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130 1 2011

JOURNAL OF

BIBLICAL LITERATURE SPRING 2011

VOLUME 130, NO. 1

JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE

Interpreters—Enslaving/Enslaved/Runagate Vincent L. Wimbush

5–24

CTH 133 and the Hittite Provenance of Deuteronomy 13 Joshua Berman A Rejoinder concerning 1 Samuel 1:1 Shalom M. Paul

25–44 45

The “Discovered Book” and the Legitimation of Josiah’s Reform Nadav Na’aman

47–62

Orthography, Textual Criticism, and the Poetry of Job C. L. Seow

63–85

Ezekiel 16 and the Song of Moses: A Prophetic Transformation? Jason Gile

87–108

A New Discussion of the Meaning of the Phrase ha !'a!res i in the Hebrew Bible John Tracy Thames, Jr.

109–125

Waiters or Preachers: Acts 6:1–7 and the Lukan Table Fellowship Motif David W. Pao

127–144

Spiritual Weakness, Illness, and Death in 1 Corinthians 11:30 Ilaria L. E. Ramelli

145–163

Eating with Honor: The Corinthian Lord’s Supper in Light of Voluntary Association Meal Practices Rachel M. McRae

165–181

The Relevance of Andrew of Caesarea for New Testament Textual Criticism Juan Hernández Jr.

183–196

vam

US ISSN 0021-9231

incov rev_incov.qxd 3/1/2011 8:35 AM Page 1

JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE

SOCIETY OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE General Editor: JAMES C. VANDERKAM, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556

EDITORIAL BOARD

Term Expiring 2011: ELLEN B. AITKEN, McGill University, Montreal, Quebec H3A 2T5 Canada MICHAEL JOSEPH BROWN, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 JAIME CLARK-SOLES, Perkins School of Theology, So. Methodist University, Dallas, TX 75275 STEVEN FRIESEN, University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX 78712 JENNIFER GLANCY, University of Richmond, Richmond, VA 23173 ROBERT HOLMSTEDT, University of Toronto, Toronto, ON M5S 1C1 Canada ARCHIE C. C. LEE, The Chinese University of Hong Kong, Shatin New Territories, Hong Kong SAR MARGARET Y. MACDONALD, St. Francis Xavier University, Antigonish, NS B2G 2W5 Canada SHELLY MATTHEWS, Furman University, Greenville, SC 29613 RICHARD D. NELSON, Perkins School of Theology, So. Methodist Univ., Dallas, TX 75275 DAVID L. PETERSEN, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 MARK REASONER, Marian University, Indianapolis, IN 46222 YVONNE SHERWOOD, University of Glasgow, Glasgow, Scotland, G12 8QQ, United Kingdom LOREN T. STUCKENBRUCK, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 PATRICIA K. TULL, Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, Louisville, KY 40205 2012: DAVID L. BARR, Wright State University, Dayton, OH 45435 COLLEEN CONWAY, Seton Hall University, South Orange, NJ 07079 MARY ROSE D’ANGELO, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 THOMAS B. DOZEMAN, United Theological Seminary, Dayton, OH 45406 J. ALBERT HARRILL, Indiana University, Bloomington, IN 47405 PAUL JOYCE, Oxford University, Oxford, OX1 3LD, United Kingdom ELIZABETH STRUTHERS MALBON, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24061-0135 TURID KARLSEN SEIM, University of Oslo, N-0315 Oslo, Norway CAROLYN SHARP, Yale University, New Haven, CT 06520 BENJAMIN D. SOMMER, The Jewish Theological Seminary, New York, NY 10027 LOUIS STULMAN, University of Findlay, Findlay, OH 45840 DAVID TSUMURA, Japan Bible Seminary, Tokyo 205-0017, Japan MICHAEL WHITE, University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX 78712 2013: JO-ANN BRANT, Goshen College, Goshen, IN 46526 BRIAN BRITT, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24061-0135 JOHN ENDRES, Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley, Berkeley, CA 94709 MICHAEL FOX, University of Wisconsin, Madison, WI 53706 STEVEN FRAADE, Yale University, New Haven, CT 06520-8287 MATTHIAS HENZE, Rice University, Houston, TX 77251 STEPHEN MOORE, Drew University, Madison, NJ 07940 LAURA NASRALLAH, Harvard Divinity School, Cambridge, MA 02138 EMERSON POWERY, Messiah College, Grantham, PA 17027 THOMAS RÖMER, Collège de France, Paris, and University of Lausanne, Lausanne, Switzerland SIDNIE WHITE CRAWFORD, University of Nebraska-Lincoln, Lincoln, NE 68588-0337 DAVID WRIGHT, Brandeis University, Waltham, MA 02454 Editorial Assistants: Monica Brady and Sarah Schreiber, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 President of the Society: Carol Newsom, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322; Vice President: John Dominic Crossan, DePaul University, Chicago, IL 60604; Chair, Research and Publications Committee: Adele Reinhartz, University of Ottawa, Ottawa, ON K1N 6N5 Canada; Executive Director: John F. Kutsko, Society of Biblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329. The Journal of Biblical Literature (ISSN 0021–9231) is published quarterly. The annual subscription price is US$40.00 for members and US$180.00 for nonmembers. Institutional rates are also available. For information regarding subscriptions and membership, contact: Society of Biblical Literature, Customer Service Department, P.O. Box 133158, Atlanta, GA 30333. Phone: 866-727-9955 (toll free) or 404-727-9498. FAX: 404-727-2419. E-mail: [email protected]. For information concerning permission to quote, editorial and business matters, please see the Spring issue, p. 2. The Hebrew and Greek fonts used in JBL are SBL Hebrew and SBL Greek; they are available from www.sblsite.org/Resources/default.aspx. The JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE (ISSN 0021–9231) is published quarterly by the Society of Biblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329. Periodical postage paid at Atlanta, Georgia, and at additional mailing offices. POSTMASTER: Send address changes to Society of Biblical Literature, P.O. Box 133158, Atlanta, GA 30333. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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(Constituent Member of the American Council of Learned Societies) EDITOR OF THE JOURNAL

Journal of Biblical Literature Volume 130 2011

GENERAL EDITOR

JAMES C. VANDERKAM University of Notre Dame Notre Dame, IN 46556

A Quarterly Published by THE SOCIETY OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE

EDITORIAL BOARD Term Expiring 2011: ELLEN B. AITKEN, McGill University, Montreal, Quebec H3A 2T5 Canada MICHAEL JOSEPH BROWN, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 JAIME CLARK-SOLES, Perkins School of Theology, So. Methodist University, Dallas, TX 75275 STEVEN FRIESEN, University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX 78712 JENNIFER GLANCY, University of Richmond, Richmond, VA 23173 ROBERT HOLMSTEDT, University of Toronto, Toronto, ON M5S 1C1 Canada ARCHIE C. C. LEE, The Chinese University of Hong Kong, Shatin New Territories, Hong Kong SAR MARGARET Y. MACDONALD, St. Francis Xavier University, Antigonish, NS B2G 2W5 Canada SHELLY MATTHEWS, Furman University, Greenville, SC 29613 RICHARD D. NELSON, Perkins School of Theology, So. Methodist Univ., Dallas, TX 75275 DAVID L. PETERSEN, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 MARK REASONER, Marian University, Indianapolis, IN 46222 YVONNE SHERWOOD, University of Glasgow, Glasgow, Scotland, G12 8QQ, United Kingdom LOREN T. STUCKENBRUCK, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 PATRICIA K. TULL, Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, Louisville, KY 40205 2012: DAVID L. BARR, Wright State University, Dayton, OH 45435 COLLEEN CONWAY, Seton Hall University, South Orange, NJ 07079 MARY ROSE D’ANGELO, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 THOMAS B. DOZEMAN, United Theological Seminary, Dayton, OH 45406 J. ALBERT HARRILL, Indiana University, Bloomington, IN 47405 PAUL JOYCE, Oxford University, Oxford, OX1 3LD, United Kingdom ELIZABETH STRUTHERS MALBON, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24061-0135 TURID KARLSEN SEIM, University of Oslo, N-0315 Oslo, Norway CAROLYN SHARP, Yale University, New Haven, CT 06520 BENJAMIN D. SOMMER, The Jewish Theological Seminary, New York, NY 10027 LOUIS STULMAN, University of Findlay, Findlay, OH 45840 DAVID TSUMURA, Japan Bible Seminary, Tokyo 205-0017, Japan MICHAEL WHITE, University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX 78712 2013: JO-ANN BRANT, Goshen College, Goshen, IN 46526 BRIAN BRITT, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24061-0135 JOHN ENDRES, Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley, Berkeley, CA 94709 MICHAEL FOX, University of Wisconsin, Madison, WI 53706 STEVEN FRAADE, Yale University, New Haven, CT 06520-8287 MATTHIAS HENZE, Rice University, Houston, TX 77251 STEPHEN MOORE, Drew University, Madison, NJ 07940 LAURA NASRALLAH, Harvard Divinity School, Cambridge, MA 02138 EMERSON POWERY, Messiah College, Grantham, PA 17027 THOMAS RÖMER, Collège de France, Paris, and University of Lausanne, Lausanne, Switzerland SIDNIE WHITE CRAWFORD, University of Nebraska-Lincoln, Lincoln, NE 68588-0337 DAVID WRIGHT, Brandeis University, Waltham, MA 02454 Editorial Assistants: Monica Brady and Sarah Schreiber, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 Articles are indexed in Religion Index One: Periodicals; book reviews in Index to Book Reviews in Religion, American Theological Library Association, Evanston, Illinois. Both indexes are also found in the ATLA Religion Database on CD-ROM.

EDITORIAL MATTERS OF THE JBL 1. Contributors should consult the Journal’s Instructions for Contributors (http://www.sbl-site.org/Publications/PublishingWithSBL/JBL_Instructions.pdf). 2. If a MS of an article is submitted in a form that departs in major ways from these instructions, it may be returned to the author for retyping, even before it is considered for publication. 3. Submit two hard copies of the MS of an article or critical note. Manuscripts will not be returned. 4. Manuscripts and communications regarding the content of the Journal should be addressed to James C. VanderKam at the address given on the preceding page (or correspondence only at the following e-mail address: [email protected]). 5. Permission to quote more than 500 words may be requested from the Rights and Permissions Department, Society of Biblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329, USA (E-mail: [email protected]). Please specify volume, year, and inclusive page numbers.

BUSINESS MATTERS OF THE SBL

(not handled by the editors of the Journal) 1. All correspondence regarding membership in the Society, subscriptions to the Journal, change of address, renewals, missing or defective issues of the Journal, and inquiries about other publications of the Society should be addressed to Society of Biblical Literature, Customer Service Department, P.O. Box 133158, Atlanta, GA 30333. Phone: 866727-9955 (toll-free) or 404-727-9498. FAX 404-727-2419. E-mail: [email protected]. 2. All correspondence concerning the research and publications programs, the annual meeting of the Society, and other business should be addressed to the Executive Director, Society of Biblical Literature, The Luce Center, 825 Houston Mill Road, Atlanta, GA 30329. (E-mail: [email protected]). 3. Second Class postage paid at Atlanta, Georgia, and at additional mailing offices. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Presidential Address by Vincent L. Wimbush President of the Society of Biblical Literature 2010 Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature November 20, 2010 Atlanta, Georgia Introduction given by Carol Newsom Vice President, Society of Biblical Literature

I first met Vincent Wimbush long ago and far away, when we were both graduate students at Harvard University in the late 1970s. Even then it was evident that he was someone who would make his mark in the discipline of biblical studies, but I don’t think anyone could have anticipated the profoundly transformative impact that his career has had and continues to have in our field. Some of you will know him as a scholar of asceticism in Greco-Roman and early Christian cultures, for he is the author or editor of some six important books on that topic. Although asceticism continues to be an active part of his research agenda, Vincent’s intense focus on asceticism took place in the 1980s and 1990s, as part of a fundamental and transformative reevaluation of that phenomenon. But even as he was making a distinguished reputation for himself in what many might consider a rather traditional field, Vincent was simultaneously developing a critique of the assumptions of the dominant models for doing biblical studies as a narrowly historical-critical enterprise. The insight that has guided his thinking throughout his career was already expressed in an early essay in 1989. He was describing what had drawn him to biblical studies: “It was neither antiquarian interests nor theological sensibilities, but first the recognition of the function of the Bible among African Americans in every aspect of their existence, in every period of their history, which attracted me to biblical studies.”* The word function is emphasized in the text. But Vincent’s observation was not just autobiographical. From his situatedness as an African American who had become a biblical scholar, he saw more broadly the need for a profound transformation of the *

Vincent Wimbush, “Historical Study as Cultural Critique, Theological Education 25 (1989):

30.

3

4

Journal of Biblical Literature 130, no. 1 (2011)

field of biblical studies itself. He continued: “Failure to address the matter of the historical and contemporary cultural functions of the bible is to fail not only to provide for the culture of intelligent lay persons a reason to engage and be influenced by biblical scholarship, it is also to fail to provide for the guild of biblical scholars any clear and compelling reason for its being” (p. 32). That was perhaps a more startling claim in 1989 than it is today, though even those who are inclined to agree with it often see the accomplishment of such a goal as far beyond their capacities as biblical scholars. Not Vincent. He embarked upon an extraordinary series of collaborative research projects, first at Union Theological Seminary and later at Claremont Graduate School, designed to bring such a vision of what it means to study Scripture into being. And Vincent did not think small. From 1996 to the present he has received grants from the Lilly Endowment, the Henry W. Luce Foundation, and the Ford Foundation totaling by my count $2,123,000 (not counting the small change). This vision is currently embodied in institutional form in the Institute for Signifying Scriptures at Claremont Graduate University. Vincent likes to refer not so much to the phenomenon of “Scriptures” as the object of study but to “scripturalizing,” that is, to the social scripting, psycho-social formation, and power dynamics of which Scriptures are always and everywhere a part. The conferences, book series, documentary films, and visiting scholar program sponsored by the Institute are bringing into being striking new ways of conceptualizing our field. If Vincent has been integral to the transformation of the study of asceticism and to the conceptualization of scriptural and biblical studies, he has been no less instrumental in the transformation of the Society of Biblical Literature itself. Although he has served in many, many capacities—on the council, as president of a region, as the SBL delegate to the ACLS—he has remarked that he is proudest of having been the first chair of the Committeee on Underrepresented Racial and Ethnic Minorities in the Profession (1991–95). The SBL is a very different institution than it was when Vincent and I first came to its meetings. It is dramatically more diverse, not only in its ethnic, gender, and national composition but also in its thinking, and he has had a significant role in that process. In the current SBL newsletter, Vincent opens his reflections with the following statement, “I am not sure what SBL (or any other observers) should make of the election of the first person of color as president.” I suspect that it will take us some time to grasp what this moment “signifies,” or rather, to borrow Vincent’s own terms, how it has provided us with an opportunity for “signifying” the SBL in a new way. But that transformative work has begun. Finally, it is highly fitting that his presidential address should be given in the city of Atlanta, for Atlanta is Vincent’s hometown, and he is a Phi Beta Kappa graduate of Atlanta’s Morehouse College. It is my honor to present our distinguished colleague and president, Vincent Wimbush, who will speak on “Interpreters—Enslaving/Enslaved/ Runagate.”

JBL 130, no. 1 (2011): 5–24

Interpreters—Enslaving/ Enslaved/Runagate vincent l. wimbush [email protected] Institute for Signifying Scriptures Claremont Graduate University, Claremont, CA 91711

The colonial world is a Manichean world. —Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth Big Jim Todd was a slick black buck Laying low in the mud and muck Of Pondy Woods when the sun went down In gold, and the buzzards tilted down A windless vortex to the black-gum trees To sit along the quiet boughs, Devout and swollen, at their ease. ........ Past midnight, when the moccasin Slipped from the log and, trailing in Its obscured waters, broke The dark algae, one lean bird spoke. ........ “Nigger, your breed ain’t metaphysical.” The buzzard coughed. His words fell In the darkness, mystic and ambrosial. “But we maintain our ancient rite, Eat the gods by day and prophesy by night. We swing against the sky and wait; You seize the hour, more passionate Than strong, and strive with time to die— With Time, the beak-ed tribe’s astute ally. ........

5

6

Journal of Biblical Literature 130, no. 1 (2011) Nigger, regard the circumstance of breath: ‘Non omnis moriar,’ the poet saith.” Pedantic, the bird clacked its gray beak, With a Tennessee accent to the classic phrase; Jim understood, and was about to speak, But the buzzard drooped one wing and filmed the eyes. ........ —Robert Penn Warren, “Pondy Woods” Negro folklore . . . [was] not . . . a new experience for me. . . . But it was fitting me like a tight chemise. I couldn’t see it for wearing it. It was only when I was . . . away from my native surroundings, that I could see myself like somebody else and stand off and look at my garment. . . . —Zora Neale Hurston, Mules and Men

I am not unaware that on occasions such as this references to the personal and even embodiment are quite rare. Yet I can hardly avoid transgressing in this and likely other regards before the end of this address. In spite of what may be the testimonies of my remaining parent and other elders, and notwithstanding the certifications the state may present, my beginnings are not here in this city in the sixth decade of the twentieth century. In respects more profound and disturbing and poignantly ramifying for professional interpreters, my beginnings should be understood to be in that more expansive period and fraught situations of the North Atlantic worlds between the fifteenth and nineteenth centuries, moments and situations in which “the West” and “the rest” were coming into fateful first contact. With such contact many social and political formations, sentiments and orientations of “the West” were (re-)forged and (re-)defined. “Contact” is of course studied euphemy, rhetorical repression meant to veil the violence and hegemony of the West’s large-scale triangular Atlantic slave trading in dark peoples. This is the time and situation of my beginning and the framework for the consciousness that I bring to this podium. And almost all of you have beginnings like my own. The dynamics of this period now still largely determine, even haunt, our sometimes different but also often common positionalities and orientations, practices and discourses, ideologies and politics and social formations. Included in the haunting are the profound shifts in the understandings of the self, including ideas about freedom and slavery of the self that mark the period. Although differently named and tweaked from decade to decade since 1880, those practices and discourses that define this professional Society have always been and are even now still fully imbricated in the general politics and emergent discourses of the larger period to which I refer. And the cultivated obliviousness to or silence about—if not also the ideological reflection and validation of—the larger prevailing sociopolitical currents and dynamics marks the beginning and ongoing history of this Society (among other learned and professional societies, to be sure).

Wimbush: Interpreters—Enslaving/Enslaved/Runagate

7

With its fetishization of the rituals and games involving books and THE BOOK, its politics of feigning apolitical ideology, its still all too simple historicist agenda (masking in too many instances unacknowledged theological-apologetic interests), its commitment to “sticking to the text,” its orientation in reality has always contributed to and reflected a participation in “sticking it” to the gendered and racialized Others. The fragility of the fiction of the apolitical big tent holding us together is all too evident in the still mind-numbingly general and vapid language we use to describe our varied practices and ideologies and orientations. Of course, there have been challenges to the Society and its orientations in some periods of our history.1 You know what they have been. And you will not be surprised if I suggest that the challenges have been too few and too tepid—and always belated. The fact that we cannot document the membership and participation of a single African American in this Society before the fifth decade of the twentieth century, the fact that the most recent history of the Society (in observance of the centennial)2 does not even mention black folks, the fact that we cannot point to the official regularly scheduled gathering of two or three African Americans in discourse before the eighth decade of the last century, is shocking. Only with the initiatives of Thomas Hoyt, Jr., and John W. Waters, which led to the Stony the Road We Trod discussion and book project in the late 1980s, which in turn led to the establishment of the first honestly ethnically marked program unit, which paved the way for all such units today—only with such initiatives do black peoples and other peoples of color appear in numbers to make a point at all about diversity in the Society. This is the period of my initiation and participation in the Society. This suggests much about the timing of someone of my tribe standing before you today. Perhaps, it could not have been otherwise. I do not presume that such folk were between the 1880s and the 1980s always and everywhere barred from membership and participation in the meetings of the Society. I do not imagine the chairs of the Synoptic Gospels or the Prophetic Texts units standing at the doors yelling “Whites only!” There is no doubt about the sick views of some; but I think something deeper was and, perhaps, remains even today at issue: given the state of emergency in which they have lived (emergencies that would give Walter Benjamin pause), given the onset of the second slavery in the post–Civil War era when the industrial liberal North threw black folk under the wagon and the South embraced racial violence, the worst practices of Jim Crowism and economic peonage and

1

I am thinking here of Robert W. Funk (SBL president, 1975) and his colleagues in the 1960s and 1970s; and Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza (SBL president, 1987) and colleagues in the 1980s. Their addresses can be found in Presidential Voices: The Society of Biblical Literature in the Twentieth Century (ed. Harold W. Attridge and James C. VanderKam; SBLBSNA 22; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006). 2 Ernest W. Saunders, Searching the Scriptures: A History of the Society of Biblical Literature, 1880–1980 (SBLBSNA 8; Chico CA: Scholars Press, 1982).

8


slavery,3 black membership in the decades past would have required the Society, in the vernacular of the folk, to “be talkin’ ‘bout somethin’.” Notwithstanding all the historical and some continuing stumbling blocks in the way, I suggest that the paucity of black membership is due ultimately not to the bad faith and manners of members of the Society in the past but to something more profound—the (unrecognized, unacknowledged) racialized discursive practices and politics that have defined it. It is imperative that we recognize, even if belatedly, those few black pioneers of the decades before the initiatives of Hoyt and Waters—the likes of Leon Edward Wright; Charles B. Copher; G. Murray Branch; and Joseph A. Johnson.4 We must inscribe them and a few others into our full organizational consciousness and memory. These few are no longer with us; they have yet to be fully claimed and recognized. They struggled mightily to figure out how to speak to the challenges and pressures of the different worlds they intersected as black male intellectuals on the peripheries of the field. They were not always understood by members of their own tribes. They were severely limited in terms of professional appointments. Because so many parts of society and the academy accepted racial segregation as a given, simply the way things were and were supposed to be, they all worked in black institutions, mostly in Atlanta and Washington. And the Society did not recognize them and did little to support them or resist the polluted status quo. They must surely have exhausted themselves. They surely had stories to tell, lessons for our edification. And, of course, that our sisters of color, who faced even more layered intersecting stumbling blocks to their participation emerged at all only in the 1980s and are here among us in their numbers is tribute to their strength and commitment and further evidence of the Society’s fraught and frayed history. Now after having left “home” in that flatter sense of the term or, in Zora Neale Hurston’s terms, having loosened the grip of that hyper-racialized garment I was made to wear, with growing awareness of what I gain from the pioneers listed above,

3 See the riveting and unsettling book by Atlanta bureau chief of the Wall Street Journal Douglas A. Blackmon, Slavery by Another Name: The Re-Establishment of Black Americans from the Civil War to World War II (New York: Doubleday, 2008). It provides irrefutable evidence of the perduring effects of slavery among black peoples into this century. 4 Leon Edward Wright (1912–1996), Alterations in the Words of Jesus, as Quoted in the Literature of the Second Century (Harvard Historical Monographs 25; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1952), a revision of his Ph.D. thesis, Harvard University, 1945; Charles B. Copher (1913–2003), “Isaiah’s Philosophy of History” (Ph.D. thesis, Boston University, 1947); Black Biblical Studies: An Anthology of Charles B. Copher. Biblical and Theological Issues on the Black Presence in the Bible (Chicago: Black Light Fellowship, 1993); R. C. Bailey and J. Grant, eds., Recovery of Black Presence: An Interdisciplinary Exploration. Essays in Honor of Dr. Charles B. Copher (Nashville: Abingdon, 1995); G[eorge] Murray Branch (1914–2006), “Malachi: Prophet of Transition” (M.A. thesis, Drew University, 1946); Joseph A. Johnson (1914–1979), “Christianity and Atonement in the Fourth Gospel” (Ph.D. thesis, Vanderbilt University, 1958).


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and through engagement of that fraught period of contact as an intense excavation of consciousness, I stand before you this evening with yet another challenge, imploring the Society—and by extension, all critical interpreters—to start and to sustain “talkin’ ‘bout somethin’.” Here is the challenge plainly put: there can be no critical interpretation worthy of the name, without coming to terms with the first contact—between the West and the rest, the West and the Others—and its perduring toxic and blinding effects and consequences. The challenge remains for this Society and all collectivities of critical interpreters in general to engage in persistent and protracted struggle, not symbolic or obfuscating games around methods and approaches, to come to terms with the construal of the modern ideologization of language, characterized by the meta-racism5 that marks the relationship between Europeans and Euro-Americans and peoples of color, especially black peoples. What might it mean to address in explicit terms the nature and consequences of first contact for the unstable and fragile big tent that is our Society? What might it suggest for the ongoing widely differently prioritized and oriented work we do in our widely different settings and contexts with our nonetheless still widely shared absolutist and elitist claims and presumptions about such work? It would make it imperative that we talk about discourse and power, slavery and freedom, life and death. In addition to the persons quoted at the beginning of this address, I have given myself permission to conjure one of those booming haunting voices from an earlier moment and situation from the period of first contact, a voice belonging to one among those peoples heavily “signified,”6 one of the “voices from within the veil.”7 Unlike Robert Penn Warren’s Big Jim (referred to in his poem used as part of the epigraph above), Frederick Douglass speaks and writes his mind. In his first autobiographical work, his 1845 Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave, Written by Himself,8 he looks back on an incident from his youthful years when he was a slave. The incident was seemingly a recurring one, but he makes the reader experience it as a singular, pointed one for narratological effect. It is an incident that Douglass, the recently escaped and young but emerging lion-voiced 5

See Joel Kovel, White Racism: A Psychohistory (New York: Pantheon Books, 1970). See Charles H. Long, Significations: Signs, Symbols, and Images in the Interpretation of Religion (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 4. 7 The subtitle of W. E. B. Du Bois’s collection of essays entitled Darkwater: Voices from the Veil (New York: Harcourt, Brace & Howe, 1920). The subtitle represents a theme that is taken up in his most famous work The Souls of Black Folk: Essays and Sketches (Chicago: A. C. McClurg, 1903). The essays in Darkwater are said to represent Du Bois’s most mature, certainly some of his more sharp-edged, writings. See Manning Marable’s introduction to the Dover Thrift Edition (Mineola, NY: Dover, 1996). 8 In The Oxford Frederick Douglass Reader (ed. with introduction by William L. Andrews; New York: Oxford University Press, 1996). All subsequent references to Douglass’s text, cited as Narrative, are from this edition. 6


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abolitionist, remembers and recounts for the (assumed) mostly white abolitionistminded readers. What he touches upon and opens up in an astonishing display of romanticist and critical-reflexive communication are several issues that likely escaped the review of or were not (or could not be) fully understood by the Garrisonians, the abolitionist patron/izers of the young ex-slave. These were issues that still offer pointed challenge to all moderns, especially those interested and invested in thinking about something—about the enslaved, enslaved thinking, critical and free thinking and interpretation. The slaves selected to go to the Great House Farm, for the monthly allowance for themselves and their fellow-slaves . . . would make the dense woods, for miles around, reverberate with their wild songs, revealing at once the highest joy and the deepest sadness. They would compose and sing as they went along, consulting neither time nor tune. The thought that came up, came out—if not in the word, in the sound; and—as frequently in the one as in the other. They would sometimes sing the most pathetic sentiment in the most rapturous tone, and the most rapturous sentiment in the most pathetic tone. Into all of their songs they would manage to weave something of the Great House Farm. Especially would they do this, when leaving home. They would then sing most exultingly . . . words which to many would seem unmeaning jargon, but which, nevertheless, were full of meaning to themselves. . . . I did not, when a slave, understand the deep meaning of those rude and apparently incoherent songs. I was myself within the circle; so that I neither saw nor heard as those without might see and hear.9

In this recounting Douglass names many issues for consideration—subjectivity and consciousness, discourse and power, power and knowledge, knowledge and positionality, knowledge and the center, knowledge and centers. He names or at least assumes at least three different categories of persons or groups as different types of knowers or interpreters produced by that world of first contact—first, the slave singers, those who through their songs provide evidence that they have some knowledge and some agency of communication but are nonetheless not allowed to communicate their knowledge and sentiment beyond their own circle; second, those outside the circle (of the slaves), the world associated with the Great House Farm and all that it represents, those who if they hear the slave songs at all hear them only as jargon, as “mumbo jumbo”;10 and third, Douglass himself, the one who although technically at first “within the circle” (who as such did not/could not 9

Douglass, Narrative, 27–38. This is the title of Ishmael Reed’s most famous and challenging and sometimes unfathomable novel (New York: Scribner, 1972). For his purposes, Reed traced “mumbo jumbo” to Mandingo ma-ma-gyo-mbo, “magician who makes the troubled spirits go away” (p. 7). This tracing suggests that which has meaning within a larger structure of meaning. Obviously, in the hyperracialized West defining itself over against the black world, the works and discourses of such a magician would be translated as nonsense, so much jumbled mumbling. 10


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know), later, as reflected in his writerly self, outside the circle of slavery, begins to understand not only what the slaves felt and communicated but also something more, something about communicating, knowing. Using African slaves to think with, Douglass thinks in terms of “site” sanctioning “insight,”11 that is, in terms of types of consciousness and interpreters who are differently positioned—the enslaving, the enslaved, and the runagate. These categories I submit—and I think Douglass thought—are not always totally mutually exclusive; they can be and in history have been complexly intertwined, yet there is justification for their isolation for the sake of analysis. There is no escape from the consequences set in motion by that contact that was turned into violent conquest for some and long-term subordination for the many others. Douglass’s wrenching passage about the black slaves he knew and the types of interpreters and consciousness that could be identified with them challenges all interpreters to seek a way out, a way to run. His analysis begins—complexly, emotionally—with those whose very identity as human agents was questioned and denied; he begins with physical black enslavement as a way to the problematization of the “black (w)hole,”12 to a profound understanding of the larger complex of slavery and freedom that defines and marks black peoples to be sure, but nearly all of us in more general terms. To the three categories of interpreters I briefly turn. First, the enslaving. Those participating in and profiting from the structure of dominance generated by the Great House Farm were understood by Douglass to be oblivious to the plight of others. They are imagined to be those who, like Warren’s buzzard, lifted their wings so as to avoid seeing and hearing the others. They were also characterized, according to Fanon, as those who had fallen prey to a Manichaean psychology and epistemics: the world was understood to be black and white, the latter signifying light and purity and life, the former dirt and pollution.13 Of course, we now know more about what subtends such psychology and epistemics. Since Melville and other raging mad sensitive souls, we know now that it represents a horrific splitting of the self—into the blankness of whiteness and the foreboding threatening overdetermined markedness of blackness—and the hardened essentialization of the parts. The splitting is traumatic; it is not recognized or 11 See Kimberly W. Benston, Performing Blackness: Enactments of African-American Modernism (New York: Routledge, 2000), 293. 12 For a fascinating exploration of this term and the phenomenon to which it points, see literary and cultural critic Houston A. Baker, Jr., in Blues, Ideology, and Afro-American Literature: A Vernacular Theory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), 155, and passim. 13 See this argument developed by Frantz Fanon in his Wretched of the Earth (trans. Constance Farrington; New York: Grove, 1968; French original, 1961), 41. Also see the discussion in Abdul R. JanMohamed, “The Economy of Manichean Allegory: The Function of Racial Difference in Colonialist Literature,” Critical Inquiry 12 (1985): 59–87.

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acknowledged; it is part of the phenomenon of the “hidden brain.”14 It results in, among other things, the meta-racist regime that pollutes all of us, infects our discourses, our work and play, including our philological games. It was at work in Jefferson’s convoluted denial of Phillis Wheatley’s brilliant artistry;15 in Hegel’s disavowal of the successful struggle of those black folk in SaintDomingue-turned-Haiti against their enslavers and the meaning of such struggle as the backdrop for his own theorizing about the dialectics of struggle between master and slave and the further disavowal of the meaning of this struggle for universalism and the turn to modernity;16 in John Locke’s “purification of language” project, part of the “metadiscursive formation” aimed to deny the right to public speech to any one—women; serfs and slaves; sub-aristocrat whites—who could not speak properly.17 It was at work when Tony Perkins, head of the evangelical and corporatist Family Research Council, declared on CNN in the heat of the last presidential election with great authority and without a whiff of qualification—much like Warren’s buzzard—that the jeremiads of the urban black pastor named Jeremiah Wright against corporatist and racializing/racist “America” were simply “unscriptural.”18 Can we doubt that Perkins’s utterance comes out of the still regnant Manichaean world? Is it hard to see that in Perkins’s mind—buried far in that hidden brain where meta-racism thrives—there is an assumption that he and his tribesmen own the Bible and that they are invested with all rights and privileges appertaining thereto, meaning control of the discourses about the Bible? Who cannot see that behind his outburst were exegetical arguments, no doubt legitimized by the scholarship of our membership, that conjure the ancient Near Eastern world as a white world in seamless historical development with the modern white world? 14 See the compelling development of this concept by Shankar Vedantam in The Hidden Brain: How Our Unconscious Minds Elect Presidents, Control Markets, Wage Wars, and Save Our Lives (New York: Spiegel & Grau, 2010). 15 See his Notes on the State of Virginia (1785; ed. with introduction and notes by Frank Shuffelton; New York: Penguin Books, 1999). 16 Susan Buck-Morss (Hegel, Haiti and Universal History [Illuminations; Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2009]) and Sibylle Fischer (Modernity Disavowed: Haiti and the Cultures of Slavery in the Age of Revolution [Durham, NC/London: Duke University Press, 2004]), advance compelling arguments concerning Hegel’s denial of the universal implication in the Haitians’ struggle to be free and to establish the first modern society with aspirations to universal nonracialized freedoms. 17 For general historical cultural background, focusing mainly on Britain, see Olivia Smith, The Politics of Language, 1791–1819 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1984). For a discussion of John Locke and the dramatic ensuing consequences in many domains and contexts in the twenty-first century in the United States, see Richard Bauman and Charles L. Briggs, Voices of Modernity: Language Ideologies and the Politics of Inequality (Studies in the Social and Cultural Foundations of Language 21; Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 18 See http://archives.cnn.com/TRANSCRIPTS/0803/14/acd.01.html.


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These and other such examples of disavowals and tortured silences and twisted arguments and declarations reflect the pollution and veiling of the humanity and consciousness that is the Manichaean psychology and epistemics, infecting all peoples.19 It is arguable that it is no longer possible for those who are subject to such a construction or regime to argue freely what they see, think, or feel. Having to make black always signify the same thing—always signify the negative—represents a tremendous psychosocial and intellectual commitment and burden.20 This mentality of denial and disavowal, the most trenchant reflection of the Manichaean psychology, has been powerfully imaged in the frontispiece to Jesuit scholar Joseph-François Lafitau’s 1724 multivolume work Moeurs des sauvages Ameriquains comparées aux moeurs des premiers temps (see next page).21 Following Michel de Certeau’s interpretive glosses,22 we see the racialized and gendered but otherwise unmarked writer/inscriber/historian of the world and interpreter of events and truth. She is complexly situated—in relationship to the anthropomorphized Father time and death. She writes within and for the larger framework that is Europe ascendant. But she must write in order to clarify in light of the contact with the Others and the changes in the world how now things must mean. She writes about the truth as Europeans must see it, tell it, know it. So notice along the bottom of the image the objects, trinkets, fetishes, representing the Others. The history, the truth that is to be told about these “savages” and “primitives” must now be told in the terms of the method of bricolage—assembling, choosing this and that part, this or that thing, from this or that world of savagery, in order to place the Others within the canonical framework that reflects Manichaean psychology and epistemics. The “savage” is assumed not to be able to communicate, at least, not in purified language, so deserves no hearing, demands no respectful gaze. But Europeans can and should inscribe the Other into reality and interpret and interpellate them. Who enslaves whom? Douglass implied that those far outside the circle—those in some respect participating in the ways of the Great House Farm, those who, like the woman in Lafitau’s frontispiece representing Euro-America or the West writing up the Rest—can hardly see or hear, much less understand, the Rest represented by the slaves. Like the poignantly named Nehemiah who “writes up” Dessa in

19

See Camara Jules P. Harrell, Manichean Psychology: Racism and the Minds of People of African Descent (Washington, DC: Howard University Press, 1999), for discussion of the way black peoples have been infected. 20 On this point, see Christopher L. Miller, Blank Darkness: Africanist Discourse in French (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985), 246. 21 Paris: Saugrain l’aine et Charles Etienne Hochereau, 1724. 22 See Certeau, “Writing vs. Time: History and Anthropology in the Works of Lafitau,” in Rethinking History: Time, Myth, and Writing (ed. Marie-Rose Logan and John Frederick Logan; Yale French Studies 59; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1980).

The image that appears on p. 14 of the print edition of JBL Frontispiece to the 1724 edition of Joseph-François Lafitau, Moeurs de sauvages Ameriquains comparées aux moeurs de premiers temps. Engraving signed by I. B. Scotin. Bibliothèque nationale de France can be viewed at http://memory.loc.gov/cgi-bin/ampage?collId=rbfr&fileName=0013/ rbfr0013.db&recNum=7&itemLink=r


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Sherley Williams’s Dessa Rose,23 the writer makes up a truth, like “science,” a writing that represents a kind of violence done to her body.24 The woman who is EuroAmerica who writes up the savages actually does not even look at the objects and symbols assumed to represent them. Her gaze redefines what it means to see straight. Second, the enslaved. Their situation was not romanticized by Douglass, at least not without some resistance or qualification. In his view, they were denied any but overdetermined identification with and participation in the world that was represented by the Great House Farm. They were denied the main currents of communication and social exchange. They were considered chattel, and so it was assumed that they were unable to think, to communicate, except in the way of the “swinish multitude.”25 They were presumed not to be able to read and write—at least, not in canonical/cosmopolitan European languages or modes.26 Douglass knew that the black enslaved could make meaning or make things mean, but not beyond their small and rigidly contained circle. Outside their circle they experienced little or no intersubjectivity, which provokes what might be thought of as the “anxiety of ethnicity.”27 This phenomenon was understood to be one of the most important meanings and consequences of enslavement.28 Slaves’ communication was reduced to an “anti-language,”29 unrecognized and unacknowledged by others. This is what Douglass called “unmeaning jargon.” They were

23

New York: W. Morrow, 1982. See Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (trans. Steven Rendall; Berkeley: University of California, 2002), part 4, ch. 10. 25 The language of Edmund Burke, found in his Reflections on the Revolution in France, And on the Proceedings in Certain Societies in London Relative to That Event. In a Letter Intended to Have Been Sent to a Gentleman in Paris (London: J. Dodsley, 1790). It provoked much reaction in England and beyond. See also Smith, Politics of Language, ch. 3. 26 On this matter of canonical or conventional discourses, see Grey Gundaker, Signs of Diaspora, Diaspora of Signs: Literacies, Creolization, and Vernacular Practice in African America (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998). On more conventional history of conventional literacy among blacks, see Janet Duitsman Cornelius, “When I Can Read My Title Clear”: Literacy, Slavery, and Religion in the Antebellum South (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1992). 27 So David Van Leer, “Reading Slavery: The Anxiety of Ethnicity in Douglass’s Narrative,” in Frederick Douglass: New Literary and Historical Essays (ed. Eric J. Sundquist; New York: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 129. 28 See Orlando Patterson’s works on slavery and freedom: Freedom (New York: Basic Books, 1991); Slavery and Social Death: A Comparative Study (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982); Rituals of Blood: Consequences of Slavery in Two American Centuries (Washington, DC: Civitas, 1998), among others. 29 Ann M. Kibbey and Michele Stepto, “The Anti-Language of Slavery: Frederick Douglass’s 1845 Narrative,” in Critical Essays on Frederick Douglass (ed. William L. Andrews; Boston: G. K. Hall, 1991), 166–91. 24


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rendered silent and invisible. Ralph Ellison’s character in Invisible Man put the phenomenon in riveting terms: I am invisible . . . simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass . . . they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination—indeed, everything and anything except me.30

The evidence of the silencing and rendering invisible the presence of the black Atlantic and contributions is everywhere to be seen. Consider Rebecca Protten, an eighteenth-century pioneer Moravian missionary and evangelist and founder of one of the first African American Protestant congregations in the North Atlantic world.31 The establishment politics of “church”/“religious” history has contributed to her being largely forgotten. Note the woman known as “sister Francis” or as the “Blackymore maide.” Her well-known charismatic leadership in the establishment of the seventeenth-century radical Protestant formation that became the establishment Church of Christ in Broadmead, later Broadmead Baptist Church, Bristol, England, was erased by Edward Terrill’s establishmentarian revisionist history. Her leadership was reduced to overdetermined categories—of appellation and sentimentality. She was by exegetical sleight of hand erased out of her rightful place in history, as founding figure—and then flattened into a black pious maid.32 And Douglass’s own situation as writer is worth mentioning. The abolitionist William Lloyd Garrison provided the preface to Douglass’s 1845 Narrative. Whatever may be said about the substantive comments made in it, it is clear that this preface functioned primarily to “translate” Douglass, that is, to provide the metacommentary for all that is to follow. This is an example of enslavement as a kind of “framework.”33 A discerning reader can determine whether Garrison ever really understood Douglass’s text. Douglass later severed ties with Garrison and the Garrisonians. He came to understand how slavery could continue to work—way up North—as discursive framing. Perhaps, the most famous description, if not the final analysis, of the phenomenon of the enslaved as the framed is found in W. E. B. Du Bois’s works. In his famous Souls of Black Folk, the Manichaean world, the world structured around

30

Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man (2nd ed.; New York: Vintage, 1995), 3. See Jon F. Sensbach, Rebecca’s Revival: Creating Black Christianity in the Atlantic World (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2005). 32 See Edward Terrill, The Records of a Church of Christ in Bristol, 1640–1687 (Bristol Record Society, 1974). For historical-interpretive context, see Peter Linebaugh and Marcus Rediker, The Many-Headed Hydra: Sailors, Slaves, Commoners, and the Hidden History of the Revolutionary Atlantic (Boston: Beacon, 2000), ch. 3. 33 On Garrison’s persistent liberal-abolitionist paternalism in relationship to Douglass, see Houston A. Baker, Jr., The Journey Back: Issues in Black Literature and Criticism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), 148–49. 31


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what he termed the “veil,” is defined by racial division and alienation and ignorance that affects all: “there is almost no community of intellectual life or point of transference where the thoughts and feelings of one race can come into direct contact and sympathy with the thoughts and feelings of the other.”34 As Douglass looks back to the Great House Farm, he does not romanticize the situation of the slaves. He indicates that he has come to understand that the chief dilemma that slaves faced was not the physical domination, as demeaning as it was, but the not being seen, not being heard, not being understood, not being communicated with in broad terms befitting the dignity of humanity, not being able to communicate the complexity of sentiments and feelings, and being cut off from everything—except, ironically, the Great House Farm. Enslavement meant being able to sing, perhaps, but only within the Manichaean-prescribed circle in which black was overdetermined as, among other things, “unmeaning jargon.” This was for Douglass intolerable. He would escape it. Third, runagate. The term is an alternate form of “renegate,” from Middle Latin renegatus, meaning “fugitive” or “runaway.” It has come to carry the meaning of a more transgressive act than mere flight. It is marronage, running away with an attitude and a plan, a taking flight—in body, but even more importantly in terms of consciousness.35 We know that Douglass literally runs away from enslavement. It is as a runagate that he writes his first autobiography. And in this part of the story about the slaves on their way to the Great House Farm, Douglass distinguishes himself from the others who are slaves. He seems to experience being in and out of solidarity with and consciousness about them. He knows them, but he is also alien to them. That he once occupied a similar psychic position with them but now assumes a different position is excruciatingly painful for him. He registers acute anxiety experienced over the need to step outside the circle, outside the framed experience, the framed consciousness that is slavery. It is a scary place. It is psychosocial and discursive marronage. He is a runagate before he runs away.

34 From “IX. Of the Sons of Master and Man,” in Souls of Black Folk, in The Norton Anthology of African American Literature (ed. Henry Louis Gates, Jr., and Nellie Y. McKay; New York: W. W. Norton, 1997), 700. 35 See Jean Fouchard, The Haitian Maroons: Liberty or Death (trans. A Faulkner Watts; New York: Edward Blyden, 1981); Alvin O. Thompson, Flight to Freedom: African Runaways and Maroons in the Americas (Kingston, Jamaica: University of West Indies Press, 2006); Hugo Prosper Learning, Hidden Americans: Maroons of Virginia and the Carolinas (Studies in African American History and Culture; New York: Garland, 1995); Mavis Christin Campbell, The Maroons of Jamaica, 1655–1796: A History of Resistance, Collaboration & Betrayal (Granby, MA: Bergin & Garvey, 1988); and Richard Price, ed., Maroon Societies: Rebel Slave Communities in the Americas (3rd ed.; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996). See also Houston A. Baker, Jr.’s recontextualization arguments in Modernism and the Harlem Renaissance (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 71–82.

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There is a long history of this phenomenon of the runagate—long before and long after Douglass, among the people who have become and whom we now call African Americans. The runagate not only involved heroic individuals such as Douglass but everyday collective folk who showed themselves to be a people on the run, a marooned people, a people intent on migrating from deserts and fields of enslavement to other psychic places, with high purpose. Taking flight, running away, in the several different respects of meaning and experience, was the watchword. It brought some of my relatives to this city and took some others into other parts of the country. That other philosopher called Locke (as in Alain) in his 1925 edited volume The New Negro: Voices of the Harlem Renaissance vividly captured the impetus and drama of one of the waves of migration in the twentieth century: The wash and rush of this human tide . . . is to be explained primarily in terms of a new vision of opportunity, of social and economic freedom, of a spirit to seize, even in the face of an extortionate and heavy toll. . . . With each successive wave of it, the movement of the Negro becomes more and more a mass movement toward the larger and the more democratic chance . . . a deliberate flight not only from the countryside to city, but from medieval America to modern.36

The critical sign of Douglass having already become runagate before reaching the North is his acquisition and critical use of thinking about literacy. Learning to read had to do with more than learning the letters, having been given the “inch,” as he called it. No, his reading involved taking the “ell,” involving a much more complex phenomenon with profound consequences, including those and more that were feared by the masters. Douglass’s command of the text is like Maurice Blanchot’s notion of reading as reading past the text to something more or other, a reading of the self—a historicized collective self.37 This self that Douglass began to read seems to be the result of a splitting of a different sort from, but with great implications and ramifications for, the engagement of the Manichaean psychology. Du Bois continues to provide perspective. His references in Souls of Black Folk to the term “veil” as a metaphor to name the nature of the construction of the Manichaean world and his understanding of the consequences and impact of such include that most famous remark—“. . . a peculiar sensation . . . double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of the others.”38 This remark is generally assumed to apply simply and universally to all black peoples in the United States. This interpretation is questionable as applied to Souls: in the latter he was focused on explaining (to a mixed readership) those black folks who were phys36 Alain Locke, ed., The New Negro: Voices of the Harlem Renaissance (New York: A. and C. Boni, 1925; repr., New York: Touchstone, 1999), 6. 37 See Michael Holland, ed., The Blanchot Reader (London: Blackwell, 1995), especially on the concept of “the work.” 38 Du Bois, Souls, in Gates and McKay, Norton Anthology of African American Literature, 615.


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ically and increasingly psychically removed from the world of the Great House Farm and were now facing the negotiation of larger miscegenated worlds and consciousness. Du Bois understood that for such persons—like himself and like Douglass “outside the circle”—what was experienced most acutely is a splitting, an acute self-alienation, dissociation. This was what he termed existence behind the “Veil of Color.”39 Douglass’s miscegenated and alienated consciousness led him to wage battle. It was the fight with Covey the infamous “nigger-breaker” that sharply reflected Douglass’s struggle with alienation and anxiety. Douglass understood the fight with Covey to be more than physical contact. In Covey, Douglass comes face to face, so to speak, with the more tangible manifestations of meta-racism—the slave system and its imbrication of Christian ideology. But it also occasioned opportunity for Douglass to represent his confrontation with the world of the slave, more specifically, African traditions, in the form of Sandy the root doctor. Like Jacob’s wrestling with the angel, Douglass fights an existential battle: he fights against aspects of himself that have been forced to split on account of Manichaean metaracism; he fights the white side of himself represented by Covey and his absent father, which derides and demeans and denies him and his blackness; and he fights the black side of himself, represented by Sandy, with his limited agency and communication skills and timidity if not also perfidy. He shows himself to be conscious of the tightly coiled constructedness of both worlds. In the end, his fight results in his becoming a subjectivity that was miscegenated, not merely a blending in literal/ physical terms, but an independent self that is unstable, fluid, protean, embattled, split from the violent framing. It was this splitting and the anxiety over it that Du Bois considered a paradox, an opportunity and a gift to the black subjects and through them to the world. The forced splitting provides opportunity for cultivation of heightened critical consciousness: “Once in a while,” he indicated, noting that the phenomenon was not guaranteed but had to be cultivated and exploited, “through all of us”—that is, those forced behind the veil, that “thick sheet of invisible . . . horribly tangible plate glass” limning “a dark cave” within which black folks are “entombed souls . . . hindered in their natural movement, expression, and development”40—“there flashes some 39 Of course, the debate about what this means or when and how this was experienced and what should be the response to it rages on. Although it was not Du Bois’s proposed analysis of or proposed solution to the problem, many critics of black existence have argued that enslavement has meant above all alienation to the point of the loss of a (“sense of ”) past and that only the future remained as basis for organization and orientation. For informative discussion, see Frank M. Kirkland, “Modernity and Intellectual Life in Black,” Philosophical Forum 24 (1992–93): 136–65; and Orlando Patterson, “Toward a Future That Has No Past: Reflections on the Fate of Blacks in the Americas,” Public Interest no. 27 (Spring 1972): 25–62. 40 See Du Bois’s mature, somewhat autobiographical work Dusk of Dawn: An Essay Toward an Autobiography of a Race Concept (New York: Schocken Books, 1968), 130–31; see esp. ch. 5, “The Concept of Race.” For larger historical and political-discursive context, see Thomas C. Holt,

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clairvoyance, some clear idea, of what America really is. We who are dark can see America in a way that America can not.”41 In learning to read—not merely texts but texture and the world, including what Covey represented in the world and in the same larger scene, what Sandy represented in the world—Douglass had escaped. He had escaped from the cave, from the tight circle. What might these arguments and perspectives mean for this Society? How could its discourses and practices not be fully implicated in and reflective of the Manichaean ideology and epistemics? In what respect is its epistemics different from that of Tony Perkins or Thomas Jefferson? How can the ever more sophisticated methods and approaches of the operations of its diverse members focused on a single text tradition or, at most, two complexly related text traditions, avoid functioning as apologetics—for the nation or empire and satellite orders? How can the Society avoid making and keeping the Scriptures and all characters in them white like Ahab’s whale, like Perkins’s white Euro-American Protestant/Catholic ancient Near Eastern world? Douglass hints at a way out. His reflection on his own life story continues to be instructive. He argues that the critical interpreter must seek to escape, must run, must be oriented “outside the circle.” His own experience as a Scripture-reader is a direct challenge to us. Before he escaped he started a secret seminary/religious studies program—a “Sabbath school”—for groups of slaves from various plantations. Douglass indicated—in somewhat veiled terms—that his motive had to do with more than teaching letters—“we were trying to learn how to read the will of God,” that is, read life and death, slavery and freedom. He helped establish a safe zone within which the students could learn, think for and talk among themselves apart from the slavers. In direct opposition to the expectations and interests of the masters and as a practice reflecting “mimetic excess,”42 this Scripture-reading practice reflected self-reflexivity, a heightened consciousness of imitation of the other— with a difference. He knew that the reading of the Scriptures was hardly ever mere reading about the ancient Near East, about the life and times of Jesus or the prophets, that the reading of Scriptures in the modern world was a reading of the world as constructed by the splitting that made “black” signify in an ever tighter circle of reference. So having psychosocially positioned himself “outside the circle” of the world of slave culture and outside the Great House Farm, Douglass positioned himself to “read”—and help others read—the world as it had been and might be ordered. He was a runagate. “Political Uses of Alienation: W. E. B. Du Bois on Politics, Race, and Culture, 1903–1940,” American Quarterly 42 (1990): 308–9. 41 W. E. B. Du Bois, “Criteria of Negro Art,” Crisis 32 (October 1926): 290–97. Printed in Gates and McKay, Norton Anthology of African American Literature, 753. 42 Michael Taussig, Mimesis and Alterity: A Particular History of the Senses (New York: Routledge, 1993), 233, 246, 249, 252–55.


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Can the members of this Society claim such consciousness? Douglass was not so much reading Scriptures as he was signifying on scripturalization, on the regime that creates and enforces uses of Scriptures for the sake of domination. Like Kafka’s ape ape-ing high-minded humans,43 he showed his thinking about thinking. He showed his understanding of the political constructedness of Scripture-reading and that such reading ought to result in talking and thinking about life and death, slavery and freedom. Surely, here is a challenge to a different critical orientation—an orientation to Scripture study as part of the human sciences with investment in critical histories that aim to make sense of what subtends the practices, the forms of expressivity, the relations of discourse and power. It makes sense, according to Du Bois, with all the pain and trauma involved, for the black self to want to run, to let go: there is no advantage, no life, in not running. Such sentiment and conviction regarding the relationship between alienation and freedom was powerfully expressed by Richard Wright: “I have no race except that which is forced upon me. I have no country except that to which I’m obliged to belong. I have no traditions. I’m free. I have only the future.”44 But the impetus to run away, to let go, is not very strong for those strongly positioned within or benefitting from the Manichaean order. Such “hidden brain” fundamentalism around which the Euro-American world is built is so deeply buried, so tightly coiled, so persistent, that nothing less than shock can dislodge it. Although a renegade member of a different academic professional society, Michael Taussig makes of himself a poignant and painful example and lesson for consideration of members of this Society. He accepts himself as a white man from the world of the Great House Farm who looks and listens to the other as the other constructs and projects an image of the white man. Note his reaction to such an image created by those associated with the Mabari shrine in Nigeria (see next page): He frightens me, this African white man. He unsettles. He makes me wonder without end. Was the world historical power of whiteness achieved through its being a sacred as well as profane power? It makes me wonder about the constitution of whiteness as global colonial work and also as a minutely psychic one involving psychic powers invisible to my senses but all too obvious, as reflected to me, now, by this strange artifact . . . it is . . . the . . . West now face to face with its-self . . . the white man . . . facing himself. . . . Such face-to-faceness no doubt brings its quotient of self-congratulation. “They think we are gods.” But being a god is okay as long as it isn’t excessive. After all, who knows—in imagining us as gods, might they not take our power?45

43

Ibid., xiv, xvii, 254–55. Richard Wright, Pagan Spain (New York: Harper, 1957; repr., 2008), 21. 45 Taussig, Mimesis, 237–38. Image originally from Julia Blackburn, The White Men: The First Responses of Aboriginal Peoples to the White Man (London: Orbis, 1979; New York: New York Times Books, 1979). 44

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Photograph: Herbert M. Cole, 1966.

Douglass’s insurgent seminary sessions and Taussig’s training in an African school of arts and social criticism suggest for the Society the imperative of seeing Scripture-reading as part of mimetic systems. The critic should see his or her own critical practices as part of such systems and remain open to influences toward greater self-reflexivity and the destabilization and vacancy of identity. How could the Society not be so oriented in the twenty-first century? How can we be students of Scriptures in this century at this moment without making our agenda a radically humanistic science or art, excavating human politics, discourse, performances, power relations, the mimetic systems of knowing we may call scripturalization? How can we remain a Society only of Biblical Literature and


23

not of comparative Scriptures? How can we in this big international tent in this century of globalization not include as our focus the problematics of “Scriptures” of all the other major social-cultural systems of the world as well the older dynamic systems of scripturalizing of the so-called smaller societies? How exciting and compelling and renegade would be a Society of interpreters that excavates all representations of Scriptures in terms of discourse and power! Such orientation requires letting go—of unmarked or blank whiteness and of forced essential blackness. It means running away from all—the white text, the black essential—that has sought for several centuries to bind us. Clearly, the claim need not be made that only African America shows the way out. But African America certainly offers the gift of challenge, the model of the imperative of running for life to a zone of discursive and ideological marronage. On account of forced placement in a zone of nonsubjectivity, this tribe, after all, has given birth to artists/poets/ shamans/diviners who model the runagate and challenge us to imitate them. They show us the way of the double-sighted, the way of those who know that knowing requires occupying a zone where there is “constantly shifting authorial consciousness” and the “piercing” of “cultural authority,”46 a site on which radical translation and transformation are always to be worked on, a site where according to Ralph Ellison “black is and black a’int,” because “black can make you and unmake you.”47 It means letting go of closed systems of cultural authority and of claims to be overseers of texts. Those folk who have been placed behind the veil challenge all of us to run, in fact to run continuously from the cave into the zone of marronage. In his poem “Runagate, Runagate,” Robert Hayden has woven together perhaps the classic expressions and images of the black cultural sentiments regarding the runagate:48 I. Runs falls rises stumbles on from darkness into darkness and the darkness thicketed with shapes of terror and the hunters pursuing and the hounds pursuing and the night cold and the night long and the river to cross and the jack-muh-lanterns beckoning beckoning and blackness ahead and when shall I reach that somewhere morning and keep on going and never turn back and keep on going Runagate Runagate Runagate ........

46

Benston, Performing Blackness, 292, 294. Ellison, Invisible Man, 9–10. 48 Robert Hayden, “Runagate, Runagate,” in Gates and McKay, The Norton Anthology of African American Literature, 1506–8. 47


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II. ........ Wanted Harriet Tubman alias The General alias Moses Stealer of Slaves In league with Garrison Alcott Emerson Garrett Douglas Thoreau John Brown Armed and known to be Dangerous Wanted Reward Dead or Alive ........ Come ride-a my train Oh that train, ghost-story train through swamp and savanna movering movering, over trestles of dew, through caves of the wish, Midnight Special on a sabre track movering movering, ........ Come ride-a my train Mean mean mean to be free

The folk who are dark challenge us to run—away from the feigned solid canonical self, onto “the ghost-story train,” into a “disrupting blackness,”49 down into what Howard Thurman called a “luminous darkness”50 where the process of the hard work of self-criticism can take place. They also warn us that ultimately there is no other way out. That must have been what the song-poets meant when they crafted and sang: [It’s] so high, you can’t get over [it], [It’s] so low, you can’t get under [it], So round, you can’t get around [it], You must go right through the door.

We may not, need not, all “talk that talk” or “talk like dat,” but we all, for the sake of being a compelling force as a learned society—focused on the ultimate problematics of discourse and power—must start and sustain “talkin’ about somethin’”— about slavery and freedom, about life and death.

49 Toni Morrison, Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination (William E. Massey Sr. Lectures in the History of American Civilization; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), 91. 50 See Howard Thurman, The Luminous Darkness: A Personal Interpretation of the Anatomy of Segregation and the Ground of Hope (1965; repr., Richmond, IN: Friends United Press, 1999).

JBL 130, no. 1 (2011): 25–44

CTH 133 and the Hittite Provenance of Deuteronomy 13 joshua berman [email protected] Bar-Ilan University, Ramat-Gan 52900, Israel

For over forty years the dominant view in scholarship has been that Deuteronomy 13 is a composition of the seventh century B.C.E. Remarkable similarities of language and norms exist between the apostasy laws of Deuteronomy 13 and the disloyalty provisions set out in section 10 of the Vassal Treaty of Esarhaddon of 672 B.C.E.1 The claim has proven especially attractive in light of the wealth of historical data in our possession for that period that would seem to support the claim. Assyrian cultic practices were present in the temple (2 Kgs 23:11); the kingdom of Judah was subjugated by Sennacherib in the time of Hezekiah (2 Kgs 18:13–18); and the name of Manasseh, king of Judah, appears on the list of Levantine kings subjugated by Esarhaddon. Assyrian domination, it is suggested, engendered a gradual socioreligious acculturation in which Judean scribes assimilated and modified the structures of Assyrian ideology within the framework of their own tradition.2 In My thanks to Adam Ferziger, Yitzhaq Feder, Edward Greenstein, Itamar Singer, and Jacob Wright for reading and commenting on earlier versions of this manuscript, and to Bernard Levinson for his extended consultations. 1 Formally speaking the treaty provides for the succession to the throne of Esarhaddon’s son, Ashurbanipal, and is often referred to more accurately as the Succession Treaty of Esarhaddon. In his editio princeps, however, D. J. Wiseman (The Vassal-Treaties of Esarhaddon [Iraq 20.1; London: British School of Archaeology in Iraq, 1958]) referred to the text as the “Vassal Treaty of Esarhaddon,” and I will adopt here the more common acronym, VTE. See discussion in Simo Parpola and Kazuko Watanabe, eds., Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths (SAA 2; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1988), xxx. 2 Bernard M. Levinson, “The Right Chorale”: Studies in Biblical Law and Interpretation (FAT 54; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 138; Martti Nissinen, “Prophecy against the King in NeoAssyrian Sources,” in “Lasset uns Brücken bauen–”: Collected Communications to the XVth Congress of the International Organization for the Study of the Old Testament, Cambridge 1995 (ed. Klaus Dietrich Schunck and Matthias Augustin; BEATAJ 42; Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1998), 162;

25

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patterning the laws of apostasy in Deuteronomy after the Neo-Assyrian sedition stipulations, the scribes of Judea were engaging in polemics and essentially turning an Assyrian form against their oppressors, asserting the imperialism of Yhwh over the imperialism of the Assyrian king.3 So compelling are the parallels of phraseology, so clearly defined is the historical setting, that Richard D. Nelson speaks for the consensus when he writes in his Deuteronomy commentary, “[Deuteronomy 13] breathes the atmosphere of Assyrian treaty documents, paralleling the requirements for loyalty found in them. . . . The similarities between this chapter and VTE are so close that a deliberate imitation of Assyrian forms is nearly certain.”4 In turn, the claim of a Neo-Assyrian provenance for Deuteronomy 13 has played a major role in scholarship beyond that limited to this chapter. Because the claim enjoys the support of epigraphic evidence, many expositors have taken the connection as one sign that much of Deuteronomy as a whole was composed in the seventh century B.C.E.5 Indeed, one is hard-pressed to think of another cognate text from the first millennium whose language and norms are so close to those of a single passage of biblical law. In this study I propose that a more compelling backdrop for the apostasy laws of Deuteronomy 13 can be located in the Late Bronze Hittite vassal treaty tradition. I will begin by drawing attention to the sedition stipulations of the Hittite treaties that closely match the apostasy laws of Deuteronomy 13—which, surprisingly, have been largely ignored by scholarship until now. My aim will be to demonstrate that in case after case we may see that the Hittite parallels are closer in content and in form to the laws of Deuteronomy 13 than are the parallels from the NeoAssyrian tradition. Moreover, I will attempt to demonstrate that Deuteronomy 13 describes a relationship between Yhwh the sovereign and Israel the vassal that Christoph Koch, Vertrag, Treueid und Bund: Studien zur Rezeption des altorientalischen Vertragsrechts im Deuteronomium und zur Ausbildung der Bundestheologie im alten Testament (BZAW 383; Berlin, de Gruyter, 2008), 108–70; Eckart Otto, “Treueid und Gesetz: Die Ursprünge des Deuteronomiums im Horizont neuassyrischen Vertragsrechts,” ZABR 2 (1996): 1–52. Some scholars have maintained that the unit belongs to a postexilic redactional layer of Deuteronomy; see, e.g., Timo Veijola, “Wahrheit und Intoleranz nach Deuteronomium 13,” ZTK 92 (1995): 287–314; and Juha Pakkala, Intolerant Monolatry in the Deuteronomistic History (Publications of the Finnish Exegetical Society 76; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999), 20–50. For these scholars, Deuteronomy 13 bears similarities to VTE §10 because the tropes and formulations from the Neo-Assyrian period were still being employed when this part of Deuteronomy was composed. 3 Noel Weeks, Admonition and Curse: The Ancient Near Eastern Treaty/Covenant Form as a Problem in Inter-Cultural Relationships (JSOTSup 407; London/New York: T&T Clark, 2004), 169. 4 Nelson, Deuteronomy: A Commentary (OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2002), 168. 5 A. D. H. Mayes, Deuteronomy: Based on the Revised Standard Version (NCB Commentary; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1981), 105; Nelson, Deuteronomy, 6; Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy (in Hebrew; Encyclopedia Olam Ha-Tanakh; Tel-Aviv: Davidson-Eti, 1993), 10.

Berman: CTH 133 and Deuteronomy 13

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more closely resembles the relationship of a Hittite king and his vassal than that of a Neo-Assyrian king and his. The scholarship on this chapter has identified many phrases from the Neo-Assyrian treaty tradition that resonate with the language of Deuteronomy 13. In the second part of the study, I will show that few of these parallels are distinctively Neo-Assyrian, and that nearly all have precedents in Late Bronze Hittite treaty materials. In the final section, I will consider the implications of the evidence assessed for the question of the dating of Deuteronomy 13. Before proceeding to a review of the evidence, a methodological note is in order. As I seek to discern whether Deuteronomy 13 more closely resembles the Hittite literature or the Neo-Assyrian literature, I take the following to be axiomatic: the very fact that two bodies of material share a common element is insufficient to warrant claims of a hereditary connection between them or that they are the product of a shared milieu and a common period. For example, as we shall see, all three bodies of treaty literature under review here address the concern that individuals may be prone to have greater allegiance to their own family members than to their lord, whether that lord is a human king, as in the Hittite and Neo-Assyrian treaties, or Yhwh, as in Deuteronomy. The very fact that this is a shared concern is insufficient to posit a connection between them: political theorists have struggled with the problem of how to maintain the loyalty of citizens to the state in the face of loyalty to kin since the earliest political writings of Greece (see Aristotle, Pol. 6.1319b23–27). In order to posit that Deuteronomy 13 more closely resembles one treaty tradition or the other, I will need to identify shared elements that are highly distinctive, elements whose multiple occurrences cannot simply be attributed to the universal nature of the human condition. In some cases I will be able to identify in these laws content that seems distinctive. But it is primarily in the realm of the written form of these laws that distinctions will be more easily found. Speaking proverbially, just as there are many ways to skin a cat, there are many ways to express the same basic law. Options abound for the varied employment of metaphor, phraseology, syntax, legal formulae, order, and structure. Because a great variety of formal elements is available to the composer of a treaty, the consistent similarity of form between treaty texts from two different cultures will highlight their shared distinction when they are compared with treaties elsewhere.

I. The Primary Evidence: CTH 133—The Ismerika Treaty Studies of Deuteronomy 13 in light of Neo-Assyrian sources routinely focus attention on §10 of VTE (lines 108–22). The importance of this text for the study of Deuteronomy 13 lies not only in the fact that it exhibits several elements that find parallels in Deuteronomy 13, but also in the fact that it exhibits these parallel elements in high concentration, thus amply satisfying the criterion of distinctiveness.


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I open my study, therefore, with an examination of a Hittite text that I maintain exhibits even more and closer parallels to Deuteronomy 13 and in higher concentration: CTH 133, the treaty between Aruwanda I of Hatti (fifteenth century B.C.E.) and the Men of Ismerika.6 Before I begin my examination of this text and its implications for our understanding of Deuteronomy 13, a few words are in order concerning the place of this text in the history of the scholarship on ancient Near Eastern treaty forms and the biblical idea of covenant. The publication of the main corpus of Hittite vassal treaties in the 1920s and ’30s paved the way for George E. Mendenhall’s groundbreaking study in 1955 that revealed striking similarities between the form of the biblical covenant and the form of the Hittite vassal treaty.7 This spurred a flurry of studies at mid-century on the relationship between the Sinai covenant in the Bible and vassal treaties throughout the ancient Near East. A voluminous literature proliferated around this topic in the 1960s, but thereafter interest in it tapered off considerably.8 This scholarship produced two schools of thought on the subject. One school, those who have followed Mendenhall, maintains that the stronger parallels to biblical covenant lie in the Hittite materials. Most scholars, however, have been swayed by the strength of the parallels to the Neo-Assyrian texts, particularly those found in VTE, and it is fair to say that this school has been in the ascendancy for the last forty years. As noted, most of the comparative work was carried out in the 1960s, and little new evidence has been marshaled since then to sway the debate one way or the other.9 The Ismerika Treaty was first published and translated into German by Aharon Kempinski and Silvin Košak in 197010 and thus went unnoticed by the 6

Emmanuel Laroche, Catalogue des textes Hittites [CTH] (Paris: Klincksieck, 1971). Mendenhall, Law and Covenant in Israel and the Ancient Near East (Pittsburgh: Presidential Board of Colportage of Western Pennsylvania, 1955). 8 Among the major works of this genre, see Meredith G. Kline, Treaty of the Great King: The Covenant Structure of Deuteronomy. Studies and Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1963); Delbert R. Hillers, Covenant: The History of a Biblical Idea (Seminars in the History of Ideas; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1969); Lothar Perlitt, Bundestheologie im alten Testament (WMANT 36; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1969); R. Frankena, “The VassalTreaties of Esarhaddon and the Dating of Deuteronomy,” OtSt 14 (1965): 122–54; Dennis J. McCarthy, Treaty and Covenant: A Study in Form in the Ancient Oriental Documents and in the Old Testament (AnBib 21; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1963). 9 For an assessment of the debate, see Moshe Weinfeld, “The Common Heritage of Covenantal Traditions in the Ancient World,” in I trattati nel mondo antico: Forma, ideologia, funzione (ed. Luciano Canfora, Mario Liverani, and Carlo Zaccagnini; Saggi di storia antica 2; Rome: “L’Erma” di Bretschneider, 1990), 175–91; Weeks, Admonition and Curse, 5; and G. E. Mendenhall and G. A. Herion, “Covenant,” ABD 1:1179–1202. 10 Kempinski and Košak, “Der Ismeriga-Vertrag,” WO 5 (1970): 191–217. For the text see ABoT (Kemal Bakan, ed., Ankara Arkeoloji Müzesinde bulunan Boğazköy Tabletleri [Istanbul: Milli Egitim Basimevi, 1948]), 58 + KUB 26.41 + KUB 23.68 (MH/NS). 7


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great treatments of treaty forms of the previous decade. Interest in the general topic of treaty parallels waned subsequently and references to CTH 133 in treaty form scholarship since are scant.11 Indeed, the text would reach a wider scholarly audience only with its translation into English and, more importantly, its inclusion in a large anthology of treaty texts, in the second edition of Gary Beckman’s Hittite Diplomatic Texts, in 1999.12 The text is somewhat anomalous with regard to most of the vassal treaties from the Late Bronze Hittite empire. Most vassal treaties of that period are formulated as an agreement between two individual rulers—the great king of Hatti, and the ruler of the vassal state. CTH 133 tells of the Hittite subjugation of the region of Kizzuwatna, on the border of northern Syria. The treaty, however, is not with the ruler of Kizzuwatna but with the men of Ismerika, colonists from southern Anatolia who served as subject allies of the Hittites and assisted the local Hittite authorities in administration of the Kizzuwatnaean population.13 The sections of the treaty that are relevant to Deuteronomy 13 address seditious acts in the vassal territory (§§9–10; obv. lines 21–28):14 21 ma-a-an-ša-ma[-aš-]kán i-da-lu-ma ut-tar ku-iš-ki pí-ra-an [te-]iz-zi na-ašma EN MAT-KAL-TI[

21 If anyone [ut]ters a malicious word before you [whether it is a border lord, [.]

22 na-aš-ma-aš ap-pí-iz-zi-ia-aš na-ašma-aš LÚ KUR URUH} a-at[-ti n]a-aš-maaš LÚ KUR URUKi-iz-zu-ua-a [-ni

22 or a commoner, or a Hitt[ite o]r a Kizzuwatner [.]

23 na-aš-ma-aš an-tu-uh} -ši A-BU-ŠU AMA- ŠU ŠEŠ-ŠU NIN-Š[U n]a-aš-ma DUMU-ŠU LÚga-e-na-aš[(-)

23 or his people, his own father, his mother, his brother, his sister or his son, [his] relative by marriage [.]

24 nu ku-iš ut-tar me-ma-i na-an le-e ku-iš-ki mu-u[n-na-]ai-iz-zi e-ep-du-an na-an te-ek-kụ-u[š-ša-nu-ud-du

24 whoever says such a word, no one is to h[id]e him, but shall rather seize him and expose him!

11

Paul E. Dion, “Deuteronomy 13: The Suppression of Alien Religious Propoganda in Israel during the Late Monarchical Era,” in Law and Ideology in Monarchic Israel (ed. Baruch Halpern and Deborah W. Hobson; JSOTSup 124; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 203, 210; Koch, Vertrag, Treueid und Bund, 154–55, 164–65; Pakkala, Intolerant Monolatry, 42; Markus Zehnder, “Building on Stone? Deuteronomy and Esarhaddon’s Loyalty Oaths (Part 2): Some Preliminary Observations,” BBR 19 (2009): 514–15. 12 Beckman, Hittite Diplomatic Texts (ed. Harry A. Hoffner, Jr.; 2nd ed.; SBLWAW 7; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 1999), 13–17. 13 Ibid., 13. 14 The translation that follows is an eclectic amalgam of the English translation offered by Beckman (Hittite Diplomatic Texts, 15) and the German translation of Kempinski and Košac (“Der Ismeriga-Vertrag,” 195).


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25 ma-a-an-kán KUR-IA-ma iš-tar-na 1 URULUM ua-aš-d[a-a-i LÚ]MEŠ KUR URUIš-mi-ri-ka an-da a-ar-te-ni L[Ú?

25 If in the midst of my country any city sins, then you people of Ismerika shall enter it, and strike [that city]

26 IŠ-TU LÚMEŠ ku-en-te-en NAM.RAma MA-H} AR DU[TUŠI ú-u a-t]e-et-ten GUDH} I.A-ma-za UDUH} I.A šu-um-me-eeš [da-a-at-ten]

26 including the men. You shall bring the conquered civil folk before His Majesty; however, [you take] the cattle and the sheep.

27 ma-a-an-kán A-NA URULIM-ma ištar-na 1 ÉTUM u[a-aš-da-a-i] a-pa-a-at É-ir LÚMEŠ-it a-ku SA[G.GEMÉ.ÌRMEŠ

27 If, however, in the midst of a city any house s[ins, th]is house including the men is to die; the servants you shall bring [to His Majesty],

28 ú-ua-te-et-ten GUDH} I.A-ma-za UDUH} I.A šu-me-e-eš d[a-at-ten ma-aan] 1EN LÚ-ma ua-aš-da-a-i n[a-

28 you take, however, the cattle and sheep. [If] any individual person sins, [he alone shall die.

The passage contains two laws that, taken together, remarkably resemble the structure of Deut 13:7–19.15 In §9 of the Ismerika Treaty (lines 21–24), the Hittite king underscores the responsibility of his vassals to show no mercy in the face of sedition. The case is quite specific: it does not refer to a case where the men of Ismerika learn of a seditious plot by a certain individual (a case taken up in the final line of the passage, line 28). Rather, it refers to a case where an Ismerikan is directly approached by an individual who utters seditious words. There is an evident progression in the identity of this individual from lines 21–22 to line 23. Lines 21– 22 suggest that the reproach is all-inclusive: the men of Ismerika must show no mercy regardless of the inciter’s class—whether a “border lord” or a “commoner”— or of his ethnicity—whether a Hittite or a Kizzuwatner. The list reaches its apex, however, in line 23. Here the vassal men are warned that they must show no mercy even if the agitator is of “his people, his own father, his mother, his brother, his sister or his son, [his] relative by marriage [.]” The phrase “his people” followed by an enumeration of five relatives, each inflected with the third person pronominal suffix his, is well understood. The Hittite king realizes that a subject ally, like the men of Ismerika, may be prepared to be a faithful ally when it comes to the insurgent deeds of Hittites or Kizzuwatners. But they will be sorely tested if the seditious words are uttered by their own kind, even their own kin, and hence the list builds toward those who will provide the vassal men with their greatest test. The law is unequivocal; they are not to be “concealed.”16 15

In this study I refer to the verse numbering of the MT. English translations typically render MT 13:1 as 12:32, and hence, MT 13:2 as 13:1, etc. 16 The Hittite munnai here in line 24 denotes visual concealment, “covering up” and is undone by finger-pointing, or “exposing,” and is distinct from sanna, “keeping silent about.” See


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The passage bears a marked resemblance to Deut 13:7–12. Elsewhere, Deuteronomy attends to a case where an Israelite learns of a heretical deed by another Israelite (17:2–7). As in CTH 133 §9, however, Deuteronomy 13 realizes that a distinct law is necessary for the ultimate test of treaty allegiance: when the Israelite is incited to apostasy by his next of kin and must choose between his Lord and his family. As in CTH 133 line 23, five relatives are listed in Deut 13:7, and as in the Hittite text each term is inflected with a pronominal suffix that underscores the close kinship of the inciter. As in CTH 133, the Israelite is warned not to “conceal” the inciter (wyl( hskt )l).17 While §9 of the Ismerika Treaty addresses one extreme case—where the vassal is incited to sedition by his next of kin—lines 25–26 address another extreme case: where violent action is required to suppress an entire seditious city. Lines 25– 28 address three cases: the seditious city within the land (lines 25–26), the seditious house within a city (lines 27–28a), and the seditious individual (line 28b). Only the first and most extreme of the cases, however, that of the mutinous city, is formulated with an introductory clause: “If in the midst of my country any city sins . . . .” The specter of having to annihilate the entire male population of a city would no doubt be daunting for the subject ally, the men of Ismerika. The Hittite king, therefore, underscores his authority to call for extreme action by asserting his sovereignty over the city, “in the midst of my country.” Although lines 25–28 address three cases of disloyalty that appear to differ in quantity rather than in kind, the treaty differentiates between the action required by the men of Ismerika in the case of an insurgent city and the action required when the sedition is limited to a household or to a lone individual. When the agitation is limited to these latter two, the offenders are “to die,” where the Hittite word ak(k)- implies “being put to death by judicial sentence, be legally executed.”18 By contrast, the rebellious city is to be “smitten, razed” (Hittite kuen-) which never has a juridical connotation and often implies conquest by an enemy.19 The law of the seditious city concludes with directives about how the spoils are to be handled. All of these elements are exhibited in the law of the rebellious city, Deut 13:13– 19. The action required of the Israelites—to annihilate one of their own cities—is so extreme that, like the Hittite king in CTH 133 line 25, the sovereign king Yhwh Jaan Puhvel, Hittite Etymological Dictionary (Berlin/New York: Mouton, 1984–), 6:191, s.v. mun(n)ai. 17 While most expositors have understood that the concealment here means to shelter the apostate, Bernard M. Levinson has argued that the verb here means to condone. See Levinson, “Recovering the Lost Original Meaning of wyl( hskt )lw (Deuteronomy 13:9),” in idem, “Right Chorale,” 145–65; repr. from JBL 115 (1996): 601–20. Either way, it is significant that in Deuteronomy, as in the Hittite treaty, the proscribed behavior is expressed with a verb whose basic meaning is “to conceal.” 18 Puhvel, Hittite Etymological Dictionary, 1:17, s.v. ak(k)-, ek-. 19 Ibid., 4:206–12, s.v. kuen-.

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underscores his sovereignty over the territory that he wishes now to annihilate (13:13): “When you should hear concerning any of your cities, which the Lord has given you to dwell in, saying, ‘evil individuals have gone forth from your midst, etc. . . .’” Just as the treaty of Ismerika differentiates between individual inciters who are punished through judicial procedure and the inhabitants of a seditious city who are attacked, or “smitten,” Deuteronomy exhibits the same dichotomy. The apostate relative of 13:7–12 is put to death through a legal process (13:10–11),20 as is the individual worshiper of foreign gods (17:5–7). Not so, however, the inhabitants of the apostate city. The call to annihilate the city (13:16) using the language of “smiting by sword” (brx ypl . . . hkh)21 is the language of military conquest routinely employed in the accounts of Joshua and Judges.22 As is the case in CTH 133 §10, the Deuteronomic law concludes here by issuing directives concerning booty. The directives in each text reflect the distinct needs of the parties involved. In the treaty of Ismerika, the vassals are told that they may partake of the booty—no doubt, as an incentive for them to carry out the mass annihilation of the male population of the city. In Deuteronomy 13, however, the goods that belonged to the apostates become tainted and are banned (13:16–18).23 Finally, I note the use of the partitive construction tx)b, “one of,” to mean “any of,” in the opening of Deut 13:13. The verse should be translated, “When you hear concerning any of your cities . . . .”24 This reading of the partitive construction 20 Most expositors, ancient and modern, have assumed that vv. 10-11 involve a judicial process. Levinson, however, has argued that v. 10a calls for summary execution (see “‘But You Shall Surely Kill Him’: The Text-Critical and Neo-Assyrian Evidence for MT Deuteronomy 13:10,” in idem, “Right Chorale,” 166–93). 21 In light of Deuteronomy’s call to sack the city completely and set it ablaze (13:16–17), it is interesting to note Puhvel’s comments on the subtleties of the word kuen-, which is used for “smite” in line 26: “Rather than physical massacre of the defeated mass of humanity, it often refers more to a place, thus ‘smite’ not in the sense of ‘strike’ (walh-) or ‘fight’ (zahh-) but rather ‘raze, ruin’ . . . it probably involved a combination of sacking, killing and incendiary reprisals” (Puhvel, Hittite Etymological Dictionary, 4:211). 22 Dion, “Deuteronomy 13,” 165. The language employed here acknowledges the difficulty that the Israelites will face in carrying out this directive. Verse 16 opens with a doubled verb hkh hkt, which connotes an exhortative tone: “You shall surely smite the inhabitants of that town. . . .” The appearance of the doubled root .y.k.n here is unique throughout all of Scripture and attests to the difficulty of the task at hand. 23 In their respective studies of Deuteronomy 13, both Dion (“Deuteronomy 13,” 201) and Koch (Vertrag, Treueid und Bund, 164–65) note that the call to annihilate an entire city is found both in CTH 133 lines 25–26 and in Deut 13:13–19. Neither, however, attends to any of the particular similarities enumerated here. 24 On the partitive construction connotation of tx)b to mean “any of,” see Joüon-Muraoka, 2:513; and Waltke and O’Connor, IBHS, 252 example 11. For particularly good examples of this phenomenon in Deuteronomy, see 15:7, Kyr(# dx)b Kyx) dx)m Nwyb) Kb hyhy yk (“If there is a needy person among you, one of your kinsmen, in any of your settlements” [NJPS]), and 16:5–6, Kyr(# dx)b xsph t) xbzl lkwt )l (“You are not permitted to slaughter the Passover sacrifice


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in introducing the case of the rebellious city is supported by the context of the previous case. In Deut 13:6–12, the Israelite is told, in effect, that any apostate is to be disciplined, even a relative. Deuteronomy 13:13a, on this reading, conveys the same idea in its language. Any city that spreads apostasy, no matter what its lineage or influence, must be disciplined. This is most likely the implication of CTH 133 line 25a, 1 URULUM : “if in the midst of my country any city sins.”25 Here, too, the context of the previous case lends support to such a reading. In lines 22–24, the men of Ismerika were told, in effect, that any seditious individual had to be disciplined, “be he a border lord, a commoner, a Hittite or a Kizzuwatner,” or a relative. In §10, the language of “1” impresses upon the vassal that any seditious city must be disciplined.26 While each of the parallels noted between the sedition clauses of §§9–10 of CTH 133 and the apostasy clauses of Deut 13:7–19 is impressive in its own right, what is striking about the two passages is their identical structure. That both treaties address the challenge of seditious relatives is, in and of itself, unremarkable. Indeed, later Neo-Assyrian treaties did as well, as we shall see shortly. What is striking about what we have seen so far is the overall structure of each passage. Each moves from clauses that address seditious relatives (CTH 133 lines 21–24; Deut 13:7–12), to clauses that address the sedition or apostasy of large populations (CTH 133 lines 25–26; Deut 13:13–19). As mentioned, the consensus of scholarship points to the sedition clauses of VTE as the inspiration for Deuteronomy 13. We may now revisit that claim in light of our analysis of CTH 133. The key section of the Neo-Assyrian treaty, §10, is contained in lines 108–22:27 šumma abutu lā tiābtu lā de 'iqtu lā banītu ša ina muh} h} i Aššur-bāni-apli mar'i šarri rabi’i ša bēt ridûti mar'i Aššur-ah} u-iddina šar māt Aššur bēlīkunu lā tarsiātūni lā tiābātūni lū ina pī nak(i)rīšu lū ina pī salmīšu

You shall not hear or conceal any evil, improper, ugly word which is not seemly nor good to Ashurbanipal, the great crown, prince designate, son of Esarhaddon, king of Assyria, your lord, either from the mouth of his enemy or from the mouth of his ally,

in any of the settlements [that the Lord your God is giving] you” [NJPS]). Such a partitive construction is exhibited also in Akkadian, in usages of the clause ištēn ina. See CAD 7:276. 25 This contra Beckman, who translates here, “If within the land a single city commits an offense, you [men] of the land of Ismerika will intervene . . . ,” and subsequently “a single household” in line 27 and “a single man” in line 28. Although technically, the cipher “1” means “one”, it would seem that the Hittite king mandates the punishment of any offender in each case and not “a single” one. 26 My heartfelt thanks to Yitzhaq Feder for working through this with me. 27 The text and translation are taken from Levinson, “Right Chorale,” 186; see there n. 50 for Levinson’s explanation of how his translation and rendering of the text relate to previous editions.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 130, no. 1 (2011) lū ina pī ah}h} ēšu ah} h} ē abbēšu mar 'ē ah} h} ē abbēšu qinnīšu zar 'i bēt abīšu lū ina pī ah} h} ēkunu

or from the mouth of his brothers, his uncles, his cousins his family, members of his father’s line, or from the mouth of your brothers, mar'ēkunu mar'ātēkunu lū ina pī raggime your sons, your daughters, or from the mouth of a prophet mah} h} ē mār šā 'ili amāt ili an ecstatic, a diviner lū ina (pī) naph} ar sialmāt qaqqadi mal bašû or from the mouth of any human being who exists tašammâni tupazzarāni lā tallakāninni ana Aššur-bāni-apli mar 'i You shall come and report (it) to Ashurbanipal, šarri rabi 'i the great crown prince ša bēt ridûti mar 'i Aššur ah} u-iddina šar designate, son of Esarhaddon, king of māt Aššur Assyria. lā taqabbâni

On one account we may indeed see how this section more closely resembles the laws of Deuteronomy 13 than do §§9–10 of the Ismerika Treaty. The reference to sedition from the mouth of “a prophet, an ecstatic, a diviner” (lines 116–17) parallels Deuteronomy’s call to redress a heretic prophet or dreamer (13:2)—a parallel to which we shall return later. In every other regard, however, we may see how CTH 133 §§9–10 more closely resembles Deuteronomy 13 than does §10 of VTE. It is immediately clear that the laws of the apostate city of Deut 13:13–19 have no parallel in this Neo-Assyrian text. Important differences, however, between VTE §10 and Deut 13:7–12 are evident concerning the responsibility to discipline individual acts of sedition. As Bernard Levinson has argued, the family members referred to in lines 115–16 are but one group in a progression that reaches its apex with an all inclusive formulation: lū ina (pī) naph} ar salmāt i qaqqadi mala bašû, “or, from the mouth of any human being who exists.”28 In contrast, Levinson observes, Deut 13:7–12 sharpens and extends the family focus of the law, thereby addressing the special challenge posed by the vassal’s innate loyalty to his own kin. The contrast that Levinson draws between Deut 13:7–12 and VTE §10 can help us appreciate the similarity between those verses in Deuteronomy and the laws of CTH 133 §9. There, too, as in Deuteronomy, the laws are formulated with a focus on family members and the special challenge to the vassal posed by loyalty to his own kin.29

28 Levinson, “Right Chorale,” 141. The same is true with regard to the place of family members in the sedition clauses of the Zakutu treaty. See ibid. 29 Deuteronomy 13:7 extends the list of intimate apostates to include friends or acquaintances. While neither CTH 133 §9, nor VTE §10 refers to seditious acquaintances, the concern about such friends appears in other treaties in both the Hittite and Neo-Assyrian traditions. See Koch, Vertrag, Treueid und Bund, 154–55.


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A final semantic point of departure between VTE §10, on the one hand, and the sedition clauses of CTH 133 and Deut 13:7–12, on the other, concerns the object that the vassal is prohibited from concealing. In VTE §10, the vassal may not conceal “any evil, improper, ugly word.” By contrast, in both CTH 133 line 24 and Deut 13:9, it is the inciter himself whom the addressee may not conceal.30 A parallel to the law of the apostate city is often drawn from the third stele of the Sefire treaty (III.12–13), an Aramaic Northwest Semitic treaty of the mid-eighth century B.C.E. Yet examination of that source in light of CTH 133 again shows the Hittite treaty to be the more similar to the law in Deuteronomy 13. In §4 of the Sefire treaty, the sovereign stipulates that if he or his offspring are assassinated, the vassal is to avenge the slaying (III.9b–12). If the deed was carried out by an entire city, then the city is to be punished by the sword.31 Unlike CTH 133 §10 and Deut 13:13–19, there is no discussion in this section of the Sefire treaty of what to do with the booty. More significantly, the case itself differs fundamentally. In both CTH 133 §10 and in Deut 13:13–19, a city is to be annihilated merely for the crime of sedition, or, in the case of Deuteronomy, apostasy. In the Sefire treaty, however, only vengeance for a city complicit in a royal assassination warrants such action. The Sefire treaty makes no provision for the collective punishment of a city suspected of sedition, as do CTH 133 and Deuteronomy 13.

II. Yhwh’s Kingship: Hittite or Neo-Assyrian? In assessing whether Deuteronomy 13 more closely resembles Hittite vassal treaties or Neo-Assyrian ones, I have focused thus far on the content of the laws and to, an even greater degree, on their form. But the respective vassal treaties under 30 An additional subtlety exists that likewise distinguishes between the Hittite and biblical laws, on the one hand, under study here and the stipulations from VTE, on the other. In both CTH 133 line 21 and in Deut 13:7 the addressee is someone who has unambiguously been approached by an inciter. Thus, in CTH 133 line 21, “If anyone [ut]ters a malicious word before you . . . .” Similarly, in Deut 13:7, “When your brother . . . incites you . . . .” VTE §10, however, is ambiguous, and does not state in the same certain terms that the addressee is called to act because he has been directly approached. The section may be read as an expression of the Assyrian king’s desire to enlist the vassal regardless of whether he was directly the target of sedition by an agitator, or whether he simply caught wind of a rumor. My thanks to Bernard Levinson for clarifying this point. Cf. VTE §12 (lines 130–46), where it is clear that the vassal has been directly approached by the agitator. 31 By all accounts, the inscription here reads brxb hwpt hkn )h hyrq Nhw. Some, however, wish to amend hwpt to hwkt, thus rendering a doubled verb and generating a close parallel to the language of Deut 13:16, brx ypl )yhh ry(h yb#y t) hkt hkh (Nelson, Deuteronomy, 173 n. 12; Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School [Oxford: Clarendon, 1972], 99). However, the issue is far from clear, as many authorities insist on retaining the inscription as is. Moreover, the verb form of hwkt is puzzling. See discussion in Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Aramaic Inscriptions of Sefire (rev. ed.; BibOr 19A; Rome: Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 1995), 153.

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study here also reflect distinct ideologies about the nature of the relationship between a sovereign and his vassal. Highlighting these differences will enable us to see how the sovereign–vassal relationship envisioned in Deuteronomy 13 resembles the relationship of the Hittite king to his vassal more closely than the relationship of the Neo-Assyrian king to his. Hittite vassalage was routinely a process of self-subjugation on the part of the vassal. Autonomous rulers would approach the Hittite king and request his patronage or deliverance in exchange for their fealty as subordinates.32 Vassalage in this context represents a debt of gratitude. We universally find in these treaties that the Hittite king first acts on behalf of the subordinate and is then later repaid through the fealty that the subordinate owes according to the terms of the suzerainty treaty. For the Hittite king, vassalage represents an opportunity to use his political capital to build an amicable relationship with a loyal subordinate on favorable terms. This basic definition of the relationship between sovereign and vassal is reflected in some of the cardinal elements that are unique to the Late Bronze Hittite selfsubjugation treaty. These treaties typically open with a historical prologue, in which the Hittite king establishes the moral and legal obligation on the part of the subordinate for the favor bestowed upon him by the sovereign.33 As a party to a bilateral, if not equal, relationship, the Hittite king would be obligated to come to the aid of his vassal when necessary. In the Hittite treaties, expressions of affection from the sovereign to the vassal complement the demand that the vassal show love and devotion toward the Hittite sovereign. Thus, a Hittite king says to his vassal: “I shall not reject you, I shall make you my son.”34 The treaties routinely included blessings that were to be bestowed on the vassal for his loyalty. By contrast, Neo-Assyrian vassalage was fundamentally a relationship of dominion. In all cases it involved the surrender of the vassal in the wake of conquest or intimidation and an annexation of his territory, often followed by large-scale deportations.35 The Assyrian emperor viewed himself as the divinely chosen king of the universe. His rule over the vassal required no further justification, and thus Neo-Assyrian treaties make no record of the emperor’s gracious deeds on behalf of the vassal.36 Nor do Neo-Assyrian treaties record any obligation on the part of the 32 See Amnon Altman, The Historical Prologue of the Hittite Vassal Treaties: An Inquiry into the Concepts of Hittite Interstate Law (Bar-Ilan Studies in Near Eastern Languages and Culture; Ramat Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 2004), 132–38. 33 Ibid., 27; Mendenhall and Herion, “Covenant,” 1181. 34 See E. F. Weidner, Politische Dokumente aus Kleinasien: Die Staatsverträge in akkadischer Sprache aus dem Archiv von Boghazköi (2 vols.; Boghazköi-Studien 8–9; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1923), 40, no. 2: obv. 24. The passage quoted is translated in Moshe Weinfeld, “Covenant Making in Anatolia and Mesopotamia,” JANES 22 (1993): 136. 35Simo Parpola, “Neo-Assyrian Treaties from the Royal Archives of Nineveh,” JCS 39 (1987): 161 n. 3; Levinson, “Right Chorale,” 186. 36 Weinfeld, “Covenant Making,” 136.


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sovereign to come to the aid of the vassal, reflect any amity or affection toward him, or offer any blessings for loyal conduct. Curse lists are far longer in the NeoAssyrian treaties than they are in the Hittite ones and are designed to terrorize vassals who would dare to rebel.37 This fundamental distinction sheds light on the laws of Deuteronomy 13. Verses 6 and 11 explain the logic of Israelite vassalage to Yhwh. Vassalage is mandated not because Yhwh is the sovereign of the universe but because of the gracious deed that he bestowed on the Israelites in their hour of need: the exodus from Egypt. The rationale for Israel’s vassalage to Yhwh as a debt of gratitude is entirely in keeping with the Hittite treaty tradition, but foreign to the Neo-Assyrian tradition. In like fashion, Yhwh offers compassion and bounty to his vassal, Israel, should they follow the difficult dictates concerning the apostate city (13:18). This, too, is in consonance with the Hittite tradition of rewarding the loyal vassal but at odds with the Neo-Assyrian tradition, where subservience is taken for granted. The relatively amicable nature of the Hittite vassal alliance may explain an additional element of the laws of Deuteronomy 13. When rumor surfaces that a city has apostatized, the law of v. 15 requires that due process be carried out before action is taken (13:15–16): “You shall investigate and inquire and interrogate thoroughly. If it is true, the fact is established—that abhorrent thing was perpetrated in your midst—put the inhabitants of that town to the sword.” That due process should be carried out when a vassal is suspected of sedition is likewise found in the Hittite treaty literature. In CTH 106, the treaty between Hattusili III of Hatti and UlmiTeshup of Tarhuntassa, the Hittite sovereign promises the vassal that, upon the latter’s demise, he will see to it that the vassal’s son inherits his throne, and his grandson after him. Having demonstrated his commitment to the vassal, the Hittite sovereign then says, “if any son or grandson of yours commits an offense, then the king of Hatti shall question him. And if offense remains for him [i.e., if he is found guilty—J.B.], the king of Hatti shall treat him as he pleases.”38 The expression “the king of Hatti shall question him” is, in the original, pu-nu-uš-du. The transitive verb punušš- means both “1) to ask, question, consult (with person asked or questioned in accordance) and 2) to investigate, ask about (w. the object of inquiry),”39 with the same multiple functions of the Hebrew root for inquire in v. 15, .l.).#. Although Neo-Assyrian literature generally also knows of terms of due process similar to those found in Deuteronomy,40 they are entirely absent from the corpus 37

Ibid., 135–36. Treaty between Hattusili III of Hatti and Ulmi-Teshup of Tarhuntassa, §1 (obv. 7–14) (= KBo IV 10 vs. 9). The translation is mine, in consultation with Beckman (Hittite Diplomatic Texts, 109). 39 Hans G. Güterbock and Harry A. Hoffner, Jr., eds., The Hittite Dictionary of the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago (Chicago: Oriental Institute, 1980–), vol. P, 377–81. 40 See examples from Neo-Assyrian letters and other literature of the period in Dion, “Deuteronomy 13,” 202. 38

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of vassal treaties from the Neo-Assyrian period. The relative amity that infuses the Hittite relationship between sovereign and vassal may explain the Hittite king’s willingness to engage in due process in CTH 106. The Hittite sovereign will not tolerate seditious acts on the part of his vassal. At the same time, he seeks to foster a positive relationship with him. It is worth his effort, therefore, to investigate fully the rumor of sedition before taking action that will strain and perhaps even sever that relationship. By contrast, the political logic that girds the Neo-Assyrian treaties is the motivation of fear and intimidation. Because the sovereign seeks to intimidate the vassal rather than to ally with him, the Neo-Assyrian treaty has no room in its political calculus for the principle of “innocent until proven guilty.” Deuteronomy’s call for due process in the face of a suspicion of apostasy is well understood. Both in the case of the apostate city (13:13–19) and in the case where an individual is suspected of apostasy (17:4), the law calls for an investigation. Yhwh will not tolerate infidelity, but he seeks an amicable bond with his vassal Israel and thus sanctions punitive measures only when the party’s guilt has been fully established. As noted, one reason that scholars have been attracted to the proposition that Deuteronomy 13 draws from Neo-Assyrian influence is that the openness to such influence can be well explained. In patterning the laws of apostasy after the NeoAssyrian sedition stipulations, the claim is made, the scribes of Judah were polemically turning an Assyrian form against their oppressors by asserting the imperialism of Yhwh over the imperialism of the Assyrian king. But the evidence marshaled here suggests that in Deuteronomy 13 Yhwh does not conduct himself with his vassal Israel in the manner of a Neo-Assyrian despot. It seems, rather, that the laws of sedition in Deuteronomy reflect a Hittite tradition (or some refraction of it) of a more amicable model of vassalage that served as a useful metaphor to adumbrate the dynamics of the Yhwh–Israel covenant. A final note of distinct convergence between Deuteronomy 13 and the sedition clauses of the Hittite treaties is evident in the employment of a particular rhetorical tool in the protasis of each of the three laws of ch. 13. In each, Deuteronomy “scripts” the encounter between the apostate inciter and his intended audience; the reader of the law hears the apostate’s words: “Let us go and worship after foreign gods, whom you have not known” (13:14 and, with slight variation, 13:2, 7). The scripting of the encounter, with the apostate employing exhortative language is highly reminiscent of the warnings found in the Hittite Instructions for Functionaries, which are closely related to the treaties in both form and content: “If a noble, a prince, or a relative . . . brings up seditious words . . . (saying) ‘Come, let us join another (king),’ but the one to whom it is said does not denounce him, that one will be under oath” (§16).41 VTE also “scripts” the encounter between a seditious 41 For the text and a German translation, see Einar von Schuler, Hethitische Dienstanweisungen für höhere Hof- und Staatsbeamte: Ein Beitrag zum antiken Recht Kleinasiens (Archiv


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agitator and the vassal. Esarhaddon warns the vassal that if anyone “involves you in a plot, saying to you: ‘Malign Assurbanipal, the great crown prince designate . . .’” (VTE line 323).42 Note, however, that in Deuteronomy 13 and in the Hittite Instructions for Functionaries the seditious remarks are quite similar—a call to the loyal servant to switch allegiances—whereas in VTE line 323 the rebellious speech concerns an assassination plot against the heir apparent. Moreover, the scripted speech of the inciter in Deut 13:2, 7, and 14 opens with the exhortative “let us go and . . . ,” as does that of the agitator in the Hittite text. As noted, Deuteronomy 13 is often understood as reflective of a Neo-Assyrian milieu in light of the many terms that it employs that are paralleled in the treaty literature of that period. However, examination reveals that many of these same terms are found already in Hittite treaties or in other Late Bronze Age works. In VTE lines 266–68, Esarhaddon demands that the vassal “love” Ashurbanipal, as an expression of political loyalty (cf. Deut 13:4). Yet the same sentiment is found in the Hittite Military Instructions: “Just as you love your wives, your children, and your houses, so you shall love the king’s business” (lines 30–31).43 In VTE, the vassal is told to support the Assyrian king “wholeheartedly” (VTE line 152; cf. Deut 13:4, with reference to Yhwh).44 The same term, however, is found in CTH 68, the treaty between Mursili II of Hatti and Kupanta-Kurunta of Mira-Kuwaliya. There the vassal is commanded, “You shall not commit evil against My Majesty. This matter shall be taken to your heart. Take it to your heart today!” (§20 [D iv 19’–34’]).45 In line 20 of the Neo-Assyrian Zakutu treaty, the vassal is warned, “If you hear and know that there are men instigating armed rebellion or fomenting conspiracy für Orientforschung Beiheft 10; Graz: Archiv für Orientforschung, 1957), 26; see also p. 14, §§ 24– 25 and discussion in Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School, 94. On the relationship between the Instructions for Functionaries and the treaties, see A. Goetze, “State and Society of the Hittites,” in Neuere Hethiterforschung (ed. Gerold Walser; Historia: Zeitschrift für alte Geschichte, Einzelschriften 7; Wiesbaden: F. Steiner, 1964), 32–33; and von Schuler, Hethitische Dienstanweisungen, 45–49. 42 The translation is that of Parpola and Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths, 42; cf. lines 333, 341, 365. 43 For the text, see S. Alp, “Military Instructions of the Hittite King Tuthaliya IV,” Belleten 11 (1947): 392. The English translation here is taken from Moshe Weinfeld, “The Loyalty Oath in the Ancient Near East,” UF 8 (1976): 383. According to Weinfeld (n. 28), the key Hittite term here is genzu harteni and is equivalent to Akkadian rêmu. Cf. Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School, 97. The term “love” as a political term is attested also in the Mari texts and the Amarna letters. See William L. Moran, “The Ancient Near Eastern Background of the Love of God in Deuteronomy,” CBQ 25 (1963): 77–87. 44 Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School, 96. 45 Translated in Beckman, Hittite Diplomatic Texts, 79. Further instances where the Hittite vassal is told to fight for his sovereign with a whole heart (Akk. ina kul libbišu) are cited in Frankena, “Vassal-Treaties of Esarhaddon,” 141.

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in your midst . . . .”46 The adverbial phrase “in your midst” (ina birtukkunu) corresponds to the phrase Kbrqb/Kbrqm, “in/from your midst” (Deut 13:2, 6, 12, 14, 15), and refers to the place of the sedition.47 Yet Hittite ištarna functions much the same way as does biblical brqb, signifying “among, in the midst.”48 Indeed, in the same way that Deuteronomy 13 describes the apostate emerging from within “your midst” (vv. 2, 13), §10 of the Ismerika Treaty reads: “If in the midst of my country a city sins, then you people of Ismerika shall enter it, and strike [that city]” (line 25).49 Finally we return to what may be the only element of Deuteronomy 13 that unambiguously resonates more closely with the language of VTE than with that of any other earlier body of literature. Deuteronomy’s call to discipline an apostate prophet or dreamer (13:2) parallels the call in VTE to report incitement from the mouth of “a prophet, an ecstatic, a diviner” (ina pī raggime mah}h}ē mār šā'ili amāt ili, lines 116–17). It is difficult, however, to discern whether the two laws share enough that is truly distinct in terms of content and form for one to conclude that there is a hereditary relationship between them or that they share a distinctive milieu. Unlike the diviner and dreamer of Deut 13:2–6, the three diviners in lines 116–17 of VTE do not have a law devoted to them alone; rather they are part of larger list of potential agitators. None of the three terms used as appellations of the divinatory practitioners is a cognate of the terms )ybn or Mwlx Mlwx that we find in 13:2. It is unclear as well whether there is anything shared and distinctive in the very content of the laws under scrutiny here. A gulf divides the nature of the divinatory practice in Deut 13:2–6 and the practices spelled out in VTE 116. In Deuteronomy, it is essential that the diviners accurately foretell events (cf. 18:15– 22), an element which has no parallel in the VTE. Despite all these reservations, it must be admitted that apart from Deuteronomy 13:2–6, nowhere in the treaty literature of the ancient Near East do we find a concern that individuals will engage in seditious activity on the basis of noninductive divinatory methods except in VTE 116–17. But as Martti Nissinen points out, the relative lack of treaty documents in our possession makes it difficult to 46 The translation is that of Parpola and Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths, 64. 47 Levinson, “Right Chorale,” 141 n. 81 and 191 n. 58. For Deuteronomy’s use of the root brq, see further Levinson, Deuteronomy and the Hermeneutics of Legal Innovation (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 132–33. 48 On Hittite ištarna, see Puhvel, Hittite Etymological Dictionary, 1–2:478–83. 49 The reason that CTH 133 cannot use the term “your midst” is that this particular treaty is addressed to the subject ally, the Men of Ismerika, who are assisting the Hittites in their domination of the territory of Kizzuwatna. For additional treaty elements in Deuteronomy that are commonly thought to be of Neo-Assyrian origin but, in fact, have second-millennium precursors, see Zehnder, “Building on Stone?” 511–28.


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conclude that this was a concern that was specific to the Neo-Assyrian period.50 To this it may be added that even in the Hittite treaty literature we see that vassals would engage in divinatory practices in order to determine their treaty obligations. In CTH 68, the treaty between Mursili II of Hatti and Kupanta-Kurunta of MiraKuwaliya, the Hittite sovereign instructs his vassal thus: “If the messenger is unable to come and you hear about the matter in advance (of his arrival) [i.e. that someone has revolted against Hatti], do not wait for word from My Majesty. You shall not first take a bird oracle about it. Take charge of infantry and chariotry and be of assistance” (§16 C iii, 12–21).51 To summarize, it is clear that no passage in the treaty literature of the ancient Near East resembles Deut 13:2–6 as closely as does VTE 116–17. Yet, in light of the fact that divinatory practices seem to have influenced vassals during many periods, it is less clear that both derive from a shared milieu during the period of Neo-Assyrian ascendency.52

III. Conclusions The implications of the discussion thus far for the dating of Deuteronomy 13 are far-ranging and need to be assessed in several contexts. One obvious setting is the narrow context of Deuteronomy 13 in comparison with the Hittite and NeoAssyrian treaty traditions. In content, we have seen that Deuteronomy 13 exhibits elements that are found exclusively in Hittite vassal treaties and not in NeoAssyrian ones. These include reference to the beneficence of the sovereign king as the basis for the vassal’s loyalty and the concern for due process when a loyal vassal is suspected of seditious acts. We have seen laws in Deuteronomy 13 whose content more closely matches the stipulations of the Hittite treaties than those of the Neo-Assyrian and other first-millennium treaties. These include the laws of the rebellious city and the specific concern for the vassal’s loyalty when confronted with seditious family members. We also noted rhetorical devices such as the scripting of the rebel’s exhortation to sedition that have stronger parallels in the Hittite treaty tradition than in the Neo-Assyrian one. These findings should not surprise us when we consider the broader context of parallels between biblical covenant passages and the Hittite treaty tradition. There are many aspects of the Hittite treaty tradition that are found in Deuteronomy and elsewhere in the Pentateuch that have no parallel in the Neo-Assyrian tra50

Nissinen, “Prophecy against the King in Neo-Assyrian Sources,” 160. Translated in Beckman, Hittite Diplomatic Texts, 77–78. 52 Pakkala, Intolerant Monolatry, 43. One other element of Deuteronomy 13 that warrants attention is the phrase in v. 6 that the diviner is to be put to death because he hrs rbd—spoke falsely, or rebelliously—concerning Yhwh. The phrase is a cognate of the term dabab surrāte— treacherous, disloyal talk—found in VTE line 502. The phrase, however, has a long history in Assyrian languages and is not a distinctly Neo-Assyrian term. 51

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dition. The historical prologue, with its emphasis on the beneficence of the sovereign as the basis for the loyalty of the subordinate, is a feature exclusive to the Hittite treaties. Blessings are matched with curses only in the Hittite treaties, never in the Neo-Assyrian ones. Instructions for deposition of the treaty and its periodic reading are likewise features found only in the Hittite materials and not in the NeoAssyrian treaty or loyalty oath texts. Moreover, promises made by the sovereign king to the vassal and expressions of affection toward him—elements so cardinal in the Pentateuch’s portrayal of God’s disposition to Israel—are found only in the Hittite treaties, never in the Neo-Assyrian ones.53 Deuteronomy 13, however, is but a chapter of the larger composition that is Deuteronomy, and a case can be made that the epigraphic finds discussed thus far need to be seen in the context of ancient parallels to other parts of the book, particularly the curse lists of ch. 28. Yet even if we adopt the position that Deuteronomy 28 offers extensive evidence of Neo-Assyrian influence,54 that argument can go only so far in terms of contributing to the present discussion—the dating of Deuteronomy 13. I noted that many of the stock phrases found both in the NeoAssyrian treaty tradition, particularly in VTE, and in Deuteronomy 13 are actually found earlier in the Hittite treaty tradition or in other second-millennium sources. On the strength of the Neo-Assyrian influence posited in other passages of Deuteronomy, one could argue that such terms in Deuteronomy 13 should be understood in that light. But one could just as well argue that in light of the Hittite influence evident in the laws of this very chapter, and in light of the parallels exhibited elsewhere between covenant passages and the Hittite treaty tradition, such terms should be understood in that light. Perhaps the most judicious conclusion to 53 See K. A. Kitchen, On the Reliability of the Old Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 283–94; and more broadly throughout Weeks, Admonition and Curse. See also discussions in Hayim Tadmor, “Treaty and Oath in the Ancient Near East: A Historian’s Approach,” in Humanizing America’s Iconic Book: Society of Biblical Literature Centennial Addresses 1980 (ed. Gene M. Tucker and Douglas A. Knight; SBLBSNA 6; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1982), 142–52; Mendenhall and Herion, “Covenant,” 1179–1202; Weinfeld, “Covenant Making,” 135–39. 54 Hans Ulrich Steymans, Deuteronomium 28 und die adê zur Thronfolgeregelung Asarhaddons: Segen und Fluch im Alten Orient und in Israel (OBO 145; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995). Of the twenty-five curse paragraphs in Deuteronomy 28, six have parallels found only in Neo-Assyrian materials. Many scholars see this as evidence that these curses were incorporated into Deuteronomy by seventh-century Judean scribes (e.g., Nelson, Deuteronomy, 326; Koch, Vertrag, Treueid und Bund, 203–32). Yet twelve of Deuteronomy’s twenty-five curses have parallels in second-millennium texts but have no parallels in Neo-Assyrian materials. Moreover, examination of some of the curses that are shared by Deuteronomy 28 and several treaty traditions, including Neo-Assyrian ones, reveals that Deuteronomy’s formulations are closer to those of second-millennium curse lists than to those of VTE. Thus, some scholars conclude that both Deuteronomy and VTE draw from a long-standing common pool of curse formulations and themes that are adapted to the needs of the moment. See, e.g., Kitchen, On the Reliability of the Old Testament, 291–94; Zehnder, “Building on Stone?” 529–33.


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be reached about such terms is that, in light of the bodies of evidence on both sides, their provenance cannot be definitively determined. The claims of Neo-Assyrian influence on other parts of Deuteronomy, however, should not be marshaled to counter the central thesis articulated here: that the apostasy laws of Deuteronomy 13 more closely resemble the sedition laws of the Hittite treaty tradition than of the Neo-Assyrian one in many features of form and content. It is not credible to claim that the similarities between Deuteronomy 13 and the Hittite treaties are entirely coincidental, and that the author of Deuteronomy had access only to the Neo-Assyrian treaties. Only the concern that divination could be employed for seditious purposes stands out as an element common to VTE and to Deuteronomy but absent from the earlier traditions. Less clear, though, is whether the evidence is strong enough to mandate a temporal connection between them, or whether, simply, shared concerns are seen here to arise independently at different times in different places. The overwhelming preponderance of evidence, however, suggests a Late Bronze Age Hittite background for Deuteronomy 13 rather than a Neo-Assyrian one. Another context in which to consider the findings reported here is our knowledge of Israel’s interaction with surrounding cultures at different stages in ancient Near Eastern history. One of the attractive points for scholars of reading Deuteronomy 13 in a Neo-Assyrian context has been the fact that the history of the period— particularly Judah’s vassalage to the Neo-Assyrian emperor—stands out for us in high resolution, in both biblical and epigraphic sources. This has enabled scholars to read the history we know into the text of Deuteronomy 13 and, in turn, to mine the text of this chapter for a better understanding of the vassal–sovereign relationship of that period. By contrast, no such resolution exists for our understanding of the origins and nature of Hittite–Israelite interaction. We know that Late Bronze Age Hittite military campaigns never ventured farther south than Damascus. We also know that a generous exchange of diplomats, artists, and experts united the Hittite and Egyptian empires during the thirteenth century B.C.E. At what point Hittite culture interacted with Israelite culture and through what mechanism remain issues more of conjecture than of debate.55 The lack of a clear historical picture, however, should not dissuade us from acknowledging the strong resemblance between the apostasy laws of Deuteronomy 13 and the sedition stipulations of the Hittite treaties. Rather,

55

See recent appraisals in Harry A. Hoffner, “Ancient Israel’s Literary Heritage Compared with Hittite Textual Data,” in The Future of Biblical Archaeology: Reassessing Methodologies and Assumptions. Proceedings of a Symposium, August 12–14, 2001 at Trinity International University (ed. James K. Hoffmeier and Alan Millard; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), 172–82; Itamar Singer, “The Hittites and the Bible Revisited,” in “I Will Speak the Riddles of Ancient Times”: Archaeological and Historical Studies in Honor of Amihai Mazar on the Occasion of His Sixtieth Birthday (ed. Aren M. Maeir and Pierre de Miroschedji; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2004), 753–54.

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this resemblance should deepen our growing awareness, in the words of Harry Hoffner, that “there remain far too many points of similarity—especially in legal, ritual, and cult matters—between Hittite culture and the Bible for us to dismiss them as coincidental or accidental.”56 A final consideration surrounding the dating of Deuteronomy 13 is the bedeviling reality that, while state vassalage was practiced throughout the second and first millennia, written vassal treaties are extant nearly exclusively from the Late Bronze Hittite and Neo-Assyrian periods. It may be that this reflects merely the luck of the spade, and that in due time we will unearth more treaties from other periods and locales. If so, then the laws of Deuteronomy 13 may represent a highly refracted reworking of a tradition that we witness today only in Hittite material. It is telling, however, that we possess not a single vassal treaty from the Roman Empire, nor from the Amarna period in Egypt, periods in which we know that vassalage was practiced, and from which the literary remains are extensive. This suggests that, although vassalage was pervasive throughout the ancient world, the composition of formal treaties may not have been. This leaves open the question of how ancient Hittite forms became reflected in biblical accounts of the covenant between Israel and Yhwh.57 Although the mechanism and the timing are unclear, the evidence of correlation between the apostasy laws of Deuteronomy 13 and the sedition laws of the Hittite empire should lead us to revise the long-held view that Deuteronomy 13 is a deliberate imitation of Neo-Assyrian forms. 56 Harry A. Hoffner, Jr., “Hittite-Israel Cultural parallels,” COS 3:xxxiv. On points of intersection between Hittite culture and the Bible, see Hoffner, “Ancient Israel’s Literary Heritage,” 172–92; Singer, “Hittites and the Bible Revisited,” 723–56. 57 See the discussion in Weeks, Admonition and Curse, 6–10.

JBL 130, no. 1 (2011): 45

A Rejoinder concerning 1 Samuel 1:11 shalom m. paul [email protected] Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Mt. Scopus, Jerusalem 91905, Israel

Michael Carasik, in his article “Why Did Hannah Ask for ‘Seed of Men’?” (JBL 129, no. 3 [2010]: 433–36), refers to the expression My#n) (rz in 1 Sam 1:11 as “difficult . . . an artifact” (p. 435) and as an “absurd phrase” (p. 436), which leads him to conclude that it served as “a kind of Tiqqun Soferim” for the original Myhl) (rz. I would like to note here that the phrase is none of the above since it has clear-cut semantic and philological analogues in Hebrew, Aramaic, and Akkadian, all referring to human offspring—analogues that heretofore have not been cited in biblical commentaries. In Hebrew, one can call attention to Jer 31:27, Md) (rz, in the context of the future procreation of humankind; in Aramaic, to Dan 2:43, )#n) (rz, referring there to interdynastic marriage. In particular, examples can be cited from Mesopotamian literature, where the expression zēr amīlūti (= My#n) (rz) appears with the explicit meaning of a “child/human being”: “May she [the goddess] Nintu . . . not allow a child to be born among his people” (Code of Hammurabi LI:48);1 “Aruru helped him [Marduk] to create every human being” (CT 13, 36:20–21;2 cf. 16, 20:943); “Adapa, a human being” (Proceedings of the Society of Biblical Archaeology 16, 275:12);4 “No human being must see him” (ABL 128:10).5 Note that the expression spans the literary gamut, from Old Babylonian to Neo-Assyrian times. Thus, in light of all the above, the phrase in 1 Sam 1:11 can be interpreted conclusively as Hannah’s profound prayer to be blessed with a mortal offspring. 1 Martha T. Roth, Law Collections from Mesopotamia and Asia Minor (SBLWAW 6; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995), 139. 2 Leonard W. King, Cuneiform Texts from Babylonian Tablets in the British Museum 13 (London: Trustees of the British Museum, 1901). 3 Reginald C. Thompson, Cuneiform Texts from Babylonian Tablets in the British Museum 16 and 17 (London: Trustees of the British Museum, 1903). 4 Proceedings of the Society of Biblical Archaeology (London: Society of Biblical Archaeology, 1888–98). 5 Robert F. Harper, Assyrian and Babylonian Letters Belonging to the Kouyunjik Collections of the British Museum (14 vols.; London/Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1892–1914).

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JBL 130, no. 1 (2011): 47–62

The “Discovered Book” and the Legitimation of Josiah’s Reform nadav na’aman

[email protected] Tel Aviv University, Ramat Aviv, Tel Aviv, 69978, Israel

The story of the book (or scroll) discovered in the course of the temple restoration at Jerusalem holds a central place in the description of Josiah’s reform (2 Kings 22–23). In a dissertation written in 1805, W. M. L. de Wette identified the “Book of the Law” as the Book of Deuteronomy and pointed out the close correspondence between the Deuteronomic laws and the cultic reform carried out by Josiah. He therefore argued that the “discovered” scroll had been composed not long before its “discovery.”1 Following his suggestion, an enormous amount of literature was dedicated to the analysis of the episode and its historical significance. The seventhcentury date established by de Wette for the “Book of the Law” (Deuteronomy) was accepted by the majority of scholars, who considered the “discovery” a manipulation to push forward the execution of the reform.2 The scope of the “discovered” scroll is hotly disputed today, but the term “Book of the Law” must have referred

1 Wilhelm Martin Leberecht de Wette, Beiträge zur Einleitung in das Alte Testament (2 vols.; Halle: Schimmelpfennig, 1806, 1807), 1:168–79 (repr., Hildesheim/New York: G. Olms, 1971). De Wette’s dissertation (published in Jena 1805) was not available to me. 2 Scholars who dated the Auffindungsbericht to the exilic or postexilic period dismissed the historicity of the story related in 2 Kings 22 and its significance for the dating of the book of Deuteronomy. See Gustav Hölscher, “Das Buch der Könige, seine Quellen und seine Redaktion,” in Eucharistērion: Studien zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments. Hermann Gunkel zum 60. Geburtstag dem 23. Mai 1922 (ed. Hans Schmidt; 2 vols.; FRLANT 36; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1923), 1:206–13; Ernst Würthwein, “Die josianische Reform und das Deuteronomium,” ZTK 73 (1976): 395–423; Christoph Levin, “Joschija im deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerk,” ZAW 96 (1984): 351–71; Lowell K. Handy, “The Role of Huldah in Josiah’s Cult Reform,” ZAW 106 (1994): 46–52; cf. Lewis Bayles Paton, “The Case for the Post-Exilic Origin of Deuteronomy,” JBL 47 (1928): 322–57.

47

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to a pre-Deuteronomic early work, the so-called Urdeuteronomium.3 Recently, however, Katherine Stott has argued that the “Book of the Law” never actually existed outside the pages of the book of Kings, and that its mention is a literary stratagem to bolster the credibility of the story within its literary context.4 Was the “discovered” scroll a virtual work, with no such document in fact existing? Stott presents three Hellenistic and Roman episodes that relate how authors who tried to give credibility to their innovative historical works invoked ostensibly “discovered” old works on whose evidence their innovations rested.5 Yet how does Stott know that the three “discovered” books were virtual artifacts? After all, an author who claims to have discovered an unknown ancient source that contradicts the currently known evidence might expect the request to present it for examination by experts, and would naturally prepare a copy of the “discovered” text. The majority of scrolls, tablets, and books “discovered” in antiquity were real artifacts that were presented to the audience.6 Stott’s suggestion that the three “discovered” sources are in fact artifacts that never existed is no more than guesswork. Further, the legitimation of a historical book is quite different from that of a historical event. The story of Josiah’s reform relates how the “book” was discovered, presented to the king, and later read in public. The story mentions the “book” eleven times, under different names (2 Kgs 22:8, 10, 11, 13, 16; 23:2, 3, 21, 24). The narrator’s emphasis on the reality of the scroll as the force that moved forward the sequence of events and its decisive role in the legitimation of the cult reform is in marked contrast to the suggestion that the book was a virtual artifact. History is replete with episodes that can serve as analogies to almost any possible theory; the presentation of analogy in itself does not prove anything. Stott brings no evidence that proves the relevance of the three Hellenistic and Roman episodes she presents for analyzing the account of Josiah’s reform. Hence, we may dismiss her claim, tak-

3 Some scholars dismissed the identification of the “Book of the Law” with Deuteronomy and suggested other identifications. See Jack R. Lundbom, “The Lawbook of the Josianic Reform,” CBQ 38 (1978): 293–302; Eleonore Reuter, Kultzentralisation: Entstehung und Theologie von Dtn 12 (BBB 87; Frankfurt am Main: Anton Hain, 1993), 213–62. For earlier suggestions, see Paton, “Case for the Post-Exilic Origin” 340–41. 4 Stott, “Finding the Lost Book of the Law: Re-reading the Story of ‘the Book of the Law’ (Deuteronomy–2 Kings) in Light of Classical Literature,” JSOT 30 (2005): 153–69. 5 Ibid., 161–65. 6 Wolfgang Speyer, Bücherfunde in der Glaubenswerbung der Antike: Mit einem Ausblick auf Mittelalter und Neuzeit (Hypomnemata 24; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1970); Bernard Jörg Diebner and Claudia Nauerth, “Die Inventio des spr htwrh in 2 Kön 22: Struktur, Intention und Funktion von Auffindungslegenden,” DBAT 18 (1984): 95–118; Arthur J. Droge, “‘The Lying Pen of the Scribes’: Of Holy Books and Pious Fraud,” Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 15 (2003): 128–34. See also the series of articles in Pseudepigraphie in der heidnischen und jüdischchristlichen Antike (ed. Norbert Brox; Wege der Forschung 484; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1977).

Na’aman: The “Discovered Book” and Josiah’s Reform

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ing as a point of departure for this discussion the commonly held assumption that the “discovered” scroll was a real artifact presented to the king and literati of Judah.7 In what follows I will examine in detail three important points pertaining to the finding of the scroll and the function of the “discovery” in the story of Josiah’s reform: first, the distribution of “discovery” stories in the ancient Near East and its bearing on the biblical story; second, the verification of discovered artifacts by way of a divine oracle; and, third, the legitimation the scroll bestowed on the cult reform.

I. The “Discovery” of Scrolls and Tablets in the Ancient Near East The manipulation of texts for political and propagandistic purposes as well as the “discovery” of texts in order to legitimize a present claim were well known in the ancient Near East long before Josiah’s reform. Let me illustrate it through a few examples from the history of Egypt and Mesopotamia in the second and first millennia B.C.E. Writing on papyrus was common to Egypt and Judah, and it is not surprising that Egyptologists were the first to suggest analogies to the discovery of the “Book of the Law.”8 Differentiating between late copies of very old texts and forgeries is sometimes difficult, as a late copyist might have deliberately archaized the sign forms and updated the lexicon of texts in order to make an impression of antiquity, and yet the text might in fact be old and copied many times in the past.9 Nevertheless, there are plenty of clear cases of “pious frauds” throughout Egyptian history. Scrolls were claimed to have been “discovered” at sites where scrolls had been regularly deposited, such as in boxes under the feet of a god in a temple, in archives, in sarcophagi, and in graves.10 Under the feet of a god was the preferred location, as the god was said to bestow sanctity on the “discovered” document.

7 This conclusion rests on the assumption that Josiah’s reform was a historical event and that the account in 2 Kings 22–23 describes it in a fairly reliable outline. For a different opinion, see the works cited in n. 2 above. 8 Edouard Naville, “Egyptian Writings in Foundation Walls, and the Age of the Book of Deuteronomy,” Proceedings of the Society of Biblical Archaeology 29 (1907): 232–42; Johannes Herrmann, “Ägyptische Analogien zum Funde des Deuteronomiums,” ZAW 28 (1908): 291–302; Sebastian Euringer, “Die ägyptischen und keilschriftlichen Analogien zum Funde des Codex Helciae (4 Kg 22 u. 2 Chr 34),” BZ 9 (1911): 230–43, 337–49. These three scholars assumed that the statements in the Egyptian documents were authentic, and they used this assumption to corroborate the authenticity of the story in 2 Kings 22. 9 Jurgen Osing, “Alte Schriften,” Lexikon der Ägyptologie (ed. Wolfgang Helck and Eberhard Otto; 7 vols.; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1972–92), 1:149–54. 10 Alessandro Roccati, “Scribes,” in The Egyptians (ed. Sergio Donadoni; Chicago/London: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 73–75.

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Following are a few examples that much precede the “discovered” scroll of the time of Josiah. On the sarcophagus of Queen Mentuhotep of the Egyptian Thirteenth Dynasty appear the two introductory statements of the longer and shorter versions of the sixty-fourth chapter of the Book of the Dead. According to one introduction, the papyrus was found under the feet of the god Thoth and is dated to the time of Mykerinos, ruler of the Fourth Dynasty. According to the second, it was “discovered” under a wall and is dated to the time of King Usaphais of the First Dynasty.11 Two medical papyri claim an origin in the early third millennium b.c.e.12 One of them, written in the early Eighteenth Dynasty, was found “under the feet of Anubis in Leontopolis” and was brought to Usaphais, king of the First Dynasty. The other, written in the Ramesside period, was found “among old writings in a box containing documents under the feet of Anubis in Leontopolis in the time of King Usaphais.” It was brought to Senedj, king of the Second Dynasty.13 A third medical papyrus of the Twenty-first Dynasty states that the papyrus was brought to Khufu, a king of the Fourth Dynasty.14 The inscription called the “Memphite Theology” was found on a block that dates to the reign of Shabaka (ca. 721–706 b.c.e.) of the Twenty-Fifth Dynasty. In the introduction to the text, the king claimed to have copied it anew on a stone after he found it “as something that the predecessors had made, worm-eaten and unknown from beginning to end.”15 The veracity of the statement has been called 11 Dietrich Wildung, Die Rolle ägyptischer Könige im Bewusstsein ihrer Nachwelt, Teil 1, Posthume Quellen über die Könige der ersten vier Dynastien (Münchner Ägyptologische Studien 17; Berlin: Bruno Hessling, 1969), 21–25; Ulrich Luft, “Zur Einleitung der Liebesgedichte auf Papyrus Chester Beatty I ro XVI 9ff.,” ZÄS 99 (1973): 111. For earlier discussions of the sixtyfourth chapter of the Book of the Dead, see Naville, “Egyptian Writings,” 232–36; Herrmann, “Ägyptische Analogien,” 299–301; Euringer, “Ägyptischen und keilschriftlichen Analogien,” 231–37. 12 John A. Wilson, “The Authority of Ancient Documents,” in ANET, 495a; Luft, “Zur Einleitung,” 110–11; Roccati, “Scribes,” 74. 13 For a detailed comparison of the two medical papyri, see Ulrich Luft, “Das Verhältnis zur Tradition in der frühen Ramessidenzeit: Ein Vergleich zwischen dem Gefässbuch im Papyrus Ebers und dem Berliner medizinischen Handbuch,” Forschungen und Berichte 14 (1972): 59–71. Luft demonstrated that “[d]er Grundsatz von der Güte des Alten . . . war immer ein Grundpfeiler des ägyptischen Geisteslebens, das sich von Anfang an im steigenden Masse der Tradition verpflichtet fühlte” (p. 62). 14 Wilson, “Authority of Ancient Documents,” 495a. 15 Friedrich Junge, “Zur Fehldatierung des sog. Denkmals memphitischer Theologie oder des Beitrag der ägyptischen Theologie zur Geistesgeschichte der Spätzeit,” MDAI 29 (1973): 195– 204; Donald B. Redford, Egypt, Canaan, and Israel in Ancient Times (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), 399; Frank T. Miosi, “Memphite Theology,” ABD 4:691–92, with earlier literature; Rolf Krauss, “Wie jung ist die memphitische Philosophie auf dem Shabaqo-Stein?” in Gold of Praise: Studies on Ancient Egypt in Honor of Edward F. Wente (ed. Emily Teeter and John A. Larson; SAOC 58; Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 1999), 239–46; James P. Allen, “From the ‘Memphite Theology’,” COS 1:21–23.


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into question. Friedrich Junge suggested that there was a deliberate archaizing of the language as part of the political propaganda of the rulers of the Twenty-Fifth Dynasty, who tried to restore Memphis to its former glory.16 Hermann A. Schlögl dated the text to the time of Ramesses II, and Rolf Krauss recently suggested that it was written no earlier than the second century b.c.e.17 At present, the date of the inscription remains uncertain. Yet, should the dating to the time of Shabaka be proven correct, the Memphite Theology is an example of a “pious fraud” that antedated by less than a century the “finding” of the “Book of the Law” in Jerusalem. Several old inscriptions have been found in the course of the excavations carried out by Nabonidus, king of Babylonia (555–539 b.c.e.).18 The excavations were undertaken in an effort to discover the earliest foundations of the temples, so that new temples could be built on the exposed original foundations. The discovery of the inscriptions is the result of the king’s restoration work, not the main objective of the dig. Among the discovered artifacts was a box that contained a stone model of the image of Shamash engraved side by side with an inscription. The latter was written by King Nabu-apla-iddina (887–855 b.c.e.) and relates how the statue of Shamash disappeared for a long time, how the model of the old statue was discovered on the bank of the Euphrates, and how, on the basis of this model, the statue of Shamash was created and set up in the temple of the sun god. The inscription ends with a long list of rich endowments that the grateful king conferred on the temple and priests of Ebabbar, including a binding obligation to sustain the temple in the future. The mold with the inscription was recently studied in great detail by Christopher Woods, who demonstrated that it is an original artifact of the first half of the ninth century.19 Woods suggests that the model was prepared by the 16 Junge, “Zur Fehldatierung,” 195–204; Redford, Egypt, Canaan, 199; Miriam Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature: A Book of Readings (3 vols.; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1973–80), 3:5. 17 Schlögl, Der Gott Tatenen: Nach Texten und Bildern des Neuen Reiches (OBO 29; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1980), 110–17; Krauss, “Memphitische Philosophie,” 239–46. 18 For Nabonidus’s excavations at the sites of Babylonian temples, see Godefroy Goossens, “Les recherches historiques à l’époque Néo-Babylonienne,” RA 42 (1948): 149–59; Philippe Talon, “Le rituel comme moyen de légitimation politique au 1er millénaire en Mésopotamie,” in Ritual and Sacrifice in the Ancient Near East: Proceedings of the International Conference Organized by the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven from the 17th to the 20th of April 1991 (ed. J. Quaegebeur; OLA 55; Leuven: Peeters, 1993), 421–33; Paul-Alain Beaulieu, “Antiquarianism and the Concern for the Past in the Neo-Babylonian Period,” Canadian Society for Mesopotamian Studies Bulletin 28 (1994): 37–42; idem, “The Abduction of Ištar from the Eanna Temple: The Changing Memory of an Event,” Proceedings of the XLVe Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, part 1, Historiography in the Cuneiform World (ed. T. Abusch et al.; Bethesda: CDL, 2001), 29–40; idem, “Nabopolassar and the Antiquity of Babylon,” ErIsr 27 (2003): 1*–9*; Christopher E. Woods, “The Sun-God Tablet of Nabû-apla-iddina Revisited,” JCS 56 (2004): 23–103. 19 Woods, “Sun-God Tablet,” 23–44. See also Victor A. Hurowitz, “The Sun-Disk Tablet of Nebobaladan, King of Babylon (BBSt 36)” (in Hebrew), ErIsr 27 (2003): 91–109.


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priests of Ebabbar on the basis of artistic artifacts held in the treasury of the temple and was presented to the king with a concocted story of how the mold was discovered.20 On the basis of the mold, the high priest fashioned a new cult statue of Shamash, which replaced the former plundered statue of the god. The pleased king rewarded the temple and priests with a rich endowment and privileges. On the one hand, the mold might be considered a forgery, made by the priests to satisfy the desire of the king to prepare a new cult statue for Shamash. But on the other hand, the royal inscription, including the details of the rich endowment and privileges conferred by the grateful king on the temple and its personnel, is genuine. Moreover, some inscriptions discovered in Mesopotamia are forgeries, written at various stages in Mesopotamia’s history. A Sumerian text attributed to the third-millennium king Lugal-anne-mundu, describing the rich endowment the king gave to the E-namzu temple of the goddess Nintu, is fictional.21 The inscription was probably inscribed in the Old Babylonian period and is much older than all other forged Mesopotamian inscriptions. The Babylonian Fürstenspiegel was forged in Babylonia no later than the early eighth century, possibly even in the late second millennium b.c.e., in order to claim exemptions from obligations for the citizens of Sippar, Nippur, and Babylon.22 The authenticity of the Agum Kakrime inscription, which lists gifts to the temple of Esagila in Babylon, is disputed among scholars. Some have suggested that its first part is mainly authentic and only its second part, which lists the gifts donated to the temple, is a forgery.23 The Cruciform Monument of Maništušu, which donates privileges and increased incomes to Ebabbar in Sippar, is a late forgery of the Neo-Babylonian period.24 Finally, the Kurigalzu endowment to the temple of Eanna of Uruk is also a late forgery.25 20

Woods, “Sun-God Tablet,” 42–43, with earlier literature in n. 97. Hans Gustav Güterbock, “Die historische Tradition und ihre literarische Gestalt bei Babyloniern und Hethitern bis 1200,” ZA 42 (1934): 40–47; Tremper Longman III, Fictional Akkadian Autobiography: A Generic and Comparative Study (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1991), 92. 22 Erica Reiner, “The Babylonian Fürstenspiegel in Practice (with an Appendix by Miguel Civil),” in Societies and Languages of the Ancient Near East: Studies in Honour of I. M. Diakonoff (Warminster: Aris & Phillips 1982), 320–26; Robert D. Biggs, “The Babylonian Fürstenspiegel as a Political Forgery,” in From the Upper to the Lower Sea: Studies on the History of Assyria and Babylonia in Honour of A.K. Grayson (ed. G. Frame; Uitgaven van het Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten te Leiden 101; Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten, 2004), 1–5. 23 John A. Brinkman, Materials and Studies for Kassite History (Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 1976), 95–97; Longman, Fictional Akkadian Autobiography, 83–88, with earlier literature. 24 For discussions of the assumed forgeries, see Ignace J. Gelb, “The Date of the Cruciform Monument of Maništušu,” JNES 8 (1949): 346–48; Edmond Sollberger, “The Cruciform Monument,” JEOL 20 (1967–68): 50–70; Marvin A. Powell, “Narām-Sîn, Son of Sargon: Ancient History, Family Names, and a Famous Babylonian Forgery,” ZA 81 (1991): 20–30; Longman, Fictional Akkadian Autobiography, 79–83; Farouk N. H. Al-Rawi and Andrew R. George, “Tablets from the Sippar Library. III: The Royal Counterfeits,” Iraq 56 (1994): 139–48. 25 Gelb, “Cruciform Monument,” 348 n. 12; Longman, Fictional Akkadian Autobiography, 88–91, with earlier literature. 21


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The manipulation of texts for legitimation and the place of forgeries among these texts are broad subjects that cannot be discussed here. The complexity of the issue of forgery is illustrated by royal letters that were learned in Mesopotamian schools for many generations. Copies of letters addressed to early kings were discovered on Late Babylonian tablets of the second century b.c.e., including among them letters of Old Babylonian, Middle Babylonian, Neo-Assyrian, and NeoBabylonian kings.26 It is difficult to distinguish between “real” and “imaginary” letters; moreover, when examining the “real” letters, it is difficult to separate the original layer from the additions and elaborations made when the letters were turned into “literary” texts.27 Thus, for example, some of these letters show remarkable interest in the question of royal legitimacy, but it is impossible to establish whether they have been composed on the basis of genuine letters or forged in order to deliver the message of legitimation.28 The discussion of forgeries and the manipulation of evidence for the sake of legitimation in Egypt and Mesopotamia demonstrates how widespread and variegated this phenomenon was. Text manipulations of many forms and functions, all of them real artifacts, are attested from (at least) the early second millennium onward. In this light, the search for an original location for the topos of scroll/book/tablet “discoveries” is useless.29 The episode of the “finding” of the scroll in the time of Josiah should be studied in its own right.

II. The Discovered Scroll and Divine Confirmation In the context of the Deuteronomistic History, the “Book of the Law” was hidden since the time of Moses (Deut 31:24, 26) and Joshua (Josh 23:6; 24:6) and was discovered in the time of Josiah. Surprisingly, there is no hint in the history that the “book” disappeared and was later found.30 If indeed the author of 2 Kings 22 26

Eckart Frahm, “On Some Recently Published Late Babylonian Copies of Royal Letters,” NABU 2005/2: 43, with earlier literature. 27 For differences of opinion on the historicity of the scholarly letters of the kings of Ur, see Piotr Michalowski, “The Royal Correspondence of Ur” (Ph.D. diss; Yale University, 1976); idem, “Königsbriefe,” RlA 6:51–59; Fabienne Huber, “La correspondance Royale d’Ur, un corpus apocryphe,” ZA 91 (2001): 169–206. 28 Alfred Jeremias, “Die sogenannten Kedorlaomer-Texte,” MVAG 21 (1917): 69–97; Jan van Dijk, “Die dynastischen Heiraten zwischen Kassiten und Elamern: Eine verhängnisvolle Politik,” Or 55 (1986): 159–70; Pamela Gerardi, “Declaring War in Mesopotamia,” AfO 33 (1986): 30–38; Andrew R. George, review of Jan van Dijk, Literarische Texte aus Babylon, BO 46 (1989): 382–83; Victor A. Hurowitz, “Some Literary Observations on the Šitti-Marduk Kudurru (BBSt. 6),” ZA 82 (1992): 52; Jaume Llop and Andrew R. George, “Die babylonisch-assyrischen Beziehungen und die innere Lage Assyriens in der Zeit Auseinandersetzung zwischen Ninurta-tukulti-Aššur und Mutakkil-Nusku nach neuen keilschriflichen Quellen,” AfO 48–49 (2001–2): 1–23. 29 Contra Droge, “Lying Pen,” 130. 30 Norbert Lohfink, “The Cult Reform of Josiah of Judah: 2 Kings 22–23 as a Source for the

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referred back to the “Book of the Law” mentioned in Deuteronomy and Joshua, why did he not tell his readers when it was lost? Why did he not mention its transfer to the temple in the time of Solomon? Moreover, the author of the original story in 2 Kings 22–23 did not connect the “book” to Moses and left the identity of its author unnamed. The identification of the author was made only by a late redactor (2 Kgs 23:25).31 The conclusion is inevitable: the episode of the “book” finding was initially independent of the references to the “Book of the Law” in Deuteronomy and Joshua. Its discovery and presentation before the king functioned in the story of 2 Kings 22–23 as the force that moved forward all other elements of the plot. Moreover, when examining chs. 22–23 from a literary point of view, the detailed description of the cult reform carried out by Josiah requires an engine to ignite the process. Hence, the Auffindungsbericht must have been an integral part of the original story of the cult reform. Some scholars dismissed this interpretation and analyzed the story in the wider context of the Torah and Prophets. When chs. 22–23 are examined in this broad context, the discovered scroll may well be considered an element in the revolutionary concept of the “book” as the word of God, embodying the authority formerly held by the prophets and temple. The reference to the “Book of the Law” in 2 Kings 22–23 may thus be interpreted as symbolizing the transition of authority from the prophet and the temple to the divine word embodied in the “Book of the Law.”32 However, the story of the scroll finding and Josiah’s reform was initially written as part of a much narrower context. Conclusions made on the basis of the late textual developments are not applicable to the original context in which the story of the reform was composed. History of Israelite Religion,” in Ancient Israelite Religion: Essays in Honor of Frank Moore Cross (ed. Patrick D. Miller, Paul D. Hanson, and S. Dean McBride; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 459– 65; Thomas C. Römer, “Transformations in Deuteronomistic and Biblical Historiography: On ‘Book Finding’ and Other Literary Strategies,” ZAW 109 (1997): 5–7; Oded Lipschits, “On CashBoxes and Finding or Not Finding Books: Jehoash’s and Josiah’s Decisions to Repair the Temple,” in Essays on Ancient Israel in Its Near Eastern Context: A Tribute to Nadav Na’aman (ed. Yairah Amit, Ehud Ben Zvi, Israel Finkelstein, and Oded Lipschits; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 239–54. 31 This observation raises an interesting question: Is it possible that Moses was missing from Urdeuteronomium and was inserted into the book of Deuteronomy only in its second stage of compilation? This complicated issue, which involves discussion of the scope of Urdeuteronomium, cannot be elaborated in the confines of this article. 32 Jean-Pierre Sonnet, “‘Le livre trouvé’: 2 Rois 22 dans sa finalité narrative,” NRTh 116 (1994): 836–61; Römer, “Transformations,” 9–10; idem, “Du temple au livre: L’idéologie de la centralization dans l’historiographie deutéronomiste,” in Rethinking the Foundations: Historiography in the Ancient World and in the Bible. Essays in Honour of John Van Seters (ed. Steven L. McKenzie and Thomas Römer; BZAW 294; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2000), 222–24. For the suggestion that Jeremiah 36 is dependent on 2 Kings 22–23, see Charles D. Isbell, “2 Kings 22:3–23:24 and Jeremiah 36: A Stylistic Comparison,” JSOT 8 (1978): 33–45.


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About thirty years ago, Norbert Lohfink defined a genre that he called “historische Kurzgeschichten” and identified three narrative blocks that belong to this genre, among them 2 Kings 22–23.33 He attributed the composition of these stories to authors of the family of Shaphan, who were eyewitnesses to the narrated events, and he suggested that they wrote the stories in Babylonia after they were exiled in 597 b.c.e. I very much doubt that 2 Kings 22–23, with its detailed description of the cult reform, was written in exile. But the idea of a genre of the short historical story is attractive.34 It seems to me that the five-part story (2 Kgs 22:3–11, 12–20; 23:1–3, 4–15, 21–23)—minus some Deuteronomistic additions—might originally have been a historical short story written in the time of Josiah as part of the efforts to legitimize and support the cult reform he conducted (see below).35 Scholars have suggested some parallels to the story of the “discovery” and the roles of Josiah and Huldah in the plot.36 The best parallel is related in the “second” plague prayer of Muršili II (ca. 1321–1285 b.c.e.) to the storm god of Hatti.37 The

33 Norbert Lohfink, “Die Gattung der ‘historischen Kurzgeschichten’ in den letzten Jahres von Juda und in der Zeit des Babylonischen Exil,” ZAW 90 (1978): 319–47. For the opposite position, see Caëtano Minette de Tillesse, “Joiaqim, repoussoir du ‘Pieux’ Josias: Parallélismes entre II Reg 22 et Jer 36,” ZAW 105 (1993): 352–76. 34 For the suggestion that account B of Sennacherib’s campaign against Judah (2 Kgs 18:17– 1 19:9a, 36–37), minus a few Deuteronomistic additions, was originally an independent story, see Nadav Na’aman, “New Light on Hezekiah’s Second Prophetic Story (2 Kgs 19,9b–35),” Bib 81 (2000): 399–402. 35 I deliberately avoid the problem of the literary analysis of 2 Kings 22–23, which is deeply controversial among scholars. See, e.g., Richard D. Nelson, The Double Redaction of the Deuteronomistic History (JSOTSup 18; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1981), 76–85; Hans-Detlef Hoffmann, Reform und Reformen: Untersuchungen zu einem Grundthema der deuteronomistischen Geschichtsschreibung (ATANT 66; Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 1980), 169–270; Hermann Spieckermann, Juda unter Assur in der Sargonidenzeit (FRLANT 129; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982), 30–160, 423–29; Levin, “Joschija,” 351–71; Ernst Würthwein, Die Bücher der Könige, vol. 2, 1. Kön. 17–2. Kön. 25 (ATD 11/2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1984), 446–64; Norbert Lohfink, “Zur neueren Diskussion über 2 Kön 22–23,” in Das Deuteronomium: Entstehung, Gestalt und Botschaft (ed. Norbert Lohfink; BETL 68; Leuven: Peeters, 1985), 24–48; idem, “Cult Reform,” 459–75; idem, “Recent Discussion on 2 Kings 22–23: The State of the Question,” in A Song of Power and the Power of Song: Essays on the Book of Deuteronomy (ed. Duane L. Christensen; Sources for Biblical and Theological Study 3; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1993), 36–61; Mark A. O’Brien, The Deuteronomistic History Hypothesis: A Reassessment (OBO 92; Freiburg, Schweiz: Universitätsverlag; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989), 235–66; Gary N. Knoppers, Two Nations under God: The Deuteronomistic History of Solomon and the Dual Monarchies, vol. 2, The Reign of Jeroboam, the Fall of Israel, and the Reign of Josiah (HSM 53; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994), 125–228. 36 Handy, “Role of Huldah,” 40–53; Jonathan Ben-Dov, “Writing as Oracle and as Law: New Contexts for the Book-Find of King Josiah,” JBL 127 (2008): 232–36. 37 For Muršili’s prayer, see Itamar Singer, Hittite Prayers (SBLWAW 11; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2002), 57–61.

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Hittite king was troubled by a severe plague that had struck his country, and he sought to understand the cause of the sudden outbreak. In a search conducted in his archives he discovered two old tablets, one with a ritual of the Mala River and the second with the treaty of Kuruštama.38 Muršili confirmed the authenticity of each tablet by an oracle. Upon reading the two tablets, he realized that their instructions had been violated, indicating the sins that must have brought on the plague as punishment (compare 2 Sam 21:1–2; 24:10–15). He then repented before the storm god for violating the rites of the Mala River and the stipulations of the Kuruštama treaty, hoping that the rites he performed would bring the plague to an end. It goes without saying that Muršili searched and found authentic old tablets, unlike the “discovery” of the scroll by the high priest in Jerusalem. Yet there is a close similarity between the discovery and confirmation of its authenticity by oracle in Hatti and the “discovery” of the “Book of the Law” and its authentication by prophecy in Jerusalem. Moreover, just as Muršili confessed the sins of his father (Šuppiluliuma I), repented, and asked forgiveness, so Josiah repented upon hearing the words of the “Book of the Law,” promised to fulfill the instructions of the book, and asked forgiveness for his predecessors’ violations of its laws (2 Kgs 22:11– 13). The similarity between the two episodes is self-evident. Moshe Weinfeld compared the story of 2 Kings 22 to an episode related to the prayer of Muwatalli II (ca. 1295–1272 b.c.e.), king of Hatti, to the storm god.39 Muwatalli confessed his negligent observance of the divine laws of the god and promised to search for “the (written) bond/covenant/protocol [išhiul] of the gods” as well as for oral Hittite traditions. He pledged to follow their instructions and perform the forgotten rites, thereby seeking forgiveness for his sins. The similarity to the former episode is self-evident, except for the fact that Muwatalli refers to a future search for the tablets. Since the tablets have not yet been discovered, the oracular confirmation is missing from the text.40 The Mesopotamian parallels suggested for Huldah’s role in confirming the authenticity of the “discovered” scroll are not convincing, as the element of the finding and its significance for the situation in the present/future are lacking.41 Even more disturbing is the suggestion that the discovered scroll functioned in the story as an oracle. According to this hypothesis, the narrative in 2 Kings 22 describes a “double-check,”42 in which the first oracle, namely, the discovery of the 38 For the Kuruštama treaty, see recently Itamar Singer, “The Kuruštama Treaty Revisited,” in Šarnikzel: Hethitologische Studien zum Gedanken an Emil Orgetorix Forrer (ed. Detlev Groddek and Sylvester Rössle; Dresdner Beiträge zur Hethitologie 10; Dresden: Technische Universität Dresden, 2004), 591-607. 39 Weinfeld, “Deuteronomy, Book of,” ABD 2:175a. For a translation of the prayer, see Singer, Hittite Prayers, 83. 40 Droge (“Lying Pen,” 127–28) failed to understand the relevance of the parallel suggested by Weinfeld and dismissed it out of hand. 41 Handy, “Role of Huldah,” 40–45; Ben-Dov, “Writing as Oracle,” 232–33. 42 The procedure of double-check takes place when a second query by a god (piqittu) repeats


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scroll, is confirmed by the prophecy of Huldah.43 The idea that the discovery is a sign from heaven (i.e., an oracle) is never explicitly stated in the story, and the scroll functions in the plot as a law book, not as an oracle. This is confirmed by the emphasis on “the words” of the scroll (22:13, 16; 23:3, 24) and the phrase “as it is written” in the scroll (23:21). Indeed, in all the stories of ancient Near Eastern “discovered” artifacts, the text is the exclusive significant element of their discovery. Just as Muršili conducted one divine oracle to validate each of the tablets he discovered, so Josiah held one oracle to authenticate the scroll discovered in the temple. The preexilic date of the Auffindungsbericht might be supported also by an archaeological finding. According to the story, Huldah lived in the Mishneh quarter (2 Kgs 22:14; see Zeph 1:10), located on the Western Hill of Jerusalem.44 Following the destruction of Jerusalem in 587/6, the Western Hill was deserted for hundreds of years and was resettled only in the second century b.c.e. Assuming that ch. 22 is legendary and has been written in the exilic or postexilic period, the author would have avoided locating the prophetess in a deserted quarter and would have placed her in the City of David.45 Locating Huldah’s seat in the Mishneh is an indication of the late First Temple date of the text, written when the quarter formed an integral part of the fortified city of Jerusalem. It goes without saying that extracting the historical nucleus of the story in 2 Kings 22 from its literary-ideological cover is uncertain. Here lies the importance of analogies drawn from ancient Near Eastern kingdoms, which function as a kind of control for the discussion. With all due caution I suggest that, following the scroll’s “discovery” in the course of the temple restoration, the king sent delegates to Huldah the prophetess to verify the authenticity of the scroll, and she in turn sent back confirmation. The author of the story gave Huldah’s oracle a literaryideological dress according to his interpretation of the event, just as ancient Near Eastern royal officials and priests used to interpret original prophetic words and delivered to the king only the interpreted version.46 the results of the first query in order to confirm its authenticity. See Anne Marie Kitz, “Prophecy as Divination,” CBQ 65 (2003): 25–27, with earlier literature. 43 Handy, “Role of Huldah,” 47–53; Ben-Dov, “Writing as Oracle,” 229–39. 44 Hugh G. M. Williamson, “Nehemiah’s Walls Revisited,” PEQ 116 (1984): 83; idem, Ezra, Nehemiah (WBC 16; Waco: Word Books, 1985), 196; Joseph Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah: A Commentary (OTL; London: SCM, 1988), 234; Mordechai Cogan and Hayim Tadmor, II Kings: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 11; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1988), 283; Ronny Reich, “The Topography and Archaeology of Jerusalem in the First Temple Period,” in The History of Jerusalem: The Biblical Period (in Hebrew; ed. S. Ahii tuv and A. Mazar; Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi, 2000), 116. 45 For the suggestion that the Auffindungsbericht is legendary and was written in the exilic or postexilic period, see n. 2 above. 46 For the ways in which ancient Near Eastern prophecies were interpreted and delivered to the king, see Simon B. Parker, “Official Attitude toward Prophecy at Mari and in Israel,” VT 43 (1993): 50–68; Jack M. Sasson, “The Posting of Letters from Divine Messages,” in Florilegium Mar-

58


III. The “Discovered” Scroll and the Legitimation of the Reform Earlier cult reforms in the kingdom of Judah are mentioned in the book of Kings without resorting to an external power that pushed them forward. Why does the finding of the scroll hold such a central place in the account of Josiah’s cult reform? The answer may be found in its exceptional nature, which was revolutionary in the history of the cult and culture of the kingdom of Judah. The author of the book of Kings described a series of cult reforms, in particular that of Hezekiah (2 Kgs 18:4–6), which culminates in the reform of Josiah, thereby somewhat diminishing its radical nature. Historically, however, Josiah’s reform was an unprecedented event having (as far as we know) no antecedent in the history of Judah. Cults and rituals everywhere were conceived of as being of divine origin, and changes in the religious practice were considered to break the divinely established order. To execute a cultic reform, which amounts to a drastic change in the traditional cult and rites of the kingdom, the king and priests needed an authoritative divine support. The “discovered” scroll, which must have been presented before the supporting and opposing parties, supplied the required legitimation for the reform. It demonstrated that the reform was not an innovative step but rather served as the restoration of ancient divine laws that had been forgotten and corrupted by previous generations. Like Josiah, ancient Near Eastern kings who conducted cult reforms were in urgent need of justifying their innovative deeds before the priests and elite.47 The ways by which reforming kings justified their innovations are not always clear, as frequently documents are missing—and this is particularly true of failed reforms. Yet there are some illuminating examples. In principle, legitimation was obtained first and foremost by receiving divine approval from god(s) by way of an oracle. Second, it was attained through production of literary compositions in which the

ianum II: Recueil d’études à la mémoire de Maurice Birot (ed. Dominique Charpin and Jean-Marie Durand; Mémoires de N.A.B.U. 3; Paris: Société pour l’étude du Proche-Orient ancien, 1994), 299–316; Karel van der Toorn, “Old Babylonian Prophecy between the Oral and the Written,” JNSL 24 (1998): 55–70; idem, “From the Oral to the Written: The Case of Old Babylonian Prophecy,” in Writings and Speech in Israelite and Ancient Near Eastern Prophecy (ed. Ehud Ben Zvi and Michael H. Floyd; SBLSymS 10; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2000), 219–34; idem, “From the Mouth of the Prophet: The Literary Fixation of Jeremiah’s Prophecies in the Context of the Ancient Near East,” in Inspired Speech: Prophecy in the Ancient Near East. Essays in Honor of Herbert B. Huffmon (ed. John Kaltner and Louis Stulman; JSOTSup 378; London: T&T Clark, 2004), 191–202; Martti Nissinen, “How Prophecy Became Literature,” SJOT 19 (2005): 15–72. 47 For cult reforms in the ancient Near East, see Nadav Na’aman, “The King Leading Cult Reforms in His Kingdom: Josiah and Other Kings in the Ancient Near East,” ZABR 12 (2006): 142–68.


59

innovative element is presented as the restoration of a long-forgotten custom.48 There must have also been extensive verbal discourses in an effort to persuade the literati and the elite, but texts do not document them. A combination of these strategies was applied in the time of Nebuchadnezzar I (1125–1104 b.c.e.). The king took advantage of his successful campaign against Elam and the restoration of Marduk’s image to elevate Marduk to the headship of the Babylonian pantheon. The victory gave rise to a number of works that exalted Marduk and described him as the foremost Babylonian god.49 The Babylonian creation epic (Enūma eliš), which described the exaltation of Marduk to a position previously occupied by Enlil, marks the new status of Marduk as head of the Babylonian pantheon, of Esagila as the bond of the world (axis mundi), and of Babylon as the most elevated city in Babylonia.50 Similar strategies were adopted by Sennacherib. Literary works were composed during his reign that exalted the god Ashur by depicting him in the image of the Babylonian god Marduk.51 As part of this enterprise, Assyrian authors rewrote the Babylonian creation myth (Enūma eliš) with Ashur in the role of Marduk. Sennacherib built a temple (bīt akīti) outside the city of Ashur, under which 48 On the claim of restoration of old, forgotten ways, see Hayim Tadmor, “Monarchy and the Elite in Assyria and Babylonia: The Question of Royal Accountability,” in The Origin and Diversity of Axial Age Civilizations (ed. S. N. Eisenstadt; Albany: State University of New York Press, 1986), 220–22. 49 For Nebuchadnezzar I’s reform, see Wilfred G. Lambert, “The Reign of Nebuchadnezzar I: A Turning Point in the History of Ancient Mesopotamian Religion,” in The Seed of Wisdom: Essays in Honour of T. J. Meek (ed. W. S. McCullough; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1964), 3–13; idem, “Studies in Marduk,” BSOAS 47 (1984): 2–5; Andrew R. George, “Marduk and the Cult of the Gods of Nippur at Babylon,” Or 66 (1997): 65–70; Na’aman, “Cult Reforms,” 150–54, with earlier literature. 50 For the rise of Marduk to the top of the Babylonian pantheon, see Walter Sommerfeld, Der Aufstieg Marduks: Die Stellung Marduks in der babylonischen Religion des zweiten Jahrtausends v. Chr. (AOAT 213; Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1982), 182–89; idem, “Marduk,” RlA 7:360–70; Tzvi Abusch, “Marduk,” DDD, 2nd ed., 543–49, with earlier literature. 51 Heinrich Zimmern, “Marduks (Ellils, Assurs) Geburt im babylonischen Weltschopfungsepos,” in Orientalische Studien: Fritz Hommel zum sechzigsten Geburtstag (MVAG 21; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1917), 213–25; Peter Machinist, “The Assyrians and Their Babylonian Problem: Some Reflections,” Jahrbuch des Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin (1984–1985): 353–64; Andrew R. George, “Sennacherib and the Tablet of Destinies,” Iraq 48 (1986): 133-46; Wilfred George Lambert, “The Assyrian Recension of Enūma Eliš,” in Assyrien im Wandel der Zeiten: XXXIX Rencontre assyriologique internationale, Heidelberg, 6.–10. July 1992 (ed. Hartmut Waetzoldt and Harald Hauptmann; Heidelberger Studien zum Alten Orient 6; Heidelberg: Heidelberger Orientverlag, 1997), 77–79; Eckart Frahm, Einleitung in die Sanherib-Inschriften (AfO Beiheft 26; Vienna: Institut für Orientalistik der Universität Wien, 1997), 220–27, 282–88; Galo W. Vera Chamaza, Die Omnipotenz Aššurs: Entwicklungen in der Aššur-Theologie unter den Sargoniden Sargon II, Sanherib und Asarhaddon (AOAT 295; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2002), 111–67.

60


he deposited the ashes from the devastated city of Babylon and in which he celebrated the rites of the new year (the Akītu festival) for the Assyrian national god. By this step he tried to break the Babylonian claim of the axis mundi located in Marduk’s temple of Esagil and shift it to the city of Ashur, turning it into “the axis of the world” and the seat of Ashur, the king of gods.52 In a royal inscription, Sennacherib claims that the Akītu temple that he built near the city of Ashur and the Akītu festival performed there merely restored the temple and rites of long ago, and that the approval to rebuild the new temple was received after inquiring by extispicy of the gods Shamash and Adad: The festival banquet of the king of the gods, Ashur, which from days of old, on account of chaos and anarchy, the Akitu temple of the steppe had been forgotten and the festival of Ashur, the king of the gods, had been celebrated within the city. In connection with this undertaking I conceived the idea of (re)building the Akitu temple. I performed an oracle query to Shamash and Adad, a favorable reply they gave me and commanded to build (it).53

The strategy of obtaining supporting divine oracles and claiming the return to ancient and venerated forgotten custom was adopted also by Nabonidus. His efforts in his last years to raise Sin to the position of chief god of Babylonia, to raise Ehulhul, Sin’s temple in Haran, to the status of chief Mesopotamian temple, and to demote Marduk from the headship of the Babylonian pantheon have been discussed in detail by scholars,54 and need not be repeated here. 52 Daniel David Luckenbill, The Annals of Sennacherib (University of Chicago Oriental Institute Publications 2; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1924), 136–39, lines 22–35, 44–57; Erich Ebeling, Stiftungen und Vorschriften für assyrische Tempel (Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin, Institut für Orientforschung, Veröffentlichung 23; Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1954), 3–5; Frahm, Einleitung, 173–74; Wilfred G. Lambert, “The Great Battle of the Mesopotamian Religious Year: The Conflict in the Akītu House,” Iraq 25 (1963): 189–90; Laura Kataja and Robert Whiting, Grants, Decrees and Gifts of the Neo-Assyrian Period (SAA 12; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1995), 104–5; Ali Yassen Ahmad and Albert Kirk Grayson, “Sennacherib in the Akitu House,” Iraq 61 (1999): 187–89; Vera Chamaza, Die Omnipotenz Aššurs, 111–22. 53 Luckenbill, Annals of Sennacherib, 136–37, lines 25–30; see Kataja and Whiting, Grants, Decrees and Gifts, 104–5, lines 5–6, 12–15. 54 Hayim Tadmor, “The Inscriptions of Nabunaid: Historical Arrangement,” in Studies in Honor of Benno Landsberger on His Seventy-Fifth Birthday, April 21, 1965 (ed. H. G. Güterbock and T. Jacobsen; Assyriological Studies 16; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1965), 351–63; Paul-Alain Beaulieu, The Reign of Nabonidus King of Babylonia 556–539 B.C (Yale Near Eastern Researches 10; New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 1989), 54–65, 203–19; Peter Machinist, “Mesopotamian Imperialism and Israelite Religion: A Case Study from the Second Isaiah,” in Symbiosis, Symbolism, and the Power of the Past: Canaan, Ancient Israel, and Their Neighbors from the Late Bronze Age through Roman Palaestina. Proceedings of the Centennial Symposium, W. F. Albright Institute of Archaeological Research and American Schools of Oriental Research, Jerusalem, May 29–31, 2000 (ed. William G. Dever and Seymour Gitin; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 244–53, with earlier literature; Hanspeter Schaudig, “Nabonid, der ‘Gelehrte auf dem


61

An illuminating example of Nabonidus’s strategy in legitimizing innovation is the way he consecrated his daughter as entu-priestess of the moon god at Ur.55 The move started with an eclipse of the moon, which was interpreted as an omen sent by the god Sin, in which he requested to nominate an entu priestess in his temple. To affirm his interpretation of the eclipse, Nabonidus twice consulted by extispicy the gods Shamash and Adad and received positive replies. He then conferred with the gods about the nomination of his daughter and received an approving reply. At this stage, the king pondered how to carry out the divine request because “since distant days the ritual of high priesthood had been forgotten and its nature was not known.” Then a miracle happened—he discovered an old stele of Nebuchadnezzar I upon which was engraved the figure of the high priestess with her insignia, her garments, and her ornaments. The new information enabled Nabonidus properly to install his daughter in the office of entu priestess at Ur. In light of the miraculous nature of the discovery, scholars were suspicious of its authenticity and suggested that the “discovery” was a forgery (a kind of “pious fraud”).56 A strategy held by all the Mesopotamian reforming kings is the writing of literary works that support the reform. Can we identify the work written in support of Josiah’s reform? I believe that the text of 2 Kings 22–23, or rather the source on which it rests, was originally written in an effort to legitimize the reform. The account includes several elements that legitimized the royal initiative. Thus, the scroll found by the high priest instructs the king to execute religious reform, and the prophetess’s divine oracle affirms the authenticity of the words of the scroll. The latter justified both of the measures taken by the king, namely, the alliance by oath that he concluded with the officials and elders of his kingdom and the cult reform he executed. In the context of the story, the scroll functioned as the element that set in motion the cult reform and bestowed on it divine legitimacy. The elements common to Josiah’s and ancient Near Eastern cult reforms are the restoration of long-forgotten divine laws and customs, reception of divine approval from god(s) by way of an oracle, and the production of literary compositions that explain and justify the measures taken. The “finding” of artifacts that support a claim of antiquity is also common to Judah and ancient Near Eastern Königsthron’,” in Ex Mesopotamia et Syria Lux: Festschrift für Manfried Dietrich zu seinem 65. Geburtstag (ed. Oswald Loretz, Kai A. Metzler and Hanspeter Schaudig; AOAT 281; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2002), 619–45. 55 The episode was studied in detail by Erica Reiner, “Nabonidus and the Concern with the Past,” in Your Thwarts in Pieces, Your Mooring Rope Cut: Poetry from Babylonia and Assyria (Michigan Studies in the Humanities 5; Ann Arbor: Horace H. Rackham School of Graduate Studies at the University of Michigan, 1985), 1–16; Peter Machinist and Hayim Tadmor, “Heavenly Wisdom,” in The Tablet and the Scroll: Near Eastern Studies in Honor of William W. Hallo (ed. Mark E. Cohen, Daniel C. Snell, and David B. Weisberg; Bethesda: CDL, 1993), 150–51, with earlier literature. For the texts, see Beaulieu, Reign of Nabonidus, 22–23, 127–32. 56 Powell, “Narām-Sîn,” 20–30; Woods, “Sun-God Tablet,” 42.


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kingdoms, although the element of the scroll that guides the reform is unique to the kingdom of Judah. In conclusion, the five-part story in 2 Kings 22–23 was originally an independent historical short story, written in the time of Josiah in an effort to support and legitimize the cult reform that the king conducted. Its legitimizing function well explains the prominent role the Auffindungsbericht and the divine confirmation of the “discovered” scroll by the prophetess played in the story. The covenant in the temple (2 Kgs 23:1–3) and the celebration of the feast of Passover, “as it is written in this book of the covenant” (23:21–23), were also integral parts of the reform and its legitimizing text.57 Like many other sources available to the author of the Deuteronomistic History, the story of Josiah’s reform was slightly reworked and integrated into the history he composed. Once the story was integrated within the confines of a broad literary work, the original function of the discovered scroll was lost. In its new context the “Book of the Law” became an element in the revolutionary concept of the “book” as the word of God, symbolizing the transition of authority from the prophet and the temple to the divine written word. 57

For the place of the feast of Passover in the reform, see Nadav Na’aman, “The IsraeliteJudahite Struggle for the Patrimony of Ancient Israel,” Bib 91 (2010): 20–21.

JBL 130, no. 1 (2011): 63–85

Orthography, Textual Criticism, and the Poetry of Job c. l. seow [email protected] Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542

In an article published in Eretz Israel in 1969, David Noel Freedman called attention to the great number of forms in the book of Job that are spelled without internal vowel markers (matres lectionis) where one might expect them.1 This is particularly remarkable in cases where diphthongs are contracted and unmarked by matres. Thus, we have ‫ אן‬instead of ‫( און‬18:12; 40:16), ‫ אמה‬instead of ‫( אימה‬9:34; 13:21; 20:25; 33:7), ‫ אתן‬instead of ‫( איתן‬12:19; 33:19), ‫ הדעני‬instead of ‫( הודעני‬13:23; ‫ ידיעו‬in 32:7), ‫ הצא‬instead of ‫( הוצא‬10:18; 15:13; ‫ ויצא‬in 12:22; ‫ יצא‬in 28:11), ‫הרני‬ instead of ‫( הורני‬34:32; ‫ תרך‬in 12:7, 8; ‫ הרני‬in 30:19), ‫ יעיל‬instead of ‫( יועיל‬30:13; 35:3), ‫ תמן‬instead of ‫( תימן‬9:9; ‫ תמני‬in 22:1), and so forth. By Freedman’s count, there are forty-two such forms with contracted and unmarked diphthongs in the book, though one might also add conservative spellings like ‫( ֻשׁת‬2:2), ‫( ֻמת‬2:9), ‫( ַמ ְכ ִלם‬11:3), ‫( ֻמ ָצק‬11:15), ‫( ַָתּ ֻﬠ ָפה‬11:17), ‫( ָיִבשׁוּ‬18:16), ‫( קֹלוֹ‬37:2; ‫ קֹלוֹת‬in 28:26), ‫ִרב‬ (29:16; ‫ ִרבוֹת‬in 13:6; ‫ ִר ָבם‬in 31:13), and ‫( ֲא ֵל ֶהם‬29:24).2 Moreover, there are a number of Ketiv readings that suggest a conservative orthography: ‫ ידו‬for ‫( יָ ָדו‬5:18), ‫ תחתו‬for ‫( ַתּ ְח ָתּו‬9:13), ‫ קדשׁו‬for ‫( ְקד ָֹשׁו‬15:15), ‫ עלומו‬for ‫לוּמו‬ ָ ‫( ֲﬠ‬20:11), ‫ עינו‬for ‫ֵﬠינָ ו‬ (21:20), ‫ ידעו‬for ‫( י ְֹד ָﬠו‬24:1), ‫ שׂרידו‬for ‫( ְשׂ ִר ָידו‬27:15), ‫ חלצו‬for ‫( ֲח ָל ָצו‬31:20), ‫תחבולתו‬ for ‫בּוֹּלתו‬ ָ ‫( ַת ְח‬37:12), ‫ ילדו‬for ‫( יְ ָל ָדו‬38:41), ‫ כנפו‬for ‫( ְכּנָ ָפו‬39:26), ‫ אפרחו‬for ‫ֶא ְפר ָֹחו‬ (39:30), and ‫ פחדו‬for ‫( ַפּ ֲח ָדו‬40:17). Drawing on the results of his joint dissertation with Frank Moore Cross, which argued in part that such spellings typified epigraphic Hebrew of the

1

David Noel Freedman, “Orthographic Peculiarities in the Book of Job,” ErIsr 9 (1969): 35–44; repr. in Divine Commitment and Human Obligation: Selected Writings of David Noel Freedman (ed. John R. Huddleston; 2 vols.; Grand Rapids/Cambridge: Eerdmans, 1997), 2:44–60. 2 The last example shows a contracted diphthong, *ilayhimm > ‫ ֲא ֵל ֶהם‬. Cf. ‫ ֵר ֵﬠהוּ‬, “his friends” < *riayhû (42:10).

63

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preexilic period and generally of the north (Israel as opposed to Judah),3 a thesis that despite a few rare exceptions has held true,4 Freedman concluded that the conservative orthography indicates a provenance in the north during the preexilic period. The study has prompted at least one scholar to judge that it is now difficult to maintain a date later than the seventh century b.c.e.5 Not all are so sanguine about Freedman’s approach, to be sure. Yet even James Barr, Freedman’s most severe critic, has conceded that the book of Job manifests an unusually high concentration of such forms, indeed, “the highest anywhere in the Bible.”6 The implications of this judgment for the exegesis of Job, however, have not been explored. Such an exploration is the purpose of this essay. Before doing so, though, I would like to expand Freedman’s database.

I. Beyond MTL The publication of 4QpalaeoJobc from Qumran has lent credibility to Freedman’s article, since internal matres in that manuscript are, with only two exceptions, entirely absent:7

13:24 13:36 13:26 13:27

MT

4QpalaeoJobc

‫לאויב‬ ‫עונות‬ ‫נעורי‬ ‫ארחותי‬

‫( ]ל[איב‬so, too, msKenn 170) ‫( עונת‬also 3 mss) ‫( נערי‬cf. ‫ נערי‬in several mss at 31:18) ‫( ארחתי‬cf. ‫ ארחתי‬in 33:11)

3 Frank Moore Cross, Jr., and David Noel Freedman, Early Hebrew Orthography: A Study of the Epigraphic Evidence (New Haven: American Oriental Society, 1952). 4 The clearest example of an internal mater before the end of the monarchy is rwr in one of the tomb inscriptions from Silwan. For other possibilities discussed in Ziony Zevit, Matres Lectionis in Ancient Hebrew Epigraphs (ASOR Monograph Series 2; Cambridge, MA: American Schools of Oriental Research, 1980), see F. W. Dobbs-Allsopp et al., Hebrew Inscriptions: Texts from the Biblical Period of the Monarchy with Concordance (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005), passim. Considering materials beyond Zevit’s study, we note a few examples that prove the rule. The Kuntillet Ajrud inscriptions from the late-ninth and early-eighth centuries attest r, “city” (Hebrew Inscriptions, KAjr 5-8), brk, “blessed” (KAjr 9, 15.5), ymm, “days” (KAjr 14.), wymsn hrm . . . wydkn gbnm, “the mounains melted . . . the peaks are crushed” (KAjr 15.2-3), and ym, “day” (KAjr 15.5, 6). The Ophel inscription from Jerusalem (see Jslm 3), dated to the early to mid-seventh century attests šmnm, “(jars of) oil” (see also Jslm 5) and šbrm, “(jars of) grain.” A seventh-century ostracon from Hi o rvat Uza has ymt, “days” (Uza 2.12). 5 So Francis I. Andersen, Job: An Introduction and Commentary (TOTC; Leicester/Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 1976), 62. 6 So James Barr, “Hebrew Orthography and the Book of Job,” JSS 30 (1985): 32. 7 See Patrick W. Skehan et al., Qumran Cave 4.IV: Palaeo-Hebrew and Greek Biblical Manuscripts (DJD 9; Oxford: Clarendon, 1992), 155–57.

Seow: Orthography, Textual Criticism, and the Poetry of Job

‫תספור‬ ‫בצרור‬

14:16 14:17

65

‫( תספר‬so, too, many mss) ‫( בצרר‬similarly 2 mss)

While it may not be possible to prove that the orthographic archaism in this manuscript reflects the autograph, 4QpalaeoJobc does demonstrate that the MT cannot be decisive on the question of orthography. If the orthography suggested by 4QpalaeoJobc is original, the introduction of internal matres in the other Qumran manuscripts of Job (2QJob; 4QJoba; 4QJobb) as well as in the MT is part of the book’s history of interpretation.8 Moreover, while Freedman based his analysis on the Leningrad Codex (MTL) by way of BHK3, the Aleppo Codex (MTA), the Bomberg Bible (MTB), and other manuscripts often show additional forms without internal matres. The following is only a small sample of literally hundreds of Hebrew variants without internal vowel markers: MTL

Other Manuscripts

‫( אתונות‬1:3) ‫( יומו‬1:4) ‫( עלות‬1:5) ‫( חרשׁות‬1:14) ‫( גיל‬3:22) ‫( יוכיחנו‬5:17) ‫( ומוסר‬5:17) ‫( עלימו‬6:16b) ‫( הורוני‬6:24) ‫( יוצאו‬8:10) ‫( הופעת‬10:3) ‫( עיפתה‬10:22) ‫( למועדי‬12:5) ‫( עיני‬13:1) ‫( תוכחתי‬13:6) ‫( עליכם‬13:11) ‫( עיניך‬14:3) ‫( נכון‬15:23) ‫( השׁמות‬16:7)

‫( אתנת‬3 mss) ‫( ימו‬1 ms) ‫( עלת‬8 mss) ‫( חרשׁת‬5 mss) ‫( גל‬1 ms) ‫( יכחנו‬1 ms) ‫( ומסר‬1 ms) ‫( עלמו‬1 ms) ‫( הרוני‬2 mss) ‫( יצאו‬1 ms; 7 mss ‫)יציאו‬ ‫( הפעת‬1 ms) ‫( עפתה‬MTAB, many mss) ‫( למעדי‬4 mss) ‫( עני‬1 ms) ‫( תכחתי‬1 ms) ‫( עלכם‬1 ms) ‫( עניך‬2 mss) ‫( נכן‬2 mss) ‫( השׁמת‬many mss)

8 If the archaism is secondary, that is, if the matres had been eliminated, then 4QpalaeoJobc belongs to the book’s Wirkungsgeschichte, showing in this case an effort to re-present the story as archaic, perhaps as Mosaic. The paleo-Hebrew script of the manuscript is itself an archaism, for the Qumran biblical manuscripts that manifest this script are restricted to the Torah, the only exception being 4QpalaeoParaJosh. Still, this “archaism” probably does reflect the autograph. The Aramaic square script in all the other manuscripts is secondary.

66


‫( כליותי‬16:13) ‫( במרומים‬16:19) ‫( ויוכח‬16:21) ‫( מורשׁי‬17:11) ‫( תבואנו‬20:22) ‫( תועפות‬22:25) ‫( ריבות‬33:13) ‫( הופיע‬37:15)

‫( כליתי‬3 mss) ‫( במרמים‬MTA, many mss) ‫( ויכח‬2 mss) ‫( מרשׁי‬few mss) ‫( תבאנו‬MTAB) ‫( תעפת‬1 ms; several mss ‫ ;תועפת‬1 ms ‫)תעפות‬ ‫( רבת‬a few mss; many mss ‫)רבות‬ ‫( הפיע‬MTA and 2 mss)

In addition to the masoretic witnesses, the versions also often attest other forms without internal matres, including the following examples: MT

Other Witnesses

‫( ידכאום‬4:19) ‫( קצירו‬5:5) ‫( שׂום‬5:11) ‫( הוכח‬6:25) ‫( תפילו‬6:27) ‫( יחזיק‬8:15) ‫( חליפות‬10:17) ‫( בדיך‬11:3) ‫( תמות‬12:2) ‫( תושׁיה‬12:16) ‫( מוסר‬12:18) ‫( לא יאמין‬15:15) ‫( עויל‬16:11)

‫( ידכאם‬OG ἔπαισεν αὐτοὺς; Syr. ntmkkwn; cf. msKenn 117)9 ‫( קצרו‬OG συνήγαγον = ‫) ָק ְצרוּ‬10 ‫( שׂם‬OG ποιοῦντα; Vg. qui ponit = ‫) ָשׂם‬ ‫( הכח‬OG ἰσχῦν = Hebrew ‫]ה[כּ ַֹח‬ ַ ) ‫( תפלו‬OG ἐπιπίπτετε; Vg. inruitis; cf. msKenn 157 ‫)תפלו‬ ‫( יחזק‬4QJobb) ‫( חלפת‬OG ἔπηγαγες; Syr. mhilp  nt; cf. msKenn 176) ‫( בדך‬Vg. tibi soli)11 ‫( תמת‬Aq. τελειώματα = ‫ ; ֻתּמֹּת‬Symm. τελειότης = ‫) ֻתּ ַמּת‬12 ‫( תשׁעה‬Theod. σωτηρία; cf. also many mss ‫)תשׁיה‬ ‫( מסר‬Syr. mhit = Hebrew ‫; ֵמ ִסר‬13 cf. 1 ms, ‫)מסר‬14 ‫( לא יאמן‬Symm. οὐδεὶς ἄτρεπτος; Vg. nemo immutabilis) ‫( עול‬OG ἀδίκου; Vg. iniquum; Syr.  wl; Tg. ‫)רשׁיעי‬

That is, ‫יְ ַד ְכּ ֵאם‬. The OG apparently assumes that the subject is the “children” of the fool—so, too, the plural verbs ‫ יִ ְר ֲחקוּ‬and ‫—יִ ַדּ ְכּאוּ‬in the preceding verse (5:4). The masoretes, however, take the subject to be the fool in 5:3. The OG proves superior in this case, and its interpretation is corroborated by the plural suffix in ‫ילם‬ ָ ‫ ֵח‬, “their substance.” 11 The plural is correct. We should assume *baddaykimm > ‫ ַבּ ֵדּ ֶכם‬, “your babblings.” Cf. ‫ ֲא ֵל ֶהם‬in 29:24. 12 The spelling ‫ תמת‬easily accounts for ‫תּ ֻמת‬, ָ ‫ ֻתּמֹּת‬, and ‫ ֻתּ ַמּת‬. 13 Presuming the hiphil of ‫ סור‬to mean “to remove” (Gen 8:13; 30:32, 35; 35:2; etc.) or even “to depose” (2 Sam 7:15; 1 Kgs 20:24) 14 The OG has καιθιζάνων βασιλεῖς ἐπὶ θρόνους, which probably reflects Hebrew ‫משׁב מלכים‬. The translator intreprets ‫ משׁב‬as ‫מ ִֹשׁב‬, but we should probably read ‫ ֵמ ִשׁב‬, “one who turns back,” a variant of ‫ ֵמ ִסר‬. 9

10


67

‫( מורשׁי‬17:11) ‫( נטמינו‬18:3) ‫( עוילים‬19:18)

‫( מרשׁי‬OG τα ἄρθρα; so also a few mss read ‫)מרשׁי‬ ‫( נטמנו‬Tg. ‫ = טמענא‬Hebrew ‫ ;נִ ְט ַמנוּ‬so also 3 mss)15 ‫( עולים‬11Q10 ‫ ;רשׁעין‬Syr. wl) = ‫ַﬠוָּ ִלים‬ ‫( עולם‬OG τον αἰῶνα) ‫( אלוה‬19:26) ‫( אלה‬OG ταῦτα; cf. also 37:22) = ‫ֵא ֶלּה‬ ‫( מקרוב‬20:5) ‫( מקרב‬OG πτῶμα ἐξαίσιον = ‫ ;? ְמ ָק ֵרב‬Syr. mn gwhwn) ‫( ותשׁובתיכם‬21:34) ‫( תשׁבתכם‬Vg. responsio vestra) ‫( זרוע‬22:8) ‫( זרע‬Syr. gbr dzr = Hebrew ‫)ז ֵֹר ַע‬ ‫( ושׁית‬22:24) ‫( ושׁת‬Theod θήσῃ; Syr. tknš)16 ‫( במרומיו‬25:2) ‫( במרומו‬11Q10 ‫)]במר[מה‬17 ‫( ריבות‬33:13) ‫( רבות‬11Q10 ‫)רבברן‬18 ‫( ריבתי‬OG τῆς δίκης μου)19 ‫( שׁמוע שׁמעו‬37:2) ‫( שׁמע שׁמע‬4QJoba) ‫( בגדיך‬37:17) ‫( בגדך‬OG ἡ στολὴ; 11Q10 ‫)לבושׁך‬20 ‫( ישׁית‬38:11) ‫תשׁת‬/‫( ישׂת‬OG συντριβήσεται; Vg. confringes; Tg. ‫)יתיבשׁ‬21 In every case, the consonantal form of the Vorlage is superior (though not necessarily the interpretation represented), for the forms without matres account for the variants more readily than the MT, where the presence of the matres is as interpretive as the introduction of vowel points. In sum, when one considers the evidence from the various Hebrew manuscripts, 4QpalaeoJobc, and the Vorlagen of the versions, there are many more examples of orthographically conservative forms than what Freedman found in 15 MsKenn 155 has ‫נטמונו‬, that is, ‫נְ ַטמּוֹנוּ‬, as if the root were ‫טמם‬. Thus, original ‫ נטמנו‬may be read as ‫( נִ ְט ִמנוּ‬so most mss, Vg., Syr.), ‫( נִ ְט ָמנוּ‬so Tg.), or ‫( נְ ַטמֹּנוּ‬so msKenn 155), the root being ‫טמא = טמה‬, ‫טמן‬, or ‫טמם‬, respectively. Multivalence may be part of the poet’s art. The OG has σεσιωπήκαμεν, “we have been silent,” reflecting Hebrew ‫נדמינו‬. The consonantal text of the Vorlage of the OG is now corroborated by 11Q10, though the verb should probably be taken to mean “we are likened to.” This may be a variant prompted by Ps 49:13, 21 (‫) ַכּ ְבּ ֵהמוֹת נִ ְדמוּ‬. 16 Both witnesses presume ‫וְ ַשׁ ָתּ‬. 17 One should follow the cue of 11Q10 but vocalize the form as ‫ ִבּ ְמר ָֹמו‬. 18 This is probably an error for ‫רברבן‬, which reflects Hebrew ‫ רבות‬or, assuming conservative orthography, ‫רבת‬, which is what we have in a few manuscripts. The reading ‫ רבת‬easily accounts for the other variants: ‫( ריבות‬MT), ‫( רבות‬many mss), and ‫( רביתי‬OG). 19 Cf. Aq. ἐκδικάσω, but Symm. διαδικάζῃ (= Hebrew ‫)רבות‬, whereas Theod. has κρίσις, perhaps reading Hebrew ‫רבת‬, which enhances the wordplay with ‫ יִ ְר ֶבּה‬in the preceding verse. 20 The plural noun is supported by Symm., Tg., and Syr. Given the adjective ‫חמים‬, we should assume the plural to be correct. The reading reflected in the Vorlagen of OG and 11Q10 must represent the contraction of ay > ē, ‫ ְבּגָ ֵדָך‬. 21 The OG and Vg. are assuming the root *śtt (cf. Arabic šatta, “to break up, be scattered, dissolve”), whereas Tg. presumes the root ‫נשׁת‬.

68


MTL alone. To Freedman, the orthographic conservatism indicates a northern origin and a relatively early date—late seventh or early sixth century b.c.e. Yet the orthography does not require a northern origin. The Nimrud Ostracon, the Amman Citadel inscription, the Tell Sīrān Bottle, the Heshbon Ostracon IV, and the Heshbon Ostracon XI all manifest similarly conservative orthography,22 as do the Hi rbet el-Mudeiyineh inscription23 and numerous instances in the Moabite Stone,24 all from the Transjordan. Instead, the conservative orthography may be for literary effect, namely, to corroborate the foreignness of the book’s setting. Furthermore, an early dating of the book is not required by its orthography, since the text may be not so much archaic, as Freedman would have it, as it is archaistic— to give the impression of a text from long ago. Whatever the explanation, such orthography, if original, has many implications for exegesis.

II. Textual Criticism A hypothesis of an originally conservative orthography helps resolve many text-critical problems in the book. A few examples will suffice to make this point.

Job 5:11a The MT has ‫לשׂוּם ְשׁ ָפ ִלים ְל ָמרוֹם‬, ָ “to set the lowly on high.” The infinitive ‫ ָלשׂוּם‬is, however, awkward in the sea of participles that one expects in a doxology (vv. 8–13). Edouard Dhorme takes the infinitive to indicate purpose (“in order to set”), but the parallel verb is the qal perfect ‫“( ָשׂגְ בוּ‬are exalted”), which he is then forced to translate as both purposive and, implausibly, transitive (“to raise”).25 Robert Gordis asserts that “the infinitive takes on the same tense as the finite verb preceding it” and, hence, translates it as if it were a participle.26 This explanation is ad hoc, and none of the examples Gordis cites proves his point. Moreover, one should expect the conjunction before the infinitive, if the infinitive were framed by the preceding (see Joüon-Muraoka §124p). It is more likely that the time of occur-

22 See Walter E. Aufrecht, A Corpus of Ammonite Inscriptions (Ancient Near Eastern Texts and Studies 4; Lewiston/Queenston/Lampeter: Mellen, 1989), 118–19, 154, 202, 214–15, 245. 23 Paul E. Dion and P.-M. Michèle Daviau, “An Inscribed Incense Altar of Iron Age II at Hi rbet el-Mudēyine (Jordan),” ZDPV 116 (2000): 1–13. 24 So mš (“Mesha”), mb (“Moab”), hwšny (“deliver me”), bt (“house”), wyrš (“and he dispossessed”), qrytn (“Qiryaten”), shi rn (“noon”), and so on. 25 Edouard P. Dhorme, Le livre de Job (EBib; Paris: Lecoffre, 1926), 58–59: “Pour mettre les abaissés sur la hauteur / Et pour que les affligés se haussent au salut.” Eng. trans., A Commentary on the Book of Job (trans. Harold Knight; Nashville/Camden/New York: Nelson, 1984), 64. 26 Robert Gordis, The Book of Job: Commentary, New Translation, and Special Studies (Moreshet 2; New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1978), 56.


69

rence of the infinitive is clarified by a finite verb coming after the infinitive, not before it (see Job 28:25; GKC §112v, 144r; Joüon-Muraoka §124q). The OG and the Vg. both have the participle, that is, ‫ שׂם‬instead of ‫שׂום‬, which prompts some scholars to emend the text to read ‫ ַה ָשּׂם‬.27 Yet this emendation is difficult to justify, for there is no reason why anyone would have read ‫ל‬ at this point instead of ‫( ה‬cf. ‫ ַהנּ ֵֹתן‬in the preceding verse). One should, instead, assume the asseverative lamed, as also in 13:12b (‫ )לגבי‬and take ‫ שׂם‬to be a participle, thus like all the other participles in this doxology. The asseverative lamed is not translated in the OG and the Vg. because those versions typically either mistranslate or do not translate it.28 The lamed was incorrectly understood as a preposition at some point and so ‫ שׂם‬came to be interpreted incorrectly as an infinitive. Hence the waw mater was added. The asseverative lamed in v. 11 in fact reinforces and advances the theological claim in v. 10. At the same time, the particle marks the transition from God as one who rejuvenates the earth (v. 10) to God as one who restores people who are devastated (v. 11)—from the redemption of nature (v. 10) to the redemption of people (v. 11). The two redemptions are integrally related. Indeed, if God is a redeemer of nature, God is all the more so a redeemer of people.

Job 5:15a The MT as it stands is difficult: ‫יהם‬ ֶ ‫וַ יּ ַֹשׁע ֵמ ֶח ֶרב ִמ ִפּ‬, “and he saved from the sword, from their mouth.” There are three problems with the text: (1) the apparent redundancy of ‫מחרב‬, “from the sword,” and ‫מפיהם‬, “from their mouth,” (2) the absence of an object in the first line,29 and (3) the awkward parallelism of the plural suffix in ‫מפיהם‬, “their mouth,” with the singular ‫ ָחזָ ק‬, “the strong.” The OG has ἀπόλοιντο δὲ ἐν πολέμῳ, “but let them perish in war,” which is probably an inner-Greek error for ἀπολύοιντο δὲ ἐν πολέμῳ, “but let them be delivered in war.” The latter reflects Hebrew ‫( וישׁעם מחרב‬i.e., ‫)וְ י ִֹשׁ ֵﬠם ֵמ ֶח ֶרב‬, literally, “but let one save them from the sword,” with dittography of mem and ‫ חרב‬taken as a metonym for war, as in Ezra 9:7 and Jer 4:10. The OG also lacks ‫מפיהם‬. Taking the Vorlage of the OG—the lectio brevior—at face value, one might argue that it represents a variant that is different from the MT and the other versions, and that it reflects a conflation of two readings: (1) ‫וישׁע מחרב‬, “but he saves from the 27

See Samuel Rolles Driver and George Buchanan Gray, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Job (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1921), part 2, 30; William B. Stevenson, Critical Notes on the Hebrew Text of the Poem of Job (Aberdeen: Aberdeen University Press, 1951), 16; Pio Fedrizzi, Giobbe (Sacra Bibbia; Turin/Rome: Marietti, 1987), 65. 28 See the OG and the Vg. in Job 13:12; Ps 33:1; Qoh 9:4; Isa 38:20. On the particle, see John Huehnergard, “Asseverative *la and the Hypothetical *lu/law in Semitic,” JAOS 103 (1983): 569–93. 29 So prompting a few manuscripts of the Vg. to add egenum, “the needy.”

70


sword,” and (2) ‫וישׁע מפיהם‬, “but he saves from their mouth.” If so, the first is to be preferred (“sword” being a metaphor for “tongue”), since the second is a softening of the image and “mouth” anticipates the same in the next verse. Yet, given the well-known tendency of OG-Job to abbreviate and indeed to eliminate portions of the text that prove difficult for the translators,30 one can hardly reconstruct the text on the basis of this lone witness. The lectio brevior rule of thumb does not hold in the case of OG-Job. Several manuscripts omit the preposition in ‫מפיהם‬, and this reading is supported by Syr., Tg., and Vg., thus ‫מחרב פיהם‬, “from the sword of their mouth,” which has been explained as an idiom for slander,31 though none of the parallels usually cited—Pss 52:4; 55:2; 57:5; 64:4; Prov 5:4; 25:18; Sir 28:18—is the same as what we have here. This reading is also the lectio facilior, an attempt to resolve the syntactical difficulty. It is difficult to see why, if it were original, anyone would have added the preposition. Besides, slander—if the expression is indeed an idiom—seems too banal a topic in this context, and it is an unsatisfactory parallel for “the power of the strong.” Nahum M. Sarna suggests, therefore, reading ‫מחרב־ם פיהם‬, “from the sword of their mouth,” with the enclitic mem.32 Yet his reading is forced: “He delivers the needy from the sword of their mouth, yea from the hand of the strong.” In light of v. 11, with its reference to the elevation of the dejected to safety (‫)יֶ ַשׁע‬, one might read ‫ ָמ ֳח ָרב‬, “devastated one,” which provides an object for ‫וַ יּ ַֹשׁע‬ and an appropriate parallel for ‫ ֶא ְביוֹן‬, “needy.”33 Furthermore, I would emend ‫ מפהם( מפיהם‬in the original conservative orthography, so msKenn 120) to read ‫מפחם‬ (‫) ִמ ַפּ ִחם‬, “from traps,” assuming that ‫מפיהם‬, “from their mouth,” is an error due to the anticipation of ‫פיה‬, “its mouth,” in the next verse. The liberation of the devastated from traps thus contrasts the trapping of the wise in v. 13a, ‫ֹלכד ֲח ָכ ִמים‬ ֵ ‫ ְבּ ָﬠ ְר ָמם‬. The conservative orthography, with the absence of the expected yod mater probably contributed to the error in the MT. Then the incorrect reading of ‫מפיהם‬ generated the incorrect interpretation of ‫ מחרב‬as “from the sword,” since “mouth” and “sword” are commonly associated with one another. Accordingly, then, ‫וַ יּ ַֹשׁע‬ ִ ‫מ ֳח ָרב ִמ ַפּ ִחם‬, ָ “and he saves the devastated from traps,” neatly parallels ‫וּמיַּ ד ָחזָ ק‬ ‫ ֶא ְביוֹן‬, “and the needy from the power of the strong,” with the verb gapped. To Eliphaz, who is speaking here of adynata, salvation comes not for the exalted but for 30 See Markus Witte, “The Greek Book of Job,” in Das Buch Hiob und seine Interpretationen: Beiträge zum Hiob-Symposium auf dem Monte Verita vom 14.–19. August 2005 (ed. Thomas Krüger et al.; ATANT 88; Zurich: Theologischer Verlag, 2007), 33–54. 31 So Luis Alonso Schökel and Jose Luis Sicre Díaz, Job: Comentario teológico y literario (2nd ed.; Madrid: Ediciones Cristiandad, 2002), 15. They freely translate the idiom as “de la lengua afilada.” 32 Sarna, “Some Instances of the Enclitic m- in Job,” JJS 6 (1955): 109. 33 So August Dillmann (Hiob [4th ed.; Kurzgefasstes exegetisches Handbuch zum Alten Testament 2; Leipzig: Hirzel, 1891], 45) and others after him, following a lead from Louis Cappel and Heinrich Ewald.


71

the lowly (v. 11), not for the clever and wise but for the devastated (v. 15). Whereas the crafty will be caught (v. 13), as if in a trap, so the participle ‫ֹלכד‬ ֵ implies, the devastated will be saved from traps.

Job 9:19b The MT has ‫יוֹﬠ ֵידנִ י‬ ִ ‫ם־ל ִמ ְשׁ ָפּ ִטים ִמי‬ ְ ‫וְ ִא‬, which, if correct, would mean something like “if it is a matter of justice, who will summon me?” (NRSV, NIV, NJB). Most commentators, thinking that the first person common singular object suffix makes no sense, emend it to read ‫יוֹﬠ ֶידנּוּ‬ ִ , “[who] will summon him,” citing the OG (κρίματι αὐτοῦ ἀντιστήσεται, “he will oppose his judgment”) and the Syr. (nrw ywhy, “[who] will meet him”) and sometimes claiming that the MT represents a tiqqun sopherim, a correction for theological reasons.34 Both the OG and the Syr. are too free here to be reliable, however; they do not necessarily reflect Hebrew ‫יועידנו‬. Furthermore, tradition does not record the reading of the MT as a tiqqun sopherim.35 Anton C. M. Blommerde has posited that the object suffix is a “Phoenicianized 3 ms form,”36 but the existence of such a suffix is doubtful.37 More promising are the translations of the Vg. (nemo pro me audet testimonian dicere) and the Tg. (‫)מן יסהיר עלי‬, both of which reflect Hebrew ‫( יעידני‬so msKenn 18) or, assuming conservative orthography, ‫( יעדני‬so msKenn 82). The likely original, ‫יעדני‬, may be interpreted in two ways: (1) ‫י ִֹﬠ ֵדנִ י‬, “he will summon me,” or “he will make an appointment for me” (cf. ‫ י ִֹﬠ ֵידנִ י‬in Jer 49:19),38 or (2) ‫יְ ִﬠ ֵדנִ י‬, “he will testify for me.” The former interpretation, which assumes the verb ‫יעד‬, is represented by MTALB ; the latter, assuming the verb ‫עוד‬, is evident in mssKenn 18, 82, Vg. and Tg., in which case the suffix is datival, as also in 29:11, ‫וַ ְתּ ִﬠ ֵידנִ י‬, “and (my eye) bore witness for me.” The second reading is superior. Job believes that he is in the right, but he has no way of establishing it. If it were a matter of strength, it is God who is the strong one (v. 19a). If it were a matter of justice, there 34 So Dhorme, Le livre de Job, 125 (= Eng. trans., 138]); Georg Fohrer, Das Buch Hiob (KAT 16; Gütersloh: Mohn, 1963), 199; John E. Hartley, The Book of Job (NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988), 174. 35 See Carmel McCarthy, The Tiqqune Sopherim, and Other Theological Corrections of the Masoretic Text of the Old Testament (OBO 36; Freiburg, Schweiz: Universitätsverlag; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1981), 198. 36 Blommerde, Northwest Semitic Grammar and Job (BibOr 22; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1969), 56. He is followed by Lawrence Boadt, “A Re-Examination of the Third-Yod Suffix in Job,” UF 7 (1975): 67; and Walter L. Michel, Job in the Light of Northwest Semitic (BibOr 42; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1987), 217–18. 37 See Ziony Zevit, “The Linguistic and Contextual Arguments in Support of a Hebrew 3 m.s. Suffix –y,” UF 9 (1977): 315–18. 38 Françoise Mies (L’espérance de Job [BETL 193; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2006], 323) tries to resolve the problem of the suffix by interpreting ‫יוֹﬠ ֵידנִ י‬ ִ to mean “who will intervene in my favor,” but this meaning has no parallel anywhere.

72


is no one who will testify for him and vouch for his innocence (v. 19b). Testimony is indeed the issue, as the next verse confirms. Even if Job were in the right, his mouth, like a hostile witness, will condemn him (v. 20). Having already argued that a real lawsuit is impossible because of the vast disparity of power, and having admitted that in the face of God’s unrestrained fury even the innocent person can only plead for mercy (v. 15), Job now imagines himself in such a legal setting, where he will nevertheless have to plead for mercy, as if he were guilty. The terms ‫ תם‬and ‫ עשׁק‬in v. 20b are an antonymous word pair in Hebrew poetry (see also Prov 10:9; 11:20; 19:1; 28:6). The point is that Job will come out looking like the opposite of what he is—indeed, the opposite of what the reader knows from the narrator and God (1:1, 8; 2:3). How can Job be ‫ ָתּם‬, complete, if his tongue bears witness against him, as if it were apart from and inimical to him? How can he be ‫ ָתּם‬, blameless, if he is forced to bear false witness? Testimony— more specifically, false testimony—is at issue.

Job 10:17c The MT is suspect: ‫ ֲח ִליפוֹת וְ ָצ ָבא ִﬠ ִמּי‬/ ‫ וְ ֶת ֶרב ַכּ ַﬠ ְשָׂך ִﬠ ָמּ ִדי‬/ ‫ ְתּ ַח ֵדּשׁ ֵﬠ ֶדיָך נֶ גְ ִדּי‬, “You renew your witnesses before me, / and increase your vexation with me. / Changes and warfare are with me.” The problem lies in the third line of the triplet, which does not coordinate well with the preceding two lines. Moreover, the OG reads ἐπήγαγες δὲ ἐπʼ ἐμὲ πηρατήρια (“you bring upon me a trial”), probably reflecting Hebrew ‫וחלפת צבא עמי‬.39 The verb ἐπάγειν in this context renders Hebrew ‫חלף‬, an adequate translation, since the Greek verb may be used of a military detachment.40 The Syr. whiylwn mhilp nt ly (“and the armies you renew against me”) supports the OG in that it, too, assumes a second person masculine singular subject and does not have the conjunction before ‫צבא‬.41 The original must have been ‫וחלפת צבא‬ ‫( עמי‬i.e., ‫)וְ ִח ַלּ ְפ ָתּ ָצ ָבא ִﬠ ִמּי‬, but the misinterpretation of ‫ חלפת‬as ‫ ֲח ִלפֹת‬led to the addition of the conjunction before ‫ ָצ ָבא‬. Indeed, msKenn 176 has ‫חלפת‬. This reading is superior to the MT, for ‫ ִח ַלּ ְפ ָתּ‬, “you refresh,” echoes ‫ ְתּ ַח ֵדּשׁ‬, “you renew,” in the first line of the triplet. Job’s powerful adversary, God, keeps him at a constant disadvantage. Should Job recover, God the enemy would just renew the hostile witnesses against him 39 Others have proposed emending the verb to ‫ותחלף‬. So Karl Budde, Das Buch Hiob (HAT; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1896), 50; Bernhard Duhm, Das Buch Hiob (KHC 16; Freiburg/Leipzig/Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1897), 60. The emendation, though, does not account for the different readings. The juxtaposition of a yqtl form with a qtl is not a problem. See, e.g., 9:13, where we have ‫ ָשׁ ֲחחוּ‬// ‫יָ ִשׁיב‬. 40 So, e.g., Herodotus, Hist. 1.63; 7.165; Thucydides, Hist. 6.69; Aristophanes, Av. 353 (all cited in LSJ, 602, s.v. ἐπάγω). 41 The conjunction is lacking in the Vg. as well.


73

(v. 17a). Some medieval interpreters suggested that these witnesses may be an allusion to Job’s friends (so Mes ui dat David), and that is possible. Others, however, imagine that the witnesses are Job’s troubles, perhaps his constantly changing ailments (Rashi)—an interpretation that finds support in Job’s own words later in 16:8. The various afflictions that come upon Job—his adversaries as well as his adversities—seem to bear witness to Job’s guilt. The poet elaborates that God is increasing his “vexation” against Job (10:17b), no doubt meaning the deity’s punitive rage (Deut 32:19; 1 Kgs 15:30; 21:22; 2 Kgs 23:26; Ps 85:5). Job himself had indeed referred to his vexation, namely, his suffering (6:2). Now he charges that this vexation is something that God increases against him (v. 17b). Furthermore, Job had earlier suggested that life on earth is a term of hard service, ‫( ָצ ָבא‬7:1). Now he suggests that his term is in fact renewed (v. 10c), despite the fact that no charges have ever been leveled, no guilt proven.

Job 11:8a The MT’s ‫גבהי שׁמים‬, “the heights of heaven,” is supported by Aq. and the Tg., though to make sense of the text some variants of Tg. add the prefixed preposition ‫( ב‬the bet essentiae) or ‫כ‬, “as the heights of heaven.”42 The OG, however, has ὑψηλὸς ὁ οὐρανός, “heaven is high,” that is, Hebrew ‫ גבהים שׁמים‬or, presuming conservative orthography, ‫גבהם שמם‬. Jerome reads sublimior est caelo, “he is more sublime than heaven,” but he renders with excelsior caelo est, “he is higher than heaven” in the Vg., as if reading ‫גבה משׁמים‬. The OG in fact reflects both a haplography of ‫ ה‬and a misdivision of words, with the preposition ‫ ִמן‬read incorrectly as the marker of the plural: ‫גבהה משׁמים‬, “higher than heaven” > ‫גבהם שמים‬, “high is heaven,” which Jerome partially “corrects” to ‫גבה משׁמים‬. The variant represented by the MT, Aq., and the Tg. may also have come from an original ‫גבהה משׁמם‬: ‫( גבה משׁמם > גבהה משׁמם‬haplography of ‫> )ה‬ ‫( גבהים משׁמים‬introduction of matres to conform to later “standard”) > ‫גבהי משׁמים‬ “higher than heaven” (haplography of ‫( גבהי שׁמים > )מ‬haplography of ‫ מ‬due to similarity of the tops of ‫ מ‬and ‫ שׁ‬in the paleo-Hebrew script). Hence, I would read ‫גְּ ב ָֹהה ִמ ָשּׁ ֵמם‬, “higher than the heavens,”43 the (feminine singular) subject being ‫ ַתּ ְכ ִלית‬in the preceding verse. This reading is in complete accord with ‫ ֲﬠ ֻמ ָקּה ִמ ְשּׁאֹל‬, “deeper than Sheol,” ‫א ֻר ָכּה ֵמ ֶא ֶרץ‬, ֲ “longer than the earth,” and ‫ ְר ָח ָבה ִמנִּ י־יָם‬, “wider than the sea” (vv. 8a–9ab). Divine infinitude is expressed in four spatial terms (height, depth, length, and breadth) and four analogues (the heavens, the netherworld, the earth, and the sea) that together represent the extreme dimensions of the cosmos humans cannot attain. 42 See David M. Stec, The Text of the Targum of Job: An Introduction and Critical Edition (AGJU 20; Leiden/New York/: Brill, 1994), 76*. 43 So too Fedrizzi, Giobbe, 119.

74


Job 14:19b The MT and most manuscripts have ‫יה‬ ָ ‫יח‬ ֶ ‫ ְס ִפ‬, even though there is no obvious antecedent for the third person feminine singular suffix and none of the versions reflects a suffix. MsKenn 99 has ‫ספחיה‬, while msKenn 248 reads ‫ספיחה‬, both partially representing a more conservative orthography than the MT. The original is ‫ספחה‬. Most modern commentators believe that the MT’s ‫יה‬ ָ ‫יח‬ ֶ ‫ ְס ִפ‬is an error for ‫יפה‬ ָ ‫ ְס ִח‬, that is, with a metathesis of ‫ פ‬and ‫ח‬. The latter, ‫יפה‬ ָ ‫ ְס ִח‬, unattested elsewhere in Hebrew, is thought to be related to ‫( ס ֵֹחף‬Prov 28:3; cf. also ‫ נִ ְס ַחף‬in Jer 46:15), a participle for ‫סחף‬, “to wash away.” Widely cited as a cognate is Arabic sahiîfat, supposedly meaning “torrential rain,” though that meaning in Arabic is doubtful,44 the word in question being confused with sahiîqat “torrential rain.”45 The verb sahiafa in Arabic means “to pare, peel, strip,” and it is never used of water. By contrast, Arabic safahia means “to pour our (water)” and the noun sāfihi means “pouring out.”46 The verb ‫ ספח‬basically means “to grow, add to, swell” (cf. ‫ְס ִפ ַיח‬ “outgrowth”), hence “to spill over.” Postbiblical Hebrew attests the verb ‫ ִס ֵפּ ַח‬, which may refer to a river spilling over and casting out its alluvial soil (Gen. Rab. section 13). So the translation in Theod., ὕδατα ὕπτια, “upturned waters,” is appropriate, as are the translations of Symm. (τὰ παραλελειμμένα, “the deposits”) and the Vg., adluvione, “with a flood (that deposits alluvial soil).” An original ‫ ספחה‬solves the problem. ALB

III. Poetic Effects The conservative orthography of Job allows for rich wordplays in many passages, as the following examples demonstrate.

Job 3:8a The MT has ‫יִ ְקּ ֻבהוּ א ְֹר ֵרי־יוֹם‬, “let those who enchant day curse it,” a reading supported by all the versions. Ever since Hermann Gunkel’s Schöpfung und Chaos, however, it has become common to note that the parallel line has ‫יָתן‬ ָ ְ‫ע ֵֹרר ִלו‬, “to rouse Leviathan,” to cite the association of Leviathan with Sea in the Bible (Pss 74:13–14; 104:25–26; Isa 27:1), and to emend ‫ יוֹם‬to ‫יָם‬.47 This emendation gained support with the discovery of the Ugaritic tablets, where ym and ltn are a poetic 44

See David J. A. Clines, Job 1–20 (WBC 17; Dallas: Word Books, 1989), 284–85. Lane, 1318–19. 46 Ibid., 1369. 47 So already Hermann Gunkel, Schöpfung und Chaos in Urzeit und Endzeit: Eine religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung über Gen 1 and Ap Joh 12 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1895), 59, followed by Georg Beer, Der Text des Buches Hiob (Marburg: Elwert, 1895–97), 17–18. 45


75

pair (CTU 1.5.I.1–3), and also some Jewish incantation texts from the Sassanian period that link the two sea monsters.48 A few commentators, unwilling to emend, posit that yôm is in fact the Phoenician pronunciation for “Sea.”49 The parallels are so compelling in any case that even those who demur to the proposed association of Job 3:8a with “sea” recognize that mythology must somehow lie in the background.50 The poet may be intentionally ambivalent, however. Assuming that the diphthong was contracted in Job, one may surmise that the text originally had ‫ים‬. Given the recurrence of the word “day” in the poem so far (vv. 3, 4, 5, 6) and given that at issue is the malediction against “day,” the reader is no doubt expected to interpret ‫ ים‬first as “day” (‫)י ֹם‬. So ‫ אררי־ים‬would simply be understood to mean “those who enchant Day.” For the meaning of the expression ‫יִ ְקּ ֻבהוּ א ְֹר ֵרי־י ֹם‬, one may point first to a tantalizing parallel in a text from Hatra where the god Shahiru, according to Francesco Vattioni’s reading, invokes a spell “against the days” (Hatra 23:4).51 This text is tantalizing, since Shahiru, Dawn in mythology, is a god of the netherworld, as we know from Emar (no. 369:24–25).52 Indeed, ‫“( ַשׁ ַחר‬dawn”) is mentioned in the very next line of our poem (v. 9). One might, therefore, understand ‫ א ְֹר ֵרי־י ֹם‬to refer not to human enchanters, putative sorcerers who were called upon to bring about an eclipse, as many have suggested, but to fallen astral deities who invoke spells to ensure eternal darkness.53 Accordingly, ‫ א ְֹר ֵרי־י ֹם‬may be a wordplay with ‫אוֹר‬, “light” (see v. 9b) and may, by paronomasia, recall the luminaries in the sky— “the shiners of day,” possibly a reference to the morning stars that also symbolize 48

See also Charles D. Isbell, Corpus of the Aramaic Incantation Bowls (SBLDS 17; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975), texts 2, 6, 7. 49 Mitchell Dahood, “Northwest Semitic Texts and the Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible,” in Questions disputées d’Ancien Testament: Méthode et théologie (ed. Carl Brekelmans et al.; BETL 33; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1974), 74, followed by Michel, Job in the Light of Northwest Semitic, 54–55. Similarly, Edward L. Greenstein (“The Language of Job and Its Poetic Function,” JBL 122 [2003]: 655–54) imagines that the poet deliberately chose a Phoenician word for literary effect, namely, to give the book a foreign flavor. 50 James Barr, “Philology and Exegesis: Some General Remarks, with Illustrations from Job,” in Brekelmans et al., Questions disputées de l’Ancien Testament, 57; Lester L. Grabbe, Comparative Philology and the Text of Job: A Study in Methodology (SBLDS 34; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1977), 36. 51 See Vattioni, Le iscrizioni de Hai tra (Istituto orientale di Napoli, Supplemento n. 28 agli Annali 41, fascicle 3; Naples: Istituto orientale di Napoli, 1981), 32. The reading of ‫ ימתה‬has been disputed, however, with some scholars reading ‫ זמתה‬instead. See André Caquot, “Nouvelles inscriptions araméennes de Hatra,” Syria 40 (1963): 16; Basile Aggoula, Inventaire des inscriptions hatréennes (Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 139; Paris: Librairie Orientaliste Paul Guethner, 1991), 20. 52 See Simon B. Parker, “Shahar ‫שׁחר‬,” DDD, 2nd ed., 754–55. 53 For a possible background for such curses, see Scott B. Noegel, “Job iii 5 in the Light of Mesopotamian Demons of Time,” VT 57 (2007): 556–62.

76


the astral deities, stars that are visible at dawn in the west—“over the sea.” Hence, one may take the line to mean, “let the shiners of day pierce it (the darkness of night),” an allusion to the outbreak of daylight,54 only the poet means something much more ominous—the cursing of day: “let the shiners of day curse it.” Then the poet will proceed in the next verse to wish for the morning stars themselves to be darkened, so that night will hope for light (‫ )אֹר‬but will not find it, and night will not see “the eyes of dawn” (‫) ַשׁ ַחר‬.55 Yet the parallel line, 3:8b, forces a rereading of the text, a move that poetry critic Barbara Herrnstein Smith dubs “retrospective patterning,” that is, the retrospective adjustment of interpretation as one progresses through a poem.56 In the first instance, one reads ‫יִ ְקּ ֻבהוּ א ְֹר ֵרי־י ֹם‬, “let the enchanters of day curse it,” the reading to which one is led on account of the recurrence of “day” so far in the poem. Cued by the second line, though, one adjusts to read ‫יִ ְקּ ֻבהוּ א ְֹר ֵרי־יָם‬, “let sea’s enchanters pierce it,” the ‫ א ְֹר ֵרי־יָ ם‬being the spell-casting allies of the sea monster—like “the helpers of Rahab” in 9:13, and like the spell-casting allies of Tiamat in the Enuma Elish. The verb should be parsed now not as deriving from ‫קבב‬, “to curse,” but from ‫נקב‬, “to pierce.” The latter verb is used in Job 40:24, 26 precisely of the destruction of sea monsters. Whereas traditionally the monsters are supposed to be pierced, now these “enchanters of Sea” are the ones who pierce monstrified night. The parallel line has ‫ ָה ֲﬠ ִת ִידים ע ֵֹרר ִלוְ יָ ָתן‬. The term ‫ ָה ֲﬠ ִת ִידים‬apparently refers to those who are trained, perhaps in spells like those found in later Jewish magical texts, which, incidentally, also have Sea and Leviathan in parallelism. At the same time, if the orthography is conservative, the term recalls Isa 14:9, where ‫תּוּדי ָא ֶרץ‬ ֵ ‫ַﬠ‬ are deceased heroes in the netherworld. Without the internal matres, the term in Job is ambivalent. It may refer, on the one hand, to human experts (‫ ) ָה ֲﬠ ִת ִדם‬or, on the other, to the netherworldy heroes (‫) ָה ַﬠ ֻתּ ִדם‬. As for the infinitive ‫ע ֵֹרר‬, “to rouse,” it echoes Isa 51:9, where the “arm of Yhwh” is roused to combat the chaos monsters. Yet in Job’s malediction, the chaos monster is to be roused, rather than suppressed. Just as ‫ יִ ְקּ ֻבהוּ א ְֹר ֵרי־יָ ם‬is ironic insofar as they who are to be pierced are doing the piercing, so ‫ ָה ֲﬠ ִת ִדם ע ֵֹרר ִלוְ יָ ָתן‬is ironic: that which is to be suppressed is roused instead. 54

So Edward Ullendorff, “Job III 8,” VT 11 (1961): 350–51.

55

‫ ַﬠ ְפ ַﬠ ַפּיִ ם‬is a synonym of ‫“ ֵﬠינַ יִ ם‬eyes” (Pss 11:4; 132:4; Prov 4:25; 6:4; 30:13; Jer 9:17). The

last example, Jer 9:17, suggests that the word must mean “eye” rather than “eyelids” or “eyelashes” (and hence “flickering,” as often suggested) since tears flow from it. Properly, ‫ ֵﬠינַ יִ ם‬refers to eyes in their sockets, while ‫ ַﬠ ְפ ַﬠ ַפּיִ ם‬would be the whole—the eyes together with eyelids and eyelashes (‫ שׂיער עפעפים‬in postbiblical Hebrew). Cf. Ugaritic, where pp is parallel to q, “eyeball” (CTU 1.14.III.43; 1.14.VI.30). In any case, the “eyes” here are celestial bodies, as also in Egyptian literature, where the sun and the moon are called “the eyes of heaven” (WÄS 1:107). 56 Smith, Poetic Closure: A Study of How Poems End (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), 10 and passim.


77

Job 5:7a The MT has ‫יוּלּד‬ ָ ‫ ִכּי ָא ָדם ְל ָﬠ ָמל‬. The OG, Vg., Syr., and Tg. all assume a passive meaning for the verb, which Dhorme and others take to reflect the niphal form ‫יִ וָּ ֵלד‬. Many Hebrew manuscripts, however, have ‫ילד‬, thus rendering the niphal impossible. The qal or hophal passive (‫ )יֻ ַלד‬is more likely, as is the hiphil, ‫י ִֹלד‬. So the text may be read in two ways. First is the view reflected in the traditional interpretation of the text: “‫ ָא ָדם‬is born to trouble.”57 Indeed, Job argues in 3:10 that human beings are born to trouble, that is, to suffer.58 Yet Eliphaz surely could not have meant that. He might have argued that humans are “born to trouble” in the sense that they are born to give trouble, born to sin. That would be in line with the traditional view going back to the so-called Sumerian Job: “Never has a sinless child been born to its mother.”59 So the conceit ‫ ִכּי ָא ָדם ְל ָﬠ ָמל יֻ ַלד‬leaves open the possibility that people who hold a common belief in the sovereignty of God may come to very different conclusions about the immediate cause of suffering. The ultimate source, both views affirm, is God. On the one hand, one might argue with Job that the ultimate cause of suffering is God, who brings human beings into the world to suffer (so 3:10). On the other hand, one might maintain with the exemplary-sufferer texts from the ancient Near East that human beings inevitably fall short (so 4:17–18). Yet Eliphaz may not be conceding that God might be responsible after all for bringing mortals to this world to sin. His argument is not that humans have been “born to trouble,” but that they are the ones who beget trouble: ‫ִכּי ָא ָדם ְל ָﬠ ָמל‬ ‫י ִֹלד‬.60 Already in the preceding verse, Eliphaz argues that “‫ ָאוֶ ן‬does not grow from ‫ ָﬠ ָפר‬, nor does ‫ ָﬠ ָמל‬sprout from ‫ ֲא ָד ָמה‬.” He is explicating the doctrine of retribution stated already in 4:8 that “those who plow ‫ ָאוֶ ן‬and sow ‫ ָﬠ ָמל‬reap the same.” Whereas ‫ ָאוֶ ן‬and ‫ ָﬠ ָמל‬are the acts of the farmer in 4:8, they are now the consequences of the acts. The plant in this case, though, is a metaphor for humans, as indeed the verb ‫ילד‬, “to birth,” suggests. The mention of ‫ ְבּנֵ י‬in the parallel line corroborates this view as well. Thus, the ‫ ָא ָדם‬who causes birth, ‫י ִֹלד‬, is implicitly

57

Thus all the ancient versions, also KJV, NIV, NRSV. Cf. also Die Einheitsübersetzung and TOB (Traduction oecuménique de la Bible). 58 So Norman C. Habel, The Book of Job (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1985), 132. 59 See Samuel Noah Kramer, “Man and His God: A Sumerian Variation on the ‘Job’ Motif,” in Wisdom in Israel and in the Ancient Near East: Presented to Professor Harold Henry Rowley by the Society for Old Testament Study in Association with the Editorial Board of Vetus Testamentum in Celebration of His Sixty-fifth Birthday, 24 March 1955 (ed. M. Noth and D. Winton Thomas; VTSup 3; Leiden: Brill, 1960), 176, 179 line 102. 60 In this case, the ‫ ל‬marks the object, as it does also in v. 2, ‫ֹג־כּ ַﬠשׂ‬ ָ ‫ל ֱאוִ יל יַ ֲהר‬, ֶ “vexation kills the fool.” In 15:35, one reads about the impious “conceiving misery [‫] ָﬠ ָמל‬, birthing trouble [‫] ָאוֶ ן‬, their womb bringing about deceit.”

78


associated with the ‫ ְבּנֵ י ֶר ֶשׁף‬, the issues of pestilence.61 In other words, humans who generate trouble produce contagions. Once they produce trouble, trouble does not just remain with them. Rather, like the pollen that plants produce, the diseases of this pestilence endanger all those around them.

Job 15:29b The textual witnesses are in disarray. The MT’s ‫ ִמנְ ָלם‬is doubtful. It has been explained as derived from a unique noun, *minleh (so BDB), even though (1) there is no root nlw/y anywhere in Semitic, (2) one should expect the nun to be assimilated, and (3) the masculine plural suffix does not coordinate with the singular antecedent (see ‫ ֵחילוֹ‬in the preceding line). The OG has σκιάν (“shadow”), which some scholars plausibly conjecture as reflecting Hebrew ‫ ֶצ ֶלם‬.62 The Vg. has radicem suam (“his root”), which probably reflects Hebrew ‫אצלם‬, (literally, “roots”), a form remarkably close to the apparent reading of the OG, ‫צלם‬, though it is possible that the OG is interpreting ‫ אצלם‬to mean the same as ‫צלם‬, that is, with a prothetic aleph.63 The Syriac translates the term as “words,” either reading ‫ ִמ ִלּם‬, or perhaps, ‫ ִמנְ ִלם‬, assuming the nasalization of gemination that is common in Aramaic morphology (though admittedly not for this noun). The Tg. has “from them,” probably reflecting Hebrew ‫מן לם‬, literally, “from [what is] theirs.” Thus, it appears that there are two variants—‫( מנלם‬so MT and probably Tg. and Syr.) and ‫( אצלם‬so Vg. and probably OG). Most recent commentators take the consonantal text of the MT at face value but assume a noun, *mānōl, a cognate of Arabic manāl, “possession,” 64 hence *‫ ְמנ ָֹלם‬, 61 Resheph, the god of pestilence in Canaan, is typically portrayed in texts and iconography as an archer. In a Phoenician inscription from Kition, one finds the epithet ršp hisi, “Resheph of the Arrows” (KAI 32:3, 4). Pertinent, too, is a Ugaritic incantation mentioning bl his,i [ršp], “the lord of the arrows, [Resheph],” the arrows being a reference to deadly diseases that this demon shoots into one’s vital organs (CTU 1.82.2). Psalm 91:5 speaks of “the arrows that fly by day,” and since that line is juxtaposed with the threats personified Plague (‫ ) ֶדּ ֶבר‬and Disease (‫) ֶק ֶטב‬, the arrows are to be understood as an allusion to Resheph’s weapon of choice. In Deut 32:23–24, famine, ravaging pestilence (‫) ְל ֻח ֵמי ֶר ֶשׁף‬, and disease are among the arrows sent by the deity. Elsewhere, too, ‫ רשׁף‬is simply “arrow” (so Ps 76:4; Song 8:6), perhaps meaning the effects of pestilence. Thus, ‫ ְבּנֵ י ֶר ֶשׁף‬may mean “issues of Resheph,” that is arrows or indeed anything that is shot into the air. Since “arrows” may be a metaphor for one’s progeny (Ps 124:4-5), ‫ ְבּנֵ י ֶר ֶשׁף‬may refer to the deadly issues of pestilence, perhaps diseases in the air (cf. Tg. Onq. Deut 32:24, where ‫“ רשׁף‬pestilence” is rendered by ‫עוף‬, as here in Job). A fragment of a wisdom text from Qumran speaks ‫רשׁפ]י[ מות‬, deadly pestilences that fly about (4QBéat, frag. 15, line 5). 62 So Adalbert Merx, Das Gedicht von Hiob (Jena: Mauke, 1871), 72–73; Beer, Der Text des Buches Hiob, 96. 63 The addition of the possessive pronoun in the Vg. is merely to clarify the sense of the text; it does not necessarily indicate a suffix in its Vorlage. 64 Cf. also Sabaean mnlt, “possession” (so Joan Copeland Biella, Dictionary of Old South Arabic, Sabaean Dialect [HSS 25; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1982], 304).


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literally, “their possession.”65 The third person plural suffix, however, is awkward, for there is no appropriate antecedent and most translators simply ignore the plural meaning in the Hebrew and translate the suffix as “his” (so NIV, NAB, NJPS). It is better to read *‫ ְמנ ִֹלם‬, “possessions,” the plural ending being supported by msKenn 145, which has ‫מנלים‬. The majority form, ‫מנלם‬, simply reflects the original conservative orthography. One might posit that ‫ אצלם‬is a genuine variant of ‫ ְמנ ִֹלם‬. The noun ‫אצל‬, taken by Jerome to mean “root,” may also mean “property, assets” in Nabatean and Arabic.66 Assuming Nabatean and Arabic asil as a cognate, then, one might vocalize the Hebrew in the Vorlage of the Vg. (and OG?) as ‫ ֲא ָצ ִלם‬, again, assuming the conservative orthography of the original.67 Taking both variants to have the same meaning, “possessions,” we understand Eliphaz to mean that the wicked man, whose wealth will not endure, will not be able to bring his temporary advantage to bear in his final destination, the netherworld. Indeed Eliphaz says it with verve—‫ ָל ָא ֶרץ‬. . . ‫ וְ לֹא‬. . . ‫ ֵחילוֹ‬. . . ‫ וְ לֹא‬. . . ‫—לֹא‬ with all the negatives leading eventually to ‫ ֶא ֶרץ‬, the netherworld. The same point is made in Ps 49:15–21, namely, that the wicked may be wealthy but their wealth is but temporary; they can take none of it with them when they die. Talk of the netherworld brings Eliphaz back to his earlier point about the dark destination from which the wicked would not turn (‫ ִמנִּ י ח ֶֹשְׁך‬, v. 30a; see also v. 22a). Employing an arboreal metaphor, he speaks of devastation by blight (v. 30b). If one reads ‫ ֲא ָצ ִלם‬in v. 29b, that arboreal metaphor has been anticipated at the end of the previous verse, for that term means not just “possessions” but also “roots.” Indeed, in light of v. 30, one might retrospectively repattern, that is, reconsider the levels of signification in the preceding verse. Accordingly, v. 29b means not only that the wicked cannot spread his possessions to the netherworld; he will not take his wealth with him when he dies. It also means that “he will not extend roots to the earth” (‫ ;)ארץ‬that is, he will not be deeply rooted (cf. Eliphaz’s metaphor of rootage in 5:3). The arboreal metaphor recalls as well Job’s conceit that there is hope for a tree, since even when it is cut down it may still regenerate at the mere scent of water so that “its shoot will not cease” (14:7). But Eliphaz is less sanguine about the tree than Job. Eliphaz associates the wicked with this metaphorical tree, the wicked whose roots are his possessions: “heat will dry up its shoot” (v. 30b). 65 Giovanni Pettinato called attention to the occurrence of ma-ni-lum as a gloss of Sumerian ÁB, “cattle,” in a lexical text from Ebla, which prompted him to interpret “cow” as pecunia and ma-ni-lum as “possession.” See his Ebla: Un impero inciso nell’argilla (Saggi 126; Milan: Mondadori, 1969), 262, where he reads ‫ מנלם‬in Job 15:29 as ‫ ְמנִ ִלם‬. He is followed recently by Gianantonio Borgonovo, La notte e di il suo sole: luce e tenebre nel Libro di Giobbe (AnBib 135; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1995), 241. 66 See DNSWI, 1:99; Lane, 64–65. 67 Cf. Gustav Hölscher (Das Buch Hiob [HAT 17; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1952], 39) and Jean Steinmann (Le livre de Job [LD 16; Paris: Cerf, 1955], 29), who read ‫אצלים‬.

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Job 16:14 Job describes God’s relentless attack on him, as if such a puny mortal as he were a mighty fortress. And that relentlessness is conveyed by the repetition of the root ‫פרץ‬, “to breach”: ‫יפרצני פרץ על־פני־פרץ‬. The beginning of the next line of the couplet, however, finds the deity charging ( ‫ )ירץ‬as a warrior. The repeated bilabial p opens to a glide, y, thus graphically (and phonologically) representing the eventual breach that spells the end of Job: ‫ ירץ‬. . . ‫ פרץ‬. . . ‫ פרץ‬. . . ‫פרץ‬. The conservative spelling of ‫( ירץ‬as opposed to ‫ )יָ רוּץ‬enhances the poetry. Job is here taking issue with Eliphaz, who has accused the wicked of playing the warrior (‫יִ ְתגַּ ַבּר‬, 15:25) and charging against God (15:26, ‫)יָ רוּץ ֵא ָליו‬. To Job, however, the hostility was initiated by God the enemy—an aggression directed at the innocent no less.

Job 17:11 There are a couple of wordplays in this verse, which reads, according to the MTALB: ‫מוֹר ֵשׁי ְל ָב ִבי‬ ָ / ‫ זִ מּ ַֹתי נִ ְתּקוּ‬/ ‫יָמי ָﬠ ְברוּ‬ ַ . The noun ‫ מורשׁי‬is presumably derived from the root ‫ארשׁ‬, “to desire”: *maraš > *māraš > *mōraš > môrāš. The noun is a hapax legomenon in Hebrew, but ‫ מורשׁי לב‬has a parallel in Standard Babylonian mēreš libbi, “desire of the heart.”68 As such, ‫ מורשׁי לבבי‬parallels ‫זִ מּ ַֹתי‬, which may be understood to mean “my wants.”69 The OG, however, has τὰ ἄρθρα τῆς καρδίας μου, “the strings of my heart,” reflecting Hebrew ‫ ַמ ְר ֵשׁי ְל ָב ִבי‬, where the first noun is cognate to Akkadian maršu, “thongs, straps,” and Syriac maršā, “rope.” This is the interpretation of Saadiah. The Syriac has mwbdy, “those who destroy,” reflecting Hebrew ‫( ְמ ִר ֵשּׁי‬from ‫רשׁשׁ‬, “to crush”), which again reflects conservative orthography, ‫מרשׁי‬. The Tg.’s lwhyi lby, “tablets of my heart,” is probably a later misinterpretation of earlier lhiy lby “those who destroy my heart,” which is a translation of ‫( מרשׁי לבבי‬interpreted as ‫)מ ִר ֵשּׁי ְל ָב ִבי‬ ְ , and the Vg. torquentes cor meum may be explained similarly. Thus, apart from the MT, all the versions read ‫מרשׁי‬. This is indeed the reading in five manuscripts. If one reads ‫ ַמ ְר ֵשׁי ְל ָב ִבי‬, the noun ‫ זִ מּ ַֹתי‬may also be interpreted to mean “my ties,” the root ‫ זמם‬being attested in Aramaic with the meaning “to tie up, muzzle.”70 68

See CAD 10, M/2, 26. See 31:11, where ‫ זִ ָמּה‬has to do with desire for a woman. A related noun is ‫ זְ ָמם‬in Ps 140:9, where ‫זְ ָממוֹ‬,“his wants,” is juxtaposed with ‫ ַמ ֲאוַ יֵּ י ָר ָשׁע‬, “desires of the wicked.” 70 So Napthali H. Tur-Sinai (The Book of Job: A New Commentary [rev. ed.; Jerusalem: Kiryat Sepher, 1967], 281-82), who follows a cue from Ibn Ezra, for which see Mariano Gómez Aranda, El Comentario de Abraham Ibn Ezra al Libro de Job (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, Instituto de Filología, 2004), 139. 69


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The spelling of ‫ מרשׁי‬facilitates a wordplay, for one may interpret it to mean either ‫ מ ָֹר ֵשׁי‬or ‫ ַמ ְר ֵשׁי‬.71 Indeed, one may capture the double entendre by translating ‫ מרשׁי‬as “reins.” On the one hand, “reins” (‫ )מ ָֹר ֵשׁי‬refers to one’s desires or intentions. On the other hand, the verb “snapped” evokes another meaning of the noun “reins,” that is, “cords” (‫) ַמ ְר ֵשׁי‬. Job’s intentions are snapped like cords. I cannot resist adding the observation that this triplet consists of three very short lines coming one after another in staccato fashion, the terseness of the lines perhaps representing the shortening of Job’s life. The structure of the triplet mirrors the triplet in v. 1, which also concerns the attenuation of life. In each case, the third line is without a verb—an incomplete sentence that mimics the loss of life.

Job 20:23 The stanza in 20:12–23 reaches a crescendo in the last verse with an imprecation against the wicked. The subject of the jussive verb in the first line of v. 23 is ambiguous.72 On the one hand, the repetition of the verb ‫מלא‬, “to be full,” in vv. 22–23 suggests that either “abundance” or “misery” may be the subject of the verb: “Let it be for the filling of his belly.” On the other hand, the subject may be the “fierce anger” mentioned in the parallel line. The hand of misery that will press upon the bloated glutton (v. 22) is a manifestation of divine anger (v. 23). God’s intervention in working out the doctrine of retribution has been suggested already in v. 15b, when God purges the stomach of the wicked for the wickedness it has consumed. Here, though, the wicked does not simply throw up (v. 15a). The poet depicts the already-sated glutton being further force-fed, as divine wrath is set against him, or indeed, “in him” (‫)בּוֹ‬. There is irony as well in this unwelcome divine feeding, for the text speaks of someone, presumably God, raining upon the wicked (v. 23c). The MTALB has ‫ וימטר עלימו בלחומו‬in v. 23c, but many manuscripts have the more conservative orthography, ‫ בלחמו‬instead of ‫בלחומו‬. The OG has ὀδύνας, “pains,” reflecting ‫ ֲח ָב ִלם( חבלם‬, see 21:17), taking the waw at the end with the next line (καὶ οὐ μὴ σωθῇ = Hebrew ‫)ויברח‬. This reading corroborates the omission of the internal waw mater. The Vg. has bellum suum, “his war,” and the Syr. reads bqrbtnwth, “with warlike strength.” Both versions derive ‫ לחם‬from root ‫לחם‬ I, “to be hostile, fight,” whereas the Tg. has “flesh, body,” assuming ‫ ְל ֻחם‬. The medieval commentators are similarly split, with Saadiah, Rashi, and Mesui dat David assuming “war” or the like (i.e., ‫ לחם‬I) and Ibn Ezra, Ramban, Ramaq, and Ralbag 71 In fact, one suspects that the spelling ‫ מ ָֹר ֵשׁי‬instead of the proper form ‫ֹ)א(ר ֵשׁי‬ ָ ‫ מ‬is deliberate—to facilitate the wordplay. 72 Some critics take ‫ יְ ִהי‬to be an anomalous imperfect and cite the same form in Job 18:12 as another example. The latter, though, is not an imperfect but a preterite form. The jussive in 20:23 is in fact corroborated by ‫יַמ ֵטר‬ ְ in the parallel line.

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assuming “food” or flesh.” Modern translations are divided along the same lines. The NRSV has “as food,” NJB “his flesh,” NKJV “while he is eating” (i.e., ‫) ִבּ ְלחֹמוֹ‬, and NIV “his blows” (so REB: “cruel blows”; NAB: “missiles of war”). In short, ancient, medieval, and modern interpreters presume either ‫ לחם‬I, “to be hostile, fight,” or ‫ לחם‬II, “to eat.” On the one hand, the references to consumption in the immediate context prompt one to take ‫ לחם‬as “food.” This interpretation is reinforced by the juxtaposition of the ‫ ִה ְמ ִטיר‬and ‫ ֶל ֶחם‬in Exod 16:4. Furthermore, ‫ בלחמו‬echoes ‫ לחמו‬in v. 14, where food is a metaphor for wickedness.73 On the other hand, hostility is suggested by the sending of anger against the wicked, and this meaning is confirmed by the image of the savage combat in the next verse. Accordingly, we may take ‫ לחם‬as a cognate to Arabic lihiām, “hand-to hand fighting, brawl.”74 The original orthography, ‫בלחמו‬, facilitates the allusion to Exodus 16, but the secondary introduction of the waw mater diminishes the allusion. In Zophar’s poetry, God’s action against the wicked is as much divine providence as God’s giving of food in the wilderness. God’s hostility is the “food” that the wicked do not want, but this divine providence from on high is just what the voracious wicked must “eat.”

Job 20:28 Zophar has been concerned in this stanza of the poem with the final destiny of the wicked (vv. 24-27). He has just spoken of heaven revealing the offenses of the wicked (v. 27a), as if it were a hostile witness. The earth, too, rises up like a hostile witness against the wicked (v. 27b). The two cosmic entities, heaven and earth, together provide the legally required minimum number of witnesses for a verdict (Deut 19:15). Here Zophar is perhaps satirizing Job’s appeal to earth in 16:18 and his conviction in 16:19 that his witness is in heaven.75 In Zophar’s scenario, though, these cosmic witnesses will attest to the guilt of the wicked, and the consequence of that twin testimony is laid out in v. 28. The first word of the couplet in v. 28 (MT ‫ )יִ גֶ ל‬echoes the first word of the preceding couplet (‫)יְ גַ לּוּ‬. Thus one is impelled to read v. 28a as the MT has it, ‫יִ גֶ ל‬ ‫יְבוּל ֵבּיתוֹ‬, “let one expose the produce of his house,” which is a way of saying “let the wealth of his house be exposed.” The sentiment is similar to what Eliphaz has expressed (5:5), namely, that the produce generated by the wicked will be exposed to seizure by others (cf. Deut 28:33). Just as the wicked seize from others what is not rightfully theirs (20:19), so what is theirs will be seized by others. Heaven’s 73 See Scott B. Noegel, Janus Parallelism in the Book of Job (JSOTSup 223; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 68. 74 See Manfred Ullmann, Wörterbuch der klassischen arabischen Sprache (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1972), 2/1:368. 75 Thus John C. Holbert, “ ‘The Skies Will Uncover His Iniquity’: Satire in the Second Speech of Zophar (Job XX),” VT 31 (1981): 177.


83

exposure (‫ )יְ גַ לּוּ‬of the offenses of the wicked (v. 27) will lead to the exposure (‫)יִ גֶ ל‬ of the wealth of the wicked (v. 28). Yet the parallel line, with its reference to torrents (‫)נִ גָּ רוֹת‬,76 cues a retrospective adjustment of one’s interpretation of the first line. In view of ‫נִ גָּ רוֹת‬, one should take ‫יבול‬, or rather its likely original ‫( יבל‬so msKenn 240), to mean “flood” (‫יֵבל‬/‫ל‬ ֶ ‫) ֶיֶב‬.77 The retrospective adjustment also entails a rereading of ‫יגל‬, which one may now vocalize as ‫יָ גֹל‬, thus, ‫יֶבל ֵבּיתוֹ‬ ֶ ‫יָ גֹל‬, “let a flood roll away his house.”78 The “house” that is now rolled away recalls the “house” seized by the wicked (v. 19b), who have crushed the poor (v. 19a, see also v. 10). Given the recurring charge of injustice on the part of the wicked in this poem, one might recall as well the exhortation of the prophet Amos: ‫וְ יִ גַּ ל ַכּ ַמּיִ ם ִמ ְשׁ ָפּט‬, “and let justice sweep away like waters” (Amos 5:24). Indeed, msdi Rossi 552 has ‫יִ גַּ ל‬, which some commentators favor,79 a reading intended to link this text with Amos. In retrospect, this interpretation is indeed proper, for not only does Zophar speak of the crushing of the poor, as Amos did, but the stanza is in fact concerned with the inevitable end of the wicked, for the wicked would escape one weapon directed at them only to be struck by another that will prove fatal (vv. 24–25), a trope we find in Amos 5:19. For Zophar, though, the house of the wicked—they who have seized the house of others—will be rolled away. The wicked will receive retribution like for like.

IV. Postscript Reflections The evidence for conservative orthography in the book of Job is far more extensive than Freedman has shown. One need not agree with Freedman, though, that the text is genuinely archaic. The orthography in fact proves nothing of the book’s provenance. Rather, the text may be conservative for a literary reason: to give the impression of a story from long ago and far away. Be that as it may, a hypothesis of a conservatively spelled original helps resolve a number of textcritical difficulties in the book. Moreover, the conservative orthography proves in many instances to serve a poetic function. This orthography allows homographic 76 The form ‫נִ גָּ רוֹת‬, a hapax legomenon in Hebrew, is usually said to be from ‫נגר‬, “to flow, spill,” though there are no cognates in other Semitic languages. It may rather have been secondarily derived from the niphal of ‫גרר‬, “to sweep away, pull away” (Prov 21:7; Hab 1:15). Cf. Arabic jarra, “pull, drag,” often associated with the flow of water” (Lane, 399–402). 77 The noun is known in Biblical Hebrew only in the construct form ‫יִב ֵלי ַמיִ ם‬, ְ “water channels,” in Isa 30:25; 44:4; Sir 50:8, but cf. also ‫יוּבל‬, ַ “stream” // ‫מיִ ם‬, ַ “water” in Jer 17:8). Targumic Aramaic attests ‫יִב ָלא‬ ְ , Syriac yablā. See Noegel, Janus Parallelism in Job, 72–73. 78 So Hölscher, Das Buch Hiob, 51; Fohrer, Das Buch Hiob, 326; Fedrizzi, Giobbe, 165; Alonso Schökel and Sicre Díaz, Job, 376. 79 Thus by Merx (Das Gedicht von Hiob, 104–5); and Arnold B. Ehrlich, Randglossen zur hebräischen Bibel (7 vols.; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1908–14), 6: 264.

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wordplays in addition to the numerous homophonic ones that scholars have long noticed. Poetry in Job, it seems, is written not only for the ear. It is written as well for the eye. It is “visual poetry.”80 This conceit of Joban poetry as “visual” has implications far beyond homographic wordplays.81 If Job is “visual poetry,” one might also consider other possible visual plays in the book. To illustrate another type of visual play, one might cite Elihu’s reference to the salvific nature of suffering: ‫ וְ יִ גֶ ל ַבּ ַלּ ַחץ ָאזְ נָ ם‬/ ‫יְ ַח ֵלּץ ָﬠנִ י ְב ָﬠנְ יוֹ‬, “(God) rescues the afflicted from their affliction / he opens their ears through suffering” (36:15). Irony is highlighted in a visual play between the verb “rescue” (‫ )חלץ‬and the noun for suffering (‫)לחץ‬. Visually the first two radicals mirror each other. The point is that suffering may, ironically, be the mirror image of rescue. One might consider as well the visual effects of lineation, as I have implied in my observations above about the staccato-like lines of 17:1, 11. Or one might contemplate the visual effects of stanzaic structures or lack thereof, as in the concentration of triplets and the structural orderliness of 3:3–10, which contrasts with the absence of triplets and the lack of order in 3:11–26, as if the call for the return to chaos in the malediction has indeed come to pass. A further implication of this claim of visuality in Joban poetry, which is not to deny its aurality but to highlight the frequent need for rearticulation of the words and retrospective adjustment of understanding as one reads along, is that the persistent claim of Job as a drama—whether a tragedy or a comedy— will not hold, if by “drama” one means a script composed for public performance. Moreover, visual poetry in Job constantly demands interpretive decisions on the part of the reader—decisions that, once made, may yet be questioned again and revised. Translations inevitably limit the expression of such poetry, for every translation commits one to a single interpretation, usually at the expense of whatever ambiguities may indeed be part and parcel of poetry. Translations do not accommodate retrospective adjustments. By the same token, the marking of vowels, whether through the introduction of matres or vowel points, limits the full play of poetry. The masoretes and the translators of the versions may well have been aware of the poetic plays, but their vowels and translations commit them to only one interpretation. The versions do occasionally retain double readings, for example, OG (9:3; 32:16), Syr. (4:21; 15:26; 19:27), Vg. (20:25), or Tg. (20:10), not to mention the frequent multiple readings of the Tg. Rather than being thoughtless

80 See Eleanor Berry, “Visual Poetry,” in The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics (ed. Alex Preminger and T. V. F. Brogan; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 1364–66. 81 On “visual wordplays,” see Scott B. Noegel, “Wordplay in the Tale of the Poor Man of Nippur,” Acta Sumerologica 18 (1996): 169–86; Gary Rendsburg, “Word Play in Biblical Hebrew: An Eclectic Collection,” in Puns and Pundits: Word Play in the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Near Eastern Literature (ed. Scott B. Noegel; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2000), 137–61.


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combinations of variants, as text-critics are wont to assume, conflate texts may sometimes indicate recognition of double meanings. For the modern reader, then, the fullest delight in reading Joban poetry can be attained only through an open-minded conversation with the text and its many interpreters. And this reading begins with an introduction to the man whose name is, as the original orthography of the book would have had it, ‫ ִאיֹּב—איב‬, one who has suffered hostility. Or is his name ‫ ?אֹיֵב‬This question the reader will struggle to determine as the story is played out.

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JBL 130, no. 1 (2011): 87–108

Ezekiel 16 and the Song of Moses: A Prophetic Transformation? jason gile [email protected] Wheaton College, Wheaton, IL 60187

Scholars have long recognized that in Ezekiel 16 the prophet draws on the harlotry metaphor of his prophetic predecessors to indict Jerusalem for its idolatry and foreign relations.1 Moshe Greenberg, for example, described Ezekiel’s expansion of this common motif when he noted, “By extending the metaphor in time, Ezekiel provides the adulterous wife of Hosea and Jeremiah with a biography.”2 However, commentators have thus far failed to notice that the building blocks

A version of this article was presented in the Theological Perspectives on the Book of Ezekiel Section at the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in New Orleans, November 23, 2009. I wish to thank Daniel Block and Michael Lyons for offering comments on an earlier draft. 1 See, e.g., Keith W. Carley, Ezekiel among the Prophets: A Study of Ezekiel’s Place in Prophetic Tradition (SBT 2/31; London: SCM, 1975), 49; Walther Zimmerli, Ezekiel: A Commentary on the Book of the Prophet Ezekiel (trans. Ronald E. Clements; 2 vols.; Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979), 1:342; Moshe Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–20: A New Translation with Introduction and Com2mentary (AB 22; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1983), 298; Leslie C. Allen, Ezekiel 1–19 (WBC 28; Dallas: Word Books, 1994), 247; Julie Galambush, Jerusalem in the Book of Ezekiel: The City as Yahweh’s Wife (SBLDS 130; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992), 61; Karl-Friedrich Pohlmann, Das Buch des Propheten Hesekiel, vol. 1, Kapitel 1–19 (ATD 22.1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 223; Daniel I. Block, The Book of Ezekiel, vol. 1, Chapters 1–24 (NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 466. This is not to imply that the biblical prophets share a single, coherent “marriage metaphor” (see Sharon Moughtin-Mumby, Sexual and Marital Metaphors in Hosea, Jeremiah, Isaiah, and Ezekiel [Oxford Theological Monographs; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008], 6), but only that Ezekiel’s harlot imagery has prophetic antecedents. On this, along with my position on the sexual and marital imagery that has dominated the discussion of Ezekiel 16 in recent years, see my review of Moughtin-Mumby’s monograph in Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 9 (2009), online: http://www.jhsonline.org. 2 Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–20, 299.

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of the oracle are found in the Song of Moses (Deut 32:1–43).3 In this essay I will argue that Ezekiel’s depiction of Israel in ch. 16 (chiefly section A, vv. 1–43)4 represents a prophetic transformation of the rise and decline of Israel depicted in the Song, whereby he adopts the structure and themes of Deuteronomy 32 and infuses them with the prophetic motif of harlotry.5 I begin the investigation by outlining the thematic, lexical, and structural links between the two passages and then more explicitly discuss criteria for establishing literary dependence. In the subsequent sections I address the following questions: Could Ezekiel have known and used the Song? Is it likely that he would have known and used the Song? Did he in fact use the Song elsewhere in his prophetic book? And is it likely that he would have used the Song in the way proposed in this essay? Finally, I mention numerous ways in which Ezekiel uniquely builds on and transforms his underlying text and then conclude by addressing the rhetorical import of Ezekiel’s use of the Song.

I. Plot Structure and Thematic Links Ezekiel 16 and Deuteronomy 32 display remarkable similarities of plot and themes, the full extent of which has not been fully noted. The two texts exhibit virtually identical plot structures, both depicting the rise and decline of Yhwh’s people. In both, (a) Yhwh discovers destitute Israel in a barren location; (b) he delivers her and renders lavish care upon her so that (c) she prospers; (d) Israel in her prosperity forsakes Yhwh; (e) she pursues other gods and (f) forgets her origins, thereby (g) provoking Yhwh to anger; (h) Israel is punished for her sins; and finally, (i) Israel is restored. Several verbal parallels, synonyms, and rare motifs found in the two passages at the same point in the plot make it unlikely that these similarities are coincidental. The two texts also share similar formal features. Though Ezekiel 16 may be properly considered a rîb (“dispute”)6 and Deuteronomy 32 a šîr (“song, hymn”),7 the latter nevertheless contains strong rîb elements, including an indictment (vv. 15–18) and sentence (vv. 19–29).8 3 The possibility of thematic links between Ezekiel 16 and the Song of Moses was brought to my attention by Daniel Block in personal conversation. 4 On the tripartite arrangement of Ezekiel 16 (vv. 1–43, 44–58, and 59–63, labeled sections A, B, and C), see Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–20, 292–96. 5 In this article I use “Deuteronomy 32” as a shorthand for Deut 32:1–43, which constitutes the Song of Moses. 6 See Block, Ezekiel, 1:459–62. 7 See section IV below. 8 This is evidenced by many earlier scholars’ identification of Deuteronomy 32 as a rîb (see esp. G. Ernest Wright, “The Lawsuit of God: A Form-Critical Study of Deuteronomy 32,” in Israel’s Prophetic Heritage: Essays in Honor of James Muilenburg [ed. Bernhard W. Anderson and Walter Harrelson; New York: Harper & Brothers, 1962], 26–67).

Gile: Ezekiel 16 and the Song of Moses

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Before considering the links in detail, a few comments are necessary by way of preface. First, the texts exhibit some fundamental differences in imagery, and Ezekiel’s oracle is fuller and more detailed at certain points. Most of these differences are due to the liberty with which the prophet expands and transforms the Song. The particulars of Ezekiel’s transformation will be taken up later, but in what follows I will focus on the thematic links and parallel plot structures, while recognizing, for example, that the harlot imagery is lacking in Deuteronomy 32. Second, criteria for establishing literary dependence and its direction will be discussed below in section II. It is to be noted in advance only that the case for literary dependence across entire pericopes involves a cumulative argument. The persuasiveness of individual parallels would vary on a scale of possibility to probability when considered separately. When taken together, however, and in the close proximity of two well-defined passages, numerous distinctive parallels in combination can make a compelling case for literary dependence.

A. YHWH’s Discovery of Israel (Deut 32:10 // Ezek 16:6) The accounts of Israel’s history with her God begin with Yhwh finding destitute Israel in a barren location. In Ezekiel 16 the prophet depicts Jerusalem’s origins with the image of an infant cast aside by her parents and later rescued from dire straits and cared for by Yhwh. In vv. 5–6 Yhwh passes by (l( rb() the infant and sees (h)r) her destitute in an open field (hd#). The Song similarly describes Yhwh’s discovery of Israel in a barren location. In Deut 32:10 he finds ()cm) Jacob in a desert land (rbdm) and encircles (bbs) him (in this case using masculine pronouns9). Though Ezekiel prefaces the discovery of the foundling with a “biography,” to which we will return below, in both texts the discovery marks the start of Israel’s relationship with her God Yhwh. Though Ezekiel does not adopt the exact same language in this instance, the terms hd# and rbdm in the Bible have overlapping semantic domains, as evidenced by those passages where they occur together, as synonyms or in parallel poetic lines (Josh 8:24; Job 24:5–6; Isa 43:19–20; Joel 1:19–20; 2:22).10 The verbs h)r and )cm are also conceptually similar, as is illustrated in Hos 9:10 where the two verbs occur in parallel in a context nearly identical to our passages, namely, in reference to Yhwh finding Israel. 9 Adjustment of person, number, and gender for both verbal subjects and objects is a common feature of inner-biblical literary borrowing, since later authors change the language to fit a new context (see Michael A. Lyons, From Law to Prophecy: Ezekiel’s Use of the Holiness Code [Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 507; New York: T&T Clark, 2009], 79). In the present case, Ezekiel 16 has Yhwh speak in the first person to Jerusalem, who is addressed in the second person. In the Song a narrator speaks of both Yhwh and Israel with third person pronouns. 10 Meir Malul, “Adoption of Foundlings in the Bible and Mesopotamian Documents: A Study of Some Legal Metaphors in Ezekiel 16:1–7,” JSOT 46 (1990): 103.


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Like grapes in the wilderness, I found [)cm]Israel. Like the first fruit on the fig tree in its first season, I saw [h)r]your fathers. (Hos 9:10)

Though it is unlikely that Ezekiel is dependent on Hosea here, since the imagery of the latter focuses on Yhwh finding Israel “like grapes” and “like the first fruit on the fig tree,” instead of like a destitute foundling rescued and cared for as in Ezekiel and Deuteronomy,11 Hos 9:10 wonderfully shows the semantic overlap of )cm and h)r in a similar context and thus demonstrates that both verbs can be used to refer to a discovery. Since the foundling or discovery motif (Fundmotiv) for Israel’s relationship to Yhwh appears only in Ezekiel 16 and Deuteronomy 32 in the Hebrew Bible,12 one might reasonably propose influence from Deuteronomy 32 on Ezek 16:6 alone. Thus, contra Hermann Gunkel’s hypothesis that Ezekiel draws the motif from a common folktale type,13 it is argued here—in conjunction with the prophet’s wider dependence on Deuteronomy 32 noted next—that he appropriates it from the Song of Moses. A few scholars have noted the similar image in these two passages,14 but Millar Burrows came closest to the thesis presented here when he observed that “[Ezekiel] seems to combine the thought of [the foundling in] Dt 32 with [Hosea’s] conception of Jerusalem as a girl tenderly reared by Yahweh.”15 However, uncertain of the priority of these two texts, Burrows refrained from conclusively deciding that Ezekiel is dependent on the Song and did not recognize parallels beyond the discovery and care of Israel. Greenberg intimated a further connection when he noted that the foundling motif functions in the same way in both the Song and Ezekiel 16, namely, “to start the account of God’s relation to his people with a situation best designed to enhance his beneficence toward them and illustrate his providential and tender care of them,”16 but scholars have not recognized the full

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It is more likely that Hosea is also dependent on Deut 32:10, borrowing the notion of finding Israel in the wilderness, but he takes it in a different direction. 12 Psalm 27:10 speaks of YHWH’s adoption of the petitioner but not of a discovery. 13 Hermann Gunkel, The Folktale in the Old Testament (trans. M. D. Rutter; Historic Texts and Interpreters in Biblical Scholarship; Sheffield: Almond, 1987), 128–31; trans. of Das Märchen im Alten Testament (Religionsgeschichtliche Volksbücher 2; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1917). Greenberg earlier presented a persuasive critique of this hypothesis (Ezekiel 1–20, 300–301). 14 Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–20, 299; Zimmerli, Ezekiel, 1:336; idem, Old Testament Theology in Outline (trans. David E. Green; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1978), 23. Though scholars debate the exact referent of Ezekiel’s foundling metaphor in Israel’s history (see, e.g., Allen, Ezekiel 1–19, 236–37; Thomas Krüger, Geschichtskonzepte im Ezechielbuch [BZAW 180; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1989], 184), the similarity in the metaphorical vehicle alone can suggest literary borrowing. 15 Millar Burrows, The Literary Relations of Ezekiel (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society Press, 1925), 23. 16 Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–20, 299–300.


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extent of the distinctive thematic and plot parallels that continue throughout the two passages.

B. YHWH’s Lavish Care (Deut 32:10b–14 // Ezek 16:7–13a) In both passages, after discovering Israel, Yhwh rescues her and renders lavish care upon her. In Ezek 16:7a, Yhwh recounts: “I made you flourish like a plant of the field, and you grew up and became tall and arrived at full adornment.” And after Yhwh passed by a second time17 and entered into a covenant with the young girl by passing his garment over her, he brought her from rags to riches: I bathed you with water and washed off your blood from you and anointed you with oil. I clothed you also with embroidered cloth and provided you with sandals of fine leather. I wrapped you in fine linen and covered you with fine fabric. And I adorned you with jewelry and put bracelets on your wrists and a chain on your neck. And I put a ring on your nose and earrings in your ears and a beautiful crown on your head. Thus you were adorned with gold and silver, and your clothing was of fine linen and fine fabric and embroidered cloth. You ate fine flour and honey and oil. (Ezek 16:9–13a)

Similarly, in the Song of Moses, Yhwh tenderly cares for Jacob and provides him with the finest things. . . . he cared for him; he protected him as the apple of his eye. Like an eagle that stirs up its nest, that hovers over its young, spreading out its wings, catching them, bearing them on its pinions, Yhwh alone guided him; no foreign god was with him. He enabled him to ride on the high places of the land, and he ate of the produce of the field, and he suckled him with honey out of the rock, and oil out of the flinty rock. Butter from the herd, and milk from the flock, with the fat of lambs, rams of Bashan and goats, with the finest of the wheat— and from the juice of the grapes you drank wine. (Deut 32:10b–14)

17 Greenberg claims that this is an adjustment to the exodus tradition, whereby the intermediate period refers to Israel’s time in Egypt, when it grew, waiting for Yhwh’s redemption (Ezekiel 1–20, 301). However, the second passing may be necessary for the metaphorical vehicle, since one cannot marry an infant (also contra the motive of Yhwh suggested by Linda Day, “Rhetoric and Domestic Violence in Ezekiel 16,” BibInt 8 [2000]: 208–9).

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The most fascinating verbal parallel between these two passages is found at this point in the story in Deut 32:11 and Ezek 16:8, namely, the phrase Pnk #rp. In Deuteronomy 32, Yhwh’s care for Israel is portrayed as an eagle spreading (#rp) its wings (Pnk) over its young; in Ezekiel 16, when Yhwh enters into a marriage covenant with Jerusalem, he spreads (#rp) his garment (Pnk) over her. While spreading a garment over a woman undoubtedly refers to acquiring her in marriage (cf. Ruth 3:9),18 if Ezekiel is drawing from Deuteronomy 32, then the phrase also represents an allusion to Deut 32:11—a double entendre of sorts. Not only do the two Pnk #rp statements appear in the same section of the plot, but both also occur immediately after the )cm/h)r and bbs/l( rb( word pairs (Deut 32:10a // Ezek 16:8a) and are followed by the extended descriptions of Yhwh’s lavish care (Deut 32:12–14 // Ezek 16:9–13). This section of the plot witnesses another significant verbal parallel. As Georg Fohrer has pointed out, in the context of Yhwh’s care both passages speak of Israel eating honey and oil.19 Deut 32:13 He ate the produce of the field, and he suckled him with honey [#bd] out of the rock, and oil [Nm#] out of the flinty rock. Ezek 16:13 (also v. 19) You ate fine flour and honey [#bd] and oil [Nm#].

Though #bd and Nm# occur together a couple times in longer lists of commodities (Jer 41:8; Ezek 27:17), only here does the Hebrew Bible speak of Israel (in extended metaphors) eating honey and oil—both in the context of Yhwh’s care.

C. Israel Prospers (Deut 32:15a // Ezek 16:13b–14) Because of Yhwh’s upbringing, Israel prospers. Deuteronomy 32:15a describes Israel’s prosperity to the point of excess: “Jeshurun grew fat, and kicked; you grew fat, stout, and sleek.” This compares with Ezek 16:13b–14, where Ezekiel describes Jerusalem’s rise to prominence and renown: “You grew exceedingly beautiful and advanced to royalty, and your fame went forth among the nations because of your beauty. Indeed, it was perfect through the splendor that I had bestowed on you, declares the Lord Yhwh.”

18 Paul A. Kruger, “The Hem of the Garment in Marriage: The Meaning of the Symbolic Gesture in Ruth 3:9 and Ezek 16:8,” JNSL 12 (1984): 79–86. See Moughtin-Mumby, Sexual and Marital Metaphors, 172 n. 72, for further bibliography. 19 Georg Fohrer, Die Hauptprobleme des Buches Ezechiel (BZAW 72; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1952), 144; followed by Rimon Kasher, Ezekiel: Introduction and Commentary, vol. 1, Chapters 1– 24 (in Hebrew; Mikira le-Yiśra'el; Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 2004), 55.


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D. Israel Forsakes Her God (Deut 32:15b // Ezek 16:15a) Immediately after Israel increases, she forsakes Yhwh her God who rescued her and made her thrive. Both texts ascribe the turning point to her self-confidence. In the Song it was after Jeshurun grew fat from Yhwh’s luxurious provision that he “forsook God who made him and scoffed at the Rock of his salvation” (32:15b). Ezekiel depicts Jerusalem’s turn from Yhwh as the moment she trusts in her beauty (16:15a).

E. Israel’s Idolatry (Deut 32:16–17 // Ezek 16:15b–22) In the Song, Israel’s idolatry takes up two verses: They stirred him to jealousy with strange gods; with abominations they provoked him to anger. They sacrificed to demons that were no gods, to gods they had never known, to new gods that had come recently, whom your fathers had never dreaded. (32:16–17)

True to Ezekiel’s intense detestation of idolatry,20 the prophet expands the account of idolatry into a graphic display of harlotrous idolatry that encompasses eight verses, followed by a continuation of the metaphor to refer to Jerusalem’s illegitimate foreign relations as well (16:23–34).21 In this latter section, Jerusalem is said to take Myrz (“strangers”) instead of her husband (16:32), a possible allusion to Deut 32:16, where Myrz refers to the gods that Israel worshiped.

F. Israel Forgets Her Origins (Deut 32:18 // Ezek 16:2222) In her idolatry, Israel forgets her origins. The Song states that Jacob “forgot the God who gave [him] birth” (32:18), and in Ezek 16:22 the prophet indicts Jerusalem for not remembering the “days of [her] youth when [she] was naked and bare.” In both cases, after being blessed by Yhwh, Israel forgets that it was Yhwh who caused her to prosper. 20 John F. Kutsko identifies idolatry as “the quintessential cause of the Babylonian exile” for Ezekiel (Between Heaven and Earth: Divine Presence and Absence in the Book of Ezekiel [Biblical and Judaic Studies from the University of California, San Diego 7; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2000], 25); so also Jill Middlemas, “Transformation of the Image,” in Transforming Visions: Transformations of Text, Tradition, and Theology in Ezekiel (ed. Michael A. Lyons and William A. Tooman; Princeton Theological Monograph Series; Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2010), 115–16. 21 Zimmerli considered this latter section on foreign relations to be secondarily added to the idolatry section (Ezekiel, 1:334–35, 347–48), but cf. Krüger, Geschichtskonzepte, 147–51. Even without these and the other verses that Zimmerli excises from the original Ezek 16:1–43 (see Ezekiel, 1:347–48), the essential components outlined here remain. 22 It is reiterated as the justification for the punishment in 16:43.

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G. Israel Angers YHWH (Deut 32:16, 21 // Ezek 16:26) In both passages, Israel angers Yhwh, which is signified by the verbal root s(k, “to provoke to anger.” In the Song, Israel’s idols are the source of Yhwh’s anger. Deut 32:16 They stirred him to jealousy with strange gods [Myrz]; with abominations [twb(wt] they provoked him to anger [whsy(ky]. Deut 32:21a They have made me jealous with what is no god [l)-)l]; they have provoked me to anger [ynws(k] with their idols [Mylbh].

In Ezekiel the word occurs in the extended account of Jerusalem’s harlotry. After the accounts of her idolatry and illegitimate foreign relations, it is stated that her actions have “provoked me to anger” (ynsy(khl).

H. Israel’s Indictment and Punishment (Deut 32:19–25 // Ezek 16:35–43) Then, Yhwh punishes Israel. Both Ezekiel and the Song cite Israel’s idolatry as the reason for her punishment. Thus, Deuteronomy 32 cites the provocation (s(k) of Yhwh caused by his people’s idols (v. 21). Ezekiel as well indicts her for harlotry with idols in v. 36: “Because [N(y] your lust was poured out and your nakedness uncovered in your whoring with your lovers and with all your abominable idols. . . .” The difference between the modes of punishment will be noted in the final section.

I. Israel’s Restoration (Deut 32:35–36, 41–43 // Ezek 16:53–55, 59–63) One further correspondence remains to be considered, namely, that of Israel’s restoration after her punishment. Though the Song emphasizes Yhwh’s vindication (32:35–36, 41–43), embodied in this is a clear restorative element. In v. 36 Yhwh “will have compassion on his servants when he sees that their power is gone,” and in v. 43 he “avenges the blood of his servants” (LXX and 4QDeutq: sons) and “atones [rpk] for his people’s land.”23 In Ezekiel, restoration is found in sections B (16:44– 58, esp. vv. 53–55) and C (16:59–63). Though many see these sections as supplements by the prophet himself or his disciples,24 the fact that the last sentence of 23 Taking the MT’s wm( wtmd) in v. 43 as wm( tmd) (cf. LXX; Samaritan Pentateuch; 4QDeutq). Alternatively, one may retain the MT’s wm( wtmd), “his land, his people,” as the lectio difficilior. 24 E.g., Zimmerli, Ezekiel, 1:333–34. All agree that the parts of ch. 16 display an organic connection, in which section B (vv. 44–58) draws from and builds on the themes of vv. 1–43 and then section C (vv. 59–63) builds on both earlier sections (see Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–20, 295).


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Ezekiel 16 and the last sentence of the Song employ rpk,25 a unique word in restoration oracles, to describe Yhwh’s renewal of his people suggests that the prophet’s dependence on the Song may continue into sections B and C of ch. 16. If so, then in these latter sections, as in the section on idolatry above, Ezekiel takes the liberty to go well beyond the less developed elements of restoration in the Song, adding the characteristic restoration language “restore the fortunes” (v. 53), “return to the former state” (v. 55), and Ezekiel’s distinctive theme of bearing shame (v. 54). For a synopsis of the plots of Deuteronomy 32 and Ezekiel 16, see the chart on the next page.

II. Literary Dependence? Establishing true literary dependence is a notoriously precarious task. Having outlined the links between Deuteronomy 32 and Ezekiel 16, we may discuss criteria used to establish dependence and observe whether they are met in the present case. The first obvious requirement for literary dependence is availability; that is, could Ezekiel have borrowed from the Song? In the discussions that follow, I will show that Ezekiel could have known and used Deuteronomy 32 by appealing to arguments for the new consensus that the Song is an early composition and likely well known in the preexilic period. Beyond this initial prerequisite, however, it is necessary to investigate whether similarities between an earlier and later text are the result of purposeful borrowing or are simply due to chance, perhaps because a given parallel is a common motif or formulaic expression. Though such a task is as much an art as a science,26 several scholars have discussed criteria to help distinguish dependence from coincidental similarities of theme and language.27 In some cases inner-biblical allusions are characterized by a relatively high degree of verbal and syntactic correspondence, which is an excellent indicator of literary dependence.28 As Earl Miner points out, however, an allusion may consist of

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Ezekiel 16:63: “. . . when I atone for you for all that you have done.” See Benjamin D. Sommer, “Exegesis, Allusion and Intertextuality in the Hebrew Bible: A Response to Lyle Eslinger,” VT 46 (1996): 485–86, and the sources cited therein; see also Jeffery M. Leonard, “Identifying Inner-Biblical Allusions: Psalm 78 as a Test Case,” JBL 127 (2008): 264. 27 Most notably Richard L. Schultz, The Search for Quotation: Verbal Parallels in the Prophets (JSOTSup 180; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 222–39; Richard B. Hays, Echoes of Scripture in the Letters of Paul (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989), 29–30; Christopher A. Beetham, Echoes of Scripture in the Letter of Paul to the Colossians (Biblical Interpretation Series 96; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 27–34; Lyons, Law to Prophecy, 47–75; Leonard, “Identifying InnerBiblical Allusions,” 241–65. 28 Schultz, Search for Quotation, 222–24; Leonard, “Identifying Inner-Biblical Allusions,” 252–53. 26


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A Synopsis of the Plot of Deuteronomy 32 and Ezekiel 16 Yhwh’s Discovery of Israel Deut 32:10a Setting: desert/wilderness (rbdm) “He found ()cm) him” “He encircled (bbs) him”

Yhwh’s Discovery of Jerusalem Ezek 16:6 Setting: open field (hd#) “I saw (h)r) you” “I passed over (l( rb() you”

Yhwh’s Lavish Care Deut 32:10b–14 “Like an eagle . . . spreading (#rp) its wings (Pnk) . . . Yhwh . . .” “He suckled him with honey (#bd) out of the rock, and oil (Nm#) out of the flinty rock”

Yhwh’s Lavish Care Ezek 16:7a, 9–13a “ I spread (#rp) my garment (Pnk) over you” “You ate fine flour and honey (#bd) and oil (Nm#)”

Israel Prospers Deut 32:15a

Jerusalem Prospers Ezek 16:13b–14

Israel Forsakes God Deut 32:15b

Jerusalem Forsakes God Ezek 16:15a

Israel’s Idolatry Deut 32:16-17 “They stirred him to jealousy with Myrz” (Deut 32:16)

Jerusalem’s Idolatry (as Harlotry) Ezek 16:15b-34 “She takes Myrz instead of her husband” (Ezek 16:32)

Israel Forgets Its Origin Deut 32:18 “You forgot the God who gave you birth”

Jerusalem Forgets Its Origin Ezek 16:22 (also v 43) “You did not remember the days of your youth, when you were naked and bare . . .”

Israel Angers Yhwh Deut 32:16, 21 “They provoked him to anger” (hiphil, s(k) “They provoked me to anger” (piel, s(k)

Jerusalem Angers Yhwh Ezek 16:26 “(You) . . . provoked me to anger” (hiphil, s(k)

Israel’s Punishment Deut 32:23-25

Jerusalem’s Punishment Ezek 16:35-43

Israel’s Restoration Deut 32:35-43 Yhwh atones (rpk) for his people’s land

Jerusalem’s Restoration Ezek 16:53-63 Yhwh atones (rpk) for his people’s sins


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a single common word or even just a shared concept.29 What matters is that the parallel is sufficiently distinctive to suggest dependence. Thus, the first criterion relevant for this discussion is rare concept similarity.30 As the opposite of a common motif, the presence of a rare concept in two texts suggests that one may be drawing from the other.31 For example, one may think of the rock motif of Deuteronomy 32, which is picked up in Isaiah (17:10; 26:4; 44:8).32 In our texts the primary rare concept is the foundling motif, which occurs at the outset of the two accounts of Israel’s history with Yhwh. As an image to describe the discovery and adoption of a destitute foundling, the motif occurs only in Ezekiel 16 and Deuteronomy 32 in the Hebrew Bible,33 and in both cases in reference to Yhwh’s discovery of Israel. We may also note here the distinctive motif of spreading a wing/garment (Pnk #rp) and the word pair #bd and Nm#, “honey and oil.” A related consideration at this point is the presence of what Jeffery Leonard calls nonshared language. In the discovery of the foundling at the outset of the two passages, Ezekiel appears to draw from the foundling motif in Deuteronomy 32, but not its exact terminology. However, Leonard is emphatic that the presence of such differences of expression “in no way undermines the possibility of a connection,” since “unique or idiosyncratic language may be a reflection of the creativity or writing style of a given author.”34 A second criterion for dependence is frequency. When considering multiple links, the more parallels within two single pericopes, the greater the possibility that they are the result of purposeful borrowing and not just chance similarity. Though some individual parallels may lack concrete evidence for dependence and may therefore vary on the scale of possibility to probability, numerous possible allusions mutually corroborate each other as evidence of literary borrowing. Of course, numerous weak links together provide a weak case for dependence. However, the presence of a few probable allusions, marked by a high degree of verbal and syn-

29 Earl Miner, “Allusion,” The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics (ed. Alex Preminger and T. V. F. Brogan; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 38–39. 30 Beetham, Echoes of Scripture, 29; cf. Leonard, “Identifying Inner-Biblical Allusions,” 251– 52. 31 In some cases two texts might not be dependent on each other but rather both might be dependent on a different source (e.g., Ezek 16:16 and Hos 9:10 on the foundling motif of Deut 32:10). However, in the present case it is unlikely that both Ezekiel 16 and the Song depend on a third source, given the familiarity and widespread use of the Song by other biblical writers and the distinctiveness and ubiquity of the plot and thematic links between the two passages. 32 Thomas Keiser, “The Song of Moses: A Basis for Isaiah’s Prophecy,” VT 55 (2005): 488– 90. Cf. 1 Sam 2:2; 2 Sam 23:3; Psalms passim; Hab 1:12. 33 Hosea 9:10 (cited above) witnesses the verbs h)r and )cm, but it lacks a destitute foundling and her subsequent care by YHWH. 34 Leonard, “Identifying Inner-Biblical Allusions,” 249 (emphasis original).


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tactic correspondence or a sufficiently distinctive motif or idea, lends credence to other parallels that alone are considered only possible allusions.35 In some cases, the frequency of links is corroborated by their distribution. If parallels display a consistent or unique distribution, this may suggest that a later author alluded to an earlier work extensively or even structured his composition on it.36 Together the frequency and distribution of allusions create a cumulative argument for literary dependence, as summarized by Benjamin Sommer: The argument that an author alludes, then, is a cumulative one: assertions that allusions occur in certain passages become stronger as patterns emerge from those allusions. In any one passage that may rely on an older text, the critic must weigh evidence including the number of shared terms and their distinctiveness, [and] the presence of stylistic or thematic patterns that typify the author’s allusions.37

In the present case, the frequency and distribution of parallels between these two texts offer overwhelming evidence for dependence. The accumulation of thematic links in a nearly identical plot structure, corroborated by several lexical links at the same point in the plot, including the Pnk #rp motif, the eating of #bd and Nm#, the verbal root s(k to signify Israel’s provocation of Yhwh, and rpk in Israel’s restoration, makes it extremely unlikely that these parallels occur by chance. Admittedly, elements of this plot are scattered in other parts of the Hebrew Bible, but no other passage contains all the elements and none in the same order as we find here.38 Indeed, each element of the plot structure of Ezek 16:1–43 is found in Deuteronomy 32 in essentially the same order, and the two passages are likewise 35

The same point is made by Jacob Stromberg: “It is necessary to stress this cumulative aspect of the argument only because such words and phrases that echo DI [Deutero-Isaiah] might be regarded, when viewed in isolation from one another, as mere coincidence” (“An Inner-Isaianic Reading of Isaiah 61:1–3,” in Interpreting Isaiah: Issues and Approaches [ed. David G. Firth and H. G. M. Williamson; Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2009], 263). 36 Drawing on Robert Alter’s narrative “type-scene,” Paul R. Noble makes a similar case for allusions within biblical narratives: “A catalogue of individual, unrelated points of resemblance between two texts is not, in general, a sufficient criterion for identifying a probable authorial or redactional allusion of one text to the other. But . . . a common pattern in two texts is a sufficient criterion for postulating intentional allusion—unless the pattern is a very simple one (consisting, say, of only two or three elements, with little or no interconnection between them) it is difficult to believe that it should happen to occur in two different locations just by chance” (“Esau, Tamar, and Joseph: Criteria for Identifying Inner-Biblical Allusions,” VT 52 [2002]: 251). 37 Sommer, “Exegesis, Allusion and Intertextuality,” 485. So also Leonard, “Identifying InnerBiblical Allusions,” 253–54; Rex Mason, “Zechariah 9–14,” in Bringing Out the Treasure: Inner Biblical Allusion in Zechariah 9–14 (ed. Mark J. Boda and Michael H. Floyd, with a major contribution by Rex Mason; JSOTSup 370; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2003), 201; Cynthia Edenburg, “How (Not) to Murder a King: Variations on a Theme in 1 Sam 24; 26,” SJOT 12 (1998): 72. 38 The closest instance of these concentrated in one passage is Hos 13:4–6, which over three verses mentions the wilderness, prosperity, and forgetting Yhwh.


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unique in the extent of their story. Finally, the foundling motif and the other plot parallels mutually corroborate each other: the rare foundling motif gives a firm basis to propose wider dependence in these texts, and the subsequent plot similarities, marked by distinctive lexical links at the same point in the plot, confirm the hypothesis of dependence in the foundling motif. It is also useful to consider the likelihood that an author might allude to the alleged source.39 In the following sections I will argue that the Song of Moses was well known to Ezekiel and his contemporaries and that it exerted a strong influence on subsequent biblical writers. A further criterion that bolsters the case for dependence is recurrence, that is, the frequency with which an author cites or alludes to the same passage.40 In section V below I will show that Ezekiel clearly draws from the Song in other passages as well. Though it is not necessary to show recurrence or a high likelihood of borrowing to establish true dependence, these features nevertheless serve to confirm other criteria. Lastly, regarding the direction of dependence, Richard Schultz has shown that evidence of interpretive reworking is one of the major criteria for determining which text borrowed from the other.41 I will argue below that Ezekiel 16 represents a reinterpretation of the Song or a reapplication of it to the time of Ezekiel and his contemporaries. Though in our case the preexilic provenance of Deuteronomy 32 rules out the possibility that the Song draws from Ezekiel 16, it would be difficult to imagine that the Song reworks Ezekiel 16 by stripping it of its harlotry imagery and offering a condensed version. Thus, Ezekiel 16 seems to represent a creative transformation of Deuteronomy 32, whereby the prophet uses the Song as the building blocks of his oracle. In summary, the evidence for Ezekiel’s use of Deuteronomy 32 displays all the signs of dependence outlined by Sommer above. The nearly identical plot structure and themes, corroborated by verbal parallels and rare concepts at the same points in the plot, confirm the presence of literary dependence.

III. Could Ezekiel Have Known and Used the Song? To postulate Ezekiel’s use of and allusion to the Song of Moses requires that Deut 32:1–43 predate the book of Ezekiel. Though a wide range of dates have been postulated for the Song in the history of scholarship,42 scholars since the 1930s have overwhelmingly supported an early date.43 This view has been substantiated in the 39

Sommer, “Exegesis, Allusion and Intertextuality,” 485. Hays, Echoes of Scripture, 30. 41 Schultz, Search for Quotation, 231. 42 A comprehensive review of scholarship is found in Paul Sanders, The Provenance of Deuteronomy 32 (OtSt 37; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 1–98. 43 See ibid., 21–36, citing Otto Eissfeldt, Das Lied Moses Deuteronomium 32:1–43 und Das 40

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recent comprehensive studies of Deuteronomy 32 by Paul Sanders and Solomon Nigosian, who considered multiple lines of evidence and both convincingly established the Song’s early preexilic provenance.44 In what follows I will briefly outline the arguments for this conclusion.

A. Linguistic Considerations Both Sanders and Nigosian built upon the linguistic study of David A. Robertson, who had established an early date for the Song based on its linguistic features.45 Such features include the presence of early vocabulary, especially the verbal root Cxm in v. 39, defective and plene spellings, the poetic suffix wm–, the appearance of the final yod in the perfective verb w%ysfxf (v. 37), and the ubiquity of yiqtol forms expressing narrative (preterite) tense.46 The seventeen preterite yiqtol verbs are particularly noteworthy, since they rarely occur in exilic and postexilic biblical writings.47 Moreover, many lexemes in the Song previously thought to be late have since been shown to have counterparts in the Ugaritic literature.48 The presence of any single early feature is inconclusive for dating a text, since many of these phenomena occur as archaisms in standard Biblical Hebrew poetry. However, in his study on dating early Hebrew poetry, Robertson concluded that the accumulation of these features in a single poem represents the best evidence for establishing an early composition.49 Lehrgedicht Asaphs Psalm 78: samt einer Analyse der Umgebung des Mose-Liedes (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1958); William Foxwell Albright, “Some Remarks on the Song of Moses in Deuteronomy XXXII,” VT 9 (1959): 339–46; Yehezkel Kaufmann, The Religion of Israel from Its Beginnings to the Babylonian Exile (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960); Wright, “Lawsuit of God”; G. E. Mendenhall, “Samuel’s ‘Broken rîb’: Deuteronomy 32,” in No Famine in the Land: Studies in Honor of John L. McKenzie (ed. James W. Flanagan and Anita Weisbrod Robinson; Homage Series 2; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975), 63–74. See also Jeffrey H. Tigay, Deuteronomy: Myrbd. The Traditional Hebrew Text with the New JPS Translation (JPS Torah Commentary; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1996), 512–13. 44 Sanders, Provenance; Solomon A. Nigosian, “The Song of Moses (Deut. 32:1–43)” (Ph.D. diss., McMaster University, 1975); idem, “The Song of Moses (Dt 32): A Structural Analysis,” ETL 72 (1996): 5–22; idem, “Linguistic Patterns of Deuteronomy 32,” Bib 78 (1997): 206–24; idem, “Historical Allusions for Dating Deut 32,” BN 119–20 (2003): 30–34. 45 Robertson, Linguistic Evidence in Dating Early Hebrew Poetry (SBLDS 3; Missoula, MT: Society of Biblical Literature, 1972), 155. 46 Sanders, Provenance, 296–333. 47 Ibid., 300, 313–15; Nigosian, “Linguistic Patterns,” 211. For the preterite yiqtol form as the remnant of a short yiqtol form found in Byblian Canaanite, see Anson F. Rainey, “The Ancient Hebrew Prefix Conjugation in the Light of Amarnah Canaanite,” HS 27 (1986): 4–19; and the response articles by Edward L. Greenstein, John Huehnergard, and Ziony Zevit, in HS 29 (1988): 7–42; also IBHS, 497. 48 Sanders, Provenance, 320. 49 Robertson, Linguistic Evidence, 135; so also Nigosian, “Linguistic Patterns,” 211.


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B. Historical Context Many scholars have attempted to date Deuteronomy 32 by correlating historical allusions in the Song with events in the history of Israel. Their assumption is that the Song was written after an enemy had delivered a crushing defeat to Israel. Consequently, the chief clue in the Song is the identity of this enemy, described as a “non-people” (M(-)l) and a “foolish nation” (lbn ywg). Corresponding to different time periods, common designations have included Canaanite tribes, the Arameans, the Assyrians, and the Babylonians.50 While Nigosian favored a particular historical referent,51 and Sanders emphasized that the diversity of opinion suggests that the Song does not aim to identify clearly a historical context, both agree that nothing in the Song betrays a late date.52 For example, if the Song were exilic or postexilic we might expect some implicit or explicit reference to Babylon, deportation, or return to the land. Furthermore, nothing betrays knowledge of the demise of the northern kingdom or even the presence of a united or divided monarchy. While this is an argumentum e silentio, it is nevertheless noteworthy, since, as G. Ernest Wright reminds us, the threat of exile is a characteristic component of the exilic prophets and Deuteronomic historians, and thus its absence in Deuteronomy 32 is all the more striking.53

C. Intertextual Links Further confirmation comes from the intertextual links between the Song of Moses and the prophetic books. Early critical scholarship, represented as early as 1891 by C. H. Cornill,54 viewed the Song as dependent on the prophets and thus exilic. Many scholars followed Cornill by citing strong links between the Song and Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Isaiah 40–66. S. R. Driver, for example, cited approvingly Cornill’s assertion that the Song was a “compendium of prophetic theology.”55 More recent studies, however, have reversed the traditional interpretation by arguing that the prophets made use of the Song and not vice versa. These include studies of Isaiah 40–66 by Thomas Keiser, Benjamin Sommer, and Hyun Chul Paul Kim,

50

For bibliographical information on those who have espoused these theories, see Sanders, Provenance, 6–39. 51 Nigosian argued for the religious and political circumstances of the northern state near the second half the ninth century b.c.e. (“Historical Allusions”). 52 Sanders, Provenance, 39; cf. Nigosian, “Structural Analysis,” 22. 53 G. Ernest Wright, “Deuteronomy: Introduction and Exegesis,” IB 2:517. 54 Cornill, Einleitung in das Alte Testament (Freiburg: J. C. B. Mohr, 1891), 71. 55 S. R. Driver, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Deuteronomy (ICC; New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1895), 308.

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and Isaiah 1–39 by Ronald Bergey.56 Older studies of Jeremiah by William Holladay and of Hosea by Umberto Cassuto affirm the same.57

IV. Is It Likely That Ezekiel Would Have Known and Used the Song? But how likely is it that Ezekiel would have borrowed from the Song? The influence of the Song on later biblical writers can be partially explained by considering the place of Deuteronomy 32 in ancient Israel. Matthew Thiessen’s study of the formal and generic properties of Deuteronomy 32 determined that the Song of Moses functioned as a liturgical text in the public cultic sphere and thus was likely well known among Ezekiel’s audience.58 Though he speaks of a rîb embedded in the Song, several features suggest that the overall form of the work is a cultic hymn, including the numerous shifts in grammatical person, the imperatives of worship, and multiple speakers.59 This suggests that Ezekiel would have known the Song and would have chosen it for rhetorical purposes because his contemporary audience or readers also knew the text.60 In addition, though not direct evidence for the status of the Song in the preexilic period, its liturgical function in Second Temple Judaism is attested by both the manuscript evidence and rabbinic tradition. We may first note the Qumran manuscript 4QDeutq, about which Patrick Skehan and Eugene Ulrich write: “The limited height of the scroll, the arrangement of the lines, the small number of words per column, and the absence of the final verses of ch. 32 strongly suggest that 56 Keiser, “Song of Moses”; Benjamin D. Sommer, A Prophet Reads Scripture: Allusion in Isaiah 40–66 (Contraversions; Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998), 134–36; Kim, “The Song of Moses (Deuteronomy 32.1–43) in Isaiah 40–55,” in God’s Word for Our World, vol. 1, Biblical Studies in Honor of Simon John De Vries (ed. J. H. Ellens et al.; JSOTSup 388; London: T&T Clark, 2004), 147–71; see also Michael Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1985), 478–79; Bergey, “The Song of Moses (Deuteronomy 32:1–43) and Isaianic Prophecies: A Case of Early Intertextuality?” JSOT 28 (2003): 33–54. 57 Holladay, “Jeremiah and Moses: Further Observations,” JBL 85 (1966): 17–27; Cassuto, “The Prophet Hosea and the Books of the Pentateuch” (in Hebrew), in Abhandlungen zur Erinnerung an Hirsch Perez Chajes (ed. V. Aptowitzer and A. Z. Schwartz; Vienna: Alexander Kohut Memorial Foundation, 1933), 262–75; Eng. trans. “The Prophet Hosea and the Books of the Pentateuch,” in Cassuto, Biblical and Oriental Studies, vol. 1, Bible (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1973), 79–100. 58 Thiessen, “The Form and Function of the Song of Moses (Deuteronomy 32:1–43),” JBL 123 (2004): 401–24, esp. 422–23, where he cites Cassuto approvingly that the Song was widely known and the prophets frequently drew from it (Biblical and Oriental Studies, 1:44). 59 Thiessen, “Form and Function,” 407–10. 60 Thiessen himself recognized the implications of his study for the relationship of the Song to the prophetic literature (“Form and Function,” 423).


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4QDeutq probably contained only the Song of Moses (Deut 32:1–43). It would thus 1oin the category of ‘special use’ manuscripts.”61 This special use likely indicates a liturgical use of some sort for the Song,62 and one wonders how far back this tradition reaches. Rabbinic traditions as well held that the poem was chanted by the Levites in the temple on the Sabbath (b. Roš Haš. 31a; y. Meg. 3.8, 74b).63

V. Did Ezekiel Know and Use the Song? Support for the thesis presented here may be found in other allusions to Deuteronomy 32 in the book of Ezekiel. The examples offered below show that the prophet does in fact know the Song of Moses and uses it for his prophetic message.64

A. Mycx, b(r, “Arrows, Famine” (Ezek 5:16–17 // Deut 32:23–25, 42) In Ezek 5:16–17 the prophet appears to conflate Priestly and Deuteronomic traditions. Though this passage clearly draws from Lev 26:22–26,65 many commentators agree that Ezekiel borrows the terms “arrows” and “famine” from Deut 32:23–25, 42.66 In fact, the image of Yhwh using arrows as punishment on his people is unique to Deut 32:23–25 and Ezek 5:16–17 in the Hebrew Bible.67 Regarding 61 Patrick W. Skehan and Eugene Ulrich, “4QDeutq” in Qumran Cave 4.IX: Deuteronomy, Joshua, Judges, Kings (ed. E. Ulrich et al.; DJD 14; Oxford: Clarendon, 1995), 138. B. Meg. 16b also notes that the Song was written stichographically. 62 See Emanuel Tov, “Excerpted and Abbreviated Biblical Texts from Qumran,” RevQ 16 (1995): 581–600. 63 Ishmar Elbogen, Jewish Liturgy: A Comprehensive History (trans. Raymond P. Scheindlin; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1993), 98, 139. 64 Of course, this evidence depends on the unity of Deuteronomy 32:1–43. The major analyses of the structure of the Song of Moses have affirmed its unity, e.g., Wright, “Lawsuit of God,” 26–67; Thiessen, “Form and Function,” 417. Sanders writes: “My conclusion is that this version of the song can be regarded as a unity of composition dating to the pre-exilic period. There is nothing in the song which demonstrates that specific parts of it must be secondary. Most arguments that have been adduced against the unity of the song are extremely weak. Interpretation of v. 30–31 as a secondary passage is possible but not necessary” (Provenance, 429–31). 65 Lyons, Law to Prophecy, 94. 66 Fohrer, Hauptprobleme, 144; Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–20, 116–17; Block, Ezekiel, 1:213; Risa Levitt Kohn, A New Heart and a New Soul: Ezekiel, the Exile and the Torah (JSOTSup 358; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002), 96–97; Ka Leung Wong, The Idea of Retribution in the Book of Ezekiel (VTSup 87; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 94; Kasher, Ezekiel, 54; cf. Allen, Ezekiel 1–19, 77. Rabbinic interpreters as well drew a connection between these two texts in Sifre to Deuteronomy 321:1. 67 Numbers 24:8 refers to Yhwh using arrows against the nations.


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b(r, it is unlikely that Ezekiel derives it from the phrase “break the staff of bread” in Lev 26:26, because of the close association of Mycx and b(r in both Deuteronomy 32 and Ezekiel 16. As a final possible validation of this point, Ka Leung Wong suggests that in Ezek 5:16 Mhb, “against them,” often emended to the expected Mkb, is a literary remnant of the third person context of Deut 32:23 in which Mb appears.68

B. ybrx, “My Sword” (Ezekiel 21 // Deut 32:41–42) Ezekiel borrows another of Yhwh’s agents of death found in the Song: the sword.69 The Song’s distinctive ybrx, “my sword (i.e., Yhwh’s),” mentioned twice in Deut 32:41–42, occurs three times in Ezekiel 21 (21:8–10 [Eng. 3–5]), along with twelve other occurrences of brx (also in Ezek 30:25; 32:10). In the Song the object of the sword’s destruction is Yhwh’s enemies, but Ezekiel appropriates the motif to describe God’s judgment on his people (21:17 [12]). Though the covenant curses of Leviticus 26 mention the sword,70 these two passages share several common motifs: (1) the sword is sharpened; (2) the sword flashes; (3) the sword is in the hand; and (4) the sword consumes flesh. First, in Deut 32:41, Yhwh states, “I sharpen my flashing sword” (ybrx qrb ytwn#). Ezekiel 21 speaks repeatedly of a sharpened sword, e.g., Ezek 21:14 [9]: “a sword, a sword, sharpened and polished” (h+wrm-Mgw hdxwh brx brx). While the two use synonyms (from the roots Nn# and ddx), the common motif is nevertheless present. Second, in three instances in Ezekiel 21 the flashing sword motif from Deut 32:41 is found: “polished that it might flash (lit. have flashing)” (21:15 [10]; h+rm qrb hl-hyh-N(ml); “made to flash (lit. for lightning)” (21:20 [15]; qrbl hyw#(); “polished . . . to flash” (21:33 [28]; qrb N(ml . . . h+wrm); cf. Nah 3:3. Third, Deut 32:41 also states, “my hand takes hold [of the sword] in judgment” (ydy +p#mb zx)t), and Ezek 21:16 [11] speaks of the sword grasped in the hand (dyb, Pkb). Finally, just as Deut 32:42 states that “my sword will devour flesh” (r#b lk)t ybrx), so Ezek 21:9 [4] states, “my sword shall be drawn from its sheath against all flesh” (r#b-lk-l) hr(tm ybrx )ct); cf. Jer 12:12; Hos 11:6. Ezekiel’s reference to the sword in 7:15 may also have been influenced by the Song, specifically Deut 32:25,71 the same context from which Ezekiel borrowed b(r and Mycx. Ezekiel’s threat that “the sword shall be outside, and pestilence and famine

68

Wong, Idea of Retribution, 94. See Fohrer, Hauptprobleme, 144. 70 Indeed, Ezekiel borrows from Lev 26:33 the phrase brx Mkyrx) qyrh, “draw the sword after you,” in Ezek 5:2, 12; 12:14 (cf. 28:7; 30:11) (see Lyons, Law to Prophecy, 63–64). However, in ch. 21 the prophet prefers the phrase ybrx )cwh hr(tm, “remove my sword from its sheath” (vv. 3–5), which further suggests that Leviticus 26 is not the basis for ch. 21. 71 Fohrer, Hauptprobleme, 144; Kasher, Ezekiel, 55; note Sifre to Deuteronomy 321:6. 69


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inside” (tybm b(rhw rbdhw Cwxb brxh) closely resembles that of the Song: “outside the sword shall bereave, and inside terror” (hmy) Myrdxmw brx-lk#t Cwxm).

C. )nq, “To Make Jealous” (Ezek 8:3 // Deut 32:16, 21) A less conclusive example is the occurrence of the verbal root )nq in Ezek 8:3 and Deut 32:16, 21, which is used to speak of idolatry provoking God to jealousy.72 The verb is not used in this sense elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible except in 1 Kgs 14:22 and Ps 78:58, thus ruling out influence from the Priestly literature or another source.73 Moreover, because the word does not occur often enough in the Deuteronomistic literature to be considered common Deuteronomistic language, it is possible that Ezekiel is influenced by this specific text.

VI. Ezekiel’s Programmatic Use of Scripture Finally, is it likely that Ezekiel would have used Deuteronomy 32 in the way proposed in this essay? Here we may note that there are other examples of Ezekiel’s programmatic use of earlier biblical texts. In particular, we note two types comparable to his use of the Song in Ezekiel 16: the creative reformulation of an earlier text and the use of an earlier text for the structure of a new oracle. As an example of the former, Pancratius C. Beentjes and other scholars have shown that Jacob’s blessing on Judah in Genesis 49 appears to be the basis for the language and imagery of Ezekiel 19.74 In the first poem of ch. 19 (vv. 2–9) the prophet draws extensively from the description of Judah as a lion in Gen 49:9: Judah is a lion’s cub [hyr) rwg]; from the prey [Pr+] you have gone up [tyl(], my son. Like a lion he lies down and crouches [Cbr]; As with a lioness [)ybl], who dares to rouse him?

72

Noted by Allen, Ezekiel 1–19, 142; Fohrer, Hauptprobleme, 144; Kasher, Ezekiel, 56. While H. C. Lutzky (“On the ‘Image of Jealousy’ [Ezekiel viii 3, 5],” VT 46 [1996]: 121–24) has hypothesized that originally a single word lay behind hnqmh h)nqh in the phrase hnqmh h)nqh lms, which is derived from the root hnq, “to (pro)create,” John Day (Yahweh and the Gods and Goddesses of Canaan [JSOTSup 265; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002], 62–63) has defended the traditional interpretation that the word reflects a III-) root written as a III-h. 73 Though cf. the epithet )nq l) in Exod 20:5; 34:14; etc. 74 Beentjes, “What a Lioness Was Your Mother: Reflections on Ezekiel 19,” in On Reading Prophetic Texts: Gender-Specific & Related Studies in Memory of Fokkelien van Dijk-Hemmes (ed. B. Becking and M. Dijkstra; Biblical Interpretation Series 18; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 26–31; Moshe Greenberg, “Notes on the Influence of Tradition on Ezekiel,” JANESCU 22 (1993): 29–37; idem, Ezekiel 1–20, 357–58; Block, Ezekiel, 1:603, 608–10.


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This is confirmed by his use of the vine language of Gen 49:10–12 in the second poem (vv. 10–14), including “vine” (Npg) and “blood” (Md), but also “scepter” (+b#), a term denoting rulership.75 If these links are purposeful, then Ezekiel 19 represents a creative play on the association of Judah with the lion, in which he subverts the noble lion image to portray brutality and exploitation on the part of Judah’s monarchy. An example of the prophet’s structural use of Scripture is found in Ezek 22:25– 29, where he adopts the text of Zeph 3:3–4 and transforms it freely.76 Her princes in the midst of her are roaring lions; her judges are evening wolves; they leave nothing for the morning; her prophets are wanton and treacherous people; her priests have profaned that which is holy; they have violated the Torah. (Zeph 3:3–4)

Ezekiel adds a fifth category to Zephaniah’s fourfold list of objects of accusation (Cr)h M(, “the people of the land”) and alters the order, moving the priests to the second position. He changes Myr# to My)y#n77 and My+p# to Myr# and expands the oracle in other ways so that the result is more than twice the length of the original.78

VII. Ezekiel’s Prophetic Transformation Though Ezekiel adopts the plot and themes of Deuteronomy 32, he takes many liberties in reworking the earlier passage. The foremost among these, as we have noted, is his infusion of the prophetic harlotry motif. This includes the transformation of Israel into Yhwh’s metaphorical wife, marked by the addition of a marriage after the discovery of Israel and the expansion of the two verses on Israel’s idolatry into a detailed—and graphic79—account of her harlotries. The prophet develops the story further at other points as well. He includes an account of Israel’s destitute state before her deliverance, including details about her parents (v. 3) and birth story (v. 4), which, along with the introduction of her “sisters,” Samaria and 75

On the possible influence of Nah 2:12–14 and Zeph 3:3, see Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–20,

357–58. 76

D. H. Müller, “Der Prophet Ezechiel entlehnt eine Stelle des Propheten Zephanja und glossiert sie,” WZKM 10 (1905): 30–36; see also Block, Ezekiel, 1:724–27; Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation, 461–63. 77 Reading hy)y#n r#) with the LXX, against the MT’s hy)ybn r#q, “the conspiracy of her prophets” (see Zimmerli, Ezekiel, 1:465; Block, Ezekiel, 1:720). 78 For a fuller list of the changes, see Block, Ezekiel, 1:724 n. 26. 79 Ezekiel makes a common metaphor shocking with sexual imagery. See Galambush, Jerusalem, 102; Thomas Renz, The Rhetorical Function of the Book of Ezekiel (VTSup 76; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 144–48.


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Sodom, in section B (vv. 44–52), make up the “biography” that Ezekiel supplies for the infant. Michael Fishbane calls this type of creative reuse of an earlier text “transformative exegesis,” whereby “a received oracle-format or its language is retained though its meaning is transformed by virtue of additions, specifications, or applications.”80 The infusion of the harlotry motif may account for some distinctives of Ezekiel’s oracle, which can be explained as adjustments to the metaphorical vehicle. For example, in Ezekiel’s account of Israel’s punishment (vv. 35–43), it is noteworthy that he does not draw from the language of Israel’s punishment in the Song (Deut 32:23–25), though he clearly does in 5:16–17 and ch. 21. Why does he not in ch. 16, which otherwise has pervasive links with Deuteronomy 32? It seems that he adopts a different mode of punishment for Israel that corresponds to the nature of her transgression: Ezekiel has Israel’s lovers stone her in accordance with the Mosaic prescription for adultery (Deut 22:21, 24). Indeed, this is made explicit in Ezek 16:38, where Yhwh declares, “I will sentence you with the sentences of adulteresses and murderers” (Md tkp#w twp)n y+p#m Kyt+p#w).81 Though capital punishment is prescribed for murder in the legal corpora (Exod 21:12; Lev 24:17; Num 35:16–34), stoning is explicitly specified for adultery. Regardless of whether Ezekiel has in mind or is drawing specifically from Deuteronomy 22,82 he is surely familiar with the convention that adulterers are put to death by stoning. Similarly, Ezekiel’s account of Jerusalem’s prosperity, which speaks of her renowned beauty, being adorned with a necklace, earrings, and fine clothes, reflects an adjustment to the metaphorically female Israel. Even while Ezekiel incorporates the harlot imagery from his prophetic predecessors, he modifies this tradition as well. First, as Julie Galambush points out, “Ezekiel . . . departs from the pattern of Hosea and Jeremiah in consistently distinguishing between idolatry and inappropriate foreign alliances in his depiction of Jerusalem’s infidelity.”83 Jerusalem prostitutes herself with two groups: gods (vv. 15– 22) and foreign powers (vv. 23–43), thus reflecting both cultic and political infidelity. Second, the oracle reflects Ezekiel’s own special concerns. For example, faithful to his concern for the purity of the Jerusalem temple, he “recasts the adultery metaphor to focus on the pollution that precipitates Yhwh’s abandonment of the Jerusalem temple.”84 Other links to the temple in ch. 16 include the adornment of Yhwh’s wife with the same materials that adorn Yhwh’s sanctuary (made 80 Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation, 465. As one of many examples, he cites the use of Deut 32:9, 13 in Isa 58:14 (pp. 478–79). 81 Ezekiel attributes the means of punishment to Jerusalem’s metaphorical sin, harlotry, rather than idolatry, though Deut 13:7–12 [Eng. 6–11] prescribes stoning as punishment for idolatry as well. 82 Ezekiel uses the verb Mgr (cf. Lev 20:2, 27), whereas Deuteronomy uses lqs. 83 Galambush, Jerusalem, 99–100. 84 Ibid., 78; see pp. 79–89 for details.


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explicit by the Targum’s rendering).85 Third, Ezekiel incorporates other external elements into the metaphor. For example, after adding the marriage imagery to the foundling motif, he incorporates ancient Near Eastern legal terms and metaphors for the abandonment and adoption of the infant foundling.86

VIII. The Rhetoric of Transformation To conclude, we reflect briefly on the purpose of Ezekiel’s transformation of the Song of Moses, namely, to accuse and judge his fellow Israelites for their transgressions. By adopting the plot structure of the rise and fall of Israel in Deuteronomy 32, the prophet applies it to his contemporary context of idolatry and illegitimate foreign relations. As we have seen, this was accomplished by expanding the story of Israel’s relationship with Yhwh and transforming it with the prophetic harlotry metaphor. The rhetoric of Ezekiel’s use of the Song lies in the recontextualization of Moses’ depiction of Israel’s decline. Since Deuteronomy 32 was a well-known song, Ezekiel’s audience would have recognized his allusions to it and felt the force of his application of the judgment in their treasured song to their current circumstances. Perhaps better than recontextualization is the term actualization, since Moses’ Song foretells a coming fall into idolatry and Ezekiel declares that Moses’ prediction of punishment has come to pass in the current generation. The internal witness of Deuteronomy itself lends credence to this assertion. In the narrative framework of the Song, Moses predicts that “when many evils and troubles have come upon [the people], this Song shall confront them as a witness, for it will live unforgotten in the mouths of their offspring” (Deut 31:21). Surely Ezekiel’s generation remembered Moses’ Song, and Ezekiel confronted them with it as a witness. 85

Ibid., 95. Malul has argued that when parents abandoned a child in Mesopotamia, the use of the phrase “in her/the blood” represented a legal renunciation of their claim to her, and thus YHWH’s command to live “in her blood” signifies his formal adoption of the girl (“Adoption of Foundlings,” 106, 110). 86

JBL 130, no. 1 (2011): 109–125

A New Discussion of the Meaning of the Phrase vam hā'āres i in the Hebrew Bible john tracy thames, jr. [email protected] The Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, MD 21218

The phrase vam hā 'āres i appears in the Hebrew Bible over fifty times (in the singular form alone) throughout a number of materials including the Pentateuch (in J, E, and P), the Deuteronomistic History, the Major Prophets, and several postexilic compositions. A great deal of scholarly attention has been paid to the correct interpretation of these words, whether in dedicated studies1 or in brief interpretative notes in related texts;2 rarely is the phrase mentioned without a need for explication. That the term indicates something more than the plain meaning of its constituent words is evidenced by the variety of situations in which it is found and the throng of meanings to which it conceivably lends itself. In addition to the interpretative problem posed by the biblical occurrences, the meaning of the phrase seems to have been further skewed by its postbiblical connotations. The term can be found in writings of the rabbinic period as a pejorative term for a Jewish individual who is not properly educated in Jewish law, an idea that is clearly foreign to the biblical usage.3 It is not unlikely that this tradition of using the phrase to convey an idea beyond what is explicitly worded has continued to influence interpreters into the modern period. My intention is not to propose a description of some human group that once identified itself as the vam hā 'āres ;i this has been done more times and with less 1

See below for a full list of citations. For examples, see Baruch Halpern, The Constitution of the Monarchy in Israel (HSM 25; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1981), 190–98; Iain M. Duguid, Ezekiel and the Leaders of Israel (VTSup 56; Leiden/New York: Brill, 1994), 29–30. 3 The postbiblical term will not enter into the present discussion. Instead, see Solomon Zeitlin, “The Am Haarez: A Study in the Social and Economic Life of the Jews before and after the Destruction of the Second Temple,” JQR 23 (1932): 45–61. 2

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credibility than is becoming. Nor do I wish simply to contend against such technical definitions, as this has been done as well. Instead I seek to examine the issue from the perspective of its literary function in each context and, accordingly, the plausible intent of the author who chose to employ it. It will do to begin by taking stock of the major developments and influential essays relevant to this interpretative problem. As some of the earlier positions are either outmoded or have already been discussed ad nauseam, I will limit critical remarks to a minimum. After the time line has been traced, however, I intend to engage the most recent research on the issue, especially that of Lisbeth Fried. Because her work is specific to the fourth chapter of Ezra, much of the present discussion will interact with that text. Finally, after amassing a critical understanding of all these works, I shall describe how a more nuanced understanding of the term’s function might better elucidate its proper interpretation.

I. A Brief History of Interpretation4 A flurry of scholarship and speculation on the precise meaning of the biblical vam hā 'āres i (and the evolution of its postbiblical connotations) peaked in the early

twentieth century, though it has remained an interesting point of debate up to the present. The current discussion of the treatment of the term and its implications in the modern period begins with Mayer Sulzberger. In the publication of his 1912 lecture series on the political organization of ancient Hebrew society, Sulzberger argues for the existence of a representative government in ancient Israel; partially evinced by the terminis technicus vam hā 'āres.i Referring to his 1909 publication in which he first cultivates the idea,5 he recounts, “I . . . endeavored to demonstrate that this representative council, which had essential qualities of modern parliaments, was for long known as the vam ha-aretz, a technical term which, in the mutations of time and circumstance, acquired other and totally alien connotations, until at last the true meaning was forgotten.”6 4 For further reading not explicitly discussed in this study, see Nahum Slousch, “Representative Government among the Hebrews and Phoenicians: A Contribution to the Problem of the Cr)h M( Raised by Judge Mayer Sulzberger,” JQR 4 (1913): 303–10; A. H. J. Gunneweg, “Cr)h M( —A Semantic Revolution,” ZAW 95 (1983): 437–40; Roland de Vaux, “Le Sens de l’Expression ‘Peuple du Pays’ dans l’Ancien Testament et le Role Politique du Peuple en Israel,” RA 58 (1964): 167–72; J. Alberto Soggin, “Der Judäische ‘Am-Ha’ares i und das Königtum in Juda: Ein Beitrag zum Studium der Deuteronomistischen Geschichtsschreibung,” VT 13 (1963): 187–95; Aharon Oppenheimer, The ‘am Ha-Aretz: A Study in the Social History of the Jewish People in the Hellenistic-Roman Period (ALGHJ 8; Leiden: Brill, 1977), 261; P. Boer, “Vive le Roi!,” VT 5 (1955): 223–31; Joseph Healey, “vam ha'aretz,” ABD 1:168–69; Marvin Pope, “vam ha'aretz,” IDB 1:106. 5 Sulzberger, The Am Ha-Aretz, the Ancient Hebrew Parliament: A Chapter in the Constitutional History of Ancient Israel (Philadelphia: Greenstone, 1909). 6 Sulzberger, “The Polity of the Ancient Hebrews,” JQR 3 (1912): 3.

Thames: The Meaning of the Phrase vam hā'āresi

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In his major study of the topic, Sulzberger provides a more detailed speculation about the origins of the term as a closed category. He imagines: The Parliament of Israel had its humble beginnings at the city gate, where the elders of the town, comers to the gate, sat to hold the Town Council and the Municipal Court. Gradually there was evolved, from this institution, the tribal vAm, which dealt with the larger matters of the district inhabited by the tribe. Friendliness among neighbors, and the necessity of defense against enemies, produced alliances between several tribes, and finally there resulted a union of all or nearly all of the tribes of Israel. Then only could there have been formed a general gathering of delegates, an vAm of the land, our vAm ha-aretz.7

Quite unfortunately, Sulzberger (admittedly) has no evidence whatsoever to support this evolution of a tribal union represented by a parliamentary vam hā 'āres.i 8 His conception is based entirely on convenience; whenever his definition works, it is applied, and where it does not, it is considered an “alien connotation.” Sulzberger pays no attention to the many occurrences that do not suit his proposal nor does he attempt to account for their supposed differences. Instead he reports that the terminus ad quem of the term’s technical application is the Babylonian exile, after which the phrase must have been a blank canvas.9 Enthusiastically agreeing with and expanding Sulzberger’s interpretation of Hebrew parliamentary government is Samuel Daiches. In two short articles published in the 1920s, Daiches argues beyond Sulzberger that the technical application of vam hā 'āres i is, in fact, attributable to every occurrence of the term in the Hebrew Bible.10 Daiches also distills several additional connotations from the term, averring that it simultaneously refers to “‘the landed gentry, the landowners, the landed aristocracy, the lords of the land, the representatives of the people.’”11 Ownership of land must have been requisite for political representation; thus the appellation vam hā 'āres.i For Daiches, this meaning may be applied in either a “narrower” or a “wider” sense throughout the biblical books. In the wider meaning Cr)h M( included all the landed gentry, all the owners of landed estates, in short, the lords of the land. In the narrower meaning Cr)h M( signified the representatives of the landed gentry, the house of lords. The fundamental idea is: the people of the land, namely, the people who possess land.12

7

Sulzberger, Am Ha-Aretz, 58. Notwithstanding the attempt of Slousch (“Representative Government,” 303–10) to bolster Sulzberger’s theory with a supposed analogy to Phoenician strategies of representation reflected in some orthographic evidence. 9 Sulzburger, Am Ha-aretz, 17, 69. 10 Daiches, “Exodus 5:4–5: The Meaning of Cr)h M(,” JQR 12 (1921): 33; idem, “The Meaning of Am Ha-Aretz in the Old Testament,” JTS 30 (1929): 248. 11 Daiches, “Meaning of Am Ha-Aretz,” 245. 12 Ibid. 8


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Daiches’s brief mention of the vam hā 'āres i in the book of Ezra exemplifies the alacrity with which he applies the technical definition. He cautions that in Ezra (especially chs. 4; 10) “Cr)h is usually left out.”13 So, Daiches will have us believe, while the exclusive body of landed gentry do figure into the story, they are most often not referred to by their distinct appellation. Disappointingly, Daiches neglects to comment on how one may justify reading “the representative body of landed gentry” from the simple word vam, when the defining half of the moniker (hā 'āres)i is missing.14 A study by Ernst Würthwein published in 1936 represents a benchmark in interpretation of vam hā 'āres i (if only for its length), though his broader conclusions are not greatly at variance with those that preceded them. Würthwein adheres to the dogmatic interpretation of the term as highly specific in meaning, applying only to the body of land-owning citizens.15 Though Würthwein maintains that this group was politically and militarily preeminent, he does not base his picture on any presumptions of representative political organization. Würthwein argues for a change in the usage of vam hā 'āres i in the postexilic period. The meaning remains intact, but the term is used to designate an entirely different group. Thus, Unsere bisherige Untersuchung hat den ‘amm ha’arez erwiesen als die Oberschicht des vorexilischen Juda. Diese Oberschicht hat mit ihrer Exilierung vorübergehend ihre Bedeutung und für immer ihren Namen verloren. Was aus dem Exil zurückkehrte, nannte sich nicht mehr ‘amm ha’arez, sondern legte sich den Ehrennamen hlwg, hlwgh ynb oder hlwgh lhq zu. Diese gola, zum größten Teil aus dem ehemaligen ‘amm ha’arez bestehend, kommt nun nach ihrer Rückkehr in Konflikt mit Kreisen, die den Titel ‘amm ha’arez, ‘amme ha’arez und ‘amme ha’arazoth führen.16

Like Daiches, Würthwein sees the continual presence of an elite, land-owning group at work in all stages of Israelite society, but quite contrary to the former, the latter sees the term used to designate this group as completely altered after the exile. This interpretation provides a useful (though largely unjustified) strategy for dealing with the identity of the gôlâ community. Some twenty years later, Ernest W. Nicholson brought a diametrically oppos-

13

Ibid., 248. In the course of this discussion, Daiches expresses his aspiration to “deal more fully with M( and Cr)h M( in Ezra (especially with ch.iv, v.4)” (“Meaning of Am-Haretz,” 248). Unfortunately, my research has not succeeded in turning up any published work by Daiches that treats this matter specifically. 15 Würthwein, Der vamm ha'arez im Alten Testament (BWANT 17; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1936), 17. 16 Ibid., 51. 14


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ing interpretation of vam hā 'āres i to the discussion, which amounts nearly to no interpretation at all. His is, perhaps, the “commonsense” view of the term: that it “is no such technical term but that it is used in a very general manner varying in meaning from context to context.”17 So the words should generally not be taken at anything greater than face value; they are most often a simple designation of the general population. Though Nicholson’s take is somewhat welcome and relieving in its simplicity, it does very little to argue for its superiority over the technical interpretation. Rather, Nicholson recounts several key passages in which the term occurs and satisfies himself with showing how the facile reading is unproblematic. He fails to acknowledge that the ability to read the text intelligibly without the technical definition is a matter of course. The difficult task (to which he unfortunately does not attend) is to argue for the preference of the literal interpretation. Still less fortunate is the pittance of scholarly attention given to Nicholson’s interpretation. His facile reading amounts to little more than a bump in the road of the ever-forging technical interpretation, such that Shemaryahu Talmon, the next voice to speak on the subject, identifies Nicholson’s position as a “low tide” in the debate.18 Talmon’s essay, however, betrays some influence from Nicholson’s reading, insofar as Talmon is compelled to distinguish between the technical and general usages before postulating his description of the technical term.19 By recognizing the apparent inconsistency with which the term is used throughout the Hebrew Bible, Talmon proposes to explain its meaning “by assuming a semantic division of the term which resulted in diverse synchronic employments.”20 The term is used in two ways: (1) to refer to the entirety of any particular group of people, and (2) as a technical term that designated a particular Judean political group.21 Talmon is a bit less imaginative than his predecessors, though he provides no more supporting evidence for his description. Relying primarily on 2 Kings, he

17 Nicholson, “The Meaning of the Expression Cr)h M( in the Old Testament,” JSS 10 (1965): 60. 18 Talmon, “The Judean vAm Ha'ares i,” in idem, King, Cult and Calendar in Ancient Israel: Collected Studies (Aspects of the Hebrew Bible; Jerusalem; Magnes, 1986), 69; repr. from Papers of the Fourth World Congress of Jewish Studies (Jerusalem: World Union of Jewish Studies, 1967), 70. 19 Ibid., 69. 20 Ibid., 72. 21 The first is found both in the singular form that we have hereto discussed and in various combinations of plurality (vammê hā'āres i, vam hā'ărās iôt, vammê hā'ărās iôt) without any lexical distinction. The technical term, however, is used only in the singular. Talmon thinks that he sees the same sort of duality in the words vebed and navar, though he does not seem to recognize that two words sharing one semantic connotation are the inverse of the sort of phenomenon he is proposing.

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finds a narrative chronology that suggests that the vam hā 'āres i were active at least from the overthrow of Athaliah (836 b.c.e., where the vam hā 'āres i supposedly stage the coup) until the destruction of Jerusalem (during which some of the vam hā 'āres i are executed along with the king’s sons).22 For Talmon, the span and nature of these events “illustrate that in weal and in woe this body was aligned with the Davidic dynasty, and ultimately shared its unfortunate fate.”23 This body would not be entirely political, nor entirely militaristic, but a bit of each. It was something of a silent protector, spontaneously organizing only at times of threat to the Davidic dynasty, which it was sworn to protect, and acting in whatever capacity was needed to support the monarchy. The nature of the group was not institutional per se, but rather it was a “sociological phenomenon” that surfaced naturally and only when needed.24 What is unique about Talmon’s exposition is that he believes that he avoids the problem of ambiguity among the variety of ways in which the term is used (as noted by Nicholson) by distinguishing between those which are specifically Judean, and those which refer to other groups, including “all-Israel.”25 But his specifically Judean occurrences ultimately amount to only the uses of the Deuteronomist. Since Talmon maintains that the Deuteronomist was active throughout the preexilic period and considering the preexilic authorship of the Priestly source in Judah,26 we have two sources using the same term at the same time with very different meanings. This seems unlikely. If the vam hā 'āres i were the defenders of the monarchy, actively staging military coups and such, P is bound to have noticed. Without a more definite justification for semantic separation between otherwise similar usages, Talmon’s supposed distinction is untenable. I conclude this brief history of scholarship with a look at the work of Lisbeth Fried who has published the most recent treatment of the vam hā 'āres,i specifically as it appears in Ezra 4:4.27 She begins by settling on a broad interpretation of the 22 One finds that Talmon believes the Deuteronomistic History to be a “rolling corpus” composition, as he claims that although it was finally redacted in the postexilic period, the reports of the actions of the vam hā'āres i are probably contemporary with the actual events (“Judean vAm Ha'ares i,” 72). 23 Ibid., 74. 24 Ibid., 73–76. 25 In the latter he includes the uses of the Priestly source of the Pentateuch and Ezekiel, specifically Lev 4:27 (P); 20:2, 4 (H); Ezek 33:2; 39:13; 45:16, 22; 46:3, 9. These Talmon deems “cultic-legal” in nature (“Judean vAm Ha'ares i,” 69). Curiously, he does not categorize Ezek 7:27; 12:19, or 22:29, which occur in situations similar to 33:2 and 39:13. 26 Following Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (3 vols.; AB 3, 3A, 3B; New York: Doubleday, 1991–2001), vol. 1; Avi Hurvitz, “The Evidence of Language in Dating the Priestly Code,” RB 81 (1974): 24–56; among others. 27 Fried, “The vam hā'āres i in Ezra 4:4 and Persian Imperial Administration,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (ed. Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006).


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(preexilic) term. Trusting the work of her predecessors,28 she agrees that it “comprised the class of free, landowning, full citizens of preexilic Judah.”29 It is in her brief evaluation of the term in the postexilic writings that Fried breaks away from the majority opinion and claims (à la Daiches) that the meaning of vam hā 'āres i holds the same technical force. Fried cites P’s uses for support (Gen 23:7; Lev 4:27; Num 14:9), which, in her assessment, necessarily imply a land-owning, aristocratic referent. 30 I interrupt the exposition, having reviewed the basic view of a number of scholars, to express the broad criticism that I have hereto withheld. Aside from the general lack of textual justification for proposing any such highly specific organization or class as has been so frequently described, the true embarrassment is the high degree of self-evidence that has been assumed by each interpreter with each proof-text. This is true on both sides of the debate. For example, to prove the nonspecific referent of vam hā 'āres i in Gen 42:6, Nicholson asserts: “The plain meaning of this text is surely that Joseph was responsible for supplying corn to any Egyptian who might wish to buy it. The expression cannot here be referring to a specific class, social or otherwise, within the population of Egypt.”31 Why not? That the plain meaning of the text reads, “people of the land” (i.e., Egyptians) is not in dispute. It is the contention of the proponents of a technical definition that there is some depth over and above the plain meaning. Clearly, Nicholson has done nothing to defend his case in this instance. But more disappointing is Fried’s response to Nicholson’s unremarkable argument. Gen 42:6 refers to the vam hā 'āres i of the Egyptians to whom Joseph, in charge of Egypt’s land, sells grain. However, if Joseph was believed to be in charge of grain production for all of Egypt, then he would have been seen as selling only to the heads of the landed estates in Egypt. These free landowners would then have distributed it to their peasants and dependents. Joseph would not have been viewed as selling grain to every man or woman on the street who wanted it.32

28 Most notably Gunneweg, “Cr)h M(,” 437–40; Roland de Vaux, Ancient Israel: Its Life and Institutions (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1961), and Würthwein, Der vamm ha'arez. 29 Fried, “vam hā'āres i in Ezra 4:4,” 125–26. 30 Here Fried’s account is fully dependent on a late dating of P. While we may choose not to fault her for building on this foundation, we must not forget to recognize that any results will be contingent on the ultimate success of the foundational assumption. Against such a dating, see Milgrom, Leviticus, 1:5. The implications of a decision against a late P may be insignificant to her general interpretation of vam hā'āres i; after all, these texts would then fall into her preexilic category, which she interprets with exactly the same definition. However, this would leave her without a model for interpreting the postexilic usage of the phrase, which, as we shall see below, could be detrimental to her case for the meaning of the term in Ezra. 31 Nicholson, “Expression Cr)h M(,” 61. 32 Fried, “vam hā'āres i in Ezra 4:4,” 126.


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Fried’s defense is scarcely as strong as Nicholson’s original assertion. Fried offers no evidence to support her claim that these goods could be dispersed only through a top-down scheme of social distribution (though she does refer the reader to her previous work on Egyptian economy). Even if her take on the socioeconomic organization of Egypt is correct, she still has offered no reason to interpret the meaning of the biblical text (which may or may not be privy to Egypt’s economic inner workings) as different from its plain meaning. That is, even if Egypt’s actual distribution of goods is as Fried claims, the biblical writer could very well still intend to say that Joseph (perhaps accentuating his magnanimity) distributed to everyone. This sort of interchange is typical of the argumentation on our subject. However, with due fairness to the parties involved, there may often be little more substance available for debate. As my intention is not to linger upon a tirade against the methods of the interpreters, let us forge on with Fried’s work.

II. The vam hā 'āres i in Ezra Although general interpretation of the phrase is not Fried’s primary concern, her treatment represents an attempt to draw conclusions about the editorial history of the text of Ezra 4 based on the application of a theory of identity of the vam hā 'āres.i As the outcome of such an attempt is of interest to the broader scope of the present discussion, I wish to consider her work in some detail. The text in question is Ezra 4:1–5.33 Here Fried notes, “The vam hā 'āres i do not seem to be the poor and disenfranchised but the powerful landed aristocracy who participate in the administration of government.”34 This understanding is owed to v. 5: that the vam hā 'āres i were successful in their plan to halt the temple building project through bribery (Myc(wy Mhyl( Myrks) and discouragement (ydy Myprm, lit. “weakening the hands of ”). Enhancing this picture, Fried continues by equating the enemies of Judah (yrc hdwhy) and Benjamin presented in v. 1 with the vam hā 'āres i of v. 435—the first meaningful step toward building an identity for the vam hā 'āres i in Ezra. 33

“The enemies of Judah and Benjamin heard that the returnees were building the temple to Yhwh, the God of Israel, so they approached Zerubbabel and the heads of the fathers’ (houses) and said to them, ‘Let us build with you, for like you we seek an oracle from your God, for we have been sacrificing to him from the days that Esarhaddon brought us up here.’ But Zerubbabel, Jeshua, and the rest of the heads of the fathers’ (houses) of Israel said to them, ‘It is not for you but for us to build the house of our God for we alone will build to Yhwh, the God of Israel, just as King Cyrus, king of Persia, commanded us.’ Then the vam hā'āres i discouraged the people of Judah and made them afraid to build. They hired officials against them to frustrate their plans all the days of Cyrus, king of Persia, until the reign of Darius, king of Persia” (Fried’s translation, “vam hā'āres i in Ezra 4:4,” 129). 34 Ibid. 35 Ibid., 130.


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The heart of Fried’s understanding materializes when she cites the third frustration of the Judean building project, the writing of a letter to the Persian king. She sees the immediate introduction to the letter as the bridge between the unidentified sāi rîm/vam hā 'āres i and the specified writers: Rehum, Shimshai, and their associates. These men are none other than the Persian satrapal officials; thus the opposition that has been the subject of the narrative throughout has really been the Persian satrapal government. Fried cites the possible use of v. 24 as a resumptive clause (more or less repeating v. 5) as further evidence that the redactor intends to parallel the vam hā 'āres i with the Persian officials. In what she labels the “redactor’s misunderstanding,” Fried asserts that the self-identification of the letter writers as “people whom the great and noble Osnappar deported and settled in the cities of Samaria” (Ezra 4:10) indicates that the redactor takes these officials to be of non-Persian descent. This is not likely. The men listed as signatories were among the highest officials in the satrapal government of Beyond the River, “eating the salt of the palace” (Ezra 4:9). As such they would have been appointed by the king from his inner circle in Persia or Babylon and sent to the satrapy by the king himself. They would not have been the descendants of those deported into the area by the Assyrians.36

So, for Fried, the redactor uses the phrase in a manner entirely consistent with the rest of the biblical material, but he has erred in assuming that these letter writers were people other than Persians. This is really no matter, though, since these Persians were, in fact, land-owning aristocrats and thus fit nicely into the category of vam hā 'āres.i First, I object to Fried’s understanding of the vam hā 'āres i as broadly influential and powerful based on the context of 4:4–5; this is clearly beyond what is conveyed by the text. Though it is not contested that the vam involved were able to influence the gôlâ in this solitary instance, there is no indication that this vam was permanently or especially politically influential, the ability to bribe notwithstanding. The text is, in fact, extremely vague on this point. There is no indication of what degree of economic (or other) transactions constituted the bribery, nor what the officials actually did to “frustrate” (rphl) the construction. Thus, it would be fallacious to attempt to draw anything from this passage apart from the bare fact that the vam were able to influence this particular event. Though Fried does not express any justification for equating the sārîm i mentioned in v. 1 with the vam of v. 4, this is not an unreasonable move; after all, both represent factions of opposition in the narrative. But, in fact, it is unusual that two terms possessing no obviously synonymous value would be used to denote two separate (and not necessarily logically connected) actions undertaken by the same group. It is difficult to understand why an author or redactor would prefer such

36

Ibid., 137.

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ambiguous labeling. More likely, the two groups are distinct and, correspondingly, their activities represent unrelated events. Instead of a single narrative of cause and effect,37 we have a compilation of various attempts to impede the rebuilding of the temple.38 If the events are not directly related, the transition between actions and use of the distinct appellation vam hā 'āres i appears much less clumsy. Indeed, the entirety of Ezra 4 recounts unconnected tales of the various ways in which the gôlâ community was challenged. Accordingly, vv. 1–5 are not merely an introduction to the Aramaic letter; this much is demonstrated by the nebulous v. 6, which refers to another letter that is conspicuously absent from the text. This alone is enough to raise suspicion that we are dealing not with a single narrative that culminates in the presentation of the letter but with something more akin to bullet points. These are manifest in four units: vv. 1–3, 4–5, 6, 7–23. The sum of these events resulted in the conclusion noted in v. 24: reconstruction stopped until the reign of Darius.39 This brings us to the pith of Fried’s argument: that the vam hā 'āres i are explicitly identified in the Aramaic letter. Here Fried makes an unjustified leap and, in doing so, neglects v. 6. She refers to the “letters to and from the Achaemenid kings . . . that are enclosed between the resumptive clauses” without clarifying that both

37 For example, the s iārîm offer their help in the construction of the temple, but after their rejection (perhaps now acting out of bitter jealousy), these s āi rîm (who, we are now told, also happen to be the vam hā'āres i) discourage the people of Judah. 38 On the understanding of the chapter as a rationale for delay of reconstruction, I am not in disagreement with Fried. Fried, however, fails to recognize the disconnected nature of the events and thereby misconceives the text as a unified narrative. 39 The issue of whether v. 24 is a resumption of v. 5 has no impact on this interpretation. See H. G. M. Williamson, Ezra, Nehemiah (WBC 16; Waco: Word Books, 1985), 57; Joseph Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1988), 115. If v. 24 does function in this way, it serves only to indicate that the latter two units are later inclusions in the list of frustrations. In fact, it is quite reasonable that v. 6 and vv. 7–23 are later insertions, and I contend that they indeed occur within the envelope of repetitive resumption. See Juha Pakkala, Ezra the Scribe: The Development of Ezra 7–10 and Nehemiah 8 (BZAW 347; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2004), 70. Although Pakkala does not explicitly treat Ezra 4, he notes that “Ezra 4:7–23 is probably an expansion to the narrative.” As already noted, v. 6 is anomalous and undoubtedly represents some degree of textual corruption. Its lack of an expressed subject for the verb wbtk might mean that the referent has been lost or excluded (along with the alleged letter to which the text refers), or that the expanding editor wishes to give the impression that the action is connected with the foregoing subject, when, in fact, the events are distinct. It is also worth considering (not least because of its proximate placement to the Aramaic text) that the lack of expressed subject in this verse is analogous to the impersonal plural passive construction in Aramaic. See Franz Rosenthal, A Grammar of Biblical Aramaic (6th rev. ed.; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1995), 60, §181. This option, while speculative, is particularly attractive in light of the reappraisal of the biblical usage of vam hā'āres i below.


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outgoing letters are not present.40 Although she elsewhere recognizes the mention of two letters, Fried seems to have, in some way, telescoped the two (v. 6, vv. 7–23) in such a way that she believes both are a single direct result of the foregoing narrative. Neither is time frame an issue, since she does not consider that each is identified with a different royal era. Most unsettling is Fried’s assignment of specific authors to the first letter in v. 6. “The Iranian Mithredates, the Babylonian Tabeel, and the rest of their associates wrote the first letter to Artaxerxes (v. 7), and Rehum the Chancellor (-l('b@ ; M('+;), Shimshai the secretary, and the rest of their associates . . . wrote the second letter (vv. 8 and 9).”41 This understanding, according to the text, is impossible. The first letter described in v. 6 is said to be written in the first year of Ahasuerus (Xerxes) and does not name a specific writer. To reallocate Mithredath and Tabeel from the subsequent narrative not only ignores their position in v. 7 as the expressed subject of the writing of the second letter but also denies the statement at the head of the verse that this action took place “in the days of Artaxerxes.” Perhaps Fried treats the text in this way to avoid the oddity that different authors are identified in vv. 8–9 (Aramaic) from those who are said in v. 7 (Hebrew) to have written (apparently) the same letter.42 But there is no literary justification for uprooting this entire block of material and reassigning it to a separate event. Thus, Fried has not in any meaningful way accounted for the anomaly of v. 6 and how it might continue to support her conclusion. As noted above, I am not in disagreement with Fried’s idea that the narrative of Ezra 4 is more concerned with providing a defense for the delay of reconstruction than it is for recording history. Only she imagines the composition of this defense as a single event, whereas I have argued that it must have been compiled in a multiphase process. Since multiple, distinct narratives have been identified in the passage, it will be impossible to find a nearby textual referent for the vam hā 'āres,i as does Fried. The foregoing discussion illustrates the sort of textual misunderstanding that emerges from a misconception of the identity and nature of the vam hā 'āres i and thus underscores the importance of disabusing readers of the Hebrew Bible of the assumptions that have plagued the interpretation of materials containing this phrase. The remainder of the present discussion will therefore return to the general usage of the term in the biblical texts and search out a contextually appropriate, nonassumptive reading.

40

Fried, “vam hā'āres i in Ezra 4:4,” 134. Ibid., 130. 42 For more detailed discussion of this problem, see Blenkinsopp, Ezra-Nehemiah, 112–13. 41

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III. A Reappraisal I begin with a general assessment of the two major positions as I conceive of them: the literal interpretation (i.e., every last person in some location) and the technical meaning (though variously conceived, generally the land-owning rich). Given the history of outlandish interpretation, one is tempted (like Nicholson) to seek refuge in parsimony. Such a move, of course, would add no value to the discussion, as simplicity in no way implies correctness. All the same, as an interpretive strategy, the ability to understand the text clearly ex facie must be assigned a higher standing than ill-supported conjectures, no matter how attractive. If a useful point is to be distilled from this observation, perhaps it may be articulated as follows: never, under the literal interpretation of the phrase, is the meaning of the text unintelligible, nor does the application of the technical definition ever provide any meaningful insight that is integral to the understanding of the narrative. That said, the literal interpretation is hardly preferable, if only for the sake of the general feeling that the term is either contrary to common language or unexpected in a particular context. With the majority of scholars who have approached the issue, it is difficult to deny the feeling that the phrase can be awkward and the suspicion that some further nuance is intended by the seemingly innocuous words. It is as a result of this dissatisfaction with both sides of the issue that I seek an interpretation that preserves the literal elements of the phrase without overreaching. Thus, I propose to read the phrase vam hā 'āres i as a literary expression used to communicate something very ordinary, such as “everyone in a particular locality who is relevant to a particular set of circumstances,” but with the deliberate intent to efface or obfuscate the exact actor(s). Henceforth, I will refer to this as the idiomatic interpretation. This understanding is certainly a denial that any sense of power and aristocracy may be read into the term; the evidence for such readings is simply not present. Yet it is preferable to the literal interpretation since there is no need to defend the idea that every last person of a some principality took part in an event, or that the meaning is inconsistent between occurrences. I proceed with a brief reappraisal of some oft-cited passages to demonstrate how an idiomatic understanding is able to flesh out the full, natural meaning of the text without overreaching its bounds. The following instances are sorted according to the contexts in which they occur: legal or jurisdictional settings, anonymous group settings, and references to foreigners.

A. Law and Jurisdiction Several occurrences seem to designate the whole of the Israelite and/or Judean population, but within the limits of some particular jurisdiction. Here I count 2 Kgs


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15:5, where Jotham acts as steward to Azariah’s throne after the latter is stricken with leprosy. Jotham “was in charge of the palace, governing the vam hā 'āres.”i Are we to suppose with the technical interpretation that Jotham, as regent to the kingdom, had authority only over the aristocrats and not the peasants? This would be unreasonable and better explained if the term means something like “everyone who was in the dominion of Judean sovereignty.” The term is likewise employed in P. The simple intent of Lev 20:243 seems to be that all who are under the jurisdiction of the law are also responsible for exacting punishment for violation. There is no apparent logic behind assigning this task only to the wealthy. A more interesting case is Lev 4:27, which occurs in the larger scope of vv. 3– 31. Here we find laws concerning the guidelines for purification after the event of unintentional sin committed by various parties. Four actors are named: Nhkh xy#mh (v. 3, “the anointed priest”), l)r#y td(-lk (v. 13, “the entire congregation of Israel”), )y#n (v. 22, “a prince”), and finally vam hā 'āres i (v. 27). At first blush the technical usage seems to have some sway here. It seems as though the relevant population-at-large has already been named. But a closer look reveals a greater specificity to the subjects addressed. In v. 13, the subject kol-vădat yiśrā 'ēl represents a group, and, accordingly, the verbs associated with it are in the third person plural form (wg#y, w#(, w)+x, wbyrqh). Everything from the action to the contrition is done as a group. Contrast v. 27, whose subject is one from among the vam hā 'āres i (Cr)h M(m . . . tx) #pn). Here we are talking not about group or collective sin but about a sin of any one person from among all the people who are under the jurisdiction of the law. Part and parcel of the phrase in this instance is that, distinct from the priest, the ruler, and the collective cultic congregation, the anonymous vam hā 'āres i is a catchall for the rest of the persons to whom the law applies, who have no other significant identification.44 The influence of P’s use of the term can be seen further in Ezekiel, who shares a great deal with P in the way of vocabulary and worldview.45 A more general usage is well suited to Ezekiel, considering that the people to whom he speaks are patently without a land. Accordingly, in Ezekiel, vam hā 'āres i often refers to peoples-at-large, but the expression is used in an indefinite, impersonal, and perhaps uncaring man43 “. . . any man . . . who gives any of his offspring to Molech will surely die; the people of the land will stone him.” See also Lev 20:4. 44 There is no reason to assume that on the basis of means the law is not applicable to some of the population. See Milgrom, Leviticus, 1:252 for a practical discussion of this offering. Moreover, it is entirely possible that written priestly mandates may not reflect actual circumstances. See also Nicholson’s treatment of this text (“Expression Cr)h M(,” 16). 45 For an overview of this rich topic, see Risa Levitt Kohn, A New Heart and a New Soul: Ezekiel, the Exile and the Torah (JSOTSup 358; London/New York: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002).

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ner concerning the particular actors and does not necessarily denote the entirety of the general population. Ezekiel employs the phrase nine times, though I will mention only a few here. Occurring within the scope of chs. 40–48, the visionary account of the future community/temple restoration,46 chs. 45–46 (throughout which the term vam hā 'āres i occurs four times) are especially interesting on account of their reminiscence of Leviticus 4. Indeed, the connection between the whole of chs. 40–48 and the Priestly code has been well noted, such that Julius Wellhausen supposed (in support of his late dating of P) that chs. 40–48 were a sort of paradigm for the entirety of P.47 As chs. 45–46 are, in part, a restatement (and revision) of Leviticus 4 (and keeping in mind the linguistic connections between the two authors)48 we may consider the meaning of Ezekiel’s terminology to be equivalent to that of P. As Avi Hurvitz notes, given the mundane practicality of priestly laws, a priestly writer must use clear and contemporary jargon in his composition. If outdated or unfamiliar terminology was used, it would be at the risk of confounding the public who are responsible for carrying out the law.49 Underscoring this notion is Milgrom’s terminological evaluation of P. Milgrom recognizes the absence of the word vēdâ from Ezekiel’s language, despite P’s abundant usage of it as a technical term. Instead, Ezekiel has substituted qāhāl, a synonym, for every occurrence “patently because vēdâ has disappeared from the linguistic currency of his day. And, indeed, this technical usage of qāhāl predominates in the postexilic literature (e.g., Ezra 10:12; Neh 8:2).”50 This understanding demands that we align the meaning of vam hā 'āres i in P (namely, Leviticus 4) with that in Ezekiel precisely because Ezekiel chooses to use the term, rather than to exchange it. Having established this relationship, the same idiomatic interpretation as that given to Leviticus 4 obtains here as well. In addition, a few practical comments are in order. Ezekiel 45:22 is part of an instruction for the observance of the Passover festival, where the nāśî ' provides an offering for himself and kôl vam hā 'āres.i Certainly there is no reason to assume that only a select group of people are to participate in this occasion, or be exclusively provided for by the nāśî '. In fact, other biblical references to the celebration of Passover make it abundantly clear that widespread participation is expected (2 Kgs 23:21; 2 Chronicles 17–18; Ezra 6:19–21) 46 Many scholars have recognized the distinction of these chapters from the rest of Ezekiel, and thus we may treat the language of the unit separately. See Jon D. Levenson, Theology of the Program of Restoration of Ezekiel 40–48 (HSM 10; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1976). 47 Wellhausen, Prolegomena zur Geschichte Israels (5th ed.; Berlin: Reimer, 1899), 60. 48 Adhering to the priority of P with Milgrom, Leviticus; et al. 49 Hurvitz, “Dating the Priestly Code,” 50–51. 50 Milgrom, Leviticus, 1:242–43.


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and even suggest just such an ideal of royal provision for the event (2 Chr 35:7–9). Thus, the passage is best understood with a definition such as “all the participants of the Israelite cult.” Likewise we should interpret 45:16; 46:3, 9, as they all refer to cultic events for which general participation is expected. Second, had there been a political or politically sanctioned group such as the variously proposed body of the vam hā 'āres,i it is quite unfathomable that it would be retained in Ezekiel’s priestly vision of the renewed state of Israel. Indeed, Ezekiel’s restored kingdom is a priestly utopia, in which even the position of the melek is usurped (or perhaps modified and renamed) by the nāśî ', a sort of theocratic priestly ruler.51 There is hardly room in this paradise for a corrupt (in Ezekiel’s assessment) parliament or failed band of Davidic defenders. Whether the referent is the inhabitants of a country or the community of exiles is not of special importance. The Ezekielian usage is a testament to the importance of leaving a certain amount of room for vagueness in our reading of the term, as a reflection of the manner in which the writer presents it. Ezekiel legislates regarding “those among the people who have done or should do some specified action,” where the action is more important to the message than the actor.

B. Anonymity The greatest concentration of occurrences of the term appears in 2 Kings. The story of the coup against Athaliah and accession of Jehoiada especially is riddled with examples (specifically 11:14, 18, 19, 20). Although the involvement of the vam hā 'āres i in political affairs in this chapter has traditionally supported the technical interpretation, the narrative may simply be designed to communicate and emphasize the actions of the dethronement, the destruction of the Baal temple, and the joyful accession of the new king, without assigning particular relevance to the actors. The mention of the vam hā 'āres i in 2 Kings 14 seems little more than a backdrop for the passage, apparently to create a sense of prestige and grandeur for the

51 To say that the nāśî' in Ezekiel (particularly chs. 40–48) has received a great deal of attention is an understatement. Ezekiel’s effacement of the common word melek is more than a little mysterious and has led to a great deal of scholarly speculation. Most interpreters have fallen into one of two camps: those who think that Ezekiel’s use of nāśî' is born of the influence of some premonarchic tradition and thus is only a variant word for a position that is, for all purposes, the melek; and those who see the employment of nāśî' as a critical point of Ezekiel’s theology, probably indicative of an abandonment of any messianic expectation. See Levenson, Theology, 57–69. For a statement of the influential and highly controversial theory that the term is indicative of a separate stratum of authorship or redaction (the nāśî' stratum), see Duguid, Ezekiel and the Leaders, esp. 27.


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occasion and to portray an image of widespread support for the new ruler with no need of specifics. More noticeable is v. 18, in which the vam hā 'āres i are the expressed actors. However, as the phrase was used just four verses earlier in a clearly perfunctory manner, there is no reason to assume that a different sense is present here. Despite its placement as the subject of the event, the use of the phrase communicates a lack of concern for enumerating the individual parties involved, rather conveying the action with an almost impersonal sense. In 2 Kings 24, we find a surprising use of the phrase that seems to place particular strain on the technical interpretation.52 Verse 14 tells the reader that after Nebuchadnezzar invaded Jerusalem, he deported all the officials, warriors, artisans, and smiths, leaving only the poor (tld) of the vam hā 'āres.i 53 Those who argue that the vam hā 'āres i are necessarily aristocratic have a difficult task explaining how any of them could also fall into the category of “the poor.” Further burdensome to this camp is the following verse, which declares that the elite of the land, a description precisely like that often assigned to vam hā 'āres,i were also carried away. Certainly, then, the vam hā 'āres i mentioned in v. 14 are a different group.54 Once again, we find support for eschewing the technical definition and understanding the term as an idiomatic reference to a subject in whom the author has little interest. Indeed, he has gone to lengths to enumerate for the reader the particular individuals and groups that have been taken away, yet he seems only vaguely aware that some were left behind, and certain that they were unimportant in the first place.

C. Foreign Peoples To this point I have reviewed only passages that use the phrase in reference to the Israelite and/or Judean population. This is to be expected, considering the sources of the material and the intended audience. But, before concluding, I should make clear that the term is certainly not limited to this realm of operation. Thus, in Gen 23:7,55 Abraham bows to the “vam hā 'āres,i the Hittites” (tx-ynb). The apposition of bĕnê hiēt not only clarifies the group of foreigners to whom the action is directed but serves as a vague backdrop to contrast the emergence of an important character, Ephron ben Zohar, the Hittite who will sell the burial place. The term is 52

A counterpart might be found in 2 Kgs 25:12, though the MT lacks vam. The full phrase is found, however, in the LXX, Syr., and Targum versions. BHS, 672 n.12a. 53 This is often translated as a superlative adjectival phrase (i.e., the poorest of the people of the land), but since dallat is a noun in construct with vam hā'āres i, it is better rendered as above. 54 The interpreters who have argued that the supposedly aristocratic vam hā'āres i also had the prime responsibility for participating in military action (perhaps in part to ease interpretation of verses such as 2 Kgs 25:19) find further difficulty here since all the “warriors of the army” are carted off, while some vam hā'āres i are left behind. 55 Also vv. 12, 13 of the same chapter.


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otherwise used of foreign peoples without further clarification when the referent is unmistakable (cf. Num 14:9). The contentious Exod 5:5 may be a similar case, insofar as it represents a subject referring to a people of a different ethnicity. Without emendation, the text (“now the people of the land are numerous”)56 may be understood as an idiomatic reference to the group of Hebrew slaves who are already the expressed topic of conversation (vv. 1–4). Pharaoh here refers to this group with an uncaring vagueness: “the people of the land.” Finally, I find no difficulty understanding Ezra 4:4 in light of this proposal. As it turns out, the question of the identity of the vam hā 'āres i in this passage (as Fried conceives of it) is self-defeating. The writer has chosen to use this term precisely because the referent is of no consequence to his telos, which is, as already mentioned, aimed at justifying the delay of construction rather than providing an accurate and detailed history. This is not to say that the recounted events could not have taken place, only that the author seems to be oblivious to the specific details. Thus he employs non-specific terminology such as sārîm i and, of course, vam hā 'āres.i To follow Fried in equating the vam hā 'āres i with any named characters in the narrative would be anathema to the very point of the term.

III. Conclusion It is clear from the biblical text that no such idea of land-owning, politically influential aristocracy or Davidic-loyalist, militaristic laymen is inherent in the term vam hā 'āres.i Not only is this reading at best supplementary to the meaning of most passages, but other examples preclude such interpretation altogether. Quite contrary to this proposed identification is the idiomatic interpretation, which, as we have seen, finds the phrase to be employed exactly and consistently when the author has no real interest in or other means of identifying the subject. This is not to be confused with a literal understanding of the phrase, which maintains that the meaning varies in each context within the semantic boundaries of the words but normally refers to literally “everyone.” I have argued that the meaning of the expression is quite consistent and that the application is flexible enough to meet authors’ needs to express an idea in a variety of contexts. It may be used to provide background scenery to an important event, to emphasize an action rather than a subject, to provide contrast between important and unimportant characters, or to express a general indifference to the subject. 56

Many scholars choose to read (with the Samaritan Pentateuch) “now they are more numerous than the people of the land.” Our idiomatic understanding works just as well with this version; Pharaoh simply refers to his own citizens in distinction from the Hebrews. Our understanding requires no such change of the MT, though it is not impacted either way.

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Waiters or Preachers: Acts 6:1–7 and the Lukan Table Fellowship Motif david w. pao [email protected] Trinity Evangelical Divinity School, Deerfield, IL 60015

Since the seminal work of Ferdinand Christian Baur, the account of the selection of the Seven1 in the context of the dispute between the Hebrews and the Hellenists (Acts 6:1–7) has attracted the attention of many who are interested in the historical reality that lies behind this portrayal of the early church.2 Critical discussions often focus on three historical problems: the identity of the “Hellenists” and the “Hebrews,” the ideological differences between these two groups, and the historical framework within which one should understand the caring for the widows in the early church. On the identity of the “Hellenists” (Ἑλληνιστής) and the “Hebrews” (Ἑβραῖος), a majority position seems to have emerged, although a consensus has yet to be reached. Despite the protests by some,3 many consider language preference to be the

Although “the Seven” (οἱ ἑπτά) is not used in this account, this title does appear in the narrative of Acts 21:8 describing the seven men who are chosen here. 2 See, in particular, Ferdinand Christian Baur, The Church History of the First Three Centuries (trans. Allan Menzies; 2 vols.; 3rd ed.; London: Williams & Norgate, 1878), vol. 1. See also the discussion in Heinz-Werner Neudorfer, Der Stephanuskreis in der Forschungsgeschichte seit F.C. Baur (Monographien und Studienbücher 309; Giessen: Brunnen, 1983), 4–144. 3 A major dissenting voice can be found in those who see the distinction primarily in ethnic terms: the “Hellenists” represent the Gentiles, while the “Hebrews” are the Jews. See, e.g., Henry J. Cadbury, “The Hellenists,” in Additional Notes to the Commentary (ed. Kirsopp Lake and Henry J. Cadbury; vol. 5 of The Beginnings of Christianity, Part 1, The Acts of the Apostles; ed. F. J. Foakes Jackson and Kirsopp Lake; London: Macmillan, 1933), 59–74; Joseph B. Tyson, “Acts 6:1–7 and Dietary Regulations in Early Christianity,” PRSt 10 (1983): 145–61. Some have also suggested that the “Hebrews” are Samaritans; see Abram Spiro, “Stephen’s Samaritan Background,” in Johannes Munck, The Acts of the Apostles: Introduction, Translation, and Notes (rev. William F. Albright and C. S. Mann; AB 31; New York: Doubleday, 1967), 285–300. 1

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primary distinguishing factor: “‘Hellenists’ means Greek-speaking Jews, as opposed to the ‘Hebrews’ or Aramaic-speaking Jews.”4 As far as the ideological differences between the Hellenists and the Hebrews are concerned, many acknowledge the contribution of Baur but refuse to follow him in seeing the contrast between the Hellenists and the Hebrews primarily as the competition between the “liberal” and “conservative” understandings of the temple and the law. Not only can this contrast lead to “an unfair stereotyping of nonPauline Jewish Christianity as backward, severe, and legalistic,” but it also assumes a simplistic view of the history of the early church in which uniform bodies of opinion can be identified behind two groups of Jews divided by their language preferences.5 On the historical practices of caring for widows among the Jews of the first century, some have pointed to the relevance of the later rabbinic material,6 while others have pointed to parallels among the Essenes.7 Most would agree, however, 4

Ernst Haenchen, The Acts of the Apostles: A Commentary (trans. R. McL. Wilson; Oxford: Blackwell, 1971), 260. See also F. F. Bruce, The Acts of the Apostles: The Greek Text with Introduction and Commentary (2nd ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1952), 151; C. F. D. Moule, “Once More, Who Were the Hellenists?” ExpTim 70 (1958): 100–102; E. Larsson, “Die Hellenisten und die Urgemeinde,” NTS 33 (1987): 205–25; Hans Conzelmann, Acts of the Apostles: A Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles (trans. James Limburg, A. Thomas Kraabel, and Donald H. Juel; Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 45; Jürgen Roloff, Die Apostelgeschichte (NTD 5; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1988), 108–9; H. A. Brehm, “The Meaning of Ἑλληνιστής in Acts in Light of a Diachronic Analysis of ἑλληνίζειν,” in Discourse Analysis and Other Topics in Biblical Greek (ed. Stanley E. Porter and D. A. Carson; JSNTSup 113; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995), 180–99. For a survey of other possible interpretations of these two terms, see Everett Ferguson, “The Hellenists in the Book of Acts,” ResQ 12 (1969): 159–80. While cultural differences cannot be denied, many see linguistic preference as the primary distinguishing factor; see Martin Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism: Studies in Their Encounter in Palestine during the Early Hellenistic Period (trans. John Bowden; 2 vols.; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1981), 1:58. 5 Craig C. Hill, Hellenists and Hebrews: Reappraising Division within the Earliest Church (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), 193–94. Many recent commentators have followed Hill’s detailed arguments in providing significant qualifications to Baur’s thesis. Adopting a sociological approach, others have also pointed to the diversity of an early Christianity that cannot easily be divided into liberal and conservative camps; see Gerd Theissen, “Hellenisten und Hebräer (Apg 6,1-6): Gab es eine Spaltung der Urgemeinde?” in Geschichte–Tradition–Reflexion: Festschrift für Martin Hengel zum 70. Geburtstag (ed. Hubert Cancik, Hermann Lichtenberger, and Peter Schäfer; 3 vols.; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996), 3:323–43. 6 See m. Ketub. 13:1–2; m. Pesahi. 8:2–9; 10:1; m. Šeqal. 5:6; m. Pe vah 8:7; Joachim Jeremias, Jerusalem in the Time of Jesus: An Investigation into Economic and Social Conditions during the New Testament Period (trans. F. H. Cave and C. H. Cave; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1969), 132–34; Haenchen, Acts of the Apostles, 261–62; Ben Witherington III, The Acts of the Apostles: A SocioRhetorical Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 248. 7 See Philo, Hypoth. 11.4–11; Brian Capper, “The Palestinian Cultural Context of Earliest Christian Community of Goods,” in The Book of Acts in Its Palestinian Setting (ed. Richard Bauckham; Book of Acts in Its First Century Setting 4; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996), 351.

Pao: The Lukan Table Fellowship Motif

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that the data provided in Acts 6 are insufficient to reconstruct the detailed arrangements of the early Christian community in Jerusalem. While scholarly attention has focused on these historical matters, most commentators also recognize a significant problem in Luke’s presentation in this account:8 “why men chosen to allow the Twelve to preach rather than to ‘serve tables’ appear later only as preachers and evangelists.”9 Although this apparent inconsistency between the assigned role of the Seven and their actual function in the subsequent narrative is not commonly the focus of scholarly discussions, most commentators feel the need to explain it. Almost all proposed explanations appear to assume, however, that this seeming inconsistency is the result of Luke’s careless writing. Consequently, the significance of table service in this account is downplayed, and the literary function of this episode becomes unclear. It is the purpose of this article to revisit this apparent inconsistency and to argue that it represents an intentional strategy of the author in his presentation of the development of the early Christian movement.

I. Historical Reconstructions Assuming that this apparent inconsistency represents the failure of Luke to present a coherent and sustained narrative of the development of the church, many have resorted to various forms of historical reconstruction to explain the presence of such an inconsistency. Drawing on the contributions of Baur, James D. G. Dunn detects the “residue of suspicion” behind Acts 6.10 This “residue of suspicion” finds its roots in the Maccabean revolt, in which the conservative Jews fought against their Hellenistic counterparts. Ernst Haenchen, among others, sees behind this inconsistency an intentional covering up of the deeper rift between the Hellenists and the Hebrews, who represent two different ideological orientations.11 To these scholars, Luke’s attempt to downplay these conflicts leads to the presence of the apparent inconsistencies in the account itself. The division of labor that appears in the final text is but a literary strategy to create space for the coexistence of the two camps. Another kind of historical reconstruction understands the Seven as already leaders of a separate community: “The ‘Seven’ are in reality not men who care for the poor . . . but the leading group of an independent community, the ‘Hellenists.’”12 8 In this article, I use “Luke” as the author of Luke-Acts. The actual identification of this author will not affect the arguments presented here. 9 Cadbury, “Hellenists,” 62. 10 Dunn, The Acts of the Apostles (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1996), 82. 11 Haenchen, Acts of the Apostles, 264–69; cf. B. Barbara Hall, “La communauté chrétienne dans le livre des Actes,” FoiVie 70 (1971): 146–56. 12 Martin Hengel, Between Jesus and Paul: Studies in the Earliest History of Christianity (trans. John Bowden; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983), 13.

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This position is embraced by many who otherwise have different evaluations of Luke as a historian. F. F. Bruce, who insists on the general historical reliability of Luke, claims that the Seven “were leaders of the Hellenistic group in the primitive church, fulfilling a much wider ministry than that of septem viri mensis ordinandis, to which they were appointed on the occasion described by Luke.”13 On the other end of the spectrum, Hans Conzelmann presents a similar explanation for the presence of “two organizations”: “Alongside the circle around the Twelve there was a group around the seven.”14 Among those who see the presence of an independent community of Hellenists, most see the different job descriptions for the Twelve and the Seven as Luke’s attempt to subordinate the Seven to the Twelve and thus maintain the picture of the unified church. Richard Pervo’s statement is representative of this position: The perceptible dissonance between Luke’s Seven and their appointed task stems, of course, from his desire to subordinate this group to the Twelve and assign them innocuous tasks. In reality the Seven were a rival group with a different theological program. Two birds fall with a single stone: the church glows with undivided gentility, and a competing group evaporates into a group of grocery boys.15

The third solution that is often proposed points to Acts 6:1–7 as a succession narrative in disguise. The primary purpose of this account is to provide “the initial link in the transfer of authority from the apostles to other significant narrative figures.”16 The form of this succession narrative can be compared to the earlier one in 1:15–26,17 but this narrative is unique because it signifies a new stage in the development of the early church as the apostles begin to establish an entirely new group of leaders that were not instituted by Jesus himself.18 The division of labor is, therefore, simply a disguise for the introduction of a new group of leaders. As successors 13 F. F. Bruce, “The Church of Jerusalem in the Acts of the Apostles,” BJRL 67 (1985): 647. See also I. Howard Marshall, The Acts of the Apostles: An Introduction and Commentary (TNTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1980), 125; Capper, “Palestinian Cultural Context,” 354. 14 Conzelmann, Acts of the Apostles, 44. See also Richard I. Pervo, Acts: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2009), 158. 15 Richard I. Pervo, Profit with Delight: The Literary Genre of the Acts of the Apostles (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 40. See also Nikolaus Walter, “Apostelgeschichte 6.1 und die Anfänge der Urgemeinde in Jerusalem,” NTS 29 (1983): 370–73. 16 Todd Penner, In Praise of Christian Origins: Stephen and the Hellenists in Lukan Apologetic Historiography (Emory Studies in Early Christianity 10; New York: T&T Clark, 2004), 270. See also Bernhard Domagalski, “Waren die ‘Sieben’ (Apg 6,1–7) Diakone?” BZ 26 (1982): 21–33; Tyson, “Acts 6:1–7 and Dietary Regulations,” 152. 17 Charles H. Talbert, Reading Acts: A Literary and Theological Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles (New York: Crossroad, 1997), 73. 18 Daniel Marguerat, Les Actes des Apôtres (1–12) (CNT 5a; Geneva: Labor et Fides, 2007), 207.


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to the original Twelve, the Seven, not surprisingly, replicate the actions of the Twelve as they become involved in the ministry of the Word.19 Finally, some are content to assume that Luke’s description of the purported role of the Seven is simply a partial description, since “there is no exclusive division between material care and the διακονία of the Word.”20 Therefore, the Seven who are to be involved in table service are not excluded from the proclamation of the Word. While these historical reconstructions may help in our understanding of the reality behind the text, it remains unclear if they can fully explain the literary and theological intentions of this narrative. One cannot deny the presence of various tensions between the Hebrews and the Hellenists, and it seems clear that the Seven were leaders in their own right and that they succeeded, to a certain degree, the Twelve in the ministry. These reconstructions fail, however, to explain Luke’s emphasis on table service as an area of ministry that is to be connected with the Seven. Moreover, while one certainly should not assume that table service and the proclamation of the Word are exclusive categories, this assumption does not fully explain the way this narrative is structured: “It is quite understandable that men who were in fact connected with the distribution of alms should grow into preachers and controversialists but it would be bad writing first of all to make up a job for them and then represent them as neglecting it for another.”21 Moving beyond historical reconstructions, it is necessary to focus on the literary frameworks within which this narrative is to be understood. It will be shown that one framework in particular—the framework of table fellowship—is relevant in explaining the apparent inconsistency between the assigned role and the actual function of the Seven.

II. Table Fellowship in Luke Several literary frameworks have been invoked to illuminate the meaning and significance of Acts 6:1–7, and each contributes at least in part to a better understanding of certain aspects of this account. First, parallels in the Hebrew Bible have often been noted (esp. Exod 18:13–27; Num 11:1–30; Deut 1:9–18), and these parallels point to the significance of the Seven as assistants of and successors to the 19

Charles H. Talbert and Perry L. Stepp, “Succession in Mediterranean Antiquity, Part 2: Luke-Acts,” SBLSP 37 (1998): 172. 20 Bart J. Koet, “Luke 10:38–42 and Acts 6:1–7: A Lukan Diptych on ∆ΙΑΚΟΝΙΑ,” in Studies in the Greek Bible: Essays in Honor of Francis T. Gignac, S.J. (ed. Jeremy Corley and Vincent Skemp; CBQMS 44; Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 2008), 179. See also Marshall, Acts, 125; Norman Nagel, “The Twelve and the Seven in Acts 6 and the Needy,” Concordia Journal 31 (2005): 113–26. 21 C. K. Barrett, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles (2 vols.; ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994, 1998), 2:306.

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Twelve.22 Second, within the writings of Luke, the relevance of Luke 10:38–42 has also been noted as it is understood to depict the contrast between the ministry of the Word and material care.23 Third, closer to Acts 6, the mission to the Gentiles is apparently the direction of the flow of the narrative. Acts 6:1–7 should therefore be understood within this narrative development.24 All three frameworks provide critical elements for an appreciation of the significance of this account, but these frameworks alone are insufficient to explain the presence of the apparent inconsistency in the text. In a passage that focuses on table service (see διακονεῖν τραπέζαις, 6:2),25 the relevance of the motif of table fellowship that is so prominent elsewhere in the Lukan writings should also be considered. Reading Acts 6:1–7 in light of this motif will not only highlight the function of this account in Luke’s program but will also contribute to explaining the apparent inconsistency when the passage is considered within Luke’s wider narrative. The general motif of table fellowship in LukeActs has received extensive treatment, although not specifically in relation to Acts 6:1–7.26 In this section, a brief summary of the function of this Lukan motif as it is relevant for our discussion will be sufficient. 22 See, in particular, David Daube, “A Reform in Acts and Its Models,” in Jews, Greeks and Christians: Religious Cultures in Late Antiquity. Essays in Honor of William David Davies (ed. Robert G. Hamerton-Kelly and Robin Scroggs; Leiden: Brill, 1976), 151–63. Others have also pointed to the relevance of Num 8:5–13 that depicts the consecration of the Levites; see, e.g., J. D. McCaughey, “The Intention of the Author: Some Questions about the Exegesis of Acts vi. 1–6,” ABR 7 (1959): 27–36. 23 Turid Karlsen Seim, The Double Message: Patterns of Gender in Luke-Acts (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994), 107–12; Veronica Koperski, “Luke 10,38–42 and Acts 6,1–7: Women and Discipleship in the Literary Context of Luke-Acts,” in The Unity of Luke-Acts (ed. Joseph Verheyden; BETL 142; Leuven: Peeters, 1999), 517–44; Koet, “Luke 10:38–42 and Acts 6:1–7,” 163–85. 24 In tracing the use of the word διακονία from the Jerusalem ministry of the Twelve (1:17, 25) to the Gentile mission of Paul (20:24; 21:19), John N. Collins (Deacons and the Church: Making Connections between Old and New [Harrisburg, PA: Morehouse, 2002], 52–57) argues that the use of the same term in 6:1, 4 points to the transitional nature of this passage. 25 The exact translation of this phrase will be discussed in section III.A below. 26 See, e.g., Robert J. Karris, Luke: Artist and Theologian. Luke’s Passion Account as Literature (New York: Paulist, 1985), 47–78; Philip F. Esler, Community and Gospel in Luke-Acts: The Social and Political Motivations of Lucan Theology (SNTSMS 57; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 71–109; Jerome H. Neyrey, “Ceremonies in Luke-Acts: The Case of Meals and Table Fellowship,” in The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation (ed. Jerome H. Neyrey; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991), 361–87; Kathleen E. Corley, Private Women, Public Meals: Social Conflict in the Synoptic Tradition (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1993), 108–46; Robert L. Kelley, “Meals with Jesus in Luke’s Gospel,” HBT 17 (1995): 123–31; Willi Braun, Feasting and Social Rhetoric in Luke 14 (SNTSMS 85; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995); Klyne Snodgrass, “Common Life with Jesus: The Parable of the Banquet in Luke 14:16–24,” in Common Life in the Early Church: Essays Honoring Graydon F. Snyder (ed. Julian V. Hills et al.; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1998), 186–201; Dennis E. Smith, “Table Fellowship


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The social functions of meals have often been noted, as they reveal “different degrees of hierarchy, inclusion and exclusion, boundaries and transactions across the boundaries.”27 In the Greco-Roman world, banquet and symposium are often instruments through which fictive-kinship groups are defined;28 for the Jews, rules surrounding meals are particularly important in delineating God’s people from the Gentiles.29 Despite the difficulties involved in the move from historical reality to literary constructions, one does find the use of the motif of table fellowship in descriptions of ideal communities, with the goal of suggesting or reinforcing patterns of behavior.30 In Luke’s Gospel, one finds the meal scenes in both discourse (7:31–35; 11:5– 13; 12:13–21, 35–40, 42–48; 13:22–30; 14:7–24; 15:11–32; 16:19–31; 17:5–10) and narrative (5:27–32; 7:36–50; 9:10–17; 14:1–6; 15:1–2; 22:14–38) material. Among the various emphases related to such material, three connected themes stand out as significant and uniquely Lukan. First, the inclusion of the outcasts is a theme that can be identified especially in the narrative material connected with the meal scenes. While meals in the ancient world often function to consolidate the boundary of an existing community, many meal scenes in Luke aim instead at breaking such boundaries.31 In this Gospel, Jesus is often found in table fellowship with “tax collectors and sinners” (5:30; 7:34; 15:1). These “tax collectors” represent the outcasts of society (cf. 3:12; 18:9–14; 19:1–10), while the “sinners” are those who are considered to be unclean and impure (cf. 6:32–34; 18:13; 19:7). By participating in table fellowship with these stereotypical groups, the Lukan Jesus challenges the traditional boundaries of God’s community. Related to the emphasis on the inclusion of the outcast is the Lukan theme of reversal. The participation of the outcasts in the community of God’s people points to the eschatological reversal brought about by the ministry of Jesus. This theme of

as a Literary Motif in the Gospel of Luke,” JBL 106 (1987): 613–38; idem, From Symposium to Eucharist: The Banquet in the Early Christian World (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), 253–72. 27 Mary Douglas, “Deciphering a Meal,” in Myth, Symbol, and Culture (ed. Clifford Geertz; New York: Norton, 1971), 61. For a more recent treatment, see also Maurice Bloch, “Commensality and Poisoning,” Social Research 66 (1999): 133–49. 28 Smith, From Symposium to Eucharist, 13–130. 29 See Shaye J. D. Cohen, The Beginnings of Jewishness: Boundaries, Varieties, Uncertainties (Hellenistic Culture and Society 31; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 53–55. 30 See, e.g., the portrayal of the eschatological banquet in the Hebrew Bible (Isa 25:6; Sib. Or. 7:744–46; 2 Bar. 29:5–8) and the provision of food in utopian communities (Homer, Ody. 9.108– 11); cf. Richard I. Pervo, “Panta Koina: The Feeding Stories in the Light of Economic Data and Social Practice,” in Religious Propaganda and Missionary Competition in the New Testament World: Essays Honoring Dieter Georgi (ed. Lukas Bormann, Kelly Del Tredici, and Angela Standhartinger; NovTSup 74; Leiden/New York: Brill, 1994), 177–82. 31 Some, therefore, identify Luke’s meal scenes as anti-symposia; see, e.g., Willi Braun, “Symposium or Anti-Symposium? Reflections on Luke 14:1–24,” TJT 8 (1992): 70–84.


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reversal stretches from Luke’s concern for the oppressed (4:18; 6:20–22; 7:22; 14:13, 21; 16:20–22) to his emphasis on the inclusion of those who were outside the covenant people (2:34–35; 4:22–30; cf. Acts 13:46–47; 28:23–29).32 This theme of reversal is a constant element in Jesus’ teachings related to table fellowship. In 13:24–30, for example, those among God’s people who are unfaithful will be cast out, while others “from east and west, north and south” (v. 29) will take their places at the eschatological banquet. Although the inclusion of the Gentiles is not made explicit in this context, the redefinition of God’s people is assumed.33 In the parable of the Great Banquet in 14:15–24, this theme of reversal is symbolized by the inclusion of “the poor, the crippled, the blind and the lame” (v. 21) in the eschatological banquet. Using the language of the prophets (cf. Isa 29:18–19; 35:5–6; 42:7, 18; 61:1), this description evokes the divine promises to God’s own people at the end of times while redirecting the focus to the inclusion of the outcasts. Table fellowship therefore provides one critical context in which God’s eschatological reversal is to be realized (see also 14:7–14; 15:11–32; 16:19–31). The inclusion of the outcasts together with the theme of reversal points to Luke’s focus on the formation of God’s eschatological community. While the breakdown of the traditional boundaries is symbolized by Jesus’ participation with the outcasts in table fellowship, the establishment of God’s eschatological community is also symbolized by this motif of table fellowship. In evoking the paradigmatic event of the exodus, Jesus’ feeding of the five thousand (Luke 9:10–17) signifies the formation of God’s restored people.34 The climactic moment can be found in the Lukan account of Jesus’ Last Supper with his disciples before the cross (22:1–38). Luke’s portrayal of this event clearly points to this as a covenantal meal modeled after the Passover meal.35 Equally important is the discourse given over the table

32

See, in particular, John O. York, The Last Shall Be First: The Rhetoric of Reversal in Luke (JSNTSup 46; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991). 33 While those “from east and west, north and south” can refer to the return of the exile, in light of the description of God’s unfaithful people in the previous verse (Luke 13:28), the inclusion of the Gentiles who are traditionally excluded has to be the primary reference in this context. See Michael F. Bird, “Who Comes from the East and the West? Luke 13.28–29/Matt 8.11–12 and the Historical Jesus,” NTS 52 (2006): 441–57. 34 See Wilson C. K. Poon, “Superabundant Table Fellowship in the Kingdom: The Feeding of the Five Thousand and the Meal Motif in Luke,” ExpTim 114 (2003): 224–30. For the significance of this account in light of the prophetic paradigm in the Hebrew Bible, see also François Bovon, “The Role of the Scriptures in the Composition of the Gospel Accounts: The Temptations of Jesus (Lk 4:1–13 par.) and the Multiplication of the Loaves (Lk 9:10–17 par.),” in Luke and Acts (ed. Gerald O’Collins and Gilberto Marconi; trans. Matthew J. O’Connell; New York/Mahwah, NJ: Paulist, 1993), 26–31. 35 See Anthony J. Saldarini, Jesus and Passover (New York: Paulist, 1984), 59–61; Dennis E. Smith and Hal E. Taussig, Many Tables: The Eucharist in the New Testament and Liturgy Today (Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1990), 22–23.


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where the Twelve are to assume the role as judges of “the twelve tribes of Israel” (22:30). Taking on the role traditionally assigned to the sons of Jacob (T. Jud. 25:1),36 the Twelve become the foundation for this new community. This designation of the new leaders also evokes the memories of the Passover meal: “A Passover meal confirms membership in the covenant people of Israel, even as it bolsters the role of the head of the clan who presides over the meal (Exod 12:3–4, 26–27).”37 These themes of the inclusion of the outcasts, the eschatological reversal, and the establishment of God’s eschatological people will be relevant as we examine Acts 6:1–7 in light of Luke’s motif of table fellowship.

III. Acts 6:1–7 and Table Fellowship A. Acts 6:1–7 as a Meal Scene Before assuming that Acts 6:1–7 is dealing with table fellowship, two issues must be resolved: the meaning of ἐν τῇ διακονίᾳ τῇ καθηµερινῇ in v. 1 and of διακονεῖν τραπέζαις in v. 2. Beginning with the reference in v. 2, τράπεζα (“table”) can refer to the banker’s counter (Luke 19:23; cf. Plato, Apol. 17c). ∆ιακονεῖν τραπέζαις would then refer to the financial managements involved in providing for the poor.38 Τράπεζα is, however, more commonly used as “dining table” (Luke 16:21; 22:21; Acts 16:34; cf. Homer, Od. 17.333; Herodotus, Hist. 5.20.4; Did. 11.9). In light of the use of the verb διακονέω together with τράπεζα in the Lukan account of the Last Supper (Luke 22:21, 26, 27, 30), διακονεῖν τραπέζαις in Acts 6:2 most likely refers to the act of “waiting on tables” as recognized by the majority of commentators.39 Moreover, while διακονέω and τράπεζα rarely appear together in the same context in ancient literature,40 one notable exception should be mentioned—T. Job 12:1–2: 36

Christian Grappe, “Le logion des douze trônes: Eclairages intertestamentaires,” in Le Trône de Dieu (ed. Marc Philonenko; WUNT 69; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1993), 204–12. 37 Neyrey, “Ceremonies in Luke-Acts,” 363. See also Jonathan Brumberg-Kraus, “‘Not by Bread Alone . . .’: The Ritualization of Food and Table Talk in the Passover Seder and in the Last Supper,” Semeia 86 (1999): 179–80. 38 Kirsopp Lake and Henry J. Cadbury, English Translation and Commentary (vol. 4 of The Beginnings of Christianity, Part 1, The Acts of the Apostles, ed. F. J. Foakes Jackson and Kirsopp Lake; London: Macmillan, 1933), 64. 39 See, e.g., Haenchen, Acts of the Apostles, 262; Barrett, Acts of the Apostles, 2:311; Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Acts of the Apostles: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 31; New York: Doubleday, 1998), 348–49; Pervo, Acts, 159; cf. Marguerat, Les Actes des Apôtres, 209. 40 Most of the results produced by a search in the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae (online: http://www.tlg.uci.edu [accessed July 11, 2009]) come from post–New Testament documents, many of which are directly dependent on Acts 6:2 (e.g., Clement of Alexandria, Paed. 2.57; John Chrysostom, Hom. Act. XXXI on Acts 14; Hom. 1 Cor. 3.6). See, however, the fourth-century author John Chrysostom, who discusses “angels serving at the table” (ἄγγελοι διακονούµενοι τῇ τραπέζῃ) in the context of a royal meal (Hom. Eph. 3.5).

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Journal of Biblical Literature 130, no. 1 (2011) And if a man cheerful in heart ever would come to me saying: I have nothing available to help the poor. Nevertheless I wish at least to serve the indigent at your table. And when he received permission, he would serve and eat. Καὶ εἴ ποτέ µοι ἤρχετο ἀνὴρ ἱλαρὸς τῇ καρδίᾳ λέγων οὐδὲν ἐγὼ εὐπορῶ ἐπικουρῆσαι τοῖς πένησιν· βούλοµαι µέντοι κἂν διακονῆσαι τοῖς πτωχοῖς ἐν τῇ σῇ τραπέζῃ καὶ συγχωρηθεὶς ὑπηρέτει καὶ ἤσθιεν.41

Though not an exact parallel, this passage, which mentions “to serve” (διακονῆσαι), “table” (τῇ . . . τραπέζῃ), and “eat” (ἤσθιεν) in the discussion of “the poor” (τοῖς πτωχοῖς; cf. τοῖς πένησιν), points to a similar context within which Acts 6:2 can be read. In this passage, διακονεῖν τραπέζαις must be understood as serving tables in the context of a meal, and this indirectly reaffirms our understanding of the context of Acts 6:2. The meaning of τῇ διακονίᾳ τῇ καθηµερινῇ in v. 1 is also open to various interpretations, two of which surface in many modern English translations: “the daily distribution of food” (NIV, NRSV, NET [New English Translation], TNIV [Today’s NIV]; cf. “the daily distribution,” KJV, ASV, NAB, REB, NJB, NKJV, ESV [English Standard Version]), and “the daily serving of food” (NASB).42 The major difference between these two groups of translations is whether τῇ διακονίᾳ should be understood in the sense of “distribution” or “(table-)serving.” Despite the overwhelming support in translations for the former rendering, the latter is to be preferred. First, the word διακονία when followed by the reference to “table” most likely refers to the sharing of food in a meal setting. Second, “‘[d]istribution’ is not one of the attested meanings of this abstract noun.”43 If “distribution” were the intended meaning of the phrase, one would expect word groups that appear already in the first section of Acts: διαµερίζω (2:45) and διαδίδωµι (4:35).44 Third, although καθη41 Text and translation are based on the S and V texts and are taken from Robert A Kraft, ed., The Testament of Job according to the SV Text (SBLTT 5; Pseudepigrapha Series 4; Missoula, MT: Society of Biblical Literature and Scholars Press, 1974), 34–35. The P text provides no significant difference that would alter our reading in this case; see R. P. Spittler, “Testament of Job,” OTP 1:844. 42 Another possible translation is “daily distribution of funds” (GNB). Despite possible parallels in later rabbinic sources (see n. 6 above), this is the least likely meaning of the phrase because of the difficulties in explaining why “funds” have to be distributed “daily.” 43 John N. Collins, Diakonia: Re-interpreting the Ancient Sources (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990), 230–31. 44 Reta Halteman Finger, Of Widows and Meals: Communal Meals in the Book of Acts (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), 155. See also her earlier article “Table Fellowship: The Spirituality of Eating Together,” in Vital Christianity: Spirituality, Justice, and Christian Practice (ed. David L. WeaverZercher and William H. Willimon; New York/London: T&T Clark, 2005), 193.


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µερινός is a hapax legomenon, this word recalls 2:46–47, where the daily growth is experienced in the context of constant table fellowship: Day by day [καθ’ ἡµέραν], as they gathered together in the temple courts, they also broke bread in their homes and shared their food with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And day by day [καθ’ ἡµέραν] the Lord added to their community those who were being saved.

Therefore, rather than the imagery of the “soup kitchen,”45 τῇ διακονίᾳ τῇ καθηµερινῇ is best understood to refer to “the common sacred meal,”46 as already noted in 2:46. The complaint of the Hellenists is therefore that their widows “were not allowed to participate in the daily meal.”47 As to the nature of the meal from which the widows are excluded, some have suggested that this is a reference to the eucharistic meal.48 This reading is built on the reference to the Eucharist as “the Lord’s table” (τραπέζης κυρίου) in 1 Cor 10:21, but in Luke-Acts the “table,” especially in the plural, does not acquire this specific sense. Although this reading does rightly point to the significance of the Lukan account of the Last Supper (Luke 22:14–38), these various meal scenes, together with Acts 2:46–47, should be considered within the wider context of the Lukan motif of table fellowship.49

B. Waiters as Preachers Specific details in Acts 6:1–7 confirm the relationship between this account and other Lukan meal scenes. First, γογγυσµός (“grumbling,” v. 1) evokes two important passages. The first passage is Numbers 11, where one finds the note on grumbling (v. 1) in the context of the shortage of food supply (vv. 4–6). Other parallels include the appointment of the seventy (v. 16) and the note on the spirit (v. 17). This passage in the exodus tradition confirms the significance of the meal context behind Acts 6:1–7.50 Although often overlooked, the second passage is perhaps more significant for the reading of Acts 6:1–7 since it points to Luke’s own appropriation of the 45 Luke Timothy Johnson, The Acts of the Apostles (SP 5; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1992), 106. 46 Pervo, Acts, 159. 47 Tyson, “Acts 6:1–7 and Dietary Regulations,” 158; see also Lake and Cadbury, English Translation and Commentary, 64. 48 Neudorfer, Der Stephanuskreis, 92–94; Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, In Memory of Her: A Feminist Theological Reconstruction of Christian Origins (New York: Crossroad, 1983), 165–68. 49 In a similar way, the eucharistic overtones in other Lukan meal scenes (esp. Luke 9:10– 17; 24:30; Acts 27:35) should not be downplayed. Rather than identifying them as eucharistic meals, however, it seems best to read these accounts within the wider Lukan motif of table fellowship. In Luke’s narrative, they are all sacred meals, although the Last Supper represents the defining climax of such gatherings. 50 See Daube, “Reform in Acts and Its Models,” 152–53.


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grumbling tradition of Israel. The word γογγυσµός (6:1) appears only once in LukeActs, but its cognate verb γογγύζω appears in Luke 5:30 in a passage that is critical for the reading of Acts 6. In Luke 5:29–31, in the context of a banquet hosted by Levi, the Pharisees and the scribes are “complaining” (ἐγόγγυζον) to Jesus’ disciples: “Why do you eat and drink with tax collectors and sinners?” (Luke 5:30). In both Luke 5:29–31 and Acts 6:1–7, therefore, one finds the act of grumbling in the context of a meal. Moreover, being the first of a series of accounts of Jesus’ participation in table fellowship with the outcasts (cf. Luke 7:34; 15:1), the paradigmatic significance of Luke 5:29–31 should be recognized. This connection between “complaining” and table fellowship with the outcasts is confirmed by the use of a related term of the same word group in 15:2 (“The Pharisees and the teachers of the law complained [διεγόγγυζον], ‘This man welcomes sinners and eats with them’”) and 19:7 (“When all the people saw this, they complained [διεγόγγυζον]: ‘He has gone to be the guest of a sinner’”). It becomes clear, therefore, that when the γογγύζω word group is used in Luke, it is in connection with Jesus’ act of including the outcasts. In Acts 6, the complaint centers on whether the “widows” (αἱ χῆραι) can participate in the table fellowship. In the Lukan writings, the status of these “widows” is comparable to that of the “tax collectors and sinners” who are despised by the Pharisees and the scribes. In Luke 20:46–47, for example, the widows are the objects of the oppressive acts committed by the “scribes.” The adjectival modifiers πενιχράν (“poor”) and πτωχή (“poor”) that are attached to the widow of Luke 21:2 also identify this group as the lowly outcasts who are expected to experience the eschatological reversal proclaimed by Jesus (Luke 4:18; 6:20; 7:22; 16:19–31), and “the poor” (οἱ πτωχοί) are specifically promised to be able to participate in the eschatological banquet (Luke 14:13, 21). In light of Luke’s portrayal of the widows, the connection between Luke 5:29–31 and Acts 6:1–7 becomes clear. In both contexts, the issue of complaint focuses on whether the outcasts can be included in the table fellowship of Jesus and his disciples. Moreover, in the case of Acts 6, these widows are doubly marginalized, as they are not only “widows” but also widows of “the Hellenists,” who are outside of the center of power. The critical difference is, of course, that in Luke 5:29–31 the complaint centers on Jesus’ act of inclusion, but in Acts 6:1–7 it centers on his disciples’ act of exclusion. Jesus’ statement in Luke 5:31 that his inclusive mission is to focus on the outcast becomes a critique of those who neglect the widows in Acts 6:1. In response to such neglect, the Seven were chosen “to wait on tables” (διακονεῖν τραπέζαις).51 This phrase again evokes the imagery of table fellowship. As noted above, the appearance of these two terms together in Luke’s Last Supper account (Luke 22:21, 26, 27, 30) again links this passage with the Lukan motif of table fellowship. Not only is this Last Supper account the climax of the Lukan por51

For the translation of this phrase, see section III.A above.


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trayal of the meal scenes, but it also points to the disciples as participants in the eschatological kingdom: “I confer on you a kingdom, just as my Father conferred on me, so that you may eat and drink at my table in my kingdom” (Luke 22:30).52 The preceding discussion does not aim at pointing to Luke 5:29–31 and 22:14– 38 as two key passages to unlock the meaning of Acts 6:1–7. It does, however, offer clues to the context of this passage by connecting it to the wider Lukan motif of table fellowship. This connection is relevant for a proper interpretation of Acts 6:1– 7 in its narrative context. As the motif deals with issues of identity, reversal, and community, these are also issues at the center of Acts 6:1–7. The struggle between “the Hellenists” and “the Hebrews,” the problem of caring for the “widows,” and the relationship between the Twelve and the Seven point precisely to the significance of these issues. For our purposes, this interpretation also contributes to resolving the apparent inconsistency between the assigned role and the subsequent function of the Seven. In light of the motif of table fellowship, the call to the Seven “to wait on tables” (v. 2) should no longer be considered simply a summons to the menial task of serving as waiters. Instead, “to wait on tables” is to provide the setting where table fellowship with the outcasts and the oppressed becomes possible.53 The fact that the label “the evangelist” (ὁ εὐαγγελιστής) is applied to the ministry of one of the Seven later in the narrative (21:8) further confirms his significant role as “the one who proclaims the glad tidings, the εὐαγγέλιον” (cf. 8:12, 35, 40).54 The Seven therefore are to continue the ministry of Jesus, who was accused of eating and drinking with “tax collectors and sinners” (Luke 5:30; 7:34; 15:1).

C. Acts 6 in Context This role of the Seven in continuing the ministry of Jesus is confirmed by the account of their subsequent activities. Not only do they preach the Word; they pave the way for the Word to be preached beyond the Judeans. Just one aspect of Stephen’s speech in Acts 7 can illustrate the point. In reciting the acts of God in Mesopotamia (v. 2), Haran (v. 4), Egypt (vv. 9–29, 35–36), the wilderness around Mount Sinai (vv. 30–34, 44), and Mount Sinai (v. 38), Stephen challenges the spatial consciousness of the Judeans and points to the possibility of the renewal of the

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For a further discussion of the significance of the Lukan Last Supper account for the reading of Acts 6:1–7, see section III.D below. 53 The significance attached to the word διακονία is well documented by Collins, Diakonia, 73–191. Less convincing, however, is the conclusion of his subsequent study (Deacons and the Church, 57–58) that 6:2 refers simply to preaching. This move recognizes the significance of διακονία, but it fails to recognize the significance of table fellowship in the Lukan writings. 54 Gerhard Friedrich, “εὐαγγελιστής,” TDNT 2:737. This function is confirmed by the use of this title in 2 Tim 4:5 for one who is explicitly called to “proclaim the word” (κήρυξον τὸν λόγον, 2 Tim 4:2).


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acts of God outside Jerusalem.55 The scattering of the believers “throughout the regions of Judea and Samaria” (8:1) represents the beginning stages where the gospel moves beyond the center of the land of the Judeans.56 The accounts of the work of Philip, one of the Seven, in Samaria (8:4–25) and with the Ethiopian eunuch (8:26–40) likewise depict the ministry of the Seven as reaching beyond the confines of Judea. This reading is confirmed by the placement of the first of the three summary statements in 6:7 (cf. 12:24; 19:20). The function of these statements as delineating the different stages of the development of Acts has long been recognized.57 Significantly, the first statement appears immediately before the actual account of the ministry of the Seven. This positioning points to the unique function of the Seven as those who are advancing the gospel beyond the ministry of the Twelve.58 The activities of Stephen and Philip in particular introduce a significant era in the movement of the gospel. The connection between table fellowship and the spread of the gospel in Acts is further supported by the narrative of Peter and Cornelius in Acts 10:1–11:18. The depiction of the acceptance of the Gentiles by an impartial God (10:34–35) is preceded by a lengthy account of Peter’s vision (10:1–23), which involves the question of unclean food. This vision reaches its climax in 10:15 with the following declaration by a voice: “What God has made clean, you must not call profane” (ἃ ὁ θεὸς ἐκαθάρισεν, σὺ µὴ κοίνου). Despite the problems in the connection between this vision and the subsequent account of the conversion of Cornelius,59 what is clear is that the unclean food symbolizes the Gentiles and the call to consume the 55

Martin Dibelius, Studies in the Acts of the Apostles (trans. Mary Ling; London: SCM, 1956), 168–69; J. Julius Scott, Jr., “Stephen’s Defense and the World Mission of the People of God,” JETS 21 (1978): 133. 56 See also 11:19, which again points to “the persecution that took place over Stephen” as the impetus for the spread of the gospel beyond Judea. 57 See Jerome Kodell, “‘The Word of God Grew’: Ecclesial Tendency of Λόγος in Acts 6,7; 12,24; 19,20,” Bib 55 (1974): 505–19; Leo O’Reilly, Word and Sign in the Acts of the Apostles: A Study in Lucan Theology (Analecta Gregoriana 243; Rome: Pontificia Università Gregoriana, 1987), 82–83; David W. Pao, Acts and the Isaianic New Exodus (WUNT 2/130; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 167–71. 58 The placement of the call of Paul (Acts 9:1–30) between the ministry of the Hellenists and the conversion of Cornelius may also be significant. The account of the call of Paul focuses on his subsequent ministry among the Gentiles (9:15). This may then pave the way for the account of the conversion of a Gentile. Some have also pointed to the possible historical connections between Paul and the Hellenists; see Clayton K. Harrop, “Stephen and Paul,” in With Steadfast Purpose: Essays on Acts in Honor of Henry Jackson Flanders, Jr. (ed. Naymond H. Keathley; Waco: Baylor University Press, 1990), 200; John J. Pilch, Stephen: Paul and the Hellenist Israelites (Paul’s Social Network; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2008), 67–70. 59 See, in particular, François Bovon, “Tradition et rédaction en Actes 10,1–11,18,” TZ 26 (1970): 22–45.


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unclean food becomes a call to accept these Gentiles. Through the mouth of Peter, the issue of purity, which functions as one of the primary identity markers of the Jewish community, is obviated by this vision: “God has shown me that I should not call anyone profane or unclean” (κἀµοὶ ὁ θεὸς ἔδειξεν µηδένα κοινὸν ἢ ἀκάθαρτον λέγειν ἄνθρωπον, 10:28). Beyond the mere acceptance of the message embedded in this vision, Peter’s actual table fellowship with the Gentiles is recognized by those who are displeased by his action: “You entered the house of the uncircumcised and ate with them” (εἰσῆλθες πρὸς ἄνδρας ἀκροβυστίαν ἔχοντας καὶ συνέφαγες αὐτοῖς, 11:3). Peter does not deny this accusation; instead, he explains the vision he has received and concludes that this is under the direction of God (11:17). Issues of food and table fellowship again are intimately connected with the spread of the gospel beyond the community of the Jews.60 In light of the development of the narrative in the few chapters after Acts 6:1–7, the understanding of the Hellenists as those extending table fellowship to those beyond the traditional community should no longer be surprising.

D. The Hellenists as Successors of Jesus The parallels between the Lukan portrayal of Stephen in Acts 6:8–7:60 and that of Jesus have often been noted.61 These include the portrayal of Stephen as one “full of grace and power” (6:8; cf. Luke 4:14, 22; 24:19) who performs “great wonders and signs” (6:8; cf. Acts 2:22), and the narrative of his trial (6:12–13; cf. Luke 22:54, 66) and his death (7:56–60; cf. Luke 22:69; 23:26, 34, 46). Less noticeable are the parallels between Jesus in Luke and the Hellenists in Acts 6:1–7, except for the requirements of these Hellenists to be “full of the Spirit and wisdom” (πλήρεις πνεύµατος καὶ σοφίας, 6:3; cf. Luke 2:40, 52; 3:22; 4:1). Returning to the connection between Acts 6:1–7 and the Lukan account of the Last Supper (Luke 22:14–38), one significant parallel also needs to be noted. In the Last Supper narrative, not only does Jesus, who is sharing a meal with his disciples “on the table” (ἐπὶ τῆς τραπέζης, 22:21), identify himself as “the one who serves” (ὁ διακονῶν, 22:27); he also calls the disciples to be “like the one who serves” (ὡς ὁ διακονῶν, 22:26) as he himself is. 60 Commenting on Acts 10:1–11:18, Esler rightly notes that “[t]he central issue in this narrative is not that the gospel has been preached to Gentiles, but the far more particular fact, of great ethnic and social significance, that Peter has lived and eaten with them” (Community and Gospel in Luke-Acts, 93). 61 See, e.g., Marcel Simon, St. Stephen and the Hellenists in the Primitive Church (Haskell Lectures 1956; London: Longmans, 1958), 20–26; Abraham Smith, “‘Full of Spirit and Wisdom’: Luke’s Portrait of Stephen (Acts 6:1–8:1a) as a Man of Self-Mastery,” in Asceticism and the New Testament (ed. Leif E. Vaage and Vincent L. Wimbush; New York: Routledge, 1999), 97–114; Andrew C. Clark, Parallel Lives: The Relation of Paul to the Apostles in the Lucan Perspective (Paternoster Biblical and Theological Monographs; Carlisle: Paternoster, 2001), 264–67.


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Luke does not record that this role of serving at the table was assumed by the Twelve, but he does point to the Seven as the ones who are “to wait on tables” (διακονεῖν τραπέζαις, 6:2). The assigned role of the Seven therefore takes on added significance as they follow the model of Jesus and carry out his mission of table ministry. The dichotomy between the ministry of the Word and the ministry of the table cannot be found in the accounts of Jesus, nor can it be found in the ministry of the Seven. In becoming powerful messengers of the Word, therefore, they have fulfilled their assigned role as those who are “to wait on tables.”

IV. The Twelve as Ambiguous Characters The above conclusion forces one to reconsider Luke’s evaluation of the Twelve, who set up the contrast between the call of the Seven “to wait on tables” (διακονεῖν τραπέζαις, 6:2) and their own duty to focus on “the ministry of the Word” (τῇ διακονίᾳ τοῦ λόγου, 6:4). Does the narrator approve of the action of the Twelve? Certain elements in this account suggest that Luke affirms the action of the Twelve. The note that the solution “pleased the entire community” (ἤρεσεν . . . ἐνώπιον παντὸς τοῦ πλήθους, 6:5) implies that a satisfactory resolution is reached, and the fact that the Twelve “prayed and laid their hands on them [i.e., the Seven]” (προσευξάµενοι ἐπέθηκαν αὐτοῖς τὰς χεῖρας, 6:6) restores the unity of the community as emphasized in the previous chapters (cf. 2:44–47; 4:32–37; 5:12– 16). Moreover, no reader would assume that the Twelve should “neglect the Word of God” (καταλείψαντας τὸν λόγον τοῦ θεοῦ, 6:2), nor do the concluding remarks on the spread of the Word of God (6:7) provide any hint of disapproval by the narrator. Read in light of the wider narrative, however, the actions of the Twelve seem less flattering. First, a constant focus is placed on the widows in Luke’s narrative, as they represent those who witness and experience the mercy of God (see Luke 2:36– 38; 4:25–26; 7:11–17; 18:1–8; 21:1–4). In neglecting the widows, therefore, the Hebrews and presumably the Twelve find themselves “in an unholy alliance with unjust judges (Luke 18:1–8), hypocritical scribes (20:45–47), and an exploitative temple system (21:1–6).”62 The insistence on proclaiming the Word while assigning the role of the care of the widows to another group seems a less than satisfactory arrangement. Moreover, the dichotomy between caring for the outcasts and proclaiming the Word is not one that can be found in the ministry of Jesus.63 The ministries of the Twelve prior to this episode also point to their ability to be engaged in both ministry of the Word and table fellowship within their own community (cf. 62

F. Scott Spencer, “Neglected Widows in Acts 6:1–7,” CBQ 56 (1994): 715–33. See the discussion of the significance of Jesus’ sharing the table with the “tax-collectors and sinners” in section II above. 63


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Acts 2:42, 46). Some have therefore concluded that “Luke may be more critical of the Twelve here than is usually noted.”64 Considering both the positive and negative elements embedded in this account within its wider narrative, it seems best to view the Twelve as ambiguous characters. Luke apparently sees these apostles as reliable and faithful witnesses who “were all filled with the Holy Spirit and spoke the Word of God with boldness” (ἐπλήσθησαν ἅπαντες τοῦ ἁγίου πνεύµατος καὶ ἐλάλουν τὸν λόγον τοῦ θεοῦ µετὰ παρρησίας, 4:31). Nevertheless, one also finds notes on the development in their ability to understand the mission that they received from Jesus. Their partial understanding is reflected already in the question they raise in 1:6, one that indicates their failure to understand fully the mission of their master.65 More important for our discussion is the account of Peter’s vision in 10:1–23. Despite being called to be witnesses “to the ends of the earth” (ἕως ἐσχάτου τῆς γῆς, 1:8),66 Peter and the other apostles still need to be convinced that the inclusion of the Gentiles is part of the mission that they should undertake. Again, while not intended as a critique of his failure to understand his call, the repeated command to consume the unclean food (10:13, 15, 16) highlights the need of Peter, as a representative of the Twelve, to become better informed about the work of God among other communities. Some commentators, therefore, have considered Acts 10:1–11:18 to be an account of the “conversion” of Peter.67 In light of this wider development of the narrative of Acts, therefore, one should not be surprised that the solution proposed by the Twelve is not to be considered the final word on the matter. Although he relegates the task of “wait[ing] on tables” (6:2) to the Seven, Luke shows that the act of waiting on tables is precisely the means through which the Word of God can be proclaimed among other marginalized communities.68 It is not until the account of the conversion of Cornelius that the connection between table fellowship and the proclamation of the Word can be understood. 64

Finger, Of Widows and Meals, 266. Jesus’ response points to their lack of understanding, but the fact of the restoration is not denied and the disciples are not rebuked for their question. The disciples are therefore portrayed not as negative characters but as ambiguous ones whose question provides the occasion for Jesus to outline their mission; contra Robert Maddox, The Purpose of Luke-Acts (FRLANT 126; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982), 106. 66 In light of earlier passages (cf. Isa 8:9; 48:20; 49:6; 62:11; Ps. Sol. 1:4), this phrase is best understood as a reference to the nations/Gentiles and not necessarily to a particular geographical locale. 67 See Joel B. Green, “Doing Repentance: The Formation of Disciples in the Acts of the Apostles,” ExAud 18 (2002): 18–19. 68 Outside of the Lukan corpus, the failure of Peter to understand the significance of table fellowship in the mission to proclaim the Word can be found in the controversy recorded in Gal 2:11–14. While this Pauline reference may not inform our reading of the characterization of the Twelve in Acts, it does at least point to a similar concern expressed by a first-century writer. 65

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V. Conclusion Reading Acts 6:1–7 in light of the Lukan motif of table fellowship, one is able to reconsider the apparent inconsistency between the assigned role and the actual function of the Seven. Rather than an example of a glaring gap in narrative logic, the assigned role of the Seven as those who are to serve at the table provides the context in which they can reach beyond the Hebrews who reside in Jerusalem. It is their status as “waiters” that allows the Seven to continue the mission of Jesus in becoming “preachers” to the outcasts and the oppressed. Through this examination of only one aspect of this difficult account, it becomes clear that Acts 6:1-7 does function as a transitional account that bridges the Jerusalem ministry and the one that reaches “to the ends of the earth.”

JBL 130, no. 1 (2011): 145–163

Spiritual Weakness, Illness, and Death in 1 Corinthians 11:30 ilaria l. e. ramelli [email protected] Università Cattolica del Sacro Cuore, Largo A. Gemelli 1, 20123 Milan, Italy

In 1 Cor 11:30 Paul speaks of the consequences of abuses in the Corinthian community related to the celebration of the Lord’s Supper; he has just warned the Corinthians against eating and drinking the Eucharist in an unworthy way (ἀναξίως), in a state of sin. The sin referred to in the immediate context is division within the community, disorders in the celebration of the supper, lack of charity toward the poor on the part of the rich, gluttony, and drunkenness. Partaking of the supper when the church is divided is a sin against Christ’s body.1 Now, in v. 30 Paul observes: διὰ τοῦτο ἐν ὑµῖν πολλοὶ ἀσθενεῖς καὶ ἄρρωστοι καὶ κοιµῶνται ἱκανοί. There are no textual problems in the Greek. English translations include the following: “For this cause many are weak and sickly among you, and many sleep” (KJV); “For this cause many among you are weak and sickly, and not a few sleep” (ASV); “On this account many among you are weak and infirm, and a good many are fallen asleep” (Darby); “That’s why so many of you are weak and sick and a considerable number are dying” (International Standard Version).2 I think that the last

I am very grateful to the anonymous readers of the JBL editorial board and to the editor for their helpful comments. 1 As William Barclay puts it, “the person condemned is not the person who does not discern that the elements he takes in his hands are the Lord’s body. The person condemned is the person who does not discern that Christians are the Lord’s body, and must be in unity before they dare approach the sacrament” (The Lord’s Supper [Nashville: Abingdon, 1967], 109). 2 Compare other versions: “Because of this, among you many are weak and sickly, and sleep do many” (Young); “For this cause many are weak and sickly among you, and many sleep” (Webster); “For this cause a number of you are feeble and ill, and a number are dead” (Basic Bible in English); “This is the reason why many of you are weak and sick and quite a number [of you] have died” (God’s Word); “For this reason many among you are weak and sick, and a number sleep” (NASB).

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is the best rendering; indeed, I would translate: “For this reason, among you, many are weak and ill, and a good number are dying (or: are dead).” What is more, I shall argue that this disease and death can be understood in a spiritual sense, that they were understood in this sense by most ancient exegetes, and that such a reading fits naturally into a common Hellenistic trope and into Paul’s linguistic use. Practically all contemporary commentators agree that the illness and death to which Paul refers here are to be interpreted in a physical sense, as bodily sickness and death. The only exception of which I am aware is an article by Sebastian Schneider, who rightly points out grammatical and logical difficulties arising from the physical interpretation, one of which is that, if κοιµῶνται referred to persons who are physically dead, this would contradict the notion conveyed by their being said to be “among you” (ἐν ὑµῖν), in the community.3 On the basis of Philonic parallels in the metaphorical use of κοιµῶµαι in reference to the sleep of the mind, he argues that the “weak” and “ill” are weak in faith (he takes ἀσθενεῖς and ἄρρωστοι as practically synonyms), and those asleep are those lethargic in their faith. All other commentators, however, claim that 1 Cor 11:30 must be understood in a physical and literal way. Johannes Weiss, referring to 1 Cor 11:29, on eating and drinking one’s own judgment with the Eucharist, thinks that the Eucharist, conceived of as solidly sacramental, magical, and miraculous, is able to bring about physical damage as well as benefit.4 A similar opinion seems to be held by Dale B. Martin, who thinks that the ingestion of the Eucharist may also have a toxic effect and poison those who deserve this, instead of healing them.5 On the basis of this understanding of 1 Cor 10:30, Mauro Pesce proposed a parallel with m. Sotiah 1:1– 4:3, in which the “water of bitterness” is drunk by the suspected adulteress; if the woman is guilty, the water causes serious illness in her.6 Hans Conzelmann thinks that for Paul an offense against the sacrament results in physical illness and death, possibly because of the Eucharist’s “magic effect” (magische Wirkung). In this connection I would cite Acta Thomae 51 as an excellent example: a youth who had

3

Schneider, “Glaubensmängel in Korinth,” Filología Neotestamentaria 9 (1996): 3–20. Others mentioned en passant the spiritual interpretation of 1 Cor 11:30, but only to reject it: Charles J. Ellicott, St. Paul’s First Epistle to the Corinthians: With a Critical and Grammatical Commentary (London: Longmans, Green, 1887), 222; Carl Friedrich Georg Heinrici, Der erste Brief an die Korinther (KEK; Göttingen; Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1896), 352; Franz Gutjahr, Die zwei Briefe an die Korinther (Graz/Vienna: Styria, 1907), 322; Archibald Robertson and Alfred Plummer, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the First Epistle of St. Paul to the Corinthians (2nd ed.; ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1914; repr., 1955), 253, to which I shall return. 4 Weiss, Earliest Christianity: A History of the Period A.D. 30–150 (trans. Frederick Grant; 2 vols.; Gloucester, MA: Peter Smith, 1970), 2:257; idem, Der erste Korintherbrief (2nd ed.; KEK; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1910), 290–91. 5 Martin, The Corinthian Body (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995). 6 Pesce, “Mangiare e bere il proprio giudizio,” RivB 38 (1990): 495–513.

Ramelli: Spiritual Weakness in 1 Corinthians 11:30

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killed his fiancée took communion with his hands, but while he was putting it into his mouth, his hands were paralyzed. Thomas, when he learned this, observed: “The gift of our Lord has unmasked you. It heals so many people who approach it with love, truth, and faith, but has manifestly paralyzed you. This did not happen without a reason.”7 Already Friedrich Guntermann observed that sickness and death were considered by Paul to result from the profanation of the Lord’s meal (Profanisierung des Herrenmahls), according to a conception that was then familiar to Judaic thought.8 E.-B. Allo finds that the connection with 1 Cor 15:29 suggests that illnesses and death mentioned in 11:30 must be understood realistically and physically.9 Frédéric Louis Godet expressly ruled out a spiritual interpretation of illness and death in our passage on the disputable grounds that it would not have impressed readers strongly enough (“un fait purement spirituel ne serait pas de nature à frapper suffisamment les lecteurs”).10 According to Anthony C. Thiselton, since Paul “earlier actually mentions drunkenness (11:21), it is just conceivable that a serious decline in health could result causally from excess in gluttony and drink.”11 This kind of disorder and the relevant physical punishment are seen behind 1 Cor 11:30 by Craig S. Keener as well: “What, then, did it mean to eat and drink unworthily (11:27)? Most associations had regulations to prevent drunken abuse and quarrels at their banquets. Here, however, violators experience divine retribution (11:29); outside the sphere of grace (cf. ‘healings’ in 12:9), they face sickness (11:30; cf. 5:5).”12 Keener also 7

Conzelmann, Der erste Brief an die Korinther (12th ed.; KEK; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1981), 247: “Krankheiten und Todesfälle sind Folge des Vergehens gegen das Sakrament.” R. A. Lipsius and M. Bonnet, eds., Acta apostolorum apocrypha (2 vols. in 3; Leipzig: Hermann Mendelssohn, 1903; repr., Hildesheim: Olms, 1972), 2.2:167.6. 8 Guntermann, Die Eschatologie des Hl. Paulus (Münster: Aschendorff, 1932), 232: “Selbst jene Profanisierung des Herrenmahls hat nach Paulus nicht die ewige Verdammnis zur Folge, sondern Gott schickt dafür zeitliche Strafgerichte, wie Krankheit und Tod, die aber selbst wieder als Züchtigungsmittel gedacht sind, damit wir nicht mit der Welt verdammt werden (1 Kor 11,30– 32).” Ibid., 292: “Dann vertritt eben Paulus die Auffassung, daß auch physische Übel, wie Krankheiten und Tod, von Gott als Strafe für Sünden geschickt werden. Diese Anschauung war den Juden ganz geläufig, ja lange Zeit seine einzige Auffassung des Leidens.” 9 Allo, Première épître aux Corinthiens (EBib; Paris: Gabalda, 1934), 283. 10 Godet, Commentaire sur la première épître aux Corinthiens (2 vols.; Neuchâtel: Nouvelle Monnier, 1885–87; repr., 1902; 2nd ed., 1965), 2r:473–74: “Quelques-uns, comme Eichhorn, ont pris ces trois termes malades, infirmes et meurent dans le sens spirituel. Mais l’emploi simultané des deux mots malades et infirmes ne s’expliquerait pas bien dans le sens moral; et au lieu du verbe κοιµᾶσθαι qui ne s’emploie jamais dans le N.T. que dans le sens du sommeil ou de la mort physiques, l’apôtre eût dit plutôt νεκρὸς εἶναι (Apocalypse 3.1).” 11 Thiselton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians: A Commentary on the Greek Text (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans; Carlisle: Paternoster, 2000), 256. 12 Keener, 1–2 Corinthians (New Cambridge Bible Commentary; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 99.


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relates sickness in the individual bodies of members of the Corinthian church to their failure to discern the corporate body of the church.13 Gordon D. Fee, likewise, interprets 1 Cor 11:30 in reference to physical illness (“the present illnesses of many, which in some cases have led to death”) and hypothesizes that “the rash of illnesses and deaths that have recently overtaken them [sc. Christians in Corinth] is here being viewed as an expression of divine judgment on the whole community. The judgment, of course, as v. 32 makes clear, does not have to do with their eternal salvation, but with the temporal judgment of sickness and death.”14 As Fee himself remarks, however, this should not be interpreted as though Paul were saying, in general, that sickness among Christians is always to be viewed as present judgment, nor that sickness is necessarily related to an abuse of the Lord’s Supper. Paul is speaking of a particular group of Christians, about whom he had a specific revelation. This hypothesis, which is close to Wolfgang Schrage’s claim that Paul’s statement should not be interpreted as though illness and death were an automatic consequence of an incorrect consumption of the sacrament (“als ob Krankheit und Tod eo ipso auf falschen Sakramentsgenuss zurückzuführen wären”),15 differs in part from Archibald Robertson’s and Alfred Plummer’s interpretation, according to which “perhaps at this time there was much sickness in the Church of Corinth, and St Paul points out the cause of it. We need not assume that he had received a special revelation on the subject.”16 Like Thiselton after them, Robertson and Plummer added that excess in drinking may have led in some cases to illness among the members of the community.17 Robertson and Plummer, moreover, remarked that the Corinthians’ “spiritual deadness produced irreverence, and for this irreverence God chastised them with bodily suffering,” and objected that, “had spiritual maladies been meant, we should probably have had ἐν πνεύµατι, or ἐν ταῖς καρδίαις ὑµῶν.”18 I will show in a moment that neither Paul nor other NT authors, nor contemporary philosophers who speak of spiritual death and illness, normally added such expressions. This trend, favoring the physical interpretation of illness and death in the Pauline verse under examination, was present already in eighteenth- and nineteenthcentury commentaries such as Matthew Henry’s Commentary on the Whole Bible 13

Ibid., 96: “This failure to discern the corporate body (11:29) led to sickness in their individual bodies (11:30; cf. the individual and corporate bodies as temples in 3:16–17; 6:19).” 14 Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1987), 565. 15 Schrage, Der Erste Brief an die Korinther, vol. 3, 1 Kor 11, 17–14, 40 (EKKNT 7.3; Zürich/Düsseldorf: Benziger; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1999), 54. 16 Robertson and Plummer, Commentary, 253 (emphasis added). 17 Andrew D. Clarke does not comment on 1 Cor 11:30 (Secular and Christian Leadership in Corinth: A Socio-Historical and Exegetical Study of 1 Corinthians 1–6 [AGJU 18; Leiden: Brill, 1993]). 18 Robertson and Plummer, Commentary, 253.


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(1706–21): he interpreted 1 Cor 11:30 as the expression of “temporal punishments” for those who have received communion unworthily, “but for the sake of their improvement, to avoid eternal punishment.”19 The same interpretation was offered in Matthew Henry’s Concise Commentary, originally written in 1706. In the Jamieson-Fausset-Brown Bible commentary (1871) ἀσθενεῖς and ἄρρωστοι were interpreted as follows: “He is ‘weak’ who has naturally no strength: ‘sickly,’ who has lost his strength by disease.” And those who are asleep were identified with those who “are being lulled in death: not a violent death; but one the result of sickness, sent as the Lord’s chastening for the individual’s salvation, the mind being brought to a right state on the sick bed (1 Cor 11:31).”20 The prevalence of the physical interpretation at the end of the nineteenth century is attested also by the People’s New Testament at 11:30: “ ‘For this cause, many are weak and sickly among you, and many sleep’] Some have held that this means that the improper observance of the supper has made many weak and sickly Christians, and some had even died spiritually. Others hold that physical judgments had been sent, and some sickened and others died. The last view is most generally held.”21 Contrary to almost all modern interpretations, I intend to argue that the illness and death to which Paul refers can be interpreted as spiritual.22 He means the sickness and the death of the soul, of which he speaks also in Romans and which are mentioned in other NT passages as well and in several contemporary philosophers, both Middle Platonists and Stoics. Martin rightly warns that in ancient thought we cannot find the Cartesian dualism of res cogitans and res extensa.23 But we can certainly find the Platonic dualism between body and soul, immanent and transcendent, which should not be confused with Cartesian dualism but is nevertheless dualism. Moreover, the notion of spiritual illness and death in the first and second centuries c.e. was present even in Stoicism, which was no dualistic system. Illness and death could be understood on the moral plane—moral illness, moral death—rather than on the ontological plane. One further point: Robertson and Plummer claimed that no ancient commentator interpreted sickness and death in 1 Cor 11:30 as spiritual and not physi-

19

Matthew Henry’s Commentary on the Whole Bible (repr., Peabody, MA: Hendrickson,

2006). 20 Robert Jamieson, A. R. Fausset, and David Brown, A Commentary Critical and Explanatory on the Whole Bible (Hartford: S. S. Scranton, 1871). 21 St. Louis: Christian Board of Publications, 1891. 22 All the more in the light of the presence of the πνευµατικός–ψυχικός dichotomy in the letter, which is underscored by Birger Pearson, The πνευµατικός–ψυχικός Terminology in 1 Corinthians (SBLDS 12; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1973). See his conclusions on pp. 82–83: the πνευµατικός–ψυχικός terminology arose in the context of a Hellenistic Jewish exegesis of Gen 2:7 and is basically a Jewish version of the νοῦς-ψυχή Greek philosophical differentiation. 23 Martin, Corinthian Body, 3–15.

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cal; the same was already maintained by Charles J. Ellicott and Franz Gutjahr, by whom Robertson and Plummer may have been inspired.24 But this is not the case. From searches of Biblia Patristica, TLG, and the Cetedoc Library of Christian Latin Texts, I found that there are very few comments on this specific verse in the patristic writings. For instance, second-century authors (apart from Clement); Tertullian, Cyprian, Methodius, Hippolytus, and other third-century authors; and Gregory of Nyssa, Gregory Nazianzen, Ambrose, and Hilary never comment on this verse, not even occasionally. Even John Chrysostom and Theodoret, who produced running commentaries on 1 Corinthians (Chrysostom in a series of homilies), and who specifically commented upon 1 Cor 11:27–34 in Hom. 27 (PG 61:230–32) and Comm. in I Cor. 189 Staab, respectively, do not spend a single word on v. 30. Among the very few and sparse patristic comments on this verse, a spiritual understanding of illness and death is much better attested than a physical understanding. The latter is indeed represented only by Basil and Ambrosiaster. Basil (Asceticon magnum 55.4 [PG 31:1049B], citing 1 Cor 11:30) observes that some illnesses are the effects of sin and aim at the conversion of the sinner.25 Ambrosiaster himself, who takes illness and death in 1 Cor 11:30 at face value, nevertheless interprets them as an image of the future judgment (imago iudicii), so that even his exegesis can only partially be regarded as literal.26 Many more fathers, such as Origen and authors related to him, offer a decidedly spiritual interpretation of illness and sleep/death in 1 Cor 11:30. In Comm. Matt. 10.24 Origen speaks precisely of spiritual illness, “the illnesses of the soul” (τὰ τῆς ψυχῆς ἀρρωστήµατα), explaining that these are, for instance, love of money, glory, women or youths, and so on; these are the illnesses that Jesus cures.27 Shortly after, Origen comments directly on 1 Cor 11:30, interpreting ἀσθενεῖς, ἄρρωστοι, and κοιµῶνται in a spiritual sense and referring them to the Corinthians addressed by Paul, who had various sins (Κορινθίοις, ποικίλα ἔχουσιν ἁµαρτήµατα), thereby

24 Robertson and Plummer, Commentary, 253: “to interpret this of spiritual weakness and deadness is inadequate; and no ancient commentator thus explains the words.” See also Ellicott, First Epistle, 222; Gutjahr, Briefe, 322. 25 Οὐ γὰρ πάντα φύσεώς εἰσιν ἀῤῥωστήµατα . . . Πολλάκις γὰρ καὶ µάστιγες ἁµαρτηµάτων εἰσὶ τὰ ἀῤῥωστήµατα, εἰς ἐπιστροφὴν προσαγόµενα. Ὃν γὰρ φησὶν ἀγαπᾷ Κύριος παιδεύει· καὶ ∆ιὰ τοῦτο ἐν ὑµῖν πολλοὶ ἀσθενεῖς καὶ ἄῤῥωστοι, καὶ κοιµῶνται ἱκανοί . . . Τοὺς οὖν τοιούτους . . . ὑποµένειν χρὴ τὰ ἐπαγόµενα, ὅταν γνωρίσωµεν ἑαυτῶν τὰ πληµµελήµατα. 26 Ambrosiaster, In Ep. Paul. A CSEL 81:2, p. 129.12; cf. PL 17:257AB under Ambrose: “Ideo multi in vobis invalidi et aegroti, et dormiunt multi] Ut verum probaret quia examen futurum est accipientium corpus Domini, iam hic imaginem iudicii ostendit in eos qui inconsiderate corpus Domini acceperant, dum febribus et infirmitatibus corripiebantur, et multi moriebantur.” 27 Εἰ δὲ θέλεις ἰδεῖν ποῖά ἐστι τὰ τῆς ψυχῆς ἀρρωστήµατα, κατανόει µοι τοὺς φιλαργύρους καὶ τοὺς φιλοδόξους καὶ τοὺς φιλόπαιδας καὶ εἴ τίς ἐστι φιλόγυνος. Καὶ τούτους γὰρ ἐν τοῖς ὄχλοις ἰδών, καὶ σπλαγχνισθεὶς ἐπ᾽ αὐτοῖς, ἐθεράπευσεν.


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again showing clearly his interpretation of illnesses as sins. The second category (ἄρρωστοι), according to Origen, designates a more serious illness than the first;28 for ἀσθενεῖς—he explains—simply indicates a weakness of the soul,29 whereas ἄρρωστοι indicates a true and more deeply rooted illness of the soul that is typical of those who, with their whole soul and heart and mind, love money, glory, women, or youths instead of God (οἱ δὲ ὅλῃ ψυχῇ καὶ ὅλῃ καρδίᾳ καὶ ὅλῃ διανοίᾳ, ἀντὶ τοῦ τὸν Θεὸν ἀγαπᾶν, ἀγαπῶντες ἀργύρια ἢ δοξάρια ἢ γύναια ἢ παῖδας, οὗτοι πλέον ἢ ἀσθενείας πεπόνθασιν καί εἰσιν ἄρρωστοι). As for κοιµῶνται, it refers to those who are spiritually asleep, and, instead of awakening in their soul, do not use their reasoning and their will.30 The same exegesis is found also in Origen’s Hom. Num. 10.1 (70.4 Baehrens) and Hom. Ps. 37(38) 2.6, in which Origen is again speaking of the soul’s infirmity (languor) and illness. This illness is sin, which must be cured (curari, sanari) through confession (confiteri peccatum tuum) and repentance; the confessor will thus be a physician (medicus). If one has sinned and is therefore spiritually ill, one should worry about the final judgment: “Cum anima tua aegrotet et peccatorum languoribus urgeatur, securus es, contemnis gehennam atque ignis aeterni supplicia despicis et irrides?” According to Origen, it was precisely to people spiritually ill that Paul referred in 1 Cor 11:30; they are spiritually ill because they do not judge themselves and thus take the Eucharist unworthily. Their spiritual illness is similar to the physical illness of those who have a high fever and yet want to eat the food of the healthy, thus bringing ruin upon themselves: Non recordaris illud quod scriptum est, quia ‘propterea in vobis infirmi et aegri et dormiunt multi’? Quare multi infirmi? Quoniam non seipsos diiudicant neque seipsos examinant, nec intellegunt quid est communicare ecclesiae, vel quid est accedere ad tanta et tam eximia sacramenta. Patiuntur hoc quod febricitantes pati solent, cum sanorum cibos praesumunt, sibimetipsis inferentes exitium. Don’t you remember what is written in Scripture, that “this is why among you there are weak and ill people, and many are dead”? Why is it that there are “many weak people?” Because they do not judge or examine themselves; they fail to understand what it means to have communion with the Church, and to approach such a great and sublime sacrament. They suffer what those who have a high fever suffer, when they want to take the food of the healthy, thus causing ruin to themselves.

From the very comparison drawn with physical illness (febricitantes) and death (exitium) it is clear that Origen is here interpreting 1 Cor 11:30 in terms of spiritual 28 Οἱ µέν εἰσιν ἀσθενεῖς, ἕτεροι δὲ ἄρρωστοι πλέων ἢ ἀσθενεῖς, καὶ ἄλλοι παρ᾽ ἀµφοτέρους οἱ κοιµώµενοι. 29 Οἱ µὲν γὰρ ὀλισθηρῶς διὰ τὴν τῆς ψυχῆς ἀδυναµίαν πρὸς τὸ ὁτιποτοῦν ἁµαρτάνειν ἔχοντες, κἂν µὴ ὅλοι ὦσιν εἴδους τινὸς ἁµαρτίας ὡς οἱ ἄρρωστοι, ἀσθενεῖς εἰσι µόνον. 30 Κοιµῶνται δὲ οἱ, δέον προσέχειν καὶ ἐγρηγορέναι τῇ ψυχῇ, τοῦτο µὲν οὐ ποιοῦντες, ἀπὸ δὲ πολλῆς ἀπροσεξίας νυστάζοντες τὴν προαίρεσιν καὶ ὑπνώττοντες τοῖς λογισµοῖς.


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illness and death. And he is interpreting κοιµῶνται not in reference to spiritual sleep, as in his commentary on Matthew, but precisely in reference to spiritual death, as I argue that it should be understood in the Pauline passage under discussion. Already Clement of Alexandria, whose work Origen certainly knew, interpreted 1 Cor 11:30 in a spiritual sense. In Strom. 1.1.10.5 he quotes this passage and refers it to the “power of the soul,” thus understanding the people mentioned by Paul as weak, ill, and dead in their souls: συνεξάπτει δὲ ἡ γραφὴ τὸ ζώπυρον τῆς ψυχῆς καὶ συντείνει τὸ οἰκεῖον ὄµµα πρὸς θεωρίαν, τάχα µέν τι καὶ ἐντιθεῖσα . . . τὸ δὲ ἐνυπάρχον ἀνακινοῦσα. πολλοὶ γὰρ ἐν ἡµῖν, κατὰ τὸν θεῖον ἀπόστολον, ἀσθενεῖς καὶ ἄρρωστοι, καὶ κοιµῶνται ἱκανοί. A similar spiritual exegesis of 1 Cor 11:30 is offered by John Cassian, an author who was deeply influenced by Origen. In Conl. 22.5, referring specifically to this Pauline passage, he states: “Paul says that mainly from this abuse come illness and death, clearly spiritual illness and death” (spiritalem scilicet infirmitatem ac mortem ex hac principaliter dicens praesumptione generari). He interprets ἀσθενεῖς, ἄρρωστοι, and κοιµῶνται in reference to spiritual illness and death, as did Origen in his homily on the Psalm. Didymus, one of the most faithful followers of Origen, explains that the illness of the soul is sin (νόσος καὶ τρῶσις ψυχῆς ἁµαρτία; Fragm. in Ps. 417, commenting on Ps 40:3b–5b), and he applies this concept to his own spiritual interpretation of 1 Cor 11:30 in Fragm. in Ps. 416, where he observes that the Lord liberates human beings from spiritual illness by giving them the health of the soul (ἀπαλλάττων αὐτὸν τῆς ἀνθρωπίνης ἀρρωστίας χαριζόµενός τε αὐτῷ τὴν τῆς ψυχῆς ὑγείαν). Thus, if a human being “has an illness of the soul—such as it often happens, as the Apostle teaches by saying, ‘This is why among you there are many weak and ill’—the Lord liberates him or her also from this illness.”31 I think that, as Origen and other ancient exegetes understood, Paul, with ἀσθενεῖς, ἄρρωστοι, and κοιµῶνται, is constructing a climax. This was realized also by Robertson and Plummer, although they entirely ignored the exegesis of Clement, Origen, Didymus, and Cassian and deliberately rejected the spiritual interpretation of the verse,32 whereas the climax seems to have escaped Schneider, even if he is—to my knowledge—the only contemporary commentator who prefers a spiritual interpretation of 1 Cor 11:30. For he reads κοιµῶνται as “are asleep/are falling asleep

Εἰ καὶ συµβαίη αὐτῷ κατὰ ψυχὴν ἀρρώστηµά τι (ὁποῖα πολλὰ συµβαίνει γίνεσθαι, ὥσπερ οὖν ὁ ἀπόστολος διδάσκει λέγων, ∆ιὰ τοῦτο ἐν ὑµῖν πολλοὶ ἀσθενεῖς καὶ ἄρρωστοι), καὶ ταύτην µεταβάλλει τὴν ἀρρωστίαν (Ekkehard Mühlenberg, ed., Psalmenkommentare aus der Katenenüberlieferung [3 vols.; PTS 15, 16, 19; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 1975–77], 1:121–375, esp. 321. 32 Robertson and Plummer, Commentary, 253: “Both ἀσθενεῖς and ἄρρωστοι imply the weakness of ill-health (Mark vi.5,13; Matt. xiv.14), and it is not clear which is the stronger word of the two: infirmi et imbecilles (Vulg.); but ἀρρωστεῖν (2 Chron. xxxii.24) is perhaps more than ἀσθενεῖν.” 31


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(spiritually)” and not as “are dead,” or better “are dying.” Paul is saying in his climax that some are weak, some are seriously ill, and some are even dying. Indeed, ἀσθενεῖς, which implies weakness and lack of vigor, denotes a less serious condition than ἄρρωστοι (which indicates a severe and established illness), as was noted already by Origen, and, remarkably, is used in a spiritual sense by Paul several times, both in this letter and in Romans. Moreover, it is notable that Paul does not always use a modifier such as τῇ πίστει or τῇ συνειδήσει to indicate that he is speaking of spiritual rather than physical weakness. I can adduce examples in which he uses no such qualifier. He uses one in 1 Cor 8:7, 10, 11, 12, where he speaks of the weakness (ἀσθενής, ἀσθηνῶν) of the conscience (συνείδησις) of some Christians; however, in v. 11, ἀπόλλυται γὰρ ὁ ἀσθηνῶν, “the weak perishes,” must clearly be taken in a spiritual sense even though there is no modifier. The weak in his or her conscience perishes spiritually. In 1 Cor 9:22 there is no modifier either, but it is obvious that the weakness of which Paul is speaking must be understood spiritually: ἐγενόµην τοῖς ἀσθενέσι ἀσθενής, ἵνα τοὺς ἀσθενεῖς κερδήσω, “I became weak to the weak, in order to gain the weak.” Likewise, while in Rom 4:19 and 14:1 the spiritual understanding of weakness is conveyed by the use of τῇ πίστει, in Rom 5:6 there is no trace of such a modifier, and yet there can be no doubt that it is spiritual weakness—and precisely sin—that is meant: ἔτι γὰρ Χριστὸς ὄντων ἡµῶν ἀσθενῶν κατὰ καιρὸν ὑπὲρ ἀσεβῶν ἀπέθανεν, “For, while we were still weak, Christ died for impious people in the established time.” “Weak” here means “sinners,” and indeed it is used in association with “impious.” Paul has recourse to these metaphors of spiritual weakness, just as to those of spiritual illness and death, surely under the influence of the broadly Middle Platonic (but also Stoic) lore of the illness and death of the soul, to which I shall return below. Kοιµῶνται is still more serious than ἄρρωστοι, in that it does not simply mean that some are spiritually asleep, which would fail to complete the climax that has begun with “weak” and “ill,” but that they are dead, or better—since it is in the present tense, and not in the perfect—are dying.33 This interpretation is further supported by the fact that in the very same letter, shortly after the passage being analyzed here, Paul uses the same verb (again in the middle, but here in the perfect) in reference to the dead: “Christ has risen from the dead, the first fruits of those who have died [τῶν κεκοιµηµένων]” (1 Cor 15:20). Likewise, “those who have died in Christ” are οἱ κοιµηθέντες ἐν Χριστῷ (1 Cor 15:18); here it is a middle-passive aorist, just as in 1 Cor 7:39: ἐὰν δὲ κοιµηθῇ ὁ ἀνήρ, ἐλευθέρα ἐστὶν ᾧ θέλει γαµηθῆναι, “If the husband died, she [sc. the wife] is free to marry whomever she likes.” Likewise, in another surely authentic letter of Paul, 1 Thess 4:13, τῶν κοιµωµένων (in the mid33

Cyril of Alexandria, for example, makes it clear that “being asleep” here is to be interpreted as “to be dead.” In Comm. Io. 2.150.3 he glosses ἀσθενεῖς καὶ ἄρρωστοι καὶ κοιµῶνται with τοῖς ἀρρωστήσασι καὶ τεθνεῶσιν.


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dle and in the present, just as in 1 Cor 11:30) refers again to the dead or those in the community who die. Immediately afterwards, in vv. 14 and 16, τοὺς κοιµηθέντας (twice) are the dead, who will be resuscitated by God; this expression corresponds exactly to οἱ νεκροί in v. 16, about whom it is again stated that they will rise: οἱ νεκροὶ ἐν Χριστῷ ἀναστήσονται.34 It is remarkable that in the NT κοιµῶµαι, which is always attested in the middle-passive, almost never means “to sleep” (apart from Matt 28:13 and Acts 12:6) but always “to die,” or (in the perfect) “to be dead.” I have already adduced 1 Cor 7:39; 15:18, 20; and 1 Thess 4:13–16, where indeed the meaning is undoubtedly “to die” or, in the perfect or aorist, “to be dead.” I can add all the rest of the attestations in the NT. Matthew 27:52: καὶ τὰ µνηµεῖα ἀνεῴχθησαν καὶ πολλὰ σώµατα τῶν κεκοιµηµένων ἁγίων ἠγέρθησαν, “And the tombs opened and many corpses of dead saints were resurrected.” John 11:11–13 plays on the ambiguity of the term: Λάζαρος ὁ φίλος ἡµῶν κεκοίµηται, ἀλλὰ πορεύοµαι ἵνα ἐξυπνίσω αὐτόν. Eἶπαν οὖν οἱ µαθηταὶ αὐτῷ, Κύριε, εἰ κεκοίµηται σωθήσεται. Eἰρήκει δὲ ὁ Ἰησοῦς περὶ τοῦ θανάτου αὐτοῦ. ᾽Eκεῖνοι δὲ ἔδοξαν ὅτι περὶ τῆς κοιµήσεως τοῦ ὕπνου λέγει, Lazarus, your friend, has fallen asleep/died, but I shall go awaken him.—The disciples then said: Lord, if he has fallen asleep, he will be saved.—But Jesus was speaking of his death, whereas they believed that he was speaking of the rest of sleep.

In Acts 7:60, ἐκοιμήθη is said of Stephen’s death and in Acts 13:36 is said of King David’s death.35 The death mentioned in 1 Cor 11:30, at the end and culmination of the climax involving also weakness and sickness, is the death of the soul of which Paul speaks in Romans, which is mentioned by the author of Revelation and by the author of 34

For the meaning of this sentence, “those who have died in Christ will rise” or “the dead will rise in Christ,” see Ilaria Ramelli and David Konstan, “The Syntax of ἐν Χριστῷ in 1 Thess 4:16,” JBL 126 (2007): 579–93. 35 Luke 22:45, ἐλθὼν πρὸς τοὺς µαθητὰς εὗρεν κοιµωµένους αὐτοὺς ἀπὸ τῆς λύπης, is usually rendered as follows: “when he was come to his disciples, he found them sleeping for sorrow” (KJV); “having come unto the disciples, he found them sleeping from the sorrow” (Young); “he came unto the disciples, and found them sleeping for sorrow” (ASV); “he came to the disciples and found them sleeping from sorrow” (NASB); “coming to the disciples, he found them sleeping from grief ” (Darby); “when he went back to the disciples, he found them asleep, exhausted from sorrow” (NIV = TEV). But it is ambiguous: one who feels deep pain, distress, and sorrow, like the disciples at the Gethsemane, will not easily sleep. It rather seems that they were in such a prostration and stress that they lost their senses and were like dead (see the notion of “dying of fear, of sorrow,” etc.). Indeed, at Gethsemane Jesus is “overwhelmed with sorrow [περίλυπος] to the point of death [µέχρι/ἕως θανάτου]” (Matt 26:38; Mark 14:34). Moreover, Jesus’ reaction is to exhort them to recover their senses and to pray, “lest you fall into temptation.” One who sleeps does not fall into temptation, but one who succumbs to sadness and sorrow may do so. The notion of spiritual death might again be lurking here.


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1 Timothy (who very probably was an imitator of Paul), and which was a widespread metaphor in the first century c.e., both in Middle Platonic and in Neostoic authors. Paul describes spiritual death, that is, the death (θάνατος, θνῄσκω) of the soul, in Rom 7:6–25 and 8:1–13. Here Paul depicts spiritual life as death to sin, and spiritual death as the result of sin: “we have been delivered from the law, in that we have died to that in which we were prisoners” (7:6); “sin began to live while I died” (7:9–10); “this body of death” (7:6); “the law of sin and death” (8:2); “the way of thinking proper to the flesh is death, that of the spirit is life and peace” (8:6); “your body is dead [νεκρόν] due to sin, but your spirit is life thanks to justification” (8:10). Romans 7:7–25 has been rightly connected by Emma Wasserman to Philo’s conception of spiritual death.36 The same conception of spiritual death, depending on sin, which Paul expresses here in Romans, may easily be at work also in 1Cor 11:30. Indeed, precisely this set of ideas, widespread in Middle Platonism and Roman Stoicism, as I will demonstrate, should be considered to underlie 1 Cor 11:30 and other NT passages attributable to authors who knew 1 Corinthians, such as 1 Tim 5:6 and Rev 3:1–2 (the author of the former surely knew 1 Corinthians, that of the latter may have been familiar with it; see below). The author of the “Pastoral Epistle” 1 Timothy, notably a close imitator of Paul,37 referring to a widow who spends her life in pleasures, says in 5:6: ἡ δὲ

36

Emma Wasserman, “The Death of the Soul in Romans 7,” JBL 126 (2007): 793–816. This epistle probably dates from the beginning of the second century; many scholars locate the Pastorals in 120s–140s C.E. These writings seem to have been absent from the earliest copy of Paul’s collected letters, p46, and from Marcion’s canon in 130s–140s, and apparently were first quoted by Irenaeus. Benjamin Fiore (The Pastoral Epistles: First Timothy, Second Timothy, Titus [SP 12; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2007]) suggests a date around 80–90 C.E. and a setting involving Ephesus and Crete. Jouette Bassler (1 Timothy, 2 Timothy, Titus [ANTC; Nashville: Abingdon, 1996], 20, 24–25) and Jerome D. Quinn (The Letter to Titus: A New Translation with Notes and Commentary and an Introduction to Titus, I and II Timothy, the Pastoral Epistles [AB 35; New York: Doubleday, 1990], 20) propose a date around 100 C.E. and Ephesus as the most probable location. Dennis R. MacDonald (The Legend and the Apostle: The Battle for Paul in Story and Canon [Philadephia: Westminster, 1983], 54) also advocates Asia Minor and a still later date, 100– 140, and Helmut Koester (Introduction to the New Testament [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1982], 305) indicates 120–160 as the most probable range. Most scholars deem the Pastorals pseudepigraphical: besides the aforementioned, see, e.g., Raymond F. Collins, Letters That Paul Did Not Write: The Epistle to the Hebrews and the Pauline Pseudepigrapha (Wilmington, DE: Glazier, 1988); Ray Van Neste, Cohesion and Structure in the Pastoral Epistles (JSNTSup 280; London: T&T Clark, 2004); Wayne A. Meeks and John T. Fitzgerald, eds., The Writings of St. Paul: Annotated Texts, Reception and Criticism (2nd ed.; Norton Critical Edition; New York: Norton, 2007), 303–18. The vocabulary and style of the Pastorals are different from those of Paul’s letters; their exhortations reflect a Hellenistic mentality and Hellenistic philosophical commonplaces. Their background with regard to heresy, church organization, and authority reflects an early-second-century situation. Moreover, they contradict Paul’s 37

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σπαταλῶσα ζῶσα τέθνηκεν, “She who gives herself to a life of pleasure, even if she is alive, is already dead.”38 The notion of spiritual death determined by sin is here clear and corresponds to the idea that underlies 1 Cor 11:30. asceticism and appreciation of women as church leaders. According to Fiore (Pastoral Epistles, 71–79), an adaptation to the cultural context is found in the prohibition against women teaching (1 Tim 2:12) and in the restrictions imposed on widows, aimed at excluding women from public ministries under the influence of widespread cultural prejudices, which is the opposite of Paul’s praxis. The Pastorals “domesticate” Paul’s views along the lines of a traditional Hellenistic household (Deborah Krause, 1 Timothy [Readings; London: T&T Clark, 2004]). William A. Richards (Difference and Distance in Post-Pauline Christianity: An Epistolary Analysis of the Pastorals [Studies in Biblical Literature 44; New York: Lang, 2002], ch. 5) does not think that the Pastorals are by a single author; he describes 1 Timothy as a “deliberative (paraenetic) letter-essay,” which he locates in 100–130 C.E. Raymond F. Collins (1 & 2 Timothy and Titus [NTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2002]) claims that the “Pastor” manifests a concern to proclaim the gospel message in the language of late-first-century Hellenism. According to Perry L. Stepp (Leadership Succession in the World of the Pauline Circle [New Testament Monographs 5; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2005]), in the Pastorals the core issue is the succession in the leadership of Pauline churches. James W. Aageson (Paul, the Pastoral Epistles, and the Early Church [Library of Pauline Studies; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2008], esp. 87, 154) considers the Pastorals closer to the church of the Apostolic Fathers than to Paul’s communities. Hans von Campenhausen (“Polykarp von Smyrna und die Pastoralbriefe,” in idem, Aus der Frühzeit des Christentums: Studien zur Kirchengeschichte des ersten und zweiten Jahrhunderts [Tübingen: Mohr, 1964], 197–252) proposed Polycarp as their author. Annette Merz (Die fiktive Selbstauslegung des Paulus: Intertextuelle Studien zur Intention und Rezeption der Pastoralbriefe [NTOA 52; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht; Fribourg: Academic Press, 2004], esp. section 2) concluded that Polycarp was using the letters in the conviction that they were by Paul; she also contended that Ignatius employed them as a model, thus placing their composition around 100 C.E. or shortly after. See also her “The Fictitious Self-Exposition of Paul,” in The Intertextuality of the Epistles: Explorations of Theory and Practice (ed. Thomas L. Brodie, Dennis R. MacDonald and Stanley E. Porter; New Testament Monographs 16; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2006), 113–32. John W. Marshall (“‘I Left You in Crete’: Narrative Deception and Social Hierarchy in the Letter to Titus,” JBL 127 [2008]: 781–803) refers to the author of the Pastorals, whom he assumes to be one and the same for all of the three letters, as “Pseudo-Paul.” This figure wrote well after Paul’s death, and his letters were to be read before a community as though they had been written by Paul. The letters were written as a unity and none of them ever had an independent existence; they share the same original audience, probably a congregation in Asia Minor. Marshall thinks that both the author (“Paul”) and the recipients (“Timothy,” “Titus”) are pseudonymous; so also Bassler, 1 Timothy, 20, 24; Fiore, Pastoral Epistles, 21 and passim; and Hans-Joseph Klauck, Ancient Letters and the New Testament: A Guide to Context and Exegesis (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2006), 324. Some admit that, although Paul was not the author, Timothy and Titus were the recipients: see, e.g., Michael Goulder, “The Pastor’s Wolves,” NovT 38 (1996): 256. Stephen G. Wilson (Luke and the Pastoral Epistles [London: SPCK, 1979]) suggested that their author is the author of Luke-Acts. Ben Witherington III (Letters and Homilies for Hellenized Christians, vol. 1, A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary on Titus, 1–2 Timothy, and 1–3 John [Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2006]) considers them to be Paul’s, but with an involvement of Luke in their composition. 38 Many Fathers commented on this verse: see, e.g., John Chrysostom in his Homily on Stat-


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Another NT passage in which the death mentioned is surely to be understood as spiritual and related to sin is Rev 3:1–2, which offers an excellent parallel to 1 Tim 5:6 and especially to 1 Cor 11:30. It is possible that the author of Revelation knew 1 Corinthians; he shares linguistic and terminological features with Paul,39 and seems to show reminiscences of Paul’s letters,40 above all of 1 Corinthians.41 Possiues 15.4 and On Dives and Lazarus 3; and Jerome in Adv. Jov. 2.9–10, who warns against a life of pleasure using both this NT passage and Plato’s image of the soul as a chariot. Augustine (Trin. 4.3.5) relates this passage to spiritual death resulting from the “extreme weakness of flesh and blood.” Cassian (Conl. 1.14) explains that one may be alive bodily but spiritually dead and vice versa. Similarly Caesarius of Arles, Serm. 157. 39 See, e.g., Edmondo F. Lupieri, A Commentary on the Apocalypse of John (2nd ed.; trans. Maria Poggi Johnson and Adam Kamesar; Italian Texts and Studies on Religion and Society; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006), 44. 40 Excluding the many parallels with Hebrews, I include at least the following: 2 Cor 5:17 in Rev 21:5 on the passing away of the old and all things being καινά; 2 Cor 11:2 in 14:4 (moreover, Gregory Beale [The Book of Revelation: A Commentary on the Greek Text (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 742] noticed that the meaning of ἀπαρχή in this passage is close to that which the word bears in Paul in Rom 16:5; 1 Cor 16:15; 2 Thess 2:13; on p. 777 he cites also 1 Cor 15:20, 23); 2 Cor 11:14–15 in 2:9; 2 Cor 6:16 in 11:1; Rom 1:28 in 22:15; Rom 2:5 in 6:17 and 11:18 on God’s judgment; Rom 2:6 in 2:23 on the eschatological giving to each one according to his/her deeds; Rom 8:23 in 22:17; Rom 16:20, 24 in 22:21; Phil 4:3 in 3:5; Phil 2:9–10 in 5:13, where Paul’s prophecy of universal submission and thanksgiving to Christ and God is actualized; Phil 4:3 in 20:12 and in 21:27 on the book of life; Eph 2:20 in 21:14 on the eschatological presence of the apostles as the foundations of the new Jerusalem; 1 Thess 5:2 in 3:3 and in 16:15; 2 Thess 1:6 in 18:6; 1 Thess 4:16 in 20:5; 2 Thess 2:7 in 17:5; 2 Thess 3:18 in 22:21; 2 Thess 9:10 in 13:13 and 20:3; 2 Thess 2:12 in 3:10; 1 Tim 6:15 in 19:16; 2 Tim 4:8 in 2:10. Of course, for these and other correspondences it is possible to assume common sources, but the many and sometimes very close convergences rather suggest a direct acquaintance. 41 1 Corinthians 1:32 in Rev 3:19, on therapeutic punishment; 1 Cor 6:2 in 20:4 on the saints’ eschatological reign and judgment (the closeness is also noticed by Robert H. Mounce, The Book of Revelation [NICNT 17; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1977], 355; by Beale, Book of Revelation, 996– 97; and by David E. Aune, Revelation 17–22 [WBC 52C; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1998], 956, on Rev 17:14: 1 Cor 1:2–3 is the only nonapocalyptic text in which the righteous act as agents of divine retribution); 1 Cor 6:9–10 in 22:15 on the sins that keep people away from beatitude (this parallel was also realized by Mounce, Revelation, 394 n. 16: the list of those who cannot enter the heavenly Jerusalem, who reappear in Rev 21:8, corresponds to the kind of people who will not inherit the kingdom in 1 Cor 6:9–10); 1 Cor 10:20 in 9:20–21 (a correspondence also noticed by Beale, Book of Revelation, 519, who relates the claim in Rev 9:20 that the idols are demonic forces to 1 Cor 10:20, and the claim that faith in idols is vain because nothing is behind them to 1 Cor 8:4); 1 Cor 14:32 in 22:6 (this verbal and exclusive correspondence, “spirits of the prophets,” unique in the whole of Scripture, is noted also by Beale, Book of Revelation, 1126: the Pauline passage is the only other attestation in all of the Bible); 1 Cor 15:23 in 20:5 on the order of the resurrection (moreover, Mounce, Revelation, 313, notices that in Rev 17:8 the verb used to describe the coming of the beast is closely related to the noun that regularly describes the parousia or second coming of Christ: 1 Cor 15:23; 1 Thess 2:19); 1 Cor 15:26 and 55 in 20:14 on the destruction of death (this is noted also by Aune, Revelation, 1103, on Rev 20:14a: “it could be a way of referring to the

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ble parallels are concentrated especially in Revelation 19–22, with at least fourteen examples in only four chapters; the very ending, 22:20–21, may contain four echoes of Paul.42 Revelation is addressed to “the seven churches in Asia” (1:7), and “the churches in Asia” are those which send greetings in 1 Cor 16:19.43 The possible acquaintance of the author of Revelation with 1 Corinthians is not essential to my argument here, but it would further enrich it. Now, as in 1 Cor 11:30, in Rev 3:1–2 the meaning is that the person who acts badly is only apparently alive, but in fact is spiritually dead: “I know your works: you are said to be living, and yet you are dead [ὄνοµα ἔχεις ὅτι ζῇς, καὶ νεκρὸς εἶ]. Raise, and reinforce the rest, which was going to die [γίνου γρηγορῶν, καὶ στήρισον τὰ λοιπὰ ἃ ἔµελλον ἀποθανεῖν].44 For I didn’t find your works perfect before my God.” Spiritual death is manifestly produced by the evilness of one’s works, just as in Paul,45 and, again like Paul, the author of Revelation does not conceive of this condition of death as permanent and unchangeable—he invites the dying or dead to improve and live, or to return to life, evidently through a spiritual healing or resurrection. eschatological elimination of death: cf. Rev 21:4; 1 Cor 15:26”; and by Mounce, Revelation, 367); 1 Cor 15:58 in 14:13 about the eschatological reward of the labors and works (κόποι and ἔργα in both passages) of the good; 1 Cor 16:22 in 22:20 with the same invocation of the eschatological coming of Christ. R. H. Charles (A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Revelation of St. John [2 vols.; ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1920], 2:149 n. 1) compares the proclamation of the eternal gospel in Rev 14:6–7 with 1 Cor 15:23–28: “a somewhat analogous expectation.” Mounce (Revelation, 204) compares Rev 9:20 with 1 Cor 10:20: “Paul writes that the Gentiles sacrifice to demons and not to God.” 42 Ἔρχου Κυρίε Ἰησοῦ (Rev 22:20) translates Μαρὰν ἀθά (1 Cor 16:22), and 22:21 gathers the greeting formulas of 2 Thess 3:18; Rom 16:20; and Rom 16:24 (this, in a part of the manuscript tradition). The first parallel is noticed by many commentators. See, e.g., Charles, Revelation, 2:226; Mounce, Revelation, 396: Rev 22:20 is “the equivalent of the transliterated Aramaic in 1 Cor 16:22: maranatha.” Ugo Vanni (La struttura letteraria dell’Apocalisse [2nd rev. ed.; Aloisiana 8a; Brescia: Morcelliana, 1980], 109–15, 298–302) considers the end of Revelation to reflect liturgical dialogues, like 1 Cor 16:20–24. Aune (Revelation, 1206–9), besides remarking on the maranatha parallel, argues that the first final curse against those who dared alter the Apocalypse is “a virtual quotation of a pronouncement made by Paul earlier in the setting of Christian worship. . . . Paul pronounced these conditional curses in the introduction of Galatians in order to protect the integrity of the oral gospel, just as John pronounced a double curse at the conclusion of Revelation on anyone who dared alter the written prophecy he had composed” (emphasis mine). See also Beale, Book of Revelation, 1154–55, who indicates the correspondences with Gal 3:15; 1 Cor 11:27– 32; 16:2, 20–22. 43 See, e.g., Wilfried Glabach, Reclaiming the Book of Revelation: A Suggestion of New Readings in the Local Church (American University Studies, Series VII, Theology and Religion 259; New York: Lang, 2007), 23. 44 Or, “strengthen for the future what was going to die,” taking τὰ λοιπά as adverbial. 45 The same notion of sinners finding themselves in spiritual death is conveyed by the Shepherd of Hermas, Sim. 6.2.3: those who are represented by sheep τρυφῶντα καὶ σπαταλῶντα (the same verb as in 1 Tim 5:6, which may have been a model for the author) are doomed to θάνατος.


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Important parallels to this concept of spiritual illness and death determined by moral depravity are to be found in contemporary philosophy as well, especially in Middle Platonism and Neostoicism. Indeed, Paul’s relationship to the philosophy of his time is the subject of rich and ongoing research.46 Many interesting examples are offered by Philo, who was particularly close to Middle Platonism, but also strongly influenced by Stoicism. As I have mentioned, Schneider adduced passages in Philo concerning the understanding of sleep as sleep of the mind. Even more numerous and relevant are the passages in which Philo refers to spiritual death, constituting a very interesting parallel to 1 Cor 11:30. In Her. 293, Philo, using the Stoic distinction between the wise person and the fool, affirms: “According to the Legislator [sc. Moses], only the wise enjoys a good old age and a very long life, whereas the fool has an extremely short life [ὀλιγοχρονιώτατον δὲ τὸν φαῦλον] and is always learning to die [ἀποθνῄσκειν ἀεὶ µανθάνοντα], or rather is already dead to the life according to virtue [τὴν ἀρετῆς ζωὴν ἤδη τετελευτηκότα].” Like the Corinthians in 1 Cor 11:30, and like the widow in 1 Tim 5:6 and the addressee of Rev 3:1–2, Philo’s fool, who acts badly, is always dying, or is spiritually dead, precisely because of this behavior. Likewise, in Fug. 55 Philo remarks that one can be apparently alive but in fact be spiritually dead. This is the situation of immoral and foolish persons, even when they live very long. The wise and virtuous, on the contrary, live a perpetual life, even though their earthly life is very short: “Some are dead even if they are living [ζῶντες τεθνήκασι], and some live although they are dead [τεθνηκότες ζῶσι]. The fools, he said, even if they keep living until the most advanced old age, are dead [νεκρούς], in that they are deprived of the life according to virtue. The virtuous, instead, even though they are separated from the company of the body, keep living forever [ζῆν εἰσαεί], in that they have attained immortality [ἀθανάτου µοίρας ἐπιλαχόντας].” Similarly, in Det. 49, the life of the wise is said by Philo to be spiritual life, whereas the fool, characterized by κακία, is declared to be spiritually dead: “the wise person seems to be dead to corruptible life [τεθνηκέναι τὸν φθαρτὸν βίον], but lives the incorruptible one; the fool, instead, is alive to the life according to vice, but is dead to the happy life [ζῶν τὸν ἐν κακίᾳ (sc. βίον) τέθνηκε τὸν εὐδαίµονα].” Again, the vicious person is said to be spiritually dead. In Praem. 79, Philo observes that one may endure for long in spiritual death, even as long as one’s earthly life lasts:

46 See Ilaria Ramelli, “Alle radici della filosofia patristica,” Invigilata Lucernis 30 (2008): 149– 76; eadem, “Philosophen und Prediger: Dion und Paulus—pagane und christliche weise Männer,” in Dio von Prusa, Der Philosoph und sein Bild (ed. Eugenio Amato, Barbara Borg, Renate Burri, Sotera Fornaro, Heinz-Günther Nesselrath, Ilaria Ramelli, and Jacques Schamp; Sapere 13; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2009), 183–210.


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People think that death is the culmination of punishments, but at the tribunal of God this is only the very beginning. Since the crime is extraordinary, it was necessary that an extraordinary punishment be found for it. Which? To be always dying while living [ζῆν ἀποθνῄσκοντα ἀεί] and, in a way, to undergo an immortal and unending death [θάνατον ἀθάνατον ὑποµένειν καὶ ἀτελεύτητον]. For the kinds of death are two [θανάτου γὰρ διττὸν εἶδος]: the first is to be dead [sc. physical death], which is a good or an indifferent thing; the other is to continue to die [ἀποθνήσκειν, sc. spiritual death], which is an evil [κακόν], absolutely, and the more enduring, the heavier: and consider how this kind of death can endure together with the sinner for an entire life [συνδιαιωνίζει].47

This distinction of different kinds of death, physical and spiritual, of which the second is undoubtedly the more serious and is defined as a positive evil, returns in a Christian philosopher who knew both Philo and the NT very well—Origen, who, exactly like Philo, also conceives of physical death as a good or indifferent thing and of spiritual death as an evil. Indeed, in his Dialogue with Heraclides and elsewhere, he theorizes about the different meanings of death, insisting on the notion that spiritual death is the only kind of death to be regarded as a true evil and is, in fact, the true death. In Dial. Her. 25–26, Origen draws a distinction—which will be closely followed by Ambrose—between physical death, which is no evil; death to sin, which is only good; and the death of the soul, which is the worst evil and actually the real death. Indeed, he concludes that “the soul is mortal in respect to the true death [τοῦ ὄντως θανάτου],” where the true death is exactly spiritual death, the death of the soul. Similarly, in Comm. Matt. 12.33.12, Origen states, in reference to 1 Cor 15:26: “The enemy of this Life, which will be destroyed as the last enemy of all his [sc. of Christ, who is Life] enemies, is death, the death that the sinning soul dies” (θάνατόν ἐστιν ὃν ψυχὴ ἡ ἁµαρτάνουσα ἀποθνῄσκει). Exactly as in Paul, spiritual death is again connected to sin. Therefore, it comes as no surprise that Origen insists on spiritual illness and death precisely commenting on 1 Cor 11:30, as I have already pointed out, and on 1 Tim 5:6, where the reference is again to spiritual death (see Hom. Lev. 3.3 [304.27]; Comm. Rom. 8.9). Of course, Origen elaborated on the conception found in Paul, in 1 Tim 5:6, and in Revelation, as I have demonstrated, and in other texts with which he was certainly acquainted, such as Philo’s passages on spiritual death, 47

According to Philo, sinners will cease to exist at all after their physical death: see Ilaria Ramelli, “Philosophical Allegoresis of Scripture in Philo and Its Legacy in Gregory of Nyssa,” Studia Philonica Annual 20 (2008): 55–99. It is also to be noticed that here Philo uses τιµωρία to indicate the punishment decreed by the tribunal of God. This term means a retributive punishment, whereas κόλασις is the punishment that is established in the interest of the punished; a therapeutic or educative punishment. It is meaningful that in the NT, in contrast to Philo, punishment, including the one in the next world, is always expressed with κόλασις, never with τιµωρία. Even the so-called “eternal punishment” is κόλασις αἰώνιος.


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which I have analyzed. In this light, it is easy to see how it is that Origen interpreted 1 Cor 11:30 in a spiritual sense, and how this interpretation should be regarded as fully legitimate. He clearly saw a reference to spiritual death in this verse, and I think that today’s scholars should see it as well, in view of my argument thus far. Even somewhat before Philo, this identification of spiritual death with a life led in vice is attested already in the Platonic tradition, specifically in the NeoAcademician Cicero, who was not immune to Stoic influences. In Att. 12.2, he asks a rhetorical question: Homini non recta sed voluptaria quaerenti nonne βεβίωται? “Isn’t it true that a person who pursues not what is right but only pleasures is in fact dead?” Further, a sentence ascribed to the Neo-Pythagorean Sextus expounds the very same concept, that a person who pursues vice instead of virtue is spiritually dead albeit bodily alive: “A faithful person whose faithfulness has been proved is a god in a [living] body of a human being; a person who proves faithless is a dead human being in a living body [νεκρὸς ἄνθρωπος ἐν σώµατι ζῶντι]” (7). The immediate context of this sentence further clarifies its conceptual framework and makes it clear that the reference is precisely to spiritual and moral death. Indeed, in Sent. 1–6, “Sextus” has explained that the person of God is faithful and really alive, because his/her conduct is worthy of God: “A faithful human being is an elect person. An elect person is a person of God. A person of God is one who is worthy of God. The one who is worthy of God is a person who does nothing unworthy of God. Therefore, if you endeavor to be faithful, do nothing unworthy of God.” True human life is a life that is worthy of God and makes one closer to the divine. A person who lives in vice, on the contrary, is apparently alive, but spiritually dead. If we move to Roman Stoicism, the concept of spiritual illness and death as a result of a vicious life is even better attested. Seneca, a contemporary of Paul, expresses this notion very clearly. Exactly like Paul, he states that vicious people, the otiosi, are in fact ill or dead. Speaking of every person like this, in Brev. 12.19 he claims: aeger est, immo mortuus est, “he is ill, or better, even dead.” Indeed, the topic of animi medicina philosophia, based on the notion that vice is the illness of the soul, was dear to him, and it is well known that he particularly cherished medical metaphors. And for Seneca, just as for Paul, spiritual illness ultimately leads to spiritual death. Likewise, another Roman Stoic, Musonius Rufus, a contemporary of Seneca and Paul, maintained that God is the god of life, clearly meaning spiritual and moral life, so that, in order to know God, it is necessary to reject the dead part of one’s soul, which is the vicious part: ἔκκοψον τὸ τεθνηκὸς τῆς ψυχῆς καὶ γνώσει τὸν θεόν, “amputate the dead part of your soul, and (you will) know God.”48 48

Musonius, fr. 53, p. 134.5–6 Hense; ap. Aelius Aristides 551 Dindorf = 362 Jebb: Wilhelm Dindorf, Aristides (3 vols.; Leipzig: Reimer, 1829; repr., Hildesheim: Olms, 1964), 1:551. See Ilaria Ramelli, ed., Musonio Rufo, Diatribe, frammenti, testimonianze (Testi a fronte 31; Milan: Bom-

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One further example is offered by a Roman satirical poet, roughly contemporary with the authors of 1 Timothy and of Revelation, and strongly influenced by Roman Stoicism,49 Juvenal. He notably expresses the same idea as 1 Cor 11:30 and 1 Tim 5:6 when he refers to a dissolute man in Sat. 8.85–86: dignus morte periit, coenet licet ostrea centum / Gaurana, “He who is worthy of death is already dead, even though he may have a hundred prized oysters at dinner.” Juvenal’s Sat. 8 focuses on true nobility, which—very Stoically—coincides with virtue and the exercise of logos. The dissolute person, in contrast, is “worthy of death,” and therefore “has already died” and indeed “is dead,” even if he or she is apparently alive and lives in self-indulgence and luxury. True human life, Juvenal teaches, is that spent in the pursuit of virtue, in rectitude, in the awareness of one’s own dignity as a human being, endowed with reason, which is a gift from the supreme divinity and makes humans close to the gods. Especially in Sat. 15.142–58 Juvenal stresses that only we humans have received “the venerable ingenium” from the supreme deity: at the beginning of the world our “common creator” provided animals only with an anima, whereas humans were given also an animus, a spirit (15.147–49), the seat of human ingenium, intellect or reason. Human reason is the initiator of human society, language, civilization, and of altruism, honesty, and all virtues (15.131–42, 150– 58). If a human being gives up this dignity, which characterizes human nature and is a gift of the divine creator, and rather turns to passions, this person renounces human life and turns to animal life. Such a person is “worthy of death” and “already dead” precisely because his or her life is reduced to pleasures, which are at the level of animal life. True human life is the life of reason and virtue, which puts a person in relationship to the divine. I need not highlight how this connection of true human life with the divinity is close to the notion of moral or spiritual life and death as communion with, or remoteness from, God in Paul and in the authors of 1 Timothy and Revelation—notwithstanding of course the obvious differences between the Stoic system and Christianity, especially in respect to the transcendence of God. This theme of true life and true death, which are spiritual life and death, and the related notion that vicious conduct determines spiritual illness and death are particularly present, as I have demonstrated, in Roman Stoicism, but also in Middle Platonism and in NT authors influenced by these, such as Paul and the authors of 1 Timothy and Revelation, who both knew 1 Corinthians as well. In the light of what I have argued, it is therefore probable that in 1 Cor 11:30 Paul is constructing a climax from weakness to illness to death, and that these notions can be interpreted spiritually, as an illness and death of the soul. Paul uses

piani, 2001) and the new essay on Musonius in eadem, Stoici romani minori (Bompiani il pensiero occidentale; Milan: Bompiani, 2008), 689–943. 49 As is demonstrated by Ramelli, Stoici romani, 2211–44.


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κοιµῶµαι always in reference to death, rather than to sleep, and often uses ἀσθενής and related terms in a spiritual sense, in reference to a spiritual weakness or illness, even without modifiers expressly indicating that the term must be understood on a spiritual plane—this precisely in 1 Corinthians. Moreover, the idea of spiritual death as related to sin is well developed in Paul’s thought, especially in Romans, and in the NT is clearly attested in other authors who knew 1 Corinthians, such as the authors of 1 Timothy and Revelation. I have also demonstrated that this conception finds close parallels in contemporary authors related to Middle Platonism and Neostoicism, with which Paul seems to have been somewhat familiar. As a corollary, I have also demonstrated that it is far from being the case that— at it has been repeatedly claimed—patristic exegetes never understood 1 Cor 11:30 in a spiritual sense. On the contrary, the spiritual interpretation of illness and death in this passage is far more common than a physical interpretation. It is represented at least by Clement, Origen (repeatedly), Didymus, and Cassian (in contrast to only Basil and Ambrosiaster—the latter only partially, since he takes illness and death as an image of the future judgment). Especially Origen and authors who were influenced by him, such as Didymus, interpreted this verse in reference to spiritual illness and death. This comes as no surprise, given Origen’s penchant for spiritual exegesis and his theorization—reminiscent of Philo—of the different meanings of “death,” among which spiritual death is prominent: only spiritual death is a true evil and “the real death,” to which the soul is subject. The death of the soul, however, is not necessarily a definitive and eternal condition, either for Origen or for Paul himself (or for the author of Revelation, as I have shown). As there will be a resurrection of the body, so too the soul can return to life after its death, that life which is Christ. This is clear not only from Paul’s Romans discourse on the death of the soul, but even from the very context of 1 Cor 11:30: in vv. 31–32 Paul reflects that self-examination spares one the Lord’s judgment. But still the Lord’s judgment is educative; it is a παίδευσις instead of a condemnation. In vv. 33–34, Paul himself recommends the right behavior to the Corinthians, that they may recover their spiritual health and life and avoid judgment (κρίµα).

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JBL 130, no. 1 (2011): 165–181

Eating with Honor: The Corinthian Lord’s Supper in Light of Voluntary Association Meal Practices rachel m. mcrae [email protected] Queen’s School of Religion, Kingston, ON K7L 0A1, Canada

There has been increasing recognition by scholars studying the Greco-Roman world of the first century that a larger database of meal practices is desirable for understanding the social banqueting practices behind Paul’s words concerning the Corinthian banquet of 1 Cor 11:17–33. Scholars such as Gerd Theissen, Wayne A. Meeks, Matthias Klinghardt, and Dennis E. Smith have mined the elite commensality literature of the ancients and have established that a standard form of the Greco-Roman banquet underlies practices of the time.1 Rituals varied, however, and Andrew McGowan reminds us that “various groups seem to have had different explicit understandings and purposes in mind and to have used eating and drinking together in a variety of ritual forms.”2 Gerard Rouwhorst points out, citI am grateful for feedback on various drafts of this paper from Professor Richard Ascough, and for the helpful suggestions of the two anonymous JBL reviewers. 1 English translations of Athenaeus, Deipnosophists, Learned Banqueters; Ovid, Metamorphoses; Pausanias, Description of Greece; and Juvenal, Juvenal and Persius are from the Loeb Classical Library. See Theissen, The Social Setting of Pauline Christianity: Essays on Corinth (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1989), 147–63; Meeks, The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983); Matthias Klinghardt, “A Typology of the Community Meal” (paper presented to the Meals in the Greco-Roman World Consultation, SBL annual meeting, Atlanta, November, 2003); D. Smith, “The Greco-Roman Banquet as a Social Institution” (paper presented to the Meals in the Greco-Roman World Consultation, SBL annual meeting, Atlanta, November, 2003); idem, “Greco-Roman Meal Customs,” ABD 4:650–53; and, more recently, idem, From Symposium to Eucharist: The Banquet in the Early Christian World (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003). 2 McGowan, “Food, Ritual, and Power,” in Late Ancient Christianity (ed. Virginia Burrus; People’s History of Christianity 2; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005), 145–64.

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ing Mary Douglas’s work, that when a group constructs a ritual tradition, it is constructing a social identity: “Every meal—especially when taken together by more than one person—encodes significant messages about social and hierarchical patterns.”3 A study of banqueting traditions of Greco-Roman voluntary associations helps to clarify the role that the Mediterranean code of honor and shame played in establishing their social identity. As Jewish and Christian groups both saw themselves and were seen by others as voluntary associations, I suggest that similar social and hierarchical patterns based on the code of honor and shame of the Mediterranean world are evidenced in the banqueting traditions of the Corinthian community.4 These social patterns, rather than the economic patterns of wealth and poverty, explain the divisions in the Corinthian community. Because the honor/ shame code is a changeable value system rather than a fixed economic situation, I suggest that Paul is therefore able to propose radical changes to the Corinthian meal ritual in order to establish new social and behavioral patterns that reflect the values of humility, mutual upbuilding, and love that Jesus taught. In effect, Paul uses the meal ritual to create a new Christian social identity. Gerd Theissen first analyzed the social problems of the Corinthian community, demonstrating that there was a “marked internal stratification” within the community, attributing the factions to economic divisions. The verb προλαµβάνω in 1 Cor 11:21 is understood to describe the few wealthy Corinthians who begin their private meal before the communal meal and receive larger portions owing to 3 Rouwhorst, “Table Community in Early Christianity,” in A Holy People: Jewish and Christian Perspectives on Religious Communal Identity (ed. Marcel Poorthuis and Joshua Schwartz; Jewish and Christian Perspectives 12; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2006), 69-84, here 69, citing Mary Douglas, Implicit Meanings: Selected Essays in Anthropology (2nd ed.; London/New York: Routledge, 1999); Paul Bradshaw, The Search for the Origins of Christian Worship: Sources and Methods for the Study of Early Liturgy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992); Andrew McGowan, “Rethinking Agape,” Studia Liturgica 34 (2004): 165–76. 4 Peter Richardson, Building Jewish in the Roman East (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2004), 187. Christians too were viewed as collegia; see John S. Kloppenborg, “Edwin Hatch, Churches and Collegia,” in Origins and Method: Towards a New Understanding of Judaism and Christianity. Essays in Honour of John C. Hurd (ed. Bradley H. McLean; JSNTSup 86; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993), 228: “Pliny’s statement that Christians in Bithynia ceased meeting after Trajan’s edict banning hetaeriae indicates both that the Christians involved saw themselves as constituting an association, and that this judgement was shared by Pliny.” See also B. W. R. Pearson, “Associations,” Dictionary of New Testament Background (ed. Craig A. Evans and Stanley E. Porter; Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2000), 137; Hans-Josef Klauck, The Religious Context of Early Christianity: A Guide to GrecoRoman Religions (Studies of the New Testament and Its World; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000), 54; Robert L. Wilken, The Christians as the Romans Saw Them (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1984), 44–46; Jim Harrison, “Paul’s House Churches and the Cultic Associations,” RTR 58 (1999): 31–33; S. C. Barton and G. H. R. Horsley, “A Hellenistic Cult Group and the New Testament Churches,” JAC 24 (1981): 28–38; Richard S. Ascough, Paul’s Macedonian Associations: The Social Context of Philippians and 1 Thessalonians (WUNT 2/161; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 71–94.

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their rank.5 Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, drawing on the archaeological evidence of remains around Corinth of several wealthy villas with a triclinium (dining room) and an atrium, further speculates that the villa at Anaploga represents the type of home owned by a wealthy Corinthian patron of the Jesus community.6 He reasons that the host (perhaps Gaius) entertained the eight wealthiest members of the community in the triclinium of his villa (which seats nine) relegating the rest of the Corinthian group to inferior dining in his villa’s atrium.7 Gregory Linton agrees with this suggestion, estimating that there were perhaps six smaller church groups in Corinth who would join together to celebrate the Lord’s Supper.8 Perhaps more than thirty-five participants were dining.9 Peter Lampe, too, suggests that the wealthy Corinthians participated in “First Tables,” a dinner attended by the leisured elite, and that the poorer people arrived later for the “Second Tables,” which was the symposium, and received lesser portions consisting of sweet desserts and fruit, or perhaps spicy dishes, seafood, and bread.10 This explanation was accepted by a number of other scholars.11 Never-

5 Theissen, Social Setting of Pauline Christianity, 151–54; idem, Social Reality and the Early Christians: Theology, Ethics and the World of the New Testament (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992); E. A. Judge, The Social Pattern of the Christian Groups in the First Century: Some Prolegomena to the Study of New Testament Ideas of Social Obligation (Christ and Culture Collection; London: Tyndale, 1960); Abraham Malherbe, Social Aspects of Early Christianity (Rockwell Lectures; Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1977). 6 Murphy-O’Connor, St. Paul’s Corinth: Texts and Archaeology (Wilmington, DE: Michael Glazier, 1983), 155–56. 7 Murphy O’Connor cites Dennis E. Smith, “Social Obligation in the Context of Communal Meals: A Study of the Christian Meal in 1 Corinthians in Comparison with Graeco-Roman Meals” (Th.D. diss., Harvard University, 1980), 156. 8 Linton (“House Church Meetings in the New Testament Era,” in Stone Campbell Journal 8 [2005]: 220–44, here 233) suggests that there were six small groups meeting in the homes of the following people in Corinth: Aquila and Priscilla (Acts 18:2–4); Titius Justus (Acts 18:7); Crispus (Acts 18:8); Chloe (1 Cor 1:11); Stephanas (1 Cor 1:16); and Gaius (Rom 16:23). The church in neighboring Cenchreae meets in the home of Phoebe (Rom 16:1–2). 9 Henk J. de Jonge, “The Early History of the Lord’s Supper,” in Religious Identity and the Invention of Tradition: Papers Read at a NOSTER Conference in Soesterberg, January 4–6, 1999 (ed. Jan Willem van Henten and Anton Houtepen; Studies in Theology and Religion 3; Assen: Van Gorcum, 2001), 209–37, here 209. 10 Peter Lampe, “The Corinthian Eucharistic Dinner Party: Exegesis of a Cultural Context (1 Cor. 11:17–34),” Affirmation 4 (1991): 2–3. 11 Carolyn Osiek and David L. Balch, Families in the New Testament World: Households and House Churches (Family, Religion, and Culture; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1997), 200– 203; Bradley B. Blue, “The House Church at Corinth and the Lord’s Supper: Famine, Food Supply, and the Present Distress,” Criswell Theological Review 5 (1991): 233–34; Dennis E. Smith and Hal E. Taussig, Many Tables: The Eucharist in the New Testament and Liturgy Today (Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1990), 64; de Jonge, “Early History,” 209–10; Linton, “House Church Meetings,” 243.

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theless, there have been recent challenges to this theory by L. Michael White, David G. Horrell, and J. J. Meggitt, producing “a somewhat revised, more cautious” attitude concerning the economic status of the Corinthians and the cause of their social divisions.12 Here, inscriptions of the voluntary association banqueting customs may be engaged in the discussion, for they contain much evidence for divisions within a dining group—divisions predicated not on wealth but on the honor/shame code of the Mediterranean region.13 Richard S. Ascough notes that “segregative commensality is not limited to those in the upper ranks—its strength lies in the ability of groups to be (self-)selective about who can join in the eating and drinking.”14 We suggest that, similar to other voluntary associations, the divisions marring the celebration of the Lord’s Supper in Corinth may be attributed to the honor and shame value code.

I. Honor and Shame in the Associations “It is becoming an accepted fact that honor and shame were pivotal values in antiquity that structured the daily lives of peoples around the Mediterranean.”15 The voluntary associations subscribed to the same cultural agonistic social values of honor and shame as the Mediterranean society in which they lived.16 In this code 12 Horrell, “Domestic Space and Christian Meetings at Corinth: Imagining New Contexts and the Buildings East of the Theatre,” NTS 50 (2004): 359. For the discussion of the economic status of the Corinthians, see Gail R. O’Day, “Jeremiah 9:22–23 and 1 Corinthians 1:26–31: A Study in Intertextuality,” JBL 109 (1990): 259–67; and the interchange of ideas among Meggitt (Paul, Poverty and Survival [Studies of the New Testament and Its World; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998], 153, 179; “Response to Martin and Theissen,” JSNT 24 [2001]: 85–94), Dale B. Martin (“Review Essay: Justin J. Meggitt, Paul, Poverty and Survival,” JSNT 24 [2001]: 51–64), and Theissen (“Social Conflicts in the Corinthian Community: Further Remarks on J. J. Meggitt, Paul, Poverty and Survival,” JSNT 25 [2003]: 371–91). See also Steven J. Friesen, “Poverty in Pauline Studies: Beyond the So-Called New Consensus,” JSNT 26 (2004): 323–61; Bengt Holmberg, “The Methods of Historical Reconstruction in the Scholarly ‘Recovery’ of Corinthian Christianity,” in Christianity at Corinth: The Quest for the Pauline Church (ed. Edward Adams and David G. Horrell; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2004), 255–72; L. Michael White, The Social Origins of Christian Architecture, vol. 1, Building God’s House in the Roman World: Architectural Adaptation among Pagans, Jews and Christians (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1990), 102–39, esp. 107; Linton, “House Church Meetings,” 238; Horrell, “Domestic Space,” 354-56. 13 Ascough, “Forms of Commensality in Greco-Roman Associations,” CW 102 (2008): 33– 46. 14 Ibid., 37. 15 Neyrey, Honor and Shame in the Gospel of Matthew (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1998), 3; Zeba Crook (“Honor, Shame, and Social Status Revisited,” JBL 128 [2009]: 591) agrees that “there is more than enough evidence to defend the proposition that in the Mediterranean, past and present, these values remain pivotal.” 16 The following paragraph is indebted to both Crook, “Honor, Shame,” 591–611, and the


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of values, an adult could attain honor individually (of secondary importance) and collectively (of prime importance). The honor could be attributed (the honor that the people’s court of reputation attributes to people when they are born, which is acquired through birth, family connections, or endowment by notable persons of power) as well as distributed (honor that the people’s court of reputation distributes whenever someone outwits another, when a benefaction is made, or after any kind of public challenge and riposte). “While power, wealth, and gender do figure into the ‘rules’ of honor and shame, these individualistic characteristics matter much less than the opinion of the PCR [public court of reputation], whoever that might represent in any given instance.”17 Honor was always gained at the expense of another, for, according to this worldview of “limited good” or perception of scarcity, all good things exist in limited quantity. Shame or dishonor results from lack of acknowledgment by the public court of reputation. In the public court of reputation, marginalized people such as low status groups and women could gain honor. Aristotle claims that shame adheres to those who fail to demonstrate the four cardinal virtues (Rhet. 2.6.3–4). The banquet became an important vehicle for distributing honor. As Willi Braun has noted, the early Christians in Paul’s community did not invent their banquet from nothing.18 “Throughout their lives, individuals in antiquity were embedded in some collective or group—either the family, which was the dominant institution of that social world, or peer groups at the gymnasium, symposium, army, synagogue, or assembly of citizens in the polis.”19 There was a long-standing tradition of banqueting in these groups, practiced at virtually every social level. All over the Mediterranean world, from earliest times, cultic association members voluntarily joined together for conviviality and to express their piety in regularly scheduled private sacrificial banquets.20 Our main sources of information for associations are the thousands of inscriptions dating from as early as the fifth century B.C.E. To date, fifteen fragmentary inscriptions possibly belonging to voluntary associations have been found at Corinth.21 Extensive excavations at Ephesus have uncovered the existence of fortyone trade associations and nineteen cultic associations. Twenty-four voluntary associations are attested on Delos, forty-six at Thessalonikē, and fifty-nine in seminal work of Bruce J. Malina and Jerome H. Neyrey, “Honor and Shame in Luke-Acts: Pivotal Values of the Mediterranean World,” in The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991), 1–46. 17 Crook, “Honor, Shame,” 610. 18 Braun, “The Greco-Roman Meal: Typology of Form or Form of Typology?” (paper presented to the Meals in the Greco-Roman World Consultation, SBL annual meeting, Atlanta, November, 2003), 2. 19 Neyrey, Honor and Shame in the Gospel of Matthew, 28. 20 Ascough, “Forms of Commensality,” 3. 21 See Ascough, “The Completion of a Religious Duty: The Background of 2 Cor. 8.1–15,” NTS 42 (1996): 584 n. 3.


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Ostia.22 Archaeologists in Petra, Nabatea, speculate that as many as forty associations (marzēahi) established sanctuaries in the high places of the canyon.23 James Rives points to the importance of this source of information for social and religious life in antiquity; it fills the gaps left by literary sources and gives us “a view of civic life at ground level as well as from the heights.”24 Membership numbers in the associations were generally small, averaging perhaps fifteen to one hundred, and were mainly drawn from the urban poor, slaves, and freedmen.25 Intersecting social relations in the Greco-Roman world played a major role in the formation of voluntary associations, for while the members were mainly the urban poor, slaves, and freedmen, their patrons could be both wealthier and of a higher status group.26 Many people belonged to more than one association.27 With a few exceptions, such as groups that had a long pedigree, including Jewish synagogues and ancient societies, associations were declared illegal under various Roman administrations after 184 B.C.E., but they continued to thrive despite sporadic suppression.28 During the first century, with its migration and intermixing of peoples, powers, and ideas, the presence of associations was felt throughout the entire Roman Empire, especially in urban areas, where they played a significant role in mediating various kinds of social exchange.29 An association became the “socially constructed replacement for the family.”30 An association’s private banquet was the chief venue for announcing, award-

22

Richardson, Building Jewish, 193. Robert Wenning, “The Rock-Cut Architecture of Petra,” in Petra Rediscovered: Lost City of the Nabataeans (ed. Glenn Markoe; New York: Cincinnati Art Museum, 2003), 133, 142; Laïla Nehmé, “The Petra Survey Project,” in ibid., 158. 24 Rives, “Civic and Religious Life,” in Epigraphic Evidence: Ancient History from Inscriptions (ed. John Bodel; Approaching the Ancient World; London: Routledge, 2001), 118–19. 25 John S. Kloppenborg, “Collegi and Thiasoi: Issues in Function, Taxonomy and Membership,” in Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-Roman World (ed. John S. Kloppenborg and Stephen G. Wilson; London/New York: Routledge, 1996), 23. 26 Philip A. Harland, “Connections with Elites in the World of the Early Christians,” in Handbook of Early Christianity: Social Science Approaches (ed. Anthony J. Blasi, Paul-André Turcotte, and Jean Duhaime; Walnut Creek, CA: Alta Mira. 2002), 389. 27 Ascough, “A Question of Death: Paul’s Community Building Language in 1 Thessalonians 4:13–18,” JBL 123 (2004): 510. 28 Ascough, “Greco-Roman Philosophic, Religious, and Voluntary Associations,” in Community Formation in the Early Church and the Church Today (ed. Richard N. Longenecker; Peabody. MA: Hendrickson, 2002), 3. 29 Ibid.; Kloppenborg, “Collegia and Thiasoi,” 17; Burton L. Mack, Who Wrote the New Testament: The Making of the Christian Myth (San Francisco: HarperSan Francisco, 1995), 19. 30 Ascough, “Question of Death,” 519, citing Jonathan Z. Smith, “Here, There and Anywhere” (keynote address to the conference entitled “Prayer, Magic, and the Stars in the Ancient and Late Antique World,” University of Washington, Department of New Eastern Languages and Civilization, March 3–5, 2000), 14. 23


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ing, and parading honorific deeds. Honors were varied:31 erection of a stele, bust, or statue; honors at the annual or monthly banquet such as the privilege of reclining on the couch of honor, and crowning with a gold or olive or floral wreath, which was sometimes adorned with woolen or red ribbons; public announcement of the person’s benefaction during the sacrifices and meetings; bestowal of money or honoraria or interest on mortgaged land; exemption from all membership fees for a period of time; or the privilege of front seats for oneself and one’s guest(s) during the games. For officials, honors might include attendance at a sacred meal, an increased share of the distributions after sacrifice,32 or special clothing, such as priestly headband or special cloak for the sacred procession and meal.33 Associations, along with elites and municipal institutions, used the physical manifestations of the banquet display to further their own social prestige in the competition for membership, patrons, and political power in their world. Associations were often included in select public and private banquets, where wealthy benefactors would present distributions (sportulae) according to a strict hierarchy.34 Participation in these banquets, through their membership in their collegia, elevated members’ personal status as well as the status of their collegia. “The effect of all this was that collegia were presented as respectable organisations, as first-level status groups for ambitious members of the plebs that were seen as an integral part of local social hierarchies.”35 Membership in associations and attendance at their banquets were seen as an acceptable (i.e., honorable) source of social identity.36 Association inscriptions often included the wish that their association “increase by zeal for honor,” or that “there shall be a rivalry among everyone to strive for honor among them, everyone knowing that they will be honored in a way worthy of those who themselves show kindness.”37 Members competed for official leadership positions in their associations—positions that would have been denied them in their civic institution, because of their rank and status.38 Through these 31

Ascough, Paul’s Macedonian Associations, 24–28; Klauck, Religious Context, 44. For guests at the procession see IDelos 1520. 33 See Rachel M. McRae, “The Corinthian Lord’s Supper and the Greco-Roman Banquet” (M.T.S. thesis, Queen’s Theological College, 2008), appendix B. 34 Associations also handed out sportulae; see Frank M. Ausbüttel, Untersuchungen zu den Vereinen im Westen des römischen Reiches (Frankfurter althistorische Studien 11; Kallmünz: Michael Lassleben, 1982), 55–56. 35 Onno van Nijf, The Civic World of the Professional Associations in the Roman East (Dutch Monographs on Ancient History and Archaeology 17; Amsterdam: J. C. Gieben, 1997), 155, 166– 68. 36 Ibid., 28. 37 IG II/2, 1369 (Eranos of Liopesi, Attica, second century C.E.) and IG II/2, 1292 (Cult of Sarapis, Athens, third century B.C.E.). 38 Ilias Arnaoutoglou, “Between Koinon and Idion: Legal and Social Dimensions of Religious Associations in Ancient Athens,” in Kosmos: Essays in Order, Conflict, and Community in 32

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positions members were able to exert some measure of control over their collegium, and provide a structure for negotiating relationships with the officials of the municipality and the elite.39 Positions such as quinquennalis (president of the Roman collegia), magister cenarum (master of the Roman banquet), archisynagōgos and archōn (president of the Greek association), archeranistēs (master of the Greek banquet), epimelētēs (supervisors) and tamias (treasurer) were desirable and highly respected, although often financially onerous, requiring considerable disbursement of the member’s private funds.40 Lengths of tenure varied, and many officials purchased their valuable offices.41 Similar to other associations, the Corinthian community encouraged its members to excel. Paul praises Titus for accepting the job of money collector: “you excel in everything—in faith, in speech, in knowledge, in utmost eagerness, and in our love for you—so we want you to excel also in this generous undertaking” (2 Cor 8:7). We see that there were opportunities for achieving honor within the individual house church in the leadership roles as well. Members pursued status through their roles as prophets, speakers-in-tongues, teachers, and so forth.42 In 1 Cor 12:28–30, in tension with his usual teachings of equality and mutual servitude, Paul too participates in legitimating the ranking system, as he enumerates the official positions in the community: in the top rank are Paul, the founder, and Apollos and Cephas, leaders and apostles. They receive wages from the group (1 Cor 3:8),

Classical Athens (ed. Paul Cartledge, Paul Millett, and Sitta von Reden; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 75; Ascough, Paul’s Macedonian Associations, 25; Wilken, Christians as the Romans Saw Them, 35–40; Andrew D. Clarke, Serve the Community of the Church: Christians as Leaders and Ministers. First-Century Christians in the Graeco-Roman World (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 68; Pauline Schmitt-Pantel, “Collective Activities and the Political in the Greek City,” in The Greek City from Homer to Alexander (ed. Oswyn Murray and S. R. F. Price; Oxford: Clarendon, 1990), 200–201; Frank Frost Abbott, The Common People of Ancient Rome: Studies of Roman Life and Literature (1911; repr., New York: Biblo & Tannen, 1965), 221–25; John F. Donahue, The Roman Community at Table during the Principiate (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2004), 84. 39 Kloppenborg, “Collegia and Thiasoi,” 27; van Nijf, Civic World, 21. 40 For tamias, see IG II/2, 1327; quinquennali: CIL IV, 2112; archisynagōgos: IG X/2, 288, 289; archōn: IG X/2, 58; archeranistēs: IG II/2, 1343; epimelētēs: IG X/2, 88; Ausbüttel, Untersuchungen zu den Vereinen, 55–57; Halsey Royden, “The Tenure of Office of the Quinquennales in the Roman Professional Collegia,” AJP 110 (1989) 303–15; Arnaoutoglou, “Between Koinon and Idion,” 75; Ascough, “Greco-Roman Philosophic, Religious and Voluntary Associations,” 15. 41 SIG 3, 1009 (Chalcedon, first century B.C.E.); IPriene 174 (second century B.C.E.); IPriene 201–2 (Anatolia, second century B.C.E.). 42 Contra Edwin Hatch (The Organization of the Early Christian Churches: Eight Lectures Delivered before the University of Oxford, in the Year 1880 [Bampton Lectures for 1880; London: Rivington’s, 1881; repr., Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 1999], 119), who recognizes that the distinctions are based upon varieties of spiritual power, but denies that this affects their official standing in the group.


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acquire a group following, and build on the foundation laid by Paul (3:10). Prophets are named second, for they build up the community and acquire more honor than those who speak in tongues (14:5). Teachers are third; fourth are those who effected “deeds of power”; fifth, those who contribute their gifts of healing; and then appear those who offer “forms of assistance, forms of leadership, various kinds of tongues” (12:28). Each of these leadership positions has been given a title, similar to other association titles, such as epimelētēs and gymnasiarch.43 Honor was acquired in associations through benefaction, as well. Wealthy patrons (of both genders) contributed to the building and upkeep of association meeting halls, sanctuaries, and banqueting facilities, in exchange for the “symbolic capital” before gods and fellow citizens that the association could give them.44 Individuals of religious associations benefited from the “kinship” networks established between patrons and sub-elite, allowing poorer members increased access to the economic and political benefits that patrons could offer.45 In addition, patrons sometimes benefited politically from this exchange, as evidenced by election slogans from Pompeii, which indicate that associations supported their patrons’ claims to political office.46 Inscriptions on stelae erected to honor individuals repeatedly emphasize that the patron/ess was “well-disposed to the affairs of the gods and the affairs of the synodos with regard to seeking honor, and seeking honor privately and publicly.”47 That women also participated in the distribution of honor through banquet iconography is seen in funerary monuments. It is apparent that the quest for honor did not end at death but continued beyond the grave. A great many grave monuments from classical and archaic Greece, Etruria, and the Roman Empire evidence variations on the banqueting scheme called Totenmahl. “The basic motif of the Totenmahl consists of a single male figure, wearing tunic and mantle or with his 43

Bradley H. McLean comments that “it is instructive to observe that various Christian groups also experimented with their own titles” (“The Agrippinilla Inscription: Religious Associations and Early Church Formation,” in McLean, Origins and Method, 259). Cf. 1 Cor 12:27–31; Eph 2:19–21; Phil 1:1. 44 Arnaoutoglou, “Between Koinon and Idion,” 81. 45 McLean, “Agrippinilla Inscription,” 266–67. McLean further suggests that this access to patron relationships was manipulated by the Corinthian groups in forming factions. 46 Kloppenborg, “Collegia and Thiasoi,” 30 n. 66, referencing CIL IV, 113, 206, 336, 497, 677, 710, 743, 826, 864, 960, 7164, 7273, 7473, etc. 47 IDelos 1519, 1520, and 1521 (Berytos, second century B.C.E.); IG II/2, 2343 (Athens, 400 B.C.E.); IG II/2, 1301 (Piraeus, 222 B.C.E.); CIJ I, 694 (Stobi, third century C.E.); CIL VI, 10234 (Rome, 153 C.E.); IG X/2, 259 (Thessalonica, first century C.E.); CBP 455 (Phrygia, third century C.E.); I DFSJ 11 (Baruch Lifshitz, Donateurs et fondateurs dans les synagogues juives [CahRB 7; Paris: Gabalda, 1967]) (Olbia, Sardinia, Italy); I DFSJ 12 (Pergamum); DFSJ 13 (Phoceae, third century C.E.), DFSJ 16 (Teos, third century C.E.); DFSJ 31 (Nysa, third century C.E.); DFSJ 33 (first century C.E.); DFSJ 15 (Smyrna, fourth century C.E.), 20, 21, 28 (Sardis); 36, 37 (Side, fourth century C.E.).

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upper torso bare, reclining on a couch with a drinking vessel in his hand and a small table in front laden with food. A woman often sits either in a separate chair or on the foot of the couch; a servant brings drink.”48 Etruscan and Roman tomb paintings and reliefs also evidence respectable married women reclining honorably upon a klinē, either alone or with their husbands.49 Recent commentators now recognize three possible interpretations of the Totenmahl. Many argue that the reclining banqueters are enjoying the pleasures of the banquet as the highest point of their lifetimes; some suggest an otherworldly banquet. A third interpretation sees the banquet as the celebration of the cult of the dead, where family members feast with the dead on the third, ninth, and thirtieth day after death, and annually thereafter.50 Most of the funeral banquets would have taken place outdoors, but wealthier families occasionally incorporated a small triclinium into the grave. On the cover of a marble sarcophagus, there is an inscription dating from the second to the third century C.E. recording that Marcus Aurelius Ammianos Menadrianos donated to the guild of flax workers and dealers the sum of 250 denarii for the annual crowning of the tomb of himself, his wife, and his descendants, and for the distribution of money to the guild members.51 If the flax workers are negligent in their performance of the funerary banquet, with its honorable gesture of the crowning of the tomb, the money shall be taken from them and twice the sum shall be paid to another association, the Friends of Weapons. As in other associations, “the structured social relationships in a church such as at Corinth, with its fictive kinship, probably facilitated opportunities for patron-

48 Katherine M. D. Dunbabin, The Roman Banquet: Images of Conviviality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 104; See also Matthew B. Roller, Dining Posture in Ancient Rome: Bodies, Values and Status (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006), 12–13. 49 Women were not portrayed as reclining at Greek banquets. For respectable women, see Jocelyn Penny Small, “Eat, Drink and Be Merry,” in Murlo and the Etruscans: Art and Society in Ancient Etruria (ed. Richard Daniel De Puma and Jocelyn Penny Small; Wisconsin Studies in Classics; Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1994), 87–88; and Dunbabin, Roman Banquets, 115–17. For Hierapolis, see Francesco D’Andria, Hierapolis: An Archaeological Guide (Istanbul: Ege Yaynian Francesco D’Andria, 2003), 209. 50 Jean-Marie Dentzer, Le motif du banquet couché dans le Proche-Orient et le monde grec du e VII au IVe siècle avant J.-C. (Bibliothèque des écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 246e; Paris/ Rome: École française de Rome, 1982), 1; see also Dunbabin, Roman Banquet, 108; D. Dexheimer, “Portrait Figures on Funerary Altars of Roman Liberti in Northern Italy: Romanization or the Assimilation of Attributes Characterizing Higher Social Strata?” in Burial, Society and Context in the Roman World (ed. John Pearce, Martin Millett and Manuela Struck; Oxford: Oxbow, 2000). 51 McRae, “Corinthian Lord’s Supper,” 54. See also PMich. V.243 and 244; IHierapP 23; CIJ 777 (Hierapolis, second century c.e.); CBP 455 (Phrygia, third century C.E.); IG VII, 687, 688 (Tanagra, Boietia, 175 B.C.E.); Inscriptiones Graecae ad Res Romanas Pertinentes (ed. R. Cagnet et al.; Paris: E. Leroux, 1906–27), IV, 796 (Apameia, Bithynia); Ascough, Paul’s Macedonian Associations, 25–28; Kloppenborg, “Collegia and Thiasoi,” 21–23.


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age, clientelism, employment and social and political mobility.”52 In addition, these opportunities were open to both women and men. “Cotter concludes that when Roman cultural standards are taken as the comparison, there is nothing countercultural in Paul’s putting women in positions of authority.”53 Paul uses the language of honor to praise the benefactors of the various ekklēsiai. Stephanas is fulsomely complimented: “you know that members of the household of Stephanas were the first converts in Achaia, and they have devoted themselves to the service of the saints; I urge you to put yourselves at the service of such people, and of everyone who works and toils with them. . . . so give recognition to such persons” (1 Cor 16:15–18). Prisca and Aquila are honored: “Greet Prisca and Aquila, who work with me in Christ Jesus, and who risked their necks for my life, to whom not only I give thanks, but also all the churches of the Gentiles” (Rom 16:3; 1 Cor 16:19). Phoebe is praised by Paul as deacon and benefactor in the ekklēsia in Cenchreae: “I commend to you our sister Phoebe, a deacon of the church at Cenchreae, so that you may welcome her in the Lord as is fitting for the saints, and help her in whatever she may require from you, for she has been a benefactor of many and of myself as well” (Rom 16:1). Chloe is acknowledged as a leader/benefactor in her ekklēsia: “For it has been reported to me by Chloe’s people that there are quarrels among you” (1 Cor 1:11). It is here that a certain tension in Paul’s thinking concerning the system of honor and shame is seen in 1 Corinthians and Romans, for, as will be discussed below, Paul largely deplores the use of the honor/shame code in his communities. In his previous letter to the Thessalonians, Paul had warned this particular group to behave properly toward outsiders and be dependent on no one at all (µηδενός), that is, not even benefactors (1 Thess 4:12). Furthermore, in 2 Cor 8:1–15, Paul uses shame to motivate members of the community to contribute to the Jerusalem collection, citing it as an honorary religious obligation.54 Whereas some associations used fines, floggings, and expulsion to punish aberrant behavior, Paul attempts to shame the Corinthian community into better treatment of the disadvantaged at the Lord’s Supper (1 Cor 11:22), even though he deplored the honor/ shame code. The physical arrangements of place setting and food at the banquet also reinforced the hierarchy of honor and shame. In the dining triclinia, the three couches and the seating on these three couches were arranged in hierarchical fashion.55 The 52

McLean, “Agrippinilla Inscription,” 269. Crook, “Honor, Shame,” 608, citing Wendy Cotter, “Women’s Authority Roles in Paul’s Churches: Countercultural or Conventional?” NovT 36 (1994): 350–72. 54 Ascough, “Religious Duty,” 584–99. 55 See also Moshe Weinfeld, The Organizational Pattern and the Penal Code of the Qumran Sect: A Comparison with Guilds and Religious Associations of the Hellenistic-Roman Period (NTOA 2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986), 26 (1QS 6:4, 8-9). 53


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place of honor on the primary couch was either in the middle or on one side, depending on Greek or Roman custom. Places on each couch ranked in descending order in relationship to the honorary guest.56 Competition was so fierce for honorable positions on the couches—and the status that these positions entailed— that associations, in an attempt to establish some measure of order, would legislate against and prescribe fines for the changing of places by those who competed at the banquet for better seats.57 The couches, especially the honored couch, were for self-display. The Romans connected visibility with power—“the more powerful the man, the more visible he is.”58 Association inscriptions on stelae often record the honoring of a patron or official with the honorary position on the couch.59 The various triclinia themselves were also ranked in prestige, according to proximity to and visibility of the honored guest, and the portion and quality of food were determined in a hierarchical fashion.60 At the banquet of the Lord’s Supper also, competition can be seen. The traditional hierarchical positioning of the Greco-Roman banquet of both elites and associations was followed by the Corinthian ekklēsia, with the honored people seated on more comfortable, well-positioned couches and served first with higher-quality fare. As in other small voluntary associations, there may have been one or two who were wealthy and of noble birth, but probably not enough to fill nine places on the couches of the primary triclinium. Paul comments, “not many of you were . . . powerful, not many were of noble birth” (1 Cor 1:26). It is people of little wealth (relative to the elite) or noble birth, such as ekklēsia patrons Stephanas, Gaius, Chloe, Phoebe, Prisca, and Aquila, who were honored by seats on the primary couches. In addition, others of low economic status such as Apollos and Cephas, as apostles and leaders; Titus, the money collector; and the prophets, teachers, and healers of the community were honored because of their valued official role. It would be these people who would be “devouring” their food and drinking to excess (1 Cor 11:21). Further, the disadvantaged group was composed of those who had no honorable standing in the community. They lacked wealth, power, and status, as well as gifts and graces valuable to the community. They held no leadership position in the group, such as healer, teacher, or prophet and thus were shamed (καταισχύνετε) according to the Corinthian public court of reputation. They were positioned farther from the honored guests and were served later, with food and drink of lesser 56

IDelos 1520. For example, the Iobakchoi; see IG II/2, 1368; CIL XIV, 2112 (Lanuvium, Italy, 136 c.e.). 58 Holt N. Parker, “The Observed of all Observers,” in The Art of Ancient Spectacle (ed. Bettina Bergmann and Christine Kondoleon; Studies in the History of Art; Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 1999), 167. 59 IDelos 1520 and 1521 (second century b.c.e.). 60 See McRae, “Corinthian Lord’s Supper,” appendix B; John D’Arms, “The Roman Convivium and the Idea of Equality,” in Sympotica: A Symposium on the Symposion (ed. Oswyn Murray; Oxford: Clarendon, 1990), 309. 57


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quality and limited quantity. It may be that the low-status members considered this treatment acceptable, for they received some honor from admittance to the group and the banquet. They may have had upward-moving intentions to improve their social identity in the group by seeking leadership or developing charismatic skills in the next year.

II. Divisions within the Associations Belonging to a group and dining together tended to encourage factions both within and between groups. As Claude Grignon observed, commensality (banqueting) tends to “approve and express discontinuities that separate human groups” allowing members to “assert or to strengthen a ‘We’ by pointing out and rejecting, as symbols of otherness, the ‘not We’, strangers, rivals, enemies, superiors, or inferiors.”61 Criteria for admittance to the group and therefore to the banquet were well defined in the association inscriptions, encouraging this method of “othering.”62 Some groups set membership fees, as well as recognizing inheritance rights, such as the Athenian Iobakchoi, who exacted a higher admittance payment for those without inheritance rights.63 The cult of Bendis charged lifetime dues.64 Some associations, such as the Andanian mysteries, observed a period of initiation and consecration, while others, such as the Mystai of Zeus demanded an oath.65 All associations set behavioral rules and penalties if the rules were broken. The agonistic spirit pervaded the culture, appearing in all facets of public life, including athletic, artistic, and theatrical events.66 Divisions, factions, and leader61 Claude Grignon, “Commensality and Social Morphology: An Essay of Typology,” in Food, Drink and Identity: Cooking, Eating and Drinking in Europe since the Middle Ages (ed. Peter Scholliers; Oxford/New York: Berg, 2001), 28–29. 62 See Richard S. Ascough, “Defining Community-Ethos in Light of the ‘Other’: Recruitment Rhetoric among Greco-Roman Religious Groups,” Annali di storia dell’esegesi 24 (2007): 53–70. 63 IG II/2, 1368 (175–76 C.E.). 64 IDelos 1519 and 1521 (second century B.C.E.); IG II/2, 1283 (Piraeus, 261/260 B.C.E.); IG II/2, 1327 (Piraeus); SIG 3, 1106 (Kos, 300 B.C.E.); IG IX/1, 670 (Phycos, second century C.E.); PLille Dem. 29 (Souchos, Egypt, 223 B.C.E.); PCairo Dem. 30605,6 (Tebtunis, 157/156 B.C.E.); CIL XIV, 2112 (Lanuvium 136 C.E.). PMich. V.243,4 (Tebtunis, 43 C.E.). 65 IG II/2, 1369 (Athens, second century C.E.); IG II/2, 1291 (Piraeus, third century B.C.E.); IG II/2, 1365,6 (Laurion, first century C.E.); IG V/1, 1390 (Andania, 96 B.C.E.); IG X/2, 259 (Thessalonica, first century C.E.); SIG 3, 985 (Philadelphia, Lydia, first century B.C.E.). 66 Robin Lane Fox, Pagans and Christians in the Mediterranean World from the Second Century AD to the Conversion of Constantine (London: Penguin Books, 1986), 69; Charlotte Roueché, Performers and Partisans at Aphrodisias in the Roman and Late Roman Periods: A Study Based on Inscriptions from the Current Excavations at Aphrodisias in Caria (Leeds: W. S. Maney & Son, 1993), 24.


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ship disputes were a problem. Association inscriptions from Kos, Miletus, and Piraeus are concerned with challenges to the priestess’s authority from would-be priestesses who wished to gather the thiasos together, to undertake the role of the priestess herself, or to impose further expenses on the association.67 In Delos, an inscription forbids any member of the synodos from attempting to subvert the oiling and crowning of the bust, and in Kos impiety was called down upon anyone offering an interpretation concerning the priests of Demeter that violated what was written in the sacred laws on the notice boards.68 Divisions, factions, and leadership disputes were a problem in the Corinthian community as well. Linton and James D. G. Dunn speculate that there were as many as six communities of Jesus groups in Corinth, each of which met in the suitably large home of a member, for frequent, regular meetings, and met less often (weekly? monthly?) in gatherings of “the whole church.”69 It seems that there were divisions among these groups, for at the beginning of the letter, Paul exclaims: “for it has been reported to me by Chloe’s people that there are quarrels among you” (1 Cor 1:11). These groups were engaging in boundary-setting behavior at the expense of their fellow groups in Corinth. Like the Iobakchoi,70 who engraved on their stela, “now we are the best of all Bacchic societies,” the individual house-communities proclaim, “I belong to Apollos,” or “I belong to Paul” (1:12; 3:4) meaning “our ekklēsia is the best ekklēsia in the city of Corinth and our leader beats your leader!” In 1 Cor 11:17–19 Paul discusses the factions (σχίσµατα) among the people in the Corinthian ekklēsia. The NSRV translates this: “there have to be factions among you, for only so will it become clear who among you are genuine [δόκιµοι].” It is unclear whether Paul is using the word δόκιµοι in connection with doctrinal attitudes or sociocultural attitudes. Most scholars interpret Paul’s tone as one of resignation, or mock disbelief (rhetorical dissimulatio); he is admitting shock at such a monstrous violation of the unity which he has taught them.71 R. Alistair Campbell

67

IMilet VI 22 (Miletus, 276 B.C.E.); SIG 3, 1012 (Kos, second/first century B.C.E.); IG II/2, 1328 (Piraeus, 183/182 B.C.E.); PLond. VII.2193. 68 IDelos 1523 (second century B.C.E.); IKosHerzog 8 (Kos, third century B.C.E.); IG II/2, 1368 (Iobakchoi, second century B.C.E.); IG II/2, 1369 (Athens, second century C.E.); IG V/1, 1390 (Andania); Weinfeld, Organizational Pattern of the Qumran Sect, 35–36 (1QS 7:3–5). 69 Linton, “House Church Meetings,” 233; cf. Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 541. 70 IG II/2, 1368. 71 See Anthony C. Thiselton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians: A Commentary on the Greek Text (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 857; Ben Witherington III, Conflict and Community in Corinth: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary on 1 and 2 Corinthians (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), 247; Richard B. Hays, First Corinthians (Interpretation; Louisville: John Knox, 1997), 195; Richard A. Horsley, 1 Corinthians (ANTC; Nashville: Abingdon, 1998), 159; Craig S. Keener, 1–2 Corinthians (New Cambridge Bible Commentary; Cambridge/New York: Cambridge Uni-


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offers an important translation: “So that if you please the elite may stand out from the rest.”72 He points out that the word δόκιµοι is the Corinthians’ word rather than Paul’s, and that this is the way the upper-class Corinthian members describe themselves as a method of attaining distinction. A study of association inscriptions offers a somewhat similar usage of the word δοκιµάζω and its cognates. The associations use the term frequently, with the sense of “approved by the people,” and I suggest that this is the inference that Paul wants his communities to make: “for only so will it become clear who among you are approved by your association.” The verb form δοκιµάζω is used in a number of inscriptions to indicate “approved by a vote,” or “resolved,” as in the regulations of a Piraean eranos from 300 b.c.e.: Ἀγαθεῖ Τύχει. ∆έδ[οχθαι] τοῖς ἐρανισταῖς ἐπαινέσαι Α[ἰσχυ]λίωνα (“For good fortune, be it resolved by the association members to commend Aischylion”).73 The verb form occurs also in the regulations of a thiasos of Piraeus in 325 B.C.E.: ἂν δοκεῖ τῶι κοινῶι (whatever “seems appropriate to the association”).74 The adjectival form describing an appropriate amount of wine appears in Epicteta’s cult-foundation inscription: οἶνον ξενικὸν ἱκανὸν δόκιµον (“enough approved foreign wine”);75 in a decree concerning the festival of Artemis in Ephesus, ἀνδρὸς δοκιµωτάτου is “a man very well thought of.”76 In the regulations of the Andanian mysteries of 96 B.C.E., it is the animals that are marked as approved by the ten officers: τοῖς δὲ δοκιµασθέντοις σαµεῖον ἐπιβαλόντω οἱ ἱεροί (“let the officers put a marking on the approved animals”).77 Familiar with association behaviors, Paul recognized that approval from the members was the usual method of gaining honor in order to hold a leadership position. An excessive example of this is seen in the story of Ananias and Sapphira, who lie about their contributions in order to gain honor with their community (Acts 5:1–11).78 This seeking of honor, even for a faith commitment, caused the versity Press, 2005), 96; Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, “The First Letter to the Corinthians,” in NJBC, 808–9; Graydon F. Snyder, First Corinthians: A Faith Community Commentary (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1992), 155. 72 Campbell, “ Does Paul Acquiesce in Divisions at the Lord’s Supper?” NovT 33 (1991): 69. 73 IG II/2, 1291. See this use of the verb in IG II/2, 1368 (Athens, 175–77 c.e.); IG II/2, 1327 (Piraeus); IG II/2, 1252 + 999 (Athens, 300 b.c.e.); IG II/2, 1297 (Athens, 237 b.c.e.); IG II/2, 1273 (Piraeus, 281 b.c.e.); IG II/2, 1201 (Piraeus, 222 b.c.e.); IG II/2, 1361 (Piraeus, 350 b.c.e.); IDelos 1521 (166 b.c.e.); IDelos 1519 (153 b.c.e.); IG XII/3, 330 (Thera, 210 b.c.e.); SIG 3, 0867. 74 IG II/2, 1275. 75 IG XII/3, 330 (Thera, 210 b.c.e.). 76 SIG 3, 0867. 77 IG V/1, 1390 (Andania, 96 b.c.e.). 78 Richard S. Ascough, “Benefaction Gone Wrong,” in Text and Artifact in the Religions of Mediterranean Antiquity: Essays in Honor of Peter Richardson (ed. Stephen G. Wilson and Michel Desjardins; Studies in Christianity and Judaism 9; Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2000), 105.

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inevitable divisions or splits. Paul doubts the effectiveness of these proclivities, for he comments in 2 Cor 10:12: “But when they measure themselves by one another, and compare themselves with one another, they do not show good sense.” Revealing again a certain tension in his thinking, Paul recognizes that factions are developing among the Corinthian ekklēsiai because of the cultural honor code. Although inconsistencies are evident, as noted above, Paul deplores this agonistic system of honor and shame. He states categorically in his letter to the Corinthians, “In this matter, I do not commend you!” (1 Cor 11:22). Paul seeks to overturn the values of the honor and shame code, teaching the members of the community mutual upbuilding, mutual servanthood, and power in weakness, and encouraging strong fictive kinship groups.79 It is God who is now the supreme patron and source of all beneficence.80 Paul says, “For us there is one God, the Father, from whom are all things and for whom we exist, and one Lord, Jesus Christ, through whom are all things, and through whom we exist” (1 Cor 8:6). Honor no longer comes from the acknowledgment of good deeds or benefaction by one’s equals, where there is a scarcity of honor for each to acquire. Honor comes from God, who represents abundance: “for the earth and its fullness are the Lord’s” (1 Cor 11:26). Good deeds or benefaction no longer need to be claimed for due honor, for it is enough that God knows. As Ascough notes, Paul’s countercultural view of the honor system is “‘treasure in heaven’ rather than ‘honor on earth.’”81 In this community, the new code embedded in the banquet reflects Jesus’ ethics of service, sacrifice, and substitutionary atonement: “do not seek your own advantage, but that of the other” (1 Cor 10:24). The ritual of the Lord’s Supper calls the participants to behavior based on values such as equality, rather than hierarchy; mutual servitude, rather than competition; and humility, rather than the upward mobility enshrined in the power structures of the GrecoRoman world. The Corinthians’ social identity as individuals and as a group will derive from identification with a group that turns away from the pivotal values of the Mediterranean world. The new social identity changes the search for status into recognition of God’s leadership, guidance, and power.82 Attributive honor now comes with possession of the Holy Spirit. Distributive honor comes from a life devoted to servitude and compassion for others. Judgment of honor comes through “the body and blood of the Lord.” Indeed, judgment of this new form of honor is already appar79 Paul’s teachings to the Corinthians on mutual servanthood are found in 1 Cor 9:19–27; 10:31–33; mutual upbuilding in love in 1 Cor 8:1–3; 10:16–17; 12:12–13:13; 14:26; 16:14; and power in weakness (humility) in 1 Cor 1:19–31; 2:10–16, 18–20. 80 Neyrey, Honor and Shame in the Gospel of Matthew, 42. 81 Ascough, “Benefaction Gone Wrong,” 104. 82 In the following paragraph, I am indebted to Malina and Neyrey, “Honor and Shame in Luke-Acts,” 65, for their analogies of the new value system to the Acts of the Apostles.


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ent to the group: “for all who eat and drink without discerning the body, eat and drink judgment against themselves. For this reason many of you are weak and ill, and some have died” (1 Cor 11:27–30). Paul is creating a new social identity, the Christian identity.

III. Conclusion The associations provide much information on how the code of honor and shame, which was embedded in all facets of the Mediterranean world, underlay all ritual behavior. Honor was sought through membership and office in a group and was rewarded at the monthly banquet. The importance of the banquet as a location for awarding honor can be traced even to the Totenmahl iconography of funerary monuments. Those who receive the honor of reclining on the foremost couch, therefore, are the honored officials of the community—those who serve in offices such as healers, prophets, speakers-in-tongues, and treasurers, and those of both genders who are patrons and benefactors. As befits their honored status within the group, they are served first with special portions of food and wine. Those who occupy the least important couches are those with little status in the group because they lack personal gifts, official standing, or wealth. While the dishonored, who know no other value system, may intend to improve their low status within the group in the future, Paul deplores this use of the honor and shame code at the banquet celebrating the ritual of the Lord’s Supper. Paul overturns this value system, encouraging the teachings of Jesus about equality, humility, and mutuality instead of hierarchy, aggrandizement, and competition. Although unable to dispense completely with the honor system—as evidenced by his support of patronage and methods of office seeking—Paul changes the value system of the Lord’s Supper to recognize God as the divine patron, attributive honor as the gift of the Holy Spirit, and distributive honor as a life devoted to servitude and love for others. Judgment of honor comes from the body and blood of Jesus Christ, whose memory is forever enshrined in the Lord’s Supper banquet ritual. Paul rejects the old behaviors pervading the Mediterranean world and encourages new behaviors that reflect the social identity of a follower of Jesus.

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JBL 130, no. 1 (2011): 183–196

The Relevance of Andrew of Caesarea for New Testament Textual Criticism juan hernández jr. [email protected] Bethel University, St. Paul, MN 55112

Contemporary textual critics attend to a variety of pressing questions. No longer restricted to the quest for the “original” text of the NT,1 current practitioners pursue a number of interrelated issues. Topics like scribal activity, theological variation, the nature and scope of the NT canon, and the sociohistorical worlds of scribes and their manuscripts are now commonplace in text-critical discussions.2 This article was originally presented as a paper in the New Testament Textual Criticism Section at the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Boston, Massachusetts, November 21, 2008. 1 Recent treatments that track these trends include Eldon Jay Epp, “Issues in New Testament Textual Criticism: Moving from the Nineteenth Century to the Twenty-First Century,” in Rethinking New Testament Textual Criticism (ed. David Alan Black; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2002), 17–76; Bruce M. Metzger and Bart D. Ehrman, The Text of the New Testament: Its Transmission, Corruption, and Restoration (4th ed.; New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 280–99; and David C. Parker, “Textual Criticism and Theology,” ExpTim 118 (2007): 583–89. 2 On scribal activity, the most recent book-length publications include Juan Hernández Jr., Scribal Habits and Theological Influences in the Apocalypse: The Singular Readings of Sinaiticus, Alexandrinus, and Ephraemi (WUNT 2/218; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006); Dirk Jongkind, Scribal Habits of Codex Sinaiticus (TS 3/5; Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2007); James R. Royse, Scribal Habits in Early Greek New Testament Papyri (New Testament Tools, Studies, and Documents 36; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2008). On theological variation, the respective studies of Eldon Jay Epp and Bart D. Ehrman, though not the first works of scholarship on this topic, have been the most influential by far. See Eldon Jay Epp, The Theological Tendency of Codex Bezae Cantabrigiensis in Acts (SNTSMS 3; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1966); Bart D. Ehrman, The Orthodox Corruption of Scriptures: The Effect of Early Christian Controversies on the Text of the New Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993). For the application of this approach to the book of Revelation, see Hernández, Scribal Habits and Theological Influences; idem, “The Apocalypse in Codex Alexandrinus:

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The definition of what a textual critic is (and does) has been broadened to include the pursuit of questions once considered peripheral to the discipline. These questions are not new. Writing at the threshold of the early Byzantine era, Andrew of Caesarea displays an awareness of competing variants,3 comments on their theological significance,4 and condemns scribes who atticize the Greek manuscripts of the Bible.5 Andrew’s Commentary on the Apocalypse appears to reflect the same integration of issues that characterizes contemporary text-critical research, albeit from the perspective of the seventh century.6 Andrew’s handful of

Its Singular Readings and Scribal Habits,” in Scripture and Traditions: Essays on Early Judaism and Christianity in Honor of Carl R. Holladay (ed. Patrick Gray and Gail R. O’Day; NovTSup 129; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2008), 349–52; and idem, “A Scribal Solution to a Problematic Measurement in the Apocalypse,” NTS 56 (2010): 273–78. The Fifth Birmingham Colloquium on the Textual Criticism of the New Testament was also devoted to this topic: see H. A. G. Houghton and D. C. Parker, Textual Variation: Theological and Social Tendencies? (TS 3/6; Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2007). On the nature and scope of the New Testament canon, see Eldon Jay Epp, “Issues in the Interrelation of New Testament Textual Criticism and Canon,” in Perspectives on New Testament Textual Criticism: Collected Essays, 1962–2004 (NovTSup 116; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 595–639. See also Robert A. Kraft, “The Codex and Canon Consciousness,” in The Canon Debate (ed. Lee Martin McDonald and James A. Sanders; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2002), 229–33; and, in the same volume, Harry Y. Gamble, “The New Testament Canon: Recent Research and the Status Questionis,” 267–94; and Daryl D. Schmidt, “The Greek New Testament as a Codex,” 469–84. With respect to the book of Revelation and its appearance among noncanonical works, Metzger observed that “[o]ne of the unusual and often overlooked features of a considerable number of manuscripts of the book of Revelation is the presence of other texts of a miscellaneous character. . . . Revelation not infrequently stands in the middle of volumes that have no other biblical content. Several of the manuscripts that contain Revelation are the quires containing Revelation taken out of the middle of some general theological book.” The significance of this phenomenon remains to be explored. See Bruce M. Metzger, “The Future of New Testament Textual Studies,” in The Bible as Book: The Transmission of the Greek Text (ed. Scot McKendrick and Orlaith O’Sullivan; London: British Library, 2003), 205. On the sociohistorical worlds of scribes, see Kim Haines-Eitzen, Guardians of Letters: Literacy, Power, and the Transmitters of Early Christian Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002). On manuscripts, see Larry W. Hurtado, The Earliest Christian Artifacts: Manuscripts and Christian Origins (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006); and David C. Parker, An Introduction to the New Testament Manuscripts and Their Texts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). 3 Josef Schmid, Studien zur Geschichte des griechischen Apokalypse-Textes, vol. 1, Der Apokalypse-Kommentar des Andreas von Kaisarea (Münchener theologische Studien 1, Historische Abteilung 1; Munich: K. Zink, 1955), 38, ll. 10–17 (Rev 3:7); 161, l. 19 and 162, ll. 1–4 (Rev 15:6). 4 Ibid. 5 Ibid., 262, ll. 3–10 (Rev 22:18–19). 6 The titles of papers presented in the New Testament Textual Criticism Section during the SBL meeting in Boston in 2008 clearly showcase this increased integration: http://www.sblsite.org/ assets/pdfs/2008_SessionGuide_FriSat.pdf.

Hernández: The Relevance of Andrew of Caesarea

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text-critical exempla speaks directly to a discipline that probes the relevance of scribal activity and challenges contemporary assumptions about its significance. In particular, Andrew’s assessment of textual variation confounds modern sensibilities. Andrew embraces textual variants that produce a semantic difference in the reading of the Apocalypse and excoriates scribes who make stylistic changes. Andrew’s Commentary on the Apocalypse offers a distinctively Byzantine appraisal of variants that enriches our understanding of textual variation and contributes to current discussions about its significance for textual criticism.

I. History of Research Little is known about Andrew of Caesarea or his commentary today. Despite the availability of Josef Schmid’s critical edition of Andrew’s Greek text,7 scholarship in this area has stalled for six decades. The challenge of dealing with an untranslated, early Byzantine text is a major factor. Many works of late antiquity and the early Byzantine period share this fate. This état des choses, coupled with Schmid’s daunting text-critical apparatus for Andrew’s commentary, can discourage even the most daring scholars. No modern translation of Andrew’s commentary exists in any language today.8 Portions of the work are available in English, but a full rendering of the nearly three-hundred-page commentary has yet to be published—a critical first step for understanding any ancient work.9 The lack of a full translation is only one problem. Most of the available research remains inaccessible to the broader community of scholars, appearing mostly in dated studies. With the exception of Schmid’s monograph, treatments of the archbishop’s work are also brief and offer only a sampling of what can be learned from the commentary.10 The Apocalypse’s putative status as an eschatological work 7

See n. 3 above. This lacuna is soon to be filled by Eugenia Constantinou’s forthcoming translation of Andrew of Caesarea’s commentary for The Fathers of the Church Series (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press). 9 Substantial translated portions of Andrew’s commentary are found in William C. Weinrich, Revelation (ACCS 12; Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2005). However, most of Andrew’s commentary still remains without translation, as Weinrich’s volume also covers a litany of additional commentaries on Revelation and has had to limit what can be included. Another work that offers a number of quotations of Andrew of Caesarea is Averky Taushev, The Apocalypse in the Teachings of Ancient Christianity (trans. Father Seraphim Rose; Platina, CA: St. Herman of Alaska Brotherhood, 1995). 10 These include Otto Bardenhewer, Geschichte der altkirchlichen Literatur, vol. 5, Die letzte Period der altkirchlichen Literatur mit Einschluss des ältesten armenischen Schrifttums (Freiburg: Herder, 1932), 102–5; Hans-Georg Beck, Kirche und Theologische Literatur im Byzantinischen Reich (Handbuch der Altertumswissenschaft 12; Munich: Beck, 1959), 418–19; Gerhard Podskalsky, Byzantinische Reichseschatologie: Die Periodisierung der Weltgeschichte in den vier Grossreichen 8

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presents another challenge. Andrew’s commentary is often mined for information about “the world to come.” Such a narrow focus, however, fails to do justice to the commentary’s standing as an exemplar of early Byzantine practices.11 Other aspects of the work require attention, and Andrew’s assessment of textual variation in light of his broader hermeneutical approach to Scripture will occupy the discussion here.

II. Form, Structure, and Hermeneutic of the Commentary We know very little about Andrew. We know that he was the archbishop of Caesarea Cappadocia (Kayseri in modern-day Turkey) and that his administration, spanning the years 563–614, began as the age of Justinian (d. 565) drew to a close. At the time he lived, the effects of the previous era’s christological debates—epitomized in the Council of Chalcedon—were still being felt and made their way into the commentary.12 Andrew’s occasional remarks on the text appear to reveal more about early Byzantine attitudes toward the Bible than about his actual text-critical practices.13 Andrew divides his commentary into twenty-four “discourses” (λόγοι), which are then subdivided into three “heads” (κεφάλαια), resulting in seventy-two sec-

(Daniel 2 und 7) und dem tausendjährigen Friedensreiche (Apok. 20). Eine motivgeschichtliche Untersuchung (Münchener Universitäts-Schriften, Reihe der Philosophischen Fakultät 9; Munich: W. Fink, 1972), 86–88; Brian E. Daley, The Hope of the Early Church: A Handbook of Patristic Eschatology (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2003), 198–200; and Claudio Moreschini and Enrico Norelli, Early Christian Greek and Latin Literature: A Literary History, vol. 2, From the Council of Nicea to the Beginnings of the Medieval Period (trans. Matthew J. O’Connell; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2005), 198–200. 11 In fact, taken at face value, the opening prologue indicates that the commentary was written in response to questions generated by the seventh-century context of the readers. 12 Among these were concerns over monophysitism and Origenism. For a full discussion of Chalcedon and its aftereffects, see Patrick T. R. Gray, “The Legacy of Chalcedon: Christological Problems and Their Significance,” in The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian (ed. Michael Maas; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 215–38. 13 As will be evident below, Andrew prefers to explore the interpretive possibilities of multiple textual data rather than restore the original wording of the text. The practice appears to stem from a commitment to the various senses of Scripture characteristic of Byzantine-era writers. Andrew’s espousal of multiple meanings is evident also in his use of Oecumenius’s commentary. Andrew will often reject a particular interpretation proffered by Oecumenius on the grounds that it violates the “literal” sense of Scripture, but then accept it (or part of it) under another level of meaning (Schmid, Der Apokalypse-Kommentar, 91, ll. 13–14; cf. Marc de Groote, ed., Oecumenii commentarius in Apocalypsin [Traditio exegetica Graeca 8; Leuven: Peeters, 1999], 143, ll. 196–99). The dictates of Chalcedon provide the parameters for the various senses of Scripture. See further Hernández, “Andrew of Caesarea and His Reading of Revelation: Catechesis and Paraenesis,” in Die Johannesapokalypse: Kontexte – Konzepte – Rezeption (ed. Jörg Frey, James A. Kelhoffer, and Franz Tóth; WUNT; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2011).


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tions in the work.14 Each of the λόγοι concludes with a doxology. Andrew derives the number twenty-four from the number of elders before God’s throne.15 Origen’s anthropological model for interpreting Scripture appears to be the inspiration for Andrew’s tripartite segmentation: [J]ust as there are three parts to man, [so] every God-breathed Scripture has been given three parts by Divine Grace. The literal and historical senses are a kind of body. The figurative sense, which guides the reader to what the mind can perceive, is akin to a soul. The anagogical and contemplative senses, which are about the most venerable things to come, appear as the spirit.16

Andrew’s stated hermeneutical ideal is not applied with rigor or consistency in the work. What can be characterized as “clockwork” is Andrew’s arbitrary appeal to various modes of reading as necessary.17 Andrew’s partitioning of Revelation into seventy-two sections is also problematic; it obfuscates (if not violates) the natural divisions of the work.18 The form and structure of Andrew’s commentary appear to have been constructed in spite of the Apocalypse. Nonetheless, Andrew’s statement about the nature of Scripture and a quasi-Origenic mode of exegesis can shed light on his handling of textual variants. Andrew’s use of sources also merits attention. Andrew’s commentary alludes to a variety of works, canonical and noncanonical.19 Predictably, important patristic figures also appear. Justin Martyr, Irenaeus, Hippolytus of Rome, Epiphanius, Gregory of Nazianzus, and Cyril of Alexandria are prominent.20 Some of their remarks have survived only in Andrew’s commentary.21 Andrew prefixes the labels 14

Ibid., 10, ll. 4–7. Ibid. 16 Ibid., 8, ll. 17–22 (my translation). Cf. Origen, Princ. 4.2.4–9. 17 This much is clear from the sporadic application of the various modes of reading from section to section in the commentary. 18 Perhaps the most obvious example of this is where the seven letters to the churches of Asia Minor fall within the commentary’s larger literary structure. Rather than grouped together, they are unevenly spread out over three λόγοι in an attempt to accommodate their content to the commentary’s repetitive tripartite structure (Schmid, Der Apokalypse-Kommentar, 11–46). The same occurs with the sequence of seals, trumpets, and bowls—to name only a few more items forced into Andrew’s Procrustean bed. 19 Schmid offers a helpful appendix identifying the “nichtbiblischen Autoren und Parallelen” in Andrew’s commentary (Der Apokalypse-Kommentar, 275). Each reference, however, needs to be checked against available sources. I have spotted an occasional error. For example, Andrew alludes to a story about Simon Magus and Peter in his comments on Rev 13:17. Schmid wrongly identifies the source as the Acts of Pilate. The correct source is the Acts of Peter 28. See the apparatus in Schmid, Der Apokalypse-Kommentar, 144. 20 These are identified at the beginning of the work and show up throughout the commentary. See Schmid, Der Apokalypse-Kommentar, 10, ll. 9–12. 21 Schmid identifies these throughout the apparatus of the commentary, such as Andrew’s quotation of a lost writing by Epiphanius. See Schmid, Der Apokalypse-Kommentar, 15, l. 16 and 16, ll. 1–3. 15


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ὁ µέγας, ὁ µακάριος, or ὁ θεῖος to the names of the fathers, showing his high regard for them and reflecting an early Byzantine protocol.22 Ironically (perhaps even cynically), Andrew makes no mention of Oecumenius’s commentary on the Apocalypse—a major sixth-century work that exerted an important and demonstrable influence on Andrew.23 Andrew draws obsessively from Oecumenius, often without veering from his exemplar in style or content, except in theologically strategic locations.24

III. Scribal Activity according to Andrew of Caesarea: Claims of Atticizing Andrew’s words provide the point of departure for his views on textual variation. The clearest statement about scribal activity appears at the end of the commentary. Commenting on the anathema uttered against those who would tamper with the text of the Apocalypse, Andrew writes: Dreadful is the curse upon those who counterfeit the divine words, capable of depriving the arrogant of the blessings of the coming age, for their recklessness is bold indeed. Therefore, to keep us from suffering, [John] warns us who hear, lest we add or subtract anything. Instead, we should regard the characteristics of Scripture as more trustworthy and venerable than Attic compositions and dialectical arguments. For even among these, should anyone find anything that is contrary to the rules (µὴ κανονιζόµενα), he is referred to the trustworthiness of their poets and authors.25

22

Ibid., 10, ll. 9–12. Andrew’s commentary mirrors Oecumenius’s commentary in at least 235 sections where the diction, syntax, and subject matter of the former give strong evidence of borrowing from the latter. For a full listing of these parallels see de Groote, Oecumenii commentarius, 337–42. 24 Although the practice of “taking over” the language of well-known, important literary sources would have been quite common in both ancient and early Byzantine literary contexts, the full significance of Andrew’s appropriation of Oecumenius’s language has yet to be examined fully. Given the high incidence of textual interplay between the two works, it may not be far-fetched to see Andrew’s commentary as a µίµησις of Oecumenius’s commentary. Although Andrew’s true motives are not explicit, we can speculate that he was offering an alternative to Oecumenius’s perceived monophysitism and Origenist speculations. This, however, must also be examined and substantiated in a comprehensive manner. (See John N. Suggit, Oecumenius, Commentary on the Apocalypse [FC 112; Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2006], 6–13; and Daley, Hope of the Early Church, 198). The strategic differences between the two commentaries appear to indicate that Andrew sought to supplant Oecumenius’s work by bringing it into greater conformity with his understanding of “Chalcedonian orthodoxy.” See Hernández, “Andrew of Caesarea and His Reading of Revelation.” 25 Schmid, Der Apokalypse-Kommentar, 262, ll. 3–10 (my translation). 23


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Andrew’s commentary reveals a number of things. First, he claims that scribes are atticizing the biblical text, presumably on the basis of known literary works or Attic manuals.26 Second, he attempts to discourage such scribal activity in two ways: by anathematizing scribes who make Attic changes to the text and by insisting that even great literary works have their stylistic infelicities. In cases of literary inelegance, Andrew avers, one trusts the poets and authors. If one can defer to gifted mortals on matters of style and diction, how much more so the divine author of Scripture? Andrew’s statement raises a number of questions. Are Andrew’s remarks about atticizing based on firsthand observation? If so, is he referring only to the Apocalypse, or does the charge extend to the rest of the NT, perhaps even the LXX? Or is the statement a mere rhetorical flourish, such as might occur at the end of a book? Andrew discloses neither the location nor the extent of the putative atticizing. The reader must examine the nature of his claim.

IV. Atticizing in the Early Byzantine World, the Apocalypse, and Andrew That atticizing was a common literary practice during the early Byzantine period is well attested. Sixth-century writers such as Procopius and Agathias engaged in the “imitation” (µίµησις) of classical authors.27 Procopius, for example, uses a classicizing Greek style that was far removed from daily speech, containing archaic features such as the optative mood, the dual number, and a litany of Attic terms.28 Andrew’s countercultural barb against atticizing would have rung true— at least rhetorically. Whether scribes (as opposed to authors) were atticizing to the degree Andrew’s statement implies is another question. The short answer is yes and no. The NT’s Greek manuscript tradition bears traces of atticizing; yet they are neither as systematic nor as comprehensive as was once claimed.29 Moreover, the scribal tendency to atticize is only one of several This appears to be the force of κανονιζόµενα, a cognate of κανών and a term used often for grammatical or literary standards. See LSJ, 875. 27 Averil Cameron, Agathias (Oxford: Clarendon, 1970), 57–74; and Cameron’s Procopius and the Sixth Century (Transformations of the Classical Heritage 10; Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1985), 33–46. 28 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, 43. 29 For the view that scribal atticizing should be a major consideration for the creation of textual variants in the manuscript tradition of the NT, see G. D. Kilpatrick, “Atticism and the Text of the Greek New Testament,” in Neutestamentliche Aufsätze: Festschrift für Prof. Josef Schmid zum 70. Geburtstag (ed. J. Blinzler, O. Kuss, and F. Mussner; Regensburg: Pustet, 1963), 125–37; J. K. Elliott, “The United Bible Societies Greek New Testament: An Evaluation,” NovT 15 (1973): 298– 99; idem, “Eclecticism and Atticism,” ETL 53 (1977): 107–12. 26

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explanations for the creation of textual variants.30 If we consult one of the wellknown Attic manuals, such as Phrynichus’s Ecloge,31 and ask whether the scribes of the Apocalypse32 atticized in a manner that reflects the booklet’s concerns, the results are negligible. Of the 424 non-Attic terms banned by Phrynichus, the Apocalypse contains only eighteen. Of the eighteen, only four appear to be changed from a non-Attic to an Attic term, and then only in some manuscripts. The preposition ἄχρις, which Phrynichus dubbed “spurious,”33 is changed to ἄχρι in only a few places.34 The noun σάκκος, which is deemed “Doric” by Phrynichus,35 drops the additional κ in only a handful of manuscripts.36 Phrynichus also rejects the use of the imperfect ἔµελλον with the aorist infinitive ποιῆσαι, preferring a construction with the present infinitive ποιεῖν, as proper Attic.37 If Phrynichus means that an aorist infinitive should never follow the imperfect ἔµελλον, then here too the results are mixed. Some manuscripts retain the aorist infinitive; others change it.38 Finally, Phrynichus also calls the use of σαλπικτής “approved” Attic over against the form σαλπιστής.39 Again, scribal activity here appears to be mixed.40 In short, most of the terms considered non-Attic by Phrynichus are never changed to the preferred Attic term by the scribes of the Apocalypse. Changes are made in few manuscripts, but even in those cases where an Attic switch is all but 30 Other explanations include a tendency to harmonize or to alter the Greek toward the Septuagint. See E. C. Colwell, “Hort Redivivus: A Plea and a Program,” in idem, Studies in Methodology in Textual Criticism of the New Testament (NTTS 9; Leiden: Brill, 1969), 154–55; C. M. Martini, “Eclecticism and Atticism in the Textual Criticism of the Greek New Testament,” in On Language, Culture, and Religion: In Honor of Eugene A. Nida (ed. Matthew Black and William A. Smalley; Approaches to Semiotics 56; The Hague: Mouton, 1974), 151–55; G. D. Fee, “Rigorous or Reasoned Eclecticism—Which?” in Studies in New Testament Language and Text: Essays in Honour of George D. Kilpatrick on the Occasion of His Sixty-Fifth Birthday (ed. J. K. Elliott; NovTSup 44; Leiden: Brill, 1976), 184–91. 31 Eitel Fischer, ed. Die Ekloge des Phrynichos (Sammlung griechischer und lateinischer Grammatiker 1; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1974). 32 “Scribes of the Apocalypse” refers to any scribes responsible for transcribing the work in the manuscript tradition throughout its transmission history. 33 Phrynichus, Ecloge 6: Μέχρις καὶ ἄχρις σῦν τῷ σ ἀδόκιµα. µέχρι δὲ καὶ ἄχρι λέγε. 34 In Rev 2:25, ἄχρι is attested in the following MSS: ) C 1611.2053.2329.2351 pc. 35 Phrynichus, Ecloge 225: Σάκκος ∆ωρεῖς διὰ τῶν δύο κκ, Ἀττικοὶ δὲ δι’ ἑνός. 36 In Rev 6:12, σάκος is attested in the following MSS: 175.325.517.456.459.627.628.680.935. 2033.2048; for σάκους in Rev 11:3, see 025.336.792.1876.2033.2043.2082.2256. 37 Phrynichus, Ecloge 313. 38 In Rev 3:2, ἔµελλον ἀποθανεῖν is attested in MSS ) A C 1854.2050.2053.2329.(2351) MAlatt h sy sa; ἔµελλον ἐποθνῄσκειν pc. See H. C. Hoskier, Concerning the Text of the Apocalypse: Collations of All Existing Available Greek Documents with the Standard Text of Stephen’s Third Edition, together with the Testimony of Versions, Commentaries and Fathers. A Complete Conspectus of All Authorities (2 vols.; London: Bernard Quaritch, 1929), 2:92. 39 Phrynichus, Ecloge 162: Σαλπικτὴς τὸ δόκιµον διὰ τοῦ κ, οὐχὶ δὲ διὰ τοῦ σ. 40 In Rev 18:22, σαλπικτῶν is attested in MS 2059.


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certain, we cannot detect a tendency to atticize.41 A comprehensive examination of scribal habits in each manuscript of the Apocalypse (presumably on the basis of singular readings) is necessary to substantiate such a claim. So far, studies of the text of Revelation in p47, Sinaiticus, Alexandrinus, and Ephraemi have uncovered no such pervasive tendency.42 Phrynichus would not have been the only available standard for atticizing in the early Byzantine world. One can imagine the literati of the period consulting a variety of works.43 Moreover, Phrynichus’s own qualifications as an expert “atticizer” have been called into question.44 Finally, Andrew gives no indication of his own sources for proper Attic Greek—other than his allusion to the κανονιζόµενα (“the rules”). Nonetheless, Phrynichus is a good place to start. Given the available text-critical studies on the atticizing tendencies of NT scribes, Andrew’s charge may be overblown. Ironically, Andrew registers his complaint against atticizing by atticizing. He libels the scribes, labeling them παραχαράττοντες (“counterfeiters”), an unapologetically Attic term.45

41 To this we might add the observation that some of Phrynichus’s preferred Attic expressions involve a change to a completely different word or phrase, such as that the suggestion that µεγιστᾶνες be rendered µέγα δυναµένους (Ecloge 170). Such wholesale changes for the sake of an Attic expression, however, have not been found so far within the Apocalypse’s manuscript tradition. Further, we might question the degree to which a scribe, predisposed to faithfully copying his exemplar, would have been at liberty to make more dramatic and disruptive changes. While switches in consonants or vowels are routine in the text of the NT, the wholesale insertion of different words or phrases appears to be far less common, though it is attested. Had atticizing been as prevailing a trend as charged, perhaps we might have expected to see more disruptive alterations to the text. 42 Hernández, Scribal Habits and Theological Influences, 82–86, 120–23, 131, 150–55; Royse, Scribal Habits in the Early Greek New Testament Papyri, 197, 357–58, 397–98, 544, 614, 704. 43 For a useful summary of available Attic writers and manuals, see Kilpatrick, “Atticism and the Text of the Greek New Testament,” 125–37. 44 Ibid. 45 Note Andrew’s Attic spelling of παραχαράττοντες with -ττ- rather than -σσ-. Typical of the literary conventions of the early Byzantine period, Andrew’s commentary exhibits its fair share of Attic style and diction. However, as the quotation appears to indicate, he draws a sharp distinction between his use of Attic Greek in the commentary and the inappropriate atticizing of the Greek text of the Apocalypse by scribes. Such a distinction appears to have had its roots in the complex linguistic heritage left to the Byzantine world by the fathers of late antiquity. Robert Browning’s assessment to that effect is applicable here: “The Hochsprache was firmly established as the proper medium for all important or dignified communication. But at the same time an undercurrent of rejection of the literary tongue was associated with a certain powerful manifestation of popular piety” (“The Language of Byzantine Literature,” in idem, History, Language and Literacy in the Byzantine World [Northampton, UK: Variorum Reprints, 1989], 108). It appears that Andrew’s condemnation of atticizing scribes is a perfect example of the former, even if largely rhetorical. See also Francisco Rodríguez Adrados, A History of the Greek Language: From Its Origins to the Present (trans. Francisca Rojas del Canto; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 226–28; V. Rotolo, “The

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V. Andrew and Revelation 3:7 Andrew identifies two concrete examples of textual variation that make a discernible difference in the reading of the Apocalypse. His treatment of these variants contrasts markedly with the ire reserved for atticizing scribes. The first variation appears in his commentary on Rev 3:7. Andrew’s Greek text of the Apocalypse states that Jesus carries the “key of David.” Some manuscripts, however, have Jesus carrying the “key of Hades.”46 The former reading finds support among the earliest and best witnesses of the Apocalypse’s manuscripts.47 Our critical editions have therefore opted correctly for “key of David.”48 The variant probably arose as a scribal harmonization toward Rev 1:18, where Jesus holds the keys of death and “Hades.” Andrew is aware of both the variant (preserved in “some copies”) and its theological utility. He comments: [Christ’s] kingdom has been called “the key of David” for this is a symbol of authority. Moreover, the Holy Spirit is also the key of the book of Psalms and of every prophecy, through whom the treasures of knowledge are opened. [Christ] receives the first key according to his humanity, and the second, according to his deity, which is without beginning. But in some copies [τισιν τῶν ἀντίγραφων] instead of “of David,” “of Hades” is written; thus, the authority of life and death is confirmed in Christ through the key of Hades.49

Faced with a genuine textual variant, Andrew bypasses any discussion of scribal activity, textual corruption, or even the priority of readings. Instead, he offers a theological commentary on the variant reading. None of his alarm over scribal tampering surfaces in a clear and acknowledged case of textual corruption. Andrew’s chief concern is with the corruption of Chalcedonian Christology. The textual variant serves as an opportunity to reaffirm Christ’s authority over life and death.

VI. Andrew and Revelation 15:6 Andrew’s handling of the textual variant in Rev 15:6 reflects a similar tendency. In this passage, the angels are clothed with “pure bright linen” (λίνον καθαρὸν Fortunes of Ancient Greek in the Middle Ages,” A History of Ancient Greek: From the Beginnings to Late Antiquity (ed. A.-F. Christidis; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 1225–40. 46 τοῦ ᾅδου, 2050 pc. 47 There are actually two variants here: one with the article and one without. Both, however, are genitive and do not alter the meaning of the text. The first is ∆αυίδ A C 1611.1854. 2053.2329 pc; the second is τοῦ ∆αυίδ ) M Or. 48 UBS4 and NA27. 49 Schmid, Der Apokalypse-Kommentar, 38, ll. 10–17 (my translation).


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λαµπρόν). Some manuscripts, however, read λίθον instead of λίνον, so that the angels are clothed with a pure bright “stone.” Unlike the variant in 3:7, this one is not so easily dismissed. Support for the variant includes some important witnesses,50 including Alexandrinus, Ephraemi, and Oecumenius.51 Moreover, λίθον is clearly the more difficult reading. One can easily see how λίνον arose as a replacement for λίθον, but not the opposite. Yet it appears that for the editors of the critical editions of the Greek NT the lectio difficilior is so difficult that it borders on nonsense and is therefore rejected as a corruption of λίνον.52 Setting aside the question of the “original,” we note that Andrew’s text also agrees with our modern critical editions and that—as with 3:7—he is equally aware of the variant and its theological utility. He writes: “Out of this temple the angels . . . go out clothed in either ‘linen’ or ‘stone,’ just as some of the copies [τινα τῶν ἀντίγραφων] contain.” Andrew then incorporates both readings into his commentary, explaining that the angels are so clothed, “because of the absolute purity of their nature [reflecting καθαρόν]; their nearness to Christ the cornerstone [reflecting the variant λίθον]; and the brightness of their virtue [reflecting λαµπρόν].”53 As in Rev 3:7, Andrew forgoes a decision that privileges one reading over another and offers a theological exposition of both. Andrew’s modus operandi is not altogether different from the text-critical method of Origen, who occasionally accepted and commented on multiple readings.54 Christ’s identity as the “cornerstone” (ἀκρογωνιαῖον) provides an additional incentive both to accept and to comment on the variant.55 The reading appeared to be sanctioned by Scripture.56 λίθον A C 2053.2062 pc vg sy. The importance of these witnesses for the Apocalypse cannot be overstated. According to Schmid, the combined attestation of AC surpasses the value of all other witnesses and stands nearer to the original than all other text-types. The text of Oecumenius’s commentary is virtually identical with these two witnesses: “AC, womit der Text des Oikumenios im ganzen identisch (und die Vulgata nahe verwandt) ist, überragen an Zeugenwert alle übrigen Textformen. An einer erheblichen Zahl von Stellen haben AC allein den Urtext bewahrt. Ihr überragender Zeugenwert beruht darauf, dass ihr gemeinsamer Text bewusste Korrekturen überhaput kaum enthält. Insofern steht dieser Text dem Urtext näher als alle anderen Textformen” (Schmid, Studien zur Geschichte des griechischen Apokalypse-Textes, vol. 2, Die alten Stämme [Münchener theologische Studien 1, Historische Abteilung Ergänzungsband 1; Munich: K. Zink, 1956], 147). 52 As stated by Metzger, speaking on behalf of editors of the United Bible Societies fourth revised edition of the Greek New Testament, “[It] makes no sense” (A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament [2nd ed.; New York: American Bible Society, 1994], 680). 53 Schmid, Der Apokalypse-Kommentar, 161, l. 19 and 162, ll. 1–4 (my translation). 54 See Bruce M. Metzger, “Explicit References in the Works of Origen to Variant Readings in the New Testament Manuscripts,” in Historical and Literary Studies: Pagan, Jewish, and Christian (ed. Bruce M. Metzger; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1968), 88–103. 55 See Eph 2:20; 1 Pet 2:6 actually has λίθον and ἀκρογωνιαῖον in apposition. 56 Oecumenius makes the same connection in his commentary, so he, rather than Andrew, appears to be ultimately responsible for the link. The difference is that Oecumenius is commenting on his text, whereas Andrew comments on a variant. See Suggit, Oecumenius, 136. 50 51

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VII. Andrew and Revelation 1:5: A Possible Variant? One final example of textual variation requires consideration. In the opening doxology of Rev 1:5, praise is directed toward “the one who loves us and released [λύσαντι] us from our sins.” Some manuscripts, however, read “washed” (λούσαντι) us from our sins.57 A scribal inability to distinguish between the pronunciations of the two is blamed for the textual corruption.58 Andrew does not mention a textual variant in his comments. His wordplay, however, is suggestive and may indicate a familiarity with the variant. Andrew writes: “Glory is appropriate to the one who ‘released’ us [λύσαντι] from the chains of death . . . and ‘washed’ us [λούσαντι] from our blemishes of sin.”59 Andrew appears to do here what he has done with the textual variants of 3:7 and 15:6: co-opt competing readings into his theological commentary. The only difference is that Andrew makes no mention of a particular variant in 1:5. Our knowledge of the Apocalypse’s textual tradition, coupled with Andrew’s identical expository practices elsewhere, leads us to suspect that he is aware of its presence. Andrew’s knowledge of the variant appears almost certain when one considers his close reading of Oecumenius’s commentary. Oecumenius’s text of the Apocalypse reads “washed” (λούσαντι), the very word Andrew juxtaposes with “releasing” (λύσαντι).60

VIII. Conclusion Andrew’s text-critical practices offer every indication that he did not operate with the same assumptions or concerns as traditional textual criticism.61 His identification, discussion, and acceptance of multiple textual variants contrast markedly with his blistering criticism of scribes who atticize the Scriptures. Attic changes would have produced no semantic difference to the text; yet, for Andrew, these posed the greater threat. The commentary’s postscript heightens the irony. At the conclusion of Andrew’s commentary, an anonymous editor raises concerns over the circulation of multiple versions of Andrew’s work. Andrew had apparently lost 57 λύσαντι p18 ) A C 1611.2050.2329.2351 MA h sy; Prim; λούσαντι P 1006.1841.1854. 2053.2062 MK lat bo. 58 Metzger and Ehrman, Text of the New Testament, 255. 59 Schmid, Der Apokalypse-Kommentar, 16, ll. 8–9 (my translation). 60 Oecumenius also speaks of “washing” and “releasing” in his commentary, but he employs different words and refrains from Andrew’s evocative wordplay. Commenting on his text of Rev 1:5, which contains “washed” (λούσαντι), Oecumenius speaks of the one who “set us free from our transgressions” (τοῦ γὰρ ἀποπλῦναι ἡµῶν τὰς ἁµαρτίας). 61 Traditional textual criticism is concerned with the restoration of the “original” or “earliest attainable” text of the NT and tracing its transmission history.


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some drafts in his possession and found it necessary to restore the original wording from memory. The final compiler now frets over the inevitable discrepancies that have resulted, but assures readers that the “meaning remains the same” (τῆς διανοίας τῆς αὐτῆς).62 The redactor’s final remarks shed light on the vicissitudes of textual transmission in late antiquity.63 They also shed additional light on Andrew’s text-critical practices. Andrew restored the wording of his commentary when necessary; he did not restore the wording of the Apocalypse when he had the chance. Textual variation was an opportunity to comment on the theological significance of multiple readings. Andrew’s handling of variants also contributes to the discipline’s discussion of textual variation. Textual critics are often elated when a significant textual variant is uncovered, especially if it can be conscripted into a greater cause. These often serve as “windows” into another time and place, when things were still in flux and presumably being fought over.64 Andrew’s text-critical practices indicate, however, that what fascinates us may not be what held the attention of the ancients. We find meaning in textual variation and imagine the communities that would espouse or even create such variants. We imagine scenarios of bitter battles over orthodoxy. But with Andrew, textual variation appears to have been an opportunity to certify what was already known to be “true” for an early Byzantine bishop. The potential threat of a textual difference was easily mitigated by appeals to Origenic modes of exegesis, the sayings of the fathers, and the dictates of Chalcedon. Even Andrew’s complaint about “atticizing scribes” appears to say more about perceived cultural pretension than about the text of the NT or attested scribal practices. In short, Andrew’s discussion of variants challenges contemporary assumptions about the significance of textual variation and offers an alternative model for understanding the appropriation of the NT. Multiple textual data were not a problem to be solved; they were opportunities for exploring a variety of interpretive possibilities, facilitated by the various senses of Scripture.

IX. Further Study The full text-critical relevance of Andrew of Caesarea’s Commentary on the Apocalypse remains to be explored. Additional areas in need of study include

62

Schmid, Der Apokalypse-Kommentar, 267, l. 15. See Harry Y. Gamble, Books and Readers in the Early Church: A History of Early Christian Texts (New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 1995); and Markus Mülke, Der Autor und sein Text: Die Verfälschung des Originals im Urteil antiker Autoren (Untersuchungen zur antiken Literatur und Geschichte 93; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2008). 64 Bart D. Ehrman, “The Text as Window: New Testament Manuscripts and the Social History of Early Christianity,” in The Text of the New Testament in Contemporary Research: Essays on the Status Quaestionis (ed. Bart D. Ehrman and Michael W. Holmes; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), 361–79. 63


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Andrew’s citations of the NT and the LXX,65 his use of patristic sources, and the origin and character of the Andrew “recension.”66 None of these items has received attention since the publication of Schmid’s monograph in the 1950s. With this brief examination of Andrew’s assessment of textual variation, however, we continue our advance beyond the discipline’s traditional boundaries and probe the appropriation of the Scriptures by various communities of faith that lie beyond the first few centuries of early Christian expansion—a task for which NT textual criticism is primed. 65

Today there is an entire series, The Text of the New Testament in the Greek Fathers (currently under the editorship of Michael W. Holmes), devoted to the study of NT citations in patristic literature, using methods pioneered by Gordon D. Fee and Bart D. Ehrman. Schmid’s work with its proliferation of citations would appear to be an ideal candidate for such a study. 66 E. C. Colwell issued a call for a reexamination of Schmid’s characterization of the Andrew “recension” over six decades ago. In his sixth conclusion, Schmid argued that the Andreas and Byzantine text-types are not revised forms of the two earlier text-types (p47-Sinaiticus and AC Oec) but revisions of older texts equal in antiquity. Colwell counters, however, that all Schmid has really shown is that the Andreas and Byzantine text-types are not “entirely” derived from earlier ones. Moreover, Colwell notes that some of Schmid’s evidence for the relationship between the fourth-century corrector of Sinaiticus and the Andreas text depends on the prior conclusions of Bousset’s study (Textkritische Studien zum Neuen Testament [TU 2/4; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1894])— an earlier work that (at Colwell’s time) had not been reviewed in light of current understandings of the history of text-types. In addition to this, Colwell calls for clarification of what Schmid means by “revised forms” of early text-types in the case of the Andreas and Byzantine text-types. As for Schmid’s seventh conclusion—that a stemma of text-types cannot be made, Colwell thinks that this indeed can be done with the evidence Schmid has provided, “at least in large outlines.” See E. C. Colwell, “Method in Establishing the Nature of Text-Types of New Testament Manuscripts,” in idem, Studies in Methodology, 45–55. Exactly what method will best suit an exploration of the relationship between Andreas’s text-type and the others in Revelation’s manuscript tradition remains to be determined. One possibility is the application to the Apocalypse’s manuscript tradition of the Coherence-Based Genealogical Method developed at Münster—a task that has yet to be undertaken. See Gerd Mink, “Eine umfassende Genealogie der neutestamentlichen Überlieferung,” NTS 39 (1993): 481–99; idem, “Was verändert sich in der Textkritik durch die Beachtung genealogischer Kohärenz?” in Recent Developments in Textual Criticism: New Testament, Other Early Christian and Jewish Literature. Papers Read at a NOSTER Conference in Münster, January 4–6, 2001 (ed. Wim Weren and Dietrich-Alex Koch; Assen: Van Gorcum, 2003), 39–68; idem, “Problems of a Highly Contaminated Tradition: The New Testament. Stemmata of Variants as a Source of a Genealogy for Witnesses,” in Studies in Stemmatology II (ed. Pieter van Reenen, August den Hollander, and Margot van Mulken (Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins, 2004), 13–85.

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T THEODORE OF MOPSUESTIA: THE COMMENTARIES ON THE MINOR EPISTLES OF PAUL O TTranslated with an Introduction and Notes by Rowan A. Greer R i8JUIBMJHIUUPVDICPSOPGFYUSBPSEJOBSZFSVEJUJPO 3PXBO ( (SFFSNBLFT5IFPEPSFPG.PQTVFTUJBFTTFOUJBMSFBEJOHGPS BBOZPOFXIPXPVMEEPUIFPMPHZJOPVSUJNF*OQBSUJDVMBS IF SF SFNJOETVTUIBUUIFUIFPMPHJBOTmSTUUBTLJTUIFFYQPTJUJPOPG TD TDSJQUVSFw—Stanley Hauerwas, Gilbert T. Rowe Professor of Theological Ethics, Duke University Divinity School Paper $89.95 978-1-58983-279-4 884 pages, 2010 Code: 061626 Writings from the Greco-Roman World 26 Hardcover edition www.brill.nl


New and Recent Titles TRANSFORMING GRADUATE BIBLICAL EDUCATION Ethos and Discipline Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza and Kent Harold Richards, editors 5IJTVOJRVFDPMMFDUJPOPGFTTBZTFYQMPSFTUIFDVSSFOUFUIPT BOEEJTDJQMJOFPGHSBEVBUFCJCMJDBMFEVDBUJPOGSPNEJGGFSFOU TPDJBMMPDBUJPOTBOEBDBEFNJDDPOUFYUT*UJODMVEFTJOUFSOB UJPOBMWPJDFTPGXFMMFTUBCMJTIFETDIPMBSTBMPOHTJEFZPVOHFS TDIPMBSTXJUIOFXQFSTQFDUJWFT5IFJOEJWJEVBMDPOUSJCVUJPOT FNFSHFGSPNBWBSJFHBUFETFUPGFYQFSJFODFTJOHSBEVBUF CJCMJDBMTUVEJFTBOEBDSJUJDBMBOBMZTJTPGUIPTFFYQFSJFODFT 5IFWPMVNFJTEJWJEFEJOUPGPVSBSFBTPGJOWFTUJHBUJPO5IF mSTUTFDUJPOEJTDVTTFTUIFFUIPTPGCJCMJDBMTUVEJFTBOETPDJBM MPDBUJPO BOEUIFTFDPOEFYQMPSFTEJGGFSFOUDVMUVSBMOBUJPOBM GPSNBUJPOTPGUIFEJTDJQMJOF5IFUIJSETFDUJPODPOTJEFSTUIF FYQFSJFODFTBOEWJTJPOTPGHSBEVBUFCJCMJDBMTUVEJFT XIJMFUIF MBTUTFDUJPOFYQMPSFTIPXUPUSBOTGPSNUIFEJTDJQMJOF Paper $49.95 978-1-58983-504-7 408 pages, 2010 Global Perspectives on Biblical Scholarship 10 Hardback edition www.brill.nl

Code: 060810

THE STUDIA PHILONICA ANNUAL Studies in Hellenistic Judaism, Volume XXII (2010) David T. Runia and Gregory E. Sterling, editors 5IF4UVEJB1IJMPOJDB"OOVBMJTBTDIPMBSMZKPVSOBM EFWPUFEUPGVSUIFSJOHUIFTUVEZPG)FMMFOJTUJD+VEBJTN BOEJO QBSUJDVMBSUIFXSJUJOHTBOEUIPVHIUPGUIF)FMMFOJTUJD+FXJTI XSJUFS1IJMPPG"MFYBOESJB DJSDBB.C.EUPDJSDBC.E 5IJTWPMVNFJODMVEFTBSUJDMFT UXPTFDUJPOTPO1IJMPTDe AgriculturaBOEThe Hypothetica BCJCMJPHSBQIZTFDUJPO BOE CPPLSFWJFXT Cloth: $42.95 978-1-58983-525-2 Studia Philonica Annual 22

336 pages, 2010

Code: 062222


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JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE

SOCIETY OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE General Editor: JAMES C. VANDERKAM, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556

EDITORIAL BOARD

Term Expiring 2011: ELLEN B. AITKEN, McGill University, Montreal, Quebec H3A 2T5 Canada MICHAEL JOSEPH BROWN, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 JAIME CLARK-SOLES, Perkins School of Theology, So. Methodist University, Dallas, TX 75275 STEVEN FRIESEN, University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX 78712 JENNIFER GLANCY, University of Richmond, Richmond, VA 23173 ROBERT HOLMSTEDT, University of Toronto, Toronto, ON M5S 1C1 Canada ARCHIE C. C. LEE, The Chinese University of Hong Kong, Shatin New Territories, Hong Kong SAR MARGARET Y. MACDONALD, St. Francis Xavier University, Antigonish, NS B2G 2W5 Canada SHELLY MATTHEWS, Furman University, Greenville, SC 29613 RICHARD D. NELSON, Perkins School of Theology, So. Methodist Univ., Dallas, TX 75275 DAVID L. PETERSEN, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 MARK REASONER, Marian University, Indianapolis, IN 46222 YVONNE SHERWOOD, University of Glasgow, Glasgow, Scotland, G12 8QQ, United Kingdom LOREN T. STUCKENBRUCK, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 PATRICIA K. TULL, Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, Louisville, KY 40205 2012: DAVID L. BARR, Wright State University, Dayton, OH 45435 COLLEEN CONWAY, Seton Hall University, South Orange, NJ 07079 MARY ROSE D’ANGELO, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 THOMAS B. DOZEMAN, United Theological Seminary, Dayton, OH 45406 J. ALBERT HARRILL, Indiana University, Bloomington, IN 47405 PAUL JOYCE, Oxford University, Oxford, OX1 3LD, United Kingdom ELIZABETH STRUTHERS MALBON, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24061-0135 TURID KARLSEN SEIM, University of Oslo, N-0315 Oslo, Norway CAROLYN SHARP, Yale University, New Haven, CT 06520 BENJAMIN D. SOMMER, The Jewish Theological Seminary, New York, NY 10027 LOUIS STULMAN, University of Findlay, Findlay, OH 45840 DAVID TSUMURA, Japan Bible Seminary, Tokyo 205-0017, Japan MICHAEL WHITE, University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX 78712 2013: JO-ANN BRANT, Goshen College, Goshen, IN 46526 BRIAN BRITT, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24061-0135 JOHN ENDRES, Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley, Berkeley, CA 94709 MICHAEL FOX, University of Wisconsin, Madison, WI 53706 STEVEN FRAADE, Yale University, New Haven, CT 06520-8287 MATTHIAS HENZE, Rice University, Houston, TX 77251 STEPHEN MOORE, Drew University, Madison, NJ 07940 LAURA NASRALLAH, Harvard Divinity School, Cambridge, MA 02138 EMERSON POWERY, Messiah College, Grantham, PA 17027 THOMAS RÖMER, Collège de France, Paris, and University of Lausanne, Lausanne, Switzerland SIDNIE WHITE CRAWFORD, University of Nebraska-Lincoln, Lincoln, NE 68588-0337 DAVID WRIGHT, Brandeis University, Waltham, MA 02454 Editorial Assistants: Monica Brady and Sarah Schreiber, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 President of the Society: Carol Newsom, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322; Vice President: John Dominic Crossan, DePaul University, Chicago, IL 60604; Chair, Research and Publications Committee: Adele Reinhartz, University of Ottawa, Ottawa, ON K1N 6N5 Canada; Executive Director: John F. Kutsko, Society of Biblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329. The Journal of Biblical Literature (ISSN 0021–9231) is published quarterly. The annual subscription price is US$40.00 for members and US$180.00 for nonmembers. Institutional rates are also available. For information regarding subscriptions and membership, contact: Society of Biblical Literature, Customer Service Department, P.O. Box 133158, Atlanta, GA 30333. Phone: 866-727-9955 (toll free) or 404-727-9498. FAX: 404-727-2419. E-mail: [email protected]. For information concerning permission to quote, editorial and business matters, please see the Spring issue, p. 2. The Hebrew and Greek fonts used in JBL are SBL Hebrew and SBL Greek; they are available from www.sblsite.org/Resources/default.aspx. The JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE (ISSN 0021–9231) is published quarterly by the Society of Biblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329. Periodical postage paid at Atlanta, Georgia, and at additional mailing offices. POSTMASTER: Send address changes to Society of Biblical Literature, P.O. Box 133158, Atlanta, GA 30333. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

The Concordia Commentary Series “I have a great deal of respect for this series. It takes serious regard of the biblical text in its original language, and deals with both textual difficulties and theology—an impressive feat at a time when many commentaries are trying to avoid difficult details.” David Instone-Brewer, University of Cambridge

“Pastors and scholars alike will find plenty of helpful insights . . . in the series as a whole.” Robert B. Chisholm Jr., Bibliotheca Sacra

“One of the best commentary series currently available for those seeking an exposition of the biblical text that balances the academic with the pastoral.” David W. Jones, Faith and Mission, Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary

Contributors to the Concordia Commentary series provide greater clarity and understanding of the divine intent of the text of Holy Scripture. Each volume is based on the Hebrew, Aramaic, or Greek with sensitivity to the rich treasury of language, imagery, and themes found throughout the broader biblical canon. Further light is shed on the text from archaeology, history, and extrabiblical literature. This landmark work from Lutheran scholars will cover all the canonical books of the Hebrew Scriptures and the Greek New Testament. Two new volumes are released each year. Subscriptions Available for Libraries and Individuals Become a subscriber today and commentaries are shipped automatically to you. Your subscription starts with the newest volume, and you continue to receive each new volume until the series is complete. (You can request the existing volumes.) Subscriptions are available in three ways: Complete series • Hebrew Scriptures volumes • Greek New Testament volumes CURRENT VOLUMES

The Song of Songs by Christopher W. Mitchell

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Ezra and Nehemiah by Andrew E. Steinmann

Ezekiel 1–20 Ezekiel 21–48 by Horace D. Hummel

Daniel by Andrew E. Steinmann

Amos

Proverbs by Andrew E. Steinmann

Ecclesiastes [forthcoming] by James Bollhagen

by R. Reed Lessing

Jonah by R. Reed Lessing

Matthew 1:1–11:1 Matthew 11:2–20:34 by Jeffrey A. Gibbs

Luke 1:1–9:50 Luke 9:51–24:53 by Arthur A. Just Jr.

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(Constituent Member of the American Council of Learned Societies) EDITOR OF THE JOURNAL

JBLcoverspring2011_JBLcover2007.qxd 3/1/2011 9:03 AM Page 1

130 1 2011

JOURNAL OF

BIBLICAL LITERATURE SPRING 2011

VOLUME 130, NO. 1

JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE

Interpreters—Enslaving/Enslaved/Runagate Vincent L. Wimbush

5–24

CTH 133 and the Hittite Provenance of Deuteronomy 13 Joshua Berman A Rejoinder concerning 1 Samuel 1:1 Shalom M. Paul

25–44 45

The “Discovered Book” and the Legitimation of Josiah’s Reform Nadav Na’aman

47–62

Orthography, Textual Criticism, and the Poetry of Job C. L. Seow

63–85

Ezekiel 16 and the Song of Moses: A Prophetic Transformation? Jason Gile

87–108

A New Discussion of the Meaning of the Phrase ha !'a!res i in the Hebrew Bible John Tracy Thames, Jr.

109–125

Waiters or Preachers: Acts 6:1–7 and the Lukan Table Fellowship Motif David W. Pao

127–144

Spiritual Weakness, Illness, and Death in 1 Corinthians 11:30 Ilaria L. E. Ramelli

145–163

Eating with Honor: The Corinthian Lord’s Supper in Light of Voluntary Association Meal Practices Rachel M. McRae

165–181

The Relevance of Andrew of Caesarea for New Testament Textual Criticism Juan Hernández Jr.

183–196

vam

US ISSN 0021-9231

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