The Significance of Sinai: Traditions About Sinai and Divine Revelation in Judaism and Christianity (Themes in Biblical Narrative)

The Significance of Sinai

THEMES IN

BIBLICAL NARRATIVE JEWISH AND CHRISTIAN TRADITIONS Editorial Board GEORGE H. VAN KOOTEN, Groningen ROBERT A. KUGLER, Portland, Oregon LOREN T. STUCKENBRUCK, Durham Assistant Editor FREEK VAN DER STEEN Advisory Board REINHARD FELDMEIER, Göttingen – JUDITH LIEU, Cambridge FLORENTINO GARCÍA MARTÍNEZ, Groningen-Leuven HINDY NAJMAN, Toronto MARTTI NISSINEN, Helsinki – ED NOORT, Groningen

VOLUME 12

The Significance of Sinai Traditions about Sinai and Divine Revelation in Judaism and Christianity

Edited by

George J. Brooke, Hindy Najman and Loren T. Stuckenbruck Editorial Assistance

Eva Mroczek, Brauna Doidge and Nathalie LaCoste

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2008

Cover illustration from: Simon Levi Ginzburg’s Illustrated Custumal, Minhagim-Book of Venice, 1593. This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data LC Control No.: 2008038904

ISSN 1388-3909 ISBN 978 90 04 17018 6 Copyright 2008 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

CONTENTS Editorial Statement ..................................................................... Introduction ................................................................................

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Some Unanticipated Consequences of the Sinai Revelation: A Religion of Laws ................................................................. James L. Kugel

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“Fire, Cloud, and Deep Darkness” (Deuteronomy 5:22): Deuteronomy’s Recasting of Revelation ................................ Marc Zvi Brettler

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Priestly Prophets at Qumran: Summoning Sinai through the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice ...................................................... Judith H. Newman

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Moving Mountains: From Sinai to Jerusalem ............................ George J. Brooke

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Moses, David and Scribal Revelation: Preservation and Renewal in Second Temple Jewish Textual Traditions ......... Eva Mroczek

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The Giving of the Torah at Sinai and the Ethics of the Qumran Community .............................................................. Marcus Tso

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Josephus’ “Theokratia” and Mosaic Discourse: The Actualization of the Revelation at Sinai ................................ Zuleika Rodgers

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Why did Paul include an Exegesis of Moses’ Shining Face (Exod 34) in 2 Cor 3? ............................................................. Moses’ Strength, Well-being and (Transitory) Glory, according to Philo, Josephus, Paul, and the Corinthian Sophists George H. van Kooten

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In the Mirror of the Divine Face: The Enochic Features of the Exagoge of Ezekiel the Tragedian ................................ Andrei Orlov Torah and Eschatology in the Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch .......... Matthias Henze Can the Homilists Cross the Sea Again? Revelation in Mekilta Shirata .......................................................................... Ishay Rosen-Zvi

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Hearing and Seeing at Sinai: Interpretive Trajectories ............ Steven D. Fraade

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The Giving of the Torah: Targumic Perspectives .................... Charles Thomas Robert Hayward

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God’s Back! What did Moses see on Sinai? .............................. Diana Lipton

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Sinai in Art and Architecture .................................................... David Brown

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Sinai since Spinoza: Reflections on Revelation in Modern Jewish Thought ....................................................................... Paul Franks

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Index of Modern Authors ......................................................... Subject Index .............................................................................. Index of Primary Texts ..............................................................

355 363 368

EDITORIAL STATEMENT Themes in Biblical Narrative publishes studies dealing with early interpretations of Biblical narrative materials. The series includes congress volumes and monographs. Publications are usually the result of a reworking of papers presented during a TBN-conference on a particular narrative, e.g. the Balaam story, or a specific theme, for instance: ‘clean and unclean’ in the Hebrew Bible, or: ‘the ru’ah adonai and anthropological models of humanity’. Having treated the basic texts for this narrative or theme, other contributions follow its earliest interpretations and receptions throughout the subsequent phases of ancient Judaism, early Christianity, and if appropriate Islam. Also studies which illuminate the successive inculturations into the various Umwelts—the Ancient Near East, the Graeco-Roman World—are included. Extensions to modern Bible receptions and discussions of hermeneutical questions are welcomed, if they are related explicitly to the study of early receptions of Biblical texts and traditions. Contributions to the series are written by specialists in the relevant literary corpora. The series is intended for scholars and advanced students of theology, linguistics and literature. The series is published in co-operation with the University of Groningen (The Netherlands), Durham University (United Kingdom), and Lewis & Clark College (USA). It includes monographs and congress volumes in the English language, and is intended for international distribution on a scholarly level. More information on the series http://www.xs4all.nl/~fvds/tbn/

INTRODUCTION In July 2007 a group of us gathered at the Department of Theology and Religion in the University of Durham to discuss “The Giving of the Torah at Sinai.” Contributors had been solicited to investigate the centrality of the theme in biblical, extra-biblical, rabbinic, early Christian, artistic and later philosophical depictions. Many of the conference participants anticipated a three-day long discussion of Sinai as the paradigm for all other revelation. The assumption was that Sinai would then come to be seen all the more clearly as the exclusive and normative model for subsequent revelation in Judaism, whether as the basis for the authoritative extrapolation of what had taken place there or as the touchstone for any claim to revelatory experience of the divine. For non-Jewish traditions one could well expect that Sinai was the defining moment for revelation and covenant-making. Thus we imagined that our conference in Durham and our subsequent volume would be a work that would discuss Sinai as a paradigm for imagining all subsequent revelations in Judaism and Christianity. However, somewhat to the surprise of the editors of this volume, the papers that were delivered at the conference and that have eventually been revised for inclusion in this volume did not focus exclusively on the centrality of Sinai. Neither did they all argue that Sinai was the paradigmatic revelatory event. Instead, what emerged were very nuanced discussions of the various ways in which Sinai was not central or privileged, but rather relativized amongst many other examples of revelation in the history of ancient Judaism and beyond. This was true in discussions of Qumran literature, in analyses of the writings of Philo and Josephus, in expositions of tannaitic midrash, in fresh readings of the targums, and so on. The openness and willingness of the participants in the symposium to reconsider longstanding presuppositions is what intrigued many of us and will probably surprise our readers as well. The essays presented here provide glimpses of how in antiquity and more recently some Jews and Christians sought to rewrite or even replace the moment of Sinai with other important moments of revelation and communication with the divine. In this it seems in particular that the location of revelation was seen as less and less significant; until

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modern times Sinai as a place was not significant for pilgrimage, even though a monastery was established at its base. But changes took place in two other respects as well. First, it is evident that the scriptural narratives of the Sinaitic revelation were revisited and transformed in a number of intriguing ways, not least to explain what was perceived as problematic or awkward in the plain sense of the text. Miraculous theophany, anthropomorphic description of the divine, the role of Moses as actor or mediator, the response of Israel, were all handled with exegetical skills that released the story of what happened and especially the divine participant in it from the control of the text itself so that everything could be appropriated afresh. Second, the content of the revelation, especially the significance of covenant, was rethought and reworked in philosophical, political, and theological ways. Several of the studies in this volume represent some of the various ways in which these modifications of the tradition represent competing claims to Sinai in antiquity. Some of the post-biblical texts considered here claim to redo or even replace the Sinai event with a new and better covenantal event. Other essays suggest that there were many occasions for authoritative theophany throughout the history of Judaism. The contributors considered a variety of communities in many different places over a broad chronological span of time. The essays are presented in an order that indicates approximately the chronology of their principal subjects and that puts several naturally together; no subheadings are used in the table of contents to allow the reader to enjoy moving beyond the regular canonical boxes in the very juxtaposition of studies that are presented here. James Kugel provides the opening essay in which he wrestles elegantly with matters of faith and history, challenging Jewish orthodoxy with an appealing interrogation of texts that asks how Jewish tradition arrived at where it is now if its origins were really more in the seventh century B.C.E. than they were in the wilderness at Sinai; he points out some of the ways in which the understanding of divine-human relationships in works like Deuteronomy have been transformed into something prescriptive, a system that successfully both keeps the deity at a distance and proves itself to be remarkably durable. Marc Brettler offers some programmatic comments on how the tradition about Sinai was received as he investigates how a part of the text of Deuteronomy probably interpreted its sources. In particular he considers how Deuteronomy fundamentally recasts its source material to foster the notion that “hear-

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ing (rather than seeing) is believing;” he notes how Deuteronomy plays a careful balancing act, giving the Decalogue and the earlier revelation of law some importance, but it gives it less importance than its sources; and he shows how Deuteronomy fundamentally recasts its source material to justify its core idea that the Mosaic discourse in year 40 is more important than the Sinai/Horeb event. For the late Second Temple period there are four studies that depend on the scrolls from the Qumran caves. Judith Newman’s essay on the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice suggests that they served at Qumran as a transformative and preparatory rite in the community whose purpose was to summon anew, with a striking priestly-prophetic inflection, the divine glory they considered as first revealed at Sinai. The attention of the songs to description rather than provision of hymns to be sung underlines the view that ultimately God’s self-revelation is beyond words. George Brooke offers some clues as to why the Qumran community and the movement of which it was a part, for all its apparent legal stringency, seemed more concerned with facing towards Jerusalem with eschatological hope than with looking back to Sinai; in a way akin to the authors of Deuteronomy itself, the covenanters may well have had a faith that moved mountains, a law-filled faith that yearned for Zion to become truly the dwelling-place of the divine name. Eva Mroczek neatly aligns the transmission of Mosaic discourse with the prophetic nature of scribalism in Second Temple times. She argues that the expansions and changes of Mosaic legal traditions can be illuminated by considering the related tradition of the growth of psalm collections as linked to David; David and Moses, respectively divinely inspired scribes of liturgy and law, are analogous ideal mediatory figures who inspire continuous text production through the example of their own scribal activity—they both collect, arrange and transmit revelation in a perfect and divinely inspired way. Marcus Tso proposes that, alongside the appropriation of the Sinai and other scriptural traditions, at least three other factors—namely community identity, political and cultural contexts, and eschatology—were interwoven with such traditions in the assembling of the group’s ethical worldview; his own essay concentrates on the intermixed roles of scripture and community and individual identity in the ethics of the Qumran community. Beyond the echoes of Sinai in the Qumran caves, other forms of early Judaism and its emerging Christian offshoot had significant things to relay about the Sinaitic traditions. Three studies look in turn at the

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varying rhetorical strategies in texts which are almost contemporary. George van Kooten considers why Paul included an exegesis of Exodus 34 in 2 Corinthians 3. He argues that Paul’s extensive passage on Moses is embedded in his critique of his opponents at Corinth who, he believes, are behaving like sophists. Over against his opponents who may have stressed Moses’ strength and bodily well-being, Paul portrays Moses in a different and surprisingly positive manner: he does not deny his glory, though he indicates its temporary character and he does indeed contrast it with the still greater glory of the new covenant. While van Kooten considers Josephus’ portrayal of Moses in brief to highlight its difference from Paul’s view of him, Zuleika Rodgers assesses more broadly the constitutional interests of Josephus. By examining Josephus understanding of the transmission of Mosaic law—and his own role in that—she argues that it is possible to discern a link between the Sinai event as articulated in Jewish Antiquities and the Jewish theocracy of Against Apion. Josephus’ reflections on good governance and justice— its effects, the relationship between the character of the state and its individuals, and the virtues of the lawgiver and the ideal statesman— show that themes central to political and philosophical discourse in the Greco-Roman world are anticipated and emulated by Jewish traditions. In a similar vein Matthias Henze exposes how the author of Second Baruch, faced with the destruction of the temple, is left with God and Torah, views them both from the perspective of a promised restoration, and embraces Deuteronomic language to call urgently for obedience to the Torah, the only route to righteousness. In all this he seems to be far from feeling disenfranchised, marginalized, or that he was writing out of a sense of opposition to something supposedly more normative; rather, with Sinai in mind, he addresses all Israel in an inclusive manner. A fourth study returns to the issue of the transformation of Moses at Sinai that has formed the focus of van Kooten’s paper. Andrei Orlov argues that the power struggle between the figures of Enoch and Moses can sometimes be seen in a single text. He argues that in the Exagoge of Ezekiel the Tragedian the figure of Moses is indeed highly exalted as the mediator of esoteric revelation, enthroned as a counterpart to the stars, transformed so that his luminous face is a reflection of the glorious face of the deity. But the twist in the tale is that the divine face that is mirrored is that which is represented by Moses’ long-lasting contender, Enoch-Metatron. Rabbinic views, some of them from a somewhat later period, are presented in four essays. Ishay Rosen-Zvi looks at the interpretative

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treatment of the Song of the Sea in Mekhilta. He proposes that in intriguing ways concerning issues of time and revelation this interpretation anticipates literarily much of what can be discerned in the rabbinic discussions of Sinai. And like the Sinai traditions, the text of Mekhilta Shirata has a strategy for provoking fear and providing encouragement. Steven Fraade then considers various interpretative trajectories surrounding Sinai itself, noting in particular how some of these focus on the auditory experience of Israel whilst others stress the visual dimension. With reference to scriptural passages, the Targums, Mekhilta, Philo, and Sifre Deuteronomy, amongst others, Fraade expounds the intriguing diversity of the Jewish representation of the kinds of perception that surround the giving of the Law. Robert Hayward develops some similar topics in his detailed discussion of some targumic traditions. In some there is explicit clarification of the role of Moses, in others there is attention to the whole event as a cultic phenomenon, in yet others care to preserve the integrity and the distance of the divine. Taking the matter of precisely what happened at Sinai further, Diana Lipton wonders about what Moses saw when he ascended Mt. Sinai to collect the second set of commandments. She argues that the notion that God allowed Moses to glimpse his back, but not to see his face, has wrongly dominated the recent history of interpretation and she suggests rather that God showed Moses neither his face nor his back on Mt. Sinai, but offered him a glimpse of the future. For Lipton, reading God’s “back” as an idiomatic reference to the future, reflecting a biblical perception of time now lost to us, sheds new light on traditional Jewish and Christian commentaries on Exodus 33:23. Two concluding studies round out this rich collection. In the first David Brown takes the reader, now viewer, on a journey through Sinai in art and architecture, both Christian and Jewish, to reveal from another dimension that interpretation is as much part of Sinai as the revelation itself. Though often to be qualified by reference to other matters, from the Christian perspective Sinai is the locus of revelation and the setting for depicting Moses as mediator, depictions which are often replete with typological suggestiveness for Christ himself. For Jewish artists Moses and Sinai have non-typological timeless immediacy, especially in the modern period, and recent Jewish architecture has created mountainous synagogues as a sign of differentiated identity. Paul Franks then concludes the collection with a profound meditation on the interrelationship of law, nature and society. Although even in antiquity Greek-speaking Jews equated Torah with nomos and natural

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law, it was Maimonides who most extensively treated nomos as a system of governance in the service of eternal truths. But for Spinoza, Torah is not revelation of eternal truths but is only a system of governance, and Sinai even contains the seeds of the destruction of the state that it constitutes. Franks expounds judiciously how Spinoza’s propositions are dealt with directly and indirectly by Moses Mendelssohn, and in Franz Rozenzweig’s dialogues with Martin Buber. We are grateful to the university funds that have supported this venture financially, especially the funds of the Department of Theology and Religion at the Durham University; the Centre for Biblical Studies and the Research Support Fund of the School of Arts, Histories and Cultures, the University of Manchester; and the University of Toronto. We are also grateful to the Department of Theology and Religion at Durham University for organising accommodation and for hosting the participants in Durham for three delightful and insightful days. In the preparation of this volume we are grateful to the contributors for the timely completion of their revised essays, to Eva Mroczek, for extensive editorial assistance, and to the additional assistance of two undergraduates at the University of Toronto, Brauna Doidge and Nathalie LaCoste. In addition we want to acknowledge the editors of the Themes in Biblical Narrative Series, especially George van Kooten, for accepting this volume. George J. Brooke, University of Manchester Hindy Najman, University of Toronto Loren T. Stuckenbruck, University of Durham

SOME UNANTICIPATED CONSEQUENCES OF THE SINAI REVELATION: A RELIGION OF LAWS James L. Kugel Bar Ilan University, Israel Rabbinic Judaism, it almost goes without saying, is a religion of laws. There are laws governing practically everything: laws about how to keep sabbath (which nowadays include not driving an automobile or answering the telephone on God’s holy day); laws about how to celebrate the biblical festivals (for example, what the maximum and minimum dimensions of the sukkah, or harvest booth, are to be, and on what date before the festival it is permitted to begin thatching the sukkah’s roof ); rules concerning what one is to do upon getting up in the morning—which blessings to recite upon opening one’s eyes, and which others when getting out of bed, washing one’s hands, tying one’s shoes, and so on and so forth.1 Other laws dictate how early, and until how late, and in what posture, the Shema{ is to be recited, along with the conditions governing the recital of a lengthy prayer, the {Amidah, that is to be said (standing) three times day.2 There are laws about relations between parents and children, husbands and wives, shopkeepers and customers, beggars and almsgivers, and on and on and on, until it seems that there is almost no area of life that is not somehow governed by Jewish law. How did all this come about? For someone whose focus is the Hebrew Bible itself, this is a somewhat perplexing question. After all, the stories of Israel’s earliest ancestors make no mention of such laws: Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebekah, Jacob and his family—all seem to function quite well without any legal framework to guide their actions. Apparently, these people never heard of God issuing any set of laws for them to obey. True, none of them lived during or after the time of the great revelation of laws at Mt. Sinai, when God is said to have adopted the

These matters are first codified in the great, second-century rabbinic compendium the Mishnah, specifically in the tractates Shabbat, Sukkah, and Berakhot, though all underwent modification in later rabbinic treatises. 2 m. Berakhot 1–5. 1

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people of Israel as His particular folk on condition that they keep His covenant stipulations, that is, His laws (Exod 19:5–6). Yet there is not much mention of those stipulations, or of that covenant, in the period following Israel’s establishment in its homeland either. Ehud, Deborah, Gideon, Samson, Jephthah—which of these heroes from the period of the Judges speaks or acts in obedience to divine laws or on the basis of some great covenant with God? The same appears to be true even after the establishment of the monarchy: in general, the stories about David, Solomon, and their descendants do not show the slightest awareness of the Sinai laws—or of any divine laws at all, for that matter. Their God may reward goodness and punish misdeeds, but He generally seems to do so without evoking any specific legal framework.3 Indeed, scholars have noted that God at one point offers David an unconditional covenant of kingship: “Your dynasty and your kingdom will always stand firm before Me: your throne is established forever” (2 Sam 7:16). Such an unconditional promise seems to jangle with the conditional covenant of Sinai. The Sinai covenant said that God would uphold Israel if it kept His laws, whereas this divine promise to David says He will maintain David’s dynasty no matter what the people, or even David’s direct descendants, do. As the biblical scholar Matityahu Tsevat has observed: “If the existence of the confederacy, which is conditional, is the body, then kingship, which is an organ, cannot be unconditional.”4 In other words: these two covenants seem to be in conflict, as if each was unaware of the other’s existence. If one assumes that this account of the Davidic covenant was written near to the time of David’s reign,5 3 Of course, the Deuteronomistic editor’s summations of various kings and their reigns are often explicitly based on their adherence to the Deuteronomic strictures against “high places” and other things associated with forbidden worship; see, e.g., 2 Kgs 12:2; 14:1–4; 15:1–4, and so forth. But in a sense these summary judgments actually make the opposite point, that despite these kings’ alleged disdain for such laws, the kings in question nevertheless “did what was right in the sight of the Lord” and were rewarded. 4 Cited in Jon D. Levenson, “Who Inserted the Book of the Torah?” HTR 68 (1975): 227. 5 Among others: Frank M. Cross, Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1973), 255; see also P. Kyle McCarter, II Samuel (AB 9: New York: Doubleday, 1984); Jon D. Levenson, “The Last Four Verses in Kings,” JBL 103 (1984): 353–61; Baruch Halpern, The First Historians: the Hebrew Bible and History (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State Press, 1996), 144–80; and William Schniedewind, Society and the Promise to David: The Reception History of 2 Samuel 7:1–17 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999). Many scholars have noted that the wording of this covenant in 2 Sam 7:12–16 is somewhat different from other restatements of it elsewhere in the

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then the apparent conflict between it and the traditions of a covenant at Mt. Sinai would suggest that the latter could not have originated, or at least become widely accepted, until after the time of David. The evidence of writings about, or attributed to, Israel’s early prophets only moves this date still further. Thus Elijah, in the ninth century b.c.e., is said to have built an altar to Israel’s God on Mt. Carmel (1 Kgs 18:30), in obvious contradiction to the Deuteronomic stipulation that sacrifices be offered only at the one, single place “where the Lord your God will choose out of all your tribes as His habitation” (Deut 12:5). Similarly, the sayings attributed to the eighth-century prophets show little awareness of the Sinai covenant, though here the evidence is not quite unequivocal. The book of Hosea does seem at one point to echo the prohibitions of the Decalogue, mentioning “False swearing and murder and stealing and adultery” (Hos 4:1–3). Apart from this passage, however, there is scarcely anything in the writings attributed to Hosea—or to his rough contemporaries Amos, Isaiah, and Micah— that suggests an awareness of the Sinai covenant or, indeed, the whole notion of God as a great lawgiver. By the late seventh or early sixth century, of course, the situation appears to be quite different. There is, to begin with, the evidence provided by the legal core of Deuteronomy (usually given a terminus ad quem in the seventh century), as well as what was conceivably the earliest form of the great Deuteronomistic History. Both of these writings attest to the centrality of biblical law for their author/editors. Moreover, as many scholars have argued, the late-seventh and early-sixth century prophets Jeremiah and Ezekiel seem specifically to evoke biblical laws in their indictment of the people: You have been commanded not to do what you are doing, they say, and you will be judged for your violations. Moving forward in time, no one can miss the centrality of divine laws in the period following Israel’s return from exile, when the Jewish people are said to have specifically undertaken “to walk in God’s law, which was given by Moses the servant of God, and to observe and do all the commandments of the Lord our Lord and his ordinances and statutes” (Neh 10:29), for which purpose they were said to have Deuteronomistic History; see Michael Avioz, Nathan’s Oracle (2 Samuel 7) and its Interpreters (Bern: Peter Lang, 2005). The apparent ignorance in 2 Samuel 7 of the dissolution of the united monarchy might indeed suggest an early date.

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been guided by one “skilled in the law of Moses” who “set his heart to study the law of the Lord and to do it, and to teach the statutes and ordinances in Israel” (Ezra 7:6, 10). In post-exilic prophecy, too, divine law is an imposing presence: thus, Zechariah has a vision of a huge scroll of laws that flies through the air to enter the houses of wrongdoers and punish their violations of the Decalogue (Zech 5:1–4). Still later, the law is a potent force in the writings of Ben Sira, as well as in the Qumran scrolls, the writings of Philo and Josephus, and, of course, rabbinic texts. So, in posing my opening question as I have, I seem also to have offered something of an answer to it. Judaism’s “religion of laws” appears to have developed slowly, emerging only gradually as a central characteristic of Jewish piety. But this still does not explain how, or why, the whole idea of divine laws and a divine lawgiver ever got started in the first place. This question appears, when one considers it, a bit more challenging. After all, elsewhere in the ancient Near East, laws were not said to have been promulgated by the gods; they came from men. Thus, we have law codes from earliest times in ancient Mesopotamia, but they are attributed to various rulers—Ur-Namma of Ur (2112–2095 b.c.e.), Lipit-Ishtar (ca. 1930 b.c.e.), Eshnunna (ca. 1770 b.c.e.), Hammurabi (ca. 1750 b.c.e.) and others. True, their legal codes often begin by mentioning that the gods X and Y established these kings on their thrones; in some cases, the king even claims to be of partially divine ancestry. But the laws themselves are promulgated by the king himself or his own legists. How did it happen that Israel’s laws came to be attributed to the authorship of a deity, YHWH Himself ? I must admit in advance that I have little solid information to offer in answer to this question, only a few guesses that, even in the friendliest estimation, could hardly be considered more than possibilities. Still, I hope that in posing the question as I have, I will have highlighted something of its importance, and that in setting down my own gropings for an answer I may at least stimulate others to take up the challenge. Much scholarly speculation on the biblical theme of divinely-given laws has naturally centered on the Decalogue, which is presented as the first set of divine laws delivered by God to Israel (and partially echoed in Hos 4:1–3). While scholars are generally skeptical about locating the Decalogue’s origins during Israel’s (supposed) wilderness wanderings following the exodus, it might seem only reasonable that these ten rules (or something like them) began to circulate sometime in the period preceding the rise of Saul and David, since, presumably,

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any great law-based agreement joining God and Israel ought, after the establishment of the monarchy, to have been mediated through the king, of whom the Sinai covenant makes no mention.6 In other words: if, unlike other ancient Near Eastern law codes, this one makes no mention of the king as its author or even mediator, there may be a simple reason for this circumstance: Israel, or the various tribes that were to become Israel, did not yet have a king at the time. Such an approach bumps up against an obvious problem, however—as we have seen, there is scant mention of a covenant anytime before the seventh century. But what eventually became the first ten stipulations of a great covenant binding together God and Israel may not have started out that way. Perhaps their origins are to be sought, as some scholars have suggested, not at some mass conclave at the foot of Mt. Sinai, but in the hill country of ancient Canaan, as different tribes and ethnic groups in Canaan sought to pull themselves together, through a common code of conduct and a common deity, into some sort of tribal coalition.7 Only later would these basic rules have been reconfigured as the stipulations of a great covenant binding a far larger group of tribes (and spread out over a greater area) to the, or a, national deity.8 In other words, what was to become the set of provisions of the Decalogue might have first been put forward—without the Sinai scenario—in what is called the period of the Judges, as different tribes and ethnic groups in Canaan sought to pull themselves together, through a common code of conduct and a common deity, into some sort of tribal coalition. Only later would these basic rules have been reconfigured as the stipulations of a great covenant binding a far larger group of tribes (and spread over a greater area) to YHWH. But note that even then, when YHWH was being adopted as Israel’s national deity through the conception of such a covenant, He must still have been conceived to

See James L. Kugel, How to Read the Bible (New York: Free Press, 2007), 247–49 and sources cited there. 7 Kugel, How to Read, 415–16, 432–35. 8 It may be that the prohibitions of murder, adultery, robbery (or kidnapping), and the others actually owe their origin to a very early attempt to extend the simple rules governing the kinship groups who dwelled on one hilltop settlement in the central highlands to other, unrelated kinship groups elsewhere in the same highlands. On the archaeological evidence of those early, mountaintop settlements as kinship groups: Lawrence Stager, “The Archaeology of the Family in Ancient Israel” BASOR 260 (1985): 1–37. Along with such kinship rules, or joined to them at some point, was the further stipulation that YHWH was to be the, or a, common deity of all the hilltop settlers. See further: Kugel, How to Read, 248–49 and sources cited there. 6

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have been headquartered far away, in the arid wastelands to the south (as is indeed reflected in those various ancient texts that still locate Him as living in or around Horeb/Sinai, Mt. Seir, Mt. Paran, or Teman),9 well before He took up residence in Zion. For it was only a distant divine monarch who would ever think of approaching Israel with a covenant modeled in its form and wording on the basic ancient Near Eastern suzerainty treaty, that is, the standard agreement concluded between a great emperor and his vassal states, scattered about in the territories that he controlled.10 As a resident of Horeb/Sinai etc., YHWH was indeed far from the Israelites in Canaan. No wonder, then, that He opted for the standard stipulation of ancient Near Eastern suzerainty treaties, namely, the one that obligates the vassal to pledge its exclusive loyalty to this monarch, to have no other monarchs before or along with Him, so as not to enter into any traitorous agreements. Such a scenario might go far in explaining a basic incongruity in the Decalogue. For, as scholars have long been aware, the Decalogue is presented as the set of stipulations binding the vassal-people to their suzerain. To insert the old hilltop rules of conduct as those covenant stipulations was, however, hardly a perfect fit. What real, flesh-and-blood monarch ever cared if his distant vassals honored their parents or had little extra-marital affairs? This part of the Decalogue only supports the hypothesis that this group of laws began in the hills of Canaan, and only later made their way, figuratively speaking, to some southern site where this new God of Israel was said to make His home. If this general approach is correct, it would go a long way to explaining both why this little code of laws came not from a wise king, but from a deity himself,11 and why that deity cared to regulate His people’s actions in ways that normally did not concern a distant suzerain.

See Deut 33:2; Judg 5:4–5; Hab 3:3; Ps 68:8–9. Having YHWH single out Israel with the offer to become His special people implies that He, like a flesh-and-blood suzerain, controls other peoples and territories; that is why He notes specifically in Exod 19:5, “for all the land is Mine,” that is, I could have chosen some other people among My subjects. 11 Here I don’t wish to overstate things; this distinction between man-given and Godgiven laws probably did not mean much at first. The kings of Egypt or Mesopotamia were certainly deemed to rule, and to issue laws, with the authority that devolved from their divine patrons. I doubt that, at first, attributing the promulgation of this or that law via the words, “And the LORD spoke to Moses, saying . . .” made it significantly different from laws alleged to have been spoken firsthand by Hammurabi or Eshnunna or whoever. But certainly the difference between a divine and a human legislator was potentially of great significance, and this significance came into full expression soon 9

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To be sure, it must have taken a while for the notion of a set of divinely given laws to be carried to its logical conclusion. Whatever the chronology, however, there can be no disputing the fact that eventually the keeping of God’s laws did become a central form of Jewish piety. In step with this development, the laws themselves became more numerous and more elaborate. Keeping the sabbath meant, in second temple times, not carrying goods in and out of the city gates, or even from one house to another, or drawing water, or traveling on a ship, or even setting out on a journey of any length on a Friday.12 The prohibition of consuming or possessing leavened goods during the festival of Passover now included (as we know from the Elephantine documents) drinking or possessing beer, a prohibition not attested within the Bible itself.13 And so on and so forth.14 The Torah’s laws were so central that it as a whole came to be thought of as one great regula vitae, a manual telling people how they ought to live their lives. It was the torah, the nomos, and if neither of these words means simply “law” or “statute,”15 the legal associations clinging to both words are nonetheless quite undeniable. Even Philo, whose love of the allegorical interpretation of biblical narrative hardly requires glossing, and his younger contemporary Josephus, who says that his two principal motives in writing a history of his people were to put the events in which he himself had participated into their broader historical context as well as to publish an account of events so as to combat the Greek-speaking public’s general ignorance of them16—both these writers nevertheless devote a hefty part of their rewriting of the enough. Someone who violated a law of Hammurabi’s was guilty of committing a crime. But an Israelite who violated a law issued by Israel’s God had committed a sin. His offense was against not only the state, but heaven itself. By the same token, obeying Hammurabi’s laws was, well, merely good citizenship, whereas carrying out God’s commandments was something much higher—doing His will, serving God. 12 See Jer 17:21–22; Neh 10:31; also Jub. 2:29–30 and 50:6–13; James L. Kugel, Traditions of the Bible (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998), 646–49, 686–87. 13 Kugel, Traditions, 568–69. 14 It would not be inappropriate to cite here words attributed to the fourth-generation tanna Hananyah ben Aqashiya (m. Makkot 3:16), “It was because God wished to give Israel the opportunity to acquire merit that He multiplied the Torah’s commandments . . .” This “multiplication of commandments” is indeed an altogether visible process that only accelerated in late-biblical times. 15 Ephraim E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 288–90. 16 Ant. 1:3–4; he goes on to say his book will “encompass our entire ancient history and political constitution,” 1:5—this despite his stated intention (3:223) to compose a separate treatise on Israel’s laws.

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Pentateuch to a review of its laws and their proper interpretation. This is certainly a significant fact. What is more, it is not just the laws themselves that acquired a prescriptive character. The stories of biblical figures like Cain and Abel, Abraham and Jacob, eventually lost their originally etiological role;17 now they were read as lessons in morality: “Be like the righteous Abraham,” the text seemed now to be saying, “don’t be like Cain or the wicked Esau.” (So of course interpreters were at pains to portray Esau as wicked, which he was not, and Abraham as righteous, which he was not always.)18 Similarly, the message of prophets came to be de-contextualized and turned into moral instruction meant for every age: pursue justice, denounce corruption wherever it is found. The same is true of the psalms and songs of Scripture, its wisdom sayings and other writings—these too came to be divorced from the original purposes and life-settings for which they had been composed and came instead to be connected to another set of purposes, those of the great divine guidebook of which they were now deemed to be part.19 In short, the whole Bible became, in a sense, a collection of laws designed to lead people on the proper path. The “religion of laws” was now everywhere. Whatever the precise circumstances that led to this state of affairs, the emergence of this “religion of laws” was, as we have seen, a gradual process, one that found its first explicit outline in the legal core of the book of Deuteronomy. But was this a wholly discrete and isolated development? This seems unlikely; for that reason, the last subject I wish to evoke in this essay is that of the possible influence of the very idea of God-given laws on Israel’s way of conceiving of the divine–human encounter, that is, religion itself. Here again, I aim only to sketch the vague beginnings of an idea, in the hope that it may lead to some further discussion.

17 The concept was first extensively applied by Hermann Gunkel; see his Schöpfung und Chaos in Urzeit und Endzeit (Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht, 1897), and The Legends of Genesis: The Biblical Saga and History (New York: Schocken, 1964). On Gunkel’s work: Werner Klatt, Hermann Gunkel. Zu seiner Theologie der Religionsgeschichte und zur Entstehung der formgeschichtlichen Methode (Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht, 1969); Konrad von Rabenau, “Hermann Gunkel: auf rauhen Pfaden nach Halle,” EvT 30 (1970): 433–44; Martin J. Buss, Biblical Form Criticism in Context (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1999). 18 Kugel, Traditions, 151–52, 254–56, 354–59. 19 For all these: Kugel, How to Read.

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It is no secret that the way that God was conceived appears to have undergone a number of significant changes within the biblical period. In many of the texts that are generally conceded to represent the oldest strands of biblical writings, the God of Israel is depicted in highly anthropomorphic terms: He has a human-like body that is not much bigger (if at all) than that of an ordinary man’s; He has eyes and a mouth, arms and fingers, and other human physical characteristics. (True, later interpreters sought to suggest that these were merely metaphorical references, or descriptions intended to make it easier for primitive minds to grasp the reality of God, but—as recent research has suggested—there really is no reason to follow such an interpretive line.)20 Having a body, this God was certainly not omnipresent, nor do these early biblical texts suggest otherwise. He moves from place to place: He is said quite specifically to “go down” from heaven to frustrate the building of the Tower of Babel or to see what the people of Sodom were up to; elsewhere He rides about Heaven on a cherub.21 If He was generally not seen by people, that was not because He was invisible, but because catching sight of Him was usually fatal: “No one can see Me and live” (Exod 33:20). That is why He often sent an angel, some sort of hypostasis, to interact on His behalf with human beings, or else arrived surrounded by a protective cloud covering—one that protected not Him, but the humans who might otherwise be harmed by seeing Him. Nor, finally, was this God omniscient: He asks Adam where he is hiding and Cain where his brother Abel has gone: on the face of things, God does not know at the time of asking (though ancient interpreters of course claimed otherwise). This catalogue could be extended,22 but the general picture is, I hope, clear. Two things in particular characterize human interaction with this deity: intermittence and fear.23 God suddenly appears to humans (often in the form of an angel)—as He does to Abraham, Sarah, Jacob, Joshua, Gideon, Manoah and his wife, and so forth—speaks with them or otherwise interacts for a time, and then disappears. As for fear, this too is the virtually universal reaction in early parts of the Bible. Ancient

20 I have explored some aspects of this idea in The God of Old (New York: Free Press, 2003); see further references there. 21 See Kugel, How to Read, 108–10. 22 Kugel, How to Read, 110–18. 23 See George W. Savran, Encountering the Divine: Theophany in Biblical Narrative (LHBOTS 420; London: T & T. Clark International, 2005).

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Israelites are never, like later Jews and Christians, “in search of God”: on the contrary, when God does suddenly appear, their reaction is inevitably like that of the Israelites at Mt. Sinai, who were “afraid and trembled and stood at a distance” (Exod 20:18).24 Nor is there anything particularly Israelite about this reaction. Throughout the ancient Near East, the gods have the power and humans stand before them in fear and trembling. If contact with the deity was frightening and intermittent, contact was nevertheless something to be desired—precisely because the gods had the powers they had; despite their fear, humans needed to be able to seek the gods’ favor, indeed, to curry their favor on an ongoing basis, if they were to benefit from the gods’ powers. To both problems mentioned, intermittence and fear, there was a single solution, and that was the ancient Near Eastern temple. The temple was, quite simply, a sanitized, sterile environment populated exclusively by a specially trained cadre of professionals whose whole job consisted of maintaining a home for the deity that would please him or her in every respect, a home in which animal sacrifices, pleasant incense, and endless offerings of praise were all designed to win the god’s favor and ongoing presence. Much of biblical law has to do with the temple and its proper operation— laws of cultic purity and impurity, classes of different sacrifices and the occasions on which they were offered, laws governing cultic personnel, and so forth. Yet there is a certain dissonance between the very idea of the temple and the tradition of divinely given laws at Mt. Sinai. It is not just that; in a much discussed verse in Exodus, Israel’s acceptance of God’s laws is said to turn Israel into a ‫ממלכת כהנים וגוי קדוש‬, a “kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exod 19:6)—a state of affairs in which the whole nation—not just the priests!—are holy and close to God. But more generally, if, as was suggested earlier,25 obeying divinely given laws makes one more than just a good citizen, but turns one into a righteous non-sinner, indeed, a servant of God, then having a divinely given set of do’s and don’ts may quickly lead to an alternate form of piety. God is served in His temple via the sacrifices offered by His priests, but He is also served by the general populace observing His laws.

24 25

See further my study The God of Old, 37–70. Above, n. 9.

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This point of view comes into clearest expression in the book of Deuteronomy (though its roots are certainly older). That book endlessly uses the phrase otherwise employed to designate the offering of sacrifices—'‫“ לעבוד את ה‬to serve the Lord”—not in that sense at all, but to refer to keeping God’s laws: “to serve the Lord your God with your whole heart and soul, keeping the Lord’s commandments and laws, which I am commanding you this day for your benefit” (Deut 10:12). The laws of Deuteronomy certainly do not omit the priesthood and the temple—they hardly could have!—but these are meshed into a book that clearly presents the ordinary Israelite’s obedience to divine law as the primary form of piety. The temple is, in Deuteronomy, some distance from the town or village that is that book’s real home: one goes on pilgrimages to the temple at the appointed festivals. It is not necessary to go there and offer a sacrifice in order to eat meat—that you can do, according to Deuteronomy, “at your gates” thanks to its innovation of secular slaughter (Deut 12:15). Moreover, that temple is, as every student of Deuteronomy knows, the “place where I will cause my name to dwell” (Deut 12:11; 14:23; 16:2, 6, 11; and so forth), a phrase that seems intended to suggest that God is really elsewhere, in highest heaven: His presence in the sanctuary is altogether metaphorical.26 So too, at the Sinai revelation, the Israelites hear God’s voice but see only a symbolic fire: God spoke to them from His heavenly abode (Deut 4:12, 15, 36; and so forth). As for the sacrifices, modern scholars have noted that they are more a form of charity than a real offering to the deity, to be distributed to the proverbially needy, the Levite, the widow, the orphan.27 It certainly seems no accident that this God is rather more abstract and distant than the God of the priesthood, who is right there in the sanctuary, in the Holy of Holies. Even if He is not caught sight of, the priestly God is still basically human in form: man was created in his shape and image, and what the priest Ezekiel sees in the throne chariot was “something that seemed like a human form” (Ezek 1:26)—this and similar formulations containing only the slightest hesitation at blatant

26 See on this: Sandra L. Richter, Deuteronomistic History and the Name Theology (BZAW 318; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2002) and my How to Read, 727. 27 See Deuteronomy 16, 11, 14 and two general discussions: Moshe Weinfeld, Social Justice in Ancient Israel and in the Ancient Near East (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 1995) and Bernard Levinson, Deuteronomy and the Hermeneutics of Legal Innovation (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997).

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anthropomorphism, “This was the appearance of the likeness of the glory of the Lord” (1:28). If one believes in the efficacy of a temple and its specially trained priesthood, then God can never really be deemed to have withdrawn permanently to highest heaven—otherwise, what is the point of the temple? But if, on the contrary, one does believe that God is in highest heaven, then what is there to tie an individual (or a nation) to Him? To this question there is hardly one biblical answer, nor, for that matter, one single cause that one might point to in order to explain how the Israelites ever came to consider the possibility of a great, abstract, heavenly deity. But whatever the cause, one adjustment to this great, abstract deity is well known: the sudden appearance in the post-exilic period of legions of angels. These are not angels like the ones from earlier periods, who are really stand-ins for the deity Himself; rather, they are now part of a complicated divine bureaucracy—angels who have charge of various natural functions, like rainfall and the winds and the seasons, as well as angels that act as intermediaries between God Himself and various nations on earth (eventually including Israel, though not at first), wicked angels that bring illness and madness and need to be fought off with apotropaic prayers and symbolic acts.28 Now, for the first time, these angels have names: Gabriel (Dan 9:11), Michael, Raphael, and so forth. Their very presence fills the space between humans on earth and God in highest heaven, and so it is no wonder that they themselves become the focus of human piety, appealed to or warded off as the case may be. But this is not the world of Deuteronomy. There, God rules Israel directly; although He is said to have given other nations to the worship of heavenly bodies,29 Israel is His own particular possession, “God’s portion is His own people, Jacob, his allotted share” (Deut 4:20; 32:9). What is it, then, that binds this earthly people to its God in highest heaven? The answer has already been seen: the divinely given laws. It is observance of the laws that allows Israel to “cling” and “hold fast” to Him (Deut 13:5; 30:20; etc.). Evidently, obedience to these laws is thus a form of piety parallel to the sacrificial cult: both are ways of

On this there is a vast literature; see recently Esther Eshel, “Demonology in Palestine During the Second Temple Period” (Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1999) and references there. 29 Deut 4:19–20; 32:8. 28

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serving, la{abod, this God.30 But one might also say that observing God’s laws is also parallel to the second temple angels just mentioned: they too fill the gap between heaven and earth, each little commandment, whether kept or violated, is somehow noticed on high and rewarded or punished by the distant deity. As I have already sought to indicate, this notion of things was to become later Judaism’s—not only the centrality of observing God’s laws, but with it, the rather abstract and distant deity who looks on from afar and passes judgment. The point I have been trying to get at is that these two really go together, even if their genesis was originally quite independent of each other. The God of Old, the frightening deity who appeared suddenly and disappeared just as suddenly, was an invader from another dimension who could, and usually did, upset a person’s world utterly. Confining Him to a temple and specially trained personnel was, in a sense, to contain the problem, but the religion of laws, although never envisaged as such when God first spoke at Sinai, turned out be no less an effective way of keeping the deity at arm’s length. He was way up there, and we humans were way down here; what connected us was not direct contact but a set of clearly established ground rules—or, one might say, a set of clearly visible electric wires along which the current of divine–human relations was to flow. This view of things may have come about in the somewhat haphazard way I have described, but it has, in any case, proven to be remarkably durable, leaving its impress not only on rabbinic Judaism but—in ways whose detailed exploration must be reserved for another occasion—on Christianity as well.

30 This is the great theme of Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School (New York: Oxford University Press, 1972).

“FIRE, CLOUD, AND DEEP DARKNESS” (DEUTERONOMY 5:22): DEUTERONOMY’S RECASTING OF REVELATION Marc Zvi Brettler Brandeis University, USA As the initial paper, and the only paper focussing on the Hebrew Bible itself, I hope to lay out some of the problems of the biblical text concerning revelation on Sinai. I will do this by highlighting the passage in Deuteronomy 51 that surrounds the Decalogue, examining how it interprets its likely sources,2 and reflecting on the broader matters this interpretation raises, hinting ahead at issues that arise in some of the other papers in this volume. My comments are programmatic rather than comprehensive.3 The central Sinai texts in the book of Exodus are extremely difficult from a source-critical perspective—it is unclear how many different sources or traditions are represented. Baruch Schwartz, for example, finds the standard source-critical model of three sources in Exodus adequate to explain the variation in the chapters.4 Moshe Greenberg suggests that there are more than three sources present: “The extraordinary complexity is best explained as the result of interweaving of parallel narrations; the author appears to have been reluctant to exclude any scrap of data relevant to this momentous occasion”; and suggests that

1 This chapter is typically seen (by and large) as a unity; see e.g., Christianus Brekelmans, “Deuteronomy 5: Its Place and Function,” in Das Deuteronomium: Entstehung, Gestalt und Botschaft (ed. N. Lohfink; BETL 68; Leuven: Peeters and Leuven University Press, 1985), 164–73. 2 Many important insights on this issue are found in Benjamin D. Sommer, “Revelation at Sinai in the Hebrew Bible and in Jewish Theology,” JR 79 (1999): 422–51. 3 For this reason, footnotes will be kept to a minimum. 4 Baruch J. Schwartz, “The Priestly Account of the Theophany and Lawgiving at Sinai,” in Texts, Temples, and Traditions: A Tribute to Manahem Haran (ed. M. V. Fox et al.; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996), 104–34. William H. C. Propp, Exodus 19–40 (AB 2A; New York: Doubleday, 2006), 141–53, also believes that the mainstream documentary hypothesis is sufficient to explain these chapters. There is even a tendency in some circles of modern scholarship to emphasize the unity, at least at the editorial level, of these chapters; see, e.g., T. D. Alexander, “The Composition of the Sinai Narrative in Exodus XIX 1–XXIV 11,” VT 49 (1999): 2–20.

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the resulting “looseness and obscurity . . . may well have been intended as a literary reflex of the multivalence of the event.”5 Jacob Licht outlines a full fifteen different conceptions of revelation.6 I believe that the majority of scholars would agree with Greenberg, though perhaps not to the excesses of Licht, though there is no consensus because “the traditional source division is unable to cope” with the repetitions and doublets in Exodus7—“The details of narrative sequence in Exodus 19–20 are famously enigmatic.”8 In addition to significant issues in disentangling the narrative material in Exodus, it is very unclear how the different blocks of legal material fit into the narrative, and at what stage of the tradition they were added.9 Which sources or traditions believed in “the giving of a torah on Mt. Sinai”? Which is connected to the Decalogue in Exodus? Which is connected to the tradition at the end of ch. 20, after the Decalogue, concerning the building of an altar? Which is connected with the longer set of laws in chs. 21–23, which begin, “These are the rules that you shall set before them”? The problems involved with the narrative descriptions of revelation, and the connections between the narrative and the law, seem truly intractable. The situation with Deuteronomy is different. Most scholars agree that the two central relevant sections in Deuteronomy, chs. 4 and 5:1–6:3, knew Exodus as we now have it, perhaps without the Priestly texts.10 Furthermore, there is a consensus among scholars of Deuteronomy that the material in ch. 4 is later than that found in ch. 5–ch. 4 is Dtr2, namely a revision during the Babylonian exile of Dtr1.11 The implication of this consensus is that we may assume that these Deuteronomists knew much of the material in Exodus that we now have. Thus, if we Moshe Greenberg, “Exodus,” EncJud 6:1056. Jacob Licht, “The Sinai Theophany,” in Studies in the Bible and the Ancient Near East Presented to Samuel E. Loewenstamm on His Seventieth Birthday (ed. Y. Avishur and J. Blau; Jerusalem: E. Rubenstein, 1978), 251–67 (Heb.; Eng. summary in English Volume, 201–2). 7 Brevard Childs, Exodus (OTL; Philadelphia, PA: Westminster, 1974), 349. 8 Sommer, “Revelation at Sinai,” 431. 9 These issues are surveyed in John Van Seters, A Law Book for the Diaspora: Revision in the Study of the Covenant Code (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 8–46. 10 Childs, Exodus, 359; and Thomas B. Dozeman, God on the Mountain (SBLMS 37; Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1987). 11 On this topic, and more generally on Deuteronomy 4, see Marc Z. Brettler, “A ‘Literary Sermon’ in Deuteronomy 4,” in “A Wise and Discerning Mind”: Essays in Honor of Burke O. Long (ed. S. M. Olyan and R. C. Culley; BJS 325; Providence, RI: Brown University, 2000), 33–50. 5 6

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want to see the earliest extant interpretations of the Sinai material, we need to look in Deuteronomy 5. Below, I examine nine ways in which Deuteronomy interprets its sources.12 My examples for each are selective—my interest is in highlighting, for the sake of the papers that follow, different types of interpretation, rather than being comprehensive: 1. Deuteronomy follows one of its sources at the expense of the other(s). 2. Deuteronomy conflates various (contradictory) sources. 3. Deuteronomy takes an idea that is found in its sources as a peripheral notion and turns it into a central notion. 4. Deuteronomy picks up on the terminology of its sources, but uses the same word or phrase in a way that is different from Exodus. 5. Deuteronomy moves narrative material from its original place to a different place. 6. Deuteronomy, as a treaty concerned with laws, uses narrative material concerning Horeb to substantiate laws given later. 7. Deuteronomy fundamentally recasts its source material to foster the notion that “hearing (rather than seeing) is believing.” 8. Deuteronomy plays a careful balancing act, giving the Decalogue and the earlier revelation of law some importance, but it gives it less importance than its sources. 9. Deuteronomy fundamentally recasts its source material to justify its core idea that the Mosaic discourse in year 40 is more important than the Sinai/Horeb event.

I will now examine these proposals one at a time: 1. Deuteronomy follows one of its sources at the expense of the other(s) This should not be surprising—most authors, when confronted with contradictory information, decide which traditions are most likely to be true. The following three examples illustrate how Deuteronomy accomplishes this. 1. The sources known to Deuteronomy call the place of revelation either Sinai or Horeb, with the former, from the Pentateuchal E source,

12 Although I adduce no specific references to Michael Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985), the influence of this book is evident throughout. On inner-biblical interpretation, see also Bernard M. Levinson, Legal Revision and Religious Renewal in Ancient Israel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, forthcoming).

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predominating. Deuteronomy uses Horeb, the less frequently used term. The reason for this choice is uncertain, though if E is really northern in origin,13 and D has its origin in the North,14 this may explain the unexpected use. 2. It is unclear from the Pre-D sources if God is speaking “from the very heavens” (Exod 20:22; Eng. 20:19)15 or from the mountain (e.g., Exod 19:18). In this chapter, Deuteronomy favors the idea of God speaking from the mountain rather than from heaven. Twice we hear of God speaking (5:4, 22) “on the mountain, out of the fire,” and nowhere does the word “heavens” appear in the narrative section of ch. 5. The heavens tradition, which is a minority tradition, has lost out to the majority mountain tradition. A still later text, Neh 9:13, treats this problem differently. By stating “You came down on Mount Sinai and spoke to them from heaven,” it conflates the two earlier traditions. This conflation serves as the basis of the rabbinic midrash that during the revelation, God bent down the heavens so that they would reach Mt. Sinai.16 3. Especially if we include Exodus 24 as part of our sources,17 it is unclear if Moses alone, Moses and Aaron, Moses and Joshua, or Moses, Aaron, Nadab and Abihu and 70 elders ascended the mountain. Deuteronomy with its Moses-centric view18 has, not surprisingly, opted for a Moses-only experience, rejecting the other options simply by ignoring them.

13 The most comprehensive argument for this is Alan W. Jenks, The Elohist and North Israelite Traditions (SBLMS 22; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1977). 14 See Adam C. Welch, The Code of Deuteronomy (New York: George H. Doran, 1924); H. Louis Ginsberg, The Israelian Heritage of Judaism (New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1982); and Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy 1–11 (AB 5; New York: Doubleday, 1991), 44–57. 15 Unless indicated, all translations follow njps. 16 See Louis Ginzberg, The Legends of the Jews (Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society, 1968), 3.91. 17 Although Exodus 24 is separated by a legal collection from the main sections concerning revelation in ch. 19 and the end of ch. 20, many scholars believe that it originally preceded the revelation on Sinai as well, and was separated because there were too many traditions to place before the Decalogue. 18 See, e.g., Robert Polzin, Moses and the Deuteronomist: A Literary Study of the Deuteronomic History Part One: Deuteronomy, Joshua, Judges (New York: Seabury, 1980), 25–72; and Patrick D. Miller, “ ‘Moses My Servant’: The Deuteronomic Portrait of Moses,” in A Song of Power and the Power of Song: Essays on the Book of Deuteronomy (ed. D. L. Christensen; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1993), 301–12 (= Int 41 [1987]: 245–55).

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2. Deuteronomy conflates various (contradictory) sources Nehemiah 9:13, which conflates the contradictory ideas that God speaks from heaven and from Mt. Sinai, illustrates the manner in which later texts may combine different, or even contradictory traditions from earlier sources. This idea stands behind this essay’s title, which quotes Deut 5:22: “Fire, Cloud, and Deep Darkness.” Some verses in Exodus describe a fire on Sinai. This is clear in Exod 19:18, “for the Lord had come down upon it in fire.” It is also assumed by the burning “bush” story in Exodus 3. The Hebrew term ‫ סנה‬is often mistranslated as a (generic) “bush”—it is instead a particular type of bush,19 chosen to resonate with the name Sinai.20 This episode in Exodus 3 prefigures the revelation at Sinai21—in fact, the reason that the bush does not burn is to prefigure that the next burning holy object will be a mountain, which cannot burn! In addition to burning fires, darkness is important in the Exodus texts; for example, in 19:9 we have a “cloud,” as in Deut 5:22. Exod 20:21 mentions “deep darkness.” It is unclear what image the Deuteronomist had in mind by conflating fire, cloud, and darkness, elements that do not easily fit together, but it is clear that they have been conflated. Deut 5:4–5 presents a much more confusing conflation: (4) Face to face the Lord spoke to you on the mountain out of the fire—(5) I stood between the Lord and you at that time to convey the Lord’s words to you, for you were afraid of the fire and did not go up the mountain—saying.

Many scholars see almost all of v. 5 as a secondary addition, and believe that v. 4 was originally followed by “saying.”22 There are other cases where Deuteronomy conflates sources to yield a cumbersome or grammatically problematic new text.23 This is likely the case here as well—our author wanted to combine the contradictory ideas that God HALOT, 760. See the literature cited in William H. C. Propp, Exodus 1–18 (AB 2; New York: Doubleday, 1998), 199. 21 On prefiguration, see Marc Z. Brettler, The Creation of History in Ancient Israel (London: Routledge, 1995), 48–61. 22 See the discussion in Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy 1–11, 240; and Sommer, “Revelation at Sinai,” 434–35. 23 See the example of ‫ עליו‬in Deut 16:3, and the discussion in Bernard M. Levinson, Deuteronomy and the Hermeneutics of Legal Innovation (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 82–88. 19 20

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spoke (Exod 20:1) and that Moses, rather than God spoke because the people were afraid of God’s voice (20:19). So our author says both. 3. Deuteronomy takes an idea that is found in its sources as a peripheral notion and turns it into a central notion The central notion of Deuteronomy 5 is the role of Moses as covenant mediator and law-giver. This is clear, for example, in v. 5, “I stood between the Lord and you at that time to convey the Lord’s words to you,” and in the end of the chapter, where God approves rather than disapproves of the people’s request (v. 27), “You go closer and hear all that the Lord our God says, and then you tell us everything that the Lord our God tells you, and we will willingly do it.” Moses plays a much less significant role in Exodus. Deuteronomy has taken Exod 19:9a, “And the Lord said to Moses, ‘I will come to you in a thick cloud, in order that the people may hear when I speak with you and so trust you ever after,’” and makes this idea much more central.24 The same principle may be seen by comparing the use of the word “fire” in both sources. “Fire” appears once in the Exodus Sinai pericope (19:18). In contrast, it appears seven times in Deuteronomy 5.25 The Deuteronomist has moved a peripheral element of his source to the center. Perhaps this change is connected with Deuteronomy’s image of YHWH as a “consuming fire.”26 4. Deuteronomy picks up on the terminology of its sources, but uses the same word or phrase in a way that is different from Exodus It is very difficult to translate the word ‫ יראה‬with its various nuances into English.27 Most often, it refers to fear, a mental attitude. There are, however, cases where is seems to have a broader, perhaps technical meaning connected to following God or his laws. The semantic development is clear—laws may be followed, or may express, fear of

24 This is suggested somewhat tentatively in Richard D. Nelson, Deuteronomy (OTL; Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002), 77. 25 “Fire” appears another 7 times in ch. 4. 26 See Deut 4:24; 9:3. 27 On the range of meaning of ‫ ירא‬when used in reference to God, see H. F. Fuhs, “‫ירא‬,” TDOT 6:290–315.

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God and his punishment, yet these two senses, fear and law observance, are quite distinct. In Exodus, after the giving of the Decalogue, the people fear God: “when the people saw it, they fell back and stood at a distance” (20:18). Moses responds to them two verses later (v. 20): “Moses answered the people, ‘Be not afraid; for God has come only in order to test you, and in order that the fear of Him may be ever with you, so that you do not go astray.’” As the translation makes clear, the context is referring to gut fear of the numinous. Deuteronomy transforms the whole episode after the Decalogue in several ways. It makes it longer and more detailed, and significantly, views the response of Israel, which Exodus describes in a negative light, in a positive light. What has not been adequately emphasized, however, is the reinterpretation that ‫ יראה‬undergoes as a result.28 Deut 5:29 reads: “May they always be of such mind, to revere (‫ )ליראה‬Me and follow all My commandments, that it may go well with them and with their children forever!” The same root ‫ ירא‬is used from the earlier source, but it is used in its technical sense of following the commandments, as made clear in what follows, to “follow all My commandments.” If Deut 6:1–3 is also part of the unit beginning in ch. 5,29 it is significant that there too we read in v. 2 “so that you may revere (‫ )תירא‬the Lord your God and follow all His laws and commandments” (njps revised). Deuteronomy has transformed ‫ יראה‬from fear to reverence. It has not changed the word, but its revision of context has changed what the word means. A similar transformation likely occurs with the word ‫קול‬.30 In Exodus, this homonymous, or at least polysemic root, clearly means thunder in 19:16, where it is paired with ‫וברקים‬, “and lightning.” The same is probably true after the giving of the Decalogue, where we read in 20:18: “All the people witnessed the thunder and lightning”31 ( jps). Exod 19:19b, ‫ משה ידבר והאלהים יעננו בקול‬is ambiguous: kjv, e.g., translates “a voice,” while jps and nrsv translate “thunder.” In sum, the word ‫ קול‬is never clearly used in Exodus in the sense of the revelatory voice of God.

See Arie Toeg, Lawgiving at Sinai ( Jerusalem: Magnes, 1977; Heb.), 133. This is the opinion of most scholars; see, e.g., Weinfeld, Deuteronomy 1–11, 327. 30 See Sommer, “Revelation at Sinai,” 433. 31 For a more recent discussion of the possible meanings of ‫קול‬, see Azzan Yadin, “‫ קול‬as Hypostasis in the Hebrew Bible,” JBL 122 (2003): 601–26. 28 29

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In contrast, the same word ‫ קול‬is used in a different sense after the Decalogue in Deuteronomy: (21) and said, “The Lord our God has just shown us His majestic Presence, and we have heard His voice (‫ )קול‬out of the fire; we have seen this day that man may live though God has spoken to him. (22) Let us not die, then, for this fearsome fire will consume us; if we hear the voice (‫ )קול‬of the Lord our God any longer, we shall die. (23) For what mortal ever heard the voice (‫ )קול‬of the living God speak out of the fire, as we did, and lived?

Here, ‫ קול‬is clearly transformed from thunder to voice. And in case this meaning is not clear enough here, it is emphasized two verses later, when we see the same word used of the nation’s voice: The Lord heard the voice (‫ )קול‬of your words when you spoke to me, and the Lord said to me, ‘I have heard the voice (‫ )קול‬of the words that this people spoke to you; they did well to speak thus’” (njps revised).

Here, ‫ קול‬can by no means mean thunder. Thus, as with the root ‫ירא‬, to “fear/revere,” Deuteronomy has retained an earlier term, but changed its meaning significantly. Deuteronomy is conservative in its use of the old term, but radical in changing its meaning. 5. Deuteronomy moves narrative material from its original place to a different place In Exodus, the request for Moses to act as an intermediary is mentioned only after the Decalogue. The Decalogue itself is presented as uttered by God—20:1: “God spoke all these words, saying.” Given that the people object to hearing God’s voice at the end of ch. 20, the chapter as a whole is ambiguous—at what point does Moses take over from God? This obvious issue was dealt with in classical Jewish interpretation.32 In its retelling Deuteronomy also notes the role of Moses as intermediary after the Decalogue, but it also moves this idea to before the Decalogue, stating in 5:5: “I [Moses] stood between the Lord and you at that time to convey the Lord’s words to you, for you were afraid of the fire and did not go up the mountain—saying.” It

32

James L. Kugel, The Bible as it Was (Cambridge, MA: Belknap, 1997), 376–77.

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thus suggests here33 that Moses had the role of intermediary from the very beginning of the revelation of the Decalogue. A different type of transfer of material is seen in the notice in 5:23 that “the mountain was ablaze with fire.” This is not expressed anywhere in the Sinai pericope, but is noted concerning the burning “bush” in Exod 3:2: “and there was a bush ablaze with fire” (njps revised). The author of Deuteronomy 5 understood properly that Exodus 3 was meant to prefigure Sinai/Horeb, and thus moved the Exodus 3 phrase to Deuteronomy 5. 6. Deuteronomy, as a treaty concerned with laws, uses narrative material concerning Horeb to substantiate laws given later Unlike the Exodus pericope, which is focussed on revelation itself, and in some cases the reception of a body of law, there are at least two specific laws that stand behind the current phraseology of the Horeb pericope in Deuteronomy.34 The first of these is the law in 18:14–22, concerning the true prophet. That law explicitly mentions Horeb (18:16): “This is just what you asked of the Lord your God at Horeb, on the day of the Assembly, saying, ‘Let me not hear the voice of the Lord my God any longer or see this wondrous fire anymore, lest I die.’ ” In the same way that the law in ch. 18 is cast with Deuteronomy 5 in mind, Deuteronomy 5 is cast with the law of the prophet in mind; this is suggested by the close verbal similarities between Deut 5:27 (Eng. 24) and 31 (Eng. 28) and ch. 18; the former are constructed to anticipate the law of the prophet, and the role of Moses as the prototypical prophet. A second law that the Horeb pericope hints at is the recitation of the law every seven years at Sukkot according to Deuteronomy 31—what is called haqhēl in later Jewish tradition, following the words of Deut 31:12: “Gather (‫ )הקהל‬the people.” It is likely that the law there relates to calling Israel a “congregation” or ‫ קהל‬in 5:22. The similarity between the language for following the law in ch. 5 and 31:12b, “that they may hear and so learn to revere the Lord your God and to observe faithfully every word of this Teaching” also suggests that the two passages are For a different tradition, see 5:22. In some sense, then, Deuteronomy is hinting ahead to Jubilees, which integrates law into the narrative in a more systematic and obvious fashion. On the importance of law and laws in Deuteronomy, see James L. Kugel, “Some Unanticipated Consequences of the Sinai Revelation: A Religion of Laws,” 1–13 of this volume, esp. 3, 12. 33 34

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interrelated, and that in its current form, Deuteronomy 5 is also interested in hinting ahead at this law concerning gathering or ‫הקהל‬. 7. Deuteronomy fundamentally recasts its source material to foster the notion that “hearing (rather than seeing) is believing” I have already discussed this idea in detail elsewhere in relation to Deuteronomy 4.35 Deuteronomy can be characterized as super-aniconic, and as insisting very, very strongly that God is incorporeal—after all, it is only God’s name that resides in the Temple.36 Seeing is a central part of the Sinai material in Exodus—for example, 20:18 notes: “All the people witnessed [lit. “saw”] the thunder and lightning, the blare of the horn and the mountain smoking; and when the people saw it, they fell back and stood at a distance.” Exod 24:10 and 11 claim, “and they [Moses, Aaron, Nadab, Avihu, and the seventy elders] saw the God of Israel . . . they beheld God;” those phrases are even more straightforward and emphatic. The assumption that God is visible also appears several times in ch. 19, e.g., in v. 11: “Let them be ready for the third day; for on the third day the Lord will come down, in the sight of all the people, on Mount Sinai.” Deuteronomy knows these texts, I believe, but will have none of the idea that they express. That is why Deut 5:1 opens in an auditory, “hear, O Israel,” and continues “which I speak into your ears today” (translation mine). In v. 4, God speaks only. In contrast with Exodus, which uses the verb ‫ראה‬, “to see,” after recounting the Decalogue, Deut 5:22 notes: “The Lord spoke (‫ )דבר‬these words . . . with a mighty voice . . . ” Later in that same unit, the people don’t talk about fear of seeing God, as we might expect, but of hearing him (vv. 25–26; Eng. 22–23): (22) Let us not die, then, for this fearsome fire will consume us; if we hear the voice of the Lord our God any longer, we shall die. (23) For what mortal ever heard the voice of the living God speak out of the fire, as we did, and lived?

35 Brettler, “A ‘Literary Sermon.’ ” For a discussion of this issue in post-biblical literature, see Steven D. Fraade, “Hearing and Seeing at Sinai: Interpretive Trajectories,” 247–268 of this volume. 36 On this belief, see Tryggve N. D. Mettinger, The Dethronement of Sabaoth: Studies in the Shem and Kabod Theologies (CBOT 18; Lund: C. W. K. Gleerup, 1982), 38–79.

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In fact, there is a great preponderance of words of hearing in these post-Decalogue verses in Deuteronomy 5; more than twenty occurrences of speak (‫)דבר‬, hear (‫)שמע‬, and voice (‫ )קול‬are found at the end of Deuteronomy 5. Revelation there is an auditory experience only. Even when the verb “to see (‫)ראה‬,” is used, it emphasizes the auditory, as in 5:24b, ‫היום הזה ראינו כי־ידבר אלהים‬, “We have seen today that God can speak” (my translation). The author of Deuteronomy 5 is rebalancing the sensory experience of his source so that it fits his theology—instead of both seeing and hearing causing belief, as in Exodus, only hearing is believing. 8. Deuteronomy plays a careful balancing act, giving the Decalogue and the earlier revelation of law some importance, but it gives it less importance than its sources In contrast to the Covenant Collection in Exodus, which does not contain legislation that contradicts the Decalogue, we read in Deut 7:9–10: (9) Know, therefore, that only the Lord your God is God, the steadfast God who keeps His covenant faithfully to the thousandth generation of those who love Him and keep His commandments, (10) but who instantly requites with destruction those who reject Him—never slow with those who reject Him, but requiting them instantly.

This repetitive and emphatic statement is, as Fishbane has noted, a polemic against what it says in the Decalogue concerning intergenerational punishment.37 The fact that such a polemic could exist suggests that for the Deuteronomist, the Decalogue and the surrounding material was not of the greatest importance. In fact, Horeb is not mentioned very frequently in Deuteronomy, and one of the references, in 9:8, is negative: “At Horeb you so provoked the Lord that the Lord was angry enough with you to have destroyed you.” In the eyes of the Deuteronomist, Horeb is in part a place of anger and destruction; this may explain why it may feel comfortable disputing part of the Decalogue, the centerpiece of the revelation. It is also likely that the next principle played some role in allowing the Deuteronomist to disagree with the Decalogue.

37 Michael Fishbane, “Torah and Tradition,” in Tradition and Theology in the Old Testament (ed. D. A. Knight; Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press, 1977), 279–80.

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marc zvi brettler 9. Deuteronomy fundamentally recasts its source material to justify its core idea that the Mosaic discourse in year 40 is more important than the Sinai/Horeb event

One of the final verses in Deuteronomy, 28:69, reflects Deuteronomy’s ambivalent attitude toward Horeb: “These are the terms of the covenant which the Lord commanded Moses to conclude with the Israelites in the land of Moab, in addition to the covenant which He had made with them at Horeb.” In other words, revelation at Horeb is only one of two bĕrîtôt or covenants, and at least according to Deuteronomy, is the less important of the two.38 The end of Deuteronomy 5 says, in essence, that public revelation by God at Horeb was a bad idea— revelation through a prophet like Moses is a better idea. A significant phrase in Deuteronomy consists of the root to command (‫ צוה‬in the piel) alongside “today” (‫ )היום‬hayom—it is attested over 25 times.39 It makes a simple point—what Moses is commanding “today,” namely at the end of the period of wandering, is much more important than what was commanded then, at Horeb. This observation concerning the diminished place of Horeb in Deuteronomy as compared with other Torah sources means that a final issue we need to consider in looking at various post-biblical interpretations is: How important is revelation at Sinai?—after all, it cannot simply be assumed to be central, as does later Judaism.40 Deuteronomy offers us an important warning that we must be careful not to buy into the rabbinic view, and the view of parts of Exodus, that Sinai is the key biblical event. We must remember von Rad’s claim in “The Form-Critical Problem of the Hexateuch” that the Sinai material is secondary.41 As significant a source as the Deuteronomist42 might not recognize this conference’s title, “The Giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai”—he

The discussion about the relative value of the different covenants in Deuteronomy in Toeg, Lawgiving at Sinai, 122, 133, is very instructive. 39 Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), 356, #7. 40 The centrality of Sinai is the theme of Hindy Najman, Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple Judaism ( JSJSup 77; Leiden: Brill, 2003). 41 Gerhard von Rad, “The Form-Critical Problem of the Hexateuch,” in The Problem of the Hexateuch and Other Essays (trans. E. W. Trueman Dicken; London: SCM Press, 1984), 13–20; see esp. 13–14 on Wellhausen’s geographical observation suggesting already that the Sinai pericope is secondary. 42 I am here sidestepping the issue of the number of Deuteronomists, and in fact, whether the term is still helpful; see most recently Thomas Römer, The So-Called Deu38

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cloud, and deep darkness”

27

certainly would have been happier with a symposium on the giving of the Torah opposite Beit Pe’or.43 This quick survey highlights certain issues concerning Deuteronomy that are relevant to post-biblical interpretations: which biblical sources they prioritize, to what extent they tolerate contradictory biblical views, which peripheral notions are moved into the center, which biblical phrases are used in later sources in a way that differs from their biblical use, to what extent do specific legal concerns enter the narrative of Sinai/Horeb, are auditory or visual experiences the key, and is Sinai or Horeb a central or peripheral event? Exploration of these issues might allow us to begin to sort and categorize interpretative traditions about Sinai. It would also help answer a question which continues to intrigue me as a critical biblical scholar who is interested as well in post-biblical interpretation: which of the many biblical perspectives on such crucial narratives as Sinai “won” in post-biblical literature, and why?

teronomistic History: A Sociological, Historical and Literary Introduction (London: T & T Clark International, 2006). 43 See Deut 4:46. For the afterlife of this idea, see George J. Brooke, “Moving Mountains: From Sinai to Jerusalem,” 73–90 of this volume.

PRIESTLY PROPHETS AT QUMRAN: SUMMONING SINAI THROUGH THE SONGS OF THE SABBATH SACRIFICE Judith H. Newman University of Toronto, Canada What would occasion songs in the liturgical life of the Qumran community? One could well imagine that given their seeming estrangement from the priesthood in Jerusalem and its temple praxis, laments, or qinot, would have been a much more appropriate response to their situation in the wilderness. And indeed, of the great quantity of liturgical texts found at Qumran, the number designated as shir is rare.1 The collection known as Shirot Olat haShabbat constitute a significant exception.2 The nine fragmentary copies of the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice found at Qumran, eight from cave 4, one from cave 1, not to mention the text found at Masada, argue for their central role in Qumran ritual life. But what role was that? In her most recent writing on the purpose of the Shirot, Carol Newsom has suggested that The Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice provide the means by which those who read and heard it could receive not merely communion with angels but a virtual experience of presence in the heavenly temple among the angelic priests . . . the text readily may be understood as a means of enhancing the sense of priestly identity through its vivid description of the Israelite priesthood’s angelic counterparts.3

1 Of the twenty-two occurrences of shir in the so-called non-biblical texts, ten occur in headings of the Shirot Olat Hashabbat, three occur in the prose Psalms piece, “David’s Compositions,” two appear in the Songs of the Sage and there are singular mentions in 3Q6 1, 2; 4Q418 (4QInstruction); 4Q433; 4Q448. There are seven occurrences of the plural form shirot, all in the liturgical/calendrical text 4Q334 and one in 4Q433a ; the masculine plural construct occurs in 11Q13 II, 10 though with some question about the final yod; data from Martin Abegg, et al., The Dead Sea Scrolls Concordance (Leiden: Brill, 2003). 2 The noun can be masculine or feminine, a distinguishable feature of biblical songs that was interpreted with eschatological significance in the rabbinic literature and likely influenced early Christian use of odes; see James Kugel, “Is there but One Song?” Bib 63 (1982): 329–50. 3 Carol Newsom, “Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice,” EDSS 2:889. Much the same idea is expressed in her earlier article, “He Has Established For Himself Priests,” in

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Others have largely followed Newsom in this characterization, and her work on the Shirot remains indispensable, yet it seems more could be said. The Shirot have also often been characterized with the later trends of Hekhalot and Merkavah mysticism in mind, such that we have them described as “songs meant to engender mystical communion with the angels,” or as “mystical songs.”4 These characterizations remain somewhat vague and perhaps even suggest a kind of passivity or otherworldliness not otherwise characteristic of the zealous, ascetic sectarians whose writings and practices reflect a vivid concern for political and material matters in the here and now. Although any thesis about the use of these elusive compositions must remain tentative, I mean to suggest a more specific role for their use and argue that the thirteen Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice, which are tied to the first quarter of the solar year, served at Qumran as a transformative and preparatory rite in the community that prepared those who participated in it for the all-important festival of Shavuot and its calendrical cultic aftermath, including the full vesting of the consecrated priesthood on the thirteenth Sabbath in breastplate and other sacred garments. The complete season included reception of the divine spirit by the purified elect and the production of new scriptural interpretation through oracular means, perhaps especially toward the end on the fourteen days between Shavuot and the summer solstice. Their purpose was thus to summon the immanent presence of the divine glory first revealed at Sinai anew, though in a new locale and with a decidedly priestly-prophetic inflection through the influence of Isaiah, Ezekiel, and Elijah. The scriptural account of the revelation at Sinai in Exodus is recognized as a notoriously difficult narrative to comprehend because of its complex incorporation of various traditions. In the case of the Shirot, the influence of Sinai is seen not in a distinct mention of the wildernesss mountain nor of the covenant mediator Moses himself, but more obliquely in the priestly kabod tradition associated with a visual and

Archaeology and History in the Dead Sea Scrolls: The New York University Conference in Memory of Yigael Yadin (ed. L. H. Schiffman; JSPSup 8; Sheffield: Sheffield University Press, 1990), 115–16. 4 Esther G. Chazon has rightly suggested that the view of Ithamar Gruenwald, Rachel Elior, and now we might add Philip Alexander, that proposes a trajectory between the priestly Qumran community to the merkavah mystics makes some good sense, but the situation was likely more complicated; see her “Human and Angelic Prayer in Light of the Scrolls,” in Liturgical Perspectives: Prayer and Poetry in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls (ed. E. Chazon; STDJ 48; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 35–47, esp. 46–47.

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mobile manifestation of divine glory which threads its way through the Sinai narrative emphasizing the mediating leadership of both prophet Moses and priest Aaron (inter alia Exod 16:7–10; 24:16–17).5 The locale for revelation has thus shifted from a desert mountaintop to a wilderness sanctuary as refracted through another Israelite mountain, Zion, and other scriptural traditions as well.6 The ritual function of the Shirot in their particular instantiation at Qumran may be thought to comprehend three elements: their liturgical function as texts in the “worship” of the community, their instructional function as part of a “catechesis” in morally shaping the community, and their theurgic function as both “inspired” and “inspirational” compositions that stimulate the production of additional sacred teachings and ultimately texts.7 As used at least during part of the history of the inhabitation of Qumran, the members of the Ya ad were sufficiently purified during the course of the cycle so that by the seventh Sabbath, the congregation had become fully transformed from a group of embodied men to a symbolic miqdash adam, a sanctuary of men who understood themselves to have escaped the concerns of the flesh.8 Within

5 Explicit association of the Torah with Moses is rare in the Qumran literature. The phrase “torah of Moses” appears only eight times, five in the Damascus Document in the space of two chapters (CD XV, 2, 9, 12; XVI, 25), twice in the Community Rule (1QS V, 8; VIII, 22) and once in 4Q513. Moses is mentioned by name in connection with his mediation of the Torah four times (1QS VIII, 15; 4Q364 14, 4; 4Q382 104, 7; 4Q504 4, 8). The book of Jubilees, clearly important at Qumran, depicts Moses as mediator of a Sinai revelation that comprises much more than the content of the biblical Pentateuch to include traditions of practice and belief of a contemporaneous Jewish community. In that sense, the “biblical Moses” is co-opted in Jubilees into the service of the second century b.c.e. “Moses” responsible for its authorship. As this essay seeks in part to argue, the scarcity of authority connected explicitly with Moses at Qumran reflects the donning of the prophetic mantle by priestly leaders of the community. 6 On the nature of this shift, see elsewhere in this volume, George J. Brooke, “Moving Mountains: From Sinai to Jerusalem.” 7 The role of the Shirot in shaping the sectarians through worship may be understood as one part of the community’s ethical imperatives, on which see Marcus Tso, “The Giving of the Law at Sinai and the Ethics of the Qumran Community,” in this volume, esp. 124–126. 8 The sectarian ideal of the community as a divinely constructed and sanctified temple is evident in a number of texts, rooted interpretively in Exod 15:17–18 and the play on “house” in 2 Sam 7:10–13 and articulated in Qumran literature in 4QFlorilegium (4Q174 III, 6–7) and CD III, 12–IV, 4. For more, see George J. Brooke, “Miqdash Adam, Eden and the Qumran Community,” in Gemeinde ohne Tempel: Community without Temple (ed. B. Ego, A. Lange, P. Pilhofer; WUNT 118; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999), 285–301 and Devorah Dimant “4Q Florilegium and the Idea of the Community as Temple,” in Hellenica et Judaica (ed. A. Caquot; Leuven: Peeters, 1986), 165–89. The view taken in this essay, then, is quite distinct from the recent perspective argued by

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that figured space a priestly leadership performed its duties, whose own liturgical telos was ultimately to offer inspired compositions in imitatio angelorum, the hosts who had commenced their continuous song of praise upon witnessing the creation. Perhaps a better characterization would be to liken the priests to malakhim because they became prophetic messengers in the classic tongue of Hebrew through their divinely inspired utterances. While detailed argumentation about the calendrical cycle and its relation to the liturgical performance must await another essay, to support a more limited thesis, I will consider their sequential structure as reflected in some particular features of language as a progressive movement in liturgical time, space, and energy. Mapping the Genre: the Distinctive Shape of the Shirot A brief consideration of the genre of the Shirot must set the stage. The significance of their distinctiveness and its implications for establishing their possible liturgical function is often given insufficient or imprecisely described attention by scholars. This seems especially to

P. Alexander, who views the temple of the Shirot as a spiritual, celestial temple created by the praises of the angels. Praises are not in fact offered but described in the Shirot, and the two mentions of “heaven” in the Shirot do not refer to the temple; (4Q400 2, 4; 4Q401 14, I, 6); see his Mystical Texts (LSTS 61; London: T & T Clark, 2006), 29–32. He draws support for his argument in part from a comparison with writings of the later merkavah mystics, which seems methodologically unsound; see n. 9 below. Rather, in my view, according to the sectarian understanding, just as good or bad spirits may possess individuals, so too spirits inhabit the material temple of men, which is understood figuratively as the divine temple. In the temple of men, as in the temple of stone in Jerusalem, the priests understood themselves as serving like angels (Mal 2:7). An assumption of this paper not argued in detail is that the liturgical cycle of the Shirot reflects an increasing blurring of distinctions between angels and men, angels and God, temple features and human features. Such blurring of boundaries between God and angels was not a new feature of Qumran ideology and practice, but one of longstanding in ancient Israel; on this phenomenon, see James Kugel, The God of Old: Inside the Lost World of the Bible (New York: The Free Press, 2003), esp. ch. 2, “The Moment of Confusion,” 5–36. The identification of priests as angels is not prominent in the Hebrew Bible although clearly in evidence in the sectarian scrolls; see the insightful essay by Devorah Dimant, “Men as Angels: The Self-Image of the Qumran Community,” in Religion and Politics (ed. A. Berlin; Bethesda, MD: University of Maryland Press, 1996), 93–103. She sees an analogy between men and angels as well as a strict separation between heaven and earth in perhaps overdrawn fashion, rather than an identification of the two. Dimant argues that the tasks assigned to the angels as described particularly in the Shirot, corresponds to that of the priests in the community rules (see in particular her comparative list on 100–1), an argument substantiated by this essay.

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be the case among those scholars of Jewish mysticism who wish to emphasize thematic continuities with later apocalyptic or Hekhalot and Merkavah literature, often neglecting formal generic differences.9 Such inattention to genre results in a skewed interpretation of the ritual role of the Shirot at Qumran.10 Those who have attempted to evaluate the precise genre and function of the songs have found the task a challenge, whether trying to connect them in some way to psalms or on a continuum between psalms and ascent texts.11 The headings of the 9 The tendency to ignore formal, generic differences in favor of thematic or linguistic similarities mars some otherwise excellent studies; see for example Rachel Elior, The Three Temples: On the Emergence of Jewish Mysticism (Oxford: The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2004). She refers to the Shirot as “angelic songs,” and describes their performance thus: “The terrestrial chief priests, who had withdrawn from the Temple, and the heavenly priests of the inner sanctum, who were painted with a clearly priestly brush, sang together, in a permanent cyclic order, the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice; in a regularly, prescribed daily, weekly, monthly order of set times they recited psalms, songs, hymns, and Kedushahs, shared by angels and men” (33). This assumes too much without argumentation about the context for recitation of the liturgy, in which perhaps the most overt error is that there is no threefold repetition of qadosh in the Songs, much less a formal Qedushah in any of the forms known from the traditional Jewish liturgy. Elliot Wolfson, in “Seven Mysteries of Knowledge: Qumran E/sotericism Recovered,” in The Idea of Biblical Interpretation: Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel (ed. H. Najman and J. H. Newman; JSJSup 83; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 177–213, reflects a similar tendency to Elior in reading mysticism into the Shirot and overemphasizes the individual’s role in the presumed mystical experience engendered by the Shirot, perhaps influenced by the privatized role of the Hekhalot and other mystical texts in later Jewish tradition rather than the corporate nature of the Qumran liturgy in which the worshippers take part as a communal act, as an integrated Ya ad. His reading of the language of the Shirot is itself nuanced and insightful, although when it comes to describing the Shirot’s liturgical function, Wolfson fluctuates between acknowledgment that the community as a whole plays a part in generating the liturgy and an emphasis on individual, solipsistic experience in describing the role of the “visionary poet and inspired exegete” who alone imagines the temple. Similarly, and intriguingly suggestive yet problematic, focused as it is on the maskil, is his characterization of the link between inspired exegesis and liturgy. Wolfson’s essay was developed in conversation with Hindy Najman, who herself does not discuss the details of the instantiated liturgy, but points to a general interconnection between revelation and prayer at Qumran and among the Therapeutae in her recent “Towards a Study of the Concept of Wilderness in Ancient Judaism,” DSD 13 (2006): 99–113 especially 109–10. By contrast, Michael D. Swartz offers a more careful assessment of the formal characteristics of the Shirot in his article, “The Dead Sea Scrolls and Later Jewish Magic and Mysticism,” DSD 8 (2001): 182–93. 10 It is important to recognize that each liturgical performance is unique to its context and dynamic in the sense that such performances evolve over time depending on the participants and a host of additional contextual factors. Let my use of the term “liturgical function” thus serve as shorthand for this broader consideration. 11 Daniel K. Falk, Daily, Sabbath, & Festival Prayers in the Dead Sea Scrolls (STDJ 27; Leiden: Brill, 1998), 133. He draws some formal comparisons with biblical psalms, in particular the fact that the plural imperative ‫ הללו‬hallelu form which begins each song

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Songs offer the most uniform element of the compositions. The headings that survive commence with “for the sage,” lammaskil, continuing with a date formula: “the song of the whole burnt offerings of the xth Sabbath on the yth day of the zth month.” A call to praise in the form of a second person plural imperative follows: hallelu. The texts from each Sabbath vary considerably in length and content. Yet while each of the Shirot begins with a call to praise, they do not contain actual words of praise, angelic or human, but rather are almost entirely in the form of third-person description or second-person exhortation to praise for which there is no precise parallel in the history of Jewish mysticism or liturgy.12 One final point to be made about the unique genre of the Shirot relates to the oft-made comparison to later Merkavah and Hekhalot literature. While the Songs doubtless belong to the same complex stream of Jewish tradition which reflects an interest in the human experience of the enthroned divine king in the heavenly realm as described in Isaiah, Ezekiel and some enthronement psalms, there is a significant difference between the Shirot and Jewish mystical texts of a later era. The texts of the Merkavah and Hekhalot feature long hymns of praise often including the scriptural elements (Isa 6:3 and Ezek 3:12) that would later be incorporated into Jewish liturgy as the Qedushah. The words offered by the angels in praise as well as the formal element of the Qedushah are absent from the Shirot. As Newsom notes, “such differences are scarcely accidental.”13 The Songs concern themselves with the activity of the is rare in the Qumran corpus aside from the Shirot. While comparing the Shirot to other songs offered on a Sabbath, he also recognizes their unique character. In terms of their function, Falk suggests that the single instance of a first person plural form in 4Q400 2, 7 “implies that not only are the songs to be recited communally but they are to be said by the human community”. It is not clear that a single instance of a first plural form would permit this inference for the entire collection. A second claim that “the style of the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice seems intended to engender ecstatic praise” is more cogent but left undeveloped; Falk, Daily, Sabbath, and Festival Prayers, 135. 12 Crispin H. T. Fletcher-Louis, All the Glory of Adam: Liturgical Anthropology in the Dead Sea Scrolls (STDJ 42; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 259. 13 Carol Newsom, “Mysticism,” EDSS 1:594. On the other hand, her suggestion that the lack of a Qedushah in the Shirot may possibly suggest a polemical rejection by the authors of the Songs against such inclusion elsewhere errs in positing a formal Qedushah in Jewish liturgy at this early date in the first century b.c.e., for which there is no support from the literature. On the entry of the qedushah into Jewish liturgy, see Ezra Fleischer, “The Diffusion of the Qedushot of the Amidah and the Yo er in the Palestinian Ritual,” Tarbiz 38 (1969): 255–84 and D. Flusser, “Jewish Roots of the Liturgical Trishagion,” Immanuel 3 (1973–74): 37–49. Owing to the first appearance of two variant forms of the Qedushah/Sanctus in the Apostolic Constitutions, I have

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35

angelic priests in praising God rather than the words of the angels themselves. If the larger thesis of this essay is correct, the significance of that omission is that the Songs point beyond themselves to the active composition of new “songs” and other “offerings of the Sabbath” by those commissioned by the inspired angelic priests during the course of the liturgy, compositions that are enabled by esoteric knowledge and which are not disseminated to hoi polloi. The fact that the Songs defy neat genre classification as a unique set of compositions both in formal elements and the character of their language then suggests implications for the evaluation of their function. Newsom’s more recent work on the Hodayot provides a helpful model in considering genre as a more elastic concept and a part of discourse that embraces all text and practices generally.14 Given this suggestion of taxonomic elasticity, the Shirot may be considered as participating in genre, so that they may be invoking in some sense other uses of “songs” in the Jewish tradition or elsewhere, yet they must be understood against the backdrop of the sectarians’ ideology, practices, and expectations. Thus, sensitivity to the way in which the language both resonates with other sectarian texts, thus inculcating the ethos of the group within a liturgical context, and also may be in tension with the discursive practices of other Jewish communities, provides a useful way of placing the Shirot in their broader socio-historical context.15 In order to support the thesis more fully, it will be helpful to consider some unique features of the Songs in their language and structure. The Body Language of the Shirot One overall point about their language may be made at the outset in order to consider the Shirot in relation to other literature used uniquely

argued that the first liturgical use of the Qedushah was in Christian worship, adapted from its appearance in apocalyptic contexts and reflecting the realized eschatological perspective of the community; Judith H. Newman, “Holy, holy, holy: The Use of Isa 6:3 in AposCon 7:35.1–10 and AposCon 8.12.6–27,” in Of Scribes and Sages: Early Jewish Interpretation and Transmission of Scripture, vol. 2 Later Versions and Traditions (ed. C. A. Evans; SSEJC 9; LSTS 51; London: T & T Clark International, 2004), 123–34. 14 Carol Newsom, The Self as Symbolic Space: Constructing Identity and Community at Qumran (STDJ 52; Leiden: Brill, 2004). 15 For a discussion of the ways in which scripturally-larded discourse of the community might serve to reinforce its sectarian values, see Newsom, “How to Make a Sectarian,” Self as Symbolic Space, 91–190.

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by the sectarians at Qumran. Much ink has been spilled by scholars in attempts to elucidate the nature and function of the Songs. If no blood has been shed in the academic skirmishes about the human or angelic nature of those who may have participated in the liturgical performances of the Shirot, perhaps this is owing to the incorporeal character of the language in the texts themselves. Except for the flutter of wings in the twelfth song, the principal body part mentioned aside from a few mouths, lips, and God’s hand at one point, is the tongue, or more precisely in this communal liturgical composition, a plurality, or rather community, of tongues. The Shirot display a decided avoidance of flesh and blood but an enhanced if sometimes obscure portrayal of the relationship among spirits, priests, community members, and angels. The incorporeal language stands in marked contrast to the concern for bodies and body parts found throughout the rest of the Qumran corpus. Many texts concern themselves with the body, whether the character of its different parts or their appearance or the need for their disciplinary restraint. George Brooke has discussed the ways in which concern for body parts among the sectarians manifests itself in various compositions.16 Barkhi Napshi as well as a range of other texts are quite focused on body parts: on eyes, on ears, on minds, hearts, kidneys, livers, fingers, knees, and toes. While Barkhi Napshi may well be of non-Qumran origin, it seems to have been used by the sectarians for their own purposes. Brooke compellingly argues that an evaluation of the physical appearance of individuals was determinative of their entry into the community and subsequent status and the degree to which they might participate in worship. So too, Philip Alexander and more recently Mladen Popović have discussed the significance of physiognomies in reading the human body at Qumran.17 We may also

16 George J. Brooke, “Body Parts in Barkhi Nafshi and the Qualifications for Membership of the Worshipping Community,” in Sapiential, Liturgical, and Poetical Texts from Qumran (ed. D. Falk, F. García-Martínez and E. Schuller; STDJ 35; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 79–94. He also discusses 1QSa II, 3–9; 1QM VII, 4–5; 11QTa XLV, 12–14; 4QMMT (4Q394 8 III); CD XV, 15–17 (4Q266 8 I, 7–9); 4Q186; 4Q521; 4Q525; 4Q561; and 4Q534. See as well the work of David Seely, “Barkhi Nafshi,” in Qumran Cave 4. XX: Poetic and Liturgical Texts, Part 2 (ed. E. Chazon et al.; DJD XXIX; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999), 255–334. 17 For a discussion of the ranking of the members of the community based on physical appearance, see Philip S. Alexander, “Physiognomy, Initiation, and Rank in the Qumran Community,” in Geschichte—Tradition—Reflexion: Festschrift für Martin Hengel zum 70. Geburtstag (ed. H. Cancik, H. Lichtenberger, P. Schäfer; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1996), 385–94. More recently, see Mladen Popović, “Physiognomic Knowledge

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see the various demonic expulsion and purification rites as the opposite end of the ritual spectrum from the Shirot, reserved for performance on the ne’er-do-wells of the community, perhaps before they were sent packing down to the defiled precincts of Jerusalem, descending at least from the elevated perspective of the sectarians.18 All this suggests that the community was quite concerned with measuring and evaluating bodies and their constituent parts, but not, it seems, on the first thirteen Sabbaths of the solar year. Those who participated in this Sabbath liturgy had passed the measurement litmus test of membership among the sons of light, whether reflected in one’s physiognomy or in some other sign of healthy spirit.19 Indeed, the Shirot reflect a transcendence of bodily concerns, presumably because those participating in the liturgy have gone beyond the concerns of the body by virtue of their ascetical discipline, at least during the length of the Sabbath, in order to ready themselves as vessels for reception of revelation. These points can be substantiated through a closer look at the collection. Language Clues: Tracing the Progression of the Shirot The general consensus holds that the Songs can be grouped in three large sections differentiated by content and style: songs 1–5, songs 6–8, and songs 9–13. Ambiguity is part and parcel of the rhetorical style of the Shirot and as the sequence unfolds, the language becomes ever more challenging to parse because of its loosening syntax. Songs 1–5, though much of the material is lost, offer a clearer, more uniform syntax and poetic parallelism. The five songs describe the establishment of the angelic priesthood and its responsibilities as well as an account of the praise that they offer to God. The central section is considerably

in Qumran and Babylonia: Form, Interdisciplinarity, and Secrecy,” DSD 13 (2006): 150–76 and his book Reading the Human Body: Physiognomics and Astrology in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Hellenistic-Early Roman Period Judaism (STDJ 67; Leiden: Brill, 2007). 18 An expulsion ritual for major infractions is described in the Damascus Document a and Damascus Document c (4Q266 11; 4Q270 7 I, 2) and was performed at the annual ceremony of covenant renewal which occurred on Shavuot. 19 On the importance of the term ‫“( תכון‬measurement”) and the verb ‫“( תכן‬to measure”) as theological terms that reflect divine measurement in the Qumran literature, particularly the Rule of the Community and 4QInstruction, see Menahem Kister, “Physical and Metaphysical Measurements Ordained by God in the Literature of the Second Temple Period,” in Reworking the Bible: Apocryphal and Related Texts at Qumran (ed. E. Chazon, D. Dimant and R. Clements; STDJ 58; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 153–76.

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different, characterized by a formulaic and repetitious literary structure which stresses the number seven. The sixth and eighth form an inclusio around the seventh song. The sixth and eighth to some degree mirror each other in their formulaic repetition of variations of the Hebrew root ‫ שבע‬by the chief princes. The middle sequence of songs has a greater dependency on Isaiah and in particular, the seventh song evokes the throne vision of Isaiah 6 with its commissioning of the prophet. The last songs 9–13 offer a progressive description of the temple and the praise offered by its various animated parts, with a further description of the divine chariot throne with its implied divine presence of kabod, of the angelic priests, with a final vesting of the high priest. The songs in the last section largely comprise nominal and participial sentences with extensive construct chains which defy attempts at straightforward translation. The final collection engages more language and imagery from Ezekiel, especially the prophet’s vision of the restored temple in Jerusalem in Ezekiel 40–48.20 Disagreement remains over the focal point or climax of the songs, whether in the middle at the seventh song or toward the end of the series. Some follow Carol Newsom who has argued on stylistic grounds that the song of the seventh Sabbath constitutes the focal point of the collection. Those who have argued for a progression have done so on thematic grounds, arguing that the eleventh and twelfth songs culminate the cycle with the divine chariot’s descent which corresponds to the timing of the festival of Shavuot.21 The difficulty with the thematic argument is that the final song which describes the priestly vestments seems to some as anti-climactic, yet this ignores the possible significance of the investiture of the priesthood in the final song.22 It seems most likely that there is more than one high point. Philip Alexander views the climax

20 For a discussion of some of the architectural language shared by Ezekiel 40–48 and the Shirot, see Carol Newsom, Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice: A Critical Edition (HSS 27; Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1985), 51–58 and more recently, James R. Davila, “The Macrocosmic Temple, Scriptural Exegesis, and the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice,” DSD 9 (2002): 1–19 (5–7). Davila argues convincingly that a number of terms used for the priestly angels in the Shirot derive from the description of the construction of the temple in 1 Chronicles 28–29. 21 Joseph M. Baumgarten, “ShirShabb and Merkabah Traditions,” 206–7, disagrees with Newsom’s triangular arrangement positing the seventh as the culmination. Baumgarten sees a distinct progression culminating in the thirteenth song, the climax being the burnt offering. 22 Davila, Liturgical Works, 90, suggests that the thirteenth “functioned as a kind of coda or denouement that described the heavenly cult of the high-priestly angels.”

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of the cycle coming toward the end, but is ambivalent about whether the twelfth song marks the end with its resonances with the descent of the merkavah, the thirteenth thus functioning as a “coda,” or whether the thirteenth song marks the climactic point of the liturgy. From his perspective, the thirteenth song signifies the “transformation of the mystic,” the maskil at the climax of the ceremony, perhaps supplemented liturgically by the self-glorification hymn from the Hodayot.23 This a plausible suggestion, but with some modification. As noted above, the songs focus not on words of praise to God, but on the angelic-human priests themselves, in part as a means of bolstering the authority of priesthood within the community; thus the thirteenth song offers a fitting conclusion to the series, as Russell Arnold has recently argued.24 Yet the liturgy does more than merely affirm the role of priests in an angel-like status; it also affirms the authority of their inspired teaching. The thirteenth song presents the angel-like priests with the maskil as their head as fully vested and equipped for their oracular performance. We may thus chart a progression and evolution of the songs with multiple high points and a culminating conclusion. Many worthy studies of the language of the Shirot have been published, but even these have not sufficiently mined the rich compositions for their multi-layered intertextual resonances; there are limits to penetration into their esoterica. To support the contention of this essay that the Songs feature the summoning of a reconstrued Sinai revelation and to illustrate their liturgical movement in time, the focus will remain on only certain features of the language in the best preserved specimens, primarily in the first, seventh, eighth, eleventh, and twelfth songs. Song for the First Sabbath The first suggestion of a reconceived Sinai revelation occurs already in the song for the first Sabbath of the year. The first song concerns the establishment of the angelic priesthood and its principal functions of atoning for sin and responsibility for divine teaching. According to the Temple Scroll, the year began with a New Year Festival (11Q19 XIV,

Alexander, Mystical Texts, 50. Russell C. D. Arnold, The Social Role of Liturgy in the Religion of the Qumran Community (STDJ 60; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 146–48. 23 24

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7–8), followed by a consecration festival lasting seven days for priests and high priests (11Q19 XV, 3). The consecration festival would have coincided with the first Sabbath Song, which is dated to the fourth day of the first month. The first Sabbath Song seems to reflect the consecration theme because it contains mention of the human priesthood as they reflect on their incomparability with the angelic priests. The angels are first mentioned in the first part of the song, 4Q400 1 I, 4, as the “servants of the presence” (‫)משרתי פנים‬, a phrase that is somewhat ambiguous in that elsewhere in the Qumran literature, the angels of the presence are associated with a segment of the Qumran community itself. The “servants of the presence” are more commonly referred to as the “angels of the presence” (‫)מלאכי פנים‬, a phrase that is interpretively derived in part from the phrase in Isa 63:9 (‫מלאך‬ ‫ )פניו‬but also from references in the wilderness and Sinai account in Exodus in which an angel is sent before (‫ )לפני‬the Israelites; cf. Exod 14:19; 23:20–23; 32:34; 33:2.25 The “servants of the presence” at the beginning of the first song thus provides a link to the wilderness–Sinai tradition, not only in Exodus but in its remembered narration through the prophetic prayer in Isa 63:7–64:12.26 Lines 5 and 15 of 4Q400 1 I mark a clear connection to the lawgiving at Sinai: “He inscribed his statutes concerning all the works of spirit,” and “statutes of holiness he inscribed for them.”27 The distinctive root ‫ חרת‬appears in both lines.28 The Masoretic Text of the Hebrew Bible

James C. VanderKam, “The Angel of the Presence in the Book of Jubilees,” DSD 7 (2000): 378–93 [385–88]. The Rule of Blessings (1QSb IV, 24–26) and the Hodayot (1QHa I, 12–13) associate the angels of the presence as “holy ones” with the men of the council of the Ya ad. A working assumption of this paper is that deliberate ambiguity is built into much of the Songs’ vocabulary, including identity of the angels/priests/ humans in order to obscure the distinction between them as they are brought into contact through the liturgy. On the ambiguity of elohim and qedoshim in the Shirot, see also the comments of James R. Davila, Liturgical Works (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2000), 100–1. Davila notes the use of meshartim (servants) for deified humans in the eschatological temple in 4Q511 35, 4. 26 For a discussion of the textual and theological difficulties posed by the role of the “angel of the presence” in Isa 63:9 as reflected in the ancient versions and the verse’s interpretative interrelation to Exod 23:20–21 as a background to the Shirot, see Davila, “The Macrocosmic Temple,” 14–16. 27 Translations of the Shirot texts from 4Q follow Newsom’s translations with some variations as discussed ad loc., “Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice,” in Qumran Cave 4 VI Poetical and Liturgical Texts, Part 1 (ed. E. Eshel, H. Eshel, et al.; DJD XI; Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 173–401. 28 On the basis of the word’s appearance in line 5, Newsom, “Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice,” 182, reconstructs the lacuna in line 15, with “statutes of holiness.” 25

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includes this word only in Exod 32:16 as Moses brings the tablets of the law to the people. The engraving refers to God’s own inscription on the tablets to indicate God’s work and God’s writing, (ma asei elohim, miktab elohim). The verb is thus associated uniquely with God’s own action and not that of humans. In that way, arat is like the distinctive verb bara found only in the Priestly strand of the Pentateuch, Psalm 51, and Second Isaiah, in which the act of creation is uniquely the prerogative of God and the substance out of which God creates is not made clear. There is thus an aspect of mystery attached to the word as is the case with arat. In the sectarian literature, the root appears with greater frequency but is still distinctively linked to divine law-giving.29 The verb is used significantly at the end of the Serekh ha-Ya ad where it appears three times in the pledge of the maskil (in the passive form ‫ )חרות‬and also linked with “statute”: 1QS X, 6, 8, 11 in the description of the maskil’s cyclical liturgical obligations:30 “With the offering of lips [I] will bless him like an eternally inscribed statute (‫)כחוק חרות‬. . . . And in everything the inscribed statute shall be on my tongue as the fruit of praise and the portion of my lips. . . . I will declare His judgment according to my sins, and my transgressions shall be before my eyes as an engraved statute.” The sense of inscribed statute in the maskil’s pledge includes not only a performative liturgical sense in which the maskil must recount the acts of God in praise and blessing, but also suggests the juridical in that divine judgement would also serve as an inscribed statute for the 29 Of the nineteen occurrences of the root ‫חרת‬, four occur in the Shirot, six appear in copies of the Rule of the Community (3 in 1QS, 2 in 4Q258, 1 in 4Q256), 3 in 4QInstruction, 2 in the Damascus Document (one partially in a lacuna), one each in the War Rule (4QM), Purification Liturgy (4Q284 3, 4), Ages of Creation (4Q180), and the Song of the Sage (4Q511). 30 There are strong verbal links between the language of the covenant ritual for admission into the community in 1QS I–II and the instructions for the maskil in 1QS IX, 12–XI, 22; see Manfred Weise, Kultzeiten und kultischer Bundesschluss in der “Ordensregel” vom Toten Meer (StPB 3; Leiden: Brill, 1961), 64–68 and Falk, Daily, Sabbath, and Festival Prayers, 110–11. We will not enter here into the debate about the redactional history of the Serekh ha-Ya ad and which texts constitute the oldest part(s) of the Rule but simply affirm C. Newsom’s observation (Self as Symbolic Space, 107) that the role of the material concerning the Maskil in 1QS IX, 12–XI, 22 and its links to the admission ritual “not only serve as a literary inclusion but also encourage one to see in the character of the Maskil the telos of the disciplines and teaching that the Serek ha-Ya ad has described.” Her interest lies in the moral formation of sectarians as patterned after the leadership figure of the Maskil, rather than the actual performative texts that result from such activity on the part of the Maskil.

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maskil. The root -r-t appears as the passive participle arut (inscribed ordinance) everywhere except the Shirot occurrences in which the verb appears as a third person singular active verb with God implied as the subject and in the Song of the Sage in which the implied persona of the maskil claims, “I will recount your wonderful deeds and inscribe them (‫)ואחורתם‬, laws of praise of your glory.” (4Q511 63–64 II, 2b–3). The Song of the Sage thus offers a similar juxtaposition to the pledge of the maskil at the end of the Serekh which combines the recounting of divine activity in a liturgical setting with legal prescription. A number of scholars have pointed to a connection between the inscription of laws in 4Q400 1 I, 15 and the idea of laws inscribed on heavenly tablets found in the book of Jubilees, yet nowhere in the first Sabbath Song is the medium of tablets mentioned.31 The writing down of revelation is an important feature of the narrative in Jubilees.32 There is no mediating role of scribal activity and writing mentioned in the Shirot, only the reception of revelation and visual and oral communication of divine knowledge. The connection between the tablets of Jubilees and the engraving of the Songs thus might best be understood if we think of the role of the angels/priests in the Shirot and the maskil (or angelic priests) in the Rule of the Community the incarnated “medium” of the inscribed information, that is, as agents of divine revelation, though first through visual perception and oral transmission.33 In fact the use 31 Newsom cites seventeen instances of heavenly tablets in the book of Jubilees; she cites three instances in particular that mention “written and engraved” ( Jub. 5:13; 24:33; 32:1), although it is unclear from her discussion whether these are indubitably the cognate equivalent of ‫ חרת‬DSD XI, 180); cf. also J. Davila, Liturgical Works, 101–2. In the book of Jubilees, the heavenly tablets are understood to contain a wide range of information, including the Torah of Moses, a record of good and evil actions, a record of history both past and future, calendrical information, and new amplifications of scriptural law; see Florentino García Martínez, “The Heavenly Tablets in the Book of Jubilees,” in Studies in the Book of Jubilees (ed. M. Albani, J. Frey, A. Lange; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), 243–60. 32 On the importance of written text in Jubilees, see especially Hindy Najman, “Interpretation as Primordial Writing: Jubilees and Its Authority Conferring Strategies,” JSJ 30 (1999): 379–410. By contrast with Jubilees, the authority of divine teaching is conferred in the Shirot not through scribal mechanisms but is closely linked to angelic-human mediation in the ritual performance of the liturgy. Needless to say, authority never derives inherently from the product of writing nor from narratives about such writing but from the individuals or communities who confer it; that is, texts gain authority only through use in particular social contexts, be that through a context of communal study, liturgical performance, the juridical process, or some other means. 33 There are suggestive connections between the book of Jubilees and the Shirot, including the role of the angel of the presence as the mediator of the revelation to Moses in Jubilees and the “servants of the presence” “servants of the face of the holy

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of the “engraved statute” on the mouth, tongue, and lips in the song of the maskil suggests precisely such an oral transmission of the “inscription,” thus understood as an oral teaching that issues from the mouth of the instructor based on internalized divine legal knowledge.34 Such juridical knowledge is itself inseparable from the knowledge of events from creation onward, the ethical mores expected by God being knit into the very fabric of the creation. The first song thus provides support for an association of the angelic servants of the Shirot with sectarian leadership in the person of the maskil as the one who is responsible as chief teacher of divine knowledge to the community (cf. 1QS III, 13–15; IX, 18–19).35 Before turning to another excerpt from the Shirot that suggests a reconceived Sinai revelation, it is important to point to a feature of the first song that characterizes the beginning of the Shirot series but not the latter songs, which thus bolsters the argument for a developmental sequence in the liturgical cycle. 4Q400 1 I, 15–16 describes one task of the angels as those who atone God’s will (itself a unique expression) for “all who repent of sin” (‫)כול שבי פשע‬.36 The role of the divine will recurs in the creation account of the seventh song discussed below. “Those who repent of sin” (or alternatively translated, “turn from transgression”) is a distinctive sectarian phrase occurring most notably in the Damascus Document, the Rule of the Community and

king,” and “priests of the inner sanctum” mentioned in 4Q400 1 I, 4, 8, 19, the nearly angelic status of Israel in their observance of the Sabbath ( Jub. 2:28), the legitimation of the solar calendar in Jubilees whose use is assumed in the Shirot. The angel of the presence is to dictate to Moses (‫ )להכתיב‬in 4Q216 V, 6 (4QJuba) an extensive narration “from the beginning of creation until my sanctuary is built in their midst for all the centuries of the centuries.” 34 For the importance of priestly leadership in the central activity of studying Torah and at Qumran, see Steven Fraade, “Interpretive Authority at Qumran,” JJS 44 (1993): 46–69. See in particular his discussion of 1QS VI, 6–8 (56–58). He may mischaracterize the study of the scroll in that passage to indicate the (written) Torah/ miqra and thus create a somewhat artificial distinction between scripture and sectarian law which would not have been held so strictly by the community. Fraade views “study as the link to and reenactment of originary revelatory moment” (68) and acknowledges a connection between study and worship, but does not fully explicate the function of prayer and liturgy within the community. 35 The relationship of the role of the maskil to that of the mebaqqer is unclear, although the mebaqqer also was responsible for instruction according to the Damascus Document (CD A XIII, 6–8). 36 Davila notes the distinctiveness of the phrase and points to the similar expressions “atonements of favor” (4Q513 13, 2) and “atonements of your favor” (4Q 512 4–6, 6).

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three of the Hodayot.37 Here, as in the community rules, it is likely a description of the covenanted community (4Q266 2 II, 5) or a subset of the community consisting of the Community Council (1QS I, 1–3). The contextual horizon of the phrase in Isa 59:20 where it derives is the imminent divine redemption of those who repent and the restoration of Jerusalem in a manifestation of divine glory. The covenant marking this new redemption (Isa 59:21) is the gift of divine spirit that allows the words of God not to depart from the mouths of those who repent and their descendants, an internalized teaching that is transmitted orally. It is difficult to assess how much of the original context of the phrase from Isaiah is summoned in the Shirot, but the notion of internalized divine teaching in Isa 59:21 resonates with the task of the angels in 4Q400 1 I, 17 who are to teach concerning all holy matters. So too, the promised manifestation of divine glory mentioned in Isa 59:19 and its fulfillment in Isa 60: 2 is a theme threading through the Shirot which climaxes in the twelfth–thirteenth songs. Of the extant Shirot texts, sin is mentioned only in the first song and in 4Q402 1, 5 (‫)יםודי פשע‬, a fragment included with the first group of songs, 1–5.38 The tone of the latter two groups of songs shifts decisively from any consideration of sin to praise and blessing, thus serving as an indication of the evolution of the liturgical sequence. The language of the Songs, here and elsewhere, should be understood as polyvalent; individual words are often generative of more than one meaning. One characteristic of the collection is that each song or cluster of songs favors its own set of several or more Hebrew roots.39 A significant case in point is the term for the “establishment”

37 CD II, 5//4Q266 2 II, 5//4Q 269 1, 2; CD B XX, 17; 1QS VIII–IX; X, 20//4Q260 4, 10; 1QHa VI, 24; X, 9; XIV, 6; cf. also 4Q299 71, 1; 4Q512 70–71, 2. For discussion about the centrality of repentance to the Qumran community, see Bilhah Nitzan, “Repentance in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls after 50 Years (ed. P. Flint and J. VanderKam; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 2:145–70. 38 Newsom, “Shirot,” DJD XI, 222–23. 39 Each song contains a repeated use of the root in various forms, yet often there is ambiguity attached to the precise meaning of the word, which may have more than one referential value, especially as the cycle unfolds. To employ a contemporary analogy, the ambiguity is akin to Abbott and Costello’s “Who’s on first?” routine in which the two conversation partners become mired in confusion stemming from the dual referent of “Who” both as the ballplayer’s surname and as an interrogative pronoun. Whereas the humor for a modern audience comes from recognizing that both possibilities exist, it is less than clear how participants in the ShirShabb performance received the ambiguity of the language, but one can imagine that through the repetition the effect was to draw on more than one level of meaning. The polyvalence of the language, particularly

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of priests derived from the root (‫)יסד‬,40 for foundation, a root that is repeated throughout the first Song. In this case, the verbal root is used to indicate the establishment of the priesthood but suggestive already of another foundation, the groundwork that is laid for the construction of the animate temple to come in the seventh song, building up from the shovei pesha who constitute the Ya ad or some segment of it. A similar reading of “foundations” is found in 4Q164, the sectarian pesher on Isa 54:11–12, in which God’s pledge to rebuild the Jerusalem temple’s antinomy, pinnacles, foundations, and gates are related to different strata of the community: Israel, the priests and the people, the Council of the Ya ad, and the twelve chief priests who enlighten with Urim and Thummim, and the chiefs of the tribes. The term resonates as well with the foundation, sod (‫ )סוד‬of the community council (1QS III, 26; IV, 6; CD X, 6; XIX, 4) which also provides an esoteric sense. Sod itself has the dual meaning of the constituted council of the community and the results of its deliberations, its counsel.41 A particularly relevant passage in the Community Rule (1QS VIII, 4b–13) likens the community to a temple in which the language of foundations and other architectural elements feature prominently. Once the community council, with it ruling body of twelve men and three priests, rightly observes the practices outlined in the Rule: the Community council will be established in truth, to be an everlasting plantation, a holy house (‫ )בית קודש‬for Israel and the foundation of the holy of holies (‫ )וסוד קודש קודשים‬for Aaron . . . This is the tested rampart (‫)חומת הבחן‬, the precious cornerstone (‫ )פנת יקר‬that does not . [blank] [. . whose foundations do not shake or tremble from their place . . . the most holy dwelling for Aaron. . . .

The passage also describes the result of two years’ travel in a pure or perfected path (‫ )בתמים דרך‬on the part of the Council: the interpreter will reveal “hidden things” that is, the esoteric revelation, to the elect

related to elohim, and whether it means God, gods, or makes reference to angels or humans, has bedeviled modern Abbotts and Costellos trying to fix on one meaning, but it seems it is the very ambiguity of references that serves a rhetorical aim, to blur the distinctions among angels, men, and even God understood as the creative fashioner of these two great kinds, as the penetration of alternate realms takes place. 40 For ‫ יסד‬as an alternative form for ‫ סוד‬see Brockelmann, Grundriss 1:275. 41 Daniel Harrington, “Mystery,” EDSS 2:588–91 (589), observes that the word for sod is associated closely with the esoteric terms raz and nistarot. All three terms “convey the idea of the essential knowledge of heavenly or historical matters known to God and granted to humans only by divine revelation.”

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fifteen. The precise means by which such revelation occurs is not specified, but the connections implicit in the language of the Shirot would suggest that the liturgy plays a role in this regard as will become more evident below. The first song also illustrates the developmental nature of the liturgical cycle as the role of the angels as narrators of God’s glory is compared to the lot of those mortals who would also wish to make such an offering. 4Q400 2, 6–7 contains the only first person plural in the collection which indicates a direct address to God. A speaker, or a multitude of speakers, poses a series of questions about the incomparability between the angels and the [human] speakers: “How shall we be reckoned among them and our priesthood in their dwellings? And our holiness with their holiness? What is the offering of our tongue of dust with the knowledge of the ‘gods’?” Such rhetorical questions recall others from scripture, perhaps most notably, Ps 8:5–6 in which the psalmist ponders God’s concern for humans ( enosh, ben adam), but then in the subsequent verse affirms that God has made humans little less than “ elohim”—understood as angels, who are crowned with glory and honor. It is also similar to the language of the Hodayot, the hymn of 1QHa XIX in particular, in which the hymnist thanks God for giving him, a lowly creature of clay and dust, divine knowledge and understanding, asking in wonder about such divine providential election. It seems that the same kind of rhetorical questioning may be occurring here, with a self-abasement on the part of the human participants in the liturgy, which serves as a means of asserting their own significance.42 The comparison of these human tongues of dust at the beginning of the liturgy points to their elevation to the equivalent of angelic tongues by the cycle’s end, moreover tongues that might proclaim the “knowledge of God.” Another implicit if somewhat tentative connection with sectarian literature may be made at this point. According to the calendar of the Temple Scroll, the song for the first Sabbath coincides with the week in which new priests are ordained (11Q19 XV, 3).43 Thus God’s establishment of the angelic priesthood in the Sabbath Shirot seems to correspond with weekday life at Qumran as well. For an assessment of the role of Hodayot rhetoric in shaping sectarians, see Newsom, The Self as Symbolic Space, 191–286. 43 Newsom, Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice: A Critical Edition (HSM 27; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985), 72. 42

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4Q401 14 II, 6–8 from the first cycle of songs is a fragmentary piece, perhaps relating to the second Sabbath. The text makes reference to another task of the angels as communicators of esoteric knowledge which issues directly from the lips of God: . . . myster[ies] of his wonderful deeds . . . sound of jubilation [. . .] They are not able [. . .] God makes strong [. . .] princes of m[. . .] They make known hidden things [. . .] at the utterance of the lips of the king with [. . .]

The first word of the fragment, raz, is a common word in the sectarian literature, but appears only three times in the extant portions of the Shirot, here and at the beginning of the litany of the tongues in the eighth Sabbath song (4Q403 1 II, 27) in a slightly different formulation [“seven mysteries of knowledge in the mystery of wonder”]. The phrase “mysteries of his wonderful deeds” which occurs only twice in the Qumran literature, here and in the War Scroll,44 puts an esoteric gloss on the word nipla ot, but an esotericism that jibes with the “hidden things” (nistarot) of line 7. Nipla ot occurs in the Hebrew Bible particularly in reference to narrating divine judgment and redemption, occurring seventeen times in the book of Psalms about divine activity that must be extolled and recounted by those members of Israel who have benefited from it, particularly in those psalms that recount excerpts of the history of Israel (e.g., Pss 78:4, 32; 105:2, 5; 106: 7, 22). So too in the Qumran sectarian texts, the majority of occurrences of nipla ot occurs in liturgical texts, the Hodayot, Dibrei Hamme orot, and Prayers for Festivals. Although it contains gaps, the fragment from the second Sabbath may be read as a statement of the inability of the angels to perform a particular task (line 4), followed by a reference to God’s strengthening them (line 5) so that they might make known the hidden things, the nistarot, those things which proceed from the mouth of God or here expressed as “lips of the king” (lines 7–8).45 Although it is impossible to know whether there were other occurrences in the rest of the whole collection, it seems significant that raz with its esoteric connotations seems here to be entirely a possession of God and it is the priestly angels 44 The War Scroll reference is 1QM XIV, 14 in which the phrase also appears in a liturgical context as a blessing of God (1QM XIV, 8b–18) for all the divine activity wrought on behalf of the covenant people; though not in construct, cf. the use of the terms mysteries and wonders also in 4Q403 1 I, 19; 4Q405 3 II, 9; 4Q405 13, 3. 45 This understanding of the fragment follows Newsom’s construal, “Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice,” DJD XI, 209, of the singular yegabber in line 5 as a Pi’el with God as the subject.

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who are acquiring instruction in holy mysteries as a kind of specialized catechesis. Given the prevalence of the phrase the “mystery to come” raz nihyeh in 4QInstruction, it seems that the appearance here and in the eighth song of raz without verbal qualification would support the idea that the Songs portray the mystery’s realized eschatological revelation to the angelic priests and their imitators through the liturgical practice on the first thirteen Sabbaths of the year. While according to the fragment taken from the second Sabbath, the knowledge is still being inculculated by God, by the eighth song such esoteric knowledge becomes a secure possession of the angels as well (4Q403 1 II, 26–27). The mystery appropriated would comprise knowledge of creation, ethics, and eschatology, an all-embracing comprehension ensuring proper behavior in relation to the divine plan for creation and all its inhabitants in heavenly and earthly realms. The contents of the mystery may be understood as a body of teaching transmitted through oral means.46 A significant transition point in marking that transformation occurs in the seventh Sabbath Song in which the divine King and Creator is made manifest in the throne room of the Temple. Songs for the Sixth–Eighth Sabbaths The use of language changes with the sixth song, which along with the eighth song frames the central song of the collection, the sabbath of Sabbath Songs. Both songs six and eight are highly formulaic and repetitive, with a recurrence of the number seven. The songs recount the acts of praise that reverberate from the tongues of the seven angelic chief princes (song six) and deputy princes (song eight), although the words of blessing and praise are not included in the songs themselves. The rhetorical effect of this description is to focus not on God as king, the ultimate object of praise, but on the angels themselves and their intensifying ecstatic acts of praise-on-the-tongue. Although we will return below to the significance of the eighth Song, a brief sample reveals its character, specifically pertaining to the unique language of offering:

46 Daniel Harrington, “The Raz Nihyeh in a Qumran Wisdom Text (1Q26, 4Q415–418, 428),” RevQ 65–68 (1996): 549–53. See also the insightful discussion of Wolfson, “Seven Mysteries of Knowledge.”

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. . . And the offering of their tongues . . [. . .] seven mysteries of knowledge in the wonderful mystery of the seven regions of the hol[y of holies . . . the tongue of the first will be strengthened seven times with the tongue of the second to him. The tongue of the second to him will be strengthened] (4Q403 1 II, 26b–27).

The expression “offering of tongue” (‫ )תרמת לשון‬is unique to the Shirot. Given the heading of each individual song, one might expect mention of an olah, a whole burnt offering. Aside from that, the formulation itself is distinctive. Elsewhere in the Qumran literature not to mention the scriptural psalms, the phrase “offering of the lips” occurs. Not only is the tongue used here as the instrument of praise instead of the lips, but there is an intensification of effect as each subsequent angel seems to join in the exaltation, in a manner approaching a disciplined glossolalia. The content of these praises remains esoteric, hidden seemingly in the razei da at, as “mysteries of knowledge” but in effect, coming as this eighth shir does after the seventh with its vision of the king and his creation, it should likely be understood as connected closely with the revelatory description of the purposeful divine will. Moreover, the repetition of the angelic “tongues” in the sixth and eighth songs picks up the theme introduced in the first song in which the human participants ask how the offering of their tongues of dust might be compared with those of the angels. The implied answer is that the human offering should somehow rival that of the angels; the passionate intensity displayed in the sixth and eighth songs suggests the difficulty of attaining such a standard without purification and empowerment by means of divine spirit. The seventh song can be understood as an expanded depiction of Isaiah’s temple throne vision in Isaiah 6, with the seraphim’s proclamation of divine holiness in Isa 6: 3 preceding the call of Isaiah and his preparation for service through the means of a burning coal from the altar to purify his mouth and lips to deliver the divine message. Although the text of the song is not complete, it can be divided into two parts.47 The first (4Q403 1 I, 31–40) includes calls for angelic praise and in the second (4Q403 1 I, 41–II, 1–16), the temple itself erupts into praise of the King. The location is suggested in part by

47 The text of the excerpt is from Newsom’s critical edition of 4Q403 1 I, 35–42 with reconstructions based on 4Q404 3–5 and 4Q405 4–5; 6, 1–8. Cf. also the translation and notes of Davila, Liturgical Works, 122–25.

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the imbedded allusion to the divine footstool of (4Q404 6, 3).48 One feature of the first part of the seventh song is a veiled allusion to the praise of the seraphim in Isa 6:3 (4Q403 1 I, 30–31). Moreover, a less veiled allusion to Ezek 3:12–13 appears in the song as well.49 Both of these texts are found in prophetic call narratives, a fact that combined with other subtle prophetic commissioning elements as detailed below, loom in significance for understanding the task of the priest-angels as bearers of the divine word. Song for the Seventh Sabbath The seventh song contains no overt links to Sinai revelation, dominated as it is by the Zion tradition, yet there are several lexical elements that suggest prophetic revelation.50 At the center of the seventh song, which is thus the center of the liturgical cycle, lies an account of creation through divine speech: 35. At the sayings of his mouth come into being a[ll the exalted gods]; at the utterance of his lips all the eternal spirits; [by] his knowledgeable [w]ill all his creatures 36. in their missions. Sing (‫ )רננו‬with joy you who rejoice with rejoicing among the wondrous godlike beings. And recount (‫ )והגו‬his glory with the tongue of all who recount with knowledge; and [recount] his wonderful songs of joy 37. with the mouth of all who recount [about him. For he is] God of all who rejoice {in knowledge} forever and judge in his power of all the spirits of understanding. 38. Ascribe (‫)הודו‬

48 The linkage of king and creation, temple and palace is of course an old one in ancient Israel and the ancient Near East, and its eventual association with the Sabbath in Judaism lies behind its appropriation here. For a thorough discussion of the concept of divine kingship in the Shirot, see Anna Maria Schwemer, “Gott als König und seine Königsherrschaft in den Sabbatliedern aus Qumran,” in Königsherrschaft Gottes und himmlischer Kult im Judentum, Urchristentum und in der hellenistischen Welt (ed. M. Hengel and A. Schwemer; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1991), 45–118. 49 For the allusion to Isa 6:3, see Schwemer, “Gott als König,” 97–98. For a fuller discussion of the allusions to both Isaiah 6 and Ezekiel 3, see Falk, Daily, Sabbath, and Festival Prayers, 138–46. His suggestion that the use of the two texts in song seven suggests a fully developed Qedushah in Jewish liturgies of this era nonetheless overstates the evidence. The earliest appearance of the Qedushah/Sanctus in overtly liturgical material, as opposed to apocalyptic literature, appears in the Hellenistic Synagogal Prayers, older prayers imbedded in the fourth century Apostolic Constitutions; nonetheless, Johann Maier’s suggestion that a liturgical Qedushah was used by priestly groups as part of an esoteric liturgy is intriguing, if conjectural: “Zu Kult und Liturgie der Qumrangemeinde,” RevQ 14 (1990): 543–86 (573–74). 50 On the eclipsing of Sinai by Zion at Qumran, see elsewhere in this volume, Brooke, “Moving Mountains.”

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majesty, all you majestic gods, to the K[ing] of majesty; for all the gods of knowledge confess his glory, and all the spirits of righteousness confess his truth. 39. And they make their knowledge acceptable according to the judgments of his mouth and their confessions (they make acceptable) at the return of his powerful hand for judgments of recompense. Sing (‫ )זמרו‬praises to the mighty God 40. with the choicest spiritual portion, that there may be [a son]g (sung) with divine joy, and a celebration among all the holy ones, that there may be wondrous songs (sung) with eter[nal] joy. 41.With these let all the f[oundations of the hol]y of holies praise, the oracle columns (‫ )עמודי משא‬of the supremely exalted abode, and all the corners of its structure. Sin[g praise] 42 to Go[d who is fe] arful in power [all you spirits of knowledge and light ] in order to [exa] lt together the most pure firmament of [his] holy sanctuary (4Q403 1 I, 35–42 with reconstructions based on 4Q405 4–6).

The creation account is truncated compared to the priestly creation account in Genesis or the sapiential account in Ben Sira 24. Whereas in Genesis 1, God speaks the worldly order into being with narrated speech, here the creation is described without direct discourse. Moreover the focus lies on animate beings alone and not the inanimate aspects of the cosmos. The account of divine creation is consistent with the character of the Shirot liturgy writ large: a third person account bereft of the actual speech of the parties described; nonetheless, it is consonant with the understanding of creation through the powerful divine word. The seventh song presents a three-stage creation through God’s mouth, lips, and will, resulting in the exalted gods, the eternal spirits, and finally “his creatures in their missions” (‫)כול מעשיו במשלוחם‬.51 The first two created orders mentioned form parallel expressions and refer to two non-human orders of creation, “exalted gods” here to be understood as angelic beings, and “eternal spirits” as perhaps another kind of angel.52 The characterization of the third creation is different in 51 While the somewhat perplexing choice of ma asei could be translated either “works” or “creatures,” Newsom’s observation that the word modifying the noun is “undertakings” (translated here as “missions”) precludes inanimate beings is likely correct. 52 Cf. the suggestion of Dimant, “Men as Angels,” 98–99, that “spirits” may designate angels in charge of various natural elements. The creation of angels and their subsequent praise, though not mentioned in the Genesis creation accounts, is a wellknown theme in second temple Jewish literature. So, e.g., in Jub. 2:2 the spirits of seven kinds of angels are described as being created on the first day as well as the spirits of all his creatures. Their blessing and praise at his seven great works on the first day is then mentioned in Jub. 2:3. Cf. 11Q5 XXVI, 12 (11QPsa Hymn to the Creator) which also mentions the angels starting their praise after the division of light and darkness on the first day. The tradition is contained in the fragmentary targum of Job on Job 38:7 found at Qumran in which “messengers of God” ‫ מלאכי אלהא‬appears for the

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part because it involves the knowledge of the divine will, which suggests a purposeful creation with a special commissioning for divine service.53 In the Hebrew Bible such commissioning is associated especially with the divine commissioning of angels or human prophets.54 Indeed, the same noun “mission” though in feminine form (‫ )משלוחת‬occurs twice in the Song for the Twelfth Sabbath in reference to the obedient oracular response of the angels to the appearance of divine glory, a feature of that song to which we will attend more closely below. The first half of the seventh song contains seven plural imperatives each of which is repeated three times in the course of the one or two lines in which it appears.55 The first three imperatives ‫הללו‬, ‫שבחו‬, and ‫רממו‬, in lines 30–33 appear before a significant interruption in the series in which the role of God as creator is described in lines 36–37. Four imperatives follow: ‫רננו‬, ‫הגו‬, ‫הודו‬, and ‫זמרו‬. Six of the seven verbs are MT ‫( בני אלים‬11Q10 XXX, 5); cf. the ἄγγελοί in Job 38:7 of the Septuagint. On the diverse interpretations of the exact timing of the angels’ creation, see James L. Kugel, Traditions of the Bible: A Guide to the Bible as It Was at the Start of the Common Era (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998), 48–52. 53 For a similar depiction of divine creation particularly as it relates to the divine will and a sequence ending with creatures (“spirit of adam”), cf. 1QHa IX, 8–17. Also salient for the argument of this essay that the community thought of itself in figurative terms as an animate temple is the fact that the Hymnist refers to himself as a “foundation (‫ )םוד‬of shame” and a “building (‫ )מבנה‬of sin” (1QHa IX, 22). Though more remote, compare also the scene of angelic worship at the divine throne in Rev 4:2–11 which recalls Isa 6:3. The twenty-four elders laud creation through the divine will (Rev 4:11). By contrast, the words of praise offered by angels and elders appears, and there is no commissioning of the creatures as described in the seventh song. 54 The word for commissioning appears to be another distinctive word chosen for its resonance with other sectarian discourse. ‫ משלח‬and variants (‫משלוח‬, ‫משלחת‬, ‫)משלוחת‬ occur eleven times in the Qumran literature, three of which are in the Songs, three in 4QInstruction (4Q418), twice in the Rule of the Community (1QS), once each in the War Scroll (1QM), a fragmentary part of the Song of the Sage (4Q511), and a hymnic fragment (1Q40). The first line of the War Scroll, which is also addressed to the Maskil, describes the beginning of the war between the sons of light and sons of darkness as a “first mission of hand combat” (‫ )ראשית משלוח יד‬suggesting that the eschatological battle to be waged is in keeping with the divine purpose. Divine commissioning of intermediaries in the Hebrew Bible uniquely employing the verb ‫ שלח‬is associated with either a malakh who goes before (‫ )לפני‬Israel during the wilderness/Sinai experience (but cf. Gen 24:40) or the commissioning of prophetic figures at their calling (Exod 3:12, 15; Isa 6:8; Jer 1:7; Ezek 2:3; 2Chr 25:15). On the use of the verb with prophetic commissioning, see Wolfgang Richter, Die sogenannten vorprophetischen Berufungsberichte (FRLANT 101; Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht, 1970), 156–78. 55 Newsom refers to seven “calls to praise” rather than identifying imperatives. She regards the second verb in the seventh Song as a Hifil jussive yagdilu, (in lieu of the scribal error yaqdilu) as the second call to praise while ignoring the plural imperative ‫והגו‬ in 4Q403 1 I, 36 as governed by the preceding imperative ‫ רננו‬in the same line.

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quite common in the lexicon of praise in the psalms; moreover, the same six are related to the primary theme words of the psalms of the seven angelic princes in the sixth and eighth songs.56 One verb stands out as distinctive; the fifth imperative derived from ‫ הגה‬is noteworthy because although it appears in the biblical psalms, it nowhere else appears in connection with songs and singing and exaltation. It denotes an oral recitation of some sort, one connected with mental reflection or rumination and is found in sapiential discourse in both the Hebrew Bible and Qumran literature.57 Hagu has often been translated “chant” following Newsom, but “recount” or “proclaim” especially in this context of praise may provide a better sense of the word’s use here.58 Outside of this occurrence in the seventh song, the root appears only rarely in the Qumran literature, but it provides another connection with the understanding of an ongoing, if reconceived, Sinai revelation rooted both in its use in scripture and in its derived use in the sectarian literature. The verb occurs at two significant passages in connection with Torah, in Joshua 1 and Psalm 1. The scriptural passages seem to lie behind the rarer and more specialized use of hgh at Qumran. In Jos 1:8, the verb is specifically connected with transmitting the Sinai revelation to the subsequent generation after Moses’ death. Narrated in the book of Joshua as a direct divine commissioning, God advises the successor of Moses: “This scroll of the teaching (‫ )התורה‬shall not depart out of your mouth; you shall meditate (‫ )הגית‬on it day and night.” Within the larger narrative of the Hexateuch, the torah of Jos 1:8 is connected to a written deposit, the Deuteronomic version of law (Deut 31:9), which itself represents an interpretively transmitted form of the teaching to the generation that succeeded the wilderness generation.59 The Torah is strongly associated with Moses and thus implicitly connected to the divine revelation at Sinai/Horeb but in Joshua, the emphasis is not

56 Newsom, “Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice,” DJD XI, 270, notes that the theme verb ‫ ברך‬used by the chief princes is absent from the seventh song, It would seem that it has been replaced by the distinctive theme verb ‫הגה‬. 57 So for example Ps 37:30–31: “The mouth of the righteous recounts (‫ )יהגה‬wisdom and his tongue speaks justice. The teaching (torah) of his God is in his heart; his steps do not waver.” 58 “Recount” is the translational choice of Davila, Liturgical Works, 123. 59 On the role of the multi-layered book of Deuteronomy as a bridge between torah and its interpretation, see Bernard Levinson, Deuteronomy and the Hermeneutics of Legal Innovation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997).

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on the place of revelation but its divine authorization. The passage from Joshua models the idea that oral teaching of the Sinaitic revelation by authorized leadership is a crucial part of the transmission of divine revelation to subsequent generations, wherever the leader may be located, in or outside the land. In an overlapping but distinct vein is the word’s use in Ps 1:1–2: “Happy the man who does not walk in the advice of the wicked, nor stand in the path of sinners, nor settle in the dwelling of scorners, but rather his delight is in the teaching of the Lord and he recounts (‫ )יהגה‬his teaching day and night.” Standing as the psalm does at the beginning of the collection, the third-person wisdom discourse of the first psalm invites those who use the collection to ruminate on and recite the liturgical collection in the manner of a collection of divine teaching.60 No written scroll is mentioned as in the Deuteronomic passage from Joshua.61 In the Qumran literature, the word appears notably in references to the “vision of hagu” and the “book of hagu/hagy.” Whereas in Joshua and Psalms, the verb is connected to recitation of a scroll of Mosaic teaching and the teaching of the psalms collection itself, both written deposits, the use of this root in Instruction and the sectarian rules also carries an esoteric connotation.”62 The following passage from Instruction describes the glorious promise offered to the sage who possesses esoteric knowledge of God:

60 See Gerald Wilson, The Editing of the Hebrew Psalter (SBLDS 76; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1985) and Patrick Miller, “The Beginning of the Psalter,” in The Shape and Shaping of the Psalter (ed. J. C. McCann; JSOTSup 159; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993), 83–92. Although the collection of psalms was still in flux in the last two centuries of the common era based on the evidence from Qumran, the first three books of the Psalter seem to have stabilized; see Peter Flint, The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Book of Psalms (STDJ 17; Leiden: Brill, 1997) and the work of James A. Sanders beginning with his critical edition of 11QPsa, The Psalms Scroll of Qumrân Cave 11 (11QPs a) (DJD IV; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1965). 61 On the various meanings of torah in post-exilic compositions not tied to a conception of writtenness, see Jon Levenson, “The Sources of Torah: Psalm 119 and the Modes of Revelation in Second Temple Judaism,” in Ancient Israelite Religion: Essays in Honor of Frank Moore Cross (ed. P. Miller, P. Hanson, and S. McBride; Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1987), 559–74. 62 Psalm 37 mentioned in n. 57 above, may suggest something of an intermediate position between written torah and esoteric wisdom teachings, because the “wisdom” recounted by the righteous lies in parallel to an internalized torah in the second half of the verse.

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[13. And then you will know everlasting glory and his marvelous mercies, and the might of his deeds. And you] 14 will understand the beginning of your reward at the remembrance of [the restitution?] that has come. 15. For engraved is the ordinance (‫ )כי חרות מחוקק‬of God concerning all the in[iquities] of the sons of Seth and a book of remembrance is written before him 16. for those who observe his word. And this is the vision of the meditation (‫ )חזון ההגוי‬for a book of remembrance (‫לספר‬ ‫ )זכרון‬and he will give it to Enosh to inherit with a people of spirit because 17. according to the pattern (‫ )תבנית‬of the holy ones is his crafting; but he did not give meditation (‫ )ההגוי‬to the spirit of flesh because it cannot distinguish between 18. good and evil according to the judgment of its spirit . . . vacat And you, discerning son, consider vacat the mystery of existence (‫ )ברז נהיה‬and know . . . (4Q417 1 I, 13–18 = 4Q418 42–45 I).

The passage offers several resonances with distinctive language in the Shirot that suggest, if not borrowed language, a shared perspective on esoteric knowledge and its dissemination: the mention of engraved statutes, the vision of meditation, the pattern of the holy ones, and the mystery of existence, not to mention the reuse of creation language of Genesis 1–3 elsewhere in Instruction. There have been various suggestions about the identification and contents of the “vision of hagu,” from an actual book (whether a portion of 1 Enoch or some other text) to a visionary experience of some kind.63 Instruction is in fact laconic about the contents of the vision, with a concern rather to indicate who has access to the vision. The above excerpt suggests that the vision is given to the “people of spirit” who can distinguish good from evil in contrast to the “spirit of flesh” who are morally obtuse. Moreover, the vision is given to “people of spirit” because they were created “according to the likeness of the holy ones” (‫( )כתבנית קדושים‬4Q417 1 I, 17).”64 The distinction would seem to point to those whose physical characteristics, discerned by physiognomies and the like, mark them as belonging to one camp or the other. The “vision of hagu” is never identified as an actual document but rather a visual or perceptual experience that somehow engenders a written “scroll of remembrance” a phrase known from Mal 3:16. Moreover, the activity of hgh is equated elsewhere in Instruction with interpretation, suggesting a continuing reconstrual of events

63 See the review by Matthew Goff, The Worldly and Heavenly Wisdom of 4QInstruction (STDJ 50; Leiden: Brill, 2003), especially 80–99. 64 Goff, The Worldly and Heavenly Wisdom, 81.

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related to divine mysteries: “Day and night, ruminate on the mystery that is to be (‫ )הגה ברז נהיה‬and interpret (‫ )דורש‬continually.” (4Q417 1 I, 6//4Q418 43, 4).65 Just as the “vision of hagu” has generated various perspectives on its meaning, so too, the “scroll of hagu/hagy,” mentioned in both the Damascus Document and the Rule of the Congregation has prompted a range of suggestions.66 According to the Damascus Document (CD XIII, 2; XIV, 6–8), a priest learned in the “scroll of hagu/hagy” was required to be present in a quorum of each ten men in order to disseminate its teaching. 1QSa I, 6–7 also calls on the Zadokite priests in an idealized time (‫ )אחרית הימים‬to educate youths in the “scroll of hagy” as one stage in their training. Some scholars have equated it with the Torah of Moses, understanding it narrowly to be a version of the first five books of the Bible, others offering broader suggestions not so closely tied to a particular text or set of texts. Cana Werman has persuasively argued that the “vision of hagu” in Instruction should be connected to the “scroll of hagy” in the sectarian texts. Although she overemphasizes the cognitive dimension of “hagu” and argues that such activity involves only mental concentration and study using the “mind’s eye” while ignoring the distinct vocal/aural associations of the verb, her suggestion that the content relates to the addressee’s call to “meditate both on his own life and on the course of creation and history” seems plausible.67 If we can understand the seventh Sabbath Song as itself such a perceptual experience that stimulates the witnessing angels to “proclaim” (‫)הגה‬, a proclamation which ultimately the purified priestly participants are stimulated to imitate, then the observations of Goff and Werman about the “vision of hagu” in Instruction would seem to corroborate the

65 The other objects of the verb ‫ הגה‬in Qumran literature, which are also prefaced with the preposition ‫ב‬, are ‫כבוד‬, ‫פעולת אדם‬, and ‫ ;אמת‬John Strugnell and Daniel J. Harrington, “Instruction,” DJD XXXIV Qumran Cave 4 XXIV Sapiential Texts, Part 2 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1999), 157. 66 For an overview of proposals, see Steven D. Fraade, “Hagu, Book of,” EDSS 1:327, and Goff, The Worldly and Heavenly Wisdom, 82–83, especially n. 8. 67 Goff, The Worldly and Heavenly Wisdom, 23, n. 111, writes: “Cana Werman uses 4QInstruction to help explain the enigmatic “Book of Hagu” that is mentioned in writings of the Dead Sea sect. In her opinion, 4QInstruction calls on its addressee to “meditate both on his own life and on the course of history.” See Cana Werman, “What is the Book of Hagu?” in Sapiential Perspective: Wisdom Literature in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls (ed. J. Collins, G. Sterling, and R. Clements; STDJ 51; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 125–40. Werman also briefly examines 4QInstruction in a study of the role of engraved tablets in Jubilees: “The torah and the teudah Engraved on the Tablets,” DSD 9 (2002): 75–103.

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greater argument suggested in this essay. Participation in the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice liturgy is reserved for those sufficiently righteous and distanced from fleshly impurity through their ascetic discipline that they have thereby gained access to the vision, a perception of the divine will in creation which also involves the divine role as judge. If we can coordinate the understanding of Instruction with the use of the verb in the seventh Sabbath Song, it may be that a vision of the divine creator such as suggested by the enthroned king sparks the response of “hagu” which includes a recounting of the divine mysteries on the part of the holy ones, understood in the song to be the angels and Qumran priests, the latter being perhaps an elite subset of the larger group living at Qumran. Steven Fraade has argued that an “elitist askēsis” within the community such as the members of the Community Council described in 1QS VIII, 1–19 could serve the purpose of bridging the gap between the movement’s ideal and its ability to fulfil it.”68 Those who performed the Shirot in order to acquire “tongues of angels” would seem to have been such an elite. Indeed the liturgical ritual itself would have played a crucial role of transformation in this regard. Given this brief discussion of hagu in other literature found prominently at Qumran, we can appreciate the word’s significance anew in the seventh song. Our discussion of the verb begs the next question about the angelic instruments giving rise to such proclamation. We noted above that body language is decidedly absent in the Songs, with the striking exception of words used for speech, specifically and most prominently the tongue but also a restricted use of mouth and lips, and one mention of God’s hand. As noted above the tongue is also used in a unique way in connection with the angelic priesthood in the sixth and eighth songs, in the expression “offering of tongues.” “Tongue” is used only once in the entirety of the seventh song; it appears immediately after and in response to the description of the divine creation: Sing with joy you who rejoice with rejoicing among the wondrous godlike beings. And recount his glory (‫ )והגו כבודו‬with the tongue of all who recount with knowledge; and recount his wonderful songs of joy with the mouth of all who recount about him. For he is God of all who rejoice in knowledge forever and judge in his power of all the spirits of understanding (4Q403 1 I, 36).

68 Steven Fraade, “Ascetical Aspects of Ancient Judaism,” in Jewish Spirituality: from the Bible to the Middle Ages (ed. A. Green; New York: Crossroad, 1986), 253–88 (269).

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Another significant word is “mouth,” which appears in the extant portions of Songs four times, once in relation to the angels in the first Sabbath Song (4Q400 1 I, 17 and parallels) in which the angels are said to offer teachings (‫ )תורות‬by means of their mouth. The second mention of mouth occurs in reference to the divine mouth that speaks the created orders into being in the preceding portion of the seventh song (4Q403 1 I, 35). The third is the reference to the mouths of those who join with the wondrous godlike beings in the excerpt above. The fourth is also in the seventh Sabbath song, in line 39: “And they make their knowledge acceptable according to the judgments of his mouth and their confessions (they make acceptable) at the return of His powerful hand for judgments of recompense.” The mouth, whether of angels, priests, or God, is thus concerned with special knowledge of the divine will for creation and redemption, the latter signalled by the divine hand. The tongue offers creative response echoing this knowledge. In this context, we can thus understand the mouths of the angels/priests to be echoing the creator’s mouth, recounting the great works of the creator. The ambiguity created by the use of elohim for both angels/human priests and the God of Israel reinforces the association between the divine act of creation through speech and response in speech. Thus the verbal response being summoned here may itself be understood as a creative act.69 At the heart of the seventh song then, lies a significant liturgical moment of transformation as the angelic priests respond with a spiritual offering of song and the sanctuary itself with its foundations, corners, and oracle pillars, becomes animated with praise, a movement suggesting the eschatological realization of the community’s understanding of itself as the sanctuary, as spiritual power is unleashed by the act of divine creation, calling up a response from the creatures themselves. Another text with resonances to the cluster of songs 6–8 is Barkhi Napshi, mentioned above in connection with its concern for body parts. With five copies of the composition found in Cave 4, the work seems also to have played an important role in sectarian worship. The extant portion of one particular section 4Q436 I, 1–II, 4 acknowledges the divine power in the worshipper who has purified his body parts and then engraved God’s law on his heart and inmost parts which shapes the author in the way of divine understanding and knowledge. Especially notable is a claim imbedded in 4Q436 I, 7–8 to a prophetic gift:

69 On the phenomenon of creative scripturalized liturgical compositions during the tannaitic era, see in this volume, Ishay Rosen-Zvi, “Can the Homilists Cross the Sea Again,” 217–246, especially 224–226.

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. . . . and perform all your good will (‫)רצונכה‬. You have made my mouth like a sharp sword (‫)כחרב הדה‬, and my tongue you have set loose for holy words (‫)ולשני פתחתה לדברי קודש‬. You have set [upon them] a bridle, that they not meditate (‫ )יהגו‬upon the deeds of mankind, upon the destruction (emerging from) his lips.70

The allusion to Isaiah’s role as bearer of the divine word is clear (Isa 49:2; cf. Wis 18:16). Whereas in Isaiah, the prophetic commission is extended to the people of Israel (Isa 49:3), in Barkhi Napshi the role of prophet seems to pertain only to an individual. The characterization of the prophetic task also reverberates with the Shirot. As M. Weinfeld/ D. Seely observe, “‘To open the lips or mouth’ is a standard biblical metaphor, but of course not ‘to open the tongue’.”71 On the other hand, ‫ פתח‬here may reflect its other sense of “engrave” as appears in 4Q405 14–15 I, 5.72 This would make more sense of the passage. A final point of connection occurs with the distinctive word ‫הגה‬. In this case, the author is thankful that God had restrained his mouth and tongue from recounting human deeds; the implication is that divine deeds are those that should be recounted with a divinely inspired tongue, as we see in the case of the angelic priests of the seventh Sabbath Song. The divine will (‫ )רצון‬described in the seventh Sabbath as instrumental in the purposeful commissioning of his creatures (4Q403 1 I, 35) is also instrumental in shaping the purposefully purified life of the reciter of Barkhi Napshi. Although we cannot be sure of the way in which the Barkhi Napshi were used at Qumran, their resonance with the Shirot provides another connection with a composition likely used at Qumran. Whereas songs 6–8 portray angelic priests praising God for divine work in fashioning a purposeful creation with a uniquely expressed “offering of the tongues,” Barkhi Napshi suggests that this ecstatic-prophetic role was clearly held in view as an ideal for some segment of the human community as well. It would seem that this link also bolsters the case for the theurgic use of these songs for inspired composition at other times and in other quarters than on the first thirteen Sabbaths of the year. The pivotal role of the seventh Sabbath song in the cycle is also evident in its mention of spirit and spirits. It is notable that there are only two appearances of the root spirit (‫ )רוח‬in the first six songs of

70 The translation is that of Moshe Weinfeld and David Seeley, “Barkhi Napshic,” DJD XXIX, 295–305 (299). 71 Weinfeld and Seeley, “Barkhi Napshic,” 302. 72 Cf. the discussion of Newsom, “Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice,” DJD XI, 332.

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the cycle.73 Beginning in the second half of the seventh song and following, ruah is used frequently, especially in the parts of songs 9–12 that describe the spirits in and among the elements of the sanctuary’s architecture which are then themselves given to praise and blessing. The divine “inspiriting” occurs only after the account of divine creation with its fashioning of the spirits in the center of the seventh song. One additional unique but related lexical feature in the seventh song deserves mention, the account of the animate temple praising God which occurs in lines 41–46 after the description of the angelic praise and the divine creation through speech. Line 41 begins the description: “With these let all the foundations of the holy of holies praise, the oracle columns (‫ )עמודי משא‬of the supremely exalted abode.” The phrase may be translated alternatively as “supporting columns,” in the sense of a feature of the temple architecture; however, if we can understand the temple as an animate and transformed group of the ‫שּבי פשע‬, those in the Qumran community who have been commissioned for special service, then given observations made above about the polyvalence of the term ‫סוד‬, as having both architectural and communal senses, we can understand these “columns” likewise.74 Moreover, the twelfth song makes mention of more oracles; the mention of massa in the seventh song thus serves as an anticipatory signal for the song that follows the celebration of Shavuot. Before turning to the last section of the Shirot, one summative point may be made: the use of the root ‫ הגה‬in the seventh song suggests that an essential component of angelic-priestly praise and one that lies at the heart of their created purpose is to communicate divine knowledge. Understood in connection with the use of ‫ הגה‬in the Hebrew Bible as

73 The first song mentions “spiritual works” (‫ )מעשי רוח‬relating to the divinely engraved statutes (4Q400 1 I, 5); a second contains the phrase “spirit of all” but the text is fragmentary and the phrase has no immediate context. 74 Davila, Liturgical Works, 127, notes that this mention of columns (his translation is “pillars”) is its only occurrence in the extant portions of the Songs. The construal of “columns” in an animate sense might also clarify the use of the term “column” in the physiognomic text 4Q186 1 II, 6 and 2 I, 6 used in relation to men, in which those whose features pass measure make up part of the “second column” indicating the purity of their spirit; this would obviate an anachronistic translation as a list or column of writing such as suggested tentatively by P. Alexander, “Physiognomy, Initiation, and Rank,” 388 n. 7.

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well as its developed use in the sectarian documents of Instruction and the sectarian rules, such divine knowledge is linked in some fashion to the esoteric torah acquired, composed, and taught by select prophetpriests of the community. Songs for the Eleventh–Thirteenth Sabbaths As noted at the outset, the final section of the Shirot in songs 9–13 augur a shift in style. Whereas songs 1–5 offer clear syntax and discursive poetry, and the middle set 6–8 are highly formulaic and repetitive, in songs 9–13 nominal and participial sentences with baroque construct chains fill the compositions. Just as the style suggests a liturgical progression, so too does the evolving subject matter of the cycle. The climax of praise in extolling the divine king and his creation followed by the vivification of the temple and its parts in the second half of the seventh Sabbath song mark a preparatory transition to the last set of songs. The final section of the cycle provides a progressive description of the temple from the entrance to the nave to a description of the innermost sanctum of the tabernacle, the debir with its chariot throne, concluding with the vesting of the high priestly figures. In terms of the development of the liturgical cycle, it is also significant that the eleventh song occurs on the day before Shavuot, the festival observed on the fifteenth day of the third month according to the solar calendar.75 Shavuot had an elevated importance at Qumran, serving also as the date for the annual covenant renewal ceremony which included the yearly evaluation of members and initiation of new members into the Ya ad.76 One feature of the ritual may in fact draw on one of the two meanings of Shavuot (oaths, weeks). The initiate was required to swear an oath (‫ )שבועת אסר‬to turn toward the torah of Moses “according to all its revealed interpretation” (‫)לכול הנגלה ממנה‬ by the Zadokite priests, the keepers of his covenant and the seekers of 75 On the disputed calendrical observance of Shavuot in early Judaism, see James C. VanderKam, “The Festival of Weeks and the Story of Pentecost in Acts 2,” in From Prophecy to Pentecost: the Function of the Old Testament in the New (ed. C. A. Evans; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2004), 185–205; and more generally, James C. VanderKam, Calendars in the Dead Sea Scrolls: Measuring Time (London: Routledge, 1998). 76 On the different accounts of the admission of new members within the Rule of the Community, see Sarianna Metso, The Serekh Texts (LSTS62; London: T & T Clark International, 2007), 8–10, 28–30. For a discussion of the initiation ceremony as a rite of passage, see Arnold, The Social Role of Liturgy, 52–81.

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his will (1QS V, 8–9). The qualification suggests an esoteric dimension of instruction, or at least a knowledge of Mosaic torah with a sectarian inflection. As has been frequently noted, the book of Jubilees which was influential at Qumran likewise places a special emphasis on Shavuot and dates a number of significant events in early Israelite memory to that date, notably, the eternal covenants made with Noah ( Jub. 6:15–21) and Abraham ( Jub. 15:1). Also significant is what follows the festival of Shavuot according to Jubilees: the revelation to Moses commenced on the day after the festival ( Jub. 1:1) and was of some duration.77 Moses is with the glory of the Lord for six days before being called on the seventh day; his time on the mountain lasts forty days.78 According to Jubilees, the revelation comprises knowledge of events from creation to the end times. If indeed such a commemoration of the prophetic process of revelation at Shavuot is being elicited through the performance of the Shirot, then the implications for ongoing revelation within the Qumran community are that it might continue beyond even the first quarter of the solar year. More indications of the prophetic elements of the final series of songs may help to support the suggestion of ongoing revelation. While the songs flanking the Shavuot festival draw on Ezekiel traditions, especially the call and commissioning of Ezekiel and the prophet’s vision of the departure and return of the divine kabod to the temple, the influence of other scripture is evident. The Songs represent a ritual palimpsest with layered allusions to multiple revelatory experiences in 77 VanderKam, “The Festival of Weeks,” 190, notes that the author of Jubilees does not actually provide a precise date for the feast, referring rather to “the middle of the month” which could be the fifteenth or the sixteenth day of the third month of the solar calendar. Early Christians regarded Sunday, the day after Sabbath, as the first day of the second creation. The continuing influence on early Christianity of Shavuot as a first-fruits festival is a topic that warrants further exploration. Consider the statement by Eusebius of Alexandria: “It was on this day that the Lord began the first fruits of the creation of the world, and on the same day He gave the world the first-fruits of the resurrection” J.H. Miller, Fundamentals of the Liturgy (South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1959), 362. 78 Akin to such a depiction, in rabbinic Judaism the festival of Shavuot came to be associated with the giving of Torah at Sinai, and some scholars have seen a precedent for its associated lectionary readings in the eleventh and twelfth Songs. Lieve M. Teugels, “Did Moses See the Chariot? The Link between Exod 19–20 and Ezek 1 in Early Jewish Interpretation,” in Studies in the Book of Exodus Redaction—Reception—Interpretation (ed. M. Vervenne; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1996), 594–602. David Halperin posits a first century c.e. introduction of the Jewish lectionary cycle of parashah and haftarah (based on Acts 13:15) and in particular the widespread combination of Exodus 19 and Ezekiel 1 for the lectionary reading for Shavuot; The Merkabah in Rabbinic Literature (AOS 61; New Haven: AOS, 1980), 179–80.

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the cultural memory of Israel. There are at once glimmers of Sinai as well as the prophetic revelation to Elijah at Horeb, perceived through a heavy scrim of Ezekielian prophetic revelation. Sinai is apparent through various verbal clues. The priestly kabod tradition in Exodus is of course a prominent strand of the Sinai and wilderness tabernacle narrative; references to divine glory in the Songs thus resonate with its various appearances in the Hebrew Bible, from the appearance of the divine glory in the fire and cloud settling on Sinai (Exod 24:16–17) to Moses’ request to witness the divine glory (Exod 33:18–22) to the ultimate arrival of the divine glory in the desert tabernacle carefully made according to divine instruction (Exod 40:34–35).79 Just as in the Sinai and wilderness account, so too in Ezekiel, the kabod YHWH signifies the visible and mobile divine presence that is incompatible with human sin and impurity and so must relocate from the sanctuary to Babylon, where Ezekiel first encounters it. The mobile glory is thus an appropriate figure for God for those outside the city of Jerusalem who view the temple as a place of defiled worship. Evidence of the priestly Sinai traditions also appears in distinctive wording. Both the eleventh and twelfth songs make mention of “purely salted” (‫ )ממולח טוהר‬incense (4Q405 19, 4; 20 II–22, 11; 23 II, 10). The phrase occurs in Exod 30:35 in reference to a uniquely holy incense that is restricted for use in the inner parts of the tent of meeting where God meets Moses. Another link to the wilderness tradition is reflected in the use of the term “tabernacle” (‫( )משכן‬4Q405 20 II–22, 7; cf. also 403 1 II, 10). The word in its singular form is infrequent in the Qumran literature but appears most frequently in the priestly wilderness tradition in Exodus 25–40. Also notable, however, is its significant occurrence in Ezek 37:26–28 which foresees an eternal covenant in which God’s tabernacle will dwell with the people forever. An important indication of the ongoing retrieval of the Sinai/ Horeb tradition appears both at the end of the eleventh song and the beginning of the twelfth in a clear allusion to the theophany to Elijah in 1 Kgs 19:12. In a small fragment from the eleventh, again at the

79 Carey C. Newman, Paul’s Glory Christology: Tradition and Rhetoric (NTSup 69; Leiden: Brill, 1992). Early tradents did not of course explicitly distinguish “priestly” traditions of the Pentateuch, yet there seemed to be a differentiated sensitivity to certain strands of the tradition nonetheless. See for example in this volume C.T.R. Hayward’s characterization of Targum Pseudo-Jonathan as interpretively elaborating especially implicit “mystical aspects” of the mattan torah; “The Giving of the Torah: Targumic Perspectives,” 269–86, especially 278–82.

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end of the eleventh and four times in the twelfth Song, accompanying the movement of the cherubim throne is a “still sound” or alternately “a divine still sound” ( ‫( )קול דממה‬4Q405 19, 7; 4Q405 20 II–22, 6–7, 8, 12, 13).80 Dale Allison has argued that the “still sound” is the angelic worship itself and accounts for the absence of words of the angelic songs in the Shirot. His analysis is problematic in terms of other sounds that are mentioned in the passages, which he treats primarily in a footnote.81 A stronger suggestion is that of Philip Alexander who in evaluating occurrences of ‫ דממה‬and ‫ קול‬in the small fragment from the eleventh Song, 4Q405 18, connects the “quiet divine spirit” with “the sound of the Glory” namely, the theophany of the divine presence itself, noting also the connection to the plural “voices” of the Sinai theophany in Exod 19:16 and Ezek 1:25.82 The significance of the allusion to Elijah’s experience of theophany is worth elaborating because this provides not only another connection to Sinai/Horeb revelation, but also a development of it. George Brooke has underlined the importance of the community’s belief in the imminent return of Elijah for their eschatology.83 Elijah is portrayed in scripture as a Moses redivivus, as a prophet worthy of the master (Deut 18:15). Elijah experiences a prophetic revelation in the same place as his prophetic forebear but in a very different and unexpected way. After the account of the theophany in 1 Kgs 19:12, God commissions him to go to the wilderness of Damascus to anoint royal figures where he will also choose his charismatic successor Elishah, akin to Moses’ designation of Joshua. The theophany is thus a pregnant pause in Elijah’s

80 Cf. also 4Q401 16, 2; 4Q402 9, 3; 4Q405 18 3, 5. On the distinctive interpretive combination of 1 Kgs 19:12, Ezek 3:12–13, Ezek 1:24 and 10:5, see Carol Newsom, “Merkabah Exegesis in the Qumran Sabbath Shirot,” JJS 38 (1987): 11–30. 81 Dale Allison, “The Silence of Angels: Reflections on the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice,” RevQ 13 (1988): 189–197; see 195 n. 17. 82 Cf. also the singular divine “voice” in Exod 19:19. P. Alexander, Mystical Texts, 38–39. For a discussion of the various ways in which post-biblical interpreters negotiated the tension between auditory and visual language related to the Sinai revelation, see in this volume, Steven Fraade, “Hearing and Seeing at Sinai,” 247–268. The Shirot in their focus on recreating the sanctuary space emphasize the visual aspects of theophany, though inescapably through words that must be heard through performance. Whatever ritual actions may have accompanied the Shirot liturgical texts to engage the participants’ eyes are unfortunately lost to us. 83 Mal 3:23–24 played a crucial role in this expectation; George J. Brooke, “The Twelve Minor Prophets and the Dead Sea Scrolls,” Congress Volume: Leiden 2004 (ed. A. Lemaire; VTSup 109; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 19–43 (41). See further, G. Xeravits, King, Priest, Prophet: Positive Eschatological Protagonists of the Qumran Library (STDJ 47; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 184–91.

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continued mission and continuing delivery of the prophetic word. The invocation of his quiet revelatory experience in the twelfth song thus evokes and legitimates the notion of the renewal and reestablishment of prophetic tradition; the Sinai/Horeb font thus continues with the availability of suitable mediators. Occurring as this does in the middle of a composition that also summons a vision of the presence of the glory in the tabernacle, it would seem to indicate that the revelation has become mobile, no longer tied to a fixed geographical location such as Sinai, but an experience tied to a mobile divine presence, making itself known to those who have been properly purified for tasks associated with such divine commissioning. Further accentuating the prophetic element in the Songs is the occurrence of the term massa . The word has a double-meaning as both burden and oracle, clear already from Jer 23:33–40 where the threat of false prophecy is articulated through a play on this double sense.84 The two are not unrelated semantically in the sense that prophetic oracles were also “burdens” borne by the prophet who was necessarily bound to deliver their weighty substance. There are twenty-six instances of the term in the Qumran literature, eleven of them in the Shirot, although some appear in fragments so small as to be impossible to translate with certainty.85 The word occurs in the seventh Sabbath Song, translated above as “pillar oracle” (4Q403 1 I, 41) and several times in the twelfth song. Indeed, in the small fragment from the twelfth Song, 11Q17 VIII, 5b–6, comes the affirmation that “from the four foundations of the wonderful vault, they declare with the voice of the divine oracle (‫)מקול משא אלוהים‬. . . .” The twelfth song also contains the first use of the term ‫כליל‬, which is translated variously as “whole offering” (used as synonymously with “whole burnt offering” (Ps 51:21) and also as “crown” in the Qumran literature. Given that the titles of the compositions suggest the liturgical cycle is to be connected with the 84 The particular word massa as opposed to neum or dabar, is associated in scripture particularly with southern prophets in close association with the Zion tradition rather than the northern prophetic tradition. Thus the word is not used with a positive association in Jeremiah to indicate his own delivery of divine messages, but it is found in Isa 13:1; 15:1; Nah 1:1; Zech 9:1; 12:1; Mal 1:1. 85 The DSSC lists four occurrences of massa as “oracle” and twenty-two occurrences as having the meaning, “burden, task,” including all eleven instances from the Shirot, though clearly “oracle” is a possible if not probable meaning in many of the Shirot instances. See also the corroborating comments of Davila, Liturgical Works, 154, “The word may be used in this [oracular] sense in lines 8–9 and in XII 4Q405 23 I, 1, 5; 11Q17 X, 6; 4Q405 81, 3 [very fragmentary]; 4Q286 2, 1, although the contexts are frequently broken.”

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whole burnt offerings of the Sabbath, the use of this synonym may point to another culminating element of the cycle. The remainder of the twelfth song includes language describing the vivified temple with gates that give voice to psalms and doorways proclaiming the glory of the King, language echoing that of Ezek 46:1–10 with its description of the prince and people in the re-imagined temple or Ps 24:7, 9 with its portals praising the King of glory. These architectural features are deemed “not too exalted for his missions (‫( ”)משלוהתו‬4Q405 23 I, 11) recalling the language of divine creation and commissioning found in the center of the seventh song (4Q403 1 I, 36). The twelfth song thus picks up some of the language of the central song of the cycle as the series comes to its rapturous culmination. If we consider the animate sanctuary equipped with its furnishings and features as a figuration of the transformed elect from the community, the miqdash adam in worship, then the theophanic “still sound” should be understood as imminently to be replaced by the sound of the priest-prophets in the community engaged in their oracular teaching stimulated by the onset of the theophany, the descent of the chariot-throne into the midst of the gathered community at the Feast of Weeks. Discussion of oracular elements in the eleventh and twelfth songs provides an appropriate transition to the thirteenth. A location in the holy of holies is signalled in the thirteenth song by further mention of the purely blended salt incense, the divine footstool (11Q17 23–25, X, 7; Isa 66:1; 1 Chr 28:2), and finally of course, mention of the devir itself. The sanctuary is replete with spirits, spirits that in fact are rather hard to place given the difficult syntax of the composition and its fragmentary state. The song seems to relate the investiture of the angelic priests in the highly priestly garb of breastplate, ephod, and variegated material which prepares them for their priestly role as sacrificial officiants, teachers, and oracular speakers as well as related functions of blessing, judging, and differentiating between pure/impure, clean/unclean.86 Oracular use of the Urim and Thummim by anointed priests is evident in Apocryphon of Moses: 86 On these chief functions of priests, see Florentino García Martínez, “Priestly Functions in a Community without a Temple,” in Gemeinde ohne Tempel, 303–19. See also the classic study relating to Mal 2:6–7 of Joachim Begrich, “Die Priestliche Torah,” in Werden und Wesen des Alten Testaments (BZAW 66; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1936), 63–88. Begrich understood torah taught by the priests in Malachi to refer to revealed instruction and oracular knowledge. For a discussion of the semantics of rqmh (“embroidered material”) at Qumran which suggests that its possessor has acquired an authoritative

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They shall give light and he shall go out together with it with tongues of fire. The left-hand stone which is in his left hand side will be revealed to the eyes of the congregation until the priest is finished speaking . . . (4Q376 1 II, 1–2// 1Q29 1, 1–2).

So too, 4QIsaiah Pesherd (4Q164 1, 3–5) links Isa 54:11–12 to an interpretation of the twelve chiefs of the priests who enlighten through their use of the Urim and Thummim. Such teaching activity, if not explicit oracular delivery, is also apparent in the thirteenth Song: “In the chiefs of offerings are tongues of knowledge; they bless the God of knowledge with all his glorious works” (4Q405 23 II, 12). The verse recalls the offerings of tongues found in the sixth and eighth songs, those ecstatic, if orderly, tongue offerings. Here, the content of the tongue offerings is more specifically identified with divine knowledge of God’s works of glory. A liturgical cycle whose calendrical beginning can be correlated with a ceremony consecrating new priests thus rightly closes as a group of priestly figures are elevated to their proper role and prepared for service. The Liturgical Telos of the Shirot Florentino García Martínez has observed that “The Ya ad community considered its inner circle as a temporary functional compensation for the invalid atonement at the desecrated temple of Jerusalem. Its lay members are said to form symbolically the heikhal (“house”) and its priests the Holy of Holies (1QS IV; V, 6; VIII, 11; cf. 4Q258 1 I, 4, 4Q258 2 II, 6–7; 4Q509 97; 98 I, 7–8; 4Q511 35, 3).”87 As suggested by this essay, he could also have added implicit references to the architectural features found in the Shirot. The composition and use of the Shirot may well have predated the sectarians’ settlement at Qumran, but the architectural elements could variously relate to different parts of an Essene group and its leadership. As for the sectarians, the ideal depiction of the Qumran community as described in the Community Rule might offer a correlation between the Council of the Community, which when established, would serve as “an everlasting plantation, a house

or leadership status within the community, see George J. Brooke, “From Qumran to Corinth: Embroidered Allusions to Women’s Authority,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls and the New Testament (Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress, 2005), 195–214. 87 “Temple,” EDSS, 924.

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of holiness for Israel, and a foundation (‫ )סוד‬of the holy of holies for Aaron” (1QS VIII, 5–6). If indeed as has been argued, the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice served as a means of preparing a select number of priests for their own role as ongoing authoritative interpreters of the tradition within such a “house of holiness,” what would the content of such narrative response be? Any discussion must also consider other dimensions of community life at Qumran. An important text in this regard is the Rule of the Community, with its description of the community’s commitment to spending onethird of each night in reading (aloud) the scroll (‫)לקרוא בספר‬, and in studying the law (‫ )לדרוש משפט‬and in blessing as a community (‫ולברך‬ ‫( )ביחד‬1QS VI, 7–8). Many scholars have emphasized the first two activities and neglected the significance of the third, which suggests considerable time spent in liturgical activities. It is clear that the legal traditions and their interpretation at Qumran were an ongoing source of engagement in the community as it sought to extend and develop scriptural legal traditions. If analogies with later rabbinic practices hold, much of the interpretation seems to have gone on orally and was preserved in that way, and perhaps alongside written texts.88 So, too, studying “the scroll” was also a central common activity.89 Steven Fraade emphasizes especially the two activities of studying Torah and sectarian rules as paramount: Once so established as a ‘community of holiness’, study both of Torah and communal laws constitutes a central practice of their religious life. Through such ongoing study, the Torah is more fully disclosed to them and new laws are revealed to them to suit their changing circumstances.90

He rightly points to study as a medium of their ongoing revelation and notes the close connection between such collective study and worship, though neglecting the liturgical context as itself a revelatory locus:

88 Metso, The Serekh Texts, 68–69, refers in particular to the work of Martin S. Jaffee in discussing the traditions of halakhic interpretation at Qumran; Jaffee has considered the evidence from Qumran to some extent but certainly not the liturgical materials which comprise roughly one-third of the “non-biblical” texts discovered: Torah in the Mouth: Writing and Oral Tradition in Palestinian Judaism, 100 B.C.E.–400 C.E. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001). 89 Fraade, “Interpretive Authority at Qumran,” 56–57, suggests that the “book of Torah” may possibly be equated with the “sēper hehāgô” mentioned in a parallel passage in CD XIII, 2–3. 90 Fraade, “Interpretive Authority at Qumran,” 61.

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The community considered itself to be a ‘congregation of holiness’ . . . or ‘council of holiness’ . . . whose members worshipped in the presence of holy angels, as they constructed lives of levitical purity and moral perfection, while engaging collectively in the cultivation of esoterically revealed knowledge.91

Given the supposition that these ongoing revelatory compositions were initially oral, any suggestions must necessarily involve speculation because the mysteries of knowledge underlying some of the sect’s activities were indeed kept obscure, and we might consider a range of possibilities in understanding the nature of such priestly-angelic proclamation. It could be understood most narrowly to relate to the content of the Sabbath Songs themselves.92 It seems more likely to point beyond the authorship and content of the songs themselves, to be linked to the group’s discursive composition, whether of liturgical materials, given the great number of prayers, hymns, and psalms found in the Qumran collection or even more broadly to the production of such distinctively sectarian teachings as the pesharim, or the Temple Scroll. A few examples might illustrate such creative liturgical composition “on the tongue” on the part of elect priestly elements of the Qumran community. The Hodayot as uniquely sectarian liturgical compositions provide a particularly apt example. Using the trope of life-giving springs, the hymnist describes himself as a source linked to the waters of divine mystery: “But you, O my God, have placed your words in my mouth, as showers of early rain, for all who thirst and as a spring of living waters.” (1QH XVI, 16). Another thanksgiving praises the “God of knowledge”: You created spirit for the tongue and you know its words . . . You bring forth the measuring lines according to their mysteries, and the utterances of spirits in accordance with their plan in order to make known your glory and recount your wonders . . . (1QH IX, 27–30).

An even clearer example appears in another thanksgiving which depicts the vocation of the “holy ones” who have entered a purified realm: There is hope for the one you have created from dust for the eternal council. You have purified the perverted spirit from great sin in order that

Fraade, “Interpretive Authority at Qumran,” 63–64. This is the view of Wolfson, “Seven Mysteries of Knowledge,” 198 (cf. 208, 213), who describes the content of the narration suggested by the Songs as a “poetic depiction of the imaginal realm preserved in the hymns.” 91 92

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judith h. newman he might take his stand with the host of the holy ones and enter in the Ya ad with the congregation of the sons of heaven and you have allotted for each an eternal destiny with the spirits of knowledge to praise your name joyfully in the Ya ad and to recount your wonders, to declare all of your works. (1QH XI, 21–23)

The excerpt above would even seem to encapsulate in brief the liturgical movement of the Songs themselves, from the first song in which the worshippers bemoan their “tongue of dust” until their purification allows them to join in the spirit-induced ecstatic praise to recount the divine wonders of creation, indeed all of God’s “works.” As was evident in the seventh Song, blessing at Qumran involves rumination (hgh), and presupposes interiorization of scriptural instruction from the daily practice of study that allows for its creative readaptation. An example of such creative praying of the tradition might be found in one account of the covenant renewal ceremony itself.93 With an elaborated version of the three-fold priestly blessing known from Num 6:24–26 (1QS II, 1–4), the priests are called to bless the tammim, the pure ones who have entered successfully into the Ya ad. While the blessing of the priests is included in the Rule of the Community, they are also expected to “recite the righteous deeds of God in all his great words and announce his merciful favors toward Israel (1QS I, 21). The priests are not described as reading from a scroll, which would be indicated by the verb ‫קרא‬, but are depicted as offering a recounting (‫)מספרים‬ of divine involvement in Israel’s past, thus suggesting an oral delivery of such account. The Levites are also said to play a seemingly shadow role to the priests in the liturgy by recalling the sinful activity of Israel and by cursing those of the lot of Belial. A more expansive view of the content of the narration engendered by the Songs thus might include various reconstruals of the contents of some parts of the Tanakh, those compositions that have been classified as “parabiblical” among the Qumran literature.94 If we can assume that the Songs predate the settlement of a group at Qumran, the liturgical performances and their

93 Different versions of the entry rites for new members are found in the rule texts; see the careful discussion of Metso, Serekh Texts, 28–30. 94 The term Tanakh is used heuristically, while recognizing the textual pluriformity of those books that would later be included in the Bible; on this see the writings of Eugene Ulrich, e.g., “The Bible in the Making: The Scriptures Found at Qumran,” in The Bible at Qumran: Text, Shape, and Interpretation (ed. P. Flint; STDSRL; Grand Rapids; MI: Eerdmans, 2001), 51–66.

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aftermath may have generated a host of versions of the torah from Sinai during the many years of their use. Conclusion To come full circle to our initial question: Why would members of the Qumran Ya ad participate in a liturgy describing angelic priestly praise and activity, a liturgy that never reveals the words offered to God by the angelic figures themselves? The unique genre of the Songs suggests a unique use within the Qumran community. The answer here proposed is because a remnant of Jacob was indeed no longer rooted in the concerns of fleshly existence but, over the course of the first quarter of the solar year of Sabbaths, was enacting its own telos as a purified “sanctuary of men,” and in performing the heaven-on-earthly, temple-tabernacle liturgy, provided a model and inspiration for continuing revelation by the angelic-priests in the community who served among them. The cumulative evidence of subtle lexical hints suggests as much. At the center of the liturgical cycle lies an account of the purposeful divine creation in which energy unleashed serves as a commissioning of all angels, spirits and created beings by the divine will. For the angels, this involves in part their call to “proclaim” (hgh) through esoteric knowledge. The distinctions between priests, humans, angels, deities, and spirits, clear at the more prosaic beginning of the cycle, gradually becomes blurred if not indistinguishable by the thirteenth Song. It seems clear that highly literate individuals with time to devote to esoteric intellectual pursuits composed the Songs. Just as the Shirot themselves are rich, multi-layered tapestries that offer a narrative depiction of heaven-on-earthly praise, scripturalized discourse offered to the divine king, the songs to be sung by ecstatic tongues should be manifestations of the purified hearts and minds of the priestly community members whose proper mission is to reproduce in the best way possible the gift of divine instruction from Sinai. Depending on the degree of the author’s (inspired) imagination, the resulting compositions might be worthy of “tongues of instruction” such as in the Hodayot (1QHa XVI, 35–36) or other reconstruals of torah (4Q405 23 II, 10b–13). The songs of the angels, and ultimately their own songs, were to be a means of summoning a priestly version of Sinai in which the glorious divine presence and its angelic retinue would continue to reveal the mysteries of the divine purpose in creation and history, past, present,

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and future. The revelation of Torah at Sinai as summoned through the ritual of the Shirot was retrieved through the lenses of three prophets and their commissioning for service: Isaiah, a prophet of Zion who re-conceived the Temple and its role after the exile, Ezekiel, the exiled prophetic visionary, and finally Elijah, the Mosaic successor, as the glorious presence of God among the purified elect signals as well its continuing reception of divine revelation. Rabbinic Judaism would ultimately recognize torah she-be al-peh and torah she bikhtab transmitted through a chain of authoritative propheticsagely voices from Moses to Joshua to the men of the great assembly, but by-passing the priestly house of Aaron (m. Abot 1:1). At Qumran, we may witness in the performance of the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice a ritual prompting a torah she be al lashon, torah on the tongue, an ecstatic, spirit-filled offering of the divine teaching from Sinai, generated through a liturgical sequence that served both to legitimate and to reinforce the authoritative angelic-priestly status of the elect leadership. The strands of Sinai that are summoned are enmeshed closely with those of Zion and its prophetic priestly traditions. It is not Moses so much in evidence as the prophetic voice of authority, but the heirs of Aaron and his house who dominate this retrieval of divine teaching.

MOVING MOUNTAINS: FROM SINAI TO JERUSALEM George J. Brooke University of Manchester, England The purpose of this paper is to argue that in terms of its religious outlook the sect behind the sectarian scrolls found in the eleven caves at and near Qumran was oriented towards Jerusalem more than towards Sinai, towards Mount Zion more than towards Mount Horeb. This perspective, it seems to me, can be compared creatively with the outlook of Philo or with the tendenz of later rabbinic compilations in which the locus of revelation is clearly less significant than either what was revealed there or the one to whom the revelation was given. What the Qumran movement seems to share with both Philo and the rabbinic tradition is a concern to pay attention to Moses, and what is mediated through him, moving the focus of attention away from the locus of revelation itself.1 1. The background in the book of Jubilees I accept that the book of Jubilees carries much weight for the group whose library was found at Qumran.2 Jubilees seems to serve several functions. It not only represents the kind of halakhic concerns that are developed in more obviously sectarian compositions like the Damascus Document,3 but it also serves to mediate valuable insights from the

On the significance of Moses for Philo see especially, Hindy Najman, Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple Judaism ( JSJSup 77; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 70–107. On the role of Sinai traditions and Moses at Qumran see, in this volume, Marcus Tso, “Giving the Torah at Sinai and the Ethics of the Qumran Community,” 117–28. 2 Michael A. Knibb, Jubilees and the Origins of the Qumran Community: An Inaugural Lecture in the Department of Biblical Studies (London: King’s College, 1989), 17, writes: “there can be no question that the Palestinian priestly reform movement that lies behind Jubilees belongs in the pre-history of the Qumran sect and of the wider Essene movement.” 3 Most scholars have assumed that Jubilees is quoted as an authority in CD XVI, 3–4, but see also Devorah Dimant, “Two ‘Scientific’ Fictions: The So-Called Book of Noah and the Alleged Quotation of Jubilees in CD 16:3–4,” in Studies in the Hebrew 1

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Enochic traditions into a Sinaitic persepctive,4 it provides a reworked but primordial5 version of Israel’s meta-narrative of world history in a chronology of jubilee cycles, and it explains how the revealed law has to be supplemented through knowledge of what is on the heavenly tablets. In its overarching priestly and Levitical interests it is naturally more oriented towards the altar in the Jerusalem temple than towards the altar at the foot of the mountain built by Moses himself (Exod 24:4). The orientation of Jubilees is made plain at the outset: And he said to the angel of the presence, “Write for Moses from the first creation until my sanctuary is built in their midst forever and ever. And the Lord will appear in the sight of all. And everyone will know that I am the God of Israel and the father of all the children of Jacob and king upon Mount Zion forever and ever. And Zion and Jerusalem will be holy” ( Jub. 1:27–28).6

This is taken forward in Jub. 1:29 in which there is a summary description of the contents of the tablets as containing everything “from the day of creation”7 until “the sanctuary of the Lord is created in Jerusalem upon Mount Zion.” Of course the narrative of Jubilees is set on Sinai. It is the location of the establishment of the covenant that God makes with Moses for the children of Israel and their descendants ( Jub. 1:2–6). And according to Jub. 4:26 Sinai is one of the four sacred places on the earth: the garden of Eden, the mountain of the East, Sinai, and Mount Zion. But it is Mount Zion that “will be sanctified in the new creation for the sanctification of the earth.” It is Mount Zion of all the sacred places that is described as “in the midst of the navel of the earth” ( Jub. 8:19; cf. Ezek 5:5; 38:12).8 Furthermore, it is Mount Zion that is explicitly identified as the location of the Aqedah ( Jub. 19:13). Through the

Bible, Qumran, and the Septuagint Presented to Eugene Ulrich (ed. P. W. Flint, E. Tov and J. C. VanderKam; VTSup 101; Leiden, Brill, 2006), 230–49, especially 242–48. 4 As argued by Helge S. Kvanvig, “Jubilees—Between Enoch and Moses: A Narrative Reading,” JSJ 35 (2004): 243–61. Kvanvig proposes that the narrative structure of Jubilees is Enochic, for all that Moses dominates it. 5 To use Hindy Najman’s illuminating term as developed in “Interpretation as Primordial Writing: Jubilees and Its Authority Conferring Strategies,” JSJ 30 (1999): 379–410; see also her Seconding Sinai. 6 Trans. Orval S. Wintermute in OTP 2.54. All subsequent English renderings of the book of Jubilees are taken from Wintermute’s translation. 7 This phrase is a restoration proposed by Michael E. Stone, “Apocryphal Notes and Readings,” IOS 1 (1971): 123–31 (125–26). 8 1 Enoch 26:1 also describes Jerusalem as the centre of the earth.

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fiction of the heavenly tablets Jubilees provides for the congregation of Israel the necessary priestly interpretative additions to the Law, additions that are oriented unashamedly towards Jerusalem. 2. Sinai and Jerusalem: vocabulary data Before beginning to describe and analyse some of the reasons why Mount Sinai is left behind in the movement towards Jerusalem, some raw data can be laid out. As background to these data Martin Abegg has noted that in what we might call anachronistically the non-biblical literature of the Qumran library, proper names are far less frequent than in the Hebrew Bible. For example in the Hebrew Bible over eight per cent of the vocabulary is personal names, whereas in the non-biblical Qumran literature the corresponding figure is less than two per cent.9 So, although the Qumran literary corpus has a scriptural feel to it,10 direct comparisons with the situation in the Hebrew Bible are not entirely appropriate, not least also because certain books of the Bible are clearly more significant (and more well attested) in the Qumran collection than others. But we need to get some facts straight before we try to explain this attitude of facing Jerusalem while only looking over the shoulder to Sinai. For place names Abegg has noted as a provisional statistic that in both the Hebrew Bible and in the Qumran corpus the most frequently mentioned name is Egypt,11 but in both corpora the next most frequent name is Jerusalem,12 to which can be added Zion, the next most frequently attested pace name in Qumran Literature. A preliminary comment would thus be in order: the tendency at Qumran to follow the Jerusalem orientation of Jubilees is also a reflection of a similar tendency in the works that were beginning to be assembled to make up the Hebrew Bible. Nevertheless, the surprising thing is that in the nonbiblical Qumran corpus the name Sinai survives but five times: (1) in 9 Martin G. Abegg, “Concordance of Proper Nouns in the Non-Biblical Texts from Qumran,” in The Texts from the Judaean Desert: Indices and an Introduction to the Discoveries in the Judaean Desert Series (ed. E. Tov; DJD XXXIX; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002), 229–84 (231). 10 As I tried to demonstrate in George J. Brooke, “The Dead Sea Scrolls,” in The Biblical World (ed. J. Barton; London and New York: Routledge, 2002), 1.250–69. 11 Egypt: Hebrew Bible 682 times; Qumran Literature 101 times. 12 Jerusalem: Hebrew Bible 643 times. Qumran Literature 63 times. Zion occurs 38 times in Qumran Literature.

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1Q22 1 I, 4 there is a report of a divine speech to Moses in the fortieth year after the Exodus which is a recollection of “what I commanded you on Mount Sinai;”13 (2) in 4Q365 26a–b, 4, which composition might even be deemed to be scriptural,14 contains a verbatim use of Num 1:1, “in the wilderness of Sinai;” (3) in the so-called Discourse on the Exodus/Conquest Tradition (4Q374) 2 I, 7 the single word “Sinai” is preserved at the end of an extant line;15 (4) in 4QApocryphal Pentateuch B (4Q377) 2 II, 6 in which the revelation at Sinai is recalled in a context that makes clear that divine communication was to all the people, not just to Moses;16 (5) in Visions of Amrame (4Q547) 9, 4 there is a mention of Mount Sinai in a context that seems concerned with the exaltation of the priesthood.17 In addition to these sparse references to Sinai itself, there is just one extant reference to Horeb, the Deuteronomic synonym: in The Words of the Luminaries (4Q504) 3 II, 13, in the prayer for the fourth day of the week, God is addressed as sanctified in his glory and, in a somewhat fragmentary section, the text recalls the covenant made by God “with us” on Horeb. Some of the phraseology seems to recall the language of Deut 5:2 in particular: “The Lord God made a covenant with us at Horeb.” M. Baillet, who was responsible for the principal edition of 4Q504,18 suggested that the very title of the composition, The Words of the Luminaries, possibly 13 For improved readings in a small part of 1Q22 and consideration of its relationship to Jubilees that are significant for the point of this paper, see Eibert Tigchelaar, “A Cave 4 Fragment of Divre Mosheh (4QDM) and the Text of 1Q22 1:7–10 and Jubilees 1:9, 14,” DSD 12 (2005): 303–12. 14 As proposed for 4Q364, 4Q365 and 4Q366 by Michael Segal, “4QReworked Pentateuch or 4QPentateuch?” in The Dead Sea Scrolls Fifty Years after Their Discovery: Proceedings of the Jerusalem Congress, July 20 –25, 1997 (ed. L. H. Schiffman, E. Tov and J. C. VanderKam; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society and the Shrine of the Book, 2000), 391–99; and most recently by his teacher Emanuel Tov in a forthcoming study. 15 Carol Newsom, “Discourse on the Exodus/Conquest Tradition,” in Qumran Cave 4.XIV: Parabiblical Texts, Part 2 (ed. M. Broshi et al.; DJD XIX; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 101, comments: “If ‫ סיני‬is the correct reading (rather than ‫)סוני‬, references to taking possession in line 6 and to Sinai here establish the context as that of the exodus/conquest traditions.” 16 James C. VanderKam and Monica Brady, “4QApocryphal Pentateuch B,” in Wadi Daliyeh II: The Samaria Papyri from Wadi Daliyeh and Qumran Cave 4.XXVIII: Miscellanea, Part 2 (ed. D. M. Gropp, M. Bernstein et al.; DJD XXVIII; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2001), 213–15. VanderKam and Brady note that the language of Exod 33:11 is transferred from Moses to the assembly of Israel. 17 It might be possible to restore the word “Sinai” in a few other contexts based on other versions of some compositions such as Jubilees and 1 Enoch. 18 Maurice Baillet, Qumrân Grotte 4.III (4Q482–4Q520) (DJD VII; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982), 137–68.

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indicated that the whole was conceived on priestly lines, since works like Ben Sira (45:17) and the Testament of Levi (4:3; 18:3–4) assign the priesthood the task of mediating the divine light to the community.19 As with Jubilees the priestly transmission of the Sinai tradition leads to its transformation in significant ways. For Jerusalem and Zion, as already indicated above, the situation is very remarkably different, with several dozen references in a full range of genres.20 Some of these references are straightforwardly geographical and neutral in tone; in 4Q180 5–6, 4 “Mount Zion” occurs in apposition to Jerusalem, confirming the synonymous character of the labels. Other references are polemical, written against those who have polluted the city and its sanctuary, apparently forcing the members of the community to forsake the city. Yet others are aspirational, either laying out the correct legal framework for the construction of the temple and the sacrifices to be performed there or looking to the future when the community would be able to return there to work in the sanctuary that God himself would build and to live in the city, a perfect piece of town planning. In some instances the sectarian “camp” is the functional equivalent of the “city of Jerusalem.”21 Polemical references can be found in the exegetical compositions. In Pesher Habakkuk the city of which Habakkuk speaks in Hab 2:17 is identified explicitly with Jerusalem (1QpHab XII, 7) and the enemies of the community include the priests of Jerusalem (1QpHab IX, 4). Pesher Isaiah and Pesher Nahum similarly offer negative comments about the inhabitants of Jerusalem (4Q162 II, 7, 10; 4Q169 3–4 I, 10–11). Amongst the aspirational literature is the War Scroll in whose editorial framework there is technical wilderness

19 On 4Q504 as probably Deuteronomic and Levitical in outlook see Daniel Falk, Daily, Sabbath, and Festival Prayers in the Dead Sea Scrolls (STDJ 27; Leiden: Brill, 1998), 59–94. 20 For a survey of this material and why Jerusalem should be so prominent see, e.g., Lawrence H. Schiffman, “Jerusalem in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in The Centrality of Jerusalem: Historical Perspectives (ed. M. Poorthuis and C. Safrai; Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1996), 73–88; Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, “Jerusalem,” in Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls (ed. L. H. Schiffman and J. C. VanderKam; New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 402–4; Philip R. Davies, “From Zion to Zion: Jerusalem in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Jerusalem in Ancient History and Tradition (ed. T. L. Thompson; London: T & T Clark International, 2003), 164–70. 21 As pointed out most recently by Steven Fraade, “Looking for Narrative Midrash at Qumran,” in Rabbinic Perspectives: Rabbinic Literature and the Dead Sea Scrolls: Proceedings of the Eighth International Symposium of the Orion Center for the Study of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Associated Literature, 7–9 January, 2003 (ed. S. D. Fraade, A. Shemesh and R. A. Clements; STDJ 62; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 43–66 (59).

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terminology used for describing the arrangement of the community as military units, in which the wilderness setting is identified as “the wilderness of Jerusalem” (1QM I, 3); elsewhere in the composition it is assumed that the army leaves “Jerusalem” to go to war (1QM VII, 4); this quasi-liturgical and “pacifist” text which sublimates the violence through cultic action is a priestly text through and through, so the Jerusalem orientation is hardly surprising. Hanan Eshel, for one, considers the hymn that opens with the lines “O Zion, rejoice greatly, O Jerusalem, show yourself amidst jubilation” (1QM XII, 12–15) to be a Qumranic composition.22 Other aspirational texts include the Temple Scroll which describes both how the temple should have been built by Solomon and others, but never was, and also contains mention of the sanctuary which God himself will construct. The New Jerusalem composition describes the perfectly laid out city. The so-called “Apostrophe to Zion” lays out an ideal picture of Jerusalem and expresses a fundamental loyalty to the holy city in the present and future.23 In all this much of the present experiences and the future hopes of the Qumran community and the wider movement of which it was a part are given focus through reacting against the contemporary polluted Jerusalem sanctuary and through longing for a restored Jerusalem temple.24 3. Moving from Sinai to Jerusalem There seem to be several reasons why the setting of the Mosaic revelation is no longer important for the compilers of the Qumran library beyond its cultic and narrative memorialization as the place of the giving of the Law. As the movement represented by the library in the eleven caves stood between Sinai and Jerusalem, between the wilder-

Hanan Eshel, “A Note on a Recently Published Text: the ‘Joshua Apocryphon’,” in The Centrality of Jerusalem: Historical Perspectives (ed. M. Poorthuis and Ch. Safrai; Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1996), 89–93 (89). 23 See Lawrence H. Schiffman, “Apostrophe to Zion (11QPsalms Scroll 22:1–15),” in Prayer from Alexander to Constantine: A Critical Anthology (ed. M. Kiley; London: Routledge, 1997), 18–22. This poem was probably not a sectarian composition, but was copied, read and used there. 24 On this restoration see Lawrence H. Schiffman, “The Concept of Restoration in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Restoration: Old Testament, Jewish, and Christian Perspectives (ed. J. M. Scott; JSJSup 72; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 203–21. Schiffman argues that the description of the temple in the Temple Scroll is intended as much for the present as for the future. 22

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ness and the purified sanctuary, between exile and complete return, it devised numerous strategies in self-understanding and religious practice to assist it in its ideological move from Sinai to Jerusalem. A. The book of Deuteronomy The first is perhaps the most obvious. Deuteronomy itself looks elsewhere for the location and dwelling-place of the divine name: the legal core of the book, Deuteronomy 12–26, is a promulgation of legislation to be observed in the land which is given by God. This collection of laws opens with rulings on the centralization of worship at “the place that the Lord your God will choose out of all your tribes as his habitation to put his name there” (Deut 12:5, 11, 21; cf. 12:14, 18, 26).25 “Deut 12 clearly has Jerusalem in view.”26 But beyond the way that Deuteronomy speaks of such a place, which is clearly not Sinai, the book also has a future orientation that looks beyond the journey of the Israelites with Moses. This orientation is partly responsible for the lack of attention to Sinai as sacred space. With hindsight portrayed as foresight the legislation is couched in covenantal terms that depend on the situation of its pre-exilic redactors in Jerusalem. Those redactors know that there is no point in seeking to make pilgrimages to Sinai, if God himself has decamped and moved house to another country. Part of the trajectory which Deuteronomy itself represents, that is, the ongoing need for the rewriting of the Law, is taken up by compositions such as the Temple Scroll. The content of such rewritings is often a pointer to the sense of the partial inadequacy of the Law as given at Sinai. So, for example, the Temple Scroll can take much of the legislation about the wilderness tabernacle and combine it with other traditions to create a series of divine speeches in a Sinaitic setting that speak directly of the Jerusalem sanctuary as it should have been built, but never was. In imitating and paraphrasing Deuteronomy, works such as the Temple Scroll introduce content that shows them to be shifting the Law ever closer to what with hindsight their authors and redactors could conceive of as life in the land and at the temple. Deuteronomy in 25 The well-known euphemistic phraseology recurs in various guises at Deut 14:23, 25; 16:2, 6, 7, 11, 15, 16; 17:8, 10; 18:6; 26:2; 31:11. 26 Christoph Bultmann, “Deuteronomy,” in The Oxford Bible Commentary (ed. J. Barton and J. Muddiman; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 144. For a discussion of how the relativization of Sinai happens already in the book of Deuteronomy, see Marc Zvi Brettler, “Fire, Cloud, and Deep Darkness,” 15–28 (esp. 26–28) in this volume.

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particular provided form, content and purpose for continuing Mosaic discourse but in a new context away from Sinai.27 B. Focus on the mediator, not the locus of revelation Secondly, it is possible in the Qumran sectarian texts, as for Philo,28 to separate the mediator and the revelation he received from the location where he received the revelation,29 so that although Sinai/Horeb is seldom referred to in the non-scriptural compositions, there is frequent reference to Moses and the Law.30 The mediator and his mediation are indeed recalled, but the setting where it all took place is assumed rather than named.31 Yet, in this matter the evidence for the treatment of Moses in the compositions found in the Qumran library is somewhat ambiguous.32 It has to be acknowledged that Moses generally receives an excellent press. Not only is his name the most frequent personal name in the non-scriptural scrolls, but also his status as lawgiver, as mediator of the Law is unchallenged, as James Bowley has summarised.33 Indeed

27 Overall on how both Jubilees and the Temple Scroll participate in Mosaic discourse see Najman, Seconding Sinai, 41–69. 28 See Najman, Seconding Sinai, 70–107. 29 Though such separation is not that proposed by Martin Noth, The History of Israel (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1958), 58: Moses “had no historical connection with the event which took place on Sinai.” 30 Designations such as “the Law of Moses”, “the book of Moses”, “by the hand of Moses”: e.g., CD V, 12; VIII, 14; XV, 9; XVI, 5; 1QS I, 3; V, 8; VIII, 15, 22; 1QM X, 6; 1QHa IV, 12; 2Q25 1, 3; 4Q249 verso 1. Josephus’ statement about the Essenes that “after God they hold most in awe the name of the lawgiver, any blasphemer of whom is punished with death” (War 2.145) might also be relevant. 31 Daniel Falk, “Moses, Texts of,” in Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls (ed. L. H. Schiffman and J. C. VanderKam; New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 577–81, lists briefly many of the compositions associated with Moses: several copies of the book of Jubilees (1QJuba–b; 2QJuba–b; 3QJub; 4QJuba–h, i?;11QJub + XQTextA); several copies of what have been labelled an Apocryphon of Moses (1QWords of Moses [1Q22]; Liturgy of the Three Tongues of Fire [1Q29]; and Apocryphon of Moses a,b,c [4Q375, 376, 408]); various compositions akin to the book of Jubilees (4Q225–227); Apocryphal Pentateuch A (4Q368); the various copies of the Temple Scroll (4Q524; 11Q19–21; possibly some fragments of 4Q365), a composition which is addressed to Moses. There are also a number of exegetical works, in which the exegesis is implicit in the rewriting of large sections of the Pentateuch, such as Apocryphon of Moses (2Q21); Paraphrase of Exodus (in Greek; 4Q127); and Apocryphal Pentateuch B (4Q377). 32 Some of the following two paragraphs on Moses is expounded more fully in my article, George J. Brooke, “Moses in the Dead Sea Scrolls: Looking at Mount Nebo from Qumran,” in La construction de la figure de Moïse/The Construction of the Figure of Moses (ed. T. Römer; TranseuSup 13; Paris: Gabalda, 2007), 209–23. 33 James E. Bowley, “Moses in the Dead Sea Scrolls: Living in the Shadow of God’s Anointed,” in The Bible at Qumran: Text, Shape, and Interpretation (ed. P. W. Flint; Studies

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to join the movement is to swear “to return to the Torah of Moses” (CD XV, 12, 19; XVI, 2, 5), an oath based on the view that in the Law of Moses “everything is precisely explained” (CD XVI, 1–2). As Geza Vermes pointed out long ago: “The law of Moses was the only rule of life . . . The Torah of Moses was the charter of the community. In it . . . all things are strictly defined.”34 Two further items exemplify the high status of Moses. To begin with there is reflection on his prophetic status. Somewhat in line with the shift of emphasis from Sinai to Jerusalem, this has an eschatological dimension. In Testimonia (4Q175) Exodus 20 is cited in a form also known from the Samaritan Pentateuch in which Deut 5:28–29 and 18:18–19 from the proto-Masoretic tradition are combined to provide a proof-text for the expectation of an eschatological prophet.35 The identity of the eschatological prophet who is to be like Moses has been widely debated: the most popular candidates have been Elijah (cf. 4Q558) or the Teacher of Righteousness returned from the dead.36 A minority opinion has identified this eschatological prophet with Moses himself.37 Second, two texts have been understood as possibly indicating the apotheosis of Moses. In the Discourse on the Exodus/Conquest Tradition (4Q374) a part of frag. 2, col. II, reads as follows: “(6) [And] he made him as God [lxlwhym] over the mighty ones and a cause of reeli[ng] to Pharaoh.”38 Carol Newsom has noted how the phrasing in line 6 recalls the language of Exod 7:1: “And the Lord said to Moses, ‘See, I have made you God [xlwhym] to Pharaoh and Aaron your brother will be your prophet’.” Crispin Fletcher-Louis has understood the text as in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Literature; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2001), 159–81. 34 Geza Vermes, “The Qumran Interpretation of Scripture in its Historical Setting,” ALUOS 6 (1966–1968): 85–97 (87); reprinted in Geza Vermes, Post-Biblical Jewish Studies (SJLA 8; Leiden: Brill, 1975), 37–49 (39). 35 On the implications of 4QTestimonia and 4Q158 for the better understanding of the origins of the Samaritan expectation of the Taheb, see Ferdinand Dexinger, “Der ‘Prophet wie Mose’ in Qumran und bei den Samaritanern,” in Mélanges bibliques et orientaux en l’honneur de M. Mathias Delcor (ed. A. Caquot, S. Légasse and M. Tardieu; AOAT 215; Neukirchen: Kevelaer and Neukirchen-Vluyn, 1985), 97–111. 36 This is the line taken early on by Geza Vermes, “La figure de Moïse au tournant des deux testaments,” in Moïse: l’homme de l’alliance (H. Cazelles et al.; Paris: Desclée de Brouwer, 1955), 63–92 (83). 37 A view recently espoused again by John C. Poirier, “The Endtime Return of Elijah and Moses at Qumran,” DSD 10 (2003): 221–42. 38 Carol Newsom, “374. 4QDiscourse on the Exodus/Conquest Tradition,” in Qumran Cave 4.XIV: Parabiblical Texts, Part 2 (ed. M. Broshi et al.; DJD XIX; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 99–110 (102).

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implying “that throughout lines 6–10 the actor who stands at centre stage is the divine Moses, though God himself is ultimately responsible for the plot as he directs the drama from the wings.”39 The view of Moses in 4Q374 is certainly exalted; he is likened to the angels, and the healing properties of his shining face would seem to have theophanic characteristics, but whether he is as exalted as Fletcher-Louis proposes has yet to be determined, not least because the statement of Exod 7:1 which might be understood as equating Moses with God seems to be made into a matter of comparative agency in the Discourse on the Exodus/ Conquest Tradition (4Q374), frag. 2, col. II. In Apocryphal Pentateuch B (4Q377), frag. 2, there seems to be a continuation from earlier columns of a narrative reworking of the account of Israel at Sinai.40 In it a certain previously unknown Elibah exhorts the congregation of YHWH in a long speech: (4) . . . vacat Cursed is the man who will not stand and keep and d[o ] (5) all m.[ ] . . through the mouth of Moses his anointed one [mšy˜w], and to follow YHWH, the God of our fathers, who m . .[ ] (6) to us from Mt. Sin[ai] vacat And he spoke wi[th ]the assembly of Israel face to face as a man speaks (7) with his friend and a[s ]r . . š.[ ]r He showed us in a fire burning above [from] heaven vacat [ ] (8) and on the earth; he stood on the mountain to make known that there is no god beside him and there is no rock like him [ ] (9) the assembly {the congrega[tion}] they answered. Trembling seized them before the glory of God and because of the wondrous sounds, [ ] (10) and they stood at a distance. vacat And Moses, the man of God, was with God in the cloud. And the cloud covered (11) him because .[ ]when he was sanctified [bhqdšw], and like a messenger he would speak from his mouth, for who of fles[h ]is like him, (12) a man of faithfulness [xyš ˜sdym] and yw.[ ].m who were not created {to} from eternity and forever. . . . [ ]41

39 Crispin H. T. Fletcher-Louis, All the Glory of Adam: Liturgical Anthropology in the Dead Sea Scrolls (STDJ 42; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 137; his ideas on this composition were first outlined in “4Q374: A Discourse on the Sinai Tradition: The Deification of Moses and Early Christology,” DSD 3 (1996): 236–52. His ideas have been described as “a tantalizing possibility” by James R. Davila, “Heavenly Ascents in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls after Fifty Years: A Comprehensive Account (ed. P. W. Flint and J. C. VanderKam; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 461–85 (472–73). 40 Johannes Zimmermann, Messianische Texte aus Qumran: Königliche, priesterliche und prophetische Messiasvorstellungen in den Schriftfunden von Qumran (WUNT 2/104; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998), 332–42. 41 James C. VanderKam and Monica Brady, “377. 4QApocryphal Pentateuch B,” Wadi Daliyeh II: The Samaria Papyri from Wadi Daliyeh and Qumran Cave 4.XXVIII (ed. D. M. Gropp, M. Bernstein et al.; DJD XXVIII; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2001), 205–17 (214).

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Once again, C. Fletcher-Louis has argued that this text envisages a divine Moses,42 but an earlier close reading of the same fragments by Johannes Zimmermann did not produce a divine or angelic Moses.43 However, despite these many and varied positive depictions of Moses, there are several features about him that call for a different kind of assessment. First, apart from some very minor exceptions, such as the brief mention of how with Aaron he stood his ground against Jannes and Jambres (CD V, 18–19), there is no interest in the Qumran library in the other events or circumstances of Moses’ life beyond his mediation of the Law. Second, even in relation to the Law it is understood that Moses’ mediation was incomplete.44 In the Damascus Document there is multiple reference to “the hidden things in which all Israel had strayed: his holy Sabbaths, the glorious appointed times, his righteous testimonies, his true ways, and the desires of his will, which a person shall do and live by them”45 (CD III, 12–16). The Law of Moses was not enough to live by, as 1QS V, 7–10 also makes plain: “Whoever approaches the Council of the Community shall enter the Covenant of God in the presence of all who have freely pledged themselves. He shall undertake by a binding oath to return with all his heart and soul to every commandment of the Law of Moses in accordance with all that has been revealed of it to the sons of Zadok, the Priests, Keepers of the Covenant and Seekers of His will, and to the multitude of the men of their Covenant who together have freely pledged themselves to His truth and to walking in

42 He is supported in this by Jan Willem van Henten, “Moses as Heavenly Messenger in Assumptio Mosis 10:2 and Qumran Passages,” JJS 54 (2003): 216–27 (226–27). 43 Furthermore the close textual analysis carried out by Émile Puech also clarifies the text along the lines of Zimmermann: for Puech in 4Q377 Moses is compared with an angel, but the designations assigned him are indicative of his human status: Émile Puech, “Le fragment 2 de 4Q377, Pentateuque Apocryphe B: L’exaltation de Moïse,” RevQ 21 (2003–2004): 469–75. 44 In addition there is the need to consider the wide-ranging debates about which laws were mediated by Moses and which were heard by the people directly, apart from Moses’ mediation; see the enlightening study on this by Steven D. Fraade, “Moses and the Commandments: Can Hermeneutics, History, and Rhetoric be Disentangled?” in The Idea of Biblical Interpretation: Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel (ed. H. Najman and J. H. Newman; JSJSup 83; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 399–422. 45 Trans. Joseph M. Baumgarten and Daniel R. Schwartz, “Damascus Document (CD),” in Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek Texts with English Translations: vol. 2, Damascus Document, War Scroll, and Related Documents (ed. J. H. Charlesworth; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck; Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1995), 17.

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the ways of His delight.”46 Thus the Law of Moses by itself requires appropriate priestly elucidation, interpretation which itself has also been revealed. To some extent, then, Moses and his Law were compromised from the outset; there is the need for an Interpreter of the Law (dwrš htwrh), whether the Teacher of Righteousness or another.47 Third, the large number of reworkings of the Law, from Jubilees and the Temple Scroll to a range of pentateuchal paraphrases, some of which could claim great authority, all indicate that there was a need to rewrite the Law in various ways for its contemporary appropriation. This was not done in the form of explicit commentary, but through presenting new versions of the Law.48 Perhaps an ongoing sense of being in the wilderness, even if only spiritually, stimulated this literary activity as the movement perceived itself to be the locus for ongoing revelation.49 Whatever the case, if Deuteronomy itself could be understood as pointing away from Sinai, then the other Sinaitic compositions in the Qumran library can also be seen as qualifying the status of both Moses and the specific revelation entrusted to him. Sinai is relativized. C. The celebration of Shavuot and the priestly sublimation of Sinai The publication of the cave 4 Damascus Document manuscripts has made it clear that the community gathered in the third month to initiate new members and re-enact the Deuteronomic blessings and curses.50 This tradition concerning the Feast of Shavuot as the festival associated with the giving of the Law at Sinai seems to depend on Jub. 6:17: “Therefore, it is ordained and written in the heavenly tablets that they should observe the feast of Shebuot in this month, once per year, in order to renew the covenant in all (respects), year by year.”51 There has been some debate whether the date given in Exod 19:1, “on the third new 46 Trans. Geza Vermes, The Complete Dead Sea Scrolls in English (Penguin Classics; London: Penguin Books, revised edition 2004), 104. 47 See CD VII, 18 = 4Q266 3 III, 19; 4Q159 5, 6; 4Q174 1–2 I, 11; 4Q177 10–11, 5; also 1QS VI, 6. 48 Steven Fraade, “Looking for Narrative Midrash at Qumran,” 59, suggests the implied use of Exod 19:10–12 in 11QTa 45:7–12 and 1QSa 1:25–27 set up the covenantal community as a perpetual Mount Sinai. For a discussion of the role of scribalism in this continued rewriting of Mosaic law, see Eva Mroczek, “Moses, David and Scribal Revelation: Preservation and Renewal in Second Temple Jewish Textual Traditions,” 91–115 in this volume. 49 See Hindy Najman, “Towards a Study of the Uses of the Concept of Wilderness in Ancient Judaism,” DSD 13 (2006): 98–113 (109–13). 50 This is apparent in 4Q266 11, 17–18 // 4Q270 7 II, 11–12. 51 Wintermute, OTP 2.67 n. f., comments that he attempts to keep the spelling of Shebuot as that in order to allow for the modern reader to recognize that the author

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moon,” does not really mark “the beginning of a three-day period of communal purification before the Sinaitic covenant and it may be that the expulsion ceremony described here [4Q266 11, 17] was similarly intended to precede Pentecost.”52 As we have already noted in The Words of the Luminaries (4Q504) 3 II, 13, in the prayer for the fourth day of the week, God is addressed as sanctified in his glory and, in a somewhat fragmentary section, the text recalls the covenant made by God “with us” on Horeb. It is thus clear from that text and from the communal purification and initiation ceremony that Sinai/Horeb played a part in the liturgical life of the community that collected the library together at Qumran.53 Indeed it seems that it was the cultic life of the movement that contributed significantly to enabling them to survive the journey between Sinai and Jerusalem. On the one hand Sinai could be liturgically recalled without the need for a pilgrimage there,54 and on the other hand Jerusalem could be anticipated. The cultic service and its prayers could thus enshrine the past key moments of significance such as the giving of the Law at Sinai, the present experiences of the community in which the ongoing significance of such events could be made explicit, and the future aspirations which were explicitly directed towards Jerusalem. Both recollection and anticipation were dealt with in some measure through the conviction that worship in the community involved participation in the priestly activities of the angels.55 Concern with the place and function of angels in the scrolls found at Qumran has been of Jubilees was probably aware of the play on words between “weeks” and “oaths.” Isaac is born at the time of Shavuot: Jub. 15:21; 16:13. 52 Jospeh M. Baumgraten, Qumran Cave 4.XIII: The Damascus Document (4Q266–273) (DJD XVIII; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), 78. 53 This is argued in detail by James C. VanderKam, “Sinai Revisited,” in Biblical Interpretation at Qumran (ed. M. Henze; Studies in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Literature; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2005), 44–60 (48–51); to the texts already cited VanderKam adds 4Q275 which seem to refer to some kind of communal ceremony and 4Q320 4 III, 1–5 and 4Q321 2 II, 4–5 which show that Shavuot was observed on the fifteenth of the third month. VanderKam’s attention to Sinai should not be read as if the Sinai event was the sole provider of terminology for the community’s selfunderstanding and self-description. On Shavuot and Sinai in worship contexts in the Qumran community, see now Judith Newman’s essay in this volume, “Priestly Prophets at Qumran: Summoning Sinai Through the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice,” 29–72. 54 The ceremony of blessings and curses in Deuteronomy is not interpreted as a past historical event but used as a model for the community’s annual ceremony in which the priests have a dominant role, unlike in Deuteronomy: see Fraade, “Looking for Narrative Midrash at Qumran,” 51. 55 With a different purpose in mind I have discussed some aspects of some of the following remarks about communion with angels in George J. Brooke, “Men and Women as Angels in Joseph and Aseneth,” JSP 14 (2005): 159–77.

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a matter of concern almost from the outset.56 The topic has been of ongoing interest,57 promoted not least by the complete publication in 1985 of the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice.58 In the cycle of the first quarter of the year Songs 11 and 12 would fall on either side of Shavuot, which might then be seen as forming the backdrop to the climax of the Songs at the moment of access to the divine throne room.59 As Devorah Dimant has pointed out, the Qumran “community aimed at creating on earth a replica of the heavenly world.”60 Point by point Dimant has shown that life in the priestly community was an imitation of the functions of the leading angels.61 Dimant’s work has been taken one step further by Björn Frennesson who has suggested that rather than the angels being involved by way of analogy, it seems as if there was such a thing as communion with the angels.62 It is clear that God’s presence with the community on earth was thought of as an angelic presence; for Frennesson it is also possible that the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice constitute an example of a liturgical text-cycle that in fact makes liturgical communion happen, “joining together heaven and earth through the very performance of ‘a concrete liturgical act’.”63 C. Fletcher-Louis takes a step further, and probably a step too far, by attempting to describe not just communion but angelomorphism in the Dead Sea Scrolls.64 Fletcher-Louis’ most 56 See, e.g., Jospeh A. Fitzmyer, “A Feature of Qumran Angelology and the Angels of 1 Cor 11:10,” NTS 4 (1957–58): 48–58; Dominique Barthélemy, “Le sainteté selon la communauté de Qumrân et selon l’Évangile,” in La secte de Qumrân et les origines du Christianisme (ed. J. van der Ploeg; RechBib, 4; Paris: Desclée de Brouwer, 1959), 203–16. 57 See, e.g., Paul J. Kobelski, Melchizedek and Melchireša{ (CBQMS, 10; Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1981). 58 Carol A. Newsom, Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice: A Critical Edition (HSS 27; Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1985). 59 See the brief comments by Russell C. D. Arnold, The Social Role of Liturgy in the Religion of the Qumran Community (STDJ 60; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 142. 60 Devorah Dimant, “Men as Angels: The Self-Image of the Qumran Community,” in Religion and Politics in the Ancient Near East (ed. A. Berlin; Studies and Texts in Jewish History and Culture; Bethesda, MD: University Press of Maryland, 1996), 93–103 (101). 61 A key detail in Dimant’s conclusion is that the community seems to have lived its own version of Mal. 2.7, the only scriptural text to describe the priest as mlxk (‘angel/ messenger’): “Men as Angels,” 103. 62 Björn Frennesson, “In a Common Rejoicing”: Liturgical Communion with Angels in Qumran (Studia Semitica Upsaliensia 14; Uppsala: Uppsala University, 1999). 63 Frennesson, “In a Common Rejoicing”, 116. 64 Fletcher-Louis, All the Glory of Adam; some of his ideas are also worked out in his studies “Ascent to Heaven and the Embodiment of Heaven: a Revisionist Reading of the

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valuable contribution may well rest in the way that he develops a high doctrine of the priesthood, arguing that the priestly leadership of the Qumran community were envisaged in angelic terms. For him the best example of such a text is 1QSb IV, 24–26: May you be as an Angel of the Presence in the Abode of Holiness to the glory of the God of [ hosts] . . . May you attend upon the service in the Temple of the Kingdom and decree destiny in company with the Angels of the Presence, in common council [with the Holy Ones] for everlasting ages and time without end; for [all] His judgements are [truth]! May He make you holy among His people, and an [eternal] light [to illumine] the world with knowledge and to enlighten the face of the Congregation [with wisdom]! [May He] consecrate you to the Holy of Holies! For [you are made] holy for Him and you shall glorify His name and His holiness . . .65

This is certainly addressed to priests, probably to a high priest. Thus, somebody writing at the beginning of the first century B.C.E. could readily conceive of the high priest as functioning like the Angel of the Presence. In the way in which the blessing continues by describing the priestly functions as enlightening the congregation, it is not inappropriate to envisage that this high priest is supposed to manifest the glory of God (like Moses on Sinai). This priest does not seem to be transformed into an angel, but likened to one in a functional analogy.66 What seems to have happened at Qumran in some measure is that the cultic celebration of initiation and the ongoing experience of the divine and angelic in the worship of the community sublimated the experience of alienation that absence from Jerusalem imposed. The route back to Jerusalem was one of observing the Law as rightly presented and interpreted, but also included right worship in the here and now. The place of Jerusalem in that was mixed: on the one hand yearning for return to it could be expressed through singing Jerusalem’s praise (as in the Apostrophe to Zion and 1QM XII, 12–15), whilst on the other the

Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice,” SBLSP (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1998): 367–99; and “Some Reflections on Angelomorphic Humanity Texts among the Dead Sea Scrolls,” DSD 7 (2000): 292–312 (that issue of Dead Sea Discoveries is devoted to the theme of angels and demons in the Dead Sea Scrolls and other early Jewish literature). 65 Trans. Geza Vermes, The Complete Dead Sea Scrolls in English, 389. 66 Functional similarity should not slip into ontological sameness.

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pollution of the sanctuary could be addressed through laments such as in Apocryphal Lamentations A (4Q179).67 4. Conclusion Sinai and the giving of the Law there are intriguingly handled in the memory, self-understanding and practices of the community responsible for the Qumran library. The community seems to live out its identity in an intermediate state, emerging from exile, but not yet at home in Jerusalem, in the promised land, but not yet out of the wilderness; furthermore, the community’s worship is an expression of being in communion with the angels in heavenly praise, but yet away from the holy of holies. In this in-between state the narrative of Sinai provides models for some aspects of community organisation,68 as in its militaristic but priestly self-consciousness or its self-understanding as community, and becomes a touchstone or starting point for both justifying ongoing revelation and understanding how it should be variously presented. Three matters become apparent. First, the giving of the Law, particularly as rehearsed in the book of Deuteronomy, points beyond Sinai to the place where the divine name chooses to dwell. Deuteronomy also projects a point of view that permits the re-presentation, the rewriting of Sinaitic revelation. As the sectarian and non-sectarian compositions in the Qumran library now show, this point of view was widely taken up, not least in priestly circles. Second, with the place of revelation somewhat in the background, the figure of Moses and the revelation given to him is put in the foreground. Moses and the Law are authoritative reference points and yet are inadequate in themselves; for those who put together the Qumran library the Law requires correct priestly interpretation and as a result much of that is directed against “profanation of the Temple” (CD IV, 18) and has an orientation towards Jerusalem, as in the Temple Scroll and MMT. Third, the worship experience 67 See Najman, “Towards a Study of the Uses of the Concept of Wilderness in Ancient Judaism,” 101–3. Philip S. Alexander has even suggested that some members of the Qumran community could have perceived of themselves as a group of “Mourners for Zion.” 68 As VanderKam, “Sinai Revisited,” has argued for the recollection of Sinai at the annual ceremony of covenant renewal, in the use of the term yahad (possibly based on Exod 19:8), in the practice of the sharing of goods (based on Deut 6:5), and in the male only perspective (Exod 19:3, 15). Intriguingly VanderKam makes nothing of the “priestly kingdom” of Exod 19:6.

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of the priestly community becomes a substitute for a return to Sinai; it is in worship that there can be renewed commitment to the covenant and a sense of the presence of divine glory. With suitable lament and confession, the Law can be observed in such a way as to qualify the participants in such worship for staffing the eschatological temple. The priestly communities behind the compositions in the Qumran library are on the move. They have their backs to Sinai and are looking forward to Jerusalem. And he said to the angel of the presence, “Write for Moses from the first creation until my sanctuary is built in their midst forever and ever. And the Lord will appear in the sight of all. And everyone will know that I am the God of Israel and the father of all the children of Jacob and king upon Mount Zion forever and ever. And Zion and Jerusalem will be holy” ( Jub. 1:27–28).

MOSES, DAVID AND SCRIBAL REVELATION: PRESERVATION AND RENEWAL IN SECOND TEMPLE JEWISH TEXTUAL TRADITIONS* Eva Mroczek University of Toronto, Canada And he gave all his books and his fathers’ books to Levi, his son, so that he might preserve and renew them for his sons until this day. Jubilees 45:151 The continuous process of remaining open and accepting of what may reveal itself through hand and heart on a crafted page is the closest I have ever come to God. Donald Jackson, Artistic Director, St. John’s Bible Project, Monmouth, Wales2

In second temple Judaism, particularly in the texts found at Qumran, the revelatory event at Sinai is recalled again and again through new texts that expand and rework materials connected with Moses and the Law.3 But to speak of a “Mosaic” textual tradition raises a host of

* I would like to thank the organizers of the “Giving the Torah at Sinai” conference, Professors George Brooke, Hindy Najman, and Loren Stuckenbruck, for inviting my paper to the volume. This revised version has benefited immeasurably from the suggestions of Profs George Brooke and James Kugel. I also thank the members of the Mullins Seminar, led by Prof. Jennifer Harris, St. Michael’s College, for their comments and support. Above all I thank my teacher, Prof. Hindy Najman, who has challenged and guided me with extraordinary generosity since the inception of this project. 1 Translations from the Book of Jubilees are by O. Wintermute, in Old Testament Pseudepigrapha (2 vols; ed. J. H. Charlesworth; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1985). 2 The St. John’s Bible Project seeks to revive the premodern process of creating a biblical manuscript. The quote from Donald Jackson is from www.stjohnsbible.org. See C. Calderhead, Illuminating the Word: the Making of the Saint John’s Bible (Collegeville, MN: Saint John’s Bible, 2005). 3 Such texts include multiform editions of the Pentateuch and 4QReworked Pentateuch, but also Jubilees and the Temple Scroll, which link themselves back to Sinai. The “Pseudo-Moses” texts could also be counted here. See the discussion by J. Strugnell in “Moses-Pseudepigrapha at Qumran: 4Q375, 4Q376, and Similar Works,” in Archeology and History in the Dead Sea Scrolls: The New York University Conference in Memory of Yigael Yadin ( JSOPSS 8, JSOT/ASOR Monographs 2; ed. J. H. Charlesworth; Sheffield: JSOT,

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questions about scriptural status and scribal self-understanding. If a text was attributed to a great mediatory figure and an ancient revelatory event, how could second temple scribes allow themselves to rearrange, rework or rewrite this text?4 How did these scribes understand the link between the ancient figure and the texts in front of them—and how did they conceive of their own role in the transmission and development of their textual heritage? Are we not forced to make distinctions between what would have been understood as a “scriptural” Mosaic text, and “secondary” rewritings and reworkings by later scribes—distinctions that the texts themselves do not make?5

1990), 221–56, and S. White Crawford, “The ‘Rewritten’ Bible at Qumran: A Look at Three Texts,” ErIsr 26 (1999): 1–8. 4 The practice and function of pseudonymous attribution has been the subject of valuable recent studies. See e.g. M. J. Bernstein, “Pseudepigraphy in the Qumran Scrolls: Categories and Functions,” in Pseudepigraphic Perspectives: The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls (eds E. G. Chazon and M. E. Stone; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 1–26, J. J. Collins, “Pseudepigraphy and Group Formation in Second Temple Judaism,” Pseudepigraphic Perspectives, 43–58; D. Dimant, “Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha at Qumran,” DSD 1 (1994): 151–59; J. A. Sanders, “Introduction: Why the Pseudepigrapha?” in Pseudepigrapha and Early Biblical Interpretation (eds J. H. Charlesworth and C. A. Evans; JSOPSS 14, SSEJC 2; Sheffield: JSOT, 1993), 13–19; M. E. Stone, “The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Pseudepigrapha,” DSD 3 (1996): 270–95. H. Najman has written extensively on the practice of pseudepigraphy; see e.g. Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple Judaism (Leiden: Brill, 2003); “Torah of Moses: Pseudonymous Attribution in Second Temple Writings,” in The Interpretation of Scripture in Early Judaism and Christianity: Studies in Language and Tradition (ed. C. A. Evans; JSPSup 33; SSEJC 7; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 202–16; and most recently, “How Should We Contextualize Pseudepigrapha? Imitation and Emulation in 4Ezra,” Flores Florentino: Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Early Jewish Studies in Honour of Florentino García Martínez (eds A. Hilhorst, E. Puech, and E. J. C. Tigchelaar; JSJSup 122; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 529–36. 5 This is the complex question of how to categorize those texts that are usually called “rewritten Bible” in the second temple period. A clear-cut distinction between “biblical” and “non-biblical” in this era has been challenged by many scholars who have sought to find other terminology and ways of classifying both “rewritten Bible” and pseudepigrapha. See J. Barton’s early argument against using canonical terminology in Oracles of God: Perceptions of Ancient Prophecy in Israel after the Exile (London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1986), esp. 80. For a recent statement on the issue see R. A. Kraft, “Para-mania: Before, Beside and Beyond Biblical Studies,” JBL 126 (2007): 5–27. See also J. C. VanderKam, “Authoritative Literature in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” DSD 5/3 (1998): 382–402; and VanderKam, “Questions of Canon Viewed Through the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in The Canon Debate (eds L. M. McDonald and J. A. Sanders; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2002), 91–109. On the concept of “rewritten Bible” see M. J. Bernstein, “ ‘Rewritten Bible’: A Generic Category Which Has Outlived its Usefulness?” Textus 22 (2005): 169–96; G. J. Brooke, “Rewritten Bible,” Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls (Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 777–80; G. W. E. Nickelsburg, “The Bible Rewritten and Expanded,” Jewish Writings of the Second Temple Period (ed. M. E. Stone; CRINT 2/2; Assen/Philadelphia: Van Gorcum/Fortress, 1984), 89–156;

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In this paper I address the question of the relationship between the mediatory figure, the second temple scribe, and the developing text. I propose that the expansion of Mosaic legal traditions can be illuminated by first considering another tradition—psalm collections linked to David, which also underwent growth, change and development.6 They pose similar questions, although on a smaller scale, about how a text might be linked to an ancient figure but remain fluid and tolerant of growth. The “Davidic” and the “Mosaic”—liturgy and law—are linked traditions that undergo analogous development in the second temple period, as both legal and liturgical practices evolve.7 David and Moses themselves also have analogous functions: they are not only responsible for revealed texts, but also serve as ethical models whose pious example continued to inspire future communities. While I consider their role in the broad context of ancient Judaism, I pay special attention to what the figures of Moses and David, the lawgiver and the psalmist, might have meant at Qumran, in a community that strived for perfect adherence to the Torah and for perfect prayer and liturgy, and who preserved most of the expanded “Davidic” and “Mosaic” texts known to us. The production of these texts, I argue, can be understood by thinking of David and Moses as analogous ideal figures who inspire continuous text production through the example of their own scribal activity. Rather than speaking of authorial attribution, the usual way of understanding the link between these figures and their texts, I would like to reconsider the complete identity and function of these mediatory figures by thinking of them as ideal, divinely inspired scribes of liturgy and law. For the second temple period, they are not “authors,” but scribal channels

see also a recent critique of the term by H. Najman, “Reconsidering Jubilees: Prophecy and Exemplarity,” presented at the Fourth International Enoch Conference, “Enoch and the Mosaic Torah: The Evidence of Jubilees,” 8–13 July, 2007 (forthcoming). 6 See scholarship on the fluid nature of the Psalter and the controversy about the scriptural status of the Great Psalms Scroll from Qumran, summarized with extensive bibliography in P. W. Flint, “Chapter 9: True Psalter or Secondary Collection?,” The Dead Sea Psalms Scrolls and the Book of Psalms (STDJ 17; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 202–27, and n. 36 below. 7 For the link between David and Moses, see work on the Book of Chronicles, which explicitly links the two as authoritative figures: S. Japhet, The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles and its Place in Biblical Thought (trans. A. Barber; Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1989), 236-8; S. J. DeVries, “Moses and David as Cult Founders in Chronicles,” JBL 107/4 (1988): 619–39. For the interplay between Sinai traditions and liturgy, see the contributions of George Brooke and Judith Newman to this volume.

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of tradition who collect, arrange and transmit revelation in a perfect and divinely inspired way. Their scribal work is part of their identity as exemplars of piety. Through their intertwined textual and ethical legacy, David and Moses serve as scribal types: models for emulation by actual scribes, who continue the chain of transmission through their own inspired work of collecting, arranging and re-presenting texts for new communities.8 Thus, I offer the concept of the ideal, inspired scribe as a way of thinking about both the ancient mediatory figure, and the actual second temple scribe. On this model, the ancient figure and the working scribe9 occupy successive links on the same chain of revelatory transmission. Reconsidering the revelatory power of scribalism—present both at Sinai and at Qumran—can provide one framework for thinking about continuous, developing textual traditions that have room both for the preservation of and for the dynamic renewal of revealed material. They do not allow themselves to fall into the separate categories of “scriptural” and “secondary,” but stand in a continuous chain of scribal transmission that stretches back to the paradigmatic moments and recipients of revelation. Perhaps this model relativizes Sinai, but it also elevates the work of ordinary scribes, and explains how new scripture could develop long after the great mediatory figures were gone. The argument will be presented in three parts: 1. The Multivalent Character of the Ideal Scribe and the Power of Scribalism; 2. David and Moses as Ideal Scribes: Ethical Exemplarity and Inspired Textualization; and 3. David and Moses as Scribes; Scribes as David and Moses.

8 I am drawing on the work of H. Najman in Seconding Sinai and more recent articles on the concept of discourse tied to an exemplary founder as a way of understanding pseudepigraphy, as well as earlier studies, such as the work of D. S. Russell, who argued for an identification between a writer and his ancient pseudepigraphic “counterpart” (see The Method and Message of Jewish Apocalyptic [ Philadelphia: Westminster, 1964], 132–39). However, I am making a different point about the way the link between the founder and the text was envisioned—not authorial attribution, but scribal transmission. For another engagement with this concept, see Zuleika Rodgers, “Josephus” ‘Theokratia’ and Mosaic Discourse,” 129–47 in this volume. 9 Certainly, not all scribes would fit this description; I am thinking particularly of those scribes who were responsible for transmitting and reworking scriptural texts. For the diverse kinds of scribes active in the second temple period, including those who were experts in sacred text, see C. Schams, Jewish Scribes in the Second Temple Period ( JSOTSup 291; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998).

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1. The Multivalent Character of the Ideal Scribe and the Power of Scribalism First, I would like to explain how I understand the idea of the scribe and scribal activity in the second temple period.10 The ideal scribe is a multi-faceted figure. First, he is involved with textualizing activity, but neither as an “author” nor as a “mere copyist”: the scribe is a textualizer, collector, arranger and transmitter of revealed traditions, but in this he is an exalted, divinely inspired figure who updates and re-presents written revelation for his time. Second, the identity of the scribe extends beyond his text-related activities: he is a model of piety whose writing is one aspect of his exemplary life. Two sets of textual evidence will illuminate the way second temple Jews understood the scribe: 1) the Wisdom tradition, represented here by Ben Sira and Qohelet, and 2) the Book of Jubilees. The Scribe in the Wisdom Tradition In Ben Sira, the scribe is elevated over all other professions (Sir 39:1–8):11 1 [The scribe] seeks out (‫ )ידרש‬the wisdom of all the ancients, and is concerned with prophecies; 2 he preserves (‫ )ישמר‬the sayings of the famous, and enters into the subtleties of parables. ...

10 I am primarily concerned with the way scribalism was imagined and idealized. For a study of real scribes and the diverse scribal profession in ancient Jewish society, see Schams, Jewish Scribes. See also A. Demsky, “Scribes and Books in the Late Second Commonwealth and Rabbinic Period,” Mikra: Text, Translation, Reading and Interpretation of the Hebrew Bible in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity (ed. M. J. Mulder; CRINT 2.1; Assen: Van Gorcum and Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1990), 2–20; M. D. Goodman, “Texts, Scribes and Power in Roman Judaea,” Literacy and Power in the Ancient World (eds A. K. Bowman and G. Woolf; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 99–108; A. Saldarini, Pharisees, Scribes and Sadducees in Palestinian Society: A Sociological Approach (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1989), esp. 241–76. For the role of scribes in transmitting and transforming textual traditions, see M. Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985), esp. 23–78, and “From Scribalism to Rabbinism: Perspectives on the Emergence of Classical Judaism,” The Garments of Torah: Essays in Biblical Hermeneutics (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1989), 64–78. See also D. M. Carr, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), and K. van der Toorn, Scribal Culture and the Making of the Hebrew Bible (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2007). On scribal practices, see esp. E. Tov, Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the Texts Found in the Judean Desert (STDJ 54; Leiden: Brill, 2004). 11 Translations are my own, based on the Hebrew text of Ben Sira in M. Segal, Sefer Ben-Sira ha-shalem ( Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1997).

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eva mroczek 5 He sets his heart on rising early to petition the Most High. He opens his mouth in prayer and asks forgiveness for his sins. 6 If God Most High is willing, he will be filled with the spirit of understanding; he will pour forth words of wisdom and give thanks to the Lord in prayer. 7 He [God] will direct his counsel and knowledge, as he meditates on his mysteries. 8 He will pour forth wise teaching, and will glory in the Law of the Lord.

Ben Sira’s text of praise shows the scribe as a channel for preserving and transmitting sacred traditions and as a model of a repentant, prayerful, and pious life. These characteristics are inextricably linked in the divinely inspired person of the ideal scribe, whom God “directs” (‫ )יכין‬and fills with the “spirit of understanding” (‫)רוח בינה‬. Let us examine the first aspect of the scribal identity: the scribe as transmitter of traditions. He seeks (‫)ידרש‬, preserves (‫)ישמר‬, and pours forth (‫ )יביע‬the wisdom of the ancients, all with the help of divine inspiration.12 But what exactly does it mean to “preserve the sayings of the famous” and “pour forth words of wisdom”? As James Kugel shows in his article, “Wisdom and the Anthological Temper,” the activity of the sage was collecting units of wisdom—which were already “out there,” not created by the sage himself—and handing them down to posterity.13 Wisdom is not the abstract capacity for understanding, but a body of knowledge about a divine system. It needs to be gathered bit by bit, arranged in a usable way, and passed down as collections of meshalim. The anthological enterprise of wisdom is concerned with the quantity of things known; hence the import of the staggering number of sayings that Solomon knew (1 Kgs 5:12). The scribe/sage is an anthologist, indeed, like Ben Sira himself, who has collected and transmitted the wisdom of his age. The book of Qohelet provides another witness to how the craft of the scribe/sage was understood. In the epilogue, we read (Qoh 12:9–12): 12 Schams has challenged the tendency automatically to equate the scribe with the sage, which were overlapping, but not identical occupations in Jewish society (see Jewish Scribes, 101); here, however, I am treating them as part of one imagined, idealized type. 13 J. L. Kugel, “Wisdom and the Anthological Temper,” Prooftexts 17 (1997): 9–32, esp. 9, 18, 30; reprinted in The Anthology in Jewish Literature (ed. D. Stern; New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), 32–52. See also the introduction to this volume by D. Stern, who emphasizes the creative and influential role of the scribe, editor, and anthologist in preserving, transmitting and creating tradition.

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9 Besides being wise, Qohelet also taught the people knowledge, and weighed and studied and arranged many proverbs (‫ואזן וחקר תקן משלים‬ ‫)הרבה‬. 10 Qohelet sought to find pleasing words, and he wrote words of truth plainly. 11 The words of the wise are like goads, and like nails firmly fixed are those that are composed in collections (‫ ;)בעלי אספות‬they are given by one shepherd. 12 Beyond these, my son, beware. Of making many books there is no end (‫)עשות ספרים הרבה אין קץ‬.14

The ‫( חכם‬sage) is occupied with arranging (‫ )תקן‬texts, writing down and collecting many things together in books,15 and transmitting their content through teaching. Again, the wise scribe is a prolific anthologist (one of the ‫)?בעלי אספות‬: an organizer and transmitter of traditions for those who will come after him.16 In the “anthological” wisdom tradition, then, the scribe is neither an author nor a copyist: rather, he is an inspired, learned collector and teacher who both preserves and renews what has been revealed. This concern with the prolific collection and presentation of traditions is inextricable from his identity as an ideal figure, who exemplifies repentance and piety and strives to leave a legacy beyond his own life. Scribal Activity in Jubilees Jubilees retrojects this ideal onto the patriarchs: ancient heroes are entrusted with concrete scribal tasks, and scribal activity is made present at the distant times and places of divine revelation.17 The heroes of

All biblical translations are freely adapted from the nrsv. This is Kugel’s understanding of ‫ עשות ספרים‬as an anthological, not authorial, enterprise. See “Wisdom and the Anthological Temper,” 31 n. 4; Kugel translates Qoh 12:12: “There is no end to the collecting of books, and much study wearies a person.” 16 See B. G. Wright, “From Generation to Generation: The Sage as Father in Early Jewish Literature,” in Biblical Traditions in Transmission: Essays in Honour of Michael A. Knibb (eds C. Hempel and J. M. Lieu; JSJSup 111; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 309–32. 17 For a discussion of the power of writing in Jubilees, see H. Najman, “Interpretation as Primordial Writing: Jubilees and Its Authority Conferring Strategies,” JSJ 30 (1999): 379–410, and, on the revelatory power of writing in general, see Najman, “The Symbolic Significance of Writing in Ancient Judaism,” in The Idea of Biblical Interpretation: Essays in Honor of James L. Kugel (eds H. Najman and J. H. Newman; JSJSup 83; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 139–73. M. H. Floyd argues for the longstanding connection between scribalism and revelatory/prophetic experience in “ ‘Write the Revelation!’ (Hab. 2:2),” in Writing and Speech in Israelite and Ancient Near Eastern Prophecy (eds E. Ben Zvi and M. H. Floyd; Atlanta: SBL, 2000), 103–43. See also E. F. Davis, Swallowing the Scroll: Textuality and the Dynamics of Discourse in Ezekiel’s Prophecy (BLS 21; JSOTSup 78; Sheffield: Almond, 1989); Fishbane, “From Scribalism to Rabbinism,” esp. 66–67; and J. L. Kugel, “Early Interpretation: The Common Background of Late Forms 14 15

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Jubilees are examplars of piety and recipients of revelation, which they must write again and faithfully transmit, from patriarch to patriarch, and down to future generations.18 This begins with the first scribe, Enoch ( Jub. 4:17–19): [Enoch] was the first who learned writing and knowledge and wisdom, from (among) the sons of men, from (among) those who were born upon earth. And who wrote in a book the signs of the heaven according to the order of their months, so that the sons of man might know the (appointed) times of the years according to their order, with respect to each of their months. This one was the first (who) wrote a testimony and testified to the children of men throughout the generations of the earth. And their weeks according to jubilees he recounted; and the days of the years he made known. And the months he set in order, and the Sabbaths of the years he recounted, just as we made it known to him.

As in Ben Sira, scribal activity is connected with knowledge and wisdom. Enoch was a great recipient of divine revelation, and here, as well as in 1 Enoch,19 he is entrusted with textualizing this revelation in a book. Enoch transcribes the heavenly tablets, writes down what the angels tell him, and “recounts” and “sets in order” calendrical matters; like the sage of the Wisdom tradition, his scribal tasks include writing down, arranging, and handing on revelation. Other figures act as scribes in different ways. Abraham “transcribed” his father’s Hebrew books ( Jub. 12:27); even “mere transcription” is performed by great exemplary figures, and is crucially important for posterity, as it revives revelation written in the holy tongue. For another patriarch, Jacob, the scribal commission is connected to a moment of divine revelation at Bethel, which includes an encounter with the

of Biblical Exegesis,” in Early Biblical Interpretation (LEC 3; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1986), 11–106. 18 My juxtaposition of Ben Sira and Jubilees on transmitting written tradition by ideal figures down the generations draws on the observations of B. G. Wright in “Jubilees, Sirach and Sapiential Tradition,” presented at the Fourth International Enoch Conference, “Enoch and the Mosaic Torah: The Evidence of Jubilees,” 8–13 July, 2007 (forthcoming). 19 Enoch is a wise scribe and copyist in the Book of Watchers (see 1 Enoch 12:3–4, 13:3–7, 15:1), Book of Giants (see 4QEnGiantsa 8:1–4, ii.14–15), and the Epistle of Enoch (see 1 Enoch 92:1); these traditions cannot be addressed in detail here. See Schams, Jewish Scribes, 90–98. P. Mandel, however, has proposed an alternative view of the Aramaic designation “scribe” in some passages in the Enochic corpus as a title unconnected with books or writing, in “When a Scribe Is Not a Scribe: A Second Look at the Enochic Scribal Traditions,” presented at the Tenth Annual International Orion Symposium, “New Perspectives on Old Texts,” Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 10 January, 2005. I thank Prof. James Kugel for this reference.

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heavenly tablets where Israel’s future is inscribed. After his vision ( Jub. 32), he is told to write down everything as he has “seen and read it.” When he protests that he will not remember, he is given assurance of divine help during his textualizing work ( Jub. 32:26): [God] said to him, “I will cause you to remember everything.” And he went up from him and he woke up from his sleep and he recalled everything that he had read and seen and he wrote down all of the matters which he had read and seen.

Here again, revelation happens through an ideal figure’s encounter with a written text, a text that must be written again (with divine aid) and passed down. The textual transmission of revelation continues with Jacob’s progeny ( Jub. 45:16): And [ Jacob] gave all of his books and his father’s books to Levi, his son, so that he might preserve them and renew them for his sons until this day.

The commission of Levi shows that the “preservation and renewal” of written revelation must continuously happen anew. It is not enough that there are “original” heavenly tablets, or that Enoch has already written his book, or that there are books written down by Abraham and Jacob; no, the scribal work of “preserving and renewing” is a chain of revelatory acts repeated in every generation by divinely favoured exemplars of piety who “pour out teaching like prophecy, and leave it for all future generations” (Sir. 24:33). Indeed, in Jubilees, ‫עשות ספרים הרבה אין קץ‬, “to making many books there is no end” (Qoh. 12:12). The Power of Scribalism In Jubilees as in Ben Sira, then, scribal activity is powerful and multivalent. The enthronement of the scribe as an ideal, divinely inspired figure, and the elevation of scribal activity to Sinai, shows that a textcentred tradition does not imply that revelation has ceased.20 Rather, transcribing, collecting, and presenting revelation is itself revelatory, and is not done by just anyone—but by ideal scribes or holy patriarchs who lead righteous lives, receive divine guidance or angelic discourse, and leave a legacy for the future.

20

See n. 17.

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In all these texts, the scribe’s textual activities are embedded in his broader ethical identity: his importance flows out beyond the texts he copies or composes. Although Enoch, for instance, performs scribal tasks, this is part and parcel of his identity as a righteous divine mediator; and although Ben Sira’s scribe collects and re-presents revealed wisdom, this activity is inextricable from his life of prayer and repentance. Thus, the legacy of the ideal scribe is not only a written text, but also an exemplary life. Below, I will try to show how this multifaceted scribal exemplarity functions in the continuing expansion of traditions linked with David and Moses. 2. David and Moses as Ideal Scribes: Ethical Exemplarity and Inspired Textualization I would like to see the figures of David and Moses in light of the concept of this ideal scribe, whose pious example and textual legacy leave a model for future scribes to follow. First, I would like to outline briefly how the exemplary lives of these figures continued to inspire second temple communities, particularly the Qumran ya ad. Both Moses and David are called “man of God,” ‫ איש אלהים‬.21 David is a “man of the pious ones (‫”)איש חסידים‬22 whose “deeds (‫ )מעשי דויד‬were praised”;23 and Moses is an exalted figure,24 “equal in glory to the holy ones” (Sir 45:2). Like Ben Sira’s pious scribe, both are connected to repentance and 21

See e.g. Deut 33:1, where this prophetic title is applied to Moses. David is an

‫ איש האלהים‬in 2 Chr 8:14.

22 4QMMT e frag. 14 II, 1; see E. Qimron and J. Strugnell, Qumran Cave 4.V: Miq at Ma aśe ha–Torah (DJD X; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994) 23 CD-A V, 5; see J.M. Baumgarten, Qumran Cave 4.XIII: The Damascus Document [4Q266–273] (DJD XVIII; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996). On David as exemplar at Qumran, see e.g. C. A. Evans, “David in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in The Scrolls and the Scriptures: Qumran Fifty Years After (eds S. E. Porter and C. A. Evans; JSPS 26; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 183–97, and C. Coulot, “David à Qumrân,” in Figures de David à Travers la Bible (eds L. Desrousseaux and J. Vermelyen; Paris: Cerf, 1999), 315–43. 24 See G. J. Brooke’s contribution to this volume. See also J. E. Bowley, “Moses in the Dead Sea Scrolls: Living in the Shadow of God’s Anointed,” in The Bible at Qumran: Text, Shape, and Interpretation (ed. P. W. Flint: Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2001), 159–81. C. H. T. Fletcher-Louis has argued for the divinization of Moses at Qumran in All the Glory of Adam: Liturgical Anthropology in the Dead Sea Scrolls (STDJ 42; Leiden: Brill, 2002) 137; the suggestion of a divine Moses is not thoroughly convincing, although he is endowed with angelic characteristics. (Cf. Sir 45:2. See also Ap. Zeph. 9:4–5, where David appears with Moses, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob as a “friend” of the angels; OTP, 514.)

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atonement. David becomes an unlikely ethical model, a paradigmatic forgiven sinner whose prayer was heard, and is invoked as such in the Damascus Document and 4QMMT.25 While David atones for his own failings, Moses takes on the sins of his own people (Exod 30:30–32);26 his atoning work is invoked in a penitential prayer from the Qumran collection The Words of the Luminaries.27 For a community whose penitential life seems to have been so rich, both of these figures must have served as inspiring models for how to pray, atone for sin, and achieve angel-like perfection. David and Moses are also remembered for the legacy they left for the future, at the cost of their own fulfillment. David is denied the Temple, while Moses is denied the land, although they are the ones who do the preparatory work in anticipation of these promises. David prepares the money, materials and personnel for the Temple “in [his] poverty” (‫)בעניי‬, by “denying [him]self ”28 (1 Chr 22:14), and establishes the liturgy for a Temple service he will never see (Sir 47:9–10).29 Moses

CD-A V, 5–6: “And David’s deeds (‫ )מעשי דויד‬were praised, except for Uriah’s blood, 6 and God forgave him those.” 4QMMT e frag. 14 II, 1–2: “1 [forgiv]en (their) sins. Remember David, who was a man of the pious ones (‫)איש חסדים‬, [and] he, too, 2 [was] freed from the many afflictions and was forgiven.” Scrolls translations adapted from F. García Martínez and E. J. C. Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition (2 vols; Leiden: Brill and Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2000). 26 But cf. David’s utterance in 2 Sam 24: 17//1 Chr 21:17. The rabbinic tradition in the Mekhilta de R. Ishmael to Exod 12:1 cites this text, presenting David and Moses as figures who atoned for the people by offering to sacrifice themselves. 27 4Q504 1–2 II 7–11: O Lord, act, then, according to yourself, according to your great power, you, who forgave 8 our fathers when they made your mouth bitter. You became angry with them in order to destroy them; but you took pity 9 on them in your love for them, and on account of your covenant, for Moses atoned 10 for their sin (‫כיא‬ ‫)כפר מושה בעד חטאתם‬, and so that they would know your great power and your abundant kindness 11 for everlasting generations. See M. Baillet, Qumrân Grotte 4.III [4Q482–4Q520] (DJD VII; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982), 139 28 The JPS rendering of this expression. David does everything short of actually constructing the building; see Japhet, The Ideology of the Book of Chronicles, 229–30. The tradition of David’s preparing the Temple is also reflected in 4QProphecy of Joshua (4Q522), frag. 2 col. II. 29 9 He established (‫ )תיקן‬music before the altar, and the melody of instruments, 10 He added beauty to the feasts, and set the festivals in order for each year (‫)ויתקן מועדים שנה בשנה‬, 25

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leads his people through the wilderness and gives them the laws by which their new polity will be governed, but is allowed only a glimpse of the promised land before he dies (Deut 34:4). And yet, through this denial, their intimacy with the divine and their status as God’s chosen is not compromised. On the contrary, David’s prohibition from building the temple comes as a direct prophetic oracle,30 and he receives a divinely revealed, written blueprint (‫ )תבנית‬for the Temple architecture and liturgy (1 Chr 28:11–19). Moses is the recipient of revelation par excellence:31 God speaks with him “face to face” (Deut 34:10) and gives him the written Law. When he must stay behind, God performs the intimate act of burying him in the wilderness (Deut 34:6). The experiences of David and Moses are poignant examples for the exiled, Temple-less community of Qumran, who nevertheless claimed divine chosenness and strove to live out Mosaic law and Davidic liturgy as perfectly as possible. But to characterize them as ideal scribes and not merely ideal figures in general, I will now turn to the relationship between Moses and David and their textual legacies, and discuss what it means to speak of “Mosaic law” and “Davidic liturgy” in the second temple period. I propose that Moses and David are inspired scribes who receive, collect, arrange, and transmit law and liturgy. These scribal activities form part of their broader, exemplary ethical identity, just as the work of transmitting traditions is inextricable from the pious life of Ben Sira’s sage. In speaking about a scribal, textualizing relationship between the figure and the text, I am challenging the understanding of David and Moses as authors of the Psalms and the Torah for the second temple period.32 What is at stake in calling them scribes, and not authors? The concept of authorship is an obstacle to understanding the proliferation of new “Mosaic” and “Davidic” texts: if we imagine that Moses and David were believed to be the original authors of a text, then we are forced to draw an artificial distinction between “scriptural” Mosaic or So that when his holy name was praised, justice would ring out before daybreak (Sir 47). 30 The formulation placed in the mouth of David is a prophetic one, ‫ויהי עלי דבר־יהוה לאמר‬ (1 Chr 22:8). 31 For this, see e.g. Ben Sira’s paean to Moses in 45:2–5. 32 For the concern with textualization, rather than authorship, in ancient Judaism, see J. Wyrick, The Ascension of Authorship: Attribution and Canon Formation in Jewish, Hellenistic, and Christian Traditions (Harvard Studies in Comparative Literature 49; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004), Chapter 1: “The Scribes of the Hebrew Bible.”

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Davidic texts, and “secondary” scribal reworkings. Understanding David and Moses as scribal channels of tradition helps us envision a fluid, open, expanding scribal tradition through which revelation continues to be transmitted and renewed by actual scribes, who emulate the ideal scribal lives and activities of David and Moses. Thus, second temple scribes not only copied what David and Moses wrote: they copied what Moses and David did, which included transmitting perfect, inspired expressions of liturgy and law. Below, I discuss the way in which David and Moses are ideal scribal figures, who receive, write down, collect, arrange, and transmit revelation, in the second temple Jewish imagination. David the Scribe The first step in characterizing David as a “scribe” is to show that our common concept of an authorial link between David and the Psalms does not resonate with second temple thinking. This claim may be surprising, for the argument that David was believed to be the “author” of the Psalter at the time of Qumran has been made again and again.33 The claim is most often made on the basis of a prose text found near the end of the Great Psalms Scroll, 11QPsalmsa. This collection contains about 50 compositions, including ten non-biblical pieces, arranged differently from the proto-Masoretic text and the other psalms scrolls found at Qumran. The prose text in col. 27 of the scroll reads as follows: 2 And David, son of Jesse, was wise, and luminous like the light of the sun, /and/ a scribe (‫)וסופר‬, 3 and discerning (‫)ונבון‬, and perfect (‫ )ותמים‬in all his paths before God and men. And 4 YHWH gave him a discerning and enlightened (‫ )נבונה‬spirit. And he wrote psalms (‫)ויכתוב תהלים‬: 5 three thousand six hundred; and songs to be sung before the altar over the perpetual 6 offering of every day, for all the days of the year: three hundred

33 See e.g. J. A. Sanders, The Psalms Scroll of Qumran Cave 11 [11QPsa] (DJD IV; Oxford: Clarendon, 1965), 63–64, 92; P. W. Flint, Dead Sea Psalms Scrolls, 194, 224; A. Cooper, “The Life and Times of King David According to the Book of Psalms,” in The Poet and the Historian: Essays in Literary and Historical Biblical Criticism (ed. R. E. Friedman; HSS 26; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1983), 117–31; J. L. Kugel, “David the Prophet,” in Poetry and Prophecy: the Beginnings of a Literary Tradition (ed. J. L. Kugel; New York: Cornell University Press, 1991), 45–55, esp. 46, 55; B. Z. Wacholder, “David’s Eschatological Psalter: 11QPsalmsa,” HUCA 59 (1988): 23–72.

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eva mroczek 7 and sixty-four; and for the Sabbath offerings: fifty-two songs; and for the offerings of the first days of 8 the months, and for all the days of the festivals, and for the of Atonement: thirty songs. 9 And all the songs which he spoke were four hundred and forty-six. And songs 10 to perform over the possessed:34 four. The total was four thousand and fifty. 11 All these he spoke through prophecy (‫ )דבר בנבואה‬which had been given to him by the Most High.

This text has been read as the earliest assertion of the belief in Davidic authorship of the Book of Psalms. J. A. Sanders, the original editor, says that the final columns “clearly stake a claim for the Davidic authorship of the Psalter as represented by the scroll, the earliest literary evidence of belief in the Davidic authorship of the Psalter.”35 Sanders’ view that the scroll is a scriptural Psalter has been challenged;36 but his claim that this text is about authorial attribution has been widely accepted.

34 Or, the “intercalary days”; on this understanding of ‫ על הפגועים‬see M. Chyutin, “The Redaction of the Qumranic and the Traditional Book of Psalms as a Calendar,” RevQ 63 (1994): 367–95, 370; see also R. Elior, The Three Temples: On the Emergence of Jewish Mysticism (trans. D. Louvish; Oxford: Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 2005), 50–51. 35 Sanders, DJD IV, 92. See also Psalms Scroll, 11: “The Psalms Scroll was believed, by its scribe and by those who appreciated it, to have been Davidic in original authorship.” See also Elior, The Three Temples, 50, and scholarship cited in n. 33. 36 See the excellent summary of the debate between Sanders his critics in Flint, Dead Sea Psalms Scrolls, 204–17; see also G. Wilson, “The Qumran Psalms Scroll Reconsidered: Analysis of the Debate,” CBQ 47 (1985): 624–42. 11QPsalmsa has been called everything from a “true scriptural psalter” (Flint, Psalms Scrolls, 227; and see the earlier work of Sanders, “Cave 11 Surprises and the Question of Canon,” McCQ 21 [1968]: 1–15; “The Qumran Psalms Scroll [11QPsa] Reviewed,” in On Language, Culture and Religion: In Honor of Eugene A. Nida [eds M. Black and W. A. Smalley; The Hague and Paris: Mouton, 1974], 79–99); a “library copy” (P. Skehan, “Qumran and Old Testament Criticism,” in Qumrân. Sa piété, sa théologie et son milieu [ed. M. Delcor; BETL 46; Paris: Duculot; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1978], 163–82, here 168–69); an “incipient prayer book” (S. Talmon, “Pisqah Bexemsa{ Pasuq and 11QPsa,” Textus 5 [1966] 11–21, here 13; see also M. H. Goshen–Gottstein, “The Psalms Scroll [11QPsa]. A Problem of Canon and Text,” Textus 5 [1966]: 22–33); and an “instruction book for budding levitical choristers” (P. Skehan, “The Divine Name at Qumran, in the Masada Scroll, and in the Septuagint,” BIOSCS 13 [1980]: 14–44, here 42). This dizzying variety of definitions shows that although multiformity is a normal feature of second temple writings, it nevertheless puzzles scholars who feel pressed to define and categorize the texts as “scriptural” or “secondary.” On an analogous problem in the scholarship on a “Mosaic” text, 4QRP, see n. 58.

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The composition has been called a “prose insert,”37 a catalogue or “colophon”38 that stands apart from the liturgical collection and intends to assert that David is the author of the psalms in this very scroll.39 But does the text actually make a claim for Davidic authorship? I would like to propose a different reading: this composition is not a colophon asserting Davidic authorship of the Psalter, this scroll, or any texts in particular; rather, it is a text of praise for David’s exemplary scribal activity and identity. The claim for authorship is fraught with difficulties. First, how can David be considered the “author of the Psalter” when the book of Psalms is still in a state of flux and allows varying arrangements and new expansions—indeed, when “the Psalter” does not yet exist? The continuously changing and expanding text, and the existence of multiform versions side by side, makes the idea of a belief in an ancient “author” for the Book of Psalms problematic.40 Second, what is the referent of the statement that David wrote “4,050 songs”? Clearly, this refers neither to this scroll, 11QPsa, or, for that matter, any other scroll that could ever have existed. What, then, is its significance? What exactly did David “author”? To further complicate the assumption that this text is about attribution, no earlier traditions present David as an author. In Samuel, Chronicles and Ben Sira, David sings; plays music; prays; receives revelation; and sets up the musical liturgy for the future Temple. It does not follow from any of this that he authored psalms, or was responsible for composing any particular text at all.41 The association with David 37 Sanders, The Dead Sea Psalms Scroll (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1997), 133–35. 38 E.g. E. Ulrich, “The Text of the Hebrew Scriptures at the Time of Hillel and Jesus,” in Congress Volume: Basel 2001 (ed. A. Lemaire; VTSup 92; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 85–108, here 104. 39 See, for example, P. Flint, who writes that “the clear implication is that David, whose 4,050 compositions even surpassed Solomon’s 4,005, was responsible for all those in this collection (11QPsa),” Dead Sea Psalms Scrolls, 208. 40 Indeed, Flint is hard pressed to explain how the idea of a belief in Davidic authorship can be reconciled with the inclusion of blatantly non- or post-Davidic pieces in the collection. Flint writes of psalms without a Davidic title, e.g. Ps 119 and Ps 127, which has a Solomonic superscription: “their presence in this Davidic collection indicates that the compilers regarded them as Davidic Psalms, however illogical this may seem”; Dead Sea Psalms Scrolls, 194. 41 See Kugel, “David the Prophet,” 51: [T]here is no reference to David as the composer of the words to be spoken or sung in the Temple . . . It is important to assert that what goes on in the Temple is utterly in keeping with God’s will, even if it had not been spelled out in the

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and a written text is limited to his reception of the divine ‫ תבנית‬for the future Temple, which he received “in writing” from God (‫הכל בכתב‬ ‫ ;מיד יהוה עלי השכיל כל מלאכות התבנית‬1 Chr 28:19). In this Sinailike event, David authors nothing, but he does become a channel for written revelation, and leaves a liturgical legacy that is later consulted in textual form (see 2 Chr 35:4). As we have seen, Ben Sira, too, praises David for his piety, repentance, and liturgical legacy. But while David is credited with arranging the liturgy and introducing music, there is no hint here of the authorship of any text.42 Unlike these earlier traditions, the text in 11QPsa does say that David “wrote psalms.” But the claim is not that he wrote “these Psalms” or “the Psalms,” but only psalms, ‫תהלים‬. This claim is both grammatically and conceptually indefinite. It asserts only that David was engaged in the activity of psalm-writing, not that he authored any particular text. Further, the songs that David wrote were not his original works, but were given to him through prophecy, ‫ ;בנבואה‬the word “to write” does not have the meaning of authorial composition, but rather scribal textualizing work—writing down revelation.43 In fact, David is explicitly called a “scribe,” a ‫סופר‬: while this does not denote authorship, it means much more than mechanical tran-

great corpus of priestly law—hence the insistence on David’s ideal qualities, his status as divinely chosen man, and his role in establishing the Temple music. At the same time, since the actual words spoken or sung in the Temple were not supposed to be utterly standardized . . . there was no stress on David’s authorship of the words spoken or sung there. 42 Some scholars, however, have read authorship in these early texts. See e.g. A. Cooper, who maintains that “we arrive at the positivistic claim that all of the psalms are Davidic (perhaps as early as Ben Sira)” (“Life and Times of King David,” 130), or B. Z. Wacholder, who claims that it is “abundantly clear that the authors of the books of Ezra and Chronicles had before them collections of psalms attributed to David” (“David’s Eschatological Psalter,” 25). I do not see the evidence for such claims in texts that say only that David sang psalms and arranged music. The psalmic superscriptions are also too vague and confusing to tell us much about attribution; see, e.g., the discussion by A. Pietersma “Septuagintal Exegesis and the Superscriptions of the Greek Psalter,” in The Book of Psalms: Composition and Reception (eds P. W. Flint and P. D. Miller; VTSup 99; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 443–75. See also B. S. Childs, “Psalms Titles and Midrashic Exegesis,” JSS 16 (1971), 137–50. 43 Cf. B. Baba Bathra 14b–15a, where David “writes (down)” the Book of Psalms, including in it the works of earlier figures. On this text’s concern with textualization rather than authorship, see Wyrick, The Ascension of Authorship, Chapter 1: “The Scribes of the Hebrew Bible.”

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scription.44 In language that echoes Ben Sira 39,45 David is praised for his ideal scribal identity in all its fullness and power: he is wise; he is perfect in all his ways; he is favoured with divine inspiration—and he receives, performs and writes down songs; we might say he prolifically “pours [them] forth like prophecy” (Sir 24:33). The scribal activities of David, who arranges songs for the times and seasons, are reminiscent of the work of the scribe Enoch, who also writes down and sets the calendar in order. The only difference, it seems to me, is one of genre— while Ben Sira’s scribe collects and passes down wisdom, and Enoch arranges and transmits the revealed calendrical order, David receives, collects, and writes down prayers and songs. The vast quantity—4,050 songs!—attests to a prolific amassing of revelation, exceeding even the number of proverbs that Solomon knew (1 Kgs 5:12). How does this fit in with earlier traditions about David? While there is no evidence for an assertion of David’s authorship of any psalms in Samuel, Chronicles or Ben Sira, David does have what I want to call scribal potential. In Chronicles, David receives a written ‫תבנית‬. In Ben Sira, we see David’s personal piety and prayerful life, and we also see him collecting and organizing and passing down a legacy—not of text, but of materials for the Temple and the organization of the liturgy. This is clear in Ben Sira’s praise of David (Sir. 47:8–10): 8 In all his deeds he praised God Most High with a word of glory, With all his heart he loved his maker, And praised him constantly all day. 9 He arranged (‫ )תקן‬music before the altar, and the melody of instruments, 10 He added beauty to the feasts, and set (‫ )תקן‬the festivals in order for each year.

Note that the same root word, ‫תקן‬, is used for David’s acts, as for Qohelet’s arranging proverbs. It is not a large conceptual jump for a

44 Cf. Wyrick’s discussion of Davidic authorship vs. textualization in “Chapter 2: Attaching Names to Biblical Books,” The Ascension of Authorship. 45 The resonance of this passage with Ben Sira was mentioned by Sanders in his editio princeps, DJD IV, 92. It is also recognized by C. Schams in her brief two pages on David as scribe in 11QPsalmsa in Jewish Scribes, 124–5. Schams seems to imply that an understanding besides authorship is possible in her cautious reference to David’s activity, “David’s writing and/or authorship of psalms and songs.” She rightly observes that the “passage further reflects the notion that David’s intelligence, wisdom, piety, and his inspiration by God were the source of his literary activity and are closely linked,” 125.

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scribe to extrapolate from such acts—of setting a divine cultic order and calendar down for future use—to the idea of David’s scribal arrangement and transmission of a liturgical text collection that follows the correct calendar. This is his ‫תבנית‬, divine pattern for future practice: David’s life and scribal activity is a model for the pious lives and prolific, inspired work of actual scribes. “David’s Compositions,” then, is not a colophon that stands apart from the rest of the psalm collection, and claims authorship of the book of Psalms (or this very scroll). It is not about the attribution of a specific document; rather, it is about celebrating David’s deeds, ‫מעשי‬ ‫דויד‬, which include his pious life and inspired textualizing activity.46 The 4,050 songs and their calendrical arrangement testify to the importance of the idea of scribal proliferation and proper cultic organization, and exalt David as a scribal ideal for such activities. As an expression of praise, “David’s Compositions” might stand in a similar relationship to the Psalms scroll as Ben Sira’s “Praise of the Ancestors” does to his book: Ben Sira is an anthology of instructive texts concluded by accounts of role models for the contemporary sage; and the Psalms Scroll is an anthology of prayers concluded by compositions about a figure who prayed, preserved and organized prayers—a key exemplar to the praying community and the working scribe. David is a type for the scribal activity of collecting and arranging texts in order to preserve, re-present, and leave a legacy of revealed prayers. This work becomes a “Davidic” activity, emulated by the compiler of this collection, as he, too, attempts to transmit a divinely inspired, correctly ordered text.

46 David is said to “write and speak” prayers, but it does not follow that they are necessarily identical with this collection; by analogy, most characters in Jubilees write books, but these books are not identical with the book of Jubilees itself (see Wright, “Jubilees, Sirach, and Sapiential Tradition,” 7–8). They are also not necessarily identical with any actual text in the writer’s mind—thus, the famed “book of Noah” need not exist as anything but what H. Najman has called a “bibliomorphic” idea (in her response to R. A. Kraft, “Pursuing the Prescriptural by Way of the Pre-biblical,” Seminar for Ancient Judaisms and Christianities, University of Toronto, 11 April, 2007)—an idea that testifies to the importance of book production, and the figure who is invoked. Similarly, the epilogue of Qohelet describes that the sage put together many proverbs, but this, too, need not refer back to any particular document; it simply describes a sage and his praiseworthy, prolific book–making.

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Moses the Scribe Just as David, as a pious scribe, is not an author but a textualizer and arranger of revealed liturgical material, so Moses, as pious scribe, is a textualizer and transmitter of Torah. Indeed, to speak of “Moses the scribe” is to state the obvious. From the Pentateuch itself, it is clear that Moses is not the “author” of the Law, but a codifier and transmitter of revelation. This is not a new claim for either the Pentateuch or the later Mosaic texts. L. Schiffman has stated that a “Moses pseudepigraphon does not claim Moses as the actual author, any more than does the Torah, but rather as the vessel through which God revealed Himself to Israel.”47 But the implications of this idea for the development and expansion of later Mosaic traditions have not been fully explored: “authorship” is still the operative concept for the way the link between Moses and Torah was understood. But in our textual evidence, Moses is envisioned as a scribe. As David is explicitly a ‫סופר‬, “scribe,” in 11QPsalmsa, so targumic traditions call Moses ‫ספרא רבא דישראל‬, “the great scribe of Israel.”48 But even in earlier texts, where he is not so named, he performs a scribal role. In the book of Jubilees, Moses stands in the inspired chain of scribes that begins with Enoch, the first scribe, and continues through the generations of patriarchs who read and copy the heavenly tablets and pass down books to their children.49 First, however, it is not Moses, but God who acts as a scribe ( Jub. 1:1): In the first year of the Exodus of the children of Israel from Egypt, in the third month on the sixteenth day of that month, the Lord spoke to Moses, saying, “Come up to me on the mountain, and I shall give you two stone tablets of the Law and the commandment, which I have written, so that you may teach them.”

47 L. H. Schiffman, “The Temple Scroll and the Halakhic Pseudepigrapha of the Second Temple Period,” in Pseudepigraphic Perspectives, 121–31, here 125. On Moses’ scribal but not authorial role, see also H. Najman, “Interpretation as Primordial Writing,” 403. 48 See e.g. Targ. Onq. to Deut 33:21 (see also Neof.); Moses and Aaron are both named scribes in Targ. Neof. to Num. 21:18. (Cf. the textualizing role of Moses, who writes down not only “his book” but others as well, in B. Baba Bathra 14b–15a.) According to the targums, Moses also sets in order (‫ )סדר‬God’s revelation to Israel; he is an arranger, fulfilling the kind of scribal role discussed above in the context of Ben Sira, Qohelet, Enoch and David. On this expression and its implications, see Robert Hayward’s contribution to this volume, p. 284 and n. 40. 49 Moses, Najman writes, is “one of many bookish heroes charged with the transcription of the heavenly tablets”; “Interpretation as Primordial Writing,” 388; see also the discussion of the patriarchs’ technical/occupational scribal duties in Wright, “Sirach and Jubilees.”

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Moses’ role is to teach the law of God to the children of Israel. But God’s act of writing must be repeated by Moses, who is to be a scribe on Sinai ( Jub. 1:5–7): Set your mind on every thing which I shall tell you on this mountain, and write it in a book so that their descendants might see that I have not abandoned them on account of all of the evil which they have done . . . And you, write for yourself all of the words which I shall cause you to know today, for I know their rebelliousness and their stubbornness . . .

He is told to write yet again, first directly and then through the Angel of the Presence ( Jub. 1.26–2.1): 1.26 And you write down for yourself all of the matters which I shall make known to you on this mountain: what (was) in the beginning and what (will be) at the end, what will happen in all of the divisions of the days which are in the Law and testimony . . . 1.27 And he said to the angel of the presence: “Have Moses write50 from the first creation until my sanctuary is built in the midst forever and ever . . . 2.1 And the angel of the presence spoke to Moses by the word of the Lord, saying, “Write the whole account of creation…”

Moses’ role is faithfully to take dictation and accurately transmit the contents of the heavenly tablets to the Israelites—adding his texts to the growing corpus of written revelation codified by previous scribal figures. But this, of course, is not the earliest occasion where Moses is clothed in scribal garb. If we saw hints of David’s “scribal potential” in Chronicles and Ben Sira, Moses’ “scribal potential” is clear already in the Pentateuch. The characterization of Moses as an exemplary scribe in Deuteronomy is explored by J. Watts, who writes that Moses “exemplifies the ancient scribe who records, teaches, and interprets.”51 Moses fulfills all the requirements of an ideal scribe—he is not only a model of piety, but also a faithful preserver, updater, and transmitter of tradition. Watts writes of Moses’ “scribal voice”: The scribe’s authority depends, of course, on the claim to transmit the text faithfully and is endangered by charges of overt modification (e.g., Jer 8:8, “the lying pen of the scribes”). Yet transmission of law always

Wintermute’s translation altered after J. C. VanderKam, “The Putative Author of the Book of Jubilees,” JSS 26 (1981): 209–17. 51 J. W. Watts, “The Legal Characterization of Moses in the Rhetoric of the Pentateuch,” JBL 117 (1998): 415–426, here 422. 50

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requires its interpretation and application, which is a creative process (as the career of “Ezra the scribe” illustrates). Even in the process of simply reproducing texts, editorial creativity is by necessity involved as well.52

Watts’ characterization resonates with our description of the scribe as simultaneous preserver and renewer of tradition. He underlines that the characterization of Moses as teacher and scribe is able to resolve tensions between the laws of Deuteronomy and the Pentateuch, since “the scribal character of Moses’ voice merges precisely in his mastery of the tradition to present it in a new form.” Moses faithfully records, but also revises and updates the material that has been revealed to him; his inspired scribal authority means that faithful preservation and renewal need not be in conflict with one another, but happen together, as successive expressions of revealed law are written down.53 I have proposed that David and Moses are linked to their texts as ideal scribes, in the multifaceted sense of the figure who is both an example of piety and a channel for textual revelation. Such a relationship between figure and text is richer, more layered, and more open to future emulation and change than the static idea of “authorship.” When we think of David and Moses as scribes, and their revelatory experiences as scribal events, they take their places on a chain of scribal transmission, from Jerusalem or Sinai, down the generations to the scribes of Qumran. The texts linked with them are not closed and fixed. Rather, they are open to continuous development: their inspired textualizing activity, their scribal ‫תבנית‬, is emulated in future communities, where they serve as exemplars in multiple ways. 3. David and Moses as Scribes; Scribes as David and Moses What does it mean to say David and Moses have the status of scribes of liturgy and law in the second temple period? At first glance it would seem as if they had been demoted from their positions as authors. But

Watts, “Legal Characterization of Moses,” 422 n. 34. Expansions and reworkings generate expansions and reworkings of their own. See e.g. M. Himmelfarb on Pseudo-Jubilees in A Kingdom of Priests: Ancestry and Merit in Ancient Judaism (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006), 53, and F. García Martínez on 11QT, “Multiple Literary Editions of the Temple Scroll?” in The Dead Sea Scrolls Fifty Years after Their Discovery: Proceedings of the Jerusalem Congress, July 20–25, 1997 (eds L. H. Schiffman, E. Tov, and J. C. Vanderkam; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society/Shrine of the Book, 2000), 364–71. 52

53

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in fact, David and Moses are not dethroned by being called scribes; rather, scribalism is enthroned, raised to the level of a revelatory practice, through its connection with these great heroes and their revelatory experiences. Making Moses a scribe on Sinai and David a scribe in Jerusalem elevates the scribal occupation itself, and bridges the gap between ancient revelatory moments and contemporary scribal work.54 If Moses and David are scribes, scribes can be the counterparts of Moses and David; if Sinai becomes a scriptorium, the scriptorium55 can become a Sinai-like locus of revelation.56 As scribes, Moses and David are figures that can be emulated in their ethical exemplarity, which includes their inspired, prolific work of text production and transmission. This makes it possible to produce “Davidic” liturgy and “Mosaic” law long after David and Moses, in an unfolding, continuous, revelatory scribal chain. Moses and David are typological figures,57 54 G. W. E. Nickelsburg, writing of the Enoch literature, has made a suggestive point about how this gap between ancient and contemporary figures might have been bridged: Within this community there existed the latter day, real-life counterparts of primordial Enoch. . . . The title “Scribe,” applied three times to Enoch (12:4, 15:1, 92:1), may point to a concrete social role, while the title “Scribe of Righteousness/ Truth is also reminiscent of the Qumran sobriquet, ‫מורה־הצדק‬. See “The Nature and Function of Revelation in 1 Enoch, Jubilees, and Some Qumranic Documents,” in Pseudepigraphic Perspectives, 91–119, here 99. 55 The question of whether or not a “scriptorium” existed at Qumran and what it was like is beyond the scope of this paper. Here I am using the term in a metaphorical sense, for the locus of scribal activity. 56 This understanding of scribal revelation as a continuing, repeating process has implications for many developing traditions. Some of the most generative discourses in ancient Judaism are tied to figures who are either called scribes or endowed with scribal/sagely characteristics, e.g. Enoch (the material collected in 1 Enoch and 2 Enoch; see e.g. J. C. VanderKam, Enoch and the Growth of an Apocalyptic Tradition [CBQMS 16; Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association, 1984] and A. Orlov, The Enoch–Metatron Tradition [Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005]); Ezra (see the discussion of the variously named Ezra traditions in R. A. Kraft, “ ‘Ezra’ Materials in Judaism and Christianity,” originally in ANRW II.19.1 (1979): 119-36, available at http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/rs/ rak/publics/judaism/Ezra.htm); Baruch (1, 2, 3 and 4 Baruch [Paraleipomena Jeremiou]; for 2 Baruch see the contribution of M. Henze to this volume); and Solomon (the canonical “Solomonic” texts, Proverbs, Qohelet, and the Song of Songs, as well as the Psalms and Odes of Solomon). 57 As Moses and David are scribal types who inspire new scribal activity, so other figures are types for different kinds of activities and roles central to Qumran; one example is Levi, an ideal priestly figure who serves as a model for Qumran priests. See R. A. Kugler, “The Priests of Qumran: The Evidence of References to Levi and Levites,” in The Provo International Conference on the Dead Sea Scrolls: Technological Innovations, New Texts, & Reformulated Issues (eds D. Parry and E. Ulrich; STDJ 30; Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1999), 465–79. The preservation and renewal of traditions is connected to authoritative lineage in other ancient Jewish contexts as well; Zuleika Rodgers offer a congenial discussion of the way such a link functions in Josephus, who places himself at the end

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ideal transmitters of legal and liturgical traditions; in following their example, actual scribes could understand themselves as inspired preservers and renewers of the revelation that they encounter through the text. When we remember that these “authors” of scripture were textualizing channels of revelation—were characterized as ideal scribes—then we can be more open to the idea that scribal intervention into texts does not place them in a separate category from “biblical” material. Rather, we can think of a scribal continuum that started with Enoch and has continued unbroken through generations who received, wrote down, rearranged, and presented revelation anew. In this way, texts like 4QRP—whose status as revelation is called into question because of its extensive scribal reworking seems incompatible with “scriptural” status58—can take its place on this continuum, along with even more radically “renewed” texts like the Temple Scroll or Jubilees. To follow the ethical example of David and Moses might mean to practice humility, self-effacing leadership, or penitential prayer; or to follow their textual ‫תבנית‬, the correct transmission of Torah and liturgy for posterity. This could mean simply copying a text, being a faithful transcriber of revelation. Along the same continuum, it could mean re-arranging or renewing the tradition for a new community, as in a collection like 11QPsalmsa or one of the reworked Pentateuchal of an authoritative chain of priestly succession, thus authorizing his re-presentation and rearrangement of the law of Moses; see “Josephus’ ‘Theokratia,’” esp. 144–147. 58 For the judgment that the scribal intervention into 4QRP was “extensive enough” to put into question its authoritative status, see White Crawford, “The ‘Rewritten Bible’ at Qumran,” 3. White Crawford and Tov, the editors of 4QRP (“Reworked Pentateuch,” Qumran Cave 4. VIII: Parabiblical Texts, Part I [eds H. Attridge et al.; DJD XIII; Oxford: Clarendon, 1994], 187–351, originally asserted that the text was not “biblical”; but Tov is now suggesting that 4QRP should be studied as Hebrew scripture (in “The Many Faces of Scripture: Reflections on the LXX and 4QReworked Pentateuch,” Jonas C. Greenfield Scholars’ Seminar, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 12 December 2006, and a forthcoming article). E. Ulrich has long called for reading 4QRP as an alternate edition of the Pentateuch (see e.g. “The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Biblical Text,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls after Fifty Years: A Comprehensive Assessment [2 vols; eds P.W. Flint and J. C. VanderKam; Leiden: Brill, 1998) 1.88–89. For other views on the status of 4QRP see J. M. Allegro, “Biblical Paraphrase: Genesis, Exodus,” Qumran Cave 4. I [4Q158–186] (DJD V; Oxford: Clarendon, 1968), 1–6; M. J. Bernstein, “Whatever Happened to the Laws? The Treatment of Legal Material in 4QReworked Pentateuch,” DSD 15 (2008): 24–49; M. Segal, “4QReworked Pentateuch or 4QPentateuch?” in The Dead Sea Scrolls Fifty Years After their Discovery (eds L. H. Schiffman et al.; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2000), 391–99; and the earlier position of Tov, “Excerpted and Abbreviated Biblical Texts from Qumran,” RevQ 16 (1995): 581–600. The various assessments and definitions of 4QRP—like those of 11QPsa (see n. 36)—shows that the distinction between the “scriptural” and “secondary” is slippery indeed. I hope to examine this issue in scholarship on both 4QRP and 11QPsa further in future work.

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traditions. 59 The preservation and renewal of text happened together;60 distinctions between “scriptural” and “secondary” are not meaningful when we imagine a continuous scribal chain in which revelation is textually experienced again and again, and scribally transmitted anew in each generation (cf. Jub. 45:15).61 A Scribe Like Moses I have suggested a way that the expanding Davidic tradition and the traditions linked to Moses and the Law can illuminate each other, and how the relationship of both figures to their texts might be understood via the multivalent identity of the ideal scribe. Sinai and Sinai-like events are repeated in the chain of scribal revelation, as scribes emulate the ideal scribal personality of Moses and repeat his scribal law-transmitting activities, not in “secondary” works, but in unfolding traditions that are part of the chain of text transmission. But how is it possible to “repeat” Moses at all, if Moses is the incomparable prophet, the likes of whom was never seen again? For as the book of Deuteronomy tells us (Deut 34:10–12):

59 Perhaps it could also mean producing new texts modeled on the old in a looser way. For Davidic traditions, this might include composing a text such as the Shirot, liturgical compositions which envision a heavenly Temple and follow the solar calendar, which is the way 11QPsalmsa claims David arranged the songs; see Elior, The Three Temples, 50–51. For Mosaic traditions, it might mean composing community rules according to the pattern of the Decalogue; see B. Nitzan, “The Decalogue Pattern in the Qumran Rule of the Community,” presented at 6th IOQS Meeting, Ljubljana, 16–18 July 2007 (publication forthcoming in Proceedings of this meeting; Brill). 60 The idea that a) copying, and b) reworking, supplementing, or interpreting—what I have called, in Jubilees’ words, “preservation and renewal”—were not distinguished from each other is not new. M. Fishbane has pointed out the lack of distinction between lemma and commentary; see Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel, 12. On the lack of scribal distinctions between “original” and “new” or “rewritten” text, see also S. White Crawford, “The ‘Rewritten Bible’ at Qumran,” 3, and much of the work of E. Ulrich on the scribal continuity between successive “literary editions” (e.g. The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Origins of the Bible, 99–120). Indeed, firm distinctions between a base text and secondary scribal intervention are also incompatible with what we know about the material limitations of writing on scrolls: see E. Tov, “The Writing of Early Scrolls and the Literary Analysis of Hebrew Scripture,” DSD 13 (2006): 339–47. Tov observes that scribes did not have any way of making additions or revisions on existing base texts—rather, transcription and reworking were done together, as each new scroll was copied. 61 For another way in which revelation is repeated through a participatory encounter with text, see the contribution of Ishay Rosen-Tzvi to this collection.

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10 Never again did there arise in Israel a prophet like Moses, whom YHWH knew face to face, 11 for the various signs and portents which YHWH sent him to do in the land of Egypt, against Pharaoh and all his servants and all his land, 12 and for all the mighty deeds and all the terrifying displays of power that Moses performed in the sight of all Israel.

Moses is unrepeatable. But yet, he is repeated again and again, in figures like Josiah or Ezra or the Teacher of Righteousness. These figures perform the Mosaic activities of leadership, law-giving, and passing on textualized revelation. There may never have been a prophet like Moses, who spoke with God face to face and perfomed great miracles;62 but there certainly were scribes like Moses, whose encounter with revelation also happened through writing, and who were exemplary preservers, renewers and teachers of the law. I have tried to show that the second temple scribes responsible for reworking and rewriting Torah materials should be understood in just this way. As scribes following the model of Moses, they can allow themselves to renew as well as preserve the Sinaitic revelation as they re-present it in their own contexts. When we consider the multivalent identity of the scribal figure, and the scribal character of the revelatory event, as types for the self-understanding of the actual scribe, we find that Sinai becomes a link in a continuous chain of revelatory scribal events—from the first scribe, Enoch, through Moses, down to the copyists/renewers of Torah-like texts at Qumran. There is no dividing line between a “scriptural” and a “secondary” text if both the ancient mediatory figure and the contemporary scribe are imagined as inspired channels for the continuing preservation, renewal and transmission of revealed tradition. Both Sinai and the Qumran scriptorium were the loci of revelatory encounters between a holy text, an inspired scribe, and a blank slate.

62 As G. Knoppers writes in “ ‘There Was None Like Him: Incomparability in the Books of Kings,” CBQ 54 (1992): 411–31, Moses is incomparable in the same limited way that the kings of Israel are incomparable: in terms of some specific characteristics that set them apart. Only Moses spoke with God face to face, and only Moses performed such impressive miracles (431); other aspects of Moses’ identity seem to be fair game.

THE GIVING OF THE TORAH AT SINAI AND THE ETHICS OF THE QUMRAN COMMUNITY* Marcus Tso University of Manchester, England Determining the proper way to live is at the heart of ethics.1 As far as the evidence indicates, ethics seems to be a concern in all cultures throughout history.2 While the precise scope and content of what constitutes ethics in each society or social group may vary, sometimes considerably, whenever a group expresses views about the proper way to live, it is engaging in ethical discourse.3 How the religious community at Qumran formulated its answers to this apparently universal human question merits further study. Ethics at Qumran was not simply the compilation of divine commands as found in authoritative sacred texts, such as those supposedly given at Sinai, nor purely based on a traditional code of norms and values.4 Rather, the sectarians at Qumran formulated their ethics based on a number of interacting factors, or sets of factors. One of these contributing factors was the use of scriptural traditions by the Qumran sectarians, that is, how they understood and * This essay is partly based on my forthcoming doctoral thesis (University of Manchester) under the direction of Professor George Brooke, whom, together with Professors Loren Stuckenbruck and Hindy Najman, the co-organizers of the “Giving of the Torah at Sinai” conference, I would like to thank for inviting me to the conference and including my paper in this volume. I deeply appreciate their generosity, hospitality, friendship, and assistance. 1 I use the word “ethics” here in a broad sense, without insisting on a sharp distinction from its synonym, “morality.” Thus, “ethics” can refer here either to the reflection and study of morality, or to morality itself. For the typical definition of ethics as “moral philosophy,” or “a consideration of the various kinds of questions that arise in thinking about how one ought to live one’s life,” see, e.g., the introductory remarks by Jack Glickman in Moral Philosophy: An Introduction (ed. J. Glickman; New York: St. Martin’s, 1976), 1. 2 The evidence can be found in both the literature and the artefacts from many cultures, suggesting a universal concern for ethics. For a discussion on the universality of ethical concerns, see, e.g., Stanley J. Grenz, The Moral Quest: Foundations of Christian Ethics (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1997), 212–14. 3 For a discussion on the variety of the language of ethical discourse from the time of the Qumran community to modern times, especially in the Jewish world, see Chapter Two of my forthcoming PhD thesis. 4 While these aspects are certainly part of the bases of ethics in many religious communities, including that at Qumran, to explain the development of ethics only in these terms is to oversimplify matters.

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appropriated the various genres of their authoritative texts, especially laws and narratives, to determine the demands of God. Another contributing factor was the sectarians’ sense of identity, which highlights for us that ethics was socially constructed at Qumran, as it probably is elsewhere.5 Yet another contributing factor to ethics was their response to their political and cultural contexts, which demonstrates that the formulation of their ethics was not done in a vacuum, but was sensitive and responsive to their political and cultural environments.6 A fourth contributing factor was their eschatology, a salient motivating aspect of their theology. The influence of Qumran eschatology on their ethics shows that it was also theological. While these four contributory factors are not meant to be exhaustive, they are offered here as representative of other factors that may also have contributed to the process of ethical formulation at Qumran. Not only does Qumran ethics have a multifaceted basis, but the four contributing factors identified above also interact with one another in the formulation of ethics at Qumran. In this essay I will illustrate how this worked by focusing on how the Qumran sectarians appropriated the scriptural traditions about the Sinai covenant for their ethics. I will also focus on how this appropriation of scriptural traditions had effects on identity formation at Qumran as well, which in turn had ethical implications. Space does not permit me to explore more fully the other two contributing factors. Nevertheless, hints will be given along the way to suggest that the sectarians’ understanding of the Sinai traditions and their self-identity probably inclined them to certain political stances and reactions to their surrounding cultures, leading to particular views on ethics, and that their eschatology also drew from these traditions in ways that formed their self-understanding, once again with ethical import. Before examining how these contributing factors operated with respect to the use of the Sinai traditions at Qumran, let me first address the more general question of how the scrolls from Qumran speak about

5 For an introduction to social construction as a broader human phenomenon, see Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann, The Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise in Sociology of Knowledge (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1967). Although not specifically written from a social-scientific perspective or addressing group identity, Eva Mroczek’s essay in this volume, “Moses, David and Scribal Revelation: Preservation and Renewal in Second Temple Jewish Textual Traditions,” 91–116, is a good example of how selfidentity might affect ethics. 6 For an account of how different modern Jewish philosophers formulated divergent approaches to ethics in response to the cultural and intellectual challenge of modernism, see the essay in this volume by Paul Franks, “Sinai after Spinoza: Reflections on Revelation in Modern Jewish Thought,” 333–54.

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ethics. Using the broad understanding of ethics stated earlier, that it concerns the proper way to live, we can observe that ethics was front and centre in the mind of the Qumran sectarians and its wider movement. Already in the Damascus Document we can see the pre-Qumran concern with this crucial issue of how to live properly before God. For example, the voice of a teacher exhorts the members of his community in CD II, 14–16: And now, children, listen to me, so I may uncover your eyes to see and to understand the actions that God demands (‫)מעשי אל‬, to choose what pleases him and to reject what he hates, to walk perfectly in all his ways, not following thoughts of guilty inclination and adulterous eyes.7

This passage, using language that sometimes echoes scriptural traditions,8 nevertheless implies that the ethical demands of God are not completely self-evident in Scripture, but require one to be initiated into a new way of perceiving. The Rule of the Community displays a similar concern for proper living by presenting it as the entry requirement as well as the supreme goal of the Qumran sectarians.9 The constitutional book opens with these words about its purpose of instructing the sectarians: To seek God with all their heart and with all their soul, to do that which is good and upright before Him, just as He commanded through Moses and all His servants the prophets . . . to love everything He chose and to hate everything He rejected, to distance themselves from all evil and to hold fast to all good deeds; to practice truth, justice and righteousness in

7 Translation mine. Although the rendering for ‫ מעשי אל‬here is uncommon and debatable, it fits the context very well. In any case, my argument does not depend on it, as the rest of the quote amply shows the strong concern for ethics. 8 E.g., the injunction “to choose” from Deut 30:19; the phrase “to walk perfectly in all his ways,” which combines allusions to a key moment in the Abrahamic covenant in Gen 17:1 that reverberates through the Psalms (15:2; 84:12; 101:6), with the repeated exhortation to “walk in all his ways” in Deuteronomy (8:6; 10:12; 11:22; 19:9; 26:17; 28:9; 30:16). 9 While the Rule of the Community is a complex document reflecting multiple redactional layers, some of which may predate the settlement at Qumran by the Qumran community, the opening lines of 1QS probably belong to the later and Qumranic stage of redaction. See, e.g., the classic and seminal studies of Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, “La genèse littéraire de la Règle de la Communauté,” RB 76 (1969): 528–49, esp. 537–38, and Jean Pouilly, La règle de la communauté de Qumrân, son évolution littéraire (CahRB 17; Paris: J. Gabalda, 1976), 522–51, esp. 550–51. These early redactional theories are generally confirmed, albeit with various adjustments, by more recent studies based on manuscripts from Cave 4, such as Sarianna Metso, The Textual Development of the Qumran Community Rule (STDJ 21; Leiden: Brill, 1997), esp. 146–48, 154. For a critique of Metso, but not the Qumranic provenance of the beginning of 1QS, see Philip S. Alexander, “The Redaction History of Serek ha-Ya˜ad,” RevQ 17 (1996): 437–56.

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marcus tso the land, and to walk no longer in a guilty, wilful heart and lustful desires, wherein they did every evil thing (1QS I, 1b–7a).10

Further, the instructor “is to induct all who volunteer to live by the laws of God into the Covenant of Mercy, so as to be joined to God’s society and walk faultless before Him, according to all that has been revealed for the times appointed them” (1QS I, 7b–9a). Once again the language of this passage is heavily dependent on scriptural traditions, such as Deut 4:29 and 2 Chr 15:12, for the key opening phrase. Both of these passages illustrate some of the key concepts in the ethical terminology of the Qumran community and its wider movement— ‫משפט‬, ‫צדקה‬, ‫אמת‬, ‫טוב‬, ‫רע‬, ‫שנא‬, ‫אהב‬, ‫מאס‬, ‫בחר‬, ‫עשה הישר‬, ‫דרש‬, ‫התהלך לפני תמים‬, ‫ברית‬, ‫חק‬, ‫עיני זנות‬, ‫לב אשמה‬, and ‫הנגלות‬. Judging by the ethical discourse in these short passages alone, ethical living is of paramount importance and is dictated by God’s standard and will. It is described as walking blamelessly or perfectly in God’s way; it is rejecting evil human inclinations; it is linked with the covenant with God; and it is informed by special divine revelation. As noted, the language of this ethical discourse is highly influenced by scriptural traditions, and the marks of the Sinai traditions, especially as mediated through Deuteronomy, are clearly seen. On this note, let us turn to some examples of how these scriptural traditions were appropriated by the sectarians to formulate their ethics. The Use of the Sinai Traditions to Inform Ethics As mentioned above, the recalling of the Sinai traditions among the Qumran circle was filtered through Deuteronomy, the most attested Torah book from the Qumran caves, and according to Johann Maier, the biblical book with the most citations and allusions by far in the non-biblical scrolls.11 This is evident from the language used, such as “choosing,” “loving and hating,” “walking in his ways,” “all one’s heart

10 Unless otherwise noted, all translations of Qumran texts are from Michael O. Wise, Martin G. Abegg, and Edward M. Cook, The Dead Sea Scrolls: A New Translation (San Francisco: HarperCollins SanFrancisco, 1996). 11 According to the index in Johann Maier, Die Qumran-Essener: Die Texte vom Toten Meer (Band III: Einführung, Zeitrechnung, Register und Bibliographie) (München: E. Reinhardt, 1996), 161–78, Deuteronomy (at c. 155 times) is the most cited or alluded to biblical book in the Qumran non-biblical manuscripts, followed by Isaiah (c. 110), Leviticus (c. 76), and Psalms (c. 65). At about 28 extant manuscripts, it is also the second most attested biblical book after Psalms.

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and soul,” and “covenant”—language that is clearly more prominent in Deuteronomy than in Exodus.12 Deuteronomy does not only rehearse the giving of the Torah and the establishment of the covenant at Sinai, it also relates the subsequent breach of this covenant by Israel and its renewal under the aged Moses, who took on the role of a sage-prophet.13 This particular perspective of Deuteronomy is especially suited to the sectarian worldview, that they were the community of the renewed covenant after the apostasy of the nation at large. A specific example of how the Sinai traditions from Deuteronomy were used can be found in 1QS I, 16-II, 18, which contains a prescription for the initiation ceremony of the Ya˜ad. Within this passage (1QS II, 1b–18), there is a series of recitations of blessings and curses that is roughly modelled after texts in Deuteronomy 27–29, a section that has to do with a renewal, or ratification, of the Mosaic covenant.14 A more obvious citation appears in 1QS II, 12b–18, where the influence of Deut 29:18–20 is clearly seen.15 If Sarianna Metso’s theory about the relative dates of the various versions of S is correct, namely, that 1QS is a relatively late redaction of several forms of S as represented by 4QSb,d,e,16 and that the material in 1QS I–IV “was brought into the composition at a very late stage,”17 the allusion to Deuteronomy in 1QS II seems to fit generally Metso’s proposal that later redaction of S was meant “to strengthen the self-understanding of the community, and with the aid of Scriptural proof-texts to provide a theological justification of the regulations already in force in the community.”18 Even though we 12 As a rough indicator, e.g., ‫ ברית‬is attested in the MT 13 times in Exodus, but 27 times in Deuteronomy, and ‫ בחר‬is found 3 and 31 times respectively. 13 As George Brooke argues in his essay in this volume, “Moving Mountains: From Sinai to Jerusalem,” 80–84, the use of Deuteronomy allowed the Qumran sectarians to put the specific locus of revelation in the background and hence to relativize its importance. What is more important to the Qumranites is the reception of revelation, which they understood to be repeatable, and part of their experience. For the use of the Sabbath Songs at Qumran as a means to experiencing divine revelation anew independently of its original locale, see Judith Newman’s essay in this volume, “Priestly Prophets at Qumran: Summoning Sinai through the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice,” 30. 14 Cf. A. Robert C. Leaney, The Rule of Qumran and Its Meaning: Introduction, Translation, and Commentary (NTL; London: SCM Press, 1966), 104. 15 E.g., “It shall come to pass, when he hears the words of this Covenant, that he shall bless himself in his heart, saying ‘Peace be with me, though I walk in the stubbornness of my heart’” (1QS II, 12b–14). This clearly cites the first part of Deut 29:18, substituting the word “covenant” (‫ )הברית‬for “oath” (‫)האלה‬. Parts of Deut 29:19–20 that pertain to divine anger and curses are also paraphrased in line 15 and 16. 16 Metso, Textual Development, 146–47. 17 Metso, Textual Development, 145. 18 Metso, Textual Development, 144.

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are not dealing with explicit scriptural citations here, using the scriptural model of covenant renewal in nascent Israel for its own initiation ceremony, the Qumran community enhanced its self-understanding as the true heir of the Mosaic covenant and the latter-day embodiment of Israel. In terms of its relevance for ethics, this self-understanding probably added both urgency and freshness to the divine commands in the mind of the sectarians, motivating them, for example, to conform to the code of behaviour that they saw as mandated by the covenant. And having this self-understanding filtered through Deuteronomy could only facilitate their tendency towards stringency, since Deuteronomy was already in several respects more stringent than Exodus.19 The Use of the Sinai Traditions and Identity Formation The enhancement of the self-understanding mentioned above leads to a consideration of identity formation. Remembering the giving of the Torah at Sinai was not a trivial matter in the formation of sectarian identity,20 because included in the sectarian idea of the Torah were at least two special features. First, the Torah was read as prophetic, accurately predicting the persistent unfaithfulness of Israel in general until the Last Days.21 This highlighted the sectarian community’s selfunderstanding as the faithful remnant, coexisting with an apostate nation, and helped them to explain their current experience of disenfranchisement and marginalization. Second, the Torah was seen as containing both the “revealed laws” and the “hidden laws,” the latter of which could only be understood by inspired exegesis, and were the

19 E.g., Deut 19:16–21 extends the principal of jus talionis in Exod 21:12–36 to the case of false witnesses with merely the intent to harm. For a discussion related to parts of these passages, see Bernard S. Jackson, “The Problem of Exod. XXI 22–5 ( Jus Talionis),” VT 23 (1973): 271–304. Further, Deut 22:28–29 tightens the penalty for raping an un-betrothed virgin found in Exod 22:16–17 by stipulating the exact price, removing the possibility of the father’s intervention, and adding a no-divorce clause. Cf. Joe M. Sprinkle, “Law and Narrative in Exodus 19–24,” JETS 47 (2004): 235–52. 20 For an account of how the Sinai traditions shaped self-image at Qumran, as seen especially in 1QS, see James C. VanderKam, “Sinai Revisited,” in Biblical Interpretation at Qumran (ed. Matthias Henze; SDSSRL; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2005), 44–60. However, as suggested by Brooke’s essay in this volume, “Moving Mountains,” 85, VanderKam’s account needs qualification, some examples of which will be given below. 21 Falk, “Moses,” 577.

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basis of the sectarian ordinances.22 In this way, the sectarian remembrance of the Sinai event highlighted for the community members the important role of the Torah for defining who they were, and helped reinforce their identity as the “keepers/doers of the Torah” and as the recipients of the hidden revelation contained therein.23 Aside from remembering the giving of the Torah, the sectarians also remembered Moses as the prophetic lawgiver.24 And this also contributed to the community’s identity formation, albeit in a less direct way. Although the Teacher of Righteousness is not presented as a prophet in the Scrolls,25 his role as the authoritative interpreter of the Torah and the leader of the community of God in the wilderness appears to be modelled in part after Moses.26 Thus, the remembrance of Moses also reinforced for the Qumran community its identity as the true Israel in the wilderness in the Last Days. This identity of the community as the faithful recipients and doers of the Torah from Moses, and as the followers of an inspired leader like him, raised obedience to the Torah, with all its hidden revelation possessed only by the group, to the level of a supreme ethical norm. Another way that social identity was formed at Qumran was through the way the community was organized. Among the diverse scrolls from Qumran, we can discern several models of organization—ways that the sectarians portrayed themselves as a group, ways that they organized themselves as something else, whether in actuality or in their imagination. George Brooke has identified four such models as cosmic, tribal, 22 As noted in Falk, “Moses,” 577: “This too is tied up with the idea of Moses as prophet and recipient of all revelation: inherent in his Torah are the ‘hidden things’ that are discernible only by inspired exegesis.” 23 See, e.g., the phrase ‫ עושי התורה‬in 1QpHab VII, 11; VIII, 1; XII, 4–5; 1QpMic (1Q14) 8–10; 4QpPsa (4Q171) 1–2 II, 14, 22; cf. 4QFlor (4Q174) 1–3 II, 2. For a disputed argument that this phrase is the self-designation of the people in the Qumran community, and is the Hebrew basis the Greek word “Εσσενοι,” see Stephen Goranson, “Jannaeus, His Brother Absalom, and Judah the Essene” (self-published on-line paper, http://www.duke.edu/~goranson/jannaeus.pdf, 2005). 24 For a recent account of the various, sometimes contradictory, ways Moses was remembered at Qumran, see George J. Brooke, “Moses in the Dead Sea Scrolls: Looking at Mount Nebo from Qumran,” in La Construction de la figure de Moïse/The Construction of the Figure of Moses (ed. T. Römer; Supplément à Transeuphratène 13; Paris: Gabalda, 2007), 209–21. 25 George J. Brooke, “Prophecy and Prophets in the Dead Sea Scrolls: Looking Backwards and Forwards,” in Prophets, Prophecy, and Prophetic Texts in Second Temple Judaism (ed. M. H. Floyd and R. D. Haak; LHBOTS 427; London: T & T Clark International, 2006), 151–65. 26 Falk, “Moses,” 577.

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military, and cultic,27 and rightly suggested that self-descriptors implicit in such organizational models necessarily influence behaviour and practice and have an ethical dimension.28 Setting the cosmic model aside for now,29 let us consider how the other three models might have shaped the collective identity of the Qumran community, models that all trace their roots to the Sinai traditions. First, the community organized itself, at least at some point in its history, using the model of the twelve tribes of Israel,30 which reflects how Moses organized Israel along tribal lines at Horeb/Sinai (Deut 1:6–18; cf. Exod 18:13–27, which locates the organization of Israel immediately before the revelation at Sinai, albeit without any explicit reference to the tribes). When the community patterned itself after the twelve biblical tribes of Israel at a time when the tribal system was no longer functional, it was in effect declaring itself to be restored Israel in the Last Days. Such an identity had political and interpersonal implications, as out-groups, even other Jews, were seen as the hostile nations (at least potentially) and in-group members were seen as kinsmen, family, and brothers.31 Being organized as Israel is only a short stretch from being organized as the host of Israel that God brought out of Egypt (Exod 12:51) to encamp before him at Sinai (Exod 19:16–17). The sectarians, in various stages of their history, either imagined themselves or actually organized themselves in a military pattern, modelled after the camp of Israel’s

27 George J. Brooke, “The Dead Sea Scrolls and New Testament Ecclesiology,” in Holiness and Ecclesiology in the New Testament (ed. K. E. Brower and A. Johnson; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2007), 13–16. 28 Brooke, “Dead Sea Scrolls and New Testament Ecclesiology,” 13, 15. 29 Other than the lack of space, the cosmic model is neglected here because it needs further development. 30 Brooke, “Dead Sea Scrolls and New Testament Ecclesiology,” 16, cites the allusions to tribal organization in 1QM II, 1–4; III, 14; V, 1–2, where the allusions are best understood as imaginary, and in 1QS I, 8 where the tribal model is reflected in the actual organization of the council of the community. 31 Cf. Brooke, “Dead Sea Scrolls and New Testament Ecclesiology,” 16: “The tribal model implies a relational view of communities and encourages stress on kinship, whether actual or fictive, and the system of honour and shame that accompanied it.” However, with the exception of the Damascus Document, terminologies of brotherhood or fictive kinship are relatively rare in the Scrolls, especially when compared with the NT.

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army in the books of Exodus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy.32 Being organized in this biblical military pattern probably helped the sectarians to identify themselves with the people-army of Yahweh, moving on a holy mission between Sinai and the Promised Land through the wilderness. This military identification also promoted a sense of exigency with extra-stringent purity requirements, and is consistent with the theoretical portrayal that the sectarians at Qumran were probably exclusively male, sexually abstinent, forbidden to relieve themselves inside the settlement, and otherwise under strict discipline. Finally, the military model is closely linked to the cultic model.33 In Exodus and Numbers, the military organization had at its centre the sanctuary and the Levitical and priestly personnel. Indeed, the organization of the cultic personnel was integral to the military organization of Israel on the march from Sinai.34 A cultic model of organization at Qumran naturally reinforced their well-documented priestly orientation, and is entirely consistent with the almost obsessive concerns about requirements of ritual purity, feast days, and calendar found in their texts. Furthermore, this cultic organization model likely advanced at least two group identities. First, it doubtless prompted the community to view itself as a community of priests, perhaps one that fulfils the divine words of covenant, “You shall be to me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exod 19:6). Second, it appears to have fostered an understanding that the community was in some sense the only legitimate Temple in the present, perhaps until some eschatological Temple is built.35 32 Brooke, “Dead Sea Scrolls and New Testament Ecclesiology,” 15, cites texts such as 11QTa LIV, 4-5; 1QM IV, 1-5; 1QSa I, 29-II, 1; and CD XII, 23-XIII, 2 as reflecting this military model. For a fuller argument for how the Qumran community organized itself after the pattern of the military camp of Israel in the wilderness, see Francis Schmidt, How the Temple Thinks: Identity and Social Cohesion in Ancient Judaism (trans. J. E. Crowley; BSem 78; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 146–50. 33 This model is based on the Levitical cultic system which the scriptural narratives present as having been revealed and immediately implemented at Sinai. 34 1QSa I, 29-II, 1, cited by Brooke above, is a good example of how the cultic model of organization is mixed with the military model at Qumran. 35 For the idea that the concentric circles of increasing holiness from the periphery to the centre in the organizational structure of the Qumran community were also modelled after the camp of the wilderness, see Schmidt, How the Temple Thinks, 150–67, esp. fig. 6. Thus, the Qumran community represented through its organization the same ideas about purity and holiness that the physical and spatial arrangements of the sanctuary were supposed to represent. For the use of the Sabbath Songs to enhance a priestly self-understanding and participate in angelic worship in God’s immediate holy presence, see Carol Newsom, “Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice,” EDSS 2:889, cited

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These self-understandings, which are derived at least partly from the Sinai traditions, all worked together to reinforce each other and, above all, the community’s self-understanding of being Israel. Furthermore, such self-understandings have various ethical implications. Being a priestly community and even a human sanctuary means, among other things, extra-stringent purity requirements, which for the Qumranites went beyond the cultic to the moral realm.36 Being God’s army entails similar purity requirements and also at least rejecting certain claims to worldly comfort, such as possessions and family relationships, for the sake of a struggle, however that was understood, and probably antagonism towards outsiders perceived as enemies. Being Israel in the Last Days implies the need to know certain things in the penultimate age of wickedness, to act in certain ways where they were, and to be a certain kind of people, distinguishing themselves from all outsiders, with boundaries that kept out the many and let in a few. Conclusion As suggested earlier, the four contributing factors of scriptural tradition, identity formation, political and cultural contexts, and theology, especially in the form of eschatology, worked in an interrelated way to help shape the ethics of the Qumran community. Space has permitted me only to highlight the first two in relation to how the Sinai traditions were appropriated at Qumran. Nonetheless, we have already seen hints of how the Sinai traditions may have played a role in their responses to their political and cultural contexts, as well as in their eschatology. For example, their self-identity as true Israel, as reinforced by their organizational models patterned after the tribes of Israel, probably the tribes assembled as one before Mt. Sinai, most likely had an effect on how they viewed the political and religious establishments around them, causing them to develop or nurture separatist tendencies and hostility towards outsiders. Furthermore, their self-understanding as the renewed and faithful covenant community in the Last Days, as prophesied in the Torah, helped inform their eschatology. This escha-

in Judith Newman’s essay in this volume, “Priestly Prophets,” 29. See also Newman’s comments on 40, n. 25. 36 See, e.g., Jonathan Klawans, Impurity and Sin in Ancient Judaism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000).

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tological self-understanding was conducive both to a sense of urgency and a sense of hope, both of which could motivate ethical behaviours and attitudes.37 We have seen that the Sinai traditions, broadly understood,38 played a noticeable and important role in how the Qumran sectarians formulated their ethics, not only as a part of the scriptural traditions that they appropriated in their own way, but also influencing their identity formation. Further examination will reveal that this is also true in the case of their response to their political and cultural contexts, and their eschatology. Thus, the giving of the Torah at Sinai left its imprints on the ethics of the Qumran community through the jostling together of all four of these contributing factors. What this suggests is that in order to understand the ethics of the Qumran sectarians better, the fourpronged approach outlined above gives a reading that is more faithful to the terminology, thoughts, and contexts of the sectarians, than a retrojection from later ethical systems, be they Christian or rabbinic.

37 For the use of eschatology as a motivator for Torah observance in 2 Baruch, see the essay in this volume by Matthias Henze, “Torah and Eschatology in the Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch,” 201–16. 38 Again, see George Brooke’s essay in this volume for the relative absence of Mt. Sinai in the Qumran literature, while aspects of the Sinai traditions remain important.

JOSEPHUS’ “THEOKRATIA” AND MOSAIC DISCOURSE: THE ACTUALIZATION OF THE REVELATION AT SINAI1 Zuleika Rodgers Trinity College Dublin, Ireland Introduction Notably absent from Josephus’ presentation of the Jewish constitution in Against Apion, the revelation at Sinai plays a major role in Book 3 of the Jewish Antiquities and is the focus for Moses’ prophetic activity. Yet the matter of the superiority of the Jewish constitution and Mosaic Law is central to both Jewish Antiquities and Against Apion. One explanation for the difference focuses on the apologetic context of Against Apion where a treatment of divine authorship of laws would be incongruous. Does this mean that for Josephus apologetic interests inform his conceptualization of the Jewish constitution in Against Apion, and the particular revelation at Sinai is forfeited or subordinated to a universalist worldview? By examining Josephus’ understanding of the transmission of Mosaic Law—and his own role in this—perhaps it is possible to discern a link between the Sinai event as articulated in Jewish Antiquities and the Jewish theocracy of Against Apion. Josephus and the Jewish Constitution Historical method has been the focus of recent trends in Josephan scholarship.2 Demanding that we acquaint ourselves with Josephus’ historical

1 I would like to thank the editors of this volume who invited me to participate in the conference at Durham in 2007. 2 The International Josephus Colloquium as well as the Josephus Group (under the auspices of the Society of Biblical Literature) have provided a forum for the ongoing development of this field. Two of the most recent of the colloquium meetings (Dublin 2004 and Haifa 2006) specifically focused on historical method. One volume has appeared: Making History: Josephus and Historical Method (ed. Z. Rodgers; JSJSup 110; Leiden: Brill, 2006). There are also translation and commentary projects appearing in Hebrew, German, French, and Italian. The new Brill commentary project is available online (http://pace.cns.yorku.ca).

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method (as well as reflect on our own), we are now compelled to give due regard to his compositional techniques and appreciate the full implications of his Roman context. Sensitivity to the relationship between the micro and the macro with regard to the text (viewing each episode as part of a larger narrative) as well as sensitivity to context (evaluating the literary, historical and philosophical resonances from his immediate first century C.E. Roman surroundings) has facilitated a transformation in the way that scholars use Josephus’ works as a source.3 It has become apparent that Josephus’ method and concerns were not those of a truckling provincial clumsily assembling disparate sources; rather, he must be assessed as an author skilfully controlling his material. The history behind the text, whether that of the Jews or his own personal story, is constructed within Josephus’ own conceptual framework, and how we access the “facts” behind the text is central to methodological discussions: according to one view, “It is not possible to detach even one item or case from ‘Josephus’ framework,’ for that framework is pervasive and fully wrought, animating all of its constituent atoms.”4 Our concern is not methodological per se, but we will depend upon recent scholarship’s identification of certain pervasive themes within Josephus’ work. Focusing on the Roman context has revealed Josephus’ interest in the Judean constitution (πολιτεία). Fundamental to the narrative framework of the Jewish Antiquities is reflection on good governance and justice—its effects (harmony, ἁρμονία and happiness, εὐδαιμονία), the relationship between the character of the state and its individuals, and the virtues of the lawgiver and the ideal statesman—themes central to political and philosophical discourse in the Greco-Roman world.5

3 Treatment of Josephus’ Roman context was the subject for two international conferences and the proceedings have been published as Flavius Josephus and Flavian Rome (eds. J. Edmondson, S. Mason, and J. Rives; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005) and Josephus and Jewish History in Flavian Rome and Beyond (eds. Joseph Sievers and Gaia Lembi; JSJSup 104; Leiden: Brill, 2005). Steve Mason, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary. Volume 9. Life of Josephus (Leiden: Brill, 2000), xix–xxi, xxxiv–l, and “Flavius Josephus in Flavian Rome: Reading on and Between the Lines,” in Flavian Rome (eds. A. J. Boyle and W. J. Dominik; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 559–89, has been concerned to demonstrate how Josephus’ Roman context informs the narrative; themes of governance—for example, tyranny, succession issues, stasis—relating to the Jewish constitution and Roman political discourse dominate and the values presented as Jewish would find a responsive and sympathetic audience among his Roman elite readers. 4 Steve Mason, “Contradiction or Counterpoint? Josephus and Historical Method,” RRJ 6 (2003): 186. 5 Compositional critical approaches have revealed the pervasiveness of this theme, which is of particular interest when seen against the background of Domitianic Rome.

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This political focus of the Jewish Antiquities incorporates competitive cultural claims and permeates the presentation of Jewish history (e.g., the issue of the antiquity of the nation), including his interpretation of the biblical narrative. Louis Feldman in his extensive studies has demonstrated how Josephus responds to those who slander the Judeans by manipulating the biblical account,6 and how, in presenting the best of Jewish culture to the Greco-Roman world, characterized biblical heroes as exhibiting the virtues that belong to the ideal Greco-Roman statesman, while Steve Mason identifies the ethnographic and political/philosophical as unifying themes of Jewish Antiquities, The Life, and Against Apion.7 The most recent statement on Josephus’ treatment of Roman and Judean values is by John Barclay in his translation of, and commentary on, Against Apion.8 This political theme is set out in the prologue to the Jewish Antiquities: “having taken in hand this present task thinking that it will appear to all the Greeks deserving of studious attention. For it is going to encompass our entire ancient history (ἀρχαιολογία) and constitution of the state (διάταξις τοὗ πολιτεύματος) translated from the Hebrew writings” (Ant. 1.5 [Feldman, FJTC]). The appearance of this constitutional language is not only found in the prologue (Ant. 1.1–26) and the concluding sections (Ant. 20.229, 251, 261), but throughout the work. In the opening passages, the reader is invited to evaluate whether the Jewish lawgiver, Moses, has “comprehended His nature worthily and has always attributed to Him deeds that are befitting His power, preserving the discourse about Him pure from every unseemly mythology

See Steve Mason, “Introduction to the Judean Antiquities,” in Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 3. Judean Antiquities Books 1–4 (ed. Steve Mason; Leiden: Brill, 2004), xxxiv–xxxv, and John M. G. Barclay, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 10. Against Apion (ed. Steve Mason; Leiden: Brill, 2007) xxxvi–xliv. 6 Feldman’s analysis of Josephus’ portraits of biblical characters highlights the moral and philosophical assessment that would allow the heroes of Jewish history to appeal to a hellenised audience. A number of these studies have been included in two volumes: Josephus’ Interpretation of the Bible (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998) and Studies in Josephus’ Rewritten Bible (Leiden: Brill, 1998). See also: Christopher T. Begg, Josephus’ Account of the Early Divided Monarchy (AJ 8,212–420): Rewriting the Bible (BETL 108; Leuven: Peeters and Leuven University Press, 1993) and Josephus’ Story of the Later Monarchy (BETL 145; Leuven: Peeters and Leuven University Press, 2000); Paul Spilsbury, The Image of the Jew in Flavius Josephus’ Paraphrase of the Bible (TSAJ 69; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998). 7 Mason, Life of Josephus, xlvii–l, and “Introduction to the Judean Antiquities,” xxiii– xxxiv. 8 Barclay, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 10. Against Apion.

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that is found among others” (Ant. 1.15 [Feldman, FJTC ]). Since Moses comprehended the nature of God, he could invite others to imitate this ideal by directing their thoughts to the divine and the order of the universe rather than simply through a code of laws. As a consequence Josephus’ account of Moses’ teaching about God includes a treatment of the philosophy of nature (φυσιολογία) (Ant. 1.18–24).9 Against Apion further makes the case that the Judean constitution reflects the laws of the universe (Ag. Ap. 2.284). When comparing his legal tradition with the Greek, part of Josephus’ case for its superiority is based on the claim that the Jewish constitution reflects the truth about God and the universe (Ag. Ap. 2.190–198). Moses’ role as lawgiver (νομοθέτης) is central to this philosophical discussion on the law that appears in both the prologue of the Jewish Antiquities and in Against Apion.10 Barclay has commented on this correspondence, noting the absence of any discussion of divine authorship. 11 While the heavenly origin of Jewish law is a feature of Jewish Antiquities 3–4, Barclay suggests that the omission is due to the apologetic and philosophical context: “Josephus knows of claims in the Greek tradition comparable to the Judean belief that the law was God-given; he also knows the difficulty of maintaining such claims in the sphere of history or philosophy.”12 Yet, Moses the lawgiver does function as mediator between God and the people: With such a fine decision, and after the successful outcome of some great deeds, he naturally concluded that he had God as his governor and adviser (ἡγεμὼν καὶ σύμβουλος). Having first come to the conviction that everything he did and thought was in accordance with

9 Louis Feldman, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 3. Judean Antiquities Books 1–4 (ed. S. Mason; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 8, n. 23 and 9, n. 26 suggests that Josephus is attempting to explain why the laws begin with an account of creation, and he compares this with Philo (Opif. 1.1–2) and rabbinic traditions. For a discussion on modern Jewish philosophical approaches to defining the relationship between the Torah revealed at Sinai and natural law, see in this volume Paul Franks, “Sinai Since Spinoza: Reflections on Revelation in Modern Jewish Thought,” 333–54. 10 E.g., Ag. Ap. 2.157–63. The centrality of Moses the lawgiver for those involved in Jewish-pagan dialogue is discussed in this volume by George van Kooten, “Why did Paul include an Exegesis of Moses’ Shining Face (Exod 34) in 2 Cor 3?” 151–54. 11 Barclay, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 10. Against Apion, 259 n. 620. 12 Barclay, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 10. Against Apion, 259 n. 620. According to Barclay, in a presentation of the Jewish constitution reference to divine authorship would locate the discussion of the lawgiver in the realm of mythology rather than philosophy. In the opening pasages of Jewish Antiquities (Ant. 1.15, 22) Josephus distinguishes Moses understanding of the divine from the myths of the Greeks, and he further comments on this in Against Apion (Ag. Ap. 2.239–41).

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God’s will, he considered it his prime duty to impress this notion on the masses; for those who believe that God watches over their lives do not allow themselves to commit any sin (Ag. Ap. 2.160 [Barclay, FJTC]).

But the divine source for their law remains oblique in Against Apion and even in Josephus’ treatise on the Jewish theocratic constitution, while stating that it reflects God’s will (κατὰ θεοῦ βούλησιν: Ag. Ap. 2.184) and all Jewish practices are concerned with piety towards God, there is nothing of the revelatory element in this highly philosophical piece (Ag. Ap. 2.145–286). The authority of Jewish law and its constitution is evident in its success and the emulation of other nations not because of its divine provenance.13 Barclay suggests that Josephus subverts GrecoRoman discourse on political theory for his own claims about Jewish traditions, but within this there is no place for the Sinai event, or even statements about the divine origin of the Law of Moses.14 Is the revelatory event at Sinai forfeited for Josephus’ political and philosophical interests? This would explain its absence in the philosophical discussions about the nature of the Jewish constitution where no explicit claims that the laws are divine in origin appear. Even in the opening statement of the Jewish Antiquities, when Josephus compares himself to Eleazar who oversaw the production of the Septuagint, the matter of divine authorship does not appear (Ant. 1.11–12). In the Sinai narrative itself, there are numerous statements regarding the divine origin of this constitution and law: Ant. 3.75, Moses ascends the mountain at Sinai to receive something from God; Ant. 3.84, God provides them with a blessed life and a well-ordered constitution; Ant. 3.87, this constitution is from God who gives the words to the Israelites through his interpreter, Moses; Ant. 3.90, God gives the Decalogue directly to the Hebrews; Ant. 3.93, the Hebrews ask Moses to seek divine laws for them; Ant. 3.93, Moses frequents the Tent in order to receive divine responses.

13 See Ag. Ap. 2.164–286 for the success of the constitution and Ag. Ap 2.255, 257, 281, 293, 295 for the influence of Moses on the Greeks. The reconception of nature in the early modern period posed a challenge to the idea of the creator of nature as the creator of Torah, and Paul Franks, “Sinai Since Spinoza: Reflections on Revelation in Modern Jewish Thought,” 333–54, outlines the way Spinoza presented the Sinai event within the realm of the political with Torah as nomos: Moses is not a recipient of divine revelation but a model of statecraft, and the Torah—a theocratic constitution— while retaining some truths, was no longer applicable as the polity it served no longer existed. The subsequent response that refocused on the revelatory aspect of Judaism did not attempt to re-establish the link between Torah and nature. 14 Barclay, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 10. Against Apion, 245–47.

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In Jewish Antiquities 3 and 4 there remains an interest in political philosophy (Ant. 3.213), and even the laws themselves are set out in a way that a non-Jewish audience would easily access them,15 but unlike in Against Apion, there is no concern for proving the value of these laws to a Greek or Roman audience.16 Also while the heavenly aspect is diminished, and the lawgiver is the main focus of the discussion, it is still clear that God is the source for the laws of Moses.17 Should we view these two different modes of discussing the laws and constitution— one political and philosophical, the other drawing on biblical ideas of revelation—as belonging to two separate conceptual frameworks for Josephus, albeit united by the idea of good governance? Perhaps there is a way of connecting them, which takes into account the very different narrative contexts, but that does not disconnect completely the Sinai event or the revelatory from the political considerations of the apologetic context. Josephus, while often diminishing the miraculous in his narrative, does include the revelatory material. Looking to how Josephus understood Torah transmission and his own authorial claims might provide a way of linking Sinai and the divine origin of the law with his philosophical and political discourse. Transmission of the Law in Josephus In both Jewish Antiquities and Against Apion, Josephus claims that he presents scripture in its proper order, neither adding additional material nor omitting anything (Ant. 1.17; 10.218; Ag. Ap. 1.42; 2.291). Since it is self-evident that the biblical material has been altered, sometimes significantly, scholars have offered a number of explanations.18 Among ancient historians, particularly of eastern origin, claims regarding

15 Mason, Jewish Antiquities 1–3, xxiv–xxvi, finds comparisons between the constitutional presentation in Jewish Antiquities and Cicero’s On the Republic and On the Laws. 16 Barclay, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 10. Against Apion, 259 n. 620, on the difference between the presentation of the laws in Against Apion and Jewish Antiquities 3–4. Also, Paul Spisbury, “Contra Apionem and Antiquitates Judaicae: Points of Contact,” in Josephus’ Contra Apionem: Studies in its Character and Context (ed. L. H. Feldman and J. R. Levison; AGJU 34; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 348–68. 17 Mason, Jewish Antiquities 1–3, xxvi, observes the emphasis on the lawgiver over the divine. 18 Feldman, Josephus’ Interpretation of the Bible, 39–44, presents an outline of these.

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the faithful use of sources and the transmission of traditions are not uncommon.19 Josephus repeats this formula but adds, I safeguarded myself against those who would criticize the content or would find fault, committing only to translate the Hebrew books into the Greek tongue and promising to explain them, neither adding to the content anything of my own nor taking away anything (Ant. 10.218 [trans. Spilsbury, FJTC]).

In this passage Josephus seems to refer to two separate activities: translation (μεταφράζειν) and explanation (δηλώσειν).20 His language here suggests that he does, but elsewhere, his use of various terms implies a far broader understanding of the act of translation that involves an interpretative process. In general μεθερμενεύω and ἑρμενεύω and related terms express much more than translation (Ant. 1.5, 29; 12.20, 39, 48, 49, 108; 20.264) when referring to his own work or the production of the Septuagint.21 Josephus further categorizes his own work with the Septuagint translators insofar as a level of knowledge and training in their traditions is required.22 Feldman observes that “Josephus viewed himself as carrying on the tradition of the Septuagint in rendering the Bible for gentiles,” and this process includes interpretation.23 There is certainly no attempt to separate translation from commentary, to mark out the biblical text from his additions, or to justify omissions. While we are reminded of the parallel Josephus drew with Eleazar (Ant. 1.11), the interpretative method and form of Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities is very different from the Septuagint. For the Antiquities, the biblically based part of the text serves the function of the larger historiographical context. It constitutes only part of the larger work, which just over half way through takes up, and devotes almost as much space to, the later history of the Jewish, in particular Herodian and Roman 19 Barclay, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 10. Against Apion, 31, n. 171, and Tessa Rajak, “Josephus and the ‘Archaeology of the Jews,’” in The Jewish Dialogue with Greece and Rome (AGJU 48; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 241–55, esp. 249–50, on Josephus as part of the oriental tradition. 20 For further discussion, see Christopher T. Begg and Paul Spilsbury, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 5. Judean Antiquities Books 8–10 (ed. Steve Mason; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 288–89, n. 938, 939, 940. 21 Feldman, Josephus’ Interpretation of the Bible, 44–46, has collected the various uses of these terms. 22 Feldman, Jewish Antiquities 1–3, 4, n. 4 comments on Josephus’ claim with regard to the training and type of knowledge required for the interpretation of scripture (Ant. 12.49; 20.264; Ag. Ap. 1.54). 23 Feldman, Jewish Antiquities 1–3, 4, n. 4.

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rule.24 Josephus weaves into the translation interpretations and additional material, but in contrast with Jubilees for example, he stays relatively close to the biblical text.25 Comparing him with another Greek writer, Philo, while there are a great many similarities, and he is evidently deeply indebted to the innovations of his Judean predecessors writing in and for the Greek world, his work offers a closer and more comprehensive presentation of scripture.26 Feldman finds a close parallel for Josephus’ biblical account in Jewish Antiquities in Pseudo-Philo’s Biblical Antiquities; this work may also be chronologically close and, like Josephus, includes extra-biblical traditions. Yet Feldman concludes that the very fact that Pseudo-Philo refers to biblical books several times is a clue to the fact that it is not meant to replace the biblical text and, indeed, assumes a knowledge of those portions of the Bible that it chooses not to summarize, whereas Josephus’ paraphrase is meant for the reader who does not know the Bible and who will depend upon Josephus for a careful summary of its contents.27

For his task, Josephus provides credentials: as with those who produced the Septuagint (Ant. 1.10–13), he also belongs to a priestly family and in Against Apion he sets out his qualification for writing both Jewish War and Jewish Antiquities: . . . the Ancient History, as I said, I translated from the sacred writings, being a priest by ancestry and steeped in the philosophy contained in those writings; and I wrote the history of the war having been personally involved in many events, an eyewitness of most of them, and not in the

24 While Antiquities 1–10 covers the period from creation to the Babylonian exile, Antiquities 11–20 focuses on the time between the return under Cyrus to the outbreak of the first revolt. Within the second half, Books 14–17 are concerned with Herodian rule. Mason, “Introduction to the Judean Antiquities,” xx–xxii, examines its structure and content. 25 Feldman, Josephus’ Interpretation of the Bible, 14–17 compares Josephus’ rewriting of the biblical account with the Septuagint, Jubilees, the Genesis Apocryphon, the Qumran Pesharim, Philo, Pseudo-Philo’s Biblical Antiquities, rabbinic midrashim, and targumim; he notes that the author of Jubilees adapts the biblical texts in a far more radical way than Josephus, and of course, functions with a solar calendrical system. 26 On Josephus indebtedness to Philo, see George P. Carras, “Philo’s Hypothetica and Josephus’ Contra Apionem and the Question of Sources,” in SBL Seminar Papers 1990 (ed. D. J. Lull: Atlanta: Scholars, 1990), 431–50. J. M. G. Barclay, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 10. Against Apion, 353–61. 27 Feldman, Josephus’ Interpretation of the Bible, 16–17. Among the targumim, written in Josephus’ mother tongue, Feldman suggests that we find the closest counterpart for Josephus’ paraphrase, and yet there remain significant divergences.

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slightest deficient in my knowledge of anything that was said or done (Ag. Ap. 1.54 [trans. J. Barclay, FJTC]).

The apologetic tone regarding his account in the Jewish War may well be due to the existence of critics, but Josephus’ emphasis on his priestly credentials belongs not just to his self-presentation, but rests on a larger view of Jewish culture.28 The priesthood occupies a central place in his depiction of Jewish culture and the constitution.29 Jewish Antiquities with its concern for governance proposes priestly aristocracy as the ideal constitution (Ant. 3.188; 4.223–234, 304; 6.36)30 and Against Apion revisits this theme, but restates it: the Jewish constitution is now reformulated as a “theocracy” (θεοκρατία: Ag. Ap. 2.165). Rule is by God.31 This is reiterated in Against Apion 2.185 with an additional explanation of the role of the priests in this system; responsibility for ministering the important affairs lie with the priests (under the charge of the high priest) including education and judicial and punitive matters (Ag. Ap. 2.184–88). The different articulation of the constitution in Jewish Antiquities and Against Apion has given rise to much discussion, but it remains clear that for Josephus, the priests remain at the centre of this superior constitution and their functions are numerous.32 Among these, and the one with which we are currently concerned, is their responsibility with regard to sacred texts and their transmission.

28 For discussions on Josephus’ possible critics, see: Steve Mason, Flavius Josephus on the Pharisees: A Compositional-Critical Study (Leiden: Brill, 1991), 322–24; Tessa Rajak, Josephus: The Historian and his Society (London: Duckworth, 1983), 152–53; Per Bilde, Flavius Josephus between Jerusalem and Rome: His Life, his Works, and their Importance ( JSPSup 2; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1988), 107–13; and Mason, Life of Josephus, xxvii–l. 29 Mason, Flavius Josephus Judean Antiquities 1–3, xxiv–xxix, reveals Josephus’ programmatic presentation of the Judean constitution and suggests that this characterisation of the priestly Jewish aristocracy as essentially anti-monarchic would correspond with anti-autocratic Roman political traditions and could resonate with those concerned by the increasing monarchical nature of Domitian’s rule. 30 Positive views of priestly aristocracy are combined with a critique of monarchy: Ant 6.33, 39, 60–61, 89, 262–68; 13.300–1; 14.41–42; 19.222–23. 31 “θεῷ τὴν ἂρχὴν καὶ τὸ κράτος ἂναθείς”; Barclay, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 10. Against Apion, translates this as: “ascribing to God the power and the rule.” 32 Most recently Barclay, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 10. Against Apion, xxiii–xxiv, 261–62 n. 635, 262–63 n. 638, has proposed that in spite of the many shared features of Jewish Antiquities and Against Apion, their character and concerns diverge especially on the subject of the constitution. In particular, Against Apion presents a philosophical rather than political presentation of divine rule. Theocracy is further seen as distinct from aristocracy since it describes a metaphysical reality, not a political one. In this way, Barclay observes that the priesthood is not immediately connected with this theological understanding of God’s universal rule.

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Certainly sacerdotal status confers on Josephus personally a special place in Jewish society, one that he is eager to acknowledge (War 1.3; 3.352; Life 1–6; Ag. Ap. 1.54).33 And as priest, he can claim to be part of the process of care for the priestly genealogical lists and marriage records (Ag. Ap. 1.29–30). There seems to be some ambiguity with regard to the priests’ role in the transmission and preservation of the sacred scriptures; Josephus insists that only the prophets through divine inspiration could record history (Ag. Ap 1.37–41) but the accurate (ἂκρίβεια) maintenance of the records is assigned to the chief priests and prophets (Ag. Ap. 1.29) and then to all priests (Ag. Ap. 1.31–36). His claim in Against Apion 1.54 that he translated (μεθερμενεύω) the sacred texts on the account of his priestly status and familiarity with their philosophical content suggests that the priests did have a role in reading and providing interpretations of holy scripture. If among their tasks is the administration of justice and education, surely they must have expertise in the exposition of the Law.34 This indicates an important role in the transmission and interpretation of the Torah, which is further suggested by Moses’ entrusting to the care of the priests the Law (as well as the Ark and the Tent) (Ant. 4.304). The high priestly line, established at Sinai, has remained pure and unbroken for two thousand years (Ant. 20.224–236, 261; Ag. Ap. 1.30, 36), unlike that of the prophets (Ag. Ap. 1.41).35 Maintenance of these sacred records belongs also with the prophets, and here Josephus introduces a particular prophetic Jewish historiographical tradition in which he seems to situate his own historical endeavour (War 1.18; Ant. 1.17; Ag. Ap. 1.47–57).36 This prophetic self-perception has important implication for how Josephus perceived the status of his work.37 33 On Josephus as priest, see: Joseph Blenkinsopp, “Prophecy and Priesthood in Josephus,” JJS 25 (1974): 239–62; Daniel R. Schwartz, “Priesthood and Priestly Descent: Josephus’ Antiquities 10, 80,” JTS 32 (1981): 129–35; Daniel R. Schwartz, “Josephus on the Jewish Constitutions and Community;” P. Bilde, Flavius Josephus between Jerusalem and Rome, 189–91; L. H. Feldman, “Prophets and Prophecy in Josephus,” JTS 41 (1990): 419–21; Mason, Flavius Josephus on the Pharisees, 270–71. 34 In this volume, Matthias Henze, “Torah and Eschatology in the Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch,” 201–15, provides an outline of a near contemporary view of the relationship between Torah exegesis and communal authority. 35 On Josephus’ computation of the high priesty line, see Barclay, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 10. Against Apion, 27–28, n. 146, who observes that here Josephus offers a conception of prophetic history writing that is unique in Greek and Roman culture. 36 Barclay, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 10. Against Apion, 28 n. 152. 37 For discussions on the issues of his prophetic self-designation: Blenkinsopp, “Prophecy and Priesthood in Josephus,” 239–62; David Daube, “Typology in Jose-

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The consequence of the broken line of prophetic succession at the time of Artaxerxes is that since “every event has been recorded, but this is not judged worthy of the same trust (Ag. Ap. 1.41 [ Barclay, FJTC]).38 This seems to clarify that while Josephus may possess prophetic skills, the authority of his texts cannot be equated with sacred scripture.39 According to Josephus, the number of books belonging to this category of authoritative works is limited to twenty-two.40

phus,” JJS 31 (1980): 18–36; Schwartz, “Priesthood and Priestly Descent: Josephus’ Antiquities 10, 80,” 135 n. 2; Shaye J. D. Cohen, “Josephus, Jeremiah, and Polybius,” History and Theory, 21 (1982): 366–81; Bilde, Flavius Josephus between Jerusalem and Rome, 189–91; Rebecca Gray, Prophetic Figures in Late Second Temple Jewish Palestine (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 35–79; Steve Mason, “Josephus, Daniel, and the Flavian House” in Josephus and the History of the Greco-Roman Period: Essays in Memory of Morton Smith (eds. F. Parente and J. Sievers; Leiden: Brill, 1994), 161–91; Per Bilde, “Contra Apionem 1.28–56: An Essay on Josephus’ View of his own Work in the Context of the Jewish Canon,” in Josephus’ Contra Apionem: Studies in its Character and Context with a Latin Concordance to the Portion Missing in Greek (eds. L. H. Feldman and J. R. Levison: AGJU 34; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 94–113. 38 Both Blenkinsopp, “Prophecy and Priesthood in Josephus,” 246–55, and Sid Z. Leiman, “Josephus and the Canon of the Bible,” in Josephus, The Bible and History (ed. L. H. Feldman and G. Hata: Leiden: Brill, 1989), 55–56, interpret Josephus as meaning that there was a difference between pre- and post-Artaxerxes prophecy because Josephus does allow for a type of later prophetic activity. However, Gray, Prophetic Figures in Late Second Temple Jewish Palestine, and Bilde, “Contra Apionem 1.28–56: An Essay on Josephus’ View of his own Work in the Context of the Jewish Canon,” 103, read this passage as stressing that simply the line of exact succession was broken, as opposed to the end of biblical type prophecy. See also Steve Mason, “Josephus and his Twenty-Two Book Canon,” in The Canon Debate (eds. L. M. McDonald and J. A. Sanders; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2002), 16–19. 39 Blenkinsopp, “Prophecy and Priesthood in Josephus,” 239–62, Gray, Prophetic Figures in Late Second Temple Jewish Palestine, 35–79, and Bilde, “Contra Apionem 1.28–56: An Essay on Josephus’ View of his own Work in the Context of the Jewish Canon,” 94–113, discuss Josephus’ self-perception as a priest and a prophet and how these qualifications enable him to interpret the scriptures and write Jewish history. P. Bilde, Flavius Josephus between Jerusalem and Rome, 191, views these comments in Against Apion against War 1.18 where Josephus describes the recording of events by historians when the Jewish prophets ceased. Bilde concludes that “there is reason to assert that Josephus sees himself as a continuer of the prophetic Jewish ‘writing of history’, and sees his writings as a parallel to and continuation of the sacred Jewish scriptures, divinely inspired as they are.” In describing his own predictive abilities, however, Josephus assiduously avoids calling himself a prophet; in terms of his history writing credentials, he is qualified by virtue of being a priest (War 1.3; 3.352; Life 1–6; Apion 1.54) as are those who produce the LXX (Ant. 1.10–13). The biblical prophets share an ability to predict the future, but all those who predict the future in Josephus’ narrative are not deemed prophets. A further difference lies with the fact that the prophets of the past did not simply record events but were involved in mediating between the divine and humanity (Ant. 8.324–329). 40 Recent discussions of the composition of this twenty-two book “canon” can be found in Leiman, “Josephus and the Canon of the Bible”; and Mason, “Josephus and his Twenty-Two Book Canon,” 110–27.

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At the same time, Josephus suggests that his interpretation of these sacred scriptures depends on his priestly training and knowledge. It is in his role as priest rather than prophet that he understands his special qualifications to interpret sacred scripture. Belonging to the tradition that produced the inspired translation at Alexandria, Josephus could claim that he also provided a translation that preserved the philosophy of the text. Since the law is interpreted by those decreed by Moses to do so, and whose origins go back uninterrupted to Sinai, then the constitution as interpreted by the priests must also be of divine provenance, even if not explicitly stated? Barclay explains Josephus’ refocusing of his constitutional discussion in Against Apion: “In shifting his discourse into philosophical mode, Josephus transmutes the traditional claim about a divine origin of the Law into the value of its truths about God, specifically God’s universal rule and transcendence.”41 Does this philosophical discourse present a different or conflicting view of the origin of the constitution as set out in Jewish Antiquities, or can we trace an internal logic that links these different modes of discussion? “Rewritten” Bible and Mosaic Discourse Post-biblical Judaism saw the development of a tradition of reworking or rewriting the Bible in various forms, languages and contexts, with each reflecting different degrees of modification and exegetical techniques.42 Assessing these literary productions in terms of how their relationship with the original text was viewed contemporaneously is essential for understanding the phenomenon of pseudonymity, as well as how the authors perceived this act of re-writing.43 It has been observed that modern notions of authorship, forgery, and plagiarism impose anachronistic standards and obscure the world-view of the creators of these texts.44

41 Barclay, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, Volume 10. Against Apion, 259–60, n. 622. 42 Philip S. Alexander, “Retelling the Old Testament,” in It is Written: Scripture Citing Scripture. Essays in Honour of Barnabas Linders, SSF (eds. D. A. Carson and H. G. M. Williamson; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 99–121, addresses the problem of defining the parameters for identifying rewritten Bible as a genre in terms of literary characteristics. 43 Hindy Najman, Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple Judaism ( JSJSup 77; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 2–10. 44 Burton Mack, “Under the Shadow of Moses: Authorship and Authority in Hellenistic Judaism,” SBL Seminar Papers 1982 (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1982), 299–318,

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These interpretative reworkings are not intended to replace the original and their authority is derived from their relationship with the biblical text. Hindy Najman has observed that Deuteronomy provided a model for these reworkings with regard to Moses and Mosaic Law.45 Understanding the ongoing development of the authority and attributes of the figure of Moses and Mosaic Law in the literature of the period of the Second Temple as a form of discourse, which links the tradition to the founder, provides a conceptual framework for understanding the practice of rewriting and pseudonymity:46 “On this understanding of a discourse tied to a founder, to rework an earlier text is to update, interpret and develop the content of that text in a way that one claims to be the authentic expression of the law already accepted as authoritatively Mosaic.” Establishing this connection with the tradition authorizes the new interpretation by its link to the Mosaic: “the only passable roads to textual authority led through the past. Mosaic discourse was one such route.”47 For Mosaic discourse to take place four conditions must be present, or if missing, compensated for in some way:48 first, to gain authorized status, a text must find a link or connection to the tradition it claims to belong to; secondly the text is presented as an authentic expression of Torah; thirdly, Sinai is actualised in order to facilitate access to the revelation; finally, it is seen either to be produced by Moses or is associated with him. The presence of these features provides the means by which the text can be reworked and at the same time retain its authority. Mosaic discourse facilitates the authentic expression of Mosaic Law by extending this authority to the interpretative community. The transformation of a particular law laid down in an earlier text does not have to be considered as among the actual words of the historical Moses, but “It is rather to say that the implementation of the law in question would enable Israel to return to the authentic teaching associated with draws on Harold Blooms’s theory of the anxiety of influence to examine how Hellenistic Jewish authors developed various strategies for their authorial self-understanding in light of the growing dominance of the figure of Moses and his books. See also Najman, Seconding Sinai, 1–10. 45 Najman, Seconding Sinai, 19–36, 39–40. 46 Najman, Seconding Sinai, 10–14, 19–39. In this volume, an alternative to this model of discourse is proposed by Eva Mroczek, “Moses, David and Scribal Revelation: Preservation and Renewal in Second Temple Textual Traditions,” 91–115, in which the scribal activities of both David and Moses become central to the transmission and preservation of revelation. 47 Najman, Seconding Sinai, 15. 48 Najman, Seconding Sinai, 16–17.

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the prophetic status of Moses.”49 Najman assesses the establishment of Mosaic Discourse in Deuteronomy, and then looks outside the biblical texts to Jubilees, the Temple Scroll, and Philo for later expressions of this tradition.50 Philo’s Greco-Roman context provided the dynamic behind a new development in Judaism for understanding the role of the author, in which he claims responsibility for his allegorical interpretations, even if considered inspired.51 Yet, Najman does see Philo participating in Mosaic Discourse. In light of Josephus’ authorial claims, his GrecoRoman context, and as a close contemporary of Philo’s, perhaps a (necessarily brief ) consideration of Philo’s reworking of the Bible may help us to understand if Josephus understood his own relationship when rewriting the Bible as Mosaic Discourse. Writing for a predominately non-Jewish audience, it might seem erroneous for Philo to be concerned with Mosaic discourse, and the authentic expression of the Law of Moses; written law was deemed to be flawed and charges of Jewish exclusivism could only find justification with claims about the divine authorship for a special law for the Jews.52 Yet in the atmosphere of cultural competition in Roman Alexandria, Philo transforms the features of Mosaic discourse so that the particularism of Sinai and the Law of Moses has universal significance.53 Moses remains central as the authority-conferring figure, but the transmission of the law, and the law itself, is conceived of in a different way. Philo’s Moses, radically Hellenized, embodies the virtues idealised by the Greeks, and life—like those of the pre-Sinai patriarchs—is

Najman, Seconding Sinai, 13. Najman, Seconding Sinai, on Deuteronomy, 19–36; on Jubilees and the Temple Scroll, 41–69; on Philo, 70–107; and for later examples, 108–37. 51 Najman, Seconding Sinai, 18–19. Burton Mack, “Under the Shadow of Moses: Authorship and Authority in Hellensitic Judaism,” 316–18, on how Philo constructs his own authorial authority in relation to the person of Moses. Philip Alexander’s criteria for rewritten Bible excludes the writings included in The Expositions of the Laws of Moses from this genre (“Retelling the Old Testament,” 117–18), but Peder Borgen, Philo of Alexandria: An Exegete for his Time (NTSup 86; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 65, 78–79, challenges this view and suggests that the criteria need to be expanded. 52 Najman, Seconding Sinai, 71–73. On the flawed character of written law, see 76–77. 53 Najman, Seconding Sinai, 70–71. John W. Martens, One God, One Law: Philo of Alexandria on the Mosaic and Greco-Roman Law (Studies in Philo of Alexandria 2; Leiden: Brill, 2003), analyzes how Philo transformed Greek concepts of law in his reconception of the status of Mosaic law by combining the three aspects of “higher law”—ἄγραφος νόμος (unwritten law), νόμος φύσεως (law of nature), and νόμος ἔμψυχος (embodied or living law)—and defining their relationship with the Law of Moses. 49 50

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exemplary and provides a model of the virtuous life (e.g., Abr. 5, 16, 276; Prob. 6.2; Mos. 1.162).54 They achieved this by living in accordance with the Law of Nature, of which the Law of Moses is a copy (Mos. 2.48).55 In this way, Najman shows how Philo represents the written Law of Moses as a copy of the perfect Law of Nature and as a result confers on it a significance beyond the Jewish context; the God who created the world, created the Law of Nature (Mos. 2.48; Sec 2.129; Sacr. 131; Det. 68) and so too is the source for the copy, the Law of Moses:56 for this reason the Law is presented after the creation account (Opif. 3; Mos. 2.47–48). As the non-legal part of the Pentateuch is also Mosaic, the Law of Moses is not simply a collection of ordinances: established at creation, it can be accessed through reason as well as by the revelation to Moses.57 Najman notes that while Philo draws on the Greek tradition of writing exemplary lives and is also aware of the practice of legitimising Roman rule through idealized biographies, he combines this with the Jewish tradition of interpreting the foundation document of the Pentateuch within an authorised interpretative community.58 This interpretative community is legitimised by the links with Moses. The act of interpretation belongs within a tradition, and Philo sees himself as part of that tradition.59 In this way, he participates in and contributes to

54 E.g., “Having related in the preceding treaties the lives of those whom Moses judged to be men of wisdom, who are set before us in the Sacred Books as founders of our nation and in themselves unwritten laws . . .” (Philo, Dec. 1 [Colson, LCL]): Najman, Seconding Sinai, 82, 86, 88–98. On Moses as philosopher, king, prophet, and embodied law: Mos. 1.148 1.162; 2.2–3, 2.4. 55 Najman, Seconding Sinai, 81–82. Martens, One God, One Law, 95–99, 118–21 on Mosaic law as a copy; 13–30, 151–58 on the Stoic conception of the law of nature. 56 E.g., Philo, Opif. 89–128; Mos. 2.14, on the cosmic relevance of the Sabbath. Najman, Seconding Sinai, 80. Borgen, Philo of Alexandria, 144–48 examines the relationship between Mosaic law and cosmic law in Philo’s writings. Martens, One God, One Law, 95–99, outlines the argument for Philo’s claim for the divine origin of law. 57 Najman, Seconding Sinai, 98–99. Rival claims about Moses’ special access to revelation appear in the Enochic tradition, which presents Enoch’s reception of revelation as chronologically and qualitatively superior: Andrei Orlov, “In the Mirror of the Divine Face: The Enochic Features of the Exagoge of Ezekiel the Tragedian,” 183–99 shows how the author of the Exagoge met this challenge by furnishing Moses with Enochic attributes. 58 Najman, Seconding Sinai, 99–100. Philo positions himself within a community tradition, claiming to: “. . . tell the story of Moses as I have learned it, both from the sacred books, the wonderful monuments of his wisdom which he left behind him; for I always interwove what I was told with what I read, and thus believed myself to have a closer knowledge than others of his life history” (Mos. 1.4 [Colson, LCL]). 59 Spec. 3.6.

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Mosaic discourse.60 For Philo, as interpreter of the text, is drawing out the hidden meaning of the law and so reveals it for his audience.61 As such then, while not claiming Torah status, the interpretation is presented as Mosaic in origin. In this way, Philo transforms the first feature of Mosaic discourse and ignores the second condition. The third, the present-ness of the Sinai event is not explicitly central for Philo. Sinai is replaced both by the creation with the establishment of the Law of Nature, and by Pharos when the inspired translation of the Law of Nature was made available to everyone:62 . . . and taking the sacred books, stretched them out towards heaven with the hands that held them, asking of God that they might not fail in their purpose. And He assented to their prayers, to the end that the greater part, or even the whole, of the human race might be profited and led to a better life by continuing to observe such wise and truly admirable ordinances (Mos. 2.31–40 [Colson, LCL]).63

Sinai, however, retains a significance insofar as Moses achieved divine comprehension there, and this is present in the Pentateuch and its interpretations: “Sinai . . . becomes omnipresent, since Moses’ divine vision pervades both the Pentateuch and its correct interpretation, underwriting its authority.”64 Finally, how does Philo treat the fourth feature of Mosaic discourse, attribution to Moses? As Moses functioned within his prophetic role as divine interpreter, so Philo’s act of interpretation emulated that of Moses.65 While some similarities with Josephus’ understanding of Mosaic Law and its interpretation can be observed, does it follow that Josephus can be said belong to this tradition of Mosaic discourse, and in particular does he claim authorised status for his work? And if Josephus considered the revelatory event at Sinai as ongoing, would the God-given Law of Moses be actualised through the Jewish constitution? Najman, Seconding Sinai, 100–6. Najman, Seconding Sinai, 100–6. For Philo’s inspired exegetical experience, see Spec. 3.1–6; Cher. 27–29; Migr. 34–35. 62 Najman, Seconding Sinai, 102–6. Borgen, Philo of Alexandria, 143, situates Pharos in the mind of Philo as “. . . a decisive event in revelatory history, the goal of which is recognition of these Laws of Moses by all nations.” 63 See also Mos. 2.26–27. 64 Najman, Seconding Sinai, 105. 65 Najman, Seconding Sinai, 105–6 and 106, n. 67 notes the parallels between Philo’s terminology for his own inspired mediating activity that he uses for Moses as God’s interpreter (Mos. 1.188). Borgen, Philo of Alexandria, 143, on Philo’s self-understanding of continuing the task of the Septuagint translators. 60 61

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Josephus and Mosaic Discourse Josephus’ statement that his undertaking in Jewish Antiquities emulated Eleazar places him within the undisputed authorised trajectory of the Septuagint. Furthermore, we saw that he established his authority to translate these texts through his priestly status. The eternal priesthood of Aaron is announced by God to Amran in Ant. 2.216, and throughout Book 3, Aaron’s role as priest is justified;66 he is chosen because of his virtue (3.188, 192), and due to his gift of prophecy (3.192) he can be spokesman for Moses. The direct line of priestly succession from Sinai to their central place in the maintenance of Jewish tradition and its constitution confers on the priests a link to that original act of interpretation. They are responsible for the teaching and implementation of the constitution and as such guard its interpretation.67 Accordingly, if there is a link to sanction Josephus’ interpretation, is his text an authentic expression of Torah, one condition for inclusion in Mosaic Discourse? Insofar as Josephus places himself with a tradition of transmitting to a Greek audience (Ant. 1.9–11), and by inviting his readers to turn their thoughts to God and to judge (δοκιμάζειν) whether our lawgiver comprehended His nature worthily and has always attributed to Him deeds that are befitting His power, preserving the discourse about Him pure from every unseemly mythology that is found among others (Ant. 1.15 [Feldman, FJTC]),

he is taking it upon himself to inform his audience about the divine.68 He even claims that he reordered the laws since they were not given

66 Ant. 2.216; 3.188, 192. On Josephus’ portrait of Aaron, see Feldman, Josephus’ Interpretation of the Bible, 386–87. 67 Cf. texts of the Second Temple period that elevated scribal activity—originating at Sinai—to a central place in the ongoing interpretation of revelation: Mroczek, “Moses, David and Scribal Revelation: Preservation and Renewal in Second Temple Textual Traditions,” 91–115. 68 Different views of Josephus’ audience in Rome are offered by Louis H. Feldman, “Use, Authority and Exegesis of Mikra in the Writings of Josephus,” in Mikra, Text, Translation, Reading and Interpretation of the Hebrew Bible in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity (eds. J. Mulder and H. Sysling; CRINT 2.1; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1988), 470–71, and Steve Mason, “Of Audience and Meaning: Reading Josephus’ Bellum Judaicum in the Context of a Flavian Audience,” in Josephus and Jewish History in Flavian Rome and Beyond (eds. J. Sievers and G. Lembi; JSJSup 104; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 71–100, and Jonathan J. Price, “The Provincial Historian in Rome,” in Josephus and Jewish History in Flavian Rome and Beyond, 101–18.

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to Moses in a uniform way (Ant. 4.197). Stating that it is through this constitution—set out in his own work—that one can achieve happiness, Josephus invites his readers to consider this way of life, just as Moses had invited the Hebrews to emulate him, since he understood the divine will. For Josephus, it would seem that it is not his text as such that is the authentic expression of Torah, but the Jewish constitution, and his work provides a means of accessing it. As for the actualising of the Sinai event, in line with Philo, Josephus equates the Law of Moses with natural law (Ant. 1.24), and Moses through his understanding of the nature of God emulated this best model possible (Ant. 1.19). Likewise, prior to Sinai, the patriarchs were able to live according to the law of God. Josephus prefaces the Decalogue with a brief overview of God’s care for the Hebrews even before the Law of Moses is instituted (Ant. 3.86–88). For this reason, like Philo, Josephus is clear that the Law does not simply consist of ordinances (Ant. 1.21). The God of creation who ordered the universe is the source of the Law of Moses. This ordering according to nature is reflected in the constitution, and also informs the construction of the Tent in the desert in accordance with divine instruction (Ant 3.100; War 5.212–14). The symbolic interpretation of the Tent, the priests clothing and the sacred vessels (Ant 3.180–87), which are presented as a reflection or representation of the universe confers universal relevance to what might be perceived as exclusively Jewish.69 Moses could comprehend the divine nature, but the Sinai event provides the setting for Moses’ interpretations of God’s Law.70 In Josephus’ narrative, Moses’ role is increased significantly, and his function as mediator between God and the people becomes further emphasized.71 Sinai provides the defining moment for Moses’ prophetic role.

Feldman, Judean Antiquities Books 1–4, 280, n. 474, comments on this passage and notes the parallels in Jewish tradition, and in particular with Philo. 70 For a detailed analysis of Moses’ portrayal in the Jewish Antiquities, see Louis H. Feldman, “Josephus’ Portrait of Moses. Part One,” JQR 82 (1992): 285–328; “Josephus’ Portrait of Moses. Part Two,” JQR 83 (1992): 7–50; and “Josephus’ Portrait of Moses. Part Three,” JQR 83 (1993): 301–30, repr. in Josephus’ Interpretation of the Bible, 374–442. In this volume, an analysis of Josephus’ portrayal of Moses at Sinai in the context of sophistic discourse is offered by George van Kooten, “Why did Paul include an Exegesis of Moses’ Shining Face (Exod 34) in 2 Cor 3?” 168–71. 71 Moses is not only a priest, but also a prophet (Ant. 2.377; 4.320) who predicts future events (Ant. 4.303, 320, 307), and his part in divine revelation is significantly increased (Ant. 3.75, 78, 87, 93, 107, 212). 69

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While for Josephus, the revelation at Sinai is not explicitly present in his discussions of the constitution, it is not completely absent; Josephus does not adopt a different world-view in which belief in divine origin of the Mosaic constitution is absent. In Book 3, the divine presence is transferred from Sinai to the Tent (3.93, 100, 202–203) and here Moses receives further instruction: He wished a Tent to be set up for Himself, into which He would descend to them when He was with them, “in order that when we move to another place we may take it with us and no longer have need to ascend to Sinai, but that He Himself, frequenting the Tent, may be present at our prayers” (Ant. 3.100 [Feldman, FJTC]).

As the Tent becomes the Temple, the one Temple of the Jewish people that is central to the ordering of the constitution (Ag. Ap. 2.193), then Sinai is recreated through the Temple and the priesthood (Ag. Ap. 2.193–94). Finally, we must consider the association with Moses; as outlined, Josephus’ priestly credentials grants him special access to the Law of Moses and authorize his interpretation. Through this priestly interpretative community, Josephus is linked with Moses and so too is his interpretation. Josephus participates in Mosaic discourse and provides a way in which the interested gentile can access the Jewish constitution. Conclusion Hindy Najman challenges the understanding of “rewritten” Bible since “the distinction between the transmission and interpretation of biblical traditions was not as sharp as the term Rewritten Bible implies.”72 Our examination of Josephus’ claims with regard to his own interpretative reworking suggests that we cannot judge his modifications to the biblical text as egregious hypocrisy, rather he belongs to a Jewish tradition which established authorial authority by its relationship to the Bible. One way of defining that relationship is through Mosaic Discourse. Josephus’ participation in this discourse provides a way of viewing his presentation of the Jewish constitution as theocracy in Against Apion within the same conceptual framework as Mosaic Law in Jewish Antiquities. While the apologetic interests of Against Apion and its highly

72

Najman, Seconding Sinai, 8.

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metaphysical presentation of the Jewish constitution may preclude the treatment of the Sinaitic revelation and the heavenly origin of Mosaic Law, Sinai is present in the priestly administration of the constitution. As a priest, Josephus’ exposition of the Law of Moses and the theocratic constitution provides his readers with a link to the ongoing revelation that began at Sinai.

WHY DID PAUL INCLUDE AN EXEGESIS OF MOSES’ SHINING FACE (EXOD 34) IN 2 COR 3? Moses’ Strength, Well-being and (Transitory) Glory, according to Philo, Josephus, Paul, and the Corinthian Sophists George H. van Kooten University of Groningen, The Netherlands Introduction: Why does Paul draw on Exod 34 in 2 Cor 3? The question I shall deal with in my paper is why Paul drew so extensively on an episode of the Giving of the Torah in his Second Letter to the Corinthians.1 In chapter 3 he makes abundant use of Exod 34, the story about the second giving of the Torah and Moses’ shining face, which reflects God’s glory. Although Paul does not even mention the fact that the first tablets of the law were replaced, Exod 34 is terribly important to him because of a particular feature of the Old Testament narrative. The question is: why did Paul consider Exod 34 so important? One might point out that the narrative of the giving of the Torah would have been of importance to any Jew. Indeed, in another letter, too, Paul refers to the way the Law was handed down to Moses. In his Letter to the Galatians, as part of an intense polemic against Judaizing parties within Christianity which wish to uphold the Law in every respect, Paul emphasizes the secondary nature of the Law: it only arrived on the scene of Israel fairly late on, 430 years after Abraham, the founding father of Judaism (Gal 3:17); its secondary nature is also evident from the fact that “it was ordained through angels by a mediator” (Gal 3:19). Here, Paul applies Jewish traditions about the association of angels in the giving of the law.2 Yet, for all his criticism of the Mosaic law in Galatians, Paul is very brief about the actual

1 I wish to thank the participants in the conference for their useful and stimulating suggestions and criticism. Dr Maria Sherwood-Smith kindly corrected the English of this paper. 2 James D. G. Dunn, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians (Black’s New Testament Commentaries; London: Black, 1993), 191.

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giving of the Torah. In this light, the sheer length of Paul’s passage on the giving of the law in 2 Cor 3 requires further explanation and might have to do with the specific setting of 1–2 Cor. Indeed, Paul has already alluded to specific narratives about the journey of Israel through the wilderness in 1 Cor. In chapter 10 Paul writes about Israel’s escape through the Red Sea and talks about the Israelites’ itinerary through the desert: I do not want you to be unaware, brothers and sisters, that our ancestors were all under the cloud, and all passed through the sea, and all were baptized into Moses in the cloud and in the sea, and all ate the same spiritual food, and all drank the same spiritual drink. For they drank from the spiritual rock that followed them, and the rock was Christ (1 Cor 10:1–4).3

Paul draws on these narratives because he wants to counter his opponents’ experience of the sacraments, which leads them to regard themselves as invincible. Partaking in the same baptism, spiritual food, and spiritual drink, Paul explains, did not render the Israelites invulnerable to God’s judgement: Nevertheless, God was not pleased with most of them, and they were struck down in the wilderness. Now these things occurred as examples for us, so that we might not desire evil as they did (1 Cor 10:5–6).

In this case, it is very likely that Paul himself draws on the narrative of Israel’s journey through the wilderness in order to criticize his opponents’ way of life. In line with this, it could be assumed that in 2 Cor, too, Paul continues to allude to this story, now commenting on the giving of the Law. Yet, this time there are clear signs that it is not Paul himself, but his opponents within the Christian community at Corinth who were the first to refer to this episode of Moses on Mt. Sinai. There may have been a simple reason for Paul’s opponents in Corinth to focus on Moses. They were Christians of Jewish background, as 2 Cor 10–13 makes clear, but their approach seems to have been very different from the Judaizing Christians among the Galatians, because in

3 Biblical translations are taken from the NRSV; Classical translations either from the Loeb Classical Library or from Menahem Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism: Edition with Introduction, Translation and Commentary (3 vols; Publications of the Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities; Section of Humanities = Fontes ad res Judaicas spectantes; Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1974–1984), with minor alterations when necessary.

why did paul include an exegesis of moses’ shining face? 151 2 Cor there is neither ethnocentric Jewish discourse nor straightforward commendation of the Jewish law.4 The Corinthians seem simply to have brought up the issue of Moses as legislator, whose writings would also have been read as Scripture in the Christian community. As we shall see, in a pagan context, with pagan outsiders being introduced to the meetings of the Christian community (1 Cor 14.16, 23), there was abundant reason to talk about Moses, since his image among the pagans was ambiguous and not necessarily positive and, for that reason, stood in need of clarification. 1. Moses in Pagan-Jewish Relations One of the first pagan Greeks to draw a negative portrayal of Moses as a lawgiver is Hecataeus of Abdera (3rd cent. b.c.e.). Although his overall attitude to the Jews is not unsympathetic, the following features in his account are critical about Moses’ legislation for the Jews: In addition [Moses] (. . .) instituted their forms of worship and ritual, drew up their laws and ordered their political institutions. (. . .) The sacrifices that he established differ from those of other nations, as does their way of living, for as a result of their own expulsion from Egypt he introduced an unsocial and intolerant mode of life. (. . .) And at the end of their laws there is even appended the statement: “These are the words that Moses heard from God and declares unto the Jews” (Hecataeus apud Diodorus Siculus, Library of History 40.3.3–6; Stern, No. 11).

The Jewish legislation is explicitly linked with the name of Moses, who is understood to have presented his own words as the word of God. His institutions are characterized as “unsocial” and “intolerant.” The passage from Hecataeus just quoted is preserved in a work by Diodorus Siculus, who is equally critical about Moses’ law elsewhere in his writings. According to Diodorus (1st cent. b.c.e.), Moses is just one of the many lawgivers who have claimed divine origins for their own legislation. Other examples include Mneves, among the Egyptians, and Zathraustes, among the Arians: And among the Jews Moyses referred his laws to the god who is invoked as Iao. They all did it either because they believed that a conception

4 Cf. also Dieter Georgi, The Opponents of Paul in Second Corinthians (SNTW; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1987), 248: “The fact that the concept of νόμος is wholly lacking from 2 Cor. 3 argues against a conflict with Jewish nomism.”

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Tacitus (56–120 c.e.) is even more critical about the giving of the Jewish law. He draws a sharp contrast between the Jewish law and the laws of “all other religions”: To establish his influence over this people for all time, Moses introduced new religious practices, quite opposed to those of all other religions. The Jews regard as profane all that we hold sacred; on the other hand, they permit all that we abhor (Tacitus, Historiae 5.4.1; Stern, No. 281).

This opposition between Jewish and other religious laws is also emphasized by Juvenal (60–130 c.e.), all the more since he has noted that some pagans are attracted by Judaism: Having been wont to flout the laws of Rome, they learn and practise and revere the Jewish law, and all that Moses handed down in his secret tome, forbidding to point out the way to any not worshiping the same rites, and conducting none but the circumcised to the desired fountain (Saturae 14.100–104; Stern, No. 301).

In this light it becomes understandable that Jewish Christians at Corinth would feel the need to come to Moses’ defence and portray him in a positive way, partly with a view to the pagan outsiders who, as we have seen, visited the Christian meetings (1 Cor 14:16, 23). That is not to say that pagan outsiders would only have encountered a negative portrayal of Moses among their fellow pagan authors. The negative views outlined above contrast with more favourable views, such as those of Strabo, who is quite positive about Moses himself, his peaceable reputation and his non-oppressive legislation and governmental organization, and only blames Moses’ successors of later days for corrupting his legacy: Moses, instead of using arms, put forward as defence his sacrifices and his Divine Being, being resolved to seek a seat of worship for Him and promising to deliver to the people a kind of worship and a kind of ritual which would not oppress those who adopted them either with expenses or with divine obsessions or with other absurd troubles. Now Moses enjoyed fair repute with these people, and organised no ordinary kind of government (. . .). His successors for some time abided by the same course, acting righteously and being truly pious toward God; but afterwards, first superstitious men were appointed to the priesthood, and then tyrannical people (Geography 16.2.36–37; Stern, No. 115).

why did paul include an exegesis of moses’ shining face? 153 We find unambiguously positive views on Moses in Numenius (2nd cent. c.e.), who likened Plato to Moses, as is captured in the muchquoted one-liner “What is Plato but Moses talking Attic?”5 This kind of perspective, in which Plato is even dependent on Moses, is shared by Jewish authors such as Aristobulus (2nd cent. b.c.e.), who claims that even prior to the Septuagint parts of the Jewish writings, including the detailed account of Moses’ entire legislation, had already been translated into Greek, so that the Greeks begin from the philosophy of the Hebrews; from the (books) of Aristobulus dedicated to King Ptolemy: It is evident that Plato imitated our legislation and that he had thoroughly investigated each of the elements in it. (. . .) So it is very clear that the philosopher mentioned above [Plato] took many things (from it). For he was very learned, as was Pythagoras, who transferred many of our doctrines and integrated them into his own system of beliefs (Aristobulus, frag. 3; Eusebius, Praeparatio Evangelica 13.12.1–2).

These different voices, both negative and positive, provide sufficient indication that the figure of Moses was an issue in pagan-Jewish relations and that, for this reason, Jewish Christians, too, would have wanted to present a positive picture of Moses wherever possible. This necessity is also emphasized by Philo. In the introduction to his biography of Moses, Philo explains that whereas the Jewish laws are well known, the giver of these laws, Moses, seems to be largely neglected: While the fame of the laws which [Moses] left behind him has travelled throughout the civilized world and reached the ends of the earth, the man himself as he really was is known to few. Greek men of letters have refused to treat him as worthy of memory, possibly through envy, and also because in many cases the ordinances of the legislators of the different states are opposed to his (Life of Moses I.1–2).

This complaint resembles that of Origen, some time later, when he censures Celsus for having omitted Moses from the list of wise men (Celsus apud Origen, Contra Celsum I.16; Stern, No. 375). Although this background may explain why Jewish Christians in Corinth felt a need to repaint a pagan picture of Moses,6 there is more at issue here.

5 Numenius, frag. 8.13 (edn Des Places). On Numenius and Moses, see Myles F. Burnyeat, “Platonism in the Bible: Numenius of Apamea on Exodus and Eternity,” in The Revelation of the Name YHWH to Moses: Perspectives from Judaism, the Graeco-Roman World, and Early Christianity (ed. G. H. van Kooten; TBN 9; Leiden: Brill), 139–168. 6 On this see further John G. Gager, Moses in Greco-Roman Paganism (SBL Monograph Series 16; Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1972); and George H. van Kooten, “Moses/

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It seems that, in their attempts to defend Moses, they have depicted him in terms of a powerful, glorious kind of sophist whose reputation and success should not be ignored by the pagans. Not only can this Moses compete with the pagan sophists in the Mediterranean world, but should also provide a role-model for rhetoric and performance within the Christian communities, it seems. It is this picture of Moses which Paul attempts to redress in 2 Cor. Such an interpretation of the polemics in Corinth does full justice to the fact that Paul’s re-reading of the episode of Moses on Mt. Sinai in 2 Cor 3 is firmly anchored in an anti-sophistic setting. 2. 2 Cor 3 in its Anti-Sophistic Setting The extensive passage on Moses is embedded in Paul’s criticism of his opponents at Corinth who—as Bruce Winter has convincingly argued— behave like sophists. At the end of 2 Cor 2 Paul openly criticizes them and distances himself by emphasizing that he is not like “the many who sell the word of God by retail”: For we are not like so many who sell God’s word by retail—οὐ γάρ ἐσμεν ὡς οἱ πολλοὶ καπηλεύοντες τὸν λόγον τοῦ θεοῦ; but in Christ we speak as persons of sincerity, as persons sent from God and standing in his presence (2 Cor 2:17).

As has been noted by scholars such as Ralph Martin, Dieter Georgi and Bruce Winter, the phrase οὐ γάρ ἐσμεν ὡς οἱ πολλοὶ καπηλεύοντες τὸν λόγον τοῦ θεοῦ, “For we are not like so many who sell God’s word by retail,” is an echo of Plato’s criticism of the sophists in the Protagoras.7 In this dialogue Socrates urges Hippocrates: We must see that the sophist in commending his wares does not deceive us, like the wholesaler and the retailer who deal in food for the body. (. . .) So too those who take the various subjects of knowledge from city to city, and sell them by retail (οἱ τὰ μαθήματα περιάγοντες κατὰ τὰς πόλεις

Musaeus/Mochos and his God YHWH, Iao, and Sabaoth, Seen from a Greek Perspective,” in The Revelation of the Name YHWH to Moses, 107–138. 7 Ralph P. Martin, 2 Corinthians (Word Biblical Commentary 40; Waco, Texas: Word Books, 1986), 50; Georgi, The Opponents of Paul in Second Corinthians, 234; and Bruce W. Winter, Philo and Paul among the Sophists: Alexandrian and Corinthian Responses to a Julio-Claudian Movement (2nd edition; Grand Rapids, Michigan: Eerdmans, 2002), 168, cf. 91, 167.

why did paul include an exegesis of moses’ shining face? 155 καὶ πωλοῦντες καὶ καπηλεύοντες) to whoever wants them, commend everything that they have for sale (313d–e).

This image is used in the context immediately preceding 2 Cor 3 (in 2 Cor 2:17), and straight after 2 Cor 3 Paul resumes this theme as a kind of “inclusio” (in 2 Cor 4:2). Instead of tampering with God’s word, Paul portrays himself as interested in truth: But we have renounced disgraceful, underhanded ways. We refuse to practice cunning or to tamper with God’s word (μηδὲ δολοῦντες τὸν λόγον τοῦ θεοῦ), but by the open statement of the truth (ἀλλὰ τῇ φανερώσει τῆς ἀληθείας) we would commend ourselves to everyone’s conscience (συνιστάνοντες ἑαυτοὺς πρὸς πᾶσαν συνείδησιν ἀνθρώπων) in the sight of God (2 Cor 4:2).

In this way the entire passage devoted to the giving of the Torah to Moses in 2 Cor 3 appears to be embedded right in the middle of antisophistic polemics. Moreover, it is not only the periphery of 2 Cor 3 that belongs to this setting; the contents of 2 Cor 3 can also be shown to arise gradually from this debate. In order to demonstrate this, I shall divide 2 Cor 3 into four parts and comment upon them. I shall argue (1) that the entire chapter evolves from a reference to “letters of recommendation,” which were part of sophistic practice in real life and provided the incentive for Paul to write the chapter (see [a] below); (2) that the pivotal terms around which the entire passage subsequently revolves are “letter” ( gramma; see [b]) and “splendour, radiance, fame, renown” (doxa; see [c]); (3) that the specifically Pauline antithesis between letter and spirit is not simply inserted into, or applied to this passage but is being construed throughout it (see [b]; and (4) that it is in this context that Paul draws on the narrative of Exod 34 (see [c] and [d]). 2 Cor 3, then, does not contain an autonomous, unsolicited exegesis of Exod 34. On the contrary, the exegesis is deliberately drawn into a specific polemical context and is wholly intertwined with this situation. I shall now pay close attention to the composition of the chapter, with a focus on how its train of thought reveals the underlying discussion. (a) 2 Cor 3:1–3: Reference to written letters of recommendation and a slow development towards an implicit antithesis between “letter” and “spirit” Having stated that he is not selling the word of God by retail but speaks from sincerity (2 Cor 2:17), Paul subsequently criticizes the practice of employing συστατικαὶ ἐπιστολαὶ, letters of recommendation (2 Cor

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3:1). Introductory, commendatory letters were not confined to sophistic circles. Aristotle already remarks that personal appearance is a better introduction than any letter (Aristotle apud Diogenes Laertius, Vitae philosophorum 5.18), apparently referring to a widespread phenomenon (cf. Diogenes Laertius, Vitae philosophorum 8.87). Interestingly, this testimony of Aristotle in Diogenes Laertius also demonstrates criticism of this phenomenon at the hands of philosophers. Similar criticism is recorded in Epictetus, who has a chapter addressed “to those who recommend persons to the philosophers.” He refers with approval to Diogenes the Cynic, who critically questions a man who requests γράμματα συστατικὰ, a written recommendation: That is an excellent answer of Diogenes to the man who asked for a letter of recommendation from him (πρὸς τὸν ἀξιοῦντα γράμματα παρ’ αὐτοῦ λαβεῖν συστατικὰ): “That you are a man,” he says, “he [i.e. the prospective addressee of this letter] will know at a glance; but whether you are a good or a bad man he will discover if he has the skill to distinguish between good and bad, and if he is without that skill he will not discover the facts, even though I write him thousands of times” (Epictetus, Dissertationes 2.3).

Such letters also very much fit the sophistic atmosphere of appraisal, repute and self-commendation criticized by Paul, who writes: (3:1) A ̓ ρχόμεθα πάλιν ἑαυτοὺς συνιστάνειν; ἢ μὴ χρῄζομεν ὥς τινες συστατικῶν ἐπιστολῶν πρὸς ὑμᾶς ἢ ἐξ ὑμῶν; (2) ἡ ἐπιστολὴ ἡμῶν ὑμεῖς ἐστε, ἐγγεγραμμένη ἐν ταῖς καρδίαις ἡμῶν, γινωσκομένη καὶ ἀναγινωσκομένη ὑπὸ πάντων ἀνθρώπων· (3) φανερούμενοι ὅτι ἐστὲ ἐπιστολὴ Χριστοῦ διακονηθεῖσα ὑφ’ ἡμῶν, ἐγγεγραμμένη οὐ μέλανι ἀλλὰ πνεύματι θεοῦ ζῶντος, οὐκ ἐν πλαξὶν λιθίναις ἀλλ᾽ ἐν πλαξὶν καρδίαις σαρκίναις.

Are we beginning to commend ourselves again? Surely we do not need, as some do, letters of recommendation to you or from you, do we? (2) You yourselves are our letter, written on our hearts, to be known and read by all; (3) and you show that you are a letter of Christ, prepared by us, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts (2 Cor 3:1–3).

The passage starts off with a reference to letters of recommendation, συστατικαὶ ἐπιστολαὶ (3:1). Paul criticizes this phenomenon, employed by his opponents, and refers to the Corinthian community as his letter, written in his heart (ἡ ἐπιστολὴ ἡμῶν ὑμεῖς ἐστε, ἐγγεγραμμένη ἐν ταῖς καρδίαις ἡμῶν; 3:2), written not with ink but with the Spirit (ἐγγεγραμμένη οὐ μέλανι ἀλλὰ πνεύματι θεοῦ ζῶντος; 3:3b), not on tablets of stone but on the tablet of the human heart (οὐκ ἐν πλαξὶν λιθίναις ἀλλ’ ἐν

why did paul include an exegesis of moses’ shining face? 157 πλαξὶν καρδίαις σαρκίναις; 3:3c). Although the word “letter” (ἐπιστολὴ) is now used as a metaphor (“You yourselves are our letter”), its characterization as “written” (ἐγγεγραμμένη) is still meant, within the imagery, in a literal sense, with reference to the writing of actual letters, and not yet with reference to gramma in the sense of the written Mosaic law. It only acquires the latter meaning as the chapter unfolds. This sense— the gramma of the Mosaic law—is only implicitly present in this first section, when Paul draws an antithesis between “written with ink” and “written with the Spirit.” The direct opposition is still between “ink” and “Spirit,” not yet between “letter” ( gramma) and “Spirit.” It shows that the full-blown antithesis between the gramma of the Mosaic law and the Spirit develops out of an earlier reference to a letter which is written (ἡ ἐπιστολὴ . . ., ἐγγεγραμμένη) in 2 Cor 3:2, which alludes to a reality behind the text, the letters of recommendation mentioned in 3:1. The antithesis is not yet between two nouns, gramma and Spirit, but between a past participle (ἐγγεγραμμένη) and a noun (πνεῦμα). The undeveloped status of the antithesis in question is also confirmed in the last phrase of the first section. The letter is explicitly said to be written “not on tablets of stone” (ἐγγεγραμμένη. . . . οὐκ ἐν πλαξὶν λιθίναις; 3:3). Here the way is being paved for the gramma in the sense of the Torah, written on tablets of stone; but the law is still not unambiguously mentioned, only alluded to. The point of departure for the entire passage is still the practice of giving letters of recommendation, which is contrasted with Paul’s metaphorical letter writing, on the hearts of his community.

(b) 2 Cor 3:4–6: The antithesis between “letter” and “spirit” becomes explicit It is not until the second section of 2 Cor 3 that the implicit antithesis between gramma and Spirit is rendered explicit and develops into the pair of opposites for which Paul has become famous (see, besides 2 Cor 3:6, Romans 2:29 and 7:6): (4) Πεποίθησιν δὲ τοιαύτην ἔχομεν διὰ τοῦ Χριστοῦ πρὸς τὸν θεόν. (5) οὐχ ὅτι ἀφ᾽ ἑαυτῶν ἱκανοί ἐσμεν λογίσασθαί τι ὡς ἐξ ἑαυτῶν, ἀλλ᾽ ἡ ἱκανότης ἡμῶν ἐκ τοῦ θεοῦ, (6) ὃς καὶ ἱκάνωσεν ἡμᾶς διακόνους καινῆς διαθήκης, οὐ γράμματος ἀλλὰ πνεύματος· τὸ γὰρ γράμμα ἀποκτέννει, τὸ δὲ πνεῦμα ζῳοποιεῖ. (4) Such is the confidence that we have through Christ toward God. (5) Not that we are competent of ourselves to claim anything as coming from us; our competence is from God, (6) who has made us competent to be ministers of a new covenant, not of letter but of spirit; for the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life (2 Cor 3:4–6).

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After mentioning the “letters of recommendation” in 3:1, and contrasting them in 3:2–3 with the metaphorical letter made up by the community, written in Paul’s heart and legible for all (ἡ ἐπιστολὴ . . ., ἐγγεγραμμένη . . ., γινωσκομένη καὶ ἀναγινωσκομένη), written not with ink (ἐγγεγραμμένη οὐ μέλανι) but with the Spirit of the living God, now, in 3:6, Paul goes on to express the full antithesis between “letter” (γράμμα) and “Spirit” (πνεῦμα). The new covenant and its ministers are characterized as a covenant and as ministers “not of letter but of spirit” (3:6ab). These features are further elaborated in two short sentences: “for the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life”—τὸ γὰρ γράμμα ἀποκτέννει, τὸ δὲ πνεῦμα ζῳοποιεῖ (3:6cd). Because this phrase sounds so quintessentially Pauline,8 it is important to be aware of the fact that this Pauline theologoumenon is not dropped into the text but develops naturally from the reference to the “letters of recommendation” in 3:1. In the course of 2 Cor 3:1–6 Paul’s thought crystallizes into the statement of 3:6 about the antagonism between letter and Spirit. The letters of recommendation have now become (almost intrinsically) linked to the Mosaic “gramma.” The reason for this equation will be explored later, but already we can conclude that the term “letter” (γράμμα) is indeed a pivotal term in 2 Cor, but only because it serves Paul’s criticism of the practice of letters of recommendation. In the following section of 2 Cor 3 Paul describes the most important feature of this “gramma,” its temporary, transient glory.

8 The link between Spirit and giving life had already been established in 1 Cor 15:45. But the statement that the letter kills is now added and seems to reflect a general psychological experience, also attested in Classical sources. According to Dio Chrysostom, the written law “by threats and violence maintains its mastery” and may be likened “to the power of tyranny, for it is by means of fear and through injunction that each measure is made effective”; “the written law is harsh and stern” and “the laws create a polity of slaves . . . For the laws inflict punishment upon men’s body” (Dio Chrysostom, Discourses 76.1–4). In the same way as Paul contrasts Spirit and the written Mosaic law, Dio sets off customs against written laws: “while laws are preserved on tablets of wood or of stone, each custom is preserved within our own hearts” (76.3). Paul’s differentiation between written law and Spirit comes close to that between the letter and the intention of the lawgiver (Libanius, Declamations 31.35; both texts in G. Strecker & U. Schnelle (with the cooperation of G. Seelig), Neuer Wettstein: Texte zum Neuen Testament aus Griechentum und Hellenismus, vol. 2.1: Texte zur Briefliteratur und zur Johannesapokalypse (Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1996), 425–427.

why did paul include an exegesis of moses’ shining face? 159 (c) 2 Cor 3:7–11: Moses’ “gramma”: glorious, but only transient glory The most remarkable feature of Moses’ “gramma” is its glorious nature, its δόξα, the second key term in 2 Cor 3. Though on closer reflection, this glory relates not to the law, but the law-giver himself, Moses. In this, Paul clearly draws upon Exod 34, which talks about Moses’ radiance. Paul is surprisingly positive about Moses and does not deny his glory, but merely contrasts it with the still greater glory of the new covenant. The glory of Moses’ gramma is only temporary, yet undoubtedly radiant: (7) Εἰ δὲ ἡ διακονία τοῦ θανάτου ἐν γράμμασιν ἐντετυπωμένη λίθοις ἐγενήθη ἐν δόξῃ, ὥστε μὴ δύνασθαι ἀτενίσαι τοὺς υἱοὺς I̓ σραὴλ εἰς τὸ πρόσωπον Μωϋσέως διὰ τὴν δόξαν τοῦ προσώπου αὐτοῦ τὴν καταργουμένην, (8) πῶς οὐχὶ μᾶλλον ἡ διακονία τοῦ πνεύματος ἔσται ἐν δόξῃ; (9) εἰ γὰρ ἡ διακονία τῆς κατακρίσεως δόξα, πολλῷ μᾶλλον περισσεύει ἡ διακονία τῆς δικαιοσύνης δόξῃ. (10) καὶ γὰρ οὐ δεδόξασται τὸ δεδοξασμένον ἐν τούτῳ τῷ μέρει εἵνεκεν τῆς ὑπερβαλλούσης δόξης· (11) εἰ γὰρ τὸ καταργούμενον διὰ δόξης, πολλῷ μᾶλλον τὸ μένον ἐν δόξῃ. (7) Now if the ministry of death, chiselled in letters on stone tablets, came in glory so that the people of Israel could not gaze at Moses’ face because of the glory of his face, a glory now set aside, (8) how much more will the ministry of the Spirit come in glory? (9) For if there was glory in the ministry of condemnation, much more does the ministry of justification abound in glory! (10) Indeed, what once had glory has lost its glory because of the greater glory; (11) for if what was set aside came through glory, much more has the permanent come in glory! (2 Cor 3:7–11).

We now have the fullest explication that the “gramma” is indeed the Mosaic law, “chiselled in letters on stone tablets” (3:7). Paul characterizes this “gramma” as glorious and tells us that “the people of Israel could not gaze at Moses’ face because of the glory of his face” (3:7). For this characterization and anecdote, Paul alludes to Exod 34. There we find the story that Moses, after the second reception of the law, came down from Mt. Sinai. While he was descending, (29) Μωυσῆς οὐκ ᾔδει ὅτι δεδόξασται ἡ ὄψις τοῦ χρώματος τοῦ προσώπου αὐτοῦ ἐν τῷ λαλεῖν αὐτὸν αὐτᾧ̔ (30) καὶ εἶδεν Ααρων καὶ πάντες οἱ πρεσβύτεροι Ισραηλ τὸν Μωυσῆν καὶ ἦν δεδοξασμένη ἡ ὄψις τοῦ χρώματος τοῦ προσώπου αὐτοῦ καὶ ἐφοβήθησαν ἐγγίσαι αὐτοῦ (31) καὶ ἐκάλεσεν αὐτοὺς Μωυσῆς καὶ ἐπεστράφησαν πρὸς αὐτὸν Ααρων καὶ πάντες οἱ ἄρχοντες τῆς συναγωγῆς καὶ ἐλάλησεν αὐτοῖς Μωυσῆς (32) καὶ μετὰ ταῦτα προσῆλθον πρὸς αὐτὸν πάντες οἱ υἱοὶ Ισραηλ καὶ ἐνετείλατο αὐτοῖς πάντα ὅσα ἐλάλησεν κύριος πρὸς αὐτὸν ἐν τῷ ὄρει Σινα (33) καὶ

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george h. van kooten ἐπειδὴ κατέπαυσεν λαλῶν πρὸς αὐτούς ἐπέθηκεν ἐπὶ τὸ πρόσωπον αὐτοῦ κάλυμμα (34) ἡνίκα δ’ ἂν εἰσεπορεύετο Μωυσῆς ἔναντι κυρίου λαλεῖν αὐτῷ περιῃρεῖτο τὸ κάλυμμα ἕως τοῦ ἐκπορεύεσθαι καὶ ἐξελθὼν ἐλάλει πᾶσιν τοῖς υἱοῖς Ισραηλ ὅσα ἐνετείλατο αὐτῷ κύριος (35) καὶ εἶδον οἱ υἱοὶ Ισραηλ τὸ πρόσωπον Μωυσῆ ὅτι δεδόξασται καὶ περιέθηκεν μωυσῆς κάλυμμα ἐπὶ τὸ πρόσωπον ἑαυτοῦ ἕως ἂν εἰσέλθῃ συλλαλεῖν αὐτῷ.

(29) . . . Moses knew not that the appearance of the skin of his face was glorified, when God spoke to him. (30) And Aaron and all the elders of Israel saw Moses, and the appearance of the skin of his face was made glorious, and they feared to approach him. (31) And Moses called them, and Aaron and all the rulers of the synagogue turned towards him, and Moses spoke to them. (32) And afterwards all the children of Israel came to him, and he commanded them all things, whatsoever the Lord had commanded him in the mount of Sinai. (33) And when he ceased speaking to them, he put a veil on his face. (34) And whenever Moses went in before the Lord to speak to him, he took off the veil till he went out, and he went forth and spoke to all the children of Israel whatsoever the Lord commanded him. (35) And the children of Israel saw the face of Moses, that it was glorified; and Moses put the veil over his face, till he went in to speak with him (LXX Exod 34:29–35; trans. L. C. L. Brenton).

This narrative—which describes how Moses descends from Mt. Sinai, unaware of his radiant appearance, and meets with the fearsome elders, rulers and children of Israel to transmit to them the commandments of God—contains a striking inconsistency. According to Exod 34:33, when Moses “ceased speaking to them, he put a veil on his face.” In Exod 34:34–35, however, Moses is said to put the veil over his face as soon as he communicates with the Israelites: “whenever Moses went in before the Lord to speak to him, he took off the veil till he went out. . . .; and Moses put the veil over his face, till he went in to speak with him.” It seems that the narrative describes two different instances. The first time, when Moses came down from the mountain, he first addressed the Israelites without a veil. Only afterwards, once he had ceased talking, did he put on a veil (34:33). Thereafter, however, when Moses goes into the tabernacle, which from now on replaces Sinai as the place of the revelation of God’s commands, he covers himself with a veil as soon as he leaves the tabernacle (34:34). The report in Exod 34 is somewhat awkward as it concludes as follows: “And the children of Israel saw the face of Moses, that it was glorified; and Moses put the veil over his face, till he went in to speak with him” (34:35). The first part seems to summarize the first experience of the Israelites, when Moses came down from Mt. Sinai; only on that occasion did they see

why did paul include an exegesis of moses’ shining face? 161 Moses’ face glorified. The second part then summarizes the normal procedure when Moses used the tabernacle for further encounters with God; on those occasions he was equally unveiled, but he put on a veil as soon as he left the tabernacle to communicate with the Israelites. (d) 2 Cor 3:12–18: The superiority of the Lord’s permanent, inward glory This slight inconsistency or ambiguity in the text is now fully exploited by Paul in the next and final section of 2 Cor 3. The fact that the first time Moses only covered himself after he had ceased talking to the Israelites suggests—in Paul’s view—that they must have seen the glory on Moses’ face gradually fading away. It was in order to protect them, not against fear of Moses’ glory, but against the painful awareness that Moses’ glory was only transitory, that Moses covered himself. This temporary, transitory glory contrasts with the permanence of the glory of the Lord himself, into which all believers are being transformed: (12) Ἔχοντες οὖν τοιαύτην ἐλπίδα πολλῇ παρρησίᾳ χρώμεθα, (13) καὶ οὐ καθάπερ Μωϋσῆς ἐτίθει κάλυμμα ἐπὶ τὸ πρόσωπον αὐτοῦ, πρὸς τὸ μὴ ἀτενίσαι τοὺς υἱοὺς Ἰσραὴλ εἰς τὸ τέλος τοῦ καταργουμένου. (14) ἀλλὰ ἐπωρώθη τὰ νοήματα αὐτῶν. ἄχρι γὰρ τῆς σήμερον ἡμέρας τὸ αὐτὸ κάλυμμα ἐπὶ τῇ ἀναγνώσει τῆς παλαιᾶς διαθήκης μένει μὴ ἀνακαλυπτόμενον, ὅτι ἐν Χριστῷ καταργεῖται· (15) ἀλλ᾽ ἕως σήμερον ἡνίκα ἂν ἀναγινώσκηται Μωϋσῆς κάλυμμα ἐπὶ τὴν καρδίαν αὐτῶν κεῖται· (16) ἡνίκα δὲ ἐὰν ἐπιστρέψῃ πρὸς κύριον, περιαιρεῖται τὸ κάλυμμα. (17) ὁ δὲ κύριος τὸ πνεῦμά ἐστιν· οὗ δὲ τὸ πνεῦμα κυρίου, ἐλευθερία. (18) ἡμεῖς δὲ πάντες ἀνακεκαλυμμένῳ προσώπῳ τὴν δόξαν κυρίου κατοπτριζόμενοι τὴν αὐτὴν εἰκόνα μεταμορφούμεθα ἀπὸ δόξης εἰς δόξαν, καθάπερ ἀπὸ κυρίου πνεύματος.

(12) Since, then, we have such a hope, we act with great boldness, (13) not like Moses, who put a veil over his face to keep the people of Israel from gazing at the end of the glory that was being set aside. (14) But their minds were hardened. Indeed, to this very day, when they hear the reading of the old covenant, that same veil is still there, since only in Christ is it set aside. (15) Indeed, to this very day whenever Moses is read, a veil lies over their minds; (16) but when one turns to the Lord, the veil is removed. (17) Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. (18) And all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit (2 Cor 3:12–18).

Whereas in the previous section Paul has explained the reason for (or rather the consequence of) Moses’ veil as ὥστε μὴ δύνασθαι ἀτενίσαι

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τοὺς υἱοὺς Ἰσραὴλ εἰς τὸ πρόσωπον Μωϋσέως διὰ τὴν δόξαν τοῦ προσώπου αὐτοῦ—“so that the people of Israel could not gaze at Moses’ face because of it of his face” (3:7), the reason given now in the last section of 2 Cor 3 is πρὸς τὸ μὴ ἀτενίσαι τοὺς υἱοὺς Ἰσραὴλ εἰς τὸ τέλος τοῦ καταργουμένου—“to keep the people of Israel from gazing at it that was being set aside” (3:13). This temporary glory is subsequently contrasted with the permanence of the Lord’s glory, which Moses himself experienced in a direct, immediate, unveiled way: “when one turns to the Lord, the veil is removed” (3:16)—ἡνίκα δὲ ἐὰν ἐπιστρέψῃ πρὸς κύριον, περιαιρεῖται τὸ κάλυμμα. This is an almost verbatim quotation from Exod 34:34: ἡνίκα δ’ ἂν εἰσεπορεύετο Μωυσῆς ἔναντι κυρίου λαλεῖν αὐτῷ περιῃρεῖτο τὸ κάλυμμα—“whenever Moses went in before the Lord to speak to him, he took off the veil.” However, the small differences between the LXX and 2 Cor 3:16 are very revealing. By dropping the name “Moses,” Paul is able to generalize the subject of “went in before the Lord.” Not Moses, but everyone who goes in before (or rather: turns to) the Lord experiences the Lord’s glory. In this way, the stress shifts from Moses’ exclusiveness to Moses as an example for the possibility of direct acquaintance with God. As, in Paul’s view, this possibility comes about through conversion, it is noteworthy that Paul also drops the phrase ἡνίκα δ’ ἂν εἰσεπορεύετο . . . ἔναντι κυρίου, “whenever [he] went in before the Lord,” and replaces it with the phrase ἡνίκα δὲ ἐὰν ἐπιστρέψῃ πρὸς κύριον, περιαιρεῖται τὸ κάλυμμα: “but when one turns, or converts to the Lord, the veil is removed,” the verb ἐπιστρέφειν expressing the conversion involved (cf. 1 Thess 1:9; Gal 4:9). Everyone is eligible for such a conversion. It is no longer that Moses alone has the privileged position of direct contact with God’s transforming glory, but ἡμεῖς δὲ πάντες ἀνακεκαλυμμένῳ προσώπῳ τὴν δόξαν κυρίου κατοπτριζόμενοι τὴν αὐτὴν εἰκόνα μεταμορφούμεθα ἀπὸ δόξης εἰς δόξαν.

All of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another (3:18).9

In rabbinical sources this emphasis that all see God, and not just Moses alone, surfaces in Pesiqta de Rav Kahana 12.25 (edn Mandelbaum): “R. Levi (ca. 300) said: The Holy One, blessed be He, appeared to them as a statue with faces on every side, so that though a thousand men might be looking at the statue, [it would seem as though] it was looking at them all. So too when the Holy One, blessed be He, spoke, each and every 9

why did paul include an exegesis of moses’ shining face? 163 This passage highlights both the similarity between Christian believers and Moses in Paul’s mind and, at the same time, the difference. The similarity consists in the fact that Christians resemble Moses insofar as they, like Moses in his contact with God, do not need to cover their faces (ἀνακεκαλυμμένῳ προσώπῳ). The dissimilarity, however, has to do with the permanent and still increasing nature of the glory into which the Christians are transformed. Whereas the glory on Moses’ face was only temporary and diminished, and was only refreshed for a time after a new encounter with God, the transformation which the believers experience does not diminish, but, on the contrary, gradually increases: “all of us . . . are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another” (ἡμεῖς δὲ πάντες . . . τὴν αὐτὴν εἰκόνα μεταμορφούμεθα ἀπὸ δόξης εἰς δόξαν). There is a further important difference, which Paul brings out in the following chapter, 2 Cor 4; this transformation only concerns the inner man, and not the outer man (4:16): “So we do not lose heart. Even though our outer man is wasting away, our inner man is being renewed day by day”—∆ιὸ οὐκ ἐγκακοῦμεν, ἀλλ’ εἰ καὶ ὁ ἔξω ἡμῶν ἄνθρωπος διαφθείρεται, ἀλλ’ ὁ ἔσω ἡμῶν ἀνακαινοῦται ἡμέρᾳ καὶ ἡμέρᾳ. Whereas Moses’ glory was visible on his face, the Spirit-worked glory is not visible on the outside. This is an important issue which will bring us to the heart of the polemics in Corinth; I shall return to this in due course. So far, we have seen that Paul’s exegesis of Exod 34 in 2 Cor 3 hinges on two key words, “gramma” and “glory.” The first term “gramma” emerges from a description Paul gives of the practice, current among his sophistic opponents, of using written letters of recommendation. Strangely, these written letters somehow develop into the Mosaic grammata, which are characterized as “glorious” because of the “glory” of their author, Moses. Here a link is being forged between sophistic letters of recommendation and a particular understanding of Moses and his grammata. But what exactly is this link? Why does Paul choose to link Moses with “glory”? The train of thought running through 2 Cor can be apprehended more easily, I shall suggest, if we compare this to the way in which Moses was understood as a glorious, powerful

person in Israel would say, ‘The Divine Word is addressing me.’ Note that Scripture does not say, ‘I am the Lord your (plural) God,’ but ‘I am the Lord thy (singular) God’ (Exod 20:20)”; see Steven Fraade’s contribution to this volume, 263–64.

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figure by authors such as Philo and Josephus. This approach has already been taken in some respects by Ludwig Bieler (1935–36), Wayne Meeks (1967) and Dieter Georgi (1987),10 but I believe some further progress can be made. In other Jewish texts, too, Moses is portrayed as a powerful, almost divine figure. In Ezekiel the Tragedian—as is highlighted in a separate contribution to this volume by Andrei Orlov—Moses, in a dream, appears to be worshipped on God’s throne by the whole of creation (ll. 68–89; cf. Gen 37). And among the Dead Sea Scrolls, 4Q Apocryphon of Moses A emphasizes that Moses was made like God: “And he made him like God for the powerful ones, and a fright for the Pharaoh” (4Q374, frag. 2, col. II.6),11 showing dependence on the biblical text of Exod 7:1 which reads “The LORD said to Moses, ‘See, I have made you like God to Pharaoh.’” Although such passages show the high estimation which Moses often received, Philo and Josephus, especially, show what kind of discourse was involved in the positive representation of Moses in the Graeco-Roman world. Let us now turn to them. 3. Philo and Josephus on Moses the Legislator 3.1

Philo—Moses’ strength and well-being

In Philo’s biography of Moses, De vita Mosis, in which he aims to show that “Moses is the best of all lawgivers in all countries” (2.12), he includes the following description of Moses’ descent from Mt. Sinai. This passage shows important similarities to and differences from with 2 Cor 3 and provides the setting in which the figure of Moses featured in contemporary debate. Moses’ descent is described in the following way: As for eating and drinking, he had no thought of them for forty successive days, doubtless because he had the better food of contemplation, through whose inspiration, sent from heaven above, he grew in grace, first of mind, then of body also through the soul (τὴν μὲν διάνοιαν τὸ πρῶτον, ἔπειτα δὲ καὶ τὸ 10 Ludwig Bieler, Theios anēr: Das Bild des “göttlichen Menschen” in Spätantike und Frühchristentum (2 vols; Wien: Buchhandlung Oskar Höfels, 1935–36), vol. 2 (1936), chap. 1.1, 3–36, esp. 25–36; Wayne A. Meeks, The Prophet-King: Moses Traditions and the Johannine Christology (SNT 14; Leiden: Brill, 1967), chap. 3, 100–175, esp. 100–131: Philo, and 131–146: Josephus; and Georgi, The Opponents of Paul in Second Corinthians, chap. 3, 229–313, esp. 254–258. 11 Cf. George Brooke’s contribution to this volume, section 3 B.

why did paul include an exegesis of moses’ shining face? 165 σῶμα διὰ τῆς ψυχῆς ἐβελτιοῦτο), and in each singly so advanced in strength and well-being (καθ’ ἑκάτερον πρός τε ἰσχὺν καὶ εὐεξίαν ἐπιδιδούς) that those who saw him afterwards could not believe their eyes. For we read that by God’s command he ascended an inaccessible and pathless mountain, the highest and most sacred in the region, and remained for the period named, taking nothing that is needed to satisfy the requirements of bare sustenance. Then, after the said forty days had passed, he descended with a countenance far more beautiful than when he ascended (κατέβαινε πολὺ καλλίων τὴν ὄψιν ἢ ὅτε ἀνῄει), so that those who saw him were filled with awe and amazement; nor even could their eyes continue to stand the dazzling brightness that flashed from him like the rays of the sun (καὶ μηδ’ ἐπὶ πλέον ἀντέχειν τοῖς ὀφθαλμοῖς δύνασθαι κατὰ τὴν προσβολὴν ἡλιοειδοῦς φέγγους ἀπαστράπτοντος) (De Vita Mosis 2.69–70).

In their retelling of the giving of the Law to Moses and his descent from Mt. Sinai, both Philo and Paul agree that Moses’ appearance was indeed dazzling and bright, and that the Israelites were incapable of looking at him. Both also allude to the inward, spiritual process. According to Paul, Moses, when unveiled, was caught in a process of spiritual transformation, a process which is now experienced by all believers (3.18) and comprises a growth in their “inner man” (4.16). Philo, similarly, emphasized that “Moses grew in grace, first of mind (διάνοια), then of body (σῶμα) also through the soul (ψυχή)” (2.69). Yet, at the same time Philo’s characterization of this process reveals an important difference. Implicit in Philo’s depiction of Moses’ spiritual growth in mind (or spirit), soul and body, is the anthropological trichotomy, known from Greek philosophy, of mind, soul and body. As I have argued elsewhere, Paul’s anthropology is also best understood as trichotomous.12 The difference, however, is that according to Paul the spiritual transformation only affects the inner man, whereas the outer man, the body, decreases in strength. Only after the resurrection,

12 George H. van Kooten, “The Two Types of Man in Philo of Alexandria and Paul of Tarsus: The Anthropological Trichotomy of Spirit, Soul and Body,” in Philosophische Anthropologie in der Antike (ed. Ch. Jedan and L. Jansen; Themen der Antiken Philosophie/ Topics in Ancient Philosophy; Frankfurt: Ontos Verlag, 2008), forthcoming; a shorter version, entitled “The Anthropological Trichotomy of Spirit, Soul and Body in Philo of Alexandria and Paul of Tarsus,” is published in Anthropology in Context: Studies on Ideas of Anthropology within the New Testament and its Ancient Context (ed. M. Labahn and O. Lehtipuu; Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium; Louvain: Peeters, 2008), forthcoming. See also George H. van Kooten, Paul Anthropology in Context: The Image of God, Assimilation to God, and Tripartite Man in Ancient Judaism, Ancient Philosophy and Early Christianity (WUNT; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), chap. 5.

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as Paul has explained in 1 Cor 15, does the Spirit also transform the human body into a spiritual body (1 Cor 15.44–49). According to Philo, however, Moses’ growth in mind and soul already affects his body during his lifetime: “Moses grew in grace, first of mind, then of body also through the soul”—τὴν μὲν διάνοιαν τὸ πρῶτον, ἔπειτα δὲ καὶ τὸ σῶμα διὰ τῆς ψυχῆς ἐβελτιοῦτο (2.69). The mind influences the soul which, in turn, changes the body. In Philo’s view, the physical effect of Moses’ growth in mind, soul and body is perceptible inasmuch as he “in each singly so advanced in strength and well-being (καθ’ ἑκάτερον πρός τε ἰσχὺν καὶ εὐεξίαν ἐπιδιδούς) that those who saw him afterwards could not believe their eyes” (2.69). Moses’ inward growth affects his outward condition; he increases in strength (ἰσχύς) and well-being (εὐεξία).13 As a result, he “descended with a countenance far more beautiful than when he ascended (κατέβαινε πολὺ καλλίων τὴν ὄψιν ἢ ὅτε ἀνῄει)” (2.70). Moses is not only a spiritual hero; he is also a physical superstar and makes a powerful impression. The Israelites are simply overwhelmed by Moses’ strength and well-being; they cannot “believe their eyes.” It is the beauty of his face which makes an impact on them. Philo describes the effect as follows: “those who saw him were filled with awe and amazement; nor even could their eyes continue to stand the dazzling brightness that flashed from him like the rays of the sun” (2.70). In this respect, the difference from Paul could not be greater. In his Corinthian polemics, Paul is critical of this language of strength and bodily well-being, hallmarks of sophistic rivalry. According to his opponents, Paul’s letters may be powerful, but his bodily appearance is weak: Aἱ ἐπιστολαὶ μέν, φησίν, βαρεῖαι καὶ ἰσχυραί, ἡ δὲ παρουσία τοῦ σώματος ἀσθενὴς καὶ ὁ λόγος ἐξουθενημένος (2 Cor 10:10). In their emphasis upon strength and bodily well-being, Paul’s Corinthian opponents seem to constitute the opposite end of the scale,14 with Philo balancing the scales in the middle. The latter seems to combine philosophical and sophistic values. Moses’ growth affects not only his mind and soul, but also his body. The sophists, at one extreme, emphasize the importance of strength and well-being, while Paul, at the other extreme, denies the importance of outward well-being and draws attention to inward, spiritual growth. Cf. Georgi, The Opponents of Paul in Second Corinthians, 254–255. On the importance of physiognomy and bodily performance in the Second Sophistic, see, e.g., Tim Whitmarsh, The Second Sophistic (Greece & Rome—New Surveys in the Classics 35; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), chap. 2, 23–40, esp. 26–32. 13 14

why did paul include an exegesis of moses’ shining face? 167 This debate about strength (ἰσχύς) is already present in 1 Cor. The term ἰσχυρός, “strong,” is important in the polemics of (a) 1 Cor 1:25: “God’s weakness is stronger than human strength”—τὸ ἀσθενὲς τοῦ θεοῦ ἰσχυρότερον τῶν ἀνθρώπων; (b) 1 Cor 1:27: “God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong”—τὰ ἀσθενῆ τοῦ κόσμου ἐξελέξατο ὁ θεὸς ἵνα καταισχύνῃ τὰ ἰσχυρά; and (c) 1 Cor 4:10: “We are fools for the sake of Christ, but you are wise in Christ. We are weak, but you are strong. You are held in honour, but we in disrepute”—ἡμεῖς μωροὶ διὰ Χριστόν, ὑμεῖς δὲ φρόνιμοι ἐν Χριστῷ· ἡμεῖς ἀσθενεῖς, ὑμεῖς δὲ ἰσχυροί· ὑμεῖς ἔνδοξοι, ἡμεῖς δὲ ἄτιμοι. In 2 Cor, this polemic reaches its zenith in the opponents explicitly criticizing Paul’s weak physical and rhetorical performance which is in sharp contrast with the strength they detect in his letters (2 Cor 10:10). What seems to be at issue in 2 Cor 3, when understood in such a polemical setting, is the nature of Moses’ body, which is healthy, dazzling and resplendent and, as such, provides an exemplar for the Corinthian sophists: this perfect physical appearance contrasts with Paul’s weak stature. It seems very likely, then, that the strength and glory of Moses, as described in Exod 34, was understood as an example of sophistic strength. Paul’s sophistic opponents, who were of Jewish background (2 Cor 11:22), and manifested themselves in the largely ex-pagan Christian community of Corinth, might easily have been tempted into a sophistic appreciation of the importance of physiognomy. Indeed in Judaism, too,—as Mladen Popović’s recent monograph has shown15—, physiognomics was not uncommon. The similarities between Jewish and sophistic physiognomics may well have facilitated the adoption of pagan sophistry by Paul’s Jewish-Christian opponents in Corinth.16 By shedding sophistic light on the strength and glory of Moses, Jews— Christian and non-Christian alike—could not only defend Moses in their encounter with pagans, but also compete with the sophistic ideals 15 Mladen Popović, Reading the Human Body: Physiognomics and Astrology in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Hellenistic-Early Roman Period Judaism (Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah 67; Leiden: Brill, 2007). 16 I owe this observation to Prof. George Brooke. Paul would have been able to adopt a critical stance towards ( Jewish) physiognomics because of the enduring influence of Jesus’ compassion for the physically unwell and impaired. On this, see Hector Avalos, Health Care and the Rise of Christianity (Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 1999); John J. Pilch, Healing in the New Testament: Insights from Medical and Mediterranean Anthropology (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2000); and, for a comparative research into Qumran and the New Testament, Kathell Berthelot, “La place des infirmes et des ‘lépreux’ dans les textes de Qumrân et les évangiles,” Revue biblique 113 (2006): 211–241.

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beyond the Jewish and Christian community. As we shall see, Josephus was very much involved in the same struggle. 3.2

Josephus—Moses’ glory, honour and rivals

According to Josephus, at the Burning Bush already God predicted to Moses “the glory (δόξα) and honour (τιμή) that he would win from men, under God’s auspices” ( Jew. Ant. 2.268). When, however, glory and honour started to materialize, Moses’ integrity did not diminish. Josephus is keen to give several examples. When Raguel, Moses’ fatherin-law, invented a legal system, Moses did not claim it as his own, but openly avowed the inventor to the multitude. Nay, in the books too he recorded the name of Raguel, as inventor of the aforesaid system, deeming it meet to bear faithful witness to merit, whatever glory (δόξα) might be won by taking credit for the inventions of others. Thus even herefrom may one learn the integrity of Moses ( Jew. Ant. 3.74).

In a similar vein, Moses even paid due homage to Balaam, the pagan prophet, and did not claim Balaam’s glory for himself: This was the man to whom Moses did the high honour of recording his prophecies (μεγάλως ἐτίμησεν ἀναγράψας αὐτοῦ τὰς μαντείας); and though it was open to him to appropriate and take the glory for them himself (σφετερίσασθαι τὴν ἐπ’ αὐτοῖς δόξαν καὶ ἐξιδιώσασθαι), as there would have been no witness to convict him, he has given Balaam this testimony and deigned to perpetuate his memory ( Jew. Ant. 4.158).

Whereas Moses is an example of integrity, others did become envious of Moses’ glory and honour. Josephus describes this rivalry in terms of sophistic in-fighting. He takes Korah’s rebellion against Moses, as narrated in Numbers 16, as an example and depicts Korah as Moses’ rival in establishing honour and glory. From Korah’s perspective Moses was “hunting round to create glory for himself ”: Korah, one of the most eminent of the Hebrews by reason both of his birth and of his riches (τις Ἑβραίων ἐν τοῖς μάλιστα καὶ γένει καὶ πλούτῳ), a capable speaker and very effective in addressing a crowd (ἱκανὸς δ᾽ εἰπεῖν καὶ δήμοις ὁμιλεῖν πιθανώτατος), seeing Moses established in the highest honours (ἐν ὑπερβαλλούσῃ τιμῇ), was sorely envious; for he was of the same tribe and indeed his kinsman, and was aggrieved at the thought that he had a greater right to enjoy all this glory (δόξα) himself, as being richer than Moses without being his inferior in birth. So he proceeded to denounce him among the Levites, who were his tribesmen, and especially among his kinsmen, declaring that it was monstrous

why did paul include an exegesis of moses’ shining face? 169 to look on at Moses hunting round to create glory for himself (λέγων Μωυσῆν δόξαν αὑτῷ θηρώμενον κατασκευάσαι) and mischievously working to attain this

in the pretended name of God ( Jew. Ant. 4.14–15).

Josephus depicts Korah as a sophist rival to Moses and represents him in terms also used in the Corinthian rivalry in which Paul is engaged: (1) Korah is “one of the most eminent of the Hebrews by reason both of his birth and of his riches” (τις Ἑβραίων ἐν τοῖς μάλιστα καὶ γένει καὶ πλούτῳ). Similarly, Paul warns the Corinthians that not many of them are wise by worldly standards, not many are powerful, not many are of noble birth—οὐ πολλοὶ σοφοὶ κατὰ σάρκα, οὐ πολλοὶ δυνατοί, οὐ πολλοὶ εὐγενεῖς (1 Cor 1:26). (2) According to Josephus, Korah is competent (ἱκανὸς) to speak (δ’ εἰπεῖν) and very persuasive (πιθανώτατος) in addressing a crowd (δήμοις ὁμιλεῖν). (a) The whole issue of “competence” is also central to the dispute in 2 Cor 2–3. As regards the dissemination of God’s knowledge, Paul rhetorically asks himself, probably mirroring the ongoing debate between himself and his rivals: “Who is competent for these things?”—καὶ πρὸς ταῦτα τίς ἱκανός; (2 Cor 2:16, cf. 2:6). And in 2 Cor 3 he brings up the issue once again; this passage is saturated with the language of competence and uses it in the adjectival, substantival and verbal forms: οὐχ ὅτι ἀφ’ ἑαυτῶν ἱκανοί ἐσμεν λογίσασθαί τι ὡς ἐξ ἑαυτῶν, ἀλλ᾽ ἡ ἱκανότης ἡμῶν ἐκ τοῦ θεοῦ, ὃς καὶ ἱκάνωσεν ἡμᾶς διακόνους καινῆς διαθήκης, οὐ γράμματος ἀλλὰ πνεύματος.

Not that we are competent (ἱκανοί) of ourselves to claim anything as coming from us; our competence (ἱκανότης) is from God, who has made us competent (ὃς καὶ ἱκάνωσεν ἡμᾶς) to be ministers of a new covenant, not of letter but of spirit; for the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life (2 Cor 3:5–6).

The theme of “competence” permeates 2 Cor 2–3 and is very similar to the issue which Josephus describes between Korah and Moses. (b) Josephus also describes Korah as “very persuasive (πιθανώτατος) in addressing a crowd.” This word, “persuasive” (πιθανός) is especially used of popular speakers.17 Paul, too, employs this semantic field in his polemics with the Corinthians when he denies that his speech and proclamation are filled “with plausible words of wisdom”: καὶ ὁ λόγος 17 H. G. Liddell, R. Scott & H. S. Jones, A Greek-English Lexicon, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996 (= LSJ), 1403 s.v. πιθανός.

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μου καὶ τὸ κήρυγμά μου οὐκ ἐν πειθοῖ[ς] σοφίας [λόγοις] (1 Cor 2.4; cf. Gal 1.10).18 Unlike Paul, however, Josephus is eager to draw Moses into this competition with the sophists and stress Moses’ glory and honour. Not only Korah’s competence in rhetoric and public performance is described, but that of Moses as well: his glory and honour have already been predicted by God, he is established in the highest honours and, although less wealthy than Korah, by no means his inferior in birth. The distinctive features of Moses, in comparison with Korah, are his integrity and the fact that he, “having declined every honour which he saw that the people were ready to confer on him, devoted himself solely to the service of God” ( Jew. Ant. 3.212). At the same time, however, Moses is portrayed as meeting sophistic standards. In his final encomium of Moses in Jew. Ant. 4.327–331, Josephus heralds Moses as “having surpassed in understanding all men that ever lived and put to noblest use the fruit of his reflections. In speech and in addresses to a crowd he found favour in every way” (4.328). Particularly the last description portrays him as not inferior to figures such as Korah, who, as we have seen, is also “a capable speaker and very effective in addressing a crowd” (ἱκανὸς δ’ εἰπεῖν καὶ δήμοις ὁμιλεῖν πιθανώτατος; 4.14). Josephus also draws this picture of a powerful, glorious Moses in his description of Moses’ ascent of, and descent from Mt. Sinai: Moses ascends Mt. Sinai although it is beyond men’s power to scale (3.76), and when he returns he is radiant (γαῦρός) and high-hearted (3.83). An extensive eulogy on Moses is also found at the very end of book III of the Jewish Antiquities. According to Josephus, “the admiration in which that hero [i.e. Moses] was held for his virtues and his marvellous power (ἰσχύς) of inspiring faith in all his utterances were not confined to his life-time” (3.317). Subsequently, Josephus remarks that it is possible to adduce many “proofs of his superhuman power”—τεκμήρια τῆς ὑπὲρ ἄνθρωπόν ἐστι δυνάμεως αὐτοῦ (3.318). Moses’ powerful authority is still felt to the present day: “to this very day the writings left by Moses (τὰ καταλειφθέντα ὑπὸ Μωυσέος γράμματα) have such power (ἰσχύς) that even our enemies admit that our constitution was established by God himself, through the agency of Moses and of his merits” (3.222). Josephus’ last remark contrasts sharply with Paul’s remark at the end

18

LSJ 1353 πειθός = πιθανός.

why did paul include an exegesis of moses’ shining face? 171 of 2 Cor 3, that “to this very day whenever Moses is read” he is misunderstood (3:15). Josephus’ remark about the acknowledgement of Moses’ merits by non-Jews also draws attention to the (alleged) impact of the power and authority of Moses’ writings among the Greeks. As we have seen in §1, the evaluation of the figure of Moses was indeed an issue in paganJewish relations and also seems to have played a role in the Corinthian controversy. Josephus’ attempt to raise awareness for Moses and depict him in a favourable way is also part of this debate. In order to achieve this aim, Josephus also emphasizes that Moses could hold his own in the face of sophistic rivalry and that he was in no way the inferior of his competitors. For this reason, Josephus stresses Moses’ glory, honour, power and superhuman identity as among his chief merits. In so doing, however, he runs the risk of turning Moses himself into a kind of sophist. This will become clear as we now briefly study the language of power, glory and superhuman identity among the sophists. It seems that the same debate is going on here, dominated by the same concerns and obsessions. 4. The Power, Glory and Theios Anēr-Character among the Sophists 4.1

Power

To show the sophistic nature of this debate, I shall limit myself here mainly to Philostratus’ Lives of the Sophists. Here the semantic fields of power, glory and the superhuman are the natural territory of the sophists. For instance, Philostratus mentions the sophist Carneades of Athens. He was also enrolled among the sophists, for though his mind had been equipped for the pursuit of philosophy, yet in virtue of the power (ἰσχύς) of his orations he attained to an extraordinarily high level of eloquence (Lives of the Sophists 1.486).

The inner-sophistic tensions come to the fore in rivalries such as those between the sophists Polemo and Dionysius. The latter attended a speech in court by the former, and Philostratus narrates their ensuing confrontation as follows: Dionysius heard Polemo defend the suit, and as he left the court he remarked: “This athlete possesses strength (ἰσχύς), but it does not come from the wrestling-ground.” When Polemo heard this he came to

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george h. van kooten Dionysius’ door and announced that he would declaim before him. And when he had come and Polemo had sustained his part with conspicuous success, he went up to Dionysius, and leaning shoulder to shoulder with him, like those who begin a wrestling match standing, he wittily turned the laugh against him by quoting: “Once O once they were strong, the men of Miletus” (Philostratus, Lives of the Sophists 1.525).

This anecdote shows how in daily life the sophists confronted one another and were engaged in continuous wrangling, demonstrating their power and readiness to compete. Polemo quotes an iambic response of Apollo which has become proverbial (cf. Aristophanes, Plutus 1003) as a reference to degeneration, thus challenging his rival sophist. This is the atmosphere at Corinth, in which Moses too is turned into a powerful competitor, who “in speech and in addresses to a crowd (. . .) found favour in every way” ( Josephus, Jew. Ant. 4.328). In this way, Moses also functions as a role model for performance within the Jewish-Christian community. Quotation from his writings should be apt, and declamations about his life fresh and persuasive.19 Another story about inner-sophistic struggles relates to the sophists Alexander and Herodes. Alexander, born at Seleucia in Silicia, exercised his profession in cities such as Antioch, Rome and Tarsus, indicating that the sophists were very much part of life in the cities which Paul, too, visited. Alexander, having already performed in Athens before the arrival of Herodes, outdid the latter in the following way: he made a further wonderful display of his marvellous power (θαυμασίαν δὲ ἰσχὺν ἐνεδείξατο) in what now took place. For the sentiments that he had so brilliantly expressed before Herodes came he now recast in his presence, but with such different words and different rhythms, that those who were hearing them for the second time could not feel that he was repeating himself (Lives of the Sophists 2.572).

Again we experience the atmosphere of sophistic competence and performance, the command of which is described by Philostratus as a “marvellous power.” Many other passages could be adduced which mention the erudition, force and powerful eloquence of particular sophists (e.g. 1.483; 2.585). One of these figures is lauded for “his natural display of sophistic power”—φύσεως δὲ ἰσχὺν σοφιστικωτάτην ἐνδεικνύμενος (2.585).

19 For the importance of improvisations in the Second Sophistic, see Philostratus, Lives of the Sophists 496, 499, 511.

why did paul include an exegesis of moses’ shining face? 173 4.2

Glory and physical appearance

The language of power often overlaps with that of “glory.” Public speakers and sophists, according to Plutarch, are often “led on by glory (δόξα) and ambition (φιλοτιμία) (. . .) to competition (ἀγωνίζεσθαι) in excess of what is best for them” (De tuenda sanitate praecepta 131A). This sophistic striving for glory is explicitly criticized by Dio Chrysostomus, in a way very similar to Paul. According to Dio, sophists “are lifted aloft as on wings by their glorious fame (δόξα) and disciples” (Orations 12.5). He complains, however, that “not one of the sophists is willing to take me on” (12.13). In deliberate contrast to the sophists, Dio presents himself to his audience at Olympia “as neither handsome in appearance nor strong, and in age (. . .) already past his prime, one who has no disciple, who professes (. . .) no ability as a prophet or a sophist” (12.15). This anti-sophistic talk clearly resembles Paul’s. Like Dio, Paul stresses that he is not concerned with the outward man but only with the inward man (2 Cor 4:16); he himself is not strong but weak and vulnerable: ἐν παντὶ θλιβόμενοι ἀλλ᾽ οὐ στενοχωρούμενοι, ἀπορούμενοι ἀλλ᾽ οὐκ ἐξαπορούμενοι, διωκόμενοι ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἐγκαταλειπόμενοι, καταβαλλόμενοι ἀλλ᾽ οὐκ ἀπολλύμενοι, πάντοτε τὴν νέκρωσιν τοῦ Ἰησοῦ ἐν τῷ σώματι περιφέροντες, ἵνα καὶ ἡ ζωὴ τοῦ Ἰησοῦ ἐν τῷ σώματι ἡμῶν φανερωθῇ.

We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be made visible in our bodies (2 Cor 4:8–10).

Indeed, Paul is not ashamed to repeat his opponent’s judgment that his bodily, physical appearance is weak (2 Cor 10:10). Yet he rejoices in his weakness (2 Cor 11:30; 12:5, 9–10; cf. 1 Cor 2:3). In this catalogue of afflictions and in his acknowledgement of being weak,20 Paul shows the same philosophical, anti-sophistic pride as Dio. His statements are not naïve, but deliberately construed to counter sophistic talk of strength, glory and repute.

20 Cf. John T. Fitzgerald, Cracks in an Earthen Vessel: An Examination of the Catalogues of Hardships in the Corinthian Correspondence (SBL Dissertation Series 99; Atlanta, Ga.: Scholars Press, 1988).

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george h. van kooten Superhuman identity

Apart from the vocabulary of power, glory and physical performance, sophists also apply the concept of superhuman beings. This is nicely illustrated by a report in Philostratus about the sophist Hippodromus the Thessalian. According to Philostratus, on one occasion when the Greeks were acclaiming him with flatteries, and even compared him with Polemo, “Why,” said he, “do you liken me to immortals?” (Homer, Odyssey 16.187). This answer, while it did not rob Polemo of his reputation for being a divine man (οὔτε τὸν Πολέμωνα ἀφελόμενος τὸ νομίζεσθαι θεῖον ἄνδρα), was also a refusal to concede to himself any likeness to so great a genius (Lives of the Sophists 616).

This anecdote shows that sophists indeed claimed divine inspiration for their competence (cf. also Philostratus, Lives of the Sophists 521, 554, 570, 590; Lucian, Philopseudes sive incredulus 16); they even regarded themselves as “divine men,” θεῖοι ἄνδρες. This background to the Corinthian dispute was already highlighted by Dieter Georgi,21 but he did not yet integrate his remarks about the concept of the θεῖος ἀνήρ into what Bruce Winter has noted about the sophistic setting of Paul’s polemics in 1 and 2 Cor.22 As regards the concept of θεῖος ἀνήρ, Josephus also uses it twice to characterize Moses.23 On both occasions, it is noteworthy that he employs it in an apologetic context, once in his Jewish Antiquities, and once in his Against Apion.24 In the former he states: One may well be astonished at the hatred which men have for us and which they have so persistently maintained, from an idea that we slight the divinity whom they themselves profess to venerate. For if one reflects

21 Georgi, The Opponents of Paul in Second Corinthians, chap. 3, 229–313, esp. 236, 254–255, 258, 274. 22 Winter, Philo and Paul among the Sophists; cf. David L. Tiede, “Aretalogy,” The Anchor Bible Dictionary, (1992) 1.372–373 at 373. Georgi only mentions the sophists in his comments on 2 Cor 2:17; see Georgi, The Opponents of Paul in Second Corinthians, 234. 23 For Philo’s portrayal of Moses as divine, see Meeks, The Prophet-King, 103–105; Meeks, “Moses as God and King,” in Religions in Antiquity: Essays in Memory of Erwin Ramsdell Goodenough (ed. J. Neusner; Studies in the History of Religions; Suppl. to Numen 14; Leiden: Brill, 1968), 354–371; and David T. Runia, “God and Man in Philo of Alexandria,” JTS 39 (1988): 48–75 at 53–63; also published in Runia, Exegesis and Philosophy: Studies on Philo of Alexandria (Collected Studies 332; Hampshire: Variorum, 1991), chap. 12, 53–63. 24 Cf. David S. Du Toit, Theios anthropos: zur Verwendung von theios anthrōpos und sinnverwandten Ausdrücken in der Literatur der Kaiserzeit (WUNT 2.91; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), chap. 14.3, 382–399.

why did paul include an exegesis of moses’ shining face? 175 on the construction of the tabernacle and looks at the vestments of the priest and the vessels which we use for the sacred ministry, he will discover that our lawgiver was a divine man (τόν τε νομοθέτην εὑρήσει θεῖον ἄνδρα) and that these blasphemous charges brought against us by the rest of men are idle ( Jew. Ant. 3.180).25

Given the ambiguous evaluation of Moses in the pagan Graeco-Roman world, outlined in §1 above, there was clearly a perceived need to defend the powerful, superhuman stature of Moses.26 And, as Dieter Georgi rightly remarks, “the biblical accounts of Moses’ glorification, especially Exod. 34:29–35, lent themselves well to the full presentation of the Apologetic conception of the θεῖος ἀνήρ.”27 The same defence is offered in Against Apion, where Josephus claims that the Egyptians regarded Moses as a marvellous, admirable, divine man: Λοιπόν μοι πρὸς αὐτὸν εἰπεῖν περὶ Μωυσέως. τοῦτον δὲ τὸν ἄνδρα θαυμαστὸν μὲν Aἰγύπτιοι καὶ θεῖον νομίζουσι, βούλονται δὲ προσποιεῖν αὐτοῖς μετὰ βλασφημίας ἀπιθάνου, λέγοντες Ἡλιοπολίτην εἶναι τῶν ἐκεῖθεν ἱερέων ἕνα διὰ τὴν λέπραν συνεξεληλαμένον.

It remains for me to say a word to Manetho about Moses. The Egyptians, who regard that man as remarkable, indeed divine (τοῦτον δὲ τὸν ἄνδρα θαυμαστὸν μὲν Aἰγύπτιοι καὶ θεῖον νομίζουσι), wish to claim him as one of themselves, while making the incredible and calumnious assertion that he was one of the priests expelled from Heliopolis for leprosy (Against Apion 1.279).

The apologetic setting of Josephus’ use of the concept of θεῖος ἀνήρ emerges clearly. It is in this setting that I would understand the incentive experienced by Paul’s Corinthian opponents. Like Philo and Josephus, these Jewish Christians felt the need to defend Moses and show his strength and glory. Yet by taking up the challenges of the Graeco-Roman world they, to a significantly higher degree than Philo and Josephus, surrendered to the standards of their sophistic environment, adopted them, and even implemented them as benchmarks for performance within the Christian community. By so doing, they changed the figure of Moses and—as I shall explain briefly—as a further consequence, also that of Christ.

25 26 27

Cf. Meeks, The Prophet-King, 138. Cf. Georgi, The Opponents of Paul in Second Corinthians, 257; cf. 126, 133. Georgi, The Opponents of Paul in Second Corinthians, 257–258.

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george h. van kooten 5. Concluding Observations: Paul’s Definitive Answer to the Corinthian Sophists

Paul needs to confront the portraits of Moses current among Christian sophists at Corinth, designed as they are to compete with general Greek culture. There might be a justifiable apologetic concern behind those portraits. Yet, in Paul’s view, they are very dangerous inasmuch as they also—implicitly and perhaps only inadvertently—change the attitudes within the Christian communities with regard to the importance of outward, rhetorical competence and bodily, physical strength and performance. For this reason, it is vital for Paul to discuss Moses’ glory after his descent from Mt. Sinai as narrated in Exod 34. As we have seen, this passage is discussed right in the middle of anti-sophistic polemics in 2 Cor and evolves from Paul’s reference to letters of recommendation, a sophistic practice which has been adopted to recommend powerful rhetoricians to other Christian communities. Because of this, Paul’s view of Moses differs significantly from those of both Philo and Josephus. According to Philo, Moses’ spiritual growth in mind and soul is reflected in his body. It affects his outward condition; Moses increases in strength (ἰσχύς) and well-being (εὐεξία) (De vita Mosis 2.69). Paul, on the contrary, denies that strength and physical well-being are the result of spiritual metamorphosis. Similarly, where Josephus emphasizes the ongoing strength of Moses’ writings—“to this very day the writings left by Moses (τὰ καταλειφθέντα ὑπὸ Μωυσέος γράμματα) have such power (ἰσχύς) that even our enemies admit that our constitution was established by God himself, through the agency of Moses and of his merits” ( Jew. Ant. 3.322)—Paul highlights their possible relative obscurity. He points out that to this very day, when they [the people of Israel] hear the reading of the old covenant, that same veil—which keeps them ‘from gazing at the end of the glory that was being set aside’ (3.13)—is still there, since only in Christ is it set aside. Indeed, to this very day whenever Moses is read, a veil lies over their minds (2 Cor 3.14–15).

Paul needs to qualify the glory and strength of Moses (and his writings) because he fears their shortcomings and temporariness are being overlooked. Paul not only criticizes his opponents’ image of Moses. It is clear that their portrayal of Moses also has consequences for their view on Jesus. Dieter Georgi has already paid attention to the opponents’ false Christol-

why did paul include an exegesis of moses’ shining face? 177 ogy in this respect.28 Although Georgi is right about the Christological nature of Paul’s controversy with his opponents, which resulted from a theios anēr-interpretation of Moses, we need Bruce Winter’s analysis if we are to be more specific about the identity of these opponents. They are not just protagonists of a theios anēr-movement; their views, as is evident from 1–2 Cor, have clearly sophistic overtones. It is against this background that Paul emphatically denies, in 2 Cor 5:16, that their claim about the character of the historical Jesus is correct: Ὥστε ἡμεῖς ἀπὸ τοῦ νῦν οὐδένα οἴδαμεν κατὰ σάρκα· εἰ καὶ ἐγνώκαμεν κατὰ σάρκα Χριστόν, ἀλλὰ νῦν οὐκέτι γινώσκομεν

From now on, therefore, we regard no one from a human point of view; even though we once knew Christ from a human point of view, we know him no longer in that way.

And in 2 Cor 11 he asserts that their gospel is a different gospel because their Jesus is a different Jesus: εἰ μὲν γὰρ ὁ ἐρχόμενος ἄλλον Ἰησοῦν κηρύσσει ὃν οὐκ ἐκηρύξαμεν, ἢ πνεῦμα ἕτερον λαμβάνετε ὃ οὐκ ἐλάβετε, ἢ εὐαγγέλιον ἕτερον ὃ οὐκ ἐδέξασθε, καλῶς ἀνέχεσθε. λογίζομαι γὰρ μηδὲν ὑστερηκέναι τῶν ὑπερλίαν ἀποστόλων· εἰ δὲ καὶ ἰδιώτης τῷ λόγῳ, ἀλλ᾽ οὐ τῇ γνώσει.

For if someone comes and proclaims another Jesus than the one we proclaimed, or if you receive a different spirit from the one you received, or a different gospel from the one you accepted, you submit to it readily enough. I think that I am not in the least inferior to these super-apostles. I may be untrained in speech, but not in knowledge (2 Cor 11:4–6).

This passage shows that the opponents’ view on and proclamation of Jesus (4:4) have to do with their stress on being not “untrained in speech” (4:6a). Their image of Jesus and of Moses would have been very similar, highlighting these figures’ powerful rhetorical performance. In some ways, their theios anēr-type of Christology might be reflected in Josephus’ testimony of Jesus ( Jew. Ant. 18.63–64).29 This passage, in portraying Jesus as “a wise man, if indeed one ought to call him a man” (σοφὸς ἀνήρ, εἴγε ἄνδρα αὐτὸν λέγειν χρή) stops short of calling

Georgi, The Opponents of Paul in Second Corinthians, 271–277, 278. On the question of the authenticity of Josephus’ testimony, see, among others, Alice Whealey, Josephus on Jesus: The Testimonium Flavianum Controversy from Late Antiquity to Modern Times (Studies in Biblical Literature 36; New York: Lang, 2003); see also Steve Mason, Josephus and the New Testament (2nd edition; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2003), 225–236. 28 29

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him a theios anēr, a divine man. Yet the phrase “if indeed one ought to call him a man” seems to imply this meaning. In this sense, this characterization of Jesus comes very close to Josephus’ explicit depiction of Moses as a theios anēr. As we have already seen, Josephus claims that if his anti-Jewish opponents would but spare a moment, they would be able “to discover that [Moses] is a divine man” ( Jew. Ant. 3.179–180) and that indeed the Egyptians did regard “that man as remarkable, indeed divine” (Against Apion 1.279). Although it initially seems remarkable that Josephus should depict Jesus in the same way as he depicted Moses, against the background of the contemporary interest in theioi andres, divine men, this assertion becomes less astounding. This part of Josephus’ testimony of Jesus might well be authentic insofar as it gives a theios anēr-interpretation of Jesus, who “wrought surprising feats and was a teacher of such people as accept the truth gladly” (ἦν γὰρ παραδόξων ἔργων ποιητής, διδάσκαλος ἀνθρώπων τῶν ἡδονῇ τἀληθῆ δεχομένων; 18.63). This portrayal of a powerful and rhetorically skilled Jesus, a wise, divine man, may well have been very similar to the Christology of Paul’s opponents in Corinth; we know that, at least from an outside perspective, some pagans viewed Jesus as a sophist, albeit a crucified, i.e. unsuccessful one (Lucian, On the Death of Peregrinus 13). Although Paul is convinced that the heavenly Christ, the second Adam, possesses full glory, he has a very different understanding of the earthly Jesus. This Jesus, according to Paul, defies description in the sophistic language of powerful strength, physiognomic perfection and competitive glory. In a very philosophical way, Paul counters his opponents’ emphasis on rhetoric with the claim that, although untrained in speech, he possesses knowledge (2 Cor 11.6b). To strengthen his case, he also deliberately resorts to the Platonic notion of the inner man in his criticism of his opponents. This notion of ὁ ἔσω or ὁ ἐντὸς ἄνθρωπος is found in Plato’s Republic (589a).30 Paul’s application of this notion of the inner 30 See Theo K. Heckel, Der Innere Mensch: Die paulinische Verarbeitung eines platonischen Motivs (WUNT 2.53; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 19930; Christoph Markschies, “Die platonische Metapher vom ‘inneren Menschen’: Eine Brücke zwischen antiker Philosophie und altchristlicher Theologie,” Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte 105 (1994): 1–17 (also published in: International Journal of the Classical Tradition 1.3 [1995]: 3–18); cf. also “Innerer Mensch,” in Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum, vol. 18 (Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann, 1998), 266–312; Walter Burkert, “Towards Plato and Paul: The ‘Inner’ Human Being,” in Ancient and Modern Perspectives on the Bible and Culture. Essays in Honor of Hans Dieter Betz (ed. A. Y. Collins; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998), 59–82; and Hans D. Betz, “The Concept of the “Inner Human Being” (ὁ ἔσω ἄνθρωπος) in the Anthropology of Paul,” New Testament Studies 46.3 (2000): 315–341. See also van Kooten, Paul’s Anthropology in Context, §§ 7.2.2–7.2.3.

why did paul include an exegesis of moses’ shining face? 179 man following his criticism of the sophists’ stress on outward performance seems deliberately chosen. For the sophists, such an inner being was altogether unimportant. As Tim Whitmarsh emphasizes, “Identity was not an inner being fixed inside the sophist: it was, rather, linked to his public persona, and shifted with his fortunes.”31 Paul’s use of the Platonic notion of the inner man is the logical next step, then, in his debate with the Corinthian sophists.32 Paul applies it in the following manner. Whereas his Corinthian opponents sell the word of God by retail (2 Cor 2:17), Paul stresses the need to experience an inward transformation which affects the inner man and puts him through a process of a steady, glorious growth by which he gradually turns more and more into the image of God, Christ (2 Cor 3:18–4:4; 4:16). In marked contrast with a sophisticizing emphasis on Moses’ bodily well-being, Paul holds the view that the condition of the outward man is altogether irrelevant. The outward man is wasting away, whereas only the inner man is being progressively renewed: “Even though our outer man is wasting away, our inner man is being renewed day by day”—εἰ καὶ ὁ ἔξω ἡμῶν ἄνθρωπος διαφθείρεται, ἀλλ’ ὁ ἔσω ἡμῶν ἀνακαινοῦται ἡμέρᾳ καὶ ἡμέρᾳ (2 Cor 4:16). This progressive renewal of the inner man is synonymous with man’s transformation into God’s εἰκών, Christ. Christ is portrayed here as Adam, the second Adam that is. Already in 1 Cor, Paul has designated man as being the “image (εἰκών) and glory (δόξα) of God”: εἰκὼν καὶ δόξα θεοῦ ὑπάρχων (1 Cor 11:7), and has explained that “Just as we have borne the image (εἰκών) of the man of dust, we will also bear the image (εἰκών) of the man of heaven” (1 Cor 15:49). As we learn from 2 Cor, this bearing of the image of the second Adam is not only an eschatological event, but rather involves a transformational process in the present, based on transformation into the image of Christ in his capacity as the heavenly man (2 Cor 3:18–4:4). The glory of this Christ (2 Cor 3:18, 4:4), thus, is the glory of the second Adam, just as the first Adam was God’s image and glory (1 Cor 11:7). This notion of the glory of Adam reminds us of the importance of this notion in the Dead Sea Scrolls. The language of Adam, whom God “fashioned in the likeness of [his] glory” and destined to “walk in Whitmarsh, The Second Sophistic. This has not been noted by Winter, Philo and Paul among the Sophists, perhaps mainly because he focuses on 1 Cor. Paul’s criticism of the sophists and his resort to the Platonic notion of the inner man supplement one another very effectively and reveal Paul’s full strategy. 31

32

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a land of glory” (4Q504 frag. 8 4–7), is applied to the members of the Qumran community: “to them shall belong all the glory of Adam” (1QS 4.23; cf. CD-A 3.20, 1QHa 4.15). Adam’s glory is being re-established in their community. Something similar is happening in the Christian community, according to 2 Cor 3–4. If people convert to Christ, the second Adam, and reflect his glory (2 Cor 3:16, 18; 4:4), they experience a transformation ἀπὸ δόξης εἰς δόξαν, “from one degree of glory to another” (2 Cor 3:18). Despite this similarity between Paul and the Dead Sea Scrolls, Paul is different in that he moves beyond the Jewish terminology of the image or likeness of God and the glory of (the second) Adam. In the course of 2 Cor 3–4, the language of image (εἰκών) is supplemented with the notion of the ἔσω ἄνθρωπος, the inner man: man’s transformation into the εἰκών of the second Adam, the heavenly ἄνθρωπος (1 Cor 15:47–49), results directly in a gradual and progressive renewal of the inner ἄνθρωπος (2 Cor 4:16). In this way, Paul recasts the Jewish terminology of the image of God in terms of a Platonic anthropology.33 To his sophistic opponents, Paul admits that the wasting away of the outer man causes affliction, but only momentarily as the growth of the inner man prepares him for “an eternal weight of glory (αἰώνιον βάρος δόξης) beyond all measure” (2 Cor 4.17). This eternal glory is the final outcome of the steadily increasing glory which results from man’s metamorphosis into the εἰκών of the second Adam; it is his glory into which man is changed. If this lasting glory of the second Adam is contrasted with the transitory glory of Moses, Paul’s thinking very much resembles the kind of Moses-Adam polemics present in 2 Enoch.34 In this writing, Enoch,

33 After this turn at the end of 2 Cor 4 in 4.16, Paul’s anthropology and eschatology in 2 Cor 5.1–10 are thoroughly Hellenistic, according to Imre Peres, Griechische Grabinschriften und neutestamentliche Eschatologie (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 157; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), chap. IV.2.2.3, 155–162; and Manuel Vogel, Commentatio mortis: 2Kor 5,1–10 auf dem Hintergrund antiker ars moriendi (Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments 214; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006). 34 I owe this suggestion to Dr. Andrei Orlov. On Adam-Moses polemics, see Andrei A. Orlov, The Enoch-Metatron Tradition (TSAJ 107; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), chaps 5 and 6, esp. 279–283 and 289–291; Idem, From Apocalypticism to Merkabah Mysticism: Studies in the Slavonic Pseudepigrapha ( JSJSup 114; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 327–343; and Silviu Bunta, “One Man (φῶς) in Heaven: Adam-Moses Polemics in the Romanian Versions of The Testament of Abraham and Ezekiel the Tragedian’s Exagoge,” JSP 16 (2007): 139–165. See also Orlov’s essay in this volume, “In the Mirror of the Divine Face: The Enochic Features of the Exagoge of Ezekiel the Tragedian,” 183–99, for a specific discussion of Moses’ or Enoch’s glorious face in this context.

why did paul include an exegesis of moses’ shining face? 181 appearing before the face of God in the highest heaven, is extracted from his earthly clothing and dressed in the clothes of God’s glory (22.8), similar to that of the angels (22.10) and the glorious figure of Adam (30.10–11). In the understanding of the author of 2 Enoch, Enoch’s newly achieved glory competes with that of Moses. This becomes clear from what happens when Enoch is sent back to earth after completing his transcriptions from God’s heavenly books of wisdom (22.11), which Enoch is to reveal to mankind (33.5, 8; 47.2; 48.6–7). God calls one of the senior angels and orders him to chill Enoch’s face with ice, because, God tells Enoch, “if your face had not been chilled here, no human being would be able to look at your face” (37.2). This clearly recalls the setting of Exod 34.35 In this way, the author of 2 Enoch contrasts the figures of Moses and Enoch, as well as their respective revelations. Whereas Moses needs to veil his head to cover his glory, the heat of Enoch’s Adam-like glory is cooled down by an angel. A similar antithesis is clearly discernible in 2 Cor 3–4 in the antagonism between Moses’ transient glory, misunderstood and overrated by Paul’s Corinthian sophistic opponents, and the true, permanent glory of the second Adam. Paul’s opponents seem to have found the portrayal of Moses’ glory in Exod 34 very apt for their apologetic purposes. For this reason Paul has to focus at length on Exod 34; this chapter is pivotal for a glorious interpretation of Moses. Involved in a competition with sophistic outsiders, as they sold their wares at the religio-philosophical market of Antiquity, Paul’s opponents overemphasized Moses’ strength and bodily well-being. It is this picture which Paul sets out to rebalance.

35

Cf. Orlov, The Enoch-Metatron Tradition, 289–290.

IN THE MIRROR OF THE DIVINE FACE: THE ENOCHIC FEATURES OF THE EXAGOGE OF EZEKIEL THE TRAGEDIAN Andrei Orlov Marquette University, USA . . . The Lord of all the worlds warned Moses that he should beware of his face. So it is written, ‘Beware of his face’. . . . This is the prince who is called . . . Metatron. Synopse zur Hekhalot-Literatur §§396–397.

Introduction One of the important compendiums of Jewish mystical lore, a composition known to scholars as 3 Enoch or the Book of the Heavenly Palaces (Sefer Hekhalot) offers a striking re-interpretation of the canonical account of Moses’ reception of Torah. In this text the supreme angel Metatron, also associated in Sefer Hekhalot with the seventh antediluvian patriarch Enoch, is depicted as the one who reveals Torah to the Israelite prophet by bringing it out of his heavenly storehouses.1 The account portrays Moses passing the revelation received from Enoch-Metatron to Joshua and other characters of Israelite history representing the honorable chain of transmissions of the oral law, known to us also from the mishnaic Pirke Avot, the Sayings of the Fathers. The Hekhalot writer, however, revises the traditional mishnaic arrangement of prophets, rabbis, and sages by placing at the beginning of the chain the figure of Enoch-Metatron, viewed as the initial revealer. This choice of the primordial mediator competing with the primacy of Moses is not

1 “Metatron brought Torah out from my storehouses and committed it to Moses, and Moses to Joshua, Joshua to the Elders, the Elders to the Prophets, the Prophets to the Men of the Great Synagogue, the Men of the Great Synagogue to Ezra the Scribe, Ezra the Scribe to Hillel the Elder. . . .” P. Alexander, “3 (Hebrew Apocalypse of ) Enoch,” The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha (2 vols.; ed. J. H. Charlesworth; New York: Doubleday, 1985 [1983]), 1.315; P. Schäfer, with M. Schlüter and H. G. von Mutius, Synopse zur Hekhalot-Literatur (TSAJ, 2; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1981), §80.

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coincidental and in many ways serves as an important landmark in the long-lasting theological tradition that began many centuries earlier when the Second Temple was still standing. This development points to the theological competition between two heroes, the son of Jared and the son of Amram, which had ancient roots traced to the sacerdotal debates of the second temple era. Recent scholarship has become increasingly cognizant of the complexity of the social, political, and theological climate of the late second temple period when the various sacerdotal groups and clans were competing for the primacy and authority of their priestly legacy. This competitive environment created a whole range of ideal mediatorial figures that, along with traditional mediators like Moses, also included other characters of primeval and Israelite history, such as Adam, Abel, Enoch, Noah, Shem, Melchizedek, and Abraham. Scholars now are well aware that in the late Second Temple period the sacerdotal legacy of Mosaic revelation came under fierce attack from various mediatorial trends that sought to offer a viable ideological alternative to the Mosaic stream through speculation on the pre-Mosaic protological traditions. One such development, which has its roots in the early Enochic materials, tried to portray the seventh antediluvian patriarch as the custodian of the more ancient cultic revelation that had existed long before Moses. In this rival paradigm, Enoch was depicted as an ancient mediator who received from God revelations superior to those received many centuries later by the son of Amram in the wilderness. The use of such a protological figure as Enoch does not seem coincidental, since this primeval hero had been endowed with divine disclosures long before the Israelite prophet received his revelation and sacerdotal prescriptions on Mount Sinai. It is apparent that the circumstances surrounding the patriarch’s reception of revelation described in the second temple Enochic booklets were much loftier than the circumstances of the Mosaic encounter in the biblical narrative. While Moses received Torah from the Lord on earth, the Enochic hero acquired his revelation in the celestial realm, instructed there by angels and God. In the biblical account the Lord descends to Moses’ realm to convey his revelation to the seer, while Enoch is able to ascend to the divine abode and behold the Throne of Glory. The advantage here is clearly on the side of the Enochic hero. Within the context of an ongoing competition, such a challenge could not remain unanswered by custodians of the Mosaic tradition. The non-biblical Mosaic lore demonstrates clear intentions of enhancing the exalted profile of its hero. This tendency detectable in the non-

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biblical Mosaic materials, of course, was not provoked solely by the rival Enochic developments, but rather was facilitated by the presence of a whole range of competitive exalted figures prominent in second temple Judaism. Still, the challenge of the pseudepigraphic Enoch to the biblical Moses cannot be underestimated, since the patriarch was the possessor of an alternative esoteric revelation reflected in the body of extensive literature that claimed its supremacy over Mosaic Torah.2 The aforementioned set of initial disadvantages in the fierce rivalry might explain why the Mosaic tradition, in its dialogue with Enochic lore and other second temple mediatorial developments, could not rest on its laurels but had to develop further and adjust the story of its character, investing him with an angelic and even divine status comparable to the elevated status of the rivals. One of the significant early testimonies of this polemical interaction between Mosaic and Enochic traditions has survived as a part of the drama Exagoge,3 a writing attributed to Ezekiel the Tragedian that depicts

2 On the interaction between Enochic and Mosaic traditions, see: P. Alexander, “From Son of Adam to a Second God: Transformation of the Biblical Enoch,”Biblical Figures Outside the Bible (ed. M. E. Stone and T. A. Bergren; Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 1998), 102–11; idem, “Enoch and the Beginnings of Jewish Interest in Natural Science,” in: The Wisdom Texts from Qumran and the Development of Sapiental Thought (ed. C. Hempel et al., BETL 159; Leuven: Peeters, 2002), 223–43; G. Boccaccini, Beyond the Essene Hypothesis: The Parting of the Ways Between Qumran and Enochic Judaism (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998); A. Orlov, The Enoch-Metatron Tradition (TSAJ, 107; Tübingen: Mohr/ Siebeck, 2005), 254–303; J. VanderKam, Enoch: A Man for All Generations (Columbia: South Carolina, 1995); idem, “The Interpretation of Genesis in 1 Enoch,” in: The Bible at Qumran (ed. P. W. Flint and T. H. Kim; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 129–48. As well, for two different discussions of Moses-like figures and their function and transformations, see in this volume: Matthias Henze, “Torah and Eschatology in the Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch,” 201–16 and Zuleika Rodgers, “Josephus’ ‘Theokratia’ and Mosaic Discourse,” 129–48. 3 On the Exagoge of Ezekiel the Tragedian, see S. N. Bunta, Moses, Adam and the Glory of the Lord in Ezekiel the Tragedian: On the Roots of a Merkabah Text (Ph.D. Dissertation; Marquette University, 2005); J. J. Collins, Between Athens and Jerusalem (2nd ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 224–25; M. Gaster, The Samaritans. Their History, Doctrines and Literature (London: Oxford University Press, 1925); I. Gruenwald, Apocalyptic and Merkavah Mysticism (AGJU, 14; Leiden: Brill, 1980); Y. Gutman, The Beginnings of Jewish-Hellenistic Literature (2 vols.; Jerusalem: Mosad Bialik, 1958–1963) [in Hebrew]; C. R. Holladay, “The Portrait of Moses in Ezekiel the Tragedian,” SBLSP 10 (1976) 447–452; idem, Fragments from Hellenistic Jewish Authors: Vol. II, Poets (SBLTT, 30; Pseudepigrapha Series 12; Atlanta: Scholars, 1989), 439–49; P. W. van der Horst, “De Joodse toneelschrijver Ezechiel,” Nederlands Theologisch Tijdschrift 36 (1982): 97–112; idem, “Moses’ Throne Vision in Ezekiel the Dramatist,” JJS 34 (1983): 21–29; idem, “Some Notes on the Exagogue of Ezekiel,” Mnemosyne 37 (1984): 364–65; L. Hurtado, One God, One Lord: Early Christian Devotion and Ancient Jewish Monotheism (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988), 58ff; H. Jacobson, “Mysticism and Apocalyptic in Ezekiel’s Exagoge,” ICS 6 (1981): 273–93; idem, The Exagoge of Ezekiel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983);

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the prophet’s experience at Sinai as his celestial enthronement. The text seeks to enhance the features of the biblical Moses and attribute to him some familiar qualities of the exalted figure of the seventh antediluvian patriarch Enoch. Preserved in fragmentary form in Eusebius of Caesarea’s4 Praeparatio evangelica,5 Exagoge 67–90 reads: Moses: I had a vision of a great throne on the top of Mount Sinai and it reached till the folds of heaven. A noble man was sitting on it, with a crown and a large scepter in his left hand. He beckoned to me with his right hand, so I approached and stood before the throne. He gave me the scepter and instructed me to sit on the great throne. Then he gave me a royal crown and got up from the throne. I beheld the whole earth all around and saw beneath the earth and above the heavens. A multitude of stars fell before my knees and I counted them all. They paraded past me like a battalion of men. Then I awoke from my sleep in fear. Raguel: My friend (ὦ ξένε), this is a good sign from God. May I live to see the day when these things are fulfilled. You will establish a great throne, become a judge and leader of men. As for your vision of the whole earth, the world below and that above the heavens—this signifies that you will see what is, what has been and what shall be.6

K. Kuiper, “De Ezekiele Poeta Iudaeo,” Mnemosyne 28 (1900): 237–80; idem, “Le poète juif Ezéchiel,” Revue des études juives 46 (1903): 48–73, 161–77; P. Lanfranchi, L’Exagoge d’Ezéchiel le Tragique: Introduction, texte, traduction et commentaire (SVTP, 21; Leiden: Brill, 2006); W. A. Meeks, “Moses as God and King,” in: Religions in Antiquity: Essays in Memory of Erwin Ramsdell Goodenough (ed. J. Neusner; Leiden: Brill, 1968), 354–71; idem, The Prophet-King: Moses Traditions and the Johannine Christology (SNT 14; Leiden: Brill, 1967); A. Orlov, “Ex 33 on God’s Face: A Lesson from the Enochic Tradition,” SBLSP 39 (2000): 130–47; idem, The Enoch-Metatron Tradition (TSAJ, 107; Tübingen: Mohr/Siebeck, 2005), 262–68; R. G. Robertson, “Ezekiel the Tragedian,” The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha (2 vols.; ed. J. H. Charlesworth; New York: Doubleday, 1985 [1983]), 2.803–819; K. Ruffatto, “Raguel as Interpreter of Moses’ Throne Vision: The Transcendent Identity of Raguel in the Exagoge of Ezekiel the Tragedian” (paper presented at the annual meeting of the SBL, Philadelphia, 22 November 2005); idem, “Polemics with Enochic Traditions in the Exagoge of Ezekiel the Tragedian,” JSP 15 (2006): 195–210; E. Starobinski-Safran, “Un poète judéo-hellénistique: Ezéchiel le Tragique,” MH 3 (1974): 216–24; E. Vogt, Tragiker Ezechiel ( JSHRZ, 4.3; Gütersloh, 1983); M. Wiencke, Ezechielis Judaei poetae Alexandrini fabulae quae inscribitur Exagoge fragmenta (Mümster: Monasterii Westfalorum, 1931); R. Van De Water, “Moses’ Exaltation: Pre–Christian?” JSP 21 (2000): 59–69. 4 Eusebius preserves the seventeen fragments containing 269 iambic trimeter verses. Unfortunately, the limited scope of our investigation does not allow us to reflect on the broader context of Moses’ dream in the Exagoge. 5 The Greek text of the passage was published in several editions including: A.-M. Denis, Fragmenta pseudepigraphorum quae supersunt graeca (PVTG, 3; Leiden: Brill, 1970), 210; B. Snell, Tragicorum graecorum fragmenta I (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1971) 288–301; Jacobson, The Exagoge of Ezekiel, 54; Holladay, Fragments, 362–66. 6 Jacobson, The Exagoge of Ezekiel, 54–55.

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Wayne Meeks observes that, given its quotation by Alexander Polyhistor (ca. 80–40 b.c.e.), this Mosaic account can be taken as a witness to traditions of the second century b.c.e.7 Several characteristics of the narrative suggest that its author was familiar with Enochic traditions and tried to attribute some features of the story of the seventh antediluvian hero to Moses.8 This article will investigate the possible connections between the Exagoge and the Enochic tradition. Oneiromantic Dreams In the study of the Enochic features of the Exagoge, one must examine the literary form of this account. The first thing that catches the eye here is that the Sinai encounter is now fashioned not as a real life experience “in a body,” as it was originally presented in the biblical accounts, but as a dream-vision.9 This oneiromantic perspective of the narrative immediately brings to mind the Enochic dreams-visions,10 particularly

Meeks, The Prophet-King, 149. See also Holladay, Fragments from Hellenistic Jewish Authors, 2.308–12. 8 Alexander, Gutman, Holladay, Meeks, Robertson, Ruffatto, and van der Horst point to various Enochic parallels in the Exagoge. For a preliminary analysis of the “Enochic” features of the Exagoge, see also A. Orlov, “Ex 33 on God’s Face,” 142–43; idem, The Enoch-Metatron Tradition, 262–68. 9 The text unambiguously points to the fact that Moses acquired his vision in a dream. In the Exagoge 82 the seer testified that he awoke from his sleep in fear. 10 Scholars have previously noted that already in early Enochic materials the patriarch is depicted as an oneiromantic practitioner who receives his revelations in dreams. Thus, when in the Book of the Watchers (1 Enoch 13:7–9a), Enoch describes one of his dream experiences, it vividly recalls the model often attested in similar cases of oneiromantic practices. The text reads: “And I went and sat down by the waters of Dan in Dan which is south-west of Hermon; and I read out the record of their petition until I fell asleep. And behold a dream (˜elm) came to me, and vision fell upon me, and I saw a vision of wrath. . . .” M. Knibb, The Ethiopic Book of Enoch: A New Edition in the Light of the Aramaic Dead Sea Fragments (2 vols; Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1978), 1.45; 2.94. Other booklets of 1 Enoch also attest to the patriarch’s visions as mantic dreams. Thus, when in 1 Enoch 83 and 85, the seventh antediluvian patriarch describes his revelations, the text makes explicit that these visions are received in dreams. These passages also point to the fact that Enoch’s oneiromantic experiences occurred throughout his lifetime, possibly even from his early days, which the seer spent in the house of his grandfather Malalel. Later developments of this tradition reflected in the Book of Jubilees and the Book of Giants also highlight dreams as important media for the patriarch’s revelations. Thus, Jub. 4:19 alludes to a vision that Enoch received in a sleep-dream in which he saw all the history of humankind until its eschatological consummation: “While he [ Enoch] slept he saw in a vision what has happened and what will occur—how things will happen for mankind during their history until the 7

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1 Enoch 14, in which the patriarch’s vision of the Kavod is fashioned as an oneiromantic experience.11 Additional proof that Moses’ dream is oneiromantic in form and nature is Raguel’s interpretation, which in the Exagoge follows immediately after Moses’ dream-vision. The interpretation represents a standard feature of a mantic dream where the content of the received dream must be explained by an oneirocritic. Raguel serves here as such an oneirocritic—he discerns the message of the dream, telling the recipient (Moses) that his vision was positive. It is also significant that the dream about the Sinai encounter in the Exagoge is fashioned as a vision of the forthcoming event, an anticipation of the future glorious status and deeds of Moses. This prophetic perspective is very common for Enochic accounts where the Sinai event is often depicted as a future event in order to maintain the antediluvian perspective of the narration. Thus, in the Animal Apocalypse (1 Enoch 85–90) Enoch receives a disclosure in his dream in which primeval and Israelite history is unfolded through distinctive symbolic descriptions involving zoomorphic imagery. In the course of the unfolding revelation Enoch beholds the vision of the sheep ascending on the lofty rock which, in the zoomorphic code of the Animal Apocalypse, symbolizes the future ascent of the Israelite prophet on Mount Sinai to receive Torah from God. Heavenly Ascent Another Enochic detail of the Exagoge is that Moses’ ascension in a dream allows him not simply to travel to the top of the earthly mountain but, in imitation of the seventh antediluvian hero, to transcend the orbis terrarum, accessing the various extraterrestrial realms that include the regions “beneath the earth and above the heavens.” The ascension vividly recalls the early Enochic journeys in dream-visions to the upper heavens, as well as the lower regions, where Enoch learns about the

day of judgment.” J. C. VanderKam, The Book of Jubilees (2 vols.; CSCO 510–11, Scriptores Aethiopici 87–88; Leuven: Peeters, 1989), 2.26–27. 11 Although dreams are not uncommon in classic Greek drama, the content of the dream—vision suggests a Jewish rather than Greek background. On the use of dreams in Greek drama in connection with the Exagoge, see: Starobinski-Safran, “Un poète judéo-hellénistique: Ezéchiel le Tragique,” 216–24; Jacobson, “Mysticism and Apocalyptic in Ezekiel’s Exagoge,” 273–93; Holladay, Fragments, 2.437.

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upcoming judgment of the sinners.12 This profile of Moses as a traveler above and beneath the earth is unknown in biblical accounts and most likely comes from the early Enochic conceptual developments. It should be noted that the imagery of celestial travel to the great throne on the mountain recalls Enoch’s journeys in the Book of the Watchers to the cosmic mountain, a site of the great throne of the divine Kavod.13 Scholars have previously noted terminological similarities in the throne language between the Enochic accounts and the Exagoge.14 Angelus Interpres The visionary account of the prophet, which is now fashioned as a celestial journey, also seems to require the presence of another character appropriate in such settings, the angelus interpres, whose role is to assist the seer in understanding the upper reality. This new visionary dimension appears to be reflected in the figure of Raguel.15 His striking interpretive omniscience recalls the expertise of the angel Uriel of the Enochic accounts, who was able to help the seventh antediluvian patriarch overcome initial fear and discern the proper meaning of the revealed things.16 That Raguel might be understood as a supernatural helper in the Exagoge is shown in his role of a direct participant in the vision whose knowledge of the disclosed things, rather unexpectedly, surpasses that of the seer and allows him to initiate the visionary into the hidden meaning of the revealed reality.

See, for example, 1 Enoch 17–18. The imagery of the divine throne situated on the mountain is widespread in the Book of the Watchers and can be found, for example, in 1 Enoch 18:6–8 “And I went towards the south—and it was burning day and night—where (there were) seven mountains of precious stones. . . . And the middle one reached to heaven, like the throne of the Lord, of stibium, and the top of the throne (was) of sapphire;” 1 Enoch 24:3 “And (there was) a seventh mountain in the middle of these, and in their height they were all like the seat of a throne, and fragrant trees surrounded it;” 1 Enoch 25:3 “And he answered me, saying: ‘This high mountain which you saw, whose summit is like the throne of the Lord, is the throne where the Holy and Great One, the Lord of Glory, the Eternal King, will sit when he comes down to visit the earth for good.’ ” Knibb, The Ethiopic Book of Enoch, 2.104; 2.113. 14 Holladay, Fragments, 2.440. 15 On the figure of Raguel as a possible angelic interpreter, see also Ruffatto, “Raguel as Interpreter of Moses’ Throne Vision.” 16 Exagoge 82: “Then I awoke from my sleep in fear.” The awaking of a seer from a vision-dream in fear is a common motif in the Enochic literature. See 1 Enoch 83:6–7; 90:41–42; 2 Enoch 1:6–7 (shorter recension). 12 13

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Another fact suggesting that Raguel might be an angelic interpreter is that it is very unusual in Jewish traditions that a non-Jew interprets dreams of a Jew. Howard Jacobson observes that in the Bible nowhere does a non-Jew interpret a symbolic dream for a Jew. . . . Such dreams when dreamt by Jews are usually assumed to be understood by the dreamer (e.g. Joseph’s dreams) or else are interpreted by some divine authority (e.g. Daniel 8).17

It is, however, not uncommon for a heavenly being to discern the proper meaning of an Israelite’s visions. It is therefore possible that Raguel is envisioned here as a celestial, not a human, interpreter. In light of these considerations, it is possible that Raguel’s address, which occupies the last part of the account, can be seen, at least structurally, as a continuation of the previous vision. One detail that might support such an arrangement is that in the beginning of his interpretation Raguel calls Moses ξένος,18 a Greek term which can be rendered in English as “guest.”19 Such an address might well be interpreted here as an angel’s address to a human visitor attending the upper celestial realm which is normally alien to him. Esoteric Knowledge It has already been noted that the polemics between the Mosaic and the Enochic tradition revolved around the primacy and supremacy of revealed knowledge. The author of the Exagoge appears to challenge the prominent esoteric status of Enochic lore and the patriarch’s role as an expert in secrets by underlining the esoteric character of Mosaic revelation and the prophet’s superiority in the mysteries of heaven and earth. In Exagoge 85 Raguel tells the seer that his vision of the world below and above signifies that he will see what is, what has been, and what shall be.20 Wayne Meeks notes the connection of this statement of Raguel with the famous expression “what is above and what is below; what is before and what is behind; what was and what will be,” which Jacobson, The Exagoge of Ezekiel, 92. Jacobson and Robertson render the Greek word ξένος as “friend.” 19 Robertson suggests this rendering as one of the possible options. He writes that “in addition to the more common meaning of the term, there are various levels of usage, among which is the meaning ‘guest.’ ” Robertson, “Ezekiel the Tragedian,” 812, note d2. See also Holladay, Fragments, 2.446. 20 Jacobson, The Exagoge of Ezekiel, 54–55. 17 18

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was a standard designation for knowledge belonging to the esoteric lore.21 Meeks draws attention22 to m. Æag. 2:1 where the prohibition of discussing the esoteric lore,23 including the Account of the Creation ( ‫ )מעשה בראשית‬and the Account of the Chariot ( ‫)מעשה מרכבה‬, is expressed through the following formula that closely resembles the description found in the Exagoge: “Whosoever gives his mind to four things it was better for him if he had not come into the world—what is above? what is beneath? what was beforetime? and what will be hereafter.”24 It is possible that the formulae expressed in m. Æag. 2:1 and the Exagoge 85 might have their early roots in the Enochic lore, where the patriarch’s mediation of esoteric knowledge encompasses the important spatial dimensions of the realms above and beneath the earth as well as the temporal boundaries of the antediluvian and eschatological times.25 In the Enochic materials one can also find some designations of esoteric knowledge that might constitute the original background of the later mishnaic formulae. Thus, in the section of the Book of the Similitudes (1 Enoch 59–60) dealing with the secrets of the heavenly phenomena, the angelus interpres reveals to Enoch the secret that is “first and last in heaven, in the heights, and under the dry ground” (1 Enoch 60:11).26 These enigmatic formulations pertaining to the patriarch’s role as a

Sifre Zutta 84. See also 3 Enoch 10:5; 11:3. Meeks, The Prophet-King, 208. See also van der Horst, “Moses’ Throne Vision in Ezekiel the Dramatist,” 28; C. Fletcher-Louis, “4Q374: A Discourse on the Sinai Tradition: The Deification of Moses and Early Christology,” DSD 3 (1996): 236–52, esp. 246. 23 G. Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism (New York: Schocken, 1954), 74. 24 H. Danby, The Mishnah (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 213. 25 The patriarch’s mediating duties comprise a whole range of spatial and chronological dimensions. His functions as mediator are not confined to a particular realm or a particular petitioner, since his clients include a range of divine, angelic, human, and composite creatures situated in the underworld as well as in heaven. In the Book of the Watchers faithful angels of heaven ask him to assist their brethren in the lower realm. In the same text he mediates on behalf of the rebellious group which includes the fallen Watchers and the Giants. Enoch’s mediating activities are also not limited by specific chronological boundaries. He mediates in the generation of the Flood, but he is also expected to be a mediator and a witness of divine judgment in the eschatological period. It appears that the patriarch is predestined to mediate judgment in two significant temporal loci. One of them is the historical locus associated with the generation of the Flood; in this locale Enoch acts as an intercessor and a writer of testimonies to the Watchers, Giants and humans. The second locus is eschatological and involves Enoch’s future role as witness of eschatological divine judgment. 26 Knibb, The Ethiopic Book of Enoch, 2.144. 21

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possesor of esoteric wisdom27 would never be forgotten in the Enochic lore and could be found even in the later rabbinic compositions dealing with the afterlife of the seventh antediluvian hero, including the already mentioned Sefer Hekhalot, which would depict Enoch-Metatron instructed by God in “the wisdom of those above and of those below, the wisdom of this world and of the world to come.”28 In light of the passage found in the Exagoge, it is possible that its author, who shows familiarity with the earlier form of the Mishnaic formula, attempts to fashion the Mosaic revelation as an esoteric tradition, similar to the Enochic lore.29 Heavenly Counterpart The placement of Moses on the great throne in the Exagoge account30 and his donning of the royal regalia have been often interpreted by 27 On the role of the seventh antediluvian hero as an expert in the esoteric lore, see: Orlov, The Enoch-Metatron Tradition, 31–34; 48–50; 101–104; 188–200. 28 Alexander, “3 Enoch,” 264. 29 The insistence of some extra-biblical Mosaic accounts on the fact that the prophet ascended to heaven might be directed towards constructing the Mosaic disclosure as an esoteric tradition in order to secure the superiority of his revelation. Wayne Meeks observes that “the most common function of ascension stories in literature of the period and milieu we are considering is a guarantee of esoteric tradition. In the apocalyptic genre the ascension of the ‘prophet’ or of the ancient worthy in whose name the book is written is an almost invariable introduction to the description of the secrets which the ascendant one ‘saw.’ The secrets, therefore, whose content may vary from descriptions of the cosmic and political events anticipated at the end of days to cosmological details, are declared to be of heavenly origin, not mere earthly wisdom. This pattern is the clear sign of a community which regards its own esoteric lore as inaccessible to ordinary reason but belonging to a higher order of truth. It is clear beyond dispute that this is one function which the traditions of Moses’ ascension serves.” Meeks adds that in the later rabbinic accounts “the notion that Moses received cosmological secrets led to elaborate descriptions of his ‘heavenly journeys,’ very similar to those attributed elsewhere to Enoch.” Meeks, “Moses as God and King,” 367–68. 30 The imagery of Moses’ enthronement is not confined solely to the Exagoge account but can be found also in other extra-biblical materials. Thus, Crispin Fletcher-Louis draws attention to a parallel in the Jewish Orphica: an exalted figure, apparently Moses, is also placed on the celestial throne. C. Fletcher-Louis, All the Glory of Adam: Liturgical Anthropology in the Dead Sea Scrolls (STDJ 42; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 137; M. Lafargue, “Orphica,” The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha (2 vols.; ed. J. H. Charlesworth; New York: Doubleday, 1985 [1983]), 2.796–7. Orphica 26–41 reads: “. . . a certain unique man, an offshoot from far back of the race of the Chaldeans . . . yes he after this is established in the great heaven on a golden throne. He stands with his feet on the earth. He stretches out his right hand to the ends of the ocean. The foundation of the mountains trembles within at [his] anger, and the depths of the gray sparkling sea. They cannot endure the mighty power. He is entirely heavenly, and he brings everything to completion on

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scholars as the prophet’s occupation of the seat of the Deity. Pieter van der Horst remarks that in the Exagoge Moses become “an anthropomorphic hypostasis of God himself.”31 The uniqueness of the motif of God’s vacating the throne and transferring occupancy to someone else has puzzled scholars for a long time.32 An attempt to deal with this enigma by bringing in the imagery of the vice-regent does not, in my judgment, completely solve the problem. The vice-regents in Jewish traditions (for example, Metatron) do not normally occupy God’s throne but instead have their own glorious chair, which sometimes serves as a replica of the divine Seat. It seems that the enigmatic identification of the prophet with the divine Form can be best explained not through the concept of a vice-regent but through the notion of a heavenly twin or counterpart. Before investigating this concept in the Exagoge, we need to provide some background for this tradition in Enochic materials. Scholars have previously observed33 that Chapter 71 of the Book of Similitudes seems to entertain the idea of the heavenly twin of a visionary in identifying Enoch with the son of man, an enthroned messianic figure.34 For a long time scholars have found it puzzling that the son of man, distinguished in the previous chapters of the Similitudes from

earth, being ‘the beginning, the middle, and the end,’ as the saying of the ancients, as the one water-born has described it, the one who received [revelations] from God in aphorisms, in the form of a double law. . . .” Lafargue, “Orphica,” 2.799–800. 31 van der Horst. “Some Notes on the Exagoge,” 364. 32 van der Horst, “Throne Vision,” 25; Holladay, Fragments, 444. 33 See J. VanderKam, “Righteous One, Messiah, Chosen One, and Son of Man in 1 Enoch 37–71,” in: The Messiah: Developments in Earliest Judaism and Christianity: The First Princeton Symposium on Judaism and Christian Origins (ed. J. H. Charlesworth et al.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), 182–83; M. Knibb, “Messianism in the Pseudepigrapha in the Light of the Scrolls,” DSD 2 (1995): 177–80; J. Fossum, The Image of the Invisible God: Essays on the Influence of Jewish Mysticism on Early Christology (NTOA 30; Fribourg: Universitätsverlag Freiburg Schweiz; Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995), 144–5; Fletcher-Louis, Luke-Acts, 151. On a heavenly double see also W. Bousset, Die Religion des Judentums im späthellenistischen Zeitalter (3d ed.; HNT 21; Tübingen: Mohr/Siebeck, 1966), 324; A. Orlov, “The Face as the Heavenly Counterpart of the Visionary in the Slavonic Ladder of Jacob,” in: Of Scribes and Sages (2 vols.; ed. C. A. Evans; T&T Clark, 2004), 2.59–76; idem, The Enoch-Metatron Tradition, 165–76. 34 It is important to note that in the Similitudes, the son of man is depicted as the one seated on the Throne of Glory. See 1 Enoch 62:5, 1 Enoch 69:29. Jarl Fossum observes that “in the ‘Similitudes’ the ‘Elect One’ or ‘Son of Man’ who is identified as the patriarch Enoch, is enthroned upon the ‘throne of glory.’ If ‘glory’ does not qualify the throne but its occupant, Enoch is actually identified with the Glory of God”. Fossum further suggests that “. . . the ‘Similitudes of Enoch’ present an early parallel to the targumic description of Jacob being seated upon the ‘throne of glory.’ ’’ Fossum, The Image of the Invisible God, 145.

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Enoch, is suddenly identified with the patriarch in 1 Enoch 71. James VanderKam suggests that this paradox can be explained by the Jewish notion, attested in several ancient Jewish texts, that a creature of flesh and blood could have a heavenly double or counterpart.35 As an example, VanderKam points to Jacob’s traditions in which the patriarch’s “features are engraved on high.”36 He observes that the theme of the visionary’s ignorance of his higher celestial identity is also detectable in the pseudepigraphic text the Prayer of Joseph where Jacob is identified with his heavenly counterpart, the angel Israel. VanderKam’s reference to Jacob lore is not coincidental. Conceptions of the heavenly image or counterpart of a seer take their most consistent form in Jacob traditions.37 In view of the aforementioned traditions about the heavenly twins of Enoch and Jacob, it is possible that the Exagoge of Ezekiel the Tragedian also attests to the idea of a heavenly counterpart of the seer when it identifies Moses with the glorious anthropomorphic extent. We may recall that the text depicts Moses’ vision of “a noble man” with a crown and a large scepter in the left hand installed on a great throne. In the course of the seer’s initiation, the attributes of the “noble man,” including the royal crown and the scepter, are transferred to Moses who is instructed to sit on the throne formerly occupied by the noble man. The visionary is clearly identified with his heavenly counterpart in the 35 VanderKam, “Righteous One, Messiah, Chosen One, and Son of Man in 1 Enoch 37–71,” 182–83. 36 The metaphor of “engraving” on the Kavod might signify here that the seer’s identity became reflected in the divine Face, as in a mirror. 37 Besides the biblical account, the traditions concerning Jacob’s celestial double are also presented in the pseudepigraphical materials such as the Prayer of Joseph and the Ladder of Jacob and in several targumic texts, including Tg. Ps.-J., Tg. Neof., and Frg. Tg. In Tg. Ps.-J. to Gen 28:12, the following description can be found: “He [ Jacob] had a dream, and behold, a ladder was fixed in the earth with its top reaching toward the heavens . . . and on that day they (angels) ascended to the heavens on high, and said, ‘Come and see Jacob the pious, whose image is fixed (engraved) in the Throne of Glory, and whom you have desired to see.’ ” Targum Pseudo-Jonathan: Genesis (tr. M. Maher, M.S.C.; The Aramaic Bible 1B; Collegeville: The Liturgical Press, 1992), 99–100. A distinctive feature of this description is that the heavenly counterpart of Jacob, his “image,” is engraved on the Throne of Glory. Engraving on the Throne indicates here an association with the Kavod since the Throne is the central part of the Kavod imagery—the seat of the anthropomorphic Glory of the Lord. Besides the tradition of engraving on the Throne, some Jewish materials point to an even more radical identification of Jacob’s image with the Kavod. Jarl Fossum’s research demonstrates that in some traditions about Jacob, his image or likeness is depicted, not simply as engraved on the heavenly throne, but as seated upon the throne of glory. Fossum argues that this second tradition is original. See Fossum, The Image of the Invisible God, 139–42.

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narrative, in the course of which the seer literally takes the place and the attributes of his upper identity. The account also underlines that Moses acquired his vision in a dream, by reporting that he awoke from his sleep in fear. Here, just as in the Jacob tradition, while the seer is sleeping on earth his counterpart in the upper realm is identified with the Kavod.38 Stars and Fallen Angels The Exagoge depicts Moses as a counter of the stars. The text also seems to put great emphasis on the prophet’s interaction with the celestial bodies that fell before Moses’ knees and even paraded past him like a battalion of men. Such “astronomical” encounters are unknown in the biblical Mosaic accounts. At the same time preoccupation of the seventh antediluvian patriarch with astronomical and cosmological calculations and lore is well known and constitutes a major subject of his revelations in the earliest Enochic booklets, such as the Astronomical Book and the Book of the Watchers, in which the patriarch is depicted as the counter of stars.39 The later Enochic and Merkabah materials also demonstrate that the patriarch’s expertise in counting and measuring celestial and earthly phenomena becomes a significant conceptual avenue for his future exaltation as an omniscient vice-regent of the Deity40 who knows and exercises authority over the “orders of creations.”41 The depiction of stars falling before Moses’ knees also seems relevant for the subject of this investigation, especially in view of the symbolism 38 It cannot be excluded, though, that the Exagoge authors might have known the traditions of the patriarch’s enthronement in heaven, similar to those reflected in the Similitudes. Also, it cannot be excluded that the Mesopotamian proto-Enochic traditions, in which the prototype of Enoch, the king Enmeduranki, was installed on a throne in the assembly of gods, might have influenced the imagery found in the Exagoge. Pieter van der Horst in his analysis of the Exagoge entertains the possibility that “. . . in pre-Christian times there were (probably rival) traditions about Enoch and Moses as synthronoi theou; and . . . these ideas were suppressed (for obvious reasons) by the rabbis.” van der Horst, “Throne Vision,” 27. 39 1 Enoch 33:2–4. 40 See Synopse §66 (3 Enoch 46:1–2). 41 See 2 Enoch 40:2–4: “I know everything, and everything I have written down in books, the heavens and their boundaries and their contents. And all the armies and their movements I have measured. And I have recorded the stars and the multitude of multitudes innumerable. What human being can see their circles and their phases? For not even the angels know their number. But I have written down all their names. . . .” Andersen, “2 Enoch,” 1.164.

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found in some Enochic booklets where the fallen angels are often portrayed as stars. Thus, for example, the already mentioned Animal Apocalypse depicts the descent of the Watchers as the vision of stars falling down from heaven: “. . . I saw heaven above, and behold, a star fell from heaven . . . and again I saw in the vision and looked at heaven, and behold, I saw many stars, how they came down. . . .” (1 Enoch 86).42 If we assume that in the Exagoge stars indeed signify angels and even more precisely fallen angels, the vision of the fallen angels genuflecting before Moses’ feet might again invoke the memory of some Enochic developments, since the motif of angelic veneration of a seer by the fallen angels plays a significant role in some Enochic materials. The memory of this important motif is present even in the later “Enochic” compositions of the rabbinic period, for example in Sefer Hekhalot, where the following tradition of Enoch’s veneration by the fallen angels can be found: R. Ishmael said: I said to Metatron: “. . . You are greater than all the princes, more exalted than all the angels, more beloved than all the ministers . . . why, then, do they call you ‘Youth’ in the heavenly heights?” He answered, “Because I am Enoch, the son of Jared . . . the Holy One, blessed be he, appointed me in the height as a prince and a ruler among the ministering angels. Then three of the ministering angels, {Uzzah, {Azzah, and {Azaxel, came and laid charges against me in the heavenly height. They said before the Holy One, blessed be He, ‘Lord of the Universe, did not the primeval ones give you good advice when they said, Do not create man!’ . . . And once they all arose and went to meet me and prostrated themselves before me, saying ‘Happy are you, and happy your parents, because your Creator has favored you.’ Because I am young in their company and mere youth among them in days and months and years—therefore they call me ‘Youth’.” Synopse §§5–6.43

It is striking that in this passage, Enoch-Metatron is venerated by angelic beings whose names ({Uzzah, {Azzah, and {Azaxel) are reminiscent of the names of the notorious leaders of the fallen angels found in the early Enochic lore that are rendered by the zoomorphic code of the Animal Apocalypse as the stars. The tradition of angelic veneration has rather early roots in the Enochic lore and can be found in 2 Enoch 22 where the patriarch’s transformation into the heavenly counterpart, like in the Exagoge, is accompanied by angelic veneration. In this account

42 43

Knibb, The Ethiopic Book of Enoch, 2.196–97. Alexander, “3 Enoch,” 1.258–59.

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the Lord invites Enoch to stand forever before His Face. In the course of this initiation, the Deity orders the angels of heaven to venerate the patriarch.44 Another account of angelic veneration is found in 2 Enoch 7 where the patriarch is venerated not simply by celestial angels but the fallen ones. 2 Enoch 7:3 depicts Enoch carried by angels to the second heaven. There the patriarch sees the condemned angels kept as prisoners awaiting the “measureless judgment.” Enoch’s angelic guides explain to him that the prisoners are “those who turned away from the Lord, who did not obey the Lord’s commandments, but of their own will plotted together and turned away with their prince and with those who are under restraint in the fifth heaven.”45 The story continues with angelic veneration. The condemned angels bow down to Enoch asking for his intercession: “Man of God, pray for us to the Lord!”46 It should be noted that, although the motif of angelic veneration has its roots in the Adamic lore,47 the theme of veneration by the fallen angels might be a peculiar Enochic development. Moreover, it seems that the initial traits of this theological development in which the fallen angels “fall before the knees” of the seventh antediluvian patriarch can be already found in the earliest Enochic booklets, including the Book of the Watchers, where the fallen Watchers approach the patriarch begging him for help and intercession.

Andersen, “2 Enoch,” 1.138. Andersen, “2 Enoch,” 1.114. 46 Andersen, “2 Enoch,” 1.114. 47 On the Adamic background of the motif of angelic veneration, see M. E. Stone, “The Fall of Satan and Adam’s Penance: Three Notes on the Books of Adam and Eve,” JTS 44 (1993): 143–56; G. Anderson, “The Exaltation of Adam and the Fall of Satan,” in: Literature on Adam and Eve. Collected Essays (ed. G. Anderson, M. Stone, J. Tromp; SVTP 15; Brill: Leiden, 2000), 83–110; A. Orlov, “On the Polemical Nature of 2 (Slavonic) Enoch: A Reply to C. Bottrich,” JSJ 34 (2003): 274–303. On the motif of angelic veneration in rabbinic literature see, also A. Altmann, “The Gnostic Background of the Rabbinic Adam Legends,” JQR 35 (1945): 371–91; B. Barc, “La taille cosmique d’Adam dans la littérature juive rabbinique des trois premiers siècles apres J.-C.,” RSR 49 (1975): 173–85; J. Fossum, “The Adorable Adam of the Mystics and the Rebuttals of the Rabbis,” Geschichte-Tradition-Reflexion. Festschrift für Martin Hengel zum 70. Geburtstag (2 vols; ed. H. Cancik, H. Lichtenberger and P. Schäfer; Tübingen: Mohr/Siebeck, 1996), 1.529–39; G. Quispel, “Der gnostische Anthropos und die jüdische Tradition,” Eranos Jahrbuch 22 (1953): 195–234; idem, “Ezekiel 1:26 in Jewish Mysticism and Gnosis,” VC 34 (1980): 1–13; A. Segal, Two Powers in Heaven: Early Rabbinic Reports about Christianity and Gnosticism (SJLA 25; Leiden: Brill, 1977) 108–15. 44 45

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In the second temple Jewish materials, the transformation of a seer into his heavenly counterpart often involves the change of his bodily appearance. It may happen even in a dream as, for example, in the Similitudes’ account of the heavenly counterpart where, although Enoch’s journey was “in spirit,” his “body was melted” and, as a result, he acquired the identity of the son of man.48 A similar change of the visionary’s identity might be also discernible in the Exagoge where the already mentioned designation of Moses as ξένος occurs. Besides the meanings of “friend” and “guest,” this Greek word also can be translated as “stranger.”49 If the Exagoge authors indeed had in mind this meaning of ξένος, it might well be related to the fact that Moses’ face or his body underwent some sort of transformation that altered his previous physical appearance and made him appear as a stranger to Raguel. The motif of Moses’ altered identity after his encounter with the Kavod is reflected not only in Exod 34, but also in extra-biblical Mosaic accounts, including the tradition found in Pseudo-Philo’s Biblical Antiquities 12:1. The passage tells that the Israelites failed to recognize Moses after his glorious metamorphosis on Mount Sinai: Moses came down. (Having been bathed with light that could not be gazed upon, he had gone down to the place where the light of the sun and the moon are. The light of his face surpassed the splendor of the sun and the moon, but he was unaware of this). When he came down to the children of Israel, upon seeing him they did not recognize him. But when he had spoken, then they recognized him.50

The motif of the shining countenance of Moses is important for our ongoing discussion of the polemics between Enochic and Mosaic traditions that were striving to enhance the profiles of their main characters with features borrowed from the hero of the rival trend. This distinctive mark of the Israelite prophet’s identity, his glorious face, which served in Biblical accounts as the undeniable proof of his encounter with God,

1 Enoch 71:11. Robertson points to this possibility in “Ezekiel the Tragedian,” 812, note d2. 50 H. Jacobson, A Commentary on Pseudo-Philo’s Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum with Latin Text and English Translation (AGAJU 31; 2 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 1.110. For a discussion of the significance of Moses’ altered face in Jewish and Christian exegesis, please see in this volume: George van Kooten, “Why Did Paul Include an Exegesis of Moses’ Shining Face (Exod 34) in 2 Cor 3?” 149–82. 48 49

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later became appropriated in the framework of Enochic51 and Metatron52 traditions as the chief distinguishing feature of the Enochic hero. In this new development Moses’ shining face became nothing more than the later imitation of the glorious countenance of Enoch-Metatron. Thus, in Sefer Hekhalot 15B, Enoch-Metatron tells Moses about his shining visage: “Son of Amram, fear not! For already God favors you. Ask what you will with confidence and boldness, for light shines from the skin of your face from one end of the world to the other.”53 Here, as in the case of very few distinctive visionaries who were predestined to encounter their heavenly counterparts and to behold the Divine Face like their own reflection in a mirror, Moses too finds out that his luminous face is a reflection of the glorious face of the deity. Yet, there is one important difference: this Divine Face is now represented by his long-lasting contender, Enoch-Metatron.54

51 In 2 Enoch the motif of the luminous face of the seer was transferred for the first time to the seventh antediluvian patriarch. The text tells that the vision of the divine Face had dramatic consequences for Enoch’s appearance. His body endures radical changes as it becomes covered with the divine light. In Enoch’s radiant metamorphosis before the divine Countenance, an important detail can be found which links Enoch’s transformation with Moses’ account in the Book of Exodus. In 2 Enoch 37 one learns about the unusual procedure performed on Enoch’s face at the final stage of his encounter with the Lord. The text informs us that the Lord called one of his senior angels to chill the face of Enoch. The text says that the angel was “terrifying and frightful,” and appeared frozen; he was as white as snow, and his hands were as cold as ice. With these cold hands he then chilled the patriarch’s face. Right after this chilling procedure, the Lord informs Enoch that if his face had not been chilled here, no human being would have been able to look at him. This reference to the dangerous radiance of Enoch’s face after his encounter with the Lord is an apparent parallel to the incandescent face of Moses after the Sinai experience in Exodus 34. 52 Synopse §19 (3 Enoch 15:1) depicts the radiant metamorphosis of Enoch–Metatron’s face: “When the Holy One, blessed be he, took me to serve the throne of glory, the wheels of the chariot and all the needs of the Shekinah, at once my flesh turned to flame, my sinews to blazing fire, my bones to juniper coals, my eyelashes to lightning flashes, my eyeballs to fiery torches, the hairs of my head to hot flames, all my limbs to wings of burning fire, and the substance of my body to blazing fire.” Alexander, “3 Enoch,” 267. 53 3 Enoch 15B:5. Alexander, “3 Enoch,” 304. 54 Scholars have observed that in the Merkabah tradition Metatron is explicitly identified as the hypostatic Face of God. On Metatron as the hypostatic Face of God, see A. De Conick, “Heavenly Temple Traditions and Valentinian Worship: A Case for First-Century Christology in the Second Century,” The Jewish Roots of Christological Monotheism (ed. C. C. Newman, J. R. Davila, G. S. Lewis; JSJSup 63; Brill: Leiden, 1999), 329; D. Halperin, The Faces of the Chariot: Early Jewish Responses to Ezekiel’s Vision (TSAJ 16; Tübingen: Mohr/Siebeck, 1988), 424–25.

TORAH AND ESCHATOLOGY IN THE SYRIAC APOCALYPSE OF BARUCH * Matthias Henze Rice University, USA 1. Torah and Eschatology The Syriac (Apocalypse of ) Baruch, or 2 Baruch, purports to be written by Baruch, scribe and loyal supporter of the prophet Jeremiah. In it he tells of the sixth century b.c.e. Babylonian invasion of Jerusalem and of the destruction of the Solomonic Temple. The reader knows all the while, however, that Baruch is the pseudonym of an otherwise unknown Jewish intellectual who wrote in the late first century c.e. in the aftermath of the Roman destruction of the Jerusalem Temple. Syriac Baruch, one of a number of writings that have come down to us from this pivotal moment in early Jewish history, succinctly captures the Zeitgeist of the period, a time of mental reorientation and religious reconstruction. Syriac Baruch concludes with an epistle sent by Baruch to the Jews in exile, known as the Letter to the Nine and a Half Tribes (2 Baruch 78–87). Speaking in the voice of Baruch, our author provides the following, somewhat sobering assessment of his own time: Know, then, that in former times and former generations, our fathers had righteous helpers and holy Prophets. What is more, we resided in our land, and they helped us when we were sinning. They implored our Creator on our behalf, because they trusted in their works. The Mighty One heard their prayers and was gracious unto us. Now, however, the righteous have been gathered and the Prophets have fallen asleep. We have departed from our land, and Zion has been taken away from us. We have left nothing at all except for the Mighty One and His Torah. If, therefore, we direct our hearts and set them aright, then we will receive everything that we have lost—indeed, much better things than we have lost, many times over. For what we have lost was subject to corruption, whereas what we are about to receive is incorruptible (85:1–5).1 * I would like to thank Professors George Brooke, Hindy Najman, and Loren Stuckenbruck for having organized a focused and productive conference in the beautiful surroundings of Durham. 1 All translations of 2 Baruch are mine. The Syriac text, with the exception of the Epistle, has been edited by Sven Dedering, “Apocalypse of Baruch,” The Old Testament

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This passage brings up a few theologumena that are central to 2 Baruch as a whole. I mention four. The first is the dire statement that the present is a time of loss: the land, the temple, the kingdom—everything has been lost. Even prophecy in its traditional form has ceased to exist, as the Prophets have fallen asleep. What remains is God and the Torah: “We have left nothing at all except for the Mighty One and His Torah.”2 The author of 2 Baruch is a strong advocate of a Torah–centered Judaism, and the admonition to observe Torah is a constant theme in his book. “Your Torah is life, your wisdom is rectitude” (38:2), Baruch exclaims. Those who live by the Torah will be amply rewarded. The Torah is a source of wisdom and trust in God, and the possession of the Torah is the distinguishing characteristic between Israel and the nations. Earlier in the book Baruch concludes a prayer with the words, In you we put our trust because your Torah is with us. We know that we will not fall as long as we observe your statues. Always we are blessed, because we did not mingle with the people. For we are all One people, renowned, who have received One Torah from the One [God ]. That Torah, which is in our midst, is our helper; the surpassing wisdom that is among us will sustain us (48:22–24).

The second theologumenon that is brought up in our passage is the apocalyptic promise of a complete restoration, the promise of a better reality, the World to Come, which is thought to be imminent. For the author of 2 Baruch, the losses of the present were so grave, and the situation so dire, that a full restoration within the bounds of history had become too much to hope for. To be sure, Baruch is confident that all losses will eventually be recovered, in fact many times over, and, even better, what is corruptible now will be incorruptible then. But this can only happen with God’s intervention at the inauguration of a new aeon. The book is drenched with expectation, a pervasive sense that something great is about to happen. Our author has a developed interest in the eschaton, not for the sake of predicting the future, but rather in order to spell out how such knowledge about the End Time has an immediate effect on the Mean Time, i.e., the time of the author and his original audience. After all, the apocalyptic promise is just that, a promise that in Syriac (Leiden: Brill, 1973), par. 4, fasc. 3. My translation of the Epistle follows the Syriac text in Robert H. Charles, The Apocalypse of Baruch Translated from the Syriac (London: Adam and Charles Black, 1896). 2 Robert H. Charles, “II Baruch,” in APOT 2.525, observed that land, sanctuary and David’s kingdom were conditional, whereas the “law was Israel’s everlasting and unconditional possession.”

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seeks to motivate and to encourage the faithful. In some of the book’s most poignant passages our author describes what lies in store for the righteous who look to the World to Come: The expanses of Paradise will be spread out before their eyes, and they will be shown the majestic beauty of the living creatures which are beneath the throne, as well as all the angelic hosts, those now held by my word, lest they reveal themselves, and those held by [my] command, so that they stay in their places until the arrival of their advent (51:11).

Third, the language in the passage quoted above is explicitly Deuteronomic. “If we direct our hearts and set them aright, then we will receive everything we have lost.” Syriac Baruch is steeped in Deuteronomic theology. The destruction and loss Israel is presently experiencing are signs of God’s anger and punishment for Israel’s sin. Our author follows the basic Deuteronomic scheme of sin, punishment, repentance and restoration, and fully embraces traditional Deuteronomic categories.3 Torah observance stands at the center of the book; the righteous will be rewarded and the wicked severely punished; and, most patently, Baruch, the hero of our book, is depicted throughout Syriac Baruch as a latter-day Moses, whose task is to guide what is left of Israel not into the promised land, but into the World to Come.4 How closely the figure of Baruch is modeled after that of Moses in the Book of Deuteronomy is perhaps nowhere more obvious than in the final command Baruch receives from God. “Ascend to the top of this mountain. All the places of this earth will file past you, the likeness of the inhabited world, the top of the mountains, the depth of the valleys, the depths of the sea, and the number of the rivers. You will see what you are leaving and where you are going. This will happen after forty days” (76:3–4; cf. Deut 32:48–52).

George W. E. Nickelsburg, “Torah and the Deuteronomistic Scheme on the Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha,” in Das Gesetz im frühen Judentum und im Neuen Testament: Festschrift für Christoph Burchard zum 75. Geburtstag (ed. D. Sänger and M. Konradt; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht; Fribourg: Academic Press, 2006), 222–35; the classic study on the subject remains, of course, Ed P. Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism: A Comparison of Patterns of Religion (London: SCM Press, 1977), 233–428. 4 Matthias Henze, “From Jeremiah to Baruch: Pseudepigraphy in the Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch,” in Biblical Traditions in Transmission: Essays in Honour of Michael A. Knibb (ed. C. Hempel and J. Lieu; JSJSup 111; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 157–77. For other discussions of Moses-like figures and their functions and transformations in the unfolding tradition, see in this volume: Eva Mroczek, “Moses, David, and Scribal Revelation,” 91–115, esp. 109–15; Andrei Orlov, “In the Mirror of the Divine Face,” 183–200; and Zuleika Rodgers, “Josephus’ ‘Theokratia’ and Mosaic Discourse,” 129–48. 3

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Fourth and finally, 2 Baruch is a storehouse of diverse traditions, an inter-textual wonderland. Like very few other Jewish Pseudepigrapha (the Book of Parables in 1 Enoch 37–71 readily comes to mind), Syriac Baruch is an amalgam of diverse and at times contradictory traditions which are here woven together into the fabric of our text. Two of these traditions, each highly diverse in itself, are the call to Torah obedience and the strong eschatological outlook of 2 Baruch. This, it seems to me, is the most original contribution of Syriac Baruch to the theme of this volume, namely the way in which our author integrates Torah and eschatology. In 2 Baruch, Deuteronomic theology, particularly the call on Israel to live in accordance with the Mosaic Torah and to choose life over death, has become the central aspect of the book’s apocalyptic world view.5 Our author manages to harmonize two distinct strands of early Jewish thought which, by modern literary standards, are not harmonious but appear to be mutually exclusive, to the extent that they are normally kept in segregation: the Deuteronomic promise to those who follow Torah that they will be rewarded with a long and prosperous life, and the apocalyptic promise that this life will soon come to an end. The author of 2 Baruch sees no contradiction here but finds the two to be fully compatible. Students of 2 Baruch have long wondered what the “central theme” of our book is—Torah and the temple, theodicy, and the failure of God’s promises to come true have all been candidates.6 Instead of looking for a single unifying theme, however, we may learn even more about the book when we appreciate its diverse character and observe how the author was able to conflate such remarkably disparate theological traditions in one coherent book. How, then, was he able to do this in the case of Torah and eschatology?

5 It is not difficult to find in the Book of Deuteronomy passages that express a strong hope for the future and therefore readily lend themselves to an eschatological reworking of the kind we find in 2 Baruch. On one of these passages, Deut 30:1–10, see Mark Z. Brettler, “Predestination in Deuteronomy 30.1–10,” in Those Elusive Deuteronomists: The Phenomenon of Pan-Deuteronomism (ed. L. S. Schearing and S. L. McKenzie; JSOTSup 268; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 171–88. For a discussion of eschatological interpretation in other Jewish contexts, see in this volume, Diana Lipton, “God’s Back!” 287–311, for the rabbinic context, and Marcus Tso, “The Giving of the Torah and the Ethics of the Qumran Community,” 117–128, esp. 126–27, for eschatology and community identity at Qumran. 6 George W. E. Nickelsburg, Jewish Literature Between the Bible and the Mishnah: A Historical and Literary Introduction (2nd edition; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2005), 277–83; Gwendolyn B. Sayler, Have the Promises Failed? A Literary Analysis of 2 Baruch (SBLDS 72; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1984).

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For the author of 2 Baruch, Torah observance is Israel’s only way to righteousness. The idea is expressed repeatedly in a number of memorable passages. Early in the book Baruch recalls how Moses “brought the Torah to the descendants of Jacob and lit the lamp for the people of Israel” (17:4), “that light in which nothing can err” (19:3). At another point he speaks eloquently of “the perfume of righteousness that comes from the Torah” (67:6). Exactly what the author has in mind when he calls on Israel to observe the Torah remains somewhat nebulous. The reader looks in vain for any concrete references to certain legal positions or halakhic disputes, say, regarding the Temple, the calendar or the holidays. The call to heed the Torah in Syriac Baruch is not designed to advocate a certain halakhic position or to take a firm stand on a matter of legal dispute. Instead, it remains somewhat general. What matters to our author is the observance of Torah as such, and that this leads to good works. This, he emphasizes, was already true for the Prophets. In the passage quoted at the beginning of the paper, Baruch remembers the Prophets who have now fallen asleep. They are missed sorely because they were intercessors before God on Israel’s behalf. The Prophets were able to stand before God because of the confidence they had in their works. “They implored our creator on our behalf, because they trusted in their works” (85:2). The same, Baruch asserts, will also be true in the End Time, only that the award for the faithful will be even greater. God responds to Baruch’s probing questions with the following promise: Miracles will appear at their own time to those who are saved by their works, to those for whom the Torah is hope, intelligence, expectation, and for whom wisdom is trust. They shall see that world which is now invisible to them, and they will see a time now hidden from them (51:7–8).

While keeping the Torah and doing good works is a constant in Israel’s history that ought to prevail beyond the year 70 c.e., Baruch insists that now there is an added eschatological urgency. Torah observance versus rejection of the Torah is the only factor that will decide over who enters into the kingdom and who does not. The author of Syriac Baruch substituted the eschatological reward for earthly prosperity as the blessing for those who keep the covenant.7 Those who “are now found righteous in [God’s] Torah” will “receive the world that does not die” (51:3). Yet Baruch also prays, “Justly do they perish who 7 Frederick J. Murphy, The Structure and Meaning of Second Baruch (SBLDS 78; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985), 9.

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have not loved your Torah; torment of judgment awaits those who have not subjected themselves to your power” (54:14). A little Ramiel explains, “the lamp of the eternal Torah enlightened all who sat in darkness; it informs the believers of their reward and the apostates of the fiery torment that is reserved for them” (59:2). Indeed, Baruch has harsh words for the wicked. “[T]heir end shall convict them, and your Torah, which they have transgressed, will exact vengeance from them on your day” (48:47). This is Deuteronomic theology propelled to its eschatological extreme. 2. The Place of Syriac Baruch in Early Judaism We could go on and cite more examples in order to flesh out further the place of the Torah in 2 Baruch, but I trust the overall picture would not change much: as a result of the recent Roman aggression Israel has lost everything; all that is left are God and the Mosaic Torah; Israel is now living in anticipation of the End; for post-70 c.e. Judaism, therefore, Torah observance is of eschatological significance; and finally, those found to be righteous will be amply rewarded in the World to Come. Instead, I would like to step back for a moment and examine in somewhat more general terms where 2 Baruch is coming from and who could have penned it. The Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch, it is commonly agreed, was composed during the late first century c.e. in response to the Roman sacking of Jerusalem. The precise date of composition eludes us for lack of any specific historical data in the text.8 However, we can narrow down the period of its composition with some confidence to the half century between the two failed Jewish revolts, the Jewish War and the fall of Jerusalem (66–73 c.e.), which is “predicted” in chapter 32, and the Bar Kokhba Revolt (132–35 c.e.), which is never mentioned in 2 Baruch, presumably because the author did not know of it. The sincere grief over the destruction of Zion, and the setting of much of the book on the very ruins of the Temple, suggest that not much time had elapsed 8 The attempt to date Syriac Baruch with any degree of accuracy is further complicated by the fact that the book as we have it may not have been written in one sitting. Given the highly complex nature of 2 Baruch as a literary composition, it seems rather more likely that its compositional history involved several intersecting processes of rewriting and the joining of source materials; note the recent distinction by Robert A. Kraft between “evolved” and “composed” literature in his “Para-mania: Beside, Before and Beyond Bible Studies,” JBL 126 (2007): 5–27 (here pp. 18–22).

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in between the fall of the city in the year 70 c.e. and the composition of 2 Baruch, but such inferences are, of course, tentative.9 It has become customary among many modern scholars to think of apocalyptic authors per se as renegades, quintessential outsiders, who are disillusioned and feel powerless, and who, in response, create their own view of reality, which is emphatically utopian and which projects whatever hope they have left into the eschatological future. What gives the apocalyptically minded a sense of purpose is their opposition to “mainstream” religion.10 According to this model, which tends to think of Judaism in binary terms, “mainstream” Judaism at the time of 2 Baruch would be rabbinic Judaism. If Syriac Baruch stands for the marginalized, then rabbinic Judaism stands for “normative” Judaism. One is esoteric, subversive and deeply skeptical of organized religion, the other exoteric, constructive and concerned with establishing more permanent religious structures. One is visionary and derives its authority from fanciful claims to revelation, the other textual and bases its authority on the tradition as it was received by Moses on Mount Sinai and subsequently handed down through the Prophets to the men of the Great Synagogue (m. xAbot 1:1). One is a conventicle of self-proclaimed Prophets, masquerading as authoritative figures from the biblical past and critiquing the status quo,11 the other consists of legitimate authorities, properly identified by their name and organized in traditional schools of learning. One is sectarian and heretical, the other “normative” and “orthodox”. One left us with writings which are, to a certain degree, visionary, elusive, and obscure, books that were soon considered heretical and hence were soon forgotten, the other with books which became foundational for Judaism throughout the ages. According to this view, 2 Baruch stems from an author—or authors— who operated on the margins of society, disenfranchised as it were by 9 Other students of 2 Baruch have been less reluctant to assign a specific date; see, most recently, Nicolae Roddy, “ ‘Two Parts: Weeks of Seven Weeks’: The End of the Age as Terminus ad Quem for 2 Baruch,” JSP 14 (1996): 3–14, and Antti Laato, “The Apocalypse of the Syriac Baruch and the Date of the End,” JSP 18 (1998): 39–46. I remain skeptical that such mathematical calculations do justice to the nature of the text. 10 A leading proponent of this model is Paul D. Hanson; see, e.g., his “The Matrix of Apocalyptic,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism. Volume 2: The Hellenistic Age (ed. W. D. Davies and L. Finkelstein; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 524–33. 11 Annette Yoshiko Reed, “ ‘Revealed Literature’ in the Second Century b.c.e.: Jubilees, 1 Enoch, Qumran, and the Prehistory of the Biblical Canon,” in Enoch and Qumran Origins: New Light on a Forgotten Connection (ed. G. Boccaccini; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2005), 94–98 (here p. 97).

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the destruction of the Second Temple and withdrawn. The apocalypse is thus best understood as a theological pamphlet against the ideas we find expressed in “mainstream” Jewish literature. In the modern reception history of Syriac Baruch, and indeed of the Jewish Pseudepigrapha in general, the considerable scholarly appetite for such bifurcations, for reading non-canonical texts in opposition to canonical texts, has had a significant influence on how we interpret the so-called Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha. It appears to me that this model regarding the origins of early Jewish apocalyptic literature is problematic, especially when applied to 2 Baruch. The traditional view that soon after the year 70 c.e. the Rabbis took on the role of the preservers of “normative” Judaism in more recent scholarship has increasingly given way to the view that the nature of early rabbinic authority initially was rather limited in scope and only gradually took hold.12 In the words of Martin Goodman, “It seems likely that the acceptance of rabbinic authority by Jews in Palestine was gradual and perhaps not even far advanced by a.d. 132 when the outbreak of revolt seems to have had no connection with the rabbinic leadership.”13 Exactly when the Rabbis—and, if we want to draw that parallel, the Church Fathers—were holding the dominance to which they laid claim has recently been a matter of considerable debate, with some scholars wanting to push that date forward to the second, third, or even to the fourth century c.e. What appears to be certain, however, is that it happened long after 2 Baruch was composed. The larger question here is what happened to the diversity of Judaism and, specifically, to the Jewish sects that constituted second temple Judaism, after the Roman destruction of Jerusalem, particularly during the years 70 c.e. to 135 c.e., the time during which 2 Baruch was composed.14 The issue cannot possibly be resolved here, if only because the

For a cogent discussion, see Annette Yoshiko Reed, Fallen Angels and the History of Judaism and Christianity: The Reception of Enochic Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), esp. ch. 4, “The Parting of the Ways? Enoch and the Fallen Angels in Rabbinic Judaism and Early Christianity,” pp. 122–59. 13 Martin Goodman, “Judea,” in The Cambridge Ancient History. Volume XI: The High Empire, A.D. 70–192 (ed. A. K. Bowman; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 664–78 (here p. 668). 14 In addition to the important work of Annette Yoshiko Reed already mentioned, see Daniel Boyarin, “A Tale of Two Synods: Nicaea, Yavneh, and Rabbinic Ecclesiology,” Exemplaria 12 (2000): 21–62, and his Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo —Christianity (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), 1–86; and Seth Schwartz, Imperialism and Jewish Society, 200 B.C.E. to 640 C.E. (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 12

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investigation of a single text such as Syriac Baruch is obviously insufficient. We would have to cast our textual and historical net much wider to get a clear reading of the situation. What we can do, however, is turn to our text—one of the few extant sources of the period—and consider whether we find in it any clues about the self-understanding of its author and how, in his own perception, his views relate to those expressed in other, contemporary writings. Turning to 2 Baruch, then, we find that there is nothing in it to suggest that our author felt disenfranchised, marginalized, or that he was writing out of a sense of opposition, let alone an opposition to “mainstream” Judaism. It is, of course, true that some early Jewish apocalyptic texts stem from sectarian circles and foster a social dualism that seeks to drive a wedge between “insiders” and “outsiders”, or, in theological parlance, the “saved” and the “sinners”. But not all of apocalyptic literature fits the pattern. There is nothing sectarian or esoteric in 2 Baruch. The author makes no effort to distinguish between a Baruchian group of the chosen and the rest of Israel which is rejected. To the contrary, he repeatedly shows his sincere concern for the wellbeing of Israel as a whole. This concern comes through clearly in several passages. In chapters 41–42, for example, Baruch inquires from God what will happen to the most recent converts to Judaism (“those who have forsaken their vanity and have fled under your wings”; 2 Baruch 41:4) at the time of judgment, given that they have carried “the yoke of [God’s] Torah” (41:3) only for a short while, to which God replies that they, too, will receive their reward.15 Here again, Baruch’s aim is to convince all of Israel to follow the Torah, not to single out a special group whose identity derives from a sectarian ideology. Another group of texts that provide important clues about the author’s concern for Israel as a whole are Baruch’s public speeches. Three times over the course of the book the narrative is interrupted and Baruch assembles all of Israel in order to instruct them.16 The Deuteronomic overtones and the Mosaic model are unmistakable. On the occasion of his first public speech, for example, Baruch asks the people to assemble all the elders. He then begins his

2001), 103–10, though Schwartz gives only scant attention to the half century under consideration here. 15 See the commentary by Pierre Bogaert, L’Apocalypse Syriaque de Baruch: introduction, traduction du syriaque et commentaire (2 vols; SC 144–45; Paris: Cerf, 1969), 2.75. 16 The texts in question are 2 Baruch 31–34, 44–47, and 77.

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address with the following words, “Hear, O Israel, and I will speak to you; give ear, o seed of Jacob, and I will instruct you” (31:3; cf. 77:2; also 4 Ezra 9:30; 14:28). The Deuteronomic model alludes to the giving of Torah at Mount Sinai17 and suggests that the author wanted to reach all of Israel. One could object that the assembled “Israel” here is merely a cipher which stands for the Baruchian community which understands itself as the true Israel. But this seems rather unlikely. If the speeches were indeed intended for a closed circle of insiders only, then one would expect to find in them the core of the sectarian beliefs, which would undoubtedly include a more extensive treatment of 2 Baruch’s apocalyptic teachings. Instead, we find the opposite to be the case. In these sections, apocalyptic speculations play only a limited role. The author of Syriac Baruch uses the speeches to call on the people to observe the Mosaic Torah and reserves his more detailed apocalyptic speculations for other parts of his book. The public addresses, which are sermonic in character, articulate in condensed form what the author wants to communicate to Israel as a whole. My assertion, then, is that Syriac Baruch does not understand itself as a sectarian document, and that it was not written in opposition to any other form of Judaism. I find no critique here of the reigning religious or philosophical traditions. To the contrary, it seems to me that by combining the call to observe Torah (which 2 Baruch shares with rabbinic Judaism, as it begins to constitute itself right around the time when Syriac Baruch was composed) with the eschatological zeal of Jewish apocalypticism (here understood both as a literary genre and as a distinct worldview, both of which 2 Baruch inherits from pre-rabbinic Judaism), our author seeks to overcome the sectarian divisions that had increasingly plagued second temple Judaism. In this sense 2 Baruch is an inclusive text that seeks to rid apocalyptic literature of its sectarian stigma by arguing that an apocalyptic awareness does not preclude one from leading a faithful life according to the Torah. Once the post-70 C.E. community comes to realize that they are living in the End Time, they cannot but observe Torah, and they will proclaim, “We have left nothing at all except for the Mighty One and his Torah” (85:3). The lack of any clear sign of sectarianism becomes even more poignant when we compare 2 Baruch with its contemporary sister apocalypse, 4 Ezra. Towards the end of 4 Ezra, Ezra calls the people together in order to address them one last time (4 Ezra 14:27–28). 17

Michael E. Stone, Fourth Ezra (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1990), 308.

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The language of the convocation is nearly identical to the language in 2 Baruch at the beginning of the speeches. In the book’s final scene, after the convocation is over and the crowd is dismissed, Ezra and five other scribes sit down and write incessantly over a period of forty days and forty nights what God dictates to them. They end up producing a library of ninety-four books (4 Ezra 14:37–44). Of these writings Ezra is told to make public twenty-four, an obvious reference to the books of the Hebrew Bible, yet he is also ordered to keep the remaining seventy books secret, “in order to give them to the wise among your people. For in them is the spring of understanding, the fountain of wisdom, and the river of knowledge” (4 Ezra 14:46–47). Once again, the language has a close parallel in 2 Baruch. In ch. 59 we find a long list of things that were revealed to Moses on Mount Sinai. Included in the list are “the root of wisdom, the riches of understanding, and the font of knowledge” (2 Baruch 59:7). But the difference between the two texts is obvious. In 4 Ezra understanding, wisdom and knowledge are gained not from the biblical but from the secret writings. Indeed, these are the very attributes that define “the superiority of the esoteric revelation” over the exoteric teachings that can be derived from Scripture.18 By contrast, 2 Baruch does not know of any group of writings that is withheld from the general public. The origins of wisdom, understanding and knowledge were revealed to Moses on Mount Sinai. It is telling that the last thing that was revealed to Moses was “the earnest study of Torah” (59:11). 3. Baruch’s Three Public Speeches With these reflections in mind, I would like to return one more time to Syriac Baruch in order to gain a more focused understanding of its theological program, particularly as it relates to the role of the Torah in the formation of group leadership in post-70 C.E. Judaism.19 I will focus on Baruch’s three public speeches already referred to above, since it is here that Baruch calls on Israel most explicitly to follow the Torah. Like many great writers before him—the Deuteronomist in the biblical realm, for example, or Homer and Thucydides in Greek

Stone, Fourth Ezra, 442, who lists further parallels in cognate literature. Wofgang Harnisch, Verhängnis und Verheissung der Geschichte: Untersuchungen zum Zeit- und Geschichtsverständnis im 4 Buch Esra und in der syr. Baruchapokalypse (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1969), 208–22. 18 19

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literature—the author of 2 Baruch puts speeches into the mouth of the protagonist and uses them effectively as a means of articulating some of his most cherished theological thoughts. The speeches take the form of farewell discourses and follow closely the Mosaic model, since Baruch is preparing for his departure from the community.20 Their function is strictly parenetic, that is, to exhort the community. Baruch begins his first public address (2 Baruch 31–34) with a stern admonition, “If you prepare your hearts to sow into them the fruits of Torah, the Mighty One will protect you at that time when he will shake up the whole creation” (32:1). He then goes on to “predict” the destruction of the First and of the Second Temple, a period that will transform straight into the New Creation (2 Baruch 32). Baruch then asks the people not to approach him for a few days until he returns to them. Greatly distressed by the possibility that Baruch might leave them for good the people plead with him to stay. He, however, puts their fears to rest and replies, Far be it from me that I should leave you or withdraw from you. I only go as far as the Holy of Holies to inquire from the Mighty One about you and Zion; perhaps I will be enlightened. Afterwards I shall return to you (34:1).

And so he leaves them to recite a lament while sitting on the Temple ruins. The setting of the second public address (2 Baruch 44–47) is similar. The scene begins with Baruch announcing his departure, though this time it is clear that he is talking about his death. He then goes on to exhort the people not to abandon the Torah: See, I will go to my fathers, as is the destiny of all the world. You, on the other hand, do not withdraw from the way of Torah, but watch over the people who are left [with you] and admonish them not to withdraw from the commandments of the Most High (44:2–3).

As soon as Baruch has finished his address, the people again respond in fear and express their anxiety over Baruch’s departure. It is important to notice what exactly it is that upsets them. The people see in Baruch not only their community leader but also the principal exegete and interpreter of the Torah on whom they depend. 20 Philipp Vielhauer and Georg Strecker, “Apocalypses and Related Subjects,” in New Testament Apocrypha (ed. W. Schneemelcher; 2 vols; Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1989), 2.542–68 (here p. 549).

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The Mighty One is humiliating us to such an extent that he will take you away from us so soon! We shall truly be in darkness, as there will be no light for the people who are left behind. Where shall we seek Torah, and who will distinguish for us between death and life? (46:1–3).

Baruch responds that he is not leaving them of his own will and at the same time reassures them that there will be other community leaders. “The throne of the Mighty One I cannot withstand. Nonetheless, Israel is not in want of a sage, and the tribe of Jacob of a son of Torah” (46:4). The third address (2 Baruch 77), finally, is Baruch’s farewell speech to Israel, closely modeled after the biblical death scene of Moses. God has just told Baruch to ascend the mountain to “leave this world, though not to death, but to be preserved temporarily” (76:2), and so Baruch turns to the people one last time. Again he begins by reminding them of the gift of Torah. “To you and to your fathers the Lord gave the Torah, [preferring you] over all the nations” (77:3). But Israel transgressed the commandments and hence was punished. The people respond by promising that they will try to recall all the good things God has done for them. Then they ask Baruch for one last favor: Write to our brothers in Babylon a letter of instruction, a scroll of hope, so that you might strengthen them, too, before you no longer walk among us. For the shepherds of Israel have perished; the lamps that gave light are extinguished; and the springs from which we used to drink have dried up. We have been left in darkness, in the thick of the forest, in the drought of the desert (77:12–14).

Baruch agrees to write the letter and has the following to say about the dearth of leadership: Shepherds and lamps and springs come from the Torah. Even though we are passing on, the Torah abides. If, therefore, you consider the Torah and remain prudent in wisdom, the lamp will not be wanting, the shepherd not be taken, and the spring will not be dry (77:15–16).

A common theme in the three public speeches is the anxiety in the Jewish community over Baruch’s imminent departure. “Where do you go, Baruch, away from us? Do you leave us, like a father leaves his orphan children and abandons them?” (32:9) The people are concerned about their leadership, or lack thereof. The three public announcements nicely reflect the development in Baruch’s understanding of his own leadership and of his thoughts about what should happen after his death. In the first scene the people’s fear is merely the result of a

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misunderstanding. In the second, Baruch hints at the possibility that he will be replaced by another Torah centered leader. In the third scene, finally, it becomes clear that the Torah plays a major role in continuing the leadership after Baruch’s departure. Now Baruch states explicitly that it is the Torah that produces Israel’s new leaders. What creates continuity in leadership are no longer Israel’s religious institutions but the holy text itself; “Shepherds and lamps and springs come from the Torah. Even though we are passing on, the Torah abides” (2 Baruch 77:15). Shepherds, lamps and springs—most likely, these stand for the Prophets, seers and sages21—are all subordinate to the Torah. 4. Conclusion When judged by its reception history, 2 Baruch and the theological program it advocates must be considered a failure. Shortly after its composition the work suffered a fate most dreaded by every writer—the apocalypse was condemned to damnatio memoriae. Scribes ceased to copy it and, as a result, the text was soon forgotten. No Jewish manuscript of the text survives, and there are no undisputed references to, let alone quotations of it in ancient literature, Jewish or Christian.22 2 Baruch was rediscovered only in the nineteenth century in a Syriac biblical manuscript, though the Syriac version of our text is only the daughter translation of a no longer extant Greek version.23 The original version has been lost. Syriac Baruch has hardly fared much better in modern times, where it is still widely ignored. It is true, then, that 2 Baruch was written by a “historical loser.” At the time of its composition in the late first century C.E., however, this may not have been so clear. There is nothing in the text to suggest that the author himself felt marginalized, that he wrote from the perspective of a self-imposed exile, imagined or real, that he represented what he considered the view of a minorHarnisch, Verhängnis und Verheissung, 213. Bogaert, L’Apocalypse Syriaque de Baruch, 1:55–56. 23 On the manuscript evidence, see Bogaert, L’Apocalypse Syriaque de Baruch, 1:34–55, and Dedering, “Apocalypse of Baruch,” ii–iv. Recently, an Arabic version has come to light; see F. Leemhuis, A. F. J. Klijn and G. J. H. van Gelder, The Arabic Text of the Apocalypse of Baruch: Edited and Translated with a Parallel Translation of the Syriac Text (Leiden: Brill, 1986); Albertus F. J. Klijn, “The Character of the Arabic Version of the Apocalypse of Baruch,” in Jüdische Schriften in ihrem antik-jüdischen und urchristlichen Kontext (ed. H. Lichtenberger and G. S. Oegema; Studien zu den Jüdischen Schriften aus hellenistisch-römischer Zeit 1; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2002), 204–8. 21 22

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ity group. Similarly, he shows no signs of feeling defeated or on the losing side of a debate. Instead, he developed an apocalyptic program for post-70 c.e. Judaism that is focused on Torah obedience, generously draws on past traditions, seeks to overcome social isolation, and vigorously looks to the future—or to what is left of it, until the advent of the eschaton.

CAN THE HOMILISTS CROSS THE SEA AGAIN? REVELATION IN MEKILTA SHIRATA1 Ishay Rosen-Zvi Tel-Aviv University, Israel The Bible’s time is important, while the present is not; and so it invites the reader to cross over into the enterable world of scripture. James L. Kugel2

The Mishnah presents Torah study, even in its most mundane manner, as generating a divine presence: “If two people sit together and occupy themselves in the words of Torah, the divine presence rests among them” (‫ ;שנים שיושבים ועסוקים בדברי תורה שכינה ביניהם‬m. Abot 3:2, cf. 3:6). But how literal should we take this declaration to be? Is it only a figurative phrase or do the Rabbis (or some of them) really

1 Quotes from Mek. are from MS Oxford 151. I will refer to other manuscripts, as well as to the Geniza Fragments (found in Menahem I. Kahana, Kitxei Midreshei haHalakha min haGeniza [ Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2006]) whenever there is a significant difference in meaning. On the textual witnesses of Mek. see Louis Finkelstein, “The Mekilta and Its Text,” PAAJR 5 (1934): 3–54; Jacob Z. Lauterbach, Mekilta de-Rabbi Ishmael: a Critical Edition on the Basis of the Manuscripts and Early Editions (Schiff Library of Jewish Classics; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1933) and Menahem I. Kahana, HaMekhiltot leParshat Amalek: le-rishoniyuteha shel ha-masoret ba-Mekhilta de Rabi Yishma‘’el behash·va’ah la-ma·kbiltah ba-Mekhilta de-Rabi Shim{on ben Yo·hai ( Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1999). On the importance of the Geniza fragment “A Copy” on this portion of Mek. (Hereafter “Geniza”) see L. Elias, The MdRI according to an Excellent Copy from the Geniza (MA Thesis, The Heberw University of Jerusalem, 1996), Menahem I. Kahana, Manuscripts of the Halakhic Midrashim, An Annotated Catalogue ( Jerusalem: 1995), 41, and Menahem I. Kahana, “Halakhic Midrashim” in The Literature of the Sages Part 2 (CRINT IV; S. Safrai et al. eds.; Assen: Van Gorcum, 2006), 70 n. 313. Translations for Tractate Shirata are based on Judah Goldin, The Song at the Sea (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1971) and to other parts of Mek. on Lauterbach, Mekilta de-Rabbi Ishmael. Both are modified for the sake of more literal translations as well as according to better textual evidence. Where no volume is mentioned, vol. 2 of Lauterbach’s edition is implied. The page numbers conveniently refer to Lauterbach’s edition only. References to other midrashim are according to the following editions: Jacob Neusner, Sifre to Numbers: An American Translation and Explanation (2 vols.; BJS 118–119; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1986), Reuven Hammer, Sifre: A Tannaitic Commentary on the Book of Deuteronomy (Yale Judaica Series 24; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987). 2 James L. Kugel, “Two Introductions to Midrash,” in Midrash and Literature (eds. G. H. Hartman and S. Budick; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1986), 89.

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believe that Torah study involves a revelatory event? If the latter is true, what might be the nature of this revelation? Rabbinic exegetical and legislative activities, unlike many of their predecessors, do not rest on any revelatory claim;3 but does this necessarily mean that there is also no claim for divine presence in the house of study? These broad issues touch on very basic questions of rabbinic selfreflection and historiosophic conceptualization, as well as on the nature of some enigmatic “entities” such as Shekhinah and Bat Kol, which are believed to appear, from time to time, among Torah students and in the study house.4 In what follows I will concentrate on one specific aspect of this wide-ranging revelatory question: Rabbinic attitude(s) towards the Biblical theophanies in the Sinai desert. Was divine revelation a one-time event, or did it in any way continue in the Rabbis’ own reality? How can revelation reappear whenever one is “occupied with the words of Torah”? Two great collective revelations are narrated in the book of Exodus: the first at the Red Sea (Exodus 15) and the second on Mt. Sinai (Exodus 19–24). The Rabbis read these two events as closely connected,5 ascribing to both a revelatory nature greater then that of the prophets Isaiah and Ezekiel (Shirata 3, 24, Ba˜odesh 3, 212). The tannaitic running commentary on Exodus, the Mekilta, differs, however, in its treatment of these chapters. Masekta DeBa˜odesh, on Exodus 19–20,6 concentrates mainly on the content of the Sinaitic revelation (Torah study and the fulfillment of the commandments) and its covenantal implications,7 while the nature of the revelatory event itself appears only on its margins.8 3 Steven D. Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary: Torah and its Interpretation in the Midrash Sifre to Deuteronomy (SUNY Series in Judaica; Albany: State University of New York Press, 1991), 15–21. 4 On the Shekhina see Peter Schaefer, Mirror of His Beauty: Feminine Images of God from the Bible to the Early Kabbalah ( Jews, Christians, and Muslims from the Ancient to the Modern World; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002), 79–102. On Bat Kol see Peter Kuhn, Offenbarungsstimmen im Antiken Judentum: Untersuchungen zur Bat Qol und verwandten Phanomenen (TSAJ 20; Tübingen: Mohr [Siebeck], 1989). 5 See Saul Lieberman, “Mishnat Shir haShirim,” in Jewish Gnosticism, Merkabah Mysticism and Talmudic Tradition (ed. G. Scholem; New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1965), 119–122. 6 Mek. does not include a commentary on Exodus 24, and the reconstructed midrash on the first ten verses of Exodus 24 in MRS, 220–221 is doubtful: See Kahana, “Halakhic Midrashim,” 75. 7 See for example Parasha 1, which discusses the refusal of the nations to accept the Torah. See Marc Hirschman Torah for the Entire World (Tel Aviv: Ha-·Kibuts Ha-me’u·had, 1999), 39–42. 8 The nature of revelation at Sinai appears in but a few homilies in Ba˜odesh 3–4 (see

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219

Most of the direct discussions on the character of divine revelation appear a few tractates earlier in the Mekilta’s homilies on Exodus 15. Since the revelation at the sea, unlike that of Sinai, does not have any specific content other then the revelatory act itself—fighting the Egyptians and rescuing the Israelites—it is there that the Rabbis choose to discuss divine revelation and its relevance for the homilist and his audience. It is thus in these homilies of Mekilta Shirata that we should start looking for an answer to our questions. In what follows we will analyze the midrashic attitude towards the Red Sea theophany using both the explicit statements in this regard, and the rhetorical and interpretive strategies taken by the Mekilta, when engaging the biblical song. The first section will discuss the homilists’ imitation of biblical language and the second their playful use of tenses. The third and last section will synthesize these two close readings to offer a new understanding of the way rabbinic midrash adapts, adopts and ultimately reclaims the biblical revelatory experience. Imitatio Scriptura: The Midrashic Celebration of the Biblical Victory A victory hymn greater and more self-assured than the Song at the Sea is hard to come by.9 From its beginning, “I will sing to the Lord for he has triumphed gloriously, horse and driver He has hurled into the sea” (v. 1), until its very end: “the Lord will reign for ever and ever” (v. 18),10 the poet praises the God of Israel for his unlimited and incomparable might. Over nineteen verses the biblical poet does not only praise God, but goes into great detail to describe the defeat of esp. the homilies on ‫[ לעיני כל העם‬212], ‫[ ויהי קולות‬218], and ‫[ משה ידבר‬223]), some of which specifically emphasize the limits of the revelatory event. See for example the claim that the Divine glory did not actually come down to earth (Ba˜odesh 4, 224); on rabbinic and other ancient interpretations of the nature of Sinaitic Revelation see the papers of Steven Fraade (on the Tannaitic Midrashim, 247–68) and Robert Hayward (on the Aramaic Targums, 269–85) in this volume. 9 On Victory Hymns see Frank M. Cross and David N. Freedman, Studies in Ancient Yahwistic Poetry (Biblical Resource Series; Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1995), 31, Umberto Cassuto, The Book of Exodus ( Jerusalem: Magness Press, 1987), 120, Propp, Exodus 1–18 (AB; New York and London: Doubleday, 1999), 2.507. Interestingly enough, the two great biblical victory hymns: Exodus 15 and 2 Samuel 22, are read together in public, according to rabbinic liturgy, on the last day of Passover (n. 82 below). 10 On v. 19 as an appendix, see Brevard S. Childs, The Book of Exodus: A Critical Theological Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1974), 248.

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the Egyptians (cf. v. 4–5, 9–10) as well as all other enemies (cf. v. 14–16), before God. It is this specific description of the divine might that allows the poet to end with the assurance that: “the Lord shall reign for ever and ever” (v. 18). The attraction of the Rabbis to this song is anything but surprising. Unlike other war hymns, which celebrate earthly victories (gained, to be sure, with divine assistance),11 this war was exclusively divine, leaving the people, men and women alike, with the sole task of singing God’s praise.12 This picture fits the rabbinic concept of God as the (sole) warrior of Israel perfectly.13 For the early Rabbis nothing was more understandable then God’s promise ‫ה' ילחם לכם ואתם תחרישון‬ (“The Lord will battle for you; you hold your peace,” Exod 14:14).14 Indeed, the Mekilta contrasts this song, dedicated exclusively “to the Lord” (15:1),15 to the one chanted to David and Saul after the defeat of Goliath (1 Sam 18:6–7): ‫כמה שנאמר "ותצאנה הנשים המחוללות‬

11 E.g. Jud 5:20, 2 Sam 22:40. See Cross and Freedman, Studies in Ancient Yahwistic Poetry, 3. 12 Typically a woman’s role, as is well exemplified in Miriam’s song in vv. 20–21 (Propp, Exodus 1–18, 547; compare 508: “the act of singing a victory song arguably feminizes Moses and the men”). See also Shirata Parasha 1: ‫שכל השירות שעברו קרויות‬ ‫“( בלשון נקבה‬For all songs referring to past events the noun used is in the feminine,” 1), and Menahem Kasher, Torah Shelemah (43 vols.; Jerusalem: Mechon Torah Shelema, 1992) 14:97; Judah Goldin, “This Song,” in Studies in Midrash and Related Literature (ed. B. Eichler and J. Tigay; JPS: Philadelphia, 1988), 151–161. 13 See below, next to n. 74 Compare also Sif. Num. 102: ‫כשהוא יוצא למלחמה אינו‬ ‫“( יוצא אלא יחידי שנאמר ה' איש מלחמה‬when He [God] goes out to war, He goes out only alone, as it says, ‘The Lord is a man of war, The Lord is His name,’ ” 121). 14 See Mek., Vayehi, 3: ‫“( ה' ילחם לכם—לא לשעה אלא לעולם ה' ילחם לכם‬Not only at this time but at all times He will fight against your enemies,” 1:215). It is only the second part of the verse: “you will hold your peace,” that the midrash finds problematic, as it contradicts not only the actual events but also the rabbinic doctrine of prayer itself. The Mekhilta suggests two possible solutions. According to R. Meir the verse only says that God will save you even if you remain silent, but “how much more so if you render praise to Him,” while Rabbi reads the whole verse as a rhetorical question: “Shall God perform miracles and mighty deeds for you and you be standing there silent?” Compare the long section on the potency of prayer, at the very beginning of Parasha 3 (206–9, Kahana, Kit’ei Midreshei haHalakha min haGeniza, 45) commenting on the words: ‫“( ויצעקו בני ישראל אל ה‬The Israelites cried out to the Lord,” Exod 14:10), as well as Parasha 2 (203–4) on the words: ‫( יוצאים ביד רמה‬on “high hand” as prayer see Max Kadushin, A Conceptual Approach to the Mekilta [New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1969], 263). 15 Compare the idiom repeated, almost verbatim, three times (!) in tractate Vayehi:

‫אתם תהו מרוממים ומפארים ומשבחין ונותנין שיר ושבח וגדולה ותפארה ונצח והוד‬ ‫“( למי שהמלחמות שלו‬But you shall exalt, glorify, praise, and utter songs of praise and adoration, of laudation and glorification to Him in whose hands are the fortunes of war,” 1:203, 215, 223).

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‫ ולא אמרוה לבשר ודם‬,‫[ אבל כאן לה' אמרוה‬. . .] "‫מכל ערי ישראל וג‬ (“As in the other passage, ‘And the women came out of all the cities of Israel etc.’ [. . .] In the present instance, however, it was in praise of the Lord they recited it and they did not recite it in praise of flesh and blood”, Shirata 1,7). But how does the tannaitic homilist read this song of divine potency and power? What is he to do with such a victory hymn, in a period so remote from what is celebrated by the song? How can he relate to such a fancy description of divine heroism? Wouldn’t a dirge or a lamentation fit his condition better than a lavish celebration? Two homilies in the Mekhilta seem indeed to indicate such a transition from celebration to grief. The first appears in a series of homilies on the phrase ‫מי כמוך‬ '‫“( באלים ה‬Who is like you among the gods, O Lord,” v. 11). The homilies read the word ‫ אלים‬as referring to various entities,16 which are not actually gods (thus avoiding the trap of polytheism) but are nevertheless referred to as “gods”: angles, sovereigns, statues, etc.17 One homily, however, stands out in contrast: ‫מי כמוך באלים ה'—מי כמוך‬ ‫ מי כמוך רואה בעלבון בניך ושותק‬,'‫“( באילמים ה‬Who is like Thee, O Lord, among the elim—Who is like Thee, O Lord, among the mute ones [. . .], who like Thee sees Thy children disgraced and yet keep still,” 60).18 One cannot think of a greater contrast between the biblical Lord

16 Here, as in many other places along the tractate, the midrash takes advantage of the fact that “throughout the Song, mixed metaphors and ambivalent language provoke multiple interpretations” (Propp, Exodus 1–18, 507). In this paper I use the word ‘homily’ to refer to a single midrashic unit (and thus ‘homilist’ as its implied author) and ‘midrash’ for the composition as a whole. 17 The first homily is not entirely clear: ‫ באלם‬:‫מי כמוך באילים ה' ]כ"י אוקספורד‬ ‫ מי כמוכה בניסים וגבורות שעשית על הים‬,'‫ מי כמוכה באלמים ה‬,[‫[( כתיב‬cod. Oxford adds: “Note the spelling ‘lm”] who among those capable of mighty deeds is like unto Thee, who can be the likes of Thee in the miracles and mighty deeds Thou didst on the sea,” 60). According to this version (attested in all textual witnesses of Mek.) it seems that the homily is based on reading ‫ אלים‬as ‫( אלם‬powerful, violent). However in a Geniza fragment of an abridgement of MRS, 236 (T-S Misc. 36.132), we find the version: ‫בא עלי ים‬, according to which the homily may have interpreted ‫באלים‬ as ‫( בעל ים‬the master of the sea, or: the sea God). This explains the verses cited from Psalms 106, which refer to God’s rebuke (‫ )ויגער‬of the sea (Horowitz’s note in his edition, 142 line 7). 18 The homily placed the past (‫)לשעבר‬, in which God kept silent (‫)אחריש אתאפק‬, against the expected future, which will bring this silence to an end (‫מכאן ולהלן כיולדה‬ ‫)אפעה‬. The tenses reflect Isaiah’s alleged prophetic point of view, for which the present is past, and the future is: “from now on.” From this perspective, the divine muteness (‫ )מי כמוך באילמים‬is reinterpreted as a silence which speaks volumes. Instead of being a testimony of divine impotency, it is reread as deliberate self restraint, like a woman

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of war, and the silent (impotent?) God, as experienced by the homilist. What is more, the appearance of such a statement in the midst of a series of homilies of praise, has a clear ironic effect; subverting, even ridiculing, all the outspoken glorifications surrounding it. A similar transformation appears in a series of homilies on ‫זה אלי‬ ‫“( ואנוהו‬this is my God, and I will glorify/enshrine19 Him” v. 2). The opening move of the midrash is a rejection of the reading which it considers to be the most literal, but, at the same time, theologically unacceptable: ‫ וכי איפשר לו לבשר ודם להנוות‬,‫ואנוהו—ר' ישמעאל אומר‬ ‫לקוניו‬.20 Lauterbach’s translation: “and is it possible for a man to add glory to his creator” (25) does not reveal the depth of the theological problem.21 A more literal translation, however, articulates the theological scandal well: “can one of flesh and blood beautify his maker?”22 Such a reading also clarifies R. Ishmael’s midrashic solution: ‫אלא אנוה לו‬ ‫ אעשה לפניו לולב נאה וכו‬,‫“( במצוות‬I will beautify Him by means of the religious acts: I prepare for His sake a handsome lulab, etc.,” 25).

heavy with child, holding up as much as possible. The divine silence becomes thus itself a preview of the great yell (see v. 13: ‫ )יריע אף יצריח‬which is due shortly. 19 n. 25 below. 20 Although the question is posed by R. Ishmael as part of his specific homily, its location at the very beginning, together with the fact that no other question is posed in the next homilies, presents it as an introduction for all the interpretations which follow. 21 Similarly Goldin, The Song at the Sea, 113: “Is it then possible for flesh and blood to bestow glory on its creator.” 22 Although being a rare verb, the meaning of ‫ להנווות‬can be easily deduced from the nouns which follow: ‫ אעשה‬,‫וכי איפשר לבשר ודם להנוות לקוניו אלא אנוה לו במצוה‬ ‫ תפילה נאה‬,‫ ציצית נאה‬,‫ סוכה נאה‬,‫לפניו לולב נאה‬. on ‫נאה‬/‫ נוה‬see Ishay Rosen-Zvi, “ ‘Even if One Found a More Beautiful Woman”: An Analysis of Grounds for Divorce in Rabbinic Literature,” JSIJ 3 (2004): 1–11. Compare the reading of the Geniza fragments: ‫( וכי איפשר לבשר ודם להתנאות לקוניו‬Kahana, Kit’ei Midreshei haHalakha min haGeniza, 63), which seem to convey a reflective meaning (not necessarily however; on non-reflective hitpael see Kahana, HaMekhiltot leParshat Amalek, 73, 263): beatifying oneself before (or: for the sake of ) God. Similar forms appear also in R. Ishmael answer according to the Geniza: ‫( אלא א>י