job, as Jung read it, showed the moral victory of man over God, an event so shocking and cosmic in its implications that God could not but unite with the feminine Sophia (Job 28) and take human form himself to recover. Many non‐religious and post‐religious readers see Job as the victor, finding in the book of Job monotheism’s confession of incoherence. In Atheism in Christianity (1968), Ernst Bloch found that “it is really in the Book of Job that the great reversal of values begins – the discovery of Utopian potency within the religious sphere:… that a man can be better, and behave better, than his God. … After the Exodus of Israel from Egypt and of Yahweh from Israel, Job makes his exodus from Yahweh.” (Bloch 2009, 94, 98). Separating out patient and impatient Jobs makes it hard to see Job as learning anything through his ordeal. Gustavo Gutiérrez’s (1987) On Job: Suffering and God Talk shows the continuing theological value of a close reading of the extant text. Gutiérrez’s Job deepens his view twice. In response to his friends, Job realizes “that the issue here is not simply the suffering of one individual.” From the theophany he learns that divine justice must be understood in the context of God’s “freedom and gratuitous love” (1987, 16, 69). The first lesson leads to prophetic action (and protesting speech), the second leads to contemplation (and silence); each nourishes the other. Most of the kinds of reception mentioned here remain current in one setting or other. The hymn to wisdom continues to be celebrated, despite scholarly and theological revisionisms. The theology of Job’s first words remains on the lips of many. Pelagian and Augustinian interpretations worry each other. Even the prologue in heaven is alive and well. Tewoldemedhin Habtu challenges demythologizing readings of Job shaped by the “European Enlightenment” as naïve about the reality of spiritual warfare; the alternation between scenes of heaven and earth warns us that “what happens in the everyday world around us may reflect far greater conflicts in the spiritual world” (Habtu 2006, 572).

Artistic Reception Alongside theological and philosophical interpretation, the book of Job and its protagonist’s story have a long history of reception in the arts, rooted in liturgy as well as folklore. Job figured in early Christian liturgy as an anticipation of the passion of

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Christ. The book of Job was read during Lent in some traditions, in Holy Week in others. He was celebrated not only as proof that salvation history reached beyond the covenanted people, but as an anticipation of Christ’s triumph over Satan. His apparent abandonment by God offered a deep parallel, too. Representative of the power of these images, Vittore Carpaccio’s enigmatic Meditation on the Passion (1490, Metropolitan Museum of Art) flanks a weary Christ with pensive representations of Jerome and Job. Job appears also in Carpaccio’s eerie Preparation of Christ’s Tomb (1505, Gemäldegalerie, Berlin), where Job, near the picture’s center, appears almost continuous with the body of the dead Christ. In the earliest Christian representations, such as the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus (c. 349, Vatican), Job generally appears in conjunction with other figures, such as Adam. He is often pictured as a Stoic sage, consistent with understandings of his “patience” as a due detachment from indifferent things. A more martial understanding of his patience gained currency from the Psychomachia of Prudentius (348–410), which features a personification of Patience whose retinue includes Job, who helps her in battle against Anger. Job here is still a sage, but his apparently passive suffering is understood as a species of military valor. Picturing Job’s passive travails as active was a challenge, especially when illustrations were needed for the whole book, as in the rich tradition of Byzantine miniatures (Huber 2006). Job became a major shaper of medieval and later spirituality and art through the emerging Christian burial liturgy, whose roots go back at least to the second century CE. By the eighth century, a central piece of the Western Christian understanding of death was the Matins of the Office of the Dead, composed almost entirely of text from Job, with interludes from the Psalms. This made Job’s voice one of the most familiar voices of the Bible. Here is the order: Psalms 5, 6, 7 Job 7:16–21; 10:1–7; 10:8–12 Psalms 22, 24, 27 Job 13:23–28; 14:1–6; 14:13–16 Psalms 39, 40, 41 Job 17:1–3, 11–15; 19:20–27; 10:18–22 Several things are notable about the texts included. Participants heard only Job’s words; his friends’ and God’s words are excluded. The frame story, too, is omitted. The voice is that of everyman facing the terror of death. Job is not patient but anguished. The first eight readings represent a kind of crescendo towards 19:25– 27, following the book’s chronology. The final reading, however, returns to the darkness of chapter  10, when Job reasserts the wish never to have been born. Performance of the series, complete with responses, was a sort of community theater, in which the dead and those fated eventually to die shared terror and hope.

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The nine readings, already encountered in public recitation, were eventually set to music. (Joni Mitchell’s 1994 “Sire of Sorrow” uncannily recreates them.) They were included in Books of Hours, and even adapted as separate works of their own, such as the early 15th century “Pety Job” (Fein 1988, 289–359). As pious lay people read through these words of Job and David in the privacy of their prayer closets a kind of ethical formation took place. Job’s example did not just license expressions of grief, terror, confusion, and even the desire never to have existed, but effectively mandated them. The incantatory power of these words – spoken by a man in distress but transformed by liturgical resonance – may be discerned in the sixteenth century mystery play “La pacience de Job” (Meiller 1971), which stages a great carnival of Job’s suffering but shows the light of providence shining through always and only in those words that appear also in the Office of the Dead. Many of the great works of art representing Job were commissioned around the perhaps incongruous cult of Saint Job. With roots going back to the fourth century, the cult venerated Job as the saint especially for skin diseases, syphilis, and musicians. Giovanni Bellini, both in his altarpiece for Venice’s church of San Giobbe and in the enigmatic Sacred Allegory (1487 and 1490–1500, Accademia and Uffizi), pairs Job with a voluptuous St. Sebastian. Works recounting St. Job’s story take many details from the Legend of Job. The Master of the Barbara Legend’s altarpiece (1480–1490, Wallraf‐Richartz Museum, Cologne) has Job standing twice in the foreground, once surrounded by demons, and again with musicians whom he pays with coins transformed from scabs pulled from his chest. In Albrecht Dürer’s Jabach Altar (1500–1505, Wallraf‐Richartz Museum, and Städel Museum, Frankfurt) Job’s wife pours water over him in one wing, as musicians play for him in the other. Bernaert de Orley’s Triptych of Virtue and Patience (1521, Musées Royaux des Beaux‐ Arts, Brussels) pairs Job’s story with that of Lazarus and the rich man; its final scene shows Job’s friends imploring intercession from a restored king. Georges de la Tour’s Job Mocked by his Wife (1620, Musée Départmental des Vosges, Épinal) is more intimate, with Job’s wife holding a candle to read Job’s face. Is she really mocking him? Samuel Terrien suggests that this and kindred works, like the Jabach Altar, have been misread. Alongside traditions where a shrewish wife leads grotesque street musicians to torment Job, a second tradition seems closer to the praise of Job’s first wife in the Testament of Job. Like Dürer’s Jabach Altar, de la Tour’s painting has been understood as a scene of mockery, but there is nothing mocking in Job’s wife’s gesture. Job himself shows relief rather than distress. His face “conveys not suspicion but the utter confidence of married love” (Terrien 1996, 169). Gender is important to many renderings of the story of Job, perhaps because Job’s passivity makes it challenging to see him as a hero (Astell 1997). The story of Griselda, a patient commoner tested cruelly by her noble husband Walter in ways the tradition explicitly links with Job, shows some of the possibilities. Known in English from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (where Griselda’s story is recounted in

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response to the Wife of Bath’s extolling the “patience of Job” as a virtue in husbands!), Griselda’s story lays out the justifications of hierarchy while challenging them. If Walter is within his rights to do as he will with his wife, she, it is suggested at the end, would have been justified in turning down a marital contract so humiliating. In the version of Petrarch that served as Chaucer’s source, Griselda needs to learn of her own nobility. In Chaucer’s, she learns nothing, and the only learning seems to be on the part of her tormenter. The implications, as one spells out the parallels with God and Job, are unsettling. In what becomes a standard representation of Job’s story found in many early printed Bibles (including Martin Luther’s), many episodes are consolidated into one. Job sits on an ash heap, already afflicted with boils, as messengers arrive from scenes of destruction on the horizon. His friends (usually three, sometimes four) point, and his wife harangues. Job’s gaze is usually lifted upward to the sky in which a whirlwind sometimes gathers, his face sometimes illuminated by a ray of light emanating from its center. In more recent representations of Job, however, the story usually falls away, and Job – defiant, becalmed, or a knot of pain – confronts God alone. The most famous modern representation of Job’s story was the cycle of Illustrations of the Book of Job of William Blake, begun in 1805 as a series of watercolors but published in 1825 as engravings, each set in an elaborate frame of symbols and quotations (Damon 1966). The consignment of words (from Job but also from the rest of the Bible) to the frames enacts Job’s breakthrough from knowing God only by “the hearing of the ear” to seeing him (Job 42:5). It also suggests Job’s journey is the key to all the scriptures, much as it was for Gregory’s Moralia. A few elements are worth highlighting. Job’s wife is by his side throughout. Job’s face is the same as that of the God who torments him, and then of the less moralistic God of forgiveness he discovers. At the end of the theophany Job has a “vision of Christ,” and, when he sacrifices for his friends, he assumes a Christlike position. While in many ways modern, Blake’s reception of Job shows the continuing salience of older traditions. Some of the most ancient representations show Job beholding Christ. Twentieth‐century artistic engagements with the Job material are many and varied. Perhaps the most intense is the work of Franz Kafka, although it never names its Joban pedigree. It does not have to. The Trial (published 1925 though written a decade earlier) is only part of an œuvre trying to understand human life in meaningful terms in a universe resolutely, indeed perversely resistant to our efforts. The Trial’s protagonist, Josef K, is the Joban everyman updated for faceless bureaucratic modernity. Remarkable for his unremarkableness, he is no saint, but he is also not guilty of anything so great as to warrant the uprooting of his life. He never gets a chance to plead innocent, however, dying without ever finding out his alleged crime. In Kafka’s world, Job “has entered into a perceptual nightmare from which he cannot awake” (Schreiner 1994, 19).

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Archibald MacLeish’s 1958 drama in verse J. B. updated Job for the atomic age. Anticipating Carol Newsom’s suggestion that the different parts of the book of Job work together like different kinds of theater performed simultaneously on the same stage (Newsom 2003, 259–260), MacLeish imagines the story of Job as a carnival side show with God and Satan played by tired old actors and Job and his family played by unwitting ordinary people. Job’s faith leads him to insist he must have done something: “We have no choice but to be guilty. / God is unthinkable if we are innocent.” (1989, 111). In a canny inversion, Job’s friends represent great ­systems  –  psychoanalysis, Marxist philosophy of history, a theology of original sin  –  in which questions of individual guilt or innocence do not figure. It is the ­significance of individual experience at issue, something speeches from a rushing wind do not address. Job recants, but the character playing God is stung, “As though Job’s suffering were justified / Not by the Will of God but Job’s / Acceptance of God’s Will” (1989, 139). The help Job finds comes from his wife, who points a way ­forward. “[God] does not love,” Job says, “He / Is.” His wife replies, “But we do. That’s the wonder” (1989, 152). Two twentieth‐century movies engaging the Joban material show the continuing resonance of this book (see also Chapter 26 in this volume by Rindge). Ethan and Joel Coen’s A Serious Man (2009) tells of an everyman who seems to be suffering an onslaught of misfortunes (though real calamities happen to other characters, and to him only as the film ends), and seeks to understand their meaning. Three rabbis offer different ways of deflecting the question, but the protagonist is left with little more than platitudes, arcane tales, and silence. The film’s makers claim it was not their intention to make a Job movie, but reaction to the film makes clear that any story of an everyman seeking meaning in unusual suffering has Joban cadences. Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life (2011) offers an update on the Joban theophany, grandly beginning with God’s opening words to Job, and contrasts a “way of grace” akin to Job’s attitude in the frame story to the brutal “way of nature.” The “way of grace” is associated with women, and the film’s female Job embodies it, initially confounding her son, the narrator. Job continues to be part of popular culture in many parts of the world. The Zimbabwean gospel group Vabati VeVangheri sings a song called “Jobho” with a catchy dance of scratching and pointing movements. Linked with health warnings about HIV, it appears in NoViolet Bulawayo’s novel We Need New Names, as some children come, uninvited, on a man dying of AIDS, and one starts the song. “Jobho makes you call out to heaven even though you know God is occupied with better things and will not even look your way. Jobho makes you point your forefinger to the sky and sing at the top of your voice. We itch and we scratch and we point and we itch again and we fill the shack with song.” They reach for the dying man’s hand and move it to the song. “He feels like dry wood in my hands, but there is a strange light in his sunken eyes, like he has swallowed the sun” (Bulawayo 2015, 105).

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References Al‐Tha’labi. 2002. Ara’Is Al‐Majalis Fi Qisas Al‐Anbiya or Lives of the Prophets: As Recounted by Abu Ishaq Ahmad Ibn Muhammad Ibn Ibrahim Al‐Tha’labi (trans. William M. Brinner). Leiden: Brill. Aquinas, Thomas. 1989. The Literal Exposition on Job, A Scriptural Commentary Concerning Providence (trans. Anthony Damico). Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Astell, Ann W. 1997. Translating Job as female. In: Translation Theory and Practice in the Middle Ages (ed. Jeanette Beer), 59–70. Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications. Besserman, Lawrence L. 1979. The Legend of Job in the Middle Ages. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Bloch, Ernst. 2009. Atheism in Christianity: The Religion of the Exodus and of the Kingdom (trans. J. T. Swann). 2nd ed. Brooklyn, NY: Verso. Brown, Peter. 1967. Augustine of Hippo: A Biography. Berkeley: University of California Press. Bulawayo, NoViolet. 2015. We Need New Names. New York: Little Brown & Company. Calvin, John. 1993 (1574). Sermons on Job. Edinburgh and Carlisle, PA: Banner of Truth. Chesterton, G.K. 1916. Introduction to The Book of Job, ix–xxvii. London: Cecil Palmer & Hayward. Clines, D.J.A. 1994. Why is there a book of Job and what does it do to you if you read it? In: The Book of Job (ed. W.A.M. Beuken), 1–20. Louvain: Peeters. Cohen, Hermann. 1972. The Religion of Reason Out of the Sources of Judaism (trans. Simon Kaplan). New York: Frederick Ungar.

Damon, S. Foster. 1966. Blake’s "Job": William Blake’s "Illustrations of the Book of Job." Providence, RI: Brown University Press. Fein, Susanna Greer (ed.) 1988. Moral Love Songs and Laments. Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications. Girard, René. 1987. Job: The Victim of His People. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Gutiérrez, Gustavo. 1987. On Job: God‐Talk and the Suffering of the Innocent (trans. Matthew O’Connell). Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Gregory the Great. 1844. Morals in Job, trans. in A Library of Fathers of the Catholic Church anterior to the Division of the East and West, vols. 18–20. Oxford and London: John Henry Parker and Rivington. Habtu, Tewoldemedhin. 2006. Job. In: Africa Bible Commentary (ed. Tokuboh Adeyemo), 571–604. Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan. Huber, Paul. 2006. Hiob: Dulder oder Rebell? Byzantinische Miniaturen zum Buch Hiob in Patmos, Rom, Venedig, Sinai, Jerusalem und Athos. Düsseldorf: Patmos. Jung, C. G. 2010. Answer to Job (trans. R.F.C. Hull). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Kahn, Victoria. 2009. Job’s complaint in Paradise Regained. ELH 76: 625–660. doi:10.1353/elh.0.0056. Kant, Immanuel. 2001. On the miscarriage of all philosophical trials in theodicy. In: Religion and Rational Theology (trans. and ed. Allen W. Wood and George di Giovanni), 19–38. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press.

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Kushner, Harold. 2012. The Book of Job: When Bad Things Happened to a Good Person. New York: Schocken. Larrimore, Mark. 2013. The Book of Job: A Biography. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Lowth, Robert. 1787. Lectures on the Sacred Poetry of the Hebrews (trans. G. Gregory), 2 vols. London: J. Johnson. MacLeish, Archibald. 1989. J. B.: A Play in Verse. New York: Houghton Mifflin. Maimonides, Moses. 1963. Guide of the Perplexed (trans. Shlomo Pines), 2 vols. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Meiller, Albert. 1971. La Pacience de Job: Mystère anonyme du XVe siècle. Paris: Klincksieck. Newsom, Carol A. 2003. The Book of Job: A Contest of Moral Imaginations. New York: Oxford University Press. Otto, Rudolf. 1950. The Idea of the Holy: An Inquiry into the Non‐rational Factor in the Idea of the Divine and Its Relation to the Rational (trans. John W. Harvey). New York: Oxford University Press. Ozick, Cynthia. 1998. The impious impatience of Job. The American Scholar 67: 15–24. Pope, Marvin, 1965. Job. Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co. Rosenberg, David. 2009. A Literary Bible: An Original Translation. Berkeley, CA: Counterpoint. Saadiah Gaon, 1998. The Book of Theodicy: Translation and Commentary of the Book

of Job by Saadiah Ben Joseph Al‐Fayyûmî (trans. L.E. Goodman). New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Schreiner, Susan E. 1994. Where Shall Wisdom Be Found? Calvin’s Exegesis of Job from Medieval and Modern Perspectives. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Senior, Nancy. 1973. Voltaire and the Book of Job. The French Review 47: 340–347. Seow, C.L. 2013. Job 1–21: Interpretation and Commentary. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Susman, Margarete. 1968. Das Buch Hiob und das Schicksal des jüdischen Volkes. Freiburg: Herder. Taylor, Charles. 2007. A Secular Age. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Terrien, Samuel. 1996. The Iconography of Job through the Centuries: Artists as Biblical Interpreters. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press. Thornhill, R. 1984. Testament of Job (trans. R. Thornhill). In: The Apocryphal Old Testament (ed. H.F.D. Sparks), 617–648. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Weil, Simone. 1951. The love of God and affliction. In: Waiting for God (trans. Emma Craufurd), 117–120. New York: Harper & Row. Wiesel, Elie. 1996. Messengers of God: Biblical Portraits and Legends (trans. Marion Wiesel). New York: Random House.

Further Reading Baskin, Judith R. 1983. Pharaoh’s Counselors: Job, Jethro, and Balaam in Rabbinic and Patristic Tradition. Chico, CA: Scholars Press. Illustrates the often

fraught interactions between Jewish and early Christian interpreters of Job. Burrell, David B. 2008. Deconstructing Theodicy: Why Job Has Nothing to Say to

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the Puzzle of Suffering. Grand Rapids, MI: Brazos. Sheds light on medieval readings of Job in Jewish, Christian, and Muslim contexts. Eisen, Robert. 2004. The Book of Job in Medieval Jewish Philosophy. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Provides nuanced readings of a number of medieval Jewish texts. Glatzer, Nahum N. 1969. The Dimensions of Job: A Study and Selected Readings.

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New York: Schocken. Remains the best collection of reception from diverse communities. Rouillard, Philippe. 1983. The figure of Job in the liturgy: Indignation, resignation or silence? In: Job and the Silence of God (ed. Christian Duquoc and Casiano Floristán), 8–12. Edinburgh: T&T Clark; New York: Seabury. Provides a brief but suggestive account of the Office of the Dead and its aftermath.

CHAPTER 25

Wisdom from African Proverbs Meets Wisdom from the Book of Proverbs Madipoane Masenya (Ngwan’a Mphahlele)

In a popular proverb, we learn how the elders were the “wisdom texts” of proverbs in the African oral tradition. (Nkesiga 2005, 255)

Introduction When we wished to lull a baby strapped to our backs to sleep, did we not know which song to sing? Yes, we did! When we had achieved something, like securing firewood for the family, our mothers would greet us through our praise names upon entering the courtyards. When Grandma wished to communicate a lesson to her grandchildren, she would narrate a folk tale around the fire. When we wished to exercise our mental capacities, riddles were cited and their meanings decoded. When our parents wished to communicate certain truths for our moral formation, they would utter specific proverbs. I was birthed, nurtured, and socialized by this indigenous African sapiential context of South Africa. The folklore from this location will serve as a sample to give readers a glimpse of African folklore. That the worldview underlying many African proverbs reveals some points of resemblance with the worldview underlying some of the proverbs of the Hebrew Bible has been well attested by scholars. Such points of resemblance have thus enabled the comparison of the Israelite wisdom materials to varying African contexts, including the African‐South African1 contexts. The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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This chapter will engage the following three themes: first, an overview of African wisdom traditions will be given; second, the theme of proverbs as language will be considered; and third, the African and Israelite wisdom traditions will be examined together by engaging two subthemes – first, the common simplistic and optimistic underlying worldview and second, hard work and positive rewards.

Traditional African Wisdom: An Overview As mentioned in this chapter’s introduction, within the rich sapiential traditions of Africa, one can find songs, poems, riddles, folktales, idioms, and proverbs, among others. This chapter will focus on the proverbs, with the present section offering a brief introduction to proverbs both as an integral part of African folklore and a discussion of their origins.

Proverbs within African Folklore In the African rural village setting from which I hail, some aspects of African folklore formed an integral part of our daily talk and conversations. Proverbs (diema), idioms (dika), songs, riddles, and folktales had and still have an enduring influence on people’s daily lives. Both Northern Sotho proverbs and idioms are couched in metaphoric language. The latter form, though, tends to be shorter and action‐ oriented as evidenced from the following examples: go ya ga maotwana hunyela, (“to go to a place where the legs have been shortened,” meaning to die); go se di gape ka moka, (“not to herd all of them [cattle],” meaning to be mad). The idioms, usually start with the preposition go, in line with their focus on the action being communicated. African proverbs are short, pithy, metaphoric, and authoritative statements (cf. the biblical sentence literature) that have been transmitted orally2 from one generation to another in varying contexts. Although the metaphoric language of the idioms and proverbs as they were uttered by our elders did not always make sense to us as children, the persistent use of these statements adorned in a rich language, including their use by our teachers in school settings, enabled us to be nurtured by the vivid wonder of African wisdom. Amazingly, though short and clothed as they were in figurative language, each saying could quickly and effectively communicate its intended message. If an elder uttered the proverb, ngwana yo a sa llego o hwela tharing (“A child who does not cry will die strapped at her or his mother’s back”), the hearer (a child) would quickly glimpse its meaning: children’s concerns should be shared with parents lest the worries affect them negatively.

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My background from the Northern Sotho African‐South African context will enable me to offer many examples from this ethnic group. However, as Northern Sotho is one of the Bantu African languages spoken elsewhere on the continent (e.g. the Kiswahili and Bena of East Africa and the Mongo of the Democratic Republic of Congo), relevant proverbs from other African languages will also be used in this chapter. Although Africa may not be regarded as a homogeneous whole, there are underlying markers that may be helpful toward identifying what could be regarded as “African.” John S. Mbiti can thus reason: “It is remarkable that in spite of great distances separating the peoples of one region from those of another, there are sufficient elements of belief which make it possible for us to discuss African concepts of God as a unity and on a continental scale” (1999, 30). Africa’s wisdom traditions could also be cited as a case in point here. As an entity within African folklore, proverbs have been passed on from one generation to the other. Proverbs from differing African languages and contexts may communicate the same lesson, albeit differently. The following proverbs from the Bantu language group can be cited as examples. First, a Kiswahili proverb reads: Samaki mkunje angali mbichi, akikauka atavunjika (“Fold the fish while still fresh, if it dries it breaks”; see Kimilike 2006, 101–102). Its Northern Sotho counterpart is: Letsopa le kgobja le sa le meetse, la oma le a hlaba (“Clay is used with ease while it is still wet, once it dries up, it prickles”). A parallel expression is “Bend the twig while it is still tender” (Ziervogel and Mokgokong 1975, 1443). The thrust of these proverbs is the need to train the child when he or she is still young, as it would be difficult to do so once he or she gets older. Though the figurative language used to convey these proverbs is different, the underlying message conveyed is the same: education and training must occur at an early age. Proverbs constitute a wisdom genre of African folklore. They are the sum total of the community’s everyday life experience (Krappe 1965, 148). Proverbs embody the qualitative and the corporate experience of the community in various situations. They also display the wit and wisdom of the community whose heritage they form (Guma 1977, 65; Duminy 1967, 32). To be wise is to know the wealth of wisdom of the community, especially through proverbs, and to have the ability to implement this acquired wisdom appropriately (Nkesiga 2005, 259). Young adults sitting in the community of elders would learn the art of speaking but also receive ethical injunctions as part of their education. Consequently, the preservation of African values, norms, and beliefs occurs. African proverbs are uttered in a specific situation and offered in figurative terms as commentary on that situation. Hence, a proverb, more than all the other items of folklore, gives us a clear relationship between the figurative commentary and the indigenous social reality that it portrays (Seitel 1972, 5–6). Yet how did these short pithy metaphoric sayings originate? We now turn to the question on the origins of African proverbs.

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The (Possible) Origins of African Proverbs The question of how the earliest African proverbs were formed and produced is purely guesswork. While origins are hard to trace, it may be safely concluded that they owe their origins to individuals (Mokitimi 1997, 52) or even to a group of people. Once produced, proverbs were later adopted by specific communities, and having been accepted by a community, they became communal property without any recourse to a specific individual author. Within African contexts, unlike in biblical Israel, there is no particular school linked to the production of these sayings. According to Kimilike, “The available anthropological proverbial collections and research performed in Africa indicate no other source responsible for the origins of the proverbs than the grassroots popular social context” (2006, 96). Writing from an EsiXhosa African‐South African context, Bonabese Nkesiga qualifies who the custodians of the preceding grassroots popular contexts were. They were usually the male elders in the communities. They were responsible for the transmission of proverbs. In that sense, the elders were the custodians of African wisdom (Nkesiga 2005, 259). Nkesiga also acknowledges that women had their group of elders, and their counsel could be sought on matters related to the feminine. Within feminine African settings, proverbs could be cited, for example, during the female initiation rites of passage and during wedding celebrations. As could be expected in any patriarchal culture, proverbs in these settings would be cited to educate a young girl or female adult on how to navigate life smoothly within a culture in which a man was, and still is basically, in charge. The Northern Sotho proverb, Lebitla la mosadi ke bogadi, cited during marriage celebrations said it all. Its literal meaning is: “The grave of a (married) woman is at her husband’s place.” In a nutshell, the proverb highlights the African mentality that once a woman marries, she ought to stay in the marriage until her death. It is thus safe to argue that proverbs were basically used by the elderly experienced male and female persons. Hence the elders, argues Nkesiga, were thus living, oral “texts” from whom life experiences could be read as well as communicated. In oral, hierarchical African contexts, when the young listened to the elders, important norms and values, especially the value of respect for the elders, would be instilled in them (cf. the instructional material in Proverbs 1–9 in the Hebrew Bible). In exploring the context of these sayings, there are different possible origins for African proverbs. Some of the proverbs are closely related to cultural idioms. Other proverbs originated from mythology, while some came from folktales. Some of the proverbs originated from historical circumstances (Nyembezi 1954, 5). Most of the proverbs, however, came as a result of careful observation by community members of human and animal behavior and things generally found in the environment (Nyembezi 1954, 6; Bezuidenhout 1981, 21–66). African proverbs are couched in figurative language and serve specific functions within the communities in which they are used. In the following section, we investigate their functions as well as their metaphoric use of language.

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The function and language of African proverbs Functions of the Proverbs Proverbs serve a didactic function because they are used to educate, inspire, warn, and advise (Beuzuidenhout 1981, 135; Nyembezi 1954, xii). In order to teach a lesson on the need to persevere, the following Northern Sotho proverb may be uttered: Kgotlelela moepa‐thuse, ga go lehumo le tšwago kgaufsi (“Persevere, you who digs thuse [a very precious, hard‐to‐find plant root], because no wealth comes from the neighborhood”). The tenor of this proverb reveals that perseverance yields positive rewards. Some proverbs are used in more mundane oratory, while others have a legal connotation. Proverbs can also assume an advisory function, even as they can be used euphemistically. They are also used to name the practicability of certain things (Bezuidenhout 1981, 143–144; Seitel 1972, 245; Finnegan 1970, 408–414). Proverbs also have stylistic functions and it is not surprising that they are used as titles for certain books. They can also be used to complete a discussion on a specific matter, thus serving as a summary of the content of a specific topic (Seitel 1972, 255–257). For example, if after an urgent matter has been discussed, the following proverb is cited: Tloga tloga e tloga kgale, modiši wa kgomo o tšwa natšo šakeng (“The one who leaves does so very early; the cattle herder gets the cattle out of the kraal”), the hearer within the Northern Sotho cultural context will understand that the matter in question needs to be addressed urgently. This type of proverb usage is limited to particular circumstances (Seitel 1972, 252–255). Proverbs can also serve to convince the listener that the opinion of the speaker is correct (Seitel 1972, 248– 249) even as they can be used for entertainment. Having gotten a glimpse about the various functions for which African proverbs are used, we now take a look at the language in which these short metaphoric sayings are cast. We will highlight their style and structure as well as their metaphoric nature. The Language of the African Proverbs African proverbs are characterized by rigidity of form to which they always adhere (Guma 1977, 65; Brandes 1974, 172; Monyamane 1979, 2; Seitel 1972, 5, 70). The following example is in order: Sešo se baba mongwai wa sona (“A sore pains the one who has it”). The verb, go baba, is cast in the present tense. When the proverb is uttered, the present tense of the verb must of necessity be retained. It cannot be cast in the past tense, as in babile (“pained”). Proverbs have a pithy and terse form. Mieder (1997, 18) has observed the capacity of a saying to state some harsh and/or embarrassing truth in a polite way when he argues that a proverb may be ­considered as “a soothing sentence or a medicine

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phrase.” In this manner, proverbs come in handy for proclaiming hard and harsh truths in a humble way. Most of the proverbs comprise two related lines (cf. Prov. 10:1–22:16). In some proverbs, one line may carry the idea of the other line by using the same idea in different words, or even by contrast. These two lines are interrupted by a pause in between the lines, which serves, among other things, to show the climax of the idea contained in the proverb. The use of two or more such related lines is called parallelism. Another facet of the structure of African (e.g. Northern Sotho) proverbs is the poetic use of alliteration and assonance to heighten their rhythm. In the proverb, Pinyana ge e re ping e kwele ping ye kgolo, the rhythm is heightened by the repetition of the word “ping”: “When pinyana (a small wild pig) says ping, it has heard that from a bigger wild pig.” Northern Sotho proverbs, like those of any other African language, are situation‐bound and as such they have a representational character. This aspect means that most of the proverbs are metaphors. Northern Sotho/African proverbs can be categorized into complete and partial metaphors. As situational, African proverbs have a representational function that necessitates the taking into account of the metaphor in general terms. This is because a proverb is a metaphorical representation or description of the situation about which it speaks. In every language, including African languages, a metaphor forms an integral part of conveying meaning. Metaphors that are commonly used have been classified according to the point of relationship between the literal meaning of a word and its figurative meaning. Two types of metaphors can be identified: the anthropomorphic metaphor that extends from the human to the non‐human domain and the synaesthetic metaphor, which cuts across the domain of various senses. There is a “psychic resistance” that is notable with the shift of meaning from the literal to the figurative. This resistance has been used as a principle of differentiating between a “true metaphor” and a “transfer.” In a true metaphor there is a break in the flow from the literal to the figurative. Due to this break, an interpretation of the metaphor is necessary. Many anthropomorphic metaphors appear to be transfers, while many synaesthetic metaphors are true metaphors (Seitel 1972, 17–18). A metaphor can be defined in general terms as a figure of speech in language that is used to employ one reference to a group of items in a given relation with a view to establishing an analogous relation with another group, which also holds a given relation. Metaphor as analogy is a relationship that can be portrayed as follows: A:B::C:D (A is to B as C is to D). A metaphor has basically two components – a tenor that is the principal subject and a vehicle or subject commenting on the principal subject – that are composed of terms and relationships between them. Within this framework, we often find an A:B::C:D analogical statement. In this relationship A:B is the vehicle, while C:D is the tenor (i.e. underlying meaning), and A:B::C:D is the complete metaphor (Seitel

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1972, 20–21). This analogous relationship can be illustrated as follows in the ­following Northern Sotho proverb: kgaka // ya hwa // mae // a bola A      B   C    D Once a crowned guinea bird dies, the eggs get spoiled.

Thus, A (kgaka; a crowned guinea bird [i.e. parent]) is to C (mae; eggs [i.e. children]) as B (ya hwa; it dies [i.e. if the parent dies]) is to D (a bola; they get spoiled [i.e. children suffer]). In this relationship, A:B is the vehicle and C:D is the tenor. An analogical statement does not provide the meaning of the metaphor, but it nevertheless provides the way of understanding the meaning of the metaphor. A metaphoric statement is constituted by (a) the naming of terms of the analogy; and (b) the stating of the analogical relationship. The apparent form of various metaphors differs even though their underlying structure is the same As a language trope, a metaphor also uses the principle of substitution. When a metaphoric statement substitutes the whole literal statement, a special case of substitution happens. Such metaphors are usually proverbs or proverbial statements (Seitel 1972, 22–26). The following example illustrates the point: O se bone go akalala ga bonong, go wa fase ke ga yona (“Do not marvel at the soaring so high of an eagle, it will soon fall down”). At the literal level, the proverb is about an eagle, but at the metaphorical level (i.e. level of substitution), the proverb is about (proud) human beings. The underlying message is that pride goes before a fall. The question about the function of the metaphor is also important. Critics agree that one of the main functions of a metaphor is to enable a reader to identify relationships among entities that are not always recognizable. Metaphor as artistic speech serves to draw attention to itself (the signifier), but it also functions to draw attention by analogy to some features of the subject it refers to (i.e. the tenor or the signified). In a metaphor – here a vehicle is applied to a tenor – certain features that are deemed relevant are brought to light or foregrounded, while others (irrelevant or less relevant) are backgrounded. The concept of foregrounding can therefore serve as a tool to analyze the replacements and analogical aspects of a verbal metaphor. Such aspects are the two most significant functions of many poetic metaphors and metaphorical proverbs (Seitel 1972, 48–52).

Wisdom and Wisdom Meet: Selected Hebrew Bible and African Proverbs Having glimpsed something about the language in which African proverbs are cast, we now take a look at some of the themes addressed in selected African proverbs with a view to using these to unlock the reality of related proverbs from the

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Hebrew Bible. The themes generally include but are not limited to the following: God/the Sacred Other/divinities/ancestors; hard work and laziness; the correct use of the tongue; the poor and notions of justice; parental authority and parent–child relationships; and proverbs and gender. Due to space constraints, only two themes will be dealt with in the following paragraphs: first, the optimistic, simplistic worldview that underlies both African and Israelite proverbs; and second, the theme of hard work.

Common Simplistic and Optimistic Underlying Worldview That the worldview underlying African proverbs reveals some points of resemblance with the worldview within which some of the proverbs in the Hebrew Bible are embedded has been observed by scholars. Also, the fact that the Hebrew Bible itself has some points of resemblance with African wisdom has been documented and continues to receive attention, especially by African‐descended biblical scholars. Burden and Bosman can thus argue regarding the apparent resemblance between the African and Israelite worldviews: “What is important is not a common cultural milieu or corresponding pivotal points, common customs or even a common belief in a Supreme Being, but rather common elements in their world‐view, a relationship of the spirit” (1982, 74). This discussion of proverbial themes recognizes the wide distance between the cultural world that produced the Hebrew Bible and the African worlds, including cultural, chronological, and linguistic factors. Despite this gap, cultural relativity enables us to argue that contextualization between two different contexts is possible. Statements from one context (proverbs, for example), if uttered in a different context, can still make sense (cf. Masenya, 1989). African languages are rich in adages and locutions that remind one of the book of Proverbs in many ways. As noted earlier, these sayings express the wisdom that African people have drawn from their practical experience of life and are markedly similar to the biblical wisdom literature. The similarities between the proverbs of these two different cultures can be accounted for by the fact that both the ancient Israelites and the African people share a common view on life, that is, an optimistic outlook that accentuates the notion of rewards and punishments. In the case of biblical proverbs, especially proverbs in the corpus of Prov. 10:1–22:16, it was believed that there was a specific order established by Yahweh. If the demands of the order were adhered to, people would reap positive rewards; if it was not adhered to, negative rewards would follow. Whybray can thus say: It has been argued that the God of Proverbs, even though he is always referred to by his name Yahweh, lacks most of the characteristics of the God of Israel: that He is perceived only as the One who presides over a system of rewards and punishments which is self‐operative and grounded in the very nature of things, simply setting his

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seal, as it were, on it. This view rests mainly on the fact that in many of the proverbs in 10:1–22:16 and 25–29, the operation of the principle of retribution, in which persons are rewarded or penalized according to what they deserve, is stated without reference to God … The picture of Yahweh which emerges is, then, of a God who rewards and punishes in accordance with the principles of justice, but who nevertheless remains free and inscrutable in his decisions. (1994, 11, emphasis added)

There is thus a general agreement among scholars that the wisdom depicted in the book of Proverbs could be obtained through the mastery of life, that is, experiential wisdom. If and when persons lived according to the expectations of the order of creation, they could be sure of success. It was claimed that such a wise kind of ­living would be rewarded positively, while failure to submit to the requirements of the ­creation order would lead to punishment (Loader 1986, 128; Nel 2002, 442; Whybray 1994, 4). This optimistic, simplistic worldview also underlies many African proverbs. If people adjust their lives to be in accord with the order set by the Supreme Being, the ancestors, and the divinities, they can be sure to succeed in life; calamities, though, will befall those who choose to deviate from the demands of the order. The wisdom philosophy depicted in the proverbs discussed below is, therefore, an earlier form of wisdom in Israel. It coincides basically with the first two phases in which Israelite wisdom was received; the first uncritical, non‐problematic view on wisdom led to the second one. The latter was characterized by rigidity. The following examples will illustrate such a development. Proverb 1 The fear of the Lord prolongs life, but the years of the wicked will be short (Prov. 10:27).

A comparable Malagasy proverb reads: Ny adala no tsy ambakaina, Andriamanitra no atahorana (“We don’t make fun of madmen, for God is to be feared”; Rogers 1985, 222). A comparable Bemba proverb reads: Lesa talombwa nama olombwo mweo (“One does not ask God for meat but for life”; Kimilike 2006, 278). If Proverb 1 above is analyzed from the perspective of the simplistic wisdom ­philosophy, the following explanation might hold: through their practical observation of how life was experienced, the wise in Israel concluded that those who have mastered life to the extent of being able to lead God‐fearing lives would of necessity be blessed with long life. By contrast, the wicked would necessarily be punished with short life spans. With time, such optimism became so rigid that quick, easy conclusions could be made when individuals/communities experienced calamity. With the above proverb in mind, the optimistic sapiential philosophy would help people to make certain assumptions. If a person were to die young, for example, it

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would be assumed that he or she was a wicked person. Bildad’s words to Job make sense in the context of such a philosophy: If your children sinned against him, He delivered them into the power of their transgression … If you are pure and upright, Surely, then he will rouse himself for you And restore to you your rightful place. (Job 8:4–6)

Although both the Malagasy and Bemba proverbs above do not necessarily foreground the underlying optimistic worldview clearly revealed in the biblical proverb, they share the view that God is of necessity the giver of life, which itself is viewed as a precious gift.

Proverb 2

We now illustrate the optimistic, simplistic worldview as it is revealed in the theme of parent–child relationships within a family context. A wise child makes a glad father, but the foolish despise their mothers (Prov. 15:20; cf. 10:1; 15:5)

A comparable Northern Sotho proverb is: More wo o babago o tšwa lešiteng (“Sour medicine comes from a sour tree”). A comparable Haya proverb is: Ganyebwaomuto gahewa omukuru (“It is the parent who pays for the child’s mischiefs”; Nestor 1978, 27). Informed by the optimistic outlook from both ancient Israel and Africa, the following comment can be made: in family‐oriented cultures like those of Africa and ancient Israel, one of the expectations of the communities regarding parenting was that parents were expected to teach their children wisdom and societal traditions before they died. If a child were ill‐behaved, it was assumed that his or her parents were ill‐behaved, too (cf. Masenya 1989, 185–186; 2001, 135–136). In African contexts, a young man of marriageable age would be prohibited from marrying a girl whose family was notorious for the practice of witchcraft. Based on a simplistic wisdom outlook, it was easily concluded that a girl from that particular family would of necessity be a witch. Similarly, if a child was well‐behaved, it was assumed that he or she came from a family with integrity. This line of thinking makes little or no room for the possibility that a child could have good parents and still be ill‐behaved while bad parents could have well‐behaved children. Such a mentality is reflected in Prov. 15:20 (cited above). The Haya proverb, Ganyebwaomuto gahewa omukuru (“It is the parent who

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pays for the child’s mischiefs”), also reveals the simplistic connection between a child’s behavior and what his or her parents would reap as rewards. No room is given for deviation to the preceding assumption, that is, that there may be parents who may not necessarily always reap the consequences of their children’s mischievous behavior. Like parents in African cultures, parents in ancient Israel (both mother and father) were charged with the education/upbringing of their young ones. This theme of parent–child relationships in a family context is one of the common themes that runs through the corpus of Prov. 10:1–22:16. Although the theme of parental responsibility in terms of education toward children does not come out clearly from the above proverb, it can, however, be implied. What does come out clearly, however, is the easy equation: wise behavior of a child = glad father, with a related equation: foolish behavior of a child = grieving mother. The proverb assumes that wise children, whose wisdom is revealed in their good behavior, will be rewarded with words of approval and praise from their happy fathers. On the other hand, an ill‐behaved child will necessarily make his mother sad. There is no room given to the possibility that wise behavior on the part of children could impress foolish parents. A father who is a thief, for example, may expect his son to help him to steal. A wise child who may be bold enough to confront his father in that regard would definitely not gain his father’s approval. In my view, this wisdom philosophy will not prove to be useful in challenging evil systems and their perpetrators, as they continue to contribute little towards the plight of the global victims of the pandemic of HIV and AIDS, for example. The complex situation connected with the plight of the AIDS pandemic, especially in poverty‐stricken global spaces, cannot be solved by a simplistic optimistic biblical hermeneutic. Let us consider the following case in point: in a situation where, due to unjust local and global structures, citizens whom patriarchy has thrown to the bottom of the socioeconomic rung, may find themselves left only with a choice between two “evils,” that is, death through hunger or involvement in sex work. Let us speculate that in the process, the women get infected by wealthy male clients. The reader should bear in mind that the class to which such clients belongs in most cases affords them choices, including a choice to engage in unsafe sex with the powerless “others.” Would it be fair to quickly judge such victims of unjust structures as promiscuous? Admittedly, these victims are likely not to escape the consequences of (forced) sex work. If their clients are HIV‐positive, they will most likely get the virus, particularly in those instances where, given their powerlessness and desperation, they would find it hard to negotiate for protected sex. The pertinent important question then is: if the powerless get the virus, could we, as responsible Bible interpreters committed to the plight of the poor in our contexts, simply attribute that to divine punishment? If we are to apply the philosophy of rewards and punishments as discussed above, who, in terms of justice, deserves more punishment?

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The Theme of Hard Work We now engage the second theme common both in the biblical and African proverbs, that is, the theme of industry. Proverb 3 A slack hand causes poverty, but the hand of the diligent makes rich (Prov. 10:4)

A comparable Baasa proverb reads: Duun‐ku‐nyon ni se de (“No diligent person can persist in poverty”). A comparable Northern Sotho proverb is: Tšhiwana ye e sa hwego e leta monono (literally: “an orphan that does not die awaits treasure”. The proverb’s underlying tenor reveals that small, humble beginnings usually lead to greater endings). The value of hard work is one of the themes that preoccupy the sages in the book of Proverbs. From the above proverb, the following equations can be derived: p ­ overty = a slack hand (laziness), while wealth = diligence. Hard work will be rewarded by wealth while laziness will be punished through poverty. Such a simplistic explanation for the cause of poverty will tend to leave systemic injustices, both in the context of the production of biblical texts and our present‐day contexts, untouched. The Complexity of Poverty From the above three proverbs, it is assumed that easy solutions to the complex issue of poverty (e.g. the case of HIV and AIDS) can be given: work hard and get rich! Or be lazy and remain poor! Although industry is a noble and necessary value, history and everyday life practical experience, particularly in Africa, have revealed that hard work does not always solve the problem of poverty. Elsewhere such a simplistic notion has been challenged as it is reflected in the text of Prov. 6:6–11, and hence Masenya (ngwana’ Mphahlele) could argue: Given the colonial and apartheid histories which have shaped South Africa and its citizens, and seeing how poverty in this country has been entrenched deliberately by structures, the latter intending to enrich and/ or impoverish people on the basis of their skin color, one might want to understand and reread this text informed by this socio‐economic context. Such an insight will remind us that poverty, particularly in Africa, cannot always be blamed on lazy individuals, but also, and perhaps mainly, on foreign structural forces that have impoverished and even today continue to impoverish Africa in the form of globalization. (Masenya (ngwana’ Mphahlele) 2004, 467)

The simplistic wisdom philosophy discussed in this chapter is not likely to improve unjust systems or change those in charge of these systems, and the plight of the poor people will likely remain unchallenged.

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Conclusion Through the years, many interpreters have successfully revealed the wisdom of African peoples. Within the oral cultures, African proverbs served and continue to serve as educational tools for the moral formation of the young, among other functions. On the one hand, the young (and other community members) who listened to and obeyed the wisdom elicited from African proverbs were able to experience the wisdom of the following Northern Sotho proverb: Montshepetša bošego, ke mo leboga bo sele (“The one who walked with me in the night, I thank when it is day”). On the other hand, those who chose to be disobedient, refusing to be instructed by the African elders and the Israelite sages, would have reaped the negative rewards in line with the optimistic wisdom of both African and ancient Israelite people. Experience would have taught all that the words of the wise enlightened and offered life‐giving counsel. Only fools could afford to refuse to lend the sages their ears. Notes 1 The phrase “African‐South African” is used in this chapter to refer to African descended peoples of South Africa, such as the Northern Sothos, Southern Sothos, Tswanas, Vendas, Xhosas, Ndebeles, Zulus, and Tsongas. South Africa as a country has historically been constituted mainly by four categories of races, that is, Africans (as designated in the preceding lines, Whites, Coloureds, and Indians). 2 The oral nature of these proverbs makes them effective, especially if they are uttered in their specific indigenous languages. This observation hopefully gives the reader a glimpse that the written form of this chapter is not in line with the oral nature of these sayings, as they are, apart from being communicated through the medium of a foreign language (English), also communicated here in written form. It is regrettable, though, that the power of the spoken word has been overtaken to a large extent by the written word, especially among today’s younger generations in Africa (cf. Pachocinski 1996, 3).

References Bezuidenhout, Jacobus Stephanus. 1981. Die Noord‐Sotho spreekwoord en‐gesegde: ’n stilistiese analise. MA thesis. University of Potchefstroom, Potchefstroom. Brandes, S.H. 1974. The selection process in proverb use: A Spanish example. SFQ 38: 167–186. Burden, J.J. and Bosman, H.L. 1982. Only Guide for OTB302‐3. University of South Africa, Pretoria.

Duminy, P. A. 1967. African Pupils and Teaching Them. Pretoria: Van Schaik. Finnegan, Ruth H. 1970. Oral Literature in Africa. Oxford: Oxford University. Guma, S.M. 1977. The Form, Content and Technique of Traditional Literature in Southern Sotho. Pretoria: Van Schaik. Nkesiga, Solomon Bonabese. 2005. Virtuous living: Toward an African

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theology of wisdom in the context of the African renaissance. PhD. thesis. Nelson Mandela Metropolitan University, Port Elizabeth. Kimilike, Lechion Peter. 2006. An African perspective on poverty proverbs in the book of Proverbs: An analysis for transformational possibilities. PhD. thesis. University of South Africa, Pretoria. Krappe, Alexander Haggerty. 1965. The Science of Folklore. 4th ed. London: Methuen. Loader, J.A. 1986. Texts with a wisdom perspective. In: Words from Afar (ed. F.E. Deist and W. Vorster), 108–118. Cape Town: Tafelberg. Masenya, Madipoane J. 1989. In the school of Wisdom: An interpretation of some Old Testament proverbs in a Northern Sotho context. MA thesis. University of South Africa, Pretoria. Masenya (ngwana’ Mphahlele), Madipoane. 2004. Teaching Western‐oriented Old Testament studies to African students: An exercise in wisdom or in folly? Old Testament Essays 17(3): 455–469. Mbiti, John S. 1999. African Religions and Philosophy. Oxford: Heinnemann. Mieder, Wolfgang. 1997. Modern paremiology in retrospect and prospect. In: Willem Saayman (ed). Embracing the Baobab Tree: The African Proverb in the 21st Century, Proceedings of the Interdisciplinary Symposium on the African Proverb in the 21st Century, Unisa, Pretoria, 2–7 October. 3–36. Pretoria: UNISA. Mokitimi, M. 1997. A critique of Western definition of literature: proverbs as

literature of the illiterate, 49–57. In: Saayman (ed). Embracing the Baobab Tree: The African Proverb in the 21st Century, Proceedings of the Interdisciplinary Symposium on the African Proverb in the 21st Century, Unisa, Pretoria, 2–7 October. Pretoria: UNISA. Monyamane, R.A. 1979. The Northern Sotho proverb. Honours thesis. University of South Africa, Pretoria. Nel, P. 1977. The concept father in the Wisdom Literature of the Ancient Near East. JNSL 5: 53–67. Nestor, Hellen Byera. 1978. 500 Haya Proverbs. Arusha: East African Literature Bureau. Nyembezi, C. L.S. 1954. Zulu Proverbs. Johannesburg: Witwatersrand University. Pachocinski, Ryszard. 1996. Proverbs in Africa: Human nature in Nigerian Oral Tradition. St. Paul, MN: Professors World Peace Academy. Rogers, A.D. 1985. Human Prudence and Implied Divine sanctions in Malagasy Proverbial Wisdom, Journal of Religion in Africa 15, 216–226. Seitel, Peter Isaac. 1972. Proverbs and the Structure of Metaphor Among the Haya of Tanzania. PhD thesis. University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia. Whybray, R.N. 1994. The New Century Bible Commentary: Proverbs. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans. Ziervogel, D., and Mokgokong, P.C. 1975. Comprehensive Northern Sotho Dictionary. Pretoria: Van Schaik.

Further Reading Crenshaw, James L. 1998. Old Testament Wisdom: An Introduction. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox.

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Erasmus, J.G. 1961. Uitgesoekte Noord‐ Sotho Spreekwoorde. Johannesburg: APB.

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Fabian, Dapila N. 1998. The socio‐religious role of witchcraft in the Old Testament culture: An African Insight. Old Testament Essays 11: 215–239. An examination of ancient Israel from an African perspective. Fontaine, Carole R. 1992. Proverbs. In: The Women’s Bible Commentary (ed. Carol A. Newsom, and Sharon H. Ringe), 145–152. Louisville, KY: Westminster. Masenya (Ngwan’a Mphahlele), Madipoane. 2005. The optimism of the wise in Africa and in Israel: How helpful in the time of HIV/AIDS? Old Testament Essays 18: 296–308. A helpful analysis of how sapiential traditions can be brought to bear on the AIDS crisis. McKane, William. 1977. Proverbs: A New Approach. London: SCM Press. An

influential and traditional commentary on the book of Proverbs. Page, Jr., Hugh R. (ed). 2010. The Africana Bible: Reading Israel’s Scriptures in Africa and the African Diaspora. Minnesota, MN: Augsburg Fortress. An important study of biblical texts from African perspectives. West, Gerald O. 2009. Interrogating the comparative paradigm in African biblical scholarship. In: African and European Readers of the Bible in Dialogue: In Quest for a Shared Meaning (ed. Hans de Wit and Gerald O. West), 37–64. Pietermaritzburg: Cluster Publications. An engaging study on the dialogue between African and European Bible readers.

CHAPTER 26

Cinematic Wisdom: Film and Biblical Wisdom Literature Matthew S. Rindge

Introduction Although Bible and Film is a burgeoning field of study (with dozens of books in recent years, and increasing courses offered in universities and seminaries), relatively little attention within this field is given to wisdom literature. Other biblical literary genres such as apocalyptic, Hebrew Bible narratives, and the Gospels receive far more attention by Bible and Film scholars. One standard book on Bible and Film contains 11 chapters, and only one of these chapters focuses exclusively on wisdom texts (Reinhartz 2003). In a book with 50 chapters on the Bible in film (Reinhartz 2012), one chapter deals with Job (Deacy 2012), one treats Qoheleth (Burnette‐ Bletsch 2012), and two consider Job and Qoheleth (Walsh 2012; Zwick 2012). Another book gives little attention to wisdom texts (Reinhartz 2013). In one of the most comprehensive treatments of the Bible and Film, a recent, two‐volume collection, only two out of 56 chapters focus on wisdom literature (Burnette‐Bletsch 2016). Another edited volume on Bible and Film in the same year has no chapters on wisdom (Copier and Vander Stichele 2016), while in another volume, only one out of 31 chapters explicitly addresses wisdom themes (Walsh 2018). One of the few book‐length treatments of wisdom literature and film is a book on Ecclesiastes through the lens of film (Johnston 2004). The scarce appearance of wisdom texts in Bible and Film books is likely due to the prominent role of narrative in cinema, and the non‐narrative nature of most wisdom literature. The non‐narrative mode of most biblical wisdom texts do not lend The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

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themselves as readily to cinematic fare. The focus here on film and wisdom literature is thus something of an anomaly among treatments of Bible and Film. I seek in this chapter to illustrate how constructing mutually enriching dialogues between films and biblical wisdom literature can illuminate both sets of texts. Reading biblical texts and viewing films in light of each other can engender new interpretive lenses which enhance our understanding of both films and biblical texts. Biblical wisdom literature is no stranger to film. Scores of films incorporate citations, allusions to, and echoes of biblical wisdom texts. A Time to Kill (d. Schumacher, 1996) takes its title from the poem in Ecclesiastes 3. Ren, the main character in Footloose (d. Ross, 1984), cites portions of this same poem to defend his argument that there are appropriate times to celebrate life, and that now “is our time to dance” (Eccl. 3:4). The main character of The Zero Theorem (d. Gilliam, 2013) is Qohen Leth, a not‐so‐ subtle reference to Qoheleth.1 Excerpts from Proverbs are quoted in the film 3:10 to Yuma (d. Mangold, 2007) (cf. Reinhartz 2013). Gattaca (d. Niccol, 1997) opens with two quotations, one of which is Eccl. 7:13 (“Consider God’s handiwork; who can straighten what he hath made crooked?”).2 The film Liberal Arts (d. Radnor, 2012) opens with a quote from Eccl. 1:18b (“He that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow”).3 Many films share with biblical wisdom texts an interest in existential matters regarding meaning and meaninglessness. Like Qoheleth, Citizen Kane (d. Welles, 1941) skewers attempts to find meaning in a number of culturally accepted ideals such as wealth and success. In Crimes and Misdemeanors (d. Allen, 1989), an argument about whether God is just – given the suffering of the innocent and the prospering of the wicked  –  mirrors clashing perspectives on this same question in Proverbs, Job, and Qoheleth. Allen revisits these same themes in Match Point (2005), offering a pessimistic vision of the absence of any sort of justice (divine or otherwise) in the world. As one of the few narrative biblical wisdom texts, it is perhaps not surprising that Job has received more cinematic attention than other non‐narrative wisdom books. In an episode of HBO’s television show The Leftovers (1.10), the main character Kevin reads Job 23:8–17 as he and a minister bury a woman. In Cape Fear (d. Scorsese, 1991), the character Max Cady suggests that reading the book of Job would give others insight into his own life (cf. Deacy 2012). Other films offer more substantive reflections on their close relationship to Job. Like Job, Life of Pi (d. Lee, 2012) laments the injustice of undeserved human suffering. The film offers the provocative suggestion – absent in Job – that just as fiction can function as a coping mechanism for tragedy, so too can belief in God. Religious faith, the film proposes, may be preferable to a harsh reality without God for the simple reason that it is a “better” story. A Serious Man (d. Coens, 2009) echoes numerous specific elements from the book of Job, and also consistently rejects efforts that seek to explain suffering. Many other films also offer insightful interpretations of Job (Zwick 2016). Examples include two films by writer/director Terrence Malick, The Tree of Life (2011) and To The Wonder (2012).

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The Tree of Life as a Joban Lament Many elements make Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life (2011) an unusual and difficult film for most viewers. It is nonlinear and lacks a clear and discernible plot. Although the film’s focal point is the mundane details of a white family (mother, father, and three young boys) in 1950s rural Texas, this domestic sphere is inexplicably interrupted by an interjection of a 17‐minute scene of the universe’s creation. The film also concludes with an ambiguous vision of one of the sons (now an adult) of what appears to be something akin to an afterlife. These complex aspects of The Tree of Life are most helpfully understood when realizing that the film is a cinematic meditation – and imaginative retelling – of the book of Job. The film explicitly engages the book of Job in its opening visual shot, a black screen with a quote from Job 38:4, 7 – “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? … When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy?”4 This citation frames the film – and invites viewers to understand it – within the context of Job (for more on this book, see Chapter 2 in this volume). Halfway through the film a pastor gives a two‐and‐a‐half‐minute sermon on Job. Even more significant than these specific citations and allusions, however, are the substantive ways in which the film echoes central dynamics in Job, namely a parent’s lament to God over the death of a child, and God’s reference to creation in response to this lament.5 The film’s opening quote from Job 38:4, 7 anticipates both of these elements. Following the opening quotation from Job 38 is a monologue by Mrs. O’Brien (Jessica Chastain) about the “two paths in life,” those of nature and grace, that she learned about from nuns. Her monologue shares similarities with the worldview in Proverbs since she establishes a binary dualism between these two paths. Nature, according to Mrs. O’Brien, “only wants to please itself. Get others to please it too. Likes to lord it over them. To have its own way. It finds reasons to be unhappy when all the world is shining around it. And love is smiling through all things.” Grace, on the other hand, “doesn’t try to please itself. Accepts being slighted, forgotten, disliked. Accepts insults and injuries.” As in Proverbs, everyone is on either one of these paths or the other. “You have to choose which one you’ll follow,” Mrs. O’Brien observes. Moreover, and like Proverbs, there are certain consequences for people depending on which path they pursue. Mrs. O’Brien sums up her monologue by noting, “[The nuns] taught us that no one who loves the way of grace ever comes to a bad end.” This line echoes the same type of act–consequence worldview that permeates the book of Proverbs (“No harm happens to the righteous, but the wicked are filled with trouble” [12:21]; cf. 22:4) and that also appears in Deuteronomy (4:1, 25–27, 40) and Psalms (1:6; 37:18–19).6 In such a paradigm, God blesses the wise and righteous, and punishes the foolish and wicked.

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Lament as Alternative Wisdom in The Tree of Life In the final line of her monologue, Mrs. O’Brien tells God, “I will be true to you. Whatever comes.” These words flow directly to a scene with a gentleman delivering a telegram to Mrs. O’Brien, informing her that her 19‐year‐old son R. L. has been killed in war. This devastating information in the telegram challenges both of the preceding statements by Mrs. O’Brien. The news of her son’s death counters the belief that those – like Mrs. O’Brien – who “love the way of grace will not come to a bad end.” As the opening monologue makes clear, Mrs. O’Brien typifies the kind of person who loves the way of grace. Unlike her husband, who exemplifies the way of nature, Mrs. O’Brien is portrayed as an idealized personification of grace. Yet despite her promise, her love of the way of grace has not prevented her (or her son) from coming to a “bad end.” By juxtaposing in such immediate succession her monologue with the news in the telegram, the film provides a clash between the kind of conventional (and fairly simplistic) wisdom in Proverbs and the alternative wisdom in Job and Qoheleth. The monologue, in other words, reflects a belief that God blesses and protects those who follow the path of wisdom and righteousness, while those who pursue folly and wickedness will be cursed (Prov. 12:21; 22:4). The telegram is a manifestation of the contrary belief in Job and Qoheleth that God does not spare just or wise people from suffering or death (Eccl. 8:14; 9:1–3; cf. 7:16– 17). The film thus transitions rather quickly from a conventional sort of wisdom to an alternative wisdom. Just as the binary, dualistic worldview in Proverbs might be rooted in an idealized vision, and the alternative wisdom of Job and Qoheleth is based in some kind of actual experience, so too does Mrs. O’Brien seem to progress from an idealized view of faith (evident in the two paths of life) to one now (re) shaped by the concrete experience of the death of her son, R. L. Whereas Qoheleth repudiates the binary claims of Proverbs through propositional discourse, The Tree of Life does so narratively. The film appropriates the divergent and conflicting worldviews, but renders it through the lens of characters and relationality. The news of her son’s death also sets up a likely challenge to Mrs. O’Brien’s promise to be true to God “whatever comes.” Her claim of fidelity will now be put to the test by the death of her child, and in this way the film builds a certain degree of suspense regarding her pledged faithfulness to God. Mrs. O’Brien’s initial response to R. L.’s death is acute and palpable grief. Upon reading the telegram, she gasps in pain, collapses on the floor, and begins to wail. Her first spoken words are: “My son, I just want to die and be with him.” Her response is not unlike Job’s remark after his own suffering (Job 3:1–3). As Job’s friends do with Job, a number of people attempt to console Mrs. O’Brien by offering her theological explanations of her loss. Referring to her dead son, Fr. Haynes tells her, “He’s in God’s hands now.” Like Job, however, Mrs. O’Brien rejects such pious bromides. Her brusque retort to the minister (“He was in God’s hands the whole time”) highlights the vapid theology evident in his effort to help. A woman

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(who appears to be her own mother) tells her, “You have to be strong now. The pain will pass in time. Life goes on. You’ve still got the other two. If the Lord gives and the Lord takes away – that’s the way he is. He sends flies to a wound that he should heal.” Far from comforting Mrs. O’Brien, these words elicit tears and a look of dumbfounded anger. For Mrs. O’Brien, these palliative efforts are as impotent and insulting as those offered to Job by his friends (unlike Job, there are no friends of Mrs. O’Brien who simply sit with her in her pain, silently sharing her suffering because they see how immense it is (Job 2:11–13). Following the example set by Job, Mrs. O’Brien responds to the death of her son not with efforts to minimize her pain, but with lament. Echoing biblical laments that – rooted in grief and misery – direct anger, accusations, and questions to God, she likewise implores God, “Lord, why? Where were you?” At this point, the most unconventional moment of an already highly unusual film occurs: a 17‐minute depiction of the creation of the universe. Mrs. O’Brien’s lament continues intermittently throughout the unfolding visual spectacle of this Big‐Bang‐like creation. Interspersed throughout the evolving universe are her pleas to God: “Did you know? … Who are we to you? … Answer me. … We cry to you. … My soul. My son. Hear us.” Perhaps reflecting a (conventional wisdom) belief that such suffering may have been caused by her sin, she asks God, “Was I false to you?” For Mrs. O’Brien, the path of grace progresses to (or at least involves, and is not incompatible with) lament. By contrast, lament is almost entirely absent in the way of nature that is personified by her husband, Mr. O’Brien (Brad Pitt). Given the positive description of the path of grace in Mrs. O’Brien’s opening monologue, one can infer that the film depicts lament as a spiritually elevated and appealing form of coping with pain and loss. For his part, Mr. O’Brien exemplifies various sentiments in Proverbs. He is depressed at the lack of success afforded him, given his relentless efforts and hard work ethic. After hearing that his plant will be closing and that he might lose his job, he complains, “I never missed a day of work. Tithed every Sunday.” In some ways, his complaint also echoes that of Job, who itemizes his many virtues in order to defend his claim that he is not deserving of suffering or divine punishment (Job 31). Mrs. O’Brien’s lament incorporates some, but not all, of the elements of lament that appear in Job. She does not, for example, beg God to leave her alone (Job 7:16–19; 10:20), or accuse God of being cruel (Job 30:21) or of bringing her to death (Job 30:23). She does not compare God’s presence to that of a suffocating and surveilling stalker (Job 7:17–19; 10:16–17). In this way, the film is far less critical of God than the biblical text is. Mrs. O’Brien does, however, draw upon central ingredients of lament that surface in Job, Lamentations, and lament psalms. She directs her grief and anger to God and asks God pointed questions about why her son has died. In this way, The Tree of Life joins several other films (Signs, The End of the Affair, The Last Temptation of Christ, Fight Club, God on Trial, Silence) in which characters respond to suffering by lamenting God’s silence or abandonment (Rindge 2016b, 2017).7

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The film repudiates some of the conventional wisdom enshrined in Proverbs (and in Deuteronomy and the Psalms) through a sermon on Job by Fr. Haynes. Appearing about halfway through the film, the minister reflects on the biblical text in his two‐and‐a‐half‐minute homily: Job imagined that he might build his nest on high, that the integrity of his behavior would protect him against misfortune. And his friends thought mistakenly that the Lord could only have punished him because secretly he had done something wrong. But no, misfortune befalls the good as well. We can’t protect ourselves against it. We can’t ­protect our children. We can’t say to ourselves: “Even if I’m not happy, I’m going to make sure they are.” We run before the wind, we think that it will carry us forever; it will not. We vanish as a cloud; we wither as the autumn grass, and like a tree are rooted up. Is there some fraud in the scheme of the universe? Is there nothing which is ­deathless, nothing which does not pass away? We cannot stay where we are. We must journey forth. We must find that which is greater than fortune or fate. Nothing can bring us peace but that. Is the body of the wise man or the just exempt from any pain? From any disquietude? From the deformity that might blight its beauty, from the ­weakness that might destroy its health? Do you trust in God? Job too was close to the Lord. Are your friends and children your security? There is no hiding place in all the world where trouble may not find you. No one knows when sorrow might visit his house any more than Job did. The very moment everything was taken away from Job he knew it was the Lord who had taken it away. He turned from the passing shows of time, and he sought that which is eternal. Does he alone see God’s hand who sees that he gives? Or does not also the one see God’s hand who sees that he takes away? Or does he alone see God who sees God turn his face towards him? Does not also he see God who sees God turn his back?

This sermon, some of which Malick adopts from Søren Kierkegaard (1843), reflects the dissonance engendered between the kind of idealistic epistemology that informs the worldview in Proverbs (and Mrs. O’Brien’s opening monologue), and an experiential epistemology, such as the harsh reality of a child’s death.8 By declaring that “misfortune befalls the good as well,” Fr. Haynes explicitly rejects the act–consequence worldview in Proverbs that presumes God blesses the just and punishes the wicked. Mrs. O’Brien’s young son Jack also expresses lament to God after the death of a child. After witnessing a boy drown in a swimming pool (and seeing another boy burned in a fire), Jack asks God: “Was he bad? … Where were you? You let a boy die. You let anything happen. Why should I be good if you aren’t?” Unlike both Job and his mother, Jack derives an ethical lesson from his lament of divine abandonment: if God is not good, why should he bother being virtuous? This potential imitation of God’s lack of virtue marks an ethical conclusion that does not appear in biblical lament literature.

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Lament and Divine Creation in The Tree of Life The film’s closest parallel to Job is the function of the creation of the universe as a response to a parent lamenting their dead child(ren) (cf. Job 38). What God refers to in Job 38 the film depicts visually. The 17‐minute spectacle of creation begins with a faint light in the darkness that begins to shine radiantly. As the heavens appear, a star (our sun?) emerges into existence. Multiple planets form and develop. The earth’s core bellows fire and lava to the surface. Clouds form, waterfalls gush forth, and canyons appear. Cellular formation produces oceanic life. Evolution blooms as we witness jellyfish, plants, a dinosaur, and, finally, the beating of a heart in an embryo. The numerous parallels in the film with Job (especially Mrs. O’Brien’s laments to God) suggest that this unfolding creation is orchestrated by God. The likelihood of this divinely directed creation is buttressed by the citation of Job 38:4, 7 that opens the film (“Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? … When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy?”). This citation joins together significant and related foci in Job and the film: God’s reference to creation as a response to a parent’s lament over losing a child. Framing the film with this citation invites viewers to consider God as the choreographer of the creation sequence. As in Job, the Deity responds to lament over the death of a child with the creation of the universe. As in Job, the divine response of creation to lament in the film is aesthetic rather than propositional. The aesthetic nature of this divine response is more evident in the film than in Job, given the latter’s explicit visual texture. Unlike Job’s friends, who reply (apart from 2:11–13) in entirely propositional discourse to Job’s suffering, God – in both Job and the film – appears to recognize that such propositional responses to suffering are impotent, undignified, and unworthy of expression. The Tree of Life joins the Joban film A Serious Man (d. Coens, 2009) in recognizing that there is no satisfying propositional response to the misery of suffering. Didactic or logical attempts to make sense of suffering (and God’s role in it) are futile at best and blasphemous at worst. The only fitting response  –  if there even is such a thing – belongs in the realm of the aesthetic or artistic. In one moment of personal insight, Mr. O’Brien regrets his own failure to appreciate adequately this aesthetic dimension of life. He reflects: “I wanted to be loved because I was great, a big man. I’m nothing. Look, around us: trees and birds. I lived in shame. I dishonored it all, and didn’t notice the glory. A foolish man.” The Tree of Life not only illustrates central features of Job, but also reimagines key aspects of the book. Perhaps the most obvious change is casting a woman as the main Job figure. I suggest that this gender reconfiguration also extends to the film’s depiction of God. Unlike the book of Job, God never speaks verbally in The Tree of Life; the Deity’s only appearance in the film (if it is indeed God) is through the unfolding of the universe’s creation. If God is present it is

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through this prolonged aesthetic display (in a similar nod towards psychological realism, Darren Aronofsky’s Noah does not depict God speaking or appearing visibly). More than anything else, God is linked to  –  and revealed in  –  the ­creation of the universe. As such, God is primarily portrayed as one who ­creates life. In giving birth to creation, God shares something in common with Mrs. O’Brien, who has given birth to three sons. This birthing commonality may be the precise reason why it is with the creation of the universe that God responds to Mrs. O’Brien’s lament. In response to a grieving mother who has lost her child, and is directing her grief to God, God reveals a divine attribute that offers a profound and poignant point of connection between God and Mrs. O’Brien. Like Mrs. O’Brien, God is also a mother who births life, and this shared activity might give empathy for Mrs. O’Brien’s pain over the loss of her child. God, in other words, is a birthing mother who knows what it is like to create life, and (presumably) also might understand what it would be like to lose that life which she creates. Understanding the film in this manner provides an opportunity to think differently about God’s response to Job in Job 38. Unlike most interpreters who understand God’s response to Job as an attempt to “put Job in his place” by convincing him of the immense distance between him and the Deity, the film invites us to consider that God is seeking to establish a kind of empathic connection or rapport with Job over their shared experience as creators of life. The fact that the Job character in the film is a woman who actually, like God, gave birth to a creation, further enhances this connection between the Job figure and God as mutual creators who know what it is like to both give birth, and to (potentially) suffer the loss of their creation. Perhaps God’s response to Job (if it does seek to establish empathy with him over a shared experience of creation) provides a counterpoint to God’s apparent complicity in Job’s suffering (Job 1:6–22; 2:1–10). Accompanying the visual display of the universe’s creation is the musical piece “Lacrimosa” (from Polish composer Zbigniew Preisner’s “Requiem for My Friend,” and originally written to honor film director Krzysztof Kieslowski). This piece enhances the likelihood that the divine response of creation seeks to establish an empathic connection with Mrs. O’Brien. Perhaps most well‐known from Mozart’s Requiem, the lyrics for “Lacrimosa” (“weeping” in Latin) are from the Dies Irae portion of the Roman Catholic Requiem mass: Lacrimosa dies illa, qua resurget ex favilla Iudicandus homo reus. Huic ergo parce, Deus: Pie Iesu Domine, dona eis requiem. Amen.

That sorrowful day, when rising from the ashes The guilty man to be judged. Spare him, O God: Merciful Lord Jesus, Grant them (eternal) rest. Amen.

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As a prayer for the dead, this requiem mass is a sort of lament. In the very midst of creation, God mourns death. The creation of the universe is itself a divine lament. God laments in response to Mrs. O’Brien’s own lament. What many viewers perceive as a confusing scene might contribute to this ­particular way of thinking about the film. During the lengthy unfolding of the universe’s creation, a predatory, carnivorous dinosaur comes across a wounded dinosaur who is lying down in a stream, and apparently close to death. The predatory dinosaur places a foot upon the head of the injured dinosaur, and appears to be ready to kill it and feast upon it. The dominant dinosaur, however, lifts its foot from the head of the wounded dinosaur, and departs, without harming its potential prey. Film critic Jim Emerson reflects on a conversation he had about this scene with the film’s visual effects supervisor, Michael L. Fink: The premise of the four‐shot scene was to depict the birth of consciousness (what some have called the “birth of compassion”) – the first moment in which a living creature made a conscious decision to choose what Michael described as “right from wrong, good from evil.” Or, perhaps, a form of altruism over predatory instinct. (Emerson 2012)

This “birth of compassion,” a striking contrast with the way in which evolution is associated with violence and warfare in 2001: A Space Odyssey (d. Kubrick, 1968), might underscore the compassionate and nurturing nature of the Deity. Even more suggestive is a 2007 draft of Malick’s screenplay for the film which Emerson cites: Reptiles emerge from the amphibians, and dinosaurs in turn from the reptiles. Among the dinosaurs we discover the first signs of maternal love, as the creatures learn to care for each other. Is not love, too, a work of the creation? What should we have been without it? How had things been then? Silent as a shadow, consciousness has slipped into the world. (Emerson 2012)

These comments in the screenplay about the dinosaur’s “first signs of maternal love” comport with presenting God as a Mother who births creation. In these (and other) ways, the film offers new hermeneutic lenses for thinking differently about the book of Job. In some ways, the film diverges from Job. The Tree of Life lacks God’s own self‐critique that occurs when God informs Job’s friends that, unlike Job, they have not spoken of God truly (42:7). By neglecting this surprising divine defense of Job’s critique of God, the film is not willing to critique God as fervently or fully as the book of Job does. Just as many lament psalms transition at some point to praise (Ps. 88 is an exception), The Tree of Life also shifts away from lament in its conclusion. At the end of the film, adult Jack has a vision of hundreds of people walking on a beach. Among them are all the members of his family: his mother, father, and his brother R. L. Jack

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embraces his mother, greets his father, and picks up his young brother. People walk into the ocean water. Jack prays: “Keep us. Guide us. To the end of time.” Although it is not exactly clear, it appears as though this vision is of some sort of afterlife. In this vision, Mrs. O’Brien lets go of her young son R. L., and, with arms elevated towards heaven in a gesture of supplication, says (presumably to God), “I give him to you. I give you my son.” This seems to mark the end of Jack’s vision, and we see him back in his office, smiling. Mrs. O’Brien remarks, however, “Light of my life. I search for you. My hope. My child.” This comment seems to stand in tension with her previous act of relinquishing her son to God. It is between these two poles of surrendering and searching that she, and the film itself, prefers to dwell. If lamentation over grief does progress, it develops into this ambiguous sort of embrace of the twin postures of surrender and refusing to let go. This uncertainty about the ideal posture a person should have mirrors the ambiguity (in Hebrew) of Job’s final response to God’s speech (42:6), where it is unclear if Job repents in dust and ashes, rejects dust and ashes, or considers himself to be dust and ashes. One of Malick’s own brothers committed suicide when he was 19 years old. Since this is the same age as when R. L. is killed, it is difficult to escape the conclusion that The Tree of Life is in some ways Malick’s personal reflection on his effort to reconcile his grief over this loss with his relationship to the Divine. In order to do so, he draws upon the book of Job and also reimagines it in creative ways. The film thus illustrates how this biblical text has continued to help people cope with their own grief. In the words of one film critic, “The sheer beauty of this film is almost overwhelming, but as with other works of religiously minded art, its aesthetic glories are tethered to a humble and exalted purpose, which is to shine the light of the sacred on secular reality” (Scott 2011).

To The Wonder and/as Lament Unlike The Tree of Life, Malick’s subsequent film To The Wonder (2012) does not explicitly cite Job, or any other biblical texts. The film does, however, have a substantive religious texture, and lament is a key leitmotif throughout the film. Two of the main characters make frequent use of lament: Marina (Olga Kurylenko) laments the slow disintegration of her romantic relationship with Neil (Ben Affleck), and Catholic priest Fr. Quintana (Javier Bardem) laments his deteriorating relationship with God. To The Wonder provides some key insights on the nature of lament. Marina and Neil’s relationship descends from emotional intimacy in picturesque France to a depressing and harsh reality matched by the barren Oklahoma landscape where Ben lives. Long camera shots of isolated characters accentuate their relational alienation. Simultaneous shots of Marina on an upper floor, and Neil on the floor below her, make palpable their mutual disconnection. Like the toxic sludge that Neil investigates as a part of his job, there are unseen forces that seem to

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c­ onspire to keep the couple steadily succumbing to relational death. Whereas Neil seems to accept their relational decline with little if any complaint, Marina protests their emotional apathy: “Why,” she asks, “do we come back down?” “How had hate come to take the place of love? My tender heart grown hard?” Fr. Quintana utters five prayers throughout the film, and the first four of these prayers are laments in which he protests the perceived absence of the divine presence in his life: Everywhere you’re present, and still I can’t see you. You’re within me. Around me. And I have no experience of you. Not as I once did. Why don’t I hold on to what I’ve found? My heart is cold. Hard. How long will you hide yourself? Let me come to you. Let me not pretend. Pretend to feelings I do not have. Intensely I seek you. My soul thirsts for you. Exhausted. Will you be like a stream that dries up? Why do you turn your back? All I see is destruction. Failure. Ruin.

The respective laments of Marina and Fr. Quintana signal their dissatisfaction with their respective relationships, and their insistence that things change. By juxtaposing these laments in the film, To The Wonder invites viewers to reflect upon the similarities and intersections between romantic and human/divine love. The film proposes that the intimacy and love for which people yearn so desperately is  –  even if experienced  –  ultimately unsustainable. Maintaining such relational intimacy appears to be unattainable. Like the literal meaning of the term hebel (mist or vapor) that pervades Qoheleth’s thought, such intimacy is fleeting and temporary.9 Not unlike Lola rennt (d. Tykwer, 1998), the film suggests that central to the task of living is learning how to dwell in a state of perennial dissatisfaction with relational distance, whether it be romantic or divine. The film suggests that given this reality, it is nonetheless – or all the more – important for people to not abandon their quest for such intimacy. Coinciding with the four laments of Fr. Quintana is a consistent dedication on his part to serving the most vulnerable populations in his neighborhood. He visits patients in an elderly home, gives his coat to a poor woman on the street, listens to a deaf woman, cares for the sick at a hospital, gives communion to – and speaks with – prisoners in jail, and cares for those who are poor and developmentally disabled. He thus combines two elements that are central in Job – lament against God and a consistent commitment to caring for the socioeconomically vulnerable (Job 31). This correlation of lament and acts of social justice may be fueled by a recognition that if God is absent, love and justice are only made possible when people enact them. Like Bonhoeffer’s concept of a “weak and powerless” God, so too might Fr. Quintana’s lament catalyze acts of justice on behalf of the vulnerable (Bonhoeffer 1972, 360).

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As in The Tree of Life, Malick depicts lament as a type of intermediary stage (as it is in many psalms) that ultimately develops into or coincides with seeking and surrendering. Marina’s lament also shifts into a posture of gratitude; she ends the film on a rooftop, praying to God: “Love that loves us … Thank you.”

Song of Songs and Moulin Rouge! At the heart of the musical Moulin Rouge! (d. Luhrmann, 2001) is a developing romance between the penniless writer Christian (Ewan McGregor), and Satine (Nicole Kidman), a courtesan. These two meet at the height of the Bohemian revolution at the turn of the twentieth century in Montmartre, France. Christian falls in love with Satine at first sight, and he quickly begins to woo her. She resists his advances when she realizes how poor he is, and the two of them engage in an amusing conflict over divergent attitudes about love. Christian, appropriating various song lyrics, insists that “love is like oxygen,” “love is a many splendored thing … love lifts us up where we belong,” and “all you need is love.” Satine, on the other hand, believes that “love is just a game,” and she denigrates Christian’s romantic rhetoric as “silly love songs.” The film proceeds to chronicle their budding romantic relationship. The film’s thesis is reflected in its oft‐repeated mantra: “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.” The film’s consistent celebration of love (forms of the word “love” appear 143 times) is one of the striking similarities it shares in common with the biblical wisdom text Song of Songs (Heb. shir ha‐shirim).10 Christian’s explicit exaltation of sexuality, sensuality, romance, and eroticism echoes many of the central sentiments in Song of Songs. Many of the songs in Moulin Rouge! that laud love and sexuality resonate with the spirit of Song of Songs. The film and Song of Songs celebrate love and sexuality that is consensual and mutually enriching. Love, the film asserts, is an art that a person must develop, and this education of love entails both giving and receiving love. Every character in the film can be evaluated according to whether they succeed or fail in their growth of learning how to love and be loved. Christian and Satine both inhabit the film’s thesis, each of them learning how to love and be loved. Christian learns that, from his initial idealized vision, love involves sorrow and heartache. He realizes this when the Duke demands that Satine sleep with him. Satine learns that love does not have to be an economic exchange, that she does not have to be bought, bartered, or sold, and that love can entail authentic emotional depth and genuine romantic intensity. She also learns, like Christian, that love involves pain; she lies to Christian, telling him she does not love him, because she believes that doing so will save him from being killed by the Duke. In these ways, the film associates agony with love in a way that does not appear in Song of Songs. This agony reaches a crescendo when, immediately after Christian and Satine are reconciled to each other, Satine dies in Christian’s arms. The kind of love Song of Songs envisions does not involve this depth of heartache. Indeed, Song

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of Songs insists that “love is as strong as death” (8:6). In the film, however, Christian ponders, “How could I know … that a force darker than jealousy and stronger than love had begun to take hold of Satine?” This force is death, and it infects Satine in the form of consumption/tuberculosis. Unbeknownst to Christian, Satine is plagued with tuberculosis, and he only discovers this at the film’s end. Love, in Song of Songs, is as strong as death, but in Moulin Rouge! love succumbs to death’s clutches. As in Qoheleth, death in the film is omnipotent and bows to no one. The film does, however, suggest that it is possible for love to survive death. While Satine is dying in Christian’s arms, she tells him, “Tell our story, that way I’ll – I’ll always be with you.” Tell their story he does; the final scene of the film shows him typing their story, concluding it with the film’s mantra, “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.” Their love does therefore survive through the specific vehicle of story. Indeed, Christian claims that their love will “live forever.” Narrative enables their love to attain some kind of immortality, and viewers of the film also encounter their love through the vehicle of story.

Cinematic Parables and the Subversion of Conventional Wisdom Films can function as alternative and conventional wisdom in terms of their specific attitude toward sacred motifs in American culture. Films that enshrine the American Dream, for example, defend a cherished and celebrated worldview, and thereby function as conventional wisdom. Examples are legion. It’s a Wonderful Life (d. Capra, 1946), Rocky (d. Alvidsen, 1976) and The Pursuit of Happyness (d. Gabriele Muccino, 2006) illustrate the Horatio Alger myth that success is always attainable, if a person commits themselves to hard work. Such “Capra‐esque” films draw from a deep and abiding well of American tropes regarding the power of grit and resolve to overcome any and every obstacle. Vindication is always available to the underdog, given sufficient effort. These films also elevate central elements of the American Dream (family, house, career) as constitutive of genuine existential meaning. In stark contrast to the above examples are films that reject such conventional cultural wisdom. Fight Club (d. Fincher, 1999), American Beauty (d. Mendes, 1999), and About Schmidt (d. Payne, 2002) all identify the American Dream as bankrupt in its ability to provide genuine existential meaning. Such films can be understood as profane parables that subvert cherished cultural wisdom (Rindge 2014, 2016b). Jesus’s parables are a type of alternative wisdom in narrative form. The parables can be understood as examples of wisdom because of their interest in exploring where people experience meaning and meaninglessness. The parables are alternative wisdom because they are characterized by a tendency to disturb and unnerve by undermining commonly accepted worldviews (Dodd 1935; Crossan 1973; Rindge 2014). In the words of one scholar, Jesus’s parables “subvert the myths that sustain our world” (Scott 1989).

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Each of the above three films features a 30, 40, or 60‐something aged white man who  –  despite receiving the primary accoutrements of the American Dream – finds himself spiritually comatose, emotionally impotent, and relationally alienated. In order to find meaning, the main character in each film must reject conventional cultural norms. Chief among the sacred values that characters must abandon is America’s denial of death. Each film proposes the counterintuitive and counterculture notion that spiritual vitality is found when a person faces and embraces his or her own mortality. Parables, whether they are biblical or cinematic (such as Dogville, d. von Trier, 2003) illustrate narrative’s provocative power to broaden and deepen cultural imagination by subverting simplistic and restrictive worldviews (Rindge 2018).

Conclusion Biblical wisdom literature offers a compelling companion piece to many films. The prevalent concern with how to live meaningfully (and avoid living meaninglessly) in biblical wisdom texts makes them apt dialogue partners with cinema that also explores these similar questions.11 By explicitly citing biblical texts, films such as The Tree of Life invite a critical conversation that has the potential to engender new insights into the film and biblical text. When films such as To The Wonder or Fight Club do not explicitly cite biblical texts, their utilization of a biblical genre (in this case lament) offers insight into both the film and the biblical genre. Films with existential interests in questions of meaningful living can be insightful dialogue partners with biblical texts, even if they do not cite such texts or make use of biblical genres. Perhaps biblical wisdom texts will take their rightful place alongside of apocalyptic, Hebrew Bible epics, and the gospels as cinematic conversation partners. Notes 1 2 3 4 5

I thank Brendan Breed for this film reference. The (unknown) English translation cited here is the version used in the film. The KJV (King James Version) English translation cited here is the version the film uses. All quotations from films are from the DVD versions of the respective film. Some of the material on The Tree of Life and To The Wonder appeared, in a modified form, in Rindge 2016a. 6 Unless otherwise indicated, English translations of biblical texts are from the NRSV (New Standard Revised Version). 7 For an impressive use of lament in literature, see Mary Doria Russell’s (1997) The Sparrow. For a poignant scene of lament in television, see “The Two Cathedrals” episode in season two of NBC’s The West Wing. 8 I thank my Gonzaga colleague David Calhoun for pointing out this connection to Kierkegaard.

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9 The NRSV translation of hebel as “vanity” is unfortunate since this English term fails to capture the sense of meaninglessness associated with the Hebrew word. 10 Most scholars do not classify Song of Songs as wisdom literature. Those who argue in favor include Murphy and Hulwiler (1999, 239); Childs (1979, 569–579); Davis (2000, 1–7). Murphy (2002 [1990]) rejects assigning it to wisdom literature, but thinks later editorial activity gives the Song sapiential characteristics. Dell (2005) identifies a number of wisdom motifs in the Song, and also thinks the Song underwent editing that brought the text more in line with the wisdom genre. Camp (1995) observes a number of similarities between Wisdom and the Song. 11 VanderKam (2001, 115) defines wisdom literature as texts which “grapple in a more universal way with the meaning of life, with life’s perplexities, and with how to live it properly.”

References Bonhoeffer, Dietrich. 1972. Letters and Papers From Prison. New York: Collier. Burnette‐Bletsch, Rhonda. 2012. Blade Runner. In: Bible and Cinema: Fifty Key Films (ed. Adele Reinhartz), 39–45. New York: Routledge. Burnette‐Bletsch, Rhonda. (ed.) 2016. The Bible in Motion: A Handbook of the Bible and Its Reception in Film. 2 vols. Berlin: De Gruyter. Camp, Claudia. 1995. Wisdom and the Feminine in the Book of Proverbs. Sheffield Academic Press. Childs, Brevard S. 1979. Introduction to the Old Testament as Scripture. Philadelphia, PA: Fortress. Copier, Laura and Vander Stichele, Caroline. (eds.) 2016. Close Encounters between Bible and Film: An Interdisciplinary Engagement. Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature. Crossan, John Dominic. 1973. In Parables: The Challenge of the Historical Jesus. New York: Harper & Row. Davis, Ellen. 2000. Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and the Song of Songs. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Deacy, Christopher. 2012. Cape Fear. In: Bible and Cinema: Fifty Key Films (ed. Adele Reinhartz), 55–60. New York: Routledge.

Dell, Katherine. 2005. Does the Song of Songs have any connections to wisdom? In: Perspectives on the Song of Songs/ Perspektiven der Hoheliedauslegung (ed. Anselm C. Hagedorn), 8–26. Berlin: De Gruyter. Dodd, C.H. 1935 (1961). Parables of the Kingdom. rev. ed. New York: Scribners. Emerson, Jim. 2012 (April 11). Tree of Life: The missing link discovered. https:// www.rogerebert.com/scanners/tree‐of‐ life‐the‐missing‐link‐discovered Johnston, Robert K. 2004. Useless Beauty: Ecclesiastes through the Lens of Contemporary Film. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Reprint, Eugene: Wipf & Stock, 2011. Kierkegaard, Søren. 1843. The Lord gave, and the Lord took away; blessed be the name of the Lord, in Four Upbuilding Discourses, IV, 19–20. Available in Kierkegaard, Eighteen Upbuilding Discourses (ed. trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong), 121. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990. Murphy, Roland E. 2002 (orig. pub. 1990). The Tree of Life: An Exploration of Biblical Wisdom Literature. 3rd ed. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.

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Murphy, Roland E. and Hulwiler, Elizabeth. 1999. Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Song of Songs. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson. Newsom, Carol. 2003. The Book of Job: A Contest of Moral Imaginations. New York: Oxford University Press. Reinhartz, Adele. 2003. Scripture on the Silver Screen. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Reinhartz, Adele. (ed.) 2012. Bible and Cinema: Fifty Key Films. New York: Routledge. Reinhartz, Adele. 2013. Bible and Cinema: An Introduction. New York: Routledge. Rindge, Matthew S. 2014. Luke’s artistic parables: Narratives of subversion, imagination, and transformation. Interpretation: A Journal of Bible and Theology 68: 403–415. Rindge, Matthew S. 2016a. Lament in film and film as lament. In: The Bible in Motion: A Handbook of the Bible and its Reception in Film (ed. Rhonda Burnette‐ Bletsch), Vol 1, 379–390. Berlin: De Gruyter. Rindge, Matthew S. 2016b. Profane Parables: Film and the American Dream. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press. Rindge, Matthew S. 2017. Lament, lamentation in film. In: Encyclopedia of the Bible and Its Reception. Vol. 15 (ed. Christine Helmer, Steven L McKenzie, Thomas Chr. Romer et al.), 712–714. Berlin: de Gruyter. Rindge, Matthew S. 2018. Lars von Trier’s Dogville as a cinematic parable. In: T&T

Clark Companion to the Bible and Film (ed. Richard Walsh), 260–271. London: Bloomsbury. Russell, Mary Doria. 1997. The Sparrow. New York: Ballantine Books. Scott, A.O. 2011 (May 26). Heaven, Texas and the cosmic whodunit. The New York Times http://www.nytimes. com/2011/05/27/movies/the‐tree‐of‐ life‐from‐terrence‐malick‐review. html?pagewanted=all. Scott, Bernard Brendan. 1989. Hear Then The Parable: A Commentary on the Parables of Jesus. Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress. VanderKam, James C. 2001. An Introduction to Early Judaism. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Walsh, Richard. (ed.) 2018. T&T Clark Companion to the Bible and Film. London: Bloomsbury. Walsh, Richard. 2012. Crimes and misdemeanors. In: Bible and Cinema: Fifty Key Films (ed. Adele Reinhartz), 74–78. New York: Routledge. Zwick, Reinhold. 2012. A Serious Man. In: Bible and Cinema: Fifty Key Films (ed. Adele Reinhartz), 228–232. London: Routledge. Zwick, Reinhold. 2016. The book of Job in the movies: On cinema’s exploration of theodicy and the hiddenness of God. In: The Bible in Motion: A Handbook of the Bible and its Reception in Film (ed. Rhonda Burnette‐Bletsch), Vol. 1, 355–377. Berlin: De Gruyter.

Films/Television 2001: A Space Odyssey (d. Stanley Kubrick, 1968). 3:10 to Yuma (d. James Mangold, 2007). A Serious Man (d. Ethan and Joel Coen, 2009).

A Time to Kill (d. Joel Schumacher, 1996). About Schmidt (d. Alexander Payne, 2002). American Beauty (d. Sam Mendes, 1999). Cape Fear (d. Martin Scorsese, 1991).

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Citizen Kane (d. Orson Welles, 1941). Crimes and Misdemeanors (d. Woody Allen, 1989). Dogville (d. Lars von Trier, 2003). The End of the Affair (d. Neil Jordan, 1999). Fight Club (d. David Fincher, 1999). Footloose (d. Herbert Ross, 1984). Gattaca (d. Andrew Niccol, 1997). God on Trial (d. Andy De Emmony, 2008). It’s a Wonderful Life (d. Frank Capra, 1946). The Last Temptation of Christ (d. Martin Scorsese, 1988). The Leftovers (created by Damon Lindelhof, 2014–2017). Liberal Arts (d. Josh Radnor, 2012).

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Life of Pi (d. Ang Lee, 2012). Lola rennt (d. Tom Tykwer, 1998). Match Point (d. Woody Allen, 2005). Moulin Rouge! (d. Baz Luhrmann, 2001). Noah (d. Darren Aronofsky, 2014). The Pursuit of Happyness (d. Gabriele Muccino, 2006). Rocky (d. John G. Alvidsen, 1976). Signs (d. M. Night Shyamalan, 2002). Silence (d. Martin Scorsese, 2016). The Tree of Life (d. Terrence Malick, 2011). To The Wonder (d. Terrence Malick, 2012). The West Wing (created by Aaron Sorkin, 1999–2006). The Zero Theorem (d. Terry Gilliam, 2013).

Further Reading Gilmore, Richard. 2017. Searching for Wisdom in Movies: From the Book of Job to Sublime Conversations. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Analyzes the appearance of wisdom (and related philosophical motifs) in films such as The Big Lebowski and A Serious Man. Kilbourn, Russell J.A. 2014. (No) voice out of the whirlwind: The book of Job and the end of the world in A Serious Man, Take Shelter, and The Tree of Life. Adaptation 7: 25–46. Examines three films that in some way adapt the book of Job.

Siegler, Elijah. (ed.) 2016. Coen: Framing Religion in Amoral Order. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press. Explores the various religious themes and textures in numerous Coen Brothers films. Walsh, Richard. 2012. (Carrying the fire on) No road for old horses: Cormac McCarthy’s untold biblical stories. The Journal of Religion and Popular Culture 24: 339–351. Analyzes the various connection between tropes in wisdom texts and films that adapt Cormac McCarthy novels.

Index

abecedaries, 200, 207 Admonitions of Ipuwer, 320 Agur, 24, 143, see also Proverbs Africa, 9, 396 African proverbs, language of, 468–70 function of traditional proverbs, 465, 468 HIV‐AIDS, 460, 474, 488–9 and orality, 273–4 sapiential traditions of, 464–6 see also comparison with African proverbs, under Proverbs, book of Africanus, Junillus, 436 Ahiqar, book of betrayal, theme of, 296–8, 300–1 gods, depiction of, 297–300 instruction of, financial, 302–3 irony in, 297–8 kingship, depiction of, 299–300 proverbs of, 301–3 setting of, historical, 291, 293–4, 316 setting of, narrative, 291–2 speech, theme of, 301–3 structure of, 295–6

versions of, 290–1, 294–5 worldview of, 298–9 see also Elephantine papyri Ahiqar, figure of, 62, 201–3, 226, 291–2, 303–7, see also Tobit, book of Alcuin of York, 430, 432 Ambrose, 118, 397, 405 Amenemhet, 312, 319–20 Amenemope, Instruction of, 22–3, 311–12, 320–2, see also Amenemope, in relation to, under Proverbs Anksheshonqy, Instruction of, 304, 324 apocalyptic literature, 112, 306, 354, 439 definition of, 249–50 prophecy, in relation to, 251 worldview, apocalyptic, 249–50, 257–9, 262, 354 see also apocalypticism, in relation to, under wisdom Apocryphon of John, 416, 420 The Apostolic Constitutions, 393, 409 Aquinas, Thomas, 438, 452

The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Wisdom Literature, First Edition. Edited by Samuel L. Adams and Matthew Goff. © 2020 John Wiley & Sons Ltd. Published 2020 by John Wiley & Sons Ltd.

index

Aramaic, 51–2, 151, 171, 200–1, 205, 207–8, 290–1, 293–4, 305, 323, 377, 431 Aristobulus, 143, 203, 235, 239 Aristotle, 145, 235, 440–2, 443 Augustine, 118, 390, 399–401, 450 Avot de‐Rabbi Natan, 373–4, see also rabbinic literature under Pirke Avot Babylonia, see Mesopotamia The Babylonian Theodicy, 337–8 Ballad of Early Rulers, 334 Baruch, book of, 131, 257, 360, 438 Baruch, figure of, 199 2 Baruch, 164, 249 Behemoth and Leviathan, 41, 218, 450 Ben Sira (Sirach), book of Ben Sira 24, 89, 93–4, 131, 209, 223, 244, 361, 371, 382 Ben Sira the sage, 87–8 creation, theme of, 90–4 Demotic instructions, in relation to, 324–5 ethics of, 91, 96–100 God in, 89, 91, 92, 221–3 Hellenistic context, 95, 99–101, 221–3 history, theme of, 93–4, 100–2 interpretation of, early Christian, 404–5 interpretation of, medieval Christian, 433–7 pedagogy, theme of, 91, 94, 209–10 piety, theme of, 92–3 and rabbinic Judaism, 378–9, 381–3 relation to Papyrus Insinger, 95 social location of, 88, 99–100 structure of, 89 Torah, interpretation of, 94–6, 100–1, 370–1 versions of, 88 wealth, theme of, 99–100 women, attitudes towards, 93, 98–9, 184, 188 wisdom, theme of, 89–90, 93–5, 101, 223, 256–7, 370–1 see also Theognis; wisdom literature Blake, William, 459

497

Calvin, John, 453, 461–2 The Canterbury Tales, 458–9 cinema, see film Coen, Joel and Ethan, 460, 480, 485, 494 Cohen, Hermann, 454 Collins, J. J., 5, 188, 240, 249, 253–4, 260, 261 commentaries on biblical books in early Christianity, 406–9 in medieval period, 430–3, 440–1 see also exegesis, biblical Clement of Alexandria, 168, 233–4, 391, 394, 408–9, 415 Colossians, 361–2, 399 The Community Rule (1QS), 125, 128, 131, 206, 416 The Contest of Homer and Hesiod, 231, 239 1 Corinthians, 360–2 Crenshaw, James, 61, 70, 253 Cyril of Jerusalem, 392, 403, 405 Daniel, book of, 111, 130, 206, 249, 253–4 Daniel, figure of, 258, 307 David, figure of, 16, 18, 162, 166–7 Dead Sea Scrolls, 124–5, 166, 204–5, 258–60 see also 4QBeatitutes; 4QInstruction; 4QMysteries Dead Sea sect, 131, 196 role of pedagogy in, 205–7 Denis the Carthusian, 432–3, 437, 441, 444 Derekh Erets Rabbah, 374–5 Derekh Erets Zuta, 374–5 Deuteronomy, book of, 16, 25, 197, 199, 201–2, 223, 359, 360 Dialogue of the Savior, 419 Dialogue of Timothy and Aquila, 404 Didache, 408–9, 416 Dunn, James, 360, 362–3 Ecclesiastes (Qoheleth) contradictions in, 50 date of, 51–3

498

index

Ecclesiastes (Qoheleth) (cont’d) death, theme of, 59–60, 78 epilogue(s), 55–6 God in, 218–21 Greek ideas, influence of, 52–3 Hebel (vanity), 60–2, 78, 151 interpretation of, early Christian, 61, 394–6 interpretation of, medieval Christian, 61, 432 language of, 51–3, 150–1, 219–20 oral tradition, 269–70 Qoheleth, meaning of, 53 rabbinic interpretation of, 62, 379–80 Septuagint version, 150–2 seven “joy sayings,” 56–7 as a Solomonic book, 53, 436 structure of, 54–7 wealth, 58–9, 78 wisdom in, theme of, 58, 61–2, 396 Ecclesiasticus, see Ben Sira, book of education, see pedagogy Elihu, figure of, see friends of Job under Job, book of Elephantine papyri, 51–2, 200–1, 293 Erman, Adolf, 322 1 Enoch, 112, 123, 204, 249, 254–5, 258, 263 wisdom, theme of, 257 see also The Similitudes of Enoch Enoch, figure of, 204, 207, 306–7 Egypt genre, instructional (sebayit), 311–15, 324 Maat, 310–11, 313–5, 321–2 see also Amenemope, in relation to, under Proverbs; Egyptian under wisdom literature The Egyptian Gospel, 422–3 Elgvin, Torleif, 260 Enlil and Namzitarra, 334–5 Ephrem, 390, 392, 395, 401 Epiphanius, 417, 425 The Epistle of Enoch, see 1 Enoch eschatology, 252, 262, 355

Eugnostos the Blessed, 419 Eupolemus, 165, 204 Eusebius, 168, 395, 403, 416 Evagrius of Pontus, 393, 407 Eve, figure of, 424 exegesis, biblical in early Christian literature, 431 in medieval literature, 429–30, 434, 444 in Nag Hammadi literature, 423–4 see also Ben Sira; Ecclesiastes; Job; Proverbs; Wisdom of Solomon The Exegesis of the Soul, 423 Exodus, 2, 108, see also Exodus, interpretation of, under Wisdom of Solomon Exorcism, 165, 171–2 Ezekiel, book of, 45, 307, 448 4 Ezra, 201–2 Ezra, book of, 201–4, 222, 306 Ezra, figure of, 202, 204, 258, 305–6 The Fathers according to Rabbi Nathan, 373 female imagery, 110, 125, 179–81, 187, 393, 421, 424–5, see also folly, personification of, under Proverbs; personified as a woman under wisdom Fox, Michael, 50, 54, 55, 62, 146, 178, 187, 220–1, 305, 315, 323 Genesis, book of, 93, 101, 207 Genesis Rabbah, 375 Girard, René, 456 The Glossa, 430–1 Gnosticism, see Nag Hammadi literature, in relation to, under wisdom literature Goff, Matthew, 260 Gregory the Great, 393–4, 397, 402, 450 Gregory of Nyssa, 393, 398, 400 Gunkel, Hermann, 68–70, 268 Gutiérrez, Gustavo, 456 Habtu, Tewoldemedhin, 456 Hebrews, letter to the, 362

index

Hecataeus, 202 Heraclitus, 234 Hesiod, 204, 241 poetry of, 231–2; see also The Contest of Homer and Hesiod Hezekiah, king, 24, 101, 188–9 Holcot, Robert, 432–3, 440, 443 Holocaust (Shoah), 455 Homer, 95, 203–5, 229, 231–2, 241–2, see also poetry, Greek Hugh of St. Cher, 439–40 Hugh of St. Victor, 436–7 Hygromanteia of Solomon, 172, see also Solomon, figure of incantation bowls, Aramaic, 171 Irenaeus, 168, 394, 403 James, letter of, 354, 448 cosmology of, 355–60 eschatology of, 358 human nature in, 355, 358–60 wisdom in, 354–60 Jeremiah, book of, 63, 197 Jerome, 60, 61, 118–19, 390–2, 395, 397, 401, 404, 430, 432, 434, 435, 441, 450, see also Vulgate Jesus, 166, 168, 169, 237, 351, 391, 401, 408, 412, 413, 415, 417, 418, 425, 453, 491 as a sage, 167, 352–4, 363 see also christology under wisdom Job, book of and African popular culture, 460 in art, 456 in Christian liturgy, 457 date of, 44–45 in film, see Tree of Life; To the Wonder God in, 36–8, 41–2, 149, 216–18 interpretation of, early Christian, 37, 400–2, 449–50 interpretation of, early Jewish, 45, 450–1 interpretation of, Enlightenment era, 453–4

499

interpretation of, Islamic, 451–2 interpretation of, medieval Christian, 452 interpretation of, medieval Jewish, 451 interpretation of, post‐Holocaust Jewish, 454 Job 28, 3, 38–9, 142, 148, 149, 185, 256 Job 42, 42–3, 45, 148, 217 Job, character of, 32–3, 46 Job, friends of, 35–6, 46, 216–17, 450 Job, punishment of, 222, 402, 451 Job, speeches of, 33, 38–40 lament in, 482–3, 485 language of, 45, 147 and modern literature, 459–60 name, meaning of, 44 oral tradition, 269 reformation era interpretation of, 452 Satan (accuser), 32–3, 450 Septuagint version, 45, 146–50, 449–50 structure of, 32 wisdom, inaccessibility of, 38–9, 149, 256 Job, Testament of, 45, 448 John Chrysostom, 392–3, 401, 405 John, gospel of, 364–5, 442 John of Varzy, 439 Josephus, 164–6, 208, 239 Jung, C. G., 456 Justin Martyr, 167–8, 391, 400, 415 Kafka, Franz, 459 Kant, Immanuel, 453–4 Kierkegaard, Søren, 484 Lamentations, book of, 14, 63, 483 Lange, Armin, 124, 130, 260 Lemuel, 26, 27, 143, 183, see also Proverbs Letter of Aristeas, 139, 143 literacy, 195–6, 198–201, 206–8, 267, 270, 271, 278–9, 313, see also pedagogy logos, 112–14, 118, 234, 243–5, 362, 364, see aslo christology under wisdom Lord, Albert Bates, 269

500

index

Lowth, Robert, 454 Ludlul Bēl Nēmeqi, 337 Luke, gospel of, 167, 352, 363 Luther, Martin, 119, 453, 459 1 Maccabees, 208 2 Maccabees, 204, 208 4 Maccabees, 208 Maskil, 128, 131, 133–5, 206 MacLeish, Archibald, 460 Masoretic text, 14–15, 140–1, 219, 449 Matthew, gospel of, 352, 362–4 Maimonides, 452 Meister Eckhart, 433 Mesopotamia fables and disputation poems, 340 folktales, 340–1 hymns, 338–9 instructional texts, collections of, 19, 330–3 pious sufferer literature, 336–8 proverb collections, 329–30 riddle literature, 339 vanity literature, 333–6 see aslo Shuruppak, instruction of Milton, John, 453 Moulin Rouge! (film), 490–1 monasticism, 392, 407–9, 414 Müller, Hans‐Peter, 253 Muratorian Canon, 119, 403 Nag Hammadi, see Nag Hammadi literature, in relation to, under wisdom literature Nehemiah, book of, 161, 202, 204 New Testament, see the New Testament under wisdom literature Newsom, Carol, 81, 135, 180, 217 Nicholas of Lyra, 431, 453 Nickelsburg, George, 252, 254, 255, 263 Nothing is of Value, 333 Odes of Solomon, 168–9 Old Testament in Greek, see Septuagint

Old Testament in Latin, see Vulgate Olympiodorus, 401 Ophite texts, 422, 424 orality and folk traditions, 273–8, 281–3 and the Hebrew Bible, 268–9 and scribal education, 271–2 and wisdom texts, 269–70 see also orality under Proverbs; orality under Africa Origen, 140–1, 146, 168, 391, 440, see also Hexapla under Septuagint Otto, Rudolf, 454 Ozick, Cynthia, 455 Papyrus Insinger, 95, 324, see also Papyrus Insinger, relation to, under Ben Sira, book of Parry, Milman, 269 Pedagogy epigraphic evidence of, 199–200 in Hellenistic period, 203–10 social location of, 198–9 see also abecedaries; pedagogical use of under Proverbs; role of pedagogy under Dead Sea sect Pherecydes, 234 philosophy, Greek, 230–5 philosophy, Platonic, 112–15, 244–5, see Philo of Alexandria, the Wisdom of Solomon Pirke Avot and biblical wisdom literature, 369–71, 379–83 and Greco‐Roman literature, 372–3 and rabbinic literature, 371–2 see also rabbinic literature, in relation to, under wisdom literature Philo of Alexandria, 108, 114, 229, 230, 234–6 and gnomic wisdom, 242 and Greek philosophy, 243–5

index

Homer, use of, 241–2, see also logos; Sophia; poetry, Greek Phocylides, 232, 235–6 Plato, 145, 234–5 Plotinus, 235, 240 Plutarch, 233, 234, 236, 242 poetry, Greek, 230–5, see also Hesiod; Homer Postille, 431, 435 Prophecies of Neferty, 320 Proverbs, book of acrostic texts in, 26–7 Amenemope, in relation to, 22–3, 270, 311, 320, 322–4 attribution to Solomon, 16–19, 143, 162, 198 comparison with African proverbs, 273–6, 464, 470–5, see also sapiential traditions of under Africa creation, theme of, 256 Eshet hayil (“woman of valor”), 26–7, 80, 178, 181–4 folly, personification of, 15, 179–80 God in, 144, 215–16 interpretation of, early Christian, 391–4 interpretation of, medieval Christian, 431–5 interpretation of, rabbinic, 380–1 marriage in, 393 orality in, 269–72 pedagogical use of, 198, 271–2 poverty, theme of, 100, 393–4 Proverbs 1–9, 20–21, 124, 127, 179, 270–1 Proverbs 8, 3, 179, 183–4, 244, 405–6 Proverbs 22:17–24:22, 16, 20, 22–3, 270, 322–4 Proverbs 25–29, 24 Proverbs 31, 26–7, see also Lemuel relationship to folk traditions, 273–8 Septuagint version, 15–16, 19, 142–6, 392 strange/foreign/other woman, 26, 179–81 structure of, 14, 20, 143–4 title of, 15–16

501

wisdom, theme of, 179, 216, 256 see also Agur; personified as a woman under wisdom Psalms form criticism of, 70–1 God in, 67, 73, 74, 76, 78, 81 Psalm 1, 68, 71–3, 398–9 Psalm 34, 67, 68, 73–4 Psalm 37, 74–7, 399–400 Psalm 49, 68, 77–9 Psalm 73, 79–80 Psalm 112, 80–1 wisdom, theme of, 68–9, 76 wisdom psalms, issue of, 69–71, 398 Psalms Scroll from Qumran (11QPsa), 18, 133 Psalms of Solomon, 163 Pseudo‐Phocylides, 229, 235–40 date of, 239 engagement with Greek poetry, 230–2 Sentences of, 235–6, 239–40 Relationship to Judaism, 229, 237–8 Ptahhotep, Instruction of, 19, 312, 314–18, 320 Pythagoras, 234 Q (Quelle), 352–4, 363, 418 4QBeatitudes, 124, 125, 127, 132, 133, 135–6, 209, 259, 355 4QInstruction, 115, 124, 126, 130–1, 135, 258–60, 353 4QQoheletha, 51 4QMMT, 205 4QMysteries, 125–6, 130–1, 133, 259–60 4QSapiential Admonitions B (4Q185), 127, 132–3 4QWays of Righteousness (4Q420‐21), 128, 133 4QWiles of the Wicked Woman (4Q184), 124, 126–7, 188–9 Rabanus Maurus, 430, 433, 442 Rashi, 431

502

index

raz nihyeh, 126, 130, 225, 259–60, see also revelation revelation, 4, 79, 93–4, 116, 124, 129–31, 135, 142, 206, 217, 225–6, 249–55, 257, 259–62, 307, 353, 391, 419–20 Rosenberg, David, 455 sapiential literature, see wisdom literature scribes in the Hebrew Bible, 196–7, 201 in the Hellenistic age, 203, 208–10 in the New Testament, 208 social location of, 69, 88, 196–7, 201–3, 208–9, 278–81, 352 scribal techniques, 21, 25, 197–200, 205–8, 209–10, 271, 273, 328–30, 340; see also Septuagint; translation techniques Second Sophistic, 229–30, 232–3 Second Treatise of Great Seth, 168 Sentences of Sextus, 413–17 Septuagint, 108, 117, 160, 165, 204, 229 Aquila, 150 see also Septuagint version under Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and Job A Serious Man (film), see Coen, Joel and Ethan the seven sages, 233–4, 242 Shamash Hymn, 338–9 Shir HaShirim Rabbah, 17 Shupe‐Ameli, Instructions of, 334 Shuruppak, Instruction of, 19, 331 Sifre Deuteronomy, 377 The Similitudes of Enoch, 365 Smalley, Beryl, 440 Solomon, figure of in 2 Baruch, 164 in Ben Sira, 164 as builder of the Temple, 161 in 1–2 Chronicles, 162 in early Christian literature, 166–71 exceptional knowledge of, 160, 165 in 1 Kings, 16–18, 160–1 in Josephus, 164–6 in the New Testament, 166–7

in rabbinic literature, 169–71 magic, in relation to, 171–2 power over demonic beings, 165–6, 169, see also Testament of Solomon Sheba, queen, 161, 167, 172 see also association with Solomon under wisdom literature; attribution to Solomon under Proverbs; Odes of Solomon; Psalms of Solomon; Song of Songs Solomon, Testament of, 169, 171 Solon, 233, 242–5 Song of Songs (Solomon), 162–3, 396–8, 429, 435, 441 and film, 490 Sophia, 231, 243–5, 415, 421–4 fall of, 436–7 see also personified as a woman under wisdom Sumerian Man and His God, 336 Syriac, 88, 117, 291, 305 Talmud, Babylonian, 44–5, 170, 305, 369, 374, 377, 450 Teacher of Righteousness 206, 225, 259 Teachers 3, 5, 17, 55, 181, 184, 198, 199, 201, 203, 205, 209, 222, 283, 307, 369, 371, 374, 380, 408, 432 see also Jesus, as a sage; Maskil; pedagogy The Teaching for King Merikare, 318–19 Thomas, Gospel of, 353, 417–18 The Thunder: Perfect Mind, 424 translation techniques, 15–16, 45, 61, 88, 160, 181, 204, 323, 331, see also scribal techniques; Septuagint Tobit, book of, 304–5, 307, 404 Torah, 45, 62, 68, 135–6, 203, 221, 225, 257, 261, 306, 353, 361, 369, 379 definition of Hebrew torah (instruction), 72–3, 76, 125, 127, 145, 202 interpretation of, 170, 204–5 use of, pedagogical, 196–9, 201–2, 209–10, 370, 383 see also Torah in relation to under wisdom

index

Teachings of Silvanus, 413–17 Tertullian, 168, 394 Theodulf of Orléans, 430, 435 Theognis, 232, 233, 237–9 The Tree of Life (film), 460, 481, 484–9, see also in film under Job, book of Trimorphic Protennoia, 423 Ur‐Ninurta, the Instructions of, 331–2, 342 Uruk list of kings and sages, 292, 304, 306–7 von Rad, Gerhard, 70, 178, 186, 249, 251, 253, 260 Vulgate, 15, 117, 119, 404, 430, 434, 450 Wiesel, Elie, 455 Wisdom apocalypticism, in relation to, 112, 115–16, 129–31, 251–4, 258–63 acquisition of, 60, 73–4, 89, 91, 92, 106 and christology, 360–5, 405–6, see also logos definitions of, 68–9, 178, 250–1, 442 personified as a woman, 2, 3, 90, 93, 105–6, 112, 177–81, 216, 255–8, 261, 360 rewards of, 91, 106 terminology, 112–13, 123, 177 Torah, in relation to, 72, 94–5, 125, 131–2, 206–7, 223, 353, 360, 371–2, 374–8, 380, 382 types of, 93, 96–7, 141–2, 232, 243–5, 253–8, 375–8 see also pedagogy; wisdom literature Wisdom of Jesus Christ, 419–20 wisdom literature association with Solomon, 2, 16–19, 110, 162 canonical status, 119, 379–83, 389–90, 394, 402–5, 432, 434–7, 449 and character formation, 134–6, 311–5 and the Dead Sea Scrolls, 123–5, 129, 224–5 debates about, 4, 68–9, 123, 250–1

503

early Christianity, in relation to, 352–4; see also interpretation of, early Christian, under Ben Sira, Ecclesiastes, Job, Proverbs, Wisdom of Solomon Egyptian, 62, 95, 145, 311–15, 324–5 ethics of, 96–100, 440–1 and Greek literature, 230–5 interpretation of in the Middle Ages, 435, see also interpretation of, medieval Christian, under Ben Sira, Ecclesiastes, Job, Proverbs, Wisdom of Solomon instruction, genre of, 2, 5, 13, 15, 19, 20, 22, 23, 25, 291, see also Egyptian under wisdom literature; instructional texts, collections of, under Mesopotamia and liturgical traditions, 133–4, 269–70, 486–7, see also in Christian liturgy, under Job, book of Mesopotamian, see Mesopotamia and monasticism, 407–8 Nag Hammadi literature, in relation to, 169, 412–3 and the New Testament, 351–2, 360–5, see also Q; James, letter of rabbinic literature, in relation to, 368–9, 373–4, 378–83, see also Pirke Avot relationship to the sciences in medieval period, 440 and women, 98–9, 188 see also Ben Sira; Ecclesiastes; Job; Proverbs; Wisdom of Solomon Wisdom of Solomon apocalypticism, in relation to, 115–16, 260–2 cosmos, depiction of, 112–14 death, theme of, 115–16, 224 Exodus, interpretation of, 107, 112 God in, 224 history in, 116 interpretation of, early Christian, 118–19, 403–4 interpretation of, medieval Christian, 119, 435–7

504

index

Wisdom of Solomon (cont’d) language of, 108–9 Middle Platonism, influence of, 112–13 Plato, influence of, 115 setting of, 108–9 Solomon, 105–6, 163, see also Solomon, figure of

Stoicism, influence of, 112–13 structure of, 104–8 wisdom, theme of, 106, 113–16, 224 To the Wonder (film), see Malick, Terrence Zeno papyri, 52, 208 Zostrianos, 422

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