The Bible in Human Society: Essays in Honour of John Rogerson (JSOT Supplement)

JOURNAL FOR THE STUDY OF THE OLD TESTAMENT SUPPLEMENT SERIES 200 Editors David J.A. Clines Philip R. Davies Executive...

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JOURNAL FOR THE STUDY OF THE OLD TESTAMENT SUPPLEMENT SERIES

200

Editors David J.A. Clines Philip R. Davies Executive Editor John Jarick

Editorial Board Robert P. Carroll, Richard J. Coggins, Alan Cooper, J. Cheryl Exum, John Goldingay, Robert P. Gordon, Norman K. Gottwald, Andrew D.H. Mayes, Carol Meyers, Patrick D. Miller

Sheffield Academic Press

The Bible in Human Society Essays in Honour of John Rogerson

edited by M. Daniel Carroll R., David J.A. Clines and Philip R. Davies

Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series 200

Copyright © 1995 Sheffield Academic Press Published by Sheffield Academic Press Ltd Mansion House 19 Kingfield Road Sheffield, S119AS England

Printed on acid-free paper in Great Britain by Bookcraft Ltd Midsomer Norton, Bath

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 1-85075-568-X

CONTENTS Preface Abbreviations List of Contributors

9 12 14

LOVEDAY ALEXANDER Narrative Maps: Reflections on the Toponymy of Acts

17

C.K. BARRETT The First Christian Moral Legislation

58

MARK G. BRETT The Political Ethics of Postmodern Allegory

67

WALTER BRUEGGEMANN Five Strong Rereadings of the Book of Isaiah

87

M. DANIEL CARROLL R. Reflecting on War and Utopia in the Book of Amos: The Relevance of a Literary Reading of the Prophetic Text for Central America

105

BRUCE CHILTON The Hungry Knife: Towards a Sense of Sacrifice

122

R.E. CLEMENTS Wisdom, Virtue and the Human Condition

139

DAVID J.A. CLINES Psalm 2 and the MLF (Moabite Liberation Front)

158

JOHN M. COURT A Future for Eschatology?

186

6

The Bible in Human Society

DOUGLAS J. DAVIES Rebounding Vitality: Resurrection and Spirit in Luke-Acts

205

MARGARET DAVIES On Prostitution

225

PHILIP R. DAVIES Making It: Creation and Contradiction in Genesis

249

JOHN ELWOLDE

Bne Brit? Hebrew, English, and the English

257

J. CHERYL EXUM Michal at the Movies

273

ROBERT HAYWARD Some Ancient Jewish Reflections on Israel's Imminent Redemption

293

JOHN JARICK Theodore of Mopsuestia and the Interpretation of Ecclesiastes

306

JUDITH M. LIEU Reading in Canon and Community: Deuteronomy 21.22-23, A Test Case for Dialogue

317

ANDREW T. LINCOLN Liberation from the Powers: Supernatural Spirits or Societal Structures?

335

HANS-PETER MÜLLER Schöpfung, Zivilisation und Befreiung

355

STANLEY E. PORTER A Newer Perspective on Paul: Romans 1-8 through the Eyes of Literary Analysis

366

w.s. PRINSLOO Psalm 95: If Only you Will Listen to his Voice!

393

Contents

7

HENNING GRAF REVENTLOW Computing Times, Ages and the Millennium: An Astronomer Defends the Bible. William Whiston (1667-1752) and Biblical Chronology

411

WOLFGANG RICHTER Zum Verhältnis von Literaturwissenschaft, Linguistik und Theologie

422

CHRISTOPHER ROWLAND The 'Interested' Interpreter

429

GERALD WEST Reading the Bible and Doing Theology in the New South Africa

445

Publications of John W. Rogerson Index of References Index of Authors

459 462 472

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PREFACE This book is published on the occasion of John Rogerson's retirement, in September 1995, from his position as Professor of Biblical Studies in the University of Sheffield. In this volume his individual talent and personality is celebrated, in the customary manner, by papers from some twentyfive of his colleagues past and present, of his former graduate students and of his conversation partners at home and abroad. The regard in which we all hold him, for his intellectual passions, the fertility of his mind, the ever-expanding scope of his interests—and as much for his humanity, his sympathy and his leadership—is evident in these papers, and it is with warm affection and appreciation for his own contribution to the reality of 'the Bible in human society' that the volume is respectfully dedicated to him. It may be interesting to learn how John Rogerson's career began. A Londoner by birth, he was called up into National Service in the Royal Air Force when he left school, becoming a linguist and translator and gaining qualifications in Russian. Thereafter he was a clerk with the London County Council for some time before going to the University of Manchester in 1957 to read for the BD degree. That completed, he went to Ripon Hall in Oxford, where he read for the BA in Oriental Studies (Hebrew, Arabic and Ugaritic). The next year, 1963-64, he spent at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, and then gained an appointment as Lecturer in Theology in the University of Durham, where he taught for the next decade. In 1979 he was appointed to the chair in Sheffield previously held by James Atkinson. From his arrival in Sheffield in 1979 until September 1994 John Rogerson was Head of the Department of Biblical Studies. It was in good shape when he arrived, but under his management the Department flourished as never before and gained an international reputation as a centre for innovation and excellence in biblical criticism. He is an immensely capable person, well-organized and effective, and it is perhaps only his successor who knows how many of the tedious details of

10


administration he must have taken in his stride—before leaving (on a good day) for lunch at home and an afternoon of research. His evenhandedness and administrative flair, delightfully lacking in pomposity, have been well-recognized in the University and beyond. From 1991 to 1994 he was a member of the Academic Development Committee and from 1992 to 1994 of the Strategic Planning Committee of the University, the two key bodies in the University's decision-making. In 1992 he chaired (and will do again in 1996) the Research Assessment Panel (Theology, Divinity and Religious Studies) of the Higher Education Funding Council of England, a body that evaluated the research (and, in consequence, established the research funding) of all the university departments in the country. Not many people are truly indefatigable, but John Rogerson is one of them. He seems always to have supervised more graduate students than anyone else. He never had remission of his teaching load even when heavily pressed by university administration, but more often than not offered extra courses beyond the call of duty. He knew all the students' names and worked with an open door. He has an opinion on everything, but no more than he is entitled to, for his analytic mind is stocked with a vast array of facts. Outside the university world he is the Revd J.W. Rogerson, a priest of the Church of England, and honorary Canon of Sheffield Cathedral. Quizzical about authority and tradition, no party man in his churchmanship and impatient with formality, he travels the length and breadth of the country by train to address church groups of every complexion and to sweep away cobwebs and obfuscations about the Bible—which is to say, 'the Bible in human society'. John Rogerson has the happy gift of being able to write about the Bible on very different levels. He has always seen it as an important function of a biblical scholar to be able to address a student audience, and indeed a wider public than that of the academy. Among his most successful exploits in haute vulgarisation has been his Atlas of the Bible (now translated into seven languages), and the volume he edited, Beginning Old Testament Study, an innovative textbook for more than a decade. His contribution on Genesis 1-11 to the Old Testament Guides series of Sheffield Academic Press must rank as one of the most forward-looking and engaging titles in that series of student texts, while his volume The Old Testament World, co-written with Philip Davies, has found a wide and appreciative public on both sides of the Atlantic.

Preface

11

But John Rogerson is also a scholars' scholar. He has an unrivalled knowledge of the history of the interpretation of the Bible, especially in the nineteenth century, a profound acquaintance with the historical, political and philosophical developments of the period, and an eye for the illuminating personal details that bring a past age to life. The history of how the Bible has been read is no dry chronicle for John Rogerson, let it be said. Part cautionary tale, part respectful tribute, his account of nineteenth-century biblical criticism is always really about the present, not the past—about how it is possible and requisite for us to be using the Bible in our own day. Three major monographs have established his authority in this field: Old Testament Criticism in the Nineteenth Century: England and Germany (1984), W.M.L. de Wette, Founder of Modern Biblical Criticism: An Intellectual Biography (1992) and The Bible and Criticism in Victorian Britain: F.D. Maurice and W.R. Smith (1995). They are important, and they are interesting. John Rogerson long ago decided to retire at 60, in order to devote himself to his grand passion: writing. There never was a younger sixtyyear-old. He is full of vigour and at the top of his form. A stream of publications is bound to emerge in the coming years from his De Wette room in his house a short walk from the University library. He is editing the Cambridge Companion to the Bible and a one-volume Bible commentary; and there will be a theology of the Old Testament—not to mention a monograph on the Siloam Tunnel inscription. We in Sheffield are delighted that he and Rosalind will still be in our circle, and we salute him with affection and admiration, ad multos annos! The Editors

ABBREVIATIONS AB ABD ANRW ATANT AID AusBR AUSS BETL BEvT Bib BibB Biblnt BN BNTC BTB BWANT BZ BZAW CB CBQ CBQMS CRINT EvT ExpTim FOTL FRLANT

HAT HBT

HSM HTR HUCA ICC IDB Int ISBE JBL JJS

Anchor Bible Anchor Bible Dictionary Aufsteig und Niedergang der romischen Welt Abhandlungen zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments Das Alte Testament Deutsch Australian Biblical Review Andrews University Seminary Studies Bibliotheca ephemeridum theologicarum lovaniensium Beitrage zur evangelischen Theologie Biblica Biblische Beitrage Biblical Interpretation Biblische Notizen Black's New Testament Commentary Biblical Theology Bulletin Beitrage zur Wissenschaft vom Alten und Neuen Testament Biblische Zeitschrift Beihefte zur ZAW Cultura biblica Catholic Biblical Quarterly Catholic Biblical Quarterly Monograph Series Compendia rerum iudaicarum ad novum testamentum Evangelische Theologie Expository Times The Forms of the Old Testament Literature Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments Handbuch zum Alten Testament Horizons in Biblical Theology Harvard Semitic Monographs Harvard Theological Review Hebrew Union College Annual International Critical Commentary G.A. Buttrick (ed.), Interpreter's Dictionary of the Bible Interpretation G.W. Bromily (ed.), International Standard Bible Encyclopedia, rev. edn Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of Jewish Studies

Abbreviations

JQR JSJ JSNT JSNTSup JSOT JSOTSup JSS JTC JTS KAT LARR NCB Neot NICNT NLH NovT NovTSup NTD NTS OTG OIL OTS RAC RB RIBLA RLT RSR SBB SBS SET SJT SNTSMS TLZ TOTC TWAT VT VTSup WBC WMANT

WUNT WW ZAW ZTK

13

Jewish Quarterly Review Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic and Roman Period Journal for the Study of the New Testament Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series Journal of Semitic Studies Journal for Theology and the Church Journal of Theological Studies Kommentar zum A.T. Latin American Research Review New Century Bible Neotestamentica New International Commentary on the New Testament New Literary History Novum Testamentum Novum Testamentum Supplements Das Neue Testament Deutsch New Testament Studies Old Testament Guides Old Testament Library Oudtestamentische Studien Reallexikon fur Antike und Christentum Revue biblique Revista de interpretacion biblica latinoamericana Revista latinoamericana de teologia [El Salvador] Recherches de science religieuse Stuttgarter biblische Beitrage Stuttgarter Bibelstudien Studies in Biblical Theology Scottish Journal of Theology Society of New Testament Studies Monograph Series Theologischer Literaturzeitung Tyndale Old Testament Commentary G.J. Botterweck and H. Ringgren (eds.), Theologisches Worterbuch zum Alten Testament Vetus Testamentum Vetus Testamentum, Supplements Word Biblical Commentary Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testament Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Word and World Zeitschrift fur die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Zeitschriftfiir Theologie und Kirche

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Loveday Alexander is Lecturer in New Testament in the Department of Biblical Studies, University of Sheffield. C.K. Barrett is Emeritus Professor of Divinity at Durham University. Mark G. Brett is Professor of Old Testament in Whitley College, Melbourne. Walter Brueggemann is Professor of Old Testament at Columbia Theological Seminary. M. Daniel Carroll R. (Rodas) is Professor of Old Testament in El Seminario Teologico Centroamericano in Guatemala City, Guatemala. Bruce Chilton is Bernard Iddings Bell Professor of Philosophy and Religion at Bard College, and Rector of the Church of St John the Evangelist. Ronald E. Clements is Professor Emeritus of Old Testament Studies, King's College, The University of London. David J.A. Clines is Professor of Biblical Studies in the University of Sheffield. John M. Court is Senior Lecturer in Theology and Religious Studies at the University of Kent at Canterbury. Douglas J. Davies is Professor of Religious Studies in the Department of Theology at the University of Nottingham. Margaret Davies is Senior Lecturer in New Testament Studies in the Department of Biblical Studies, University of Sheffield. Philip R. Davies is Professor of Biblical Studies in the University of Sheffield. John Elwolde is Lecturer in the Department of Biblical Studies, University of Sheffield. J. Cheryl Exum is Professor of Biblical Studies in the University of Sheffield. Robert Hayward is Reader in Theology in the Department of Theology, University of Durham and Senior Fellow, St Chad's College.

List of Contributors

15

John Jarick is Senior Academic Editor at Sheffield Academic Press and associate lecturer in Biblical Studies at the University of Sheffield. Judith M. Lieu is Reader in New Testament Studies in the Department of Theology and Religious Studies, King's College, London. Andrew T. Lincoln is Professor of New Testament at Wycliffe College in the University of Toronto. Hans-Peter Miiller is Professor of Old Testament and North-West Semitic Literatures in the Faculty of Protestant Theology, University of Minister, Germany Stanley E. Porter is Professor in the Department of Theology and Religious Studies, Southlands College, Roehampton Institute London. Willem S. Prinsloo is Professor and Head of the Department of Old Testament, University of Pretoria. Henning Graf Reventlow is Emeritus Professor of Old Testament Theology and Exegesis in the Faculty of Protestant Theology, University of Bochum. Wolfgang Richter is Professor Emeritus of Ugaritic and Hebrew Linguistics and Literary Studies in the Assyriologischen Institut at the University of Munich. Christopher Rowland is Dean Weland's Professor of the Exegesis of Holy Scripture, Oxford University. Gerald West is Lecturer in the School of Theology, University of Natal.

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NARRATIVE MAPS: REFLECTIONS ON THE TOPONYMY OF ACTS Loveday Alexander

How many miles to Babylon? Threescore miles and ten. Can I get there by candlelight? There and back again. (Old nursery rhyme)

One of the pleasures of my association with John Rogerson has been a shared fascination with maps and a rooted conviction of their importance. It is only fitting, then, that this Festschrift should contain some reflection of this important aspect of John's scholarly activity. The New Atlas of the Bible, according to its editor's Preface, sets itself the task of 'seeking to elucidate the geographical conventions that were shared by the biblical writers and their first readers', and in this it 'reflects a current trend in biblical studies towards an appreciation of these narratives as stories in their own right'.1 The Atlas thus fits well within the wider sensitivity to narrative structures which has been one of the most significant developments in biblical studies during John's time at Sheffield. But the elucidation of a narrative's geographical conventions, it may fairly be argued, does not sit easily within the familiar geographical categories: it shares neither the 'geographical' orientation of the New Atlas nor the 'historical' approach of the traditional Bible Atlas. Though linked with both of these, its natural home is within the province of 'Cognitive Geography', a relatively new branch of geographical study which reflects a suitably postmodern awareness that the mental maps which we carry around in our heads may be worth studying in their 1. J.W. Rogerson, The New Atlas of the Bible (Oxford: MacDonald, 1985), p. 12. Cf. M.A. Powell, What is Narrative Criticism? (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1990), pp. 70-72: 'the geographical setting of a narrative can play a significant role in its total effects'.

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own right, not simply as approximations to a 'correct' or 'scientific' view of the world. One way to approach the cognitive geography of an ancient narrative is to look at the shape of the world as presupposed in contemporary geographical texts.2 This approach has been used with some success to elucidate the Pentecost narrative of Acts 2,3 and I have used it in another paper to explore the co-ordinates of the journey narratives in the latter part of Acts.4 In this paper, however, I would like to explore some ways in which the toponymy of a narrative—that is, the selection and distribution of geographical names—may be used to reconstruct its 'implied map', the mental map that the text creates for the readers. The sheer familiarity of the Acts map may blunt our perception of its particularity: so the use of comparative maps from contemporary or nearcontemporary texts is a useful tool to aid awareness here. Paul's own mental map provides one obvious control; and I shall also try to construct parallel mental maps using the narratives of the two earliest extant Greek novels, Chariton's Chaereas and Callirhoe and Xenophon of Ephesus' Ephesiaca. These two texts, which are both relatively close in time to Acts,5 provide an excellent base for comparison because of the 2. On ancient maps in general see O.A.W. Dilke, Greek and Roman Maps (London: Thames & Hudson, 1985). Theophrastus's will provided that 'the tablets (pinakes) containing maps of the world (periodoi ges) should be set up in the lower portico' (Diogenes Laertius 5.51; Dilke, p. 31). More public was the map of Agrippa, commissioned and completed by Augustus for public display in Rome: Pliny, HN 3.16-17; cf. Dilke, pp. 41-53; C. Nicolet, Space, Geography and Politics in the Early Roman Empire (Jerome Lectures, 19; Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1991; ET of L 'inventaire du monde: Geographic et politique aux origines de I'Empire Romain [Librairie Artheme Fayard, 1988]), ch. 5. The use of such a map 'for educational purposes' is well illustrated in the later empire by Eumenius: 'Let the schoolchildren see it in those porticoes and look every day at all lands and seas and every city, race or tribe that unconquerable emperors either asist by their sense of duty or conquer by their valour or control by inspiring fear' (XII Panegyrici Latini IX [IV], cited from Dilke, p. 54). 3. See most recently J.M. Scott, 'Luke's Geographical Horizon', in D.W.J. Gill and C. Gempf (eds.), The Book of Acts in its Graeco-Roman Setting (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans and Carlisle: Paternoster, 1994), pp. 483-544. 4. L.C.A. Alexander, '"In Journeyings Often": Voyaging in the Acts of the Apostles and in Greek Romance', in C.M. Tuckett (ed.), Luke's Literary Achievement (JSNTSup, 116; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press 1995), pp. 17-39. 5. See B.P. Reardon, Collected Ancient Greek Novels (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), for translation and introduction. This translation is the one

ALEXANDER Narrative Maps

19

prominence of the voyage motif in texts that are not (on the face of it) primarily geographical. Plotting names on a mental map is a useful way of charting knowledge of and interest in a particular region's geography. But the relationship between the two is not always a simple one. Studies of schoolchildren in Norway and Sweden have revealed the expected correlation between toponymical density and knowledge of the home area, so that the latter shows up as an 'information bump' in relation to the blanker areas further from home.6 But artificial barriers, like political frontiers, have the effect of distorting the correlation between information and geographical proximity, while conversely certain distant places also featured on the mental maps of even the youngest children, whether because they were popular holiday destinations or because they were prominent in news items at the time the survey was carried out. And religion, culture and history provide an extra dimension to the bare outlines of geographical information, which will be reflected in the selection and distribution of place-names on the mental map. Some years ago, there was a popular song based on the words of Psalm 137 which made it into the UK charts. I remember sitting (in Manchester) with an Iraqi friend, watching his small son singing along to the music. It was Ja'afar who remarked on the irony of the situation: if we were by the rivers of Babylon, he tried to explain to his son, we would be at home, not in exile. In the Judaeo-Christian tradition which underlies so much of Western European culture, Babylon has a significance almost entirely divorced from any knowledge of its present geography, much less of the emotions of its present inhabitants: it exists in a cultural space labelled 'exile' and can—if you are young enough—be reached before bed-time.7 Within the New Testament, it is the 'Journeys of St Paul' that most obviously and inevitably seem to require cartographic representation: cited in the text unless otherwise stated. The most extensive comparative study of the novels and Acts is that of R.I. Pervo, Profit with Delight: The Literary Genre of the Acts of the Apostles (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1987). See also J.R. Morgan and R. Stoneman (eds.), Greek Fiction: The Greek Novel in Context (London: Routledge, 1994) for a stimulating collection of articles with more recent bibliography. 6. P. Gould and R. White, Mental Maps (Boston: Allen & Unwin, 2nd edn, 1986), pp. 96-114. 7. A television documentary some years ago showed the arrival of a group of Russian Jews in Israel. They registered nothing on being told that their destination was 'Nazareth': as the commentator pointed out, this prominent feature of the Christian map of the Holy Land meant nothing to them.

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any Bible Atlas worth its salt will have some sort of map to aid the reader of Acts and the Epistles. It is, however, surprisingly difficult to find any atlas that attempts to distinguish between the mental maps of the two bodies of literature: most present an amalgam of information from Acts and from Paul, with the emphasis overwhelmingly on the former. In addition, many maps include names which we, the readers, know from elsewhere: Sicily, for example, is not named anywhere in the New Testament, yet it frequently appears on maps of Paul's travels. This is not a matter of knowledge or ignorance: there is no reason to doubt that both Paul and Luke8 knew the name of the island in which Syracuse is situated. It is rather a matter of paying attention to the precise contours of the geographical information an author chooses to highlight, and to do that we need first to find a way to depict exactly the information given in the text. Only then can we proceed to evaluate its narrative significance. Our primary concern in this exercise is with the use of geographical names within a given narrative, not with the identification of locations on a modern map. We shall concern ourselves only with the names that actually occur in the text, and the first step is to categorize them according to their function within the narrative. I have divided these geographical names into three categories: primary toponyms (places that occur within the main narrative), secondary toponyms (places that occur within implied or reported narrative, and decorative toponyms (places that supply local or historical colour in a more indirect fashion). Within the first two categories, we may further distinguish between three classes of name: regional names, city names and local names, such as names of streets or districts which serve to provide further definition in a locality already named. A narrative map should also be able to distinguish redundant place-names, that is, places that are not themselves locations for adventure but that give added topographical depth to a locality or a journey. Paul It is often forgotten that the primary narrative of Paul's journeys is the one he provides himself (if indirectly) in scattered 'travel notes' in the Epistles,9 and these reveal that Paul sees his world almost entirely in 8. I use the name 'Luke' here and throughout as the conventional designation for the author of Acts. 9. For the sake of brevity I have restricted the scope of this enquiry to the


21

regional terms. Given the extent of the apostle's travels, in fact, it is surprising how few place-names occur in the body of his letters. City names tend to occur most often in the epistle addresses (Rome, Corinth, Philippi, Thessalonica), occasionally in a direct address in the body of the letter (Phil. 4.15; Rom. 1.15). Otherwise Paul prefers to identify churches by regional names (Achaea, Asia, Judaea, Macedonia, Galatia); in the last case, the regional name completely swamps the local names even in the letter address (Gal. 1.1; 3.1).10 Similarly phrases referring to individual church members ('brothers', 'believers', 'firstfruits') tend to be tagged with regional names (Rom. 16.5; 1 Cor. 16.15; 2 Cor. 9.4; 11.9; 1 Thess. 1.7; 4.10), as do phrases referring to the spread of the gospel (1 Thess. 1.8; cf. 2 Cor. 11.10).11 In fact there is only one place where the word ekklesia occurs in conjunction with a local name, and that is Rom. 16.1, where the recommendation of Phoebe presumably made it essential to distinguish the church in Cenchreae from the rest of the 'churches of Achaea'. Even more surprisingly, regional names also predominate in Paul's travel plans12 and in his rare moments of autobiography.13 It is also noticeable (as Edwin Judge has pointed out14) that Paul uses the Roman provincial names for the territories of his mission: Illyricum, Spania (not the Greek Iberia), Achaia. Pausanias tells us specifically that the Greeks disliked this last name because the Romans used it as a reminder of the humiliation of the Achaean League.15 Paul's mental map is totally lacking in sentimentality: his mission is set very firmly in the contemporary political scene, and he has no qualms about a strategic approach that mirrors the Roman attitude to its conquered territories (see Map I).16

'uncontested' epistles: Rom., 1-2 Cor., Gal., Phil., 1 Thess., Phlm. A comparison of this group with the mental maps of the disputed Paulines might well prove profitable. 10. Rom. 15.26; 1 Cor. 16.1, 19; 2 Cor. 8.1; 9.2; Gal. 1. 22; 1 Thess. 2.14. 11. Unbelievers are also classified by region: Rom. 15.13. 12. Rom. 15.24, 28; 1 Cor. 1.16; 16.5; 2 Cor. 1.16; 2.13; 7.5. 13. Rom. 15.19; 2 Cor. 1.8; Gal. 1.17, 21; Phil. 4.15. 14. In a paper entitled, 'The Social Distinctiveness of the New Testament Churches', delivered at the British New Testament Conference (Halifax Hall, University of Sheffield) in September 1991. 15. Pausanias 7.16.10: The Romans call him the governor, not of Greece ('EAAdq), but of Achaea, because the cause of the subjection of Greece was the Achaeans, at that time the head of the Greek nation'. 16. On Roman mapping, see Nicolet, Space, Geography and Politics, esp. ch. 5.

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Cities, by contrast, scarcely exist on the Pauline mental map except as locations for churches. Rome and Philippi are never mentioned outside the letter addresses; Corinth occurs once as a place to which Paul 'comes' in 2 Cor. 1.23, but there is a close link with the 'you' of the address. Thessalonica is mentioned once as a place (Phil. 4.16). The precise locations of the Galatian churches, as we have observed, are never named by Paul at all. The other cities named as places in the letters are Ephesus (1 Cor. 15.32; 16.8), Athens (1 Thess. 3.1), Damascus (2 Cor. 11.32; Gal. 1.17) and the Troas (2 Cor. 2.12)—a pretty thin tally for one who prided himself on the extent of his travels (2 Cor. 11.26). The only city that receives more than a passing mention in Paul's letters is Jerusalem, which achieves a multi-dimensional status all the more striking because of its rarity. Jerusalem exists in geographical space, both as the place from which the misssion began (Rom. 15.19) and as a place to which one travels (Rom. 15.25; 1 Cor. 16.3). It also exists in eccesiastical space, a location for apostles (Gal. 1.17, 18; 2.1) and saints (Rom. 15.25, 26)—though not of an ekklesia—and as the destination of Paul's 'service' in the collection (Rom. 15.31; 1 Cor. 16.3). But, uniquely in the Pauline topography, Jerusalem also reveals a theological dimension. In Gal. 4.25-26 Paul draws a distinction between 'the now Jerusalem' and 'the Jerusalem above', 'who is our mother'—a tacit recognition of the symbolic importance of this central biblical location. This passage, in fact, shows Paul fully aware of the multi-layered potential in cognitive mapping. Sinai and Jerusalem (which share the same meridian on the Jubilees map17) exist both in symbolic space and in the real world. Arabia, however, is not a location on the biblical map: it belongs on the ruthlessly contemporary (Roman) map of Paul's own world, and in describing Sinai as 'a mountain in Arabia' Paul (I think) implicitly degrades it from the symbolic realm to the banal level of the contemporary traveller. Arabia is somewhere you can journey to: Paul himself has been there, as the reader of Galatians already knows (1.17). The effect is rather like saying (for the reader of the Robin Hood tales), 'We pulled off the motorway and had a picnic in Sherwood Forest', or perhaps (for the viewer of Westerns), 'We pulled up at a gas station in Tombstone Gulch' (see Map 2).

17. P.S. Alexander, 'Notes on the Imago Mundi in the Book of Jubilees', JJS 33 (1982), pp. 197-213.


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Chariton Chariton's narrative, by contrast, is carefully located in the historical past. The novel was written in the first or second century CE, but its heroine is the daughter of Hermocrates, a Sicilian general of the fourth century BCE who makes a brief appearance in the pages of Thucydides' History of the Peloponnesian War. Chariton's characters, therefore, move through a consciously archaic landscape from which all traces of the author's present have carefully been removed. Regional and city names are those of the classical past: Sicily, Attica, Ionia; Asia is used in the Ionian sense, not the Roman one (1.11; 3.6; 5.3, 5). But even within this 'historical' framework, Chariton is surprisingly grudging of placenames: he is solicitous (and largely successful) in avoiding anachronism,18 but makes no attempt to reproduce the topographical richness of a Thucydides or a Xenophon. The result is a curiously empty scene, reminiscent of the painted landscapes of the villas of Pompeii (or of the paintings of Claude and Watteau)—largely pastoral, decorated with occasional monumental structures (tomb, temple), the viewpoint controlled by what is visible from the sea.19 The point can be illustrated clearly by plotting Chariton's toponymy on to a series of maps: that is, by indicating on a simple outline map the place-names that actually occur in the text. Primary Toponyms The first category includes all locations for action involving the main characters in the primary narrative; since Chariton structures his narrative around the paired voyages of heroine and hero, this means all the places to which either of them goes in the main narrative. Despite the huge geographical extent of their journeys from Sicily to Babylon and back, topographical detail is surprisingly sparse. The dramatic action of the book is concentrated in three major locations, Syracuse, Miletus and Babylon, with the small and insignificant island of Aradus providing an 18. The route of Hyginus's journey (4.5.2) suggests that Chariton may have had Aphrodisias, his own home town, in mind as a locus for Mithridates' headquarters (Reardon, Collected Novels, p. 71 n. 71); the mention of a port at Paphos (8.2.7) is another anachronism, possibly deliberate (ibid., p. 113 n. 123). 19. Visible from the sea: cf. 1.6.5; 1.11; 3.2.11-14; 3.4.18; 4.1.5. On the general importance of the sea in the narrative, see esp. 5.1 and further, Alexander, 'Voyaging', pp. 31-37

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unexpected setting for the dramatic reunion of the lovers (7.5).20 With the action so focussed on a small number of geographical areas, we might expect to find a disproportionate number of local place-names fleshing out their geographical characterization; but movement within the locality is described in generic terms (city, country estate, farm, desert, sea) rather than by the aggregation of local names. Athens has its Areopagus (1.11.7), and Dionysius's country house near Miletus is by 'the harbour called Docimus' (3.2.11); otherwise, the novel's key locations are characterized by their buildings and institutions rather than by place-names. Thus Syracuse is characterized by its democratic institutions (assembly, theatre, gymnasium), where typically 'Greek' activities take place (voting, decrees, embassies, the granting of citizenship: cf. esp. 8.6-8). Babylon is quintessentially 'oriental', with an emphasis on the importance of satraps' residences and royal palaces (5.2); the elaborately described trial setting is dominated by the King's throne, indicative of the un-Greek centrality of an autocratic ruler even in the courts of justice (5.4). The Greek cities of the Aegean basin, though more 'Greek' (and therefore more 'free') than Babylon, are not accorded the full civic dignity of Syracuse: Miletus has temples, harbours and slave markets, but no democratic assembly, and Priene, like Athens, is distinguished purely for its 'Greek' inquisitiveness (4.5.4; 1.11.6). Chaereas's search for his wife involves him in some more extensive travelling on his own, but the search 'towards Libya' is described in summary fashion, and the location of his servitude under Mithridates is described simply as 'Caria'.21 In Book 7 he does some successful campaigning in 'Syria and Phoenicia', but the only city named is Tyre,22 and even after his liberation of the city, Chaereas refuses to participate in 20. Arrian's Anabasis of Alexander, which was probably written at around the same time as Chariton's novel, provides an instructive comparison. Arrian's acount of the expedition of Alexander shows clear affinities with the narratives of the great classical historians, and it is not difficult to see why he attracted comparison with Xenophon even in his own day. But a glance at the Index to Proper Names in the Loeb edition of Arrian shows a density of toponyms that Chariton cannot match; even within the area of the Aegean basin, which we can assume would be relatively well known to the readers of both texts, Arrian names a substantially greater number of places. 21. Sicily, Italy, Libya and the Ionian Sea are covered in a matter of 3 lines: 3.3.8; Caria: 3.7.3; 4.7.4; 5.1.1. 22. Sidon gets a brief mention at 7.4.11 as an object of concern to the Persian king, but does not play any part in the action.


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civic festivities (7.1-4). Details of the voyages between one location and another are equally meagre. Callirhoe views Athens from a distance (1.11), and the pair call in briefly to visit the temple of Aphrodite in Paphos on their way home (8.2.7). The 'Ionian Sea' which looms so large in the characters' thoughts is actually crossed in a very short amount of narrative time.23 On land, too, redundant place-names (that is, names that create a sense of movement in a voyage narrative but do not form locations for significant action) are virtually non-existent in the primary narrative, and are used chiefly to emphasize the remoteness of Babylon. Callirhoe's route to Babylon takes her from Ionia via 'Syria and Cilicia' (in that order) to the Euphrates crossing, beyond which she sees only 'a vast stretch of unending land' labelled 'Bactra and Susa' (5.1.3-7); Chaereas's 'faster' route takes him from Caria via Armenia (5.2.1).24 The return trip takes both parties back 'across the river' into Syria (7.2.1), rather mysteriously allowing the King to deposit his womenfolk in the island of Aradus en route (7.4.11-5.1). The names of Tyre and Sidon, Coele-Syria and Phoenicia are sufficient to establish a loose sense of location for the war with the Egyptians; the mysterious Chios (8.5.2) may be due to textual corruption.25 Redundant placenames, in this most economical of narratives, are few and far between (see Map 3). Secondary Toponyms Unlike some of the later novelists, Chariton does not make much use of reported narrative or flashback. The Sicilian search parties report back on their fruitless quest for Callirhoe in the briefest of terms (3.3); more dramatic significance is attached to the misfortunes of the pirate chief Theron, told in a (largely fictitious) first-person flashback, which adds the names Cephallenia and Crete to the novel's narrative map (3.4). The revolt of the Egyptian king allows the addition of a southern dimension: Memphis, Pelusium and the Nile make a brief appearance in the summary report of the uprising (6.8; 7.3), but do not significantly disrupt the

23. See below, p. 42. 24. Neither route inspires great confidence in Chariton's acquaintance with the geography of the Eastern provinces (cf. Alexander, 'Voyaging', pp. 26-28). 25. Reardon, Collected Novels, p. 117 n. 128. K. Plepelits, Chariton von Aphrodisias, Kallirhoe (Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann, 1976), p. 189 n. 190, suggests that the name may conceal a Phoenician one.

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East-West alignment of the main narrative.26 More significant for the narrative is the opportunity afforded by this episode for adding a depth of local colour to the Babylonian setting through the invocation of the more distant Persian regions of Bactra and Ecbatana (6.8). The 'vast unending tract of land', evoked so feelingly when Callirhoe crosses the Euphrates, is here fleshed out with names which give the narrative map a semblance of geographical depth (see Map 4). Decorative Toponyms Finally, we should note how Chariton adds further depth to his topographical characterization through a scattering of names whose function in the narrative might be described as purely decorative. Place-names are used to label the fabrics and hangings of Babylon in a way that adds a richness of local colour to the elaborate picture of the fabulous East built up by the narrative. Like the careful descriptions of the throneroom or the king's hunting accoutrements, they serve to distance the Greek reader from the exotic world in which the novel's characters find themselves.27 Chariton uses a similar technique to provide both local colour and historical depth to his heroes' Sicilian homeland through the use of topographical surnames. Acragas and Rhegium (1.2), Thurii and Messana (1.7) play no part in the narrative directly, but they serve to flesh out the topographically flat portayal of Sicily in the primary narrative, as does the (anachronistic) introduction of Sybaris into Theron's false account of Callirhoe's origins (1.12; 2.1); the name's associations add a further dimension to the irony of the tale.28 These names also serve to remind the reader that Sicily and southern Italy were essentially Greek territory at the dramatic date of the story, thickly dotted with Greek colonies. The name 'Greek' itself, which is frequently invoked by the novel's heroes, indicates not the Greek mainland but the larger, more nebulous linguistic and cultural domain including Magna Graecia and the Ionian coast.29 But perhaps the most interesting feature of Chariton's narrative map at this level of decorative toponymy is the cluster of names around the classical Greek heartlands of Attica and the Peloponnese. Lacedaemonians (Spartans), Corinthians and Peloponnes26. Cf. Alexander, 'Voyaging', pp. 26-28 and Figure 7. 27. Cf. 6.4. 2 (Nisaean horse, Tyrian purple, Chinese quiver and bow); cf. 8.1,6. 28. Cf. Reardon's note (CollectedNovels, p. 35 n. 29). 29. Cf. e.g. 7.2.3: 'we are Greeks; we are of noble family in Syracuse'. Conversely, Athens is located not in 'Greece' but in 'Attica' (1.11.4).


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ians figure prominently in Chaereas's band of champions against Tyre30; the battles of Salamis, Marathon and Thermopylae are invoked to inspire both hero and heroine to courage against the barbarians.31 These are not geographical locations for any action in the narrative, primary or secondary: rather they serve to provide a cultural location for the whole story within Chariton's chosen time frame.32 Their density creates an 'information bump' on the map which ensures the surprising prominence of a region in which none of the novel's action takes place, but which clearly plays a vital role in the cultural identity of its implied readers (see Map 4A).33 Xenophon In topography, as in so much else, Xenophon is markedly less sophisticated than Chariton: in Dalmeyda's words, 'in general, his great loveaffair with geography is very poorly rewarded'.34 Scene-painting is sketchy, with little topographical detail to enliven the empty, banditridden landscapes. The chronological location is never clearly defined, but the effect is broadly that of a timeless 'Hellenistic' setting. Hellenistic foundations like Antioch and Alexandria figure prominently in the 'New World' of Syria and Egypt alongside the older Greek settlements of Sicily and the Aegean, but Roman names are conspicuous by their absence. The regional geography of Asia Minor, as in Chariton, reflects the survival of the older Greek nomenclature (Lycia, Phrygia, Pamphylia), but it is too imprecise to allow any clear correlation with Roman toponymy. 'Asia' occurs once, at 1.1.3, to denote the region to which dramatic news from Ephesus is broadcast; but this usage is consistent both with the Roman period, in which Ephesus is the centre of the province of Asia, and with the older Ionian usage (reflected in Chariton) in which the Greek cities of the Ionian seaboard are seen as the frontage to a whole continent. The occasional title of a local magistrate can be 30. 7.3.7; cf. also 8.2.12. 31. Salamis and Marathon are invoked by Callirhoe at 6.7.10, Thermopylae by Chaereas at 7.3.9. Cf. also Olympia and Eleusis, 5.4.4. 32. The comparison with Medea at 2.9.3, which introduces Scythia into the narrative map, is a further connection with the narrative world of Greek myth. 33. Cf. Alexander, 'Voyaging', pp. 34-35. 34. G. Dalmeyda, Xenophon d'Ephese: Les Ephesiaques (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1962), p. xii: 'en general, son grand amour de la geographic est tres mal paye de retour' (my trans.).

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used to provide a terminus post quern for the author, as in 2.13.3, where Perilaus is identified as 'eirenarch' of Cilicia, a post-Trajanic office, but Xenophon's phraseology here seems an unconscious betrayal of his own period, reflecting a naive lack of chronological sensitivity, rather than a conscious attempt to provide a temporal location for the narrative.35 Primary Toponyms The distinction between primary and secondary toponyms is less obvious in Xenophon's work. The total number of geographical names in the two novels is almost identical, but in Xenophon most of them occur in the primary narrative as locations for adventures. Thus where Chariton concentrates his dramatic action into three major settings, Xenophon (in a shorter text36) spreads his in a more episodic fashion across a much wider range of locations. The story begins and ends in Ephesus, which is doubly anchored in Ionia and in Asia.37 After their capture by pirates somewhere on the 'Egyptian sea' (1.12.3), the protagonists are taken first east (Phoenicia, Syria and Cilicia, with a detour to Cappadocia and Pontus), then south to Egypt and Ethiopia, then west to Italy and Sicily before making their way back to Rhodes for a tearful reunion. Within this framework, the sense of journeying is achieved for the most part in the simplest possible fashion, by naming destinations: Phoenicia, Cappadocia, Ethiopia, India, Italy.38 In the novel's final scene, Anthia catalogues the various attempts on her virtue by geographical region: 'No one persuaded me to go astray: not Moeris in Syria, Perilaus 35. Perilaus is described not as eipr|V(xpxT) is also used of Yahweh in 3.6, 7; 4.13; 5.8—all judgment contexts.

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out of Edom, who so cruelly attacked 'his brother' (1.11-12).33 In the future these will be the nations of the deity, no longer the objects of his censure and wrath. They will be called by the 'name', an affirmation that goes beyond even 9.7, which states Yahweh's involvement in the history of other peoples. The new context is one of peace and prosperity under God. The verb 'possess' (eh-, 9.12) in other parts of the Old Testament can appear in a military framework, yet here it is left without elaboration or comment.34 Nowhere in this passage is it explained how Israel will possess the other peoples (contrast the use of orr in 2.10). The context of peace implies a different manner of 'possession' not fueled by armed confrontation. War, in other words, is not the means to accomplish peace. Lastly, the ubiquitous title 'Yahweh Lord God of Hosts' no longer appears. The portrait of Yahweh in 9.11-15 does not mention the Warrior God.35 The phrase 'your God' (9.15) speaks of a god of restoration, in contrast to its use in 4.12 and 8.14. In this closing passage, what the text of Amos does (to use a loaded term) is deconstruct itself. The prophet's Yahweh in that future of peace beyond the coming judgment of invasion signals the reader that the title 'Yahweh Lord God of Hosts' and its accompanying theology are not the final word about the deity; the invasion is not the ultimate will of God. A literary approach would suggest that the text is not communicating that the reader must deny the earlier picture and choose the latter. Rather, both are held in tension. Indeed, the description of the Utopia 33. Another avenue to pursue in regard to Edom would be a canonical reading within the Book of the Twelve. For example, would the fact that Obadiah (1) condemns Edom's arrogance and participation in the sacking of Jerusalem (vv. 1-14), (2) makes Edom representative of the nations (v. 15; cf. Joel. 3.19 [Heb. 4.19]), and uses the verb err (vv. 17-20) in any way modify a reading of Amos 9.11-15? For two very different approaches to this new area of research, see P.R. House, The Unity of the Twelve (JSOTSup, 97; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990); T. Collins, The Mantle of Elijah: The Redaction Criticism of the Prophetical Books (The Biblical Seminar, 20; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993), pp. 59-87. 34. This verb is often used in passages dealing with the Conquest or military conflict. For a recent study, see N. Lohfink, 'Die Bedeutung von heb. jrs qal und hiph\ fiZns 27 (1983), pp. 14-33. 35. The LXX alters the last line to include this title. In light of the importance of the title in the rest of the book, this harmonizing emendation is not surprising. At the same time, the change underscores the abruptness of the shift in the picture of the deity in 9.11-15.

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depends on the realities of the present and soon coming loss and makes no sense without them. It is their negation. It is a future built upon the ruins of what the nation now knows and shortly will suffer. It is, in other words, an alternative reality held out as a sure hope by the same God. Conclusion There are many ways that the reader can be drawn into the world of the biblical text by its poetics.36 The believing community, which understands the prophetic book as an identity document and the source of its imagination, can be brought into dialogue with and challenged by the text. The world of the book of Amos, I believe, can trigger reflection on the different expressions of Christian faith within Central America. Within that textual world, Yahweh stands over against the use of his person for the military convictions and hubris of Israel. In the modern context we need to let the text challenge us to ask, 'How has Yahweh been utilized to legitimate postures of violence and identified with particular political persuasions or regimes in our world?'37 At the same time, in Central America where many feel compelled to take options, we wrestle with the question of whose side might Yahweh be on. With claims on God from across the political spectrum, I wonder if the best we can say in light of this text is that Yahweh is within our history** and that he is committed to the destruction of all regimes of war and all military pretense. Could we not entertain the possibility that Yahweh is permitting the tearing down of our warlike world and 36. See Carroll R., Contexts for Amos, pp. 140-49,278-89. Cf. A. Thiselton, New Horizons in Hermeneutics: The Theory and Practice of Transforming Biblical Reading (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1992), pp. 471-620. For the particular concerns of this essay, note S.R. Suleiman, 'War Memories: An Autobiographical Reading', NLH 24 (1993), pp. 563-75. 37. Liberation theology has applied the notion of idolatry to expressions of Christian religion in Latin America. See my discussion in Contexts for Amos, pp. 302-306. 38. See the observations of J.W. Rogerson, 'Progressive Revelation: Its History and its Value as a Key to Old Testament Revelation', Epworth Review 9 (1982), pp. 73-86; 'Can a Doctrine of Providence be Based on the Old Testament?', in Eslinger and Taylor (eds.), Ascribe to the Lord, pp. 529-43. The issue of God's involvement in history has been the object of reflection of liberation theologians, such as Gutierrez (A Theology of Liberation, chs. 9-11).

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allowing our self-destruction, because of the commitment of some to causes (of the Right or the Left) which conscript Yahweh in order to justify their violence and political aspirations.39 In the reality of the book of Amos there are no heroes or martyrs, just the ugliness of war, the wailing in the streets, and the suffering of guilty and innocent alike. Maybe it must be so with us. But the text will not allow the reader to forget the hope for another reality: 9.11-15 offers a vision of peace and reconstruction. Do our theologies in Central America proclaim peace, a peace like that in the textual world that is a negation of the present and that makes no sense apart from the horrors of today's realities? Is the God of the churches ultimately a God of peace? How do we, can we, contribute to national reconstruction during and beyond the political negotiation process? How can the churches participate in an alternative future that must be built upon the ruins of conflict? Can we speculate on mediations of the future? What shape would these take? How should the Church nurture a people of peace? How can the Church's liturgy stimulate worshippers to consider and embrace peace? Questions arise abruptly and starkly in the search for a viable theology and the incarnation of Christian virtue and vision. A literary reading of the prophetic text such as the one offered here may not solve all the hermeneutical, theological and ethical issues that arise within our Central American context. But it can invite the reader to live the tension of war and peace, and not evade it by the dating of passages as early or late or by simply opting for the peace tradition within its message. I submit that a pacifist position should consider this literary tension between Yahweh Lord God of Hosts and the God of peace and between judgment and hope. Perhaps the deity is to be experienced in that very tension, which is the reality of everyday life of the Church in Central America in its pilgrimage to a different future. 39. Perhaps Christians would not be so surprised if their political projects were to fail. Note the consternation of some when the FSLN (Frente Sandinista de Liberaci6n Nacional) lost the 1990 elections (U. Molina, 'Dios, el proceso revolucionario y las elecciones del 25 de febrero de 1990', RIBLA 7 [1990], pp. 113-20; Berryman, Stubborn Hope), or the attempts in Guatemala to provide a theological explanation for the ousters of evangelical presidents Rios Montt in August, 1983 (J. Anfuso and D. Sczepanski, Efratn Rios Montt jSiervo o dictador? [Guatemala: Gospel Outreach, 1983]), and Serrano Elias in May, 1993 (Juan Luis Font, 'La profecia. Los extranos designios del cielo', Magazine 21 [6 June 1993], pp. 7-9).

THE HUNGRY KNIFE: TOWARDS A SENSE OF SACRIFICE Bruce Chilton

Introduction Abraham is on Mount Moriah, where he has taken his son Isaac (Gen. 22). His purpose is to offer Isaac as a burnt sacrifice, to see him consumed by fire in order to please a god called Yahweh. As Kierkegaard famously saw,1 the force of the action is all the stronger for the absence in the passage of affective language. What does the son feel while he carries firewood up the mountain? What is going through the father's mind as he lifts the knife to slay his only son by Sarah? The reader of the story only wants it all to stop. And it does, or almost. An angel calls to Abraham at the last moment, and commends him for a willingness not to withhold his son from God. Abraham then offers a ram in the place of his son. All is well in Israel. The patriarch assures the survival of his progeny, and at the same time the deity is pleased enough to promise him a land. Israel can go on offering rams, as actually occurred in the Temple, in the assurance that Yahweh will see them as being as precious as sons. But we are not satisfied. Why should a deity want a sacrifice in the first place? What sense is there in it? In Judaism and Christianity, the consensus has been that sacrifice is there to be transcended. Ancient and modern atheists have found it easy to score points by portraying the gods of believers as munching on rams and the like. The West can agree on little, but the opinion that sacrifice is some kind of mistake is nearly universal.

1. Cf. S0ren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling and The Sickness unto Death (trans. W. Lowrie; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1954).

CHILTON The Hungry Knife

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Jewish interpretation in the postbiblical period found an elegant way to portray the error involved in the story of Abraham and Isaac on Mount Moriah.2 As Abraham lifted the knife over his head, the blade was said to have opened as if it had jaws, ready to consume the flesh of the boy's throat. Abraham did not want to drain his son's blood; the hungry knife made him do it.3 Western portrayals of religion have treated sacrifice in a cognate manner. If a scholar likes a religious system, s/he is likely to ignore sacrificial activity within it; if sacrifice is mentioned, it is likely to be by way of blame. I have never had a nonMuslim student of Islam who was not horrified at the sacrifice of sheep on 'Idu 'al Adha, prior to Ramadan, which still commemorates what Abraham did on the mountain.4 But those same students who express horror at mid-term go home for Thanksgiving and eat birds bred and slaughtered for the occasion. We do not much think of what we are doing while we communally keep and slaughter animals, and then consume them on the same holiday; does our lack of reflection make our activity less a sacrifice? When we do not like what is going on, it is a sacrifice; when we do, it is a custom. The distinction applies especially in the study of other religions. A colleague of mine is an ethnographer. She was offering a course in the anthropology of religion at the same time that I was working on a book on sacrifice. So I asked her, as one might, what her bibliography was when she treated the topic of sacrifice. She paused for a moment before explaining that it was not a subject that was treated in the course. Nice indigens do not sacrifice, they practice commensality. Routine Explanations of Sacrifice Suppose my colleague had been willing to think through sacrifice. She had recourse to a body of anthropological literature. Five views might 2. Cf. Shalom Spiegel, The Last Trial: On the Legends and Lore of the Command to Abraham to Offer Isaac as a Sacrifice: The Akedah (trans. Judah Goldin; Woodstock: Jewish Lights, 1993). 3. The etymological occasion for such stories is that the term for knife (ma'akelef) is derived from the verb to 'eat' ('akat), as is observed in Gen. R. 56.3. 4. See the Qur'an, Sura 37.107. Most commentators have held that the son in question was Ishmael, but Isaac has also found defenders. Cf. Reuven Firestone, 'Abraham's Son as the Intended Sacrifice (Al-Dabih, Qur'an 37.99-113): Issues in Qur'anic Exegesis', JSS 34 (1989), pp. 95-131; Suliman Bashear, 'Abraham's Sacrifice of his Son and Related Issues', Der Islam 67 (1990), pp. 243-77.

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be mentioned. They appear frequently in scholarly and popular literature, and they all represent sacrifice as a mistaken notion. Sacrifice has been seen as a gift, given under the mistaken idea that a god might be bought off, so that evil might be warded off and good produced.5 That critique of sacrifice is ancient; the expression do ut des ('I give that you might give') is in the stock and trade of the GraecoRoman disaffection with anthropomorphism. In the nineteenth century, Edward Burnett Tylor spelled out the mistake to us: as prayer 'is a request made to a deity as if he were a man, so sacrifice is a gift made to a deity as if he were a man'.6 Tylor is willing to admit that sacrifices might be offered and accepted in a symbolic sense, but he concerns himself only with the examples he can find of people giving so that deities might give in return. The majority of known instances of sacrifice, which seem far more routine, are simply not explained. Before there were gifts, there was food, and William Robertson Smith attempted to explain the consistent link between sacrifice and eating.7 He found that in the most ancient Hebrew sacrifice (the zebah), 'the animal victim was presented at the altar and devoted by the imposition of hands, but the greater part of the flesh was returned to the worshipper, to be eaten by him under special rules', so that God and worshipper were joined in the communion of eating the same flesh.8 Robertson Smith understood sacrifice as a communal act, and he did so with such emphasis that the earlier, unreflective emphasis upon the individual in religious life, a persistent inheritance from the Enlightenment, was overcome within the study of sacrificial activity. Moreover, he correctly recognized that it was the social dimension of sacrifice, its celebration and consumption of the fruits of common labor, which produced 'the habitually joyous temper of ancient sacrificial worship'.9 The psycho-social affect of sacrifice was therefore marked out as an appropriate topic of inquiry. Sadly, however, in biblical study the theory of sacrifice as a gift has all but eclipsed the model of communal eating that Robertson Smith 5. Cf. the views of Edward Burnett Tylor, most conveniently available in Religion in Primitive Culture (introduction by P. Radin; Gloucester: Smith, 1970), a reprint of parts of Primitive Culture (1871). 6. Tylor, Primitive Culture, p. 461. 7. Lectures on the Religion of the Semites (Burnett Lectures; London: Black, 1901 [1889]). 8. Robertson Smith, Lectures, pp. 239,240; cf. pp. 226,227,245, 265, 269. 9. Robertson Smith, Lectures, pp. 258-64,260.


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developed.10 It is as if, in respect of sacrifice, religionists stopped reading anthropology during the nineteenth century.11 What has partially caused the problem is Robertson Smith's curious insistence that sacrifice as a whole is to be derived from the notion that the victims were 'deemed sacred, because...they were of the kin of the worshippers and of their god'.12 That highly specific notion of 'totem', generalized and retrojected to the origin of sacrifice, has not inspired confidence.13 James George Frazer's The Golden Bough was first published in 1890, just after the posthumous appearance of Robertson Smith's lectures, and has been through many incarnations.14 Frazer's interest was consumed with the story in Strabo of the priest of the grove of Diana Nemorensis, known as the king of the wood, who is 'an incarnation of the spirit of the woodlands', and insofar as he is 'the embodiment of the spirit of fertility, the priestly king is a human god'.15 The priest or king is subject to an enhanced care for 'taboos' which are designed to 'prevent any impairment of his "soul" or vital essence'. Nonetheless, of course, signs of decay inevitably manifest themselves, and the murder of the king is designed to protect the spirit from the weakness of that which embodies it.16 Sacrifice for Frazer is a 'crude but pathetic attempt to disengage an immortal spirit from its mortal envelope'. Generations of readers have been treated to the moral of the story, that sacrifice is a 'pathetic fallacy from its crude inception in savagery', which 'the 10. The eclipse became nearly total with the publication of George Buchanan Gray, Sacrifice in the Old Testament: Its Theory and Practice (Oxford: Clarendon, 1925). But even Robertson Smith's shadows are interesting; cf. Marcel Detienne and Jean-Pierre Vernant (with J.-L. Durand, S. Georgoudi, F. Hartog and J. Svenbro), La cuisine du sacrifice en pays grec (Bibliotheque des histoires; Paris: Gallimard, 1979). 11. Cf. J.W. Rogerson, Anthropology and the Old Testament (Growing Points in Theology; Oxford: Blackwell, 1978). His account of how some of Robertson Smith's theories have been recorded as if they were lexical facts (pp. 26-28) precisely illustrates my observation. 12. Robertson Smith, Lectures, p. 296. 13. He dwelled particularly on the significance of the camel among the Saracens of late antiquity (Lectures, pp. 282-83). 14. Cf. the note appended to The New Golden Bough: A New Abridgment of the Classic Work by Sir James George Frazer (ed. T.H. Gaster; New York: Mentor, 1964), pp. v-vi. 15. Frazer, The New Golden Bough, pp. xxi, 31 (in the edition of Gaster). 16. Frazer, The New Golden Bough, pp. xxi-xxii. Cf. also The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion. III. The Dying God (London: Macmillan, 1911), pp. v-vi.

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speculative theology of civilized nations' cannot elevate above the category of 'superstition'.17 Frazer confuses religion and magic,18 and presupposes throughout an animistic literalism, in which sacrifice is a form of liberating violence (from the point of view of the preservation of spirit), or of destructive violence (from the point of view of transferred guilt). Why his reading of Strabo's account should explain sacrifice globally is a mystery to me. Two French sociologists, Henri Hubert and Marcel Mauss, clearly identified what is most wrong with Tylor and Robertson Smith and Frazer. They all review a panorama of examples of sacrifice, but they fasten on only one sort—a gift, a feast, a liberating slaughter—to provide the meaning of sacrifice. We cannot proceed from such a supposed point in history, but typically from representative texts. In their quest for 'thoroughly typical facts', Hubert and Mauss turn to Vedic and biblical texts.19 They contend that sacrifice is intended to maintain a balance between the divine world and the human world; 'the expulsion of a sacred spirit, whether pure or impure, is a primordial component of sacrifice, as primordial or irreducible as communion'.20 The sacrificial victim is held to contain a spirit which is liberated by its death (as Frazer also would have it),21 and which might be directed to 'the sacred world' or to 'the profane world'.22 The rite as a whole is one of either 'sacralization', where the purpose is to increase the sanctity of the sacrificer,23 or of 'desacralization', where the purpose is transfer the sanctity of the sacrificer to the victim.24 Throughout, they insist that sacrificial practice demands 'a religious frame of mind', in that the act implies the existence of the divine and human realms, and the possibility of mediating the two.

17. The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion. VI. The Scapegoat (London; Macmillan, 1913), p. v. 18. Cf. Caster's strictures, The New Golden Bough, pp. xviff. 19. Henri Hubert and Marcel Mauss, Sacrifice: Its Nature and Function (trans. W.D. Halls; foreword by E.E. Evans-Pritchard; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), pp. 2,7. Their work first appeared inL'annee sociologique in 1898. 20. Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 6; cf. pp. 9, 17, 55. 21. Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, p. 30. The similarity with Frazer's construal of sacrifice is striking at this point. 22. Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, pp. 32-45; cf. pp. 65, 66,69. 23. Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, pp. 52, 62,95-96. 24. Hubert and Mauss, Sacrifice, pp. 56,57, 62,95-96.


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The purpose of the sacrificial exercise is to protect or empower those who offer sacrifice.25 The fundamental flaw in the scheme of Hubert and Mauss was recognized by E.E. Evans-Pritchard. He observes that among the Nuer people of Africa, the topic of his investigations, the formal mediation of the sacred and the profane is not held to be a feature of sacrifice. Rather, sacrifice is more in the nature of a substitute of the person who offers it, an appeasement offered to gods whose only useful place is out of the way.26 When a youth in the Nuer village Evans-Pritchard was staying in was wounded by a man in another village, the latter immediately sent his spear, which was used in a sympathetic manipulation designed to reduce the inflammation of the wound. The next day a deputation arrived with a goat for sacrifice, so that 'The wound would, as the Nuer put it, "be finished with the goat'". The visitors consecrated the goat by rubbing ashes on its back, and a 'leopard-skin priest' (a tribal neutral) delivered the invocation, in which the details of the accident were rehearsed and assurance was given that the youth would not die. People from the village then brought a wether for a similar invocation, and the meat of both animals was consumed by the home villagers, after the visitors has departed.27 25. The teleology of the analysis becomes clearest in the later work of Marcel Mauss, A General Theory of Magic (trans. R. Bain; New York: Norton, 1972). Especially on p. 26, he calls attention to the reinforcement of Brahmanic privilege by means of sacrifice. 26. Cf. Edwards Evans Evans-Pritchard, Nuer Religion (Oxford: Clarendon, 1956). 27. In that an ox was not at issue within the proceedings, the importance of the case was not marked as great. The ashes are associated with the potential guilt of the visitors, and the sacrifice as a whole is designed both to restore the good relations of the two villages and to effect a removal of the offense that might divide them. A mistake has been made, and the village of the wounded party and spirit (kwoth) are both appeased. The second village takes no meat from for the sacrifice, and associates its guilt with the ashes rubbed on one of the offerings. A priest of the earth, not of either village or a territorial clan, warrants that satisfaction has been made at the level of the human and the divine. Within the features of consciousness of which we will speak later, a transfer of benefit has been effected in pragmatic terms; affectively, one village has been appeased, while another has acknowledged and atoned for blame; and kwoth, at least as attendant to the words of the priest, removes the matter from a cycle of vengeance. Within Nuer Religion, see ch. 11, The Meaning of Sacrifice', pp. 272-86.

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In the end, the appeal to 'typical facts' has not produced agreement. Anthropological approaches to sacrifice have produced a welter of paradigms, which are not easily reconcilable.28 For Tylor, sacrifice is tribute; for Robertson Smith, it is a communal meal with the gods. Frazer sees the death of the priest/king as the destruction of an envelope of power, in order to release that power. Hubert and Mauss portray sacrifice as the knife's edge that balances the sacred and the profane. Evans-Pritchard rather stresses the banishment of the divine by sacrificial means. None of the paradigms sketched above is negligible; the simple fact is that they are based upon some evidence. The problem is that no single one of them explains the others. The crisis of competing anthropological theories has to some extent occasioned the most vivid explanation of sacrifice in the recent literature. It comes, not from an anthropologist, indeed it comes largely against anthropologists as such, from the pen of the literary critic, Rene Girard. The Challenge of Rene Girard Rene Girard's analysis is fascinating in its complexity, and in the range of ethnographic, historical and literary sources he treats,29 but the mechanism that Girard has in mind is essentially simple. His analysis is grounded in his understanding of desire, which he takes to be flawed from the outset. Desire for Girard is 'mimetic': one imitates a model, whose passions can never be one's own, so that the model is also a rival. The central problem of society is, therefore, how to diffuse an envy that is as endemic as it is potentially violent. The answer is to find a scapegoat, to whom social problems are attributed. The victim is then lynched. So central is that act to Girard's scheme, he has popularized the term lynchage in the French language. Societies start by blaming the victim, and double their cover up of their own violence by means of myths. In myths, societies credit the victim with supernatural power, in that its 'intervention' (that is, its death by violence) restored the community to 28. Rogerson's monograph recounts the nature of the problem, and further illustration is available in Bernhard Lang (ed.), Anthropological Approaches to the Old Testament (Issues in Religion and Theology, 8; London: SPCK; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1985). Professors Rogerson and Lang introduced me to the exegetical interest of social anthropology, critically assessed, and I am grateful to them. Whether my colleagues in the field of New Testament share my attraction remains to be seen. 29. Cf. La violence et le sacre (Paris: Grasset, 1972), translated as Violence and the Sacred (trans. P. Gregory; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1977).


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health. His analysis of the story of Oedipus is an example: in a primordial lynching, incest was the alleged crime, and the relief of pent-up envy turned the victim into a wise king. Give the community another generation of camouflage, and Oedipus would have been a god. Communities address the problem of violence by blaming and divinizing scapegoats. The reasoning is essentially magical, therefore, or mythological. Whatever the exact, chronological sequence in the development of rites, Girard believes that the most brutal are nearest their violent origin. In such rituals, the faithful re-enact the violence of their predecessors, while the words they use are epiphenomenal in relation to their imitation. It amounts to an ethical principle in Girard's analysis that interpretation should cease its complicity in the masking of collective violence. The discipline of ethnology falls under that accusation, and—in a particularly clever section which could have been written with my ethnographic colleague in mind—Girard compares Plato's censorship of mythic violence with the attempts of ethnologists to justify the violence of their subjects' rituals and myths.30 In his treatment of the Gospels, Girard's analysis becomes openly ethical and programmatic (one might even say, evangelical) in its orientation. Human culture, in his almost Augustinian understanding, is devoted to the perpetual dissimulation of its actual origins in collective violence. But if that be so, he asks himself how we can become aware of our cultural mendacity. His conclusion is that there must be a force that counteracts the primordial mendacity of culture, one that lays bare the lie we perpetuate with the force of revelation.31 That force, says Girard (with remarkably little argumentation), is the Bible.32 The revelatory force of the Scriptures is to be found simply in their rejection of the stereotypes usually laid upon the victim, in the acknowledgment that Christ was persecuted for no good reason. The Bible is supposed to demystify human experience, by releasing us from our various mythologies.33 Just here, however, Girard ironically tumbles into the most dreadful mythology of the modern period. He happily chooses passages as 30. Cf. La violence, pp. I l l , 112, and the whole of ch. 7, 'Les crimes des dieux', pp. 111-35. 31. La violence, p. 147. 32. La violence, p. 148: 'C'est la Bible telle que les Chretiens la defmissent, c'est Punion de I'Ancien et du Nouveau Testament qui constitute cette force de revelation'. 33. La violence, pp. 157, 158 (and 287, for another, resounding statement of his theme).

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revelatory which are clearly designed to impute to Jews the responsibility for the death of Jesus (in that they highlight his status as a victim). Although he blithely dismisses as beside the point a sensitivity to the incipient or actual anti-Semitism of the New Testament, Girard fails to observe that Jews become the scapegoat for the death of Jesus within the Gospels; the biblical 'revelation' he hails is to some extent a recapitulation of the textuality of persecution. And the persecution of Jews for which the Gospels provide a preface unfolds precisely in a modern, post-sacrificial environment. Violence is a hardy perennial, which thrives with or without the compost of sacrifice. Girard offers a kind of science of social humanity in which almost any literary product—myth, legend or fiction—may be adduced in order to gauge the operation of mimetic desire and violence within the society that produced that literature. Girard developed his science in critical dialogue with Freud: and while he dispensed with Oedipal urges, the 'unconscious' and myths of primeval origins, he honed the most basic instrument of Freudian analysis. Girard operates on the primary—albeit undiscussed—supposition that a text must be interpreted according to its latent content, as a potential expression of desire and/or violence (and therefore sacrifice), whatever its manifest content may suggest. Where Freud's psycho-analysis is geared to the biographies of individuals, Girard's is focused on the lives of people in society. In both cases, the purpose of analysis is to uncover the source or sources of maladjustment, be it in the form of personal or communal violence, and the supposition—again in both cases—is that the conscious identification of such sources will effect a remedy. That may or may not be the case, but it must be pointed out that at this point, where it concerns the theoretical justification for supposing that analysis will effect a cure, Freud is articulate, where Girard is not. Whatever the difficulties associated with the 'unconscious', it must at least be granted that, if there be such a thing, the movement of its contents into the realm of the conscious would produce a change in the map of the mind. Where Freud has a theory, which may or may not be problematic, Girard has only a liberal's faith that being aware of things will bring about improvement in the realm of society. Particularly where it concerns the presence of violence and its exorcism, by means of critical reflection, Girard's liberal program at times seems naive. He appears to believe, for example, that 'our' society (whatever that may be) is systemically less violent than were primitive


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(that is, sacrificial) societies. But such a judgment is possible only if one concentrates one's attention upon sacrifice as an institution of violence, which is the very point Girard is trying to sustain. Even if sacrifice is to be so understood, its presence or absence is scarcely determinative of the extent to which a society will have recourse to violence. Within 'our' own experience, war, racism, colonialism and economic oppression have been far more effective means of social destruction than any form of sacrifice known within history. If it is to be a matter of counting corpses, sacrifice must appear incalculably more benign than nationalism. Nonetheless, Girard finds it natural to speak of 'bloody sacrifice' as a matter of course. Why not 'bloody patriotism', or 'deadly idealism', 'or mortal piety'? In effect, Girard makes sacrifice in the ancient world the scapegoat for violence in modern experience. The problem of his analysis is not in his isolation of violence as a datum of human culture, and therefore as a factor of which critics must be aware; the problem is rather in his attempt to project that datum onto sacrifice, to identify an aspect of the human condition with an ancient institution with which he does not happen to enjoy sympathy. Ironically, he has mythologized what he defines as 'mythology' into the Satan that modern humanity must overcome. It is his version of the hungry knife. Girard's work throws into relief the modern dilemma, where it concerns the understanding of sacrifice. The line of demarcation between the ancient and the modern worlds may be drawn at the point where sacrifice is no longer offered. So understood, Christianity and Judaism (for different reasons) are precursors of the modern world; the Roman Empire became modern when it eschewed its ancestral religion in favor of Christianity, and every other culture has been modernized (if it has been) by embracing the notion that sacrifice is at best a waste of time and energy. Girard has shown us that sacrifice is so alien to modern consciousness that our very attempt to understand it might turn it into a monstrous double, which we imagine would threaten our very existence as civilized people. Quite evidently, we require a modality of analysis which transcends such ideological propaganda, if we are to comprehend the place of sacrifice in the ancient world. Sacrifice and Typology Girard is often successful in demonstrating that sacrifice may involve the institutionalization of violence precisely because it attempts to conceal violence: but his success resides in uncovering a dynamic of concealment

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and its consequences that may and should be applied to human institutions generally, not simply to sacrifice as though it were its sole or pristine manifestation. The challenge sacrifice poses to modern reckoning is to grasp its systemic importance, when 'we' (here Girard is surely correct) have simply ceased to reckon within a sacrificial framework. If we cannot apprehend sacrifice in a single movement, by reducing it to some feature that we can easily comprehend, such as the concealment of violence, perhaps we may discover a series of such features which— in aggregate—constitute a definable human activity. Such features should not be simply affective (or psycho-social), as in Girard's work, because sacrifice—by its very nature—is as much a political and economic as it is an emotional phenomenon in antiquity. There is always a pragmatic side: what is offered, by whom, when. Further, sacrifice is usually not simply a matter of doing certain things with a certain feeling. There is a concomitant intellectual aspect within any sacrificial institution of which we are aware. That aspect may or may not appear mythological from a modern point of view, but it is one of the features involved in sacrifice that is usually accessible to us. A typology of sacrifice, then, must be pragmatic, affective and ideological; those are the features of consciousness that appear to be involved in the sacrificial institutions of antiquity.34 Scholars of religion have typically assumed that the myths of antiquity will tell us what we need to know. The supposition is that you will understand a religious system if you become familiar with the gods people worship. I think that approach is precisely backwards. If we want to understand another religion, our point of access is a people's practice, not their gods. By definition, we do not share their gods, or even a view of what a 'god' might be. Theology is the last thing a student of religion can become involved in. Undergraduates all over the world read 'myths' without regard to the generally sacrificial settings in which they were produced, because we are unfamiliar with or uninterested in such 34. The analysis of a 'typology' of sacrifice as here proposed is a conscious refinement of the appeal of Hubert and Mauss to 'typical facts'. A fact can only be typical within an agreed perception of the phenomenon of which it is part, and a consensus of that sort is precisely what we lack in the case of sacrifice. We are rather in the position of being able to describe aspects of sacrifice, without being able to define sacrifice in itself. In classical terms, we possess 'types' (TUTCOI) of sacrifice only in the sense that we are aware of the impressions which sacrifice made; but we have no access to the 'antitype' (dvmtmoq), the reality in itself.


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settings. But from the point of view of critical study, the gods do not cause sacrifices; rather, it is sacrifice that generates the gods. As a pragmatic activity within the ancient world, sacrifice provides a focus for the community that practices sacrifice, and a sacrificial center may reinforce the emergence of economic centers and political centers.35 Sacrificial personnel may contribute settled leadership, and the activity of sacrifice in itself can be beneficial, in providing a consistent market for goods considered acceptable, and in establishing a standard of acceptability for such goods. Considerations of a pragmatic nature were in no way held to detract from the prestige of the god to whom sacrifice was made. Indeed, quite the reverse may be said to be the case. In Acts 19.24-27, a silversmith named Demetrius argues against Paul's preaching on both pragmatic and ideological grounds: because the crafting of ritual objects is opposed by Paul, both the livelihood of smiths (vv. 24b, 26, 27a), and the magnificence of Artemis, which is recognized throughout Asia Minor, are potentially threatened (v. 27b, c).36 Sacrifice is normally held to be good, in quite tangible ways, for the communities in which it is practised. Post-Protestant consciousness ordinarily distinguishes between the sacred and the secular, to the extent that profit from religion is routinely held in disrepute. The perspective from which Demetrius speaks is quite different: the magnificence of Artemis is both her temple and the trade in her idols (Acts 19.27). Her glory is not a function of some sacred realm held in isolation from the secular; rather, the interpenetration of the sacred and the secular that occurs whenever sacrifice is offered is reflected in the economic domain of Artemis, as well as in the realm of worship. The psycho-social or affective function of sacrifice, in providing a means of coping with violence, is well illustrated by Lev. 5.20-26 (in the English Bible, the passage is usually marked as 6.1-7) which deals with various cases of theft. The danger of vengeance is coped with by prescribing restitution and reparation, and by laying down the sacrifice 35. Cf. Paul Wheatley, The Pivot of the Four Quarters: A Preliminary Enquiry into the Origins and Character of the Ancient Chinese City (Chicago: University of Edinburgh Press, 1971). 36. Of course, Demetrius in Acts is presented as the spokesman of a discredited perspective, but he is made to frame a discourse that is similar to the others in Acts, in articulating a point of view that needs to be considered and dealt with within the mission of the Church.

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by which divine forgiveness is to be achieved. The affect of the judicial and sacrificial remedy is that both the victim and the perpetrator of a crime feel themselves to be fully part of Israel, chosen and fit for fellowship with Israel's god. The potential for division and violence is deflected into prescribed generosity. Communities that practice sacrifice understand themselves to exist within a sacrificial compact, such that their generosity within rituals is met by the generosity they desire. In Deuteronomy 12, there is an emphasis upon the purpose of sacrifice as a central, paradigmatic focus of generous activity including a commandment to rejoice (vv. 5-7). A sacrificial compact between God's blessing and his people here provides the incentive to ritual generosity, in a series of acts involving tangible giving. Elsewhere in Deuteronomy, obedience is held to result in a range of blessings—biological, agricultural, civic and international—while disobedience brings about cognate curses (ch. 28). In that the terms of reference of obedience are consistently sacrificial, it is appropriate to use Deuteronomy to illustrate the implicit connection that sacrifice posits between divine generosity and human generosity. Within Deuteronomy 12 itself, the command to rejoice within households (v. 7) amounts to a proleptic celebration of the fruits of sacrificial generosity. Regularly, sacrifice involves celebratory spending: in addition to offerings that are to be provided, there are journeys to be made, priests to be supported, special forms of clothing to be acquired, musical instruments to be crafted, processions to be organized, and the rest. The sacrificial cultus brings to paradigmatic expression those goods that a community cherishes, because just those goods are spent in the act of sacrifice and its corollary activities. Sacrifice engenders the desire of values, by means of the paradigmatic affect of the act of producing and giving that which is held to be valuable. To speak, for a moment, in Girardian terms, we may say that mimetic desire lies at the root of sacrifice even more profoundly than Girard himself has indicated. He has limited his attention to the effects of such a desire gone wrong, under which circumstances some means of social redirection become imperative. Sacrifice evidently does address violence of that sort (although sacrifice should not be thought of as merely a function of that violence). In addition, sacrifice must be understood as a paradigmatic institution, in which goods and their standards are defined, and the generous energy which produces them is inculcated. Those overarching purposes, the redirection of violence, and the inculcation of


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generosity, obtain at any level of human society; indeed, those purposes may be said to be of the very substance of communal living. A sacrificial compact—the conviction that a substantial change is achieved by sacrificial means—is involved when sacrifice is practised. Literary remains and/or oral reports can illuminate how peoples explain their own sacrifices. Those explanations might be classified as mythological, whether in Girard's sense, because aboriginal violence is concealed within them, or in the more common understanding, because consistent reference is made to the divine, to a being or beings held to exist above and beyond ordinary experience. In either case, the ideological sense of a sacrifice is an appropriate part of any description. Sacrificial mythologies may be polytheistic, monotheistic, henotheistic; they may be expressed in cosmological, narrative, discursive and/or metaphorical terms. They may concentrate on the pleasure the divine takes in sacrifice, or on the separation between the divine and the community that sacrifice establishes and preserves. Indeed, there is no way in which a typological analysis can spell out in advance the permutations and combinations of pragmatic, affective and ideological elements that a particular mythology might involve. The entire purpose of proceeding by typology is to avoid projecting foreign ideologies upon sacrificial actions. Premature characterization has been the especial failing of traditional approaches towards sacrifice, particularly within the Hebrew Bible. Characteristically, a polarity has been posited between 'propitiation' and 'expiation', as competing expressions of the mechanism of sacrifice. ('Propitiation' refers to the extent to which the god is pleased by the sacrifice, and therefore responds favorably to it, while 'expiation' refers to the separation effected by sin between the god and the believer, which sacrifice bridges.) Neither abstraction has been useful, particularly because they have been employed chiefly by Protestant scholars, whose own mythology has it that God cannot be pleased by what a person does, and cannot accept any diminution of sin, except by means of his own mercy. In other words, such scholarship excludes the necessity, and even the propriety, of sacrifice from the outset. Sacrificial ideologies nonetheless evince a certain consistency. They do, as has already been suggested, regularly explain the efficacy of sacrifice with reference to the divine, outside the ordinary realm of experience. Indeed, the divine may be defined from the perspective of sacrificial typology, not as a 'being' or 'beings' to be postulated, but as

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that in relation to which sacrifice is said to take place. People apparently adjust quite readily to a different frame or reference from that usually employed when sacrifice is involved. The notion that gods exist and are effective is perpetuated in sacrificial activity. Sacrifice is consistently held to involve a transaction between the community and its divine. From antiquity until the present day, the notion of a sacrificial transaction has attracted ridicule. Why should the divine be interested in what is offered to it? Is not the notion of do ut des hopelessly entangled with anthropomorphic understandings of the divine? What kind of god would take a bribe? Critiques of that sort can only be mounted from outside the sacrificial system; indeed, from that perspective, they are too easily mounted, because the questioner by definition is not bounded by the social values which the sacrificial system conveys. Within the system, such criticisms are ludicrous. Within tablet 11 (11. 155-61) of the Epic of Gilgamesh, Utnapishti reports on his own sacrifice after the flood that 'the gods smelled the sweet savour, the gods gathered like like flies about the priest of the offering'. As a result the gods meet and Utnapishti is granted immortality. The story works, although the portrayal of the divine is cruder than anthropomorphic; it is theriomorphic (indeed, entomomorphic!). The story works because the sacrifice works: rational portrayals of the gods are beside the point. Typology and the End of Explanation Sacrifice has been 'explained' as a variety of schemes of meaning projected into practise. Now that vigorous efforts have been made for better than a century to explain sacrifice in that manner, and now that no such effort has been able to falsify the others, there is practical warrant to consider the possibility that no such explanation exists. The history of discussion has seen a host of theories come and go, some of which we have considered. In particular cases, there is much to be said for the invocation of such meanings; they are—from time to time—the historical and/or ethnographic ideologies attached to identifiable sacrifices by those who participate in them. But when one meaning, derived from a few cases, is used to justify an alleged explanation for the entire phenomenon of sacrifice, it is time to be skeptical. To give a single rationalization pre-eminence as the source of sacrifice globally might be seen as an ideological species of myth-making. The point of the exercise seems to be to reduce sacrifice to a mistake and


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vaunt the superiority of modern rationalism. The grand design of explaining sacrifice is itself a product of modern mystification. The phenomenon of that mystification itself is not in the least surprising. Classical Greece was most eloquent in its myths of sacrifice during that period in which the efficacy of the gods and sacrifice came to be doubted; the elaborate cosmology of the Dogon is an esoteric doctrine, about which most of the Dogon themselves are uninformed in their sacrificial practise. The desire to explain sacrifice is to some extent at odds with the desire actually to engage in sacrifice. Myths, ancient or modern, may be understood as attempts to replace sacrifice, not simply as efforts to reinforce sacrificial piety. Once what is to be described is understood as an activity, progress is possible. We are not seeking to explain a thought, but to characterize an activity among one group of people that can be easily seen to be analogous to the activity of another group. The typology suggested may therefore be used, as a criterion of such comparison. To the overwhelming majority of modern interpreters who have considered the issue of sacrifice, the most evident part of the activity is the death or destruction of a victim. Because they see no sense in the act, their attention is drawn to the hapless object of the procedure. For that reason, some variant of a motif of death and rebirth, as in the myth of Frazer, is perennially attractive:37 it 'explains' the killing, and accords it as much romantic reason as is possible. Primitive peoples are vindicated for celebrating a desirable impossibility. But in sacrifice, consumption is probably a better metaphor to describe what is happening than death; the passing of the victim rarely arouses interest, while its preparation and disposal, to the advantage of people or the gods, is specified. What happens most nearly approximates a meal, and sacrificial practise— in the type and preparation of food and its consumers—is often associated with culinary practise. Meals, as well as sacrifices, are pragmatic and affective, and may occasion ideological transactions, although the gods are not normally involved. If we wished generally to characterize the typology of sacrifice we have been discussing, then, we could say that sacrifice is a feast with the gods, in which life as it should be— chosen and prepared correctly—is taken in order to produce life as it ought to be. 37. Cf. the resuscitation of the idea in Luc de Heusch, Sacrifice in Africa: A Structuralist Approach (trans. L. O'Brien and A. Morton; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1987).

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Sacrifice is the celebration of consumption and of being consumed: the 'victim' is offered in mimesis of what is taken and given at one and the same moment. My typology does not predict the features of particular institutions of sacrifice, but it does suggest that one sort of activity is a stable analogy for another. Moreover, that stability is of such a nature that meals may consistently be referred to in order to understand sacrifices. Meals elucidate, without explaining, the cognate activity of eating in society which is called sacrifice. The hungry knife, then, is like Girard's mimetic violence or Frazer's savage superstition. All such devices demonize a hunger which is within us and our social relations. But the hunger is not for death; sacrifice is rather the mimesis of what gives life.38 Genesis 22 is not the story of God's refusal to accept sacrifice. It is a menu of what and when he will eat, with what enjoyment, and to what purpose. Every social group has such a menu, although usually it is not as plain. Or, as some of the sages said of Genesis 22, 'All eating ('akilot) which Israel enjoy in this world, they enjoy only in the merit of that knife (maakelety (Gen. R. 56.3).

38. The heart of my departure from Girard is that I prefer Aristotle's definition of mimesis to his; cf. Chilton, The Temple of Jesus: His Sacrificial Program within a Cultural History of Sacrifice (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1992), esp. pp. 15-25 and 163-72. An invitation from Swarthmore College gave me the opportunity to develop these observations; I am particularly grateful to the departments of Anthropology, Classics and Religion.

WISDOM, VIRTUE AND THE HUMAN CONDITION R.E. Clements At the present time Old Testament theology is undergoing a significant change of method and approach, partly made necessary by the evident shortcomings of those major works on the subject that dominated the period from 1930 to 1970 and partly by fundamental shifts in the understanding of the theologian's task (cf. Hasel 1991; Reventlow 1985; H0genhaven 1988; Ollenburger et al. 1992; Hubbard et al. 1992; Kaiser 1993; Perdue 1994b). At one time it seemed as though Old Testament theology bore little relation to any other branch of theology and required a further process of interpretation in order to accommodate it to the contemporary reader's frame of reference (cf. Kaiser 1993: 60-89). Many of the same problems also beset the attempts at presenting a New Testament theology (cf. Raisanen 1990), and the difficulties are only partially relieved when an integrated biblical theology is sought (cf. Childs 1992; Oeming 1985 [1987]). It is in this context that the question 'What does it mean to be human?' is a fully relevant one for an Old Testament scholar to address since it focuses on the question of the nature of humankind in the context of a real world of actual experience. It provides a recognizable way for the modern reader to evaluate the biblical response to questions that relate closely to contemporary religious issues and forms a valuable bridge between ethics and a theological anthropology. The Bible has some very pertinent things to say concerning the nature of humanity. It is true that the dominant focus of this literature is upon human beings in their relationships to larger ethnic and political units— Israel and the Jewish communities of the Dispersion. Yet the more universal perspective, which became so important to the New Testament and to the Early Christian community (Chadwick 1993; Taylor 1992), is strongly anticipated in the Old Testament wisdom writings. It is somewhat paradoxical therefore that, to an earlier generation of scholars

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seeking a coherent Old Testament theology, the incipient universality and anthropocentricity of this intellectual tradition should have made its theological relevance appear marginal. Yet now wisdom's very unorthodoxy in its Israelite-Jewish setting provides an important balancing corrective to the limitations of a theology tightly structured around a centre formed from concepts of covenant and national election. The Old Testament and Humanity The purpose of the the present essay is to suggest that the question of the Old Testament's perception of humanity, and what has traditionally been described as 'the doctrine of man', can substantially benefit from attention to what Hannah Arendt has called 'The Human Condition' (Arendt 1958). This focuses on themes relating to the inescapable limitations and demands of the experience of living. It concerns the choosing of, and striving for, practical life-goals. It measures human life in terms of its actual possibilities and hopes for the attainment of happiness. In my book Wisdom in Theology (Clements 1992) I have argued that the Israelite wisdom tradition was particularly concerned to set the problems and limitations imposed by the human condition in the foreground. Questions regarding human mortality and the need to understand the fact of death as an inevitable part of the natural order of the world, rather than as a deity acting in confrontation with 'the Living God' became central to understanding (1992: 72ff.). Similarly, the structure of the economic order, which established the parameters of trade and prosperity and introduced immense risks when capital ventures failed and entire households foundered, became a further issue of primary concern. A range of other considerations that belonged to the social and physical ordering of life took centre-stage in the sages' deliberations. These had the effect of drawing into the sphere of religious and educational reflection questions about the choosing of life-goals, coping with risks and transience, and with the establishing of relationships which would prove supportive and satisfying in accepting the human condition as it was actually experienced. We are entitled to assume that the sages accepted as valid the wider claims of the cultus to bring 'blessing' and divine protection to the loyal and faithful worshipper of the one true God (Westermann 1978: 88101). Yet such claims are hidden away in the background and, although the divine reality is fully assumed, more practical and immediate guide-

CLEMENTS Wisdom, Virtue and the Human Condition

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lines for living are striven for. Total commitment to the family and its unity as a household, careful choice of friends and associates, and, most particularly, resolute determination to follow the dictates of wisdom above other possibilities are held out as primary necessities of life (cf. Prov. 1.20-33; etc.). Speculative questions about the origin of evil appear to have been less important than practical steps to avoid entanglement with untrustworthy neighbours or reckless ventures (Prov. 4.14-19; 13.20; etc.). All in all close attention to the human condition is put forward as the surest guide to achieving a long and satisfying life, so that studying what this condition entails is held to be an essential basis for formulating worthy and worthwhile life-goals. In other words the sages believed that only by studying the human condition could the serious student of wisdom find the meaning of life.1 When we come to examine what the Old Testament has to say about the nature of human beings, we find that neither the strangely outmoded Hebrew portrayals of their physical make-up, nor an overriding preoccupation with their membership of an elect community, has much to offer in understanding the human condition. Clearly these were both aspects of the understanding of the human scene that the wisdom writers could take for granted, but about which they have little to say directly. Instead more immediate considerations of the level of wealth or poverty into which a person was born (Whybray 1990: 23-42), the integrity and serious-mindedness of the household in which he or she grew up, and the attitudes, hopes and frustrations that would accompany this through each of life's stages, claim their attention. Human frailty, vulnerability and mortality bothers these authors deeply. Yet so also do the problems of earning a living, making a successful marriage, establishing a household of their own, managing their children and securing a sufficient degree of satisfaction out of life so as to invest it with a sense of purpose (Fredericks 1993). These concerns shaped their formulation of the the sort of education they tried to impose and their understanding of what constituted virtue. They gave rise, however imperfectly, to the belief in a concept of human happiness that never allowed its individualistic expression to squeeze out recognition of its social and neighbourly dimension (cf. Clements 1993). Ideas of virtue 1. The quest for the meaning of life would appear to lie at the heart of Qoheleth's (Qoh. 1.3 etc.) concern with the question of the 'gain', or 'advantage' that is to be won from life's struggles and so with the goal to which human effort should be directed.

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and goodness posed at an individual level made them very socially aware and led them to very pragmatic, if sometimes rather ungenerous, views of the relationship between the sexes (Prov. 19.13; etc.) or the wisdom of trusting in a legal system to sort out private quarrels and injustices (cf. Prov. 25.8-10; 29.9). Such a world-view appears to have drawn more of its guidance for conduct and the formation of personal attitudes from the experienced human situation than from promises of blessing within the covenant and its cultic affirmation (cf. Deut. 5.28-33; etc.). Undoubtedly it presupposed the latter (cf. Qoh. 5.1-6), but it certainly sought to augment such assurances with a sometimes earthy regard for 'the facts of life'. When we look at the central focus of widely used and respected expositions of the Old Testament understanding of the nature of human beings (Robinson 1911 [1926]; Kohler 1956; Wolff 1974), it is evident that two features have attracted special attention. The first concerns the pre-scientific nature of the biblical accounts of human physiology. Concepts of a body consisting of flesh (Heb. basar), animated by a life principle infused by breath (Heb. nepes), offer a description of the human persona which sounds strange to modern ears (Wolff 1974: 11-39). The direct involvement of intellectual processes and emotional responses in this overall bodily reality (Wolff, 1974: 40-58) present a further measure of strangeness in the portrayal of what a human being is and how he or she functions in the larger community. Such a view of human physiology has been held to be partially redressed by the assumption of the wholeness of the person, since this Hebrew portrayal undoubtedly comprehends both physical and mental capacities in a single bodily unit. Such a perception of the unity of the person has appealed to a number of modern interpreters. The individual human being is understood to be a reality in which a single identity is manifested throughout all its parts with no sharp distinction between mental and physical capacities (Johnson 1964 [1949]: 37ff.). The refusal of such a distinction has appeared to provide a particularly biblical perception of the nature of the human persona which has found contemporary echoes among those concerned with holistic medicine. More widely than this, however, as Midgely points out (1994: 7-8), it can be seen to recognize the close interactions between physical and mental sensitivities. A second point arises in that among biblical scholars the question of the separate individuality of each person, over against the group in which he or she was nurtured and sustained, whether the family, the


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father's house or the tribe, has provided a point for wider theological exploration. The concept of 'corporate personality', initially adumbrated in H.W. Robinson's The Christian Doctrine of Man and subsequently considerably extended by him (Robinson 1981), has appeared to offer a kind of biblical rebuke to the highly individualistic understanding of modern Western interpretations of human beings. Such a claim, drawing support from particularized interpretations of anthropology, have increasingly come under justifiable criticism (cf. Rogerson 1970: 1-16; 1978: 55-56). The claim that a highly distinctive way of thinking, unlike that of popular Western philosophizing, shaped and controlled what the Old Testament has to say about humanity appears to be a very dubious contention. It is argued here that Old Testament statements about human physiology fall far short of providing a workable basis for the understanding of human beings and that, so far as its perceptions of the human condition are concerned, there are many strikingly relevant and modern observations that the Old Testament offers to the modern reader. Far from merging the role of the individual with that of the larger group, attention to questions concerning the human condition brings to light the way in which the community may impose itself differently upon the individual. It can be either supportive and beneficial, or oppressive and destructive. Thirdly, we may note that attempts to portray the Old Testament understanding of humanity as evidencing a gradual separation of the individual from the group, and the investiture of this isolated and Prometheus-like individual with divinely-given accolades of greatness, appear to have been falsely drawn. Certainly we can see that the social and political structures of Israel changed considerably throughout the period covered by the emergence of the Old Testament literature (Rogerson and Davies 1989: 45-62). Within this the manner of dependence of the individual upon the wider community changed significantly, with residential, economic and political factors all playing a part. Yet these were primarily social and environmental features over which, for the most part, the individual had little control. They do not amount to an indication that the self-awareness of the individual was significantly changed by these developments, or that the individual's access to God was thought to have been fundamentally altered by them.

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Humanness and the Covenant Community Ever since W. Eichrodt argued that the very centre of the Old Testament literature was established by the notion of a unique covenant made between Yahweh as God and Israel as a people, the question of what this covenant meant in terms of human existence has been extensively explored (Eichrodt 1951; cf. Nicholson 1986). The very distinctiveness of what the Bible has to say about humanity is thereby directly related to the national ideological context in which the individual is placed. Israel understood its existence as a nation to be directly dependent upon an act of divine choice that also entailed a particular way of life and code of conduct, and this affected deeply its understanding of morality and human destiny. To exist as an Israelite man or woman brought qualitative differences from similar existence outside this covenant circle. In the course of time the breakdown of a centralized Jewish state made such differences highly prominent features of social and economic life. By the time the various traditions which have been woven into the book of Esther found their bold literary expression, the sense of an unbridgeable gulf separating those within the covenant from those outside it had become established. The different fates of Mordecai the Jew and Haman the non-Jew are both startling and terrifying (cf. Est. 7.10; 10.2). Accordingly, what it means to be a human being in the terms of the Old Testament taken as a whole cannot be separated from what it means to be a member of this biblical covenant community. Concepts relating to the ethnic, political and social structure of ancient Israel have to be examined closely in their development and in the separate contexts in which they occur in the biblical literature. Whether these are found in the rarified atmosphere of the Deuteronomistic covenantal theologizing of faith in a period of crisis (Perlitt 1969: 54-128; McCarthy 1972: 53ff.), or whether they are construed as an older political ideal based on ideas of equality between freedom-loving tribes (Gottwald 1980), they inevitably obtrude prominently into the understanding of the human condition. However noble the ideals embodied in such a covenant may have been intended to be, it becomes impossible to escape the limitations of a world ultimately divided between such contrasted interpretations of what it means to be a human being! The idea of covenant has to be relativized and set in context if it is not ultimately to become a distorting, and even a dehumanizing, principle (cf. Hanson's 'Witnesses to an Alternative Vision' [1986: 312-24]; Deist 1994: 13-30).


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Besides this broad observation we have also to note that, seen from the point of view of the authors of wisdom, it is evident that the actual experience of living within the covenant community could fall far short of the generous and warm idealism of even the highest expressions of prophetic idealism. At all stages of the development of the political ordering of Israel and Judah justice appears seldom to have rolled down like a torrent of waters (Amos 5.24)! It remained a prophetic ideal which needed to be tempered by recognition of the actualities of the human condition. It is noteworthy, therefore, that, in spite of the biblical portrayal of justice as founded upon a Solomonic ideal of divinely given insight and discernment, the authors of Proverbs appear to have placed little trust in the actual administration of justice to implement this. False trading standards, corrupt judges, and the immense problems of getting reliable evidence from trustworthy witnesses appear to have undermined even the best-intentioned efforts at obtaining legal redress for experienced wrongs. Clearly the attempts to base a legal system upon assumptions of a national covenant made by God and uniquely granted to Israel (cf. Deut. 16.18-20) failed to secure a satisfactory legal administration without serious defects. Nevertheless, the life of an individual human being in ancient Israel could not be separated and abstracted from the political community to which he or she belonged (cf. Mendenhall 1960: 89-108). Throughout most of the Old Testament period individuals were seen as Israelite, or Jewish, persons, which marked them off as separate from the rest of humankind. Only rarely was this social, religious and political classification set aside and overcome.2 Clearly learning the significance of such badges of identity was part of the educational process that was served by the Old Testament literature. At the same time it is evident that it became a major part of the minority tradition embraced by wisdom to relativize such classifications and ultimately to press for their abrogation (cf. Clements 1990: 203-16). 2. The practical consequences of this sense that even the range of persons actually encountered in daily life could vary between the full member of the community, the protected alien and the unprotected alien, or foreigner, is shown by Deut. 14.21. In many ways it is noteworthy that the status accorded to the protected alien provided an important borderline case for the extension of humanitarian concerns to over-ride those established more narrowly by ideas of an ethnic covenant. These concerns were to provide a significant basis for later Jewish formulation of genuinely humanitarian ideals and practices. Cf. van Houten 1991:43ff.

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We should not, however, regard this complex network of definitions regarding the religious foundations of the Israelite-Jewish political community as an overriding limitation of the Old Testament. Clearly it imposed restraints and distortions that became dangerous and potentially destructive in the complex world of the Jewish dispersion. Yet there emerged within ancient Israel, both in its legal system and in its didactic literature, a recognition of human qualities and human needs that stretched across the division between those who existed within, and those who were set outside, the boundaries of the covenant between Israel and God. Undoubtedly the most dangerous, and potentially disastrous, consequence of the introduction of the concept of a unique covenant between Israel and the Lord as God is to be seen in the violent attempts to suppress any deviation within the nation from the exclusivity of worship of this one sole deity. The most uncompromising expression of this is to be found in Deut. 13.1-18, and such repressive demands, construed as the implementation of the requirement to avoid any conduct which would endanger the maintenance of the covenant, were later to leave a fearful legacy of religious oppression (cf. Lang 1983: 155; Deurloo 1994, n.). Conduct which can largely be seen to have been no more than the private retention of religious traditions which had a long history and which were popular features of family and clan life, was aggressively repressed on the grounds of national security (cf. Albertz 1994a: 195ff.). It does little to soften the impact of such harsh demands by noting that the specified targets of such repressive measures cannot still have remained in existence at the time when the legislation demanding such action was introduced. No doubt these demands were, to some unknown degree, obsolete and archaic, directing their hostility towards elements of the population that had ceased to exist in precisely the form targeted (cf. Deurloo 1994: 3 Iff.).3 Yet it is difficult to suppose that such repressive demands were simply the product of a historically oriented form of wishful thinking. Almost certainly, when such laws were composed, some elements of the national community were thought still to exemplify a reprehensible indifference to the demands of the covenant 3. K.A. Deurloo in particular cites the evaluation by N.P. Lemche (1991: 155), The Canaanites and Their Land: The Tradition of the Canaanites (JSOTSup, 110; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991) that the Canaanites so vehemently condemned by the authors of Deuteronomy had already become a historical fiction of the past. On the historical problem of the Canaanites, see further Ahlstrom 1986, sub 'Canaanites'.


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that Yahweh alone should be worshipped. What remains unclear is whether such a harsh perspective was typical of more than a small minority of zealous enthusiasts, and who exactly were regarded as the culpable deviants who were to be so cruelly punished. Nor do we know whether such a fanatical minority possessed the administrative authority to do so. As in the case of the harsh legislation against sabbath-breaking (cf. Num. 15.32ff. and Phillips 1970: 64-73), it seems evident that the actual power to implement punitive actions, considered desirable by religious leaders, was most often lacking (cf. Amos 8.5; Neh. 13.15-22). The instance of the demands for imposing capital punishment for actions that were thought to flout the requirements of the exclusive worship of the Lord as God by members of the covenant community provides evidence that the belief in such a divine covenant could give rise to dangerous and inhumane legislation. Clearly within the life and experience of the Israelite-Jewish community conflicting tendencies could emerge in which a compassionate and caring sensitivity to the human condition (cf. Deut. 16.11-12) could be combined with inhumane demands for religious purity. Within both Jewish and Christian tradition a variety of hermeneutical strategies have been introduced to qualify and restrict the cruel features of these demands. This feature of covenant ideology must remain a fundamental weakness of the otherwise challenging argument of W.L. Harrelson (Harrelson 1980: 3ff.) that the Ten Commandments provide a valuable foundation for an understanding of 'human rights'. Certainly in the Lutheran Christian tradition this has most strikingly been the way in which the Decalogue has been interpreted as providing a basis of a natural moral law (cf. Bornkamm 1969: 124ff.; Bloch 1987: 31). Nevertheless it leaves unclear how a collection of commandments that one prominent stream of historical biblical research has emphatically declared to be based upon a concept of a unique covenant between God and Israel (cf. Beyerlin 1965; Phillips 1970) is to be expanded into a pattern of human rights and obligations applicable to the universal human scene. This is not to deny the validity of such hermeneutical strategies, but to recognize their importance and to highlight the inevitable ambiguities inherent in the concept of a national covenant. The Dignity of Human Life Within the ethical and theological framework of the Old Testament, concern with the dignity of human life appears to fall between two

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prominent strands of thought. On one side the ideas of Heilsgeschichte and covenant have emphasized the importance of the community orientation of the Old Testament literature with its focus on Israel and the Jewish community. It is within this strand of thought that so much of the actuality of the nature of community shows itself. Over against this, and acting as a useful corrective, has been a concern to see the ideas of God and creation as providing a more universal centre for focusing the Old Testament's religious interest (Murray 1992: passim; Perdue I994a: passim). Examination of the human condition falls somewhere in between these concerns. On one side stands the idea of humanity as a rather abstract, and highly stylized, portrayal of every human being as a creature of God, endowed with certain inescapable characteristics and subject to the same mortal destiny that faces every other such creature. Each human being is a member of the community which makes up 'all flesh' (Heb. kol-basar, cf. Hulst 1958: 28ff.). On the other hand no such isolated and idealized individual has ever existed since the real world places all such persons within families and tribes and nations, each of which projects its own self-image and imposes its own consequent demands. Life in isolation from a larger community is seen as the result of a curse (cf. Cain's fate in Gen. 4.11-15). The practical reality of this situation and the impact that the community had in shaping and imposing expectations and demands upon the individual were both immensely powerful factors. The social reality of the human condition was firmly established at birth; it was the recognition of a larger, more universal, human obligation that was more difficult to grasp and slower to materialize. It was a perilous intellectual journey to take to move from being 'sons of Jacob' to becoming 'sons of Adam'. Nonetheless we must note that there are to be found in the Old Testament very powerful and evocative, if somewhat enigmatic, characterizations of the dignity of all human beings. The assertions that each individual has been created 'in the image of God' (Gen. 1.26) and carries a status in the ordered universe only 'a little lower than the angels' (Ps. 8.4-5) have vested in every human life a uniquely sacral quality (cf. Westermann 1974: 147-58; Barr 1992: 156-73). Certainly we can recognize in such formulations a high valuation of the status of every indivudal human being. We need therefore to give special weight to these biblical assertions about human existence that are self-evidently


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applicable to the entire human race. Even if they have first surfaced within a more narrowly defined context of a uniquely privileged covenant community, they no longer remain exclusively covenant-values, but are fully human values. Such affirmations support a belief in human dignity that has served to protect society, and individuals within it, even if somewhat imperfectly. It is in the Israelite wisdom tradition particularly that attention is drawn to the significance of this divine createdness as a challenge and occasion for reflection over the economic inequalities of life (Prov. 22.2; cf. Doll 1985: 15-39). In the modern world it could well be argued that it is not only in the contrasts of wealth and poverty, but also in relation to a wide range of experiences involving disadvantage and handicap, that the biblical testimony, with its ultimate affirmation of human dignity, has proved a valuable protective barrier against indifference, cruelty and injustice. Seen in retrospect it is evident that the human social environment, stripped of such biblical characterizations, can readily become a harsh and threatening scene. A certain paradoxical feature exists therefore in the recognition that, although the claim that every human being bears the divine image has proved difficult to define in a rigidly historical manner, nevertheless it has provided the Western world with one of its most indispensable ethical and legal foundations (cf. Bloch 1987: 66-75). It has warned against indifference to the wanton taking of human life and against the exploitation of the human capacity for work in the form of slavery. To some degree, therefore, the experience of living within a community where the laws are directly sanctioned by belief in a covenant relationship means that the idea of a divine covenant that serves to shape and control the moral and social realm cannot be ruled out as of no consequence to the human condition. In any case consideration of the human condition has the great advantage that it straddles the borderline between theology and ethics, and to some degree between theology and sociology. It points to the central importance of what a human being is as a basis for understanding how such a being should behave. Moreover, it recognizes that any attempt to define human nature cannot leave out of its reckoning the larger environment in which human beings find themselves, both in its physical and social features.

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Wisdom and the Human Condition If we are to consider the ways in which the Old Testament literature moves towards establishing a viable doctrine of humanity, then it is certainly very important to examine the ways in which the wisdom writings observe, and comment upon, the human condition. There is a widely adopted argument that, when seen in theological perspective, this Israelite sapiental tradition based its arguments and ideas upon a doctrine of creation, and this appears to be fully substantiated. In particular the concern to understand the place and significance of human mortality and proneness to disease as an inescapable feature of human experience made the entire wisdom understanding of death very distinctive (cf. Clements 1992: 49ff.; Habel 1981: 373-92; Bailey 1979: 55ff.). There is little attention to considering the manner in which ethnic or national affiliations shape and control moral conduct and lifestyles. Yet there is in all these writings a very strong interest in social behaviour and the impact which the larger community has upon the individual. I have argued elsewhere (Clements 1992; 1993: 209-28) that the idea of the 'neighbour' and the concept of the economically independent 'household' largely replace the older sense of solidarity in the community based upon kinship concepts. Residence, work and the immediacy of daily contact are seen to be more direct forces shaping attitudes and conduct, and imposing obligations, rather than a pattern of interdependence within the kin-group. In such a context it is significant to find that the sages of ancient Israel gave very full cognizance to the impact that peer pressures and the social environment generally had upon the individual. We may note, therefore, a number of ways in which the sages' observations of the human condition move in the direction of developing a realistic answer to the question of what it means to be human. In her book Beast and Man, Mary Midgley (1978: 15ff.) notes the remarkable extent to which group patterns and a sense of group solidarity can shape and determine human conduct. Even the most extreme fanatics never lack followers and imitators, suggesting that the desire to conform, and to act as a member of a larger community, function as primary factors in shaping conduct. It is the isolated nonconformist who tends to be the exception, with the result that demagogues and extremists of all kinds have been able to draw powerful support from fellow-citizens who appear to want to be led and to


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demonstrate their willingness to identify with a larger group. Those rather reductionist interpretations of morality that see human conduct as little more than uncritical group behaviour certainly are not without examples to support their case. Against such a setting it is noteworthy that the scribes and authors of proverbial teaching were fully conscious that human behaviour was not wholly a matter of individual choices and intention. The influence of illchosen companions and the adoption of uncritical conformist attitudes is sharply condemned. Even the king was not considered to be exempt from their misguided persuasiveness (cf. Prov. 25.15; 29.12). It is in the same vein that the intrusion of quarrelsome speech and conduct into the home, inducing stress and promoting retaliation, is seen as a way of life that is strongly to be avoided. Good relationships are seen to be of paramount importance to the quality of life and the pursuit of virtue, whereas the harbouring of grudges and the pursuit of private vendettas are both recognized as socially and morally destructive. Overall the wisdom writers view the practical realities of social interplay as an inescapable feature of human life. Being human entails being able to recognize the threatening, as well as supportive, features inherent in all basic social relationships. In such a context it is striking to reflect on the sharpness of the criticism of male-female relationships, especially when set within the context of a single household. The temptations for men to look for sexual adventures outside this framework are strongly condemned (Camp 1985: 79ff.), but also strongly worded are the remarks on the bad effects of disruptive behaviour within the household (cf. Prov. 19.13; 27.15). It is noteworthy too that it is the scribes who perceive most strongly the centrality of speech as a determining factor in what it means to be a human being (Prov. 4.24; 10.13, 18ff., 31ff.; 12.6, 18; etc.). That other forms and methods of communication could exist among other species of the natural world (cf. especially Prov. 6.6-8; 30.24-28) in no way lessens the importance of what the scribes had to offer in comment on the importance of speech. Learning to speak thoughtfully and to avoid harsh and aggressive language are presented as primary goals of the educational process. It is by their speech that the character of persons is revealed, so its humanizing power is fully upheld. Perhaps rather surprisingly, speech is celebrated as an expression of character and as the primary means whereby good relationships can be built up and maintained. For a circle of writers who had a strong vested interest in

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affirming the educational value of speech as a means of imparting information and inculcating codes of conduct, it is noteworthy that its role as a medium by which human beings can relate to each other is seen as primary. It is noteworthy too that the authors of proverbial teaching, and most especially the unknown author of Qoheleth, set human conduct as the primary factor in assigning responsibility for evil (so especially Qoh. 7.29).4 To ascribe human misfortune to a supernatural order of divine conflicts and tensions would stand in sharp contrast to their emphasis upon human responsibility for experienced violence, misery and ruination. Even the unwelcome experience of sickness and disease is held, no doubt with a degree of over-confidence and rhetorical exaggeration, to be the result of the disregard of the teachings of wisdom. It is undoubtedly Qoheleth who appears to place the responsibility for evil and misfortune wholly in the lap of human beings: See, this alone I found, that God made human beings straightforward, but they have devised many schemes (Qoh. 7.29).

Admittedly some disagreement exists over what precisely is meant by 'devices', or 'inventions' (the word used elsewhere only occurs in Chronicles as a designation for 'fortifications'). Nonetheless, the general thrust of Qoheleth's argument in Qoh. 7.29 appears to be that it is human inventiveness and devious plans which bring about evil. Since the context concerns the poor level of relationships between the sexes, it may well be the case that this situation is especially intended, contrasting the reality with the high promise expressed in Gen. 2.23. Overall there is a robust realism about the observations made by the wisdom scribes upon the human scene. The careful avoidance of, or measured disinterest in, the more conventional categories of cultic approprobation—holiness, cleanness and blessing—lend to their understanding of virtue a genuine 'worldly' nature. Virtue and happiness, when they are to be sought and found, are held to lie in the path of the vita activa (cf. Arendt 1958: 258ff.). Yet, for all this attention to the pursuit of the good life by the scribes, there is a fundamental religious foundation. Indeed, this platform of 4. The question of whether Qoheleth's assertion here concerning the human invention of 'schemes', or 'devices' implies wicked plans, or merely confused, or illthought out, plans remains disputed. The view adopted here is that evil plans and motives are referred to. Cf. Crenshaw 1988: 148; Murphy 1992: 77-78.


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religious acceptance is held to to be indispensable—without the fear of the Lord there can be no true pursuit of wisdom (Prov. 1.7; 9.10; 15.33) and therefore no true humanness. Religion has meaning and validity not outside the human condition, and not in theological abstractions that serve to reinforce and lend sacred authority to ethnic, political and cultic distinctions. Rather the recognition of the God-created nature of all human beings serves to challenge the sharp distinctions felt within society as a result of the social separation between rich and poor. To this extent, at the hands of those who brought together our extant wisdom collection in the Old Testament, the affirmation of God's role as Creator provides the strongest and surest guide to a concept of humanity. Overall, if we pose again the question, 'What does it mean to be a human being?', we find that the Old Testament has some very instructive and pertinent answers to present. Moreover they are answers that relate to an experience of life that remains very closely related to our own contemporary dilemmas. It is therefore a pleasure to offer these reflections in honour of John Rogerson, who has worked patiently and constructively to remind biblical scholars of the contribution that their work can make to the humanizing of the contemporary intellectual scene. BIBLIOGRAPHY Ahlstrom, G.W. 1986 Who were the Israelites? (Winona Lake IN: Eisenbrauns). Albertz, R. 1994 A History of Israelite Religion in the Old Testament Period (2 vols; trans. J. Bowden; London: SCM Press). Arendt, H. The Human Condition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press). 1958 Bailey, L.R. 1979 Biblical Perspectives on Death (Philadelphia: Fortress Press). Barr, J. The Garden of Eden and the Hope of Immortality (London: SCM 1992 Press). Biblical Faith and Natural Theology (Oxford: Oxford University 1993 Press). Beyerlin, W. Origins and History of the Oldest Sinaitic Traditions (trans. S. Rudman; 1965 Oxford: B.H. Blackwell). Bloch, E. Natural Law and Human Dignity (trans. D.J. Schmidt; Cambridge, MA: 1987 MIT Press).

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Bornkamm, H. Luther and the Old Testament (trans. E.W. and R.C. Gritsch; 1969 Philadelphia: Fortress Press). Camp, C.V. Wisdom and the Feminine in the Book of Proverbs (Bible and Literature 1985 Series, 11; Sheffield: JSOT Press). Chadwick, H. 'Humanitat', RAC, XVI, pp. 663-711. 1993 Childs, B.S. Biblical Theology of the Old and New Testaments (London: SCM Press). 1992 Clements, R.E. 'The Old Testament Background of Acts 10.34-35', in N.H. Keathley 1990 (ed.), With Steadfast Purpose: Essays on Acts in Honor of Henry Jackson Flanders, Jr (Waco: Baylor University Press), pp. 203-16. Wisdom in Theology (Carlisle: Paternoster Press). 1992 Loving One's Neighbour: Old Testament Ethics in Context (Ethel M. 1992b Wood Lecture, London University) 'The Good Neighbour in the Book of Proverbs', in Of Prophets' 1993 Visions and the Wisdom of the Sages. Essays in Honour of R. Norman Whybray on His Seventieth Birthday (ed. H.A. McKay and D.J.A. Clines; JSOTSup, 162; Sheffield: JSOT Press), pp. 209-228. Crenshaw, J.L. Ecclesiastes (OTL; London: SCM Press). 1988 Deist, F.E. 'The Dangers of Deuteronomy. A Page from the Reception History of 1994 the Book', in Studies in Deuteronomy in Honour of C.J. Labuschagne on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday (ed. F. Garcia Martinez et al.; Leiden: Brill), pp. 13-30. Deurloo, K.A. 1994 'The One God and All Israel in its Generations', in Studies in Deuteronomy in Honour of C.J. Labuschagne on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday (ed. F Garcia Martinez et al.; Leiden: Brill), pp. 31-46. Doll, P. 1985 Menschenschopfung und Weltschopfung in der alttestamentlichen Weisheit (SBS, 117; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk). Eichrodt, W. 1951 Man in the Old Testament (trans. K. and R. Gregor Smith; SET, 4; London: SCM Press). Fredericks, D.C. 1993 Coping with Transience: Ecclesiastes on Brevity in Life (The Biblical Seminar, 18; Sheffield: JSOT Press). Gottwald, N.K. 1980 The Tribes of Yahweh: A Sociology of the Religion of Liberated Israel, 1250-1050 BCE (London: SCM Press). Habel, N.C. 1981 '"Naked I came...": Humanness in the Book of Job', in Die Botschaft und die Boten. Festschrift fur Hans Walter Wolft zum 70. Geburtstag (ed. J. Jeremias et al.), pp. 373-92.

CLEMENTS Wisdom, Virtue and the Human Condition Hanson, P.D. 1986

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The People Called: The Growth of the Biblical Community (San Francisco: Harper & Row).

Harrelson, W. 1980 The Ten Commandments and Human Rights (OBT; Philadelphia: Fortress Press). Hasel, G. F. 1991 [1972] Old Testament Theology: Basic Issues in the Current Debate (Grand Rapids: Wm B. Eerdmans, 4th edn). H0genhaven, J. 1988 Problems and Prospects of Old Testament Theology (Sheffield: JSOT Press), van Houten, C. 1991 The Alien in Israelite Law (JSOTSup, 107; Sheffield: JSOT Press). Hubbard, R.L., R.K. Johnston and R.P. Meye (eds.) 1992 Studies in Old Testament Theology: Historical and Contemporary Images of God and God's People (Dallas: Word Publishing). Hulst, A.R. 1958 'Kol-basar in der priesterlichen Fluterzahlung', OTS 12, pp. 28-68. Johnson, A.R. 1964 [1949] The Vitality of the Individual in the Thought of Ancient Israel (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, rev. edn). Johnston, R.K. 1992 'Images for Today: Learning from Old Testament Wisdom' in R.L. Hubbard, R.K. Johnston and R.P. Meye (eds.), Studies in Old Testament Theology (Dallas: Word Publishing), pp. 223-39. Kaiser, O. 1993 Der Gott des Alten Testaments: Theologie des Alten Testaments. I. Grundlegung (Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht). Kohler, L. 1956 The Hebrew Man (trans. P.R. Ackroyd; London: SCM Press). Lang, B. 1983 Monotheism and the Prophetic Minority: An Essay in Biblical History and Sociology (The Social World of Biblical Antiquity, 1; Sheffield: Almond Press). McCarthy, D.J. 1972 Old Testament Covenant: A Survey of Current Opinions (Oxford: B.H. Blackwell). Mendenhall, G.E. 1960 'The Relation of the Individual to Political Society in Ancient Israel', in Biblical Studies in Memory of H.C. Alleman (ed. J.M. Myers et al; Locust Valley, NY: J.J. Augustin), pp. 89-108. 1976 'Social Organization in Early Israel', in Magnalia Dei: The Mighty Acts of God (ed. P.M. Cross et al.; Garden City, NY: Doubleday), pp. 132-51. Midgley, M. 1978 Beast and Man: The Roots of Human Nature (London: Methuen). 1984 Wickedness: A Philosophical Essay (London: Routledge).


156 1994

The Ethical Primate: Humans, Freedom and Morality (London: Routledge).

Murphy, R.E. The Tree of Life: An Exploration of Biblical Wisdom Literature (New 1990 York: Doubleday). 1992 Ecclesiastes (WBC, 23A; Dallas: Word Publishing). Murray, R. The Cosmic Covenant: Biblical Themes of Justice, Peace and the 1992 Integrity of Creation (London: Sheed & Ward). Nicholson, E.W. 1986 God and his People: Covenant and Theology in the Old Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Oeming, M. 1987 [1936] Gesamte biblische Theologien der Gegenwart (2nd edn; Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer). Ollenburger, B.C., E.A. Martens and G.F. Hasel (eds.) 1992 The Flowering of Old Testament Theology (Sources for Bible and Theological Study, 1; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns). Otto, E. 1994 Theologische Ethik des Alien Testaments (Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer). Perdue, L.G., B.B. Scott and W.L. Wiseman 1993 In Search of Wisdom: Essays in Memory of J.G. Gammie (Louisville: John Knox/Westminster Press). 1994a Wisdom and Creation: The Theology of the Wisdom Literature (Nashville: Abingdon Press). The Collapse of History: Reconstructing Old Testament Theology 1994b (Minneapolis: Fortress Press). Perlitt, L. Bundestheologie des Alten Testament (WMANT, 36; Neukirchen1969 Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag). Phillips, A. 1970 Ancient Israel's Criminal Law: A New Approach to the Decalogue (Oxford: B.H. Blackwell). Raisanen, H. 1990 Beyond New Testament Theology (London: SCM Press). Reventlow, H. Graf 1985 Problems of Old Testament Theology in the Twentieth Century (trans. J. Bowden; London: SCM Press). Robinson, H.W. 1926[1911] The Christian Doctrine of Man (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 3rd edn). 1981 [1935] Corporate Personality in Ancient Israel (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, rev. edn by C.S. Rodd; originally published as 'The Hebrew Conception of Corporate Personality', in P. Volz, F. Stummer, and J. Hempel [eds.], Werden und Wesen des Alten Testaments: Vortrdge gehalten auf der Internationalen Tagung alttestamentlicher Forscher zu Gottingen vom 4-10 September 1935 [BZAW, 66; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1936]).


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Rogerson, J.W. 1970 'The Hebrew Conception of Corporate Personality. A Re-examination', JTS ns 21 (1970), pp. 1-16. 1978 Anthropology and the Old Testament (Oxford: B.H. Blackwell). Rogerson, J.W., and P.R. Davies 1989 The Old Testament World (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall). Taylor, W.F., Jr 1992 'Humanity, NT View of, ABD, III, cols. 321a-325b. Westermann, C. 1974 Genesis 1-11, (trans. JJ. Scullion; London: SPCK). 1977 'Das Alte Testament und die Menschenrechte', in Zum Thema Menschenrechte: Theologische Versuche und Entwurfe (ed. J. Baur; Stuttgart: Calwer Verlag). 1978 Theologie des Alien Testaments in Grundzugen (ATE), Erganzungsreihe, 6; Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht). Whybray, R.N. 1990 Wealth and Poverty in the Book of Proverbs (JSOTSup, 99; Sheffield: JSOT Press). Wolff, H.W. 1974 Anthropology of the Old Testament (trans. M. Kohl; London: SCM Press).

PSALM 2 AND THE MLF (MOABITE LIBERATION FRONT) David J.A. Clines I . The World of the Text I stand to be corrected, but I believe that every interpretation of and commentary on this psalm ever written adopts the viewpoint of the text, and, moreover, assumes that the readers addressed by the scholarly commentator share the ideology of the text and its author.1 The psalm itself, however, represents a conflict—between Yahweh, his anointed one and the poet on the one hand, and the nations and their rulers on the other hand. There is therefore more than one set of interests at stake in the world of the text. One might have thought that 1. Perhaps I should reckon an article by Hans Klein ('Zur Auslegung von Psalm 2. Bin Beitrag zum Thema: Gewalt und Gewaltlosigkeit', Theologische Beitrdge 10 [1979], pp. 63-71) the exception that proves the rule. His theme is the question whether Christians should use force to achieve good ends, and he examines Psalm 2 because it apparently authorizes force in the service of God. He concludes that historical reality shows that 'Israel very quickly had to learn that the way of the execution of power that Psalm 2 contains is not a possibility for the people of God' (p. 67), and that 'the Bible shows through the praxis of the interpretation of Psalm 2 that the use of power has no place in the church' (p. 71). But I saw in the article no direct confrontation with the claims of the text, and I was suspicious of the attempt to 'redeem' the text by insisting that it should not be interpreted 'in isolation' but 'within the total biblical picture' (p. 71 n. 35). No doubt I should also mention the occasional remarks of commentators of an earlier age who let slip their discomfort with the psalm from their own Christian perspective; thus Bernhard Duhm: This psalm can be appropriated by Christianity only with severe alteration' (Die Psalmen [Kurzer Hand-Commentar zum Alten Testament, 14; Freiburg i.B.: J.C.B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck), 1899], p. 9), and H. Gunkel: 'The Christian church could base itself on this psalm only after very considerable excisions' (Die Psalmen, ubersetzt und erklart [Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 5th edn, 1968 [original, 1892], p. 10). They would like to normalize the psalm to Christian standards, nevertheless.

CLINES Psalm 2 and the MLF

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scholars writing on this psalm would do their utmost not to appear partisan towards one of the parties in the conflict but to evaluate the variant claims of the protagonists in the detached and objective manner that scholarship traditionally aspires to. Such is not the case. In order to bring into the foreground the conflict, and to begin to represent the position of the party that is systematically repressed both within the text and within the scholarly tradition, I find it necessary to give a name to those who are known within the poem as the enemies, the 'nations' and the 'peoples' of v. 1, the 'kings of the earth' and the 'rulers' of v. 2 and v. 10. It is a well-known feature of polemic that opponents are denied a recognition of their own identity, as human beings in their own right.2 Here too those on one side of the conflict bear specific names: Yahweh, his anointed, his king, his son; and they are located at a particular place on the face of the globe: on Yahweh's holy hill of Zion. On the other hand, their opponents are called only by the most general of terms, nations, peoples, kings and rulers, and they are to be found at no particular place on earth but, indeterminately, over the earth in general. I name these opponents of Yahweh and his anointed Israelite king 'Moabites'—not that I think for a moment that the rebellious people spoken of in the psalm are actually and precisely Moabite.3 2. See, by way of analogy, the remarks of J. Cheryl Exum, Fragmented Women: Feminist (Subversions of Biblical Narratives (JSOTSup, 163; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993), pp. 176-77, on unnamed women. 3. But suppose they were. Perhaps a detached observer would find it hard to tell the difference between the religions of the two nations. No doubt Julius Wellhausen was no detached observer, but his remarks provoke thought: 'Israel and Moab had a common origin, and their early history was similar. The people of Jehovah on the one hand, and the people of Chemosh on the other, had the same idea of the Godhead as head of the nation, and a like patriotism derived from religious belief—a patriotism capable of extraordinary efforts, and which has had no parallel in the West either in ancient or in modern times' ('Moab', Encyclopaedia Britannica [ed. W. Robertson Smith; Edinburgh: A. & C. Black, 9th edn, 1878], XVI, pp. 533-36 [535]). In case a curious reader wonders, Was there then any difference between the two?, I continue the quotation: 'But, with all this similarity, how different were the ultimate fates of the two! The history of the one loses itself obscurely and fruitlessly in the sand; that of the other issues in eternity. One reason for the difference.. .is obvious. Israel received no gentle treatment at the hands of the world; it had to carry on a continual conflict with foreign influences and hostile powers; and this perpetual struggle with gods and men was not profitless, although the external catastrophe was inevitable. Moab meantime remained settled on his lees (Jer. xlviii.l 1), and corruption and decay were the result' (pp. 535-36). A mere accident of history, not the intrinsic quality of the

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Rather, I am using 'Moabite' as a symbolic name for people who found themselves in bondage to an Israelite king and who desired liberation from their overlord.4 Such are the dramatis personae of the poem. Now, what is going on in the psalm? Various nations of the earth have been subject to the Israelite king who sees himself as the appointee of the one universal god. These nations have now joined in a rebellion against this Jerusalem king, hoping to achieve freedom from Israelite rule: 'Let us break their chains', they say, 'and throw off their fetters'. These non-Israelites represent themselves within the poem not simply as subject peoples or citizens of an empire not their own but as slaves, who are kept fast in bonds and fetters. Their uprising is a classic case of a national liberation movement, urging nothing but freedom from oppression. There is no word here of any desire to humiliate the Israelites, to wield power over them, to attack them or to punish them. The entire ambition of the 'nations' is to break the Israelite hold over them. Nor is there any wickedness or grossness in these nations that accounts for their flouting of Israelite rule. There is not even any heathen belief or false worship that impels their resistance to Yahweh and his king.5 Their impulse is represented as nothing other than a desire for freedom from their bondage. That is the situation from which the poem takes its rise—the exposition of the drama, narratologically speaking. The way in which this initial situation is 'complicated' is that on the Israelite side such a rebellion is resisted scornfully. The first indication of this Israelite point of view comes in the opening sentence, where the narrator or speaking voice depicts the rebellion in an already prejudicial way. By casting the description of the conspiracy of the nations as a rhetorical 'why?' question, he means to say, by the very first word of the poem, that their attempt is doomed to failure. The 'why?' implies that a negative judgment has already been made by the narrator; that their effort is a waste of time. And in the last word of the first sentence, 'in vain' (pn), we recognize religious ideas, that is to say, determined the survival of the Hebrew faith. 4. Bernard Gosse draws special attention to the parallels between the psalm and the prophetic oracles against Edom ('Le Psaume 2 et 1'usage redactionnel des Oracles centre les Nations a 1'epoque post-exilique', BN 62 [1992], pp. 18-24), so perhaps it would be better to envisage an Edomite Liberation Front. No matter. 5. As against, for example, Heinrich A. von Ewald, Commentary on the Psalms (trans. E. Johnson; London: Williams & Norgate, 1880), p. 148: 'The discontented at bottom merely find the dominion of the religion and law of Jahve oppressive, and desire to return to the old rudeness and licentiousness'.


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again that there is nothing remotely objective about this depiction but that a decisive judgment against the 'nations' is already built into the description of their rebellion, 'smitingly stigmatised in anticipation as "vanity"'.6 This is the parallelism of greater precision7 with a vengeance: from the first line alone (v. la) we might not guess that the questions are indeed rhetorical, but the second line limits the ambiguity of the first beyond question. In the 'surplus' that line 2 offers—the pn to which nothing in line 1 corresponds, and which compels the reader to go back over the whole couplet and reprocess the double question as more of a decision than a real question—lies the essence of the poem. The rebellion of the nations is, from the Israelite perspective, vain. The response of the Israelites represented in the poem to the nations' striving for liberation is, on the one hand, a depiction of their deity's scorn at the nations' aspirations and, on the other hand, a statement by the Israelite king of his right to their submission. He claims that his god has given him the nations as his possession, which he may rightfully and ideally rule with a sceptre of iron, and which he may destroy at his pleasure, like a potter's vessel. In a word, the Israelite king as the holder of power and the Israelite poet as his propagandist refuse to countenance for a moment the 'Moabite' claim or to acknowledge that 'Moabites' have any right to self-determination or political autonomy. By world standards and on a broad historical canvas, we might well allow that there is nothing especially ugly about such imperial resistance to nationalistic aspirations. In this case, unlike many in imperial history, the overlord does not resort to genocide, or to torture or cruel punishment of the leaders of the rebellion. The Israelite response is no worse than to claim that their deity is scornful of liberation movements, to threaten that the Jerusalem king will intensify the severity of his rule and will be perpetually irascible (v. 12), and to counsel submissiveness and fear. Nonetheless, the Israelite response is unmistakably and smugly typical of an insensitive imperial despotism.

6. Alexander Maclaren, The Psalms (The Expositor's Bible; London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1893), I, p. 13. 7. See David J.A. Clines, 'The Parallelism of Greater Precision. Notes from Isaiah 40 for a Theory of Hebrew Poetry', in Elaine R. Follis (ed.), New Directions in Hebrew Poetry (JSOTSup, 40; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987), pp. 77-100.

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The Bible in Human Society 2. The Scholarly Tradition

In this section, I am trying to identify some of the principal tendencies of modern scholarship on the psalm when confronted by the conflict between Israel and the Moabite Liberation Front. a. A Myopic Tendency The most striking feature of the scholarly tradition on the Psalms is the almost total blindness of commentators to the 'Moabite' point of view, and the absence of any awareness that the text projects a situation of real conflict. The poem adopts the strategy of minimizing the importance of the opposition by making them figures of ridicule, and the commentators follow suit. I say 'almost total', for there are some signs that the 'Moabite' critique has obtruded into the consciousness of some—though only to be no sooner uttered than immediately suppressed. Here is Artur Weiser: [M]ust we not persist in regarding it as the presumptuous utterance of an incomprehensible and intolerable arrogance when claims implying dominion over the whole world are here voiced for which no occasion can be found at any point in the history of Israel which would justify them?8

But he responds immediately to his own implicit critique of the psalm: This question will be answered in the affirmative only by those who eyes remain fixed on the visible surface of history so that they do not comprehend the hidden motive forces of historical events which are controlled by God, the Lord of universal history... The king in Zion is the anointed of God...Such a view, if pondered over deeply enough, is not to be characterized as the expression of an arrogant presumption but as a vision granted to the assurance that comes by faith.9 8. Artur Weiser, The Psalms: A Commentary (OTL; London: SCM Press, 1962),p. 111. 9. Weiser, Psalms, p. 111. Presumption is a terrible fault, we learn from the commentators on this psalm, and should only be ascribed to foreigners. A.A. Anderson helpfully explains how, despite appearances, the Israelite king in the poem is not himself presumptuous: his claims to universal rule signify simply that 'As God's regent (and adopted son), the King "exercised" a universal rule, even though to his contemporaries it appeared that his dominion extended only over Judah. Thus the glory of the Davidic king was a hidden one, made real only in the cult' (The Book of Psalms. I. Introduction and Psalms 1-72 [NCB; London: Oliphants, 1972], pp. 6465). So that's all right then. Quotation marks are truly magic, are they not? Siegfried

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The doubt that surfaced for a moment is quickly laid to rest by the assurance that comes by (Lutheran) faith. And again, in reference to the claim that the Israelite king will shatter the nations of the earth, Weiser allows that it 'appears to be a colossal exaggeration, if looked at from the standpoint of the purely internal history of Israel' but it is in fact 'the powerful expression of a strong faith in the miraculous might of God'.10 The language of smashing one's enemies like earthen vessels may be paralleled in the royal inscriptions of Egypt, but it makes a difference whether words which bear a likeness to each other express the human lust for power, as they do in the oracles of the ancient East, or whether they bear witness to the vision of faith, as they do in the Old Testament, where man's eyes are lifted up to the power of the divine Judge of the earth...' l

The commentator cannot conceive that there is an alternative point of view already inscribed in his text, and cannot imagine that the very existence of that Moabite viewpoint already calls into question his own easy certainties. b. A Moralizing/Theologizing Tendency A second dominant impression this reader of commentaries on Psalm 2 receives is that of a ruthless moralizing or theologizing of the poem that prevails in current readings of it. I. The world of the text. Now such a reading is in sharp contrast to the very striking absence of a moral or theological dimension in the psalm itself. The psalm indeed portrays opposition to the rule of the Jerusalem king, and so by inference to the authority of the god of Jerusalem, but it does not characterize the foreign opponents of the Jerusalemites as evil or malign. Their only crime in the psalm is that they want to be free of the rule of the king. Thus, even in the world of the text, the conflict between the Jerusalemites and the foreigners is first and foremost a political issue, not a moral one. And it is not essentially a religious conflict, either. It is true that the poet represents the rebellion of the nations as 'against' Yahweh. But that Wagner at least raises the question whether such a representation in the cult might not perhaps be termed a 'flight from reality'—though only, of course, to deny it ('Das Reich des Messias. Zur Theologie der alttestamentlichen Konigspsalmen', TLZ 109 [1984], cols. 865-74 [870]). 10. Weiser, Psalms, p. 114. I1. Weiser, Psalms, p. 114.

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does not mean, for the poet, that the nations deny that Yahweh is the true god, or that the Israelite cult properly prescribes the ways in which humans should offer worship to the divine, or some such theologoumenon. No doubt the foreign nations do in fact deny such things, but that is not where their rebellion lies. It is not because they cannot accept the truth of the Israelite religion or submit themselves to the worship of Yahweh that they are in rebellion; rather, it is because, finding themselves under the political hegemony of an Israelite emperor, they regard it as oppression.12 So, while the poet represents them as rebelling 'against Yahweh' (and against his anointed king), and as saying, 'Let us break their chains' (those of Yahweh and the king) —for no doubt it is worse to be rebelling against the god than merely against the king —when he actually describes their rebellion it is a political one, against the rule of an emperor, not a religious one, against the imposition of a religion. We come to the same conclusion when we ask, Who is this Yahweh? What kind of a god is he? What does he do with humans and what does he expect of them? The answer within Psalm 2 must be: He authorizes and supports the Israelite king. He does not require worship, he does not lay down laws, he does not require ethical behaviour of humans, he does not, indeed, communicate with humans generally. He exists for one reason and for one reason only, in the world of this psalm—he guarantees the rights of the Israelite king over other nations. In that role, he rebukes nations for resisting the rule of the king, saying, 'I have installed the king as my king', he assures the king that he is his father, he promises the king that nations of the earth will become his property, and he authorizes him to smash them with an iron sceptre and to break them like pots. And if we wonder what it might mean in v. 11 that the kings and rulers are advised to 'serve' Yahweh with fear, v. 12 seems to make plain that their service of Yahweh will consist—not of religious worship, as the term "Qi? might suggest,13 but—of submission to the 12. As against Anderson, for example, who thinks that 'the universal rule of God was challenged by the worship of other gods' and that Psalm 2 is therefore 'essentially a statement of faith' (The Book of Psalms, p. 65). 13. Anderson reminds us that 'in its religious aspect [the term 'serve'] means to worship Yahweh, while politically it implies a submission to his vicegerent' (The Book of Psalms, p. 69). But he forbears to tell us which meaning he thinks it has here. A.F. Kirkpatrick had seen the issue clearly enough, when he wrote of v. 11 that 'political submission to Jehovah in the person of his representative is primarily intended', though the 'wider', religious sense of 'serve' and 'fear' should not be


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king. By kissing the king in subjection14 they will serve the god. In short, as far as the psalm is concerned, Yahweh's function as god is to authorize the political authority of the king.15 2. The World of the Commentary. But what do we find when we read the commentaries? The political issue is suppressed, and the claim is made that it is essentially moral and religious issues that are at stake in the psalm. Thus, for example, one commentator writes that the psalmist 'phrases his question [in v. 1] with the prophet's scorn of creaturely presumption'16—and we all know that 'presumption' is a moral fault (at least, it is if you are a creature). But we are not dealing in this psalm with minor moral faults, of course, say the commentators; what is depicted in this psalm is the fundamental conflict between light and darkness, between cosmic good and evil: The theology of God's own kingship had always to reckon with the problem of rampant evil'.17 '[T]he king is empowered by God to overcome all evil.'18 The nations' rebellion is transcribed into the commentaries as an irreligious act, and the king's political authority is morphed to the god's religious authority. The poet is, on this reading, not speaking primarily of the king at all, but 'depicting the unlimited power of Yahweh over the whole earth...[T]he discontented rulers are told whom they are to fear—Yahweh, not his "anointed"'.19 'The outer scenes [of the psalm] describe...the attempt to break loose from the rule of God and the demand to become subject to the rule of God.'20 And the major theological problem of the psalm is excluded (The Book of Psalms, with Introduction and Notes [Cambridge Bible; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1891], p. 11). 14. I find no difficulty in translating v. 12a 'kiss the son', but know of no parallel to kissing the feet of Yahweh—which is what the RSV urges the nations to do. It would be hard for a non-Israelite to work out how to kiss the feet of an aniconic god (I see the point was also made by Winfried Thiel, 'Der Weltherrschaftsanspruch des judaischen Konigs nach Psalm 2', in Theologische Versuche 3 [1971], pp. 53-63 [59]). 15. The issue of legitimacy and filiation, so prominent both in the psalm itself and in the commentaries (cf. for example, Jose J. Alemany, 'Interpretation mesianica del salmo 2', CB 32 [1975], pp. 255-77 [268]), deserves a gender analysis all of its own. 16. John Eaton, Psalms: Introduction and Commentary (London: SCM Press, 1967), p. 32. 17. Eaton, Psalms, p. 32. 18. Eaton, Psalms, p. 33. 19. John I. Durham, 'Psalms', in Clifton J. Allen (ed), The Broadman Bible Commentary (London: Marshall, Morgan & Scott, 1972), IV, pp. 153-464 (174). 20. Erich Zenger, in Frank-Lothar Hossfeld and Erich Zenger, Die Psalmen. I.

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regarded not as an ethical one but as a metaphysical one in that it ascribes the title 'son of God' to a human monarch when we all know how the Old Testament insists on the incomparability and uniqueness of YHWH.21 c. A Universalizing Tendency Because a god is involved in the action of this psalm, theologians among commentators (and it is generally thought to be a strength, not a weakness, in a commentator to hold an intellectual commitment to the theology of a religion other than that of the Israelite poet) think that everything they know about the God of their theology is true of the divine character in this poem. And since they think (being historically and culturally conditioned, like all of us) that a God worth the name must be a universal god, with universal powers and universal property rights, they take it for granted that the psalm presupposes the universal dominion of Yahweh. Thus we read in the commentaries of 'Yhwh, whose property remains the earth (cf. Ps 24.1, etc.)',22 and we are told that '[T]he psalmist proposes as a foregone conclusion that Yahweh is indeed Lord over all the earth',23 and that behind the psalm lies 'the Israelite belief that Yahweh... is the Lord of the whole world and all its history'.24 And the whole poem is sometimes said to be essentially about the divine power; Anderson, for example, in his commentary entitles it 'Man Proposes, God Disposes'.25 Likewise the king is said to lay claim to a universal dominion: for example, 'His remarkable claim to a worldwide office and authority is made on the grounds of a prophetic faith' ,26 But nothing in the psalm makes any such universal claims.27 Those who are at present subject to 'Yahweh and his anointed' are 'nations' (n11^) and 'peoples' (D^QK^) who are represented by the conspiring 'kings Psalm 1-50 (Die Neue Echter Bibel, 29; Wurzburg: Echter Verlag, 1993), p. 49. 21. See James W. Watts, 'Psalm 2 in the Context of Biblical Theology', HBT 12 (1990), pp. 73-91. 22. Zenger, in Hossfeld and Zenger, Die Psalmen, I, p. 54. 23. Durham, 'Psalms', p. 174. Cf. Charles Augustus Briggs and Emilie Grace Briggs, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on The Book of Psalms (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1906), I, p. 14: 'The Ps. conceives of Yahweh as sovereign of the nations' . 24. Anderson, The Book of Psalms, p. 64. 25. Anderson, The Book of Psalms, p. 63. 26. Eaton, Psalms, p. 3 1 . 27. See further, David J.A. Clines, 'World Dominion in Psalm 2?' (forthcoming).


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of earth' (p^s^a) and 'rulers' (mm)—that is to say, not all the nations and not all the kings of the earth.28 Then when Yahweh promises to the Jerusalem king 'nations' (n^a) as his inheritance (n^m) and 'ends of the earth' (p^-'BOR) as his possession (nm«) he does not say all the nations and he need not mean by 'ends of the earth' everything contained within the earth's boundaries. We do not even know for sure that he is talking about the 'earth' and not just about the 'land', since p«, could mean either.29 Moreover, his promise to 'give' these nations to the king does not mean that he, Yahweh, already 'owns' them or 'rules' them in some sense.30 It is as the spoils of war that he is promising them to the king. That is why the king must first 'ask' for them. If they were the king's right by way of patrimony, he would not need to 'ask' for them—not unless he was proposing to be a prodigal son and take his patrimony in advance. What is envisaged here is that the king will 'ask' Yahweh's assent to and assistance in foreign wars of re-conquest he will undertake,31 and thereupon Yahweh will deliver his enemies into his hand, to coin a phrase. Likewise, when Yahweh speaks of the king shattering them like a pot, he does not have in mind the peaceful transfer of property from his own title to that of the king. This is the language of an act of war, not of dominion or simple masterfulness.32 28. Bernhard Duhm is one of the very few commentators to remark that in v. 1 it cannot be all the nations who are meant, since v. 9 shows that some are still not subject to the Israelite king (Psalmen, p. 5). 29. T.K. Cheyne was one of the few commentators to understand ppK, as 'land' (The Book of Psalms, Translated from a Revised Text with Notes and Introduction [London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Triibner & Co., 1904], I, p. 6); most others do not even discuss which is the correct translation, but simply assume it means 'earth'. Isaiah Sonne however is clear that they are 'regional vassal kings' and that pt?JK, is 'the land of the Philistines' ('The Second Psalm', HUCA 19 (1945-46), pp. 43-55 (45 n. 3). 30. Cf. Peter C. Craigie, Psalms 1-50 (WBC, 19; Waco, TX: Word Books, 1983), p. 68: 'Because God is a universal God, the earthly king's jurisdiction is also represented in world-wide terms'. 31. So, rightly, J.A. Emerton, 'The Translation of the Verbs in the Imperfect in Psalm ii. 9', JTS NS 29 (1978), pp. 497-503 (501): '[I]t is not a matter of conquering foreign peoples for the first time, but of subduing those who have previously been subject to the king in Jerusalem'. 32. Bob Becking has made clear that, in its Mesopotamian analogues, the image of smashing pots refers to the utter subjugation of enemies (as in historical inscriptions of Tiglath-Pileser III and Sargon II) and, famously, to the destruction of the earth by the flood (Atrahasis and Gilgamesh epics). See his '"Wie Tb'pfe sollst du sie Zerschmeissen": Mesopotamische Parallelen zu Psalm 2,9b', ZAW 102

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No one injures his own interest by shattering his own property like a pot. In short, in the scholarly tradition the psalm is about world dominion—whether of Yahweh or of the Israelite king—whereas in the world of the text it is about the king's hopes for military victory over particular rebellious foreign nations. d. An Idealizing Tendency A recent tendency in Psalm criticism, which has the effect of deflecting criticism of its aggressiveness, has been to regard this psalm as originating, not from the royal cult of pre-exilic Israel, but from an oppressed post-exilic community. Thus for Hossfeld and Zenger the admittedly 'aggressive' programme of Psalm 2 is not to be seen as the realistic and realizable ambition of a powerful state but as a hope and a vision of a threatened minority clinging to the promises of its god.33 In similar vein Erhard Gerstenberger writes: The psalmist/liturgist/theologian who composed and used Psalm 2 for synagogal worship services34 wanted to strengthen Jewish identity in a world resounding with the noise of heathen armies and with the propaganda of alien gods. The writer insists that all the apparent strength of the nations and their gods is illusory. The real master of all the world is Yahweh, who one day will reveal the participation of his Anointed and his (1990), pp. 59-79. John T. Willis also has rightly seen that the psalm as a whole is not about lordship but about battle, observing that '[t]he affirmation that Yahweh himself had set the Judean king on his throne is important in the flow of argument in the cry of defiance, but should not be magnified out of proportion in relationship to the psalm as a whole' ('A Cry of Defiance—Psalm 2', JSOT 41 [1990], pp. 33-50 [45]). 33. Zenger, in Hossfeld and Zenger, Die Psalmen, I, p. 50-51. This is of course not a completely new tendency, for already Duhm, for example, was arguing that Psalm 2 represented the 'eschatological tension of the last centuries [BCE]' and was composed for the coronation of Aristobulus I or Alexander Jannaeus (Die Psalmen, pp. 10-11). So too more recently Marco Treves, 'Two Acrostic Psalms', VT 15 (1965), pp. 81-85, claiming to find in it the acrostic 'Sing to Jannaeus the First and his Wife' (adequately refuted by Barnabas Lindars, 'Is Psalm ii an Acrostic Psalm?", VT 17 [1967], pp. 60-67). But the more modern trend is to focus on the community experience rather than the political situation. Another modern exponent of a postexilic origin is Gerstenberger, Psalms, p. 48. 34. Which is itself no doubt a fiction; see Heather A. McKay, Sabbath and Synagogue: The Question of Sabbath Worship in Ancient Judaism (Religions in the Graeco-Roman World, 122; Leiden: Brill, 1994), denying the existence of Jewish services for worship until well into the Christian era.


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preferred people in the administration of the world. What a dream of greatness, and what a comfort and joy for the downtrodden, suffering Jewish communities!35

If this is the way an oppressed minority comforts itself, by aping the language and the ambitions of an oriental empire, then truly Assyria and Egypt have won the battle for hearts and minds, and it is their ideology that has triumphed. What benefit, we may ask, is it to an oppressed community to believe that the strength of the nations is illusory? On the contrary, it is the very power of their overlords that has made them the oppressed; if that power is illusory, then so too is their suffering. The oppressed will never gain their freedom if their poets and religious leaders convince them that they have never lost it, that they have hidden resources and that they will 'one day' find themselves to be the real masters, administering the world from a position of power as 'preferred people'. This is nothing but an incitement to fantasize, not to engage with the real world. The psalm on this reading is not only a capitulation to the ideals of a savage imperialism but at the same time a recipe for quietism and defeatism. On the part of commentators of our time, this approach represents an idealizing tendency, for it transmutes the violence of the psalm and its suppression of claims to national self-determination into the cry of a helpless minority who want justice more than power. e. Softening the Contours There are in this psalm some remarkably astringent elements, which the interpretative tradition tends to 'manage' and tone down. Among them might be mentioned: 1. Yahweh's response of scorn to the nations' aspiration to independence.36 The god of this psalm does not only deny independence to subject peoples, he pokes fun at them for suggesting they have any right to it. Commentators sometimes signal their disquiet at this divine response (a 'shrill anthropomorphism', Kraus calls it37), but make it their business to contain both the text and their own disquiet. The divine mockery becomes merely 'an expression of his sovereignty, majesty and 35. Erhard S. Gerstenberger, Psalms: Part 1, with an Introduction to Cultic Poetry (FOTL, 14; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988), p. 49. 36. No matter whether the laugh of Yhwh is 'a poetic expression for a peal of thunder' (Cheyne, Psalms, I, p. 5). 37. Hans-Joachim Kraus, Psalms 1-59: A Continental Commentary (trans. Hilton C. Oswald; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993), p. 128.

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loftiness'. 38 And, of course, we need to remember that 'Strictly speaking, God is not subject to anger or fury; his judgments are always tranquil; but he is metaphorically said to rage and be angry'.39 His wrath, we are reminded, is 'not emotional irrationality, but underlines the passion with which he wants to restore the disturbed order' .40 One commentator is reduced to remarking that at least God's reaction shows that 'the Almighty is able to share in human feelings'.41 And another analyses punctiliously how this is not an outburst of laughter as a thoughtless reflex, nor wild laughter that releases tension, nor ironic laughter that is malicious and disrespectful—but simple laughter, which, 'imaginative and optimistic, underlines the comical side of individuals, encounters, the circumstances of life and which leads those who laugh to dissociate themselves from that at which they laugh while at the same time drawing to themselves those who surround them' .42 It is good to know that the divine laughter is so circumspect. Looked at from the right point of view, indeed, one commentator opines, 'the laughter of the psalm is consistent with the tears of Jesus as he stood on Olivet' ;43 the only problem is, like that of Archimedes, finding the place to stand in order to take such a point of view. On the whole, though, what we find is that commentators have rather little to say about the divine mockery—which is the most effective way of 'managing' it, of course. 2. The king's claim to a right to pulverize the nations. Mostly this savage language is 'managed' by transcribing it as a mere right to dominion or by insisting that it is nothing other than a picture—of the ease, for example, with which the king will reduce his opponents.44 For Kraus it is no more than the statement of 'universal, judiciary absolute power' ,45 Alternatively, the language can be read as an expression of mere possibility. Long ago, Cardinal Bellarmine commented: '"Break them in pieces" does not imply that Christ will actually do so, but that he can do so if he wills; breaking their sins and infidelities in pieces, 38. Kraus, Psalms 1-59, p. 129. 39. R. Bellarmine (d. 1621), A Commentary on the Book of Psalms (trans. John O'Sullivan; Dublin: James Duffy, 1866), p. 3. 40. Zenger, in Hossfeld and Zenger, Die Psalmen, I, p. 53. 41. Anderson, Psalms, I, p. 66. 42. L. Jacquet, Les Psaumes et le coeur de I'homme: Etude textuelle, litteraire et doctrinale (Gembloux: Duculot, 1975), I, pp. 230-31. 43. Maclaren, Psalms, I, p. 16. 44. Jacquet, Les Psaumes, p. 236. 45. Kraus, Psalms 1-59, p. 133.

CONES Psalm 2 and the MLF

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through his mercy...or breaking them in pieces in everlasting fire'.46 Clearly this is a containment strategy with great staying power, for, much more recently, Anderson takes the same line: 'if need be, the King will defeat all his enemies',47 and so too J.A. Emerton: 'A king may need to shatter his vassals if they rebel, even though he will hope that he will not have to resort to such action'.48 3. The rule of terror sanctioned by the deity. Yhwh rebukes the nations in his wrath and terrifies them in his anger, the king threatens them with crushing, and they are advised by the poet to serve Yhwh with fear and 'rejoice' (?) with trembling, to pay homage to the king lest he be angry, because his wrath can flare up in a moment. There is a lot of anger about in this poem, but it too is 'managed' by the commentators. Either the subject is not mentioned (the favourite method), or else it is argued that the air of irascibility that the psalm breathes does not tell the whole story: 'By long-drawn-out, gentle patience He has sought to win to obedience (though that side of His dealings is not presented in this psalm), but the moment arrives when... sleeping retribution wakes at the right moment, determined by considerations inappreciable by us'.49 'The quick anger may sound like the touchiness of a despot', allows Derek Kidner, 'but the true comparison is with Christ, whose wrath (like his compassion) blazed up at wrongs which left His contemporaries quite unruffled. This fiery picture is needed alongside that of the one who is "slow to anger".'50 The anger that fills the psalm may be one-sided, that is to say, but it is necessary to a more whole and harmonious view of the divine. 4. The professed concern for the nations in vv. 10-12, coupled with the callous disregard of the nations' own desires in the rest of the psalm. There is something unsavoury about a pedagogy that professes to teach wisdom and offer advice (v. 10) but is based upon contempt for its pupils (v. 1) and accompanied by threats of bullying (v. 9) and even capital punishment (v. 12). The threats are serious enough, so it is hard to see any genuine altruism in the appeal to reason in v. 10. The commentators, however, want to swallow up the threats in the advice, the wrath in the love: 46. 47. 48. 49. 50.

Bellarmine, Psalms, p. 4. Anderson, Psalms, I, p. 68 (my italics). Emerton, 'The Translation of the Verbs', p. 503. Maclaren, Psalms, I, p. 16. Derek Kidner, Psalms 1-72 (TOTC; London: Inter-Varsity Press, 1973), p. 53.

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The Bible in Human Society This Psalm opens the Psalter with a proclamation of God's love and a denunciation of God's wrath against those who reject it.. .God's mercy is not impaired by the declaration of His wrath, but if the awful reality of that wrath were withdrawn, the bright truth of God's Love would fade away into a twilight of moral indifference.51

What kind of love is it that brings denunciation if it is rejected? What sort of love is it that fades to moral indifference if it does not include wrath? Hell obviously hath no fury like a deity scorned. The tension between the protestations of concern and the threats of violence remains, and the poem will always begin where it begins, with scorn, and end where it ends, with death for all those who do not 'take refuge' in the God who rules from Zion. A softening of the contours is especially notable in Christianizing ('messianic') interpretations of the psalm,52 which want to maximize the degree of fit between the king of Jerusalem and Jesus but, on the other hand, resist blurring the cleancut lines of the Christian Jesus with alien figurations. In such readings, the violence of the Israelite king is usually passed over in silence, the ideas of compulsion and subjugation are transcribed as divine sovereignty, the claims of the king are swallowed up in the universal lordship of Yhwh, and the king is messianized and transformed into a wisdom teacher and evangelist: the Messiah calls the kings and rulers of earth to become servants of the reign of YHWH. He teaches the nations the fear of the Lord just as he teaches people obedience to the Torah of the Lord (in Psalm 1). To both he offers a better way than the way that offends the divine sovereignty.53

Or, more sophisticatedly, In the view of the final redaction the (messianic) king in Zion lays hold, not of weapons, but of words, in order to move the kings of the nations on to the path towards the kingdom of God.. .The 'messianic' king here brings to realization, as 'teacher of the Torah', the eschatological vision of Isa. 42.1,6;49.6;51.4.54

51. R.M. Benson, The War-Songs of the Prince of Peace: A Devotional Commentary on the Psalms (London: John Murray, 1901), I, pp. 70-71. 52. See, for example, A. Robert, 'Considerations sur le messianisme du Ps. IF, RSR 39 (1951-52), pp. 88-98. 53. James Luther Mays, '"In a Vision": The Portrayal of the Messiah in the Psalms', ExAuditu 1 (1991), pp. 1-8 (3). 54. Zenger, in Hossfeld and Zenger, Die Psalmen, p. 54.


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The commentators are encouraging us to forget the unpleasantness of the scornful laughter and the aggressive language of shattering, are they not? If we can end our experience of the poem with a nice taste in the mouth, of eschatological mission and conversion and an evangelical kingdom of God, all is well, and the text is more positive, more Christian and more humane than it sounded. Of course, if the going gets too hard, it is always possible to jettison the offending element in the text in a 'critical' mode, by that very means heightening the authority of what has not been 'critically' excised. Thus for example, in an essay on 'Preparing to Preach on a Royal Psalm',55 Delmar L. Jacobson writes that in the New Testament use of Psalm 2 there is a startling turn of events: a new and contrary way which leads, not to the smashing of Messiah's enemies as announced in Psalm 2, but to the astonishment of Israel's enemies as announced in Isaiah 52:14-15.

This new and contrary way is a better way, naturally; and the Israelite king is textually punished by the commentator for not having been the messiah Jesus: In reality, however, things did not turn out as pictured in Psalm 2...Indeed, the day came when the Davidic king himself was broken 'with a rod of iron' and the Davidic kingdom dashed 'in pieces like a potter's vessel'.

But at the same time it is not just for not living 'down' (we might say) to the meek self-sacrifice of the suffering servant for which the Davidic kings are to be blamed, but also for their not having lived 'up' to the fearsome and domineering splendour portrayed in Psalm 2: 'None of the successive Davidic kings achieved the greatness envisioned by the temple songs such as Psalms 2, 45, 72, and 110'. Coming down hard on the Israelite kings for not really achieving world dominion is perhaps the ultimate capitulation to the ideology of the psalm. Not only is there nothing wrong—if you're an Israelite—with being brutal, the real fault is not being brutal enough. f. Hardening the Edges A contrary move on the part of commentators is to align themselves wholeheartedly with the savagery of the psalm, and to find justification for their totalitarian instincts in its wording. Whereas my complaint, 55. Delmar L. Jacobson, 'The Royal Psalms and Jesus Messiah: Preparing to Preach on a Royal Psalm', WW5 (1985), pp. 192-98 (197, 198).

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when I find the contours of the psalm softened, is against the commentator for denaturing the psalm, here it is more against the psalm for authorizing and encouraging the commentator. Does the psalm bear no responsibility for the interpretations it licenses? Here is one such hardening of the edges of the vision of Psalm 2, still firmly in the political sphere: [H]istory is nothing else than a prolonged exhibition of the scorn of God for human pride.. .Three hundred years ago the king of Spain equipped a huge fleet and despatched it against England, to chastise that heretical land and bring her under the papal yoke...Trusting in their strength the Spaniards reckoned on victory; but there were two factors of which they had taken no account: one, the valour of the English seamen...and the other, and by far the greater, the scorn of Him who sate in the heavens. He blew upon them, and they were scattered; He sent forth a mighty wind into the sea and drove them along the Channel and up into the cold North Sea... [O]f all that vast Armada only fifty-three...got home to Spain, with but a poor remnant of broken and dispirited men to tell how He that is enthroned in the heavens had laughed and mocked at them.56

This jingoistic rendering of the psalm, it should be noted, is not the private interpretation of some marginal author of an more uncouth age, but belongs to the mainstream of British biblical interpretation in this century. It is to be found in The Speaker's Bible, a compilation by the James Hastings who edited The Expository Times, The Dictionary of the Bible, and The Encyclopaedia of Religion and Ethics. The aim of The Speaker's Bible, according to its distinguished editor, was 'to preserve all that is worth preserving of the modern interpretation of the Bible'—a sobering thought. And here is another instance of a hardening of the edges: The second Psalm is one of the best Psalms. I love that Psalm with my heart. It strikes and flashes valiantly amongst kings, princes, counsellors, judges, etc. If what this Psalm says be true, then are the allegations and aims of the papists stark lies and folly. If I were as our Lord God, and had committed the government to my son, as he to his Son, and these vile people were as disobedient as they now be, I would knock the world to pieces.57 56. David Smith, 'Biblical Laughter', ExpTim 12 (1900-1901), pp. 546-49 (54849), quoted in James Hastings (ed.), The Speakers Bible: The Book of Job. Psalms I (Aberdeen: The 'Speaker's Bible' Offices, 1924), pp. 285-86. 57. Martin Luther, Table Talk, in Helmut T. Lehman (ed.), Luther's Works, LIV (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1967), p. 49. For another example of the influence of this psalm, see the Koran, Sura 2.14.


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Luther, of course. It is a classic example of the pernicious influence of the psalm's violence, as well as of the use of the psalm as a vehicle for the interpreter's own anger. g. Refusal to Draw the Implications of Ancient Near Eastern Parallels There is a considerable literature pointing out the detailed parallels between the wording of this psalm and ancient Near Eastern literatures.58 But it is not recognized that the closer the analogy between the Hebrew text and the ancient Near Eastern texts, the stronger the case for believing that this psalm represents the ideology of world empires like Babylonia and Egypt that are, by most accounts, inimical to the theology of the Old Testament. Artur Weiser, for example, recognizes that the setting of the psalm (which he identifies as that of a world-wide rule of the Israelite king) 'copie[s] a foreign pattern...[,] that of the court etiquette of the great empires of the ancient Orient and of its royal cult'59 and 'borrowfs] the setting...of victories over the other nations and of dominion over the whole world, from foreign prototypes'.60 But he wants to insist that If two people say the very same thing, it is nevertheless not the same thing. The oracles of the ancient East impart to the historical aspirations of the kings for power a greater energy by the promise of divine help; the emphasis is, however, on the internal affairs of the nation in question. In the Old Testament, on the other hand, the internal historical events—in our present context the kingship in Zion—are recognized as bearers of a divine will which transcends history and for that reason encompasses it totally— both as regards space and time—and that divine will bursts the narrow 58. See for example Gerhard von Rad, 'The Royal Ritual in Judah', in his The Problem of the Hexateuch and Other Essays (trans. E.W. Trueman Dicken; Edinburgh: Oliver &Boyd, 1966), pp. 222-31 (original, 'Das judaische Koingsritual', TLZ 72 [1947], cols. 211-16 [= his Gesammelte Studien zum Alten Testament (1958), pp. 205-13]); Thiel, 'Der Weltherrschaftsanspruch'; Victor Sasson, 'The Language of Rebellion in Psalm 2 and the Plaster Texts from Deir 'Alia', AUSS 24 (1986), pp. 147-54; Albert Kleber, 'Ps. 2:9 in the Light of an Ancient Oriental Ceremony', CBQ 5 (1943), pp. 63-67. Oriental analogies to kissing the feet of a ruler (not otherwise attested in the Hebrew Bible) are conveniently summarized by Hermann Gunkel, Die Psalmen, ubersetzt und erklart (HAT, II/2; Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 5th edn, 1968 [original edn, 1892]), p. 8. 59. Weiser, Psalms, p. 110. 60. Weiser, Psalms, p. 113. Similarly Zenger, whose first sentence on Psalm 2 is 'In the background stands the ancient Near Eastern and Egyptian view of world order' (in Hossfeld and Zenger, Die Psalmen, I, p. 53).

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The Bible in Human Society bounds which limit the internal historical events.. .and makes these events the blueprint of and the signal for that divine judgment which in terms of space is universal and in terms of time is final (eschatological).61

It goes without saying that from a Moabite point of view—or indeed from any point of view that does not identify with the world of the text—this is special pleading. If such language as we encounter in the psalm signifies in its ancient Near Eastern analogues a lust for royal power, a disinterested observer will need a lot of convincing that it means something quite different in the psalm.62 Here is another example, this time from a learned and eloquent preacher rather than a professional scholar: The lower half of the picture is all eager motion and strained effort; the upper is full of Divine calm...He needs not to rise from His throned tranquillity, but regards undisturbed the disturbances of earth. The thought embodied is like that expressed in the Egyptian statues of gods carved out of the side of a mountain, 'moulded in colossal calm', with their mighty hands laid in their laps and their wide-opened eyes gazing down on the little ways of the men creeping about their feet. 63

So, we must conclude, for the Christian interpreter the theology of Egypt was in the right after all, and we may be grateful that the Hebrew poet had the breadth of vision to lay under tribute the wisdom of his erstwhile national oppressor. Or, to abandon the irony, is it not amazing that so many can see the parallels with the ancient Near East, and so few can see their significance?64 h. Sweeping Politics under the Aesthetic Rug The 'beauty' and dramatic force of the psalm have often been remarked on. For example:

61. Weiser, Psalms, p. 114. 62. A similar observation is also made by Thiel, 'Der Weltherrschaftsanspruch', p. 58. 63. Maclaren, Psalms, I, p. 15. 64. It is to the credit of Winfried Thiel ('Der Weltherrschaftsanspruch') that he raises the issue at all, that he critiques both Weiser's and Kraus's attempts to deal with it, and that he proposes his own. I must say, however, that the claim that the Old Testament itself offers 'corrections' to the theology of Psalm 2 ('Der Weltherrschaftsanspruch', p. 59) does not for me remove the scandal of the text (any more than in the essay by Klein, in n. 1 above.


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This song is a noble outburst of these truly great reflections, these sublime sentiments.. .This is the type of a perfect song, blending in itself rest and unrest, contemplation and sensibility in the finest manner...This beautiful song must necessarily proceed from the most splendid period of the kingdom...65 ... this splendid but commonly misunderstood psalm...66 ... this magnificent lyric...67 ... this beautiful poem...68 [Verses] 1-3 place us, in masterly fashion, immediately into the situation...For its power, its vividness and its precise language, Psalm 2 has few equals.69 In sublime language, and with great dramatic power, [the nations] are rebuked for their folly .. .70 Its author, a master of words full of great poetical power and bold ideas...71 The psalm is effective and dramatic in its literary style.72 The four sections/scenes form an artistic composition.73 The poetry in v 9 presents this regal authority in a dramatic manner...74

There comes a point, however, when one wonders whether this chorus of approval for the psalm's aesthetic qualities is not a systematic deflection of attention from its political intention and its ethical shortcomings. I do not mean to dissent from the critics' universal praise, but simply to ask: If we may make aesthetic judgments about this text, may we not also make ethical ones?75 65. Ewald, Commentary on the Psalms, pp. 148,149. 66. Gunkel, Die Psalmen, p. 5. 67. Maclaren, Psalms, I, p. 11. 68. Hans Schmidt, Die Psalmen (HAT, 1/15; Tubingen: Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1934), p. 6. 69. Duhm, Psalmen, pp. 5, 10. 70. W.T. Davison, The Psalms, I-LXXII (Century Bible; Edinburgh: T.C. & E.G. Jack, n.d.), p. 50. 71. Weiser, Psalms, p. 109. 72. Craigie, Psalms 1-50, p. 65. 73. Zenger, in Hossfeld and Zenger, Die Psalmen, I, p. 49. 74. Craigie, Psalms 1-50, p. 67. 75. In this I am entirely at one with Wayne C. Booth's vigorous attempt to restore 'ethical criticism' to our literary agenda; see his The Company we Keep: An Ethics of Fiction (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988).

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i. The Inscription of Ideology in Modern Translations Most biblical scholars76 first read this psalm not in Hebrew but in a modern translation in their own language. But no one ever seems to notice that their interpretation of the psalm must have been in important respects controlled and determined by the ideology of the modern versions they grew up with. 1. We have already seen how the use of the definite article in vv. 1,2 and 8 (the nations, the peoples, the kings of the earth, the rulers, the nations, the ends of the earth) universalize the psalm. Can it be that scholars do not question the idea of universal dominion in this psalm because they have always 'known' that it is about 'the' nations and 'the' peoples? 2.1 have also already noted how translating the term p» as 'world, earth' rather than 'land' likewise predetermines the reader, and even the scholar familiar with Hebrew, to see in the psalm an unambiguous reference to world dominion. 3. Perhaps the most conspicuous example of how theological and ideological interpretations of the psalm have been inscribed and enshrined in modern English translations is the capitalizations of the NIV. The 'Anointed One', the 'King' and the 'Son' are not names for an Israelite king (in Ps. 45.1 [NIV], for example, the poet recites his verses for 'the king', with a lowercase 'k'). This is a blatant Christianization of the psalm. 4. Another ideological decision that has been imported into translations of the psalm is that it concerns Yahweh's universal lordship and the delegation of his dominion to the king (the NAB heads the psalm 'The Universal Reign of the Messiah'). Thus Dinri (v. 9), which is unmistakably 'you will break' (from y$r\\ and which suits the parallelism of D^n ('you will shatter', from f23), is emended to Dinn and translated 'you will rule' in the NIV and the NAB77—though 'break' in KJV, RV, 76. I am obviously leaving out of account at this point those for whom Hebrew is a native language. 77. On the basis of LXX Jtoiuccvevq and Vg reges (cf. also Rev. 2.27 rcoiuavei); Briggs, Psalms, I, p. 22, among others, thinks 'rule' is 'more suited to the context of the sceptre, even if it be of iron'. And it is more recently defended by G. Wilhelmi, 'Der Hirt mil dem eisernen Szepter. Uberlegungen zu Psalm ii 9', VT 21 (1977), pp. 196-204, and by Emerton, 'The Translation of the Verbs', p. 502; but see, to the contrary, J. Alberto Soggin, 'Zum zweiten Psalm', in Hans Joachim Stobe et al. (eds.), Wort-Gebot-Glaube: Beitrdge zur Theologie des Alien Testaments: Walther Eichrodt zum 80. Geburtstag (ATANT, 59; Zurich: Zwingli Verlag, 1970), pp. 191-207.


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RSV, JB, NJB, NEB, REB, GNB and 'smash' (NJPS). This is evidently a Christianizing rendering, given contemporary currency both by an evangelical Protestant and by a Roman Catholic translation. 3. The Question of Ethics The tendency of this paper is toward showing that there is a question of ethics—hitherto largely unrecognized—both in the world of the text of Psalm 2 itself and also in the scholarly commentary on it, where the ethical problems raised by the psalm are only further compounded. a. In the World of the Text The primary ethical question raised by the psalm is, What is an appropriate response to assertions of national independence and claims to national self-determination? Any answers we give to this question, indeed any thoughts we have on the subject whatsoever, are subjectively ours, and more or less conditioned by our own historical and social location and experience. But if we are serious and autonomous people, they are ours, and therefore the only views we should, in my opinion, hold. Now the text of Psalm 2 says that, when the nations seeking independence are non-Israelite and are seeking it from Israel, they should not have it. The poet is against it, the king is against it, and the god is against it. Psalm 2 is not in two minds on the matter. Any nation contemplating a liberation movement had better know that it will be resisted and that it will be scorned. If its leaders have any sense, they will bow in humble submission to the Israelite king and not risk his wrath.78 I myself, living in a post-imperialist culture, do not think very highly of this attitude. Moreover, I think it important, as a scholar engaged professionally with this psalm, to make my unease with it very plain, because—if for no other reason—I should hate for anyone to construe my silence as consent, or to take my neutral or 'objective' remarks about the text to signify any refusal or incapacity on my part to form ethical judgments. But my unease with the psalm goes deeper, I believe, than my own 78. I am understanding •nnpcw as 'kiss the son', though of course the reading and interpretation are much debated. See, for example, A.A. Macintosh, 'A Consideration of the Problems Presented by Psalm ii. 11 and 12', JTS NS 27 (1976), pp. 1-14.

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'instinctive' (which is to say, culturally conditioned but also 'owned' by myself) disagreement with its programme. For it is not just that the ideology of the psalm is in conflict with mine (and that of people I approve of): it is in conflict also with other streams of thought in its own culture—in ways that make its ideology questionable. In a word, while Israel is very happy to have been liberated itself, this psalm does not want anyone else to be liberated—and that seems to undermine the value Israel put on national freedom, and to render its attitude to freedom ambivalent and incoherent. It was apparently fundamental to Israelite national self-perception to remember itself as originating as a body of slaves escaped from Egypt. Whether or not it had historically been the case that Israel had come into being by way of liberation from imperial overlords, that is how Israel chose to construct its own history. Now Psalm 2 is not explicitly denying that construction of the past, but, in refusing a similar history to others, it implicitly does so, and thus denies the value of its own liberation. It would not be so bad if Psalm 2 happened to promote a view that was simply in opposition to another view expressed in the Old Testament. If it did, it would have a perfect right to do so, and it would not be for us to insist that the Old Testament should display a uniform ideology. And it would not be so bad if it were just a question of our preferring another Old Testament view about national autonomy to that expressed in this psalm, for we would have a perfect right to do that, and there is no obligation on any of us to approve of everything that is in the Old Testament. What is so bad for me about Psalm 2's ideology is, as I have just now suggested, not only that I do not approve of it but that it cannot sustain itself or justify itself in terms of Israel's own selfawareness. And that is the ethical problem the text itself raises: the text is an act of bad faith, an attempt to deceive itself about the nature of reality.79

79. This condition of bad faith (mauvaise foi) is classically described in Jean-Paul Sartre's Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology (trans. Hazel E. Barnes; London: Routledge, 1991 [original edition, 1943]), pp. 47-70. The worst form of bad faith, as Roger Poole notes (in Alan Bullock and Stephen Trombley [eds.], The Harper Dictionary of Modern Thought [New York: Harper & Row, 1988], p. 67) is 'that self-deception which allows a subject to believe that he [sic] is not free to change things, or that things could not be otherwise'; this is the form of bad faith to which commentators are most susceptible.


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b. In the World of the Commentator What happens in the world of the commentator on Psalm 2 is that its ideology of the repression of national liberation movements is affirmed and perpetuated. I call this a compounding of the ethical dubiety of the text itself in that the commentators should know better, since they, as scholars, should have no particular urecognized and undeclared investment in a text they happening to be commenting on (for one thing, they will probably be commenting on a quite different and quite possibly discrepant text next week) and they should be able to relativize their text by situating it within a wider cultural and intellectual context. It is no great crime, perhaps, that the poet of Psalm 2 should do his own thing, make his own statement, utter his own prejudices, be as opinionated and one-sided and passionate as he likes. But it is a shocking thing that scholars of these texts should only be able to comment on how insightful and (in one sense or another) 'true' this text is, without ever embarking on a critical evaluation of it. They compound the moral dubiety of the text by perpetuating its claims and by lending them their own moral authority. Any commentator worth his or her salt knows how important in Old Testament theology the theme of national freedom is, whether it is in the announcements of the mission of the Deutero-Isaianic servant (e.g. Isa. 61.1), or in the piety of the psalmists (e.g. Pss. 44.2; 69.18) or in the historical narratives (e.g. Exod. 3.8; Judg. 10.11; Neh. 9.28).80 But they all suppress what they know about liberation, deliverance and freedom when it comes to non-Israelite peoples—and so are complicit in the 80. Curiously, however, the writers of articles in our standard Bible encyclopaedias do not know this, but almost invariably know only about personal freedom or captivity. So for example J. Marsh, 'Liberty', IDE, III, pp. 122-23; F. Stanley Jones, 'Freedom', ABD, II, pp. 855-59 ('[T]he OT does not develop a theology of freedom on the basis of the Exodus. Rather, Israel was ransomed in order to be God's servants...and the language used to describe this event is primarily that of "redemption", not of "freedom"' [p. 855]—which does not seem at all true to me). Contrast F.F. Bruce, 'Liberty', ISBE, III, pp. 119-22: 'The paradigm of liberty in the OT...is the deliverance of the Israelites from their servitude in Egypt' [p. 119]). Slavery, too, is only recognized as a personal matter. So I. Mendelsohn, 'Slavery in the OT', IDB, IV, pp. 383-41, and Muhammad A. Dandamayev, 'Slavery', ABD, VI, pp. 58-62, concluding that 'The institution of slavery was taken for granted not only by the free persons but also by the slaves themselves, who never demanded its abolition' (p. 61). How would we know? And why should 'literal', personal slavery be privileged by dictionary-article authors over the slavery of whole nations?

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unlovely ethnocentricity of the text. They know that the Old Testament is supposed to favour the poor, the weak, the underprivileged and the oppressed, but they forget that orientation when it is a matter of foreigners. And they know that the language of this psalm echoes the language of the brutal oriental empires, but they 'manage' that fact out of their consciousness. Some are pointing out these days how Psalm 2 functions as part of a preface to the Psalms, setting a tone and an orientation to the Psalter as a whole.81 They do not notice that this position of the psalm makes the ethical problem it raises only more acute. If it is problematic that the psalm resists national claims to self-determination, and represents the Jerusalem king as a ruler in the pattern of oriental tyrants, a serious question is raised about the piety of the Psalter as a whole—namely, whether what is represented in it is a universally valid and desirable type of piety, or whether its theological opinions stand in need of critique from the standpoints of its readers (whatever they may be).82 There is also the fact, which must be taken into account at this point, that Psalm 2 is the most frequently quoted psalm in the New Testament. From an ethical point of view, this fact should not be taken to exculpate the ideology of the psalm but rather should call into question the New Testament itself—a text that draws its authority, in part, from the violence and repressiveness of Psalm 2. It does not matter that the intertexts of Psalm 2 do not take the psalm 'literally', for from an ethical point of view it is all one whether the violence is literal or metaphorical. If the reign of the messiah is to be founded on violence and the suppression of what we would today call the legitimate interests of 81. Cf. Erich Zenger, 'Der Psalter als Wegweiser und Wegbegleiter. Ps 1-2 als Prob'mium des Psalmenbuchs', in Arnold Angenendt and Herbert Vorgrimler (eds.), Sie wandern von Kraft iu Kraft. Aufbriiche-Wege-Begegnungen: Festgabe fur Bischof Reinhard Lettmann (Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker, 1993), pp. 29-47; A. Deissler, 'Die Stellung von Psalm 2 im Psalter. Folgen fur die Auslegung', in Beitrdge zur Psalmenforschung (Forschung zum Bibel, 60; Wiirzburg: Echter Verlag, 1988), pp. 73-83. 82. And if, as Gosse argues ('Le Psaume 2 et 1'usage redactionnel'), the psalm represents inner conflicts in the post-exilic community projected on to the outside world, the ethical problem of the psalm takes on yet another dimension: whether it is right to use the language of political suppression to deal with conflicts in the realm of ideas—whether, to put it concretely, you do not have an ethical problem with your beliefs if you find yourself wanting to smash those who disagree with you like a potter's vessel.


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others, that constitutes a problem for Christianity.83 In short, the quotation of Psalm 2 in the New Testament by no means legitimates the ethics of the psalm, but rather problematizes the New Testament. 4. A Bible Readers' Liberation Movement So far in this essay, it has been the freedom of 'Moabites' and their rights to self-determination that have been the subject of discussion. But they are not the only ones to have their interests and rights suppressed by the psalm. There are also the readers. There is no denying that the psalm has its own kind of dramatic and aesthetic power, and, since it professes to speak about God, and moreover to extol his lordship, it is a rare reader who is not intimidated by this psalm into thinking that it offers rewarding insights into spiritual realities. Whether or not such intimidation goes under the name of 'the authority of the Bible', there can be little doubt that most readers feel no freedom to resist the power and authority of the psalm—which is to say, its ideology. It is not only fictional 'Moabites' who have fetters upon them but real people at the end of the twentieth century also who are constrained by the psalm to believe that God has favourites among the peoples of the earth, has no time for the idea of toleration, and resorts to violence to solve his problems. But there is another kind of power to which Bible readers are subject—at least Bible readers of the kind who read essays like this. It is the power of the academic community, who control what may be said about psalms. The scholars who write commentaries and learned papers on the psalm do not merely give us information about the backgrounds to the text or offer us exegeses for our consideration. They also control—it is not too strong a word—the reading and interpretation of the text.84 It is too late in the day for anyone to claim the innocence of 83. Here, for example, is the language of violence masquerading as the language of piety: 'When [Christ] burst the bands of the grave... He purchased for Himself an universal dominion. Henceforth His kingdom has been established in Zion, and all people of the earth will be subdued either to His love or to His wrath. What remains for us but to yield ourselves reverently to His sway... ?' (Peter Young, 'The Book of Psalms', in The Old Testament according to the Authorised Version: Poetical Books (London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1878), in he. 84. For this reason, I am at present teaching a course on the Psalms in which I forbid students to read books (other than the Psalms). I mean: I require them in their essays to show no evidence that they have read anything but the text, for I know all

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texts, whether Bible texts or scholarly commentaries; all have their own interests to serve, and they serve it with their whole being. The commentaries are written precisely to tell us how we should read Psalm 2, and what they say with a single voice is that the psalm is good and true and admirable and uplifting. They have no fault to find with it. Compared with this insistent and united message, often conveyed subliminally and therefore all the more effectively, their dissent from one another over details of exegesis or questions like the date of the psalm are trivial. Indeed, in the very act of evaluating the differences among commentators—which is the substance of most scholarly work—the reader is systematically deflected from considering what it is that they have in common: a complicity with the text. In such a situation, what is called for, in my opinion, is a readers' liberation movement.85 Too many readers are in bondage either to the text or to the approved interpretations of the text—or to both. With one bound—as the saying goes—they could be free. Like the freedom fighters of the Moabite Liberation Front, they have nothing to lose but their chains, but unlike them they do not even need to unite to find their freedom—everyone can do it for themselves. Being free from the authority of the text and of its professional interpreters does not mean denying or rejecting everything they say. It is not obligatory to deny the psalm's claim that it is foolish to resist God or that God wants humanity to be obedient to his will. But it does mean being free to decide for oneself whether one will accept that these are too well that if they do, they will believe the books and not the evidence of the text. Needless to say, they find this an oppressive regime, telling me every day that they know no other way of writing essays but to read books. This rebellion only encourages me the more, and I laugh them to scorn, taking a leaf out of the Psalter. One day soon, however, when they are firm and confident in their own ability to read psalms, I shall demand that they turn to the commentaries, and discover for themselves the difference between the texts and the scholarly tradition. They will praise me then (I fondly believe) for enabling their freedom from the tyranny of the tradition. It may be of interest to mention that in our departmental statement of goals for each graduating student in Biblical Studies the first of the goals is 'that he or she can handle the Bible confidently, and is not intimidated by it or the scholarship about it'. 85. Terry Eagleton has guyed the idea of readers' liberation in his Against the Grain: Essays 1975-1985 (London: Verso, 1986), pp. 181-84 (The Revolt of the Reader'). But for all his charisma, Eagleton probably does not know what life is really like out here in the wastelands where the Bible is still being read as if it were gospel truth.


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appropriate terms in which to speak of the divine. It is a sad day for theism if the only language its adherents can find to express their sense of the divine is the language of oriental despotism, with its scornful deity who offers comfort to petty kings in their grandiose ambitions and authorizes state violence and a regime of terror against those who want nothing more gross than self-determination. Have I been/air to this text?, I wonder finally, re-reading this essay. What have these few scratchings of ink on leather (or whatever) that we call Psalm 2—a mere 301 letters in all, occupying no more than three or four lines of printed footnote text86—done to deserve this disproportionate scrutiny, this excessive interrogation by an alien and apparently hostile critic? And have I not, with my dreadful hermeneutic of suspicion, offended against what Wayne Booth calls the 'golden rule' of reading, 'Read as you would have others read you'? I console myself with reflection on the disparity between us, between the text and me. If we were partners, on more or less the same footing, I would do as I would be done by. But this text has a power so incommensurable with mine that my voice is no more than a whimper. The text is a ocean liner (the S.S. Authority) bearing down on me out of the fog, me in my leaky dinghy trying to navigate the chartless sea of meaning. This text has been by chanted by millions of the faithful over two millennia, subliminally supporting, inter alia, papal authority, the divine right of kings and the British empire too—and its force will not abate even if the institutions it supports may change from time to time; my hope of immortality, on the other hand, is nothing more than an entry in the ATLA database. Do I need to be fair!87

86. Here is the whole of the text of Psalm 2:

87. The question is addressed in the first place to John Rogerson, a scrupulously fair-minded critic, who wrestles with the same problems as this essay.

A FUTURE FOR ESCHATOLOGY? John M. Court Along with many other contributors I celebrate a long-standing link with John Rogerson and his work. I first remember him when he came from Jerusalem to lecture at the University of Durham. The present article could be said to have its genesis in a conversation with John, following the publication of his book Myth in Old Testament Interpretation1 The two of us agreed that there was a real need for a companion volume on the New Testament and its relations to mythology (as variously defined), and he strongly urged me to write it. But this undertaking has proved much larger than either of us could have imagined at the time; it necessitated a series of articles to explore the myriad dimensions of the issue. These will be drawn together at some future point, to offer a comprehensive treatment of the subject. My contribution to this present volume seeks to survey one corner of this large field, namely the language and myths of eschatological expectation, with special reference to the current concerns of human society. Given the theme for this Festschrift, 'The Bible in Human Society', my proper starting point must be the Bible, rather than principles of philosophy or a scientific world-view. For someone whose first work in academic research was a study of the Book of Revelation, it is only to be expected that I will find eschatology under every stone. But I would defend the claim that, for example, in the writings of Paul the dominance of an eschatological perspective is inescapable. (This proves to be true even if one is looking back on Paul's writings from the perspective of a systematic summing up of his teaching in the later Paulinist tradition of Ephesians.) It is appropriate to begin with Paul, as the author of the earliest written texts in the New Testament. So then, if we approach Paul's letters in a historic spirit, such as that of C.H. Dodd's aim to find 1.

BZAW, 134; Berlin: Topelmann, 1974.

COURT A Future for Eschatology?

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The Meaning of Paul for Today,2 the issue necessarily becomes one of facing up to eschatology. How can today's readers of Paul cope with his eschatological perspectives? To sharpen the issue, and to indicate the possible parameters for this interpretation, let us take a sample of three previous interpreters of Paul, each of them offering a distinctive and classic interpretation. They clearly recognized the eschatological dimensions of Paul's work, and we should examine how they were able to expound this material. For Albeit Schweitzer the solution was found in terms of his 'Christmysticism'. If challenged, Schweitzer would have said that Paul, like Jesus, was dominated by a futuristic attitude that was fundamentally mistaken. Paul's preaching is defined by the expectation, unaltered in all his epistles, of the imminent return of Jesus and the accompanying Messianic glory. Paul had been challenged by a completely new situation since the death and resurrection of Christ. The future that Jesus had expected had been fulfilled in a certain restricted sense; but the final consummation, the universal resurrection of the dead and the judgment of the world, has not happened yet. Paul, according to Schweitzer, sees the present era as the interim Messianic kingdom, where the natural and supernatural worlds meet, and in which the believers are involved in the 'mysticism' of 'being-inChrist'. This relationship is characterized externally by the ethical attitude appropriate to the period of the Interim. The ethical and mystical attitudes, the ethical depth of devotion, are what matter for Schweitzer; this is the essentially practical legacy of Paul's teaching. This contrasts with the futurist eschatology of both Jesus and Paul, which is to be regarded as an illusion belonging to their time and world of thought. It is necessary to distinguish between the actuality of those times and the modern ways of interpreting what is essential within them, although Schweitzer certainly recognized a continuum existing between them. It is important to recognize that Schweitzer insisted on the realistic, physical-corporeal nature of Paul's transcendent and christological mysticism. But it can now be observed how for Schweitzer this mysticism began life as a construct of thought. The modern reader could experience difficulty in maintaining a distinction between the spirit that is the vital force of this Christ-mysticism, and the spirit of Greek thought that played its part in the ethical mysticism of nineteenth-century liberal theology, and might have helped Schweitzer to formulate this insight. 2.

C.H. Dodd, The Meaning of Paul for Today (1920).

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The second interpreter of Paul to be used as an example is C.H. Dodd. He operated within the categories of idealism, and is well known—if not notorious—for his theory of a fully realized eschatology. In Dodd's view of Paul, everything is placed in an eschatological framework that expresses his belief that history has reached its fulfilment in Christ's death and resurrection. These events have absolute significance as the final goal that God had set himself in history. Among the first Christians, including Paul himself, the speedy return of Christ had been expected. But interest in this idea is said soon to have decreased progressively, and to have been replaced by a growing consciousness of spiritual unity in Christ. So the promise of the great future has been fulfilled within the church, and the new eschatological order of life has become a present fact of experience. Dodd's argument depended upon his theory about a development in the mind of Paul, a maturing of Paul's thought, if not a spiritual and intellectual deepening as a consequence of a (conjectured) second 'conversion' experience. Only in this way can all the evidence of Paul's writing be restructured systematically, so that all the emphasis may be placed upon realized eschatology as, with benefit of hindsight, the dominant perspective of his theology. As a result, in Dodd's interpretation, the purely temporal aspects of salvation recede into the background, in comparison with the 'eternal issues of life'. This interpretation clearly has a Platonizing tendency; eschatological language is ultimately nothing other than the means of expressing the absolute and timeless significance of the new realities that Paul is proclaiming. The third, and final, example of an interpreter of Paul is Rudolf Bultmann. He saw the full spectrum of Paul's theology through the medium of existentialism, so that the ultimate emphasis tended to be anthropological. One could say that Bultmann took the first demythologizer, Paul himself, as the guide for his own task of Entmythologisierung. The starting point for Paul's preaching, according to Bultmann, is the certainty of having been placed in an eschatological situation by the coming of Jesus. In this situation of judgment and personal crisis Paul, just like any human being, has been put on the spot. But Paul is regarded as perceiving the eschatological language on the basis of his understanding of anthropology; that is to say, the eschatological present and future are for him the expressions of a specific understanding of human existence. The traditional apocalyptic picture of the future—general resurrection,


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last judgment and cosmic glorification—is not abandoned by Paul, but it is demythologized. The real salvation is righteousness, liberty and joy in the Holy Spirit. The idea of salvation is orientated on the individual, to be obtained in existential decisions. In order to attain to salvation and authentic existence, human beings must allow themselves to be crucified with Christ repeatedly; that is to say, the need is for a woman or a man to renounce what is ready to hand, what she has at her disposal, and to make a choice for what is not ready to hand, what he does not have at his disposal. In this a human being is repeatedly brought to the end of those possibilities at the individual's disposal, and led to the liberty of true human existence. In this way the eschatological ideas are demythologized, to produce the substance of anthropological insights, which is at the heart of Paul's preaching. At the very least one might comment that to see all redemptive activity in Christ from the point of view of the individual human being must represent a major limitation of Paul's preaching. It could be said to omit the salvation of the whole creation, with which Paul is so concerned in Romans 8. But this is merely to repeat Krister Stendahl's comment: Rudolf Bultmann's whole theological enterprise has one great mistake from which all others emanate: he takes for granted that basically the center of gravity—the center from which all interpretation springs—is anthropology, the doctrine of man.3

If I seem to labour this point, it is because this very same limitation of interpretation still seems to be a live option, although for very different reasons, within modern individualism. So it might be concluded that in all three of these ways of interpreting Paul the challenge of eschatological language has been evaded rather than faced. Effectively the reader's attention is diverted to: ethical concerns and mystical experience the sense of perfection of the new age in Christ the moment of existential decision for each human being.

Is it then no longer possible to preserve the historical scheme of eschatology with which Paul operated in his thought and work, without dissolving it into mysticism, idealism or existentialism? Is there no future

3. Krister Stendahl, Paul among Jews and Gentiles (London: SCM Press, 1977), pp. 24-25.

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for eschatology, in the traditional terms in which it was expressed by New Testament writers such as Paul? A sophisticated eschatology, as we can observe in Paul, operates within a linear, historically based understanding of critical events as sequential. The category of past events comprises what has already been achieved in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. Paul's preaching retains such a historical orientation, and specifically historical terms of reference, despite the lack of any provision of detailed information about the historical Jesus of Nazareth—a 'deficiency' that has often worried scholars. The emphasis in Paul's writings on a sequence of redemptive events in history is vitally important, although it is not Paul's sole emphasis. The time of the present is conditioned by this past, but also has its own terms of reference within the continuing experience of Christian living. The church communities are able to look backwards and forwards. Christians are conscious of the fulfilment of God's promises, as identifiable facts within the experience of believers. This sense of fulfilment sustains the believer through the present, in the face of disappointments in matters such as the speedy return of the Lord, and the coming of the end of the world. The dimension of the future is the one most readily adjusted (by cognitive dissonance), or easily evaporated and dissolved in moods of scepticism. The hopes of the previous generation come to represent this generation's frustrations. But a theology of hope, if it is not too minutely particularized in detailed forecasts, provides a sense of potentiality, and a recognition of the incompleteness of what is. To say that 'it is not yet finished' is not a vain idealism or merely wishful thinking, but a projection onto the future on the basis of both present and past. Such belief can be couched in realistic terms, without gathering on a mountain top to wait for the world's end. The essence of such a belief may be a reminder of the Jewish idea of the congruence, the coincidence of all necessary elements in order to complete the picture.4 We shall know it when we see it, when we all attain to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to mature manhood, to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ (Eph. 4.13).

4. But see the interesting thoughts on gospel, promise and law in Jtirgen Moltmann, Theology of Hope (London: SCM Press, 1967), p. 124.

COURT A Future for Eschatology ?

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Such a plausibility of general expectations may not be enough to safeguard the future of eschatology. Unless the aspirations are translated (or at least translatable) into pragmatic terms of social structure and communal or individual practice, an air of unreality pervades and they remain in the realm of apocalyptic abstractions. The most concrete example of the community structured in response to a future hope is the millenarian or chiliastic sect. This instance may be too extreme for our purposes. But it is equally possible, and maybe more helpful, to define millenarianism more broadly: to refer to any futurist eschatological belief that is cast in literal and material terms. This is to generalize from the beliefs of particular chiliastic sects. Such literal readings of apocalyptic ideas are to be contrasted with other ways of seeing the future: either the allegorizing of future hope into moral and spiritual truths, or the conviction that a new world had already been realized in the present as a result of the resurrection of Christ. Taken as one element of doctrine among others, futurist belief is valuable in emphasizing the incompleteness of things as they are. The extremist position emerges when the futurist view takes over the whole. An uncompromisingly literal 'vision' of the biblical future, often coupled with a rigorist view of ethics in face of the last judgment, can dominate people's lives totally and determine the affairs of nations.5

Within the history of Christianity there is a bewildering variety of movements that could be termed 'millenarian' in this broader sense. In all this variety there are several features that commonly recur. First there is the prophetic figure with a leadership role and often a special revelation to impart. This figure is responsible for assembling a programme of prophecies and interpreting them. He/she is charismatic and magnetic, attracting those who share a disillusionment with conventional religious attitudes. As with Montanism in second-century Phrygia, the group may expand rapidly, becoming a threat to established church authorities, challenging their more static views with prospects of immediate change. Similarly the mediaeval prophecies of Joachim of Fiore, or the expectations of the 'Spiritual' friars of the Franciscan orders, of an imminent third age of the Holy Spirit, challenged the received, Augustinian, tradition that the kingdom of God was identified with the present church on earth. 5. J.M. Court/Millenarianism', in RJ. Coggins and J.L. Houlden (eds.), A Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation (London: SCM Press, 1990), p. 459.

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There are often political and revolutionary aspects to such movements. Indeed political parties have been known to borrow their apocalyptic clothes for their own rhetoric. There are clear connections here, and bridges being consciously built, with the different regional movements of Liberation theology. The common feature is a dissatisfaction with the current order of things, which in many cases develops as a result of culture contact. Threatened or tantalized groups seek powerful religious remedies for their helplessness... But revolutionary millenarianism is not always a protest of the impoverished and the lower classes. Often the prophetic leader, who creates the group's faith, will come from the educated elite. And some groups, like the Franciscans who were influenced by Joachim, were people from the wealthy classes who voluntarily accepted poverty for the sake of spiritual mysticism.6

Millenarian phenomena are explicable for social, historical and psychological reasons. A group feels its insecurity on the margins of society. Examples multiply at times of historical crisis (the Black Death, the age of revolutions, prolonged periods of war). The confident character of a leader may explain much, especially when combined with the disadvantaged and insecure nature of the group members. But we should not overlook positive and theological explanations of these happenings. Millenarian beliefs have their appeal, simply because they unite the Bible directly with contemporary experience. They analyse the present and terrifying phenomena in terms of the biblical revelation, and seem to offer an ultimate explanation of how and why the world is. The dangers inherent in millenarian movements that 'go wrong' have become only too obvious in recent history: The Jonestown massacre in Guyana in 1978, in which the leader of the People's Temple, the Reverend Jim Jones, persuaded nine hundred of his followers to join him in suicide by drinking Cool-Aid laced with cyanide, is a constant reminder of the dangers to which the charismatic leaders of cults—or New Religious Movements, to use the more neutral term—can expose their followers and their followers' children...Eighty-six people died in the Waco [Texas] siege in April [1993], including the 'prophet' David Koresh and 17 children fathered by him.7

Religious traditions such as those of the Mormons and the Seventh-Day Adventists are always 'vulnerable to the teaching of prophets who try to 6. Court,'Millenarianism', p. 460. 7. Malise Ruthven, 'Rambo and Revelation', London Review of Books, 9 September 1993, p. 14.


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reclaim some of the movement's original chiliastic fervour'. Prophets, whether Joseph Smith or David Koresh, believe that they are implementing instructions from God; for followers to refuse a prophet anything is equivalent to breaking a divine command. The American authorities acting in the Waco siege had been very ill advised. Everyone... was convinced that family values would save the day. They felt certain that the maternal instincts of those cult members who were mothers would put their children's lives before loyalty to Koresh. Nobody in authority understood that Koresh had long ago overridden such feelings. Nobody realized that he had made his people want to sacrifice themselves for his 'lights'.8

If one seeks to defend a future for eschatology (as represented by such millenarian movements), it is clearly essential to indicate some theological criteria, which might act as safeguards for individuals and society, to make clear that one is not seeking a repetition of such extreme instances. The 'testing of spirits', to distinguish true from false prophecy, has always been a problem, from the earliest days of Christian communities in the New Testament. The criterion proposed in 1 Jn 4.2-3 might be rephrased slightly: the true prophet points to Christ while the false prophet obscures the vision of Christ. A further criterion, less readily perceived, would be to stress the need precisely for an element of futurity. What Koresh did, within an apocalyptic world of pre- and post-millennialist expectation, was to translate 'Kingdom Come' into 'Kingdom Now', within his fortified ranch at Waco. Instead there should always be an awareness of the danger of 'identifying Christianity with any one of its cultural forms in this world'.9 The church only came into being in the first place as a temporary stop-gap and a second best. Jesus had originally preached the Kingdom, and the Kingdom was not at all a lowly state of exile from a better world Above: the Kingdom was itself to be a condition of final and unsurpassable fulfilment, on this earth. But because the promised Kingdom had failed to arrive, the church developed to maintain order in the interim.10

8. David Leppard, Fire and Blood: The True Story of David Koresh and the Waco Siege (Fourth Estate, 1993). 9. A.M. Ramsey, Be Still and Know: A Study in the Life of Prayer (London: Fount, 1982), p. 44. 10. Don Cupitt, After All: Religion without Alienation (London: SCM Press, 1994), p. 10.

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There are three important reasons for taking seriously the future emphasis of eschatological language: we can label them as sociological, mythological and theological. The first reason is that, as just mentioned, such a future emphasis is essential to the concept of the Kingdom. One can call this a sociological reason because it is concerned with social structures;11 even so the dimensions of the Kingdom may vary, and those involved may see themselves as individuals on a pilgrimage, a select community, or as ultimately part of a divine reign over all creation. Don Cupitt has rightly claimed that 'Kingdom-theology is a largely undeveloped area of Christian thought'. 'But the Bible', he says, makes clear what the Kingdom will be like—so clear that everyone instantly recognises the old dream when a John Lennon or a Martin Luther King spells it out afresh. The Kingdom is a state of universal human reconciliation. No longer will nations and religions fight against each other. The Kingdom is a time of prosperity and fertility, in which humanity is fully reconciled with nature. In the Kingdom, this world and the heavenly world coincide, so that religious alienation is brought to an end. Because there is only one world, in the new Jerusalem there is no temple, no hierarchy of spiritual authority.12

He goes on to refer to panentheism and a non-Realist view of God. We could take that route with Cupitt, but for our present purposes it is by no means necessary. It may also be true, as John Vincent observed in response to Don Cupitt, that 'the radical Jesus...celebrates the present Kingdom by setting up a miniature Kingdom group'.13 But however radical and political and mis-worldly one wishes the vision of the Kingdom to be, nobody can pretend that the first disciple-group was God's last word about the social structure of the Kingdom. Discipleship as political activity may well be an important part of working for the Kingdom of God. We should not excuse ourselves, through Church piety or what Vincent calls 'the spiritual utopia of non-realism', from an activist 11. See R.S. Barbour (ed.), The Kingdom of God and Human Society: Essays by Members of the Scripture, Theology and Society Group (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1993). 12. Don Cupitt, 'The Kingdom is Coming', article in Face to Faith series, The Guardian, 19 February 1994. See also note 7. 13. John Vincent, 'Upside Down in the Kingdom of God', article in Face to Faith series, The Guardian, 26 February 1994.


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Christianity. But this activity is necessary precisely because the End is not yet, and the Kingdom has not been fully realized as a universal reality. That is why we need to remember the radical challenge and achievement of Jesus,.. .the constant irruption of the prophetic [my emphasis] tradition,.. .the repeated rebirthings of the radical communitarian and commonwealth elements in the Jesus movement.14

The second important reason for continuing to use the future dimension is the one termed mythological. As was hinted in the first paragraph of this article, the term acts as an umbrella, not only for a range of definitions of myth, but also for different methodologies (e.g. literary structuralism and psychology). At its most simplified, this reason states that apocalyptic mythology—like any story told by a good storyteller—has a beginning, a middle and an end. These stages are encapsulated in the title of Norman Cohn's book, Cosmos, Chaos, and the World to Come:15 first there is ordered creation, then all goes wrong, and ultimately (one hopes) there is a resolution in terms of new order. The possibilities of an 'Apocalyptic Pattern' can be described in various ways.16 The importance of a pattern rests in its completeness; but the point about apocalyptic is its mentality of the eleventh hour, its Sense of an Ending,11 where the completion of the pattern, the renewal, is earnestly awaited. Whether apocalyptic language is regarded as belonging primarily to the realism of political revolution, or to the realms of literary constructs or psychoanalysis, the key characteristic is actual open-endedness, the fact that the last pieces of the jig-saw are still to be located. To give one example out of many, there is a thought-provoking comparison between apocalyptic and the idea of the scapegoat, based on the theory of Rene Girard.18 14. John Vincent, 'Upside Down'. See also his Tawney Lecture, 'Jesus as Politician', in Reclaiming the Ground, by John Smith (the late leader of the Labour Party), and others (London: Spire, 1993). 15. Norman Cohn, Cosmos, Chaos and the World to Come: The Ancient Roots of Apocalyptic Faith (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993). 16. See, for one example, J.M. Court, 'Paul and the Apocalyptic Pattern', in Morna Hooker and S.G. Wilson (eds.), Paul and Paulinism: Essays in Honour of C.K. Barrett (London: SPCK, 1982), pp. 57-66. 17. See Frank Kermode, The Sense of an Ending: Studies in the Theory of Fiction (New York: Oxford University Press, 1967). 18. Rene Girard, Le bouc emissaire (The Scapegoat) (1982).

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The Bible in Human Society Social order.. .is founded on difference, but difference is then replaced by the rivalry that is initiated when people imitate one another's desires. Individuals begin to see one another solely as obstacles to desire, and resort to a mimetic violence in which all differences disappear. The mimetic crisis is resolved by the selection of a scapegoat who is put to death as the embodiment of undifferentiation and the obstacle to all desires. The collective murderers are then reconciled to differentiation, order is restored, and the scapegoat is remembered not as an innocent victim, but as the being who caused the crisis and had to be killed in order to end it.

Malcolm Bull writes, The structure of apocalyptic thought appears... to be determined by the opposition between undifferentiation and difference, mixture and separation. Both apocalyptic and the scapegoat mechanism describe a process in which differential order [will succeed] undifferentiated chaos, but whereas the scapegoat mechanism is cyclical and conservative—the original binary oppositions can be repeatedly restored by the exclusion of the undifferentiated element—apocalyptic is dialectical and revolutionary. It is not the binary oppositions threatened by the period of undifferentiation that [will be] re-established, but a new set. The scapegoat returns, and one of the existing opposites is eliminated; that which was excluded is re-included, and a new differential order is created by the opposition between the judge and the judged, the saviour and the saved.19

The third main reason for affirming a futurist eschatology is a theological reason, based on an important biblical understanding of the nature of Gospel. To borrow an expression from the Jewish scholar Shemaryahu Talmon, 'hope is the memory of the past translated into the future'.20 Within the New Testament there is a continuous action of relating the past of Jesus to the present of the Church, with an openness to the future. It seems unsuitable to make any radical distinction between the Gospels, where the past history of Jesus may dominate, and the rest of the New Testament, where the context is the present (and future) concerns of the Christian communities. Readers of my book The New Testament World (1990) will know that my unwillingness is not because I fail to see variety in the New Testament. On the contrary, I still reckon that the evident differences of viewpoint between the New Testament 19. Malcolm Bull, 'Oedipus was Innocent', London Review of Books, 10 March 1994, p. 12. 20. Shemaryahu Talmon, 'Eschatology and History in Biblical Judaism', published lecture at Ecumenical Institute (Jerusalem: Tantur, January 1986), p. 17.


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writers, on all sorts of matters of Christology, Church practice and Ethics—including the relevance of history—mean that diversity became a major problem for early Christian unity. As regards prophecy, I want to indicate that the range of interests in the Gospels is broadly congruent with the ideas in the rest of the New Testament. So I am beginning with two examples that do not come from the Gospels, but are only too obviously concerned with the nature of the gospel and the prophetic character of gospel preaching: Rev. 14.6-7: Then I saw another angel flying in midheaven, with an eternal gospel to proclaim to those who dwell on earth, to every nation and tribe and tongue and people; and he said with a loud voice, 'Fear God and give him glory, for the hour of his judgment has come; and worship him who made heaven and earth, the sea and the fountains of water'. Cf. Mk 13.10: And the gospel must first be preached to all nations.

In apocalyptic imagery revelation by angels corresponds to inspired prophetic utterance. This prophetic message to the whole world proclaims the imminent judgment of God, while leaving a brief opportunity for repentance. In such a context the 'eternal gospel' is not some Christian message that is set to last for all time, but it is identified as the ultimate fulfilment of God's mystery (which was promised as 'good news' to his servants the prophets; cf. Rev. 10.7). The second example comes from 1 Thess. 4.13-18: But we would not have you ignorant, brethren, concerning those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep. For this we declare to you by the word of the Lord, that we who are alive, who are left until the coming of the Lord, shall not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the archangel's call, and with the sound of the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first; then we who are alive, who are left, shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air; and so we shall always be with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another with these words.

This quotation comes from what is probably the earliest document in the New Testament and shows the application of Christian prophecy in theological discourse. The basic problem for the Thessalonians is not ignorance about the resurrection, but fear that those members of the community who happen to die before Christ's second coming will be excluded from participation in the Parousia. Paul speaks to this situation

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with a prophetic word that carries the authority of the Lord himself (4.15). Even death is no threat to the solidarity of the community, when seen from this eschatological perspective; the Christian hope makes comfort possible (4.18). As the context shows, this kind of prophetic word is an extension of the Gospel proclamation, answering through prophecy the kind of problem that cannot be solved by the text of the kerygma alone. As we now think about the New Testament idea of gospel as prophecy, we need to define prophecy, both as the medium and the message, in the context of the first century. The first consideration is the format of prophecy. David Aune21 sought to understand Christian prophets and prophecy as historical phenomena within the history of Christian origins. He used a diversity of evidence, including oracles, accounts of prophets at work and comparative data from Greece and Rome, the Old Testament and early Judaism. He offered a range of criteria by which it may be possible to identify the oracles of Christian prophets within the tradition: a saying attributed to a supernatural being a saying predicting the future course of events a saying that includes an accepted prophetic formula a reference to inspiration within the context of a saying

Aune also discussed two additional criteria offered by Eugene Boring22 for identifying prophetic speech among the sayings of Jesus in the Synoptic Gospels: an oracular saying that does not seem to belong to its present literary setting a saying of Jesus that seems inauthentic (i.e. a product of the postEaster church)

David Aune is much more cautious, indeed negative, than Eugene Boring on the idea that Christian prophets had a creative role within the collection of sayings of Jesus. But he holds that Christian prophets did have a vital part to play in the early days of the Church. Their work was distinguished from other kinds of church activity by its claim to supernatural origin. 21. David E. Aune, Early Christianity and the Ancient Mediterranean World (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1983). 22. M. Eugene Boring, Sayings of the Risen Jesus: Christian Prophecy in the Synoptic Tradition (SNTSMS, 46; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982).


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Christian prophetic speech, then, is Christian discourse presented with divine legitimation, either in the absence of more rational structures of institutional authority, or in conflict with them.23

Their crucial role was then in the formative years of Christianity, or as a non-conformist response to ecclesiastical authority and formalism. In contrast Eugene Boring says Christian prophets influenced the synoptic tradition of Jesus' words in a variety of ways in addition to coining new sayings of the risen Jesus, and this influence can frequently be detected with a reasonable degree of probability.24

This secondary influence is identified in the way that traditional sayings are modified and prophetically reinterpreted. This may be a direct contribution when the prophet makes a renewed presentation of the message, or an indirect influence exerted upon others to reinterpret the sayings. The potential range of this prophetic activity needs to be remembered when we come to look at examples of prophecy in the Gospels. First let us take a glimpse at prophecy in action within that sometimes enigmatic early Christian writing, The Didache, which refers to apostles, prophets and teachers in a non-hierarchical way. In this situation the fundamental ministry is that of the wandering charismatic, whose role could be said to correspond to that of Jesus himself.25 This ministry includes missionary work and teaching but significantly emphasizes prophecy. We also read of a particular problem concerning these wandering prophets who want to settle down in a community—not those who trade on the name of Christ, overstaying the limits of hospitality and exploiting the church's resources, but the true prophet who feels he has reached a transition stage in Christian ministry. Such a prophet retains the highest respect; indeed his status in the community is comparable to the ranking of 'Chief Priest' within Judaism.26 We should now turn to consider the content of the material handled by the Christian prophets, and in particular the material naturally labelled 'prophecy' within the gospel tradition. The interest is not merely in predictions of future events; in continuity with the prophets of the Old 23. Aune, Prophecy, p. 338. 24. Boring, Sayings, p. 233. 25. See Gerd Theissen, The First Followers of Jesus: A Sociological Analysis of the Earliest Christianity (London: SCM Press, 1978). 26. Didache 11-13.

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Testament tradition, the Christian prophets would be expected to deal with matters of interpretation and proclamation as well as predictions of the future. We should think of a living tradition of prophecy, concerned to reflect, with a future dimension, on both present political and social situations, and past theological beliefs and unfulfilled prophecies, as well as short-term anticipations and visionary perspectives of the future. An example of such a living tradition of prophecy, going back to Old Testament foundations, but very urgent and relevant in the first century CE, is the prophecy of the end of exile for God's chosen people. Originally this prophecy was conceived in terms of the return from exile in Babylon (cf. Second Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Haggai and Zechariah). But, as Tom Wright27 has argued persuasively, this prophecy was widely felt to be incompletely fulfilled. By the first century CE Israel was captive to Rome and politically dominated, just as it had been under Babylon or the Seleucids. In no sense was Israel living in the Promised Land after a second 'Exodus'. Law-giving but not Messianic leadership, Ezekiel's new cultic system but not Jeremiah's new covenant of the heart were facts of Israel's experience. There can be no doubt that the Christian prophetic reinterpretation of this situation, whether by Jesus himself or the Christian prophets in his name, predicted the end of this continuing exile (by political or by supernatural means). As the gospel scenes of Jesus' trial before the Sanhedrin attest, Jesus was expected to destroy the inadequate substitutes for the Jerusalem temple; the true temple, the ultimate fulfilment of those new temple prophecies, would be present in himself. This global prophecy of new temple, new covenant, and the end of exile gives a new sense of coherence to the gospel narratives of the trial. It gives particular point to the use of the quotation from Dan. 7.13, for example at Mk 14.62. How the range of gospel references to 'Son of Man' should be understood, and at what point this interpretation originated, has been one of the major storm-centres of New Testament studies in recent years. The context of an 'end of exile' expectation, taken up in the Christian prophetic tradition, provides a whole new insight into the meaning of the term 'Son of Man'. In the apocalyptic tradition of Daniel the vision is of four world empires (the four beasts), which are to be replaced by a decision at the judgment seat of God: 27. N.T. Wright, The New Testament and the People of God (London: SPCK, 1992), pp. 299-301.


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their dominion was taken away. And behold, with the clouds of heaven there came one like a son of man, and he came to the Ancient of Days and was presented before him. And to him was given dominion and glory and kingdom... his dominion is an everlasting dominion.

This is the kingdom given to God's chosen people, 'the saints of the Most High'. Israel's exile, its submission to the world empires, is now over. Israel comes to the throne of God and is given universal dominion. In Christian prophecy this tradition from Daniel is reinterpreted to apply to Jesus as 'Son of Man', just as he institutes the new covenant and embodies the new temple. It is worth remembering that in the first instance, at least, the Son of Man is going to God, not coming from God, on the clouds of heaven. It is possible to distinguish at least three strands of thinking (futurist, realized and proleptic) within the Christian prophetic tradition represented in the Gospels. The tensions are between 'now' and 'not yet'; the orientation is on the future, the past, or the present. But in Christian experience all three insights are clearly true; each has its moment of appropriately special emphasis: the completeness of God's gracious saving history, the social gospel speaking to the needs of the present crisis, and the ultimate hope for the future. All three are given prophetic expression in the New Testament Gospels; all three have their claim on truth. But it is probably better to think of a living prophetic tradition that holds together past, present and future. The future dimension is at its sharpest in the form of an apocalyptic challenge, but it cannot be ignored even when the central focus is on matters past and present. The explicitly futurist message is commonly called 'Apocalyptic threat'. But such terminology reflects an imaginative scenario of 'apocalyptic' expectations of the end of the world, as if there were a single message expressed by all apocalypses, and Daniel itself were the definitive representative of this viewpoint—neither of which is likely to be true. So let us not associate this automatically with the 'Son of Man' in Daniel 7, but instead define this Christian prophecy in terms of Synoptic Gospel material, especially from Mark and Matthew. The Little Apocalypse (Mk 13) claims to reveal the events of the last days with reference to an accelerating sequence of events, thought to be already well under way. There have been trials and tribulations, war, earthquake and famine; these lead inevitably into a series of cosmic happenings affecting Jerusalem itself and a time bedevilled by the problems of false prophecy; these happenings are described in summary by the

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imagery of a painful birth, the birth of Messiah himself; the final stage is the last judgment of God. The true prophet has given due warning of all this (13.23) and uses the prophetic symbol of the fig tree (13.28). Fundamental to the whole eschatological discourse is the prophetic exhortation to be on guard, repeated in the final 'watch'-word of the entire chapter (13.37). The nearness of the end is affirmed in 13.30: 'Truly, I say to you, this generation will not pass away before all these things take place'. Many readers of the gospel of Matthew are distinctly uncomfortable with its preoccupation with eternal punishment. There is more than an isolated sense of a desire for vengeance upon the enemies of the true Israel; Matthew's community look to the last judgment from God's hands as the time of their vindication. Matthew's church is charged with the prophetic proclamation of the Kingdom of Heaven in the last days. What the hearers actually did in response to that message, and how they treated the missionary prophets of the Kingdom, would determine the eternal destiny of those hearers (25.40, 45).28 In many ways Matthew's material is closely related to the Didache with the shared experience of itinerant prophetic ministry. The gospel issues the fiercest of warnings against false prophecy (7.15-23). But like Jeremiah in confrontation with Hananiah (Jer. 28), the Christian missionaries have no alternative but to speak as prophets. You serpents, you brood of vipers, how are you to escape being sentenced to hell? Therefore I send you prophets and wise men and scribes, some of whom you will kill and crucify, and some you will scourge in your synagogues and persecute from town to town, that upon you may come all the righteous blood shed on earth (Mt. 23.33-35).

The note of just vengeance is strong because of the conviction that the Christian prophets had been treated like the Old Testament prophets before them. Mk 9.1 apparently speaks of an imminent resolution to the apocalyptic crisis: 'Truly, I say to you, there are some standing here who will not taste death before they see the Kingdom of God come with power'. This prophecy, like Mk 13.30 just quoted, is the kind of promise that we, with hindsight, might well term unfulfilled. Is the idea of unfulfilled prophecy to be avoided because it seems to negate the purpose of gospel preaching? 28. See J.M. Court, 'Right and Left: The Implications for Matthew 25.31-46', NTS 31(1985), pp. 223-33.


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We should not be happy with any schematization whereby the Kingdom prophecy of Mk 9.1 is fulfilled in Christ's death, while the prophecy in 8.38 of the coming of the Son of Man in glory remains an unfulfilled future prediction. In terms of prophecy, I think that the answer is simpler than this. Mk 9.1 represents a prophecy that has not been fulfilled literally. Within a religious community (where there is a living prophetic tradition), sociologists say that an unfulfilled prophecy is reinterpreted by the community; in this way the prophecy comes to reflect the actual situation of the community, and the perspective is adjusted to cope with the disappointment. The sociological label, 'cognitive dissonance', is used to describe this; the splendid novel by Alison Lurie entitled Imaginary Friends illustrates both the situation and the sociological method. If the imminent expectation of Mk 9.1 was disappointed, then the religious community came to terms with their disappointment. They rationalized the idea of the Kingdom in relation to the death and resurrection of Jesus, anticipating a triumphant vindication of the Son of Man, with the glorious vision of the Transfiguration. In short, the prophecy by its lack of fulfilment produces just the association of ideas to be found here in the text of Mark as we have it. In addition we might want to note that Eugene Boring concludes that there is probably sufficient evidence 'to justify the conclusion that Mark 9.1 was originally spoken by a Christian prophet' (p. 186). Its purpose would have been to encourage the post-Easter community by reaffirming that the Parousia of Christ will come, although only 'some' (not all) of the community will live to see it. In this respect there are obvious similarities with 1 Thess. 4.15-17, which was discussed above. Despite the difficulties inherent in such texts, it is necessary to regard the future dimension and its ongoing interpretation as essential within any living and prophetic tradition of Christianity. We have seen how this is true of the New Testament communities and their preaching of the gospel. These texts presented difficulties for them. They are difficult for us, for these and other reasons. But we can hardly justify the sidestepping or total neglect of such texts because we feel uncomfortable with them. By way of a conclusion, I will merely try to summarize the issues that have been discussed, and to redraw the route that it seemed helpful to take. In an essay that could be retitled 'On the nature of incompleteness', it would not be appropriate for me to assert any more final answers than this!

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The essay began from the essential nature of apocalyptic language for Paul, the problems this posed, and the evasive solutions adopted in classic interpretations. We then reflected on the nature of apocalyptic or millenarian movements, particularly as they are encountered within the modern world. The most notorious of modern examples, ending in catastrophe, are no argument for the invalid nature of such apocalyptic thinking. In characterizing the essentials of such activity, we were drawn to consider three kinds of argument in defence of the importance of the future dimension in the religious outlook. It was suggested that it is vital to the Kingdom, seen in relation to social institutions; it is vital to the structure and psychology of the apocalyptic pattern (which may be a construct, but may approximate to reality); finally it is vital to the theological concepts of the gospel, seen and developed within the New Testament communities.

REBOUNDING VITALITY: RESURRECTION AND SPIRIT IN LUKE-ACTS

Douglas J. Davies This chapter sketches a new anthropologically informed theory, the theory of rebounding vitality, for interpreting certain aspects of development of religious groups. It then suggests how it might be applied to the Luke-Acts tradition of the Spirit-empowered community before concluding with suggestions of other Christian activities open to this form of analysis. This brief theoretical enterprise adds another perspective to the social scientific approach to texts and to the early Christian community which some biblical scholars, including John Rogerson (1978), have adopted over the last two decades (e.g. Gager 1975, Meeks 1983, Esler 1987, Casey 1991). In sketching a possible type of analysis this chapter is, if anything, only an invitation to biblical scholars and theologians to see for themselves whether 'rebounding vitality' can illuminate their detailed research. But, before stating the argument I must first thank John Rogerson not only for teaching me the Old Testament in crisp lectures brimming with ideas, but also for personal encouragement over the years. While a new theological student at Durham, for example, he had me draw on my prior anthropological training in an essay on sacrifice and encouraged its publication. As 'Sacrifice in Leviticus' this made its own small but early contribution to the anthropology of the Old Testament (1977/1985). This interest in the relationship between theology and anthropology grew (e.g. 1984, 1986, 1991) and is reflected once more in this essay. Rebounding Vitality and Cultural Meta-Genesis The concept of rebounding vitality is derived, both in phrase and substance, from Tambiah's notion of ethical vitality and Bloch's theory of rebounding violence. What is new about this essay is the integration

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of these topics to yield a more powerful hermeneutical device than either presents alone. While acknowledging my extensive debt to S.J. Tambiah's miniature monograph, The Ideology of Merit (1968), and Maurice Bloch's gem of an essay on ritual, Prey into Hunter (1992), I must retain responsibility for the hybrid concept of rebounding vitality. Rebounding vitality is a theory for interpreting those social events that throw ordinary human existence into question before transcending it in a higher-order statement concerning human destiny, worth and merit. Good examples are rituals of initiation, which add a spiritual rebirth to the mundane fact of human birth. While ordinary birth gives access to an earthly life passing through reproduction and ending in death, ritual rebirth begins with a symbolic killing of earthly human nature in order to inaugurate an eternal and deathless realm of being, which is seen to be made possible through some meritorious power. These are contexts in which ritual events add an additional value to the givenness of ordinary life. This value-addition expresses belief about reality and shows how cultures take the basic things of existence and interpret them ideologically or theologically. The 'salvation-religions' do this when they devalue pre-existing religions and establish their own scheme of salvation (Davies 1984: lOlff.). This chapter explores this process in the Luke-Acts tradition where Gentile-wide Christianity, a salvation-religion in embryo, seeks to replace a narrower Jewish focus. It is in this sense that we speak of a process of cultural meta-genesis with rebounding vitality as one driving process helping to generate the transcending perspective. The Frame of Reference Readers less familiar with social science may find it useful to have a sense of how this chapter's central issues relate to more familiar concepts used in the study of religion. Maurice Bloch, an important contemporary British social anthropologist, helps by saying that his rebounding violence theory resembles the historian of religion Mircea Eliade's notion of archetype in constituting a 'minimal structure' reflecting some 'general characteristic of human beings' (Bloch 1992: 3). His reference to 'structure' should not be confused with structuralism in any way, but rather as locating rebounding violence alongside general anthropological notions such as reciprocity and rites of passage as models describing typical forms of human organization.

DA VIES Rebounding Vitality

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Derived from specific ethnographic observations, these ideas have been raised to a high order of generalization and have been used for interpreting human behaviour in a multitude of wider contexts. The parallel between rebounding violence and rites of passage is particularly important because Bloch sharply contrasts his theory with van Gennep's view of rites of passage on the issue of transcendence (Bloch 1992: 6). Van Gennep (1960) argued that rituals associated with changes in social status involve the three phases of pre-liminal, liminal and post-liminal ritual. The first separates someone from a pre-existing status, the second involves an educative phase apart from the normal run of society, while the third incorporates the person into a new social status. He also stressed that, depending on the overall goal of the ritual process, one or other of these three phases will be emphasized at the expense of the other two. In terms of rebounding vitality this sense of the overall goal is important, being related to the ideology or theology of a group for the task in hand. Bloch criticizes this tripartite scheme precisely because van Gennep deemed this change from social status to social status as a change within an overall social world of a similar existential or ontological level; no transcendence is involved. So, for example, while a rite of passage may turn a boy into a man or a single woman into a wife, these statuses remain within the total world of ordinary existence. Bloch, by contrast, emphasizes that through the liminal period an individual comes into contact with a domain of transcendent power which influences human identity in a permanent way. After the ritual process people are different. The transforming transcendence which has been encountered is not meant, by Bloch, to refer to an actually existing deity but speaks about a dimension of existence that is perceived as above or beyond normal, mundane, life. In Durkheimian terms it would refer to the sacred and not the profane aspect of life, or in terms of the anthropological distinction between nature and culture, it emphasizes culture. Transcendence in this non-theological mode of discourse is the experience gained through ritual which gives depth to human selfawareness. This introduces the idea of conquest which, for Bloch, is synonymous with that of violence. He sees human life as a process in which raw humanity is conquered and transformed into a higher order of existence as the 'transcendent' domain conquers the vital realm of basic humanity. There then follows a second kind of conquest in which inwardly conquered individuals set about an outward activity of

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overcoming the world in which they are set (1992: 21). It is worth emphasizing that Bloch does not speak of any 'innate propensity to violence', but takes violence to be 'a result of the attempt to create the transcendental in religion and polities' (1992: 7). Here he differs fundamentally from Girard (1977, 1986) and from Freud's general thesis of original violence grounded in the Oedipal myth of patricide and the birth of culture. For Bloch 'violence' or 'conquest' is basic both to contemporary human organization and ideology and is not located in some originary or pre-historical source. Bloch's work, and this chapter's development of it, offers an interpretation of violence or conquest within religious and social systems that avoids the negative features of Girard's Freudian psychological speculation which led him to lay excessive stress on the notion of scapegoat (1986). This is important since Girard provides easy prey for anthropologists who see some theologians as dominated by narrow assumptions concerning the centrality of sacrifice both to religion and to human life at large (cf. Bloch 1992: 28-29). In this Girard has influenced various scholars: see for example, J.G. Williams's excessively self-conscious discussion of the role of the USA in God's economy of election (1991: 243), or AJ. McKenna's (1992: 202) view of Girard's 'anthropology of revelation'. The advantage of Bloch's approach lies in its firm sociological method of exploring broad social processes through a specific theoretical model. Nothing depends upon primal acts or long lost archetypes redolent of Freud or Jung; instead, contemporary social processes provide the basis for a theory which, if it proves illuminating, can either be refined or abandoned without having to feel any ideological loss. The important a priori assumption behind this perspective is humanity's widely shared social uniformity both geographically and historically. It posits a human tendency to reflect upon life's transitoriness and to create ideas and rites asserting a transcendence over this perceived inadequacy of things. Glossing Eliade's repeated refrain that the sacred is 'an element of the structure of consciousness and not a moment in the history of consciousness' (1978: 233), we could say that rebounding vitality is an element of the structure of society and not a phase of human history. This echoes Bloch's definition of rebounding violence, already mentioned above, as a 'minimal structure' reflecting some 'general characteristic of human beings' (1992: 3). One strength of this, as far as the sociology of the Bible is concerned, is that one need


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not read back into the text any specific phases of, for example, very specific sects that have only been identified in subsequent group development. While much could be said about the concept of rebounding vitality in a postmodern context, where abstractions are more usually doomed to deconstruction than elaborated into new general theories, space does not permit it here. Still, it is with such methodological issues in mind that we turn to Bloch's treatment of rebounding violence or conquest (1992: 4). The Crucial Transformation The essence of Bloch's thesis is that human beings do not simply accept the ordinary course of life events, moving from birth through reproduction and ageing to death by means of rites of passage. Instead, they engage in rituals which challenge, reverse or invert natural processes in such a way that finite natural events are conquered by events of infinite consequence, all interpreted through theology, myth or ideology. So, in rebounding violence, Bloch is interested in ritual activities that begin not with birth and end with death but begin with a ritual death and move into a sense of new birth. This new-birth speaks of a life that triumphs over the natural course of events. The idiom of rebounding violence or conquest documents and interprets this inversion of the course of natural events, reflecting the idea that human nature pursues transcendence over mere mortality, a view that could be interestingly compared with Bauman's (1992) recent thesis that human institutions exist to hide the fact of death from human beings lest they lose the will to live. As Bloch explains it, this idiom covers two broad processes. The first reflects a threefold dialectical process, strongly reminiscent of van Gennep's rites of passage, moving people from the native vitality of ordinary life into a realm where contact is made with the transcendent, before moving them on again into a state of infused power which enables them to triumph over natural life. Bloch labours the point that ritual does not exist to return people to the same state from which they were taken. As already mentioned, this sense of initiation into a higher order of existence is reflected in several world religions when they become missionary and expansionist and supersede ethnic religions. The second broad process involves an active overcoming of some aspect of the world at large which the transformed initiates now have set before them. In some sense this involves overcoming in others what has

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already been overcome in their own life experience; it can also mean conquering their own past. Oddly, as we shall see, it is a process of conquest that often involves rituals of eating. Ironically, in the Luke-Acts tradition that which is overcome is a clearly demarcated Judaism ideally expressed through dietary prescriptions and commensality and challenged through a new and open table-fellowship. Before pursuing this further we need to explain the basic meaning of the other guiding concept lying behind rebounding vitality, namely the notion of ethical vitality. Ethical Vitality and Merit Just as Bloch's rebounding violence theme owes a theoretical debt to van Gennep's earlier anthropology of rites of passage, so Tambiah's (1968: 42) notion of ethical vitality has its roots in Marcel Mauss's (1954) anthropology of the gift. In itself, ethical vitality is a fascinating phrase echoing topics of deep interest to both theologian and anthropologist. Like rebounding violence it deals with basic human energy as converted into cultural power and is, perhaps, best approached through the closely related but more familiar notion of merit. The anthropologist Gananath Obeyesekere laid a useful foundation for studying merit in his disarmingly simple suggestion that 'religious merit arises from conformity to the ethical norms of a religion' (1968: 15). Sociologically speaking we might say that merit is a consequence of conformity to general social norms. Not only does society applaud, mark and recognize conformity in formal ways but, given humanity's social nature, individuals also reap a personal sense of worth. The next step takes religious merit as an explicit account of religiously formulated social norms where divine injunctions replace or validate social rules. This returns us to Tambiah's seminal essay, 'The Ideology of Merit', which pinpoints the notion of 'power plus purity' (1968: 43) in advancing the theory that 'in a sense it is the sacrifice of... human energy that produces ethical vitality' (1968: 105). Speaking of that 'ethical energy' generated and harnessed within social and religious life, he makes the notable point that 'man's development rests not simply in his distinction between nature and culture, but in his distinction between nature, culture and divine order, between animal, man, and deity' (1968: 119).


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This presages Bloch's (1992: 5) discussion of vitality and transcendence. In Tambiah it is easy to understand the notion of the ethical in relation to social and religious rules of behaviour but his notion of vitality is not so immediately transparent. In essence, 'vitality' refers to basic human energy, to the power to act, a dynamism that is at its strongest in the young adult and is, perhaps, most obvious in relation to sexual potency. It is precisely the harnessing of this energy and putting it to social use, not least for others who have less of this commodity and fewer means of generating it for themselves, which makes it possible to speak of ethical vitality. Ethical vitality, once produced, can be used to offset negative forces, sin, or demerit, a process Tambiah sets firmly within Mauss's theory of reciprocity—which is interesting, since this is also the focus used by Bloch for his theory of rebounding violence (1992: 30). So, ethical vitality emerges from ethically controlled lives and, as such, can take numerous forms, from the asceticism mentioned by Tambiah through to topics like the Protestant Ethic or Christology. Merit, generated through disciplined lives, is the outcome of the human animal being a social animal living according to particular moral rules. When these are reckoned to originate in God yet another degree of significance is added to meritorious living. Merit is less of a stasis than a fluid commodity available for use in attaining social, existential or religious goals. It can, for example, be 'made' by monks or other persons in many religious contexts and then passed to family members to aid them in sickness, or, in the Buddhist scheme, in the next phase of their life after death. It is interesting to see how merit comes to be reified in such a way as to be imaginable as a commodity available for use, a dynamic well known and discussed in the history of Christian doctrine, not least through the Protestant Reformation with its concern over indulgences. Rebounding Vitality: Combining the Motifs We are now in a position to unite the two notions of rebounding violence and ethical vitality in the theory of what may be called rebounding vitality. I will argue that it is the merit generated through ethical vitality that becomes the power operating in the process of rebounding violence: merit drives the process of rebounding conquest. This insight yields significant explanatory power in at least some specific religious contexts

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of which much New Testament and subsequent Christianity afford examples. This is especially important for various kinds of human sacrifice, whether of time or of life itself. The dynamics of animal sacrifice are more complex and are not discussed here, though Bloch has already given a good lead on this theme (1992: 3 Iff.). The ethical vitality that yields merit and then constitutes the energy-giving force for rebounding conquest is of particular interest to Christian theology and liturgy. Stated as a thesis, I argue that the life of Christ generated that ethical vitality which, symbolized in the resurrection and conceptualized as merit, provided the energy for rebounding violence, symbolized in the coming of the Holy Spirit, which both empowered the new Christian community to evangelize and validated its emergent soteriology. It now remains to explore this thesis in terms of the Luke-Acts tradition of the death and resurrection of Jesus followed by the empowering of the new Christian community by the Holy Spirit. Luke-Acts In terms of rebounding vitality this early history of Christianity involved an overlapping of the life, death and believed resurrection of Jesus with the desertion, dismay and regathering of the disciples followed by their empowerment by the Holy Spirit as an expansionist community. Jesus is clearly involved in violence as he is seized and led away (Lk. 22.54), is mocked, beaten (Lk. 22.63; 23.11) and crucified (Lk. 23.33). This is followed by the period of appearances which, in several respects, is also a period of doubt (Lk. 24.11, 25, 38,41). The long account of the appearance of Jesus to two disciples on the road to Emmaus then seems to stand as a parable of the waiting church as it is to appear in the Acts of the Apostles. In fact this section (Lk. 24.13-35) is almost a gloss on what might be called the pre-empowered community of the early chapters of Acts, a group reflecting on the risen Christ with various degrees of apprehension but not yet dynamically motivated as a group to move as an evangelistic body. What is obvious in Luke-Acts is that the resurrection, as such, is not the phase of triumph one might have expected assuming that Jesus' violent death, overcoming the theme of suffering which is so strong in Luke, would lead to his own form of direct rebounding violence or conquest. Here the Emmaus Road episode shows itself as presaging the


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early group in Acts; apprehensive yet expectant, the community continues to be overcome by death, despite the resurrection appearances, until it is clothed with power from on high. It is not the resurrection appearances that empower the church, but the coming of the Spirit. It is this picture that makes the Day of Pentecost an interesting subject for analysis through the theory of rebounding vitality. In this Luke-Acts tradition the Holy Spirit so inaugurates the phase of rebounding violence that one might say that the Holy Spirit constitutes rebounding violence or rebounding conquest. It is precisely here that the sub-themes of this paper combine in interpreting these events. Analytically speaking, while it is the merit of Christ's life, interpreted through the ethical vitality theme, that is vindicated through the resurrection and becomes the basis of salvation (Acts 2.38), it is the dynamic power of the Holy Spirit, interpreted as a form of rebounding violence or conquest, that brings the benefits of his merit to establish the Christian community as a viable and expanding group, whose breaking of bread focuses the transformations that were experienced at that time and that would continue to play a significant part in subsequent Christian history. By adopting our overall concept of rebounding vitality we can interpret and relate both the power of the earthly life of Jesus and the consequent power of conquest of the Holy Spirit. The kerygmatic message that floods through subsequent chapters in Acts posits the forgiveness of sins to sinners through Jesus (Acts 5.30-32), while it is the 'falling' of the Holy Spirit on believers that marks them out as authentic members of the new community, even when they originate as Gentiles (Acts 10.44-48). Rebounding Conquest and Community Just as the resurrection appearances mark Jesus as one who walks on earth while bearing a transcending identity, so the Day of Pentecost marks out a dual identity for the group of believers as a human community possessed of divine power and a charter to evangelize. This duality is, for example, dramatically portrayed by the martyrdom of Stephen, which ushers in its own sub-theme of rebounding violence in a most dramatic form when he is stoned to death by Jews and a persecution of Christians emerges as a result (Acts 11.19). This very persecution is its own form of rebounding violence, as Stephen the

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Christian is violently killed, and, following his death, there emerges a kind of 'negative evangelism' in which Paul is involved and to which he gives his consent (Acts 8.1). At the very moment his earthly life is destroyed and his natural kinsmen are enraged against him, he is filled by the Spirit and stares into heaven to witness the glory of God with Jesus at his right hand (Acts 7.56). Stephen's death demonstrates the theme that, as in the case of Jesus, death may end the natural vitality of individuals but it only serves to assure positive consequences, whether in an eternal destiny or in evangelistic benefit. Stephen as a martyr exists in a liminal state: he is one who is both on earth and in heaven, as was in a sense the entire early Christian community, once empowered from on high. The effect of his death on Paul's subsequent conversion is another clear demonstration of the creative consequences of the martyr's death. In terms of social groups the growth of converts increases the gap between synagogue and ecclesia, demarcating old and new realms of being, with the new Christian community belonging to the realm of the Spirit, a realm that bears out Bloch's belief in the political dimension of rebounding violence. This is reflected, as we have seen already, both by the persecution of Christians following Stephen's death and by the vigorous growth of the Christian community after Pentecost. Conversion and Rebounding Conquest What Acts sees happening to the post-resurrection community as a whole is, in some sense, a larger expression of these personal experiences of Paul as also of Peter within the Luke-Acts tradition. Here it is worth employing the terminology of rebounding conquest rather than rebounding violence to emphasize the point that Judaism itself undergoes a transformation and conquest as Christianity emerges as a new force. Here Bloch's argument becomes especially important. I have already shown that he disliked van Gennep's strict model of rites of passage because of the idea that a person is removed from one social status and undergoes a liminal period of learning before being reincorporated into a new status, a status still remaining in the 'old world'. Bloch emphasized his conviction that rebounding conquest changed internal states of existence and not simply perceived social statuses. Here both Paul and Peter present classic examples of people within whose lives the normal pattern of existence is inverted or transformed through an encounter


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with the transcendent and whose subsequent state of being involves an outward-going mission. Paul's conversion is extremely well known, but to interpret it in terms of rebounding violence is novel and presents an instructive perspective. He lives the ordinary life of a zealous Jew until confronted by a power believed to be that of the risen Christ. Thereafter he gains a new perspective both on his former life as a Jew, upon the Jewish law, upon Jesus and especially upon Gentiles. Were we to adopt a structuralist interpretation of texts, we could argue that the account of Peter's vision stands as a parallel 'conversion' to Paul's dramatic transformation. Though it is not conventional to speak of Peter's vision as his actual conversion, it certainly occupies a similar symbolic position in Acts, especially if the abolition of the JewGentile boundary is the message of the gospel. Perhaps some exegetes, Catholic and Protestant, have a theological vested interest in Peter inclining them against speaking of his 'conversion' this late in his apostolic career. If so, the less value-laden idiom of rebounding conquest might be beneficial. Briefly, we find Peter as a man asleep who receives a vision (a reversal of the wide-awake Paul who becomes struck blind by the vision of the risen Christ) telling him that his former food codes of ritual purity are rendered redundant by God. On awaking he receives visitors bidding him to spread the gospel in a new non-Jewish community, just as Paul receives a visitor who conducts him into the Christian community as he receives his sight and the Holy Spirit (Acts 9.17). As Paul receives back his literal sight and is conducted into the Christian community, so Peter is given a new insight into the gospel and is conducted into the Gentile world. It is not too much to suggest that Acts links these two persons as each in need of the divine vision so that their original horizon-bound perspectives might be enlarged and so that God's message of boundaryoverflow might be enhanced. Here the new Christian message engages in a conquest of Judaism and a rebounding conquest of Jews and Gentiles through an expansionist missionary programme, the latter so clearly reflecting Bloch's notion of political expansionism involved in processes of rebounding violence. Paul's native Jewish vitality, grounded in religious teaching and keeping the law, comes into contact with the transcendent in the form of the meritorious risen Christ. He is blinded by light, hears a voice, and through the 'visitor' Ananias has his old nature replaced by the

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'conquest' personality of Paul. In doctrinal terms, Paul's subsequent discussion of the relation of works of the law to justification through God's work in Christ provides a good example of an original religious status that is negated prior to a life transformed through divine contact. Having said that, it is perhaps worth disagreeing with Bloch over his view of the 'general millenarian tenor' of Paul's beliefs, especially as a basis for rejecting circumcision (1992: 94). More in line with my argument on Luke-Acts, I suggest that inasmuch as Paul rejected circumcision he did so because the Spirit had conquered flesh and not because all ritual should be abandoned in the face of the Second Coming. As Paul's outlook was changed, so too was Peter's. His dream of unclean animals and the command to kill and eat inaugurates a wider vision. It is as though the rules of the law have themselves become subject to the idiom of rebounding conquest. Peter represents ordinary Jewish conformity transformed by divine edict into a Christian identity that involves the conversion of Gentiles. So, these identity transformations of both Peter and Paul yield to the interpretation of rebounding vitality. Both are dramatic events fully in line with the Luke-Acts format of spirit-induced drama, with the Day of Pentecost as a key example. Though particularly speculative, it is worth drawing attention to one interesting detail of the Day of Pentecost, which reflects Bloch's general observation that a change of mood is often associated with sacrifices, a change indicating an altered relationship between devotees and the sacrificial victim (1992: 36). The accusation that the disciples appeared drunk (Acts 2.13), along with the description of their 'glad and generous hearts' and their habit of praising God (Acts 2.46, 47), all suggest a transformed vitality. If the analogy with Bloch has any substance in it, we might interpret the coming of the Holy Spirit as indicating an altered relation between the disciples and their view of the resurrected Christ. Another fundamental link between Pentecost in Acts and Bloch's rebounding violence theme, as already mentioned, concerns the place given to food and eating. Twice in Acts 2 (vv. 42, 46) we are told that the new community along with its converts ate together, in what affords a symbolic realization of the new order that has now been established. So too in the Gospel account of the Emmaus journey (Lk. 24.30, 35). P.P. Esler (1987: 7Iff.) has explored at some length this whole issue of table-fellowship in Luke-Acts, and it is a theme open to wide comparison so that, for example, the emergence of communal eating in


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the early history of the Sikh religion demonstrated the conquest of Hindu caste groupings to yield a more unified community of believers (McLeod 1968, 1975). While little more can be said here, it is interesting that the Eucharist as a ritual meal came to establish itself within Christianity as the key rite expressing the nature of this community of believers. In subsequent Christian history the symbolism of this rite has several times been used to express conquest of some outmoded doctrine and the establishment of a different perspective of community. Deceit Conquered One case which illustrates another facet of rebounding vitality in Acts is that of the dishonest husband and wife Ananias and Sapphira, who lie to the Christian community about the money gained from the sale of land. By invoking the rebounding vitality theme we can offer an explanation that goes further than, for example, Esler's otherwise exemplary attempt at what he calls a socio-redaction criticism of Luke-Acts (1987: 6). On this particular point Esler simply rehearses the texts (Acts 5.3, 9) to see Ananias's and Sapphira's sin as consisting in 'an attempt to deceive the Holy Spirit' (1987: 196), an issue of particular importance, given his stress on the economically sustaining relationship of rich and poor in the early gospel community. In terms of rebounding vitality I suggest that one important feature of this episode is the demonstration that this couple's human nature had not benefited from the rebounding victory of the Holy Spirit. Perhaps it is not simply an issue of deceiving the Spirit, as Esler and the text suggest, but of feigning the Spirit to deceive the community. In so doing they demonstrate their old nature as very much alive, unconquered by the transcendent spirit. As in the slightly later episode of Simon (Acts 8.9ff.), they ignore the fact that the gift of God cannot be bought with money (Acts 8.20), a theme grounded in the grammar of discourse of merit and the reciprocity of grace. This interpretation shows that Ananias and Sapphira present opposite type cases from those of Stephen, Paul and Peter. In fact these cases are particularly instructive in reflecting the combined notions of ethical vitality, merit and rebounding violence. They seek merit derived from their own—economic—activity which, inevitably, means that their contact with the transcendent turns out to be destructive rather than

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creative. In a literal sense it is really rebounding violence and not rebounding victory that they experience. Ethical Vitality and Christ's Merit This is a suitable opportunity to underline traditional views of the life of Jesus as the foundation for that ethical vitality that, in my interpretation, is seen as rebounding in conquest of both Jewish and Gentile religion. Of particular importance is the belief that his life was sinless and, as such, salvifically contradicts the sinful lives of ordinary people. In the Luke-Acts tradition, his earthly origin is not ordinary but grounded in divine activity. Just as in another event of the rebounding conquest of basic physical nature, initiated by God through the Holy Spirit, the barren Elizabeth (Lk. 1.7) gives birth, so also, under divine power, does Mary the virgin (Lk. 1.27, 34). Barrenness and virginity are symbolic equivalents both expressing natural constraints that are overcome by the power of the Holy Spirit. Indeed the Holy Spirit is much in evidence in the early chapters of Luke up to and including the temptations of Jesus (ch. 4). The temptations, themselves, express Jesus' self-control as one led by the Spirit and, in terms of ethical vitality, subjected to the divine will. After ch. 4 references to the Holy Spirit markedly and dramatically decline as the life of Jesus is passed in what might be called a less supernaturally charged environment. It is not until Acts 2 that the Holy Spirit reappears in dramatic form to metamorphose the community of believers. It is as though the Spirit replaces Jesus, each being, in Bloch's sense, functional equivalents of 'transcendent' power. This, perhaps, is why during the period of his active ministry there is very little reference to the Spirit as such. Once Jesus has been launched on his ministry at the baptismal hands of John and has undergone the wilderness temptations, he returns to Nazareth, reads the Isaiah reference to the Spirit of the Lord being upon him (Lk. 4.18), and then remains the focus of activity. In precisely parallel a fashion the appearance of Jesus at the beginning of Acts sets the scene for the coming of the Spirit. Sacrifice

The general question of why a sinless victim's life can serve as a powerful medium of sacrifice can now be answered through the notion of ethical vitality, seeing that moral power is derived from the condition


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of sinlessness. If the life of Jesus is interpreted as an extended period of control in relation to divine law, we can understand how moral energy and dynamism develop over time. Sinlessness is no neutral category, resulting from inactivity, but an attribute of considerable significance derived from positive action. Theologically speaking, ethical vitality lies not solely in the belief that sin was not committed, but in that law was actively kept. This follows the traditional doctrinal emphasis that it was possible for Jesus not to sin rather than that it was impossible for him to sin. Ethical vitality results from positive action and not from what might be viewed as negative passivity. Theological traditions have varied, in close relationship to devotional practices, in the precise way in which Christ's meritorious life and death have been related to the salvation of believers. A two-fold source of conquest could be explored in association with traditional theological interpretations of the death and resurrection of Christ. This double process follows quite naturally from Bloch's original scheme of a double violence, one being the 'violence of expulsion of the native vital element' and the other the 'violence of the consumption of external vitality' (1992: 21). The first represents the overcoming of death intrinsic to mortality through the person of Jesus, and the second involves the conquest of death in the lives of growing numbers of believers. Aligned with the first is the sacrificial forgiveness of sins and with the second the gaining of a higher-order power for living the life of faith. In terms of Paul's argument in Romans (8.9), for example, the first focuses on dying with Christ to the old order of the natural person who, under law, exists according to the flesh, while the second pin-points the new life belonging to the new order of the spiritual person who, under the gospel, exists according to the Spirit. This scheme shows the benefit of Bloch's theory, which speaks less of a rite of passage from being a sinner to becoming a forgiven believer, and more of a translocation from one order to another in a process that encounters the transcendent. Again, in Aquinas's theory of transubstantiation, focused on the body and blood of Christ, the Spirit effects the change in the substance of the elements. The Spirit pertains to that very transcendent order to which belongs the life of faith and eternal existence. In fact the theory of transubstantiation offers a classic example of rebounding vitality in that the mundane elements of bread and wine are brought into contact with a transcendent realm, after which they cannot simply be returned to

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normal use in the mundane world. The priest even consumes any remaining particles. Merit In terms of historical Christian theology the issue of merit has played a dramatically important part, not least in the debates of the Reformation concerning human action, merit and divine grace. Both the merit of Christ and the merit of the Saints have been deemed valuable by Roman Catholic tradition as contributing to the treasury of merit in the church available for members as need demands. Protestants, in turn, have energetically restricted merit to Christ as the sole source of salvific power. The new Catechism of the Catholic Church contains a section on merit, defining it as 'the recompense owed by a community...for the action of one of its members' (1994: 2006). Here the overarching emphasis is upon God and the grace of God in believers as the source of merit. This echoes Reformation theology to a marked extent and it is interesting to see this Catechism retaining the language of merit while almost inverting its sense. "The charity of Christ is the source in us of all our merits before God' (1994: 2011). Be that as it may, central Christian doctrine contends that Christ is the source of all merit that underlies human salvation. This is one point at which Christianity comes into the most direct parallel with those non-western religions grounded in a system of karma, as in Hinduism, Buddhism and to a degree Sikhism. This is particularly interesting given the otherwise radically different preoccupations of these religions. The fact that some Eastern traditions accentuate salvation as a state of consciousness rather than a phase of history or eternity, or the fact that they can embrace atheistic beliefs as opposed to strong theism, seems irrelevant to the fact that merit is a common element. In fact, the nature and function of merit stands as a more plausible candidate as a universal feature of religion than the existence of deities, and could lead to a full discussion of rites within those traditions expressing the rebounding vitality theme. Conversions) Another application of the two-foldness of conquest lies with the broad theological issue of conversion, especially with the difference between

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evangelical Christians, who stress conversion as a sense of cleansing, and some charismatics, who emphasize the additional idea of a further spiritual blessing. Indeed, the very notion of triumphant Christian living and the making of converts is a clear affirmation of rebounding conquest. In theological traditions where the doctrines of satisfaction and substitutionary atonement play a dominant role, the death of Christ comes to be the vehicle for the transfer and appropriation of merit accumulated through his ethical vitality. Here the emphasis upon his temptations becomes quite important, symbolizing control over sinful desire and potential disobedience. His death follows as a natural partner to his temptations in an overall theology of the cross. This tradition stresses the ethical vitality element of the rebounding vitality thesis. By contrast, it is the rebounding violence theme of the rebounding vitality thesis that is stressed by those for whom the resurrection occupies a central theological stage, as in some charismatic contexts and in Eastern Orthodoxy. The merits of Christ are less central and are overshadowed by the victory over death and the immediacy of supernatural presence to believers. Charismatic Christianity Charismatic Christianity affords a classic example of rebounding conquest. The contemporary example of what has come to be called the Toronto Blessing (Chevreau 1994; Roberts 1994) demonstrates an overcoming of flesh by spirit. I would suggest that one particularly interesting feature of this phenomenon, the use of laughter and tears, could be identified as the most focused example of the control of body by spirit, since both phenomena are among the most basic forms of bodily communication but are ones that believed to be caused and controlled by the Holy Spirit. Here, analogically speaking, we have what we might call a non-verbal form of glossolalia. In standard glossolalia the Spirit is believed to take human language and transcend it in the 'language of angels', a definitely transcendent tongue. In laughter and tears the Spirit takes biological activities, and in that sense takes the actual body itself, and makes it transcend itself. Baptism Baptism, too, exemplifies the idiom of rebounding violence or conquest. Neophytes are separated from their old life in the flesh and may be

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exorcised before being baptized into what is interpreted both as the death of Christ and as their own symbolic death to sin. The waters of baptism symbolize the grave, both the grave of Christ and the grave of the Christian. The believer has to die to self in order to rise to new life in Christ. And the new life is not simply another status within the old order of things, but constitutes a new order. The New Testament is full of expressions for this change with the believer passing from being in the flesh to being in the spirit (Jn 3.6; Rom. 8.9); indeed the believer's body is said to be a temple of the Holy Spirit (1 Cor. 3.16). When the rite of confirmation, through the laying on of hands for the conferring of the Spirit, follows upon baptism the pattern of mundane and heavenly contacts is completed. I have already mentioned how eating is often associated with rites of rebounding violence, and nowhere is this more clearly demonstrated than in the fact that baptism is typically understood as affording entry to the sacred meal of Christianity. Eucharist The eucharist is the occasion when those whose nature has been changed participate in that conquest and also in the challenge to extend the believing community through renewed dedication. In the very structure of sacramentally focused Catholic and Reformed churches the liturgy reflects the rebounding violence-conquest theme to a marked extent. It moves, for example, from a confession of sin, involving a negation of old human nature, through absolution and into contact with the transcendent by prayer and the divine transformation that turns human gifts into sacred food. As this is ingested the transformed believers are sent out to conquer in the name of Christ. My own earlier ingestion model, set within a consumption-consummation theory of sacrificial eating (Davies 1986: 3Iff.), reflects strongly Bloch's emphasis on ritual food used in association with rites of rebounding violence (1992: 31). Preaching Preaching, along with the use of liturgical and other religious language, could be explored in detail according to Bloch's (1992: 32ff.) analysis of the way ritual language is used to gain symbolic victory over the 'flesh'. The very doctrine of the Bible within Protestantism shows a relation between spirit and word, for not only is the text believed to have its

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source within a divine inspiration of authors but its contemporary appropriation is also often said to depend on the activity of the Holy Spirit. So, in one sense, it is possible to see that the Bible itself is an example of the materialization of spirit. The inspired word has controlled human language and turned it into a higher order medium. Here the sacred text is as brilliant a symbolic possibility as the symbolic food of the consecrated host for expressing the relation of the divine with the human. Finally Whether or not the theory of rebounding vitality proves to be hermeneutically beneficial will, obviously, depend on its ability to bring significance to texts that are otherwise less intelligible. At least some readers will have been introduced to the themes of ethical vitality and rebounding violence and may be encouraged to pursue them with their original authors; others may also find the composite notion of rebounding vitality worth consideration when they engage in their own, more detailed, studies of texts.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bautnan, Z. 1992 Bloch, M. 1992 Casey, M., 1991

1994 Chevreau, G. 1994 Davies, DJ. 1984 1985

Mortality and Immortality and other Life Strategies (Oxford: Polity Press). Prey into Hunter (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). From Jewish Prophet to Gentile God (Cambridge: Clarke & Company). Catechism of the Catholic Church (London: Geoffrey Chapman). Catch the Fire: An Experience of Renewal and Revival (London: Marshall Pickering).

Meaning and Salvation in Religious Studies (Leiden: Brill). 'An Interpretation of Sacrifice in Leviticus', ZAW 89 (1977) (repr. in Bernhard Lang [ed.], Anthropological Approaches to the Old Testament [London: SPCK]). 1986 Studies in Pastoral Theology and Social Anthropology (Birmingham: Birmingham University Press). Davies, D.J., C Watkins and M. Winter 1991 Church and Religion in Rural England (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark).

224 Eliade, M. 1978 Esler, P.P. 1987 Gager, J.G. 1975

The Bible in Human Society No Souvenirs (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul). Community and Gospel in Luke-Acts (Cambridge: University Press).

Cambridge

Kingdom and Community: The Social World of Early Christianity (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall).

Gennep, A. van The Rites of Passage (trans. M.B. Vizedom and G.L. Caffee; London: 1960 Routledge & Kegan Paul [original pub. in French, 1909]). Girard, R. 1977 Violence and the Sacred (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press). 1986 The Scapegoat (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press). Mauss, M. 1954 The Gift (trans. Ian Cunnison; London: Cohen & West). McLeod, H. 1968 Guru Nanak and the Sikh Religion (Delhi: Oxford University Press). 1975 Evolution of the Sikh Community (Delhi: Oxford University Press). McKenna, A.J. 1992 Violence and Difference (Urbana: University of Illinois Press). Meeks, W.A. The First Urban Christians (New Haven: Yale University Press). 1983 Obeyesekere, G. 'Theodicy, Sin and Salvation in a Sociology of Buddhism', in E.R. 1968 Leach (ed.), Dialectic in Practical Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Roberts, D. 1994 The 'Toronto' Blessing (Eastbourne: Kingsway Publications). Rogerson, J.W. Anthropology and the Old Testament (Oxford: Basil Blackwell). 1978 Tambiah, S.J. 'The Ideology of Merit', in E.R. Leach, Dialectic in Practical 1968 Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Williams, J.G. The Bible, Violence and the Sacred (San Francisco: Harper). 1991

ON PROSTITUTION Margaret Davies This paper is about one of the effects of the unequal distribution of wealth on sexual practice between men and women. It is also about the cultural constructions of women that the practice encourages. Popular contemporary imagination, for example, creates two types of women: the respectable and chaste woman, who is marked out for the roles of wife and mother, and the prostitute, whose innate lewdness makes available to men the kinds of sexual gratification that a respectable woman should find repugnant. Our English word 'prostitute' comes from the verb prostituere meaning 'to expose publicly', which is used either of offering oneself or another to indiscriminate sexual intercourse for hire, or of exposing onesen0 or another to lewdness. Most frequently, it refers to men and women who offer the use of their bodies for hire in 'infamous practices', or, metaphorically, to corrupt and venal politicians. The connotations include 'degradation, debasement and corruption'. The Greek verb rcopvetjoo has a similar range of meanings and connotations, except that it is almost always used in the passive or intransitive active to mean 'prostitute oneself, and the same root, rcopvo-, is used in combination with other words to refer to brothels, brothel-keepers, those who have commerce with prostitutes, those who love and are mad about prostitutes, those born of prostitutes, and those who collected the tax on prostitution at Athens. Liddell and Scott's Lexicon suggests that the Septuagint and the NT use the words jcopvetxx), eKTCopveijco, rcopveioc, rcopvoq, and rcopvT) more broadly to refer to unchaste sexual practices, but it will be argued that these words retain the sense of selling sexual gratification for gain. Actually, translators always translate the feminine form as 'prostitute' and only translate the masculine and abstract forms by 'unchaste man' or 'unchastity'.

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The Bible in Human Society 1. The Jewish Scriptures in their Septuagint Version

In patriarchal and androcentric societies, like those constructed by the Jewish and Christian Scriptures, prostitution is one of very many ways in which men exercise their power over women and children. In the Jewish Scriptures, male power is systematically created by the laws and narratives. Land and livestock, the main sources of wealth, are to be inherited by men (e.g. Deut. 21.17). The stories in Genesis centre on securing the birth of sons to inherit wealth. Wives and concubines are of interest only in terms of their ability to bear sons. The stories represent wives as caught up in this obsession, commanding their female servants to become concubines in order to ensure the birth of sons.1 Unmarried women in this literature are represented as under the power of their fathers, or, if their fathers are dead, under the power of their brothers, and these men are to arrange their women's marriages to serve their own ends.2 Another way in which a man might gain a virgin as a wife is by sleeping with her, but it is the father who decides whether to ratify the marriage or not.3 The Genesis stories assume that men are allowed more than one wife, as well as concubines, but that women are required to remain faithful to their one husband. So the command against adultery (Exod. 20.14; Deut. 5.18; Lev. 20.10) operates differently for men and women. A married woman commits adultery if she has sexual relations with any man other than her husband (see Ecclus. 23.22-26), but a married man commits adultery only if he has sexual relations with another man's wife. Moreover, a husband's power over his wife means that he can make use of her, even requiring her to have sexual relations with another man, if it suits his purpose.4 The stories of Saul, David and his sons, Amnon, Absalom and Solomon, illustrate the same theme of male dominance over women in sexual relations. Saul gave his daughter Michal to David as wife for 'a snare to him' (1 Sam. 18.20-28), but Michal helped David escape her father's assassins (19.11-17). Saul then gave her to Palti as wife (25.44). After Saul's death, however, David reclaimed Michal through her brother, against the will of her second husband (2 Sam. 3.13-16). Her 1. 2. 3. 4.

Gen. 16 and 30. For example, Gen. 24 and 29; see Exod. 21.7-11. Exod. 22.16-17. Gen. 20 and 26; see Judg. 19.

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wishes are not mentioned. Later, when Michal expressed disapproval of David's extraordinary behaviour (6.16, 20-23), the story relates that she was made to feel the power of both David and his god by remaining childless. David, however, acquired other wives. He sent for Abigail after her husband had died when he heard of David's threat to his life and property (2 Sam. 25). He sent for Bathsheba while her husband was away fighting, and, when she became pregnant, recalled her husband in an attempt to deceive him into supposing the child to be his. When that ruse failed, he instructed his commander to ensure Uriah's death in battle, so that Bathsheba could become David's wife (2 Sam. 11). David's son died, but Bathsheba bore another son who would succeed to the throne. David's son Amnon raped and then threw out his halfsister Tamar, but David took no steps either to punish Amnon or to care for Tamar (2 Sam. 13). Her brother Absalom took Tamar in and killed Amnon, then fled and, later, organized a coup against David, which finally failed (2 Sam. 13-18), but nothing more is heard of Tamar. Absalom's initial victory over David is displayed by the account of Absalom's going in to his father's concubines at Jerusalem (16.20-22). Wives and concubines are used to make alliances and to demonstrate male power, so Solomon's great power is indicated by the numbers of his 700 wives and 300 concubines (1 Kgs 11.3). The book of Deuteronomy attempts to mitigate some of the most brutal aspects of this picture. For example, Deut. 21.10-14 seeks to regulate the behaviour of a man towards a woman taken captive in war and desired as a wife: she is first to be allowed to mourn her parents for a month, but then she is to become her captor's wife irrespective of her wishes. Should the man subsequently reject her, however, he is forbidden to sell her or treat her as a slave. In Deuteronomy, women and children, as well as men and strangers, are reckoned to be members of the covenant community (e.g. 31.9-13)—but not bastards (23.2). A man who takes advantage of his power to sleep with his father's wife, his sister or his mother-in-law is accursed (22.30; 27.20-23; compare the longer lists in Lev. 18.6-18; 20.17-21). A distinction is drawn between the rape of a betrothed virgin in a city where she might call for help and in the country where she would be entirely at the mercy of the man (22.23-27). In the first case, the woman is to suffer the death penalty along with the man, but in the second case, only the man is to be executed. Should a man seduce or rape an unbetrothed virgin, he is to marry her and can never divorce her (22.28-29). These are small gains

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in curbing male power over women, but they are gains. Nevertheless, marriage to more than one wife is allowed (21.15-17) and accusations by a husband against his wife have to be defended by her parents (22.1321; cf. Num. 5.11-28). Only men can divorce their wives, not wives their husbands (24.1-4), and a widow is required to marry her husband's brother unless he rejects her (25.5-10). The presuppositions of all this literature, that men could gratify their sexual desires with wives, concubines and virgins, provided they did not infringe the power of other men over women, is the context in which men are also presented using female prostitutes without incurring ostracism. Only when the wives of Israelite men are treated as prostitutes by foreign armies is any horror expressed (Amos 7.17; Joel 3.3). No stigma attaches to Israelite men who use prostitutes. Judah is represented making use of a prostitute when he went to the sheepshearing (Gen. 38.13-18). His only concern is said to be over whether he would be ridiculed because he was unable to pay the present he had promised the prostitute (38.20-23). But when his widowed daughter-in-law, Tamar, is found to be pregnant, she is called a prostitute and condemned to death by burning (38.24). Having gained some of Judah's possessions during her encounter with him in the guise of a prostitute, however, their production allows her to escape execution and to justify her behaviour as a response to Judah's broken promise (38.11, 14-18, 2526). The story of Samson's visit to a prostitute at Gaza serves to exemplify his amazing strength and his desire for women (Judg. 16.1). No interest is shown in the prostitute herself. The same is true of the story of Solomon's settlement of a quarrel between two prostitutes over a child they both claimed as their own, which serves to exemplify Solomon's wisdom (1 Kgs 3.16-18). The prostitutes in these two stories are stock characters whose situations are not allowed to disturb the complacency of men. Even the story of the prostitute whose name is actually recorded, Rahab, and who harboured Israelite spies at Jericho and helped them escape, later to be rewarded together with her family (Jos. 2; 6), only helps to reinforce an image of prostitutes, that those who sell their bodies will also sell their cities. We do not know how prostitution was actually organized in Israelite society. The texts create a world, and we do not know how far they reflect reality. Nevertheless, within the world they create, some assumptions about the organization of prostitution are expressed. The reference to Rahab's saving her father, mother and brothers suggests

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that she worked as a prostitute with the approval of her family (Jos. 6.23). Lev. 19.29 tries to outlaw the practice of fathers' making daughters prostitutes, so, we might infer, the practice was frequent enough to come to the attention of the literate elite. Incidental references to prostitutes in this literature reveal that prostitutes might sing and play the harp in the streets (Isa. 23.16), they might wait for custom on street corners or in marketplaces (Ezek. 16.24-25; Prov. 7.12; 9.14) or outside houses (Prov. 9.14-18). Prov. 7.10 suggests that they might be distinguished from other women by their dress. In other words, the literature depicts prostitution as a common feature of Israelite urban life and at fairs in the country (Gen. 38.14). Nevertheless, female prostitutes are treated as suspect women: priests are forbidden to marry prostitutes (Lev. 21.7) and priests' daughters who become prostitutes are to be burned (Lev. 21.9), presumably to ensure the purity of the hereditary priestly line. The social stigma against prostitutes might also attach itself to the son of a prostitute: the horrible story of Jephthah's vow in Judges 11 seems to suggest that his being the son of a prostitute is rectified by the sacrifice of his virgin daughter. Because this literature is written by men for men, female prostitutes are never given a voice and we can only speculate why some Israelite women might have become prostitutes in the world the text creates. Some, we gather, were forced into prostitution by their fathers (Lev. 19.29). Others, deserted daughters, orphans and widows, could find themselves in situations in which prostitution offered the only means of support. Prov. 6.26 asserts that a prostitute could be hired for a loaf of bread. Deuteronomy recognizes the vulnerability of orphans and widows by repeatedly instructing people to care for them (e.g. 14.29; 25.20). One of the effects of confining wealth to men is that women who lose the protection of fathers, brothers or husbands are in danger of starving to death. That they might support themselves through prostitution implies that some men, who could already gratify themselves with wives and concubines, could also do so with prostitutes by paying from their spare resources, resources that had not been used to support the women in other ways. The literature makes no reference to other men, apart from fathers and possibly husbands, who might live off the earnings of prostitutes as pimps, ponces or brothel keepers. Men, then, are depicted as suffering no social penalty for their sexual use of prostitutes. Instead, they project their predatory practice onto the women they use. Repeatedly the wisdom literature warns men to shun

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prostitutes in order to avoid losing their possessions to such greedy women (e.g. Prov. 5.3; 23.21; 29.3; Ecclus. 9.6; 19.2). The women are described as shameless seductresses whose wiles might cost a young man his livelihood (e.g. Prov. 2.16; 6.24-25; 7.10-27). There is no suggestion that these young men who enjoy wealth and leisure might give their resources to such women, without making sexual use of them. Ecclesiasticus, however, does suggest that a man should be ashamed, among many other things, of looking at prostitutes (exaipou) in public (41.20). In other words, wise men are encouraged to shun prostitutes in public, not to help them. Male prostitution is rarely mentioned in the Septuagint. The male rcopvoq is used once in Ecclus. 23.16-21 of the lustful man who slept with other men's wives and who is warned that such activities could not be kept secret from God but would lead to discovery in the public street. 'Prostitute' seems to be used instead of 'adulterer' to imply that the man was living off these activities. In Ecclus. 41.17 a 'man who practices prostitution' (6 rcopveucov) is warned of the shame he would incur if his parents were to find out.5 We do not know whether polygamy was actually practised among Jews of the first century CE. Josephus relates that Herod the Great had nine wives (excluding Mariamme I) in the first century BCE (War 1.562), but the practice seems not to have been continued by his sons, and the 5. The Hebrew Bible also seems to contain references to male and female prostitutes in connection with worship at sanctuaries regarded as idolatrous, e.g. 1 Sam. 22.22-24; Hos. 4.14; 1 Kgs 14.24; 15.12; 22.47; 2 Kgs 23.7; Job 36.14. The practice is condemned in Deut. 23.17-19. The Septuagint, however, has altered all these references, some to 'initiates' (Hos. 4.14; 1 Kgs 15.12), one to ordinary prostitutes (Deut. 23.18; cf. 22.21), and 2 Kgs 23.7 transliterates the Hebrew. 1 Kgs 22.47 is omitted in most manuscripts, but in those that include it, there is a reference to 'Sodomite'. Job 36.14 is changed to 'killed by angels'. 1 Sam. 22.22-24 does not specify the practices of Eli's sons, and 1 Kgs 14.24 refers to a 'conspiracy' and to practising 'the abominations of the Gentiles'. The Septuagint, however, retains the metaphorical use of 'prostitution' to describe Israel's worship of idols and foreign deities in much of the literature, e.g. Exod. 4.15-16; Lev. 17.7; Num. 23.1; Deut. 31.6; 2 Kgs 9.2; 2 Chron. 5.25; Ps. 73.27; 106.39; Hos. 4.10-18; 5.4; Mic. 1.7; Nah. 3.3-4; Isa. 1.21; Jer. 2.20; 3.2-9; Ezek. 6.9; 16.15-43; 23.1-49; 43.7-9. In Hos. 1.2, the prophet is told to take a wife of harlotry, as a prophetic sign of Israel's infidelity. Drawing on earlier teaching that infidelity to God leads to unethical behaviour (e.g. Deut. 28; Lev. 26), Wis. 14.12 asserts that 'the invention of idols is the root of prostitution'. See E.A. Goodfriend, 'Prostitution (OT)', ABD, V, pp. 505-510, and K. Van der Toorn, ABD, V, pp. 510-13.


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Temple Scroll prohibits a king from remarrying until his wife dies (HQTemple 57.17-19). It seems likely that most Jewish men had only one wife at a time, but that divorce sometimes led to serial marriages. 2. Graeco-Roman Literature Since this culture, too, was patriarchal and androcentric and this literature also was written by the male elite, I shall mention only differences from the picture created by the Jewish Scriptures. The literature suggests that monogamy, with relative ease of divorce, gave rise to serial marriages, at least among the elite. Moreover, in Roman law, men who married were expected to give up concubines.6 It is also remarked that, in one obvious respect, Roman women of the first century CE were freer than their Greek and possibly their Jewish counterparts. Elite Roman women could appear in public with their husbands and accompany them, for example, to dinner parties. Greek women, except at Sparta, were confined to their homes where they were expected to be content with spinning, weaving, cooking and bringing up the children, or supervising slaves and servants who did the work for them.7 If Greek men wanted female company at their drinking parties, they are said to have invited courtesans (eiaipai, female companions). These women are often described as well-educated, not only in the arts of physical attraction and charm,8 but in conversation and philosophy.9 Some are even said to have engaged in philosophical disputes. 10 They were famed for their wit 11 and beauty.12 Thais, Alexander the Great's companion, is said to have accompanied him on campaigns and later to have become Queen of Egypt by marrying Ptolemy I.13 If these descriptions are not just male fantasies, exceptional 6. I.E. Gardner, Women in Roman Law and Society (London: Croom Helm, 1986), p. 56. 7. E.g. Xenophon, The Householder 7.6-14. 8. Lucian, Dialogues of the Courtesans 6, a work of the second half of the second century CE; Athenaeus, The Deipnosophists 13.568a-c, 571e-572b, a work rom the end of the second or beginning of the third century CE. 9. Diogenes Laertius, Lives of the Eminent Philosophers 6.96-98, a work probably dating from the early third century CE; Athenaeus, Deipnosophists 13.576d, 578c, 588b, 589e, 596c; 600-601. 10. Diogenes Laertius, Lives, 6.98. 11. Athenaeus, Deipnosophists 13.578-79, 585-86. 12. Athenaeus, Deipnosophists 13.574e, 588c-e, 596b, 599d. 13. Athenaeus, Deipnosophists 13.576d-e; Plutarch, Life of Alexander 38,

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women were able to choose a distinguished lover, who pleased them, not their fathers, and were kept in comfortable homes. Their lives, as depicted, would certainly have been more interesting than those of conventional wives, so it would be unsurprising if some women preferred to live as courtesans. They would need to be exceptional in another respect, however, if they were to avoid hardship: they would have to manage their wealth effectively against the day when their lovers might abandon both them and their children. Of course, men accused them of greed.14 Nevertheless, it is interesting that some of these companions are regarded as intelligent and able. Even if the portraits are male fantasies, they are fantasies that accord to companions a respect for qualities that were only rarely encouraged among women in the rest of society.15 The literature suggests, however, that elite Greek married women seem to have been slightly better off financially than courtesans because, although their husbands could divorce them to form a political alliance through a second marriage or to secure progeny, the wives' families might effect the return of the dowry in such cases. Married women among the Roman elite during the first century CE were apparently slightly better placed than their Greek and Jewish counterparts because they could divorce their husbands, with the consent of their fathers (if their fathers were still alive) or with the aid of male tutors. If the grounds for divorce were the husband's adultery with a married woman, the dowry had to be repaid immediately, so providing economic security to a divorced woman from a rich family.16 As Jane Gardner's study of Roman women emphasizes, however, among the lower echelons of society, the return of any dowry would hardly provide divorced women and their children with enough for subsistence.17 There is evidence from papyri in Egypt that marriage contracts there sought to safeguard a work from the second half of the first century CE. 14. Athenaeus, Deipnosophists 13.57d-f, 570b, 588e, 591c-e. 15. See S. Bell, Reading, Writing, and Rewriting the Prostitute Body (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994). 16. Gardner, Women, ch. 6. Against Gardner, p. 130, however, I can give no credence to the reports of Tacitus, Annals 2.85, and Suetonius, Lives of the Caesars: Tiberius 3.35, that aristocratic women had themselves listed as prostitutes to avoid punishment for adultery. They form parts of general descriptions of the debauchery of former times, written up on the basis of gossip almost a century later. The same judgment must be made about Suetonius's accusation. Lives of the Caesars: Gaius Caligula 41, that Caligula set up a brothel in his palace, using matrons as prostitutes. 17. Gardner, Women, p. 257.


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married women's social, economic and emotional welfare by excluding certain types of behaviour on the part of the husband. For example, if the husband were to ill-treat his wife or to bring another woman into the house, he would have to pay back one and a half times the dowry. We do not know whether such contracts were common outside Egypt, but Gardner suggests that from the first century CE onwards, legal documents in connection with dowries among Romans (there were no Roman marriage contracts as such) could offer similar safeguards to Roman married women.18 Also in Roman law, daughters had equal rights of succession with sons, if their fathers died intestate, but, on the other hand, widows' claims to their husbands' estates were set below those of their husbands' blood relatives. On the basis of this legal literature, therefore, it is not difficult to imagine situations in which free Roman and Greek women might become prostitutes to support themselves and their children. If they were to do so, however, they would find themselves in competition with a very large number of other women who were slaves. Some of these are described as musicians, acrobats and dancers, invited to drinking parties and dinners for the entertainment and sexual gratification of male guests.19 Since these slaves might accumulate wealth through presents, they might buy their freedom. Less likely to accumulate wealth were the street walkers and the prostitutes who worked from inns, taverns and bakeries.20 Moreover, these women had no redress against sexual harassment and violence. Even worse placed were the female slaves in the city brothels.21 Solon is said to have established these brothels in Athens and to have taxed their income.22 Gaius Caligula is said to have levied taxes on Roman prostitutes.23 A very small amount was paid to enter the brothel, and the client might also give a small present to the prostitute, so men of all social levels, including some male slaves, might use them.24 Brothels with individual rooms and erotic 18. Gardner, Women, pp. 48-49. 19. Athenaeus, Deipnosophists, 13.571b, 576f, 577a, 607b-608b. 20. Strabo, Geography 12.17, a work from the first century BCE. 21. Athenaeus, Deipnosophists, 13.568f-569f. 22. Athenaeus, Deipnosophists, 13.569d-f. 23. Suetonius, Lives of the Caesars: Caligula 40, a work from the end of the first century or the beginning of the second century CE. 24. Petronius, Satyricon 14.8, probably first century CE; Diogenes Laertius, Lives, 6.4; Athenaeus, Deipnosophists, 13.569f.

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wall paintings have been excavated at Pompeii.25 Some of these prostitutes would have been very young (see the diminutive rcopvtSiov). Apparently, female slaves from brothels were sold to other brothel keepers, to provide variety for regular clients. Such slaves, then, would have had little hope of interesting rich clients who might free them to become concubines.26 The use of adjectives like Ttopvofiavriq, mad after prostitutes, and jcopvocpiXrn;, loving prostitutes, suggests that a man who was known habitually to consort with prostitutes could suffer contempt, but occasional use of prostitutes is considered normal in this literature, especially where young men are concerned. Indeed, most Greek and Roman men considered the institution of prostitution essential to avoid the danger of their own wives' and daughters' seduction. It was an unusual philosopher who would argue at the beginning of the second century CE against prostitution, even of slaves, as a danger to marriage and an affront to rational human behaviour. In a discourse about the kinds of work the poor in cities should undertake or avoid, Dio Chrysostom takes up and expands traditional animus against brothel keepers27 to condemn the work of keeping a brothel, whether pursued by rich or poor (Discourse 7.133-40). His appeal was made to magistrates (7.136) and to the general public, in order to arouse disgust and thereby stop the practice. Unfortunately, however, his arguments seem to have had no effect.28 25. See also Martial, Epigrams 11.45, a work from the first century CE. 26. Some courtesans and prostitutes are said to have been attached to temples dedicated to Aphrodite, for example, at Corinth and Ephesus (Athenaeus, Deipnosophists 13.572d-f, 573a, 573c-574c; Strabo, Geography 8.20, 378). 27. Theophrastus (a pupil of Aristotle), Characters 6.5. See also the portrait of Ballio in Scene 2 of Plautus's Pseudolus, second century BCE. 28. For the purposes of this paper, I shall not consider male homosexual prostitutes, who were also included on lists for the purpose of taxation. See, for example, Kenneth Dover, Greek Homosexuality (London: Duckworth, 1978), ch. 2; Aristophanes, Knights 876-880; Xenophon, Memorabilia 1.6.13; Athenaeus, Deipnosophists 13.592f-593a, 601e, 602a-605d; Martial, Epigrams 11.45. It should be noted that, according to Graeco-Roman law, no marriage was recognized among slaves, even those who lived as household servants or who worked on country estates and who might cohabit with another slave and have children. They had no secure family life. Their partner might be sold elsewhere, their children might not be brought up or might be brought up elsewhere or might be sold away from them. In Roman law, the slave mother of three surviving children might be exempt from work or given manumission, but her children remained the property of her


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This literature creates the impression that Graeco-Roman cities were full of prostitutes and brothels to the extent that no traveller or resident could fail to come across them. The inclusion of prostitutes and prostitution in vice lists, however, places the responsibility for this state of affairs where it least belongs (see nn. 30 and 35). 3. The New Testament29

The New Testament's references to prostitutes and prostitution are determined by two interests: by its interest in the forgiveness of sinners and by its interest in the kind of life that forgiven sinners should live as saints. So, in some instances, prostitutes are pictured as archetypal sinners who repent and in others they are sinners whose sins exclude them from the community of saints. Two passages refer to Rahab the prostitute (see Jos. 2 and 6) as an exemplary character. According to Jas 2.25, she is said to have been 'justified by works when she received the messengers and sent them out another way', exemplifying the general proposition that 'faith apart from works is dead' (2.26). In other words, she is seen as a sinner whose faith was expressed in works that saved her (2.14). Similarly, according to Heb. 11.31, she is included in a list of people who had faith, faith in the sense of 'the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen' (11.1). So 'by faith, Rahab the prostitute did not perish with those who were disobedient, because she had given a friendly welcome to the spies'. Of the people mentioned, Rahab is the only woman. Neither of these references mentions that Rahab's actions saved her family as well as herself. Rahab is also mentioned in the Matthaean genealogy of Jesus, as the mother of Boaz (Mt. 1.2-16). She is one of only four women included in that genealogy, along with Tamar, Judah's daughter-in-law, Ruth and 'the wife of Uriah', that is, Bathsheba. Some think that these master. See Gardner, Women, pp. 206-209. Masters and their sons, having absolute power over slaves of both sexes, might rape them at will. See Gardner, Women, p. 221. 29. As in the Jewish Scriptures, some of the instances of 'prostitution' in the New Testament are metaphorical references to idolatry. In Revelation, Babylon is represented as the great harlot (14.8; 17-18), with whom the kings of the earth had practised prostitution and drunk the wine of her prostitution (see also Jezebel in 2.14, 20). She had corrupted the earth with her prostitution (19.2). In 21.8 and 22.15, male prostitutes seem to be idolaters. Also, 'prostitution' in the so-called Jerusalem decree of Acts 15.20,29 and 21.25 seems to carry the same metaphorical meaning. The same is true of 1 Cor. 10.8 and Jn 8.41.

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women's names appear because they were Gentiles, but it is not clear that Bathsheba was a Gentile. It seems more likely that they are mentioned because they are understood to have safeguarded God's promises in what were potentially scandalous circumstances, like Mary. In the Gospels, prostitutes are rarely included within the stories. The Gospels according to Matthew and Luke include all the references. In Mt. 21.31-32, Jesus is depicted claiming that 'tax collectors and female prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God before you (chief priests and elders of the people), for John came to you in the way of righteousness and you did not believe him, but tax collectors and female prostitutes believed him'. Although the earlier narrative about the Baptist's ministry (Mt. 3) does not specifically mention tax collectors and prostitutes among the crowds who responded to his call to repentance and were baptized, this passage assumes that some did. Here prostitutes, like tax collectors, are treated as archetypical sinners who repented.30 That female prostitutes can be presented in this way takes up the perspective of Jewish wisdom literature in blaming the women, not their clients, nor the structure of society, for their way of life. How they continued to live is not mentioned. That prostitutes are presented as capable of repentance, however, means that they are not viewed as 'innately lewd'. There are no direct parallels to this Matthaean passage in Mark or Luke, but a similar reference, in another context, Lk. 7.29-30, mentions that 'all the people and the tax collectors justified God, but the Pharisees and lawyers rejected the purpose of God for themselves, not having been baptized by John' (see Lk. 3.12-13). Later in the same chapter, there is a story (Lk. 7.36-50) about an implied prostitute who repented; the narrative is set in the house of a Pharisee in order to contrast the reactions of a Pharisee and a sinner to Jesus. Lk. 7.36 introduces 'a woman of the city, who was a sinner'. Her actions, crying over Jesus' feet, wiping them with her hair and anointing them with the ointment she had brought, are taken by Jesus to be the expressions of love, which prompt him to assure her of God's forgiveness (7.48). Finally, Jesus is represented telling the woman that her faith had saved her (7.50). Again, then, the woman is represented as a sinner but nothing is said about the 30. See F. Herrenbruck, Jesus und die Zollner (WUNT, 41; Tubingen, J.C.B. Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1990), pp. 81-82, which suggests that 'prostitutes' are sometimes associated with 'tax collectors' in Greek literature too, though they appear along with others.


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structure of society, nor is any attention given to the way in which the woman supported herself after she had given up prostitution. What has to be assumed, from other passages in both Matthew and Luke, is that poor people should be supported by other people of means (Mt. 5.42; Lk. 6.30; 19.8). That nothing is said about this in the context of references to repentant prostitutes shows the unreality of the stories and the lack of interest in the women: they are mere ciphers. The only other reference to female prostitutes occurs in Lk. 15.30 as part of the parable of the prodigal son. That son's squandering of the wealth his father had given him is described in general terms in 15.13, but is particularized in the remarks of his brother in 15.30: 'Who has devoured your [the father's] living with prostitutes'. The text assumes that he had succumbed to the dangerous wiles of greedy prostitutes, about whom the wisdom literature had warned rich young men.31 In addition to these references to prostitutes, the Gospel according to Matthew includes two references to female, but not male, 7iopve(a in Jesus' teaching against divorce, 5.32 and 19.3-12, in which an exception to the general rule that men should not divorce their wives is included, without parallel in the other Gospels or 1 Cor. 7.10-11. All these references forbid divorce and remarriage, but not separation. The Matthaean exception phrases are couched in terms of the woman's prostitution, not adultery, which is surprising, since the context mentions 'making her commit adultery' and 'commit adultery'. Most translations and commentaries assume that rcopveia is to be understood as a general term for 'unchastity', which, in the context, means adultery.32 This, however, would make the Matthaean version of Jesus' teaching very different from the parallels, since Jews, Greeks and Romans would all have agreed that a wife should be divorced for adultery. If the teaching is merely saying that she could not be divorced for anything less seriously viewed than adultery, it is difficult to explain the disciples' expression of horror in 19.10. Moreover, the vice list in 15.19 distinguishes 'adulteries' and 'prostitutions' (see Mk 7.21-22). Rather, the use of rcopveioc suggests that a man is allowed to divorce his wife if he discovers that she is not a virgin, as he supposed when he married her. Deut. 22.13-21 describes just such cases. This is what Joseph is depicted 31. E.g. Prov. 5.3; 23.21; 29.3; Ecclus. 9.6; 19.2. 32. E.g. W.D. Davies and D.C. Allison, The Gospel according to Matthew (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1988); U. Luz, Matthew 1-7 (ET; Minneapolis: AugsburgFortress, 1989; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1990).

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as suspecting in Mt. 1.19. Since such cases would be rare, this interpretation would both explain the disciples' reaction and lessen the distance between the Matthaean teaching and its parallels. In contrast to other teaching in the Gospel according to Matthew, which emphasizes that people should forgive others (e.g. 6.12, 14-15; 18.15-25), however, this passage assumes that a woman's prostitution is a sin that is not to be forgiven. It is the only explicit exception to the general rule. Male adultery, even in thought, is discouraged in 5.27-30 and 15.19, and male prostitution in 15.19, but nowhere is a penalty suggested as it is in this case of a woman's prostitution. The underlying assumption of Mt. 5.32 and 19.9, that a man should have power over his wife's sexual practice, but not vice versa, is countered only once in the NT, in 1 Cor. 7.2-4, where 'the wife does not rule over her own body, but her husband does' is balanced by 'likewise the husband does not rule over his own body, but his wife does'. Moreover, the implied support of the community in 1 Corinthians 7 for unmarried, separated and widowed women offers women security apart from marriage. The Pauline letters also include references to malercopveiocas well as female. 1 Corinthians 5 requires the recipients of the letter to call an assembly formally to exclude a man guilty of Ttopveioc because he was living with his father's wife, that is, his stepmother (5.1-8). It is pointed out that such unions were unlawful both in Jewish and in Greek and Roman law.33 The passage does not give advice about the woman involved, so it is unclear whether only the man is held responsible or the woman was not a member of the community. The use of Tiopveioc rather than aKocGapcKa, impurity, or daeXyem, licentiousness (cf. 2 Cor. 12.21), is usually understood by commentators to mean 'unchastity',34 but it surely implies that the man entered into the union for gain. Such an implication would thoroughly undermine the man's position and would place it in a category of behaviour that had apparently already been excluded by a previous letter (5.9). That the NT can retain the sense of rcopvot; as someone selling for gain is evident 33. Deut. 22.30; 27.30; Josephus, Ant. 3.274; The Institutions ofGaius and Rules of Ulpian (ed. and trans. James Muirhead; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1880), pp. 24-25. 34. E.g. C.K. Barrett, A Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians (London: A. & C. Black, 1968); H. Conzelmann, A Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians (ET; Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1975, trans, from the 1969 German edn).


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from its metaphorical application to Esau in Hebrews 12.16. The particular instance of this man's prostitution leads into more general teaching in 5.9-13. The teaching of the earlier letter is clarified by distinguishing rcopvoi and other immoral people, including the greedy, outside the church, with whom they would have to associate in their missionary endeavours, from those within the community 'bearing the name of brother'. So they were to associate neither with male prostitutes nor male extortioners, nor other male immoral people within the church, that is, they were to exclude them. This puts a male prostitute on the same level as a female prostitute, and on the same level as extortioners and other immoral people, but, as in the rest of the NT, they were to be treated as outsiders, unless they repented. Then they were to be welcomed as people whom God had forgiven. The whole chapter, 1 Corinthians 5, however, is addressed to men, 'brothers'. Only occasionally do the Pauline epistles refer explicitly to 'sisters' (1 Cor. 9.5; Rom. 16.1). But it is clear that the epistle is also addressed to women as well as men (e.g. 1 Cor. 7). Probably the vice lists, then, are to be read to include women as well as men, in spite of their masculine form.35 But we should notice that the Pauline teaching seeks to define the members of the Christian communities to which it was addressed as 'saints' who no longer practised prostitution or extortion or other unethical behaviour that is reckoned as sin. The repeated exhortations, however, make it clear that Paul understood the actual members of these communities to be far from perfect. There is, moreover, only this one clear description of the procedure for excluding blatant sinners, and it centres on a case of prostitution. This makes it easy for Christians to overlook the other instances of sins that should cause exclusion in the vice list of 5.10-11, as well as the teaching in ch. 6, which suggests that it 35. See the masculine in the vice lists of Eph. 5.5 and 1 Tim. 1.10, and in Heb. 13.4. Other vice lists include 'prostitution' without reference to the gender of the actor: Mt. 15.19; Mk 7.21; 2 Cor. 12.21; Gal. 5.19; Eph. 5.3; Col. 3.5. See also the concern to avoid both male and female prostitution through marriage in 1 Cor. 7.2. Jude uses the punishment of Sodom and Gomorrah for 'playing harlot' as a warning. These vice lists seem to have developed from Greek traditions. See the discussions in Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics 2.8 and 4.3-4, and the lists in Polybius 13.6.4; Plutarch, Moralia 780A, 782C; Dio Chrysostom, Discourses 32.15, 90-91, 96. They were adopted by Hellenistic Judaism (e.g. Philo, On the Birth of Abel and the Sacrifices offered by him and by his brother Cain 3.2, and probably came into the NT by that route. See also Philo, Sacr., 2Iff., on 'Pleasure' as a prostitute.

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is better to be defrauded than to defraud, and which draws out the implications of the references to the greedy in both vice lists: 5.10-11 and 6.9-10. The Pauline denunciations of prostitution are usually coupled with denunciations of extortion, but churches have generally been more keen to exclude unrepentant prostitutes than 'venture capitalists'. 1 Cor. 6.12-20 is once more addressed to men, since the general proposition of 6.13, 'the body is not meant for rcopveioc but for the Lord', is discussed through a particular example, the example of a man who made use of a female prostitute. The bodies of Christians are understood to be members of Christ, who should not become members of a prostitute. The assertion is justified by another assertion, that a man who joins himself to a prostitute becomes one body with her, interpreting the reference to 'one flesh' in the quotation from Gen. 2.24 as synonymous with 'one body' (6.16). This reference to flesh, however, seems to have suggested the contrary 'spirit', since the text goes on to say that 'he who is united to the Lord becomes one spirit with him' (6.17). So Christians are conceived as 'members of Christ' and 'one spirit with him'. All this is intended to buttress the concluding command: 'Shun rcopveia. Every sin that a person does is outside the body, but he who practises prostitution sins in his own body.' So it is the man who made use of a female prostitute who is said to be prostituting himself and who is warned to shun prostitution. This implies that he was the one using sex for gain, because he became one body with her, but did not continue to live out that union by making the woman his wife (see 7.2).36 The teaching about rcopveia in 1 Thess. 4.3-7 has been interpreted in a number of different ways. The statement, 'For this is the will of God, your sanctification', leads into 'that you abstain from rcopveta, each of you knowing how to possess/acquire your own vessel in holiness and honour, not in a passion of desire even as the Gentiles who do not know God, that no one trespass or take advantage of his brother in deed, because the Lord is an avenger in all these things, as we both told you beforehand and warned you. For God did not call us to impurity but in holiness.' Difficulties of interpretation arise both from the use of the 36. This point is entirely missed by Barrett, First Corinthians, and Conzelmann, First Corinthians. They do suggest, however, that the man who uses a prostitute cannot be guilty of prostitution on the grounds that her prostitution affects him when he becomes one body with her. In the following chapter, Christians married to unbelievers are not reckoned as having the status of unbelievers (7.12-15). The man was guilty of prostitution because of his activity.


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word 'vessel' and from the connection between advice addressed to 'each of you' and that part about 'no one'. Are both parts concerned with the same kind of action? That is, does the use of a vessel in holiness and honour avoid trespassing or taking advantage of a brother in deed, or are they two different types of action, both of which the Lord would avenge? The reference to the Lord's avenging 'all these things' suggests that more than one matter is in view. Older commentaries and translations take 'your own vessel' as a metaphor for 'your own wife'.37 The advice, then, would be to acquire your wife in holiness and honour, not in a passion of desire. But the language, 'possess/acquire your own vessel', if it is understood as 'possess/acquire your own wife', treats the wife as property and contradicts the careful emphasis on the mutuality of sexual relations in 1 Cor. 7.4. Most instances of GKeuot;, vessel, in the NT, as in Greek literature in general, are literal references to vessels or household goods.38 In several instances, however, 'vessel' is used metaphorically. In 2 Cor. 4.7, 'we have this treasure [the good news] in earthen vessels, to show that the extraordinary quality of the power is of God and not from us', highlights human vulnerability in afflictions and persecutions (4.8-12). In Rom. 9.21-23, the potter's practice of making from clay one vessel for beauty and another for menial use serves to explain God's making 'vessels of wrath and vessels of mercy'—which are human beings. Similarly, in 2 Tim. 2.20-21, household vessels, some for noble and some for ignoble use, are mentioned to encourage each recipient of the letter to purify himself, to become, metaphorically, 'a noble vessel', consecrated and useful, ready for any good works.39 Since 'vessel' in 1 Thess. 4.4 is singular, not plural, it is probably metaphorical. A reference to a person's own household goods would have been plural. If it is a metaphor for a person's body, as in the Pauline references above, it is more likely to refer to the man's own body than to that of his wife. This would make sense of the whole passage: 'Each of you knowing how to possess his own vessel (body) in 37. E.g. J.E. Frame, The Epistles of Paul to the Thessalonians (ICC; Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1912); E. Best, A Commentary on the First and Second Epistles to the Thessalonians (London: A. & C. Black, 1972). 38. Mt. 12.29; Mk 3.27; 11.16; Lk. 8.16; 17.31; Jn 19.29; Acts 10.11; 11.5; 27.17; Rom. 9.21; 2 Tim. 2.20; Heb. 9.21; Rev. 18.12. 39. There are other metaphorical uses of 'vessel'. See Acts 9.15; 1 Pet. 3.7; Rev. 2.27.

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holiness and honour, not in a passion of desire (for gain; cf. prostitution, 4.3), even as the Gentiles who do not know God' would avoid prostitution and would lead naturally into the related subject 'that no one trespass nor take advantage of his brother in deed, because the Lord is an avenger of all these things'. The advice would exclude both prostitution and extortion, as in the vice lists.40 Taken together, then, the NT excludes both male and female practising prostitutes from the Christian community. They are treated as heinous sinners in need of repentance. That they are considered capable of repentance and a new life, however, means that they are not regarded as innately lewd. These were not, of course, the only 'sinners' to be excluded. Murderers, thieves, extortioners, slanderers, the haughty and envious, were also excluded (Rom. 1.29-31). In 1 Corinthians 6, however, not only professional prostitutes but also their clients are regarded as guilty of prostitution. This involved moving beyond the Jewish Scriptures and most Graeco-Roman literature. Furthermore, the generosity of Christian communities towards the poor ought to have provided support for ex-prostitutes who had no other support, and ought to have prevented Christian women and children from becoming prostitutes through need. Nevertheless, the NT shows no concern for the many thousands of prostitutes whose status as slaves left them no freedom to give up prostitution. In the NT, the institution of slavery is never criticized. It was the Stoic philosopher, Dio Chrysostom, who attacked the prostitution of slaves and who tried to mobilize public opinion against it at the beginning of the second century CE, not Christian leaders. Moreover, one wonders whether slanderers and the envious and greedy were ever excluded from Christian communities as prostitutes were.41

40. See the more recent commentaries: L. Morris, The Epistles of Paul to the Thessalonians (Leicester: Inter-Varsity Press; Grand Rapids: W.B. Eerdmans, 1984); I.H. Marshall, / and II Thessalonians (NCB: London: Marshall, Morgan & Scott; Grand Rapids: W.B. Eerdmans, 1983); F.F. Bruce, 7 and II Thessalonians (WBC; Waco: Word Books, 1982). 41. In the preceding three sections, I have to rely on texts and have discussed the worlds which the texts create. Of course, those sections represent my reading of the texts. But in section 4.1 am relying not only on texts but on oral communications, and on my own experiences as a woman living in twentieth-century Britain.


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4. Prostitution in Contemporary Britain The influence of the Bible on contemporary British culture has been both positive and negative. Unfortunately, its emphasis on generosity has had little effect, while its attitudes to women in general and prostitutes in particular have helped to endorse the ostracism of prostitutes. But whereas the NT assures prostitute 'sinners' that their repentance would lead to acceptance and support, present British perceptions of prostitutes include the assumption that they are innately lewd. This fantasy helps to sustain the demands which contemporary men make of them, and leads to their being treated with contempt. For example, at the trial of Peter Sutcliffe, 'the Yorkshire ripper', the prosecuting Attorney General, Sir Michael Havers, said about Sutcliffe's victims, 'Some were prostitutes, but perhaps the saddest part of this case is that some were not. The last six attacks were on totally respectable women.'42 Clearly, prostitute women are considered 'trash' whose murder is 'less sad' than the murder of other women. Moreover, the Jewish Scriptures' and Christian Old Testament's attitudes to women in distinction from men persist in contemporary Britain. Discussions about the law in relation to prostitutes also highlight distinctions between what is regarded as acceptable male and female behaviour. In 1984, the Criminal Law Revision Report on Prostitution in the Street (London: Her Majesty's Stationery Office), which became law in 1985, considered whether the law under which women can be arrested for soliciting or loitering and can be cautioned and convicted on the basis of a single policeman's evidence should apply equally to men. Equality was rejected on the following grounds: Men often make sexual advances to women in streets and public places, as well as elsewhere, which may or may not be welcomed. It would, in our view, be most unwise that such conduct should of itself give rise to the possibility of a criminal offence (pp. 13-14).

Obviously, there is one law for women and another law for men. British legislation constructs female prostitutes as criminals like murderers and thieves, although their clients freely hire them, unlike the victims of other criminals. And this criminalization of female prostitutes forces them to live in a twilight underworld. Moreover, we should not overlook that this law against female prostitutes, and the way in which it is en42. Prostitutes are Innocent (London: English Collective of Prostitutes, 22May 1981).

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forced by the police, affects all women, whether they are working as prostitutes or not. Any woman, whom a policeman takes to be loitering or soliciting, can be arrested and booked. The 1984 Report, however, does introduce a new offence of kerb crawling from vehicles (p. 18). In 1988, 9183 women were prosecuted for loitering or soliciting, but only 628 men were prosecuted for kerb crawling.43 Moreover, the effect of this new law has been to increase the dangers faced by street prostitutes, because they now have little time in which to negotiate with prospective clients, and to try and determine whether the client is likely to be mad and violent. And, of course, this fact of male violence against prostitutes is also part of the larger issue of male violence against women, but whereas 'straight' women who suffer such violence can call in the help of the police or can escape to a women's refuge, prostitutes have no such recourse: the police do not investigate their complaints about clients' violence and most women's refuges are not open to prostitutes. The position of street prostitutes in our society is the same as their position according to Graeco-Roman literature. Then why do so many thousands of women in contemporary British society become prostitutes? Strictly speaking, sex slavery is not practised in contemporary Britain as it was in the Graeco-Roman world. British men who want to make use of sex slaves have to travel to Southeast Asia to do so. UNESCO's women's rights section, Save the Children and Asian Women's Human Rights Council have publicized the trafficking of female children, sold into sex slavery by their parents or lured by procurers with promises of jobs in the cities.44 As in all societies, the position of female prostitutes in contemporary British society relates to the general position of women within that society. Most wages paid to women, especially for part-time work, and all wages to young people are very low: they do not even comply with EEC directives for a minimum wage. And until the Equal Opportunities Commission took cases to the Law Lords on 3 March 1994, government policy discriminated against part-time workers, most of whom are women, in matters of redundancy and dismissal. Moreover, in Britain, neither the state nor most work-places provide child care facilities. It is in this context that it makes sense for a lot of women to become 43. Nina Lopez-Jones, 'Guilty until Proven Innocent', New Law Journal (May 11, 1990), pp. 656-59. 44. See the report in Amnesty 65 (January-February. 1994), pp. 16-17.


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prostitutes. Prostitution can give them the freedom to arrange their own working hours, so that they can spend time with their children, and it can provide working-class women with an income equivalent to that of a male surgeon, an income that they could not earn in any other way. With that income, they can provide comfortable homes for themselves and their children. It is therefore unsurprising that some women choose to become prostitutes, given the limitations of the opportunities available to them. How far we should consider this option a 'choice', however, depends on the circumstance. 'Choice' is also restricted by government economic policies. During the recession of the 1980s, when Thatcher's government also changed both the rules and the amounts of benefits, more women became prostitutes. They called themselves 'Thatcher's girls'. I do not know whether those who have become prostitutes in the present recession call themselves 'Majorettes'. For these women, most of whom are mothers, even low-paid work has not been available. But even when alternative work or benefits are available, it makes sense for women to become prostitutes. They insist that they should not be considered as special victims of the system. The special victims of our system are those women who try to survive on benefits or who work very long hours at incredibly boring tasks in dangerous factory conditions for very little money. Prostitutes are women who have refused that victimization, and who have the courage to face other dangers. A wellorganized and independent woman with a flat or house can escape both police harassment and the extortion of ponces, and can earn a lot of money. They would have to be able to endure the isolation and secrecy surrounding their work, and to regard it in a professional light, as something they do in a detached manner, like, as they point out, the professional attitude of psychologists towards clients. Such women can select regular clients whom they find less than repugnant. Investing their money allows them to live more secure lives than those of many married women. Other prostitutes have to rely on the help of men: managers in clubs, hotels, saunas, massage parlours and escort agencies, or ponces who regulate some areas where street prostitutes work. Brothels are illegal in Britain, so street prostitutes are unable to work in female groups which could offer them company and protection. Some who have suffered violent attacks keep trained dogs for protection. But others have preferred the relative safety afforded by hotels and clubs. Of course, the male managers are earning more money from prostitution than the

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prostitutes themselves, but that is also true of the whole structure of the British work force. In prostitution, however, there is more money, so the prostitute's share is bigger. Police raids that attempt to extract information from prostitutes about their managers usually meet with little success because it is not in the interests of the prostitutes to destroy their means of livelihood. Their position is like that of the personal secretary who would be ill advised to provide information about her boss's corruption because she would never get another job as a personal secretary. In British law, it is illegal for a person to live from the earnings of a prostitute, so managers in the sex industry are vulnerable to prosecution, but so are other associates of prostitutes. For example, once a prostitute's son reaches the age of 16, he can be charged with pimping if he has no other source of income, as can the unemployed husband or boyfriend of a prostitute, or her dependent elderly parents. This law obviously serves to isolate prostitutes. It is often assumed that the state cannot profit from a prostitute's earnings either, and that a prostitute is therefore not liable to pay tax on her earnings. But when Marion Aken, known as Lindi St Claire, appeared on TV and talked about her earnings as a prostitute, she was successfully sued for taxation on those earnings. She appealed on the grounds that prostitution could not be construed as a trade under the Taxes Management Act 1970, because prostitutes have no rights to enter into enforceable contracts, to advertise, to enter into partnership, to employ people or to rent premises. But the appeal was unsuccessful because prostitution itself is not illegal, although many activities associated with it are, and because it was construed as a trade that offered services for rewards. Moreover, the court rejected any suggestion that collecting tax on prostitution involved condoning it.45 Of course, most prostitutes' earnings do not come to the notice of tax inspectors in ways that allow the collection of tax, but the state has found another way of gaining from prostitutes' incomes. In recent years, magistrates have been imposing very high fines on convicted prostitutes, fines in the region of £4000. If a prostitute cannot pay the fine, she faces imprisonment, and if she has children, her children would be taken into care. Since some prostitutes can pay such fines only by continuing to work as prostitutes, the state is, in effect, forcing them to continue such work. And pressure to earn more money increases the dangers in which 45. Simon's Tax Cases (1990, Part 20, STC; London: Butterworths), pp. 597506). I am grateful to Kate and Paul Dove Davies for drawing my attention to this case.


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they work: they are less likely to turn away a client whom they suspect is disturbed and violent. It is part of the structure of prostitution in this country that male clients are assured of secrecy. The criminalization of curb crawling has only marginally affected this. Secrecy is necessary because a man who is known habitually to use prostitutes can suffer contempt, as in GraecoRoman literature. The majority of men who make use of prostitutes come from middle- and upper-class backgrounds because these are the people with financial resources to spend on sexual services, offered for the most part by working-class women. Most of these men are married. They choose to use prostitutes, it seems, because this avoids a commitment which would be expected from them in an extramarital affair. They thereby protect financial and emotional assets which they have invested in marriage and a home, with the security this gives them and their children. Prostitutes seem to be used to support men's less than satisfying lives. In making this use of prostitutes, however, they show that sexual activity for them is a fantasy without personal involvement, a performance, and they despise prostitutes even as they use them. Moreover, their going to prostitutes helps to sustain the status quo. Again the prostitute's position is like that of the psychologist: both offer services which offset the effects of dissatisfaction, and, in that way, any need for change is masked. There the analogy breaks down however. Psychologists are respected in society but prostitutes are scorned. Fortunately, in the last twenty years, prostitutes have found their voice. They have published their own stories46 and they have formed themselves into collectives of women who share the common concern of improving prostitutes' situations.47 They have formulated their objectives and have even succeeded in winning court cases against excessive fines and against police harassment.48 That it actually makes sense for many British women to become 46. C. Jaget (ed.), Prostitutes—Our Life (ET; Bristol: Falling Wall Press, 1980); N. Roberts, The Front Line: Women in the Sex Industry (London: Grafton Books, 1986); F. Delacoste and P. Alexander, Sex Work (London: Virago, 1988; San Francisco: Cleis Press, 1987); R. Perkins and G. Bennet, Being a Prostitute (Winchester: Allen & Unwin, 1985); K.Millett, The Prostitution Papers (New York: BaUantine Books, 1973). 47. E.g. The English Collective of Prostitutes as Part of the International Wages for Housework Campaign (King's Cross Women's Centre; 71 Tonbridge St., London, WC1H9DZ). 48. Nina Lopez-Jones, 'Workers: Introducing the English Collective of Prostitutes', in Delacoste and Alexander, Sex Work, pp. 271-78 (n. 42).

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prostitutes is an indictment of British society, not an indictment of the women. There are many things that British society could do, both to prevent young women and children from becoming prostitutes and to help working prostitutes to leave the profession, but such action would be revolutionary in two respects. Unemployment, low pay, and boring, unsatisfying work would have to be recognized as the evils they are, and not as useful or necessary tools in the chancellor's armoury against inflation. In addition, money would have to be spent on providing affordable housing for single parent families. This would be tantamount to an economic revolution. Along with this would have to go a revolution in attitudes to women in general and prostitutes in particular, so that they are not so completely marginalized and safely ignored.49

49. I would like to thank the postgraduate students and staff at Sheffield University Biblical Studies Department to whom I gave an earlier version of this paper. I have tried to benefit from their helpful suggestions and from their criticisms, especially those of Andrew Lincoln, Loveday Alexander and Danny Carroll.

MAKING IT: CREATION AND CONTRADICTION IN GENESIS

Philip R. Davies

How does one begin to read a Bible? How does one begin to read the beginning of a Bible? One has been taught as a student, and since, that there are two creation stories, in Genesis 1 and in Genesis 2-3. One has learnt of the Yahwist and Priestly writers, and of the differing vocabularies, styles and ideologies of these shadowy figures. One has also learnt, on the other hand, of canonical criticism and of the final form of the text, in which such distinctions, though acknowledged, are to be dissolved in a greater unity. One has even read books that deny any source-critical dissection and either regard the final form as an authorial unity or at least as the fairly unified work of a single composer.1 Which of these preferences does one adopt before commencing to read? Once settled, other presuppositions require to be furnished. Of what is it that Genesis will narrate the creation? Will one read of the creation of the known physical world? or of the creation of order? of hierarchy? even, as with the post-Freudian mythologists, of phallic logic? Is this creation story to celebrate the power of word over matter? male over female? law over nature? Both writer and reader may indeed start with the world that they believe has been created, or at least the world that they construct. The creation of the world may proceed out of chaos, but reading cannot. All reading takes place within an already constructed framework that makes the creation of meaning possible. That framework can be largely invisible or largely apparent. The critical reader will try to make it 1. E.g. R.N. Whybray, The Making of the Pentateuch: A Methodological Study (JSOTSup, 53; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987); Thomas L. Thompson, The Origin Tradition of Ancient Israel. I. The Literary Formation of Genesis and Exodus 1-23 (JSOTSup, 55; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987).

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apparent; the frequent reader of this particular text will have her/his own history of reading to aid, or hinder, the making of conscious decisions about how to read now! Genesis 1 is a highly read text, and however much one is prepared by the theories of postmodernism, one is rarely so struck as in this instance by the realization that the reading of this text requires prior decision. The professional biblical academic reader, in particular, is aware not so much of the desire for understanding as of the power of overstanding, the resources of so many strategies to hand, the text open to whatever misreading one will choose to perpetrate. For the particular reading about to be described, this reader (who is simultaneously the author of a text of his reading) has decided that there is only one world in existence, and so there will be only one creation story. This obliges him to suppress the apparent logic of biblical narrative, and his own instincts, and read these chapters diachronically but reconstruct them synchronically. I am able to do this, apparently, because I have been culturally conditioned by the modern media. In an age when written texts are progressively a smaller part of what one reads, the critical reader understands the visual techniques of the flashback and the replay, and has learnt that a single glance often deceives. With the benefit of a second look, ideally from a different angle and slowed down, one sees what has just happened, and sees differently. How fortunate, then, that some ancient author, millennia ahead of the video, was, it seems, able to anticipate this technique in writing. Or could it be that this particular technique belonged already among the conventions of ancient writing? This technique of 'instant replay' did not occur to me during my first few readings of these chapters. It was only when I had read Genesis 11 several times that I saw it clearly in operation. During ch. 10 all the descendants of Noah have spread throughout the world, developing their own languages and their own nationalities. In ch. 11, however, the reel is rewound and the human population reverses into its one place, for the reel again to move forward more slowly, so that I can see in detail how it all came about. Once this method of narration has become apparent, I am instantly aware that I have seen it before, in the opening chapter of Judges, where the land of Canaan reverts to being unconquered after the death of Joshua—and in Genesis 1-3. I have chosen, then, to read Genesis 1 and 2-3 as two presentations of the same event, and therefore to read the two accounts as if they are simultaneous. This strategy will bring its problems, but the problems are

DAVIES Creation and Contradiction in Genesis

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no more that those that attend the more usual manner of reading a narrative sequentially and thus being obliged to reconstruct two creations. The reading now follows.

Elohim creates humans after he has created all the animals. He has tried every form of animal there is: flying, crawling, swimming. Each creature has its appointed domain: sky, water, land. Finally he brings into being a form of creature whose domain will be the totality, which will rule over the entire world. The other creatures are constructed according to the requirements of their domain: with wings, or fins or the means to crawl. But the shape of the new creature is not environmentally determined. This one is built for domination and rule. It is therefore quite appropriate that Elohim, dominator and ruler, should simply replicate his own shape. I allow myself to be deflected for a moment at this point in reading, mindful of the huge volume of writing about the phrase translated as 'in our image, according to our likeness' (i]ma"D unto 1.26-27). In this mass of writing I can see only over-interpretation, inspired by the presence of a theological agenda, which in many cases appears reluctant to allow that the god has a shape that is the same as a human one and wishes to allegorize the 'image' and 'likeness' in some way. But wherever in the books of the Hebrew Bible there is a reference to the body of the deity, the deity is described as having a human form, as do the great majority of heavenly beings. In Exod. 33.23 Moses can view Yahweh's backside, once Yahweh has taken his hand away from Moses' eyes; Ezekiel (ch. 1) has 'visions of Elohim' in which he sees a humanoid in a wheelchair, surrounded by other beings with the 'appearance of the forms of humans' (DIN mm ]mnn), and in Daniel 7 Daniel sees a figure (presumably humanoid, having a head, white hair and being able to sit) and another human figure (called 'the Human[oid]', BMK ~Qt>]) who comes in or with clouds. Each heavenly being that comes to Daniel to interpret his visions also has the form of a human. And so: the reason that humans are shaped the way they are is because the creating god happened to be that shape too. The new species is the first to have a purpose of its own (and, once created, it will appear that all the other creatures have been made for the purpose of this final creature). Its ends are (a) multiplying itself and (b) filling the world, (c) subduing it, and (d) having dominion over every

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living thing. With the creation of humanity, all the rest of creation falls into place. 'And it was so. And Elohim saw everything that he had made, and it was very good...Thus the heavens and the earth were finished' (1.30-2.1). The commencement of the replay is clearly marked by the phrase, "These are the generations (nvrVin rfrtf) of the heaven and the earth when they were made'. Source-critics assign this to the preceding account, though where the formula occurs elsewhere, it points to what follows. This nice ambiguity serves well as a boundary that divides what precedes and what follows and belongs equally to neither and to both. With the next phrase, 'in the day that Yahweh Elohim made the earth and the heavens', we have already begun our second look, though the use of the compound name 'Yahweh Elohim' serves a very important function, one that indeed reinforces the prior decision to read the three chapters as one creation story. For by identifying the Elohim of ch. 1 with the Yahweh of chs. 2-3, this phrase announces that the creator deity is one and the same: ergo, the act of creation must be also. The review, the second look, at creation is notable for not merely differing in some details but affirming at the outset a whole series of direct contradictions. Thus it begins with 'earth and sky' instead of 'sky and earth' as at the beginning (1.1) and end (2.4) of the first account. It uses an alternative name for the deity, suggesting that this is not merely Elohim ('god') but one with a specific name; and it states 'on the day' as if to sweep aside the seven-day structure of Genesis 1. It continues by stating that Yahweh created only a single human to begin with (first, not last), and placed it in a specially prepared area. This second account sets out, then, to undermine the first. This technique of contradiction—which is shared by Judges 1 but not by Genesis 11—will need to be explained in due course. Many scholars have been content to seek the sourcecritical refuge, and conclude that we have two independent accounts juxtaposed by a careless or carefree redactor. But by this same theory of composition the redactor has to be credited with considerable care in combining the two sources in the flood story; as the theory usually runs, with such precision that scarcely anything seems to be missing from either original source, while even the moderately attentive reader can remain unaware of the double presence of every element in the story! It is apparent that the source-critical option is available only to account for the means, at best, and cannot offer a reading strategy. Instead, we are


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obliged to persevere, and for two reasons: one is the presumption that there must be a way to read these two accounts narratively, because someone composed such a narrative, whether from sources or not. The second is that the second account, while directly contradicting key elements of the first account, in fact constructs its plot from that first account, even though it does so by way of contradiction or, perhaps better, by paradox. According to the first account, the purpose for creating humans is that they should fill the earth, populate it and rule it. This is indeed the process that the stories from Genesis 2 to 11 largely describe, and not just the 'P' stories, but the T ones too. If we follow the logic of source criticism, both T and 'P' have this human growth and spread taking place from the lines of both Cain and Seth, have it threatened by a flood, but subsequently accelerate...through the descendants of Noah. In the course of this, Noah is given the power of slaughter for food over the animals, an aspect of dominion that was in fact denied in Genesis 1. However, what is given as the raison d'etre of humans in Genesis 1 is construed as a problem in Genesis 2 and 3. The circumstances in which Yahweh places Adam are such that Adam cannot fulfil what is its prescribed role in Genesis 1. Adam is not set free in the earth so as to fill it, and in any case Adam has no means of reproduction and cannot therefore multiply. Finally, Adam has not the wit to match the snake, let alone rule over all the creatures of the earth. Yahweh's actions obstruct Elohim's intentions. We shall see, of course, that Genesis 2-3 will narrate the overcoming of these obstacles so that the purpose plotted in ch. 1 can be achieved. This happens by a series of divine manoeuvres that can only be described as devious. The first of these steps is to plant a tree in the middle of the garden and attach a prohibition to it. Elohim had said (1.29) that the humans should have every plant for food. Now Adam will have everything that is in the garden except the one in the middle. The created world had been 'very good' (1.31). Now something is bad, or potentially so: the possibility of disobedience. Simply by issuing a command, Yahweh has created evil in Elohim's perfect world (though to be true to our interpretation we should admit: in his own world). We ask, of course, as enlightened readers: if it is not to be eaten, why is it there at all? Why was it created in the first place? The next step is the creation of a second human, but this time a female. Just as the prohibition created good and evil, so the separation of

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male and female creates the possibility of reproduction (and thus achieving part of Elohim's purpose for them). But the humans do not appear to know this function. They are an item, they are naked, but they are apparently unaware of the reproductive potential of their difference. And the deity, who has created this difference, fails to impart its potential to the humans. The woman is explicitly recommended as a helper, and a cure for loneliness. And do we hear in the phrase 'it is not good for the human to be alone' another dismantling of the world of Genesis 1, in which everything was good, and declared by Elohim to be so? After the tree, the prohibition and the woman comes the next step: the snake. Yahweh has made and placed in the garden an animal that knows something about the tree that the humans do not, and that, having the power of speech, he will inevitably at some point pass on to the other talking creatures in the garden. Impossible as it is for any adult reader to achieve, even on a first reading, an innocent reading of this story because it has been already predigested for us in the New Testament and in Christian preaching, it is possible to imagine that the outcome of the story is by now quite transparent. These deliberately introduced agents and instruments must line up in their semiotic square and deliver the object to the sender, fulfil the quest. The fruit of the tree existed to be eaten, and the command issued to be broken. The snake and the woman have obviously been introduced into the story because they are both the 'helpers' (in the Greimasian sense). The naked (D'nni)) humans will succumb to the clever (DTII?) snake and break the command. They will then be punished. What is the punishment? The snake is subdued beneath the humans, the woman is subjected to her man by means of her sexual desire, and the humans are expelled from the garden. These 'punishments' match exactly the goals of Elohim: humans will have dominion over all the creatures (including the most intelligent, who now crawls in fear of the human heel), women will be subservient to men for the purposes of procreation, thus ensuring multiplication, and the humans, expelled from Eden, will inevitably end up occupying the earth. It is simply not reasonable to conclude that this account is independent of the account in ch. 1; the end result in each case is too symmetrical—and, I think, the contradictions within the accounts too deliberate and extensive. Those who read Genesis 2-3 apart from ch. 1 will be tempted to see in it a story of human disobedience and punishment, with humans in the wrong, humans the originators of sin, and humans condemned to lose


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primaeval paradise. This is basically the reading that undergirds the Christian myth of human deprivation and redemption. However, by insisting on reading Genesis 1 and Genesis 2 together, it must become evident that the disobedience and the punishment are actually mechanisms for fulfilling the divine intentions in creating humans. The main victim of the first reading is Eve, who has become the mother of the dead in Christian mythology. But the Genesis story calls her the mother of the living. Indeed, by Yahweh she is designated the 'helper', and I find it impossible to overlook the deliberate irony of this term. Yahweh knows that she will be both the man's and his helper toward the goal that must be achieved. She will also be the initiator of humans into the 'knowledge of good and evil', the incarnation of Dame Wisdom of Proverbs 8. And so, Yahweh has the humans (and chiefly through the woman) reach the goal set for them by Elohim. He created the obstacles and the means to overcome them. Why such deviousness? One can, of course, only guess. The by-products of this mechanism have been profound. Humans take the blame for their humanity (at least in the Christian misreading of the account). Disobedience is taught as something bad but also something that brought wisdom: humans thus acquire the faculty of conscience but also interiorize the ambition and will to disobey for the sake of possible gains. Humans are left suspended between two natures: that of the earth from which their bodies were made and to which their bodies will revert, and that of the gods whose knowledge of good and evil they have acquired, and yet whose immortality they cannot attain— except by the enjoyment of sex (which again, in a traditional Christian misreading, is a highly suspect activity!). Has the story also taught us not to trust the machinations of deities? I think not, though I suspect such an outcome might have been the author's wish. It remains to offer a few final and rather varied observations. Joseph Blenkinsopp in his recent book, The Pentateuch: An Introduction to the First Five Books of the Bible,2 concludes that the 'Yahwist' is not a primary source, but a supplementer of an earlier, 'Priestly' document. My reading of Genesis 1-3 suggests to me that he must be essentially correct, and that the 'Yahwist' (or whoever) has also set out to undermine his 'Priestly' predecessor. For what has Genesis 2-3 done to Genesis 1? What are we finally to make of the world that Elohim created in six days? The presence of presumably unintentional contradictions in the 2.

New York: Doubleday; London: SCM Press, 1992.

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Bible has long challenged the ingenuity and sophistry of fundamentalists. But the problem of deliberate contradiction is a much more fascinating phenomenon. I offer this as a challenge to those who follow theories of 'foolproof composition'.3 What do you do when one writer tells you that what you have just read is not the truth—or at least not very much of the truth? Another observation concerns the character of Yahweh. His motivation here remains obscure. When I read the flood story later, I can perceive Yahweh as a deity who wishes to destroy humans and yet to save some, to flood the earth because it is full of evil, and then to undertake not to do it again, because it is evil, and apparently because of the smell of a roasting sacrifice. But I cannot escape the suspicion that ultimately the nature of Yahweh is to remain inscrutable. Inscrutability is probably the most widely attested feature of divinities throughout the world's religions. Last, but not least, let it be remembered that we are dealing in Genesis with the work of human imagination, with a work of ancient fiction. We can find ourselves becoming attached to or detached from Elohim or Yahweh or any other character. We can react emotionally to what happens. But in the end we can close the book and stop reading, getting back to the world as we must find it for ourselves, and our selves as we must create them in this world.

3. E.g. Meir Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative: Ideological Literature and the Drama of Reading (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985).

BNE BRIT? HEBREW, ENGLISH, AND THE ENGLISH John Elwolde An initial response to the question, What has been the influence of Hebrew on English?, might naturally be, Very little. One hundred and forty years ago, Dean Trench wrote, 'We have a certain number of Hebrew words, mostly, if not entirely, belonging to religious matters, as amen, cabala, cherub, ephod, gehenna, hallelujah, hosanna, jubilee, leviathan, manna, Messiah, sabbath, Satan, seraph, shibboleth, talmucT. (Trench 1862: 12). Just sixteen words, then. And yet, while perhaps you might already feel that Trench was basically right—just a little conservative, maybe—there is another tradition that suggests Hebrew may have had a much greater impact on the English language. Over a century before Trench, Joseph Addison had written in the Spectator of 14 June 1712, 'Our language has received innumerable elegancies and improvements, from that infusion of Hebraisms, which are derived to it out of...Holy Writ... Hebrew idioms run into the English tongue with a particular grace and beauty.' In 1528, the founder of English-Hebrew Bible translation, William Tyndale, had claimed that the properties of the Hebrew tongue agree a thousand times more with the English than with the Latin. The manner of speaking is both one, so that in a thousand places thou needest not but to translate it into the English, word for word; when thou must seek a compass in the Latin (Daniell 1994: xv).

Tyndale was writing on the eve of the burgeoning of Hebraic studies in Tudor and Elizabethan England—two sixteenth-century queens of England appear to have been acquainted with Hebrew, and there is considerable evidence for the teaching of Hebrew both in schools and in wealthy households of England at the time (Lloyd Jones 1983: 221-47). As for the linguistic impact of the English Bible, specifically the 'Authorized Version' (henceforth, AV) of 1611, Trench quotes Newman (though avoiding mention of his name):

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The Bible in Human Society Who will not say that the uncommon beauty and marvellous English of the Protestant Bible is not one of the great strongholds of heresy in this country? It lives on in the ear, like a music that can never be forgotten, like the sound of church bells, which the convert hardly knows how he can forego... It is part of the national mind, and the anchor of national seriousness... The memory of the dead passes into it. The potent traditions of childhood are stereotyped in its verses... In the length and breadth of the land there is not a Protestant with one spark of religiousness about him, whose ritual biography is not in his Saxon Bible (Trench 1862: 34)

And the sheer size—almost a thousand pages—of D.L. Jeffrey's recent Dictionary of Biblical Tradition in English Literature might lead one to suspect that Hebrew has crept into English rather more than Trench suspected. Combine such considerations with the views of 'British Israelites', from the seventeenth century onward, that not only were Angles angels but Saxons Isaac's sons and the British sons of the covenant, and Trench's hexadecon begins to seem a little churlish. And if Trench was largely correct in his analysis, then we are justified in asking how it is that, in the face of such scholarly endeavour in, and good will toward, Hebrew—in a period when the English language was flourishing as perhaps at no other time before or since—Hebrew did not find a more solid base in the lexicon of mainstream English. The intention of the present work is to examine some of the data emerging from a computerized search of Hebrew-derived vocabulary in the Oxford English Dictionary (henceforth, OED\ the search yielded around 470 entries that refer to Hebrew), to draw some comparisons with Spanish and German,1 and, finally, to discuss briefly and tentatively how what emerges ties in, more generally, with the cultural history of English attitudes to the Bible and to the Jews. Early English versions of the Hebrew Bible clearly demonstrate a willingness to incorporate Hebrew vocabulary in a way that frequently goes against the Vulgate and its English translations in Wycliffe and Douai-Rheims. In this regard, names of biblical weights and measures (bate, bath, cab, cor, log, ephah, gerah, gomer, homer, omer, hin, maneh, shekel, side, and seah) are especially striking. Not only does AV go back to the known—Masoretic—tradition of Hebrew in the form of 1. Thanks to Lawrence Aspden and Graham Roe of the University Library at Sheffield for their help with the OED software, and especially to my colleague Kate Dove Davis for her uncomplaining assistance in the perusal of endless lexica and wordlists.

ELWOLDE Bne Brit? Hebrew, English, and the English

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its transcriptions—omer for gomer, shekel for side, and bath for bate— but it also chooses transcription over translation in respect of log for sextary, gerah for obolus, and homer for various statements of measure. The same phenomenon is reflected in other semantic fields. Thus, AV has gopher-wood for the Vulgate's lignus levigatus ('slippery wood') at Gen. 6.14, shittah for spinus ('blackthorn') at Isa. 41.19 (yet shittim for sethim), pannag for balsamum at Ezek. 27.17, and urim and thummim in contrast to doctrina et veritas. AV's choice of messiah for messias and the 'de-Vulgarization' of biblical proper nouns have their roots in policy adopted by the Geneva Bible. In names of months, Abib, at Exod. 13.4, is rendered thus in AV rather than translated, as in the Septuagint and Vulgate ('month of new produce'), and the English glosses introduced by Wycliffe for Sivan, Tebeth and Adar are avoided. A century before AV, Tyndale, despite his use of gomer, sickle, pine tree (for gopher-wood], and light and perfectness (for urim and thummim), introduces, via Luther, new transcribed Hebrew words, which have not been registered by OED: arb, soleam, hargol and hagab (Lev. 11.22; see Daniell 1994b: 313; the last three have recently been reintroduced— into French in the first instance—by the Jerusalem Bible). Tyndale's use of taxus (again, not in OED) for Hebrew tahas might also fall into the category of transcription (though presumably influenced by late Latin taxo 'badger'). On occasions, however, the situation is reversed. Thus, AV generally translates as 'measure' what the Vulgate renders as corum (kor) or satum (se'd). Similarly, the Vulgate's mina (mdnoe) is rendered by AV as 'pound'. Compare AV's psaltery, soap andpassover for noble, borith and fase in Wycliffe, gallery for ethecke in Douai-Rheims at Ezek. 41.15, 16 (as Vulgate, which, however, renders porticus at 43.2, 5), and treasury for corbona (Aramaic) in Douai-Rheims (and Vulgate) at Mt. 27.6. Nonetheless, the overall pattern is not simply of a return to the Hebraica veritas but also of an incorporation of Hebrew vocabulary in Protestant English Bible translation. However, such transcriptions were largely restricted to the Bible, theological literature, and the rhetoric of sermons. If they did travel further it was into the technical vocabulary of various fields (abnet, cichar, algum, almug, borith, gopher, jaal-goat, reem, ob, toph, nebel, olam and asherah). In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, sources other than the Bible, notably grammar and kabbalah, provided Hebrew loanwords (dagesh, heemantic, segolate, sheva, taghmical, shekinah,

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shechanize, ensophic, mecubalist). But the nature of the studied borrowing in such cases is especially clear in bethphany (the divine 'appearance in the house' at Cana) and cardimelech ('that which governs the heart'), where Greek and Hebrew forms are compounded for the production of scholarly vocabulary. And even though the first English use of dagesh was in a work about Spanish and sheva has become commonplace in phonetics, such transcribed Hebraisms have never escaped into the standard lexicon of English. This is true as well of by far the largest group of Hebrew words in English, namely those 150 or so words that refer to aspects of specifically Jewish life and Judaism. Such words are not only almost exclusively highly context-bound, but are frequently attested by OED in literature written by Jews and/or about Judaism. They are, effectively, the technical terms of Judaism, and few have achieved a wider currency. Of that few, in keeping with English regard for kabbalah as an 'acceptable' form of Judaism, the word cabbala itself has extended its semantic range in English, although allusion to its source in Jewish mysticism is usually apparent (e.g. 'Magisterial rabbins and doctors in the cabala of political science'; less patent is 'Astrologers which pretend to be of Caballa with the starres'). Golem has received a wider currency through a perceived connexion with robotics ('the ungainly bronze golems that stand around the Hanover Gallery'). Sanhedrin, if we may regard it as Hebrew, is used from the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries in reference to a governing body, but the New Testament background is usually apparent. Kosher has developed a wide usage, but has yet to escape its status as slang. The second largest group in OED of English words of Hebrew origin comprises around eighty names of biblical persons and places, titles and gentilics. Of these, some stand out because of morphological development (albeit often of a nonce variety), which has given rise to new words, for example dagonal (on the analogy of bacchanal), his Molochship, gehennical, tophetic, tophetize, tophetism, sodomite, sodomize, sodomy, gomorrhean, edenic, edenize, edenization, abra-hamic, Ishcariotic, Moschical, Sampsoness, nimrodded, nimrodian, nimrodical, nimrodize, pharaonic, nabalite, nabalitic, nabalism and Rechabitism. However, the disappearance from current English of most of these few examples indicates the extent to which such forms were allusion-bound to their biblical origins—where knowledge of these origins is replaced by ignorance, the forms become meaningless and unused. The allusive


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quality is especially clear when it is not just familiarity with the Bible but also a simple knowledge of Hebrew, of the kind still often found in the pulpit, that is called upon: 'Christians must not be yokeless...Belialists', 'Golgotha...where the heads of Houses sit at St Mary's in awful array'. Such terms, where they are not simply learned borrowings (e.g. giesetrye, from Gehazi, as an Old Testament corollary to simony} have the misfortune to be live metaphors in the world of language, where the aspiration of all such metaphors must be to pass from the living to the dead—to be buried, to be lexicalized, but not to evoke. Morphological development can aid survival (as we shall see in Spanish and German), but does not guarantee it, as the examples in the preceding paragraph make abundantly clear. A metaphor has to be very alive or completely dead to ensure its survival in a language. More precisely, death—or lexicalization—of metaphor guarantees its place in the language, liveliness of metaphor only grants it a place among the language's speakers until changing fashion and poor education snuff it out. How many of us working in the very field of biblical studies would today immediately be able to apprehend Goshen as a place of plenty or of light ('the tiny dormice gathering their winter hoards from the Goshens of nuts below'), Ishmael as an outcast, Joseph as a grasping ruler or as a cloak, Samson as morally blind, Pharaoh as hesitant, Laban as a miser, Judas as a kisser ('A woman who was loving and thoughtful for other women, not giving them Judas-kisses with eyes askance'), let alone Jacob as a ladder, housebreaker, simpleton, or type of sheep. While we connive at the understanding of Pharisee as 'hypocrite' and Philistine as 'uncultured', how many of us would understand Saducee as 'materialist' and Philistine as 'townie' (not 'gownie'), Levite as a 'junior clergyman', Moloch as an 'idol' in general or a 'bad fashion', or Zamzummim and Nimrod as '(tyrannical) ruler' (Tyndale: 'our prelates those stubborn Nimrods which so mightily fight against God' [Daniell 1994: 5])? Not only can such items bear witness to our increasing ignorance of the cultural impact of the Bible, but they also bear out in a strange way the maxim of literary criticism that if something was written it was significant and if it wasn't significant it wouldn't have been written, for the popular choice of metaphorical focus is precisely in the small detail of the biblical text—thus we find that it is Jacob's ladder, his sheep, and his conjugal gullibility that have paid a visit to English, not his cheating of Esau, even though that was echoed down centuries of biblical scholarship. There are also some interesting omissions: Damascus,

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despite its role in the New Testament, has no figurative usages attached by OED; Canaan is presented as the land of milk and honey, not of asherahs and baals, and Amorite, Hittite and Sidonian are not terms of obloquy; and whereas Zion, Salem, Bethel and Ebenezer are names of and for dissenting chapels, Mizpah, for which a similar usage might easily be imagined, is not attested thus in OED. Other words of Biblical Hebrew origin include alleluia, hallelujah, hosanna, amen, selah, behemoth, leviathan, cherub, seraph, ophanim, ephod, teraphim, corban, manna, pasch, sabbath, jubilee, tirshatha, man, manna and vau. As names of months, lyyar, Thammuz, Ab, Tishri and Heshvan are not found in the English Bible but are attested in later literature on Judaism. Words that can ultimately be traced back to Hebrew or have a (perceived) cognate in Hebrew or occur as loanwords in Hebrew include paradise, athanor, tandour, alcohol, aloe, balsamum, tuba, cane, cider, wine, pasteque, cinnamon, crocus, cummin, dibs, hyssop, ebon, jasper, sapphire, nitre, sack, maund, cidaris, ass, camel, lion, elephant, galbanum, myrrh, nard, sycamine, saraf, satrap, suffete, alpha, almanac and tezkere, although the presence of a reference to Hebrew in these entries is often simply a reflection of (the original) OED's assumption that its readership was more likely to know Hebrew than, say, Arabic or Persian, and the strong clergy bias in its editorial composition. Few indeed, then, are the words that have broken the bonds of biblical allusion to become and stay today part of the fabric of English. From the first list in the preceding paragraph, only cherub and jubilee can really claim this (as we shall see, the success of each may be due to a perceived connexion with a non-Hebrew form). Of course, a term like amen will still probably be recognized by most English-speakers, but only, in practice, as a highly context-bound technical term. Behemoth and leviathan are effectively proper names and are suffering with them the fate of being stranded as live metaphors in a culture that is increasingly unaware of their source. The Hebraism with the greatest claim to have established and maintained its place in the English language is perhaps shibboleth, which has undergone a rich semantic development in English from difficult sound to distinctive sound to distinctive custom to—as today—(belief in) a distinctive credo or formula. Other terms have disappeared, at least from British English. Mamzer (rendered thus by the Vulgate at Deut. 23.2) is a standard mediaeval term for 'bastard', both as a technical description and as a term of abuse (in


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Spanish, strangely, mancer is described by Corominas as a 'cultismo raro'). It reappeared in Yiddish guise this century as momser in US slang. The development of hosanna as a verb ('suffer'd himself to be hosanna'd into Bristol') has not stood the test of time, nor, on my intuition, selah as an interjection, along the lines of period. Tohu-bohu is no longer extant in English, and appears always to have been used with biblical allusion when it was. The phenomenon we saw in respect of mamzer/momser, whereby US usage evidences contact with living Jews while British usage reflects instead familiarity with the Bible, is apparent elsewhere. For example, the use of rabbi in US slang, in reference to someone who helps to secure favours, appears to be derived from Jewish usage, while the British use of the word (as reflected in OED) stems mainly from the New Testament. Words of ultimately Hebrew origin deriving from the emigration of Yiddish-speakers to the UK and USA (caser, gonoph, smouse, schmooze, chutzpah, maven, meshuga, meshugaas, mocky, yok, shemozzle, mozzle, schlimazel, schlemiel, ryebuck, moskeneer, shoful, tochus, shicker and tsores) have fared better in US (and sometimes Australian) English than in England, where they have rarely reached beyond the status of unacceptable slang. Similarly, words that derive from Yiddish but are not of ultimately Hebrew origin are either contextrestricted to Jewish life and Judaism (shtetl, shul, yarmulke, sheitel and around ten others) and especially the Jewish kitchen (bagel, blintze, farfel, gefullte fish and fifteen others), or, once again, they represent various degrees of slang and are not normally in extended usage (oof, shlep, luftmensch, klutz, kibosh, nosh, shtoom and around seventy others). English's aversion to the incorporation of Hebrew terms is also reflected in the dearth of loans from Israeli Hebrew. Although there are 31 words in OED that may be classified as deriving from Zionism and the State of Israel, the majority are, or are in effect, names or titles, including a high proportion of acronyms (Shin Bet, Zahal, Nili, Palmach, Nahal, Mapai, Mapam and Rakah); however, of the remaining items (chalukah, kibbutz, kvutza, moshav, ulpan, sabra, sherut and shabbaf) none may be said to have attained full incorporation in English—all are closely context-bound. That is not to say that kibbutz, for example, is not a well-known word but its meaning for Englishspeakers is very clearly an Israeli collective or co-operative farm—it is not used to refer to a collective farm in general or to a special kind (but

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not specifically Israeli) collective farm. Sharav as a term for a desert wind and rishon as the name of a particle are loanwords from Israeli Hebrew, but only into highly technical vocabulary. While Yiddish idiom lies behind certain usages of already, so and need, evidence for the possible influence of Hebrew syntax on that of English is less certain. It has been claimed that Tyndale recognised and exploited a syntactic affinity between Hebrew and English...and in the process transformed the English genitive: without him, English would not have the construction that underlies phrases like "the flowers of the field" or "the word of the Lord'" (Shell 1994; see Daniell 1994b: 3, 285). Contrast, for example, the fourteenth-century Wycliffe's hypocrite's hope and man's son (Trench 1862: 174). But such syntactic influence, though ultimately of Semitic origin, could just as well have come from New Testament Greek. Similarly, Ian Paisley's version of John Major's words, 'Except you right now give me a categorical assurance that you believe me, I will not talk with you', has been influenced not by Hebrew, nor indeed, even by 'the majestic rancour of the Old Testament', but by the Authorized Version of the New Testament (as is made clear by Philip Howard's [1994] choice of illustrative biblical quotations). In the light of what we have said, then, it is apparent that Addison's praise of English for its use of Hebraisms does not relate to the presence of Semitic vocabulary in English. Rather, as Sivan (1984) makes clear, Addison is speaking of idiomatic phrases, or collocations, that had entered everyday English through the English Bible. Even seventy years ago, such collocations abounded, according to Pearsall Smith, who lists around 160. Of these, though, some 66 are from the New Testament (including quotations of the Old Testament in the New), and of those from the Old Testament very few—on my intuition—have stood the test of time and are still (if they ever were) part of the fabric of the language, used and understood without reference to their original contexts: fly in the ointment, olive branch, apple of the eye, writing on the wall, root of the matter, in the flesh, in the land of the living, off the face of the earth, see eye to eye, be of one mind, have pity on, by the skin of the teeth, go from strength to strength. To these may be added from Sivan's 1984 list: forbidden fruit, fat of the land, white as snow, move heaven and earth, sour grapes, at death's door. Of all of these it may be said that they have to a large degree cast off their bonds with the Bible. Although they are still figures—metaphors—they have been


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'desacralized'. The loss of allusive relationship to the biblical source is seen especially clearly in the 'misuse' of originally biblical collocations, so that they now bear a connotation sharply different from that conveyed in their original context. For example, Jeffrey (1992, pp. 175, 530) points out that cup runneth over often 'denotes an excess of sorrow or anger' rather than of joy and that Somerset Maugham employs my brother's keeper 'as an expression of virtuous toleration'. If the collocations we have cited are genuinely detached from their biblical roots and are used as secular figures, then we may agree with Addison that English has a fair number of Hebraisms, though they only relate to Hebrew at second hand and are probably no more numerous than, say, those deriving from Shakespeare. But the great mass of biblical collocations cited by Pearsall Smith (doubtless even greater in the eighteenth century) probably never comprised more than literary and rhetorical ornaments, dependent for their survival on a culture imbued with religious values. Let us turn aside from English and glance at the situation in Spanish and German, bearing in mind that comparisons between the German and Spanish (or Ashkenazic and Sefardic) situations must be drawn with great caution because of the very different sociolinguistic and historical facts pertaining in each case, centred on the issue of the linguistic status of Yiddish. The nearest equivalent to OED for Spanish is the Diccionario of the Real Academia Espanola (hereafter, DRA), a search of which revealed some 55 words of ultimately Hebrew origin (as against 1277 derived from Arabic). Of the few biblical names and titles and their derivatives given in DRA, the slower pace of secularization in Spain and other predominantly Roman Catholic countries could account for the preservation in current Spanish of faraonico, where English would prefer grandiose, addn in the sense of 'pauper, sloven', and benjamin in the sense of 'favourite child', although here the additional form benjasmin recorded by Collins might be indicative of popular reanalysis and, therefore, forgetfiilness of biblical origins. Only time can tell whether such forms are genuinely freed from the anchor of allusion, in which case they will continue to be used even in an atmosphere of literary and religious ignorance, or whether they only survive as part of the veneer with which literary culture covers language. A more telling linguistic—as distinct from cultural—contrast between Spanish and English is reflected in the fact that some of the Hebrew words in DRA bear clear witness to an origin in contact with Jewish life

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rather than in the study of the Bible. Sometimes, this is indicated by the phonetic form of words like atom, hacdn and taled, which signals the adaptation of Hebrew to Romance, not, as in English, learned borrowing. In other examples, it is the vocabulary itself, absent from English, that witnesses to the influence on the Spanish language of contact with Jews: alma 'maid', barahd 'blessing', hdber '(rabbinic) scholar' (the underlying Hebrew word in Ashkenazi guise may also be behind Australian English cobber), malsin 'slanderer, informant' (also in Collins). Additionally, Eguilaz lists cefermose 'Bible', coenim 'priests', abela 'mourning', hunna 'dirge' (qina), chirigota 'mockery' (s^rTqdt), roca 'tenderness' (rok), Hasan 'mighty one' (hdson), and ojald 'would that' ('ah a lay), though a Hebrew origin for several of these, and for barahunda 'tumult' (bdruk habd'\ compare French/English brouhaha, cited by Lokotsch), is dubious. In Yiddish-inspired German slang, a term like Massematten 'business' is clearly of postbiblical origin as is Kluft 'clothing' (qillup) (perhaps under the influence of Schale used the same way in German thieves' argot), and the use by Christians of Schickse to mean 'young woman' (in general) clearly indicates linguistic contact between Jew and Gentile in Ashkenaz, rather than scholarly borrowing. The phenomenon of linguistic contact leading to an awry appropriation of Hebrew forms has a long history—it is probably reflected, for example, in the Quranic use of hanff 'upright' based on a misunderstanding of Jewish use of Hebrew hdnep 'impious'. Because it displays the integration of morphemes from both languages, desmazalado, literally 'unstarred' (mazzdl), that is 'downcast, down at heel, unfortunate', is one of the most striking Castilian words of Hebrew origin. Not only is the same Hebrew root found in Yiddishderived English slang (mozzle, shemozzle and schlimazel), but the phenomenon of morphological incorporation that it represents is also common in Yiddish, where Hebrew words are incorporated into a German morphological framework (e.g. dibbern 'speak', bedibbern 'discuss', ausbaldowern 'act as informant'). Morphological incorporation may be regarded as an extension of the process that favours the introduction of exotic loanwords or their subsequent thriving to the extent that the relationship between sound and referent in the foreign form can be perceived as similar to that pertaining in a native form, or, to put it another way, if the loanword can get away with not seeming foreign. The success of desmazalado in


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fifteenth- to seventeenth-century Spanish, for example, presumably has to do with a perceived connexion with mazela 'mark, defect', just as the widespread mediaeval usage of malsin 'informant' was assisted by an assumed identity with male signare 'sign badly, deprecate'). Similarly, English jubilee—and its equivalents in other European languages—has to a large extent detached itself from Hebrew yobel and become attached to Latin jubilum 'yell' in the same way that orange has lost contact with Persian naranj (Spanish naranja) and joined itself to aurum 'gold'. Yiddish schdchten 'butcher' seems to have been derived from Hebrew sahat 'slaughter' under the influence of German Schldchter 'butcher'. Similarly, the progress of Babel, Gabriel and Pharisee through the English language has been assisted by a happy confusion with babble, gabble and fairy. However, it is not always certain that we are dealing with merger at a linguistic level or with conscious, literary, wordplay. Apart from jubilee, another Hebraism that has attained a place in English, cherub, is brought into relationship with cherry in two of OED's quotations, but in one it is clearly as a pun (at the level of a broader semasiology, presentations of cherubic children as ruddy-faced might be of relevance here). Tyndale is surely poking fun at the establishment's ignorance when he writes 'commanded thy laws to be kept meod...and have made them so mad' (Daniell 1994: 5), Pope plays on the similarity of form and referent between Jehovah and Jove, and when a Yiddish-speaking thief refers to the chief of police as Grossmauschel, it is unclear whether the apparent merger of Mauschel meaning 'ruler' (mdsel) and meaning 'Jew' (literally 'little Moses') is unconscious, that is, lexical, or conscious, that is, 'literary'. To summarize, then, on the basis of the admittedly little evidence there is, we find that Spanish and German use of Hebrew vocabulary witnesses to Hebrew as used (albeit marginally) by Jews, whereas English, specifically British English, reflects careful borrowing from the Bible and from works on Judaism. In one sense, the reason for the absence of Jewish-influenced Hebrew terms is obvious—there were no Jews, officially at least, in England from 1290 until 1656. Had there been, the evidence from Spanish—with its amazingly low number of Hebraisms considering the historically attested Jewish presence on Spanish soil since the fourth century, a reflection of Hebrew's marginal status among Jews themselves, outside

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of the literary domain—suggests that the Hebrew vocabulary of English would not have been significantly increased. It might well, however, have looked (and sounded) a little different, less 'accurate', we might say. What seems clear enough is that the Hebrew of which Tyndale spoke so highly, and the study of which was entered into with such vigour by sixteenth- and seventeenth-century English scholarship, is not the language of the Jews or their (postbiblical) literature but of the Bible. Against Kugel's claim (1992: 144-45) of the great Renaissance interest in postbiblical Jewish literature, we have to set Daiches's finding (1941: 159) that the translators of the AV, and other Christian Hebraists, favoured David Kimchi over Rashi and Abraham ibn Ezra (who had actually lived in England for a time), because Kimchi's Hebrew was easier. Indeed, a more adventurous scholar like Hugh Broughton, whose alleged 'Judaizing' sympathies were well known, was excluded from the AV translators. But the preference for Biblical Hebrew as against the postbiblical variety, and indeed the mindset that says that Hebrew 'is' Biblical Hebrew is part of a broader English cultural pattern. In respect of the readmission of the Jews under Cromwell, it was, according to the perceptions of the English chattering classes of the time, not the Jews (who stank, killed children, etc.) that were coming back but the Israelites, the people of the Bible (with their theocratic government and their victimization by the anti-biblical Catholics of Spain) (Katz 1994; Mechoulan and Nahon 1987). The official absence of Jews from English soil meant that Renaissance and Reformation anti-Semitism in English never reached the virulence of that of Luther, for example, but its roots still lay deep, and could be easily irritated, as the literary repercussions of the Lopez affair in the Merchant of Venice make clear. Not only had England been ahead of the continent in expelling its—or more specifically the king's—Jews in 1290, but it was also the first home of two incubi that have helped fan the flames of holocaust for a millennium: the blood libel and the legend of the wandering Jew. Little St Hugh's shrine was not openly disowned by Lincoln Cathedral until 1928, and it was only a few years before that the paying public had visited the alleged site of his internment at Jews' Court (Leach 1992). And the phenomenon survives today, institutionalized in the British academic aversion to the study of postbiblical Hebrew and of postbiblical Judaism, both of which tend not to go further than the Mishnah. Indeed, one wonders if the Dead Sea Scrolls would have made such a mark on


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contemporary scholarship had the study of Qumran not been regarded until very recently as part of the investigation of Christian origins. This is not to deny the existence of English interest in rabbinic and mediaeval Jewish learning—and in some cases a high degree of personal regard for Jews themselves—from Tyndale to the present day. In humanity and history we can only state perceptions and tendencies, not truth and law. But even in that current of philo-Judaism, there have been two foci of interest that tend to support the 'Israelite versus Jew' paradox, namely biblical commentaries, for obvious reasons, and kabbalah, where 'unworthy' postbiblical Judaism is bypassed by a secret tradition linking Moses of Leon with Moses of Sinai—from Pico and Reuchlin (who, Blau suggests, appears to save 'rabbinic' material from the flames by reclassing it as 'kabbalistic') to Borges and Eco. The paradox is seen too in the nineteenth century with the emergence of the concept of the noble Sefardi (in contrast to the poor press of trouble-making Ashkenazi immigrants). Perhaps the roots of this go back not just to Christian perceptions of Menasseh ben Israel at the court of Cromwell but centuries before to the early Iberian Jewish claim that Jewish antiquity on Spanish soil, with reference to Obadiah 20, relieves Spanish Jewry of any responsibility for the crucifixion. The result is that the Sefardi is the Israelite while the Ashkenazi is the Jew. Against this background of contrasting romanticization and demonization, the real dearth of Jewish learning in nineteenth-century Britain is seen in the somewhat grudgingly-accepted need of William Robertson Smith to engage Jewish scholars to write for the Encyclopaedia Britannica because Christian scholars with the required background simply could not be found (Reif 1995). To what extent is this kind of cultural anti-Semitism peculiarly English? A mere century after the expulsion of the Jews of Spain, Quevedo witnesses to the beginnings of a similar phenomenon there. Set against his patent deprecation of Jews and new Christians ('Jews with crucifix, not with Moses'), Quevedo's respect for Hebrew is striking: whereas 'for Arabic, you need do no more than bark, for it is a language of dogs', 'for Greek and Hebrew' (note the juxtaposition) 'just say that you know it and everyone will believe you'. Hebrew has become a language of scholars, the language of the Bible, no longer a Jew but an Israelite. But from the end of the last century, the Spanish began to reinstate their Jewish past into the mainstream of culture, with the consequence that Spain may now be regarded as the European

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torchbearer for mediaeval Jewish studies and a major part of entry into Europe for Israeli scholarship. British study of Hebrew language and people remains rooted not merely in Hebraica veritas but probably even deeper in Sola scriptura. The paradox is that the very philo-Semitism of the English sixteenth and seventeenth centuries confirmed English past lack of familiarity with the Jewish tradition and set a future pattern of aversion to it.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Blau, J.L. 1944

The Christian Interpretation of the Cabala in the Renaissance (Port Washington: Kennikat Press). Corominas, J., and J.A. Pascual 1980 Diccionario critico etimologico Castellano e Hispdnico (6 vols.; Madrid: Editorial Gredos). Daiches, D. 1941 The King James Version of the English Bible: An Account of the Development and Sources of the English Bible of 1611 with Special Reference to the Hebrew Tradition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press). Daniell, D. 1994a Tyndale's Old Testament (New Haven: Yale University Press). 1994b William Tyndale: A Biography (New Haven: Yale University Press). Real Academia Espanola 1992 Diccionario de la lengua Espanola (Vigesima primera edicion; 2 vols.; Madrid: Espasa Calpe). Eguilaz y Yanguas, L. de 1886 Glosario etimologico de las palabras Espanolas...de origen oriental (Granada: Imprenta de La Lealtad; repr. Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, 1970). Howard, P. 1994 Untitled article, The Times, Saturday, September 17, p. 16, col. 1. Jeffrey, D.L. (ed.) 1992 Dictionary of Biblical Tradition in English Literature (Grand Rapids: W.B. Eerdmans). Katz, D.S. 1993 'Los judfos de Inglaterra: Entre la readmisidn y la emancipaci6n', in H. M6choulan (ed.), Los judios de Espaha: Historia de una diaspora 1492-1992 (Madrid: Editorial Trotta), pp. 164-84. Kugel, J.L. 1990 'The Bible in the University', in W.H. Propp, B. Halpern and D.N. Freedman (eds.), The Hebrew Bible and its Interpreters (Biblical and Judaic Studies from the University of California, San Diego, 1; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns), pp. 143-65.


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Kutscher, E.Y. 1961 Words and their History [Millim we-Toldotehen] [Hebrew] (Jerusalem: Kiryat Sepher). Leach,T. 1992 Jews' Court, Lincoln (pamphlet; Lincoln: The Society for Lincolnshire History and Archaeology). Levi, P. 1974 The English Bible 1534-1859 (London: Constable & Company Ltd). Littmann, E. 1924 Morgenldndische Worter im Deutschen (Tubingen; J.C.B. Mohr, 2nd edn). Lloyd Jones, G. 1983 The Discovery of Hebrew in Tudor England: A Third Language (Manchester: Manchester University Press). Lokotsch, K. 1927 Etymologisches Worterbuch der europdischen... Worter orientalischen Ursprungs (Indogermanische Bibliothek, 2.3; Heidelberg: Carl Winter's Universitatsbuchhandlung). Mechoulan, H., and G. Nahon (eds.) 1987 Menasseh ben Israel, The Hope of Israel (The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization; Oxford: Oxford University Press). Parkes, J. 1961 'Jewish-Christian Relations in England', in V.D. Lipman (ed.), Three Centuries of Anglo-Jewish History: A Volume of Essays (Cambridge: W. Heffer & Sons), pp. 149-68. Pearsall Smith, L. 1943 Words and Idioms: Studies in the English Language (London: Constable & Company Ltd, 5th edn). Quevedo y Villagas, F. de 1977 Quevedo, obras satiricas y festivas (London: Club Internacional del Libro). Reif, S. 1995 'William Robertson Smith in Relation to Hebraists and Jews at Christ's College, Cambridge', in W. Johnstone (ed.), William Robertson Smith: Essays in Reassessment (Proceedings of the Robertson Smith Congress, Aberdeen, 5-9 April 1994; JSOTSup; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press), pp. 210-23. Samuel, E. 1993 'El criptojudaismo en Inglaterra (1540-1656)', in H. M6choulan (ed.), Los judios de Espana: Historia de una diaspora 1492-1992 (Madrid: Editorial Trotta), pp. 159-63. Shell, A. 1994 'The Word Made Fresh', Church Timesl, 30 December, p. 12 (Review of Daniell, 1994b). Simpson, J.A. and E.S.C. Weiner (eds.) 1992 The Oxford English Dictionary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2nd edn on Compact Disc for the IBM PC).

272 Sivan, G. 1984 Smith, C. 1988 Trench, R.C. 1862

The Bible in Human Society 'The Hebrew Element in Everyday English': Part 6', Dor le Dor 12: pp. 51-53. The Collins Spanish Dictionary (London: Collins, 2nd edn). English, Past and Present: Five Lectures (London: Parker, Son, & Bourn, 5th rev. edn).

MICHAL AT THE MOVIES J. Cheryl Exum

For John Rogerson's Festschrift, it seemed to me appropriate to offer an essay that grew out of a course, 'Bible Tales and Retellings in Literature, Art and Film', which I developed since coming to the University of Sheffield. In keeping with the theme of the Festschrift, 'the Bible in human society', I'm going to look at interpretations of the biblical character Michal in two Hollywood 'biblical blockbusters', the 1951 David and Bathsheba, produced by Darryl F. Zanuck and directed by Henry King, and starring Gregory Peck and Susan Hayward in the title roles, and the 1985 King David, directed by Bruce Beresford and starring Richard Gere. My question is, What happens to Michal when she's portrayed on the silver screen? By way of anticipation, my answer is that through the process of naturalization, with its attendant urge to offer moral evaluation, the complexity of the biblical character is lost, and the tensions she represents (which are focused in and resolved through her character) are subsumed, but not wholly erased, under the concept of woman as shrew. My purpose in analyzing these visual representations of Michal is not to argue that they offer us 'bad' readings of the biblical story but rather that their readings represent serious, if flawed, attempts to come to terms with the very tensions that pose problems for interpreters of the biblical text. As Jonathan Magonet, who served as advisor to the film King David, puts it, the cinematic versions offer us 'yet another attempt to get to grips with the Bible from a whole new range of presuppositions, viewpoints and intentions. The fact of filming means that things we might otherwise take for granted have actually to be visualized and indeed interpreted.'1 1. Jonathan Magonet, 'My Part in the Fall of "King David"', in A Rabbi's Bible (London: SCM Press, 1991), pp. 84-85. That cinematic interpretations can profitably be used to shed light on biblical texts is the premise behind L.J. Kreitzer's recent studies, The New Testament in Fiction and Film: On Reversing the

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The key oppositions that create tensions and complicate the portrayal of Michal in the biblical account are: the house of David versus the house of Saul, marriage bond versus kinship, male versus female, the political (or public) versus the domestic (or private), and, to a certain extent, lower class versus upper class. Far from being 'bad' readings, some of the cinematic gap-filling where Michal is concerned is both plausible and fascinating (and not vastly different from the gap-filling one finds in biblical commentaries). Moreover, the fact that the films reproduce the tensions in the biblical account, if only to play them out in different ways, sometimes as dead ends, can make us more aware of the resistance of certain problematic textual elements to naturalization. My analysis adopts a methodological standpoint that refuses to privilege either written interpretations over visual ones or the interpretations of biblical scholars over popular culture. Whatever else they are, the films represent interpretations of the biblical story. Like all readings, they fill gaps, and they fill them according to their understanding of the biblical story and in ways that will be comprehensible to their audiences in terms of attitudes and values of the times. Not only do they reflect assumptions about the Bible in their own particular social contexts, they also influence the way Bible stories and Bible characters are perceived in the popular culture. In the case of Michal, they make a minor biblical character accessible to audiences who may not even remember her from the Bible, and they give us what is probably a more striking and memorable Michal because they have simplified and compressed the plot (whereas the biblical Michal can easily get lost in the complexities of the larger story).2 In particular, they make it more likely that audiences' Hermeneutical Flow (The Biblical Seminar, 17; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993) and The Old Testament in Fiction and Film: On Reversing the Hermeneutical Flow (The Biblical Seminar, 24; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994). See also Bernard Brandon Scott, Hollywood Dreams and Biblical Stories (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1994), whose project is to have the Bible and the movies 'hear different and new intonations in the other's voice' (p. x, italics mine). 2. This seems to be Clines's point, when he argues: 'But in the end, I know that I should not let my reading of David from Michal's point of view be determinative for my reading of David; I will have to end up with a reading with the grain, that reduces Michal back to a more proportionate size and that restores a David seen from as many different perspectives as the story offers'; see David J.A. Clines, 'Michal's Story in Its Sequential Unfolding', in D.J.A. Clines and T.C. Eskenazi (eds.), Telling Queen Michal's Story: An Experiment in Comparative Interpretation (JSOTSup, 119; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), p. 130 (italics his).

EXUM Michal at the Movies

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lasting impression of Michal will be one of a nagging, spiteful shrew, and not—as is possible (but not inevitable, to judge from some commentators)3 from the biblical text—a woman whose love has justifiably turned to hate. As I hope to show, an important result of the naturalization process is that viewers will end up blaming the woman. The process of naturalization and the simplification of Michal's character is not simply the product of Hollywood; it is a common response of readers when faced with the difficulty of accommodating the complexities of the text. Even biblical scholars (!) succumb to the temptation to naturalize events in order to make them intelligible and thus subject to moral judgment, as some of my references will show. What's Love Got to Do with It? Naturalization is at its strongest where love is concerned, and this is not surprising considering the strong romantic interest in the films. (The romantic interest is, of course, between David and Bathsheba, not David and Michal, but, as we shall see, the films use one relationship to help explain the other.) The Bible provides the catalyst for speculation on the love theme. It tells us that Michal loves David in 1 Sam. 18.20, and later, in 2 Sam. 6.16, it reports that 'she despised him in her heart'. How can we resist searching the scriptures for clues to this remarkable transformation? There are only two major scenes in the biblical account in which Michal plays an active part:4 in 1 Samuel 19, she saves David's life by warning him of Saul's plan to kill him and by orchestrating his escape—and we may take this as an illustration of her love. That she 3. At one extreme, for example, Alexander Whyte calls her a 'daughter of Lucifer' (Alexander Whyte, 'Michal, Saul's Daughter', in Bible Characters: Gideon to Absalom [London: Oliphants, c. 1898], p. 178, cited in Clines and Eskenazi [eds.], Telling Queen Michal's Story, p. 291). For a broad range of interpretations of Michal, see the essays in Telling Queen Michal's Story. 4. These two scenes are balanced: in the first, she takes her husband's part over against her father Saul; in the second, she takes the part of her father's house over against her husband David. The scene in which she is active and takes David's part is framed by scenes in which she is acted upon by her father Saul, and the scene in which she actively represents Saul's house is framed by scenes in which she is acted upon by her husband David; see J. Cheryl Exum, Tragedy and Biblical Narrative: Arrows of the Almighty (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 81-85; eadem, Fragmented Women: Feminist (Sub)versions of Biblical Narratives (JSOTSup, 163; Sheffield: JSOT Press; Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1993), pp. 42-46.

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takes a risk by helping David is suggested by the similarity to her brother Jonathan, who also helps David escape from Saul, and almost gets killed for it by Saul (1 Sam. 20.33). Michal's second major scene is her quarrel with David, which is triggered by David's dancing before the ark in a grand public ceremony that she watches from the window (2 Sam. 6), and it illustrates her loathing. It is difficult to imagine that this loathing is sudden, that one moment she loves him and the next moment she sees him cavorting before the ark and starts to hate him. Thus what happens between these two scenes is important for understanding the change that takes place in Michal. Not much takes place between these two scenes, but what does is reported (or not reported) in such a way as to fuel our curiosity. Although we are informed that Michal loved David, nothing is said about David's loving Michal. By itself, the silence is hardly remarkable, but, in view of Michal's feelings and of her treatment by David, it takes on significance. After he flees Saul's court, David has two secret meetings with Jonathan but none with Michal. He finds refuge for his parents with the king of Moab, but he makes no effort either to include Michal in this arrangement or to take her with him, though he takes other wives while he is on the run (1 Sam. 25.42-43). Is it unreasonable for us to conclude that David is not particularly interested in Michal, except as a means to Saul's throne? The Bible never explicitly presents this as David's motive, but why else would Saul give Michal in marriage to another man, and why would David not seek her return to him until the issue of his kingship over the northern tribes gets raised? In the meantime, David has acquired six other wives. The urge to look for the cause of Michal's change of heart—to familiarize it by making it conform to our expectations and common perceptions about the realm of personal relationships—is difficult to resist, given such rich and tantalizing material for musing about character development. It might be possible to explain the change in Michal's feelings toward David as a result of feeling neglected by him, and, indeed, one of our films gives prominence to the neglect theme. Or we might decide that she is bitter over her treatment at the hands of men—her father Saul and her husband David, who use her as a pawn in their struggle over the kingship. Here again the Bible is particularly reticent. We do not know Michal's feelings about being given as a wife to Paltiel once David has fled the court (and the coup), nor about being forcibly taken from Paltiel and returned to David as a result of his


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negotiations with Abner over the kingdom. This is a significant gap, and the films fill it differently. In David and Bathsheba, Michal loves David but he no longer loves her; in King David, the situation is reversed: he loves her, but she spurns him in order to return to her second husband. Either scenario is possible as a means of explaining the tension that gives rise to the rift between them. In 2 Sam. 3.16, when Michal is taken to David, her grief-stricken husband Paltiel follows in tears. Like the statements that Michal loved David and later hated him, this bit of (unnecessary) information invites our speculation. Is the biblical narrator—or are we—really interested in Paltiel? The fact that the narrator bothers to describe Paltiel's emotional response renders the silence about Michal's reaction especially significant. But what does it signify? Because nothing is said about Michal's attitude, one film can have her want the reunion with David and the other can have her oppose it. The Biblical Confrontation Scene Since they do not present any of the information given in 1 Sam. 25.44 or 2 Sam. 3.13-16 as action, both films resolve the love interest theme by means of a confrontation scene in which Michal and David rehearse their mutual grievances. The only place Michal and David quarrel in the Bible is 2 Samuel 6, so we can take the interpersonal dynamics and the characterization of Michal in this scene as the source for their quarrel in the films,5 even in its altered version in David and Bathsheba. As the ark of the Lord entered the city of David, Michal the daughter of Saul looked down from the window and saw King David leaping and cavorting before the Lord, and she despised him in her heart...David returned to bless his house, and Michal the daughter of Saul went out meet David. She said, 'How the king of Israel has honored himself today, exposing himself today in the eyes of his subjects' women servants as one of the worthless fellows flagrantly exposes himself. David said to Michal, 'Before the Lord who chose me over your father and over all his house to appoint me king-elect over the people of the Lord, over Israel—I will dance before the Lord. And I shall dishonor myself even more than this and be abased in my eyes, but among the women servants of whom you have spoken, among them I shall be held in honor.' And Michal the daughter of Saul had no child to the day of her death (2 Sam. 6.16, 20-23). 5. They are the source for Michal, the minor character, but not for David, who is the subject of both films and whose character development is traced throughout them.

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What triggers Michal's emotional outburst? 'Her disgust is not aesthetic, it is sexual', says David Clines. She cannot bear to see the man she has loved flaunt himself as sexually available—presumably, that is, to anyone but her. His self-exposure earns the acclaim of the bystanders, but is in fact a humiliation to him, if only he could recognize the fact; and it is a humiliation to her as well, because it proclaims David's indifference in matters of sexual loyalty.6

Walter Brueggemann, on the other hand, finds Michal lacking in religious sensibilities: David is utterly Yahweh's man, a fact Michal either cannot understand or refuses to acknowledge...In David's utter abandonment to dance and in his liturgic, social, royal extravagance, a new order is authorized, wrought out of unrestrained yielding and worship. David is freshly legitimate.7

(In contrast to Michal, who presumably represents the illegitimate and stale.) But perhaps there is another reason for her vitriolic reproach. For Michal, the fact of exposure was less important than the humiliation— as she saw it—of cheapening himself before the masses, of descending to their level... She was the daughter of the nobility contrasted with the man she actually regarded as simple, as a boor, as one who may have taken up the reigns [sic] of government but not the grandeur of the kingship.8

6. Clines, 'Michal's Story in Its Sequential Unfolding', p. 138. Clines disagrees with my contention that the issue here is the kingship. He thinks that is the issue for David—the way David would like to see it—but not for Michal. I have no quarrel with Clines's suggestion that sex is the issue for the character Michal. When I say kingship is the issue, I am talking about what is at stake not for the characters, but rather for the narrator. For a different kind of political interpretation of Michal's role in the account, see C.L. Seow, Myth, Drama, and the Politics of David's Dance (HSM, 44; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), pp. 129-31. 7. Walter Brueggemann, First and Second Samuel (Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching; Louisville: John Knox, 1990), pp. 252-53. Cf. R.A. Carlson, David, the Chosen King (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1964), p. 93: 'It seems likely that this [Michal's barrenness] is to be interpreted as a punishment sent by Yahweh on account of her attitude to the Ark'. It seems to me rather common that, when commentators cannot find any other reason to account for negative textual evaluations of characters (i.e. naturalization is difficult), they resort to accusing the character of having the wrong religious attitude. 8. Adin Steinsaltz, Biblical Images: Men and Women of the Book (New York: Basic Books, 1984),p. 150; cited in Clines and Eskenazi (eds.), Telling Queen Michal's Story, p. 284.


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Jan Fokkelman combines all these explanations: ...she is the 'daughter of Saul' and this is the way she feels: of royal blood, from a different tribe and family to David. She now looks down, in two different meanings of the word.. .The window symbolizes her special frame of mind, which prevents her from empathetically and joyfully taking part in the sacred festivities and everybody's rejoicing...We onlookers can take the clause [v. 20] to be a poorly-disguised sign of sexual jealousy.9

Sexual jealousy, lack of the proper religious enthusiasm, royal arrogance—these are all ways of naturalizing Michal's outburst, of explaining it in familiar terms based on constructions of 'reality' or literary and cultural conventions. Each of these interpretations picks up on what it perceives to be signals in the text, and in their desire to find a determinate cause to account for Michal's criticisms, they close off other ways of viewing the conflict. Far from being a matter of simple cause and effect, Michal's outburst points to a larger textual problematic. I mentioned above some of the key oppositions that meet in Michal, making her character a suitable point for resolving a complex nexus of ideological issues. Michal belongs to both the house of Saul and the house of David; she is linked by kinship bonds to one and marriage to the other. For ideological reasons, however, the houses cannot be united, and for the threat of contamination she represents, Michal will have to be eliminated. A potential political problem—how to explain David's acquisition of Saul's throne and the suspicious elimination of rival Saulide claimants—is given theological justification: the throne is David's because God took it from Saul and gave it to him. The tension surrounding the transfer of kingship from Saul to David resurfaces at various places in the narrative of 1 and 2 Samuel. In 2 Samuel 6, the political problem is displaced by playing it out as a domestic dispute, though traces of the political significance remain (as when Michal refers to David as 'the king' and he responds to her by addressing the issue of the kingship before answering her charge about his comportment). Michal goes outside to meet David; she leaves the security of the house, the woman's domain, and levels her charges at the king in the public arena. This is not, therefore, despite evidence to the contrary, merely a private matter between husband and wife. Indeed, the outcome—that Michal has no child—is not just the sign of the 9. Jan Fokkelman, Narrative Art and Poetry in the Books of Samuel. III. Throne and City (Assen: van Gorcum, 1986), pp. 196-99.

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breakdown of the marriage bond but a solution to a political and theological problem: there will be no child of this union, no descendant of Saul who is also a descendant of David and who, as a scion of both royal houses, might claim the throne in the name of a house rejected by God. Where one might have expected the conflict between the two royal houses to surface—between David and Saul's heir-apparent, Jonathan— there is harmony: Jonathan loves David and accepts his role as secondin-command in David's kingdom (1 Sam. 23.17), and he (conveniently) dies before this 'solution' to the Saul-David opposition is tested. Instead the conflict is played out between David and Michal, as representative of Saul's house (by referring to her as 'Saul's daughter' in 2 Sam. 6, the narrator aligns her with her father's house). In the battle between the sexes (the male versus female opposition), the woman inevitably loses. With Michal's remark about David's 'male servants' women servants', a class issue enters the picture as a final opposition. It is used not to separate Michal from David so much as to isolate her from other women, making gender solidarity impossible and effectively humiliating and eliminating the woman from the picture.10 In what follows I want to show how the films pick up on and play out the central thematic oppositions of the biblical account in such a way that the love interest theme overshadows but does not totally obscure the political, theological, gender and class issues. The Film David and Bathsheba Perhaps the most significant aspect of the domestic dispute between David and Michal in the film, David and Bathsheba, is that it is not occasioned by David's dancing before the ark. Instead, David has returned from fighting against the Ammonites (where, incidentally, he makes the acquaintance of Uriah) to hold court in Jerusalem. When he enters his chambers, Michal is waiting for him. She complains because he did not greet her upon his return, as he did his other wives, and he responds that he would have greeted her had she been with the others instead of remaining aloof (here we encounter Steinsaltz's aristocratic princess). 10. I am being intentionally brief here both in the interests of space and because I have dealt with the biblical treatment of Michal elsewhere; see Tragedy and Biblical Narrative, pp. 81-95; Fragmented Women, pp. 16-60.


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There is another important difference. Unlike the biblical version, where Michal goes outside to meet David, this confrontation is private. As a result, Michal's complaint loses any larger political significance. The evidence of the biblical displacement of the political and theological conflict onto the domestic plane is erased and the dispute becomes purely a matter between husband and wife in the film, where David's right to the throne is never questioned, although David questions himself and his god.11 His self-doubt, ennui, and rejuvenation by the 'right' woman (Bathsheba) are more accessible to the twentieth-century audience than the theological and political tensions of the distant, unfamiliar biblical account. In her first appearance in the film, Michal wears drab (blue and black), rather bulky clothing that is unflattering and a far cry from Susan Hay ward's low-cut, well-fitting outfits. Her head is covered in an unbecoming way (Hayward's usually is not, and when it is, her face and hair are carefully exposed). Unlike Hay ward the star, who plays Bathsheba and whose appearance is coded for visual and erotic impact,12 Michal's appearance is coded for the opposite effect. She provides no erotic interest either for David or the (male) viewer, though she once did for David, as we later learn. The moment she opens her mouth, Michal makes a negative impression. Her tone is altogether haughty and sarcastic. She resents being ignored by David, and she is jealous: she doesn't want to be just one of his wives, she wants to be first. Lest we mistake Jayne Meadows's rigid demeanor for bad acting, the film maker takes care to have both David and Michal refer to Michal's aloofness (she says he once approved of her aloofness and he says he does not 11. His doubts are resolved in an incredibly 'happy ending', in which David and Bathsheba walk toward the balcony hand in hand to the strains of the 23rd Psalm (where outside it is raining as a sign that the drought caused by David's sin is over) and all that is missing is the caption, 'and they lived happily ever after'. Bruce Babington and Peter William Evans discuss David's search for himself in their chapter on 'Henry King's David and Bathsheba (1951)', in Biblical Epics: Sacred Narrative in the Hollywood Cinema (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1993), pp. 79-81. They point out the film's affinities with Film Noir, the 1940s melodramatic 'Woman's Picture', and the Western pastoral (pp. 74-76). 12. For discussion of this function of the female movie star, see Laura Mulvey, 'Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema', in her Visual and other Pleasures (London: Macmillan, 1989), pp. 14-26. 'In their traditional exhibitionist role', says Mulvey, 'women are simultaneously looked at and displayed, with their appearance coded for strong visual and erotic impact so that they can be said to connote to-be-looked-atness' (p. 19, italics hers).

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object to it now), and he has David accuse her of sarcasm. Michal tries her best to start a row by insulting David and belittling him, but he tolerates her badgering in a patronizing kind of way. He is presented as the long-suffering husband who does not want to get involved in another pointless argument, and she is the aggrieved wife who has to keep picking at him to get attention. The issue of kingship gets raised, an indication the filmmaker is aware of its importance, but its significance is altered. The political issue that occupied the biblical narrator—the fact that Saul's kingdom is in David's hands—becomes a personal matter of Saul's true kingliness versus David's inadequacy: Michal calls David a fraud, in contrast to Saul, whom they agree was 'every inch a king', and he accepts her allegation. Michal's arrogance is further underscored when she introduces a class distinction: 'The shepherd's son is dismissing the daughter of Saul'. In the biblical account, however, the legitimacy of the king, not his social class, is the issue. Saul's and David's backgrounds before their anointing are not very different. The biblical silence surrounding David's feelings for Michal is problematic and I've suggested it hints at his lack of interest in her. David and Bathsheba handles the problem by removing any suggestion that David might be at fault.13 Thus, though the biblical account never tells us that David loved Michal, the film does, perhaps because a David who would marry for political reasons and not out of love would not be a very appealing biblical hero for a 50s audience. When Michal asks, 'Why did you marry me, David?', he responds, 'Because I loved you'. But what about the biblical evidence: David's two meetings with Jonathan but neglect of Michal after his escape from Saul? Or his provision for his parents' safety, but not his wife's, in Moab? Or his leaving Michal behind although he had other wives with him during his days as an outlaw? The film fills the gaps in the biblical story by having David claim that he begged Michal on his knees to go with him into exile but she refused. It is only at this point in their conversation—when Michal challenges the genuineness of his love—that David finally loses his temper. Clearly everything is the woman's fault. Though he does not defend himself against any of Michal's other accusations, David cannot let go unchallenged the charge that he failed in love. He fights back, blaming Michal for dishonoring her marriage vows by letting herself be married 13. This is only one of the moves to make David look better at the expense of other characters: Bathsheba and Uriah, for example, get similar treatment; see my 'Bathsheba Plotted, Shot, and Painted', forthcoming in Semeia.


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off to another. When she claims that it was against her will, he responds that he 'cannot help thinking that real love would have fathered a stronger will'. Introducing the concept of 'real love' and the notion that her will would have had anything to do with it is a clever touch with important repercussions. In the biblical account, Saul exercises his paternal right in giving his daughter in marriage, first to David and then to Paltiel. Although the latter case is admittedly unusual in that Michal is already married, it could be justified on the grounds that David's abandonment of Michal constituted divorce (cf. Judg. 15.2), or even read as the king placing himself above the law. In any event, the accusation that Michal could have resisted the remarriage but did not is a naturalization that appeals to our modern sensibilities. It also encourages us to hold Michal accountable, to see her as having control over her own life rather than as a pawn or a victim at the mercy of others. Not only is this Michal blameworthy, she is naive: surprisingly for a woman in her position, she does not seem to have thought of her political significance to David. Throughout the scene, she is concerned only with the way David has treated her, and she is hurt and bitter. Only at the end of the scene, when she asks David why he took her back from Palti, does he acknowledge his political motivation: 'You might have guessed. Without Saul's daughter at my side the northern tribes would not have acknowledged me as king. By taking you back I made Israel one.' Obviously, she had not guessed. She seems shocked and taken aback at this revelation. Politics is important, but only for exposing the woman's naivete. Clearly the Michal of David and Bathsheba is bitter, but is her bitterness justified? Has she been wronged by David? In the cinematic version, he, and not she, is the wronged party. She has wronged him ('you deserted me'), since she refused to follow him into exile when he 'begged [her] on [his] knees' and she 'even dishonored [her] vows and let [her] father marry [her] to another'. Nor does the unsympathetic picture of her stop here: the invention of two additional scenes for Michal guarantees that we will sympathize with David as the victim of her vindictiveness. After the confrontation scene, she is out for revenge. It is Michal who informs David that Uriah has not gone to his house. Once again she is waiting for him in his chambers, ready to pick a fight. She does not come straight to the point, however, but first taunts him, playing on his jealousy: 'It's a terrible thing to know that your beloved

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is in the arms of another'. She should know. Still the sarcastic, bitter woman, she tells David she has learned the secret of Bathsheba's pregnancy from her servants and she calls his ploy to get Uriah to assume paternity of the child a 'clever trick worthy of the son of goatherds'. Michal is transformed from shrew to villain. She is brought on the scene a final time to accuse Bathsheba of adultery and demand her death. Whereas biblical law demands the death of both the adulterer and the adulteress, in the film only the woman's death is called for.14 Inconsistent on this point, having repeatedly emphasized that in Israel the king is subject to the law, David and Bathsheba is typical of Hollywood films of the 40s and 50s in its need to show 'bad' women punished. The 'bad' woman is either punished and killed off or punished and redeemed, as is the case with Bathsheba.15 In this scene, the people are afraid to condemn Bathsheba to David's face, but the prophet Nathan comes up with two surprise witnesses: Michal and David's young son Absalom (would the testimony of a woman and a child have been sufficient to convict a man of a capital crime in biblical times?). The effect of this characterization is devastating for Michal: she has become a caricature of spite and cruelty. By this point, the audience will surely have lost any sympathy they might once have had with her. But not David: 'I cannot find it in my heart to blame you for what you do', he says (naturalizing through Christianizing?). Had he responded to Michal in kind, the film's carefully cultivated picture of David as the longsuffering victim of Michal's ire would be undermined. His magnanimous gesture makes him look all the more noble, and the fact that it does not weaken her resolve shows her all the more unworthy of our respect. The Film King David In the film, King David, once again we have a sympathetic David and a shrewish Michal. As in David and Bathsheba, her audience with the king is private, and the political importance of the conflict is under14. In David and Bathsheba, the child dies before Nathan delivers his parable about the poor man's ewe lamb. After David pronounces the death sentence upon himself, Nathan tells him it is not God's will that he should die but only that he be punished. David replies that he has not escaped punishment, as his son is dead. Nathan goes on to insist that the woman must expiate her sin because she was a 'faithless wife'. 15. The bad woman is redeemed through the intervention of the hero; thus Bathsheba is redeemed when David prays for her and her life is spared.


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mined. Still the haughty and resentful Michal, she refers to David formally and disdainfully as 'the king', and insists that Paltiel is her husband and the man she loves. David, in contrast, wants her back and considers himself, and not Paltiel, her husband: 'I am your husband, your first and only husband, in the eyes of God'. The implication, I think, is that Michal is guilty of adultery (which is rather ironic, since David does not commit adultery with Bathsheba in this film).16 Going beyond the 1951 film in affirming David's love for Michal, the 1985 version has him tell her that he has never loved another woman as he once loved her. His avowal of devotion is guaranteed to melt the heart of every woman in the audience, and to make viewers, male and female, very sympathetic to David, who is spurned by the great love of his life. When David says he needs her, Michal raises the political issue, referring to herself as a 'political necessity' as symbol of the unity between the house of David and the house of Saul. She is thus not naive like the Michal in David and Bathsheba. But the political issue, having once been raised, becomes a dead end as far as this film is concerned. Unlike the biblical account, where she is robbed of reply, Michal has the last word here. She holds up a mirror in front of David, tells him that he has seen the king of glory face to face,17 and declares that his other women are better able to flatter his vanity than she is. Having the last word, however, does not make much difference, since Michal disappears from the film at this point, just as she disappears from the biblical story.18 The real difference is the picture of David at the end of the scene. 2 Samuel 6 ended with David's rebuke of Michal followed 16. This is just one of the changes made by the film to make David look better. He sees Bathsheba bathing, but does not send for her. He has sex with her only after their marriage, which takes place after Uriah is dead (a death David arranges to rid Bathsheba of an abusive husband). As a result of these and other distortions of the story line, nothing that happens later in the film makes much sense. In particular, the disasters that befall David's house now appear arbitrary and coincidental rather than as having some connection to his sin, as divine punishment that reflects and replays his crimes. 17. The Michal of David and Bathsheba does similarly, when she says, 'You have never loved anyone but yourself. David, meaning beloved. David, the beloved of David.' Both Michals ascribe vanity to David. This opinion of David is not without biblical support, but it becomes another loose end in the films, where neither David is portrayed as particularly self-centered or self-important. 18. She appears again, if we follow the Hebrew text, in 2 Sam. 21.8-9; see n. 24 below.

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immediately by the report of Michal's childlessness. In King David, Michal walks out on David. Thus he is in no way responsible for her childlessness. And in the film, moreover, his vulnerability to her rejection is endearing. King David, following the biblical account, has Michal and David's rift take place after Michal has watched David dancing before the ark from the window of his house.19 David, and not Michal, is the one to raise the issue of the celebration of the ark's entry into Jerusalem. He upbraids her for not participating in the festivities, accusing her of insulting her god and her king by her absence. Bringing God into it makes her look irreligious as well as petty; it hints at the insensitive religious attitude that, as we saw above, troubled Brueggemann. By having her respond only to the charge of dishonoring the king, the film leaves the charge of insulting God to stand unchallenged: 'I saw no king. I saw only a dancing man flaunting his nakedness in the sight of every common whore.' If we weren't quite sure what the biblical Michal thought of these women, we have no doubts here. David cuts her off, turning the quarrel into a theological dispute rather than a question of his behavior. 'In the sight of God', he says by way of correction, 'who created man in the perfection of his own image'. In the biblical account, theology and politics are inseparable, and David's rebuke of Michal is based on divine sanction of his kingship ('Before the Lord who chose me over your father and over all his house to appoint me king-elect over the people of the Lord, over Israel—I will dance before the Lord'). In the film, the theological issue is completely divorced from politics (and the problematic textual tension surrounding the divine rejection of Saul's house) by going back to creation for its reference rather than to Davidic election. David the man is certainly in God's image, but is she, the woman? The phrase, 'every common whore', picks up on the biblical 'in the sight of his male servants' women servants' to suggest Michal's arrogance. The class issue raised in the biblical account by Michal's disparaging comment is exploited by both films to Michal's detriment. David and Bathsheba showed Michal's sense of superiority by having Michal say, 'I am to go and sit with the concubines', to which David responds, 19. The fact that she asks why she has been brought before him suggests that she has just been brought to David from Paltiel. If this is the case, the compression serves a naturalizing function: it fills the biblical gap—how does Michal feel about the reunion?—and it explains her anger as being as much, if not more, the result of having been forcibly taken from Paltiel as of watching David's dancing display.


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'They are my wives'. In both films, as in the Bible, Michal is represented as elitist because she looks down on other women whereas David appears more democratic because his sharp rejoinder to her pejorative remark puts Michal in her place.20 The biblical narrator uses Michal's words to isolate her from other women. In the films, her isolation is selfimposed. In David and Bathsheba, Michal chose not to join David's other wives to greet him upon his return from Ammon; in King David, she did not join in the festivities as (so David implies) she should have. Whereas David and Bathsheba adds two extra scenes at the end to make Michal look bad, King David develops its negative picture of Michal by portraying her as arrogant from the beginning. In her first appearance in the film, she is watching as the victorious young hero David returns, with Jonathan, from battle. Perhaps this scene is meant to account for her love for David, which is unexplained in the Bible,21 though the look on her face seems to me somewhat condescending. Michal's appearance in this film, unlike David and Bathsheba, is coded for visual appeal (and there is partial nudity)—perhaps to explain why, later on in the film, Richard Gere's David, unlike Gregory Peck's David, still loves Michal. Her next scene is the wedding. In their wedding bed, Michal says to David, 'Did I please you, my lord?' 'You only have to smile, then I am pleased.' 'Did I smile, my lord?' 'My name is David.' 'O forgive me, the confusion is easily made.' 'By whom?' 'The people worship you as their god, while as for Jonathan...'

20. He is most clearly democratic in David and Bathsheba, where he corrects 'concubines' to 'wives'. In King David, the fact that he responds so angrily in countering 'in the sight of every common whore' with 'in the sight of God' gives the impression that he objects to her description, although he does not actually say so. In the biblical account, David calls these women '[women] servants' whereas Michal called them '[male] servants' [women] servants', and, by saying that among them he will be held in honor, he professes a kind of solidarity with them. At the same time, what gives the couple's mutual rebukes their sting in the biblical account is the imputation of inferior status to these women; he turns her pejorative remark around to shame her. 21. This is another place where commentators are quick to supply explanations; see David J.A. Clines, 'Michal Observed: An Introduction', in Clines and Eskenazi (eds.), Telling Queen Michal's Story, p. 33, and the sources to which he refers, reprinted in the volume.

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Because the conversation turns into lovers' banter (and because, for the first time, she smiles), we cannot be sure how seriously we should take Michal's arrogant tone here. But when David teases her about being immodest, she appears serious when she says, 'A king's daughter has cause to be proud'.22 In 1 Samuel 19, Michal actively saves David's life, risking her own safety in the process. The film King David writes her role in saving David right out of the script. Michal is still in the wedding bed when Saul bursts into the bedroom, intent on killing David. To his question, 'Where have you hidden him?', she responds, 'I don't know where he is'. When Saul retorts, 'Don't lie to me', she says, 'When I awoke, he was gone'. There is no reason, as there is in the biblical account, to think that she is lying to her father, for we are shown David's escape, not with Michal's help but Jonathan's. And David, who has so cavalierly left Michal behind, asks Jonathan to go with him. A Woman Wronged? Interestingly, both films juxtapose the quarrel scene between David and Michal and the scene between David and Bathsheba, whereas in the biblical account they are separated by four chapters of narrative in which time passes and various significant events take place. In both films, no sooner have David and Michal quarreled than he walks out the door onto the balcony from which he spies Bathsheba, suggesting that if you can't get along with one woman, you can always find another. This is an appeal to male fantasy: a sensual woman is preferable to a nagging one (and Bathsheba will never antagonize David; as Susan Hayward tells Gregory Peck, 'I had heard that never had the king found a woman to please him. I dared to hope that I might be that woman'). Using the unhappy relationship with one woman as a backdrop enables the filmmakers to explain David's emotional vulnerability to Bathsheba (in the Bible, he just takes her). It makes his behavior more excusable and places him in a more favorable light at Michal's expense. The biblical account, in contrast, leaves open the possibility that Michal has been wronged by David. It never states that he loves her, though it tells us she loved him. It recounts David's two secret meetings with Jonathan, but none with Michal. It mentions no attempt on his part 22. Compare the dialogue referred to above in David and Bathsheba, where Michal says to David, There was a time when you thought well of my aloofness', and he responds, 'I make no objection to it now'.


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to take her with him, though it provides the information that he arranges for his parents' safety and that he has other wives with him in the wilderness and in the land of the Philistines. After David is offered the opportunity to become king over the northern tribes, we are informed that Michal is taken by force from her husband Paltiel and returned to David. By having David rebuke Michal and then immediately reporting that Michal had no children, 2 Samuel 6 even hints that it might be David himself who, by ceasing to have sexual relations with her, is responsible for Michal's childlessness. If the biblical text is willing to allow for bad faith toward Michal on David's part, not so the films. In order to make David look better, Michal must look bad. In King David, Michal turns her back on David. In David and Bathsheba, she is so obsessed with her feelings of being slighted that she cannot take David's advice: 'We have to go on living, Michal'. These are his final words to her in the cinematic confrontation scene, and they offer a striking and ironic commentary on the final words in Michal's two major scenes in the Bible, both of which end with a reference to her death. In 1 Samuel 19, Michal presented herself as a potential victim when she told Saul that David threatened, 'Why should I kill you?'23 The last word, 'amitek ('kill you'), reappears in another form as the last word of 2 Samuel 6: 'Michal Saul's daughter had no child until the day of her death' (motah). In a sense, the threat imputed to David has been realized and David is implicated, since denying offspring to Michal is a way of killing her off. Though it might like to, the film has difficulty suggesting anything else is the case. What does 'We have to go on living, Michal' mean, anyway? It means very different things for David, who walks out of Michal's presence into the arms of Bathsheba, and for Michal. In a later scene, the film acknowledges her lack of options, when David tells Uriah, A woman is flesh and blood, Uriah, like us—perhaps even more so because we give her so little to think of but matters of the flesh. In all our history, only a handful of women have been permitted to write their names beside the men: Miriam, Deborah, Jael, perhaps one or two more. A woman's occupation is her husband, and her life is her love. But if her husband rejects her love, if he puts another love before it, if he denies her the only meaning that her life can have, is it not understandable that she seeks a meaning for it elsewhere [with another man]? 23. Jan Fokkelman, Narrative Art and Poetry in the Books of Samuel. II. The Crossing Fates (Assen: van Gorcum, 1986), p. 269.

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Unlike David, Michal cannot go out and start a new life with someone else. She is, as David says, 'my wife', and a member of the royal harem. So what is she to do? Both films attribute a measure of self-determination to Michal that, as the very arrangement of the biblical text makes clear, she does not really possess. The biblical Michal is hemmed in: the scenes in which she is active are framed by scenes in which she is acted upon, first by her father Saul (1 Sam. 18.20-29; 25.44), and then by her husband David (2 Sam. 3.12-16; 21.8-9).24 This narrative imprisonment reflects the restrictions placed upon her as a woman: her social and political confinement, her lack of autonomy, her inability to control what happens to her.25 Whereas the biblical account invites us to see that there may be good reason for Michal to have grown bitter, the films give us little, if anything, to account for her dramatic emotional reversal from a woman who risks her life out of love to a woman who hates and rebukes.26 The films do not present us with a woman wronged, a victim of politically motivated men; rather they offer a moral evaluation: she has only herself to blame for her plight. They naturalize her outburst by stereotyping her as a shrew. She is haughty, bitter and spiteful, not for cause, but simply by nature. Naturalization is natural. We seek to bring textual events within our conceptual grasp, and we tend to apply particular notions of chronology, causality, coherence and contiguity, as well as particular cultural generalizations or stereotypes, in order to reduce their strangeness and make them 'natural' in accordance with the ways we believe events 24. On Michal's strange reappearance here in the narrative, see Exum, Tragedy and Biblical Narrative, p. 91. 25. For elaboration of this narrative confinement, reflecting her confinement as a woman, see the references in n. 4, above. 26. My remarks above about the complex nexus of issues resolved in the character of Michal are not meant to reduce Michal to a mere function, but only to suggest that her character is subordinated to her function. The scanty information we have about Michal hints at a person beyond her function in the text (the task of 'recovering' this character is a particular challenge). By describing the change in her feelings for David, the biblical narrator effectively calls for the involvement, if not sympathy, of the reader with Michal. The Bible gives us the potential for a fuller characterization of Michal, which the films do not pursue, as they, too, reduce Michal to a function. But a very different and greatly simplified function: to glamorize Bathsheba and to explain David's emotional vulnerability to Bathsheba, thus making David look better.


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'happen' or people behave under certain circumstances. As Jonathan Culler observes, As a linguistic object the text is strange and ambiguous. We reduce its strangeness by reading it as the utterance of a particular narrator so that models of plausible human attitudes and of coherent personalities can be made operative. Moreover, extrapolating from the postulated figure, we may tell ourselves empirical stories which make elements in the text intelligible and justified: the narrator is in a particular situation and reacting to it, so that what he says may be read within a general economy of human actions and judged by the logic of those actions.27

The problem lies in the tendency naturalization has to reduce textual events to a kind of lowest common denominator. It is not enough, for example, to explain Michal's emotional reaction in 2 Samuel 6 as sexual if that leaves out of account Michal's political function in narratively resolving the tension created by the opposition between David's house and Saul's. Nor will it do to explain it in terms of Michal's failure to appreciate David's religious insights, without taking into account the complex way in which the text's theological agenda undergirds its political agenda. Similarly, the explanation of her reaction as a sign of her aristocratic superiority needs to be combined with an appreciation of how class in this case serves gender politics, making it easier for Michal (and the Saulide claims she represents) to be dismissed by an angry husband. Portraying Michal as a shrew, which depends upon the viewers' familiarity with the stereotype to make this characterization appear 'natural', not only ignores the way the biblical figure is hemmed in by the political maneuverings of her father and her husband, but also relieves David of responsibility for her situation—in marked contrast to the Bible's frank presentation of David's negative qualities.28 In our postmodern milieu, we are learning to appreciate the fact that meaning is always already deferred, to use Derrida's famous phrase. Reducing problematic textual elements to single causes closes off interpretive options, and this happens in biblical commentary as well as in Hollywood films. In the case of the films, traces of textual tensions remain as an indication of their resistance to naturalization. Although I have not considered commentary on the biblical story in depth here, one 27. Jonathan Culler, Structuralist Poetics: Structuralism, Linguistics, and the Study of Literature (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1975), p. 146. 28. I deal with the complexity of David's character in Tragedy and Biblical Narrative, pp. 120-49.

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has only to look, say, at the samples collected in Telling Queen Michal's Story to recognize how readily commentators foreclose interpretive possibilities by settling on a 'familiar', 'natural' explanation of textual events. Whereas the films flatten Michal's character—ignoring the clues the Bible offers for fuller character development and ultimately inviting the viewer to blame the woman—they offer, at the same time, more open-ended interpretations of the biblical story than biblical commentators. Representing the story visually requires the films not only to fill gaps—from the crucial question, Does David love Michal?, to the more mundane, What clothes would she have worn?—but also to supply additional detail and to interpret, as Magonet says, 'things we might otherwise take for granted'. Most commentators (even those who assign recalcitrant elements to various sources) are working with a model of the organic unity of the text, according to which whatever is strange or deviant is made to seem natural. As we have seen, although the films also naturalize events, in the act of re-presenting the story, they create their own gaps and discontinuities (loose ends or even dead ends), and these remain as strangenesses and deviances that attract our attention. The films offer interpretations for our interpretation and invite us to look at the biblical Michal again from a different perspective. This is not to say, however, that they send us back to the Bible to discover a kinder, gentler Michal. If the Bible offers a more complex, and possibly more sympathetic, Michal, it also provides the negative image that the film makers adopted in the first place.

SOME ANCIENT JEWISH REFLECTIONS ON ISRAEL'S IMMINENT REDEMPTION

Robert Hayward

When Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt, they arrived at the Red Sea, only to find that the Egyptians had followed them in force, threatening to destroy them. The people turned on Moses, demanding sarcastically, Were there no graves in Egypt, that he had needed to take them to die in the desert? Had they not already told him that their slavery in Egypt was preferable to death in the desert? (Exod. 14.11-12). Moses did not reply directly to these questions, but said, Do not be afraid. Stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord which he will perform for you today. For as you have seen the Egyptians today, you shall not again see them any more, for ever. The Lord will fight for you; and you shall be silent (Exod. 14.13-14).

These words of Moses form the basis of a famous haggadah recorded in Mekhilta de R. Ishmael Beshallah 3.128-35; Mekhilta de R. Simeon bar Yohai, p. 56;;. Ta'an. 2.5.65d; Targ. Ps.-J., Targ. Neof., FTV, CG, and Tos. Tg. of Exod. 14.13-14; FTP of Exod. 15.3; and other later sources.1 The Targums place a particular interpretation on the haggadah, which will form part of the subject matter of this essay. The other sources, however, state the tradition quite baldly; and the version set out in/ Ta'an. will serve as an example. Our fore-fathers were constituted (n 'sw) as four groups (kytyrri) beside the (Red) Sea. One group was saying, Let us fall into the sea; and another was saying, Let us return to Egypt; and another was saying, Let us make war with them; and another was saying, Let us shout against them. As for that group which said, Let us fall into the Sea, Moses said to them, Stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord, etc. As for that group which said, Let us 1. See Sefer Ha-Yashar 81 (243) and Midrash Ha-Gadol on Exod. 14.14. For editions of these and other ancient sources referred to in this article, along with keys to their abbreviations, see the bibliography, at the end of this article.

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The Bible in Human Society return to Egypt, Moses said to them, For as you have seen the Egyptians today, etc. As for that group which said, Let us make war with them, Moses said to them, The Lord will fight for you. And as for that group which said, Let us shout against them, Moses said to them, And you shall be silent.

The versions in the Mekhiltas differ from/ Ta 'an. only in small details.2 In these three sources the haggadah appears stereotyped and regularized. Its foundation is the speech of Moses in Exod. 14.13-14, which the expositor has broken down into four component parts, deriving from these four distinct 'party lines' that Moses had to confront. Iny. Ta'an., the haggadah illustrates the Mishnah (quoting the Liturgy): 'He who answered our fathers at the Red Sea, He will answer you and take heed to your crying out on this day'. In both Mekhiltas, it follows another 'numerical' haggadah listing the three occasions when Israel returned to Egypt contrary to God's command. No motives for the groups' positions are adduced.3 The haggadah is found in all the Pentateuchal Targumim listed above; it does not feature in Targum Onqelos. PJ's version stands at some distance from the rest, which otherwise clearly indicate the motivation of the groups. Targum Neofiti is given here as a specimen of the Targumic renderings. The Israelites were constituted ('yt'bdw) as four groups (ktyri) at the time when they were standing by the Sea of reeds. One was saying, Let us fall into the Sea. And another was saying, Let us return to Egypt; and another was saying, Let us set against them battle orders; and another was saying, Let us shout before them and confuse them. As for the group that said, Let us fall into the Sea, Moses said to them, Do not be afraid. Stand still and see the redemption of the Lord which He will perform for you today. And as for the group that was saying, Let us return to Egypt, Moses said to them, Do not be afraid. For as you have seen the Egyptians today, you shall not again see them any more in servitude for ever. And as for the group that said, Let us set against them battle order, Moses said to them, Do not be afraid. The Lord is performing for you the victories of your battles. And as for the group that said, Let us shout before them and

2. Thus Mekh. de R. Simeon b. Yohai opens the haggadah with: 'Israel stood in four groups by the Sea'; and for the clause 'Moses said to them' both Mekhiltas put 'it was said to them', except in the case of the last group, where Mekh. de R. Simeon has: '... let us shout against them—but you shall be silent'. 3. See the analysis of these texts in W.S. Towner, 'Form-Criticisms of Rabbinic Literature', JJS 24 (1973), pp. 101-18 (112-14).

HAYWARD Some Ancient Jewish Reflections

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confuse them, Moses said to them, Do not be afraid. Stand, be silent, and give glory ('yqr) and praise (twsbh') and exaltation (rvvmmw) to our God.4

Three things stand out. First, the Targum is closely related in places toy. Ta 'an and the Mekhiltas. Even in translation the texts are seen to share common phraseology, even down to individual words. Thus the Targums speak of 'groups' as ktyn (var. kytyn), cognate with the Hebrew kytym, the Mekhiltas reading ktwt, kytwt. These 'were constituted' ('t'bdw), literally, 'were made', which is also the literal sense of the word n'sw used in j. Ta'an. and Mekh. de R. Simeon b. Yohai. Second, unlike other sources examined to date, the Targums include in all Moses' replies the injunction 'do not be afraid', which is found only once in the Hebrew text, at the start of Exod. 14.13. In so doing, they leave no doubt that fear was the reason for the stances adopted by the four groups.5 Third, they fear that God will not act to redeem them. Consequently, they feel obliged to act on their own initiative; this Moses counters with the order that they be silent and give glory and praise to God. This final order by Moses, which is found in all the Targums including PJ, indicates that the redemption will be God's work, not the result of fear-driven frenetic activity on Israel's part. FTV, CG, and Tos. Tg. further emphasize the point, making Moses reply to the third group: Do not be afraid. The Lord, in the Glory of His Shekhina, He is the One who performs for you the victories of your battles (FTV). Do not be afraid, says the Lord, may His Name be blessed. He performs for you the order of the victories of your battles (CG). Do not be afraid. The mighty One (the Lord), in the Glory of His Shekhina, He is the One who shall order your battles for you (Tos. Tg.). 4. Leaving aside PJ, the main differences between other Targums and TN not recorded in the body of the essay are as follows. FTV has '... four groups when they were standing at the Sea of reeds', and the second group suggest ordering battle, the third shouting, and the fourth returning to Egypt. FTP, like the Targum preserved in Machzor Vitry, attaches the haggadah to Exod. 15.3. It uses a different verb (nmny) for 'let us shout'; the rest have nlwly or a variant of it, although the somewhat damaged text of the Tos. Tg. appears to have nlblb[y\. In Moses' response to the second group, FTP, CG, and Tos. Tg. omit 'in servitude'. In the last response, CG and Tos. Tg. have 'your God' for 'our God'. 5. See also the Frg. Tg. of Exod. 15.3 preserved in Jewish Theological Seminary MS 608 (E. N. A. 656), folio 2 recto, published by M.L. Klein, Genizah Manuscripts of the Palestinian Targum to the Pentateuch, I (Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 1986), p. 243.

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By referring to the Glory of the Shekhina, or to the Name of the Lord as operative in Israel's redemption, these Targums anticipate the triumphant assertion of Exod. 15.3 that The Lord is a man of war: the Lord is His Name'. Small wonder, then, that FTP (cf. Machzor Vitry) places the haggadah of the four groups in this latter verse. FTP expresses Moses' response to the fourth group in the most elevated style: The Lord is the mighty One Who performs for you the orders of war, the victories of your battles; the Lord is His Name. As is His Name, so is His might, so is His strength, so is His kingship. May His great Name be blessed for ever, and for ever and ever.

The liturgical character of FTP in this response is unmistakeable.6 But all the other Targums show the same trait, with their extraordinary suggestion that Israel should be silent (so the Hebrew original), and at the same time give praise to God. How can this be? One likely answer may be found in the Targumic tradition itself. In expounding the story of God's revelation to Elijah on Mount Horeb, the Targum of 1 Kgs 19.12 tells how after the camp of the angels of the earthquake came the camp of the angels of the fire. The Shekhina of the Lord was not in the camp of the angels of the fire. And after the camp of the angels of the fire came the sound of those who utter praise silently, dmsbhyn bhsy.

Those who 'utter praise silently' are the highest orders of angels who accompany the Shekhina, the Presence of God. They feature also in the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice found in the Qumran caves, where we read: The spirits of the living God walk to and fro continually with the glory of the chariots of wonder. And there is a sound of silence of blessing (wqwl dmmt brk) in the tumult of their walking. And they praise the Holy One as they return (on) their journeys. When they rise, they exalt (yrwmmw) marvellously, and when they dwell they stand. The sound of ringing gladness becomes silent (hsqyt), and a silence of the blessing of God is in all the camps of God, and the sound of praises (tsbwhwt).1 6. See M.L. Klein, The Fragment-Targwns of the Pentateuch, I (Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1980), pp. 21-22, where he discusses the changes in order of the groups in FTP and other sources. 7. Translated from 4Q405.20.ii lines 11-13, edited C. Newsom, Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice: A Critical Edition (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985), p. 303; her translation may be found on pp. 306-307.1 accept her proposals for reconstructing the text where it is fragmentary, and have incorporated them in my rendering.


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According to the Targums, Moses orders Israel at the Sea to behave like the angels. They are to stand, and then to exalt, praise, and give glory to God in silence, like the highest orders of ministering angels. Indeed, the word for the groups Israel form, kytyn, may be used to speak of bands or groups of angels. TN, PJ, FTV and FTP of Exod. 33.23 tell how God will make to pass in front of Moses the groups (kyty) of angels who stand and minister before him. PJ of Deut. 10.14 states that the heavens of heavens and the groups (kyty) of angels who are in them to minister before God belong to him. The same word also describes groups of angels in Targum of Ps. 29.1 and b. Hag. 14b. Moses' final order to Israel at the Red Sea, as reported by the Targums, presupposes that the Shekhina will be among them, and that they should behave accordingly, conducting themselves as bands of angels who silently utter the solemn blessing of God in his service. Indeed, Rabbinic tradition relates that the small children actually saw the Shekhina as they went through the Sea (Tos. Sotah 6.2-4;;. Sotah 5.4.24b), and PJ of Exod. 15.2 tells how the children pointed out with their the fingers the Divine Presence to their fathers.8 Yet the word kytyn need not refer to bands of angels, and can be used merely to speak of groups or even factions. A fine example of this last meaning of the word may be found in Ber. Rab. 8.5, where R. Simon tells how the angels were constituted into differing factions (kytym kytym) in considering whether God should create Adam or not. The Targums cleverly show Israel's initial division into separate groups, each terrified of the immediate future and the possibility of redemption. Moses does not directly rebuke them for forming these groups, but invites their transformation into groups of angels praising God, whose Presence is in their midst. The Divine Presence, God's Shekhina and Name, will be the effective means of redemption; and after the events at the Sea they will praise the One whose Name is consonant with his deeds. For these Targums, Israel's proper attitude in the face of impending redemption is liturgical. The people must be what they really

8. On the material in the Tosefta and Jerushalmi, see further P. Schafer, Die Vorstellung vom Heiligen Geist in der rabbinischen Literatur (Miinchen: KoselVerlag, 1972), pp. 49-50; and for the relationship between the tradition of PJ and the pre-Christian Wisdom of Solomon, see P. Grelot, 'Sagesse 10,21 et le Targum de 1'Exode', Bib 42 (1961), pp. 49-60. Cf. also M.L. Klein, The Targumic Tosefta to Exodus 15:2', JJS 26 (1975), pp. 61-67.

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are, ministering to God on earth as the angels minister in heaven.9 In truth, kytym may have a neutral, or even negative connotation. Bearing this in mind, we note that the groups that Israel formed at the Sea were evidently viewed in a bad light by the pre-Rabbinic Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum, falsely ascribed to Philo's authorship, and composed almost certainly in the first century CE.10 The tradition preserved here reads: Then the children of Israel contemplated the fear of the time, and divided then* opinions into three divisions of policies. For the tribe of Reuben and the tribe of Issachar and the tribe of Zebulon and the tribe of Simeon said: Come, let us put ourselves in the sea. For it is better for us to die in the water than to be cut in pieces by enemies. But the tribe of Gad and the tribe of Asher and the tribe of Dan and the tribe of Naphtali said: No, but let us return with them, and if they are willing to grant us life, let us be their slaves. For the tribe of Levi and the tribe of Judah and Joseph and the tribe of Benjamin said: Not so, but let us take our weapons and fight with them; and God will be with us (10.3).

W. Sibley Towner lists the obvious differences between the haggadah set out in the Mekhiltas and this section of LAB, yet concludes that they all represent essentially the same tradition. Indeed, he assumes that LAB borrowed the tradition from the Rabbis, and suggests that, 'unless Pseudo-Philo altered the tradition substantially himself, the borrowed text was significantly different from that found in Mekh. de R. Ishmael (and, of course, in the other Rabbinic texts we have noted). LAB appears to preserve an earlier, more loosely formed text than the Mekhilta.n 9. According to Jubilees 2.16-22, Israel is to keep Sabbath on earth just as the highest orders of angels, those of the Presence and of Sanctification, observe it in heaven. Likewise, both Israel and these angels observe the Feast of Shabuot (Jubilees 6.17-22). For notions of participation in the heavenly liturgy among the Jews of Qumran, see Newsom, Songs, pp. 17-21. 10. For description of LAB and discussion of its date, see DJ. Harrington, 'Pseudo-Philo', in J.H. Charlesworth (ed.), The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha (2 vols.; London: Darton, Longman and Todd, 1983-1985), II, pp. 297-303; E. Schiirer, The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (rev. and ed. G. Vermes, F. Millar, and M. Goodman; 3 vols.; Edinburgh: T. and T. Clark, 1973-87), IE/I, pp. 325-31 and bibliography there cited; and DJ. Harrington, J. Cazeaux, C. Perrot, P.M. Bogaert, Pseudo-Philon: Les Antiquites Bibliques (2 vols.; Paris: Cerf, 1976), II, pp. 10-78. An admirable summary of opinions on LAB's date is given by S. Olyan, The Israelites Debate Their Options at the Sea of Reeds: LAB 10:3, Its Parallels, and Pseudo-Philo's Ideology and Background', JBL 110 (1991), pp. 75-91 (87-88). 11. See Towner, 'Form-Criticisms', p. 115. Here and on the page following he


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These conclusions are supported almost entirely by form-critical analysis, the differing exegetical concerns of the various documents finding little mention in Towner's argument.12 Towner's sense that there is affinity between LAB and the Rabbinic versions of the haggadah seems well founded, especially when the Targumic evidence is added to his observations. For both LAB and the Targums adduce Israel's fear as an efficient cause of the different 'party lines'; the suggestion that Israel might return to Egypt specifically as slaves is common to LAB, TN, and F7Y; and in LAB 10.4 Moses asks God to 'be mindful of His Name', whereupon the Sea is dried up (LAB 10.5). As in certain of the Targums, the Name of God is active in the forthcoming redemption. Yet despite these similarities, LAfi's haggadah has a purpose quite different from the corresponding Rabbinic versions. It serves to present Israel at the moment of redemption as rebelling against God. From the beginning of LAB 10.3, the emphasis on Israel's division is unmistakeable. They divided (diviseruni) their opinions (sententiae) and decisions (consilia, also meaning 'purposes, policies'). Now Israel is commanded to love the Lord 'with all your heart' (Deut. 6.5); and Sifre Deut. 32 interprets this to mean (inter alia) 'with all the heart that is in you, so that your heart be not divided (hlwq) against God'. It will be recalled that the Qumran group, who regarded themselves as making up God's yahad ('Union', more loosely rendered 'community'), reserved for a group of their most determined opponents the opprobrious designation do^se halaqot (e.g. 4QpNah 1.7; 2.2) which is literally rendered 'seekers of divisions'. These adversaries strike at that unity that is the necessary precondition for proper obedience to God. The heart, seat of the mind and intellect where human purposes are formed, is divided against God in rebellion; and LAB pictures Israel as failing to observe a fundamental divine command. In arriving at this understanding, LAB has relied on something more than the Exodus narrative. Although LAB 10.2-3 places the haggadah in its general re-writing of Exod. 14.11-14, it also invokes (10.5) a view of Israel's behaviour at the Sea related in Psalms 18 and 106. It is these also adduces a Samaritan version of the haggadah which, like LAB, presents Israel divided into three groups. Its relationship with Jewish traditions is analysed and convincingly explained by Olyan, 'The Israelites Debate', pp. 78-79. 12. Towner alludes to the Targum ('Form-Criticisms', p. 113), but does not discuss it.

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psalms that led LAB to divide Israel into three groups rather than four. After Moses had called on God to be mindful of his Name, LAB 10.5 tells us: And God said: Because you have called out to Me, take up your staff and smite the sea, and it shall be dried up. And when Moses was doing all these things, God rebuked (comminatus est) the sea and the sea was dried up. And the seas of waters stood, and the depths of the earth appeared, and the foundations of the habitable (world) were laid bare at the noise of the fear of God, and at the breath of the anger of my God.

For the 'standing' of the waters, we may refer to Exod. 15.8 and Ps. 78.13; and the final sentence of the quotation clearly owes much to Ps. 18.16, which speaks of the foundations of the world being revealed at God's rebuke and at the blast of the breath of his anger.13 But the actual description of God's threatening and drying up the sea is modelled directly on Ps. 106.9. Here alone in the Psalter is it said that God rebuked (wyg 'r) the Sea and it was dried up. In truth, the whole of Ps. 106.6-9 seems to have determined LAB's exegesis, and I therefore cite it in full. We have sinned with our fathers, we have committed iniquity, we have acted wickedly. Our fathers in Egypt did not understand Thy wonderful works. They did not remember the multitude of Thy mercies: they rebelled at the sea, by the Red Sea. But He saved them for the sake of His Name, to make known His might. And He rebuked the Red Sea, and it was dried up: and He led them through the abysses as through the desert.

The threefold expression of Israel's failings as 'we have sinned, we have committed iniquity, we have acted wickedly' (hdta 'nu, he 'ewinu, hirsa 'nu) is a familiar biblical trope, and occurs in forms similar to that in the psalm at 1 Kgs 8.47, Dan. 9.5 and 2 Chron. 6.37 (cf. Jer. 14.20), and in post-biblical writing at Bar. 2.12. Psalm 106 explicitly relates this threefold failing to Israel's forefathers, who rebelled at the Sea, but were saved for the sake of God's Name. God's rebuke, or threat (wyg 'r) to the Sea meant that it was dried up; LAB is now able to make a verbal 13. LAB reads: Et steterunt maria aquarum et apparuerunt profunda terre, et denudata sunt fundamenta habitationis ab stridore timoris Dei et ab inspiratione ire Domini mei. The Vetus Latina of Ps. 17.16 has: Et paruerunt fontes aquarum et revelata sunt fundamenta orbis terrae ab increpatione tua Domine ab inspiratione spiritus irae tuae. See also Jerome's translation iuxta LXX: Et apparuerunt fontes aquarum et revelata sunt fundamenta orbis terrarum ab increpatione tua Domine ab inspiratione spiritus irae tuae.


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link with Ps. 18.16, with its report of God's rebuke (mg'rtk) uncovering the foundations of the world. LAB's haggadah, with its three groups of Israelites rather than four, corresponds to the threefold expression of Israel's sins. Its spelling out of the actual names of the tribes, the fathers of Israel who sinned at the Sea, its allusions to Israel's disobedience to God through division of purpose, its invocation of the Divine Name, and its more or less explicit reference to Ps. 106.9, make it almost certain that LAB has interpreted Exodus 14 in the light of Psalm 106. Even at the very moment of their impending redemption, the fathers of Israel rebelled against God. The explanation of LAB's underlying intention offered above contrasts with Olyan's considered view that Pseudo-Philo favoured active resistance to the Egyptians, and used the haggadah to promote a notion of armed struggle in the face of Israel's aggressors. He is surely correct to see as significant the reasons given by the various tribal groups in support of their proposed actions. But his suggestion that a policy of armed resistance represents Pseudo-Philo's own stance because it is voiced by the most favoured tribes Levi, Judah, Joseph and Benjamin, and because those tribes proclaim (of their own initiative, be it noted) 'God will be with us', is not convincing.14 Indeed, Olyan admits that his interpretation of LAB causes tension with the Exodus narrative itself where, as in LAB, it is God, not a group of pugnacious tribes, who delivers Israel.15 We might add that LAB 10.5 is insistent that God dried up the Sea because Moses called out to him: And God said to Moses, Because you have called out (exclamasti, singular) to Me, take up your staff and smite the Sea, and it shall be dried up.

This is God's response to Moses' plea 'and do Thou, O Lord, be mindful of Thy Name' (LAB 10.4). Earlier, when all the Israelites called out (clamaverunt) to God, they had addressed Moses in rebellion: Behold, now the time of our destruction has come near. For the Sea is in front of us, and the multitude of enemies is behind us, and we are in the midst.16 14. See Olyan, The Israelites Debate', pp. 81-84. 15. Olyan, 'The Israelites Debate', p. 84, writes that God's deliverance leaves the reader puzzled; the narrative is less effective than it might have been, although it succeeds in stressing ZAB's stance. 16. LAB 10.2, where Pseudo-Philo presents Israel as going on to query God's covenant promises made, for example, in Gen. 12.7; 17.8. For Israel's description of their geographical position here, cf. very generally Philo, De Vita Mosis 1.170.

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If our sense of the influence of Ps. 106.6-9 on LAB 10.3-5 is correct, then the author of LA B has underscored even more heavily his conviction that Israel at the Sea had been divided in rebellion against God. It is Moses who saves the day, the one leader calling on God to remember his Name and towering over an Israel divided into three. Olyan suggests that Pseudo-Philo himself may have been responsible for the wording of the haggadah as it now appears in LAB, it being less than likely that he inherited the story in its martial form.17 This seems probable, given that the author of LAB elsewhere in his work is quite capable of moulding traditional material to his own purposes.18 The very distinctive use of the Psalter to expound events at the Exodus has no parallel in the Rabbinic versions of the haggadah. It most likely represents Pseudo-Philo's own contribution to the tradition. Conclusions All versions of the haggadah agree that God will redeem Israel at the Sea without the people having to take any practical, physical initiative. The distinctive view of the Targums, however, is that Israel was divided by fear at the time of redemption. Moses called on it to transcend that fear by properly co-operating in the redemption on the supernatural plane. The people are ordered to acquit themselves as the earthly counterparts of the highest angels, chanting the praises of God whose Name or Shekhina is present to effect their freedom. Their duty is primarily liturgical and ritual, a proper response to what God will do on their behalf. The Targums display an ideal that Israel should follow as God acts for their deliverance. It is a timeless ideal, reinforced by solemn liturgical rite and ceremonial custom. Consequently, it would be very difficult to hazard a date for the origin of the Targumic version of the haggadah. LAB, noticeably diverging from the Targums, pictures Israel as sinful and divided, redeemed because Moses invokes God's Name and God answers him. Moses holds out no invitation to Israel to co-operate in the redemption: pace Olyan, the confident assertion of Levi, Judah, Joseph and Benjamin that 'God will be with us' if they take up arms and fight 17. See Olyan, The Israelites Debate', p. 87. 18. See M. Wadsworth, The Death of Moses and the Riddle of the End of Time in Pseudo-Philo', JJS 28 (1977), pp. 12-19; and C.T.R. Hayward, The Figure of Adam in Pseudo-Philo's Biblical Antiquities', JSJ 23 (1992), pp. 1-20.


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is flatly denied. Rather, God dries up the Sea because Moses, not Israel, calls on him to be mindful of his Name. The whole section of LAB 10 appears to set Moses as the one confident, divinely appointed, and authoritative leader of Israel over against a divided people, groups of tribes riven by fear of the future and seeking safety in their own actions. This last is true even of the third group, whose programme of resistance implies that God will be with them only if they take up arms and fight. LAB leaves no doubt that it was God who acted to save the tribes, in response to Moses' prayer (10.4) and Moses' deeds (10.5, 6). For LAB, a legitimate, divinely approved earthly leader for Israel seems as important as the divine action itself. It is entirely possible that LAB 10.3 reflects historical divisions among Jews at the time of the First Revolt. Olyan notes how the options put forward by the three groups appear in one guise or another in Josephus's account of the war.19 But he is rightly cautious in his assessment of Josephus as a witness to these things, and his conclusion that LAB's haggadah may relate to the factions of that war is quite properly suggested rather than asserted. Indeed, LAB's concern with Israel's earthly leader at the moment of redemption may have resulted from the appearance of a multitude of self-styled 'redeemers' in the period when Pseudo-Philo's material was developing and being compiled.20 For the many similarities between LAB, the Targums, j. Ta 'an, the Mekhiltas, and other Rabbinic texts in respect of this haggadah suggest that they all descend from a common tradition older than themselves, the several differences between them arising from uses of the tradition in particular circumstances that cannot always be precisely determined.21 The evidence presented here might properly support an argument as follows. LAB has altered an existing tradition for its own purposes; and the original form of that tradition was of a kind found in the Rabbinic sources, listing four groups at the sea. But LAB was strongly influenced by Ps. 106.6-9, which offered solid exegetical reasons for reducing those 19. See Olyan, The Israelites Debate', pp. 90-91. He notices the question of suicide or dying by the enemy's hand in Josephus, War 4.79-80; 3.387-91; 6.280; 7.389-406; surrender to the enemy in return for life in War 4.389-97; 7.254-255; and the option of fighting (War, passim), which Olyan believes LAB supported. 20. For the great diversity of groups and leaders promising salvation to Israel in the period from Herod the Great to the Destruction, see C.T.R. Hayward, 'The Fourth Philosophy: Sicarii and Zealots', Appendix B in Schiirer, The History of the Jewish People, H, pp. 598-606. 21. So also Olyan, 'The Israelites Debate', pp. 77-79.

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four groups to three and for presenting Israel's forefathers as rebelling against God, who nonetheless redeemed them for the sake of his Name. That the tradition underlying LAB listed four rather than three groups is not the general view of commentators, many preferring to argue that LAB represents an earlier, simpler form of the haggadah which was later amplified.22 Yet Moses' words in Exod. 14.13-14 quite naturally divide into four admonitions; and if, as Ginzberg, Heinemann, and others have suggested, the haggadah is ultimately to be traced to a midrashic development of Ps. 68.28, then that verse also lists four fathers of Israel (Benjamin, Judah, Zebulon, Naphtali) rather than three.23 Some explanations offered for the later Rabbinic amplification of the number of groups from three to four seem a little lame. For example, Perrot, Bogaert and Harrington suggest that the fourth opinion is rather like the third, or is similar to the attitude of Moses expressed in LAB.24 But the Hebrew text of Exod. 14.12 has 'and you shall be silent', readily suggesting the existence of a 'party' that had proposed making a din. Finally, the points of contact between LAB's haggadah and that of the Targums in particular (Israel's fear; the explicit references to slavery; the Divine Presence active in redemption) again hint at Pseudo-Philo's familiarity with a tradition of four groups. The overall effect of LAB's haggadah is to deny Israel any cooperation in its redemption. The spotlight falls on God who dries up the Sea, and on Moses who invokes his Name. Thus Moses is made to stand out as Israel's leader and God's agent: as Pseudo-Philo has already baldly announced, God sent him and he freed (liberavif) Israel from Egypt (LAB 10.1). Although we may not be able to answer the question, we are invited to ask whether the tradition that Pseudo-Philo modified might not have resembled the haggadah still preserved in the Aramaic Targums? Seeing the disarray of the Jews in their many and varied oppositions to Roman rule over the years, Pseudo-Philo might have come to regard the notion of any kind of co-operation between Israel and God in the redemption as an utterly futile hope. Israel's 22. See, e.g., Towner, 'Form-Criticisms', p. 115; Perrot, Bogaert and Harrington, Pseudo-Philon, II, p. 108. 23. See L. Ginzberg, The Legends of the Jews (7 vols.; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1909-1946), VI, p. 4; J. Heinemann, Aggadah and its Development (Jerusalem: Keter, 1974), pp. 92-93; and R. le Deaut, Targum du Pentateuque (5 vols.; Paris: Cerf, 1978-1981), H, Exode et Levitique, p. 113. 24. See Pseudo-Philon, II, p. 108.

HAYWARD Some Ancient Jewish Refl

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division meant rebellion; and hope might realistically be found only in God and a single leader approved by him. This essay is presented to John Rogerson with grateful thanks for his guidance and friendship over the years, and as a small tribute to his knowledge and learning in Judaica.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Editions of primary sources and corresponding abbreviations are listed first: translations given in the essay, unless otherwise stated, are mine. Mekhilta [= Mekh.] de R. Ishmael (ed. and trans. J.Z. Lauterbach; 3 vols.; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1933). Mekhilta [= Mekh.] de R. Simeon bar Yohai (ed. J.N. Epstein and E.Z. Melamed; Jerusalem: Hillel, 1955). Talmud Jerushalmi [=/], Pietrokov and Wilna editions, reproduced in 7 volumes (New York: Otzar Ha-Sefarim, 1959). Targum Neofiti [= TN], Ms. Neophyti 1 (ed. A. Diez Macho; 5 vols.; Madrid-Barcelona: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Cientificas, 1968-1978). The Fragment Targums according to Mss. Paris 110 [= FTP] and Vatican 440 [= FTV] (ed. M.L. Klein, The Fragment-Tar gums of the Pentateuch [2 vols.; Biblical Institute Press: Rome, 1980]). Targum Fragments from the Cairo Geniza [= CG] (ed. M.L. Klein, Genizah Manuscripts of the Palestinian Targum to the Pentateuch [2 vols.; Hebrew Union College Press: Cincinnati, 1986]). This edition includes Tosefta Targum (= Tos. Tg.) referred to in the text. Targum Pseudo-Jonathan [= PJ], (ed. E.G. Clarke, with W.E. Aufrecht, J.C. Hurd, and F. Spitzer, Targum Pseudo-Jonathan of the Pentateuch: Text and Concordance [Hoboken: Ktav, 1984]). A. Sperber, The Bible in Aramaic II. The Former Prophets according to Targum Jonathan (Leiden: Brill, 1959). Bereshith Rabbah [= Ber. Rab.}, ed. J. Theodor and H. Albeck, Bereschit Rabba mit kritischem Apparat und Kommentar (3 vols.; Berlin: Itzkowski, 1912). Pseudo-Philo's Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum (= LAB) (ed. G. Kisch; Notre Dame: Notre Dame Press, 1949). Vetus Latino quoted from Bibliorum Sacrorum Latinae Versions antiquae seu Vetus Latino (ed. P. Sabatier, vol. 2; Rheims, 1743). Jerome's Vulgate quoted from Biblia Sacra iuxta Vulgatam Versionem (2 vols.; Stuttgart: Wiirttembergische Bibelanstalt, 1969).

THEODORE OF MOPSUESTIA AND THE INTERPRETATION OF ECCLESIASTES*

John Jarick

Introductory Remarks The book of Ecclesiastes was a controversial inclusion in the Bible, and Theodore of Mopsuestia was a controversial interpreter of the Bible. One can imagine, then, that a commentary on Ecclesiastes written by Theodore would represent a particularly interesting episode in the history of biblical interpretation. Ecclesiastes was controversial because the plain sense of its words seemed to be out of place in a biblical book. 'The Words of Koheleth' (as they are called in the superscription to the book) struck certain readers as being dangerously heterodox, apparently questioning the traditional teachings of divine justice and counselling a carpe diem approach to life. For many in the early Church, as also in the Jewish tradition of interpretation, the only way to reconcile these words with the Word of God as a whole was by means of allegorical expositions, in which Solomon (the supposed author of Ecclesiastes) could be made to speak in complete harmony with the tradition. Indeed, allegorical interpretation of the Bible in general, represented particularly by the Alexandrian school of exegesis, was an immensely popular interpretative tool in the early centuries of Christian exposition. Theodore of Mopsuestia, who lived in the latter half of the fourth century and early part of the fifth, was controversial because he stridently rejected this very method of biblical interpretation. He was the representative par excellence of the Antiochene school of exegesis, with its focus on the plain or 'literal' meaning of a text in contrast to the * This is a modified version of a paper delivered to the Biblical Studies Seminar at the University of Sheffield in February 1993. It is a pleasure to present it in this volume as a tribute to Professor John Rogerson, whose own interest in the history of biblical interpretation has frequently been evident at the Sheffield seminars.

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Alexandrian emphasis on the allegorical or 'spiritual' meaning, and his concern for the historical setting of a text led him to the belief—quite at odds with the allegorists—that very few passages in the Old Testament ought to be interpreted as referring to Christ. This, coupled with the later opinions of his notorious pupil Nestorius, led in turn to the condemnation of Theodore's works by the second Council of Constantinople in the middle of the sixth century. Among the accusations brought against him at that Council, several generations after his death, was the charge that he had denied the canonical status of certain biblical books, including the book of Ecclesiastes. As a result of the anathematization pronounced in Constantinople on the late bishop of Mopsuestia, his highly significant work on Ecclesiastes was lost to biblical scholarship—until this century's discovery of a manuscript in Damascus which represents a sizeable portion of a Syriac translation of the original Greek commentary, namely an extensive introduction to the book plus comments upon the first seven of its twelve chapters; and even where this manuscript breaks off, all is not lost, since recourse may be had to the mediaeval Syriac commentary of Dionysius bar Salibi, whose work is heavily based upon Theodore's commentary. These two documents—namely the Syriac version of Theodore's commentary and the later derivative commentary of Dionysius—may now be consulted in published form in volumes 28 and 29 respectively of the Syriac series of Gottinger Orientforschungen, thanks to the efforts of Werner Strothmann (1988a and 1988b). Accordingly, in the reconstituted commentary of Theodore of Mopsuestia access can once more be gained to a fascinating exegetical enterprise, one which provides unique intimations of a fierce interpretative struggle in the early Christian Church as it tried to deal with the considerable puzzle of the book of Ecclesiastes. Theodore's Commentary on Ecclesiastes Now that Theodore's commentary on Koheleth's words has come to light, albeit in translation, his position can be seen more clearly. And the first question to be asked must be: What of the idea that, as a result of the Constantinopolitan decision, has been accepted for one and a half thousand years—namely that Theodore of Mopsuestia argued that the book of Ecclesiastes ought not to be regarded as biblical and inspired? The Council had expressed his alleged heresy in these terms (cf. Migne 1864: 697):

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The Bible in Human Society He attributed Solomon's books—that is, Proverbs and Ecclesiastes— merely to human teaching, put together at Solomon's own initiative for the use of others, and written under the influence of wisdom rather than the prophetic grace, which is quite a different thing, as the blessed Paul says.

The passage in the commentary upon which the Council's skewed description is evidently based, reads as follows (cf. Strothmann 1988: 4): This book by Solomon, son of the blessed David, arises from the spiritual gift of wisdom he received from God. This is by no means foreknowledge of what is to come, as some have attributed to him, for that would be the gift of prophecy. Rather it is a perception of intellectual matters in the human mind. The wisdom that Solomon was granted in abundance was of this latter kind, namely the gift of wisdom rather than the gift of prophecy. We learn rightly from the word of the apostle, for he said, 'There are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit'. And again, To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good; for to one is given through the Spirit the utterance of wisdom, to another the utterance of knowledge by the Spirit, to another faith by the Spirit, to another the gift of prophecy'.

Theodore is here quoting from 1 Corinthians 12, and he goes on to allude to the story in 1 Kings 3 of the exceptional gift of wisdom that Solomon received. His argument is that the grace of prophetic inspiration ought not to be ascribed to Solomon, but rather the gift of wisdom—another order of inspiration, perhaps, but inspiration nevertheless. Although its function is not the same as the books of prophecy or history, the book of Ecclesiastes does indeed have canonical status for Theodore of Mopsuestia. In this respect at least, the accusation of Constantinople cannot stand; for Theodore, Ecclesiastes is a biblical book. At the same time it is quite evident in this commentary that Theodore is engaged in a battle, and that he will not necessarily win the hearts of all his fellow Christians, though he seeks to persuade their minds that Ecclesiastes is to be interpreted in accordance with the plain sense of the words. He roundly condemns the futility or emptiness of allegorical interpretation, which he describes as a foolish imitation of the allegories by which pagan sages interpret their fables. Allegorists are nothing less than 'corrupters of the Holy Scriptures' in Theodore's view, and ought to be labelled as supreme fools. He intends his commentary to demonstrate just how great is the foolishness with which they fill their arguments, and in stark contrast just how great is the wisdom with

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which Solomon filled his book; it is a defence of Solomon's wisdom against the stupidity of his interpreters. The vehemence of this diatribe indicates that allegorical interpretations of the words of Koheleth had taken strong root in the Church. Though Theodore does not deign to give any examples of what he is opposing, presumably preferring not to honour foolishness by reproducing it, a glance at the near-contemporary Latin commentary on Ecclesiastes by Jerome reveals what Theodore was up against. Jerome instructs us, for example, that the eating and drinking that Solomon recommends are properly understood as a feeding on Christ's body and blood in the eucharist, and that his reference to a threefold cord which is not easily broken is in fact a teaching concerning the Trinity. Jerome's commentary became something of a standard in the ongoing tradition of Christian interpretation of Ecclesiastes, and it demonstrates how the Church, though it had been very slow to take the words of Koheleth to its bosom, became reconciled to the presence of these words in the canon largely through the device of allegorical exposition, by which Solomon could be seen to be speaking prophetically of Christ. But there is to be none of this nonsense, as Theodore sees it, in his commentary; his insistence on the plain meaning of the text means that he does not discover Christ in any of the places where the likes of Jerome were able to discover him. The correct interpretation of Ecclesiastes, according to the bishop of Mopsuestia, is that it is an address which Solomon gave to the Jewish people in order to set out before them the life of wisdom they ought to lead—but it is part of the Scriptures for the benefit of Christians as well, since it is this same life of wisdom that Christians also ought to lead. As the one who was deemed worthy of the highest spiritual wisdom, Solomon wrote down his teaching for the generations to come, and he gathered all the people together to proclaim this perfect sermon in the presence of them all. It is on account of the people assembling (qhl in Syriac) for this occasion that Solomon gave the book the title 'Koheleth' (qohelet). And the basic message that he wanted to give to everyone who was assembled there and to everyone who later reads his words is summarized at the end of his address in these words: 'Fear God and keep his commandments, because God will bring into judgment every deed—whether good or bad—of every person'. Theodore traces a theme running through Solomon's address of the worthlessness of transitory things and the evils that arise from desiring

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them—particularly money, since, as the apostle says, 'the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil'. The supremely wise king demonstrates that no solid foundation can be based on something temporal, and that a concern for such a matter can only result in harm, both for the one who strives after it and for the other people who are affected by that person's activities. Hence many injustices are perpetrated against poor people on account of the desire of other people to be rich, while the rich people themselves suffer damage on account of their haughty way of thinking. Advice is directed towards both kinds of people, rich and poor. The rich learn that they should repudiate unjustly gained possessions and should use their wealth to alleviate the suffering of the poor. The poor learn that they should not fall into depression and despair and should not complain against their Creator on account of their poverty. Both rich and poor learn that they should not be concerned with transitory things, such as this pervasive desire for wealth. What everyone ought to be concerned with, according to Theodore's reading of Ecclesiastes, is the fear of God and obedience to his commandments. Mortals are taught in this book to be mindful of the future judgment in which everyone will be recompensed in accordance with what they deserve. It may sometimes appear in this life that there are good people who are treated as though they were wicked and wicked people who are treated as though they were good, and this might lead a person to go ahead and sin without fear, under the misapprehension that the same eternal fate comes to the righteous and to the unrighteous alike. But Theodore's Solomon lays bare the foolishness and wickedness of people who disregard the judgment to come and instead regard the fulfilment of their transitory desires as the only 'good' appointed for mortals. He exhorts everyone to begin the labour of virtue in the time of youth, and to remain steadfastly focused on what is truly good, avoiding all that is hateful. Despite the power of the wise counsel contained in this address, the addressees are reminded that wisdom is generally despised in human society. What is in reality the greatest good is contemptible in the eyes of many people, but there are those with ears to hear, who go to the house of God with due consideration, to listen carefully to what is said—after all, it is better to listen to one noble speaker than to a myriad of fools. There are many empty words spoken in the world, but in this book a wise preacher has spoken sound words, in the judgment of his episcopal interpreter. By implication, Theodore sees himself as having spoken

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sound words in his own book, his commentary upon the words of Solomon, as opposed to the empty words spoken by a myriad of foolish interpreters. Theodore tells his readers that the wise words presented in Ecclesiastes are clothed in great obscurity—greater than in any other book of the Old Testament—but that he has laboured with great care so that no amount of darkness might remain over the subject, and that the meaning which God intended might be made clear. A Sample Cut: Ecclesiastes 12.1-7 To sample something of the flavour of Theodore of Mopsuestia's interpretation, it is instructive to examine his treatment of a particular passage which has generally been interpreted as an 'Allegory of Old Age', namely Eccl. 12.1-7. In this passage some forthcoming 'evil days' are described which most commentators, both ancient and modern, agree in interpreting as the days of advancing old age and approaching death, depicted by means of various allegorical descriptions of the state of an old person—though there is no agreement among commentators on the specific details of the allegory. A good example from ancient times is provided by the Targum (the Aramaic paraphrase of Koheleth's words), which takes for example the 'guards', 'strong men', 'grinders', and 'lookers' of v. 3 as references to an old person's knees, arms, teeth, and eyes respectively. A good example from modern times would be Today's English Version (the Good News Bible), which agrees on the matter of tooth and eye references in that verse but regards the 'guards' as arms and the 'strong men' as legs. Both versions, and countless interpreters between the two periods they represent, have exercised considerable imagination in breaking open the supposed allegory. Yet even in this passage Theodore of Mopsuestia steadfastly refuses to allegorize, at least as far as can be judged from the representation of his interpretation in the commentary of Dionysius bar Salibi, on whom reliance must be placed for this ultimate test-case of Theodore's resistance to allegorization. In the Damascus manuscript of Theodore's commentary, the final chapter has not survived the ravages of time, but the faithful Dionysius has recorded the master's interpretation. In fact Dionysius did more than that, interpreting each verse not only literally (su'rana'ii) in the style of Theodore but also spiritually (ruhana'ii) in the style of other commentators such as Ishodad of Merv of the ninth century, but the following translation presents the Theodore material

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alone. (The full Syriac text of Dionysius' treatment of the passage is found in Strothmann 1988b: 70-79; cf. pp. xxv-xxvii for a German translation of the Theodore material.) (1) In the days of your youth: do not follow the wildness and impetuosity of youth, but dedicate yourself to God, who created you; and do not let his goodness towards you fade from your memory. Before the [evil] days come: when you follow after the prime of youth and devote yourself to what is loathsome, then the time of afflictions suddenly comes upon you; 'evil days' means days that bring ill. / have no pleasure in them: one shrinks back entirely from the many afflictions that will come on those days. (2) Before the sun becomes dark: through the afflictions which arise against you, you think that the light of the sun and the stars has changed to darkness. And the clouds return: they move around like paupers looking for water, but do not find it; in this way the extent of their dryness is indicated. (3) In the day when [the guards of the house] quake and tremble: those to whom you have entrusted your house, on account of their strength, now become weak and tremble, so that you no longer have protection for your riches. And the grinding women cease: those who perform duties in your house cease their accustomed duties because your possessions have diminished; 'the grinding women' indicates that all the prosperity of the house ceases on account of the harshness of the afflictions. And those that look are dimmed: these are the women in your house who lock the doors out of fear of robbers, sit in the dark, and look out through the slits in the windows. (4) The sound of the grinding women: these are the grinding women in your house who become so feeble from poverty and hunger that the sound of their groaning, when they get up from the ground, is like the sound of a bird. All the daughters of song, who sang songs and psalms before you, clothe themselves in lowliness in place of their former luxuries. (5) One is afraid also of what is high: on suddenly hearing a noise, one looks out of the house, and on seeing a robber, one trembles, because one knows that all the guards of the house have fled and gone when anger came upon them. Evils and afflictions come swiftly like the almond-tree, locust and caper-plant: as the blossoming of the almond-tree—or luz— precedes that of the other trees, so one might reflect beforehand [on what is to come]; and as many locusts consume a field, so one's afflictions can be persistent and strenuous; and as the caper-plant—that is, jasper—grows on high rocks, so evils fasten themselves and cling to a person. Because mortals go to their eternal home: after one's afflictions a person receives eternal death. They go about the streets: all one's acquaintances, in accordance with the custom, go about the streets mourning.


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(6) The silver cord: all this happens to a person before the day of death comes, when the nets of deception, which people cast in order to entangle others in them and gather more riches for themselves, will be completely torn apart; whatever deception is done for the sake of silver is called a 'silver cord'. Before the golden bowl is broken: a person's striving after gold also ceases on the day of death; whatever is desirable and excellent in terms of wealth is called a 'golden bowl'. The pitcher is broken at the well: all the duties in one's house cease, because anger arises over the pettiest matters; hence those who fill [the pitcher] with water from springs or cisterns cease their activity, along with the running of the wheel. (7) And the dust returns [to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God] who gave it: all of the things at which a person laboured come to an end when one's body returns to the earth from which it was taken and one's soul departs from it.

In sharp contrast to the standard allegorical treatment of this passage, as represented by the Targumic interpretation mentioned above, in Theodore's unwaveringly literal interpretation the 'guards' and 'strong men' of v. 3 are indeed literal watchmen who in good times were strong and dependable in their duties of protecting one's house and possessions, but who in evil times become weak and unreliable. And similarly, the 'grinders' and the 'lookers', which in the original text are feminine nouns, are literal female mill workers and domestic servants who cease to perform their duties because of these evil days that have come upon the house. Because evil is at large at such a time, particularly in the form of robbers (who are mentioned in the interpretation of v. 3 and again in that of v. 5), there is much fear and uncertainty, both on the part of the workers who are dependent upon the good fortunes of the estate and particularly on the part of the owner of the estate, who is seen by Theodore as the one being addressed by the passage. Those who possess wealth are here told that their wealth is transitory, that the days will come when affliction will strike and their pleasures will end. The desire for wealth and a reliance upon it, which Theodore's Solomon has castigated elsewhere in the book, is again shown to be foolishness. Indeed, the interpretation of v. 1 suggests that devoting oneself to such things makes it inevitable that an ill wind will sooner or later, but always when you least expect it, blow your way, while those who devote themselves to God will never have occasion to question his goodness— or at least will not feel the urge to do so, since they have not set their hearts on fleeting worldly pleasures. For Theodore the events depicted are not necessarily associated with

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old age, since they might strike at any time. It may be that he regards Solomon as having pointed to a time of drought as the most likely cause of an estate's dramatic loss of prosperity, given the appearance of the word yabisuta' ('dryness' or 'drought') in the comments to v. 2, but whatever the precise circumstances, the mighty have certainly fallen, and all who revelled in luxuries have been brought low. Where once there was great merriment, and the owner of the estate could enjoy the sound of festive song as lilted by the singing girls of v. 4, now tensions are rife and the household rings to the sound of constant anger, which Theodore mentions in vv. 5 and 6. The smooth functioning of the house breaks down completely, and all is lost. And even if your fortunes do not change from good to ill in such a disastrous turn of events at some point during your lifetime, there is still the certainty of death mentioned at the end of v. 5 and repeated even more ominously at the end of the passage as a whole in v. 7. If you have managed to keep your wealth intact until then, you can certainly not take it with you after that point, the ultimate proof of the transience of all earthly things. Of all the phrases in this passage, Koheleth's references in v. 5 to the almond-tree, the locust and the caper-berry have provided the most difficulty for interpreters, so it is not surprising to see Theodore forced to treat them more or less as metaphors. Here alone he resorts to expressions more associated with allegorists, and provides three expositions in the form 'as or like such-and-such, so or likewise suchand-such' (hakana'... 'ayk is used with the first and last items, while badmut... hakan is used with the middle item). Thus we may not come across a literal almond-tree blossoming in all its glory but perhaps a similar portent of the changing of the times, or we may not be invaded by literal locusts but perhaps by another type of equally unpleasant affliction, or we may not have to do with a literal caper-berry but perhaps with an alternative breed of evils clinging to us in the manner of caper-plants clinging to high rocks. But perhaps there are grounds for caution in ascribing even this small amount of non-literalism to Theodore, since the text of this passage includes several coupled expressions, with two words for 'almond' (sarda' and luza') and for 'caper' (qapar and yaspd' the latter perhaps a scribal error for yasmiri), and more significantly two words for the 'persisting' of the afflictions (qw' and ktr) and for the 'clinging' of the evils (srk and sbk), which might suggest that Dionysius has stitched together two different sources here because he found Theodore inadequate or lacking at this point. Yet in the following


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verse too we meet the suggestion that a 'silver cord' and a 'golden bowl' might signify something more than merely the literal objects themselves (though the interpretation remains reasonably close to the plain sense of the words when compared with the Targumist's exposition of the objects as references to a silenced tongue and a spattered brain), so it would seem that Theodore is able to venture a little into the realm of metaphor. Nevertheless he has provided in his interpretation of this passage an object lesson in the art of reading literally a text that all around him are reading allegorically. And though he apparently stood alone in antiquity in treating this supposed 'Allegory of Old Age' as a literal description of an estate falling upon hard times, he would not find himself alone today. In his study of some of Theodore's other commentaries, Dimitri Zaharopoulos (1989) has said that Theodore anticipated many modern approaches to the study of the Old Testament, and we may now add this particular passage as a case in point, since in recent times a number of commentators (beginning with John Sawyer [1975]) have broken with the time-honoured allegorical approach to this passage and have interpreted it as a picture of an estate falling into ruin—an understanding of these verses which was anticipated more than a millennium ago by the bishop of Mopsuestia. Concluding Remarks Theodore of Mopsuestia sought to rescue the words of Koheleth from the allegorical readings that had become highly popular in the Church of his time. Even so, just as the allegorists did, he expounded the book as an orthodox treatise on the futility of the unregenerate life and the certainty of appropriate requital for the righteous and the unrighteous in the life to come, and in this sense he can be said to have collaborated in the 'orthodoxing' of the seemingly heretical words of Koheleth, though ironically this did not save him from condemnation as a heretic himself. The Church of Theodore's time was unable to live with the views that the bishop of Mopsuestia expressed in his commentary. A merely literal interpretation of Ecclesiastes was not enough, as can be seen in the commentary of Jerome, who indeed presents a literal meaning for each verse but then proceeds immediately to a spiritual meaning for that verse. It can even be seen in the very commentary of Dionysius bar Salibi, who approvingly records Theodore's comments on each verse

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but then moves on to the comments of another interpreter who provided a spiritual interpretation for that verse. Theodore's unrelenting focus on the 'plain sense' of the words was simply unsatisfactory to the Church at large, and his labours were generally condemned. No manuscript of his commentary in the original Greek has survived in any church or monastery, and the Syriac version eventually found in Damascus was discovered in a mosque. Nevertheless, the commentary has survived after all, having now reappeared in the present century, and certainly in the meantime the reputation of Theodore as a great commentator was preserved in the Eastern Church throughout the centuries, even while he was anathema in the West. There were, it might be said, mixed reviews in the early Church for his interpretation of Ecclesiastes, just as there had been mixed reviews for the book itself. But apparently no one—not even Theodore himself, as it now turns out—thought that the book should be removed from the canon. For most expositors, it was simply a question of how to interpret Ecclesiastes in a way that might justify its presence in the Bible and contribute to the life of the Church. For Theodore, it was also a question of the book's own integrity.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Migne, J.-P. (ed.) 1864 Patrologiae cursus completus, Series Graeca, 66 (Paris: Migne). Sawyer, J.F.A. 1975 'The Ruined House in Ecclesiastes 12: A Reconstruction of the Original Parable', JBL 94, pp. 519-31. Strothmann, W. (ed.) 1988a Das syrische Fragment des Ecclesiastes-Kommentars von Theodore von Mopsuestia (Gottinger Orientforschungen, 1. Reihe: Syriaca, 28; Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz). 1988b Syrische Katenen aus dem Ecclesiastes-Kommentar des Theodore von Mopsuestia (Gottinger Orientforschungen, 1. Reihe: Syriaca, 29; Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz). Zaharopoulos, D.Z. 1989 Theodore of Mopsuestia on the Bible: A Study of his Old Testament Exegesis (New York: Paulist Press).

READING IN CANON AND COMMUNITY: DEUTERONOMY 21.22-23, A TEST CASE FOR DIALOGUE

Judith M. Lieu

In 1983 Beginning Old Testament Study illustrated for students the largely undisputed character of the discipline as they would meet it in academic settings; John Rogerson's own initial historical outline and his epilogue on 'Using the Old Testament' acknowledge the anxieties that often arise.1 In his 1990 article on 'Biblical Criticism', while affirming the new pluriformity of methods, he maintains a firm defence of historical-critical analysis, again acknowledging the dilemmas it has caused Christian faith communities2—sensitivities illustrated by the character of this Festschrift. The tension between the scholarly and the confessional context (here 'the church1} is familiar, but remarkable now appears the 'unproblematic' use of the term 'Old Testament', and the lack of any prescience of the currently pervasive dilemma, 'Hebrew Scriptures' or 'Old Testament'.3 If we may summarize the contemporary debate by asking, 'To whom do the Scriptures belong?', we are certainly not posing a new question (cf. Jn 5.39). For Justin Martyr, debating with the Jew Trypho in the second century, the answer was non-negotiable: '...your Scriptures; rather not yours but ours, for we believe them, while when you read you do not understand the sense in them' (Dial. 29.2).4 A century later 1. J. Rogerson (ed.), Beginning Old Testament Study (London: SPCK, 1983), pp. 6-25, 145-52. As a former such student I am grateful for the opportunity to acknowledge my own debt to John Rogerson's combination of critical historical sense and sensitivity to 'the text in community'. 2. J. Rogerson, 'Biblical Criticism', in R.J. Coggins and J.L. Houlden (eds.), A Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation (London: SCM Press, 1990), pp. 83-86. 3. Other alternatives, 'First' or 'Older' 'Testament' imply a successor, although, even where antiquity is no longer a virtue, perhaps less their own obsolescence. 4. Contrast his emphasis in Apol. 31 on Jewish possession of the Scriptures, supporting his apologetic appeal to their antiquity and integrity.

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his anonymous successor elaborated: 'the preservation among the Jews even to the present day of the books which pertain to our worship of God happened by divine providence'.5 For these writers, of course, the Scriptures they claimed as 'ours' were Greek and, to serve their arguments from them, could not be otherwise. The ensuing story is familiar: with the formation of the 'New Testament', the issue became that of the Christian canon; to ask 'To whom do the Scriptures belong?' is now to subject to scrutiny the relationship between Old and New Testaments, for only through being claimed by the Church did the Scriptures become 'the Old Testament'. The rediscovery of the Hebrew and abandonment of the Greek Scriptures in the Protestant churches only intensified the problems to come: the Old Testament, now defined as or by the Hebrew Scriptures, is no longer those Scriptures that Justin and his successors valiantly defended against the attacks of Marcion, and thus preserved as 'ours'. We must now add, when we have before us a Biblica Hebraica Qwnranica, collating the biblical (which?) texts among the Dead Sea Scrolls, to whom will it belong: to the Christian church, although it be an 'Old Testament' they may never have known before;6 to Judaism, although again it may present a text not part of that interpretative tradition; or will it be the preserve only of those other potential owners, the scholarly community, as the 'Scriptures' of a community long dead? The kaleidoscopic tangle of issues thus becomes clearer. If the severance of the Old Testament from the New made possible the historicalcritical method,7 the latter in turn has prompted the renaming of 'the Hebrew Scriptures'. It was the signal contribution of that approach to preserve the integrity of the Scriptures against the imperialism of a dogmatically determined interpretation which could only proceed by allegory or typology, and so to establish the neutral ground of the texts' own self-witness where all, regardless of any confessional loyalty, may meet. However, for many the result has been to distance them, 5. Ps.-Justin, Cohortatio ad Graecos 13.5. 6. Although it may sometimes be closer to a text the earliest Christians knew than current editions of the MT or LXX. J.A. Sanders, 'Hebrew Bible and Old Testament: Textual Criticism in Service of Biblical Studies', in R. Brooks and J.J. Collins (eds.), Hebrew Bible or Old Testament: Studying the Bible in Judaism and Christianity (Notre Dame: Notre Dame Press, 1990), pp. 41-68, makes a plea for editions reflecting the actual textual pluriformity. 7. Rogerson, 'Biblical Criticism', p. 84.

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imprisoning them among a remote people, time and setting, creating the danger of a new 'Marcionism'.8 Rediscovered as speaking to their own time, how can they—or do they—speak to ours: hence the dilemma of the contemporary hermeneutical maze. Accordingly, the title 'Hebrew Scriptures' deliberately distances them from their Christian adoption or sequestration. The term 'Scriptures' mocks 'us' who claim them as Scripture, Scripture being not simply that which is written, but that which once written speaks still and cannot be silenced, or re-written. Already as Hebrew, they exclude, if not the Aramaic sections, then the order and additions which come to us via the Greek text, Christian Scripture from our earliest witnesses, forcing the question in a Christian context: as Hebrew Scriptures, are they Scriptures?9 More fundamentally, 'Hebrew Scriptures' intends to remind 'us' that they were not 'ours' first: we are to acknowledge that their first owners, even their rightful owners, for they were never willingly ceded, were 'the Hebrews'. We cannot decry such motives; Adolf Harnack's words no longer ring with triumphant certainty but with relentless accusation: 'Such an injustice as that inflicted by the Gentile Church on Judaism is almost unprecedented in the annals of history. The Gentile Church stripped it of everything; she took away its sacred book.'10 Historically that is a nonsense; no one can read the writings of rabbinic Judaism, or study the remains of the synagogue at Sardis with its Torah shrine(s), or at Dura Europos with its mosaic'd 'ark', no one can share in the service of a modern synagogue, and believe that Judaism has lost, or ever did lose, its sacred book at Christian hands; to claim that is to play into Harnack's hands and identify Judaism with a sterile and moribund dinosaur. Yet this is not to deny or diminish the truth that the Gentile Church did indeed inflict not one but many injustices on Judaism, 8. So J.F.A. Sawyer, From Moses to Patmos: New Perspectives in Old Testament Study (London: SPCK, 1977), determines 'to liberate Old Testament study from the grip of archaeologists, philologists, and latter day Marcionites' and to 'concentrate on the Old Testament as part of the Christian Bible' (pp. ix, 2). 9. H. Hiibner, 'Vetus Testamentum und Vetus Testamentum in Novo Receptum. Die Frage nach dem Kanon des Alien Testaments aus neutestamentlicher Sicht', in I. Baldermann et al. (eds.), Zum Problem des biblischen Kanons (JBT, 3; NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1988), pp. 147-62, argues for the greater theological relevance of the LXX for the NT. 10. The Expansion of Christianity in the First Three Centuries (trans. J. Moffatt; London: Williams & Norgate, 1904-05), I, p. 81.

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'unprecedented in the annals of history'. Recognition of this has inspired those who urge us to speak no more of 'Old Testament', with its imperialist and supersessionist overtones: in an age of dialogue, when the recovery of what unites may offer paths to healing and reconciliation, 'the Hebrew Scriptures' may recall us to our common heritage.11 The motivation is beyond reproach, but the solution is deceptive. Already in the first and second centuries CE the adjective 'Hebrew' carried an antiquarian note; used of the worthies of old, it was largely sentimental, born out of respect for antiquity and past heroism.12 The label 'Hebrew' distances the 'Hebrew Scriptures' from any living community: they become a curiosity, the relic of the distant past. This is not a quibble about a term whose virtues can still be defended; it prompts the question whether there can be Scriptures without a community, and if the Scriptures should properly define the community, does not the community also define the Scriptures? Here contemporary hermeneutical debate adds its support: the claimed inviolability of an objective historical exegesis has come increasingly under attack, both in principle and as an achievable goal.13 One element in the contemporary redrawing of the exegetical map is the recognition that the text's post-history, both in the wider textual context and beyond, becomes part of its meaning.14 If this may be true of any literary text with a long history within a culture, it is particularly so of these writings in virtue both of their canonical shapes and of their foundational and authoritative role within each religious community: if we must always interpret a text in its context, that context is not the original historical context alone, nor even the immediate literary context, but the context 11. A. Lacocque, 'The "Old Testament" in Protestant Tradition', in L. Boadt, H. Croner and L. Klenicki (eds.), Biblical Studies: Meeting Ground of Jews and Christians (Studies in Judaism and Christianity; New York: Paulist Press, 1980), pp. 120-42, prefers the 'Prime Testament' and claims 'the Bible as a Christian book clearly robs the Jews of their own Scriptures' (p. 121). 12. See A. Arazy, 'The Appellations of the Jews (IOUDAIOS, HEBRAIOS, ISRAEL) in the Literature from Alexander to Justinian' (PhD, New York, 1977; Univ. Microfilms 78-3061). 13. Rogerson, 'Biblical Criticism', p. 86. 14. See F.B. Watson, Text, Church and World: Biblical Interpretation in Theological Perspective (Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1994), p. 3: 'the Hebrew scriptures.. .can also be read as the Christian Old Testament, distinct from the New Testament but inseparable from it and shaping the way that it is read, as well as being reciprocally shaped by if (my stress).


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of the canon and/or of the believing community. So too, exegesis of Scripture is an intrinsic and idiosyncratic part both of the study of the two religious traditions and of participation within them. In this elemental context Jews and Christians do not share these Scriptures, for as Jewish or as Christian Scriptures they are essentially different; they cannot be reduced to 'the common ground', merely supplemented by the Christians' own further collection (or expanded 'Writings'), or even, more 'ecumenically', complemented in one tradition by the 'New Testament', in the other by the rabbinic corpus. The point is not new, and, significantly, those who defend the 'Old Testament' as part of the Christian Scriptures are not necessarily those who charge 'the Judaism which rejected the Christ event [with having] remarkably enough terminated the formation of the Old Testament'.15 Claims for 'the common ground' may rest on a Christianizing perception of 'canon', while Wolfenson's argument, that if there is a 'canon' in the Jewish context it is not Tanach but Torah, and then the other binding or normative regulations articulated in Mishna and Gemara, has several modern advocates.16 Among them Jon Levenson has argued cogently that recovery of the 'Hebrew Bible' through historical criticism has led to the establishment not of 'common' but of 'neutral ground' for Jews and Christians, compelling 'its practitioners to bracket their traditional identities': unless historical criticism can learn to interact with other senses of Scripture—senses peculiar to the individual traditions and not shared between them—it will either fade or prove not to be a meeting ground of Jews and Christians, but the burial ground of Judaism and Christianity, as each tradition vanishes into the past in which neither had yet emerged.17

In what follows I shall explore from this perspective a text with a potent 'post-history' within the Christian tradition, shaping both 15. H. Gese, Essays on Biblical Theology (trans. K. Crim; Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1981), p. 13. 16. L.B. Wolfenson, 'Implications of the Place of the Book of Ruth in Editions, Manuscripts, and Canon of the Old Testament', HUCA 1 (1924), pp. 151-78. B.S. Childs, Introduction to the Old Testament as Scripture (London: SCM Press, 1979), concedes but sees as outside his scope that 'Wolfenson's point does appear to lend support to those who stress the elements of discontinuity between the two faiths' (p. 670). 17. J.D. Levenson, 'Theological Consensus or Historicist Evasion? Jews and Christians in Biblical Studies', in Brooks and Collins (eds.), Hebrew Bible or Old Testament, pp. 109-45 (144).

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Christian Scripture and the way it is read, while also playing a role in the 'meeting of Jews and Christians' in the past, and will suggest that, while we cannot repeat it, neither can we refuse to engage with that history. Deuteronomy 21.22-23 as Old Testament: Early Christian Interpretation Deuteronomy 21.22-23 has attracted frequent attention for its impact on the interpretation of Jesus' death both by Paul and within other New Testament traditions; for brevity's sake we shall rely on earlier work for sketching its role as 'Scripture' for the early Christians. An initial translation of the MT reads: And if a man has committed a crime punishable by death, and he is put to death, and you hang18 him on a tree, his corpse shall not remain19 all night upon the tree, for you shall certainly bury him on that day, for a curse of God is a hanged one and you shall not defile the land that the LORD your God is giving you as an inheritance.

a. Paul In Gal. 3.10-14, Deut. 21.22-23, intertextually related to other passages, assumes a central role in Paul's own argument, and, through the contribution of Galatians to later reflection, has helped shape subsequent Christian perceptions of the nature and function of Torah: For all who rely on the works of the law are under a curse; for it is written, 'Cursed be everyone who does not abide by all the things written in the book of the law, to do them' [Deut. 27.26]. Now it is evident that no one is justified before God by the law; for, 'The righteous one by faith shall live' [Hab. 2.4]; but the law is not by faith, for 'The one who does them shall live by them' [Lev. 18.5]. Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law, having become a curse for us, for it is written, 'Cursed be everyone who hangs on a tree' [Deut. 21.23]—that in Christ Jesus the blessing of Abraham might come upon the Gentiles, that we might receive the promise of the spirit through faith.

Paul's argument has been exhaustively analysed and discussed, although the debate is not yet settled. Self-evidently we are not hearing a systematic theologian or exegete dispassionately analysing his texts: Paul is driven by the conclusion he needs to reach—that all believers, 18. See below, n. 46. 19. Or 'you shall not leave'.


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especially here Gentile Christians, are included in God's plan for salvation on the basis of faith alone. The context is polemical, countering those who argued that male converts must be circumcised if they were to claim an inheritance in God's promises to Abraham (Gal. 3.3; 5.2). This is no theoretical discussion provoked by a disinterested attempt to reconcile different parts of Scripture; it is rooted in Paul's prior mission among the Gentiles, which he felt to be self-justifying, and in his experience of Christian communities he founded.20 It is certainly also shaped by his opponents who could equally appeal to Scripture, although unfortunately we cannot hear their arguments directly. Paul's initial text, Deut. 27.26, was perhaps already part of this debate, for its import is disputed and could even undermine Paul's thesis.21 The repeated 'everyone...all' is certainly significant, while for our purposes the intertextuality established with Deut. 21.23 is pivotal. Between these texts, whatever the details of the logic, Hab. 2.4 in antithesis to Lev. 18.5 establishes the essential choice: life must be either by faith or by doing (= by Law), not both. Yet 'it is not the Biblical text itself that has made this seeming contradiction self-evident to him. Because of his conversion... he now sees faith and law as two different paths';22 Paul interprets and combines these texts not as indicating how he reached a 'Christian' perspective but from the vantage of already having one. Moreover, it is not his ('rabbinical') hermeneutical technique of resolving apparent contradictions in Scripture that is distinctively 'Christian', but his definition of the contradiction—faith versus Law-obedience—and his solution to it. Within this framework we should read Deut. 21.23, 'Cursed be everyone who hangs on a tree'. Assuming, without demonstration, this Scripture applies to Jesus, Paul inverts it; it becomes a prophecy, a pivotal aspect of 'Scripture' in a Christian context. By absorbing this text and its curse into himself, Christ annuls the potential curse against (Gentile) believers.23 Paul's argument presupposes, and requires, a text closer to the LXX 20. Among many others see A. Segal, Paul the Convert (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990), pp. 118-25. 21. On the text see p. 324 and nn. 24, 28; was there such an absolutist and rigorist application of the text, even for converts? 22. Segal, Paul the Convert, p. 122. 23. On Paul's argument see J.D.G. Dunn, Galatians (BNTC; London: A. & C. Black, 1993), pp. 168-80.

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than 'the Hebrew Bible'. The critical 'everyone—everything', although found in the Septuagint,24 is absent from the MT of Deut. 27.26, a problem Jerome already recognized and readily attributed to the Jews' subsequent editing of Paul's original Hebrew text 'so that they should not be seen to be under a curse' (in Gal. 3.10 [PL 26.383]). More recently Hans Hiibner has drawn from here his conclusion that for the NT the Septuagint has a theological significance not possessed by the Hebrew.25 In his reading of Deut. 21.23 Paul created the intertextual relationship with Deut. 27.26 by using the same formula he found there: 'Cursed be everyone (emKoaocpaToq rcaq)'. This goes against the MT where the vocabulary and constructions are unrelated,26 but builds on the LXX which adds 'everyone', and replaces the MT noun 'a curse' with a verbal form (participle) 'cursed' (KeKairipajievoq). 27 In so doing, however, Paul ignored the awkward for him ambiguous 'curse of God' (MT), or 'cursed by God' (LXX); this Jerome also noted, finding a plausible explanation in the subsequent addition of 'of God' in both the Hebrew and 'our texts', 'in order to charge us with the infamy of believing in Christ as cursed by God' (in Gal. 3.14 [PL 26.387-89]). Jerome's solution will not do, although the long history of belief in Jewish corruption of the Hebrew text suggests the seriousness of the hermeneutical issue. It is now a commonplace that by 'works of the law' (read into Deut. 27.26) Paul was not expressing a 'Lutheran' rejection of reliance on doing, on works, over against faith or unmerited grace.28 The consequences of that reading of Paul, resulting in Judaism being characterized 24. The Samaritan Pentateuch also reads 'everything'; neither addition appears in the other Greek versions or the Targumim; see A. Salvesen, Symmachus in the Pentateuch (JSSM, 15; Manchester: University of Manchester Press, 1991), pp. 15859. The substitution of 'that has been written' for 'words', and of 'the book of the Lav/' for 'the [this] Law' probably depends on Deut. 30.10. 25. Hiibner, 'VetusTestamentum',p. 148. 26. That is, Deut. 21.23: rhbp, a construct noun within a causal clause (o); Deut. 27.26: Tn«, passive participle. 27. Paul also follows the LXX in reading 'hung on a tree" in Deut. 21.23 (but cf. HQTemple 64.12). On Paul's use of the LXX here see C. Stanley, Paul and the Language of Scripture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 245-48. 28. Contrast the REB, 'Everyone who relies on obedience to the Law'; cf. Deut. 27.26 REB: 'A curse on anyone who does not fulfil this law by doing all (LXX, Gal. 3.10) that it prescribes'.


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as a religion founded on 'doing', often 'illustrated' from rabbinic writings, both have been exposed as a travesty, and are still with us29— colouring the interpretation also of Deut. 21.22-23. Yet even with this rereading of Galatians, Paul's selection of texts, of Deut. 27.26 linking curse and law, and his creation of an intertextual bond with the curse on the 'hung' one in Deut. 21.23, still focus soteriology and Christology on the one hand, and Torah on the other, fundamentals that must remain part of any dialogue. b. Preaching and Narrative The wider influence of Deut. 21.22-23 illustrates well the creative impact of Scripture on Christian discourse, although where our predecessors saw fulfilment we may now recognize the dynamic interaction between text and experience. 1. As Max Wilcox has argued persuasively, Deut. 21.22-23 (in a nonLXX Greek, possibly following a non-MT Vorlage), and particularly 'hanging on a tree' (v. 22), lies behind the early Christian preaching reflected in Acts 5.30, 'The God of our fathers raised Jesus whom you killed by hanging him on a tree' (cf. 10.39), and in 13.28-30, which has a number of echoes of Deut. 21.23, 'And finding no guilt of death, they asked Pilate to kill him so they completed all that had been written about him; then they took him down from the tree and placed him in a tomb, but God raised him from the dead'.30 'Scripture' has thus provided the language for confession and proclamation, a tradition continued in the 'Martyrs of Lyons and Vienne' where Blandina is 'hung upon a tree' (Eusebius, Hist. Eccl. 5.1.41). 2. It is only John who describes how Jesus' legs would have been broken and his body was taken down 'so the bodies should not remain on the cross on the sabbath [!]' (19.31);31 the Synoptic accounts neither 29. The fundamental work is E.P. Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism (London: SCM Press, 1977). The debate is not closed and the bibliography is extensive, but attention now focuses on the 'covenant markers', circumcision, Sabbath, etc.; see C.E.B. Cranfield,' "The Works of the Law" in the Epistle to the Romans', JSNT 43 (1991), pp. 89-101; J.D.G. Dunn, 'Yet Once More—"The Works of the Law"; A Response', JSNT46 (1992), pp. 99-117. 30. M. Wilcox, '"Upon the Tree"—Deut 21:22-23 in the New Testament', JBL 96 (1977), pp. 85-99 (90-93); also B. Lindars, New Testament Apologetic (London: SCM Press, 1961), pp. 233-34. 31. Wilcox, '"Upon the Tree'", p. 94; Wilcox also finds (less persuasive) allusions in 1 Peter and the Lukan Passion Narrative.

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demand nor offer an explanation for Jesus' immediate burial. Appeals to external parallels for such action based on Deut. 21.22-23 are both weak and mis-placed,32 not least because John separates this from Jesus' burial, which involves different actors. In typically Johannine fashion Scripture is shaping the narrative; given the probable allusion in Jn 19.36 to the Passover Lamb in Exod. 12.10, 'remaining' may establish an intertextual link with Exod. 12.20, 'You shall leave none of it until morning'. Such a shaping of narrative by Scripture is continued by the Gospel of Peter to serve its characteristic hostility towards the Jews: even before the crucifixion Herod confirms their obligation to bury Jesus 'for it is written in the law that the sun should not set upon a killed[!] man' (2.5); as supernatural darkness falls, provoking general alarm, the same words are repeated, exposing their legalistic hypocrisy (5.15).33 3. Before long Christian exegetes were to interweave other texts: the 'free/wood' carried by Isaac for his 'sacrifice' or the ram 'hanging', divinely provided as his substitute (Gen. 22.6, 13);34 the tree in the Garden of Genesis 2-3, and 'your life hanging' in Deut. 28.66 (LXX).35 c. Justin Martyr Despite its importance for Paul, Deut. 21.22-23 appears surprisingly infrequently in early Christian writings (before Chrysostom and Cyril of Alexandria). Its first major exponent is Justin Martyr, who, possibly independently, also associates it with Deut. 27.26. Once again we can 32. R.E. Brown, The Death of the Messiah (New York: Doubleday; London: Chapman, 1994), II, p. 1174, cites Philo, Place. 83 (also R. Schnackenburg, The Gospel according to St John [trans. K. Smyth; New York: Crossroad, 1968-83], III, p. 288) suggesting 'that on special days there was greater pressure for observance'; however, here the bodies of the crucified are taken down in honour of the Emperor's birthday] Josephus, War 4.5.2, says that even condemned criminals when crucified are taken down and buried 'before the setting of the sun', but as evidence for Jewish concern for burial; compare c. Apion 2.211. 33. The setting of the sun recalls Jos. 8.29; Josephus, War 4.5.2 (n. 32); Philo, Spec. Leg. 3.152 [28], where Deut. 21.23 again expresses consideration for the dead. 34. Wilcox's argument for Isaac allusions within the NT ('"Upon the Tree"', pp. 97-99) lack clear linguistic echoes. An allusion to the ram of Gen. 22 as 'hanging' (not LXX), without 'the tree', appears first in Melito, Fragment 12 (S. Hall, Melito ofSardis: On Pascha and Fragments [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979], pp. 76-77); however, Melito does not cite Deut. 21.23. 35. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 4.10.2, cites Deut. 28.66 (LXX) of the one shown 'as hanging on the tree'.


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only note the main contours of his argument. It is, however, particularly important here, set within Justin's debate with Trypho and his rejection of Jewish rights and ability to interpret Scripture. Here it is Trypho who introduces the Deuteronomic injunction that crucifixion brings or implies a curse (from God) (Deut. 21.23) as a far greater obstacle than the mere assertion of a suffering Messiah;36 he repeats it three times before Justin finally takes it up: 'This so-called Christ of yours was dishonourable and degraded for he fell foul of the ultimate curse (mid pec) in the law of God for he was crucified' (Dial. 32.1); 'For the crucified one is said to be cursed [eTUKOttdpctTOi;; cf. Gal. 3.13; Deut. 27.26] in the law' (89.2); 'he was crucified and died thus shamefully and dishonourably the death that is cursed (KeKaxripaiievot;, Deut. 21.23 LXX) in the law' (90.1).37 The touch of realism in Justin's hesitancy to take up the challenge tempts us to forget that he is pulling the strings, or wielding the pen; is this a genuine Jewish reading of the text? Justin's answer is tortuous: the curse is only 'apparent' (90.3), while 'the cross' is pervasive through Scripture. In the brazen serpent incident (Num. 21.8-9), where God apparently commanded Moses to act (make an image) in contradiction to the Law he gave, the people gazed at the serpent Moses lifted up and were freed from the bites of the serpents plaguing them; this serpent, evoking the one cursed by God in Genesis 3, which was the source of death, was not itself the means of salvation but was a type of Christ, who brought deliverance from the 'bites of the serpent', fulfilling Isa. 27.1 (Dial. 91.4; 94.1-5; 111-12). Only then does Justin cite Deut. 27.26, the curse on all who do not obey the whole Law, but as establishing all people, Jew and Gentile alike, as 'under a curse'.38 This alone refutes their right to charge Jesus as 'remaining cursed': rather, he took upon himself the curse which lay upon all humankind (95). Only now can Justin tackle Deut. 21.23: it does not mean 'this crucified one is cursed by God',39 but foresees the Jewish response to 36. For the whole section see W.C. van Unnik, 'Der Fluch der Gekreuzigten: Deuteronomium 21,23 in der Deutung Justinus des Martyres', in C. Andresen and G. Klein (eds.), Theologia Crucis—Signum Crucis: Festschrift fur Erich Dinkier zum 70. Geburtstag (Tubingen: Mohr, 1979), pp. 483-99; O. Skarsaune, The Proof from Prophecy: A Study in Justin Martyr's Proof-Text Tradition (NovTSup, 56; Leiden: Brill, 1987), pp. 216-20. 37. Note the reversal 'crucified and died' (cf. n. 64). 38. His text follows Paul's closely, but his completely different application leads van Unnik, 'Der Fluch', pp. 498-99, to deny any real dependence. 39. Although his quotation agrees with Paul's text, his elaboration, using the

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Jesus; the Jewish endeavour to curse Christians and to demonstrate that Christ was crucified as 'cursed and an enemy of God' (cf. 93.4) is an obscene response to what he did in accordance with God's will, and itself fulfils Deut. 21.23—the curse on the one who hangs upon the cross is the curse the Jews seek to effect (95.2-96.2).40 Deut. 21.23 is thus integrated with Justin's repeated charges of extreme Jewish hostility against the Christians, among which 'cursing' is but one, albeit significant, component: they curse in their synagogues those who believe in Jesus (16.14; 93.4; 95.4; 96.2; 108.3; 133.2) and even curse Jesus himself (95.4; 133.6).41 It is a cursing that sometimes has murderous intent (95.4; 122.2; 133.6; through the Gentiles: 16.4; 96.2). In this the Jews are only acting in continuity with their killing of Jesus, for which they fail to repent (133.6), and with the killing of the prophets before him (16.4).Yet in sharp contrast to their 'ceaseless cursing of him and those who belong to him' shines Jesus' injunction that Christians should love those who hate them and 'bless those who curse them' (133.6: Lk. 6.28; cf. 96.3: Lk. 6.35-6).42 We need not pursue here the debate as to what, if any, reality lies behind the charges of 'cursing', particularly when given a liturgical context (16.4; 137.2).43 Arguments for such a malediction and for other counter-measures, however, have been used to make the Jewish response appear far more reprehensible than either Christian provocation or counter-polemic. Yet any assessment of the issue must recognize that these biblical models have helped shape Justin's account and his frequent accusation that the Jews curse Christ and Christians. More fundamentally, the text becomes a locus where blessing belongs to the Christians, curse to the Jews.

participle (also 93.4) and 'of God' [not said by Trypho!], echoes the Septuagint. 40. In 97.2, Exod. 17.2 is fulfilled by Jesus' remaining on the cross until evening, suggesting Deut. 21.23 is still in the background. 41. They also revile or despise (137.2), reject and dishonour (16.4), blaspheme (35.8; 122.2; 126.1), anathematize (47.4), profane (120.4 from Mai. 1.11). 42. The quotations are not exact but note KotTCcpav from Lk. 6.28. At 35.8 Christians pray for the Jews. 43. W. Horbury, 'The Benediction of the Minim and Early Jewish-Christian Controversy', JTS 33 (1982), pp. 19-61; R. Kimelman, 'Birkat Ha-Minim and the Lack of Evidence for an Anti-Christian Jewish Prayer in Late Antiquity', in E.P. Sanders et al. (eds.), Jewish and Christian Self-Definition. II. Aspects of Judaism in the Graeco-Roman Period (London: SCM Press, 1981), pp. 226-44.


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Deuteronomy 21.22-23 as Old Testament: Translation and Interpretation The issue here may be stated most simply by a number of examples: REB:

When someone is convicted of a capital offence and is put to death, and you hang him on a gibbet, his body must not remain there overnight; it must be buried on the same day. Anyone hanged is accursed in the sight of God, and the land which the LORD your God is giving you as your holding must not be polluted (NEB: '...his body shall not remain on the gibbet overnight; you shall bury it on the same day, for a hanged man is offensive in the sight of God. You shall not...'). NTV: If a man guilty of a capital offence is put to death and his body is hung on a tree, you must not leave his body on the tree overnight. Be sure to bury him that same day, because anyone who is hung on a tree is under God's curse. You must not desecrate the land the LORD your God is giving you as an inheritance. NRSV: When someone (RSV a man) is convicted of a crime punishable by death, and is executed, and you hang him on a tree, his corpse shall not remain all night upon the tree; you shall bury him that same day, for anyone hung on a tree is under God's curse. You must not defile the land that the LORD your God is giving you for possession (RSV: ...tree, but you shall bury..., for a hanged man is accursed by God; you shall not defile the land which the LORD your God gives you for an inheritance). IPS: If a man is guilty of a capital offence and is put to death, and you impale him on a stake, you must not let his corpse remain on the stake overnight, but must bury him on the same day. For an impaled body is an affront to God: you shall not defile the land that the LORD your God is giving you to possess.44 The interpretative issues involved are well known: a. punctuation alternatives adjudicate with significant consequences the uncertain relationship

44. The Torah: The Five Books of Moses. A New Translation of the Holy Scriptures according to the Massoretic Text. First Section (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1967).

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between the clauses.45 b. Undoubtedly the passage describes not a form of execution but the subsequent public exposure of the corpse. The translation 'impale' (IPS) reflects later debate regarding the semantic range of this verb (n^n), or its Aramaic equivalent (n1?^).46 Whether or not this, together with 'impaled body',41 expresses a conscious desire to exclude the Christian application, the REB's semi-technical 'gibbet' (also at Jos. 8.29 and Gal. 3.13) has the reverse effect.48 c. More problematic for the translator is the ambiguous description of the hanged one as 'a curse of God' (DTr^K n^p). As we shall see, the construct may be objective ('curse to God') or subjective ('cursed by God'). Paul, despite omitting 'of God', opted for the latter, following, as we have seen, the LXX with its passive participle and agent, 'cursed by God', an interpretation not adopted by the other Greek versions. While the JPS, accompanied only by the NEB, represents the former possibility, that the 'hung' one causes God offence or affront, the weight of 'Christian' translation follows Paul. Indeed, in ominous agreement, the REB and RSV adopt the verbal 'accursed',49 anticipating neatly Gal. 3.13 ('cursed'), while the NIV's and NRSV's retention of a noun ('curse') is countered by the unequivocal 'under God's'. The 'consensus' is illustrated by A.D.H. Mayes's rejection of the objective genitive: 'However, the latter is not supported by the traditional understanding of the text, represented by LXX and Vulgate (cf. also Gal. 3:13)';50 whose tradition is this?51

45. Starting a new sentence 'Anyone hanged...' (REB) with no causal link offers Paul succour! 46. See J. Baumgarten, 'Does TLH in the Temple Scroll Refer to Crucifixion?', JBL 91 (1972), pp. 472-81 (476); Philo, Spec. Leg. 3.151-12 (avaaicoXojciO), sometimes cited in support of 'impalement' more probably interprets Deut. 21.23 as crucifixion. 47. Similarly the Good News Bible, 'corpse', although "i^n is masculine. 48. Good News Bible: 'hanging on a posf—also added to v. 23 (cf. NRSV, NIV and n. 27). 49. Also the Jerusalem Bible. 50. A.D.H. Mayes, Deuteronomy (NCB; London: Marshall, Morgan & Scott, 1979), p. 305. 51. Contrast the extensive support for the objective genitive in Jewish interpretation: M.J. Bernstein, ''i^n DTI^R n^p o (Deut 21:23): A Study in Early Jewish Exegesis', JQR 74 (1983), pp. 21-45, and below.


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Deuteronomy 21.23 as Old Testament: History and Interpretation Here, again, we can only indicate major areas of debate. It is widely assumed that Paul was driven to his own (tortuous) reinterpretation of Deut. 21.23 because this text was already used by Jewish opponents, even by the persecutor 'Saul', against the 'blasphemous' preaching of a crucified Messiah.52 Yet evidence for Jews interpreting Deut. 21.23 to show that one crucified was cursed by God and could not be the Messiah is notoriously thin; in fact it is provided only by Jews who speak through Christian mouths: Justin's Trypho, Jews whose objections provoke Tertullian's alternative exegesis, those later demanded by Jerome's exegetical tradition and argument.53 Instead, efforts to uncover a hidden reference to Jesus as 'the hanged one' in rabbinic texts have proved vain,54 while surviving Jewish exegesis offers little further support.55 The problem was more arguably an internal one: Irenaeus cites Deut. 21.23 in an inner-Christian argument, Tertullian debates it with Marcion, as perhaps did Justin before him.56 While Jewish interpretation of Deut. 21.23 may yet have light to throw on Jesus' crucifixion and burial,57 one thing we cannot say is that 'every Jew opposed to Jesus could—indeed had—to say with Deut. 21.22-23: This one who has been hung on the cross has suffered his just 52. See U. Wilkens, 'Statements on the Development of Paul's View of the Law', in M. Hooker and S. Wilson (eds.), Paul and Paulinism: Essays in Honour of C.K. Barrett (London: SPCK, 1982), pp. 17-26; F.F. Bruce, The Curse of the Law', in Hooker and Wilson (eds.), Paul and Paulinism, pp. 27-36. H. Raisanen, Jesus, Paul and Torah (trans. D. Orton; JSNTSup, 43; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), pp. 42-44, rejects the popular view that reflection on this text provoked Paul's rejection of the Law. 53. On Trypho's 'Jewish?' objection see above, p. 327; Tertullian, adv. Jud. 10 and van Unnik, 'Der Fluch', p. 484; Jerome, above p. 324. Jerome's reference to the reading of the lost Dialogue of Jason and Papiscus as 'the one hanged is an insult (XoiSopia) of God' tells us nothing about the context (in Gal. 3.13-14 [PL 26.387]). 54. For example, R.T. Herford, Christianity in Talmud and Midrash (London: Williams & Norgate, 1903, repr. New York: Ktav, n.d.), pp. 86-87, and the critique by J. Maier, Jesus von Nazareth in der talmudischen Uberlieferung (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1978), pp. 235-37, who notes instead the significant failure by rabbinic texts to exploit the potential allusion to Jesus. 55. Bernstein, 'Study', and below pp. 333-34; also Salvesen, Symmachus, p. 156. 56. Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 3.28.3; 4.20.2; 5.18.1; Tertullian, Adv. Marc. 3.18.1; 5.3.10. 57. See Brown, Death of the Messiah, I, pp. 532-33, 541; II, pp. 1209-11.

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punishment; he died "cursed of God!'".58 Here, the Christian reading of the text has become history, and the necessity of that 'had' excludes all other readings. Conclusion These readings of Deut. 21.22-3 illustrate graphically the 'Old Testament' as Christian Scripture. In a Christian context a 'canonical' reading will have to recognize the creative potential of the text, so that new narratives, including the 'theological narrative' of Galatians 3, cannot be told without it or disentangled from it, while, retrospectively, this weight of interpretative history has become part of the signification of these verses. As 'Old Testament' interpretative key the text locates Jesus' death firmly in a Jewish context—no longer in its Roman political but in a Jewish religious setting, in terms of Torah and curse.59 Intriguingly, this is not alien to later Jewish traditions about Jesus, that he was stoned or even hung, significantly without appeal to Deut. 21.22-23, although how this has happened is far from clear.60 However, the theological consequences have had a long, well-rehearsed history. More fundamentally, the text has come to encapsulate the division between Judaism and Christianity. Even when this is not projected onto history, 61 in the interaction between text and community—the community's values and needs shaping the reading of the text, the text contributing to the community's self-understanding—the text has also shaped the perception of 'the other', Judaism. Again, the theological consequences are far-reaching, and the destructive potential of this reading, already visible in Justin's handling, must force the interpreter to a judgment on it, and to criteria for that judgment. Only by recognizing this as a contextualized reading can we escape the consequences of absolutism. The alternative may not only be to return to an 'objective', historical 58. P. Stuhlmacher, Jesus of Nazareth—Christ of Faith (trans. S. Schatzmann; Peabody, MA: Hendrikson, 1993), p. 35; he describes this as a 'logical and dreadful interpretation of Jesus' death'. 59. See W.D. Davies, Paul and Rabbinic Judaism (London: SPCK, 1948), pp. 227-28. 60. Cf. b. San. 43a; see Maier, Jesus von Nazareth, pp. 219-32, esp. p. 227 and nn. 464-65. 61. M. Hengel, The Son of God, repr. in The Cross of the Son of God (London: SCM Press, 1986), pp. 1-90 (pp. 65-66), presents this as implicit in the life and death of Jesus from the beginning.


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critical reading, in which this text may lose any real creativity.62 Although sometimes motivated by a Christian agenda concerned with crucifixion, Deut. 21.22-23 and its early interpretation has received disproportionate attention, revealing alternative channels of creativity in new contexts.631 IQTemple 64.7-12 and 4QpNah 3-4 i 6-8 suggest that, contrary to the rabbinic consensus for 'exposure' (m. San. 6.4; etc.), others found in the text a reference to or even mandate for crucifixion,64 locating Christian usage within a broader first-century textual and interpretative spectrum. Yet, as Bernstein has shown, there is little parallel to the signal power that the 'curse of God', removed from its proper context, assumes for Paul. Nonetheless, the text does generate a range of interpretations, taking the genitive either as subjective or, more frequently, as objective.65 If we find syntactically unpersuasive but historically suggestive the view that the 'curser of God' is hung (already, Josephus, Ant. 4.202),66 we may pause longer over the insight that the exposed body is 'a reproach unto God', even because the one hanged is also in the image of God: 'it is a slight to the King because man is made in the divine image'.67 62. G. von Rad, Deuteronomy (trans. D. Barton; OTL; London: SCM Press, 1966), p. 138, is remarkably evasive, speaking of 'the maxim explaining the reason for the ordinance' and 'about being cast out into the domain of the curse'; more overtly theological, I. Cairns, Word and Presence: A Commentary on the Book of Deuteronomy (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans; Edinburgh: Handsel Press, 1992), pp. 19293, sees a real continuity with Gal. 3.13 in 'God's implacable hostility to all the signs of death', but his exegetical justification for this is weak. 63. Bernstein, 'Study'; J. Fitzmyer, 'Crucifixion in Ancient Palestine, Qumran Literature and the New Testament', CBQ 40 (1978), pp. 493-513. 64. Compare Philo (n. 46); the Peshitta's 'is crucified...and is put to death' can now be compared to 1 IQTemple 64.10-11: see M.O. Wise, A Critical Study of the Temple Scroll from Qumran Cave 11 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), pp. 121-27; also M.P. Horgan, Pesharim: Qumran Interpretations of Biblical Books (CBQMS, 8; Washington: Catholic Biblical Association, 1979), pp. 176-79. Whether the reference is to crucifixion or hanging constitutes a further debate: see E. Levine, The Aramaic Version of the Bible: Contents and Context (BZAW, 174; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1988), pp. 158-59; Baumgarten, 'TLH in the Temple Scroll'; D. Halperin, 'Crucifixion, the Nahum Pesher, and the Rabbinic Penalty of Strangulation', JJS 32 (1981), pp. 32-46. 65. Surveyed by Bernstein, 'Study'. 66. Bernstein, 'Study', pp. 26-28; Brown, Death of the Messiah, I, pp. 532-33. 67. J. Hertz (ed.), The Pentateuch and the Haftorahs (London: Soncino Press, 1950), p. 842, quoting Rashi with approval.

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While Christianity may not have 'taken away [Judaism's] sacred book', what did happen was the disenfranchisement of Jewish interpretation of that book, a process which played no small part in the 'injustice' to which Harnack pointed.68 Alternative readings may be no less contextualized than those which take place in a Christian setting,69 but they equally merit a hearing. Indeed, in an age of dehumanization as well as of dialogue, they may speak across the boundaries.

68. A. Lacocque, '"Old Testament" in Protestant Tradition', p. 124: 'The Jews were disowned of their Scriptures, which, it was taught, had never been understood by their mechanical writers'. 69. M. Hengel, Crucifixion, repr. in The Cross of the Son of God, pp. 93-185 (177), suggests that the countless crucifixions of Jews by the Romans helped shape rabbinic exegesis of the verse.

LIBERATION FROM THE POWERS:

SUPERNATURAL SPIRITS OR SOCIETAL STRUCTURES?

Andrew T. Lincoln

When the attempt is made to relate the Bible to social and political issues in the contemporary world, the writings of Paul have presented difficulties. The apostle's eschatological convictions about an imminent end and his accompanying political quietism made deriving social or political ethics from his writings seem an unpromising project for all but the most politically conservative. Recent comparisons of the social ethos reflected in Paul's writings, stemming from the interaction between his Jewish heritage and his interpretation of the gospel, with that of GraecoRoman society have opened up some new possibilities. But for quite a while one of the few ways that appeared to offer promise and attracted interpreters was an exploration of his language about the cosmic powers, which previously in the major investigations1 and in the commentaries was seen as referring to spiritual agencies or beings, but was now taken as applying to political ideologies and social structures. Since this approach has gained quite wide and popular acceptance through the work of J.H. Yoder2 and has also experienced a new lease of life in recent times through the brilliant trilogy of Walter Wink,3 which in turn has encountered sharp opposition in the writings of C.E. Arnold,4 the 1. Cf. O. Everling, Die paulinische Angelologie und Ddmonologie (Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1888); M. Dibelius, Die Geisterwelt im Glauben des Paulus (Gottingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1909); W. Grundmann, Der Begriff der Kraft in der neutestamentlichen Gedankenwelt (BWANT, 8; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1932). 2. The Politics of Jesus (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2nd edn, 1994). 3. Naming the Powers (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984); Unmasking the Powers (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1986); Engaging the Powers (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992). 4. Ephesians: Power and Magic (SNTSMS, 63; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989); Powers of Darkness (Leicester: Inter-Varsity Press, 1992).

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issue of the interpretative claims and moves that are made in the process of identifying the powers may be worthy of brief reconsideration. 1. Preliminary Considerations Perhaps the fundamental hermeneutical question is whether there is a real issue to be discussed. At a time when the notions of the indeterminacy of texts, the possibility of multiple meanings and the validity of pluralistic readings are in vogue, does it matter whether the principalities and powers in the Pauline Corpus are read in terms of supernatural forces or ideologies and political structures? If the former reading is still found helpful by some communities (perhaps those with an interest in charismatic experience and theology) and the latter has been found useful by others (say, those with an interest in political struggle and liberation theology), and if others want to combine the two readings, is it not at best old-fashioned and pedantic and at worst hermeneutically naive to be concerned about the status of particular readings and their exegetical basis? But openness to a variety of readings need not mean any interpretation goes. Radical indeterminacy is highly questionable. What is needed is a recognition of both elements of indeterminacy and elements of determinacy within the meanings of texts.5 And on this basis it can still be said that some interpretations are to be ruled out as accounts of what marks on the paper would have communicated to ancient readers. In addition, those concerned with the ethics of interpretation do not hold that all readings are equally valid. As is frequently pointed out, the notion that 'a reading is valid if it is found useful by a particular interpretative community' is scarcely viable as a general criterion, as, to name only one example, the history of readings of Scripture affirming apartheid makes clear. This too means that the attempt at clarity about the claims being made about the meanings of texts remains incumbent on interpreters. In the light of these broader considerations it is worth making two further preliminary observations, which, though straightforward, are frequently not kept in sight and the neglect of which contributes to a confusion and loss of perspective in the discussion. First, although it is 5. For a fascinating recent argument that present meaning arises precisely out of the interaction between word and world, signifier and signified, presence and absence, fixity and freeplay, determinacy and indeterminacy, see V. Cunningham, In the Reading Gaol: Postmodernity, Texts and History (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994).

LINCOLN Liberation from the Powers

337

naive to believe, even if there are determinate elements in texts, that one can operate with any strict distinction between exegesis and interpretation, since the inevitable dialectic between the past world of the text and the present situation of the interpreter affects both enterprises, it is still helpful to distinguish between the attempts to answer two different questions. One question is, What reading, to the best of our knowledge, most adequately explains the force of the language about the powers for writer and readers in the context of the first century CE?6 The other is, Given the first-century reference of the language of the texts, how may contemporary interpreters best provide a reading that appropriates that language for their own time and setting? Obviously, while the first question will be of significance to all students of early Christianity, the second will be of concern primarily for those for whom the New Testament forms an important resource for critical appropriation in the construction of a contemporary Christian theology and ethic. The second observation relates mainly to this second question and is that discussion of the interpretation of the powers turns out to be a subheading under the topic of evil.7 This is a reminder that the topic needs to be placed in context and the major context is the problem of evil and human life in the face of evil. When this wider context is neglected, there is the danger of being side-tracked or of losing the forest for the trees in the attempt to identify the powers. Discussion of Paul and the cosmic powers is really discussion of the Pauline Corpus and the cosmic powers. While Paul himself talks of them in only two places—1 Cor. 15.24-27 and Rom. 8.38 (though some might also want to include the reference to 'the rulers of this age' in 1 Cor. 2.6, 8), it is Colossians (1.16; cf. also 1.20; 2.10, 15) and Ephesians (1.21; 3.10; 6.12) that contain most of the references to these powers. Some interpreters also wish to bring the phrase 'the elements of 6. See E.S. Fiorenza's discussion of an ethic of historical reading, which 'changes the task of interpretation from finding out "what the text meant" to the question of what kind of reading can do justice to the text in its historical contexts' ('The Ethics of Interpretation: De-Centering Biblical Scholarship', JBL 107 [1988], p. 14). 7. This is of course to hold, with most scholars and contra W. Carr, Angels and Principalities: The Background, Meaning and Development of the Pauline Phrase hai archai kai hai exousiai (SNTSMS, 42; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), that, although in some instances the powers may be viewed as good or as neutral, in the majority of cases in the Pauline Corpus they are treated as hostile forces.

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the world' (Col. 2.8, 20; cf. also Gal. 4.3, 9) into the discussion and either relate these elements closely to or identify them with the powers. Since Ephesians explicitly links the powers with the devil (6.11) or evil one (6.16), this figure also frequently plays some role in the discussion. While Colossians makes no explicit reference to such a being (but cf. 'the authority of darkness' in 1.13) and the undisputed Paulines speak of Satan (cf. Rom. 16.20; 1 Cor. 5.5; 7.5; 2 Cor. 2.11; 11.14; 12.7; 1 Thess. 2.18; cf. also 2 Thess. 2.9) but not in any direct connection with the powers, Ephesians elsewhere talks of the devil in 4.27 and of 'the ruler of the realm of the air, of the spirit that is now at work in those who are disobedient' in 2.2. Despite the link with the devil or Satan in both cases, the discussion of the cosmic powers is confined to the Pauline Corpus and is not to be confused with that of demons and exorcism in the Synoptic Gospels and Acts. This is not the place either for detailed exegesis of the key passages8 or for summarizing the history of religions discussion about the view of principalities and powers in the Jewish and Graeco-Roman worlds.9 In any case, whatever may be said about their relation to human institutions, there is no dispute that in the first century CE the cosmic powers were viewed as real angelic or spiritual intermediaries inhabiting the heavenly realms. What is disputed is whether in the Pauline Corpus this understanding was simply taken over or whether, and if so, how, it was significantly altered to take in the fresh connotations that can be appropriated for contemporary social ethics. 2. Contributors to the Recent Debate Here only a brief evaluation can be provided of a few of the more influential contributors to the appropriation of the cosmic powers in terms of ideologies and social forces.10 The church historian G.E. Rupp 8. On the passages in Colossians and Ephesians, cf., for example, P.T. O'Brien, Colossians, Philemon (WBC, 44; Waco: Word, 1982) and my Ephesians (WBC, 42; Dallas: Word, 1990). 9. In addition to the works cited in n. 1, see the recent surveys in Carr, Angels and Principalities, pp. 7-43; Wink, Naming the Powers, pp. 13-35; Arnold, Ephesians: Power and Magic, pp. 2-69. 10. A fuller treatment would need to include mention of the following among other works in English: J.S. Stewart, 'On a Neglected Emphasis in New Testament Theology', SJT 4 (1951), pp. 292-301; G.H.C. MacGregor, 'Principalities and Powers: The Cosmic Background of Paul's Thought', NTS 1 (1954-55), pp. 17-28; C. Morrison, The Powers That Be (London: SCM Press, 1960); H. Schlier,

LINCOLN Liberation from the Powers

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is usually credited with having been the first to put forward this suggestion in the English-speaking world in his Principalities and Powers (1952).11 This is primarily a popular Christian perspective on history, based on talks given on the BBC, in which its author responds in the wake of the Second World War to a perceived loss of confidence in civilization and the dogma of progress and the need for refashioning a rationale for Christian political and social action. Despite its title, only the first chapter discusses principalities and powers at any length. Rupp is quite clear about the original force of these terms for Paul. Paul seems to have found the expression in late Jewish apocalyptic thought, and to have applied it to a common conception of the Hellenic world, the belief in supernatural cosmic forces, a vast hierarchy of angelic and demonic beings who inhabited the stars, and who, all-seeing and all1 /^ knowing, were the arbiters of human destiny.

With no mention of any influences on his thought, except Bultmann's demythologizing of the powers, to which he reacts negatively, and no attempt to ground his suggestion exegetically in Paul, he simply sees a parallel in his own time with 'the giant and impersonal forces of history'.13 People in Paul's day believed in the reality of principalities and powers because they 'felt themselves to be no more than the playthings of great historical forces. In this it is very much like our world.'14 Rupp gives no indication of knowledge of the work of Oscar Cullmann, which had by this time already attempted to develop the notion of a close connection within Paul's own writings between the powers and human institutions. In Christ and Time (1946; ET 1951),15 Principalities and Powers in the New Testament (El; Freiburg: Herder, 1961); W. Stringfellow, Free in Obedience (New York : Seabury, 1964), pp. 49-73; J.Y. Lee, 'Interpreting the Demonic Powers in Pauline Thought', NovT 12 (1970), pp. 54-69; W. Stringfellow, An Ethic for Christians and other Aliens in a Strange Land (Waco: Word, 1973), pp. 77-94; J.R.W. Stott, God's New Society (Leicester: Inter-Varsity Press, 1979), pp. 267-75; P.T. O'Brien, 'Principalities and Powers: Opponents of the Church', in D.A. Carson (ed.), Biblical Interpretation and the Church (Exeter. Paternoster, 1984), pp. 110-50. 11. London: Epworth. 12. Principalities, p. 11 13. Principalities, p. 94 14. Principalities, p. 13 15. London: SCM Press, 3rd edn, 1962, pp. 191-210. This discussion is extended in The State and the New Testament (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1956), pp. 50-70,95-114.

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Cullmann appeals to the 'abundantly attested late Jewish belief that all peoples are ruled through angels'16 in order to claim that this belief informed Paul's thinking to such an extent that the use both of otp%ovTe

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