Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 120, No. 3 (Fall 2001)

Journal of Biblical Literature VOLUME 120, No. 3

Fall 2001

The Law of the Heart: The Death of a Fool (1 Samuel 25) MARJORIE O’ROURKE BOYLE

401–427

Exploring the Dismal Swamp: The Identity of the Anointed One in Daniel 9:24–27 TIM MEADOWCROFT

429–449

The Sources of the Old Testament Quotation in Matthew 2:23 MAARTEN J. J. MENKEN

451–468

A Celebration of the Enthroned Son: The Catena of Hebrews 1 KENNETH L. SCHENCK

469–485

Light within the Human Person: A Comparison of Matthew 6:22–23 and Gospel of Thomas 24 THOMAS ZÖCKLER 487–499 Tatian’s Diatessaron and the Old Testament Peshitta JAN JOOSTEN

501–523

Nabal and His Wine PETER J. LEITHART

525–527

Book Reviews 529— Index 599 US ISSN 0021–9231

JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE

SOCIETY OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE (Constituent Member of the American Council of Learned Societies) EDITORS OF THE JOURNAL General Editor: GAIL R. O’DAY, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 Book Review Editor: TODD C. PENNER, Austin College, Sherman, TX 75090

EDITORIAL BOARD

Term Expiring 2001: JANICE CAPEL ANDERSON, University of Idaho, Moscow, ID 83844 HAROLD W. ATTRIDGE, Yale Divinity School, New Haven, CT 06511 ALAN M. COOPER, Jewish Theological Seminary, New York, NY 10027 BERNARD M. LEVINSON, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis, MN 55455-0125 THEODORE J. LEWIS, University of Georgia, Athens, GA 30602 DAVID K. RENSBERGER, Interdenominational Theological Center, Atlanta, GA 30314 EILEEN SCHULLER, McMaster University, Hamilton, ON L8S 4K1 CANADA FERNANDO F. SEGOVIA, Vanderbilt University, Nashville, TN 37240 NAOMI A. STEINBERG, DePaul University, Chicago, IL 60614 JAMES C. VANDERKAM, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 2002:

BRIAN K. BLOUNT, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 DAVID M. CARR, Union Theological Seminary, New York, NY 10027 PAMELA EISENBAUM, Iliff School of Theology, Denver, CO 80210 JOHN S. KSELMAN, Weston Jesuit School of Theology, Cambridge, MA 02138 JEFFREY KUAN, Pacific School of Religion, Berkeley, CA 94709 STEVEN L. McKENZIE, Rhodes College, Memphis, TN 38112 ALAN F. SEGAL, Barnard College, Columbia University, New York, NY 10027-6598 GREGORY E. STERLING, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 STEPHEN WESTERHOLM, McMaster University, Hamilton, ON L8S 4K1 CANADA

2003:

SUSAN ACKERMAN, Dartmouth College, Hanover, NH 03755 MICHAEL L. BARRÉ, St. Mary’s Seminary & University, Baltimore, MD 21210 ATHALYA BRENNER, University of Amsterdam, 1012 GC Amsterdam, The Netherlands MARC BRETTLER, Brandeis University, Waltham, MA 02254-9110 WARREN CARTER, St. Paul School of Theology, Kansas City, MO 64127 PAUL DUFF, George Washington University, Washington, DC 20052 BEVERLY R. GAVENTA, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 JUDITH LIEU, King’s College London, London WC2R 2LS United Kingdom KATHLEEN O’CONNOR, Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, GA 30031 C. L. SEOW, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 VINCENT WIMBUSH, Union Theological Seminary, New York, NY 10027

Editorial Assistant: C. Patrick Gray, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 President of the Society: Harold Attridge, Yale Divinity School, New Haven, CT 06511; Vice President: John J. Collins, Yale University, New Haven, CT 06511; Chair, Research and Publications Committee: David L. Petersen, Iliff School of Theology, Denver, CO 80210; Executive Director: Kent H. Richards, Society of Biblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329. The Journal of Biblical Literature (ISSN 0021– 9231) is published quarterly. The annual subscription price is US$25.00 for members and US$50.00 for nonmembers. Institutional rates are also available. For information regarding subscriptions and membership, contact: Society of Biblical Literature, P.O. Box 2243, Williston, VT 05495-2243. Phone: 877-725-3334 (toll free) or 802-864-6185. FAX: 802-864-7626. E-mail: [email protected]. For information concerning permission to quote, editorial and business matters, please see the Spring issue, p. 2. The JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE (ISSN 0021– 9231) is published quarterly by the Society of Biblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329. Periodical postage paid at Atlanta, Georgia, and at additional mailing offices. POSTMASTER: Send address changes to Society of Biblical Literature, P.O. Box 2243, Williston, VT 05495-2243. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

JBL 120/3 (2001) 401–427

THE LAW OF THE HEART: THE DEATH OF A FOOL (1 SAMUEL 25)

MARJORIE O’ROURKE BOYLE [email protected] University of Toronto, Toronto, ON M5S 1A1 Canada

Heart (ble, bb;le) is the principal anthropological concept in the Hebrew Scriptures, occurring more than eight hundred times to describe human states and actions.1 Its adoption by the NT ensured its prominence in the Christian tradition. Yet the heart, as intimate and reassuring as its regular beat, is faint in the history of ideas, from its obscure ancient origins to William Harvey’s (1578– 1657 C.E.) precise discovery of its circulation of the blood. At its origins, biblical exegesis asserts a philosophical and medical knowledge of heart that seems anachronistic. The anatomical and physiological truth will be the question for this cultural anatomy through biblical exegesis. To begin the dissection: The initial entry in the standard Hebrew lexicon is “the quivering, pumping organ, the heart.”2 Yet this definition presupposes Harvey’s simile of the pump.3 The lexical entry substantiates the statement of a major biblical dictionary that the governing use of “heart” is “for the bodily organ, of the centrality of which as the seat of life the ancients had on the whole a correct view.” The premise then assumes Harvey’s discovery of its circulation of the blood.4 “Since in Bible phrase ‘the life is in the blood’ (Lev. 17:14), that 1 Hans W. Wolff gives 858 times (The Anthropology of the Old Testament [trans. Margaret Kohl; London: SCM, 1974], 40). Tallies vary. For a more recent distribution, see Francis I. Andersen and A. Dean Forbes, The Vocabulary of the Old Testament (Rome: Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 1989), 348. 2 Ludwig Koehler, Lexicon in Veteris Testamenti libris (2 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 1951), 2:469. 3 See C. Webster, “William Harvey’s Conception of the Heart as a Pump,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 39 (1965): 508–17; George Basalla, “William Harvey and the Heart as a Pump,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 36 (1962): 467–70. 4 See recently Emerson Thomas McMullen, “Anatomy of a Physiological Discovery: William Harvey and the Circulation of the Blood,” Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine 88 (1995): 491–98; Allan Chapman, “William Harvey and the Circulation of the Blood,” Journal of Laboratory and Clinical Medicine 126 (1995): 423–27; Don G. Bates, “Harvey’s Account of His ‘Discovery,’”

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organ which forms the centre of its distribution must have the most important place in the whole system. So by an easy transition ‘heart’ came to signify the seat of man’s collective energies, the focus of personal life.” The arrogation of Harvey’s science is pressed to an exact comparison. “As from the fleshly heart goes forth the blood which is the animal life, so from the heart of the human soul goes forth the entire mental and moral activity. To it all the actions of the human soul return.” This is explicated as a “circuit,”5 precisely Harvey’s discovery. The premise of the circulation of the blood throughout the body from the central organ of the heart cannot be a historically valid comparison for a scriptural understanding of the soul or mind and its activities. Yet this fundamental error repeats. The current, revised edition of the standard lexicon (1994–96) retains as the prime definition “the quivering, pumping organ, the heart.”6 Biblical dictionaries repeat that “primarily the heart is the seat and principle of vitality, for ‘the life of the flesh is in the blood’ (Lev. 17:11), and the receptacle of the blood is the heart.”7 Heart in scripture is literalized as “the physical organ” or “the center of physical vitality,” “a part of the physical body.”8 The biblical authors supposedly recognize the “physiological activity” of the heart in detail: fainting, heart failure, healthy action, longevity.9 Jeremiah’s “wildly beating” heart (4:19) describes angina pectoris.10 Although it is conceded that as Medical History 36 (1992): 361–76. For philosophical implications, see recently Geoffrey Gorham, “Mind-Body Dualism and the Harvey-Descartes Controversy,” JHI 55 (1994): 211–34. 5 J. Laidlaw, “Heart,” in Dictionary of the Bible (ed. James Hastings; New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1901), 2:317–18. Consider also the comparative philological claim that “the ancients were not ignorant that it was the essential engine of the circulation of the blood” (P. Dhorme, “L’emploi métaphorique des noms de parties du corps en Hébreu et en Akkadien,” RB 31 [1922]: 493). Cf. the recent corrective that Akkadian libbu “does not denote a specifically identifiable part of the body” (Heinz-Josef Fabry, “leµb,” TDOT 7:403). 6 HALOT 2:514. 7 T. K. Cheyne and J. Sutherland Black, Encyclopedia Biblica: A Dictionary of the Bible (2 vols.; New York: Macmillan, 1901), 1981; R. C. Dentan, “Heart,” in The Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible (ed. George A. Buttrick; 4 vols.; New York: Abingdon, 1962), 2:549–50; and for the heart as “practically synonymous with blood (Lev. 17:11),” see Louis F. Hartman, Encyclopedic Dictionary of the Bible (New York: McGraw Hill, 1963), 947. 8 William L. Holladay, A Concise Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament: Based upon the Lexical Work of Ludwig Koehler and Walter Baumgartner (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1971), 171; Scott Nash, “Heart,” MDB, 360; Nahum M. Sarna, Exploring Exodus: The Heritage of Biblical Israel (New York: Schocken, 1986), 64; The New Bible Dictionary (ed. J. D. Douglas; London: Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship, 1962), 509, citing 1 Sam 5:37; Dentan, “Heart,” 549. 9 Madeleine S. Miller and J. Lane Miller, “Heart,” in Harper’s Bible Dictionary (rev. ed.; New York: Harper & Row, 1973), 247; for heart failure and rending of the pericardium, see J. R. Willis, rev. Norman Henry Snaith, “Heart,” in Dictionary of the Bible (ed. James Hastings, rev. ed. Frederick C. Grant and H. H. Rowley; New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1963), 369. 10 Wolff, Anthropology, 41–42. He cites as other anatomical passages 2 Kgs 9:24; 2 Sam 18:14; and a physiological text on irregular heartbeat, Ps 38:10. Against this, see Fabry, “leµb,” 411.

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“the vital organ that pumps blood through the body, the heart is seldom mentioned,” nevertheless, the Bible is believed to mention it. Several texts (2 Kgs 9:24; 2 Sam 18:14; Ps 38:10) are regularly cited as evidence of precise cardiac knowledge.11 The proof text of “the physical organ” is: “And in the morning, when the wine had gone out of Nabal, his wife told him these things, and his heart died within him, and he became as a stone. And about ten days later the Lord smote Nabal; and he died” (1 Sam 25:37–38).12

I. The Medical Diagnosis Biblical exegesis has diagnosed the cause of Nabal’s death medically. “He has a heart attack, later Yahweh kills him.”13 Despite acknowledgment that “a clinical description of a heart attack and its progress from a mild to a fatal illness” was not published until William Heberden in 1768, it is asserted that the Deuteronomist historian of 1 Samuel had precocious knowledge of “myocardial infarction.” And, despite acknowledgment that coronary thrombosis as a diagnosis proved by autopsy was only published by George Dock in 1886, the text is deemed “an account of this disorder.” Nabal “became enraged and suffered a heart attack. Ten days later, he was dead.” His metamorphosis into stone has even been associated with the clinical entity during open-heart surgery described more recently by Denton A. Cooley as “stone heart,” in which the organ is in a state of contraction that can be fatal.14 Another opinion considers it “quite uncertain that the ‘heart attack’ in 1 S. 25:37 . . . can be interpreted with anatomical precision.” It expresses, rather, “rigidity” as a sign of grief. Nabal “collapses into a coma.”15 An alternative diagnosis is of a stroke, either paralysis or apoplexy. Since there is no suggestion in the Hebrew Scriptures of any relation between the pulse and the heart, “we can only think of paralysis. To a doctor that would suggest a stroke.” The heart in this verse corresponds to the brain.16 Nabal is in “shock,” so that “a stroke of

11 Hartman, Encyclopedic Dictionary, 947 (italics mine), citing 1 Sam 25:37; 2 Sam 8:14; 2 Kgs 9:24; Fabry, “leµb,” 411. 12 E.g., Frederik von Meyenfeldt, Het hart (leµb, leµbaµb) in het Oude Testament (Leiden: Brill, 1950), 135–36; Wolff, Anthropology, 40–41; New Bible Dictionary, ed. Douglas, 509; Dentan, “Heart.” 13 J. P. Fokkelman, Narrative Art and Poetry in the Books of Samuel: A Full Interpretation Based on Stylistic and Structural Analysis, vol. 2, The Crossing Fates (I Sam. 13–31 and II Sam. 1) (SSN 23; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1986), 522. 14 Robert B. Greenblatt, Search the Scriptures: Modern Medicine and Biblical Personages (3d enlarged ed.; Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1977), 147–50. 15 Fabry, “leµb,” 411, 414, 416. 16 Wolff, Anthropology, 41.

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paralysis is the natural explanation,” followed by “a second stroke which was fatal.”17 Again, it is a case of “shock” and more. Nabal’s death is divided into deaths of the heart and of the self, with a gratuitious description. “The account of his demise in two stages, first the death of the heart and then of himself (v. 37), augments this effect by portraying a huge body, alive but subhuman, breathing but not feeling, not responding, a living being turned to stone for ten days. . . . Nabal suffers a fatal stroke.”18 He has “a seizure, a stroke which leaves him paralyzed.”19 There occurs “the miraculous conclusion” of “complete paralysis,” since “the ‘heart’ is not certainly the organ of biological life, but rather that of psychical life.”20 Stroke is also confused with a heart attack, although the conditions are distinct. “He has a stroke, later dies. . . . heart attack, later Yahweh kills him.”21 Although paralysis does appear in scripture, it is not explicated in Nabal’s case. Paralysis is, moreover, unrelated to “heart,” its cause being a neurological, not a cardiac, injury or disease. A diagnosis implicitly acknowledges this. The text treats of “a cerebral attack that produces paralysis, and not a paralyzation of the heart in the actual sense.”22 Or, “there is not so much evidence of ‘heart failure’ (i.e. coronary artery disease) as for a ‘seizure’ in popular parlance.”23 Apoplexy is also proposed as a reasonable explanation.24 In yet another opinion Nabal simply “became sick,” with the notation that he suffered from addiction to alcohol.25 There is terrible “fright,” compounded by the effects of alcohol. The 17 Henry Preserved Smith, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Books of Samuel (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1909), 228. 18 Jon D. Levenson, “1 Samuel 25 as Literature and as History,” CBQ 40 (1978): 17. 19 Peter R. Ackroyd, The First Book of Samuel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), 199. 20 André Caquot and Phillipe de Robert, Les livres de Samuel (CAT 6; Geneva; Labor et fides, 1994), 313. 21 Fokkelman, Crossing Fates, 478, 522. 22 Santiago Fernández-Ardanaz, “Evolución en el pensamiento hebreo sobre el hombre: Estudio diacrónico de los principales conceptos antropológicos,” RCT 12 (1987): 294 (translation mine). 23 Donald J. Wiseman, “Medicine in the Old Testament World,” in Medicine and the Bible (ed. Bernard Palmer; Exeter: Paternoster Press for the Christian Medical Fellowship, 1986), 28, citing R. K. Harrison, “Disease,” in ISBE, 1:953–60. 24 A. T. Sandison, “Degenerative Vascular Disease,” in Diseases in Antiquity: A Survey of the Diseases, Injuries, and Surgery of Early Populations (ed. Don R. Brothwell and A. T. Sandison; Spingfield, IL: Charles C. Thomas, 1967), 479, citing Edward Bell Krumbhaar, Pathology (Clio medica 19; New York: P. B. Hoeber, 1937); see also André-Marie Dubarle, “Le don d’un coeur nouveau (Ez 36, 16-38),” BVC 4 (1956): 57–66. 25 Gnana Robinson, Let Us Be Like the Nations: A Commentary on the Books of 1 and 2 Samuel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1993), 136. Alcoholism is not a convincing diagnosis. Cf. the parallel, where Absalom avenges the rape of Tamar as “wanton folly” (2 Sam 13:12–13) by ordering the death of Amnon precisely when his “heart is merry with wine” (v. 28). The rape of the concu-

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debate about his stony state, whether it refers to catalepsy resulting from an apoplectic coma or only the motionlessness of paralysis and unconsciousness, remains undecided.26 In a general diagnosis, he “took ill and soon died, smitten by the Lord” so that “he perishes through a divine stroke.” 27 Or, Nabal is “stunned” by his wife’s behavior.28 In a new development, Abigail contracts with David to kill Nabal, but her news “triggers a paralyzing heart attack, or, perhaps a stroke.” She has counted on “a bad heart she might have been aware of from previous manifestations of ill health.”29 The sensational new speculation is that Abigail actually murdered Nabal. Yet it, too, reverts to conceding possible medical diagnoses such as coma, then death by heart attack or alcoholic overindulgence.30

II. The Medical History What is the historical evidence for this clinical knowledge of the human heart? of a pump circulating blood? of myocardial infarction? Some dissent has been published, although an alternative interpretation has not been demonstrated exegetically. The Encyclopaedia Judaica considers that, even when the terms for heart refer to something inside the body, they do not always mean the heart but probably more often refer to the general “insides.” Moreover, “the Bible never mentions about the lev(av) anything that is literally physical, such as a heartbeat; neither does it mention any literal pain or ailment of it.”31 A scholar concurs that, despite the numerous occurrences of ble, bb;le, it was “never used of that physical organ.”32 A biblical dictionary acknowledges that “the ancients were unaware of the circulation of the blood and the physiological

bine also takes place “as they were making their hearts merry” (Judg 19:22; cf. vv. 6, 9). Both rapes were ne·baµlâ, or serious social sins. See my argument below. Finally, the king was not supposed to drink wine lest he forget the law and the rights of the oppressed (Prov 31:4). Nabal is drunk at the harvest festival “like the feast of a king” (1 Sam 25:36). 26 Julius Preuss, Biblical and Talmudic Medicine (ed. and trans. Fred Rosner; New York: Sanhedrin, 1978), 307. Fear of danger from David, plus the effects of alcohol, is unconvincing, since Abigail had resolved David’s threat and since the wine had left Nabal. 27 James Barr, “The Symbolism of Names in the Old Testament,” BJRL 52 (1969–70): 22, 27. 28 Adele Berlin, “Characterization in Biblical Narrative: David’s Wives,” JSOT 23 (1982): 77. 29 Robert Alter, The David Story: A Translation with Commentary of 1 and 2 Samuel (New York: W. W. Norton, 1999), 159–60. 30 Steven L. McKenzie, King David: A Biography (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 98–101. 31 Harold Louis Ginzberg, “Heart,”EncJud, 8:7. Rabbinical knowledge of the circulation of the blood by the heart is dismissed as “doubtful” by Louis Isaac Rabinowitz, “Heart in the Talmud and Aggadah”(ibid., 8:8), since the majority of references are ethical. 32 Wiseman, “Medicine,” 20.

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functions of the heart.”33 A systematic biblical anthropology states that “its actual physiological importance was, of course, unknown; for the Israelites, in common with the other peoples of the ancient world, appear to have learnt nothing of the circulation of the blood.”34 A semantic analysis posits that the ancient Hebrews “did not, as we do, indicate the central organ of the circulation of the blood, but a much wider anatomical field.” Nabal’s ble was not his “heart.”35 The majority opinion stands, however, that the ancient Hebrews had a rarely expressed but definite cardiac knowledge. An up-to-date biblical dictionary allows that “the Hebrews were unaware of its function” but accepts the consensus about its usage “rarely in the physiological sense.”36 In sum, the meaning of “heart” was rarely physiological yet it was so. The authority of the revised standard lexicon and the agreement of most reference works concerning a physiological sense of “heart” are fortified importantly by the numerous medical diagnoses in exegesis of 1 Sam 25:37 as the proof text. Tradition explains this cardiac knowledge by positing a medical borrowing. The Hebrews were “doubtlessly influenced in their medical concepts and practices by the surrounding nations, particularly by Egypt, where medical knowledge was highly developed.”37 They possessed “a wide and perfect knowledge of Egyptian medicine, of its methods and practices, . . . knowledge from first hand sources, emanating directly from the Egyptian medical literature.” Comparative philology has argued that the Hebrew hz<j;, “breast of an animal,” derives from Egyptian h\ 3ty, the anatomical term for the animal and human cardiac region, literally “the front.” This Egyptian term was distinguished from ib, which was claimed exclusively for humans and used only spiritually.38 Yet, although ib tended to mean the moral center and the physical center of humans, the terms were not established logically and immutably, so that in many cases where the anatomical h\3ty would be expected the moral ib appears. The terms are frequently used in parallel, especially in religious literature, and are even 33

John L. McKenzie, Dictionary of the Bible (Milwaukee: Bruce, 1965), 343.

34 Aubrey R. Johnson, The Vitality of the Individual in the Thought of Ancient Israel (Cardiff:

University of Wales, 1964), 75–76. 35 Fernández-Ardanaz, “Evolución,” 293–94 (translation mine). 36 W. R. F. Browning, A Dictionary of the Bible (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1966), 165. 37 Suessmann Muntner, “Medicine in the Bible,” EncJud 11:1179. 38 Abraham S. Yahuda, “Medical and Anatomical Terms in the Pentateuch in the Light of Egyptian Medical Papyri,” Journal of the History of Medicine 2 (1947): 565. For further research, see Thomas O. Lambdin, “Egyptian Loan Words in the Old Testament,” JAOS 73 (1953): 145–55; Manfred Görg, “Methodological Remarks on Comparative Studies of Egyptian and Biblical Words and Phrases,” in Pharaonic Egypt: The Bible and Christianity (ed. Sarah Israelit-Groll; Jerusalem: Magnes Press, Hebrew University, 1985), 57–64.

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confused with the intestines or stomach.39 The most recent analysis of the medical papyri, by an Egyptologist who is also a surgeon, dichotomizes the terms: h\ 3ty means the modern cardiac muscle, while ib represents an interior complex of parts concentrated in the abdomen and thorax.40 Yet both words are used interchangeably in the medical papyri for the anatomical “heart,” although h\3ty is never extended to the emotions, as is ib.41 Although the hieroglyphs for external bodily members generally depict human anatomy, the signs for the internal organs, including the heart, depict only mammalian anatomy. Egyptian knowledge of animal anatomy was long precedent to that of human anatomy, since the veterinary surgeon was charged with the ritual inspection of the sacrificial beasts.42 However, the hieroglyph for “heart” has been judged a reasonable diagram.43 With more than one hundred terms recorded,44 the ancient Egyptians indeed had anatomical and physiological knowledge far greater than their contemporaries.45 The Harvein Oration of 1904, perhaps the first professional notice of the inquiries of their physicians on the circulation and circulatory diseases, was sanguine. Ancient Egyptian physicians were accorded “partial knowledge of the circulation; they did not solve the problem, but they approached it as nearly as did the Greeks, and probably from them the Greeks obtained such knowledge as they possessed in early times.” Their knowledge 39 Alexandre Piankoff, Le “coeur” dans les textes égyptiens depuis l’Ancien jusqu’à la fin du Nouvel Empire (Paris: Librairie orientaliste Paul Geuthner, 1930), 8–13. 40 Thierry Bardinet, Les papyrus médicaux de l’Égypte pharaonique: Traduction intégral et commentaire (Paris: Fayard, 1995), 68–80. See also Bernard Long, “Le ‘ib and le h\ 3ty dans les textes médicaux de l’Égypte ancienne,” in Hommages à François Daumas (2 vols.; Montpellier: Université de Montpellier, 1986), 2:483–94. 41 John F. Nunn, Ancient Egyptian Medicine (London: British Museum, 1996), 54. For the medical uses of ib, see Hermann Grapow, Hildegard von Daines, and Wolfhart Westendorff, Grundriss der Medizen der Alten Ägypter (9 vols. in 11; Berlin: Akademie, 1954–), vol. 7-1: Wörterbuch der medizinischen Texte, 35–42. Since there are problems of translation, a better source, which includes nonmedical sources, is vol. 1, Anatomie und Physiologie, 63–72, according to Kent Reid Weeks, “The Anatomical Knowledge of the Ancient Egyptians and the Representation of the Human Figure in Egyptian Art” (Ph.D diss., Yale University, 1970), 2–3. 42 Paul Ghalioungui, Magic and Medical Science in Ancient Egypt (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1963), 68; Warren R. Dawson, “Egyptian Medical Papyri,” in Diseases in Antiquity, ed. Brothwell and Sandison, 108; and for the signs, see Piankoff, “Coeur,” 7. 43 Nunn, Ancient Egyptian Medicine, 53, and 52, fig. 3.5; see also Alan H. Gardiner, Egyptian Grammar: Being an Introduction to the Study of Hieroglyphs (3d ed.; London: Oxford University Press for the Griffith Institute, Ashmolean Museum, 1957), F 34. For context, see John T. Baines, “Communication and Display: The Integration of Early Egyptian Art and Writing,” Antiquity 63 (1989): 471–82. 44 Ghalioungui, Magic and Medical Science, 68; Dawson, “Egyptian Medical Papyri,” 108. 45 Dawson, “Egyptian Medical Papyri,”108.

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was declared not physiology but practice.46 As late as 1963 it was asserted that the Ebers Papyrus, as the record of a secretive medical knowledge orally transmitted, evidenced “notions on the circulation of the blood that escaped the Greeks.”47 Evaluation since has been more reticent, burdened with serious uncertainty about the semantics. Medical historians were misled by a poor translation of the principal papyrus, which is only a miscellaneous compilation from an extinct text. Few medical writings even survive, so that there is the further problem of projecting from only partial evidence.48 Moreover, the texts are not scientifically medical but indiscriminately mix in religion and magic.49 Two theoretical treatises comprise in modern terms physiology and pathology: a book on the vessels of the heart in the Ebers Papyrus, with a fragment in the Edwin Smith Papyrus, and a book on diseases of the heart in the Ebers Papyrus, copied with errors in the Berlin Papyrus. In the history of medicine, “they represent nothing less than a first attempt to explain the phenomenon of life in health and disease, not mythologically but in terms of a speculative philosophy of nature.”50 Their common conception was that the human body con-

46 Richard Caton, The Harveian Oration: Delivered before the Royal College of Physicians on June 21, 1904 (London: C. J. Clay and Sons, 1904), 3, 11. 47 Ghalioungui, Magic and Medical Science, 47. 48 Nunn, Ancient Egyptian Medicine, 6, 23, with discussion of the medical papyri on pp. 2441. For the Ebers Papyrus as a miscellany, see Dawson, “Egyptian Medical Papyri,” 101; Ghalioungui, Magic and Medical Science, 45. For a facsimile with an introduction by Georg Ebers, see Papyrus Ebers: Das hermetische Büch über die Ärtzeneimittel der alten Ägypter in hieratischer Schrift (ed. Ebers with Ludwig Stern; 2 vols.; Leipzig, 1875); and for a transcript of the hieratic text into hieroglyphics, see Walter Wreszinski, Das Papyrus Ebers, 1 Teil, Umschrift (Die Medizin der alten Agypter 3; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1913). The original German translation, Papyrus Ebers: Das älteste Buch über Heilkunde (ed. H. Joachim; Berlin, 1890), has been criticized by Dawson (“Egyptian Medical Papyri,” 98–99). He also criticizes (p. 100) the English translation by B. Ebbell, The Papyrus Ebers: The Greatest Egyptian Medical Document (Copenhagen: Levin & Munksgaard, 1937), as does Nunn (Ancient Egyptian Medicine, 30). According to Nunn, there is a definitive translation into German in vol. IV/1 of Grundriss, 31. There is also an English translation by Ghalioungui: The Ebers Papyrus (Cairo: Academy of Scientific Research and Technology, 1987). Although copies are scarce, there is one in the Library of Congress. Ghalioungui also complains about the importance and precision of the anatomical knowledge having been “vastly exaggerated by some commentators” (Magic and Medical Science, 69). There is now a translation into French by Bardinet: Papyrus médicaux, 251-73. 49 For the phenomenon and problem, see recently Robert K. Ritner, The Mechanics of Ancient Egyptian Medical Practice (Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 54; Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 1993), 4–28. 50 Henry E. Sigerist, A History of Medicine, vol. 1: Primitive and Archaic Medicine (2 vols.; Historical Library, Yale Medical Library 27; New York: Oxford University Press, 1951), 1:268, 304, 349, 313. The sources are “The Physician’s Secret Knowledge of the Heart’s Movements and Knowledge of the Heart,” in Ebers Papyrus 99, 1–12; 100, 2–14, and Smith Papyrus, 1, 6–8; and “The Collection of the Expelling of the Wehedu,” in Ebers 103, 1–18 and Berlin Papyrus 163–64a

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tained a vascular system, like the Nile network of irrigation canals. It issued from the heart, connected with all other bodily parts, and united in the anus. These vessels (mwtw) were undifferentiated in function among arteries, veins, ducts, tendons, muscles, and, perhaps, nerves. Moreover, they transported a varied content of air, blood, mucus, urine, tears, semen, solid matters such as feces, and spirits good and evil. 51 The most current research concludes, “It will be clear that the vessel book, while containing glimpses of anatomical reality, does not provide any basis for believing that the ancient Egyptians had any clear concept of the circulatory system, distributing blood to all parts of the body.”52 Moreover, a medical history reminds that, although the vessels joined at the heart, so did they join at the anus. Fecal matter, the “rot” (whÚdw) that was the principal pathogenic agent, absorbed into the vessels and traveled through the network into the heart, causing decay and disease.53 Beyond the paucity of medical literature, no equipment survives.54 Surgery was practiced in the Old Kingdom, probably as a “rational science and skilled art,” but it declined so severely that it survived merely as a tradition, in very minor procedures. The brief and sometimes misleading references in the papyri render any knowledge incomplete: operations are mentioned but without techniques. Examination of mummies has shown no sign of surgery, except for circumcision. There were serious proscriptions against injury to bodies, even by embalmers.55 Dissection was not practiced until the Hellenistic period, when Herophilus broke the taboos against defilement of the dead and experimented with vivisection on criminals. But he did not recognize the circulation of blood,56 although his contemporary, Erasistratus, who described the human (The Edwin Smith Surgical Papyrus [ed. J. H. Breasted; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1930]; Der grosse medizinische Papyrus des Berliner Museums [ed. Walter Wreszinski; Medizin der alten Aegypter 1; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1909]). For errors in the Berlin copy, see Ghalioungui, Magic and Medical Science, 47. 51 Nunn, Ancient Egyptian Medicine, 44–45, 48–49, 55; Ghalioungui, Magic and Medical Science, 69; Sigerist, History of Medicine, 1:349–51, 355. Arguing against the translations “ligament” or “muscle” is Bardinet (Papyrus médicaux, 63–68). Sigerist’s analogy with the Nile (p. 349) is repeated by Eugen Strouhal (Life in Ancient Egypt [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992], 245). 52 Nunn, Ancient Egyptian Medicine, 49. “The concept of circulation was still beyond the Egyptian’s knowledge, since they did not distinguish between arteries and veins, nor appreciate that the blood returned to the heart” (Strouhal, Life in Ancient Egypt, 245). 53 Heinrich von Staden, Herophilus: The Art of Medicine in Early Alexandria (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 10–12. For wehedu, see recently Bardinet, Papyrus médicaux, 128–38. 54 Nunn, Ancient Egyptian Medicine, 163. 55 J. Thompson Rowling, “The Rise and Decline of Surgery in Dynastic Egypt,” Antiquity 63 (1989): 312–19. 56 Von Staden, Herophilus; Nunn, Ancient Egyptian Medicine, 42, 207.

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tricuspid and mitral valves, approximated Harvey’s discovery. Their successors studied the pulse but abandoned dissection.57 Its practice was resumed only in the Italian Renaissance.58 The resultant lack of empirical knowledge through observation so seriously retarded anatomy and physiology that the principal cardiac function, the circulation of the blood, was undiscovered until the seventeenth century. There was no cardiology in antiquity that Hebrew authors could have employed to describe or even imply a medical cause of Nabal’s death. Abigail could not have detected or diagnosed his “bad heart” as pathological. The major sources for human anatomical knowledge in ancient Egypt were the observation of the casualties of battle and of serious industrial accidents and the practice of embalming the visceral organs through a small incision in the abdomen.59 Yet mummification has been dismissed by a medical historian, because of the rough extraction of the organs.60 A physical anthropologist has confirmed that “the embalming procedure had nothing in common with medical autopsies” for anatomical knowledge. Egyptian physicians used texts, in which the human internal organs were described analogously to animal ones.61 In either case, embalming was of slight importance for cardiac knowledge because the heart was always left in place, attached to its major vessels. This integrity was believed essential to the survival of the deceased in the netherworld. If the heart was severed or injured accidentally, it was repositioned in the thoracic cavity, either left free or attached by a ligature. The heart was never wrapped with the other viscera and stored in canopic jars. There were important mortuary spells preserved in the Book of the Dead against its removal or for its restoration.62 57

Nunn, Ancient Egyptian Medicine, 207–8, 42. For an introduction to this important fact, see Giovanna Ferrari, “Public Anatomy Lessons and the Carnival: The Anatomy Theatre of Bologna,” trans. Chris Woodall, Past and Present 117 (1987): 50–106; Katherine Park, “The Criminal and Saintly Body: Autopsy and Dissection in Renaissance Italy,” Renaissance Quarterly 47 (1994): 1–33. 59 Rowling, “Surgery in Dynastic Egypt,” 43. 60 Sigerist, History of Medicine, 1:353-54. 61 Strouhal, Life in Ancient Egypt, 243–44. 62 G. Elliott Smith and Warren R. Dawson, Egyptian Mummies (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1924), 145, 149; Ghalioungui, Magic and Medical Science, 157; Carol Andrews, Amulets of Ancient Egypt (London: British Museum for the Trustees of the British Museum, 1994), 72. Mummification removed the heart from the body in the most ancient practice, as testified by texts on the heart scarabs and by preventive spells 27 and 28 in the Book of the Dead, according to J. Zandee, Death as an Enemy: According to Ancient Egyptian Conceptions (SHR 5; Leiden: Brill, 1960), 154–55, 174, 176. This opinion is repeated by Nunn, Ancient Egyptian Medicine, 65. However, there are numerous references to the punishment of sinners as the heart being cut or torn out, tortured, cooked, and devoured (Zandee, Death, 142–46, 149, 155, 157–60, 181; Erik Hornung, “Black Holes Viewed from Within: Hell in Ancient Egyptian Thought,” Diogenes 42 [1994]: 137, 58

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Although the Egyptians knew from taking the pulse the relation between the heartbeat and the peripheral pulse, the sounding of the heart resulted from air, not blood, in the vessels. The Egyptians were not prescient before Harvey. “The whole concept of a circulatory system was unknown.” Moreover, they did not know the cause of heart failure. The phrase “the heart weakens” meant only that it did not “speak,” as detectable in place or in the pulses, or that the vessels, usually filled with air, were silent.63 Sources for knowledge of disease were human remains—not only mummies but also bodies desiccated by burial in the sand—representations, and the medical papyri. Although there are also glosses on terms for pathological states of heart, the text or texts they gloss are lost, so that interpretation is difficult. The glosses list remedies without any reference to the pathology involved. The ancient Egyptians could not have known that in congestive cardiac failure the heart was dilated with blood.64 Beyond glosses and texts, mummies do evidence arteriosclerosis,65 but only to modern paleontologists and paleopathologists using radiology, not to ancient physicians wielding knives. Even grave robbers seeking the precious amulets among the mummies’ wraps would have discovered no medical models. The famous heart 138–39, 145). The spells for the preservation of the heart are frequently discussed; see, e.g., Alan B. Lloyd, “Psychology and Society in the Ancient Egyptian Cult of the Dead,” in Religion and Philosophy in Ancient Egypt (ed. William Kelly Simpson; Yale Egyptological Studies 3; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989), 128; Andrews, Amulets, 72; Zandee, Death, 20, 33, 175. For the weighing of the heart in the funerary ritual, see Jan Assmann, Maàt: Gerechtigkeit und Unsterblichkeit im Alten Ägypten (Munich: Beck, 1990), with the weighing of the heart on pp. 124–25, 132–36; idem, “Death and Initiation in the Funerary Religion of Ancient Egypt,” in Religion and Philosophy, ed. Simpson, 135–59; S. G. F. Brandon, The Judgement of the Dead: An Historical and Comparative Study of the Idea of Post-Mortem Judgement in the Major Religions (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1967), 6–48, with weighing on pp. 28–41; Jean Yoyotte, “Le jugement des morts dans l’Egypte ancienne,” in Le jugement des morts (Sources orientales 4; Paris: Seuil, 1961), 15-80, with weighing on pp. 36–50; Hermann Kees, Totenglauben und Jenseitsvorstellungen der alten Ägypten: Grundlagen und Entwicklung bis zum Ende des Mittleren Reiches (2d ed.; Berlin: Akademie, 1956), with weighing on pp. 54–55; Piankoff, “Coeur,” 54–72, 78, 80–83; and for the iconography of the scales, see Christine Seeber, Untersuchungen zur Darstellung des Totengerichts im alten Ägypten (Münchner Ägyptologische Studien 35; Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1976), 67–83. The judgment of the dead is frequently surveyed; see, e.g., S. G. J. Quirke, Ancient Egyptian Religion (London: British Museum Press, 1992), 66–67. For a nonfunerary text on weighing and justice, see R. B. Parkinson, “Literary Form and the Tale of the Eloquent Peasant,” JEA 78 (1992): 163–78. 63 Sigerist, History of Medicine, 1:349; Nunn, Ancient Egyptian Medicine, 49, 55, 133, 113, 55–56, 95. For the weakness of the heart as probably heart disease causing edema, see Ghalioungui, Magic and Medical Science, 51. 64 Nunn, Ancient Egyptian Medicine, 64, 86, 87. Note the possible observation of ischaemic heart disease. 65 George J. Armelagos and James O. Mills, “Palaeopathology as Science: The Contribution of Egyptology,” in Biological Anthropology and the Study of Ancient Egypt (ed. W. Vivian Davies and Roxie Walker; London: British Museum, 1993), 1–18.

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scarabs, with naturalistic markings reminiscent of blood vessels, were designed after an animal, probably a bull, as known from butchery and as presented to the corpse during the funerary ritual.66 The Hebrews allowed the embalming of their patriarchs Jacob and Joseph (Gen 50:2–3, 26)67 but did not themselves practice it. It was only in the eighteenth century C.E. that, upon that biblical precedent, Judaic law allowed autopsy, as a practical question of halakah.68 In sum, concerning the cardiac knowledge in the Ebers Papyrus, which dates from the Israelite sojourn in Egypt, a basic medical history still seems judicious: “It is uncertain as to how much the Jews learned therefrom.” Considering their humble status as shepherds, then day laborers, “one cannot assume that direct borrowing of Egyptian learning by the Jews occurred.”69 Even if the Egyptians shared the importance of the heart with the exiled Hebrews, its importance was not anatomical and physiological. “To the Egyptians the heart was the most essential of organs, not because it pumped blood around the body—it is unclear that they understood this function—but because they believed it was the seat of intelligence, the originator of all feelings and actions, and the storehouse of memory.”70

III. The Biblical Text A scriptural dependence on Egyptian anatomical and physiological knowledge of the heart is thus denied by modern history of medicine. Yet mere denial of a Hebraic knowledge of the heart will not serve learning any better than has

66 See Andrews, Amulets, 72, also 56–58 and figs. 16b, 56, 61, 66b and k, 69, 100c. For the ritual, see recently Ann Macy Roth, “The psš-kf and the ‘Opening of the Mouth’ Ceremony: A Ritual of Birth and Rebirth,” JEA 78 (1992): 113–47. 67 A lay physician was apparently requested to avoid violation of his body by a heathen priest. Ghalioungui, The Physicians of Pharaonic Egypt (Cairo: Al-Ahram Center for Scientific Translations, 1983), 6. 68 Louis Isaac Rabinowitz, “Autopsies and Dissection,” EncJud 3:931–32. 69 Preuss, Biblical and Talmudic Medicine, 18, 5. 70 Andrews, Amulets, 72. Although there are very many discussions of the importance of the heart, this one is cited as historically plausible. Egyptologists, like biblical exegetes, tend to impose anachronistically a Greek facultative psychology and Augustine’s later concept of the will. The basic reliable reference is Piankoff, “Coeur”; see also Jan Assmann, “Zur Geschichte des Herzens im alten Ägypten,” in Die Erfindung des inneren Menschen: Studien zur religiösen Anthropologie (ed. Jan Assmann and T. Sundermeier; Studien zum Verstehen fremder Religionen 6; Gütersloh: Mohn, 1993), 81–113; Hellmut Brunner, “Das Herz im ägyptischen Glaubens,” in Das hörende Herz: kleine Schriften zur Religions- und Geistesgeschichte Ägypten (ed. Wolfgang Röllig; OBO 80; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1988), 8–41, rpt. from idem, Das Herz im Umkreis des Glaubens (Biberach: Karl Thomae, 1965), 81–106; Hans Bonnet, Reallexikon der ägyptischen Religionsgeschichte (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1952), 296–97.

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its sheer assertion. There needs to be an exegetical demonstration that the proof text states no medical fact, by proposing a clear and cogent alternative and thus razing the foundation for a precocious cardiac knowledge. Since there is no extant medical text in ancient Hebrew71 to apply to Nabal’s case, the Bible must suffice to interpret itself. Although the issue of the physical heart is generally mistaken, there is excellent biblical research on other subjects, especially philology and law, to apply to its resolution. To begin, then, a foolish tale (1 Sam 25:1–38): This initial story in the ascent of David to the monarchy impels him into the wilderness, where he hears of a prosperous rancher who is shearing his three thousand sheep. The name of this man is Nabal, meaning “churlish and ill-behaved” (v. 3). Because David’s men have guarded Nabal’s shepherds and flock without harm or raid, on a feast day David dispatches some with orders to greet Nabal peaceably and to request recompense. But Nabal rebuffs David’s band, railing at the injustice of sharing the food for his shearers with strangers. At this report David girds his sword in umbrage at evil returned for good and contemptuously swears retribution against all males of that household. A witness tells Abigail, the understanding wife of Nabal, about the confrontation and its portending evil. He urges her discretion, since Nabal is “so ill-natured that one cannot speak to him” (v. 17). Abigail hastily loads asses with gifts of provisions and she sets off— without telling her husband—to meet the army of four hundred men and David. Prostrate before him, she pleads for the security of the household. “Let not my lord regard this ill-natured fellow, Nabal; for as his name is, so is he; Nabal is his name, and folly is with him” (v. 25). She argues against vengeance and bloodguilt, upon her prediction of the divine appointment of David to become prince over Israel. So David blesses her and grants her petition. When Abigail returns home, Nabal is feasting like a king with a merry heart, for he is quite drunk; so she keeps still. “And in the morning, when the wine had gone out of Nabal, his wife told him these things, and his heart died within him, and he became as a stone. And about ten days later the Lord smote Nabal; and he died” (vv. 36b–38). David praises God for avenging Nabal’s insult while restraining his own hand from evil. And he weds Abigail.72 71

Preuss, Biblical and Talmudic Medicine, 4; Muntner, “Medicine in the Bible,” col. 1178. For general interpretation, see Caquot and Robert, Livres de Samuel, 304–14; Robert Polzin, Samuel and the Deuteronomist: A Literary Study of the Deuteronomic History, Part 2, 1 Samuel (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993), 210–12; Robinson, Like the Nations, 132–36; Ulrich Berges, Die Verwerfung Sauls: Eine thematische Untersuchung (FB 61; Würzburg: Echter, 1989), 153–58; Peter D. Miscall, 1 Samuel: A Literary Reading (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986), 149–58; Fokkelman, Crossing Fates, 474–528; Moshe Garsiel, The First Book of Samuel: A Literary Study of Comparative Structures, Analogies, and Parallels (RamatGan, Israel: Revivim, 1985), 122–23; David M. Gunn, The Fate of King Saul: An Interpretation of a Biblical Story (JSOTSup14; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1980), 96–102; P. Kyle McCarter, Jr., 1 Samuel: A New Translation with Introduction, Notes, and Commentary (AB 8; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1980), 396–98; Levenson, “1 Samuel 25,” 11–28; Jakob H. Gronback, Die Geschichte vom Aufsteig Davids (1. Sam. 15–2. Sam. 5): Tradition und Komposition (ATDan 10; Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1971), 170–80; Ackroyd, First Samuel, 195–200. 72

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The protagonist David has usually been identified as a fugitive demanding protection money,73 so that God unjustly blesses an extortionist. God averts David’s retributive bloodguilt against a legitimate property owner, Nabal, who is merely defending his rights. Then God personally strikes this innocent victim dead and awards David his shrewd widow in marriage, toward the acquisition of Judah and eventually Israel. David’s malice against Nabal—“frightening a man to death and stealing his wife”—is a premonition of his more notorious rapacity, when he slays Uriah, husband of Bathsheba.74 Yet there were ancient laws operative in this tale, laws whose transgression had profounder consequences than a heart attack. Even proverbially, the end of a fool was death (Prov 10:21; cf. 15:10), and for a fool to die in calamity was no surprise ending. “Blessed is the man who fears the Lord always; but he who hardens his heart will fall into calamity” (28:14).75 Whether Nabal was a typical or an actual name, its meaning was “fool” in the severe sense of “churl.”76 This implied more than the “ill-natured” or “ill-behaved” fool of the textual puns on Nabal (1 Sam 25:3, 15). Fools were defective, morally and mentally, like the lysiK], who was glib and incorrigible, or the r['B', who was stupid and boorish.

73 See Steven McKenzie, who compares him to a “mafioso” (King David, 97); Gunn, Fate of King Saul, 97–98, 102; Ackroyd, First Samuel, 195; Barr, who calls him “something more like a gangster” (“Symbolism of Names,” 22); Smith, Commentary, 222. Alter is uncertain about this meaning (David Story, 153 n. 7), and the protection racket is rejected by Yairah Amit, “‘The Glory of Israel Does Not Deceive or Change His Mind’: On the Reliability of Narrator and Speakers in Biblical Narrative,” trans. Judith Krausz, Proof 12 (1992): 205, 206. 74 Levenson, “1 Samuel 25,” 12, 23. 75 For this hardening as stubbornness and refusal to listen, with reference to Exod 7:3 and Ps 95:8, see R. N. Whybray, Proverbs (London: Harper Collins, 1994), 393. 76 E.g., Ackroyd, First Samuel, 197. The word was used especially to denote “no perception of ethical and religious claims, and with the collateral idea of ignoble, disgraceful” (McCarter, 1 Samuel, 396). Also, “the word in Hebrew suggested one who was insensible to the claims of either God or man, and who was consequently at once irreligious and churlish” (Samuel R. Driver, Notes on the Hebrew Text and the Topography of the Books of Samuel [2d ed. rev.; Oxford: Clarendon, 1913], 200). It is thus inadequately said by Hans Wilhelm Hertzberg to connote “silly,” “simpleton” (I and II Samuel: A Commentary [trans. J. S. Bowden; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1964], 202). Even the interpretation that it “designates not a harmless simpleton, but rather a vicious, materialistic, and egocentric misfit” is weak (Levenson, “1 Samuel 25,” 13). For background, see J. Marbok, “naµbaµl,” TWAT 5:171–85; Johann Jacob Stamm, “Der Name Nabal,” in Beiträge zur hebräischen und altorientalischen Namenkunde (ed. E. Jenni and M. A. Klopfenstein; OBO 30; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1980), 205–13; Gillis Gerleman, “Der Nicht-Mensch: Erwägungen zur hebräischen Wurzel NBL,” VT 24 (1974): 147–58; Trevor Donald, “The Semantic Field of ‘Folly’ in Proverbs, Job, Psalms, and Ecclesiastes,” VT 13 (1963): 285–92. According to Levenson and Baruch Halpern, the name Nabal is typical, his true name is Yeter (1 Chr 2:7; cf. Yitra, 2 Sam 17:25) (“The Political Import of David’s Marriages,” JBL 99 [1980]: 507–18); Garsiel, First Samuel, 127. The name is considered true, although rare, by Caquot and Robert (Livres de Samuel, 307), who indicate Punic and north Arabic sources, as does Barr (“Symbolism of Names,” 25).

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The fool as lb;n: (naµbaµl) was gravely defective: he acted in serious guilt with communal consequences.77 The root lbn (nbl) denoted the phenomenon of death, for a human corpse before burial or for an animal that was ritually unclean. The verb also denoted the withering of plants. The notion of hl;ben“ (ne·beµlâ) was extinction, whether of human, animal, or vegetable life. The noun hl;b;n“ (ne·baµlâ) involved sacrilege, so that the fool was an outcast.78 Traditionally the epithet “fool” as lb;n: (naµbaµl) was deplorable, euphemistic for serious sin. The fool committed extremely disorderly and unruly acts, hl;b;n“ (ne·baµlâ) that endangered or destroyed social relationships, whether tribal, familial, marital, commercial, or religious. The ancient examples concerned the breach of customary law by sexual assault. The rape of Dinah (Gen 34:7) violated the prohibition of marriage within kin; the rape of Tamar (2 Sam 13:12), the prohibition of sexual relations with women under the same familial roof; while the rape of the Levite’s concubine (Judg 19:23; 20:6, 10) violated hospitality. Achan’s covetous looting of the spoil of battle, which was subject to the ban, violated the customary law of holy war (Josh 7:15). When he admitted his transgression, he was stoned (vv. 25–26). Because of its gravity the word hl;b;n“ (ne·baµlâ) was rare. Yet it was pronounced of Nabal’s typical behavior. As Abigail implored David, “Let not my lord regard this ill-natured fellow, Nabal; for as his name is, so is he; Nabal is his name, and folly (hl;b;n“, ne·baµlâ) is with him” (1 Sam 25:25). Nabal’s refusal of sustenance to David’s men was indeed such folly. It violated the customary entitlement to tribute for protection, which Nabal’s own herdsmen recognized that David’s men deserved. David’s oath of retributive massacre was thus consequent on Nabal’s denial of his customary right. Since for breach of customary law there was no means of satisfaction through the courts, direct action by the injured party was inevitable.79 The encounter between David and Nabal was in context legal, as signaled by the very word of greeting the band was ordered to use. As David instructed, “And thus you shall salute him: ‘Peace (!/lv;, šaµlôm), be to you, and peace be to your house, and peace be to all that you have’” (1 Sam 25:6). Although !/lv; is, perhaps, the most familiar Hebrew greeting, its root meaning is “payment,” “retribution.”80 The phrase “to ask the !/lv; of ” someone was a customary personal greeting, but it rarely occurs as such in scripture. There it is usually a formula of diplomatic negotiations. Since Nabal’s shepherds had been cooperative 77 Robert A. Bennett, “Wisdom Motifs in Psalm 14=53—naµbaµl and >eµsaµh,” BASOR 220 (1975): 16. 78 Wolfgang M. W. Roth, “NBL,” VT 10 (1960): 394–409. See also BDB, 614–15. 79 See Anthony Phillips, “NEBALAH—A Term for Serious Disorder and Unruly Conduct,” VT 25 (1975): 237–41. For the parallels, see also Caquot and Robert, Livres de Samuel, 306; Roth, “NBL,” 404–6; Bennett, “Wisdom Motifs,”16; Barr, “Symbolism of Names,” 25. 80 Gerleman, “Die Wurzel šlm,” ZAW 85 (1973): 1–14.

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allies protected by David’s men, David through his delegation sought from Nabal a favorable response to be tokened by some gift. Their salutation !/lv; invited Nabal into a pact with David. Nabal’s rebuff, “Who is David?” (v. 10), did not profess ignorance of their master’s identity; rather, it served as a formal rejection of their negotiation. David later accepted Abigail’s gift with the phrase “Go up in peace to your house; see, I have hearkened to your voice, and I have granted your petition” (v. 35). That was not a simple farewell. With !/lv; it concluded their successful negotiation, by the assurance that the desired relationship had been achieved. The word !/lv; uttered to Abigail the mediating wife settled David’s dispute with Nabal and his household.81 Yet there were even graver issues in this tale than the customary law about tariff for protection. In rebuking David, Nabal elaborated his reason for denying the men food. “There are many servants nowadays,” he said, “who are breaking away from their masters.” Although David has usually been interpreted as a fugitive, separation from a master did not necessarily denote that status. It included a debtor being released from his master. The laws governing the release of slaves stipulated that the master was to provide them sufficient food (Deut 15:12–18). “And when you let him go free from you, you shall not let him go empty-handed; you shall furnish him liberally out of your flock, out of your threshing floor, and out of your wine press; as the Lord your God has blessed you, you shall give to him” (vv. 13–14). The command to care for groups marginal to Israelite society was specifically motivated by remembrance of its slavery in Egypt. The weak among them were not to suffer a repetition of that injustice. “You shall remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God redeemed you; therefore I command you this day” (v. 15).82 Paralleling this law for the provision of emancipated slaves was the stipulation concerning sojourners. “If there is among you a poor man, one of your brethren, in any of your towns within your land which the Lord your God gives you, you shall not harden your heart or shut your hand against your poor brother, but you shall open your hand to him, and lend him sufficient for his need, whatever it may be” (Deut 15:7). That law compared the hard heart to the tight fist. Since Yahweh loved the sojourner, giving him food and clothing,

81

Wiseman, “‘Is it Peace?’ Covenant and Diplomacy,” VT 32 (1982): 317–18, 323–24. For manumission, see Gregory G. Chirichigno, Debt Slavery in Israel and the Ancient Near-East (JSOTSup 141; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993), 256–301; Jeffries M. Hamilton, Social Justice and Deuteronomy: The Case of Deuteronomy 15 (SBLDS 136; Atlanta: Scholars, 1992), 19–24, 85–91; Christof Hardmeier, “Die Errinerung an die Knechtschaft in Ägypten: Sozialanthropologische Aspekte des Erinnerns in der hebräischen Bibel,” in Was ist der Mensch? . . . Beiträge zur Anthropologie des Alten Testaments: Hans Walter Wolff zum 80. Geburtstag (ed. Frank Crüsemann et al.; Munich: Kaiser, 1992), 133–52; see also Anthony Phillips, “The Laws of Slavery: Exodus 21.2–11,” JSOT 30 (1984): 51–66. 82

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so should the Israelites behave. “Love the sojourner therefore; for you were sojourners in the land of Egypt” (10:19). The sojourner was an intermediary in status, between a foreigner and a native. He usually worked as a day laborer or a hired hand. Because he lived without property within a society that was not his kin, its hospitality was essential to his sustenance and his safety. His economically tenuous and legally disadvantaged status was specially protected under that Deuteronomic law. Oppression of the sojourner was economic, such as the failure to pay a hired servant, who was dependent on his wages, before sundown. The consequence of that sin was the death of the oppressor, in specific remembrance of the Lord’s redemption of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt (24:14–18).83 Nabal, by reserving for his own shearers the food requested by David’s delegation, violated that law about providing for sojourners. His sin was compounded by transgression of the law of hospitality for the harvest festival (the occasion of the sheep-shearing), which had a special code for donating to needy neighbors. Although it originated as a sacral-legal infraction that threatened the community, the law of hospitality would extend under David’s monarchy to all perpetration of grave social-sacral crimes. Nabal sinned by inhospitality,84 an inhospitality that was wanton. (The rapes of Dinah, Tamar, and the Levite’s concubine—all folly as hl;b;n“ (ne·baµlâ)—also violated hospitality.) His refusal reverted to his name, “for the fool speaks folly, / and his mind plots iniquity: . . . / to leave the craving of the hungry unsatisfied, / and to deprive the thirsty of drink” (Isa 32:6).85 When Nabal shut his hand against David he initially hardened his heart, as Deuteronomic law had forbidden. “You shall not harden your heart or shut your hand against your poor brother” (Deut 15:7). His immorality of crime against the sojourner, compounded by inhospitality during the harvest festival, was contrasted with Abigail’s compliance with those laws in supplying provisions. Although by her successful negotiation she spared the household retributive justice, Nabal himself did not escape punishment for his sin. Refusing a change of heart even after her action, his hardening of heart against David solidified mortally. Precisely in response to his wife’s report about her diplomatic success, “his heart died within him, and he became as a stone. And about ten days later the Lord smote Nabal; and he died” (1 Sam 25:37–38). That was no heart attack or paralytic stroke followed by a fatality. The fail83 See D. Kellermann, “gûr,” TDOT 2:443–45. The dependence of Samuel on Deuteronomistic literature has been emphasized by Polzin (Samuel and the Deuteronomist), although denied by Alter (David Story). 84 Bennett, “Wisdom Motifs,” 16–17; and for the harvest festival, see Alter, David Story, 153 n. 8; Smith, Commentary, 221; Hertzberg, Samuel, 202. 85 See Levenson, “1 Samuel 25,” 13–14.

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ure of Nabal’s heart ultimately corresponded to the root meaning of his name— lbn (nbl) as inanimation, whether human corpse, animal carcass, or withered plant. Stone was basely inanimate. Nabal become “stone” meant what “stone” meant of persons in every other example in the Hebrew Scriptures: obdurate. He refused to accept his wife’s intervention in the dispute with David and the agreement she negotiated. Nabal experienced a moral failure of heart causing obstinacy against the law. For this disobedience, prolonged without repentance, the Lord struck him. The plot is a moral chain of failure and obstinacy, of sin and unrepentance, for which obduracy he suffered divine wrath. That was the very consequence of violating the law against provision for sojourners. “Every man shall be put to death for his own sin” (Deut 24:16b). The lesson is illustrative in the law and later in prophecy, where physical conditions were appropriated for moral states. Stony hearts, hard hearts, were compared with shut hands, hostile eyes, defiant shoulders, stiff necks, adamant foreheads, dull ears. The Deuteronomic legal collection, which paired the hard heart with the tight fist (Deut 15:7), paralleled them both with the “hostile eye” (v. 8).86 The hard heart, closed hand, and hostile eye of the legal code became the stony heart, dull ears, and defiant shoulder of prophetic speech. A stony heart—Nabal’s condition—was synonymous with a hard heart. The corporeal comparisons occurred in the prophet Zechariah’s exhortation to “judge with true justice and act with love and compassion toward one another. Do not oppress the widow and the orphan, the sojourner and the poor; and do not devise evil in your hearts against one another” (Zech 7:9–10). Those who refused to heed the prophetic injunction of justice and love were characterized thus: “They set a defiant shoulder. Their ears they dulled from hearing; and they made their hearts stony lest they hear the Torah and the words which Yahweh of Hosts sent by his spirit through the earlier prophets” (vv. 11–12). This hardness of heart was compared not to ordinary stone (@b,a,) but to adamant (rymiv;), much as stubborn hearts were compared in Ezek 3:7–9 to adamant foreheads.87 Unrepentant faces were “harder than rock” in Jer 5:3 (cf. “bronze and iron” in 6:28). The stony heart, the hard heart, was not a passive sufferance but an active choice. “They made their hearts stony” (Zech 7:11). The people chose 86 Hamilton, Social Justice and Deuteronomy, 33. Blindness and deafness were also synonyms for injustice in Egyptian literature. See Miriam Lichtheim, Ancient Egyptian Literature: A Book of Readings, vol. 1, The Old and Middle Kingdoms (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1973), 174. 87 Carol L. Meyers and Eric M. Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 25B; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1987), 399–402. See also David L. Petersen, who writes that “the image is one of self-conscious manipulation of one’s body to prevent response to Yahweh” (Haggai and Zechariah 1–8: A Commentary [Philadelphia: Westminster, 1984], 289–94, quotation from p. 292).

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this so they would be unable to hear the law and the prophets (v. 12). Jeremiah also paired not inclining the ear obediently to the covenant with a stubborn heart (11:8; cf. 5:23). Nabal—right from the initial pun on his name—was characterized by the messenger to Abigail as such a man who would not listen. “He is so ill-natured (lbn, nbl) that one cannot speak to him” (1 Sam 25:17). Nabal’s refusal to hear was triple: the request of David’s delegation, the plea of his own shepherds about its justice, and Abigail’s report. He would not listen to anyone, especially her, about observance of the law. It was precisely in response to Abigail’s speech to him about her successful negotiation of the law that his heart failed and became stony. The prophet Jeremiah also pronounced on the “stubborn and rebellious heart” of a people who did not reflect in their heart on the divine appointment of the harvest and the rights of the needy. He compared their stubborn and rebellious heart to defiant shoulders. His oracle was of punishment, vengeance (Jer 5:23, 24, 28–29). The stubborn shoulder was paired by Nehemiah with a stiffened neck that refused to obey the law, which it cast behind its back (Neh 9:29). In the historical literature a stiffened neck was further compared with a hard heart, concerning the evil king Zedekiah, who failed to humble himself before the words of Jeremiah. “He stiffened his neck and hardened his heart against turning to the Lord, the God of Israel” (2 Chr 36:11–13). His punishment was divine wrath by slaughter, then exile (v. 16; 17:1). The dulling of the ears (cf. Isa 6:10) employed the verb dbk, used also of other bodily members to designate the impairment of their normal function, such as the dimming of the eyes (Gen 48:10). It most famously denoted Yahweh’s hardening of Pharaoh’s heart (Exod 8:15, 32; 9:34, 35; 10:1), when he would not heed the plea, “Let my people go” (10:3). The stony heart of the Israelite people paralleled Pharaoh’s heart—stubborn, rebellious, defiant, dull, and failed.88 And that was the meaning of Nabal’s failure of heart and stony transformation: not a physical disease but an obstinate disobedience to the law. That hardness or stoniness of heart was explicitly related to provision for the sojourner (Zech 7:9), as David was petitioning Nabal. Who was David but a sojourner in the wilderness? Hardness or stoniness of heart was also explicitly located during the harvest (Jer 5:23–24), the occasion of David’s petition. 88 Meyers and Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8, 402. For Zedekiah, see Sara Japhet, I & II Chronicles: A Commentary (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1993), 1069–70. Cf. Nebuchadnezzar, who exalted his heart and hardened his spirit to deal proudly with the people but was deposed (Dan 5:20). For the Israelites as a stiff-necked people, deserving of divine wrath, see also Exod 32:9; 33:3, 5; 2 Chr 30:9. For the stiffened neck of Neh 9:16 in chiasmus with the law cast behind the back in v. 26, see Loren F. Bliese, “Chiastic Structures, Peaks, and Cohesion in Nehemiah 9.6–37,” BT 39 (1988): 210. For the stubborn shoulder and the image of an animal stiffening muscle to refuse the yoke, see Joyce G. Baldwin, Haggai, Zechariah, Malachi: An Introduction and Commentary (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1972), 147.

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The hardening of Pharaoh’s heart against the exodus typified moral obstinacy.89 Yahweh’s order to liberate the Hebrews paralleled the Deuteronomic law on the release of slaves: Pharaoh was to behave as a decent master, with generosity to his departing slaves.90 Although the history of exegesis since the Protestant Reformation has been preoccupied with the theological problem of God as the author of this hardening, divinely predestining Pharaoh to evil,91 the focus of the biblical texts is not theodicean. At issue is Pharaoh’s resistance, not whether God or Pharaoh hardened the heart. The traditions differ; so does the philology, with both dbe K ; (Yahwist) and qz: j ; (Priestly usually and Elohist) employed. The plagues function as signs to Pharaoh of Yahweh’s power; his hardening resists knowledge and recognition of Yahweh’s rivalry to his royal power. There is a parallelism between Yahweh hardening Pharaoh and Pharaoh not hearkening (7:3–4; 11:9; 7:13, 22; 8:11, 15; 9:12). In the Yahwist and Priestly traditions the terminology of hardening is functional, not metaphysical or psychological. Hardness in the Yahwist account obstructs the signs from manifesting a knowledge of Yahweh’s power; in the Priestly it causes the multiplication of these signs as a judgment. Hardness denotes resistance to the effective achievement of the signs. Despite the repetition of this theme twenty times in Exodus, the single explicit mention of this phenomenon in the remainder of the Hebrew Scriptures is in 1 Sam 6:6, the very book with the tale of Nabal. There the Philistines, plagued by the presence of the ark of the covenant, 89 E.g., Walter C. Kaiser, Jr., Toward Old Testament Ethics (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1983), 255; James Plasteras, The God of Exodus: The Theology of the Exodus Narratives (Milwaukee: Bruce, 1966), 134. The Egyptian ritual of weighing the heart of the dead in the scales of the goddess Maat has been proposed as the origin of the biblical hardening of Pharaoh’s heart against the exodus; see Sarah Ben Reuben, “And He Hardened the Heart of Pharaoh,” Beth Mikra 29 (1984): 112–18. However, the Egyptian concept is not hardness but heaviness. For the ritual, see Reuben’s n. 60. For the argument that the Egyptian and Hebraic concepts of justice differ, see also Assmann, “State and Religion in the New Kingdom,” in Religion and Philosophy, ed. Simpson, 60, 82; for comparison of Israelite wisdom and the Egyptian concept of Maat, see Gerhard von Rad, Wisdom in Israel (London: SCM, 1972), 72–73; R. B. Y. Scott, The Way of Wisdom in the Old Testament (New York: Macmillan, 1971), 26. For the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart as ironic allusion to the pharaonic epithet “strong of heart,” see Alviero Niccacci, “Yahweh e il Faraone: Teologia biblical ed egiziana a confronto,” BN 38–39 (1987): 85–102. 90 See David Daube, The Exodus Pattern in the Bible (London: Faber & Faber, 1963), 50–53. 91 For an introduction to this extensive topic, see Alfred Hermann, “Das steinharte Herz: Zur Geschichte einer Metapher,” JAC 4 (1961): 77–87; Heikki Räisänen, The Idea of Divine Hardening: A Comparative Study of the Notion of Divine Hardening, Leading Astray, and Inciting to Evil in the Bible and the Qur’an (Publications of the Finnish Exegetical Society 25; Helsinki: Finnish Exegetical Society, 1972), 45–66; for a sample of the discussion, see Gregory K. Beale, “An Exegetical and Theological Consideration of the Hardening of Pharoah’s Heart in Exodus 4–14 and Romans 9,” TJ 5 (1984): 129–54.

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refuse to learn from the divine signs whether they are manifested by Yahweh’s power or by chance (v. 9).92 The hardness of Pharaoh’s heart is dysfunctional. The verb dbk in its Yahwist tradition emphasizes its failure. It denotes the weight, especially the heaviness, of bodily parts. It is also a term of psychic qualities, not as a literal modification of the basic physical meaning but as an assertion of a new meaning. It thus applies also to human activity, such as war and work; to conditions such as hunger; further, to sin; and collectively to people.93 This verb is the same dbk that the prophets employed to describe the failure of bodily members as metaphors for the popular resistance to the divine law: hard hearts, shut hands, hostile eyes, defiant shoulders, stiff necks, adamant foreheads, and dull ears. In an egregious case this resistance is not deliberate. Yahweh commissions the prophet Isaiah to “make the heart of this people fat [or dull], and their ears heavy, and shut their eyes, lest they see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and understand with their hearts, and turn and be healed” (Isa 6:9–10).94 The closest parallel to the severity of Isaiah’s commission, which affirms the divine sovereignty and its claims to a singular faith, is the complaint of Moses. He announces to the Israelites that, although they have witnessed the divine signs against Pharaoh, the Lord has yet not granted them an understanding heart, seeing eyes, and hearing ears (Deut 29:2–4).95 Yet, whatever the agency, the meaning of hardness or stoniness of heart consistently remains obduracy. The consequence of the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart was the punishment at the Sea of Reeds, when the army he had ordered in pursuit of the Hebrews was dramatically drowned. A simile for the event in the triumphal Song of the Sea (Exod 15:1–18)96 prefigures Nabal’s stoniness. The Israelites praise their

92 Brevard S. Childs, The Book of Exodus: A Critical Theological Commentary (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1974), 170–75. For the hardening as both redactional and theological, see Robert R. Wilson, “The Hardening of Pharaoh’s Heart,” CBQ 41 (1979): 18–36; and for recent discussion, see John Van Seters, The Life of Moses: The Yahwist as Historian in Exodus–Numbers (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1994), 87–91, 105–6, 108–9; Sarna, Exploring Exodus, 64. 93 Wilhelm Caspari, Die Bedeutungen der Wortsippe “kbd” im Hebräischen (Leipzig: Deichert, 1908), 6–17, with a “heavy” heart, 9–10. 94 Edgar Kellenberger, “Heil und Verstockung: Zu Jes 6, 9f. bei Jesaja und im Neuen Testament,” TZ 48 (1992): 268–75; Beale, “Isaiah vi 9–13: A Retributive Taunt against Idolatry,” VT 41 (1991): 257–78; Craig A. Evans, To See and Not Perceive: Isaiah 6.9–10 in Early Jewish and Christian Interpretation (JSOTSup 64; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1989), 17–52, 81–135; for analysis of the audience and its reception, see Jean-Pierre Sonnet, “Le motif de l’endurcissement (Is 6, 9–10) et la lecture d’Isaïe,” Bib 73 (1992): 208–39. The divine or prophetic causality of hardening recurs in the ministry of Jesus (Matt 4:11–12; 6:52; 8:17; John 12:40) and is elaborated in a Pauline epistle (Rom 9–11). 95 Evans, To See and Not Perceive, 50–51. 96 For the state of research, see Mark L. Brenner, The Song of the Sea: Ex 15:1–21 (BZAW

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warrior Lord for casting into the sea the army of Pharaoh: “The floods cover them; / they went down into the depths like a stone” (v. 5). The simile of a weight marks the strophic divisions of the poem—“like a stone” (v. 5), “like lead” (v. 10), “like a stone” (v. 16)—followed by a verse celebrating Yahweh’s power.97 This ancient poem of destruction and deliverance specifies that the enemy was drowned not merely in the depths of the sea but more profoundly in the cosmic sea beneath the earth. The phrase “!y: ble,” literally the “heart of the sea,” describes an upheaval from the hidden and unplumbed mass of primordial water—the abyss—onto the billows and swells of the surface.98 The late penitential prayer that adapted Israelite history to cultic usage99 also recalled the event: “And thou didst cast their pursuers into the depths, as a stone into mighty waters” (Neh 9:11b). The event became a model for the destruction of enemies. The very Song of the Sea located the conquest of Canaan immediately after the crossing, allowing the Israelites to pass through the midst of the land as they had through the sea. Just as the Egyptians sank like stone, the inhabitants of Canaan were destroyed by the same hardness: “Terror and dread fall upon them; / because of

195; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1991), 3–18; for more recent interpretation, see Thomas B. Dozeman, God at War: Power in the Exodus Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 153–59; S. E. Gillingham, The Poems and Psalms of the Hebrew Bible (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), 143–45; Bernard Gosse, “Le texte d’Exode 15, 1–21 dans la rédaction biblique,” BZ 37 (1993): 264– 71; Lester L. Grabbe, “Comparative Philology and Exodus 15,8: Did the Egyptians Die in a Storm?” SJOT 7 (1993): 263–69; J. Gerald Janzen, “Song of Moses, Song of Miriam: Who Is Seconding Whom?” CBQ 54 (1992): 211–20; Michael S. Barré, “‘My Strength and My Song’ in Exodus 15:2,” CBQ 54 (1992): 623–37; and for the philology, see Mitchell Dahood, “Naµdâ ‘To Hurl’ in Ex, 15, 16,” Bib 43 (1962): 248–49. 97 Robert Alter, The Art of Biblical Poetry (New York: Basic Books, 1985), 51–52; rpt. as “The Song of the Sea,” in Exodus (ed. Harold Bloom; New York: Chelsea House, 1987), 99–103; Maribeth Howell, “Exodus 15, 1b–18: A Poetic Analysis,” ETL 65 (1989): 10–11; and for Exod 15 as a heuristic, see Ronald L. Giese, Jr., “Strophic Hebrew Verse as Free Verse,” JSOT 61 (1994): 29–38. 98 Al Wolters, “Not Rescue but Destruction: Rereading Exodus 15:8,” CBQ 52 (1990): 238. For the motif of sinking, see Alan J. Hauser, “Two Songs of Victory: A Comparison of Exodus 15 and Judges 5,” in Directions in Biblical Hebrew Poetry (ed. Elaine R. Follis; JSOTSup 40; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987), 270–71, 277–79. 99 Stanislav Segert, “History and Poetry: Poetic Patterns in Nehemiah 9:5–37,” in Storia e tradizioni di Israele: Scritti in onore di J. Alberto Soggin (ed. Daniele Garrone and Felice Israel; Brescia: Paideia, 1991), 255–66; Waldemar Chrostowski, “An Examination of Conscience by God’s People as Exemplified in Neh 9, 6–37,” BZ 34 (1990): 253–61; Joseph Blenkinsopp, EzraNehemiah: A Commentary (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1988), 304; F. C. Fensham, “Neh. 9 and Pss. 105, 106, 135 and 136: Post-exilic Historical Traditions in Poetic Form,” JNSL 9 (1981): 42; and for context, see Frederick C. Holmgren, “Faithful Abraham and the ‘ a manâ Covenant: Nehemiah 9, 6–10, 1,” ZAW 104 (1992): 249–54; Gary A. Rendsburg, “The Northern Origin of Nehemiah 9,” Bib 72 (1991): 348–66.

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the greatness of thy arm, they are as / still as a stone, / till thy people, O Lord, pass by, / till thy people pass by whom thou has purchased” (Exod 15:16). Jeremiah prophesied a parallel desolation of Babylon. “When you finish reading this book, bind a stone to it, and cast it into the midst of the Euphrates, and say, ‘Thus shall Babylon sink, to rise no more, because of the evil that I am bringing upon her’” (Jer 51:63). Yet the Israelites themselves were enemies of the divine law by hardening their hearts to the needy. The direct consequence of this obstinacy was that “great wrath came from Yahweh of Hosts” (Zech 7:12). Similarly, “the Lord smote Nabal; and he died” (1 Sam 25:38). Hardness of heart was erroneous and illegal. The Israelites were commanded to worship God by heeding his voice, as sheep did their shepherd (unlike Nabal overseeing his flock not heeding David the shepherd). They were enjoined to “harden not your hearts,” as had their ancestors in the wilderness. For God loathed them as “a people who err in heart” (Ps 95:6–11). The original casting of the Egyptians into the sea to sink like a stone was an act of divine war. The deliverance of the Hebrews was military, as developed in the tradition, especially in the context of David’s victory through Yahweh’s intervention over his neighboring enemies.100 The Song of the Sea, climaxing in the temple (Exod 15:17) echoed the later Davidic conquests.101 David had been first to pick up a stone and cast it against an enemy, when he famously slew Goliath with “a sling and a stone” (1 Sam 17:50). Although the sling was a weapon commonly used by herders for protection of the flock against predatory animals, since prehistory it was also the principal weapon of long-range warfare. With the missile easily attaining a speed in excess of 100 km/hr, even if it did not penetrate armor, it could inflict a fatal internal injury.102 David’s volunteering for the task had been an injunction against failure of heart, as in the military code (Deut 20:3). “And David said to Saul, ‘Let no man’s heart fail because of him; your servant will go and fight with this Philistine’” (v. 31). The Canaanites, when confronted with Yahweh’s arm, the metonym for his military might, had been seized with “terror and dread.” Yet fear is not consequently the meaning of their becoming like stone. The similitude of fear and stone, as in the common English usage “to be petrified,” is not an ancient Hebraism. It occurs nowhere else in the Bible in this sense. Neither the Greek 100 Sa-Moon Kang, Divine War in the Old Testament and in the Ancient Near East (BZAW 177; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1989), 114–25; for war and lawsuit, especially David’s wars and Yahweh’s interventions in them, see pp. 193–222. 101 Samuel E. Loewenstamm, The Evolution of the Exodus Tradition (trans. Baruch J. Schwartz ; Jerusalem: Magnes Press, Hebrew University, 1992), 259. 102 Manfred Korfmann, “The Sling as a Weapon,” Scientific American 229 (October 1973): 35–42; see recently Nikos Vutiropulos, “The Sling in the Aegean Bronze Age,” Antiquity 65 (June 1991): 279–86.

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nor the Latin lexicon defines its paradigm petra as anything but a “rock” as a natural formation. “Petrification” in the English dictionary means the “conversion into stone or stony substance,” in pathology the “formation of ‘stone’ or calculus.” Fear is very probably only a later derivation, inferred from the nature of stone as inanimate, lifeless. Fear in modern usage may render a person “paralyzed,” inactive and incapable of the movement that characterizes animate beings. There is no entry in the Oxford English Dictionary for any such connotation before the eighteenth century, however. Indeed, the initial such citation under “petrified” has an explicit biblical reference, rendering the argument circular. James Welton’s Suffering Son of God (1720) ejaculated, “Melt the Petrified Obduracy of this Harden’d Heart!” Interpretation of the transformation of the Canaanites to stone as “stunned into silent trembling . . . terrified . . . paralyzed,”103 as “fear,”104 imposes modern meaning. The ancient transformation of the Canaanites to stone meant that Yahweh’s arm had defeated the enemy. It was related to the concept of the hardening of the heart. As the account of Joshua’s conquest of their land said, “For it was the Lord’s doing to harden their hearts that they should come against Israel in battle, in order that they should be utterly destroyed, and should receive no mercy but be exterminated, as the Lord commanded Moses” (Josh 11:20). The purpose of the defeat of the Canaanites was to allow the Israelites passage through the land, just as the defeat of the Egyptians become “stone” had allowed the Israelites’ passage through the sea. Similarly the purpose of Nabal’s transformation to stone is to allow David’s passage through the land, ultimately by marriage to Abigail. Nabal has no retort to Abigail’s speech about her disobedient gifts to and negotiations with David, which have rescued his household from retributive justice. Nabal hardens his heart against her words unheedingly. In Abigail’s prior speech to David she had predicted, “The lives of your enemies he will sling out as from the hollow of a sling” (1 Sam 25:29). The comparison of this prediction with Nabal’s transformation to stone (v. 37) has only been slightly noticed.105 Yet it has been well understood by one exegete that “the true reason for Nabal himself becoming a stone is that in that form he fits in the hollow of God’s sling; God intends to fling away his life, into the fathomless depths, away from David.” It hardly follows, however, that in reaction to Abigail’s report he 103

See Loewenstamm, Exodus Tradition, 259. Alter, Art of Biblical Poetry, 54. 105 Miscall, 1 Samuel, 154; Polzin, Samuel and the Deuteronomist, 211–12. Consider also that the phrase “to do good” in Abigail’s prophecy of the Lord favoring David (1 Sam 25:30–31) relates to the making of covenant and associated obligations, so that the good here is the ascension of David to the throne and the promise of a Davidic dynasty (Antonio González Lamadrid, “Apuntes sobre tôb/yb y su traducción en las biblias modernas,” EstBib 50 [1992]: 443–56). 104

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has a heart attack. “She tells Nabal: heart attack, later Yahweh kills him.”106 Nabal’s petrification is obduracy to the law, a moral, not a physical, hardening of the heart. This renders him like stone, to be slung away by Yahweh as an enemy, as he had once hurled the Egyptians into the sea and petrified the Canaanites on the land. Nabal becomes a stone in Yahweh’s sling to be cast away from David’s possession of the land and progress toward the monarchy. Placement in Yahweh’s sling dishonors the fool Nabal. Proverbially, to honor a fool is to bind a stone in a sling. “Like one who binds the stone in the sling is he who gives honor to a fool” (Prov 26:8). The sense is the futility, even absurdity, of tying a stone in a sling, because the very purpose of a sling is to release the stone and cast it out. With similar incongruity, because the fool is unteachable and incorrigible, reasonable speech is useless to persuade him. Like a brute animal he lacks understanding and responds only to coercion (v. 3).107 Nabal is flung away from the Rock that is metaphorical for God as a secure refuge, who is not passive but active in delivering people from adversity. God is specifically the rock of the heart that saves, in contrast to the flesh of the heart that fails (Ps 73:26). The title “Rock” parallels the divine names of Yahweh, El, and Elohim, in the very books of Samuel: in Hannah’s exultation that the poor and needy are raised to honor with princes (1 Sam 2:2) and in David’s song of deliverance from his violent enemies (2 Sam 22:47 = Ps 18:47). This salvific encounter with God parallels in 1 Sam 2:2 the term “rock” with “holy,” in a concept that is emphasized in Deuteronomy, where moral and even covenantal terms express his unique justice and righteousness.108 Nabal as the essential “fool” has been cast from this Rock by acting true to his name, by committing hl;b;n“ (ne·baµlâ), the grievous antisocial sins. For this transgression of the law, for refusing the sojourner David his rightful provisions as protector and during the festival—for his hard heart, tight fists, deaf ears— he becomes like a stone to be destroyed by Yahweh’s arm. David, by marriage to his law-abiding wife Abigail, passes safely into the inheritance of Nabal’s rich land, just as his ancestors before him in Canaan had been delivered from their enemies into prosperity. 106

Fokkelman, Crossing Fates, 521, 522. Whybray, Proverbs, 372–73; Kenneth G. Holland, “The Fool and the Wise in Dialogue,” in The Listening Heart (ed. Kenneth G. Holland et al.; JSOTSup 58; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987), 161–80; Laurent Noré, Proverbes salomoniens et proverbes mossi: Étude comparative à partir d’une nouvelle analyse de Pr 25–29 (Publications universitaires Européennes 23-283; Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1986), 41– 42, 44– 46; William McKane, Proverbs: A New Approach (London: SCM, 1970), 3–4, 595–96, 598; R. B. Y. Scott, Proverbs. Ecclesiastes (AB 18; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1965), 159; C. H. Troy, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Prophets (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1899), 474–75. The fool of Prov 26:1, 3–11 is lysiK]. 108 Michael P. Knowles, “‘The Rock, His Work is Perfect’: Unusual Imagery for God in Deuteronomy XXXII,” VT 39 (1989): 307–11. 107

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The antithesis to a heart of stone is a heart of flesh, as in Ezekiel’s prophecy, “A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will take out of your flesh the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my spirit within you, and cause you to walk in my statutes and be careful to observe my ordinances. You shall dwell in the land which I gave to your fathers; and you shall be my people, and I will be your God” (36:26–28; cf. 11:19). This antithesis of stone and flesh clarifies the context of Nabal’s death as not medical but moral. A heart of flesh means obedience to the legal statutes and ordinances, which results in the possession of the ancestral land. The oracle culminates in the legal formula of covenant (v. 28).109 Obduracy is to be supplanted by obedience.110 It is a needless recourse that the verse reflects the word “heart” as “used of the physical organ which beats in the breast.”111 And it

109 For general interpretation, see Stefan Ohnesorge, Jahweh gestaltet sein Volk neu: Zur Sichtzer Zukunft Israels nach Ez 11, 14–21; 20, 1– 44; 36, 16–38 (FB 64; Würzburg: Echter, 1991), 231–41; Heinrich Gross, “Der Mensch als neues Geschöpf (Jer 31; Ez 36; Ps 51),” in Der Weg zum Menschen: Zur philosophischen und theologischen Anthropologie: Für Alfons Deissler (ed. Rudolf Moses and Lothar Ruppert; Freiburg: Herder, 1989), 98–109; M. E. Andrew, Responsibility and Restoration: The Course of the Book of Ezekiel (Dunedin, New Zealand: University of Otago Press, 1985), 186; and for Ezek 11:19, see Solomon Freehof, Book of Ezekiel: A Commentary (New York: Union of American Hebrew Congregations, 1978), 73. 110 Joseph Blenkinsopp, Ezekiel (Louisville: John Knox Press, 1990), 167–68; Paul Joyce, Divine Initiative and Human Response in Ezekiel (JSOTSup 51; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1989), 109, 111; Ralph W. Klein, Ezekiel: The Prophet and His Message (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1988), 46; Walther Zimmerli, A Commentary on the Book of the Prophet Ezekiel, Chs. 25–48 (trans. James D. Martin; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979), 249; Keith W. Carley, The Book of the Prophet Ezekiel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974), 71; Walther Eichrodt, Ezekiel: A Commentary (London: SCM, 1970), 500; John W. Wevers, Ezekiel (London: Thomas Nelson & Sons, 1969), 97–98; D. M. G. Stalker, Ezekiel: Introduction and Commentary (London: SCM, 1968), 116; Dubarle, “Don d’un coeur nouveau,” 61; John Skinner, The Book of Ezekiel (London, 1895), 337; and for Ezek 11:19, see S. Fisch, Ezekiel: Hebrew Text and English Translation with an Introduction and Commentary (London: Soncino, 1985), 61. “The antithesis of the hardening of the heart,” noting that the verbal roots are the same as the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart (Joyce, Initiative and Response, 60 n. 6). “The heart which has still now been hard as stone and has remained deaf to the call to obedience will become alive” (Zimmerli, Commentary, 2:249). “So callous by continual disobedience that they have become virtually petrified” (Donald E. Gowan, Ezekiel [Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1985], 120). But again, the discussion of this conversion burdened with anachronistic philosophy: “the human will” (Eichrodt, 499); “the moral will” (Joyce, 108, 109); “the will” (Carley, 71); “person,” “the rational will” (Gowan, 120); “will” (Zimmerli, A Commentary on the Book of the Prophet Ezekiel, Chs. 1–24 [trans. Ronald E. Clements; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979], 262); “a new nature” (Stalker, 253–54). N.B. The new heart extended here to the Israelites was originally granted to Saul (1 Sam 10:9). See Robert Koch, “Il dono messianico del cuore nuovo (Ez 36, 26–27),” Studia moralia 26 (1988): 3–14; John B. Taylor, Ezekiel: An Introduction and Commentary (London: Tyndale, 1969), 111; Dubarle, “Don d’un coeur nouveau,” 61. For Nabal as another Saul, see Gordon, “David’s Rise and Saul’s Demise.” 111 Joyce, Initiative and Response, 108.

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is needless belief that “although a heart transplant operation has become a reality only in very recent times, the imagery was known over twenty-five hundred years ago.”112 The same formula of covenant appears in the prophetic promise that hearts will bear the inscribed law. “I will put my law within them, and I will write it upon their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people” (Jer 31:33b).113 The novelty of this covenant is its inscription on the heart, in contrast to the commandments, which were written on tablets of stone114 (Exod 33:21–22; cf. 34:1, 4). It is needless again to interpret this as “a surgical operation” in which God implants in a heart terminally ill by moral corruption a “spiritual heart pacemaker” to allow it a normal function.115 The texts are clear and cogent without recourse to medical diagnosis. The heart relates to the law (Deut 6:6; 30:14; Ps 37:31; 40:8; Isa 51:7). Nabal of the stony heart dies for grave lawlessness. 112 See Joseph A. Grassi, “The Transforming Power of Biblical Heart Imagery,” Review for Religious 43 (1984): 718; Blenkinsopp, who claims that the text “even speaks of the necessity of a heart transplant if they are to have a ‘heart of flesh,’ that is, a genuinely receptive disposition, and inner core which is spiritually alive” (Ezekiel, 168). 113 Again, anachronistically, “on their hearts i.e. their minds and wills” (John Bright, Jeremiah: Introduction, Translation, and Notes [AB 21; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1965], 283). 114 M. Weinfeld, “Jeremiah and the Spiritual Metamorphosis of Israel,” ZAW 88 (1976): 26–35. See also H. D. Potter, “The New Covenant in Jeremiah XXXI 31–34,” VT 33 (1983): 350–53; Helga Weippert, “Das Wort vom Neuen Bund in Jeremia XXXI 31–34,” VT 29 (1979): 343–44. For the relation of Jeremiah to Ezekiel, see Hermann-Josef Stipp, Jeremia in Parteinenstreit: Studien zur Textentwicklung von Jer 26, 36–43 und 45 als Beitrag zur Geschichte Jeremias, seins Buches und judäischer Partien im 6. Jahrhundert (Athenäum Monografien, Theologie BBB 82; Frankfurt: Anton Hain, 1992); Dieter Vieweger, “Die Arbeit des jeremianischen Schülerkreises am Jeremiabuch und deren Rezeption in der literarischen Überlieferung Ezechiels,” BZ 32 (1988): 15–34. 115 See Adrian Schenker, “Die Tafel des Herzens: Eine Studie über Anthropologie und Gnade im Zusammenhang mit Jer 31, 31-34,” in Text und Sinn im Alten Testament: Textgeschichtliche und bibeltheologische Studien (OBO 103; Freiburg: Echter, 1991), 69–71 (translation mine). He more correctly associates the text with Jer 17:1, in which sin is written with an iron pen or engraved with a diamond point on the people’s heart.

JBL 120/3 (2001) 429–449

EXPLORING THE DISMAL SWAMP: THE IDENTITY OF THE ANOINTED ONE IN DANIEL 9:24–27

TIM MEADOWCROFT [email protected] Bible College of New Zealand, Henderson, Waitakere City, New Zealand

Daniel 9:24–27 is notoriously complex, comprising what has been well denoted by James Montgomery as a “most vexed passage.”1 Unfortunately, the same verses are a key to ch. 9, “if not to the whole book” of Daniel, so they are not easy to ignore.2 Calvin, who claimed “not usually to refer to conflicting opinions,” regretted the fact that he could not “escape the necessity of confuting various views of the present passage.”3 Despite Calvin’s confidence that this was finally possible, Montgomery’s analogy of the “dismal swamp” springs easily to mind as the interpreter seeks to assemble the constituent parts of the passage into a coherent interpretive whole. With so many angles of interpretation needing to be held together, progress feels much like wading through a swamp, uncertain of what pitfalls lurk beneath the ooze. One of the particular vexations is the identity of the jyvm of vv. 25 and 26—a vexation in that there has been little agreement on the identity of that figure or those figures, and in that most treatments seem to ignore the evident link with what has been anointed in v. 24.4 My contention is that this link ought not to be ignored, but that in the various contexts of the book of Daniel as a whole, of ch. 9, and of vv. 24–27, the most natural understanding of the An earlier draft of this paper was read at the Aotearoa New Zealand Association for Biblical Studies meeting in Dunedin in December 1999. I am grateful for the comments of participants on that occasion. 1 J. A. Montgomery, Daniel (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1927), 400. He goes further in describing the history of interpretation of the seventy weeks as “the Dismal Swamp of O. T. criticism” (Daniel, 376). 2 R. A. Anderson, Daniel, Signs and Wonders (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1984), 114. 3 J. Calvin, Daniel (ed. and trans. T. Myers; London: Banner of Truth, 1966), 2:195–96. 4 All biblical quotations are from NRSV unless specified otherwise.

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anointed one in vv. 25 and 26 is as that which is anointed in v. 24, namely, the !yvdq vdq.5 Therefore the identity and fate of the anointed one of both v. 25 and v. 26 are a specification of what happens to the holy of holies. There are two key difficulties with that assumption. One is that it asks that which is anointed, !yvdq vdq, to be conceived of as a community or even an individual, rather than as a physical location. The second is that it asks jyvm to bear a more communal and less individualized sense than is usual.6 Indeed, at that moment I am in conflict with one of the few points of consensus among interpreters of these verses, “that the passage refers to an historical individual.”7 Assuming a date for ch. 9 in the early to mid second century B.C.E., I argue that both of those problems can be satisfactorily addressed in terms of the thought world of the middle to late Second Temple period. In that context the anointed one may be conceived communally, and the place of the holy of holies may be understood as located in a particular community or segment of that community. In doing so I argue also that my thesis enables the interpreter to avoid twin weaknesses: (1) Strongly messianic or eschatological interpretations tend to fragment the literary integrity of these verses; and (2) historical interpretations run the danger of an overliteral understanding of the history that is being conveyed. There is no claim that this argument solves all the interpretive problems of Dan 9:24–27. It does, however, suggest a way forward for one particularly vexatious aspect of these verses, in the light of which other problems therein may be explored. A final section of the article outlines several outcomes for ongoing interpretation of these verses.

I. Some Possible Options Before turning to the exploration itself, a brief overview of the main interpretive options facing the double mention of an anointed one is in order. The

5 Observation of that link is not new, but the argument that the link can be observed without an individual messianic interpretation is largely unexplored. See J. J. Collins on the Old Latin, Vulgate, and Peshitta readings (Daniel [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993], 354). 6 Note, for example, the various identifications of !yvdq vdq with the Messiah, as enumerated by Montgomery (Daniel, 376). 7 M. J. Selman, “Messianic Mysteries,” in The Lord’s Anointed: Interpretation of Old Testament Messianic Texts (ed. P. E. Satterthwaite, R. S. Hess, and G. J. Wenham; Carlisle: Paternoster; Grand Rapids: Baker, 1995), 283. But note Calvin’s comment that the action of anointing may refer to some greater reality than the physical temple, although he does so by reading the holy of holies as a type of Christ who is the “Holy one of holy ones” (Daniel, 2:218–19).

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history of Christian and Jewish interpretation of these verses is a complex one and beyond the scope of this article, but that history continues to be evident in the present era. 8 It is probably fair to say that the prevailing view in the academy today is the historical school of interpretation, which sees the primary reference of the verses to events in the history of the Jewish people culminating in the crisis precipitated by the desecration of the temple by the Seleucid king Antiochus Epiphanes IV in 167 B.C.E. This school has inherited the concerns of early Jewish interpretation. In such an approach the MT punctuation is accepted, and the assumption is made that three clearly distinct phases of history are in mind: seven “sevens,” followed by sixty-two “sevens,” culminating in the final “seven.” Whether or not the numbers bear any relationship to chronological scale, the phases are assumed to be consecutive. It therefore follows that the anointed one of v. 25 and that of v. 26 are distinct figures.9 In each case an individual identity is normally presumed, either priestly or kingly. The ambiguity over the two options, royal or sacerdotal, is expressed by Joyce Baldwin, who declines a decision either way.10 Notwithstanding the prevalence of a historical identification of the anointed ones, there are ongoing schools of messianic application that unfold scenarios quite distinct from those of the historical approach. These scenarios

8 For a survey of earliest Jewish and Christian interpretation, see W. Adler, “The Apocalyptic Survey of History Adapted by Christians: Daniel’s Prophecy of 70 Weeks,” in The Jewish Apocalyptic Heritage in Early Christianity (ed. J. C. VanderKam and W. Adler; Minneapolis: Fortress; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1996), 201–38; L. L. Grabbe, “The Seventy-Weeks Prophecy (Daniel 9:24– 27) in Early Jewish Interpretation,” in The Quest for Context and Meaning: Studies in Biblical Intertextuality in Honor of James A. Sanders (ed. C. A. Evans and S. Talmon; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 595–611; J. Braverman, Jerome’s Commentary on Daniel: A Study of Comparative Jewish and Christian Interpretations of the Hebrew Bible (Washington, D.C.: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1978), ch. 13. Collins provides a wider appreciation of varying Christian and Jewish interpretations (Daniel, 352–58). Current conservative views are canvassed in different ways by E. J. Young (Daniel [London: Banner of Truth, 1972], 191–221) and D. Ford (Daniel [Nashville: Southern Publishing Association, 1978], 198–220). J. J. Slotki’s is a recent Jewish approach that reflects the concerns of the early Jewish exegetes (Daniel, Ezra and Nehemiah [London: Soncino, 1951], 77–79). For representative views from the Reformation period, see Calvin, Daniel, 2:196–231; Luther’s Works, Volume 27, Lectures on Galatians (1535) chapters 5–6, Lectures on Galatians (1519) chapters 1–6 (ed. J. Pelikan; St Louis: Concordia, 1964), 270; and Luther’s Works, Volume 45, The Christian in Society II (ed. W. I. Brandt; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1962), 224–28. 9 Contra R. Beckwith, who argues that the distinction between the seven “sevens” and the sixty-two is the product of Masoretic punctuation. The text represented in the Septuagint, in Theodotion, in Symmachus, and even in the rabbinically educated Aquila, all treat the first sixtynine “sevens” as a single period (“Daniel 9 and the Date of Messiah’s Coming in Essene, Hellenistic, Pharisaic, Zealot and Early Christian Computation,” RevQ 10 [1979–81]: 521–42). See the refutation of this view by T. E. McComiskey, “The Seventy ‘Weeks’ of Daniel against the Background of Ancient Near Eastern Literature,” WTJ 47 (1985): 19–25. 10 J. G. Baldwin, Daniel (Leicester: IVP, 1978), 170.

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are not so different from medieval and Reformation Christian exegesis. In Christian messianic exegesis of these verses, the anointed one is usually taken to be the same figure in both instances, namely, Christ.11 A variety of exegetical strategies are employed to achieve this identification, of which we mention two. The first is to apply the sixty-two and final “sevens” relatively literally to the period of the incarnation. The appearance of an anointed one at the start of the sixty-two “sevens” is a reference to the start of the earthly ministry of Jesus, say, at the time of his baptism. The cutting off of an anointed one midway through the final “seven” is then the crucifixion, and the culmination is the resurrection and ascension of Christ. A different approach sees the seventy “sevens” as the age of the church. The initial appearance of an anointed one is the first coming of Christ while the cutting off of an anointed one in v. 26 relates to events still in the future which will usher in the period of the anti-Christ. In this instance also, the two “anointed one” references relate to the same figure.12 A different but related approach to the above two is the so-called parenthesis interpretation. This popularly held view says that there is a parenthesis between the end of the sixty-two “sevens” and the final “seven.” The church occupies the parenthesis and awaits the events of the final “seven.” The earlier sixty-two “sevens” are read historically in relation to the postexilic period of Jewish history, with its culmination in the incarnation of Christ. In this reading, the anointed one is variously understood, although there is agreement that the first occurrence (v. 25) refers to the incarnate Christ.13 As well as the interest already noted in an individual identity for the anointed one, most current approaches, whether historical or messianic, have in common that they approach the issue through the lens of the seventy “sevens.” Exegetical decisions on the identity of the anointed one tend to be made in light of prior decisions on the nature of the seventy “sevens.” A feature of my argument is a different point of entry into these verses, through the identity of the anointed one.

11

For example, J. N. Oswalt on jvm considers Dan 9:25 and 26 to contain the “only two unambiguous references” to a Messiah figure in the OT (New International Dictionary of Old Testament Theology & Exegesis [ed. W. A. VanGemeren; Carlisle: Paternoster, 1997], 2:1126). V. P. Hamilton makes a yet more explicit and similarly unsupported assertion that “there is a strong warrant on the basis of the context (v. 24) to regard the mashiah as none other than Jesus Christ” (TWOT 1:531). 12 Young presents an extensive summary of various messianic interpretations (Daniel, 192–219). 13 See, e.g., L. Wood, A Commentary on Daniel (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1973), 259–63.

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II. The Seventy Weeks In the attempt to identify the anointed one, I bring with me certain positions on the nature of the seventy weeks, three of which are now delineated. The first is that it is not possible to discover an exact literal historical equivalence to the seventy “sevens” or weeks of years. Each interpretation is dependent on a use of numbers that is “symbolic and not arithmetical.”14 The search for the identity of the anointed ones is therefore not constrained by the need to find historical figures to fit in with a predetermined set of dates. My second commitment is that, although the numbers are symbolic in intent, they are not arbitrary. They are intentionally used, in line with theological and schematic understandings current at the time. The applicability of Lev 25–26 with its jubilee theology and 2 Chr 36:18–21 with its schematic reinterpretation has been amply demonstrated.15 Devora Dimant also notes the Second Temple habit of calculating time in sabbatical cycles, in the light of which her argument is a convincing one that the periods of time should be read sequentially and that the proportions of time also have some meaning.16 At the very least, the seventy “sevens” are divided into two short periods framing a longer one. The identity of the anointed ones, therefore, must have some basis in history. So there are limits to the symbolic possibilities opened up by my first assumption. My third assumption is that the starting point of interpretation is historical, but transcendent possibilities are also present. The first reading of the text is with respect to the crisis precipitated by Antiochus Epiphanes and the subsequent successful outcome of the Maccabean revolt. As these events are indicated by the final “seven,” the preceding “sevens” are interpreted accordingly, while respecting the preceding two assumptions. At the same time, the text itself indicates that the historical interpretation is not the end of the matter. The use of symbols in some way transcends the historical reality, just as a transcendent significance has been given to the seventy years of Jeremiah. The practice of pesher evident at Qumran indicates that this process was an established literary feature in the Second Temple period, although the seventy “sevens” of Daniel are admittedly a unique example in biblical literature.17 Any 14

Baldwin, Daniel, 171. See, e.g., Collins, Daniel, 352–54. 16 D. Dimant, “The Seventy Weeks Chronology (Dan 9, 24–27) in the Light of New Qumranic Texts,” in The Book of Daniel (ed. A. S. van der Woude; Leuven: University Press, 1993), 57–76. 17 See M. P. Horgan, Pesharim: Qumran Interpretations of Biblical Books (CBQMS 8; Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1979); L. F. Hartman and A. A. Di Lella, The Book of Daniel (New York: Doubleday, 1979), 250. 15

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identification of the anointed one in Dan 9:24–27 must be one that both respects the historical roots of the schema and expresses a symbolic reality that transcends the historical moment.18

III. Interpreting the Context A further working proposition of this essay is that the prayer in Dan 9 is integral to the chapter as a whole. At first sight the covenantal and Deuteronomic interests of the prayer seem at odds with the surrounding material, and the motivation of repentance and forgiveness is new to the book of Daniel at this point. Moreover, the Hebrew is of an order different from that in the surrounding material, principally in that it is free of the Aramaisms that are a feature of Danielic Hebrew.19 On those grounds there may well be a case for the prayer as inserted material.20 However, that conclusion does not have to mean that there is a disruption of the flow of thought by its insertion. There are a number of points at which the concerns of the prayer are firmly tethered to the surrounding material, as will become evident below.21 The pray-er of Dan 9 echoes the two covenants made with Daniel’s people, the one with Moses that established Israel as a “people” and the one with David that established Jerusalem as the holy mountain. The opening of the prayer refers to God as the one keeping covenant (v. 4, tyrbh rmv). From there the two particular covenants of interest are intertwined. This is seen in v. 7 with reference to the shame of “the people of Judah” (hdwhy vya) and “the inhabitants of Jerusalem” (!lvwry ybvwy). Consequently they experience the curse

18 Note that the reference to an “end” in both v. 26 and v. 27 does not necessitate on its own an eschatological perspective. $q is used too variously for that conclusion to be possible. Even the meaning of the verb hlk with reference to the “desolator” of v. 27 is too context specific to require an eschatological interpretation. 19 As well as the absence of Aramaisms, Collins also notes the contrast with what he calls “the difficult Hebrew” of these chapters (Daniel, 103). For R. H. Charles the absence of Aramaisms is further evidence that the Hebrew surrounding the prayer is a translation from Aramaic, in contrast to the prayer itself which is a Hebrew interpolation ( A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Daniel [Oxford: Clarendon, 1929], 222). 20 See Hartman and Di Lella as one instance of this view (Daniel, 246). 21 Note the argument of B. W. Jones on the way in which the prayer is bound into its context, and on the conceptual links between Deuteronomic and apocalyptic outlooks (“The Prayer in Daniel IX,” VT 18 [1968]: 488–93). See also M. Gilbert, who suggests that the material is in the form of an OT “liturgie pénitentielle,” which has been inserted by the author of Dan 9 (“La prière de Daniel, Dn 9,4–19,” RTL 3 [1972]: 291–92). See also P. L. Redditt, Daniel (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 148–49, 161.

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written “in the law of Moses” (v. 11, hvm trwtb) as a calamity brought against Jerusalem (v. 12). The prayer laments that both the people and Jerusalem have become a disgrace in the eyes of God. The culmination is a plea for mercy on both “your city and your people” (v. 19, ^m[w . . . ^ry[). This dual focus is reinforced after the prayer with the comment that Daniel the visionary was praying both on behalf of his people and on behalf of the holy mountain (v. 20). This hints at an intermingling of interest in the fate of the city of Jerusalem and in the fate of the people whose hopes have been focused on that city. The shame of both the city and the people who look to the city receives its sharpest manifestation in the “desolated sanctuary” (v. 17, !mvh ^vdqm). The interest in the fate of the temple as somehow intertwined with the fate of the people is a recurring theme in the book of Daniel, where it is arguably also a further development of the tradition represented in Jer 27–29.22 It begins with the remembered theft of the temple vessels by Nebuchadnezzar and their transportation to Babylon (see Dan 1:2 and 5:2; also Jer 27:16–22), and continues into the visions with the arrogant goat that overthrew the sacrifice, as well as the prince of the host and “the place of his sanctuary” (Dan 8:11 and 12, wvdqm @wkm). At the end of ch. 12 the visionary looks to the moment when the shattering of the power of the holy people will come to an end. The period in question is identified later as the period during which “the burnt offering is taken away and the abomination that desolates is set up” (12:11). Notwithstanding the discrepancy between 12:11 and 12:12, the numbered days also draw a link with the half week of years that is the concern of 9:27. Into this context of a central concern for the fate of the temple and the fate of the holy people associated with the sanctuary, Gabriel comes with a message for “your people and your holy city” (^vdq ry[ . . . ^m[, v. 24). Even the apparently irrelevant detail that the visitation occurs at the “time of the evening sacrifice” (v. 21) reinforces the connection.

IV. Anointing the Holy of Holies The message of Gabriel is that a series of six actions will be undertaken (v. 24). The use of infinitives to express each of them has a twofold effect. First, and typically of the book of Daniel and apocalyptic in general, the agent of the actions thereby remains undefined. This means the reader or hearer is left to

22 L. Dequeker comments that “the problem of the temple stays at the centre of the eschatological expectations of Daniel” (“King Darius and the Prophecy of Seventy Weeks, Daniel 9,” in The Book of Daniel, ed. van der Woude, 209).

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assume an unseen hand behind the narrative. A similar effect is achieved in Dan 4:10–14, where the source of the command to the watcher is never given, and in the early verses of Dan 7 where the Aramaic pe>il form of a number of verbs is uniquely employed in vv. 4–13 to foreshadow the revelation of divine activity in the subsequent angelic interpretation of the vision.23 In each case the effect is to imply the sovereignty of Yahweh as a backdrop to the action; and, given the prominence of that theme in these chapters, a similar effect is implied by the employment of these series of infinitives. More significant for a consideration of the identity of the anointed one, though, is a further rhetorical effect. The employment of the infinitive construct with the l prefix in phrases of purpose drives the reader back in search of a verb in the indicative mood. It is then discovered that the main verb on which these infinitives are dependent is ^tjn (“are decreed”), a niphal. The occurrence of the niphal then takes us a further remove from answering the question of agency. The source of the decree remains unstated. Instead we are told the subject of the decree, namely, !y[bv !y[bv, seventy “sevens.” The emphatic placement of these words and their grammatical relationship to the niphal verb and the subsequent infinitives serve to highlight their applicability to the entire sixfold action of this verse. Moreover the emphasis on the seventy “sevens” as a unit indicates that the actions apply to the whole process, which is then broken down into smaller temporal sections in vv. 25–27.24 If we focus then on the final infinitive of v. 24, jvml, we are compelled to the view that the anointing of the holy of holies is closely linked to the actions described in vv. 25–27. That is also the case for each of the other five infinitives in v. 24, but there are three reasons for highlighting this particular action. First, although there is always a danger of reading too much into word order, the placement of the anointing enables it to be read as the coup de grace in this enumeration of the outcome of the seventy “sevens.” Second, with that in mind, the etymological link with the noun form (jyvm) that follows in the next two verses is surely significant, and worth more exploration than is usually evident among the commentators. At the same time, third, the object of the significant sixth infinitive, the !yvdq vdq, also piques curiosity as it encapsulates the focus of the concerns of Daniel in his prayer and in the visions in which the prayer is embedded.

23

See T. J. Meadowcroft, Aramaic Daniel and Greek Daniel (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1995),

209. 24 See J. B. Payne, “The Goal of Daniel’s Seventy Weeks,” JETS 21 (1978): 105; and the treatment by Slotki, Daniel, Ezra and Nehemiah, 77–78.

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V. Some Consideration of Meanings Holy of Holies Thus far I have drawn on the work of others in outlining several working assumptions concerning the interpretation of the seventy “sevens.” We have seen that the concerns of the prayer of Daniel are integrated with the concerns of the surrounding vision and vision interpretation material. I have also proposed the likelihood that the sixfold action of v. 24 is intended to be read as a panoramic view of the actions detailed in vv. 25–27. Furthermore, we have seen a case for reading the final of those six actions, the anointing of the holy of holies, as the culmination of the six infinitival phrases of purpose, at least conceptually and rhetorically if not necessarily chronologically. In the light of all that, we turn now to a closer consideration of the key terms, !yvdq vdq and jyvm. With respect to !yvdq vdq, the question is whether or not this term may bear the expanded sense suggested by my reading of these verses. In the biblical material, the indefinite expression !yvdq vdq, which is found in Dan 9:24, occurs also as a definite expression, !yvdqh vdq. In the latter form, it normally refers to the central sanctuary within the temple.25 But this is not always the case with the definite form. Sometimes it refers to particular things that have been determined to be holy, always sacred vessels closely linked to the temple or the sacrificial system.26 There are also several ambiguous references that are subject to interpretation but may refer to the most holy place in the temple (Num 4:4, 19). The indefinite expression occurs approximately as often as the definite one. It is most common in Exodus and Leviticus and is used as a kind of superlative descriptor of various items that are associated with the cult.27 There are three significant exceptions to these comments, all of them in Ezekiel and all involving the indefinite expression !yvdq vdq. In Ezek 43:12, 45:3 and 48:12, there is a departure from the normal referent of the physical temple and its utensils and practices. In each case the concept of a most holy place is extended to include land that is also most holy. In 43:12 this is the mountain on which the temple is to be sited, and in 45:3 and 48:12 it is a portion of territory to be allotted to the priesthood. This is significant for our argument, as it indicates a growth in thought that reconceptualizes !yvdq vdq and

25

Exod 26:33, 34; 1 Kgs 6:16; 7:50; 8:6; Ezek 41:4; 1 Chr 6:34; 2 Chr 3:8, 10; 4:22; 5:7. Lev 21:22; Num 18:9, 10; Ezra 2:63 (and Neh 7:65); 1 Chr 22:13; 2 Chr 31:14. 27 Exod 29:37; 30:10, 29, 36; 40:10; Lev 2:3, 10; 7:1, 6; 10:12, 17; 14:13; 24:9; 27:28; Ezek 42:13. According to Wood, “since the phrase is used without the article, reference must be to the complex of that Temple, rather than its most holy place” (Daniel, 250). Perhaps “must be” is too strong a statement of the significance of the anarthrous expression, but the likelihood is noted. 26

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begins to think of it as something that is bigger than the temple but represented by the temple. Furthermore, in the 45:3 reference the holy of holies is part of the phrase !yvdq vdq vdqmh. Despite the implied association with the physical sanctuary, the phrase is indefinite, a unique case in the biblical literature. This adds to the impression that there is some shift in thought evident between the pentateuchal material and Ezekiel, some broadening of conceptualization expressed by !yvdq vdq.28 The impression grows with an examination of the term in the Qumran material. Beginning first with the Community Rule, there are several references to the indefinite expression !yvdq vdq (on some occasions in the Qumran literature !yvdwq vdwq or !vwdq vwdq). In material dating probably from the second century B.C.E., there are several relevant references in the Community Rule (1QS).29 The first is in 1QS VIII, 1–10. There the Council of the Community (djyh tx[), consisting of twelve men and three priests, is described and its role specified. The number of connections with the material in Dan 9:24 is striking. The Council is concerned with “righteousness” (hqdx, 1QS VIII, 2); it has a role to “atone” (rpk, VIII, 6, 10) for the land; it will pay for “iniquity” (@ww[, VIII, 3); and it is an “eternal” plant concerned with statutes that are “eternal” (!lw[, VIII, 5, 9, 10).30 Furthermore, there are other ideas that may not exhibit the same level of lexical coincidence but nevertheless reflect some of the Deuteronomic-type agenda of Dan 9. Note for instance the covenant concerns of fpvm and dsj (VIII, 2) and the Torah (VIII, 2). There is also an interest in the land (VIII, 6, 10) and in the concept of sacrifice as reflected in the expression “sweet odor” (jwjyn jyr, VIII, 9).31 Taken together, the ideas in this portion of the Community Rule reflect the twofold interest of Dan 9 in both the people of the covenant and the covenantal significance of the sanctuary. In the midst of all this we find !yvdwq vdwq employed in two interesting ways. First it describes the Council of the Community as “an assembly of the holy of holies” (my translation of !yvdwq vdwq dws, 1QS VIII, 5–6).32 Next it describes the Council as a “most holy dwelling” (!yvdwq vdwq @w[m, VIII, 8). 28 Charles also notes the link between Dan 9:24 and Ezek 43, 45, and 48 (Critical and Exegetical Commentary, 242). 29 On dating, see The Dead Sea Scrolls: Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek Texts with English Translations, ed. J. H. Charlesworth, Volume 1, Rule of the Community and Related Documents (ed. J. H. Charlesworth et al.; Princeton Theological Seminary Dead Sea Scrolls Project 1; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1994), 2–3. 30 The translations are those of Charlesworth, Rule of the Community, 35. 31 Note that jyr is supralinear in the manuscript. 32 My translation is contra Charlesworth, who opts for “a most holy dwelling” (Rule of the Community, 35). Note also E. M. Schuller, who argues that the expression ought most naturally to be read as a superlative analogous to expressions such as !yklm ^lm (Non-Canonical Psalms from Qumran: A Pseudepigraphic Collection [Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1986], 220–21).

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Whether or not the first expression ought better to be translated with a superlative adjective, “the most holy assembly,” the use of !yvdwq vdwq to describe a group of people is a significant one. The holy of holies is now a group of people whose identity is understood through the metaphor of the temple or sanctuary and the sacrificial system centered therein.33 This explains the likening of the Council to a “sweet odor,” as well as the extended metaphor of lines 7–8, “It shall be the tested wall, the costly cornerstone. Its foundations shall neither be shaken nor be dislodged from their place.” At this point the use of the verbal form vdq in Biblical Hebrew alerts us to the possibility of this expansion of the semantic field. There the object of the verb is often something like a piece of land or an offering or the spoils of war, or even the temple itself (e.g., Lev 22:2; 27:17; 2 Sam 8:11; 1 Kgs 9:3), and to that extent it is in line with the use of the nominal forms. On a number of other occasions, however, the object of vdq is personal. The people are often consecrated (Josh 7:13), as are priests and Levites (1 Chr 15:14). In 2 Chr 30:17 the whole crowd is consecrated. Each of the preceding examples is reflexive, but that is not always the case. In 2 Kgs 10:20 Jehu sanctifies an assembly to Baal, and in Joel 2:15 and 16 Yahweh through the prophet calls for the sanctification of an “assembly” (lhq). This last reference is significant because the object, lhq, is usually used in a cultic context.34 It is therefore not surprising that the semantic field of the nominal form of vdq has expanded in the direction indicated by the usage in the Community Rule. Similar scenarios unfold in 1QS and 4QFlorilegium.35 At 1QS IX, 1–8 the identification of the holy of holies with a community is if anything more explicit. The separated men become “a community of the holy of holies” (my translation of !yvdwq vdwq djyh, IX, 6). 4QFlorilegium is a slightly later example of Qumran exegesis with a strong implicit reference to Dan 9.36 4QFlorilegium 33 C. T. R. Hayward writes, “The Jews who settled at Qumran on the shores of the Dead Sea from around the mid-second century BCE onwards . . . understood their own society or Union as having the effect of a temple (see, for example, 1QS 8:4-12), atoning for the land with good deeds and prayer which for them took the place of sacrifice” (The Jewish Temple: A Non-Biblical Sourcebook [London: Routledge, 1996], 3–4). Note also his subsequent discussion of the temple as the center of the cosmos. 34 See E. Carpenter on lhq, NIDOTTE 3:888–92. 35 A further example noted in passing comes from the noncanonical psalms of Qumran, 4Q381 LXXVI–LXXVII, 5, where the !yvwdq vwdq appears to be a company called into being. Schuller dates this psalm about 100 B.C.E. (Non-Canonical Psalms from Qumran, 22). Note that my translation is contra Schuller, who implies that the term’s use here could be as a name for God, although it is not included in her earlier discussion of names for God in the noncanonical psalms (pp. 38–43). As a cautionary note, a significant amount of reconstruction has had to be undertaken by the editor of this psalm. 36 G. E. Brooke sets the text in the middle of the first century C.E. (Exegesis at Qumran: 4QFlorilegium in its Jewish Context [Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1985], 217).

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I, 4–6, for instance, refers to the sanctuary and its former desolation along with mention of the sacrifices. In particular there is an intriguing reference in I, 6 to !da vdqm. The meaning of this term is the subject of debate. John Allegro set a trend in his initial edition of the fragments with the translation, “a man-made sanctuary.”37 Another possibility has been “sanctuary among men,” but G. E. Brooke makes a persuasive case for a simple construct expression rendered as “sanctuary of men.”38 This opens up the possibility of the community as sanctuary. While, in the context of a broad-ranging discussion of the relationship of the Qumran community to the temple, Brooke cautions against an overemphasis on what he calls “the ‘community as sanctuary’ thesis,” nevertheless he finds that the interest of the document in the sanctuary “is concerned with identifying the sanctuary proleptically with the Qumran community.”39 I suggest that the sanctuary is being similarly identified in Dan 9. Anointed One We now turn to the second proposal made above, that jyvm can be understood in a somewhat less individualized and more communal or collective sense than is normally the case. We need to take into consideration several key words in the jvm group. The feminine noun hjvm requires little attention as it invariably occurs in the phrase “oil of anointing” and is peculiar to Exodus and Leviticus. The verbal form jvm is similar to vdq in that its object can be either inanimate or personal. In the case of inanimate objects, they are inevitably cultic items. So, for example, the tabernacle is anointed (Lev 8:10), as are the altar and utensils for use therein (Exod 29:36; Lev 8:11). In the pentateuchal context, the priests who were to work with these items were also consecrated. In the material known as the former prophets it is common to find various kings anointed, most commonly the United Kingdom three of Saul (1 Sam 9:16), David (2 Sam 2:4), and Solomon (1 Kgs 1:34–45).40 The anointing of !yvdq vdq in Dan 9:24 is unique in the biblical material. In the context of a discussion of the types of objects taken by jvm, the verbal use emerges as multivalent, or more specifically bivalent, in that it can refer either to a person or to a sacred object or space. 37 J. M. Allegro, “Fragments of a Qumran Scroll of Eschatological Midrashim,” JBL 75 (1958): 352. 38 See Brooke’s discussion of the translation of the term and the consequent relationship of the community to the temple (Exegesis at Qumran, 189). Note also the endorsement of Brooke’s translation by Hayward (Jewish Temple, 123). 39 Brooke, Exegesis at Qumran, 193. 40 Jehu (2 Kgs 9:3), Joash (2 Kgs 11:12), and Jehoahaz (2 Kgs 23:30) also feature as objects of jvm.

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The form that is of most direct interest to us is obviously the nominal one,

jyvm, the anointed one. Most of the time it refers to an individual figure, usually a priest (e.g., Lev 4:3; 6:22) or a king (e.g., 1 Sam 2:10; 26:9; 2 Sam 19:22; 22:51). The most famous such reference is perhaps Isa 45:1, where Cyrus is the anointed one. Many but not all such references occur in the construct phrase hwhy jyvm, the anointed of the Lord (see, e.g., the Samuel references above). There are also several occurrences in the psalms that are most likely references to the king or sometimes particularly David (e.g., Ps 89:39, 52). But outside Leviticus and the books of Samuel, in which, along with Psalms, the term most commonly appears, there are some interesting variations. For instance, in Ps 28:8 the parallel structure suggests that the jyvm corresponds in some way to the ![, the people, of the previous line. The same can be argued of Hab 3:13. The parallelism in each of these examples could be ascending rather than equivalent, in which case the terms jyvm and ![ remain distinct entities. However, the parallelism could also be equivalent, in which case the ![ arguably are identified with the jyvm. The Septuagint, in reading the plural cristouv" sou in parallel with laou' sou, appears to interpret the parallel between people and anointed as equivalent. These exceptions to the norm all point toward the possibility that the jyvm could be understood collectively on occasion. Another instance of a slightly different kind is found in 1 Chr 16:22, where the plural form, yjyvm, is in parallel with “prophets” and appears to refer to the people as a whole, or at least to a select group among the people. While this last example, a plural form, is not so directly relevant to the present argument, it does provide further evidence of a widening conception of the term jyvm. When it comes to the Qumran evidence, it is difficult to get an exact fix. Where the term jyvm appears, which is not as often as might be expected, it is a portrait of an individual figure. This is evidently the case in 1QSa (alternatively Rule of the Congregation) II, 14, 20, where the jyvm presides over a meal attended by the “heads of the thousands of Israel” (as translated by Charlesworth). However, there are several references that are intriguing in that they both appear to be plural forms of the noun with pronominal suffixes, and both are apparently in parallel with “seers” (yzwj).41 In CD II, 12–13, “[God] taught

41 The dating of the War Scroll is problematic, although a date before the Common Era is likely, and there are evident links with Daniel, especially Dan 11:40–12:3. See the discussion by J. H. Charlesworth in The Dead Sea Scrolls: Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek Texts with English Translations, ed. James H. Charlesworth, Volume 2, Damascus Document, War Scroll, and Related Documents (ed. J. H. Charlesworth et al.; Princeton Theological Seminary Dead Sea Scrolls Project 2; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1995), 83–84. The Damascus Document is generally agreed to be early and related to the genesis of the Qumran community, such as it may be. See the summary of CD research by P. R. Davies, who reaches the conclusion

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them by the hand of the anointed ones through his holy spirit and through seers of the truth,” while in the War Scroll, we find, “By the hand of your anointed ones, seers of decrees, you taught us . . .” (1QM XI, 7–8).42 Like the example from 1 Chr 16:22 above, these references are not directly relevant to an argument for a collective understanding of the singular term, but they may function as corroborating evidence of a broadening conception of jyvm beyond the individual and eschatological.43 The most interesting case for my present purposes comes from a piece of first-century B.C.E. Qumran exegesis, 11QMelchizedek (variously 11QMelch or 11Q13).44 This document is a pesher primarily of Isaiah’s eschatological material, especially chs. 61 and 52, but in the midst of that there are some striking connections with the verses under consideration.45 The jubilee system of dating is there (II, 2, 7) as is the atonement from iniquity (II, 6, 8, 16) and judgment (II, 9). There is also reference to the “last days” or the “end of days” (II, 4, !ymyh tyrja) and, in that context, to the “anointed of the spirit” (II, 18, jyvm [j]wrh). Émile Puech, in reading rma rvak ]nd (II, 18), sees the anointed of the spirit as that “dont a parlé Daniel.”46 At 11QMelch II, 16–18 the herald of good tidings in Isa 52 and the anointed one are equated. This brings us to the complex question of the under-

that “the document as a whole is basically older than the Qumran community” (The Damascus Covenant [Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1983], 2–47). 42 As translated by F. García Martínez, The Dead Sea Scrolls Translated: The Qumran Texts in English (trans. W. G. E. Watson; Leiden: Brill; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996), 34, 104. In the Damascus Document example, the Hebrew is wvdq jwr wjyvm. García Martínez apparently reads a construct plural form yjyvm, and in so doing follows E. Lohse, Die Texte aus Qumran (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1971), 68. The same decision is made by Davies, Damascus Covenant, 250. 43 This is not to deny the strand in Qumran traditions that identifies two or more Messiahs, apparently anticipated as individual figures, as in 1QS IX, 2; but that strand does not appear to be behind the two references under discussion. On individual Messiahs at Qumran, see D. Neufeld, “‘And When That One Comes’: Aspects of Johannine Messianism,” in Eschatology, Messianism, and the Dead Sea Scrolls (ed. C. A. Evans and P. W. Flint; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 121. On how they feature in eschatological thinking in the scrolls, see J. J. Collins, “The Expectation of the End in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in ibid., 74–90. 44 On dating, see G. Vermes, The Dead Sea Scrolls in English (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987), 301. 45 On these connections, see T. H. Lim, “11QMelch, Luke 4 and the Dying Messiah,” JJS 43 (1992): 90–92. 46 É. Puech, “Notes sur le manuscrit de XIQMelkîsédeq,” RevQ 12 (1987): 491. Earlier editors of 11QMelch, M. de Jonge, and A. S. van der Woude, saw only the initial d in II, 18, and were not willing to assume “Daniel” (“11Q Melchizedek and the New Testament,” NTS 12 [1966]: 301–26). See Lim on the reconstruction including the n, a reconstruction now “generally accepted” (“11QMelch,” 91). See also F. García Martínez and E. J. C. Tigchelaar, eds., The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition, Volume 2, 4Q274–11Q31 (Leiden: Brill; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 1208.

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standing of the herald of good tidings in Isaiah and its relationship to the servant figure and Israel as a light to the nations and a covenant people. It is beyond the scope of this paper to interact fully with the issues raised by this cluster of ideas, except to note a recent study by Hugh Williamson, which contains a detailed exploration of the effect of such personification with respect to key themes in Isaiah.47 Part of Williamson’s argument is that Deutero-Isaiah’s presentation of a servant figure, particularly in Isa 42, is a conscious identification of that figure with the ideal king, and that the royal function is envisaged as residing corporately in the people as servant. He does not foreclose on the possibility that that function may also be brought into sharp focus in an identifiable individual, but argues that the role rather than the identity is the key idea. The close identification of the anointed one and servant in Isa 42:1–7, and of the anointed one and herald in Isa 61:1–4, suggests that the mysterious figure of the herald in Isaiah may be thought of in similarly multivalent terms, and so may the anointed one.48 Part of the mystery of the Isaianic corpus is that herald and servant both receive and convey the prophetic message. It is likely that this delicate oscillation between individual and corporate identity is also applicable to the jyvm, and is reflected in the materials dating from the first and second centuries B.C.E. found in the Judean desert.49 The apprehension of the anointed one is therefore wider than a single divine individual, but it may be focused on an individual. It points to the fulfillment of a role that is envisaged for the whole people of God, and particularly those allocated a special function therein. This is in line with the strong link drawn in Dan 7 between the divinely endowed role of one like a son of man and the holy ones of the most high (compare Dan 7:13–14 and 7:26–27).50 This all takes us a step beyond what was observed in the Ezekiel material discussed earlier. For both Dan 9 and the Qumran material assembled above, the central institutions of the faith are no longer coterminous with their physi47 H. G. M. Williamson, Variations on a Theme: King, Messiah and Servant in the Book of Isaiah (Carlisle: Paternoster, 1998), esp. chs. 4 and 5. Note also the observation by Montgomery of “the Semitic genius to personify the people” (Daniel, 323). 48 Contra R. W. Fisher, who sees in the herald of Isa 40:9 a figure distinct from Zion and Jerusalem (“The Herald of Good News in Second Isaiah,” in Rhetorical Criticism: Essays in Honor of James Muilenburg [ed. J. J. Jackson and M. Kessler; Pittsburgh: Pickwick, 1974], 117–32). 49 With respect to 4QFlorilegium, note the comment of Brooke that the community is “described in terms of the eschatological sanctuary” (Exegesis at Qumran, 218). 50 G. F. Hasel, “The Identity of ‘The Saints of the Most High’ in Daniel 7,” Bib 56 (1975): 186–88. See also the cast assembled by A. Lacocque in support of his identification of people and temple in Dan 9:24, although his argument from 1 Chr 23:13 is less convincing than his deployment of Dan 7 (The Book of Daniel [trans. D. Pellauer; Atlanta: John Knox, 1979], 193–94). Contrast this with Anderson, Signs and Wonders, 87.

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cal expression.51 Rather, their physical expression comes to take on a symbolic meaning. In the particular case of interest to us, the anointed holy of holies is no longer understood in purely physical terms. It is a concept made concrete in community, and occasionally in representative individuals or smaller groups within the community.

VI. Identity of the Anointed Ones With that in mind we come to the two mentions of jyvm in Dan 9:25 and 26. In doing so it is worth recapitulating from the biblical material above that the reference concerning us is exceptional in several ways. The holy of holies as direct object of jvm is unique; the proximity of the verbal and participial forms is unique; and the openness of the phrase !yvdq vdq is highly unusual. In that they demonstrate an enhanced conception of the temple evident by the later Second Temple period, the biblical and Qumranic examples that we have considered support the possibility that the jyvm of both v. 25 and v. 26 is that which has been anointed in v. 24, namely, the !yvdq vdq. But in each instance there is a problem with that identification. Verse 25 brings the question posed by the phrase dygn jyvm, while in v. 26 there is the problem of the phrase wl @yaw translated by NRSV as “and shall have nothing.” Is it possible to reconcile these phrases with the identification of the anointed one as that which was anointed in v. 24, namely, the holy of holies? The more intractable problem is that of v. 25. Usually the phrase dygn jyvm is read as nouns in apposition to each other, hence “the anointed one, the ruler” (so NIV). Another option is the one taken by the NRSV to read jyvm adjectivally, giving the reading “anointed prince.” Either reading is grammatically possible, and the Masoretic pointing supports both. Yet the placement of jyvm in apposition to dygn militates against a collective reading of the anointed one at this point. The difficulty posed by the Masoretic pointing has to be acknowledged. However, the consonantal text, dygn jyvm, can also be read as a construct

51 My linking of material from Daniel and Qumran draws us into questions about the place of the Danielic community in the turbulent world of second-century B.C.E. Judaism, questions beyond the scope of this essay. But note the implied possibility that Dan 9 reflects a priestly antiHasmonean strand. See J. A. Draper, “The Twelve Apostles as Foundation Stones of the Heavenly Jerusalem and the Foundation of the Qumran Community,” Neot 22 (1988): 41–63. See also the view of Collins that “some of the key elements in the self-understanding of the [Qumran] sect were derived from Daniel,” although he doubts any direct links (Daniel, 72–73). Whatever the exact case, there is strong evidence for an overlap between the thought worlds of Daniel and the community responsible for the Qumran literature.

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phrase, “the anointed of the ruler.”52 On that reading the anointed one may still refer to the holy of holies. The rebuilding of Jerusalem, with which the first seven weeks is concerned, and the consecration of the holy of holies remain identified with each other. This is not to deny that some kind of key individual, as indicated by dygn, may be part of that process, but the understanding of the anointed remains primarily a collective one. The physical holy of holies is symbolic of that identity. In addition to the evidence for a collective understanding already gathered, we note at this point the identification of the sanctuary with those serving therein in Exod 40.53 The linking of city and holy of holies is in concert also with the concerns of the prayer of Daniel with Jerusalem and the desolated sanctuary (9:17) and the interest of the book as a whole in the temple vessels and the violation of the holy of holies. At the same time this reading is consistent with the contents of v. 27 and their concern with the cessation of the sacrificial system.54 In verse 26 the most likely reading of the cutting off of the anointed one is as a continuation of the history of Jerusalem and the sanctuary, and the people of whom Jerusalem and the sanctuary are symbolic. The anointed one that is “cut off” is then that which was anointed in v. 24, the holy of holies. It is a reference to the sanctuary and all that that represents. The decreeing of twmmv, “desolations,” at the end of the verse continues the language of the prayer of Daniel in that it uses the nominal form of the participle from v. 17 and maintains the link with the sanctuary. But there is a difficulty with the clause usually translated as “and he shall have nothing” (see NRSV, for example). Such an interpretation of wl @yaw is an attempt to express an unusual form. The Septuagint takes a different route with its translation kai; oujk e[stai, assuming that the issue is one of existence rather than possession.55 Neither is entirely satisfactory. As an expression of existence it is unexpected. A more likely understanding is that expressed in most English translations, as an idiom of possession. The problem there, though, is that such an expression normally has an object of possession, and there is apparently

52 Lacocque is moving in the same direction with his assertion that an “exalting of the priesthood” is envisaged by the phrase dygn jyvm, but he does not pursue the grammatical argument (Daniel, 194–95). Contra R. R. Hann, who calls on the examples of Lev 4:3, 5, 16, and 6:22, where the anointed one is always in the absolute state, descriptive of the priest, and not in the construct. His assumption is that this is also the case in Daniel (“Christos Kyrios in PsSol 17:32: ‘The Lord’s Anointed’ Reconsidered,” NTS 31 [1985]: 623). 53 As noted by Lacocque, Daniel, 194. 54 Interpretation of the phrase !yxwqv #nk l[ in 9:27 is beyond the scope of this article, but note the likelihood that it refers to some feature of the physical temple. J. E. Goldingay translates the phrase thus: “and upon a wing will be a desolating abomination” (Daniel [Dallas: Word Books, 1989], 226). 55 Theodotion’s translation of wl @yaw is kai; krivma oujk e[stin ejn aujtw'/, apparently reading @yd.

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none present in v. 26. C. G. Ozanne has made an intriguing proposal that an object is in fact present in the form of “the city and the sanctuary” ( ry[hw vdqhw ).56 This entails rendering the w . . . w construction as “both/and” or “either/or” and translating thus: “an anointed will be cut off having neither the city nor the sanctuary.” Ozanne’s proposal requires what he admits to be a rare construction, but notes that it also occurs in Dan 8:13, where abxw vdqw function as the object in the clause “giving over of the sanctuary and host.” Therefore the context of the prayer’s concern for both the city and the sanctuary continues, and the fit with a communal interpretation of jyvm is maintained.57 In the context of the present discussion, the implication of Ozanne’s reading is that the people whose identity is expressed as the !yvdq vdq in some way are cut off from both city and physical sanctuary by the events at the end of the sixty-two “sevens.” This argument has the added advantage of solving the problem of the phrase dygn ![ (v. 26, unsatisfactorily translated by NRSV as “the troops of the prince”). The traditional assumption of a construct expression requires the ![ to be a party hostile to the city and sanctuary, which is an unlikely usage in the context of Deuteronomic thought. By identifying the object of the possessive wl in the way that he has, Ozanne opens the way to reading ![ as the object rather than the subject of tjv, hence “the prince . . . will destroy the people.” Grammatically such a placement of the object in relation to subject and verb is unusual but possible. In literary terms, it maintains and enhances the clustering of concern for people, city, and sanctuary—and the identification of each with the other—that has obtained throughout the chapter.

VII. Interpretive Outcomes It is therefore possible to read the fate of the anointed one in vv. 25 and 26 as the fate of whatever is intended by the !yvdq vdq in v. 24. The suggestion of this paper has been that the “most holy place” can be taken as expressive of a people who are anointed, with the possibility that that perception is occasionally concretized into an individual. The particular time markers in the seventy “sevens” referred to in vv. 25 and 26, “until the anointed of a prince” and “after sixty-two ‘sevens’ an anointed one shall be cut off,” therefore refer to experi56 C. G. Ozanne, “Three Textual Problems in Daniel,” JTS n.s. 16 (1965): 446–47. Goldingay subscribes to Ozanne’s argument (Daniel, 228). 57 This approach is contrary to those who argue from Qumran documents, supported by the LXX kai; oujk e[stai, that wl @yaw is a reference to a dying Messiah. See R. A. Rosenberg, “The Slain Messiah in the Old Testament,” ZAW 99 (1987): 260–61; and Lim, who also argues that wl @ya is correctly translated as “he shall have nothing” (“11Q Melch,” 90–92).

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ences of the people whose identity is focused on the holy of holies. This view does not pave the way for a tidy historical reconstruction of these verses, but its adoption reduces the necessity to achieve one and shifts the focus onto the fate of the people, and the interaction of people, sanctuary, and city that is characteristic of the wider context of these verses. The key interpretive outcome of the identification of the anointed one in vv. 25 and 26 with the holy of holies is that it enables us to respect the literary integrity of the passage while at the same time doing justice to the historical understandings behind the verses. The weakness of strongly messianic or eschatological interpretations is that they tend to fragment the literary integrity, while the historical interpretations run the danger of an overliteral understanding of the history that is being conveyed. With respect to the literary integrity of the passage, it makes possible the most obvious reading of both occurrences of jyvm as a reference back to the final infinitive in v. 24. It also enhances an appreciation of the concerns of people, city, and sanctuary as integral to the entire chapter and indeed to the book of Daniel as a whole. Readings that interpret in literal historical terms or in entirely messianic or eschatological terms both are compelled toward an individual application of the anointed one. Both thereby lose touch with the interlocking concerns of which these verses are a part. With respect to the understanding of history behind these verses, my proposed identification of the anointed one is consistent with Dimant’s thesis that the seventy “sevens” reflects a sabbatical-cycle schematization of history. It cannot be said to have proved it, as the present argument about the anointed one is to some extent dependent on the sabbatical-cycle thesis, but it makes possible an identification that is at peace with such a schematization of history. Our collective interpretation of the anointed one respects the fact that the differentiated periods of weeks are not arbitrary. The history of the people and the sanctuary during the Second Temple is roughly reflected in the events of vv. 25–27, and they appear as the anointed both at the end of the initial seven “sevens” and in the final “seven.” The intervening “troubled time” of the sixty-two “sevens” reflects the far from trouble-free period of the Second Temple leading up to the Antiochene crisis. At the same time, the collective interpretation respects that the periods are symbolic or theological. It does so in that it avoids what has up until now in the history of exegesis of these verses been a fruitless attempt to pin a satisfactory individual identity onto each mention of an anointed one. Such an identification is also consistent with the possibility that these verses may have an ongoing significance. It does so in that it builds on the theologizing of the seventy years and the recasting of the Deuteronomic vision in apocalyptic terms, and by implication permits the same thing to be done to the resultant schema of the seventy “sevens.” Both Jewish and Christian exegetes

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have sought to do just that, although with limited success, because the collective aspect and the conversation between people, city, and sanctuary have not been taken sufficiently seriously. Our identification of the anointed one requires that they do be taken seriously. When that occurs, we are able to discern in the Christian canonical context the ongoing interpretive significance of Dan 9:24-27 both as background to an appreciation of passages such as Mark 13 and as part of the raw material of the book of Revelation. In those NT contexts, the seventy “sevens” of Daniel are revisited and revisioned into the context of the age of the church, and the identification of the anointed one is similarly reworked, just as the book of Daniel has revisioned the seventy years of the tradition reflected in Jer 27–29. With respect to the apocalyptic background of the Gospels, N. T. Wright explores in some detail the significance of both Dan 7 and the verses presently under discussion.58 He notes in particular that the “expectations [of firstcentury Jews] remained national, territorial and Temple-centred,” although how that should be worked out was a matter of ongoing dispute in the late Second Temple period.59 In addressing that reality, Jesus responds to the significance of the temple both negatively and positively. He looks to the cessation of the temple (Mark 13), as well as to the replacement or fulfillment of the temple in his own person (John 2). The understanding of the anointed one in Dan 9 as a community whose identity is derived from the sanctuary, then, provides significant background to an understanding of the Gospels and especially the material of Mark 13. It is against a backdrop of the temple as expressive of a holy community, along with the possibility that this understanding may be focused onto a representative figure or group, that we hear and observe the words and actions of Jesus. It is in that respect in Christian interpretation that the anointed one of Dan 9:24–27 points toward Christ, rather than through a chronologically exact calculation of the seventy “sevens.” Part of the revisioning evident in Dan 9:24–27 also builds on Dan 7, in which the holy ones of the Most High are endowed with a particular status (Dan 7:27), and in which the aspirations toward this participation in the divine rule is sharply focused in the person of the one like a son of man (Dan 7:13–14). We have noted that this conversation between the collective and the individual is reflected also in the verses at the end of Dan 9.60 This prepares the way for the vision of the Apocalypse wherein the faithful in some way participate in the

58

N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God (London: SPCK, 1996), 510–19. Ibid., 512. 60 A further intertextual link with Revelation is strongly implied by the infinitives hlk, rpk, and !tj of v. 24. All imply a period of restraint and expectation such as that which is the subject of Rev 20. A detailed exploration of such is beyond the scope of this article. 59

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reign of the slain Lamb. The culmination of that vision comes in Rev 21, where the same interaction that we have been observing in Dan 9 between people, city, and sanctuary reaches its glorious conclusion.61 There we glimpse the new Jerusalem, which is now much more than a spatial concept as it is also “a bride adorned for her husband.” It thereby becomes both the people of God and the location of the people of God. And in that city there is no temple, “for its temple is the Lord God the Almighty.”62 The process of purifying the “most holy place,” the !yvdq vdq, and seeing it as symbol has now reached its ultimate outcome. The conversation between people, city, and sanctuary has finally reached agreement. And the dismal swamp has yielded some landing places for its explorers. 61 See the argument of Draper, whose examination of 1QS VIII, 1–16 and other Qumran texts convinces him that “Revelation 21:14, 19 and following derives from the same thought world as the Qumran Scrolls which have been examined,” and, we might add, the thought world of Dan 9 (“Twelve Apostles as Foundation Stones,” 57). 62 See the thesis of R. H. Gundry that the “New Jerusalem is a dwelling place, to be sure; but it is God’s dwelling place of the saints; he is describing them and them alone” (“The New Jerusalem, People as Place, Not Place for People,” NovT 29 [1987]: 256).

JBL 120/3 (2001) 451–468

THE SOURCES OF THE OLD TESTAMENT QUOTATION IN MATTHEW 2:23

MAARTEN J. J. MENKEN [email protected] Katholieke Theologische Universiteit, 3584 CS Utrecht, The Netherlands

The infancy narrative of Matthew’s Gospel ends with an angel appearing to Joseph in Egypt in a dream. The angel tells Joseph that he can safely return together with his wife and son to the land of Israel, because the enemies of the child have died. Joseph faithfully executes this command, but when he hears that Archelaus reigns over Judea, he is afraid to go there. Warned in a dream, he withdraws to Galilee and settles in Nazareth (Matt 2:19–23a). The settling in Nazareth is then seen as the fulfillment of prophecy: o{pw" plhrwqh'/ to; rJhqe;n dia; tw'n profhtw'n o{ti Nazwrai'o" klhqhvsetai, “so that what was spoken by the prophets might be fulfilled: ‘He will be called a Nazorean’” (2:23b).1 Matthew’s wording is slightly awkward: strictly speaking, Joseph is the subject of klhqhvsetai, but in fact Jesus is meant, as the entire context shows. The main problem of the OT quotation in Matt 2:23 is that it apparently cannot be found in the OT: nothing in the OT seems to resemble it. Apart from this oddity, a comparison of the introductory formula of this fulfillment quotation with those of the other fulfillment quotations in Matthew immediately reveals some peculiarities. All the others (1:22; 2:15, 17; 4:14; 8:17; 12:17; 13:35; 21:4; 27:9) have dia; (. . .) tou' profhvtou, “by (. . .) the prophet,” in the singular; only in 2:23 do we find the plural dia; tw'n profhtw'n, “by the prophets.” In all other instances, the word “prophet” is followed by the participle levgonto", “when he said.” If in 2:23 o{ti is recitative,2 this is the only fulfillment quotation 1 This is the translation given in R. E. Brown, The Birth of the Messiah: A Commentary on the Infancy Narratives in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke (ABRL; 2d ed.; New York: Doubleday, 1993; orig. 1977), 202. To preserve possible wordplays in the quotation, it is preferable to translate Nazwrai'o" by “Nazorean”; see W. B. Tatum, “Matthew 2.23—Wordplay and Misleading Translations,” BT 27 (1976): 135–38. 2 See BDF §470,1; N. Turner, Syntax, vol. 3 of J. H. Moulton, A Grammar of New Testament Greek (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1963), 325–26.

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to be introduced in this way. One could surmise that there is a link between the anomalies of the introductory formula and the obscurity of the OT source of the quotation. In this article, I will propose a partially new solution to the old conundrum of the provenance of the quotation. It may be slightly hazardous to add another solution to an entire range of extant ones, none of which has proved to be really convincing. To my mind, however, most solutions presented until now are flawed: (1) they are based on a wrong idea of the comprehensibility of the quotation for Matthew’s audience; (2) they do not sufficiently respect the fact that the words in question belong to a series of fulfillment quotations; or (3) they mostly focus only on the word Nazwrai'o", not on the quotation as a whole. There seems to be room, therefore, for a new effort that tries to avoid these pitfalls and to account for the deviations in the introductory formula. I shall first discuss the extent of the quotation and the obvious meaning the quotation has in the Matthean context; the outcome of this discussion will put some limits on any hypothesis concerning the provenance of the quotation. Next, I shall survey the extant proposals about the source of the quotation. I shall then argue for my own proposal, in dialogue with the extant ones, and finally explain the peculiar traits of the introductory formula in the light of this proposal. In all this, I shall presuppose, at least as a working hypothesis, a result of my earlier research into Matthew’s fulfillment quotations, namely, that it was the evangelist who took the quotation from an OT text; he did not make use of a collection of testimonia.3

I. The Extent of the Quotation The first problem to be solved is: Which words belong to the quotation? In all other explicit OT quotations in Matthew, comparison with the OT source

3 See M. J. J. Menken, “The Source of the Quotation from Isaiah 53:4 in Matthew 8:17,” NovT 39 (1997): 313–27, esp. 327; idem, “The Textual Form of the Quotation from Isaiah 8:23–9:1 in Matthew 4:15–16,” RB 105 (1998): 526–45, esp. 532–34; idem, “The Quotation from Isaiah 42:1–4 in Matthew 12:18–21: Its Relation with the Matthean Context,” Bijd 59 (1998): 251–66; idem, “The Quotation from Jeremiah 31[38].15 in Matthew 2.18: A Study of Matthew’s Scriptural Text,” in The Old Testament in the New Testament (FS J. L. North; ed. S. Moyise; JSNTSup 189; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 106–25, esp. 110–13. For a recent revival of the testimonia hypothesis as an explanation of Matthew’s fulfillment quotations, see M. C. Albl, “And Scripture Cannot Be Broken”: The Form and Function of the Early Christian Testimonia Collections (NovTSup 96; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 179–90. To my mind, the heterogeneity of the collection and the high measure of integration of the quotations in Matthew’s Gospel remain obstacles for the testimonia hypothesis.

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shows that the sentence (sometimes sentences) following the introductory formula constitutes the quotation.4 While the evangelist may replace or add one or more words in the process of interpretative rendering, it is always clear that the entire sentence (or series of sentences), and not just one word, constitutes to him the authoritative scriptural utterance. This means that in the case of 2:23, at least the words Nazwrai'o" klhqhvsetai constitute the quotation. It is not immediately evident whether or not the conjunction o{ti belongs to the quotation. One can read it as recitative, in which case it introduces a quotation that is made up of two words: Nazwrai'o" klhqhvsetai, “he will be called a Nazorean.” One can also read it as a causal conjunction, in which case the quotation is made up of three words: o{ti Nazwrai'o" klhqhvsetai, “for he will be called a Nazorean.” In theory, both ways of reading are possible, but which is more probable? We find in Matthew two more instances of explicit OT quotations that begin with o{ti. One of these (4:6 = Ps 90[91]:11–12) has the same ambiguity as our passage, because the scriptural passage quoted actually begins with causal o{ti. In the parallel in Luke (4:10 = Ps 90[91]:11), o{ti is clearly recitative, because it is repeated at the beginning of the second part of the Psalm quotation; the OT source does not have an equivalent there (Luke 4:11 = Ps 90[91]:12). In Matthew’s version, however, the meaning of o{ti is not univocal. The other Matthean instance of o{ti at the beginning of an OT quotation (21:16 = Ps 8:3) is indeed an instance of recitative o{ti. There is another possible parallel in Matt 26:54, when Jesus says at his arrest: pw'" ou\n plhrwqw'sin aiJ grafai; o{ti ou{tw" dei' genevsqai_ “How then should the scriptures be fulfilled, that it must happen so?” This, however, only seems to be a parallel: there is no real quotation but instead a kind of summary, and by consequence, o{ti cannot be recitative. Elsewhere in the NT, we find several OT quotations introduced by an unambiguous recitative o{ti (e.g., Mark 12:19 = Deut 25:5–6; John 10:34 = Ps 81[82]:6; Rom 9:12 = Gen 25:23). There are, however, also instances in which o{ti can be either recitative or, as a conjunction, part of the quotation (e.g., Luke 4:4 = Deut 8:3; Rom 4:17 = Gen 17:5; Heb 11:18 = Gen 21:12). It is also evident that a participle used as a substantive such as to; rJhqevn in Matt 2:23 and similar expressions, when it immediately introduces a quotation or the like, can be used both with and without recitative o{ti (see, on the one hand, e.g., Luke 24:44; John 4:37; 1 Tim 1:15; on the other, e.g., Luke 2:24; Acts 13:40; Rom 9:9). These considerations are obviously not decisive. We have to see whether

4 See Matt 1:22–23; 2:5–6, 15, 17–18; 3:3; 4:4, 6, 7, 10, 14–16; 5:21, 27, 31, 33, 38, 43; 8:17; 9:13; 11:10; 12:7, 17–21; 13:14–15 (if these verses are authentic), 35; 15:4, 7–9; 19:5, 7, 18–19; 21:4–5, 13, 16, 42; 22:24, 31–32, 37, 39, 43–44; 26:31; 27:9–10.

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observations about Matthew’s editorial habits could give an indication.5 Apart from our quotation, the evangelist never introduces fulfillment quotations by recitative o{ti. Furthermore, Matthew has, when editing Mark, a tendency to drop recitative o{ti: from forty-three Markan instances, Matthew drops thirtythree and retains only ten. Three of the omissions concern the introduction of OT quotations (Matt 15:7 // Mark 7:6; Matt 21:13 // Mark 11:17; Matt 22:24 // Mark 12:19). Five of the ten instances in which Matthew retains the word concern a recitative o{ti immediately following a formula of authoritative speaking such as ajmh;n levgw uJmi'n, “Truly, I say to you.”6 On the other hand, Matthew introduces recitative o{ti eight times into Markan materials; in three of these, he does so with a formula of authoritative speaking. In the materials that Matthew borrowed from Q, we find eleven instances of recitative o{ti; five of these are also found in Luke, and probably come from Q. Four of these five concern formulae of authoritative speaking. In six out of the eleven cases, Luke does not have recitative o{ti but Matthew does; five of these six concern formulae of authoritative speaking. In addition, it should be mentioned that there are six cases where recitative o{ti occurs in Luke’s Q materials but is lacking in the Matthean parallel; two of these concern the introduction of OT quotations (Matt 4:4, 6 // Luke 4:4, 11). In his Sondergut, Matthew has recitative o{ti thirteen times, ten of them with formulae of authoritative speaking. So we observe that Matthew has a tendency to drop recitative o{ti when he finds it in his sources; when he retains or introduces it, it seems to be mostly in connection with formulae of authoritative speaking. Now we must consider that the formula introducing the OT quotation in Matt 2:23 is the work of the evangelist.7 If o{ti is recitative, it must belong to this editorial formula and must come from the evangelist’s pen. In view of the statistics given above, however, that is not 5 One of the few interpreters who explicitly goes into the problem of o{ti in Matt 2:23 is J. G. Rembry (“‘Quoniam Nazaraeus vocabitur’ (Mt 2/23),” SBFLA 12 [1961–62]: 45–65, esp. 51–57). Unfortunately, he neglects Matthew’s editorial tendencies and too easily considers o{ti to be recitative. 6 I have left out of my count the instances in which Matthew has omitted the entire Markan passage. See C. H. Turner, “Marcan Usage: Notes, Critical and Exegetical on the Second Gospel,” in J. K. Elliott, The Language and Style of the Gospel of Mark: An Edition of C.H. Turner’s “Notes on Marcan Usage” Together with Other Comparable Studies (NovTSup 71; Leiden: Brill, 1993), 3–139, esp. 68–74 (the “Notes” originally date from 1924–1928); J. Schmid, Matthäus und Lukas: Eine Untersuchung des Verhältnisses ihrer Evangelien (BibS[F] 23.2–4; Freiburg: Herder, 1930), 53; F. Neirynck, with T. Hansen and F. Van Segbroeck, The Minor Agreements of Matthew and Luke against Mark, with a Cumulative List (BETL 37; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1974), 213–16. 7 This is generally acknowledged; see M. J. J. Menken, “The References to Jeremiah in the Gospel according to Matthew (Mt 2,17; 16,14; 27,9),” ETL 60 (1984): 5–24, esp. 6–9, with the literature mentioned there.

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very probable. The chances that o{ti is a causal conjunction and part of the quotation are therefore better than the chances that it is recitative and belongs to the evangelist’s formula. So it seems best to assume that the quotation is made up of three words: o{ti Nazwrai'o" klhqhvsetai.8

II. The Meaning of the Quotation in the Matthean Context There can be no serious doubt that to Matthew, the word Nazwrai'o" is a gentilic, meaning “an inhabitant of Nazareth.” The immediate context in Matt 2:23 shows it: Joseph and his family settle in Nazareth, in order that the prophecy “for he will be called a Nazwrai'o"” might be fulfilled. It is shown also by the other occurrence in Matthew, in 26:71. One of the servant girls of the high priest says about Peter to the bystanders: ou| t o" h\ n meta; !Ihsou' tou' Nazwraivou, “this man was with Jesus the Nazorean.” The term serves here to distinguish Jesus, by referring to his hometown, from other persons with the same name. It is obviously synonymous with Mark’s Nazarhnov " , which it replaces (see Mark 14:67). Earlier in Matthew’s Gospel, in a comparable context of identification, the crowds have said about Jesus: ou|tov" ejstin oJ profhvth" !Ihsou' " oJ aj p o; Nazare; q th' " Galilaiv a ", “this is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee” (21:11). To Matthew, then, Nazwrai'o", Nazarhnov", and ajpo; Nazarevq are equivalents. The same equivalence holds for Luke-Acts,9 while in John, Nazwrai'o" and ajpo; Nazarevq are equivalents.10 By using the word Nazwrai'o" in this sense, Matthew is not changing its original meaning, for it seems that Nazwrai'o" is indeed a normal gentilic, a grecizing of an Aramaic *yr"x]n:, derived from the Hebrew name tr"x]n:. A transliteration of x into z is possible; a gentilic can be formed out of a place-name with the omission of the feminine ending of the latter; and the w can be explained either as due to metathesis, or as the scriptio plena of a shewa, or as coming from a form *r/xn:.11 8 So also E. Zuckschwerdt, “Nazoµraîos in Matth. 2,23,” TZ 31 (1975): 65–77, esp. 67 n. 12, 70. For this view, Zuckschwerdt rightly refers to Jerome, De viris illustribus 3 (PL 23: 613B). 9 See Luke 4:34; 18:37 (cf. Mark 10:47); 24:19; Acts 2:22; 3:6; 4:10; 6:14; 10:38; 22:8; 26:9. In Acts 24:5, Tertullus calls the Christian group “the sect of the Nazoreans,” hJ tw'n Nazwraivwn ai{resi", apparently after Jesus “the Nazorean.” 10 See John 1:45; 18:5, 7; 19:19. Mark uses only Nazarhnov" (1:24; 10:47; 14:67; 16:6). 11 See G. F. Moore, “Nazarene and Nazareth,” in The Beginnings of Christianity I: The Acts of the Apostles (ed. F. J. Foakes Jackson and K. Lake; London: Macmillan, 1920–33), 1:426–32; A. Schlatter, Der Evangelist Matthäus: Seine Sprache, sein Ziel, seine Selbständigkeit: Ein Kommentar zum ersten Evangelium (4th ed.; Stuttgart: Calwer, 1957; orig. 1929), 49–50; H. H. Schaeder, “Nazarhnov", Nazwrai'o",” TWNT 4:879–84, esp. 882, 884; W. F. Albright, “The Names ‘Nazareth’

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According to Matt 2:23, then, scripture says that a certain person will be called an inhabitant of Nazareth. The word klhqhvsetai, “will be called,” means here that this person will be known and addressed as a Nazorean.12 That is consistent with what we find in Matthew’s Gospel: the qualification “Nazorean” or “from Nazareth” is given to Jesus not by himself but by others (the crowds in 21:11, the servant girl in 26:71).

III. Extant Proposals about the Source of the Quotation In what follows, I summarize the main views on the provenance of the quotation in Matt 2:23:13 1. A widespread view is that Matthew’s Nazwrai'o" refers to the rxn, “shoot,” from the stump of Jesse in Isa 11:1.14 This verse may have evoked cogand “Nazoraean,’” JBL 65 (1946): 397–401; H. P. Rüger, “NAZAREQ/NAZARA NAZARHNOS/ NAZWRAIOS,” ZNW 72 (1981): 257–63, esp. 260–62. The view of M. Lidzbarski and others, that the word derived from the Hebrew verb rxn, “to keep,” and originally indicated a pre-Christian Jewish sect, was recently revived by E. López Fernández, “‘Nazoraios’ y sus problemas: En torno a Mt 2,23,” Studium Ovetense 23 (1995): 17–102. 12 See W. Bauer, Griechisch-deutsches Wörterbuch zu den Schriften des Neuen Testaments und der frühchristlichen Literatur (ed. K. and B. Aland; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 1988), s.v. kalevw 1.a.b, g. 13 Useful surveys and discussions can be found in R. H. Gundry, The Use of the Old Testament in St. Matthew’s Gospel, with Special Reference to the Messianic Hope (NovTSup 18; Leiden: Brill, 1967; 2d ed. 1975), 97–104; G. M. Soares Prabhu, The Formula Quotations in the Infancy Narrative of Matthew: An Enquiry into the Tradition History of Mt 1–2 (AnBib 63; Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1976), 203–7; Brown, Birth of the Messiah, 208–13, 617; W. D. Davies and D. C. Allison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel according to Saint Matthew 1: Introduction and Commentary on Matthew I–VII (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1988), 275–81. 14 So W. C. Allen, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel according to S. Matthew (3d ed.; ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1912), 17; Str-B 1:92–96; E. Klostermann, Das Matthäusevangelium (2d ed.; HNT 4; Tübingen: Mohr, 1927; 4th ed. 1971), 19; Schlatter, Matthäus, 49; N. J. Hommes, Het Testimoniaboek: Studiën over O.T. citaten in het N.T. en bij de Patres . . . (Amsterdam: Noord-Hollandsche, 1935), 163; A. Médebielle, “‘Quoniam Nazaraeus vocabitur’ (Mt. II,23),” in Miscellanea Biblica et Orientalia (FS A. Miller; ed. A. Metzinger; SA 27–28; Rome: Herder, 1951), 301–26; K. Stendahl, The School of St. Matthew and Its Use of the Old Testament (2d ed.; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1968; orig. 1954), 103–4; J. J. O’Rourke, “The Fulfillment Texts in Matthew,” CBQ 24 (1962): 394– 403, esp. 396–97; Gundry, Use of the OT, 103– 4; idem, Matthew: A Commentary on His Handbook for a Mixed Church under Persecution (2d ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994), 39– 40; M. D. Goulder, Midrash and Lection in Matthew (London: SPCK, 1974), 241 (as a secondary reference); B. M. Nolan, The Royal Son of God: The Christology of Matthew 1–2 in the Setting of the Gospel (OBO 23; Fribourg: Éditions Universitaires; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1979), 212–14; Rüger, “NAZAREQ,” 262–63; L. Abramowski, “Die Entstehung der dreigliedrigen Taufformel—ein Versuch: Mit einem Exkurs: Jesus der Naziräer,” ZTK 81 (1984): 417– 46, esp. 445; U. Luz, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus 1: Mt 1–7

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nate prophetic verses with the word jmx, “shoot” (Isa 4:2; Jer 23:5; 33:15; Zech 3:8; 6:12), maybe other prophetic passages as well, and the influence of these verses could in turn explain the plural “the prophets,” as well as the other peculiarities of the introductory formula. In early Judaism and early Christianity, Isa 11:1–10 was considered a significant messianic passage,15 and Matthew is clearly interested in the Davidic sonship of Jesus (see 1:6, 17, 20; 9:27, etc.). 2. Occurrences of the verb rxn, “to keep, to preserve,” in the Hebrew Bible have been seen as the explanation of Nazwrai' o " in the quotation. According to Isa 42:6, God says to his servant: ^rxaw, “I have kept you.”16 In Isa 49:6, part of the task of the servant is said to be to bring back larcy yryxn (qe·rê: yrwxn), “the preserved of Israel.”17 Jeremiah 31:6 speaks of !yrxwn, “watchmen,” who will summon the people to go up to Zion.18 All three verses belong to passages that were important in early Christianity as christological testimonies (e.g., Matt 2:18; 12:18–21; Acts 13:47). 3. The view is also widespread that the OT sources of the quotation are to be found in Judg 13:5, 7; 16:17.19 These verses concern Samson as a Nazirite. (EKKNT 1.1; Zurich: Benziger; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1985; 3d ed. 1992), 132; J. Gnilka, Das Matthäusevangelium 1: Kommentar zu Kap. 1,1–13,58 (HTKNT 1.1; Freiburg: Herder, 1986), 56–57; A. Sand, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus (RNT; Regensburg: Pustet, 1986), 57–58; Davies and Allison, Saint Matthew 1, 277–79 (as “secondary allusion”); M. Oberweis, “Beobachtungen zum AT-Gebrauch in der matthäischen Kindheitsgeschichte,” NTS 35 (1989): 131–49, esp. 148; S. Willis, “Matthew’s Birth Stories: Prophecy and the Magi,” ExpTim 105 (1993–94): 43–45, esp. 44; R. Pesch, “‘He will be Called a Nazorean’: Messianic Exegesis in Matthew 1–2,” in The Gospels and the Scriptures of Israel (ed. C. A. Evans and W. R. Stegner; JSNTSup 104; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 129–78, esp. 173–76; R. J. Erickson, “Divine Injustice? Matthew’s Narrative Strategy and the Slaughter of the Innocents (Matthew 2.13–23),” JSNT 64 (1996): 5–27, esp. 20–21; Albl, “And Scripture Cannot Be Broken,” 184–85. 15 See, e.g., Rom 15:12; Rev 5:5; 4QpIsaa 7–10 iii 11–25; Tg. Isa. 11:1. 16 So M. L. Rigato, “‘Sarà chiamato Nazoreo’ (Mt 2,23),” RStB 4, no. 1 (1992): 129–41, esp. 138–40. Rigato mentions in addition Pss 119; 25:10; 78:7; 105:45; Prov 28:7; Jer 1:5. 17 So G. H. Box, St. Matthew (Century Bible; New York: Frowde, 1922), 89; B. Lindars, New Testament Apologetic: The Doctrinal Significance of the Old Testament Quotations (London: SCM, 1961), 195–96; D. Hill, “Son and Servant: An Essay on Matthean Christology,” JSNT 6 (1980): 2–16, esp. 8; D. B. Taylor, “Jesus—of Nazareth?” ExpTim 92 (1981): 336–37. 18 So E. Zolli, “Nazarenus vocabitur,” ZNW 49 (1958): 135–36. 19 This was the final view of Jerome, in his Commentary on Isaiah, on Isa 11:1 (CCSL 73:147–48); in his Commentary on Matthew, on Matt 2:23 (CCSL 77:16), he defended the derivation from Isa 11:1 as one of the possibilities; see S. Lyonnet, “‘Quoniam Nazaraeus vocabitur’ (Mt 2,23): L’interprétation de S. Jérôme,” Bib 25 (1944): 196–206, esp. 197–200. Among modern scholars, see A. H. McNeile, The Gospel according to St. Matthew (London: Macmillan, 1915), 22; Schaeder, “Nazarhnov",” 883; Lyonnet, “‘Quoniam,’” 200–206; E. Schweizer, “‘Er wird Nazoräer heissen’: Zu Mc. 1,24; Mat. 2,23,” in Neotestamentica: Deutsche und Englische Aufsätze 1951–1963 (Zurich: Zwingli, 1963), 51–55 (orig. in Judentum–Urchristentum– Kirche [FS J. Jeremias; ed. W.

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In Judg 13:5, the angel announcing Samson’s birth to his mother says to her that no razor shall touch the boy’s head, “for the boy will be a Nazirite to God from the womb.” The MT has:

@fbhA@m r[nh hyhy !yhla ryznAyk LXX A offers this translation: o{ti hJgiasmevnon nazirai'on e[stai tw'/ qew'/ to; paidavrion ejk th'" gastrov" LXX B is somewhat different: o{ti nazir qeou' e[stai to; paidavrion ajpo; th'" koiliva" In the MT, the Hebrew clause just quoted is repeated verbatim in 13:7, when Samson’s mother tells her husband about the angelic appearance. This time, LXX A has: o{ti nazirai'on qeou' e[stai to; paidavrion ajpo; th'" gastrov" LXX B translates: o{ti a{gion qeou' e[stai to; paidavrion ajpo; gastrov" In Judg 16:17, Samson reveals to Delilah his personal secret. He tells her that no razor has ever come upon his head, “for I have been a Nazirite to God from the womb of my mother.” The MT reads:

yma @fbm yna !yhla ryznAyk LXX A translates this time: o{ti nazirai'o" qeou' ejgwv eijmi ejk koiliva" mhtrov" mou Eltester; BZNW 26; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1960], 90–93); Rembry, “‘Quoniam,’” 64–65; P. Bonnard, L’évangile selon saint Matthieu (CNT 1; Neuchâtel: Delachaux & Niestlé, 1963), 30; J. A. Sanders, “Nazwrai'o" in Matthew 2.23,” in The Gospels and the Scriptures of Israel, ed. Evans and Stegner, 116–28 (revised version of an article with the same title in JBL 84 [1965]: 169–72); Goulder, Midrash and Lection in Matthew, 240–41; R. N. Longenecker, Biblical Exegesis in the Apostolic Period (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1975), 134, 145–47; Zuckschwerdt, “Nazoµraîos”; Soares Prabhu, Formula Quotations, 205–7; Brown, Birth of the Messiah, 223–25; G. Allan, “He Shall Be Called— a Nazirite?” ExpTim 95 (1983): 81–82; W. Schenk, Die Sprache des Matthäus: Die Text-Konstituenten in ihren makro- und mikrostrukturellen Relationen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1987), 108; Davies and Allison, Saint Matthew 1, 276–77; N. Casalini, Libro dell’origine di Gesù Cristo: Analisi letteraria e teologica di Matt 1–2 (Studium Biblicum Franciscanum, Analecta 28; Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing, 1990), 107–8; K. Berger, “Jesus als Nasoräer/Nasiräer,” NovT 38 (1996): 323–35, esp. 330–31; J. Miler, Les citations d’accomplissement dans l’Évangile de Matthieu: Quand Dieu se rend présent en toute humanité (AnBib 140; Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1999), 71–74. For other literature, see Zuckschwerdt, “Nazoµraîos,” 69 n. 19.

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And LXX B has: o{ti a{gio" qeou' ejgwv eijmi ajpo; koiliva" mhtrov" mou The difference between nazirai'o" and Nazwrai'o" is no more than one vowel. Besides, the association of Nazirite with “holy” fits the application to Jesus (cf. Mark 1:24). Some commentators assume that by means of this association, the passages from Judges were brought into connection with Isa 4:3, where it is said that whoever is left over in Jerusalem “will be called holy,” in the MT: vwdq wl rmay; in the LXX: a{gioi klhqhvsontai. This connection would then explain the word klhqhvsetai in Matthew’s quotation.20 The plural “prophets” is often explained in this proposal as indicating the former prophets, to which the book of Judges belongs, and o{ti can belong to a quotation from one of the verses from Judges.21 4. Several exegetes, unable to find a convincing source for the quotation, have resorted to other solutions. The quotation would come from a lost source;22 Matthew would not have known the provenance of the quotation;23 or he would have created the “quotation” himself.24 He would have seen it as a retrospective summary of the quotations that preceded in 2:6, 15, 18,25 or as a prospective summary of the quotations that will follow in 4:15–16; 8:17; 12:18–21.26 The words o{ti Nazwrai'o" klhqhvsetai would have been meant not as a quotation but as an explanation or as a broad indication of contents: in the humble qualification “Nazorean” (cf. John 1:46), all prophecies about the humiliation of the Messiah (Isa 53, etc.) would have been fulfilled.27 According

20 So Rembry, “‘Quoniam,’” 64–65; Sanders, “Nazwrai'o",” 127; Brown, Birth of the Messiah, 223–25; Davies and Allison, Saint Matthew 1, 276–77; Miler, Citations d’accomplissement, 72–73. 21 See esp. Zuckschwerdt, “Nazoµraîos,” 68–71. 22 So A. Resch, Agrapha: Aussercanonische Schriftfragmente (2d ed.; TU 15.3–4; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1906; repr. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1974), 23, 382–83. 23 So Lindars, NT Apologetic, 196; F. W. Beare, The Gospel according to Matthew: A Commentary (Oxford: Blackwell, 1981), 84. 24 So G. Strecker, Der Weg der Gerechtigkeit: Untersuchung zur Theologie des Matthäus (FRLANT 82; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1962; 2d ed. 1966), 59–63. 25 So W. Rothfuchs, Die Erfüllungszitate des Matthäus-Evangeliums: Eine biblischtheologische Untersuchung (BWANT 88; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1969), 65–67. 26 So W. Grundmann, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus (THKNT 1; Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1968), 88–89. 27 So T. Zahn, Das Evangelium des Matthäus (3d ed.; Kommentar zum Neuen Testament 1; Leipzig: Deichert, 1910), 116–20; M.-J. Lagrange, Évangile selon saint Matthieu (EBib; Paris: Gabalda, 1923), 39; R. T. France, “The Formula-Quotations of Matthew 2 and the Problem of Communication,” NTS 27 (1981): 233–51, esp. 247– 49; T. Stramare, “Sarà chiamato Nazareno: Era stato detto dai Profeti,” BeO 36 (1994): 231–49. Other views (provenance from Gen 49:26;

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to a recent proposal, Nazwrai'o", deriving from the Hebrew root rzn, should mean something like “crowned one”; almost all OT passages that were read in a messianic sense (such as Num 24:17; 2 Sam 7:14), can then be the “source” of the quotation.28

IV. The Primary Source of the Quotation The proposals presented under (4) of the above list are typically solutions that stem from embarrassment. The introductory formula of Matt 2:23a strongly suggests that the evangelist intends to give a real OT quotation, so we have to look for the OT passage or combination of passages from which he quoted. The hypothesis that there is no real quotation here can only be an ultima ratio. In evaluating the other proposals, we should start from the presupposition that Matthew writes in Greek for a Greek-speaking audience, as is evident from, for example, the fact that he sometimes elucidates Hebrew or Aramaic words or sentences that his readers otherwise would not understand (1:23; 27:33, 46). It is quite possible that the evangelist’s audience knew about or had been instructed about the meaning of certain Hebrew or Aramaic terms, such as the name “Jesus” (1:21) or the title “Rabbi” (23:7, 8); such knowledge was probably widespread in Greek-speaking Jewish and Christian circles. The question is: Against the background of the presupposition that Matthew writes in Greek for a Greek-speaking audience, what to think of the first three views presented in the preceding section? In the views summarized under (1) and (2) in the preceding section, it is assumed that Nazwrai'o" is the Hebrew substantive rxn or a form of the verb rxn in transliterated and grecized form. Now there was, as far as I can see, no Jewish or early Christian tradition of not translating but transliterating (and giving a Greek ending to) the Hebrew substantive rxn or the verb rxn, and certainly not one in which the Hebrew x was rendered by a Greek z (x was normally transliterated by s). We must say, as a consequence, that it is not very probable that Matthew’s audience would have recognized in the word Nazwrai'o" a transliteration of rxn.29 Exod 34:6–7; Lev 21:12; Ps 31:24; Isa 42:6; Lam 4:7) are discussed in Gundry, Use of the OT, 98; Davies and Allison, Saint Matthew 1, 279–80. These, however, are completely improbable, because there is no clear connection between them and Matt 2:23, as regards either wording or content. 28 So J. C. O’Neill, “Jesus of Nazareth,” JTS 50 (1999): 135– 42. 29 We find the transliteration nazar in an anonymous Onomasticon published by P. de Lagarde (Onomastica sacra [Göttingen: Rente, 1870], 1:175, 183), in the context of interpretations of the name Nazareth as it occurs in the NT writings. That means that the transliteration is a postMatthean Christian product: the earliest attestations of the name Nazareth are found in the NT. In

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How about the view that the OT source of the quotation is to be found in the passages from Judges about Samson as a Nazirite? It was evidently common among Greek-speaking Jews before and during Matthew’s time to transliterate on occasion the Hebrew word ryzn, and also the related substantive rzn, “consecration, crown,” instead of translating them. We have already seen that LXX A renders ryzn with nazirai'o" in Judg 13:5, 7; 16:17; in the first of these three verses, it is also translated as hJgiasmevno", “sanctified.” LXX B has the transliteration nazir in Judg 13:3 and the translation a{gio" in the two other verses. Nazirai'o" is found for ryzn also in Lam 4:7 LXX. The word rzn in 2 Kgs 11:12 is transliterated as nezer in 4 Kgdms 11:12.30 In the other ancient Greek translations of the OT, we also find that ryzn and rzn are often not translated but transliterated. Aquila has nazirai'o" for ryzn in Amos 2:12. Symmachus has nazhrai'o" for ryzn in Num 6:18, 19, and nazirai'o" in Amos 2:12; he further transliterates rzn in Jer 7:29 as nazariovth". Theodotion has nazirai'o" for ryzn in Amos 2:12; he transliterates rzn in Lev 21:12 as nazer and in 2 Kgs 11:12 as nezer. In other early Greek translations, we find for ryzn nazarai'o" in Lev 25:5, and nazirai'o" in Lev 25:5, 11. The word nazirai'o", indicating persons who have made the Nazirite vow, is also used in 1 Macc 3:49, and by Josephus in Ant. 4.72; 19.294. So there was, at the time Matthew wrote his Gospel, an established tradition of not translating but transliterating the Hebrew word ryzn into Greek characters, mostly with a Greek ending as nazirai'o". Matthew could assume that his audience would recognize this word. He could also assume that they would notice that the difference between the words nazirai'o" and Nazwrai'o" is just one character. In any case, from a linguistic perspective, the view according to which our quotation comes from the Judges passages seems to be the preferable one. It also has the advantage of offering an explanation for the word o{ti, which, as we have seen, should probably be considered part of the quotation. The pertinent clauses from Judges all begin in Hebrew with causal yk and in the LXX with causal o{ti, both best translated into English as “for.” The third word of the quotation, klhqhvsetai, is then a replacement for e[stai or eijmiv. How did Matthew move from nazirai'o" to Nazwrai'o"? It may be that he simply assumed the equivalence of the two words,31 or read a Greek text of the Onomastica we meet both the interpretation of Nazareth and Nazorean as “shoot,” “flower” (cf. Isa 11:1) and as “holy,” “clean,” “set apart” (cf. Judg 13:5, 7; 16:17); see Jerome’s Liber interpretationis hebraicorum nominum in de Lagarde, Onomastica sacra, 62, 66, 70, and the anonymous Onomasticon just mentioned in ibid., 175, 177, 183, 195, 196, 203. 30 With variants ezer (A a.o.), iezer (B). 31 Early church fathers assume the equivalence, possibly under Matthew’s influence; see Tertullian, Adversus Marcionem 4.8.1 (CCSL 1:556); Origen, Commentary on Matthew, frg. 36 on Matt 2:23 (GCS 41:30).

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Judges that had nazwrai'o" instead of nazirai'o".32 Another, perhaps more probable explanation is that he felt legitimated to read nazirai'o" as Nazwrai'o" on the basis of an exegetical procedure in which it was permitted to change either the vocalization of the consonantal Hebrew text or its consonants themselves in order to arrive at another reading of the Hebrew text. In rabbinic literature, the usual formula for this procedure is: ∑ ∑ ∑ ala ∑ ∑ ∑ yrqt la, “do not read . . . but . . .”33 The LXX translators already used the procedure.34 In our case, the procedure was applied not to Hebrew but to Greek words; these are, however, transliterations of Hebrew or Aramaic words. One vowel was changed in order to arrive at the desired result.35 In any case, it is obvious that the step from Nazirite to Nazorean is more easily made on the basis of a Greek than a Hebrew OT text: the difference between nazirai'o" and nazwrai'o" is just one vowel, the difference between ryzn and yrxwn, the Hebrew gentilic belonging with Nazareth, is much more. This suggests that Matthew worked here as well on the basis of a Greek biblical text.36 By reading nazirai'o" as Nazwrai'o", it was possible for Matthew to find an OT passage in which someone was said to be an inhabitant of Nazareth. It will be clear that such a reading of the clauses from Judges is possible only by isolating them, to a certain extent at least, from their context. On the other hand, several features in the description of Samson constituted parallels to Matthew’s description of Jesus: a miraculous birth with an angel as intermedi32

See Berger, “Jesus als Nasoräer/Nasiräer,” 324–25. See W. Bacher, Die exegetische Terminologie der jüdischen Traditionsliteratur 1: Die bibelexegetische Terminologie der Tannaiten (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1899; repr. Hildesheim: Olms, 1990), 175–77. 34 See L. Prijs, Jüdische Tradition in der Septuaginta (Leiden: Brill, 1948; repr. Hildesheim: Olms, 1987), 35–61. See, e.g., Exod 12:17 LXX: th;n ejntolh;n tauvthn, “this commandment,” as a translation of t/Xm' read as t/x]mi, to be compared with the corresponding yrqt la-interpretation in Mek. Exod 12:17 (Pish\ a 9). 35 See L. Hartman, “Scriptural Exegesis in the Gospel of St. Matthew and the Problem of Communication,” in L’Évangile selon Matthieu: Rédaction et théologie (ed. M. Didier; BETL 29; Gembloux: Duculot, 1972), 131–52, esp. 149–50; Goulder, Midrash and Lection in Matthew, 240; Miler, Citations d’accomplissement, 72. According to Zuckschwerdt (“Nazoµ raîos,” 75), we have here “die gräzisierte Transskription einer rein hebräischen Ketib-Qere-Verbindung,” viz., of ryzn vocalized as v/dq;; this hypothesis seems unnecessarily complicated. 36 See my articles mentioned in n. 3 above, and also M. J. J. Menken, “The Quotations from Zech 9,9 in Mt 21,5 and in Jn 12,15,” in John and the Synoptics (ed. A. Denaux; BETL 101; Leuven: Leuven University Press/Peeters, 1992), 571–78, esp. 573–74; idem, “Isaiah and the ‘Hidden Things’: The Quotation from Psalm 78:2 in Matthew 13:35,” in The Use of Sacred Books in the Ancient World (ed. L. V. Rutgers et al.; CBET 22; Leuven: Peeters, 1998), 61–77; idem, “The Quotation from Isaiah 42:1–4 in Matthew 12:18–21: Its Textual Form,” ETL 75 (1999): 32–52; idem, “The Greek Translation of Hosea 11:1 in Matthew 2:15: Matthean or pre-Matthean?” Filología Neotestamentaria 12 (1999): 79–88; idem, “The Textual Form of the Quotation from Isaiah 7:14 in Matthew 1:23,” NovT 43 (2001): 144–60. 33

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ary (Judg 13:1–24; Matt 1:18–25), the presence of the Spirit of God (Judg 13:25; 14:6, 19; 15:14; Matt 3:11, 16; 4:1; 12:18, 28), and dedication to God (Judg 13:5, 7; 16:17; Matt 2:15; 3:17, etc.). Especially striking is the parallel between Judg 13:5 and Matt 1:21. In both passages, the angel announcing the birth of the hero gives a description of his future task. About Samson, the angel says: “And he will begin to save Israel from the hand of the Philistines” (LXX A: kai; aujto;" a[rxetai swv/zein to;n Israhl ejk ceiro;" ajllofuvlwn; LXX B: kai; aujto;" a[rxetai tou' sw'sai to;n Israhl ejk ceiro;" Fulistiim). About Jesus, the angel says: “For he will save his people from their sins” (aujto;" ga;r swvsei to;n lao;n aujtou' ajpo; tw'n aJmartiw'n aujtw'n). The fact that Jesus actually was not a Nazirite (see esp. Matt 11:19//Luke 7:34) does not speak against the provenance of the quotation in Matt 2:23 from the Judges passages. Typology always works with only a selection of traits of an OT figure that is seen as prefiguring Jesus.37

V. The Secondary Source of the Quotation The provenance of two of the three words of the quotation (o{ti Nazwrai'o") has now been elucidated. What about klhqhvsetai, the third word? In what way can this replacement have been legitimated? Is there perhaps another biblical passage, related to the Judges passages, that gave legitimacy to the change? It is known that analogy of scriptural passages was a hermeneutical tool in early Judaism and early Christianity. Passages were considered to be analogous if they had at least one word in common and preferably also had a similar content. Analogous scriptural passages could then be connected, not only in explaining but also in rendering them: part of the one could replace part of the other.38 We have seen above that it is sometimes assumed that Isa 4:3 is the passage that explains the presence of klhqhvsetai in Matthew’s quotation: the remnant of Israel “will be called holy.” Can this verse be considered analogous to the verses from Judges? On the level of contents, there is not much similarity, except in the general theme of holiness. On the level of wording, there is agreement in the use of a{gio" between Isa 4:3 LXX and Judg 13:7; 16:17 LXX B; LXX A has in Judg 13:5 hJgiasmevnon nazirai'on, which also yields analogy. 37 For Samson’s activity as compared and contrasted with God’s eschatological salvation in Jewish tradition, see the explanation of Gen 49:16–18 in Tg. Pseudo-Jonathan, Tg. Neofiti I (also in the marginal gloss), Fragmentary Tg., Tos. Tg.; also Gen. Rab. 98.14. 38 See M. J. J. Menken, Old Testament Quotations in the Fourth Gospel: Studies in Textual Form (CBET 15; Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1996), 52–53 (with the literature mentioned there), 83–84, 88–89, 94–95, 117–18, 131–36, 159–60, 195, 197.

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$Agio" is a standard translation of vwdq, so that any translator would very probably use the word in Isa 4:3. In the verses from Judges, however, the situation is different. The Hebrew word used is ryzn, so there is no verbal analogy with Isa 4:3 in the Hebrew text. The two versions of the LXX have either nazir(ai'o") or a{gio"; only in Judg 13:5 LXX A do we find both translation and transliteration. This means that there is in Greek a verbal analogy between the Judges passages and Isa 4:3, but in such a way that if the analogy works, the word that is vital for Matthew’s quotation (nazir[ai'o"]) disappears. We would then have to guess that Matthew knew one or more of the verses from Judges with both the translation a{gio" (or something like it) and a transliteration, as we find it in Judg 13:5 LXX A. Such a guess, however, would be a bit reckless. To my mind, another, simpler explanation for the word klhqhvsetai in the quotation is possible. In Judg 13:5, 7, the angel announces Samson’s birth to his mother with the words: @b tdlyw hrh ^nh, “Behold, you will be pregnant and will give birth to a son.” The LXX has: ijdou; su; ejn gastri; e{xei" (A)/e[cei" (B) kai; tevxh/ uiJovn, “Behold, you will be (A)/are pregnant (B) and will give birth to a son.” Now we find very similar words in Isa 7:14: @b tdlyw hrh hml[h hnh, “Behold, the young woman is pregnant and will give birth to a son.” The LXX has here: ijdou; hJ parqevno" ejn gastri; e{xei kai; tevxetai uiJovn, “Behold, the virgin will be pregnant and will give birth to a son.” Both Judg 13:5, 7 and Isa 7:14 are announcements to a woman of pregnancy and birth (see already Judg 13:3). The Judges passages on the one side and Isa 7:14 on the other are evidently analogous. The analogy is reinforced by other agreements: the child to be born is called a “boy” (r[n, paidavrion/paidivon, Judg 13:5, 7; Isa 7:16), and the reader is informed about what the mother or the boy will not or will “eat” (lka, fagei'n, Judg 13:4, 7; Isa 7:15).39 In Isa 7:14, the words that were quoted above are followed by: wmv tarqw la wnm[, “and you will call his name God-with-us,” in the LXX: kai; kalevsei" to; o[noma aujtou' Emmanouhl, “and you will call his name Emmanuel.” There is no need here to go into the textual problems concerning tar:q;w“ of the MT40 and kai; kalevsei" of the LXX. The important thing is that the Hebrew text has the verb arq and that all known Greek translations (LXX, Aquila, Symmachus, Theodotion, as well as the quotation from Isa 7:14 in Matt 1:23) use kalei'n; it is in fact in this case almost the only possible translation of arq. The presence

39 In Ps.-Philo, L.A.B. 43.1, Samson’s birth is told, and it is said then about him: “and the Lord was with him.” One might be tempted to interpret these words as an allusion to Isa 7:14, but they are better considered as reflecting Gen 21:20; 39:2, 21, etc.; see H. Jacobson, A Commentary on Pseudo-Philo’s Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum, with Latin Text and English Translation (AGJU 31; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 993. 40 For the above translation, see L. Dequeker, “Isaïe vii 14: la wnm[ wmv tarqw,” VT 12 (1962): 331–35.

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of arq /kalei'n in Isa 7:14 legitimated its introduction in Judg 13:5, 7 as a replacement of hyhy/e[stai; as a replacement, it naturally had to take the form of a third pers. sg. fut. pass. One could try to explain Matthew’s klhqhvsetai in other ways. It may come from a later point in the story of Judg 13. Samson’s actual birth is narrated with the words: “And the woman gave birth to a son, and called his name Samson” (13:24). The verbal links with the beginning of the story are immediately evident, and here we meet the verb arq/kalei'n. Another OT passage that is very similar to the announcement of Judg 13:5, 7 and that contains the verb arq/kalei'n, is Gen 16:11. Here an angel of the Lord addresses Hagar, just as an angel addresses Samson’s mother. The angel says to Hagar: “Behold, you are pregnant, and you will bear a son and call his name Ishmael.” In MT and LXX B, this clause is even completely identical to the parallel clause in Judges.41 It is clear that Judg 13:24 or Gen 16:11 can also be the analogous text that explains klhqhvsetai in our quotation. In my view, nevertheless, Isa 7:14 should be preferred. We have already observed (in section II) that at the level of Matthew’s redaction, klhqhvsetai is a suitable replacement for e[stai in Judg 13:5, 7: it expresses the fact that Jesus will be known and will be addressed as a Nazorean. In the verses from Judges, considered in themselves, there is no need to change e[stai into klhqhvsetai. On the contrary: Samson will be a Nazirite, but will precisely not be known to be one (see Judg 16:4–31). So the change of verb makes sense not in Judges but in Matthew; that means that it should be attributed to the evangelist. Now the evangelist is clearly interested in Isa 7:14 as a prophetic announcement of the birth of Jesus: he quotes from it in the fulfillment quotation in 1:23. That makes it probable that klhqhvsetai has to be explained on the basis of Isa 7:14. Moreover, Matthew apparently considers Emmanuel not the actual name of the boy (that is Jesus) but an indication of his significance. Likewise, “Nazirite” in the Judges passages is not the name of the boy (that is Samson) but an indication of his dignity. From this point of view, there is greater parallelism between Judg 13:5, 7 and Isa 7:14 than between these verses from Judges and Gen 16:11 or Judg 13:24, where simple naming is the issue. So Matthew is responsible for the change in the quotation, and it is very probable that the verb kalei'n comes from Isa 7:14.42 By the change, Matthew

41 In the MT, the identity even concerns the strange verbal form T]d“l'yOw“, a lectio mixta of a participle and an inverted perfect, see P. Joüon and T. Muraoka, A Grammar of Biblical Hebrew (SubBi 14; Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1991), §89j. In Ps.-Philo, L.A.B. 42.4, Judg 13:5 has been adapted as far as possible to Gen 16:11: Et ecce concipies et paries filium, et vocabis nomen eius Samson. 42 According to Goulder (Midrash and Lection in Matthew, 240) and Gundry (Matthew, 39),

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achieves the effect that according to the first fulfillment quotation in the infancy narrative Jesus will be called Emmanuel, and according to the last one he will be called a Nazorean. It may well be that from Matthew’s point of view, it was very fitting to connect precisely these OT passages. From his perspective, Isa 7:14 was a prophetic prediction of Jesus’ being conceived without the intervention of a human father (see Matt 1:18–25). The story of Samson’s birth in Judg 13, “in contrast to all other such wonder-birth stories in the First Testament suggests the possibility of divine conception without the benefit of an earthly father.”43 It seems that in the quotation in 2:23, Matthew combined what he saw as OT announcements of the miraculous birth of Jesus. This means that we should drop Judg 16:17 as one of the possible main sources of the quotation; it has to come from the all-but-identical verses Judg 13:5, 7, part of the birth narrative of Samson.

VI. The Introductory Formula What remains to be discussed are the idiosyncrasies that the introductory formula in Matt 2:23 displays in comparison with the introductions of the other fulfillment quotations. We have established that the word o{ti is part of the quotation itself, so it does not belong to these idiosyncrasies; the plural tw' n profhtw'n and the absence of a participle of levgein, however, ask for an explanation. One could be inclined to think that the plural has been caused by the dual provenance of the quotation: the main source is Judg 13:5, 7, from the former prophets, the secondary source is Isa 7:14, from the latter prophets. The difficulty with this explanation is that there are other fulfillment quotations with a dual source that have simply “the prophet” in the singular in the introduction. A good example is the quotation in Matt 21:5. The evangelist has substituted a line from Isa 62:11 for the first words of Zech 9:9a,44 but the introduction speaks of “the prophet.” Matthew regularly uses the plural “the prophets” in combination with “the law,” to indicate the second division of the Hebrew Scriptures (5:17; 7:12; 11:13; 22:40). Should we explain the plural in 2:23 as referring to the corpus of prophetic writings, of which also the book of Judges was part? It seems that in the verb kalei'n here is a Mattheanism. That may be true to a certain extent, but Matthew presents the verb as part of the quotation, and thus it has to be explained as such. 43 Sanders, “Nazwrai' o ",” 126. Sanders also points to the parallel roles of Joseph and Manoah. 44 See Menken, “Quotations from Zech 9,9 in Mt 21,5 and in Jn 12,15,” 571–73.

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Matthew’s time, no individual authors were distinguished for the books known as the former prophets. Josephus remarks that the history of his forefathers was written by “the chief priests and the prophets” (Ag. Ap. 1.29); by the latter category, he seems to understand the authors of the historical books of the OT. Elsewhere, he asserts that “the prophets” wrote “the most remote and ancient things” under divine inspiration, and that they also wrote the events of their own time (Ag. Ap. 1.37; see also J.W. 1.18). In Ag. Ap. 1.39–41 (cf. Ant. 10.35), he divides the twenty-two holy books of his people into three categories: five books of Moses, thirteen prophetic books, and four books with hymns and precepts for human conduct.45 The second category must in any case include the former and the latter prophets. Josephus remarks about it: “From the death of Moses until Artaxerxes, who was king of the Persians after Xerxes, the prophets subsequent to Moses have written the events of their own times in thirteen books” (1.40). We find a similar division with a similar general remark about “the prophets” in 4QMMTd 14–21, line 10 (“the books of the prophets”). It is only later that the books of the former prophets are ascribed to individual authors (see the baraita in b. B. Bat. 14b: Samuel wrote 1 and 2 Samuel, Judges, and Ruth). If Matthew wished to quote from Judg 13:5, 7, that is, from the former prophets, it was only natural for him to write “by the prophets,” in the plural. It was also natural for him to omit the participle legovntwn, “when they said”: the prophets meant by him did not utter oracles, as the latter prophets did, but they wrote history. All other fulfillment quotations come from the latter prophets, and therefore have a participle of levgein; this one comes from the former prophets, and therefore lacks such a participle. On the other hand, to; rJhqevn, “what was said,” can remain, because in both Judges and Matthew God is the real speaker of the words of the quotation. The main source of the quotation is the direct speech of the angel of the Lord in Judg 13:5, 7, and the real speaking subject in Matthew’s formula quotations is God himself (see uJpo; kurivou, “by the Lord,” in the introductory formulae in 1:22 and 2:15).

VII. Conclusion The fulfillment quotation in Matt 2:23 comprises the words o{ti Nazwrai'o" klhqhvsetai. Matthew considered it a prophetic announcement of Jesus’ being known and addressed as a Nazorean, somebody from Nazareth. The pri-

45 It is not completely clear how exactly Josephus is counting here; see E. E. Ellis, The Old Testament in Early Christianity: Canon and Interpretation in the Light of Modern Research (WUNT 54; Tübingen: Mohr, 1991), 7 n. 25.

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mary source of the quotation is Judg 13:5, 7. It seems that the evangelist used a Greek text of these verses with the word nazirai'o", which he read, in agreement with an accepted exegetical device, as Nazwrai'o". Apparently, he saw some parallels between Samson and Jesus. The replacement of e[ s tai by klhqhvsetai suited the Matthean context and was legitimated by Isa 7:14, a passage analogous with the verses from Judges. The peculiar traits of the introductory formula in Matt 2:23 are explained by the assumption that “the prophets” indicates the corpus of the former prophets. The notorious quotation in Matt 2:23 is a very brief one, it is the only one of Matthew’s fulfillment quotations to come from the former prophets, and it has been composed with the help of an analogous verse. These circumstances together have made it a problem of its own. By means of the above analysis, I have tried to show that it is a real quotation after all.46 46

I am grateful to Dr. J. M. Court for checking my English.

JBL 120/3 (2001) 469–485

A CELEBRATION OF THE ENTHRONED SON: THE CATENA OF HEBREWS 1

KENNETH L. SCHENCK [email protected] Indiana Wesleyan University, Marion, IN 46953

I. Introduction The Epistle to the Hebrews is well known for its pervasive contrasts and antitheses. Most of these fit neatly into the author’s systematic contrast of the “old” covenant with the new one mediated through Christ. Chapters 9 and 10, for example, contrast the earthly tabernacle and its sacrifices with the decisive “sacrifice” of Christ. Chapters 5 and 7 demonstrate the superiority of Christ’s priesthood to that of levitical priests, while ch. 3 shows that Christ is greater than Moses, the giver of the law.1 Even in 2:1–4 a qal wahomer argument functions on the basis of a contrast between Christ as the voice of God’s most recent revelation and the angels as speakers of a previous “word” (see 1:2).2 This angelic word is of course the law, a fact that demonstrates that the author can also situate angels within his thematic contrast of the two covenants.3 Nevertheless, many scholars do not relate the contrast between Christ and the angels in ch. 1 to this broader contrast of the epistle.4 Loren Stuckenbruck,

1 As Susanne Lehne and others have noted, most of Hebrews’ argument virtually equates the law with the levitical cultus (The New Covenant in Hebrews [JSNTSup 44; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990], 23, 93–94; Mary Rose D’Angelo, Moses in the Letter to the Hebrews (SBLDS 42; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1979], 243–46). 2 Imagery of speaking pervades the epistle. 3 I use the masculine pronoun in reference to the author of Hebrews in light of the masculine participle the author uses of himself in Heb 11:32. 4 E.g., David M. Hay, Glory at the Right Hand: Psalm 110:1 in Early Christianity (SBLMS 18; Nashville: Abingdon, 1973), 38–39; Ernst Käsemann, The Wandering People of God: An Investigation of the Letter to the Hebrews (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1984; orig. 1957), 170–71; Gerd Theissen, Untersuchungen zum Hebräerbrief (SNTSU 2; Gütersloh: Mohn, 1969), 34–37; Loren T.

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for example, has noted that there is a certain “logical distance” between the argument of ch. 1, which contrasts Christ with the angels, and the parenesis of 2:1–4, which contrasts the revelations delivered through Christ and the angels.5 Chapter 2 does allude twice to the catena of the preceding chapter (2:5, 16), but these allusions have often seemed superficial at best.6 Beyond ch. 2, angels play no explicit role in the author’s contrast of the two covenants.7 Finally, many scholars would argue that the temporal perspective of the catena does not correspond to the author’s contrast of the two covenants. The contrast between the two covenants focuses on the transition brought about by the death of Christ and his entrance into the heavenly tabernacle. Hebrews 1:5–14, on the other hand, is often thought to contrast not only the exalted Christ with the angels (1:13)—the temporal perspective of the two-covenant contrast—but also the preexistent (1:10) and earthly Christ (1:6). If this is the case, the timing of the catena does not correspond to that of the subsequent argument regarding the two covenants. Given the apparent detachment of Heb 1:5–14 from the remainder of the epistle, a number of hypotheses have arisen to account for its presence in ch. 1. Several scholars, for example, have argued that the catena is a traditional testimonium that has been edited and inserted into the epistle.8 Some explain it on the basis of angel worship among the recipients or an angel Christology.9 Perhaps the recipients believe angels to provide atonement in a heavenly tabernaStuckenbruck, Angel Veneration and Christology: A Study in Early Judaism and in the Christology of the Apocalypse of John (WUNT 70; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1995), 127–28; F. C. Synge, Hebrews and the Scriptures (London: SPCK, 1959), 3–6, 53–54, to name a few. 5 Stuckenbruck, Veneration, 127–28. 6 Harold Attridge, The Epistle to the Hebrews (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1989), 50–51. 7 Further, the reference to angels in 12:22 seems to situate them on the heavenly side of the contrast. 8 Most of those mentioned in n. 4 would be sympathetic to this reading. 9 Angel worship: Hans Windisch, Der Hebräerbrief (HNT 14; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1931), 17; Jean Héring, L’Epître aux Hébreux (CNT 12; Paris: Delachaux & Niestlé, 1954), 24; Yigael Yadin, “The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Epistle to the Hebrews,” in Aspects of the Dead Sea Scrolls (ed. C. Rabin; ScrHier 4; Jerusalem: Hebrew University Press, 1965; orig. 1958), 39– 40; Ronald Williamson, Philo and the Epistle to the Hebrews (ALGHJ 4; Leiden: Brill, 1970), 194; F. F. Bruce, The Epistle to the Hebrews (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1964), 9. Angel Christology: J. R. Harris, Josephus and his Testimony (Cambridge: Heffer, 1931), 18; Martin Werner, Die Entstehung des christlichen Dogmas (Bern: Haupt, 1941), 344– 45; Hugh W. Montefiore, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews (London: Harper & Black, 1964), 35, 40–47; Otto Michel, Der Brief an die Hebräer (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1966), 131–32; L. K. K. Dey, The Intermediary World and Patterns of Perfection in Philo and Hebrews (SBLDS 25; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975), 145– 49; J. D. G. Dunn, Unity and Diversity in the New Testament (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1977), 260–61; and in a very general way, Stuckenbruck, Veneration, 139.

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cle along the lines of 4QShirShabba 1 I, 8, 10, 16; T. Levi 3:5; and Philo, Spec. 1.66. All of these proposals would provide a rationale for the catena’s existence, but they are suggestions at best. Hebrews makes no explicit arguments along such lines.10 It was G. B. Caird, however, who first suggested that the argument of ch. 1 is best understood when it is read in light of the author’s use of Ps 8 in ch. 2.11 Although Christ was made lower than the angels “for a little while,” he is now crowned with glory and honor at the right hand of God (2:7, 9). The contrast between Christ and the angels in ch. 1, therefore, should be read in terms of Christ’s exaltation, he now having become greater than the angels (1:4). Lincoln Hurst has attempted to flesh out Caird’s suggestion by interpreting each of the OT citations in ch. 1 from an eschatological perspective.12 Reading each quotation in the light of Christ’s exaltation, Hurst attempted to substantiate Caird’s basic thesis. Both of these studies are moving in the right direction, although neither exhausts the full significance of the contrast.13 Further, while both correctly read the catena from an eschatological perspective, they do not fully address the rhetorical significance of the passage for the author’s overall argument. In the following pages, I would like to offer a fuller perspective on the relationship between ch. 1 and the remainder of the epistle’s argument. I will do this not only by showing that Caird and Hurst were correct to read the catena in the light of Christ’s exaltation but also by probing the meaning of this event within the broader matrix of Hebrews’ thought and rhetoric. I will argue that ch. 1 paints a picture of Christ’s cosmic enthronement as royal Son with the angels offering obeisance to their king.14 Such a hymnic celebration, while not incorporated extensively into the subsequent discourse, is nevertheless highly appropriate in the way it subtly announces the accomplishment of salvation and thus sets the mood for the argument proper.15 Further, the author did not need

10

One might argue, however, that Heb 2:16 is an explicit polemic against an angel Christol-

ogy. 11

G. B. Caird, “The Exegetical Method of the Epistle to the Hebrews,” CJT 5 (1959): 49. Lincoln Hurst, “The Christology of Heb 1 and 2,” in Glory at the Right Hand: Studies in Honor of George Bradford Caird (Oxford: Clarendon, 1987), 149–64. 13 William L. Lane’s commentary (Hebrews 1–8 [Dallas: Word, 1991]) makes several exegetical decisions that are similar to those of Caird, Hurst, and myself, yet neither does he plumb the depth of the rhetorical connection the catena has with the epistle’s broader thought. 14 So also William R. G. Loader, Sohn und Hohepriester: Eine traditionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zur Christologie des Hebräerbriefes (WMANT 53; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1981), 25; Bertold Klappert, Die Eschatologie des Hebräerbriefs (Munich: Kaiser, 1969), 22–23, and others. 15 Hebrews sends mixed signals regarding its rhetorical structure. On the one hand, 2:17–18 look somewhat like a propositio, with 3:1 starting the argument proper (see Walter G. Übelacker, 12

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to belabor the implications of a contrast between Christ and the angels, since the connection would have been obvious to the original audience. Not only was the association of angels with the law deeply ingrained in their worldview, but the mediatorial role the author ascribed to Christ in and of itself begged the question of his place vis-à-vis the angels. Finally, the relationship between the metaphor of enthronement and the worship of Christ may provide important clues to the origins of the worship of Jesus.

II. The Exaltation Context of Hebrews 1:5–14 It would not be too controversial to claim that at least the first and last citations in the catena are focused on the exalted Christ.16 In the case of Heb 1:13, which quotes Ps 110:1, there is no doubt about its reference to Christ’s exaltation. After all, this is the most important exaltation text used in the whole of the NT.17 The case is similarly strong for the use of Ps 2:7 in v. 5. Not only does the tradition history of the verse point to the exaltation (cf. Acts 13:33), but the immediate context suggests the same. The preceding verses (1:3– 4) indicate that Christ sat at the right hand of God, “having come to be as much greater than the angels as the name he has inherited is greater than theirs.” The most obvious reading of this sequence is that Christ’s session at God’s right hand is the point at which he is enthroned with the royal title of “Son,” thus inheriting at that point a more excellent name than the one the angels possess.18 As Caird and Hurst have suggested, this interpretation makes good sense in the light of Ps 8, which is quoted in the second chapter of the epistle. According to Hebrews’ reading of this psalm, humanity was intended to have glory and honor in the created realm, a glory humanity fell short of as a result of Der Hebräerbrief als Appel: Untersuchungen zu exordium, narratio, und postscriptum (Hebr 1–2 und 13,22–25) (ConBNT 21; Lund: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1989). On the other hand, 4:14 makes a clear transition to the topic of Christ’s high priesthood after a series of expositional sections relating to his Sonship (see the transition of 5:5 and 6). To complicate matters further, the author frequently interrupts a somewhat continuous train of thought in his exposition with exhortations that maintain the audience’s attention (see George H. Guthrie, The Structure of Hebrews: A Text-Linguistic Analysis [SNTSU 73; Leiden: Brill, 1994], 112–26). In short, it is very difficult to capture the sophisticated nature of Hebrews’ rhetorical structure in a straightforward outline. 16 John Meier, for example, who believes the catena to be arranged chiastically, argues that the catena starts and ends with the exalted Christ (“Structure and Theology in the Old Testament Citations in Heb. 1:5-14,” Bib 66 [1985]: 504–33). See n. 21 below. He believes that the remainder of the catena treats other points of Christ’s existence as well. 17 For a treatment of Ps 110 in the NT, see Hay, Glory. 18 For a more in-depth defense of this understanding of 1:5, see my article “Keeping His Appointment: Creation and Enthronement in Hebrews,” JSNT 66 (1997): 91–117.

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sin and death.19 Christ thus partook of flesh and blood to “troubleshoot” the human problem (2:14). He becomes lower than the angels for a little while, tastes death as humans do—yet without sinning (4:15). Thus, while they failed to attain their intended glory and honor, Christ succeeds, finally making it possible for his “brothers” to attain glory as well (2:10). To say that Christ has been exalted to God’s right hand is thus to signal the accomplishment of salvation. In this light, the catena of Hebrews 1 should be read as a hymnic celebration of the accomplishment of salvation—a fitting introduction to a sermon whose main teaching point is the definitive atonement provided through Christ.20 This celebration is presented poetically in the form of a contrast between the now exalted Christ and the angels whose status previously was higher than his “for a little while.” Now he holds the exalted status of “Lord,” king over the creation in fulfillment of Ps 8, a realm in which the angels function as mere servants. Christ, on the other hand, is the enthroned Son of God. When the remaining citations of ch. 1 are read carefully in this light, we see that their contrast does indeed take place along these very lines. Hebrews 1:7–12 Verse 7, for example, is in a mevn–dev construction with vv. 8–12.21 This fact alone helps to hone in on the points of contact the author found most significant in these three citations. As we would have expected, there are two princi-

19 While some scholars have denied any anthropological reference in the author’s use of this psalm (e.g., Käsemann, Wandering, 124–28), the context clearly connects Christ’s attainment of glory with a glory intended for humanity in general. A proper understanding of Hebrews’ argument requires us to read the psalm first in reference to humankind and only secondarily in reference to Christ. See Kenneth Schenck, “The Settings of the Sacrifice: Eschatology and Cosmology in the Epistle to the Hebrews” (Ph.D. diss., University of Durham, 1996), 86–92. For a more elementary discussion, see my forthcoming book The Thought World of Hebrews (Louisville: Westminster John Knox), ch. 3. 20 That the definitive accomplishment of salvation is the main point of Hebrews’ exposition is indicated by 8:1, which notes that the chief point of the author’s rhetoric is the superiority of Christ’s high priesthood, a priesthood whose essential implication is the final atonement of humanity’s sins (2:17). 21 The observation that v. 7 is in a mevn–dev construction, as well as our later observation that the first three citations are connected by way of their filial language, presents a significant objection to the frequent claim that the catena is arranged chiastically (e.g., Meier, “Symmetry”; Martin Rissi, Der Theologie des Hebräerbriefs [WUNT 41; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck], 1987], 49–50; Übelacker, Apell, 142; and others). Some who have at least recognized the mevn–dev construction include Herbert W. Bateman IV, Early Jewish Hermeneutics and Hebrews 1:5–13: The Impact of Early Jewish Exegesis on the Interpretation of a Significant New Testament Passage (New York: Peter Lang, 1997), 225–27 (he limits it to vv. 7–8); James Thompson, The Beginnings of Christian Philosophy (CBQMS 13; Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association, 1982), 135; and Übelacker, Apell, 141 (also limits the contruction to vv. 7–8).

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pal points of contact: (1) the servant status of the angels in contrast to Christ’s royal status, and (2) the association of the angels’ servant role with the created realm, while Christ is Lord of the creation. In v. 7 the angels are said to be ministers whom God uses as winds and flames.22 Some have taken such imagery as an indication of Middle Platonism in the epistle, as if the main point of the contrast were the metaphysical inferiority of the angels to Christ and their transitory nature.23 Indeed, there probably is a metaphysical element to the contrast. Yet one does not have to delve into the background debate to know what the author primarily wishes us to gather from the verse. Verse 14 recapitulates the author’s understanding of the role of angels in the first covenant: they are “ministering spirits sent to serve those about to inherit salvation.” Verse 14’s repetition of the leitourg- root in conjunction with the word spirit shows that the focal point of the author’s understanding of v. 7 is the servant role in which God uses angels to minister to his people on earth as they await salvation. It thus clearly places angels as servants of the old covenant, servants to humans on earth awaiting salvation. The author’s covenantal contrast peeks through, showing that it was in his mind throughout the whole catena. If the angels are servants of God who minister to God’s people in the created realm, then the citations in vv. 8–12 highlight Christ’s royalty, on the one hand, and his lordship over the creation, on the other. Psalm 45, quoted in vv. 8–9, is a royal psalm. Its language of anointing and the exaltation of a king above his companions not only echoes the royal title of “Christ” but also foreshadows the imagery of Jesus and his brothers in 2:11–18.24 It is language of enthronement. As Hurst has cautioned, we should not be misled by the later controversies of the church into thinking that referring to Christ as “God” here is anything like a trinitarian statement.25 There are in fact two levels on which the word God is used in the citation: (1) the Son of God, who is Christ, the Anointed One, and (2) the God whom the enthroned king serves—Yahweh (1:9). When is Christ enthroned as cosmic king? He receives the title “Christ,” “Anointed One,” most meaningfully at the same time that he receives the royal title “Son of God”—when he is seated at the right hand of God in fulfillment of Ps 8 (cf. Rom 1:3 and Acts 2:34–35).26 22 The word “winds” could equally be translated as “spirits,” between which the distinction is far greater in our world than it was in the first century C.E. 23 E.g., Thompson, Beginnings, 133. 24 When viewed in isolation, one might rather take the angels to be the “companions” here. In the broader context of ch. 2, however, Christ’s brothers seem a more appropriate choice (cf. 2:16). 25 Hurst, “Christology” 155. 26 For further justification of this temporal focus, see James D. G. Dunn’s, Christology in the

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The author’s understanding of Ps 102 in vv. 10–12 must similarly be read in terms of a contrast with v. 7. Since the author relates the servant role of angels in the catena to God’s people in the created realm (1:7, 14), the main point of contact in vv. 10–12 would seem to be Christ’s lordship over the creation—we would suggest in fulfillment of Ps 8. The imagery of winds and flames in v. 7, for example, echoes various events in the history of Israel where angels ministered to God’s people in such forms, such as in the burning bush or the form of fire in the wilderness (cf. 12:18).27 Such mediations by the angels took place within the created realm by way of forms that were part and parcel of the created realm, like winds and flames. Christ’s enthronement, on the other hand, takes place beyond the created realm in the unshakable heaven where God dwells (cf. 12:25–29). Not only is he enthroned as cosmic Lord with a higher status than the angels have previously held in the created realm, but they are now included among those who must bow in obeisance to him (1:6). Further, the role of angels as ministers to those awaiting salvation will come to an end when salvation arrives—God’s people will no longer need their service. In fact, humanity’s status will then also exceed that of the angels. Christ will have led them to the glory originally intended for them (2:10; cf. Rom 3:23). Similarly, the created realm will be removed at the time of judgment (12:27), and the angels’ dominance over this realm will reach ultimate finality.28 The emphasis of the citation is thus the permanence of Christ’s lordship over the creation in contrast to its passing existence and the passing function of the angels in it.29 While the created heavens and earth will become old and

Making: An Inquiry into the Origins of the Doctrine of the Incarnation (2d ed.; London: SCM, 1989), 33–36, 107–13, as well as my own “Appointment.” As my article argues, placing the locus of sonship language at the point of Christ’s enthronement does not preclude the possibility that Hebrews also refers to Christ as Son before that point in time. The ancient sense of destiny, as well as the flexibility built into the phrase “son of God,” would have made it appropriate to refer to the earthly Jesus as “Son” even before his enthronement proper—particularly as it became increasingly difficult not to think of Christ apart from his possession of such titles. 27 The angel of the LORD in Exod 3:2, for example, appears to Moses as a flame of fire (see also Philo, Mos. 1.66). In fact, the phrase flogi; purov" in the LXX of Exod 3:2 comes closer to the way Hebrews cites Ps 104 than the Greek of the psalm itself. Perhaps the author had this text in mind. If so, does this substantiate the idea that the catena is a polemic against an angel Christology? In Mos. 1.166 Philo suggests that the pillar of flame that led the Israelites might also have been an angel, “one of the lieutenants of the great king.” Cf. also Jub. 2:2 and 1 Kgs 19:12. Clearly, many Second Temple Jews saw flame as one form in which angels served as emissaries from God to humanity. 28 “Today” is an in-between category for the author. The transference of lordship is in a sense already accomplished, yet there are still those awaiting salvation in the earthly realm. The tension between these two facts leaves the current status of angelic service somewhat ambiguous. 29 There are also connotations of permanence in the author’s use of Ps 45 in v. 8: “Your

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eventually will be “rolled up as a garment” (1:12), Christ’s years will never come to an end. The contrast between the two covenants is once again close at hand, for the epistle consistently relates the earthly to the old covenant, while the new covenant is associated with the heaven where God’s throne is (e.g., 4:14; 7:26–27; 8:4; 9:1, 11, 24; 11:13–16; 12:18–29; 13:11–13).30 Chapter 1 thus indicates the “passing of the guard” from the angels who have served God in this realm, to the Christ who will rule long after this realm has passed away. As with the previous citation, we must be careful to read this one also in context—one cannot assume that all the salient points of a quotation are meant to be extracted from another author’s use of it. For example, the focal point of 1:10–12 is not that Christ was the agent of creation. In fact, there are good reasons to think that the author only considered Christ to be the creator of the world in a figurative way—as the embodiment of God’s creative wisdom.31 Indeed, we should remember that the tradition history of the christological title “Lord” conferred this designation on Jesus principally as he was exalted to God’s right hand, just as is true of the titles “Son of God” and “Christ” (see Acts 2:34–36; Rom 10:9; Phil 2:9–11; etc.).32 The tradition history of all three christological titles alluded to in the catena places the locus of their meaning at the point of Christ’s exaltation. It is not surprising that the author immediately follows the citation of Ps 102 with a quotation of Ps 110:1, a verse spoken to a “Lord” who is distinct from the LORD, just as two “Gods” are distinguishable in

throne, O God, is forever and ever . . .” Note that the permanence and definitiveness of Christ’s work is a recurring motif in the epistle; see, e.g., 7:25, 28; 9:25–26; 10:11–12; etc. 30 Not to be confused with the created heavens that will be rolled up in 1:10–12. The distinction between the created heavens and the heaven where God dwells reminds us of Stoic and Aristotelian elements in Middle Platonic thought, in which the lower realm has the four elements for its stoiceiva (earth, water, air, and fire), while ether, a fifth substance, is the element of the highest realm of spirit. See Thomas H. Tobin, The Creation of Man: Philo and the History of Interpretation (CBQMS 14; Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association, 1983), 77–87. 31 See my “Appointment,” 113–15. The biggest clues that the author uses creation language to equate Christ with the creative wisdom of God come from Heb 1:3, which is an allusion to Wis 7:26; and Heb 2:10, which actually speaks of God as the creator in distinction from Jesus. Hebrews’ default mode is to refer to God as creator rather than Christ (cf. 2:10; 3:4; 11:3). 32 The issue of whether early Christians understood the title “Lord” to equate Jesus with the Yahweh of the OT is an intriguing one raised by such scholars as Jarl Fossum, The Name of God and the Angel of the Lord (WUNT 36; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1985); Margaret Becker, The Great Angel: A Study of Israel’s Second God (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1992); Alan F. Segal, “The Risen Christ and the Angelic Mediator Figures in Light of Qumran,” in Jesus and the Dead Sea Scrolls (ed. J. H. Charlesworth; New York: Doubleday, 1992), 308–13; Crispin Fletcher-Louis, Luke-Acts (WUNT 94; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1997); and others. It cannot be assumed out of hand, however, that the author of Hebrews paid any attention to the fact that the Tetragrammaton lies behind the word Lord in this citation any more than we can of OT citations such as that of Joel 2:32 in Rom 10:13. On the whole our study points in the opposite direction.

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Ps 45. In the same way, the author’s quotation of Ps 102 pictures Christ as the Lord addressed by the LORD in Ps 110:1. The Hebrew Scriptures do not reflect the strong distinction between creation and salvation we might be tempted to make given our modern presuppositions.33 Paul certainly found creation language wholly appropriate to describe incorporation into Christ (e.g., 2 Cor 5:17), and the notion of ex nihilo creation is rare in this period in general, reflecting the fact that most ancients saw the world’s origins in terms of the ordering of chaos into a cosmos far more than the generation of material out of nothing.34 Hebrews’ choice of katartivzw in 11:3, for example, may very well imply that its author also saw creation primarily as the ordering of previously existing material.35 While the founding of the heavens and earth in Heb 1:10, therefore, clearly relates to the creation of the universe, we should not think this image to be unrelated to the epistle’s soteriology. The God who “mended” the worlds by his word (11:2) also mends his people through the word of salvation he spoke through his Son (1:2; 2:3). This salvific word is no less creative than the one “through which” God made the worlds (1:2). We should not be surprised that the author uses such imagery in the highly charged, poetic language of his hymnic introduction to the epistle. Hebrews 1:6 The only verse in the citation we have not discussed, v. 6, must also be read against the backdrop of the exaltation, although it has often been read out of 33

See Isa 45:18 and 51:16, where creation imagery is used in reference to contemporary situ-

ations. 34 2 Maccabees 7:28 is the clearest reference to ex nihilo creation from this period, although even this verse could be more subtle in meaning. See the following footnote. The connection between language of creation and salvation was much discussed in the 1970s, when authors such as Jerome Murphy-O’Connor (e.g., “I Cor VIII, 6: Cosmology or Soteriology?” RB 85 [1978]: 253–67) and James D. G. Dunn (e.g., Christology, 179–83) argued that passages like 1 Cor 8:6 were more about soteriology than cosmology traditionally conceived. While scholarship has often discounted such claims, they deserve a thorough reexamination. 35 Philo is an excellent example of a first-century individual who firmly believed in the creation of the world by God. In fact, he made some very strong comments against anyone who might suggest otherwise (e.g., Opif. 7). Yet it is clear from other comments he makes (e.g., Plant. 3) that creation for him was primarily the process of bringing order to chaotic u{lh. It is less certain that Philo believed God had created the chaotic matter in the first place (perhaps in Somn. 1.76). In either case, Philo’s principal paradigm for God as creator was God as dhmiourgov", tecnivth'", and kosmoplavsth" (see H. A. Wolfson, Philo: Foundations of Religious Philosophy in Judaism, Christianity and Islam 2 [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1947], 301). I thus disagree with the emphasis of Wolfson and Williamson’s conclusions (Philo, 372–76), both of whom focus on passages in Philo allegedly supporting an ex nihilo creation. See also Wis 11:17, which states that God made the world “out of formless matter.”

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context as well. The statement that God commanded the angels to worship the firstborn Son as he was led into the habitable world has often been taken to refer to the birth story, since Luke 2:13–14 could be taken to refer to such an event. Yet this interpretation would be a serious misreading of Heb 1:6, since it is exactly at this point of Jesus’ existence that the author of Hebrews believes him to have become lower than the angels in accordance with Ps 8.36 Further, the author tells us in 2:5 that the “habitable world” about which he has been speaking is not the present, earthly one, but the coming habitable world—the eschatological kingdom.37 Arguments have often been made that, since the overwhelming majority of the occurrences of oijkoumevnh refer to earthly, human civilization, Heb 1:6 must refer to Jesus’ arrival on earth.38 Yet this interpretation not only misses our particular author’s only other use of the word, which clearly refers to the coming world as an oijkoumevnh, but it ignores the author’s frequent use of imagery that points toward the heavenly realm as the true homeland of God’s people (Heb 11:13–16; 13:14), the true promised land (4:6–11), and the truly unshakable kingdom (12:28). In other words, a metaphorical reference to heaven as the truly civilized world is exactly the kind of thing we would expect from the author of Hebrews.39 When Heb 1:6 is read in context, we see that it is actually the third of three “Sonship” citations that begin the catena. We have already noted that the author’s use of Ps 2:7 places Christ’s cosmic enthronement at the point when he is exalted and seated at God’s right hand. The same is true of the author’s use of 2 Sam 7:14 in v. 5—a citation the author clearly connects to the previous one by his use of pavlin. While it has more often than not been overlooked, these same features connect v. 6 with the two preceding citations: (1) the use of pavlin and 36 Not to mention the fact that the angels in Luke 2 do not worship Christ but rather give glory to God for Jesus’ birth (2:20). 37 Meier, “Symmetry,” 507. In keeping with the observation we made in n. 15, 2:5 resumes to some extent the train of thought left off in 1:14. Hebrews 2:1–4 is a brief exhortation that interrupts the author’s exposition. 38 E.g., Attridge, Hebrews, 55–56. 39 Those who fail to read the verse in this way often do so, in our opinion, because they believe the catena to be a testimonium inserted into the epistle. They are thus predisposed to miss the sometimes subtle connections between the catena and the remainder of Hebrews. Some who have recognized a heavenly referent here include Meier, “Symmetry,” 507; Lane, Hebrews, 27; Friedrich Schierse, Verheissung und Heilsvollendung: Zur theologischen Grundfragen des Hebräerbriefes (Munich: Karl Zink, 1955), 96; and Albert Vanhoye, “L’oijkoumenhv dans l’Épître aux Hébreux,” Bib 45 (1964): 248–53. The second most likely interpretive option is that the verse refers to the parousia, a timing that still maintains a focus on the exalted Christ (see Loader, Sohn, 24). The original context of this verse in the Song of Moses could easily be understood of the messianic king as he comes to judge the world. For the peculiarities of the textual tradition behind this verse, see Simon Kistemacker, The Psalm Citations in the Epistle to the Hebrews (Amsterdam: Van Soest, 1961), 20–23.

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(2) a clear understanding of the citation in terms of royal sonship, as is reflected by the author’s use of filial language.40 The God who enthrones Christ as royal Son leads him into the heavenly world, where he seats him at the right hand of the throne of grace. As befits a cosmic king, God instructs the servant angels to bow in obeisance to the one who has now been exalted above them. Both the immediate context of the catena, therefore, and the inner logic of the catena itself indicate that it should be read against the backdrop of the exaltation and in terms of a royal enthronement of cosmic proportions. We have also made a few indications of how the catena fits within the broader argument and presuppositions of the epistle. It is to the place of the catena in this overall rhetoric that we now turn.

III. The Place of the Catena in the Rhetoric of Hebrews In a very broad way, we might summarize the main point of Hebrews’ exposition as the superiority and definiteness of Christ’s high priesthood, as 8:1 explicitly claims. The principal point of Hebrews’ exhortation flows neatly from this main didactic: continue in faithfulness and endurance to Christ over and against any competing claim that might come from the sacrificial means of atonement provided under the old covenant.41 The complexity of the author’s argument often overshadows the fact that, for him, Christ’s heavenly high priesthood is at root a metaphor built on the efficacy of his atoning death coupled with his ascension to the highest heaven—heaven’s Holy of Holies.42 Christ’s entrance as high priest into the Holy of Holies of the true tabernacle is a metaphorically charged presentation of his exaltation to the right hand of God. In this light, the catena was a highly appropriate way to commence the epistle. The talent of the author as a rhetorical artist is signaled by the way in which he uses a contrast between the mediators of the two respective covenants to present the accomplishment of salvation. In highly charged, hymnic language, he captures the audience’s attention by placing them in medias res, at the climax of the story, where Christ, the great high priest, has just completed his earthly mission and has been seated as Lord and king at God’s right hand. In

40 For the debate concerning whether pavlin is a linking term or refers to a second entrance into the world, see any of the standard commentaries. “Firstborn” is a filial term with a royal “lineage” similar to that of “Son of God.” See Ps 89:27, for example, a verse to which the author may actually allude here. 41 While few would contest the importance of endurance for the epistle, the connection of this exhortation with OT means of atonement is a point upon which there is less agreement. 42 See Schenck, “Settings,” 74–83.

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fulfillment of Ps 8, humanity can now attain their intended glory because Christ is no longer lower than the angels. The Melchizedekian priest has entered the true tent and offered the definitive sacrifice. The angels bow in obeisance to the one who has made their ministering function to God’s people on earth obsolete. The first and strongest connection between the catena and the author’s later argument, therefore, comes from its bold proclamation of Christ as enthroned king, since his enthronement implies the accomplishment of a definitive salvation. In a sense, the angels of ch. 1 are foils against which the exaltation of Christ can be powerfully and relevantly narrated. Herein is one reason why they need not feature prominently in the subsequent argument. They are utilized far more to indicate the extraordinary significance of Christ than to explicate their own place in the story, let alone address some heresy among Hebrews’ recipients. Yet the relevance of angels to the author’s argument goes well beyond how he explicitly discusses them. The inner dynamic of the contrast between Christ and the angels lies in the link they had to the old covenant and the law in the author’s mind. Not only were they the ones who “spoke” the law and apparently were concerned with its proper observance; they were the logical “competition” for any new intermediary figure one might suggest between God and his people. Because many Jews saw angels as the operative intermediaries between God and the earth, the claim that Christ was a new mediator that had displaced the law would lead naturally to the question of his identity and role vis-à-vis the angels. Angels and the Created Order As our analysis above indicated, the catena clearly connects the angels with the old covenant. In this regard Heb 1:14 is decisive: the angels are “ministering spirits sent to serve those about to inherit salvation.” Christ’s accomplishment of salvation brings to an end this defining role for the angels in relation to God’s people. The verse places the entire catena into an eschatological context, with angels as the ministers of the old age and Christ as the one who inaugurates the new. Chapter 1 thus pictures the “passing of the guard” from the angels as mediators to God’s people on earth to Christ as a heavenly mediator who provides direct access to God. Hebrews 2:5 picks up this thread and confirms the eschatological orientation of the author’s thought regarding the angels. The coming world, the author says, the heavenly world that relates to salvation, will not be subject to angels. It will be subject to Christ, in the first place, and secondarily to those human beings whom God leads to glory through him in fulfillment of Ps 8. The domain of the coming world is one in which humans have bold and unhindered access

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to God without the need for angelic mediation. Christ is not another angelic mediator to the earthly realm (Heb 2:16); rather it is Christ’s humanity that has enabled God’s people to reach heaven themselves (4:16; 11:16). Given the strong distinction Hebrews makes between the created realm and the heaven to which Christ has ascended, the eschatological contrast between Christ and the angels carries cosmological overtones with it as well. While the angels are clearly present and functional in God’s heaven (Heb 1:6; 12:22), their role as mediators and intermediaries to God’s people is intrinsically linked to the earthly, created realm. “Those about to inherit salvation” are on earth, as God’s people have been throughout salvation history. It is to these that the angels have come as “winds and flames of fire” during the time of the old covenant. Yet the author of Hebrews clearly believes that the metav qesi" /removal of the created realm is an essential component in the completion of salvation (1:11–12; 12:27).43 It follows, therefore, that the full arrival of the new covenant implies an end not only to the created realm but also to the angels’ role therein. They cease de facto to be God’s mediators to humanity. When viewed in this way, the inner logic of the connection between angels, the old covenant, and the created realm is apparent. Jewish literature at the time of Christ is replete with examples of God utilizing angels as his primary interface with humanity on earth.44 Philo sums up their principal function well when he writes that angels are “ministers for the care of mortals” (Gig. 12) and “emissaries from humanity to God and from God to humanity” (Gig. 16).45 Philo is also typical in locating angels in the air above the earth (e.g., Spec. 1.66; Conf. 174; cf. Eph 2:2).46 But Hebrews teaches that Christ will bring an end to the created heavens and that he made possible unhindered and immediate access to God’s divine throne. These aspects of his belief implicitly render the previous role of the angels obsolete. The opening contrast of the epistle thus functions well not only within the author’s eschatological framework, but also within his cosmology.

43 While metavqesi" might refer to the transformation rather than the removal of the created realm, a removal seems to fit better with (1) the author’s strong heaven/earth contrast, (2) the imagery of the word elsewhere in the epistle (7:12; 11:5), (3) other allusions to its removal (1:11–12; 9:8), and (4) the context of 12:27, where reality is divided into “things being shaken” and “things not being shaken.” The “things being shaken, as having been made” are removed. 44 There is hardly any single body of surviving Jewish tradition in which this role of angels cannot be found, whether it be the Hebrew Scriptures, the NT, Philo, Josephus, Qumran, apocalyptic literature, and so on. It is understandably less evident in Jewish wisdom literature (although cf. Wis 18:15). 45 Cf. also Plant. 14; Conf. 171–74; Somn. 1.142. 46 Note the similar location of the angels in apocalyptic works like 1 En. 15:7; T. Levi 3:3–5; and Ascen. Isa. 7–10.

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Hebrews does not make a major point of the connection between angels and the law, but it does explicitly make the connection (2:2). Given that the obsolescence of the law is a major point in the author’s argument (ch. 7), the relevance of the catena’s contrast is once again apparent, even if the author does not specifically incorporate that function of angels into the catena itself. It substantiates our claims regarding the inner logic that drives the Christ/angel contrast. The notion that angels mediated the Jewish law was fairly common among Jews of this period, even appearing several times in the NT itself (Acts 7:38, 53; Gal 3:19; Heb 2:2).47 We can find further hints throughout the literature of the period to indicate a connection between angels and the administration of the law. A number of texts, for example, seem to connect angels with atonement or priestly intercession offered in the heavens (e.g., 4QShirShabba 1 I, 8, 10, 16; T. Levi 3:5; and Philo, Spec. 1.66). Testament of Levi 3:5 notes that the archangels of the third heaven “offer propitiatory sacrifices to the Lord in behalf of all the sins of ignorance of the righteous ones”—a “rational and bloodless oblation.”48 Such traditions downplay or reject the significance of the Jerusalem temple for one reason or another. For Qumran it was perhaps rejection of the current temple administration; for Philo and T. Levi a physical sanctuary could never be the locus of ultimate atonement. The significance of such a connection is less certain for Hebrews, since it does not contrast Christ’s heavenly sacrifice with a heavenly sacrifice offered by angels. It contrasts Christ’s heavenly sacrifice with the earthly sacrifices of levitical priests. While the existence of a connection between angels and cultus reinforces the general association of angels with the law’s operation, the nature of Hebrews’ contrast places into question any specific polemic against angelic sacrifice. Indeed, since elsewhere Hebrews virtually equates the law with the sacrificial system, it is probably more the angels’ status as mediators between God and humanity in general that stands behind the contrast of the catena rather than their specific connections with the administration of the law. Their involvement with the law is simply one of the most significant examples of their general function as intermediaries.49

47

E.g., Deut 33:2 LXX; Jub. 1:27; cf. Philo, Decal. 46. Translation by Howard C. Kee, OTP 1:789. 49 This distinction between their general status as intermediaries in the catena (versus Christ in 8:6) and the specific example of their mediation of the law in 2:2 is part of the “logical distance” Stuckenbruck noted between the catena and the argument in 2:2 (see n. 5 above). The other main difference is that of genre: the catena is hymnic and expositional, while 2:1–4 is parenetic and prosaic. 48

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There are also background texts that could be taken to associate angels with the maintenance of appropriate holiness vis-à-vis the law. Several passages from the Dead Sea literature warn against the presence of the infirm among those who go out to war with the angels (CD XV, 16; 1QSa II, 8; 1QM VII, 6; 4QDe 10 II, 9), presumably because a temple standard of purity needs to be observed in their midst. Joseph Fitzmyer has brought this idea to bear on the interpretation of 1 Cor 11:10, where women need to veil their heads “because of the angels,” connecting a need for physical “purity” with being in their presence.50 The problematic phrase “worship of angels” in Col 2:18 probably relates similarly to the question of holiness when worshiping in the presence of angels, especially since the need for covenantal purity seems to be a part of the Colossian “heresy” (e.g., 2:21). What is important for our purposes is to show that Colossians and the Dead Sea literature both connect a need for law observance with being in the presence of angels. Again, such an association plays almost no role in the argument of Hebrews (except for 2:2), but it substantiates our claim that the inner dynamics of an angel–Christ contrast relate well to a contrast between the two covenants. Finally, Philo assigns to angels the role of punishing evildoers (Conf. 180– 82), a role reminiscent of the statement regarding angels in Heb 2:2. Since God is the cause only of good things, he used intermediaries to create humanity so that their sins might be attributed to others (Conf. 179).51 Similarly, to keep God free from any association with evil and so that God might exclusively be a giver of grace, God uses the angels to punish wrongdoing on earth (Conf. 182). Behind Philo’s general references to the angelic punishment of wrongdoing may lie traditions similar to those we have just seen in the Dead Sea Scrolls, traditions that viewed the angels as guardians and enforcers of the Jewish law. To find such associations in such diverse contexts as Philo and the Dead Sea Scrolls emphasizes the extent to which angels and the law must have been associated in many of the Judaisms of this period. In the final analysis, the focal point of contact for Hebrews between angels and the law is that they mediated it and served God’s people as they lived under it. Christ, on the other hand, mediated the new covenant (e.g., 8:6). In the 50 Joseph A. Fitzmyer, “A Feature of Qumran Angelology and the Angels of 1 Cor 11:10,” in Essays on the Semitic Background of the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997; orig. 1957–58), 187–204. Compare his resolution to this conundrum with that of Dale Martin, whose approach probably is more in line with Paul’s usage of the term a[ggelo" in 1 Corinthians (e.g., 6:3) (The Corinthian Body [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995], 229–49). 51 Philo’s apparent assumption that humanity would sin probably argues against a belief in ex nihilo creation on his part. We can understand a world of chaotic material ordered by God to make humanity susceptible to sin. It is more difficult to understand how material created by God out of nothing could have this effect—indeed that it would become chaotic in the first place.

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author’s actual discussion of Christ’s role as a covenantal mediator, he does not explicitly mention angels, but his use of leitourgiva in reference to Christ’s mediation (8:6) echoes what he has said about them in the catena (1:14). The inner dynamic of Hebrews’ thought world connects angels with the later argument even though they are not mentioned explicitly. In ch. 1, as the author is drawing the audience into his “rhetorical world,” he pits Christ against the angels in the most general way—as the mediatorial representatives of the two ages and two orders he will contrast in much greater detail in his argument proper. The extant Jewish literature hints that deeper associations between angels and the law could be and sometimes were made. But Hebrews’ point of contact occurs on a much more general level.

IV. Conclusion The catena of Heb 1:5-14 is a celebration of the enthroned Christ. The exordium introduces the catena at the point of Christ’s session at God’s right hand, and the argument that follows in chapter 2 places the distinction between Christ and the angels into an eschatological framework. Although Christ became lower than the angels for a little while, he is now crowned with glory and honor. Through this process he has enabled his “brothers” on earth to attain glory and honor as well. The coming world will not be subjected to angels, as the current one is, but will be ruled by Christ and those he has freed from the power of death. In this light, the catena is a hymnic celebration of the now enthroned Christ, a poetic announcement of the accomplishment of salvation by way of Christ’s exaltation to God’s right hand. The rhetoric of the catena itself, when it is read correctly, is focused on the exalted Christ. Echoing the titles “Son of God,” “Christ,” and “Lord,” the catena celebrates the exaltation of Christ in distinction to those who ministered to God’s people in the old age under the old covenant. While the angels are servants, Christ is king. While the angels mediated God’s purposes on earth for a passing time, Christ provides direct heavenly access forever. Throughout, the associations of angels with the administration of the created realm and the Jewish law made the catena’s contrast an appropriate introduction to the argument the author was about to make. These observations on the interpretation of Heb 1 suggest some potentially significant directions for pursuing the question of the origins of the worship of Jesus. 52 They warn, for example, that worship and preexistence 52 I hope to address this issue more systematically in a future article that will interact with the various suggestions currently in play, a good overview of which can be found in The Jewish Roots of Christological Monotheism: Papers from the St. Andrews Conference on the Historical Origins of

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language in regard to Christ is highly metaphorical imagery. It is no surprise that such language more often than not occurs in hymnic contexts. Positively, the catena suggests that the worship of Jesus was connected to motifs of kingship, which in turn were associated with Christ’s exaltation. Here the fine distinctions between Yahweh, who is supreme God and LORD, and Christ, who is representative God and Lord, indicate a subtle nuance relating to the hierarchy of rulership. This fact suggests that the worship of Jesus originated in the veneration of him as cosmic Lord, with the worship of the one ultimate God always presupposed.

the Worship of Jesus (ed. Carey C. Newman, James R. Davila, and Gladys S. Lewis; Leiden: Brill, 1999). The basic thesis of my article will be (1) that the origins of the worship of Jesus did indeed take place within a Jewish rather than Gentile context; (2) that this worship (or more accurately, veneration) originated in relation to the acclamation of Jesus as king (traditions regarding exalted patriarchs contributed to the early Christians’ understanding of Jesus but were not the catalyst for his worship); (3) that such veneration did not violate Jewish monotheism because (a) monotheism was formulated more in terms of sovereignty than worship and (b) the veneration of Jesus accentuated God’s sovereignty rather than competing with it; (4) that the veneration of Jesus largely took place in hymnic and liturgical contexts where language was more metaphorical than literal; (5) that the veneration of Jesus became more prominent in Hellenistic Jewish Christianity, especially against the backdrop of emperor worship; and (6) that the worship of Christ on completely equivalent terms to that of God does not occur within the pages of the NT.

JBL 120/3 (2001) 487–499

LIGHT WITHIN THE HUMAN PERSON: A COMPARISON OF MATTHEW 6:22–23 AND GOSPEL OF THOMAS 24

THOMAS ZÖCKLER [email protected] Jerusalemweg 3, 53424 Remagen, Germany

Readers acquainted with the patterns of mystical and Gnostic thinking will not be surprised when they encounter the idea of light or a spark within the human person. The context, corresponding metaphors, or philosophical passages in the respective texts will most often explain this light as the essence of the human person, the true self. In the NT it is only Paul who speaks of Christ as an internal principle. Christ has become the agent within himself that has replaced his old ego: “It is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me” (Gal 2:20). In the Synoptic tradition, however, there is only one reference to light within the human person, in the Q-logion about the eye as the lamp of the body (Matt 6:22–23; Luke 11:34–36).1 In Matthew, whose version lacks the minor features of a conscious editing that are apparent in Luke,2 the saying reads as follows: This paper was presented at the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Boston, 1999. 1 I will not discuss the question of the saying’s position and meaning in Q here. It has been interpreted within a context of controversies of the Q community with those who are unwilling to respond to the preaching of the kingdom (see J. S. Kloppenborg, The Formation of Q: Trajectories in Ancient Wisdom Collections [SAC; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987], 138). But the saying’s possible relevance for the theology of Q does not answer the question of its original meaning and Sitz im Leben. If it existed independently, that is, if it was not created by the Q redactor, it has to be examined as a piece of tradition in its own right. 2 Luke 11:34–35 is almost identical to Matt 6:22–23, but has skovpei ou\n . . . at the beginning of v. 35. Similar parenetic imperatives are used redactionally by Luke in 12:1; 12:15; 17:3; 20:46; and 21:34. Verse 36 functions as a second explanation, which, however, fails to give the passage a convincing interpretation. It stresses the aspect of gaining a lightful body, which is repeated twice (in a rather vague tautological construction), but does not contribute to an understanding of the

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Journal of Biblical Literature 22a @O luvcno" tou' swvmatov" ejstin oJ ojfqalmov". 22b eja;n ou\n h\/ oJ ojfqalmov" sou aJplou'", o{lon to; sw'mav sou fwteino;n e[stai: 23a eja;n de; oJ ojfqalmov" sou ponhro;" h\/, o{lon to; swmav sou skoteino;n e[stai. 23b eij ou'n to; fw'" to; ejn soi; skovto" ejstivn, to; skovto" povson. 22a 22b 23a 23b

The eye is the lamp of the body. If then your eye is simple, your whole body is full of light. If, however, your eye is bad, your whole body is dark. If, then, the light which is in you is darkness—what darkness!

These sentences are partly paralleled in log. 24 of the Gospel of Thomas. The Coptic manuscript renders the following saying: 1 peje

neFmaqhths je matsebon eptopos etkm; m au epei tanagkh eron te etrNvine NswF 2 pejaF nau je peteuN maaje m; m oF mareFswtm; 3 ouN ouoein voop m;foun Nnourm;ouoein auw F® ouein epkosmos thrF eFtm;® ouoein oukake pe 1 His disciples said, “Show us the place where you are, for we must seek it.” 2 He

said to them, “Whoever has ears should hear. 3There is light within a man of light, and it shines on the whole world. If it does not shine, it is dark.”

Most commentators, even if they have accepted that there is some similarity between both versions, have not integrated log. 24 into their discussion of the Q pericope. According to them the idea of light in log. 24 differs considerably from that in the Q instruction, and hence the two pieces of tradition should be treated separately.3 But this position may be questioned. Both redactors, of Thomas and Q, are interested in the same anthropological concept: the saying about light within a person each time takes the key position in the passages cited above. Moreover, some significant convergences in the wording and structure of argumentation in both passages give reason to consider them loose parallels. On the other hand, it is obvious that the two pieces of tradition convey different theological messages. A detailed comparative analysis may show how the key saying about light functions within the rhetorical concept of each pasparadoxical warning in v. 35 (. . . to; fw'" to; ejn soi; skovto" ejstivn). Since the latter is present in both Luke and Matthew, the diverting second comment in Luke probably is a later addition. 3 See, e.g., H. D. Betz, “Matt. 6:22–23 and Ancient Greek Theories of Vision,” in Synoptische Studien (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1992), 141.

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sage. It may also help to explain, more generally, how this treatment is in conformity with other distinctive interpretive devices similarly employed by the authors of Thomas and Q in the presentation of other wisdom sayings.

I. The Meaning of the Term aJplou'" Matthew’s version of Q is impressive for its well-balanced, logical structure. A general statement giving a common idea (“The eye is the lamp of the body”) is followed by two parallel “if”-clauses, which explicate the initial thesis by drawing two conclusions from it. Both are contrasting options that directly affect the listener’s situation. The final sentence gives the argument a sudden shift. Using again the conditional form, it points to a dramatic consequence, which—requiring no further explanation—takes the function of a strong final comment. One of the main obstacles to an understanding of the passage are the terms aJplou'" and ponhrov". Why is the “simple eye” contrasted with the “bad eye” (ojfqalmo;" ponhrov")? Do these two terms point to a contrast of physical dispositions, that is, a proper functioning of the eye and its dysfunctioning, or do both adjectives stand for a difference on the ethical level? The latter solution seems plausible with respect to Matt 20:15, where in the parable of the Laborers in the Vineyard the landowner answers the complaining workers: “Is your eye bad (ponhrov") because I am good (ajgaqov")?” The envious, evil eye here epitomizes the evil person as such, as does the Hebrew term [r @y[, which is, for example, in Proverbs, often contrasted with bwf @y[, the good eye, which expresses the generous, good person (Prov 22:9; 23:6; 28:22; Sir 14:3). But why then, if there is enough evidence from these passages for a specific meaning of ojfqalmo;" ponhrov", does the author not use the natural opposite in Greek, ojfqalmo;" ajgaqov", which occurs in Matt 20:15? Two authors, Conny Edlund and Joseph Amstutz, have in their monographs on the meaning of aJplou'" and aJplovth" made a significant contribution to our understanding of these terms in Greek Jewish literature.4 Both have drawn attention to aJplovth" (singleness) as a key term in Jewish ethics, whose tendencies can be felt in 1 Maccabees, the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, in the Wisdom of Solomon and many other contemporary documents. Especially in the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs aJplovth" denotes the ideal of 4 C. Edlund, Das Auge der Einfalt: Eine Untersuchung zu Matth. 6,22–23 und Luk. 11,34–35 (Copenhagen: Ejnar Munksgaard, 1952); J. Amstutz, APLOTHS: Eine begriffsgeschichtliche Studie zum jüdisch-christlichen Griechisch (Bonn: Hanstein, 1968). See also H. W. Hollander and M. de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs: A Commentary (Leiden: Brill, 1985), esp. 233–34.

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the pious person who is devoting his life to the perfect fulfillment of God’s will. He who sees everything in singleness (T. Iss. 4:6), who walks in singleness (T. Iss. 3:2; T. Levi 13:1), like God (T. Iss. 5:8), in the singleness of the heart (T. Iss. 4:1; 7:7; T. Reu. 4:1), the soul (T. Sim. 4:4), or who walks in the singleness of the eyes (ejn aJplovthti ojfqalmw'n [T. Iss. 3:4]), is the person of integrity. That one is the undivided person who resists the world’s temptation; there is no duplicity in that person’s acting and thinking (T. Benj. 6:5–7; T. Ash. 3:2), and that person does not grudge one’s neighbor or pay attention to one’s defects. On the contrary, the works of Beliar, the devil, are twofold (diplou'", diprovswpo"); they lack singleness (aJplovth"). The true person’s life is directed toward one goal: to love God and every human being (T. Iss. 5:2; 7:6). The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs are the earliest texts that pronounce the double command. With these connotations of aJplou'" and aJplovth" in mind the Q saying loses much of its strangeness. The two alternatives with which the listener is confronted allude to different moral conditions. The single eye gives light to the whole body, which is another metaphor for the person’s wholeness—it denotes the morally intact person. A bad eye has the opposite result; it causes the person’s darkness, that is, a corrupt ethical condition. It now also becomes clear that the reader is being misguided by the initial, seemingly neutral definition of the eye. The notion that the eye contains light in itself or is homogeneous with light, is widespread and appears in both popular and philosophical traditions. The idea has become proverbial, for example, in the old German saying “die augen sind des leibs latern,”5 but it is also an important theme in Greek philosophy.6 Hans Dieter Betz has argued that the whole Q passsage about light (Matt 6:22–23) should be read as a document of conscious criticism against some basic assumptions of Greek vision theories from a specific Jewish perspective. The saying would object to the understanding of the eye as a merely mechanically working organ, as a part of the body functioning according to invariable rules that exist independently from one’s intent and influence.7 Betz is probably correct when he describes the saying’s rhetoric as a conscious move from a physiological perspective to ethical considerations. While the harmless introductory description of the eye and the ambiguous term aJplou'" first invite the hearers to think in physiological terms, they are then guided to change their perspective. The references to ojfqalmo;" ponhrov" and to the threatening consequence in the final “if ”-clause make it clear that 5

Deutsches Sprichwörter-Lexicon (ed. K. F. W. Wander; Leipzig: Brockhaus 1867), 1:172 n.

87. 6 See esp. J. I. Beare, Greek Theories of Elementary Cognition from Alcmaeon to Aristotle (Oxford: Clarendon, 1906); for extensive references to the literature on the subject matter, see Betz, “Matt. 6:22–23.” 7 Betz, “Matt. 6:22–23,” 153.

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there is more at stake here than a more detailed knowledge about the anatomy of a person’s eye. The eye in its double capacity to produce light or darkness is a metaphor for the self, for a choice between fundamentally opposed constitutions.

II. “Light within You” It is the contents of the concluding sentence (Matt 6:23b) that, apart from the word pair aJplou'"/ponhrov", exerts an even more irritating effect on the listener who seeks to give the short section a coherent interpretation. It unexpectedly refers to “light within you” and warns paradoxically that this light is dark. As the idea of inner light has not been mentioned before, the interpreter is left with the problem of connecting it to the eye’s definition at the beginning. The problem is indeed difficult to solve. The light of the eye, whatever it means, is clearly different from the light within the person. It is at this point where log. 24 requires consideration. The interpreter has not only the Coptic version of the saying but can also draw on P.Oxy. 655, a manuscript dating no later than the first half of the third century. This papyrus has preserved only a few words, which are, however, enough to reconstruct the form of a saying almost identical to that in the Coptic manuscript.8 In Gos. Thom. 24.3, then, we have an example for a correct translation from Greek into Coptic, which should warn against too readily dismissing the fourth-century Coptic manuscript with the argument of tendentious later alterations. One of the riddles in the Coptic version is the term rm=ouoein, which has usually been translated as “man of light.” The Greek manuscript, however, leaves no doubt that the word does not point to an exclusive human being or a supernatural figure: the manuscript has f]wteinw'/ in the respective place, which can with certainty be restored to [ejn ajnqrwvpw/ f]wteinw'/. Thus it becomes clear that the “man of light” refers to a lightful, shining person, one that lives by the light in oneself: “There is light within a shining person and it shines on the whole world.” Moreover, fwteinov" provides a textual link to Matt 6:22. Apart from Matt 17:5, fwteinov" is attested in the NT only in the Q saying about the inner light. Yet here it does not appear in the conclusion as the closest parallel to Gos. Thom. 24:3, but still earlier, in the discussion of the two possible constitutions of the eye: “If then your eye is simple, your whole body is shining

8 H. W. Attridge, “The Greek Fragments,” in Nag Hammadi Codex II, 2–7 together with XIII,2 Brit. Lib. Or. 4926 (1), and P. Oxy. 1, 654, 655; 1: Gospel According to Thomas, Gospel According to Philip, Hypostasis of the Archons, and Indexes (ed. B. Layton; NHS 20; Leiden: Brill, 1989), 117.

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[fwteinov"].” As already noted, the Q logion refers to the whole body as to the whole person and is therefore quite comparable to the shining person in Gos. Thom. 24:3. There have been various explanations for the problem of a sudden change in the final phrase of the Q logion. Rudolf Bultmann, for example, suggested that the logion is composed of several elements, the concluding sentence being a later addition.9 Betz has argued that while the author had first aimed at rejecting a variety of Greek notions of vision, he would now correct another familiar concept of Platonic-Stoic anthropology, that is, the idea of the lumen internum. The criticism would be closely connected to the foregoing arguments. If the eye is in danger of being perverted, the same must be true for the internal light. Neither could be imagined to be exempt from sin. Thus, in Betz’s view the philosophical concept is subject to radical criticism: Contrary to what we would expect, the lumen internum is not connected with the “soul,” and we look in vain for concepts like the “eye of the soul,” the “intelligible light,” or the mind (nou'"). Instead we are told, the “light within you” may even become “darkness.” This suggestion is flatly directed against the Greek philosophical tradition, according to which the lumen internum is divine in nature and can never be turned into its opposite, “darkness.”10

This interpretation no doubt hits an important point, yet the criticism against the light in a person as a permanent, inborn element that Betz finds expressed in Q is in the same way present in Gos. Thom. 24. Thomas’s saying as well contends that the light within the person might not shine and, like Matthew’s version, ends with the prospect of an overall darkness. Thomas and Q agree that one cannot rely on the light as one’s essence or divine principle residing unalterably inside oneself. Both Thomas and Q share the idea that the light may be replaced by darkness. Thus, if both sayings are close parallels with regard to content, and if there are indications for a substantial correspondence in wording, one might conclude that the author of the Q logion did not invent a new saying in order to criticize a particular Greek anthropological concept (as Betz seems to contend) but that the author knew of a saying very similar to Gos. Thom. 24.3 and made it a central issue of his concise meditation about the human person and light. The double disposition of one’s light to be effective or to fail could have been present already in an older version that both Thomas and Q inherited from the tradition.11 9 R. Bultmann, Geschichte der synoptischen Tradition (FRLANT 12; 10th ed.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995), 90. 10 Betz, “Matth. 6:22–23,” 153–54. 11 The JBL reviewers of this article find fault with this thesis of a more original saying behind Matt 6:22–23 and Gos. Thom. 24. Admittedly, with respect to the limited textual basis any attempt

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III. Parenesis as an Original Intention? Although there is a substantial convergence in meaning, one should not overlook the different rhetorical sketch and a number of significant details with regard to form and content that distinguish Gos. Thom. 24 from its parallel in Q. A marked contrast in form between the two versions can be seen in Q’s parenetic intention, which is missing from Thomas’s parallel. With the exception of the introductory sentence, Q uses the form of the direct address; the listeners are to know that they themselves have to face the result of a darkening eye and of darkness within themselves. The dramatic exclamation “What darkness!” serves as a warning against an irreversible process. On the other hand, Jesus in the Gospel of Thomas presents an insight into human nature without urging the listeners to draw personal consequences from this teaching. The central saying (24.3) apparently transmitted a clear meaning in itself and thus required no parenetic elaboration. The nonparenetic orientation is a general feature in the Gospel of Thomas that can be observed almost throughout the text.12 Numerous wisdom sayings that appear as concise statements in Thomas (very much like Bultmann’s “sachlich formulierte Grundsätze”) have taken the form of admonitions in Q. Thomas, for example, lacks all those derogatory titles such as “hypocrite” (uJpokrithv"),13 “you of little faith” (ojligovpistoi: Luke 12:28/Matt 6:30; cf. also Matt 8:26; 16:8), “evil ones” (ponhroiv: Luke 11:13/Matt 7:11) and other features14 that add to the distinct character of Q’s transmission of wisdom sayings.

to reconstruct such a saying will inevitably be tentative. However, the assumption of independent access to a common older tradition (whatever its exact wording may have been) seems to provide a more plausible explanation for the corresponding elements in both texts than the suggestion of a case of dependence, either of Q on Thomas or vice versa. Neither does log. 24 display any of the redactional features present in Q/Matt and Q/Luke (e.g., the elaborated parenetic format), nor do Matthew and Luke in their renderings of Q repeat the redactional elements of log. 24 (e.g., the secondary introductory question; see the discussion below). 12 Open criticism is apparent only in log. 3 (against the “leaders”), 39, and 102 (against the Pharisees). In these cases, however, the offended ones are outsiders and opponents. It is doubtful that they belong to those who deserve positive instruction. Thus, if parenesis is understood in a narrower sense as the admonition of community members, it is a misleading description of this form of criticism. 13 Matthew uses the title no fewer than fourteen times. In Q it appeared at least in 6:42 and possibly in 11:39. 14 The tiv" ejx uJmw'n questions (Q 11:11 [Matt 11:9]; 12:25), an important rhetorical device in Q, are missing in Thomas. It is noteworthy that while Q 12:25 presents a question that can be answered only by a sentence introduced by “No one” (oujdeiv"), Thomas’s parallel in P.Oxy. 655 (log. 36) may be understood as a real question: “Who might add to your stature?” For a detailed analysis of Thomas’s Greek version of log. 36 and a demonstration of its priority over against the parallel Q cluster, see J. M. Robinson, “The Pre-Q Text of the (Ravens and) Lilies: Q 12:22–31 and P. Oxy.

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The difference between Thomas and Q is well illustrated by their versions of “the beam in the eye.” While in Q the saying is included in a passage whose theme is established by the imperative “Do not judge!,” the hearer being addressed as “hypocrite,” in Thomas the same saying rather seems to be an instruction on the conditions necessary to help others regain an unobstructed vision like oneself: “You see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but you do not see the beam that is in your own eye. When you take the beam out of your own eye, then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother’s eye.”15 With these and other sapiential speeches shared by Thomas and Q, the question arises if the parenetic tendency that is so common to our understanding can further be assumed to form an original part of the respective sayings. Have the authors of the Gospel of Thomas eliminated the parenetic thrust and reproduced them for the most part in shorter form? Or, what in many cases seems more plausible, is parenesis to be considered a secondary motive that affected the sayings tradition at a later stage and led to the characteristic elaborations visible already on the level of Q? The well-conceived structure of Matt 6:22–23, noted above, is relevant to these questions. Q contains a number of sayings clusters (e.g., Q 11:9–13; Q 12:22–31; Q 6:37–42) that are unified by an almost identical rhetorical scheme consisting of a general statement or a maxim that establishes the section’s topic, the repetition of its content in a second phrase, two further sentences which exemplify the theme, mostly in the form of rhetorical questions, and a final remark that sums up the argument.16 As is generally agreed, all these collections aim at the exhortation of community members. In its three-step structure of an initial definition, two explanatory sentences and a conclusion, the Q saying examined here is quite comparable to these collections. It looks in fact, as Betz notices, like a treatise that has been condensed into a mashal.17 On the other hand, none of Thomas’s parallels to 655 (Gos. Thom. 36),” in Text und Geschichte: Facetten historisch-theologischen Arbeitens aus dem Freundes- und Schülerkreis: Dieter Lührmann zum 60. Geburtstag (ed. E. Schlarb and S. Maser; Marburger Theologische Studien 50; Marburg: Elwert, 1999), 143–80; J. M. Robinson and C. Heil, “The Lilies of the Field: Saying 36 of the Gospel of Thomas and Secondary Accretions in Q 12.22b–31,” NTS 47 (2001): 1–25. 15 See my work Jesu Lehren im Thomasevangelium (Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies 47; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 75–82. 16 See R. A. Piper, Wisdom in the Q-Tradition: The Aphoristic Teaching of Jesus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989). 17 Betz, “Matt. 6:22–23,” 143. D. C. Allison (“The Eye Is the Lamp of the Body [Matthew 6.22–23=Luke 11.34–36],” NTS 33 [1987]: 61–83) has objected against Betz that the idea of the eye as carrying light in itself would be present in Jewish traditions as well and therefore could not be attributed to Greek vision theories alone. Even if one admits this point, however, the format of a concise philosophical treatise, which one hesitates to attribute to the earliest stages of the tradition, cannot be denied.

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these units of argumentation shows a similar rhetorical pattern, nor do any of these sayings in the Gospel of Thomas display features that unmistakably point to parenesis as a primary concern.18

IV. The Light of the World With regard to content, one may wonder why most commentators have not given full consideration to the fact that in log. 24 the person’s light shines “on the whole world.” Both thoughts, the idea of the internal light and its relatedness to the world, are indeed of equal importance. Cast into two short sentences, they form a basic first statement: “There is light within a shining person and it shines on the whole world.” This effect of the person’s light is obvious also in the following statement, although here, as is often the case with Coptic texts, there is ambiguity about the antecedents of the pronouns in the sentence: “If it does not shine, it is dark.” The sense will not considerably change if the first “it” is translated as he, which is possible. There is no significant difference in saying that man himself or his light is not shining. With the second pronoun, however, the situation is different: Although some have argued so, it cannot refer again to the person or the person’s light because then the result is a pleonasm.19 There is no logic in uttering: “If he [or: his light] does not shine, he [or: his light] is dark.” Yet it makes sense, and the sentence is in perfect antithetical parallelism to the first statement if the second “it” denotes the beforementioned world: The light within a person shines on the whole world. If it does not shine, the world is dark. One may object that the Coptic grammar also allows the last phrase to be rendered in a less precise way as “there is darkness,” but even then it is obvious that the world is included in this overall perspective. The reference to the world is of importance because it makes it doubtful that the logion can be meaningfully interpreted in Gnostic terms. While it is 18 One might object that the contrast between the secondary question of the disciples and Jesus’ answer (see below) is meant to produce a hortatory effect. However, the core saying introduced by the citation formula “He said to them” shows no marks of a careful revision to serve this purpose. Rhetorically, the disciples’ question aims at presenting the following saying of Jesus. The Q-clusters referred to above, on the other hand, testify to rhetorical means that effectively change the sayings themselves. Vernon Robbins is correct in stating that in Thomas “it appears that questions introduce topics that give rise to other topics until a new configuration of topics invites either new questions or a reformulation of the initial questions. Thus, in the Gos. Thom. the process of asking questions does not lead to definitive answers but to different questions” (“Rhetorical Composition and Sources in the Gospel of Thomas,” SBLSP 36 [1997], 102–3). 19 See, e.g., the translation of Thomas Lambdin in Nag Hammadi Codex II, 129, ed. Layton; and Marvin Meyer’s translation in J. S. Kloppenborg et al., Q Thomas Reader (Sonoma, CA: Polebridge, 1990), 136, 154.

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highly questionable if Gnostics had accepted the idea of their inner light being prone to failure, it is even less likely that they would have agreed that this light is destined to affect the whole world. In most Gnostic systems the light (or the Nous or a similar term) denotes the divine extramundane realm and the person’s self as descended from this reality, which by definition cannot interact with this world.20 Logion 24, however, not only pretends some relationship between both spheres; it regards the status of the world to be wholly dependent on the person’s light. This light is the world’s light—as in Matt 5:14. Also, the light is not praised as a precious good solely in itself but only in its function of lighting up the world.

V. Logion 24 in the Context of the Gospel of Thomas The interpreter who tries to harmonize this particular content of log. 24 with other sayings in the collection will be disappointed. The saying provides a telling example of the difficulty of interpreting Thomas’s sayings from a single viewpoint. The collection refers to light no fewer than six times, but all attempts to tie these sayings to a common underlying doctrine seem forced. While Gos. Thom. 61.5 is rather close to log. 24, agreeing that every human can be filled either with light or with darkness (depending on whether the person is divided or undivided),21 log. 77.1 is not interested in anthropological considerations: it 20

A few examples: On the Origin of the World (NHC II,5 and XIII, 2) sharply separates the limitless light, which is the primeval light, from the limitless chaos to which the world as the sphere of humankind belongs: “She [Sophia] functioned as a veil dividing mankind from the things above” (98,21–23). Zostrianus (NHC VIII,1) makes clear in his introduction that he “was in the world for these like me and [those] after me, [the] living elect” (1,5–7). As soon as he finds himself, he realizes that death is the essence of things created within and outside himself: “After I found the infinite part of my matter, then I reproved the dead creation within me and the divine Cosmocrator of the perceptible (world) by preaching powerfully about the All to those with alien parts” (1,15–21). The Tripartite Tractate (NHC I,5) reveals a similarly antagonistic concept, differentiating among three types of human beings: only the spiritual race “being light from light” (118,30) is capable of recognizing the salvific light. “The material race, however, is alien in every way; since it is dark, it shuns the shining of the light because its appearance destroys it” (119,8–13). Finally, it is likewise evident that the idea of the world as a distinct reality that depends on the light, as in Gos. Thom. 24, can hardly be harmonized with those views that expect the final extinction (a “swallowing up”) of the darkness, that is, all perishable things, by the infinite, imperishable light (cf. The Treatise on the Resurrection [NHC I,4], 48,38–49,5). 21 For the wide range of suggested readings and interpretations of this saying, see I. Dunderberg, “Thomas’ I-sayings and the Gospel of John,” in Thomas at the Crossroads: Essays on the Gospel of Thomas (ed. R. Uro; Studies of the New Testament and Its World; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 33–64, esp. 49–56.

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portrays Jesus as a divine revealer who speaks in the first person: “I am the light that is over all things. I am all: from me all comes forth, and to me all attained.” Gospel of Thomas 83.1 and 50.1, on the other hand, both presuppose speculations about an initial light that are probably inspired by the first chapter of Genesis. It has been suggested that log. 24 should be interpreted especially in the light of log. 49 and 50,22 yet a relationship at an early level is doubtful. Contrary to log. 24, log. 49 and 50 assure the addressees of their identity telling them that they come from the light (or the kingdom) and will return to it. Emphasis is put on the believers’ origin and end, not on their stay in this world, which is not mentioned and rather appears to be a meaningless interim. This attitude is different from log. 24, which expresses concern for the world and implies that a person’s light may become ineffective and disappear. Logia 49 and 50 rather remind one of a dominant theme in the Gospel of John, according to which Jesus comes from the Father and returns to him. To be sure, one might argue that the primordial light that “came into being by itself, established [itself]” (log. 50.1) has to do with the light that one carries within oneself. But as soon as one admits that a variant of log. 24.3 has found its way into Q, the pretended connection poses a problem. One then must conjecture that the speculation about the light of Genesis was part of the sayings tradition at a very early date; and one must ask why it is solely present in the Gospel of Thomas—but has left no traces in Q. If one concedes that it is difficult to find convincing answers to these questions, the conclusion seems more plausible that log. 49 and 50 entered the sayings tradition and the Gospel of Thomas at a later time. The catechetical format of these sayings, which advise standardized answers to fictitious questions that may have been put by outsiders, further strengthens the hypothesis of a later date. It is again a logion with parallels in Q that the early readers of the Gospel of Thomas might have found to convey ideas similar to log. 24. We may presume that to them the concept of a light within a human person would not seem as strange as to the modern interpreter, who usually makes a basic distinction between the Synoptic and non-Synoptic type of sayings. The early readers would neither have preferences as to certain groups of sayings which more likely provide legitimate parallels to log. 24, nor would they be aware of sayings that might more plausibly be considered authentic than others. So they might have connected log. 24 to log. 33, which combines the saying of the “Lamp on the Lampstand” with a variant of Q 12:3, a call to open proclamation of what

22

See, e.g., S. L. Davies, “The Christology and Protology of the Gospel of Thomas,” JBL 111 (1992): 669–70; E. Pagels, “Exegesis of Genesis 1 in the Gospels of Thomas and John,” JBL 118 (1999): 487; A. D. De Conick, Seek to See Him: Ascent and Vision Mysticism in the Gospel of Thomas (VCSup 33; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 70–71.

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one hears in private communication. The inwardness of a person’s light is not mentioned here, but the necessity for it to become efficacious in public, in the world, is strengthened as in log. 24. So far the central idea of log. 24 has been examined from various sides, yet in order to assess in full the importance of log. 24 within the Gospel of Thomas it is necessary to draw attention to the saying’s secondary introduction (Gos. Thom. 24.1). The disciples’ question, “Show us the place where you are, for we must seek it” has most likely been added at a later stage. Its relationship to the core saying (whose relevance is heightened by a general admonition to proper hearing [Gos. Thom. 24.2]) is at first sight a puzzle, because the answer does not match the question. The disciples’ concern to get to know something about Jesus is negated. Their inquiring about the abode of Jesus is best understood as reflecting the situation of early Christians who sought to solve the problem of how Jesus could be imagined to live on for them after his death. In the redactor’s view those questions are meaningless. Jesus himself in his earthly existence had pointed to those places that are most essential for the understanding of one’s own life: the light within oneself and the world that it is supposed to shine on. This message contains all that the disciples should look for and keep in mind—nothing more, nothing less. The redactor made use of the same rhetorical pattern in log. 91: a question expressing a common view among Christians is juxtaposed with an authoritative saying of Jesus that undermines the question’s intention. As in log. 24 the redactor has formed a fictitious dialogue in order to discuss a vital issue reflected upon in early Christian communities. In log. 91 the disciples wish to know who Jesus is so as to be able to believe in him. Their question, which again seems to presuppose that they are not addressing him as a living person, is rejected by Jesus’ statement that they (or people in general) are not able to see what is in their presence23 and to examine this moment (peeikairos). Again, the desire to exempt Jesus from ordinary life, the attempt to interpret him as an elevated supernatural figure, deserves no positive response. The answer explains why: Jesus himself had urged people to gain access to the reality before one’s eyes and to find truth in it.

23 For two reasons I prefer the translation “what is in your presence” to “who is in your presence.” A similar call to a clear perception of reality (“know what is before your face”) appears in log. 5, and a neuter subject better fits the corresponding notion of “examining this moment.” Even if Jesus spoke of himself in his answer, he would clearly reject being venerated in an extraordinary way. A loss of a sense of reality is part of the sentence’s criticism either way. Since the phrase “what (who) is in your presence” is missing from Luke 12:46, it may have been invented by the Thomas redactor who tried to make the contrast between the question and the answer more explicit.

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VI. Conclusion The only saying within the early sayings tradition that displays more than some analogy in content but can claim to be a parallel to log. 24, is the Q logion on the eye and the light (Matt 6:22–23/Luke 11:34–36). Both sayings are connected by a paradoxical formulation that a person’s inner light may be dark or not shine and by the threatening consequence of an overall darkness as resulting from this failure. The Q logion, alluding to the contemporary Jewish ideal of single-mindedness (aJplovth"), interprets the shining person as one of integrity. Gospel of Thomas 24, on the other hand, in pretending that a person’s light is not only interrelated with the world but sustains it, contains a unique teaching that is satisfactorily explained neither by a Jewish nor by a Gnostic background. The secondary question that introduces the logion is to be regarded as an attempt to highlight the saying’s meaning. Instead of responding to the disciples’ desire to meet Jesus in an otherworldly place, they are referred to one of Jesus’ most meaningful aphorisms, which reminds human beings of a singular capacity that lies within themselves. If one realizes the light within oneself and the task it has to fulfill, there is no need to search for Jesus in his heavenly place.

JBL 120/3 (2001) 501–523

TATIAN’S DIATESSARON AND THE OLD TESTAMENT PESHITTA

JAN JOOSTEN [email protected] Université Marc Bloch, 67084 Strasbourg Cedex, France

Did Tatian consult the Syriac version of the OT when drawing up his Gospel harmony? This question, first raised almost a century ago,1 has not become irrelevant since then, in spite of much progress in research on both the Diatessaron and the OT Peshitta.2 In a study of OT quotations contained in the Old Syriac and Peshitta Gospels, the present writer, following in the footsteps of F. C. Burkitt and S. P. Brock, undertook to show that Tatian did make use of the OT Peshitta.3 I concluded that Tatian, in his Diatessaron, frequently inserted OT Peshitta readings as a rendering of OT quotations instead of translating the Greek text as read in the Gospels.4 This position has recently been challenged by R. Shedinger on methodological grounds: since no Western witnesses of the Diatessaron were used to show dependence on the OT Peshitta, and since Shedinger’s own analysis of

Thanks are due to August den Hollander and Ulrich Schmid for fruitful discussion on the Western Gospel harmonies, and to Franco Pierno for his help in dealing with the Middle Italian texts. I am grateful, too, to my friend Wendy Pradels, who corrected the English style of an earlier draft of this paper. 1 See Francis C. Burkitt, Evangelion da-Mepharreshe, vol. 2, Introduction and Notes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1904), 205–6. 2 For the Diatessaron, see the monumental history of research by William L. Petersen, Tatian’s Diatessaron: Its Creation, Dissemination, Significance, and History in Scholarship (VCSup 25; Leiden: Brill, 1994). For the Peshitta OT, see Michael P. Weitzman, The Syriac Version of the Old Testament: An Introduction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999). 3 See Burkitt, Evangelion, 205–6; Sebastian Brock, in Bruce M. Metzger, The Early Versions of the New Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), 96–98; Jan Joosten, “The Old Testament Quotations in the Old Syriac and Peshitta Gospels: A Contribution to the Study of the Diatessaron,” Textus 15 (1990): 55–76. 4 Joosten, “Quotations,” 74.

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quotations in the Western harmonies produced no traces of such dependence, the hypothesis became, in his view, untenable.5 The present article offers a renewed survey of relevant readings. In the first section, the Eastern evidence is briefly reevaluated. As will be seen, this evidence cannot be brushed aside as easily as has been done by Shedinger. The second and third sections introduce new material from Western sources that is supportive of the hypothesis. Although the thesis of Tatianic dependence on the OT Peshitta cannot, in the absence of the original text of the Diatessaron, be proven absolutely, the conclusion must be that what textual evidence we have is strongly supportive of it.

I. Traces of the Old Testament Peshitta in Eastern Witnesses of the Diatessaron Historical research shows that Tatian’s harmony was probably from the start a Syriac writing.6 The impact of the work is felt primarily in the Syriacspeaking area, while the Greek church appears to have had no firsthand knowledge of it. To prove Syriac origin on a textual basis is hard, since no complete original text of the Diatessaron has been preserved.7 It may fairly be stated, however, that the textual evidence is generally supportive of the hypothesis,8 and that no textual facts oppose it, not even the Greek fragment of the Diatessaron found in Dura Europos.9 If the Diatessaron was written in Syriac, precedence must be conceded to

5 See Robert F. Shedinger, “Did Tatian Use the Old Testament Peshitta?” NovT 41 (1999): 265–79. Shedinger does not discuss the possible traces of the Peshitta text in Western sources that were gathered by William L. Petersen, “New Evidence for the Question of the Original Language of the Diatessaron,” in Studien zum Text und zur Ethik des Neuen Testaments (FS H. Greeven; ed. W. Schrage; BZNW 47; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1986), 325–43, esp. 333–39; neither does he mention other, more sporadic references collected below in n. 50. More excusably, he also overlooked the doctoral thesis of S. Ruzer, “Biblical Quotations in the Old Syriac Gospels: Peshitta Influence and Hermeneutical Constraints” (diss., Hebrew University, Jerusalem, 1996). Ruzer also argues against the thesis of Peshitta influence on the Diatessaron, but his methodology is flawed (see n. 51 below). 6 See Theodor Zahn, Tatian’s Diatessaron (Forschungen zur Geschichte des neutestamentlichen Kanons und der altkirchlichen Literatur 1; Erlangen: A. Deichert, 1881), 1–111; in spite of its age, this is still the best historical investigation of the Diatessaron’s attestation. 7 One should also consider that, since the Diatessaron was based on the Greek canonical Gospels, even a Syriac original would imply translation from Greek. 8 See Petersen, “New Evidence”; earlier literature is noted in this article. 9 For the Dura parchment and the question of the Diatessaron’s language, the most convincing discussion is that of Daniël Plooij, “A Fragment of Tatian’s Diatessaron in Greek,” ExpTim 46 (1934–35): 471–76.

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the Eastern sources. Although even the earliest Syriac witnesses show clear signs of having been modified later in the direction of Greek manuscripts of the Gospels, they nevertheless offer the possibility of retracing part of the wording of the Diatessaron itself.10 The Arabic and Persian harmonies are more problematic, both because these texts are of a later date and because they are translations. But at least they depend directly on a Syriac text, whereas Western harmonies are mostly translations twice or thrice removed from the original. It is good method, therefore, to build a hypothesis regarding Tatian’s sources first and foremost on the basis of the Eastern evidence. Ephrem’s Commentary on the Diatessaron On the supposition of a Syriac original, the only direct witness to the text of the Diatessaron is to be found in Gospel quotations in early Syriac texts. Early Syriac authors, particularly Aphrahat and Ephrem, quote the Gospel primarily, or even exclusively, according to the Diatessaron.11 Even these quotations show us a text adapted to that of the Greek Gospels, 12 but they are generally, and rightly, considered to be our best source. When Burkitt first addressed the question of the possible influence of the OT Peshitta on the Diatessaron, it is to these quotations that he turned for a solution.13 The results were disappointing. Ephrem’s Commentary on the Diatessaron was then available only in an Armenian translation, which did not permit a clear conclusion; as to Aphrahat, the evidence seemed to indicate a positive answer, but it was hard to be certain.14 Returning to the problem three-quarters of a century later, Brock found himself in a much more favorable position.15 A large part of a Syriac manuscript of Ephrem’s Commentary had in the meantime been discovered and pub-

10 Chronologically, too, the main Syriac witnesses stand closer to the original than any other sources. Ephrem commented on the Diatessaron during the fourth century. The Old Syriac Gospels may be even older, dating perhaps to the third century. For discussion, see the survey of Syriac versions in Metzger, Early Versions, 3–82. 11 See the collection of citations in Ignacio Ortiz de Urbina, Vetus evangelium Syrorum et exinde excerptum Diatessaron Tatiani (Biblia Polyglotta Matritensia 6; Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1967). 12 See, e.g., Anton Baumstark, “Zur Geschichte des Tatiantextes vor Aphrem,” OrChr 3d ser. 8 (1933): 1–12. 13 Burkitt, Evangelion, 205–6. 14 Burkitt refers to the quotation of Isa 40:4–5 in Aphrahat (J. Parisot, ed., Patrologia Syriaca vol. 1 [Paris: Firmin Didot, 1894], col. 781, lines 21–24): while the rendering of v. 5 clearly reflects the Greek Gospel text, that of v. 4 is identical with the Peshitta to an extent that cannot be due to chance. Burkitt concluded that the Diatessaron did follow the Peshitta in quotations, but less so than the Old Syriac Gospels. 15 Brock, in Metzger, Early Versions, 96–98.

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lished.16 This Syriac text contained an OT quotation manifestly taken from the Diatessaron and showing clear marks of OT Peshitta influence: Matt 21:5 ei[pate th'/ qugatri; Sivwn, i[dou; oJ basileuv" sou e[rcetaiv soi prau?" kai; ejpibebhkw;" ejpi; o[non Ephr., Comm. 18.1 aqydz ykl ata ykklm ahd ˆwyhx trb xwd . . . akykmw, “Rejoice, daughter of Zion, for lo, your king comes to you, righteous and humble . . .” Zech 9:9 (OT Peshitta17) ata ykklm ah . . . ˆwyhx trb bf yxwd akykmw aqwrpw aqydz ykl, “Rejoice greatly, daughter of Zion (. . .) lo, your king comes to you, righteous and saving and humble . . .” The variant reading “rejoice” instead of “say to” and the addition of the adjective “righteous” are clear instances of OT Peshitta influence on the text of this quotation.18 At the same time, important differences between the quotation and the Syriac text of Zech 9:9 suggest that Ephrem is not quoting directly from the OT Peshitta, but from his harmonized Gospel text. Brock concluded that this example shows the influence of the OT Peshitta on the OT quotations in the Diatessaron. The evidence is of high quality, but unfortunately it is scarce.19 One quotation is a slender basis on which to construct a hypothesis of textual affiliation. The Old Syriac and Peshitta Gospels The dependence of the Old Syriac and Peshitta versions of the Gospels on the Diatessaron is well recognized by most scholars in the field.20 Although

16 See Louis Leloir, Saint Ephrem: Commentaire de l’évangile concordant: Texte Syriaque (Chester Beatty Monographs 8; Dublin: Figgis, 1963). Today, a second discovery has given us an even more complete picture of Ephrem’s Commentary; see Louis Leloir, Saint Ephrem: Commentaire de l’évangile concordant: Texte Syriaque (Manuscrit Chester Beatty 709) folios additionnels (Leuven: Peeters, 1990). The new folios do not throw any light on the problem at hand, however. 17 The OT Peshitta is quoted according to the edition of the Peshitta Institute in Leiden (The Old Testament in Syriac According to the Peshitta Version [Leiden: Brill, 1966–]). Biblical books that have not yet been published in this edition are quoted according to the edition of S. Lee. For the date of the OT Peshitta, see n. 36 below. 18 The addition of the adjective “righteous” is found also in the Curetonian Old Syriac. This partial agreement between Ephrem and the Old Syriac indicates that the Peshitta really affected the Syriac Gospel text: if it were just a matter of the church father confusing two versions of the same passage, one would not expect the variant readings to turn up in other witnesses. 19 Another possible example is referred to by Brock, in Metzger, Early Versions, 97 n. 1. As is stated there, with regard to patristic quotations it is difficult to be certain whether or not they genuinely represent the Syriac Diatessaron. 20 For discussion, see Jan Joosten, The Syriac Language of the Peshitta and Old Syriac Ver-

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based on Greek manuscripts of the four separate Gospels, these versions—the Old Syriac markedly, the Peshitta more sporadically—preserve a text tainted with Tatianic elements. In a paper already alluded to, the present writer attempted to show, first, the presence of OT Peshitta readings in the Old Syriac and Peshitta Gospels, and, more importantly, the fact that this OT Peshitta influence was mediated by the Diatessaron.21 In this earlier study, twenty-seven cases were listed of verbal agreement between the Syriac Gospel text and the OT Peshitta, against the Greek text of the Gospel, of which fourteen were judged to be particularly significant. A further nine cases were signaled in which the influence of the OT Peshitta is still visible in spite of interference by other factors, such as correction toward the Greek or influence from Gospel parallels. As was noted in this study, the majority of examples could, at a pinch, be explained as influence from the Hebrew Scriptures as well. In six cases, however, involving five different readings, the variant occurs in the OT Peshitta exclusively, and not in any Hebrew texts available today: Matt 4:6 ejpi; ceirw'n — sycs ˆwhy[Rd L[, “on their arms” (= Ps 91:12, OT Peshitta); MT !ypk l[, “on their palms.” Matt 24:29 kai; hJ selhvnh ouj dwvsei to; fevggo" aujth'" — sys hrhnw rhnn al arhsd , “the light of the moon will not shine” (= Isa 13:10, OT Peshitta); MT wrwa hygy al jryw, “and the moon will not shine its light.” Luke 4:11 ejpi; ceirw'n — syp ˆwhy[Rd L[, “on their arms”; cf. Matt 4:6 above. Luke 20:17 kefalh;n gwniva" — syc anynbd hcr, “the head of the building” (= Ps 118:22, OT Peshitta); MT hnp `ar, “head of the corner.”22

sions of Matthew: Syntactic Structure, Inner-Syriac Developments and Translation Technique (Studies in Semitic Languages and Linguistics 22; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 5–22. More recent arguments for the anteriority of the Old Syriac Gospels remain unconvincing; see, e.g., J. P. Lyon, Syriac Gospel Translations: A Comparison of the Language and Translation Method Used in the Old Syriac, the Diatessaron and the Peshitto (CSCO 548, Subs. 88; Leuven: Peeters, 1994). 21 Joosten, “Old Testament Quotations”; on p. 55, reference is made to a number of scholars who had observed OT Peshitta influence on the Old Syriac Gospels without treating the phenomenon exhaustively. 22 This is perhaps the most convincing example of all, since it probably involves a true variant reading: apparently the Syriac reflects a form of the root hnb (“to build”) instead of the MT’s hnp (“corner”). For the attestation of this reading in Western sources, see pp. 517–18 below.

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Journal of Biblical Literature Matt 1:23 kalevsousin — syc arqtn, “he will be called” (= Isa 7:14, OT Peshitta); MT tarqw, “and she (you?) will call.” Matt 3:3 th;n oJdo;n kurivou — sycs ayrml ajrwa, “the/a way for the Lord” (= Isa 40:3, OT Peshitta); MT hwhy ^rd, “the way of the Lord.”

This evidence establishes as clearly as one could wish the influence of the OT Peshitta on the OT quotations of the Old Syriac and Peshitta Gospels. One could argue, of course, that the text of the quotations underwent influence from both the Hebrew Scriptures and the OT Peshitta. But since the OT Peshitta explains all the cases listed, the less complicated hypothesis must prevail. The next step in the demonstration is more delicate. Where an OT Peshitta reading is found in the quotations, does it stem from the Old Syriac and Peshitta translators or from an earlier stage in the Syriac Gospel text—to wit, the Diatessaron? Three considerations favor the second possibility: 1. The visible evolution in the text of OT quotations in the Syriac Gospel tradition is that of movement from a text closer to the OT Peshitta toward an alignment with the Greek Gospel text. Indeed, the Old Syriac, the earlier version, has many more traces of OT Peshitta influence than the Peshitta, the later one.23 This evolution goes hand in hand with what we know about the Syriac church: it originated quite independently from western Christianity, and only little by little, from the third century onward, came under the influence of the Greek-speaking church and its institutions.24 While the influence of the local OT text on the NT is plausible at a relatively early period, with the passing of time it becomes more and more unthinkable. Since the Diatessaron is certainly earlier than the Old Syriac Gospels, it is reasonable to trace the process of OT Peshitta influence back to the older writing. 2. In a number of instances, the text of OT quotations in the Syriac Gospels is marked by harmonization. Twelve different passages show interference from a parallel passage. In every one of these cases, the harmonization is in accord with the OT Peshitta.25 This is a strong pointer to the Gospel harmony as the source of all these readings. 3. As has already been stated, the Peshitta Gospels contain fewer traces of the OT Peshitta text than do the Old Syriac Gospels. Nevertheless, in two passages the Peshitta Gospels show a reading influenced by the OT Peshitta that is

23

See Joosten, “Old Testament Quotations,” 69. See the recent survey in Ian Gillman and Hans-Joachim Klimkeit, Christians in Asia before 1500 (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon Press, 1999), 21–74. 25 See Joosten, “Old Testament Quotations,” 73–74. 24

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not attested in the Old Syriac.26 Since it is difficult to imagine that these readings were introduced by the Peshitta translators, they must derive from another source. The problem can be solved if we admit that the Peshitta Gospels rely independently on the Diatessaron:27 the OT Peshitta readings are part of the Tatianic heritage in the Peshitta Gospels. The material provided by the Old Syriac and Peshitta Gospels is fairly abundant. And in spite of the fact that these versions take the form of a tetraevangelion and not a harmony, they bear clear witness to Tatian’s use of the OT Peshitta. The Arabic and Persian Harmonies The only fully extant Eastern text of the Diatessaron is Ibn at-Tayyib’s Arabic translation (DArab), dating approximately to the eleventh century.28 This was made from a Syriac exemplar, whose text must already have been brought into line with that of the Peshitta Gospels.29 The Persian harmony (DPers) does not stand in a direct relationship to Tatian’s work.30 Its sequence is different and seems to go back to an independent effort at harmonizing the Gospels. Nevertheless, this text is considered to transmit many Tatianisms by virtue of its being based on a tetra-evangelion of the Old Syriac type, itself directly dependent on the Diatessaron.31 Since these two harmonies are late and considerably removed from the autograph, one does not expect them to give much help in retracing the sources of the original Diatessaron. Nevertheless, more than one interesting reading can be found in these texts. Thus, the variant “on their arms” instead of “on their hands” (Matt 4:6; Luke 4:11; see pp. 504–7 above), found in the Old Syriac in Matthew and in the Peshitta in Luke, occurs in both the Arabic and Persian harmonies. In other cases too, one or the other of these texts lends support to an OT Peshitta reading identified in the Old Syriac or Peshitta Gospels: Matt 1:23 kalevsousin — DPers sarà chiamato, cf. syc arqtn, “will be called” (= Isa 7:14, OT Peshitta, see above pp. 504–7). 26 27

Ibid., 69–70. This theory can also be defended on different grounds; see Joosten, Syriac Language,

17–21. 28 See A.-S. Marmardji, Diatessaron de Tatien (Beyrouth: Imprimerie Catholique, 1935); quotations from this text are given in Marmardji’s French translation. For the date and setting of this text, see Tjitze Baarda, “The Author of the Arabic Diatessaron,” in Tjitze Baarda, Early Transmission of the Words of Jesus (Amsterdam: VU Boekhandel, 1983), 207–49. 29 See Petersen, Tatian’s Diatessaron, 137–38 (with literature). 30 See Giuseppe Messina, Diatessaron Persiano (Rome: Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 1951); quotations are given according to Messina’s Italian translation. 31 See Petersen, Tatian’s Diatessaron, 259–63 (with literature).

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Journal of Biblical Literature Luke 3:4 eujqeiva" poiei'te ta;" trivbou" aujtou' — DArab “et redressez dans la plaine des sentiers pour notre Dieu”; cf. sypcs wxwrtw ˆhlal alybc atkqpb, “and straighten in the plain paths for our God” (= Isa 40:3, OT Peshitta). Luke 3:5 aiJ tracei' a i “the rough (roads)” — D Arab “l’endroit (makân) difficile”; cf. sypcs aqsk arta, “the difficult place” (= Isa 40:4, OT Peshitta). Matt 11:10; Luke 7:27; Mark 1:2 th;n oJdovn sou — DArab “la voie”; cf. syps in Luke ajrwa, “the way” (= Mal 3:1, OT Peshitta).

Two other cases, John 1:23 and Matt 21:16, will be signaled below in sections II and III respectively. In at least one instance, the Arabic harmony appears to have preserved an OT Peshitta–influenced reading that has left no trace in the Old Syriac or Peshitta Gospels:32 Matt 12:18 qhv s w — D Arab “j’ai mis”;33 cf. Isa 42:1, OT Peshitta tbhy, “I have set” (contrast sypcs Mysa, “I will set”). It has often been pointed out that the Arabic harmony, although generally poorer in Tatianic readings than the Old Syriac or Peshitta Gospels, may occasionally transmit such a reading uniquely. If this reading represents such a case, it is consonant with the hypothesis defended here. Conclusions A great deal of textual evidence in the Eastern tradition indicates that Tatian used the OT Peshitta extensively in his rendering of OT quotations. The influence of the OT Peshitta is too constant and too pervasive to be attributed to “later assimilation of Syriac Gospel scribes toward the OTP,” as proposed by Shedinger.34 The cumulative weight of readings taken from Ephrem’s Commentary, the Old Syriac and Peshitta Gospels, and the Arabic and Persian harmonies is hard to ignore. 32 Another possible case is the omission of gavr in Matt 2:6 (Mic 5:1) in DArab and DPers, with the OT Peshitta but against the Syriac versions of Matthew. The variant is very slight, however. 33 A variant reading in manuscript E of Marmardji’s edition has the imperfect tense, which is in agreement with the Greek text and Syriac versions of Matthew. 34 Shedinger, “Did Tatian,” 275. A comparison with the Coptic Gospels is instructive. The recent study of Luisier on OT quotations in the Coptic Gospel versions shows that influence of the OT text on the quotations is sporadic, detectable only for a handful of quotations and most often affecting only single manuscripts. See Philippe Luisier, Les citations vétéro-testamentaires dans les versions coptes des Évangiles (Geneva: P. Cramer, 1998), esp. 269.

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In particular, the Eastern evidence strongly supports the idea of OT Peshitta influence as opposed to the influence of the Hebrew Bible text. Naturally, the majority of the variants agree with the MT as well as with the OT Peshitta (and, more often than not, with the LXX). However, the fact that several readings diverge markedly from the MT, while agreeing with the OT Peshitta, shows that the source of all the variants is the Syriac version of the OT. The OT Peshitta is the only factor to which all the variants can be ascribed. Moreover, even where the textual alignment is not exclusive, the Syriac Gospel text often agrees verbally with the Syriac OT.35 The notion that Tatian, around 170 C.E., consulted the OT Peshitta is fully consonant with recent research on the date and setting of the Syriac OT itself. Combining several lines of argument, Michael Weitzman has tried to show that the Syriac translation was made during a period covering approximately the second half of the second century C.E., with the first books (Pentateuch) being translated around the year 150 C.E. in a purely Jewish milieu and the last (Chronicles) about fifty years later when the community had come into contact with Christian ideas and literature.36 Thus, although citations in the Diatessaron provide a specific terminus ad quem, they are only one indication among several for a second-century date of the OT Peshitta.37

II. Traces of the OT Peshitta in Eastern and Western Witnesses Although the Diatessaron was originally an Eastern, Syriac document, it has produced a numerous and variegated posterity, involving perhaps a dozen languages, in western Europe.38 Initially rather neglected, these Western witnesses are today considered by many to hold the key to the reconstruction of the original Diatessaron. The potential value of Western sources in Diatessaron research was first argued extensively by the Dutch scholar Daniël Plooij. In Plooij’s view, several texts in the Western tradition, foremost the Liège Diatessaron, go back to a lost 35

See Joosten, “Old Testament Quotations,” 70. See Weitzman, Syriac Version, esp. 248–59. See also Sebastian Brock, “The Peshitta Old Testament: Between Judaism and Christianity,” Cristianesimo nella Storia 19 (1998): 483–502; J. Joosten, “La Peshitta de l’Ancien Testament dans la recherche récente,” RHPR 76 (1996): 385–95. 37 See also the linguistic indications of an early date gathered in J. Joosten, “Materials for a Linguistic Approach to the Old Testament Peshitta,” Journal for the Aramaic Bible 1 (1999): 203–18, esp. 211–15. 38 See Petersen, Tatian’s Diatessaron, 463–89, for a full list of Western sources of the Diatessaron. 36

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Old Latin harmony, itself translated at an early date from a Syriac original.39 Plooij’s ideas had enormous impact and were accepted by most subsequent specialists of the Diatessaron, notably Anton Baumstark and Gilles Quispel. As these scholars realized, the Western sources may in certain cases provide independent confirmation of the Tatianic character of readings attested in the East. Since the Eastern and Western witnesses are unlikely to have influenced one another, variant readings found in both branches, but not in other texts, may be traced back to a common source, namely, the original Diatessaron. Building on these scholars’ work, William Petersen went one step further, arguing that a variant can be pronounced Tatianic with certainty only if it is attested in both Eastern and Western witnesses of the Diatessaron.40 Petersen’s methodological discussions undoubtedly constitute an important contribution to Diatessaron studies, and his own applications are an eloquent witness to the dependability of the criteria he formulates.41 Textual criticism is not, however, a field of study where ready-made recipes can be applied mechanically to good result. An obvious criticism of the doubleattestation criterion is that it may eliminate many bona fide Tatianisms that happen to be found only in one branch of Diatessaronic witnesses. Conversely, not all readings satisfying the criterion may automatically be considered to be Tatianic. Indeed, shared variants do not necessarily indicate dependence on a common source. Some variant readings, particularly readings smoothing or explaining the Gospel text, may have come into being independently in different sources.42 Other readings, especially of the “apocryphal” type, may have been transmitted to Western witnesses via Gospel commentaries and not via the textual transmission of the Diatessaron.43 A further question that needs to

39 See Daniël Plooij, A Primitive Text of the Diatessaron (Leyden: Sijthoff, 1923), and many subsequent publications listed and discussed by Petersen, Tatian’s Diatessaron, 170–95. 40 See William L. Petersen, “Romanos and the Diatessaron: Readings and Method,” NTS 29 (1983): 484–507. The full argument of Petersen is that, to be considered Tatianic, (1) a reading should be attested in Eastern and Western sources; (2) the reading should be unattested in other witnesses of the Gospel text; and (3) the sources containing the reading should belong to the same literary genre (i.e., the “Life of Jesus” genre). 41 See, e.g., the case studies in Petersen, Tatian’s Diatessaron, 378–424. 42 This phenomenon has been well described, under the term “polygenesis,” in a comparative study by Weitzman of versions of the OT; see Michael P. Weitzman, “Peshitta, Septuagint and Targum,” in VI Symposium Syriacum 1992 (ed. R. Lavenant; Orientalia Christiana Analecta 247; Rome: Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 1994) 51– 84. 43 See the important observations in J. Neville Birdsall, “The Sources of the Pepysian Harmony and its Links with the Diatessaron,” NTS 22 (1975–76): 215–23. According to Birdsall, all possible links between the Pepysian Harmony and the original Diatessaron are indirect: any trace of “Tatianism” in the Middle English harmony will have arrived there through the intermediary of medieval exegetical writings. A similar approach has recently been applied to the Liège Diates-

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be asked constantly is whether one is dealing with a true variant reading or merely with a pseudo-variant in reality reflecting the received text.44 The dangers involved may be illustrated by one of Shedinger’s test cases. In his discussion of Matt 15:4/Mark 7:10/Exod 21:17,45 Shedinger identifies the reading twvmn tmm, “dying he will die”—found in the Sinaiticus and Peshitta of Matthew and in the Sinaiticus of Mark—as Diatessaronic because it corresponds closely to the Old Latin reading morte morietur, “by death he will die.”46 Now this looks like a flawless application of Petersen’s rules: the reading is found in the East and in the West; ergo it goes back to Tatian. The problem with this approach is that twvmn tmm is an unexceptionable rendering of the Greek of Matthew and Mark, qanavtw/ teleutavtw. The use of the paronomastic infinitive in rendering this Greek phrase is quite natural in Syriac.47 The fact that the Peshitta in Mark reads twmvn atwvm, “death he will die,” does not indicate that this is the expected way of rendering the Greek.48 Although the phrase twmn tmm diverges from the Greek, owing to peculiarities of the Syriac language, one should not speak of a variant, let alone a Tatianism. The Old Latin reading identified as Tatianic is open to the same line of criticism. In other words, Shedinger’s case is built on sand. Similar reservations might be voiced with regard to Shedinger’s first example (Matt 4:6/Luke 4:11/Ps 91:2) and his third (Matt 13:35/Ps 78:2): the argument is built on very minute divergences from the Greek text that could well have arisen in the course of translating the Greek into other languages.49 In my view, Western corroboration is not always a necessary precondition for arguing Tatianic origin of a reading. Nevertheless, Western evidence, when it is forthcoming and strong enough to be of significance,50 provides indepen-

saron itself; see August den Hollander, Ulrich Schmid, “Middeleeuwse bronnen van het Luikse ‘Leven van Jezus,’” Queeste 6 (1999): 127–46. These authors show that many peculiar readings of DLiège are in fact attested in the medieval Glossa Ordinaria and in contemporary annotated Latin harmonies. 44 See Petersen, Tatian’s Diatessaron, 365–67. 45 Shedinger, “Did Tatian,” 274–75. 46 This reading does not agree with the OT Peshitta, a fact interpreted by Shedinger as supportive of his hypothesis that Tatian did not consult the Syriac version of the OT. See, however, the discussion of this passage on pp. 512–17 below. 47 A similar rendering of a similar Greek construction may be found elsewhere, e.g., in the Peshitta of Acts 5:28. 48 Rather, this phrase in the Peshitta of Mark reflects a tendency toward literalism in the Peshitta Gospels. For the whole question, see the chapter on translation technique in Joosten, Syriac Language, 153–79. 49 Shedinger’s second case involves an omission, while his fifth and last example (Mark 12:29/Deut 6:5), also an omission, is open to criticism because the alleged Diatessaronic variant is attested in several non-Diatessaronic witnesses, in violation of the very methodology he spells out. 50 A number of cases signaled in the literature have been excluded from this study as being

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dent confirmation. Tatianic use of the OT Peshitta can be argued convincingly on the basis of the Eastern texts alone. Western evidence supporting the hypothesis does exist, however, although much of it was overlooked in earlier surveys of the material.51 A List of Relevant Readings The following examples were isolated in the course of a collation of the OT quotations contained in the following texts:52 • The Middle Dutch Liège Diatessaron (DLiège) and manuscripts of the same textual family: the Cambridge (D Cant ), Haaren (D Haaren ), Hague (DHaag), Stuttgart (DStuttg) and Theodiscum (DTheod) harmonies.53 • The Middle Italian Venetian (DVen) and Tuscan (DTosc) harmonies.54

too slight: the passive “shall be called” instead of the impersonal “they shall call” in Matt 1:23 (see Tjitze Baarda, “The Gospel Text in the Biography of Rabbula,” VC 14 [1960]: 102–27, esp. 107); the addition of a preposition following “Rachel weeping” in Matt 2:18 (see Leloir, Folios additionnels [above, n. 16], XV); the singular “street” instead of the plural in Matt 12:19 (see Anton Baumstark, Die Vorlage des althochdeutschen Tatian [Cologne: Böhlau, 1964], 58); the addition of “first(-born)” in Luke 2:23 (see Petersen, “New Evidence,” 333–34). These readings have been attributed to the Diatessaron on the basis of Eastern and Western support, and they agree with the OT Peshitta—in one case, Matt 1:23, exclusively so (see pp. 504–7 above)—against the Greek Gospel text. Shedinger does not discuss any of them. 51 Serge Ruzer’s research into the OT quotations contained in the Old Syriac Gospels (“Biblical Quotations” [n. 5 above]) is very extensive, but the only Western source he uses in reconstructing the Diatessaron is the Latin Codex Fuldensis. This source contains no traces of OT Peshitta text. It is a matter of consensus among Diatessaron scholars, however, that the Codex Fuldensis has been thoroughly “vulgatized,” that is, purged of genuine Tatianic elements and brought into line with the Vulgate Gospel text. 52 Only quotations expressly designated by a formula such as “it is written” or “you have heard” have been included. Petersen’s third example of possible OT Peshitta influence on the Diatessaron, Luke 1:31 (“New Evidence,” 336–38), has not been discussed because it is not so introduced. Petersen’s only remaining example, the translation of “Ramah” in Matt 2:18 as “the height” (“New Evidence,” 334–36), has been excluded because it could, in Western sources, easily derive from contemporary exegetical writings (following Jerome). 53 The following editions have been used: Daniël Plooij et al., The Liège Diatessaron (Verhandelingen der Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen 31; Amsterdam: Noord-Hollandsche Uitgeversmaatschappij, 1929–70): this edition includes variant readings from the Hague and Stuttgart harmonies; C. C. de Bruin, Diatessaron Cantabrigiense (CSSN ser. minor, tome 1, vol. 3; Leiden: Brill, 1970); C. C. de Bruin, Diatessaron Haarense (CSSN ser. minor, tome 1, vol. 2; Leiden: Brill, 1970); Christoph Gerhardt, Das Leben Jhesu (CSSN ser. minor, tome 1, vol. 4; Leiden: Brill, 1970). 54 V. Todesco, A. Vaccari, M. Vattasso, eds., Il Diatessaron in volgare italiano (Studi e Testi 81; Vatican City: Tipografia Poliglotta, 1938).

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Other Western witnesses, such as the Latin Codex Fuldensis,55 the Old High German Codex Sangallensis,56 and the Middle English Pepysian Harmony57 have been checked as well, but no evidence will be taken from these sources in the present discussion.58 The quotations in the Western harmonies were checked against the Greek and Latin Gospel texts, using the available critical editions,59 against Eastern witnesses of the Diatessaron, and against the Hebrew, Greek, Syriac, and Latin OT. Matt 13:14 kai; blevponte" blevyete kai; ouj mh; i[dhte, “and seeing you shall see but you shall not perceive” Instead of “to perceive” (lit., “to see”), a number of Diatessaronic witnesses read the verb “to know”: DArab “. . . et ils regarderont de regard (avec attention) et ils ne sauront point.” syp ˆw[dt alw ˆwzjt azjmw “. . . and seeing you will see and you will not know.” DLiège eñ ghi selt sien en ghi eñ selt nit bekinnen dat ghi siet “. . . and ye shall see and ye shall not know that which ye see.”60 The variant ei[ d hte (“know”) is attested in one Greek manuscript of the Gospels, Codex Rossanensis (S 042) of the fifth to sixth century. It is unlikely that the reading in the Diatessaronic witnesses should reflect a Greek text preserved only in the Codex Rossanensis. The reading in this codex does remind us, however, that we may be dealing with itacistic variants. If we are dealing with a genuine Diatessaronic reading, its source is easily identified: the text of Isa 6:9 reads “to know” instead of “to see”: 55

E. Ranke, ed., Codex Fuldensis (Marburg/Leipzig: N. G. Elwert, 1868). E. Sievers, ed., Tatian: Lateinisch und altdeutsch (2d ed.; Bibliothek der ältesten deutschen Litteratur-Denkmäler 5; Paderborn, 1892). 57 M. Goates, The Pepysian Gospel Harmony (London: Oxford University Press, 1922). 58 Either these other sources were found not to contain any relevant variants (as was the case for the Codex Fuldensis and the Old High German harmony), or, in the case of the Pepysian Harmony, it was judged difficult, in view of its paraphrastic style, to identify variant readings with any measure of exactness. 59 The apparatuses in the following editions have been consulted: Hermann von Soden, Die Schriften des Neuen Testaments: II Teil, Text mit Apparat (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1913); S. C. E. Legg, Euangelium secundum Marcum (Oxford: Clarendon, 1935); S. C. E. Legg, Euangelium secundum Matthaeum (Oxford: Clarendon, 1940); The New Testament in Greek III: The Gospel according to Luke, Part 1, Chapters 1–12 (ed. American and British Committees of the International Greek New Testament Project; Oxford: Clarendon, 1984); Nestle-Aland, Novum Testamentum graece (27th ed.; Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 1993). 60 The same variant occurs in DTheod (. . . und ensülnt nit bekennen . . .). 56

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Journal of Biblical Literature MT w[dt law war warw, “and seeing see but do not know” OT Peshitta ˆw[dt alw azjm wzjw, “and seeing see but do not know” Vg et videte visonem et nolite cognoscere, “and see a vision and do not know”

The LXX text is the same as that quoted in the Greek of Matt 3:14, but a variant reading has ei[dhte instead of i[dhte. Matt 15:4/Mark 7:10 oJ kakologw'n patevra h] mhtevra qanavtw/ teleutavtw, “he who speaks evil of father or mother, let him surely die”61 Instead of “by death let him die,” Diatessaronic witnesses attest the reading “let him be killed.” syc Matt 15:4 lfqtn hmal wa yhwvbal ajxmd Nm, “he who reviles his father or his mother shall be killed” DVen chi maledirà lo pare o la mare fie morto, “who curses his father or his mother must be killed”62 This reading seems to be unattested elsewhere in the textual tradition of the Gospels. The passive form of the verb “to kill” corresponds to the Hebrew and Syriac text of Exod 21:17:63 MT tmwy twm wmaw wyba llqmw , “whoever curses his father or his mother shall surely be put to death” OT Peshitta lfqtn wlfqtm hmalw yhwvbal ajxnd, “who reviles his father or his mother shall surely be killed” 61 Instead of the present third person imperative teleutavtw, D, the Codex Bezae, reads teleuteitw, a form that is not clear to me. 62 This translation may need some justification. In Middle Italian, morire may function as a transitive verb meaning “to kill” (see S. Battaglia, Grande Dizionario della lingua italiana, vol. 10 MEE-MOTI [Turin: Unione Tipografico, 1978], 912). Several examples are provided by the Venetian harmony itself: Luke 13:1 (Todesco, 89) quilli i quali Pilato avea morti, “. . . those whom Pilate had killed”; Luke 15:27 (Todesco, 87) Tuo fradello è vegnudo et alli morto lo pare to un grasso vidello, “your brother has come and your father has killed a fatted calf for him.” The verb fir is used in this text to express the passive (e.g., fie fato, “might be done”; gloss, Todesco, 49, line 11, and passim). Exact parallels to the phrase in Matt 15:4 are found in the rendering of Matt 16:21 (Todesco, 82) el comenzò a dire ch’el fasea mestier che l’andasse en Yerusalem . . . e firave morto . . . , “he began to say that he must go to Jerusalem . . . and would be killed (ajpoktanqh'nai)”; of Luke 23:32 (Todesco, 153) fieva altresì menadi dui malvasi con siego a fir morti, “two criminals also were led away with him to be put to death (ajnaireqh'nai).” 63 The Curetonian Old Syriac and the Venetian harmony also agree in omitting an equivalent to qanavtw/. On this point they do not agree with the OT Peshitta.

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The LXX, however, and the Vulgate of Exod 21:17 agree with the received Gospel text in interpreting the phrase. Matt 21:42/Mark 12:10/Luke 20:17 liv q on o} n aj p edokiv m asan oiJ oijkodomou'nte" ou|to" ejgenhvqh eij" kefalh;n gwniva", “The stone which the builders rejected has become the head of the corner.” Instead of the expression “head of the corner,” a few texts in the Diatessaronic tradition speak of the “head of the building”: syc Luke 20:17 anynbd hcrl twh yh aynb wylsad apak,“The stone which the builders rejected has become the head of the building.” DHaag den steen den die wercklude verworpen, die is ghelacht in dat ouerste van den slotte, “The stone which the stonecutters rejected has been laid at the top of the castle.”64 This variant is not otherwise attested in witnesses of the Gospel text. It corresponds, however, to the OT Peshitta text of Ps 118:22: OT Peshitta anynbd hcrl twh yh aynb wylsad apak (= syc in Luke 20:17)65 The OT Peshitta diverges here from the MT: MT hnp `arl htyh !ynwbh wsam @ba, “The stone which the builders rejected has become the head of the corner.” The Septuagint and the Vulgate follow the MT. John 1:23 (ejgw;) fwnh; bow'nto" ejn th'/ ejrhvmw/ “(I am) the voice of one crying in the wilderness . . .”66 Instead of “the voice of one crying,” Diatessaronic witnesses read “a/the voice crying.” 64 The variant is signaled in Plooij’s edition of DLiège, p. 454. For the text of the verse in the Hague harmony I am indebted to the generosity of August den Hollander, who checked the manuscript. He also informed me that the reading in dat ouerste van den slotte is also found in an unpublished Berlin manuscript of the Middle Dutch Life of Jesus (Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Ms. germ. qu. 1091). 65 See above, pp. 504–7. 66 This verse from Isaiah is quoted in the same context in the Synoptic Gospels. It appears, nevertheless, that both John 1:23 and Luke 3:4–6 par. found a place in the Diatessaron. The Greek quoted in the Gospels is the LXX text throughout. The variant discussed in the text is found, in the Western harmonies, only in the passage corresponding to John 1:23. In Eastern sources it is also found in the other Gospel passage.

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Journal of Biblical Literature DArab “(Je suis) la voix qui crie dans le désert” DPers “(Io sono) la voce, che grida nel deserto” sypcs arbdmb arqd alq (ana), “(I am) a voice crying in the wilderness”67 DCant (Ic ben) ene stimme ropende inder wostinen “(I am) a voice crying in the desert”

This reading seems to be entirely unattested in the textual tradition of the Gospel of John.68 It agrees, however, as one of several possible renderings, with the text of Isa 40:3: MT rbdmb arwq lwq, “a voice crying in the wilderness” (or “a voice cries . . . ,” or “the voice of one crying,” or “hear someone crying . . .”) OT Peshitta arbdm arqd alq (= syscp) id. The Septuagint text is the one quoted in the Greek Gospels, and the Vulgate OT follows the Septuagint’s interpretation. John 1:23 eujquvnate th;n oJdo;n kurivou, “make straight the way of the Lord” Instead of “the way of the Lord,” a number of sources in the Diatessaronic tradition read “the way for the Lord”:69 syc ayrml ajrwa wnqt, “prepare the way for the Lord” DVen a prestare la via al Signore, “to prepare the way for the Lord” DTosc apparechiate la via al Signore, “prepare the way for the Lord”

67 Although this is certainly the most straightforward way to render the Syriac, the construction is in fact ambiguous; see Joosten, Syriac Language, 56. For that reason, the example was not included in the Textus article. The Arabic and Persian texts, however, are unequivocal. 68 It occurs, however, in the corresponding account—with Jesus substituted for John the Baptist—in the Gospel of Barnabas (see Lonsdale Ragg and Laura Ragg, The Gospel of Barnabas [Oxford: Clarendon, 1907], 96: io son una voce che chrida per tutta iudea, “I am a voice that crieth through all Judaea”); see n. 71 below. The author of the Gospel of Barnabas used a harmonized Gospel text closely related to, but not identical with, the Venetian harmony. See Jan Joosten, “Jésus et l’aveugle-né (Jn 9,1–34) dans l’Évangile de Barnabas et dans le Diatessaron,” RHPR 80 (2000): 359–69. 69 As in the earlier example involving John 1:23, this variant is found, in Western sources, only in this passage, while in Eastern sources it is also found in the passage corresponding to Luke 3:4 and parallels.

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The reading “for the Lord” is found in the Old Latin version in Mark 1:3 and Luke 3:4,70 and in quotations in Latin church fathers.71 The reading is that of the OT Peshitta in Isa 40:3, against the MT: OT Peshitta ayrml ajrwa wnp, “clear the way for the Lord” MT hwhy ^rd wnp, “prepare the way of the Lord” The Septuagint and the Vulgate72 follow the MT. John 6:31 a[rton ejk tou' oujranou' e[dwken aujtoi'" fagei'n, “He gave them bread from heaven to eat.” Several witnesses of the Diatessaron omit the expression “to eat”: DEphr (= sys) ˆwhl bhy aymc Nm amjl,“bread from heaven he gave to them” DTheod brot von himle sante in got zv, “bread from heaven God sent to them”73 The omission is not attested for any other Gospel manuscript. It corresponds to the text of Ps 78:24: MT wml @tn !ym` @gd, “bread of heaven he gave to them” OT Peshitta ˆwhl bhy aymc Nm amjlw (cf. DEphr, sys) LXX Ps 77:24 kai; a[rton oujranou' e[dwken aujtoi'" Vg (Iuxta hebraicum) et triticum caeli dedit eis Discussion Clearly, in the West we are on less certain terrain than in the East when it comes to analyzing the Diatessaron’s OT quotations. A mere six variant readings attesting possible influence of the OT Peshitta answer to the criterion of double attestation. And although care was taken not to include any trivial examples, the ones that were retained are hardly impressive enough to settle the matter once and for all.

70

See the Old Latin MSS a and c in Mark 1:3 and MS a in Luke 3:4. See also the Ragg and Ragg, Gospel of Barnabas, 96 (aparechiate la uia al nontio di DIO, “Prepare ye the way for the messenger of God”); see n. 68 above. 72 The reading parate viam Domino, “prepare the way for the Lord,” is found in two Spanish manuscripts of the Vulgate OT (C and S). 73 The omission also occurs in the Stuttgart, Haaren and Hague harmonies; in DLiège, however, the missing element (tetene, “to eat”) was supplied. 71

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Nonetheless, the strength of these readings, when taken as a group, is not to be belittled. They diverge from the received gospel text, both Greek and Latin; they are found only, or almost only,74 in Diatessaronic witnesses; and they are attested in the Eastern as well as in the Western branch of Diatessaronic texts. Attributing such agreements to chance, although possible in every individual case, is a strained explanation when it needs to be invoked repeatedly. How, then, are these agreements to be interpreted? Could it be that the Eastern and Western witnesses were influenced independently by local OT texts?75 This possibility cannot be excluded, but it is not very likely. To begin with, it would still ascribe the sixfold agreement to chance. More decisively, three of the six readings are not attested at all in the Vulgate OT (while a fourth is attested only in a few manuscripts). Obviously, these readings could not have been introduced in the Western harmonies under the influence of the local OT text. The most likely conclusion, therefore, is that these readings, attested by both branches of the Diatessaron’s textual tradition, do indeed go back to the original. In other words, the influence of the OT on the text of the quotations can be traced back to the original Diatessaron. If this conclusion is warranted, a further question must be: Which text exerted the influence? The examples listed tend to eliminate the LXX, which does not agree with at least four of them. The same may be said with regard to the Hebrew: the fact that two of the readings (Matt 21:42 par.; John 1:23, second instance) do not accord with the MT indicates that the latter is not the source of OT influence on the quotations. The OT Peshitta is the only source explaining all six of the examples listed. Again, it is theoretically possible that Tatian consulted several versions of the OT while composing his harmony, selecting this or that source according to his understanding of each context. Or different OT texts could have influenced the text of the Diatessaron at a very early stage. Such explanations are more complicated, however, and therefore less likely than the view that the OT quotations were brought in line with only one source. Thus, the small number of readings enjoying twofold attestation leads to the same conclusion drawn, more confidently, on the basis of the Eastern texts. 74 In a few cases, the reading is attested in Old Latin manuscripts. These have been included on the understanding that the Diatessaron may have influenced the Old Latin version at an early date; see Metzger, Early Versions, 329 with n. 3. 75 In an e-mail dated 27 January 2000, Dr. Ulrich Schmid pointed out to me how the influence of the Vulgate OT on the Western harmonies could have come about. In an unpublished Latin harmony of the Bodleian library (Ms Auct. D 1.8), the Gospel text corresponding to Matt 13:14 is given according to the Vulgate, as in the Codex Fuldensis, but in the margin is found the entire quotation of Isa 6:9–10 according to the Vulgate OT. A scribe translating the Latin harmony into a vernacular language could easily have let himself be influenced by such a marginal gloss.

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Tatian used the OT Peshitta, particularly in OT quotations, as one of the sources of his Gospel harmony. III. Traces of the OT Peshitta Attested Only in the West In addition to the material discussed above, the research undertaken for the present study turned up a type of reading that seems to have remained unnoticed in Diatessaron scholarship. More than once, the text of OT quotations in Western Gospel harmonies agrees with the OT Peshitta in readings not supported by Eastern sources. Where these readings also agree with other OT texts, such as the MT and the Vulgate, they do not contribute much to the discussion. Consider one example: Matt 4:16 oJ lao;" oJ kaqhvmeno" ejn skovtei, “the people who sat in darkness” Several harmonies in the Middle Dutch tradition read “walked” instead of “sat”: DTheod das folk das da wandelte in der finsternisse, “the people who walked in darkness”76 This reading is unattested in other witnesses of the Gospel text. It does not seem to occur in any Eastern Gospel texts. It agrees, however, with Isa 9:1: MT ^`jb !yklhh ![h, “the people who walked in darkness” LXX oJ lao;" oJ poreuovmeno" ejn skovtei, “the people who walked in darkness” OT Peshitta akcjb Nyklhmd am[, “the people who walked in darkness” Vg populus qui ambulabat in tenebris, “the people who walked in darkness” This variant could be explained as a trace of OT Peshitta influence on the original Diatessaron, a trace not preserved in the Eastern tradition. But one could argue just as well that it is nothing of the sort, but merely an instance attesting the influence of the Vulgate OT on a Western text. No general or particular arguments permit us to decide between these two explanations. A reading like this, therefore, does not afford evidence for or against the view advanced in the present study. 76

The same reading occurs in DHaaren and DCant.

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Journal of Biblical Literature Four other cases of this type have come to my attention: Matt 4:10/Luke 4:8 DVen om movnw/, cf. Deut 6:13 Matt 5:43 DVen, Liège, Theod read “friend” instead of “neighbor,” cf. Lev 19:18 Matt 8:17 DVen adds veracemente, “verily,” Isa 53:4 Matt 12:20 DTosc reads porrà, “he will set” instead of ejkbavlh/, “he will bring forth,” cf. Isa 42:4.77

These variants agree with the MT, the OT Peshitta, and the Vulgate OT of the text quoted against all NT authorities. They are unattested in the Eastern branch of Diatessaronic witnesses. The case is different, however, when a reading attested in Western sources agrees exclusively with the OT Peshitta. Such readings do give an argument in favor of the influence of the OT Peshitta on the original Diatessaron, even in the absence of Eastern support. The only alternative solution would be to suppose that the agreement is accidental. Matt 21:16 ejk stovmato" nhpivwn kai; qhlazovntwn kathrtivsw ai\non, “out of the mouth of babes and sucklings you have prepared praise” Several texts of the Middle Dutch family of witnesses add the second person singular possessive pronoun your praise: DTheod us dem mvnde der sugender kinder hastv erfült din lop, “out of the mouth of sucking children you have fulfilled your praise”78 The reading is not attested in Eastern sources. Note, however, that the Arabic harmony reads as follows: DArab “Des bouches des enfants et des nourrissons tu as perfectionné la louange de moi”79 The reading attested by DTheod is found in no other witnesses of the Gospel text. It agrees with the OT Peshitta, but not with the MT or other versions, of Ps 8:3: This reading is also found in the Old Latin version, MSS ff1 and q (ponat). The same reading is found in DStuttg and DHaag. 79 It is also possible, however, and perhaps preferable, to translate the latter part of the sentence “. . . I have perfected my praise.” The first person is found also in DPers “. . . feci lode” (“. . .I have made praise”). 77 78

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OT Peshitta Ktjwbct tnqt aylfdw amyl[d amwvp Nm, “from the mouth of youths and children you have established your praise”80 MT d[ tdsy !yqnwyw !yllw[ ypm, “from the mouth of babes and infants, you have founded a bulwark” Luke 4:18 pneu'ma kurivou ejp! ejme; ou| ei{neken e[crisevn me eujaggelivsasqai ptwcoi'", ajpevstalkevn me. . . , “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me . . .” In several texts of the Western Diatessaronic tradition, the order of the words “to preach good news” and “he has sent me” has been inverted: DTosc Lo spirito di Dio è sopra me; per la qual cosa egli m’a unto et àmmi mandato ad evangelizare a’ poveri . . . , “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me; wherefore he has anointed me and sent me to preach good news to the poor . . .”81 DLiège De gheest gods es in mi die mi heft bestreken met sire olien. eñ die mi heft gesendt te predekene den armen van gheeste . . . , “The Spirit of God is in me, who has anointed me with his oil, and who has sent me to preach to the poor of spirit . . .”82 To construe the infinitive eu[aggelivsasqai as the complement of the following ajpevstalken is a perfectly legitimate way to read the Greek. However, the actual inversion of word order attested in the Middle Italian and Middle Dutch harmonies does not occur in any other witness to the Gospel text. The essential agreement of the Dutch and Italian harmonies, against the Vulgate and other witnesses of the text of Luke 4:18, shows that the variant is not due to the freedom of a scribe or translator. This is a genuine Diatessaronic reading, albeit one attested only in the West. The variant word order is the one found in the Syriac version of Isa 61:1, against the MT and the other versions: OT Peshitta ynrdcw ayrm ynjcmd plj yl[ ahla ayrmd hjwr akykml rbsad, “The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the

80

A variant reading, attested only in late manuscripts of the OT Peshitta, omits the personal

suffix. The same sequence of elements is found in DVen. It is possible that te predekene corresponds not to eujaggelivsasqai but to khruvxai farther on in the verse. 81 82

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Journal of Biblical Literature Lord has anointed me and he has sent me to preach good news to the humble” MT ynjl` !ywn[ r`bl yta hwhy j`m @[y yl[ hwhy ynda jwr, “The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me to bring good tidings to the afflicted; he has sent me . . .”

Traces of the OT Peshitta in Western harmonies that are unattested in Eastern witnesses are not something one expects to find. Theoretically, however, the phenomenon is plausible. What has been called the “vulgatization” process—bringing the text of the Diatessaron into line with the local Gospel text and, ultimately, with the Greek textus receptus—affected the Eastern as well as the Western witnesses. A genuine Tatianic reading might be eliminated in the East but preserved in the West. Nothing prevents us, therefore, from adding these two examples to the evidence establishing Tatianic use of the OT Peshitta.

IV. Conclusions Two types of conclusion, factual and methodological, may be drawn from the preceding investigation. On the factual level, Tatianic use of the OT Peshitta has been established more strongly than before as a viable hypothesis. In the East, to all appearances the home ground of the Diatessaron, the earliest witnesses provide clear and abundant evidence in favor of this view. Ephrem’s Commentary and the early text of the separate Gospels show, each in its own way, that Tatian must have followed the OT Peshitta frequently in his rendering of OT quotations contained in the Gospel text. In later Eastern texts the imprint of the OT Peshitta on the quotations grows weaker, but it always remains present. The Western tradition, far from contradicting the Eastern evidence, actually lends support to it. A number of variants enjoying Western as well as Eastern support—the strongest type of proof in Diatessaronic studies—clearly point to the OT Peshitta as a source of influence on the original Diatessaron’s OT quotations. In addition, the Western sources contain a few readings not attested in the East that make such influence even more likely. This outcome is of more than passing interest. First, it tends to show that Tatian, when he composed his Gospel harmony, took account of the local textual tradition of the church to which his work was primarily addressed. This is a valuable sidelight on the creation of the Diatessaron, and one that might have further ramifications regarding other possible sources incorporated into the harmony. Second, as was remarked above, our conclusion ties in well with several other strands of research on the text of the early Syriac Bible and its historical background. Tatian’s bowing to the authority of the OT Peshitta tends to

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indicate that Syriac-speaking Christianity had received its OT text as part of a pre-Christian Jewish heritage, which at the end of the second century was still a much more important influence in the East than any of the literature of the Greek church.83 On the methodological level, two points emerge. To begin with, in an investigation of Tatian’s sources, Eastern, and particularly Syriac, witnesses of the Diatessaron take a certain measure of precedence. Variants occurring in Eastern texts, which partly preserve the language of the Diatessaron itself, naturally disappear in Western harmonies representing translations twice removed from the original. Where Western support can be had, it is precious, but lack of it should not be taken as decisive proof that a reading, or group of readings, is not Tatianic. This brings us to the second point: a group of readings attesting a tendency or editorial procedure is much stronger evidence than an individual variant. Collations, of course, provide single readings; but sometimes a number of readings appear to proceed from the same principle. The challenge to students of the Diatessaron will always be to reach beyond the single variant and grasp the literary, historical, or theological motivations guiding that elusive secondcentury figure, Tatian the Assyrian. 83

Additional literature on this can be found in the works quoted above in n. 36.

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CRITICAL NOTE NABAL AND HIS WINE

English Bibles offer two different types of translation of the clause lbnm @yyh taxb in 1 Sam 25:37. The NIV reads “when Nabal was sober,” while the NASB and NRSV translate as “when the wine had gone out of Nabal,” closely following the AV and ASV (“when the wine was gone out of Nabal”). Ancient versions show a similar range. The Vulgate renders the phrase in the pluperfect (cum digessisset vinum Nabal) and the LXX employs the aorist of eknhfein (“to become sober”). None of these options captures the Hebrew construction. For one thing, “become sober” interprets a more ambiguous Hebrew expression, masking the precise force of axy, which in the qal connotes movement outward. And for another, most translations make the clause temporally prior to the main verb, dgt. But the particle b with the infinitive construct, when it expresses a temporal relation, commonly denotes action simultaneous with the main verb (e.g., Gen 41:46; Josh 5:13).1 Hence, a preferable translation would be, “while the wine was going out from Nabal, his wife told him.”2 What does “the wine going out” mean? Even when they recognize the literal meaning of the expression, commentators suggest that this phrase means that Nabal has sobered up on the morning after his roaring drunk at the sheepshearing feast (vv. 2, 4, 36). Robert Alter comments that Abigail “catches him cold sober, and perhaps even with a painful hangover.”3 Others, more interestingly, point to the pun of Nabal with lb,ne (“wineskin”), thus suggesting that the wine “goes out of him” as out of a wineskin. As J. D. Levenson puts it, “the man is equated with his bladder.”4 Though Levenson does

1

GKC, 347–48. BDB says (p. 91) that sometimes the construction “has the force of after that . . . but as a rule this is really due to the action denoted by the inf. being treated as extending over a period within which the action of the principal verb takes place.” That this is not invariably the case is illustrated by the usage in Deut 27:4. 2 See the similar rendering of Everett Fox: “But it was at daybreak, when the wine was going out of Naval, that his wife reported those things to him” (Give Us A King! Samuel, Saul, and David: A New Translation of Samuel I and II [New York: Schocken, 1999], 127). 3 Robert Alter, The David Story: A Translation With Commentary of 1 and 2 Samuel (New York: Norton, 1999), 159. 4 J. D. Levenson, “1 Samuel 25 as Literature and History,” in Literary Interpretations of Biblical Narratives (ed. K. R. R. Gros Louis; Nashville: Abingdon, 1982), 2:227. Followed by Ronald Youngblood, 1, 2 Samuel (Expositor’s Bible Commentary; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1992), 3:762; Ralph W. Klein, 1 Samuel (WBC 10; Waco: Word, 1983), 252; Robert D. Bergen, 1, 2 Samuel (NAC; Nashville: Broadman & Holman, 1996), 252 n. 131. Fox expresses regret that he was not “able to use ‘vial’ in this context” (Give Us A King!). Joyce Baldwin and P. Kyle McCarter simply

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not say so, this suggests that Abigail tells Nabal about the encounter with David while he is emptying his bladder, that is, while he is urinating after a night of heavy drinking. I submit that this is what is meant by the phrase “while the wine was going out of Nabal.” This is not simply a vulgar detail, but an important contribution to the thematics of the story, in two particular ways. When David learns from his men of Nabal’s ungrateful and rude response to his request, he vows that Nabal’s house will be eliminated, every last “one that pisses against the wall” (v. 22; Hebrew ryqb @ytvm).5 Indeed, the phrase frames the entire encounter between David and Abigail (vv. 22, 34). In both cases David claims that he was planning to carry out his death sentence in the “morning.” The repetition of rqbh rwaAd[ in v. 34 and v. 36 makes it clear that the main “pisser” is Nabal himself: As David had threatened, he is no longer alive at morning light. This phrase is used only a few other times, always in contexts that refer to the complete desolation of a house, normally a royal house. Ahijah, the prophet of Shiloh, announces the destruction of the house of Jeroboam I with the threat that YHWH will “cut off from Jeroboam him who pisses against the wall” (ryqb @ytvm) and goes on to compare YHWH’s clearing of Jeroboam’s house to burning dung until it is consumed (Hebrew llgh r[by rvak, 1 Kgs 14:10). The same threat is pronounced twice against the house of Ahab (1 Kgs 21:21; 2 Kgs 9:8). Nabal, whose feasts are like the “feast of a king” (1 Sam 25:36), is in danger of facing a similar fate. The phrase also implies that the members of the house are no better than dogs, who urinate wherever they please.6 Nabal, similarly, is identified as a “Calebite” (v. 3), which in addition to denoting his ancestry punningly suggests that he is a “canine” (Hebrew “dog” is blk),7 so it is hardly surprising that he pisses on the wall. In 1 Sam 25, David’s use of this phrase not only expresses his anger at Nabal but is also perfectly appropriate to the situation. David and his men have provided a “wall” of protection around Nabal’s men (v. 16; Hebrew hmwj), but Nabal has treated David with disdain. He has pissed against a wall set up for his own protection. The phrase in v. 37 also adds to the parallelism between Nabal and Saul. Destroying all who “piss against the wall” is precisely what David has refused to do to Saul’s royal house. To Jonathan, he has sworn in YHWH’s name that he would not cut off Jonathan’s house (1 Sam 20:15), and in a moment of reconciliation he has renewed this promise to Saul himself (1 Sam 24:20–21). David makes these promises in spite of Saul’s continual hostility to him. David has been a wall and guardian to Saul (see 1 Sam 26:15), and Saul has continually pissed on him—seeking to kill him, pursuing him around the countryside, offering and then withdrawing his daughter as a bride, and so on. David’s anger at

ignore the phrase (Baldwin, 1 & 2 Samuel: An Introduction and Commentary [TOTC 8; Leicester: InterVarsity, 1988]; McCarter, 1 Samuel: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AB 8; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1980]). 5 Apart from the AV, English translations generally flinch at this phrase. “Male” (NASB) is a prudish avoidance of the phrase, and it is highly likely that David, an experienced military commander raging at an insult, would employ a vulgar expression at this moment. “Urinate” has too clinical a connotation. 6 Fittingly, canine royal houses will be devoured by dogs (1 Kgs 14:11; 21:24). 7 This pun is suggested by Youngblood and others.

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Nabal’s insult is thus set in sharp contrast to the tremendous restraint he has shown in his dealings with Saul. The suggestion that Nabal is an “alter ego” of Saul is a commonplace in the interpretation of this chapter,8 and the timing of Abigail’s announcement to her husband and his subsequent stroke ironically reinforces the analogy. Just a chapter before, Saul enters a cave to “cover his feet” (wylgrAta ^shl), a euphemism for defecation (1 Sam 24:3[4]). David approaches Saul, but does not strike him, despite his vulnerability. So also, in ch. 25, David begins to attack Nabal but is restrained by Abigail’s intervention. Abigail tells her husband what has taken place while he is urinating, and his heart dies and later YHWH strikes him. David does not strike Saul, and the Nabal episode vindicates his restraint: he no more needs to strike the dog Saul than the dog Nabal; YHWH himself can be depended on to “cut off all who piss against the wall,” and give the crown to David. Peter J. Leithart [email protected] New St. Andrews College, Moscow, ID 83843 8 See Baldwin, 1 & 2 Samuel, 147; Bergen, 1, 2 Samuel, 251–52; Youngblood, 1, 2 Samuel, 752; and especially Moshe Garsiel, The First Book of Samuel: A Literary Study of Comparative Structures, Analogies and Parallels (Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1990), 129–130.

JBL 120/3 (2001) 529–595

BOOK REVIEWS

Book reviews are also published online at the Society of Biblical Literature’s WWW site: http://www.bookreviews.org. For a list of books received by the Journal, see http://www.bookreviews.org/books-received.html

The Pentateuch: A Social Science Commentary, by John Van Seters. Trajectories 1. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999. Pp. 233. £16.95; $28.00 (paper)/£45.00; $79.00 (cloth). The first volume in this new Trajectories series is—unlike the subtitle may lead one to believe—nothing like an ordinary commentary. The series does not aim to be a verse-by-verse commentary nor a thematic- or synthetic-oriented handbook. Trajectories aims to explore the texts of the OT as sociohistorical artifacts and focuses on the interests of the groups who produced the texts and the cultural forces that may have influenced their production. The underlying assumption of the present volume is that the interpretation of the Pentateuch has to begin with its compositional history. The reconstruction of the compositional history of the various literary strata of the Pentateuch and their sociohistorical context is preceded by a short introduction dealing with the canonization of the Pentateuch, an outline of the Pentateuch as a whole, and a brief discussion of the problems it presents. The third chapter offers a survey of the historical-critical research on the Pentateuch in the late nineteenth and the twentieth century. The discussion is limited to those aspects of the research that are necessary to understand the current situation in pentateuchal studies. Van Seters deals with the rise of the Documentary Hypothesis to Wellhausen (De Wette, Reuss, Graf, Kuenen), the problems of the sources (the unity, nature, and extent of J; the existence of E; the nature and unity of P and its relation to D; the problem of redactors), the rise of form criticism (Gunkel) and tradition history (Alt, Noth, von Rad), and a critique of these approaches. A separate paragraph is devoted to the American scene and the Albright-Cross school. The survey of the traditional trends within the historical-critical research on the Pentateuch is followed by a discussion of the new currents in pentateuchal criticism. This fourth chapter deals with the contributions by Van Seters, Schmid, and Rendtorff that changed the direction of pentateuchal studies in the mid-seventies. Subsequent paragraphs evaluate the problems presented by tradition-historical and form-critical approaches with a special emphasis on the ques-

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tions of literacy and orality. The contention that the prose narrative of the Pentateuch does not necessarily reflect a long period of oral transmission, but may rather have been influenced by the oral style of storytelling and popular folklore throughout its compositional history, is basic to Van Seters’s view of the composition of the Pentateuch. The chapter concludes with a discussion of the problem with P (date, unity, source or supplement, conclusion) and the final redactor of the Pentateuch. The presentation of the materials that deal with the traditional trends and new currents in the historical-critical research of the Pentateuch in two separate chapters, each followed by a critique of the various approaches involved, has unfortunately resulted in a fair amount of repetition which might otherwise have been avoided. The following chapters deal with compositional history and the social setting of Deuteronomy (ch. 5), the work of the Yahwist (ch. 6), and the contributions of the Priestly writer (ch. 7). The order of the individual chapters reflects Van Seters’s views on the genesis of the Pentateuch discussed in detail in his previous books: Abraham in History and Tradition (1975), In Search of History (1983), Prologue to History (1992), and The Life of Moses (1994). At the beginning of the compositional history of the Pentateuch stands the core of Deuteronomy. This was used in the early exilic period as introduction to a larger historical work that comprised Joshua, Judges, Samuel, and Kings (Dtr History). In the late exilic period the Yahwist expanded this work by a history of the origin of the people from creation to the death of Moses (Genesis–Numbers). In the postexilic period the combined work was in turn revised by the Priestly writer, who added his own distinctive material and ideological interests. The three or four phases do not represent an evolution of religious ideas. The work of J nevertheless often takes a middle position between D and P and shows the impact of the exile upon the theology of J as compared to D. J reflects a diaspora religion before the restoration of the temple, the cult, and the priesthood so strongly advocated by P. The transformation of the lay theology presented by J is the main objective of P. The three chapters discuss successively the literary form and structure, compositional history, and social context of the component parts of the Pentateuch. Deuteronomy is considered as a reform program that had its origins in the northern kingdom and came south in the late eighth century B.C.E. The program did not take hold in the southern kingdom, however, before the decline of the Assyrian power in the late seventh century. Deuteronomy is modeled after the Assyrian vassal treaty and loyalty oath tradition of the seventh century, in which the absolute loyalty for the Assyrian king is transferred to YHWH (cf. especially Deut 13). The social context of Deuteronomy is illustrated by the discussion of a selection of themes that are characteristic of the book and the reform movement that endorsed it: centralization of worship, monolatry/monotheism, the promised land, election and covenant, Moses as model prophet, holy war/ purity of the land, and brotherhood. The work of the Yahwist is considered as an “antiquarian history” known from the ancient world. In the primeval history J drew upon traditions from the Eastern Mediterranean region and Babylonia. The incorporation of the “eastern” material into the “western” traditions, which may have been native to the general region of the Levant, is the work of J and fits best in the time of the Babylonian exile. In the patriarchal history, J could fall back on a series of earlier traditions that he expanded by the creation of paral-

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lel accounts (cf. Gen 12, 20, 26) and the incorporation of popular folkloristic motifs. The patriarchal history from Abraham to Joseph as constructed by J reflects the political and geographical reality of the late exilic period. The history of the origin of the people forges a new identity for Israel, one that is ethnic instead of national. In the story of Moses in Exodus–Numbers, J did not incorporate earlier traditions. The story was created with the help of the parallel accounts in the Dtr History (Deut 1–3) and popular folkloristic motifs. The historical and social context of the exodus story may be found in the exile, where the horizon of Israelite theology and ideology was opened up to a more universal perspective. The themes in the work of J that are especially appropriate for the exilic period include divine forgiveness, divine presence after the destruction of the temple, and the role of Moses as intercessor. The revision of the work of the Yahwist and the Dtr History by the Priestly writer stems from the concerns in the Second Temple period in the fifth and fourth centuries B.C.E. P inserts a series of etiologies that pursue the restoration of the priestly authority and ideology and may be the work of reform priests from Babylonia who were supported by the Persian administration. The themes in P that are related to this new historical and social setting include identity and covenant, the promised land and the settlement of the tribes, the tabernacle and the “glory” of YHWH. In the work of P the national identity of Deuteronomy and ethnic identity of J give way to a new cultic-religious identity of the congregation. An identity that is based on ethnicity and at the same time on choice reflects the experience of the diaspora situation. The emphasis on the settlement of the tribes (Josh 13–22) fits the situation under Ezra (fourth century) in which Judah and Joseph (Samaria) were long settled in their regions and the resettlement of the peripheral regions by “Israelites” from the diaspora was an issue. The relationship of the law codes incorporated in these component parts of the Pentateuch is discussed in a separate chapter (ch. 8). In line with his previous treatment of D, J, and P, Van Seters argues that the laws in the Deuteronomy Code (Deut 12–26) are presupposed by the Holiness Code (Lev 17–26) and the Covenant Code (Exod 20:22–23:33). The sequence of law codes represents a process of collection and revision that extends from the late monarchic period through the exile and reflects both lay and priestly perspectives. The humanitarian concerns and the ideal of brotherhood in the Deuteronomic Code reflect ideas of the eighth-century prophets. The centralization of worship (Deut 12) reflects the reform of Josiah, whereas the law of the king (Deut 17:14–20) may stem from the time after the demise of the Judahite monarchy. The Holiness Code is a response to Deuteronomy from a priestly perspective that shares many viewpoints with Ezekiel. In the Holiness Code the law made the transition from the Judahite homeland to Babylonia. The Covenant Code is formulated to regulate life in the Jewish community of the Babylonian exile. Unlike the former codes, the laws in P cannot be separated easily from their narrative context. The priestly law, which is not simply a repository of priestly tradition or a manual of practice, is augmented to the traditional materials as an interpretative expansion. After the reestablishment of the temple cult in the Persian period the Priestly Code tries to elevate the priesthood to supreme political and religious authority over against other forms of political leadership. Students and novices may find Van Seters’s social science commentary a useful introduction or guidebook to the history of Pentateuchal research in general and his

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own contributions to the field in particular. The presentation of his own argument clearly benefits from the decision to begin the literary analysis of the Pentateuch with Deuteronomy. The position that Deuteronomy occupies in Tetrateuch, Pentateuch, and Hexateuch is decisive for the way the book is related to the subsequent Dtr History and the supposed Dtn elements within the Tetrateuch. The strength of Van Seters’s views on the genesis of the Pentateuch may, however, be perceived in Joshua rather than in Deuteronomy. In the days in which it was common to talk about a Hexateuch, it was quite acceptable to trace JE and P traditions in Joshua. Since a clear separation has been made between the Tetrateuch and the Dtr History, this has become a problem. Texts that show a clear link with one of the Pentateuchal sources can no longer be seen as the original continuation of these sources. Once J is accepted as a post-Dtr author, the presence of these elements in Joshua is put into a new perspective. As author of the preP materials in Genesis–Numbers, J was also the editor who joined his work to the existing DtrH with a series of editorial notes in Joshua. The work of P, which is no longer understood as an independent source, but as a revision, can likewise be traced in a series of editorial additions in Genesis–Numbers and Joshua. The position of Deuteronomy in the grand design, on the other hand, remains unclear. The rare presence of J and especially P in Deuteronomy does not necessarily come as a surprise. J presented his work as a “prologue” to the DtrH, whereas P found himself in discussion with J and, therefore, limited his additions to Deuteronomy to an absolute minimum. The absence of a final redactor of the Pentateuch in Deuteronomy, however, does come as a surprise. Van Seters admittedly argues that the Pentateuch does not have a final form, as the division at the end of Deuteronomy was not based upon literary considerations. Even though these considerations actually eliminate the need for a final redactor of the Pentateuch from the outset, one is left with the question whether the formation of the Torah was indeed the result of such a mechanical process. Jan A. Wagenaar St. Janshovenstraat 105, 3572 RB, Utrecht, Netherlands

Studien zur Literaturgeschichte des Alten Testaments, by Otto Kaiser. FB 90. Würzburg: Echter Verlag, 2000. Pp. 249. DM 48.00. This book is a collection of articles written by one of the most influential European scholars of the last generation, when it comes to historical criticism of the OT. His Einleitung, which appeared for the first time in 1969, has been widely read at theological institutions all over Europe. The book being reviewed here stands in the same tradition, dealing with the origin-history of the Pentateuch and the Dtr History, but also aiming at a comprehensive presentation of the “canonical” character of the OT. The concluding article is one about the ethos of the interpreter. A majority of the articles have been published before (the oldest one in 1988), but two of them appear for the first time. The first article is on “the literary history of the O.T.” It is a reprint from Theologische Realenzyklopädie. Thus, the reason for its being republished here is probably its contribution to the synthesis of the book rather than an issue of accessibility in the

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libraries. The article basically reflects European scholarship. Following this is an article on the Pentateuch and the Dtr History (previously unpublished) that presents the state of the art in redaction criticism. Both articles are encyclopedic in scope. Kaiser’s points of orientation are, first, the hypotheses of M. Noth and J. Wellhausen, and, second, the existence of five different textual levels in the Pentateuch (pp. 71–72): a P and a J level whose endings are controversial; an E level that appears between Gen 20 and Exod 24 as added comments; an independent law code D that governs Joshua–2 Kings and is reflected in redactional additions in Genesis–Numbers; and post-P and post-D texts belonging to the final redaction of the Pentateuch. These claims are subject to further qualifications at the end of his survey. As for J and the Yahwist, Kaiser pleads for a study of “die historische Tiefe der prä- und protojahvistischen Texte” and a detailed distinction between “der redaktionelle Anteil des Jahvisten und den nachfolgenden Redaktionen bis hin zum Endredaktor” and possible later additions (p. 116). In this, Kaiser is much more in line with E. Blum and C. Levin than with J. Van Seters, whose “grandiose Vereinfachung der Befunde” in Exodus–Numbers (according to Kaiser evidently different stages of the patriarchal promises, some of which are pre-Dtr, p. 101), as well as in the Dtr History, both fascinates and irritates the author (p. 103). J thus appears as a redactor-author and theologian (possibly even a “school,” p. 115; see also p. 131). Kaiser states that the E texts result from different authors; some are prior to and independent of J (e.g., Gen 20; 21:9ff., and the Reuben version of the Joseph story); others are redactional additions (Exod 3). Kaiser thus finds serious obstacles to the theory of a continuous E source (p. 109). On the other hand, Kaiser concedes that there are good arguments for regarding P as originally independent. Referring to those who do not find any P source in “the death of Moses,” he regards this case as settled (p. 112). He also thinks (with E. Zenger) that P might have ended at Lev 9:24. The third article is also previously unpublished. This is a discussion in dialogue with J. Van Seters on the relation between the so-called Court History of David (the Succession Narrative) and DtrH. The article is a continuation of and a comment on an earlier article by Kaiser on the same texts, published in 1988 and reprinted in this volume (pp. 165–82). While Van Seters claims that the Court History is a post-Dtr, antiroyal addition to the history of David from postexilic times (the Court History has been added to the DtrH as an antilegitimation story), Kaiser argues for the hypothesis of a pro-dynastic, pre-Dtr reworking (“Bearbeitung”) of an even older Court History. This revision Kaiser finds in 2 Sam 18:10–14 (p. 145); 20:4–13 (p. 146); 1 Kgs 1:36ff., 46–48 (p. 149); 2:1–2, 5–9, 31b–34, 44–45 (see also pp. 163, 174ff.): they appear as “prodynastische Fortschreibungen” related to the Joseph story, the Yahwist (who did not come from the time of Solomon), and the wisdom literature. An extensive presentation of the different redactional layers and their relative ages appears in the conclusion. Where Van Seters sees literary irony and mockery of the dynasty, Kaiser finds defense, justification, or at least wisdom’s ambiguity and nemesis (pp. 139, 181). Both positions, however, need further justification based on more elaborate literary tools. This is particularly so with Van Seters’s characterizations. It is clear that Kaiser’s study differs from Van Seters’s approach not only in the results but also in principles of method, which Kaiser indicates several times (see, e.g., pp. 144, 167, 154). Basically, Kaiser does not explain the tensions and repetitions by

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assuming different traditions used by one single composer (which would allow for substantial tensions within one single work, see p. 144), but by applying redaction-historical theories of redactional additions and harmonizations to indices of tensions and changes of language and concepts (“Nachträgliche Bearbeitung,” “Redaktionsprozeß,” p. 170). The criteria of source criticism are convincing insofar as one accepts the overall hypothesis of a redactional layer that attempts to justify Solomon’s executions of his adversaries (esp. Joab). Kaiser has succeeded in presenting a model that explains a number of observations in the text. To those who do not accept this hypothesis, though, the arguments of tensions, doublets, and language (see pp. 154ff.) appear much more dubious. As arguments for the continuing relevance of traditional source-critical criteria, Kaiser refers to the work of J. Tigay (Empirical Models [Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985]), the doublets of Exod 3 and 6, and the internal tensions in Exod 3 as “model cases” (p. 143). Neither the reference to Tigay nor the cases of Exod 3 and 6, however, suffice as methodological arguments against the views of, e.g., J. Van Seters. As for Exod 3, the indices of textual growth do not necessarily result in a redaction history of the kind demonstrated by Kaiser. The next article about David and Jonathan (pp. 183ff.) continues in the same vein. Searching for the historical background of the traditions, Kaiser attempts to distinguish between fiction and truth (“Dichtung und Wahrheit, sagenhafte Ausgestaltung und historischer Grundstein,” p. 183), between an original, preredactional text and secondary redaction. Kaiser first delineates the texts (in 1 Sam 16; 18; 19; 20; and 21:1a) belonging to the primary story of David’s rise (p. 191). Redaction starts in 16:1ff. and includes, among others, 18:12–16, 28–29a; 19:10b–17. Both the original text and the redaction, which contrasts David and Saul in order to emphazise David’s righteousness and God’s assistance, are pre-Dtr (contra J. Van Seters, p. 192). The Dtr additions did not change the text in any substantial way. Finally, Kaiser seeks the historical nucleus, which he finds only in the fact that there once existed a David–Jonathan friendship (“das Daß dieser Freundschaft”). Thus, this series of articles, so far, claim (contra Van Seters) that there once existed both a pre-Dtr story about David and a pre-Dtr and pro-dynastic redaction. On pp. 200–217, Kaiser presents his method of “tendency criticism.” This method, which appears as a synthesis (Zusammenspiel) of “all exegetical steps” (p. 217) in a quest for original and secondary elements in the prophetic literature, enables the exegete to seek for reliable (abgesicherte, p. 217) results even in very difficult cases with respect to their literary character. This conclusion is based on exemplary studies of Isa 31:1–3 and 30:6–17. Even the article on “The Law as Center of the Hebrew Bible” (pp. 218–29) is based on redaction criticism. His basic contention is that the Dtr editors reinterpreted the prophets as preachers of obedience to the law, thus making this the canonical interpretation of all the prophetic books of the Bible. The concluding and most recent article (pp. 230–47, first published 1997) is about hermeneutics. Following basically E. D. Hirsch’s distinction between meaning and significance, he defines meaning as what was intended by the author (pp. 233ff.): “Daß dieser Textsinn von einem Autor intendiert ist, sollte eigentlich eine Selbstverständ-

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lichkeit sein.” Kaiser seems to equate the exegetical quest for “meaning” with conversation in everyday life in which the language system “prinzipiell hinreichend ist, erscheinende Wirklichkeit angemessen zu repräsentieren.” This distinction between meaning and significance has been subject to serious theoretical objections (see, e.g., S. Fish’s criticism of W. Iser in Diacritics 1981:2–13). This also applies to Kaiser’s claim that the exegete make explicit when s/he moves from Textsinn to seine eigene Textdeutung. This collection of earlier and previously unpublished articles appears (with a possible exception of the final one) as a stimulating presentation of Kaiser’s historical-critical quest for original texts, redactional additions, and historical nuclei, in the historical and prophetic biblical books. Even scholars who find Kaiser’s redaction-historical confidence in “tensions,” differences in language, form, and “tendency” somewhat problematic, will certainly have to deal with his arguments and observations. Kaare Berge The Norwegian Teacher Academy, N-5035 Bergen, Norway

Exodus 1–18, by George W. Coats. FOTL 2A. Grand Rapids/Cambridge, UK: Eerdmans, 1999. Pp. xiv + 178. $24.00/£ 15.99. Coats’s volume appears in the commentary series “The Forms of the Old Testament Literature,” edited for Eerdmans Publishing Company by Rolf P. Knierim and Gene M. Tucker. This series, as the title implies, emphasizes the form-critical aspects of the text, highlighting the dynamic interplay between the typical forms of different genres and the particular circumstances of specific biblical texts in which the genres are employed. The individuality of each text is seen to derive not only from the perspectives of the person(s) who composed the text, but also from the specific societal settings that influenced the text as it was formed. Coats analyzes each block of text in terms of both genre and setting. Throughout his commentary, Coats outlines the various layers of structuring within the text of Exod 1–18, both at the macro and at the micro level. At the micro level, Coats pays close attention to the details of genre analysis. Such analysis is placed, however, within his discussion of the broader structure of larger units of text. For example, in treating Exod 3:1–4:18, he discusses a number of genres and formulae used there, such as vocation account, speech, commission, self-revelation formula, assistance formula, etc. However, these are then placed within the broader, more encompassing structure of 3:1–4:18 (see his detailed outline on pp. 34–35), which itself is understood within the still broader structure of the Exodus Saga of 1:1–13:16 (see pp. 3–12), and of the even broader Moses Saga (Exod 1:15–Deut 34:12; see pp. 12–17). Coats also looks at Exod 1–18 within the macro-structure of P (pp. 17–18) and within the macro-structure of J (pp. 18–20). Thus, Coats’s analysis ranges from very close attention to detail, as, for example, on p. 54, where his analysis divides 6:14 into six individual points on his outline, to the broadest possible sweep of structure in the Pentateuch. Coats’s strength comes when he presents mid-range structures and macro-structures interwoven in Exod 1–18; his analysis of micro-structures at times runs the risk of atomizing the text, as when his outline of Exod 7:7–10:29 runs on for seven pages (60–66)!

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While Coats’s careful attention to broader structural analysis is to be commended, close analysis of the smaller, genre-related patterns he presents reveals the need to take into account yet another societal setting in form-critical analysis—the scholar’s own. Any attempt to discern structure in as detailed and rigorous a manner as Coats does will inevitably draw the scholar’s own modern perspective/societal setting into the analysis, and his attempt to single out each tiny element within a specific genre runs the risk of forcing the text into pre-conceived molds and leaving it fragmented. Elements of Coats’s discussion of the Song of the Sea in 15:1–19 may serve as an example. In analyzing vv. 1–3, Coats describes vv. 2–3 as an “interlude [emphasis mine] of hymnic praise,” and assesses them as “problematic” (p. 118). His assessment focuses primarily on the movement between v. 1 and v. 2 from a “declaration about God’s victory at the sea” to a more general “ascription of praise to God,” and from a first person perspective in v. 2 to “no evidence of the first-person construction” in v. 3, which thus “may be isolated from the context as a foreign element” (pp. 118–19). Here Coats is clearly too preoccupied with modern standards of literary consistency and integrity. Such transitions are not all that unusual in ancient Hebrew poetry, even though they may seem awkward to some modern ears. Rather than pointing to the weaving together of stylistically different pieces or sources, such transitions can instead point to the compositional freedom and creativity of ancient Israelite writers/editors, who clearly were not bound by what we today consider to be “appropriate” standards of literary unity and integrity. In this regard, one may compare the other lengthy victory song in the OT, the Song of Deborah (Judg 5), which freely changes person and focus in its first several verses. The point is that while detailed analysis of the structure of the text, such as Coats has provided, can provide insight to the reader, such analysis also runs the risk of unduly subdividing the text, as is often done in source-critical and form-critical scholarship, and it therefore runs the additional risk of preempting the new reader’s own initial, intuitive response to the text, which may, if left to its own devices, resonate with the nuances of ancient Hebrew imagery, style, and structure. Extensive bibliographies are provided in Coats’s introductory chapter and at the end of each major unit of text. Despite the obvious value of this resource, there are problems. When Coats references a particular scholarly work, at times he only provides the name of the scholar, with no specific page numbers. This forces the reader to rummage extensively in order to pinpoint a specific discussion by a particular scholar, especially when a volume or a more lengthy article is referenced. At times it is difficult to find any bibliographic reference as, for example, when McCarthy is cited on p. 51 and Boecker is cited on p. 52, but neither is listed in the bibliography accompanying this section. The reader is left to wander the volume scouring the various sectional bibliographies. Furthermore, it was many years before his initial draft, first submitted in 1972 (revised in 1977 and in 1984), could be completed, edited, and published. Thus, the bibliographies that Coats himself assembled years ago are extensive, but they only go to approximately the early 1980s. The editors have provided addenda to Coats’s bibliographies in an attempt to update them, but the entries in these are, unfortunately, on the whole quite sparse. Such difficulties, and other minor points, such as Coats’s failure to compare the Song of Miriam in 15:21 with the almost identical words of 15:1b, or his failure to suggest a possible purpose for placing the circumcision narrative of 4:24–26 in its current context,

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detract some from the usefulness of the volume. Nevertheless, Coats’s skill in presenting a detailed and thoughtful form-critical analysis of Exod 1–18, done in the context of an extensive discussion of the broader structural layers of these chapters, makes this volume a helpful tool. The twenty-eight-page glossary at the end of the volume has a very useful introduction and provides a helpful description of the numerous narrative genres and formulae Coats uses to discuss the text. The genre names are highlighted throughout the book in block letters for ease of reader reference. A bibliography accompanying the glossary would have been helpful for those readers wanting to pursue particular aspects of narrative genre in more depth. It is unfortunate that this book could not have been published in 1972, when its first draft was submitted to the publisher. It fits better in the context of scholarship as it was being done at that time. Yet Coats’s careful attention to form-critical matters and his extensive treatment of the broader structures within Exod 1–18 will present many new insights to the reader. Alan J. Hauser Appalachian State University, Boone, NC 28608

Society and the Promise to David: The Reception History of 2 Samuel 7:1–17, by William M. Schniedewind. New York: Oxford University Press, 1999. Pp. x + 229. $35.00 (cloth). Using reception theory (emphasizing the reader’s setting over the author’s intention), this book traces the history of interpretation of the promise to David “from the inception of the Hebrew monarchy until the dawn of Christianity” (p. 1). Six “moments” in this history of reception are treated in the six chapters that comprise the essence of the book. (1) The first is the origin of the promise at the beginning of the Israelite monarchy. Schniedewind argues that the promise began in Solomon’s reign as the ideological underpinning necessary for the existence of an Israelite state. It existed initially in oral form and was written down some time before the eighth century when Isaiah shows dependance on it. 2 Samuel 7:1–17 juxtaposes two originally independent oracles (vv. 4–7 and 8–16) that were combined at a pre-Dtr level. The only sign of Dtr editing is in v. 13a. Other early texts exhibit acquaintance with the promise to David in oral form and thus share a thematic relationship with 2 Sam 7:1–17: 1 Kgs 8:12–13 and Pss 89:3–18; 132:1–18. (2) A second moment of reception was the urbanization of Jerusalem under Hezekiah following the demise of the northern kingdom at the end of the eighth century. The relevant texts again share thematic content with the promise but still do not cite it. These texts include: (a) a proto-Dtr History written under Hezekiah that can be perceived in the regnal formulae and in passages such as 1 Kgs 12:19; 17:20–21 but has been so thoroughly rewritten that it can no longer be recovered; (b) the messianic prophecies in Isa 7–11; (c) Amos 9:11–15; (d) Hosea’s critique of northern kingship; and (e) Ps 78:67–72 and Ps 2. At this stage the promise to David was seen as vindication of the Davidic dynasty in Judah and as a blueprint for the restoration of the United Monarchy. (3) The third moment was Josiah’s seventh-century reforming reign represented in

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the Josianic edition of the Dtr History and in Ps 89:19–37 [MT 20–38]. The reform was a backlash, during which the promise was redirected away from the dynasty and toward the temple in the form of the Dtn name theology. (4) The fourth moment, the Babylonian exile, forced a radical reinterpretation of the promise. It was conditionalized and democratized so as to apply to Israel at large, and this was accompanied by a new universalization of Yahweh’s domain. These new interpretations are found especially in the exilic edition of the Dtr History (Dtr2, esp. 1 Kgs 8:22–53), Ps 89:38–51, and 2 Isaiah (esp. 55:3–11 and 66:1; Schniedewind sees Isa 36–66 as a single, supplementary redactional stage). (5) In the Persian period the books of Haggai, Zechariah, and Ezra-Nehemiah promoted the rebuilding of the temple on the basis of the promise to David. Chronicles used the promise to build an apology for the temple that responded to those who resisted or were apathetic toward the rebuilding. (6) Finally, a variety of interpretations of the Davidic promise are attested in the last three centuries B.C.E. In the Alexandrian Greek (LXXB) translation of 2 Sam 7 the temple becomes central while the dynasty and kingdom are suppressed. At Qumran, eschatological messianism emerges with an expectation for two messiahs, one priestly and one royal, in response to Hasmonean rule. This is an impressive work of erudition, not least for the range of historical and literary material (both primary and secondary) that it covers. Schniedewind is to be complimented on his careful consideration of historical, sociological, and archaeological data in portraying the context of the different moments he treats. His approach in trying to reconstruct the typological development behind the evolution of the interpretation of the Davidic promise is admirable. His work reflects an openness to recent issues raised by scholarship that is refreshing. He takes seriously, for instance, the issue of the development of literacy in ancient Israel. To a large extent, however, this typology is dependent on his understanding of the authorship and date of several key texts. It is this dimension of his work that is most open to criticism. Schniedewind anticipates such criticism in the disclaimer that he is primarily advocating a method of study and only defends his reconstructions of particular historical moments up to a point (pp. 15–16). But given the reliance of the reception history traced in the book upon Schniedewind’s own reconstructions, it is not clear that approach and results can be so cleanly separated. 2 Samuel 7 itself is the best example. Surprisingly, Schniedewind does not deal at all with the lists of Dtr terminology in the chapter presented by M. Weinfeld and F. M. Cross. Yet this is a crucial issue. If this kind of linguistic evidence is not meaningful, as Schniedewind’s inattentiveness implies, then the entire theory of the Dtr History is uncertain, and Schniedewind’s reconstruction is thrown off track. On the other hand, if 2 Sam 7 is as thoroughly Dtr as these lists indicate, then the first recorded version of the promise is Dtr, and this completely alters Schniedewind’s typology. (Schniedewind’s contention that eighth-century prophets are dependent on the promise is assumed rather than demonstrated; even Schniedewind admits that no direct literary relationship can be shown.) The settings assigned by Schniedewind to certain other texts (e.g., his dating of Amos 9 and his division of the book of Isaiah) will raise eyebrows as well. There is a certain circularity in Schniedewind’s approach. The early date of the

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Davidic promise is already determined by Schniedewind’s assumption that it fills the need for a royal ideology upon which the state is founded. If such an ideology is really a requirement for state formation, the promise seems a poor candidate to fit that bill. It obviously was not accepted by the north. (What was the comparable ideology for the Israelite monarchy?) And Judah’s real emergence as an independent state does not take place in some ways until the eighth century, as Schniedewind’s own treatment suggests. Hence, Mowinckel’s etiological explanation of the promise—that it accounts for the endurance of the Davidic dynasty—remains viable. There are other details about which one might quarrel, but even readers who disagree with Schniedewind’s overall typology may still find reading this book stimulating. Schniedewind makes a number of intriguing and sometimes provocative observations (e.g., that Hezekiah named his son Manasseh as part of his effort to attract northerners). The book is eminently readable, if somewhat marred by rather frequent typos (especially unfortunate are the misspellings of the names of Iain Provan and John Van Seters). Readers should also be warned that the index is not entirely reliable; the names of Sara Japhet and Gary Knoppers occur without page references. Despite such minor flaws the book will reward its reader and merits a positive reception. Steven L. McKenzie Rhodes College, Memphis, TN 38112

Sennacherib’s Campaign to Judah: New Studies, by William R. Gallagher. Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East 18. Leiden: Brill, 1999. Pp. xvii + 313. $92.00. William Gallagher’s book, a thoroughly revised version of his dissertation written at the University of Vienna under the direction of the Assyriologist Hermann Hunger and the OT scholar Georg Sauer, is divided into two main parts. In the first two chapters he discusses Isa 21:1–22:14; 10:5–19; and 14:4b–21 to establish their historical background. In the second part of the book he examines Assyrian and biblical sources for Sennacherib’s third campaign, primarily Sennacherib’s inscriptions and 2 Kgs 18:13–19:37 // Isa 36–37. In the introduction he discusses his methodology in a brief but compelling fashion. He argues that Sennacherib only made one campaign to Judah, and that the Assyrian and biblical sources concerning it are largely reliable, producing a fairly coherent picture of the war. His discussion of the historical background of Isa 21–22 is particularly impressive. After listing the reasons why a sixth-century date for Isa 21:1–10 is dubious and pointing out the weaknesses in the main positive arguments for this dating, he argues for an eighth-century date, connecting the oracle to Assyria’s defeat of Elam and Babylon in the battle of Kish in 704 B.C.E. This defeat was bad news for Judah, because with the fall of their Babylonian allies, the way was open for Assyria to turn west and attack Judah. Gallagher also argues, convincingly in my opinion, that Isa 22:1–14 should be associated with the same battle of Kish. Those who fled the open battle were not the Judeans, but the princes of Babylon, yet the implication of this disaster was the ultimate destruction

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of Judah (v. 4), since Judah was relying on Babylon to keep the Assyrians at bay. This oracle was probably composed slightly later than Isa 21:1–10, perhaps early in 703 B.C.E., when more details of the battle reached Jerusalem. Gallagher also thinks that the oracle elevating Eliaqim at the expense of Shebna (Isa 22:15–25) dates to this general period, sometime before Sennacherib marched on Jerusalem, and that the oracle against Tyre (Isa 23) dates just a little later still, perhaps in 701 B.C.E. after the Assyrians reached Tyre. In chapter 2 Gallagher argues that the oracle in Isa 10:5–19 contains an authentic report of Assyrian propaganda independent of the speeches of the rab-shaqeh in 2 Kgs 18:19–35 // Isa 36:4–20, and that Isa 14:4b–21 was originally composed as a taunt against Sargon at the time that the report of his death in battle reached Jerusalem. Both positions are well argued and generally convincing, though not all of Gallagher’s discussion is equally compelling. His desire to defend the unity of Isa 10:5–19 for the sake of dating the whole section to 701 B.C.E. leads to a dubious exegetical move. Though vv. 16–19 are often considered secondary, Gallagher argues that they are original or at the very least fit Sennacherib’s reign well. As proof that this is so, Gallagher points to Sennacherib’s boasting of planting parks and garden lands, so “it was appropriate for the prophet to predict that his forest and garden-land would be consumed by the fire of the Holy One of Israel . . .” (p. 87). But that move seems to presuppose that the text is referring to actual trees. Gallagher does not even discuss the possibility that the prophet may merely be using tree imagery as a metaphor for the Assyrian troops. If Isaiah is indulging in his well-attested penchant for using agricultural imagery to refer to human populations, it is not immediately apparent that any king’s horticultural pursuits are germane to the interpretation of this passage, much less critical to its dating. One might still be able to refurbish Gallagher’s argument, but it would require a much more sophisticated and nuanced presentation to be convincing. One of the main contributions in the second half of the book is a highly detailed discussion of the Assyrian use of propaganda in their military campaigns, particularly as it relates to the speeches of the rab-shaqeh. Gallagher does a good job of amassing the relevant Assyrian texts, but he also breaks new ground by a fascinating and detailed comparison of this material with the Allied and German propaganda from World War II. The end result is a convincing argument for the basic historicity of both speeches of the rab-shaqeh. Against the widespread opinion that dismisses the historicity of the so-called B account (2 Kgs 18:17–19:37), Gallagher argues that much of it accurately records the events of 701 B.C.E., including the death of many Assyrians, presumably as a result of disease in their camp. The argument for plague is not based on the Herodotus account, but on an intelligent discussion of the ancient sources about plague together with more recent treatments of the impact of disease on military effectiveness. On the other hand, Gallagher identifies two items as historically false: the number of Assyrians reported slain by the angel of the Lord is much too high and the reference to Taharqa as “king of Cush” is anachronistic for the year 701 B.C.E.. In this whole discussion, Gallagher leans over backwards to be fair to opposing points of view, to acknowledge weaknesses and uncertainties in his own position, and to identify issues that remain unresolvable given the sources presently available.

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Thus, despite occasional exegetical lapses and some remaining stylistic traces of its origin as a doctoral dissertation, Gallagher’s book is a well-balanced treatment of both the Assyriological and biblical material concerning Sennacherib’s campaign to Judah. It is full of stimulating, insightful, and convincing observations that no serious historian or commentator on Isaiah can afford to ignore. As a commentator on Isaiah, this reviewer has not read a more helpful book in quite a long time. J. J. M. Roberts Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, N.J. 08542

“Sonne der Gerechtigkeit”: Studien zur Solarisierung der Jahwe-Religion im Lichte von Psalm 72, by Martin Arneth. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für Altorientische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte 1. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2000. Pp. ix + 244. DM 98.00. In this book Arneth is not interested in whether Yahweh is related to the ubiquitous sun-deities in any of their ancient Near Eastern variations and adaptations (Šamaš in Mesopotamia [masc.]; Šapšu in Canaan [fem.]; Re in Egypt), or in examining solar motifs within popular Israelite religion per se. Based on a dissertation directed by Otto Eckart, this monograph begins rather with Ps 72 and proceeds exegetically to explore the breadth and depth of solar Leitwörten animating explicitly Yahwistic theological discourse within the OT. The book’s goal is to prove that in addition to the rejection of Assyrian solar religion (2 Kgs 23:11), “there is also a positive reception of Assyrian Šamaš-ideas with anti-Assyrian intentions” in late-eighth-century Yahwism (p. 17). In carefully constructed arguments, Arneth moves from close textual analysis to insightful literary analysis to exhaustive comparative analysis, focusing mostly on Hebraic and neoAssyrian sources. Arneth reminds us that previous approaches to this sensitive question tend to oscillate between two poles. J. Morgenstern, for example (“The Gates of Righteousness,” HUCA 6 [1929]: 1–37), posits a full-blown sun-cult behind OT solar language, and tries even to prove that the Jerusalem temple, because of its east–west orientation, is a solar cult-site. Subsequent scholarship has been quick to dismiss such theories, though not so quickly the Bible’s unavoidable solar rhetoric, particularly as it is enunciated in the Psalms (Pss 19:5–7; 72:5, 17; 84:12; 104:2–3). Thus the question remains: How did this language get here and how does it function? With H.-P. Stähli (Solare Elemente im Jahweglauben des Alten Testaments [OBO 66; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1985], 28–39), Arneth agrees that there are two “lines of Old Testament tradition” on this matter—one “deuteronomistic” and the other characterized by “problemless, positive acceptance of solar elements” (pp. 5, 201). Without denying the importance of the first, Arneth chooses to investigate the second, discovering (with Stähli) that within it one finds two primary roles enacted by Yahweh: “righteous judge” and “compassionate healer.” Since the same two themes appear in the solar language of the coronation literature of Israel’s neighbors (particularly Assyria), the bulk of the study asks whether Hebrew tradents from this second “line” have not deliberately and intentionally adopted and subordinated these traditional solar roles to

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Israel’s God, their purpose being to enhance Yahweh’s regal reputation at a difficult moment in Judahite history. To answer this question, Arneth begins with a thorough textual analysis and proceeds to a rigorous literary analysis of Ps 72. Whereas previous scholarly opinion tends to view the psalm as unstructured and randomly repetitive (e.g., Gunkel), Arneth sees a highly developed ABB'A' structure in vv. 9–11, symmetrically sandwiched between two chiasms: Frame (vv. 3, 11) Konkretion A (vv. 4, 12–14) Center (vv. 5, 15) Konkretion B (vv. 6, 16–17a) Frame (vv. 7, 17b). Since similar chiasms appear also in Old Babylonian (Codex Hammurabi) and neoAssyrian sources (particularly in the Assurbanipal coronation literature), the poetic juxtapositions of “fertility,” “justice,” “judgment,” and “cosmic/sun-moon” motifs in Ps 72 seem neither accidental nor unprecedented. In my opinion, Arneth is to be applauded for successfully positioning Ps 72 within this plausible sociohistorical matrix. Where the book is less successful is in its insistence on a (written?) “neuassyrische Vorlage” behind Ps 72 (pp. 78, 111). It is one thing to point out the many close and fascinating structural similarities between Ps 72 and the Neo-Assyrian coronation literature; it is quite another simply to posit direct literary dependence. Here Arneth seems more than a little swayed by the predisposition of some Assyriologists who, in Parpola’s words, see “the origins of ancient philosophy” as something that “emerges with full clarity only from the Assyrian evidence” (Assyrian Prophecies [State Archives of Assyria 9; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1997], xvi). More recent biblical scholarship has become quite cautious about such dependence, and for good reason—we lack solid textual evidence for positing such theories. M. Cogan, for example (“Judah under Assyrian Hegemony: A Reexamination of Imperialism and Religion,” JBL 112 [1993]: 403–14), reexamines the evidence for Assyrian cultic innovations during the reigns of Ahaz and Manasseh, concluding that they are not forcefully imposed by Assyria but voluntarily adopted by these Judean vassals of Assyria. No Assyrian records or biblical evidence suggests that conquered peoples are required to worship the gods of Assyria. Whether Assyrian influence on Syro-Palestinian religious culture is as strong as its political influence is a question Arneth (following H. Spieckermann, Juda unter Assur in der Sargonidenzeit [FRLANT 129; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982]) wants biblical scholars to reexamine. This pro-Assyrian predisposition colors the book’s otherwise flawless literary analysis. For example, when political themes in the neo-Assyrian texts display clear parallels with the material in Ps 72, Arneth still chooses to excise them as “secondary” and relegate them to an “Ergänzung” stratum in this psalm (p. 72). Why can there not be purely “political” elements within the core stratum of Ps 72 just as there are in the coronation literature (like SAA III, 11)? Why limit the influence only to “religious” (read: solar) themes? This arbitrary limitation serves only to cast doubt on whether one can ascertain, from such an approach, the precise “time of composition and place within a few years”

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for Ps 72 (p. 54). The ideological/chronological tail, in other words, appears to wag the theological dog a few times in this book. But only a few times. In his conclusion, Arneth concedes the possibility of solar ideology and solar worship in Syria-Palestine as early as “Jebusite Jerusalem,” though he strongly cautions against facile hypothetical reconstructions of what it might look like. The fact remains that by the time of Hezekiah, one finds strong iconographical (the lmlk stamps) and onomastic evidence (e.g., Beth Shemesh) for solar imagery and language. Why the “sudden” appearance? What Arneth proposes is that just as the Assyrian vassal treaties of Esarhaddon appear to exercise enormous influence on the (re)construction of the curse formulae in Hebraic Yahwism (following H. Steymans, Deuteronomium 28 und die adê zur Thronfolgeregelung Asarhaddons [OBO 145; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1995]), so also the Neo-Assyrian coronation literature (particularly SAA III, 11) appears to exercise a goodly amount of influence on the Hebraic coronation literature, particularly Ps 72. Precisely how much influence, of course, remains a matter of debate, but a debate much better informed now because of Arneth’s careful, wellwritten, and welcome contribution. Michael S. Moore Fuller Theological Seminary Southwest, Phoenix, AZ 85034

Psalm 119: The Exaltation of Torah, by David Noel Freedman. Biblical and Judaic Studies from the University of California, San Diego 6. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1999. Pp. vii + 94. $19.50 (cloth). The artificial and laboriously overdone style of Ps 119 has contributed to a lack of close reading of the psalm and to a negligence of the importance of its content. David Noel Freedman has attempted to rectify both counts of the present situation in his new book that analyzes both the macro- and micro-structures of the psalm and draws theological conclusions. He believes that the psalm, when given close and careful attention, bears the marks of an incredible and intricate balance and detailed artistry. Freedman’s book seeks to demonstrate that a detailed analysis of the structure of Ps 119 in relation to the other acrostic psalms in the Psalter shows that Ps 119 is a magnificently prepared and balanced psalm in praise of tôrâ. His method bears strongly on his past work in Hebrew poetry and on his particular method of analyzing Hebrew meter on the basis of syllable counting. His method also reflects his belief that the Scriptures were prepared and compiled with an awareness of the canonical structure and with careful attention to quantitative balance. The book is divided into four chapters, the two middle of which have appeared earlier as an essay and article. Chapter 1 analyzes the phenomenon of alphabetic acrostic psalms. Freedman attempts to show that the eight acrostic psalms (Pss 9/10, 25, 34, 37, 111, 112, 119, and 145) are structured and arranged in an intentional way such that each psalm is paired with another and the structure of the group leads to a conclusion or quantitative summation in Ps 119. Chapters 2 and 3 are the heart of the book and provide the structural analysis for Ps 119. Chapter 2 focuses on the form and occurrence of

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the eight key words—tôrâ and its seven synonyms. Freedman concludes in this chapter that the eight key words are distributed throughout the psalm so that, while there is little consistency in the distribution from line to line or stanza to stanza, the larger context of the psalm reveals an incredibly detailed and balanced work. Chapter 3 shifts the focus to the meter of the psalm. Freedman begins with the famous statement by Eusebius that the Song of Moses (Deut 32) and Ps 119 are in heroic meter consisting of hexameters with sixteen syllables. After presenting the intricacies of his metrical counting system, Freedman concludes that while there are too many variations in the meter to agree with Eusebius, the larger structure of the psalm reveals that on average the numbers given by Eusebius are accurate. In addition, the variations in line length seem to be arranged so that long lines are paired with shorter lines with a resulting overall balance in meter. Chapter 4 is a brief theological conclusion. In it Freedman discusses tôrâ as apotheosis in the same way that wisdom has been so considered in Proverbs. Based on the theology of the psalm, Freedman offers a setting for it during the time of Ezra or Nehemiah. Freedman’s apotheosis of tôrâ is supported by much of the work done in the past decade on the book of Psalms. Particularly, J. Clinton McCann in his A Theological Introduction to the Book of Psalms (Nashville: Abingdon, 1993) presents the Psalms as a book of instruction, and James L. Mays discusses the issue in his commentary and, more to the point, in “The Place of the Torah-Psalms in the Psalter” (JBL 106 [1987]: 10–12). One facet of the work of these two that is latent but vital in the work of Freedman is the concept of the unity of the Psalter. Freedman assumes throughout his work that the writer of Ps 119 had access to the other acrostic psalms contained in the Psalter, that they existed for him in their present canonical forms, and that he is working with the knowledge or assumption that they are part of a closed body of collected works. Whether or not Freedman would state it quite that way, these seem to be implied but necessary premises or conclusions. There is one shortcoming and one objection to Freedman’s work. The shortcoming is the lack of interaction with other work in the field. This is easily explained, however, by the originality of Freedman’s work, but is also a sign that this type of analysis is not being done beyond Freedman and some of his followers. It will be left to others to see, first, if Freedman’s analysis has relevance in the discussion of Hebrew meter done in the broader field, and second, whether an analysis of Ps 119 using other methods would yield similar, supportive, or at least non-contradictory results. One will not find that interaction in Freedman’s book, however. The objection is over the lack of a firm methodological principle that precedes the work. This failure leads to a wavering level of credibility or relevance of the evidence presented. For example, when Freedman attempts to show the importance of the number 8 in biblical numerology, thus demonstrating that it is significant that there are eight acrostic psalms in the Psalter, his evidence is (1) that Ps 119 has eight-line stanzas, and (2) that the prophetic corpus is arranged into an eightfold structure, four books in the Former Prophets and four in the Latter Prophets (pp. 1–2). While there is certainly other evidence that could be marshaled to give weight to this numerological principle, Freedman does not give any. The evidence provided is hardly convincing. In another case, the significance given to the results of the analysis seems forced. When Freedman

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discovers that there are either 176 or 177 keywords in Ps 119, depending on the textcritical analysis, the result has significance either way (p. 78). The sense is created that whatever the result of the counting, a meaningful result can be drawn that shows the overall balance of the work. One gets the sense that there are no methodological guides or restraints before the analysis is done, but that the methodology is created as the analysis unfolds. Despite these objections, Freedman’s work has much to offer. His close analysis of the acrostic psalms is a boon for anyone doing further work in these psalms. His many tables and lists provide helpful visual means for assimilating what otherwise would be highly confusing data. This work also provides an introduction, albeit a crash course, to certain features of Hebrew metrical studies and Freedman’s particular contribution to that field of study. Freedman is to be commended for the furtherance of his methodology and for the additional example of its fruit. It is refreshing to see a theological conclusion to what is essentially a structural study. The state of OT theology will be enhanced by more work that is focused on moving from careful exegesis to theological insights. It should also be noted that, although Freedman has been referenced throughout this review as the author, credit should be given to Jeffrey C. Geoghegan and Andrew Welch, listed as coauthors, and to Miriam Sherman, whose assistance was noted in the final chapter. J. Todd Borger Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, Louisville, KY 40280

Proverbs, by Roland E. Murphy. WBC 22. Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1998. Pp. lxxvi + 306. $34.99. Murphy points out that in the history of the interpretation of Proverbs, commentaries on the entire book were rare and that one tended to find scattered remarks on various proverbs and a definite preference for certain passages, such as Prov 31:10–31. This commentary does much to counter the traditional dearth of commentaries on the book of Proverbs and is to be welcomed as a valuable addition to the corpus. Murphy provides an interesting, fresh translation of the book of Proverbs, which is printed in full at the beginning of the book as well as in the various sections on which detailed commentary on both linguistic and exegetical concerns is made. He advocates a literal translation of proverbial sentences to get across the “staccato effect of the Hebrew” (p. xxiv) and the “earthiness” of proverbial language. He thus prefers to bring out the difficulty of passages rather than following the more usual approach of biblical translators in which, he writes, “[t]he rhythm and the deliberate density of the Hebrew [are] flattened out for the sake of clarity” (p. 253). He thus brings out the abruptness of the juxtaposition of two halves of proverbial sentences. He writes, “It is a difficult translation for the purpose of enabling the reader to enter more fully into the pungency, and often the mystery, of a proverb” (p. 253). He also makes no concessions to inclusive language, seeing an inclusive translation as similarly detracting from the purity of a literal translation. This approach has its merits—it does bring out a rawness in the original

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proverbial formulations which is very instructive. However, drawing out the elliptical phraseology of difficult passages and hence providing an unclear translation does seem to me to have its problems, given that the overall purpose of translation is to render something intelligible in another language. Murphy defends his views in his excursus on translation, one of a number of very useful excursuses that bring out wider issues on which he does not dwell in the main body of the commentary. In his introduction Murphy describes the book of Proverbs as a “collection of collections” with Prov 1–9 forming an introduction, added later to the rest of the book. He thus makes a simple division between chs. 1–9, which he sees as primarily postexilic, although older material may be contained therein, and chs. 10-31, which he regards as preexilic. He is cagey on the question of context, airing the various possibilities of oral transmission, family roots, school tradition, international influence, scribal schools, court schools and so on, but finally arguing that too much concentration on this unsolvable issue has detracted scholars from more essential tasks in relation to the book. He writes, “Hypothetical views on the origins, growth, and nature of Israelite wisdom abound to the neglect of sober analysis of what the biblical wisdom books intend to say” (p. xxvii). In the main body of the commentary he is reluctant to discuss contextual issues and his form/structure/setting sections have a tendency to be brief. He does make the useful point that proverbs are open to many settings in that they are and were constantly reapplied. One of the interesting features of the commentary is the large number of excursuses, in which the author has a chance to air broader issues. There is an excursus on the importance of the theme of speech and communication in Proverbs, in which he brings out the interesting observation that organs of the body (e.g., mouth, lips, tongue) often indicate speech, and also “heart,” the seat of understanding and ultimately of the formation of moral character. He discusses in another excursus the wealth and poverty theme that has been of interest in recent scholarly discussion—in fact a strength of this commentary is its engagement with recent scholarship on Proverbs (the one notable exception being Whybray’s NCB commentary, which is not discussed or listed). He points out the wisdom writers’ concern for the poor and for kind treatment of them and argues that proverbial wisdom is not inimical to the prophetic worldview. This comes out in his excursus on theology, in which he stresses that the ethical insights of Proverbs are not in conflict with the prophets and cites the position of A. D. Ernst that the sages’ views on cultic worship were taken up by the eighth-century prophets. He is against an overemphasis on the act-consequence relationship and the primacy of order in wisdom—as discussed in his excursus on retribution and mentioned in the excursus on international wisdom in connection with the Egyptian concept of Ma’at. He wishes, rather, to draw out the contradictions found within the proverbial collections and emphasizes that disorder was seen as a real possibility. He exhorts us not to belittle and oversimplify the sages’ contribution. There are also excursuses on the centrality of the concept of fear of the Lord, on woman wisdom and folly, in which he starts treading on political ground in relation to feminist hermeneutics (p. 286), and on the Amenemope parallel with Prov 22:17–23:11. In his discussion of the theology of Proverbs he discusses the problem of the integration of wisdom with other parts of OT theology and makes the profound comment that in biblical wisdom “a dialogue with Divinity takes place essentially through

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human experience and creation” (p. 272). He is an admirable advocate for the cause of integration of the wisdom worldview (against scholars such as H. D. Preuss), even suggesting that it may be Yahwism that was fitted into a broader worldview rather than the other way around. He writes, “I am tempted simply to turn the picture around and view wisdom as a basic attitude toward God and the world in which the people of Israel lived, and to it Yahwism has been added (and rightfully so)” (p. 273). He calls for Proverbs and wisdom generally to be allowed to regain their authority within the canon. This commentary makes some important inroads into confirming wisdom’s depth, profundity, and theological contribution in its “fountainhead” document, Proverbs. It will be of considerable use to scholars, teachers, church leaders, and students alike and represents a culmination of a lifetime’s work on wisdom from a highly respected expert on the subject. Katharine J. Dell Faculty of Divinity, University of Cambridge, West Rd., Cambridge CB3 9DP, UK

Das Buch Baruch, Der Brief des Jeremia, Zusätze zu Ester und Daniel, by O. H. Steck, R. G. Kratz, and I. Kottsieper. ATDA 5. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998. Pp. 328. DM 72.00. The Alte Testament Deutsch series has long produced strong commentaries on the books of the OT. Recently the series has extended its reach into the Apocrypha. The present book is the fifth planned volume in that effort. Odil Hannes Steck prepared the section on Baruch. He notes at the outset that there has been little commentary-level interest in Baruch over the last century, and that when it has received attention the judgment has always been much the same: Baruch is little more than a pastiche of OT quotations and as such stimulates little interest among its readers and commentators. Making a virtue of what many take to be Baruch’s most unappealing characteristic, Steck asks what the reason might have been for this aggressive use of the biblical tradition. His judgment, garnered from his earlier work on Baruch (Das apokryphe Baruchbuch: Studien zur Rezeption und Konzentration “kanonischer” Uberlieferung [FRLANT 160; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993]), is that its author aimed to make clear the meaning of Israel’s Scriptures for the Israel of his own day. Steck offers an introductory section that deals with the usual topics. He outlines the book’s contents and discusses its textual history, original language, editorial unity, aim, date, and provenance. He argues that the book was intended to challenge the “one world” concept of the Seleucids (1 Macc 1:41–42) with a Deuteronomically oriented construction of the proper way of being Jewish in the face of foreign oppression. Steck’s commentary on Baruch follows, stressing throughout the way in which scripture is put in service of the author’s agenda. R. G. Kratz provides a brief examination of the Epistle of Jeremiah. He efficiently summarizes the Epistle’s complex history of textual transmission relative to Jeremiah and Baruch and also covers the discussion regarding its original language of composition. Like Steck, Kratz focuses particular attention on the text’s use of Scripture, noting

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especially the prominence of Ps 135:16–17 and Jer 10 in providing the Epistle’s polemic against false gods. On date and aim, he takes the view that it was written in the late third or early second century B.C.E. and provided advice to Jews in the Syro-Mesopotamian context on dealing with foreign gods. Ingo Kottsieper authored the section on the Additions to Esther. Aside from providing commentary on the individual additions, Kottsieper offers in the introductory section a scenario for their compositional history. Integrating insights from textual, literary, and historical criticism, Kottsieper postulates a fairly elaborate history of how the additions developed. He dates them from the third century B.C.E. to the late Hasmonean era, and traces their origin to Jerusalem and Egypt. Kottsieper also offers general observations on the overall aims of the additions. He says that beyond remedying the absence of God in the Hebrew story of Esther, the additions were meant to address Jewish anxiety that the existing Esther story would be read by Gentile neighbors and overlords as cause for Jewish disloyalty and insubordination, by Christians as evidence of Jewish hostility to non-Jews, and by fellow Jews as permitting halakic inconsistency. Among other things, Kottsieper also briefly discusses related materials in 3 Maccabees and Josephus (Ant. 11.216–19, 229–33, 234– 41). Kottsieper also wrote the section on the Additions to Daniel. Like the treatment of the Esther additions, this one closely combines insights from textual, literary, and historical criticism to propose an elaborate history of the additions’ composition and transmission, as well as their integration with the Book of Daniel. The Prayer of Azariah is dated to the early Maccabean period; the story of Bel and the Dragon grew over the course of the fifth to third centuries B.C.E.; and the Susanna addition was completed in the late Maccabean period and was intended to promote conformity to the Torah. According to Kottsieper, the Susanna addition and its concern for Torah adherence provided the early point of contact between the additions and the Book of Daniel. Commentary on each of the additions follows. In treating Bel and the Dragon, Kottsieper devotes special attention to the redactional links that brought the three parts of the account together, and in discussing the Susanna addition the relationship between the LXX and Theodotion texts receives special emphasis. Overall the commentary achieves its basic purpose well. It informs readers regarding the critical issues associated with the materials treated and it provides straightforward and reliable commentary on the texts. It is, however, on some of the contributors’ adventuresome efforts that critical comment may be offered. The most admirable strength of Steck’s treatment bears within it its greatest weakness. His proposal to explain the aggressive use of Scripture in Baruch is helpful, but in making it he often seems to assume anachronistically the nearly canonical standing in the author’s day of books that would only later achieve that status. Steck would have done better to offer a more nuanced understanding of the traditions that the author of Baruch used. Doing so he might have been able to better bring out the author’s intention to promote the authority of selected texts and traditions. A different problem plagues Kottsieper’s treatment of the additions to Esther and Daniel. The attempt to integrate so closely the insights won from textual, literary, and historical criticism is intriguing, but it often creates hypotheses that seem to hang by little more than a thread. This is especially true of the discussion of the Additions to Daniel, where the text-critical problems are so acute.

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As a consequence, at least some of the compositional and redactional histories Kottsieper offers are not always convincing. It must be said, though, that these criticisms are mere quibbles over easily contested scholarly judgments. In spite of them the commentary is to be happily recommended. Robert A. Kugler Gonzaga University, Spokane, WA 99258

The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Origins of the Bible, by Eugene Ulrich. Studies in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Literature. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans; Leiden: Brill, 1999. Pp. xviii + 309. $25.00. There are few scholars in the field of textual criticism of the Hebrew Bible with more breadth and depth of knowledge than Eugene Ulrich. As chief editor of the biblical scrolls from Qumran Cave 4, Ulrich has spent the past twenty years studying the oldest biblical manuscripts yet discovered, in the process accumulating a wealth of information about the history of the biblical text. His careful work is familiar to text critics from the excellent editions in the Discoveries in the Judaean Desert series (Oxford at the Clarendon Press); however, his theoretical writings on the subject of text criticism have been scattered in various Festschriften and other volumes. The present volume does a welcome service in bringing together these essays into one collection. The collection consists of fourteen reprinted articles, ranging in date from 1980 to 1998. The book is divided into two parts. The first part, “The Scrolls and the Hebrew Bible,” contains eight articles that concern the Qumran biblical scrolls and their impact on the understanding of the textual history of the HB. The point that Ulrich emphasizes in this section is that the various books of the HB in the Second Temple period were pluriform in character and that in some cases that pluriformity consisted not just in individual textual variants but in multiple literary editions. To quote Ulrich, “By double literary editions I mean a literary unit—a story, pericope, narrative, poem, book, and so forth—appearing in two (or more) parallel forms in our principal textual witnesses, which one author, major redactor, or major editor completed and which a subsequent redactor or editor intentionally changed to a sufficient extent that the resultant form should be called a revised edition of that text” (p. 35). The primary examples in this regard emerging from the Qumran evidence are the books of Jeremiah and Exodus. Ulrich shows that Jeremiah existed in two literary forms in Hebrew; the shorter form (which appears as 4QJerb at Qumran) was translated in the Septuagint, while the longer form (which appears at Qumran as 2QJer, 4QJera and 4QJerc) became the received Hebrew form of the MT. Exodus likewise existed in two variant editions: the Masoretic text-type (displayed by the majority of Qumran Exodus MSS) and the Samaritan texttype, a longer, harmonized version exemplified by the Qumran MS 4QpaleoExodm. These double literary editions pose a particular problem for the text critic or translator, according to Ulrich: Should the earlier or later edition be chosen? Should the MT (or some other form) be chosen by default? Ulrich argues for a critically established text based on the full and systematic comparison of the major textual traditions, with no one

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tradition being privileged over the others (p. 49). He therefore differs considerably in his text critical philosophy from projects such as the Hebrew University Bible Project or the Biblia Hebraica Quinta, which take as their premise that the goal of textual criticism should be the establishment of a critically sound diplomatic text (both projects have chosen the MT). The second part of the book, “The Scrolls, the Septuagint, and the Old Latin,” consists of six essays focused on the textual history of the Septuagint and its usefulness for the textual criticism of the Hebrew Bible. This is an area of scholarship often considered esoteric, but Ulrich demonstrates its particular relevance in light of the new information contained in the Qumran biblical scrolls. His essays not only discuss the Septuagint but also the form of the Bible used by Josephus, Origen’s Hexapla (and the question of whether it contained a Hebrew column), and the Old Latin translation of the Septuagint. All of these chapters are highly technical, but reward careful reading for the light they shed on the value of the “versions” for text criticism. For example, in the chapter entitled “The Relevance of the Dead Sea Scrolls for Hexaplaric Studies,” Ulrich gives a synopsis of the relationship of certain Hebrew manuscripts to the Old Greek text contained in Origen’s Hexapla, which demonstrates first that the original LXX translations of the various biblical books were not free of existing Hebrew text-types, and, second, the extent to which the later revisions of Aquila, Theodotion, and Symmachus moved translation away from the Old Greek and toward the MT. This is particularly apparent in the books of Kingdoms, Psalms, Jeremiah, and Daniel. This is a book meant for specialists in the field of Hebrew Bible textual criticism. Ulrich presumes a great deal of knowledge on the part of his readers, not only of languages (Hebrew, Greek, and Latin, as well as Spanish, French, and German), but also of the technical terms of textual criticism. The various chapters suffer from a certain amount of repetition, probably unavoidable in a volume of reprinted articles. The footnotes contain a large amount of bibliographical information; a cumulative bibliography at the end of the book would have been helpful. The nonspecialist may find the book heavy going at times, while the less advanced student may well become lost. The specialist or advanced student in textual criticism, however, will find it amply rewarding. In fact, it is a “must-have” on any text critic’s shelf. Sidnie White Crawford University of Nebraska-Lincoln, Lincoln, NE 68588

Penitential Prayer in Second Temple Judaism: The Development of a Religious Institution, by Rodney Alan Werline. SBLEJL 13. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998. Pp. xii + 238. $39.95. This study is a revision of the author’s dissertation, written under the supervision of George W. E. Nickelsburg at the University of Iowa. Its objective is to offer a systematic analysis of the penitential prayers from the exile to the Second Temple period, thereby illuminating the emergence of penitential prayer as a religious institution. Two definitional matters guide the collection and assessment of the data: (1) “penitential prayers”

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are defined as direct addresses to God in which an individual or group confesses sin and prays for forgiveness (p. 2); (2) a “religious institution” is defined as an action that a religious community generally accepts, practices, and prescribes for its observers (p. 3). Chapter 1 treats the development of penitential prayer in the biblical literature from the exile to the Persian period. Werline works backward from the first examples of penitential prayer in Ezra 9 to the Dtn tradition, which he regards as foundational for its emergence. Of special importance are Deut 4 and 30, which provide the formulaic pattern of sin, punishment, repentance, and deliverance. Although Deuteronomy does not specify prayer as the key to repentance, Solomon’s dedication of the temple as a place of penitential prayer (1 Kgs 8:22–61) moves the trajectory in this direction for the exilic community. Texts from Third Isaiah (59:1–20; 63:7–64:12) contribute to this trajectory by showing that confession of sin and penitential prayer emerge as “the program” (p. 45) for restoration in the early postexilic period. Penitential prayers in the late Persian period (Ezra 9, Neh 1:4–11; 9; 2 Chr 6; 7:13–15) continue this dependence on the Dtn traditions, even as they broaden the understanding of the sin that requires repentance (from the sin of idolatry in Deuteronomy to the sin of intermarriage in Ezra) and reinterpret the historical situation that sets the context for the prayer. Chapter 2 seeks to show how subsequent authors continued to embrace and modify Dtn penitential traditions to serve their own agendas. The prayer in Dan 9:3–19, though cast in Dtn language and ideology, is an apocalypse. It applies the author’s wisdom viewpoint to a reinterpretation of Jer 29:10–14 that discloses the meaning of Israel’s historical situation under Antiochus IV. In this context the summons to penitence is an invitation to ask God’s forgiveness for not following the author’s teaching about the eschaton. The prayer in Bar 1:15–3:8 is part of a pseudepigraphic letter that joins penitential prayer to a wisdom poem. The objective of the prayer is to call to repentance those who continue to oppose (even though successfully) the Seleucid policies. In Baruch’s interpretation, as long as the Jews continue to rebel, they violate the tradition of prophetic instruction that calls for faithful submission to foreign rulers (cf. Jer 27:11–12). Both Dan 9 and Bar 1–3 show, among other things, that Second Temple prayers reinterpret the Dtn penitence traditions. Moreover, they advance the understanding that prayer and interpretation of authoritative texts have become the model for responding to changing historical fortunes with the piety and penitence that are requisite for a faithful covenantal relationship. Chapter 3 extends the discussion to texts from Jub. 1 and 23, the “Animal Apocalypse” (1 En. 85–90), the “Apocalypse of Weeks” (1 En. 93:1–10; 91:11–17) and the Testament of Moses to show how several groups in the Second Temple period reapplied and reinterpreted Dtn traditions to legitimate their sectarian withdrawal from those who had failed to repent as they had done. Such texts suggest that the righteous are those who repent, confess their sins, and search the Scriptures, namely, the Law and the Prophets, in order to understand how to respond faithfully to their historical predicament. Because these groups understood themselves to be the only ones who were attentive to God’s demands, penitence became for them a divine mandate for separation from the rest of the apostate nation. Because they trace their origins to penitence and penitential prayer, Qumran sectarians consider themselves as the true “penitents of Israel.” Some texts (e.g., 1 QH 11:21) suggest a covenantal ceremony comprised of pen-

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itential prayers as part of the initiation into the community. Other texts (see 4Q504) prescribe penitential prayer as a part of the daily practice of community life. Werline concludes that as a “sectarian activity” penitential prayer functioned not only “to define the community’s origins” but also “to distinguish between those on the outside and those on the inside of the community” (p. 159). Chapter 4 explores the relationship between penitential prayer and the problem of theodicy. Tobit 3:1–6 and the Prayer of Azariah (cf. 2 Macc 7, T. of Mos. 9) reflect the tension between Dtn ideology, which asserts that suffering is punishment for sin, and the righteous sufferer whose penitence marks the turning point in life. 3 Maccabees 2:1–20, the Greek Esther, and the Psalms of Solomon (e.g. 1, 2, 8, 9) address the problem of the arrogant ruler, whom, according to Dtn ideology, God employs to discipline/punish the nation for sin. The authors of these texts use this ideology to “coax” God not to allow foreign despots to subvert divine sovereignty. In sum, whether in Babylon, Palestine, or Alexandria, penitential prayer, with its refurbished Dtn language, functions as an important means for the community to respond to its changing historical fortunes. Werline has offered a lucid and helpful assessment of the trajectory of penitential prayer. His suggestion that penitential prayer in the Second Temple period shifts toward interpretation of authoritative texts, which in turn becomes a bona fide means of piety in its own right, provides a heuristic model for interpretation. That penitence becomes a multifaceted religious institution, sometimes fostering the restoration of old communities, sometimes creating new communities that sever themselves from communities judged to be beyond restoration, suggests that piety serves both religious and political purposes. Werline does not pursue this idea, but he clearly places it on the agenda that he proposes for future work. The Achilles’ heel of the study is the rather simplistic assessment of Dtn theology. Apart from a one-paragraph excursus (“The Date of the Deuteronomic History,” p. 27), Werline does not deal with any of the critical questions that currently complicate the discussion of this theology/ideology. If one assumes that the pattern of sin-punishment-repentance-restoration is the governing notion of Dtn theology, and if one assumes that this pattern is uniform throughout different recensions of the Dtr History, then it is plausible to argue that there is a more or less straight line between Deut 4 and 30 and subsequent traditionists who look to Dtn texts for the model for penitence. Further, if one assumes that there is no interplay or reciprocity between Dtn and Levitical traditions, then it is plausible to suggest that the latter is of only minimal importance in Second Temple understandings of penitence (see p. 193). But without these assumptions, much of Werline’s argumentation resembles special pleading. Although I suspect that the trajectory he has traced is largely correct, I also suspect that penitential prayer’s journey from Deuteronomy to Qumran is more complicated than he has allowed. Samuel E. Balentine Baptist Theological Seminary at Richmond, Richmond, VA 23227

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Jewish Scribes in the Second-Temple Period, by Christine Schams. JSOTSup 291. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998. Pp. 363. £55.00/$90.00. Modern scholars have tended to overgeneralize their description of Jewish scribes in “the Second-Temple period.” Broad, sweeping claims often arise amidst the most credible scholarly work, statements, however, based upon an uncritical conflation of texts of various genres and social-historical contexts. Schams seeks to correct our understanding of the Second Temple Jewish scribe. Her mode is quite simple: to survey specific Jewish textual and artifactual data from the Neo-Babylonian period into late antiquity by taking into account the particularity of the literary context of each reference. The book’s organization reveals the inductive method that Schams seeks to employ. A brief introduction accurately describes the purpose of the study: “a historical investigation into the status and function of scribes during the Second-Temple period” (p. 1). Chapter 1 surveys—and critiques—earlier scholarship. Schams argues that this scholarship artificially imposed the category of the scribe as a “Torah scholar” on a wide variety of references. Schams therefore utilizes what she calls an “exclusivist approach”: only analyzing “those pieces of evidence which provide explicit proof that the individuals or groups referred to are scribes” (p. 12)—and, one might add, Yehudian/Jewish. Within these limits, she attempts an exhaustive survey of the data. Chapter 2 (pp. 36–273) represents the bulk of the study. The chapter moves through material judged relevant through the “exclusivist approach” from Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman times. Schams moves serially through each piece of data, giving a brief introduction to the literary, social, and historical context in which the reference to “scribe” appears, and then briefly analyzing the data for evidence concerning what it tells us about the role and status of scribes. While she organizes her work on the basis of the broad historical eras of the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman periods, she provides neither a general introduction nor any specific conclusions on the role and functions of scribes in each era. Each text/artifact stands alone, disconnected from other references to Jewish scribes and largely from the scribes within the broader sociohistorical settings as well. In response to the conflations of previous scholarship, Schams isolates each reference to Jewish scribes from its larger sociohistorical context by focusing on the literary nature of the reference. Her results, therefore, are minimalistic. No larger conclusions emerge: “a comprehensive picture of the status and functions of scribes cannot be derived from the extant evidence itself” (p. 275). Chapter 3 (pp. 274–308) lists thirty-one separate possible factors for the discontinuity in the presentation of scribes in the data. In chapter 4, though, Schams changes direction. Here she undertakes a positive, constructive task. Schams builds a model to account for the change in status and function of scribes in Second Temple Judaism. Scholars will find this chapter most interesting. According to Schams, the Persian period continued the ancient Near Eastern practice of having educated scribes in royal courts and in the administration of empires. The Hellenistic period witnessed a diversification in the role of scribes. While some continued in the Near Eastern tradition, others took positions in towns and villages where they had not previously lived and worked. The Roman era continued this trend. In the Roman era scribes expanded their role as professional writers into various levels of authority, with some developing

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specialization in the interpretation of Scripture with expertise in the Torah. Schams thus describes the social relocation of scribes from the Persian to Roman periods, yet emphasizes their fundamental professional status as “officials and professional writers” (p. 327) throughout. While Schams pursues an inductive approach to combat the illegitimate conflation of data, throughout she presupposes what James Barr called the “etymological meaning.” By presupposing calligraphy as fundamental to a “scribe” due to Hebrew etymology, she both artificially narrows her discussion from the broader social world, and, ironically, widens it in violation of her exclusivist approach. In the Persian period data, she does not discuss the Elephantine material, particularly the Arsames correspondence in which “the scribes” and individual scribes play an important role in the local Persian administration. Interestingly, one text clearly demarcates a scribe from one who wrote: “Anani the Scribe is Chancellor. Nabuaqab wrote (it)” (Cowley 26, line 23). This reference is even more important when one recognizes the possibility that this same Anani was a significant figure within the Judean community at Elephantine. While one can appreciate Schams’s concern not to overgeneralize, her focus on the literary context of references, with her underlying etymological definition, ends up concluding what she presupposes: whatever roles scribes achieved within Second Temple Judaism arose out of a calligraphic function. Her study remains artificially narrow in that important social world data are not pursued as a result. Yet she also widens her study for the same reason, violating her own “exclusivist approach.” For the Roman period she equates the Latin-based librarius with a scribe— soµpeµr in Hebrew and grammateus in Greek. Yet this equation is only apparent etymologically; data examined by Schams herself suggest that their social function may have been quite different in the Roman era. Roman-era inscriptional evidence calls children six or seven years old “scribes,” thus indicating that a social position, rather than calligraphic function, was fundamental to the term. In this light Egyptian evidence from the Hellenistic period describes scribes as local officials within the Ptolemaic administration, noted by Schams but not developed (pp. 87–88). This suggests that writing may have been incidental to being a “scribe” in the Hellenistic and Roman periods; the term may, instead, primarily describe the social function of a local village administrator. The heuristic matrix to understand the Hellenistic and Roman Jewish “scribe” might be completely unrelated to any calligraphic function, but found within the social structure of Mediterranean village peasantry. If so, then Schams’s conclusions in ch. 4 may be fundamentally correct, but may yet be developed with much more detail by broadening the discussion to include “scribes” from the broader social world in which Second Temple Judeans lived. Ironically, Schams’s minimalistic conclusions derive from the same presupposition as earlier scholarship’s overgeneralizations: both tend to understand Jewish scribes as a uniquely “Jewish” phenomenon, isolated in general from their broader social world. Yet Schams’s careful—if not exhaustive—treatment of the data provides a resource from which scholars may begin this broader work. John W. Wright Point Loma Nazarene University, San Diego, CA 92106

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Into the Temple Courts: The Place of Synagogues in the Second Temple Period, by Donald D. Binder. SBLDS 169. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 1999. Pp. 592. $60.00. Donald Binder’s Into the Temple Courts is a slightly revised version of the author’s dissertation, written at Southern Methodist University under the direction of Victor P. Furnish. This work is the first volume dedicated solely to the history of the synagogue during the Second Temple period. Binder has attempted to assemble all of the primary sources for the history of the synagogue during the Second Temple period in one place. This alone makes this volume valuable. Binder’s purpose, however, was to create more than just a compendium. After surveying literary sources, Binder turns to the terminology used to describe synagogues in ancient sources; archaeological evidence for Palestinian and Diaspora synagogues; and a discussion of synagogue functionaries, synagogue functions, and sectarian synagogues. It is not clear to me why Binder separates out “sectarian synagogues” as a separate topic, since he spends no real time exploring the relationship between the so-called sectarians and the so-called mainstream. Binder’s bibliographic references are generally complete and useful, though they suggest that he made no real use of literature in modern Hebrew. Particularly missing are recent studies by Ezra Fleisher. Binder makes no use of rabbinic literature either. While it is true that these sources are fraught with difficulties, Binder, like many NT scholars, too quickly accepts Jacob Neusner’s overstatements about the difficulties of this literature. Binder’s philological interpretation of the literary evidence is generally reasonable. His laborious and detailed treatment of every artifact and text serves as a reminder that this is a dissertation. Binder is often too broad in his acceptance of archaeological evidence for ancient synagogues than the evidence warrants, as in his discussion of supposed first-century synagogues at Ostia and Capernaum. As to the thesis of this volume, Binder’s notion that first-century synagogues “should not be seen as being in opposition to the Temple . . .” (p. 32) is absolutely correct. Nothing in ancient Jewish literature suggests such a dichotomy. Yet Binder’s notion that synagogues were “extentions” of the temple, that “the synagogues in both Palestine and the diaspora served as subsidiary sacred precincts that extended spatially the sacrality of the Temple shrine and allowed Jews everywhere participation within the central cult” (p. 32) is to my mind unfounded. This sweeping characterization is not as obvious from the sources as Binder believes it is. The impetus for Binder’s approach is not in Second Temple Judaism, but rather is stated in Binder’s somewhat confessional statement at the conclusion of the volume. There he connects his findings about the ancient synagogue with the liturgical history of the post-Constantinian church. He writes: In these ancient churches too, one can find architectural traces of the Temple: a reliquary or shrine would rest behind an altar upon which the eucharist was offered. The faithful who frequented the courts of these churches would watch as the priests surrounded the altar and recalled Christ’s sacrifice. The true temple may have been removed to the realm of the beyond; but in these sacred buildings, the axis mundi has returned, again providing a passageway leading from earth into the courts of the temple in heaven. (p. 500)

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What later developments within the church, an institution that had consciously distanced itself from any Jewish roots, has to do with Second Temple period synagogues is quite beyond me as a historian. Donald D. Binder’s Into the Temple Courts: The Place of Synagogues in the Second Temple Period is a useful discussion of the literary and archaeological sources for the history of the first-century synagogue. It should be purchased by all research libraries interested in the history of Second Temple period Judaism and early Christianity. Steven Fine Baltimore Hebrew University, Baltimore, MD 21215

Gottesfürchtige und Sympathisanten: Studien zum heidnischen Umfeld von Diasporasynagogen, by Bernd Wander. WUNT 104. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1998. Pp. xiv + 176. DM 178.00. Bernd Wander’s study, accepted as Habilitationsschrift by the theological faculty of the University of Heidelberg in 1997, takes as its starting point the observation that the term “God-fearer” is used in three different ways in the pertinent literature. It is sometimes used as an honorary title for specific Jews; it sometimes denotes Gentiles who sympathize with the Jewish community; and in other cases it refers to a complex and not clearly defined group. This vague, unsatisfying terminology complicates the scholarly dialogue. After giving a survey of modern studies, Wander describes the historical interaction between Jewish communities living in the Diaspora and their social environment. He concentrates on questions of separation and participation in social events and touches on Jewish mission endeavors and their relevance for early Christianity. Wander then reviews the literary evidence in biblical and rabbinic passages and concludes with a thorough lexicographic analysis of the Greek terms used. In all of this literature, Wander does not find a solution to the problem of terminology. The various equivalents denoting God-fearers are not even necessarily confined to Jewish communities but appear in many different religious contexts. Wander then turns to the evidence provided by inscriptions, which has fueled recent debates. He finds that the term “God-fearer” is not used consistently in inscriptions but allows for three legitimate interpretations. It is used as an honorary title within the Jewish community, or it denotes an uncircumcised Gentile with a specific function within the Jewish congregation, or it is an honorary title for Gentiles who were benefactors of a Jewish congregation. Wander relates these results to the references in Acts and concludes that the historical value of these references can neither be established nor dismissed with certainty. His final chapter concentrates on the Judaizers mentioned in Gal 2:14 and the Jewish mission reflected in Matt 23:15. Wander suspects that Paul’s willingness to accept Gentiles into Jewish communities without requiring the observation of Jewish law was radical and not practiced by Jewish Diaspora congregations until later. He warns against taking Matthew’s comment as historical proof for an organized missionary effort within ancient Jewish communities.

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Wander’s book does not promote a new theory or an original methodology, and it does not uncover new data. Its strength lies in the thorough discussion of primary evidence and the extensive bibliographical references to modern studies. Although the difficulties raised by the term “God-fearer” are dealt with often by many different scholars, Wander’s study is the first comprehensive monograph on the question. David Trobisch Bangor Theological Seminary, Bangor, ME 04401

The Samaritans and Early Judaism: A Literary Analysis, by Ingrid Hjelm. JSOTSup 303. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000. Pp. 318. $85.00. All tradition is, of course, story. As such, it involves the coherent retelling of beginnings, other past events, and even future ones, interpreted from the center of a people’s experience in the world at a particular time and place. Then again, the story may be told from an outsider’s point of view. Hjelm’s excellent monograph on the historically elusive Samaritans provides yet another lesson that the prevailing tradition offers merely a collective perspective (albeit an ultimately meaningful one for those who celebrate it) on “what actually happened,” and that sometimes other meaningful perspectives are required for bringing a clearer view of historical reality into focus. Hjelm asserts that the origin and history of the Samaritans cannot be drawn at face value from the accounts of Josephus, the literature of the prevailing Pharasaic-rabbinic Jewish tradition, the NT, or even the Samaritan sources themselves. Rather, a critical evaluation of authorial intent must be made on the basis of all available sources in order to determine where and to what extent authors and editors have accommodated historical realities for ideological purposes. Carefully applied, this methodology results in a historian’s perspective of the traditions in question, relatively free of the biases produced by meaningful stories competing for preeminence or, as our author puts it, “the problematic presence of past traditions over against present innovations, and two groups who claim authority for each of their own” (p. 266). Hjelm’s thesis in nuce is that the prevailing view of Samaritan origins and history, often described in terms of questionable heritage, expulsion, and dissidence, must be abandoned. Underlying this view is the ideologically revisionist standpoint of a relatively late, Jerusalem-centered Judaism. Indeed, the historical hot-spot for any real Jewish– Samaritan conflict is to be found in the second and first century B.C.E., with the emergence and maintenance of an independent Judaean temple state campaigning for political consolidation in the region. On the other side of the polemic, the Samaritan historiography, Hjelm rightly notes, “is as little reliable at face value as the similar Jewish historiography. We cannot simply read such ‘historiographies’ independently of each other” (p. 272). The methodology is theoretically sound, but it still leaves much to the reader for testing the weight of Hjelm’s assertions. The chapters of the book follow in logical order. Chapter 1 provides the necessarily selective overview of a century of scholarship on the Samaritan question, beginning with variations of the paradigm that viewed Samaritan origins on the basis of the Assyrian resettlements (2 Kgs 17); one or another later accounts (a priestly expulsion in Neh 13,

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the accounts of Josephus, or the books of Maccabees concerning the Hellenistic period); and, finally, the irreconcilable break resulting from John Hyrcanus’s second-century B.C.E. destruction of the Samaritan temple. Chapter 2 provides the current state of Samaritan studies, focusing especially on alternative theories that, on the one hand, posit a relatively later date for the origin of a distinctive Samaritan tradition or, on the other hand, view the Samaritans as original Israelites. The most notable champion of the latter view is É. Nodet of the École Biblique, whose influence on Hjelm’s own work is apparent. The next three chapters offer a broad but cursory overview of relevant Samaritan and non-Samaritan primary texts. Chapter 3 covers the Samaritan literature from the Samaritan Pentateuch (SP) through the Samaritan Chronicles of the nineteenth century. Of particular interest is Hjelm’s comparison of SP readings to non-MT biblical manuscripts, including those recovered from the caves at Qumran. The chapter ends abruptly; it would have benefited from the inclusion of a chapter summary. Chapter 4 examines references to the Samaritans in early Jewish and Christian literature, focusing especially on the former’s anti-Samaritan response due to their rejection of rabbinic authority and practice. Here the investigation leads the reader through a labyrinth of ambiguous textual references in an attempt to identify historical persons and exact chronologies, including an examination of early Jewish treatment of Shechem traditions and matters of priestly legitimacy. This is an important point for Hjelm in light of traditional Samaritan criticism of Pharisaic-rabbinic innovation, a telling issue which, she argues, later rabbinic literature attempts to avoid. In ch. 5, Hjelm takes on Josephus. Here our author succeeds in sorting out the historian’s obscure and ambiguous references to the Samaritans in the Jewish War and the Antiquities, as well as the motives behind them, arriving at the unsurprising conclusion that the historian has agendas in mind other than an interest in providing a historically accurate picture of the Samaritans. Josephus, especially in the Antiquities, borrows from and contributes to the prevailing tradition that disparages the Samaritans on the basis of questionable background. Although somewhat an argument from silence, Hjelm asserts that the polemic of competing ideologies may be read between the lines of Josephus’s biased rhetoric. Chapter 6 returns to the subject of Samaritan literature, focusing specifically on the historiographies, most notably Sepher ha Yamin (also known as the Samaritan Chronicles II) and the fourteenth-century Kitab al-Tarikh. Reliance of these on SP contrasts sharply with the Masoretic tradition, especially over the significance of Shechem and matters of priestly legitimacy. The differences call into question earlier assumptions about the SP’s dependence on the MT and assert the legitimacy of Samaritan claims alongside Jewish claims for who represents “true Israel.” The historical reality that gave rise to these competing traditions is interwoven between them and must be carefully extracted. The final chapter discusses the methodology of moving “from literary to historical reality,” and is so titled. The distillation of Hjelm’s analysis of relevant sources leads her to conclude that “Samaritans and Jews never did form a single state, and that the only historical effort to establish such a state destroyed its basis” (p. 284). The reviewed monograph is based on the author’s gold-medal-winning essay in OT exegesis at the University of Copenhagen. The work maintains a consistently high level of scholarship throughout, yet its content would not be inaccessible to beginning schol-

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ars. On a negative note, I detected far too many typographical errors than one would reasonably expect from a work of this sort, including inconsistencies resulting from the use of non-Anglicized spellings (e.g., Aj, Hilkija), left over I suppose from the foundational essay’s original Danish. Finally, traditionalist scholars will likely not appreciate the book’s underlying assumptions challenging the historicity of the biblical text but will benefit from reading this engaging volume nonetheless. Nicolae Roddy Creighton University, Omaha, NE 68178

The Jewish Manumission Inscriptions of the Bosporus Kingdom, by E. Leigh Gibson. TSAJ 75. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1999. Pp. x + 201. DM 128.00. The Bosporus Kingdom on the north coast of the Black Sea was home to an apparently substantial Jewish community, knowledge of which depends entirely on inscriptions. These have mainly been made accessible to English-speaking readers through the work of Irina Levinskaya, particularly The Book of Acts in Its Diaspora Setting (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996). Now Gibson has provided a new publication that puts them into a fuller context than has previously been possible. She concentrates on the inscriptions that involve the manumission of slaves in the prayer-house or with the Jewish community as guardian or (in some sense) beneficiary. She seeks to do this by exploring the background of manumission inscriptions written in Greek, as well as Jewish attitudes to manumission before moving on to look at the Bosporan inscriptions themselves. She argues convincingly that nothing particularly Jewish is in the underlying manumission process or its record in inscriptions: “the Jewish manumissions of the Bosporus fit readily within the models and the possibilities demonstrated by a wide range of Greek manumission inscriptions” (p. 11). Archaeological evidence shows that there was widespread hellenization in the area, and the presence of a Jewish community was presumably a result of that hellenization. Gibson believes that the practice of recording manumissions in inscriptions was in the interests of owners more than of slaves. The inscriptions were not motivated by affection, and they did not take the opportunity of depicting manumission as the reward for slaves’ good behavior. Instead, the owners were willing to incur expense in order to promote their own social standing. Gibson argues that Jewish attitudes to slavery were not as liberal as has sometimes been claimed. She sees Philo as interpreting Jewish law on slavery in the light of GrecoRoman norms, and in a Jewish setting where biblical instructions about slaves were not widely observed. She sums up his attitude this way: “Slaves were essential, but they should come from other nations, not from kinsmen” (p. 75)—a view with which Aristotle would certainly have agreed. However, she makes the important point that Jews who were redeemed from slavery to Gentiles by their fellow-Jews would still be kept in some form of servitude. She treats rabbinic discussions of slavery as evidence for the aspects of slave-owning that were of concern to Jews. There is an interesting summary of the texts on Tabi, slave of Rabban Gamaliel and the only slave mentioned by name in the

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Mishnah. His story, even if not to be taken literally, illustrates that learning in the Torah did not necessarily lead to manumission. She detects an increasing concern with the ritual purification of slaves in later rabbinic writing, perhaps arising from a fear that slaves would manipulate procedures in order to secure their manumission against their owners’ wishes. In chs. 5–6, manumissions from the Bosporus are discussed which took place in the context of apparent paganism or of the worship of the “most high god.” The latter group are ultimately claimed as Jewish. Gibson considers the evidence for Jews elsewhere making epigraphic references to pagan deities; it should be noted that her claim on p. 120 that dis manibus sacrum was commonly used by Jews at Rome is contradicted by the arguments of L. Rutgers, which she apparently accepts in the footnote. She seems to accept that the formula “under Zeus, Ge, and Helios” might have been used by Jews, or at least by god-fearers, and need not in itself preclude a connection with Judaism. The thorough discussion of the background makes it possible in ch. 7 for Gibson to suggest that slaves freed in a proseucheµ (i.e., a prayer-house; the term can normally be assumed to indicate a Jewish building) had paramoneµ obligations to the proseucheµ itself; that is, they would have to provide labor services after manumission. She also understands qwpeiva, which is frequently required from the ex-slaves in the inscriptions, as “the attitude with which the servant should perform his service” (p. 148), a rather more satisfactory way of looking at it than the usual translation of “fawning.” The synagogue community would have an obligation to uphold the interests of the ex-slaves, but would also benefit from their labor; the manumitter was effectively making a gift of the labor to the community, which was presumably an additional reason for recording the event on stone. The slaves’ own religious position was thus irrelevant; Gibson does not follow Levinskaya, who sees them as an important source of god-fearers. The adoption by the Bosporan Jews of pagan manumission practices with only minimal alteration is also evidence of the community’s integration into its surroundings. Gibson has been successful in putting the Bosporan inscriptions in context. The book could, however, have been made slightly easier to use. A map of the Bosporus kingdom would have been particularly useful. Photographs of the surviving inscriptions would have been welcome too, but there were probably practical reasons for not having them. The Appendix of “Texts and Translations” does not give details of the date or provenance of individual inscriptions, and this information has to be found by cross-referencing to discussion in the main text. Some minor transcription errors have also crept into the texts, although these fortunately seem to be confined to brackets of various sorts. The text that has been followed for CIRB 71 does not fit the translation “my slave Elpis,” and the slave in CIRB 73 is called Hermas not Hermes. Standardizing the sigla systems used by the various original editors of the inscriptions would surely not have been a major task. Readers who do not have a background in Jewish studies would probably welcome explanation of technical terms such as “jubilee year.” Despite these shortcomings, the book has been organized carefully to help readers follow the arguments. Gibson’s conclusions are hardly earth-shattering, but any improvement of our understanding of Jewish inscriptions in their original context is certainly to be welcomed. David Noy University of Wales, Lampeter SA48 7ED, UK

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Jesus in the Eyes of His Followers: Newly Discovered Manuscripts of the Old Christian Confessions, by Petr Pokorný. The Dead Sea Scrolls and Christian Origins Library 4. N. Richland Hills, TX: Bibal Press, 1998. Pp. x + 100. $8.95. This volume by Petr Pokorný presents a larger body of material than the slim book may first indicate. In Jesus in the Eyes of His Followers, Pokorný examines the success of a resurrection/exaltation Christology among the earliest followers of Jesus in light of the many divergent Christologies that apparently existed. His stated goal is “to investigate the full spectrum of Early Christian Christologies, as far as we can reconstruct them, to discuss the reasons why the resurrection/exaltation Christology attained the leading position, and to discover why some Christologies were integrated and others excluded” (p. 14). Impressively navigating his way through early Christian documents, Pokorný offers a fascinating, if not convincing, argument for the evolution of early Christologies into the single expression of the resurrection/exaltation type found in 1 Cor 15:3–5. Pokorný divides his book into three chapters. Chapter 1 introduces the study through four main subsections: (1) What is Christology? (2) 1 Cor 15:3b–5, (3) history of research, and (4) methodology. Chapter 2 examines the Synoptics and assorted other sources (e.g., Dead Sea Scrolls and Gnostic literature) for clues to the central emphasis of Jesus’ view of Christology. Pokorný focuses on three main areas: (1) Jesus’ proclamation, (2) Jesus as a prophet, and (3) Jesus as Messiah. Chapter 3 represents the christological developments of the early church. The subheadings include: (1) The Problem of a New Beginning, (2) Easter, (3) From Easter to Various Expressions, (4) Christology of Early Christian Literature, and (5) Christology of the Canon. Chapter 3 presents the conclusion of the book with an eclectic overview of the development of messianic ideas among early Christian groups. Besides introducing the problem of Christology, ch. 1 also provides an overview of the thesis and the methodology of this study. Pokorný acknowledges that a discussion of Christology involves two main aspects: (1) a witness to the significance of Jesus and (2) an evaluation of that witness. The apex of christological development and witness among early Christians is Paul’s version in 1 Cor 15, and Pokorný examines this text in some detail. He includes a historical overview of Jesus studies, concluding ch. 1 with a description of his own methodology. Pokorný uses a literary method focusing primarily on the NT as the starting place for a study of Christology. He recognizes that a reconstruction of the history of the text is necessary to discover the function and the development of the ideas contained in it. Pokorný also discusses the “problem” of Easter. Simply stated, the experience of Easter (i.e., the resurrection of Jesus) is primarily known through the testimony of first-century Christians. As a result, the study of Christology requires us to take seriously the testimony of those we cannot interview. In the end, Pokorný must rely on the texts for his work and leave the veracity of testimonies to speculation. He recognizes that texts are all that remain of the original testimony, and even that is limited in scope. For this reason, Pokorný opens his investigation up to sources beyond the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures, and he uses these texts quite well. In ch. 2, Pokorný examines selected texts using his criteria from ch. 1. Even though the Pauline materials were written first, he concludes that the Gospels are a better source of information for Jesus. Pokorný claims that the proclamation of Jesus focused primarily upon his unique pronouncement of the kingdom of God. Utilizing influences

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as divergent as John the Baptist’s Qumran-like apocalyptic thought and the idea of a reign of God in which the Jews would enjoy dominion over other nations, Jesus developed a vision of God’s kingdom in which loving community is expressed among the faithful in the present and in which a future reign including the participation of all people is envisioned. According to Pokorný, Jesus’ proclamation of the kingdom reveals rhetorical “genius” (p. 34), which mitigates against a view of Jesus as simply a wisdom teacher or eschatological prophet. Pokorný recognizes that Jesus shares some characteristics with other prophetic individuals of his time (e.g., the Teacher of Righteousness and John the Baptist). Like them, Jesus performed symbolic actions designed to provoke people to action, especially with reference to items familiar to Jewish life (e.g., the Torah and the temple). Unlike them, Jesus probably never intended to step outside of Jewish piety to start another form of Judaism. After establishing Jesus’ prophetic status, Pokorný examines Jesus’ messianic credentials. Pokorný claims that Jesus “did not derive his teaching and activity from a commonly known and widely accepted concept of messianity” (p. 44). He also finds no evidence that Jesus understood himself as a Messiah who would die for his cause. In fact, Pokorný claims that Jesus’ self-understanding cannot be fully reconstructed, even though something of Jesus’ awareness of his mission can be discovered. Jesus apparently reinterpreted key elements of concepts regarding the Davidic Messiah and the Son of Man. Although Jesus appropriated portions of these ideas, Pokorný doubts that Jesus expected to be either the violent, vengeful heir of David or the heavenly figure of the Son of Man. The texts reveal Jesus as a very human person who understood himself as a catalyst to bring about eschatological change. Jesus gradually became aware of his “divine mission” (p. 52), but he did not finally realize his union with God until Gethsemane and the cross, where he realized that his earthly ministry had failed to establish God’s kingdom. At this point Jesus gave up his plans to God and looked for a divine fulfillment (p. 52). Although some may question this reading of the texts, the strength of Pokorný’s presentation is in the breadth of canonical and noncanonical materials used. Chapter 3 considers how early Christians understood Christology. Pokorný acknowledges that the starting point of this investigation is Easter (i.e., the resurrection). This single circumstance causes Jesus to stand out from others who started movements (the Teacher of Righteousness and John the Baptist). How did the early Christians arrive at a resurrection/exaltation form of Christology? Pokorný approaches the problem by examining the forms of Christology found within the texts. The early Christian understanding of Christ represents a kind of evolution through several expressions, including those that gave special importance to Jesus’ sacrificial death, to Son of Man ideas, and to wisdom Christology. Resurrection/exaltation Christology combines aspects of these into “a system consisting of various different elements (subsystems) which in different ways reflects one mighty impulse” (p. 58). This impulse is set into motion by the resurrection of Jesus, an event or experience that is primarily conveyed through testimony. According to Pokorný, the individual resurrection of Jesus represented a new understanding of resurrection within the religious climate of the first century. That is, Jesus’ resurrection is not part of the general eschatological resurrection of all people but is interpreted as a precursor to that general resurrection. This understanding creates a “telescopic eschatology” in which the final age has begun with Jesus’ resurrection, but awaits its complete

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fulfillment (general resurrection) in the future. Indeed, Jesus’ resurrection is understood in just such an apocalyptic manner by Paul and the early Christians. From this foundation, Pokorný builds his overview of the christological system that resulted in the establishment of a resurrection/exaltation Christology. Noting that the Easter experience finds its root in the enthusiastic soil of apocalyptic eschatological expectation, Pokorný reassembles the framework of Christologies upon which the resurrection/exaltation version hangs. The enthusiastic response to the Easter event ultimately gave way to reflection and discussion regarding the implications of the event, which resulted in a verbalization of those implications via christological titles. Pokorný discusses some of these titles, closing with an examination of the passion narrative. He concludes that the passion story “undoubtedly represents a Christology different from that of Jesus’ sacrificial death as well as from the Christology of resurrection” (p. 73). Pokorný then reviews the Christologies of early Christian literature, including Paul’s writings and the Gospels. Simply stated, Pokorný finds that each subsequent writer reinterpreted the christological formula to best suit the needs of the readers. He concludes this chapter with a discussion of the Christology of the canon. The formation of the Christian canon supported the resurrection/exaltation Christology by including texts that in some ways supported that particular version. Other Christologies are evident in the NT texts as well, but the limited canon effectively ensconced the resurrection/exaltation Christology by preserving the texts that appear to fit best with that view. The others were left to history for scholars to debate. Although some may find his discussion sketchy in places, his arguments are clear and in many cases quite convincing. This wellwritten little volume will prove useful to any student of Jesus studies and could be used in either a popular or an academic setting. Leo Percer Baylor University, Waco, TX 76798

Christian Origins and the Language of the Kingdom of God, by Michael L. Humphries. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press, 1999. Pp. ix + 99. $32.50 (cloth). In Christian Origins and the Language of the Kingdom of God, Michael Humphries presents the reader with an outstanding example of myth as a social formative act. Mythmaking—to borrow a term from Burton Mack, from whom Humphries draws heavily— is an ongoing process of negotiation. Various sects and splinter factions jockey for position as it were and contend for authority and dominance, inclusion or exclusion, through the use of language. Groups do not appear suddenly ex nihilo; rather, groups gradually emerge in diverse but related forms as they come to define themselves in relation to other groups in their particular locality. Christianity is no different and therefore should be studied not as something founded on the teachings of a single individual but as a process of social bargaining based on the manipulation of language in the service of group goals. Humphries begins by illustrating the underlying post-Enlightenment assumption that drives so much of traditional NT scholarship, namely, that the essence or funda-

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mental character of a thing is revealed in a thorough and adequate understanding of its origin. Contrary to this approach, which stresses linearity, homogeneity, and continuity, Humphries illustrates a history (histories) that attests to plurality, disparity, and discontinuity. “The early Christian texts testified not to an incipient and singular movement branching out into diverse and heretical representations of an original but to a discontinuity and difference that only later collapses into an emerging orthodoxy effected through assimilation and exclusion” (p. 5). Throughout the book, but especially in the first chapter, Humphries makes a challenging and at times rigorous critique of both traditional as well as many contemporary studies of the historical Jesus and Christian origins. He lays bare the rhetorical strategies of NT scholars, who themselves also are engaged in mythmaking and social formation as they contend for positions of exegetical and interpretive authority. The book can be divided into roughly two parts. The first part, which includes chs. 1 through 3, addresses broad theoretical considerations, the identification of “Beelzebul,” and the rhetorical structure and function of chreiai. Humphries’s analysis of “Beelzebul” stresses the ambiguity of the term, which provides significant flexibility in terms of its application. “It is probable that this ambiguity lends itself to multiple signification and thus allows for variation according to place, time and circumstance” (p. 20). Humphries concludes that the term and the various modifying appellations often associated with it may function simply as an ethnocentric and nationalist catch phrase that accounts for all foreign deities. Consequently, when Jesus’ accusers level the charge of collusion with Beelzebul they in fact are charging him with deviance. By so doing, they are attempting to “otherize” Jesus and his followers. Humphries identifies the Beelzebul controversy stories as chreiai: “compositions wherein each saying acquires its significance as an argument in support of a proposition” (p. 23). Here is another example of the way in which Humphries emphasizes diversity and multiplicity. He stresses that the language of the kingdom of God is not something that allows scholars to take a series of disparate instances and boil them down to some essential teaching or core meaning. Kingdom of God language is not an interpretive lens through which one can ascertain the “real” Jesus and his message. Instead, precisely because he emphasizes the role of language in general and the rhetorical function of the chreiai in particular, Humphries demonstrates “the effective use of language, the deployment of a skillfully composed argument whose proposition consists not in the disclosure of an essence but of the legitimation of a particular ethos” (p. 23). It is the context of a given situation that determines the creative use of the pattern. The second part of the book, which incorporates chs. 4 and 5, explores the language of the kingdom of God as it appears specifically in the two versions of the Beelzebul controversy found in Q and the Gospel of Mark. Humphries treats the pericope as a whole rather than attempting to recognize and analyze individual logia. As a result, he is able to demonstrate better the rhetorical functionality of the compositions and to articulate the subtle nuances of parties engaged in the early stages of social formation and the negotiation and establishment of group boundaries. In the case of the Beelzebul controversy in Q, the author shows that Jesus and his followers—at least those represented by the Q community—respond to the charge of collusion with Beelzebul with a chreia and elaboration that serve to legitimate a particular

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ethos on the grounds that it is associated with the epic history of Israel itself. The effort on the part of the Q community is aimed at demonstrating to their accusers that members of the Q community are also members of the true Israel and should not be excluded. In the Gospel of Mark, on the other hand, the Markan community uses the language of the kingdom of God to distinguish itself from the ethos of Israel for the sake of establishing the basis of true kinship with Jesus. The point of similarity between the two communities and their use of the kingdom of God language is this: In both cases it serves “the process of social positioning and the demarcation of boundaries effected in the act of mythologization” (p. 61). The beauty of Humphries’s book is that the subtlety with which he makes his case parallels the subtlety of the texts that he is analyzing. Extensive footnotes and a lengthy bibliography support Humphries’s arguments. This new approach to studying historical Jesus and Christian origins is stimulating and refreshing. Christian Origins and the Language of the Kingdom of God is a welcome addition to a growing number of texts that are making an effort at “redescribing”—to borrow from Jonathan Z. Smith—the early formations of multiple Christianities. Although Humphries does not reference him directly, the author’s treatment of myth also shares similarities with Bruce Lincoln, who recently defined myth as “ideology in narrative form” (Theorizing Myth [University of Chicago Press, 1999], xii). In other words, myth is a tool of political maneuvering. When regarded as such, we are afforded an opportunity to understand better the persistence of myth and its function in contemporary as well as classical culture. Scott S. Elliott Boston University, Boston, MA 02215

A History of the Synoptic Problem: The Canon, the Text, the Composition, and the Interpretation of the Gospels, by David Laird Dungan. ABRL. New York: Doubleday, 1999. Pp. xiv + 526. $39.95 (cloth). David Dungan’s recent contribution to the ABRL, A History of the Synoptic Problem, is an excellent intermediate-level survey of the Synoptic Problem. This recent history is commendable for at least three reasons: (1) it sets the debate in its historic economic, political, and intellectual settings; (2) it comprehensively covers the debate through the past two millennia; and (3) it rationally calls into question common assumptions among the majority of scholars today. As the title suggests, Dungan describes the history of the debate from the first century to the present. As his is a single-volume treatment, the author must often use broad strokes to sketch the picture of this history. With each stroke, however, Dungan offers a plethora of documentation to support his statements and reconstructions. The result is a quality historiography that offers the student a guide and the scholar a reference to the development of the debate through the centuries. Dungan lays out the history of the debate according to the way major figures have answered the central question “Where may I find reliable testimony to the Lord Jesus?” In demonstrating the responses to this question, Dungan discusses the development of

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the debate according to three main periods. The first stretches from the first century until the time of Augustine; the second is from the Italian Renaissance until the end of World War II; and the third includes the decades since WWII. In a highly readable, narrative style, Dungan discusses the salient developments and challenges in the early church through the texts of Luke, Papias, Justin Martyr, Tatian, Marcion, and Celsus. Then he illustrates how Origen addressed all four elements of the Synoptic Problem for the first time (canon, text, composition, and hermeneutics). Here, Dungan goes beyond many treatments of this topic as he demonstrates the need to consider the canonical and textual issues before one addresses the compositional and hermeneutical elements of the problem. Next, the author illustrates the Christian movement embattled by Porphyry’s attacks and gives a plausible interpretation of Eusebius’s works (Preparation for the Gospel, Demonstration of the Gospel, Ecclesiastical History, and Gospel Canons) as a response to the critic. Further, Tertullian’s remarks on the logic of canonization in The Prescription of Heretics are used to demonstrate the view that unity was equated with veracity. Dungan closes the first part of the book with a discussion of Augustine’s harmonization of the Gospels. In this second form of the Synoptic Problem, the author recounts Augustine’s assumptions and method in resolving the issue. This refutation of the Manichaeans is also seen to close the book on the Porphyrian and Neoplatonic criticisms. Dungan grants that the official suppression of these views may be more the reason for the silence than Augustine’s writing; nevertheless, Augustine’s treatment stood until the beginning of the Enlightenment. In the second part of the book, Dungan addresses the cultural, political, economic, and technological elements that contributed to the development of the historical-critical method and the modern understanding and common resolution of the Synoptic Problem. Beginning with the Italian Renaissance, Dungan demonstrates how the scientific approach to biblical studies developed out of the breakdown of the “medieval synthesis” and resulted in “denaturing the Bible so that it became no more than a handbook of morality any decent person could accept” (p. 148). In successive chapters, Dungan shows how the Enlightenment and Romantic understandings of nature changed the basis of reason. The purely physical view of the cosmos precipitated the understanding of the universe as a “thing” and the basis of knowledge as empirical data. This scientific way consequently led to the skepticism of Luther’s time and his famed attack on indulgences. This appeal to personal conscience as doctrinal arbiter precipitates Descartes’ appeal to the pure reason of the individual. Dungan then shows how this appeal to individual reason fed into Hobbes’s prioritizing of individual rights over obligations and, subsequently, into Locke’s exposition of human understanding and Smith’s An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations. This economic, political, and cultural egocentrism is then shown to lead up to the destruction of 1914–1918 and 1939–1945. Dungan then gives a summary of the main features of the modern historical-critical method and how it was manifested among the Reformers. Having laid the historical basis for the period, Dungan narrates the development of the textus receptus and the subsequent chaos after its many errors were discovered. Dungan then departs from the chaos of the time in order to demonstrate the Spinozan roots of the historical-critical method. In this chapter, the author illustrates how this

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method was conceived by Spinoza purposely to undermine religious authority and to reduce it to a simple moral of loving God and loving one’s neighbor. He then shows how Locke’s literal hermeneutic reduced Christianity to teachings about the life of Jesus as a moral exemplar. The views of Spinoza and Locke were then imposed upon the canon by John Toland, who pushed for the consideration of all early Christian texts—canonical and apocryphal. Dungan then traces the development of these text-critical issues through the editions of Tischendorf and Westcott-Hort to the early editions by Nestle-Aland. In the last chapter of part 2, Dungan details how the third form of the Synoptic Problem—the modern form—came into existence and how its preferred solution—Markan priority—was born in the late-nineteenth-century Kulturkampf of Bismarck’s Germany. Dungan amply demonstrates how this third form of the Synoptic Problem is radically different from the first or the second forms of the problem. It was born out of circumstances that were hostile to the Bible and the traditional Christian system of belief. In the third part of the book, Dungan critiques the present state of the debate according to the four elements of the Synoptic Problem. Much of Dungan’s critique of the state of the debate is based upon his critique of the historical-critical method, discussed in part 2. Dungan sees the historical-critical method as developing out of a Spinozan scheme to “eviscerate traditional Christianity and the Bible of their core symbols and values and put in their place a pious moralism . . . so that the clergy and the masses would never again . . . be able to use the Bible to thwart . . . the establishment of a secular nation-state” (p. 347). Finally, in his discussion on composition, Dungan argues for a reopening of the Synoptic Problem. He argues through parts 2 and 3 that Markan priority was born of nineteenth-century German anti-Catholic schemes and was consequently promoted by Bismarck. Therefore, he picks up the thread of W. Farmer and others who argue for Matthean priority. Dungan states that he argues here for a mere reconsideration of the problem; however, much of his discussion is specifically geared toward the establishment of Matthean priority without sufficient consideration of Markan priority. This, too, may result from the limited space that he has. Perhaps the most significant oversight in this work is that of correlation. While Dungan argues cogently that the Two-Source Hypothesis is born of nineteenth-century antiCatholic biases, he does not demonstrate that those who still hold to Markan priority are anti-Catholic in their scholarship. The conditions under which an idea is birthed does not necessarily determine the veracity of the argument. On the whole, however, Dungan’s history is exceptional in its clarity and holistic in its description of the debate from the first century through to World War II. I have not encountered another book of its type that covers so much scholarship on the Synoptics as concisely. Further, up to the single chapter on the Neo-Griesbachian school, no substantial bias may be perceived in the narrative but the conclusions are carefully weighed and supported. Dungan’s work is top-notch and should be welcomed by all with a receptive mind. A. L. Lukaszewski University of St. Andrews, Scotland Y16 9JU, UK

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Excavating Q: The History and Setting of the Sayings Gospel, by John S. Kloppenborg Verbin. Minneapolis: Fortress; London: T. & T. Clark, 2000. Pp. xii + 546. $32.00. Excavating Q began as an introduction to Q but got out of hand, as Kloppenborg Verbin admits (p. 9). It evolved into a book “about Q . . . and the difference its existence makes” (p. 1), or, as the subtitle indicates, about the history and setting of Q. The book caps several decades of Q research, launched mainly in Germany in the 1960s by three students of Günther Bornkamm, namely, Heinz Eduard Tödt (Der Menschensohn in der synoptischen Tradition [Gerd Mohn, 1959; ET 1965]), Odil Hannes Steck (Israel und das gewaltsame Geschick der Propheten [Neukirchener, 1967]), and Dieter Lührmann (Die Redaktion der Logienquelle [Neukirchener, 1969]). The proliferation of Q studies from that point on is quite dramatic (measured simply on the basis of published books): eleven in the 1970s, twenty in the 1980s, and thirty-nine in the 1990s. The pace shows no sign of slackening: five more books in 2000, three already announced by early 2001. Kloppenborg Verbin’s insightful and incisive review of this literature is itself a valuable contribution. Though the book incorporates the results of studies Kloppenborg Verbin has published separately since The Formation of Q (Fortress, 1987), it does not set forth a new proposal regarding Q. There are, however, some new features, especially an effort to situate Q in first-century lower Galilee (chs. 4, 5). The Synoptic Problem also receives a thorough and balanced analysis, including Roman Catholic contributions (chs. 1 and 6). Some observations by Kloppenborg Verbin are also new, or at least more cogently argued than in Formation. For example, on the question of multiple recensions of Q, he concludes: “that Q . . . could have been preserved in identical forms in two or more copies simply strains credulity” (p. 109). In ch. 3 (pp. 118–28), he has added new arguments to those I advanced concerning “The Literary Unity of Q”(JBL 101 [1982]: 365–89). Kloppenborg Verbin’s discussion of the stratigraphy of Q (method: pp. 114–18; stratigraphic analysis: pp. 143–53) had already been worked out in Formation and is treated only briefly here. He seeks, however, to correct the popular misuse of his analysis by those who have passed lightly over the literary arguments and have characterized Q1 as “sapiential” and Q2 as “prophetic or apocalyptic” (pp. 379–98; cf. pp. 150-51), reserving special criticism for N. T. Wright and Richard Horsley (p. 385 n. 45). He insists on a preference for formal rather than material criteria for discussing the composition and genre of Q (p. 382). In Formation, Kloppenborg Verbin had already argued that Q3 was moving in the direction of the genre bios. I would suggest that it may be worth exploring whether Q3, with its interest in Torah and temple, had already come within the Matthean orbit. The fact that Matthew reworked Q much more thoroughly than Luke suggests that his community had made extensive use of Q prior to its incorporation into the First Gospel, which would comport with my suggestion. Many of Kloppenborg Verbin’s claims regarding Q are standard: e.g., it was a single document written in Greek, probably in the late 50s or early 60s of the first century in lower Galilee. However, his efforts to situate Q in first-century lower Galilee are especially noteworthy. The village scribes who produced Q were, he concludes, of relatively low social standing, suspicious of local administrative institutions, probably stable rather than itinerant, and Israelites who observed at least common practices such as Shabbat

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and kashrut. They perhaps encountered a few Pharisees, but rarely, and followed the “little tradition” of the Torah as known in Galilee. In spite of some criticism of Horsley’s proposals (see, e.g., Whoever Hears You Hears Me, by Horsley and Jonathan Draper, [Trinity International, 1999]), Kloppenborg Verbin agrees with him in seeing the Q people as a renewal movement, offering “hope in God’s renewal of society, a renewal in which the poor would acquire honor and dignity” (p. 195). The audience of Q probably “was a network of local groups and local leaders, perhaps household heads, and . . . mobile workers [who] were dependent upon the households both materially and for the legitimation of their roles” (p. 211). Q2, he says, reflects “a new rhetorical situation” (p. 201), which “demanded a defense or legitimation of the Q people’s existence” (p. 203) in view of “a struggle for influence and place in Galilean society” (p. 205). This involved attacks on opponents and associating Jesus and John with Sophia and prophetic figures. Kloppenborg Verbin states: “In defense of the Jesus movement, the framers of Q construct a notion of Israel and its epic heroes which stands in opposition to Jerusalem, the Herodian dynasty, the Pharisees and lawyers, and the unbelief that is encountered in the marketplaces” (p. 204). Following Robert Redfield (Peasant Society and Culture, 1965) and James Scott (“Protest and Profanations” in Theory and Society 4 [1977]: 211–46), Kloppenborg Verbin wants to frame the Q tradition as the “little tradition” over against the “great tradition” of the elites (pp. 206–9). In ch. 5, he explores in some detail various aspects of Galilean society—the ethnic complexion, attitudes toward Judean political and religious institutions, urbanization, the presence of priests, and the general economic and political climate. Rather surprisingly, no detailed attention is given to Kefar Nah\um (Capernaum) or Bethsaida. As often, too little attention is given to signs of the dissolution of families and fictive family formation, which could be a significant clue to peculiar features of the social formation of the Q people. Nevertheless, Kloppenborg Verbin’s careful and judicious treatment of evidence for the social location of Q is a welcome contribution. Kloppenborg Verbin gives special attention to the “difference” that Q makes, especially in terms of our understanding of the Jesus movement(s), as well as to why characterizations of Q have met with resistance by some. His thesis is that Q shows more “commonalities with other ‘theologies’ of the early Jesus movement than detractors sometimes suppose, but at the same time, Q’s ‘differentness’ is substantial . . .” (p. 363). In ch. 8, he gives special attention to three issues: Jesus’ death and exaltation, the sapiential and prophetic/apocalyptic strands in Q, and whether Q was a “gospel.” Q says nothing about Jesus’ death, but alludes to it, though not as a salvific event. Evidence of resurrection language applied to Jesus is even more evanescent. Kloppenborg Verbin picks up George Nickelsburg’s suggestion that the Markan passion narrative was based on a wisdom tale, many of whose elements are also found in Q, albeit scattered. Kloppenborg Verbin concludes from this that Q had perhaps a collective interpretation of Jesus’ death (p. 373), a suggestion that is interesting but not very convincing since the evidence is so scant. An important contribution of this book is its discussion of the ways in which theological or other predilections influenced interpretive decisions. The whole second half of the book, in fact, is called “Theology and Ideology.” Chapter 6 (“The Jesus of History and the History of Dogma”) examines the Synoptic Problem, noting that “[t]he birth of

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the Synoptic Problem was in fact attended by a theological midwife” (p. 269). Particular attention is given to the Griesbach Hypothesis and the Two Document Hypothesis, as well as Catholic scholarship, all of which were buoyed by theological currents. Issues of the unity and diversity of early Christianity, as well as eschatology, complicated the emergence of Q from simply being a source of Matthew and Luke to being a distinctive gospel in its own right (ch. 7: “Putting Q on the Map”). Once Q had become “the fourth Synoptic Gospel” (p. 350), greater attention was given to the “difference” Q made (ch. 8: “Making Difference”). In the final chapter (ch. 9: “Social Characterizations in Theological Perspective”), Kloppenborg Verbin, still pursuing the theme of “Theology and Ideology,” examines the development of social-historical criticism and, especially, the “cynic hypothesis.” He is especially interested in why this hypothesis has attracted such animated and negative responses. The reason, he argues, is “not historiographic, but theological” (p. 422). This does not mean, however, that Kloppenborg Verbin subscribes to the hypothesis. This is an outstanding book, well written and carefully researched. Typos are fairly rare. Anyone who would talk about Q must reckon with this book. Its heft, in several senses of that word, means that it will be useful mainly to advanced students of the Gospels and to scholars, though diligent and informed lay persons could profit greatly from reading it. Now that we have a critical edition of Q (Fortress, 2000), let us hope that Kloppenborg Verbin will next provide us with a commentary on Q. Arland D. Jacobson CHARIS Ecumenical Center, Concordia College, Moorhead, Minnesota 56562

Prodigality, Liberality and Meanness: The Prodigal Son in Greco-Roman Perspective, by David A. Holgate. JSNTSup 187. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999. Pp. 299. £50.00/$80.00 (cloth). This monograph is a revision of Holgate’s doctoral dissertation, completed under the direction of Professor P. G. R. de Villiers in Grahamstown, South Africa. With considerable care and an excellent grasp of a wide range of primary and secondary sources, Holgate argues that Luke’s parable of the prodigal son should be read in light of the Greco-Roman moral topos “On Covetousness.” This argument rests on the assumption that Luke’s intended readers were familiar with Greco-Roman ethical and philosophical rhetoric, and that Luke intended to teach them about the benefits of an attitude of “liberality toward their possessions.” Part 1 of Holgate’s monograph focuses on the parable itself. He begins by surveying the analyses of the prodigal son that employed a reading informed by Greco-Roman perspectives, and he notes a number of parallels between this parable and elements of Greco-Roman literature and thought. Of special significance to Holgate are the parallels between the parable and the moral teachings of the Greco-Roman philosophers. After this survey he examines the composition and message of Luke 15:11–32, establishing the text and its structure. The result of this examination is Holgate’s contention that the father plays the central role in this parable, a role Luke designed to teach his readers

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about the virtue of compassionate liberality. The final chapter of this section searches for a milieu—what Holgate terms “co-texts”—for the parable. Unhappy with the interpretative strictures posed by limiting the parable to its immediate context of Luke 15 (the “lost and found” parables), Holgate argues that the “L parables”—those found only in Luke’s Gospel—offer a better context for understanding the meaning(s) of the prodigal son. In particular, these co-texts emphasize the proper use of money and possessions; the parable’s teachings about liberality in the use of money fits far better, he argues, with Luke 16 than with the rest of Luke 15. Part 2 of the book examines other Greco-Roman moral texts for their use of the topos “On Covetousness.” This chapter offers the reader an extensive tour through this particular arena of classical literature, explaining the use of topoi, examining the moral teachings about money and possessions across a wide range of texts, and describing the characteristic features of the topos “On Covetousness.” Having argued that the parable of the prodigal son is better read in light of Luke’s message(s) about possessions, and having surveyed the ancient moral literature about the proper use of possessions, Holgate moves to part 3 of his monograph: an analysis of the parable in light of ancient moral instruction concerning the proper use of possessions. Holgate’s term for this analysis is “moral reading,” and he argues that the parable treats three of the common themes of the topos “On Covetousness”: the vices of meanness and prodigality, and the virtue of liberality. Holgate argues that the younger son represents the vice of prodigality, as he falls prey to the same life difficulties that plague prodigals in other Greco-Roman literature. The father, on the other hand, represents the virtue of liberality, and his willingness to be free with his possessions indicates that he has the correct attitude toward them. The younger son, faced with the failure and degradation that result from his prodigality, “comes to himself” and embraces the virtue of liberality. Finally, the older son represents the vice of meanness; even though he possesses everything, he really has nothing. And, unlike the younger son, the older son experiences no conversion. Holgate concludes his monograph with a summary of the gains made by employing a moral reading. He further suggests that such a reading strategy might prove fruitful in understanding others of Luke’s parables. Holgate’s analysis of this parable offers an interesting and often fruitful reading. Luke’s interest in the proper use of possessions has been examined by a number of scholars, and Holgate makes a valuable contribution to this scholarly discussion. In particular, he brings helpful insights from the moral philosophy of the Greco-Roman world and connects those quite easily to a thorough reading of Luke’s Gospel. His discussion of other literary and moral descriptions of prodigality and its effects makes a nice contribution to the reading of this parable, whether one embraces Holgate’s thesis or not. Additionally, his survey of Greco-Roman moral philosophy, even though limited to a particular theme of possessions, will be a valuable resource for others, since the footnotes provide both documentation of Holgate’s argument and avenues for further exploration. In order to make his argument, however, Holgate makes some interesting interpretative assumptions. Often these are made in his attempt to free the parable from its connection with the preceding parables of the lost sheep and the lost coin. Holgate argues that Luke’s Greco-Roman audience—his “intended audience”—would automatically

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focus on the echoes of a moral topos concerning possessions, rather than following the narrative threads of “lost and found” or the theological/social questions about the dominion of God raised by the events and parables of Luke 14 (healing on the Sabbath, parable about guests and hosts, parable about the banquet, and the cost of discipleship), as well as the narrative tag that introduces the parables of Luke 15 (where the Pharisees and scribes criticize Jesus for eating with tax collectors and sinners). Holgate’s argument that the “L parables” constitute the proper co(n)-text for the prodigal son is an interesting one, but he seems to want to give Luke credit for composing them and placing them within the travel narrative without also giving Luke credit for the narrative introductory tags that move this narrative forward. That there is a strong emphasis on the proper attitude toward possessions in this section of Luke’s Gospel is already established, and Luke’s Jesus seems interested in teaching his followers about that proper attitude. But Holgate’s argument that Luke’s primary intention in including this parable is to teach the virtue of liberality ignores the narrative context too quickly. The parable is not just about the proper attitude toward possessions; it is also about the accepting nature of the reign of God and the complex social and religious relationship between Christianity and Judaism. Holgate’s monograph is a worthy addition to the JSNT Supplement Series. The book offers a thoughtful contribution to the interpretation of the prodigal son as well as Luke’s Gospel. Holgate’s interaction with such a wide range of primary and secondary literature will also be helpful to any serious student of the NT. Steven M. Sheeley Shorter College, Rome, GA 30165

“Mysticism” in the Gospel of John: An Inquiry into Its Background, by Jey J. Kanagaraj. JSNTSup 158. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998. Pp. 356. £55.00/$85.00. This book is a revised Ph.D. dissertation written at the University of Durham in 1995 under the supervision of James D. G. Dunn. Kanagaraj begins his study with the assumption that the Gospel of John is best understood by placing it in its religio-historical context. The question, of course, is, Into which religio-historical context? While one of the environments into which John has been placed is a so-called Johannine mysticism, a major deficiency of studies on Johannine mysticism is uncritical adoption of either of the unio mystica view or the communio mystica view. In part 1, therefore, Kanagaraj launches into a major investigation of the mystical currents prevalent in Hellenistic-Jewish circles during the time of John that may help inform the modern reader of possible influences on Johannine mysticism. He surveys the mystical attitudes prevalent in Hellenistic-Jewish circles in the late first century C.E. in the work of Philo of Alexandria and the Hermetica. While the mysticism of Philo represents a trend prevalent in the Hellenistic-Jewish circles of John’s time, certain aspects of his mysticism, such as the human soul yearning to see God and to have union with him, have slender phraseological and conceptual links with John. The mysticism described in the Hermetica is concerned with the knowledge of God and union with God and, while striking, does not supply the conceptual milieu for the author of John either.

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If the Hellenistic-Jewish mystical milieu does not give adequate answer to the mysticism present in John, then, according to Kanagaraj, it is to be found in Palestinian mysticism. Hence, in part 2 of the book, Kanagaraj engages in an elaborate exploration of Merkabah mysticism described in the later Hekhalot literature. After isolating the mystical features that emerge from the Hekhalot literature that inform the mystical experiences of certain Judeans from the second to the seventh centuries C.E., Kanagaraj turns his attention to finding evidence of Merkabah mysticism in such pre-Christian writings as the Wisdom of Ben Sira (Sir 49:8; 3:21–23) and the Qumran texts (4QShirShabb; 4Q403 1 ii 1–16; 4Q404 20 ii 21–22; 4QMessAr; or 4Q534). Next Kanagaraj looks for evidence of Merkabah mysticism in the Christian era and finds it in the heavenly ascents of Paul (1 Cor 12), Isaiah (Ascen. Isa. 6–11), and Moses (Memar Marqah; Liber Antiquitatum Biblicarum). Moreover, Kanagaraj isolates several apocalyptic books of the late first century that he argues yield additional evidence for a Merkabah mystical experience at the time of John (1 En. 37–71; 2 Enoch; 4 Ezra; Apocalypse of Abraham; Testament of Abraham; 11QMelch; Revelation). Given that Johanan ben Zakkai was a contemporary of John, Kanagaraj investigates four versions of Johanan’s Merkabah experience as recounted by one of his disciples, Eleazar b.
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mysteries of God. The Johannine ideas of “indwelling” and “knowing” also show evidence of the influence of Merkabah mysticism, but one that is altered to suit the intensely personal and historical nature of union with God, attainable only in Jesus rather than through contemplation (p. 281). There will undoubtedly be disagreement in different circles about the definition of Merkabah mysticism, its essential elements, the use of the Hekhalot literature to define late-first-century C.E. mysticism, and the distinction that Kanagaraj draws between Hellenistic mysticism and a Palestinian mysticism. Unfortunately, the book still reads much like a dissertation, with constant recapitulation of the task at hand and the conclusions arrived at. This volume nevertheless advances substantially the discussion concerning the nature of “Johannine mysticism.” Future considerations of “Johannine mysticism” will have to take into account Karagaraj’s contribution. Dietmar Neufeld University of British Columbia, Vancouver, BC, V6T 1Z1 Canada

Der Erste Brief an die Korinther (1 Kor 11, 17–14, 40), by Wolfgang Schrage. EKKNT 7/3. Zurich/Düsseldorf: Benziger Verlag; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1999. Pp. xiii + 501. DM 148.00. This is the third volume of what was originally supposed to be a two-volume, and now looks like it will be a four-volume, commentary on 1 Corinthians. Schrage continues the format followed in the earlier two volumes. Four major sections cover two basic themes: (1) the proper celebration of the Lord’s Supper in 11:17–34 and (2) the charismatic community in 12:1–14:40. The latter is subdivided into 12:1–3, “Presuppositions and Criteria”; 12:4–11, “Unity and Distinction in the Spiritual Gifts”; and 12:12–31a, “The Community as the Body of Christ.” This is followed by “The Way of Love” (12:31b–13:13). Thereafter follows “Community Worship” (14:1–40), which is subdivided into 14:1–25, “Prophecy and Glossolalia”; 14:26–33, 36–40, “The Order of Worship”; and 14:34–35, “An Insertion: The Command to Silence for the Women of the Community.” Each section follows a pattern. After the bibliography, one finds an analysis, identifying the problems in the text, an examination of the passage’s structure, an interpretation, a brief summary, and a detailed history of interpretation and importance. All contribute to a comprehensive commentary on three and one-half chapters of 1 Corinthians. The analysis of 1 Corinthians 11:17–21 situates well the sociohistorical context of Paul’s teaching on the Lord’s Supper. Schrage notes that Paul is not instructing the communities in Corinth on the Lord’s Supper per se, but is rather addressing the ecclesiological and ethical consequences of the particular aberrations in the Corinthian practice. Drawing on the extensive analyses of the social situation in Corinth and favoring the temporal sense of prolambanein, Schrage concludes that the problem that sparked Paul’s instruction was a meal, held before the Lord’s Supper by upper status Christians, and from which the lower status Christians were excluded. One factor contributing to the exclusion of lower status Christians was a delay in their arrival, due to their work

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obligations. Upper status Christians, then, took advantage of the delay and enjoyed a meal without them. Schrage makes judicious choices in showing that Paul’s overall intent was to reaffirm the integrity of the Lord’s Supper. All Christians should have equal access to the food and celebration and should not be discriminated against because of status. Regarding the spiritual gifts (12:4–11), Schrage confirms the standard interpretation: all spiritual gifts (1) have the same divine source, (2) are given in an abundance, which Paul lists in a catalogue as exemplary, inclusive, and nonhierarchical, and (3) are given for the use of the community. Paul’s point is to counter rivalry, competition, claims of superiority, and feelings of dissatisfaction that arise from a misunderstanding of such gifts. Schrage sees Paul’s teaching on the body of Christ (12:12–31a) as metaphoric and parenetic. The metaphor’s obviousness does not devalue the ecclesiological and christological. significance. Its ambivalence is also noteworthy, since it may be directed, on the one hand, to those Corinthians who assume themselves spiritually to be subordinate and unworthy and, on the other hand, to those Corinthians who aggrandize themselves and look down on others. Hence, this is the value of the exhortation to cooperation and understanding among all members of the body. On “The Way of Love” (12:31b–13:13), Schrage rightly identifies it as something that cannot be interpreted apart from the two chapters framing it. The formal elements of this text receive special attention, as Schrage contends that Paul is not merely demonstrating his rhetorical skill here, but has composed a paratactic comparison of values, where faith and hope are subordinated to love. In the end, love, as the corrective to pneumatic self-importance, is constitutive for Christian community. Under “Prophecy and Glossolalia” (14:1–25), the first subsection of “Community Worship” (14:1–40), Schrage brings Paul’s words on glossolalia and prophecy into focus. Glossolalia, unintelligible without an interpreter, was inappropriately overvalued by some in Corinth. Prophecy is more reliable and appropriate to believers because it is intelligible. The effective use of music and language metaphors and the construction of antitheses in this section highlight the function of gifts in the community and echo what Paul wrote in ch. 12 about their constructive purpose. In “The Order of Worship” (14:26–33, 36–40), Schrage sides with those commentators who see Paul articulating particular rules for community worship, based on the arguments regarding community structure made since ch. 12. Schrage reserves 14:34–36 for the last section of his commentary, agreeing with those who, in the last century, have seen it as an interpolation. That allows him to attend to Paul’s thought on the proper place of the two gifts already much discussed, glossolalia and prophecy, in Christian worship. Echoing what he wrote earlier about the body of Christ, Paul reiterates that each member of the community has a role to play in its upbuilding. Likewise, each of these gifts plays a role, too. Lastly, “An Insertion: The Command to Silence for the Women of the Community” (14:34–35) recognizes how controversial these verses are and notes that it is not only those of a conservative bent who want to retain their Pauline originality. After summarizing the usual reasons for treating them as an interpolation, Schrage concludes that the unknown author of these verses is in clear opposition to Paul himself on this question.

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Such a facile summary of Schrage’s work belies the immense amount of detailed information he has mustered to present such a comprehensive interpretation of 1 Cor 11:17–14:40. The interpretations are fairly standard and conventional, confirming the consensus on these chapters. They are also balanced in describing alternative interpretations and judicious in selecting those preferred. Invaluable are the wonderfully detailed and fascinating histories of interpretation and importance. These alone are worth the price of this volume, which will be useful to scholars and students alike. Alan C. Mitchell Georgetown University, Washington, DC 20057

Idol Food in Corinth: Jewish Background and Pauline Legacy, by Alex T. Cheung. JSNTSup 176. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999. Pp. 364. £55.00/$85.00. This substantial revision of Cheung’s Westminster Theological Seminary dissertation is an important work that examines one of the longest sustained arguments on an ethical issue found in Scripture. The work is carefully argued and pays both thorough and fair attention to contemporary research on the passage. In addition, it gives exhaustive treatment to the issue of idol food in early Christianity and argues a unique thesis that goes against the grain of almost all scholarly interpretation of this passage. Cheung’s thesis is that in 1 Cor 8:1–11:1 Paul consistently and unequivocally opposes the eating of food offered to idols. Paul gives two reasons for his prohibition: it is unloving (ch. 8) and it is idolatry (ch. 10). Paul’s only caveat comes at the end of the argument, where he permits Christians to eat without constantly asking questions about the origin of food. But once Christians are aware that food has been sacrificed to idols, they must not eat it. Cheung summarizes Paul’s position as follows: “To eat idol food knowingly is to participate in idolatry; therefore, for the sake of the weak and for the sake of yourselves, avoid any food if, and only if, you know that it is idol food” (p. 162). After a brief introduction, ch. 1 addresses the social meaning of eating idol food. Following P. D. Gooch’s work, particularly his archaeological findings, Cheung argues that all meals in temples in the first century would have involved idolatry and could not have been mere social occasions. Chapter 2 addresses the background of Paul’s attitude toward idol food in early Judaism. Cheung sees a strong, virtually universal abstinence from idol meat as a boundary marker for Jews, even those who seem quite open to accommodation with the surrounding Hellenistic culture. Chapter 3 presents the central argument through an exegetical investigation of 1 Cor 8:1–11:1. Cheung argues that the passage is a unity and condemns the eating of idol food on two counts. First, it is unloving because it does damage to others. Second, it is idolatry because it is associated with demons. In ch. 4, Cheung surveys early Christian understanding of Paul’s attitude and of the whole issue of eating food offered to idols. He shows that 1 Corinthians was widely known and used in the early church, and that the early church universally opposed eating food offered to idols. No one understood Paul’s argument as condoning food offered

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to idols. Cheung concludes that it is highly unlikely that what Paul taught on this important subject could have been forgotten or misunderstood by every early Christian author represented in our extant sources (p. 174). In ch. 5, Cheung offers a summary and concluding reflections. An appendix surveys the views of P. J. Tomson, Gooch, W. L. Willis, G. Theissen, M. M. Mitchell, and B. Witherington on various aspects of 1 Cor 8:1–11:1. Even if one were to grant Cheung his thesis, his argument contains a major flaw of omission. Cheung tries to show that Paul and all other authors in early Christianity are “remarkably consistent” (p. 178), and he contends that “the existence of such a virtual unanimity among early Christians gives credence to my contention that Paul at root urges the avoidance of idol food” (p. 278). He adds that most early authors were strongly influenced by Paul’s discussion (pp. 298–99). Paul’s continuity with the entire Christian tradition that follows is one of the strong links in Cheung’s argument. And yet, although Cheung shows how virtually all early Christians opposed idol food, he does not show one example of a discussion about the issue that takes the same form and complexity as Paul’s argument. Most Christian authors simply oppose the eating of idol meat with little discussion about the reasons. Somehow, Cheung needs to account for the uniqueness of the form and complexity of Paul’s argument vis-à-vis the other references to the issue in early Christianity. Short of that, his argument for total consistency seems less convincing. Another problem is that, according to Cheung, when Paul tells his readers to flee from idolatry in 1 Cor 10:14, he means to flee from eating food offered to idols. Cheung fails, however, to account for why Paul makes a distinction in terminology if idolatry and eating idol food are truly synonymous for him. Probably the least persuasive part of Cheung’s work comes in the concluding section, where he attempts to give statistical probabilities for his argument that Paul is consistent with the rest of the early church. The statistical probabilities work only if one agrees with the assumptions that he brings to them, and many readers will not. Cheung is to be commended for addressing the issue of the standpoint of the interpreter. He agrees with H. G. Gadamer that interpretation without preunderstanding is impossible. Cheung is willing to tell us something of his own story. He grew up in a house that worshiped idols, and when he became a Christian, had to face the question of eating food offered to idols. This experience clearly differentiates Cheung from most Christian exegetes of the passage, and he suggests that Western interpreters are influenced by the secular materialism of modern culture and fail to appreciate the text’s emphasis on the real presence of demons associated with food offered to idols (p. 303). He specifically questions whether most scholars who lack actual experience with food offered to idols are not too quick to ignore this specific issue and look for underlying principles (p. 18). Certainly Cheung’s background helps him see this text through different eyes. At the same time, one can ask whether his experience with food offered to idols might not also keep him from seeing some of the nuanced distinctions between Paul’s arguments about this issue and the discussions in other early Christian authors. Cheung’s work is well worth reading, if for no other reason than to explore the interesting hermeneutical perspective of the interpreter. But it is also well worth reading because the thesis is argued clearly, other positions are presented fairly, and early Chris-

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tian material is surveyed exhaustively. Even those who disagree with his thesis will find his work interesting and instructive. John Brunt Walla Walla College, College Place, WA 99324

“Servants of Satan,” “False Brothers” and Other Opponents of Paul, by Jerry L. Sumney. JSNTSup 188. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999, Pp. 360. $85.00. Jerry Sumney addresses a critical issue for the interpreter of Paul’s letters: any interpreter will suppose or articulate a hypothesis identifying “the opposition Paul and his successors faced.” To date, however, insufficient attention has been paid to employment of “methods that conform to accepted canons of critical historical research and that conform to the genre of the documents involved” (p. 13). Interpreters have generally begun with findings that are only appropriate as conclusions; otherwise such presuppositions influence the findings beyond what is appropriate to the historical enterprise. Sumney seeks to challenge the common presupposition that there was an antiPauline movement that purposefully sought to undermine Paul’s authority and supplant his teachings, such as is found, for example, in the work of F. C. Baur, W. Schmithals, and G. Lüdemann. He also questions those identifications dependent on set theological categories, such as Christology or soteriology, as well as those composed around heresy/ orthodoxy or heteropraxy/orthopraxy schemes. The historical controversies were not so one-dimensional; social life seldom is. Labeling the opposition as heretics may skew the matter, so that they are not considered apart from the author’s polemical context. In addition, many interpreters have an investment in emphasizing the distance of these opponents from Paul’s views and practices, privileging Paul’s perspective because it is their own, and thus risking the exaggeration of differences. Yet it may be that any difference’s importance is greater to Paul than to these opponents, who emphasize perhaps more agreement with Paul than is readily apparent. This is how social conflict has been shown to work by certain sociological theorists and can be observed in historical analogies: the importance placed on difference is heightened with respect to the other who is significantly similar, while the radically different “other” is more easily dismissed. The extremely useful methodology Sumney sets out to apply to the letters of the Pauline corpus (including those disputed as pseudo-Pauline) specifically for the purpose of identifying opponents (except Romans, Ephesians, and Philemon, where Sumney finds no opponents) is primarily a restatement of what he develops in his earlier work Identifying Paul’s Opponents (JSNTSup 40; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990). Rather than list the details of the various methods or attempt a survey of every chapter, I will discuss some of the results of Sumney’s method and its employment in his chapter on Galatians, entitled: “Paul Makes Some Enemies.” Be advised, however, that while this approach offers a window into the details of one of his many engaging discussions, it is inadequate to communicate the scope of this monograph, which addresses the issue of opponents throughout the entire Pauline corpus. Sumney recognizes that any decision on the rhetorical genre of Galatians as forensic

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or deliberative must not be made until at least the “explicit statements about opponents” have been examined (pp. 134–35), an important point too often overlooked in the current debate about such classification. However, at least three presuppositions are already recognizable in Sumney’s statement of the case: (1) whether the assignment of any one or combination of such formal rhetorical classifications is an appropriate goal, as though it is certain that this text represents any such case; (2) if pursued, the ostensible exclusion of consideration of epideictic classification (presupposed because it has few advocates in the current debate?); and (3) the prejudicing of the investigation by the labeling of the “others” in view as “opponents” prior to demonstrating that s/he or they “oppose” Paul (cf. p. 136: “in a letter written to combat opponents”). I will return to the last point below. After discussing such introductory matters, as is the case in the examination of each letter, Sumney examines first the “explicit statements” in Galatians (following his order): 6:12–13; 1:6–7; 4:17; 5:7–10, 12; 3:1; then the “allusions” 5:2–6; 4:8–10; 4:21; 5:11; 3:2–5; 1:8–10; 2:2–9; 3:10; followed by the “affirmations” 2:17–18; 3:17–18; 2:11–14. A highly detailed approach to the text is taken; I will seek to review it on its own terms, by discussion of the first two explicit statements Sumney sets out, as he concludes far less about these “opponents” from the other explicit statements on this list. Paul’s explicit oppositional statements in 6:12–13 are characterized as polemical, seeking to arouse hostility toward the “opponents,” thus any attribution of motives or evaluation of their relative practice of the law cannot be here discerned. Sumney draws two conclusions from 6:12–13 and its context: (1) “that circumcision was a central issue”; and (2) that “the opponents are from outside the Galatian congregation, because Paul distinguishes between the Galatians and the opponents” (p. 137). While admirably seeking to minimize presuppositions, and helpfully addressing the usual mistaken notions that Paul’s rhetoric provides objective knowledge about the motives or the level of lawobservance among those whose supposed influence Paul opposes, there are at least two problems with Sumney’s second point. First, why is congregation in the singular, since Paul explicitly addresses more than one group (1:2)? Should not the power of Paul’s rhetoric to create the impression of a singular exigence in Galatia, which has been assumed in the interpretative tradition to date, invite evaluation? Second, since when does “distinguishing between” provide knowledge that the ones being distinguished from those being addressed are so identified because they are from outside? Sumney has already gotten ahead of the text, signaling conclusions that betray mere presuppositions, namely, that those whose influence Paul supposes and herein seeks to undermine have arrived from outside of Galatia, as a singular group. In an investigation like this, the presence of such presuppositions and their ability to determine the possible conclusions should not be overlooked. The social recognition of the in-group and the out-group is shaped by one’s point of view, and may be seen differently by anyone, or everyone, else. Paul’s writing of a letter to Galatia from the perspective shared with his addressees as “us,” even when bringing accusations against the influence of “them,” implies nothing about their province as outsiders or insiders to Galatia, or the local communities in which the addressees’ groups exist. It provides a view of Paul’s perspective on in-group and out-group standing for his addressees, and how that identity ought to be established and maintained. Might not this extant rhetorical evidence represent Paul’s weighing in

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on a difference of opinion over the importance placed on competing membership and reference group norms among various local Galatian groups, perhaps even subgroups? The second explicit statement examined is 1:6–7. Sumney identifies this within the functional scope of 1:6–11(12) as the exordium, “which states the cause of the speech and makes the audience receptive to the speaking of oneself and one’s adversaries” (p. 137). He accepts the characterization of the letter as one of rebuke, with this exordium stating the letter’s occasion and setting the polemical tone. Although I am in substantial agreement with these observations, since they are the subject of current scholarly debate, I wonder if making such choices at the start does not prejudice the interpretation of the evidence in a way that Sumney proposes to avoid. Sumney notes that the other message is “altogether different” from Paul’s, “and not a gospel at all.” Yet he immediately dismisses the possibility that this message might not include Christ, since its evaluation as “not a gospel” is Paul’s polemical characterization of it, and, moreover, because it is stated ironically. Indeed, Paul’s polemicizing of this other message and its messengers is delivered ironically, but why does recognition of this rhetorical characteristic of Paul’s approach determine that the other message cannot be about something other than Christ, as Sumney claims? Or if messianic (Christ-oriented), that it cannot be about someone other than Jesus? Since the addressees have been ostensibly (according to Paul’s rhetoric) willing to consider it alongside of their faith in Jesus Christ, I do not see any force to Sumney’s objection. The message and its messengers apparently offer the opportunity to gain something that the addressees have not gained to date by way of their faith in Jesus Christ; it is Paul who now delivers the (perhaps unanticipated) message that pursuit of this course would render superfluous the death of Jesus Christ for themselves, the presumed value of which Paul does not in this letter argue, but anticipates as shared. Finally, Sumney builds here on his observation from 6:12–13, that, “because Paul once again distinguishes them from the Galatians,” this indicates “that the opponents are from outside Galatia” (p. 138). Once again, this reviewer is baffled by such deductions. Not surprisingly, their identity as “outsiders” is one of the unambiguous conclusions he will reach (see p. 140), although no further support for this result is deduced from any other passages in Galatians, whether explicit statements, allusions, or affirmations. When Sumney brings together the results of his various independent chapters, the implications of this decision bear important consequences for his conclusions about Paul’s opposition being “travelling preachers” from outside of Galatia; moreover, these results are then extended to signal a possible movement, drawing upon the potential for correspondence with the “opponents” of Philippians (see pp. 307–9). Sumney has done the field a great service; yet I wish he would push the methodological insights farther in application to this text, and not import so many of the prevailing presuppositions. As noted, from the start Sumney accepts in general the assumption that Paul faced opposition, and that these opponents directly opposed Paul (p. 13). What we have evidence of, however, is Paul’s rhetoric, by which we know rather of Paul’s oppositional reaction to whom and what he perceives to be taking place or threatening to develop. It should not be presupposed that those people whom Paul in his letters opposes have first opposed Paul. Things appear to be different to Paul than what he believes they should be or become; what they are, and why, are matters to be concluded, not presupposed. Sumney at points recognizes this complicating factor in terms of the letter, even that the addressees “did not understand themselves as opponents of Paul

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before Galatians” (p. 159; cf. pp. 18–19, 146, 157–60, 307–9). So it is perplexing and the implications of his work are compromised when he continues to label those influencing Paul’s addressees as “opponents,” that is, according to identifying interests and activities that are themselves historically questionable apart from Paul’s rhetorical interests and activities in the single-perspective letter that we have. The inconsistency is illustrated strikingly when Sumney states that “Galatians yields no evidence that Paul’s authority or apostleship are under attack. Rather these opponents claim to agree with Paul” (p. 307). The label “opponents” is a relic of prior views, not Sumney’s own; maintaining that taxonomy obscures his otherwise useful observations and mitigates in part their force. Those who attempt to refine the historical-critical process or to contribute to the interpretation of Paul’s letters offer, at best, incremental gains. Interpreters of Paul who are aware of the importance of improving the enterprise will therefore appreciate the significant contribution made by this book, despite some limitations in method. Mark D. Nanos 313 NE Landings Dr., Lee’s Summit, MO 64064

The Law, the Covenant and God’s Plan, Volume 1, Paul’s Polemical Treatment of the Law in Galatians, by Kari Kuula. Publications of the Finnish Exegetical Society 72. Helsinki: Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999. Pp. vi + 231. DM 78.00. Kari Kuula focuses this monograph on the problem of salvation-historical continuity, that is, the paradox that “God shows his righteousness and fidelity to his promises by sending the Messiah as savior not only to his elected people but also to all the nations of the earth. However, God’s good news to the nations is at the same time bad news to his own people for it implies that Jews as such are no longer God’s people” (p. 1; original emphasis). The three foci for Kuula’s investigation, then, are (a) the “Jewishness” of Paul (the question of continuity, here defined on the basis of his continued acceptance or rejection of covenantal nomism); (b) the dynamics of Paul’s thought concerning the Mosaic Law, i.e., why he criticized it; and (c) the coherence or inconsistency of Paul’s thinking concerning the Law (pp. 2–3). This first volume deals with these issues in relation to the letter to the Galatians, while the second volume will address them in relation to Romans. The discussion begins with methodological considerations (ch. 1) and an exposition of the background of the letter, both historical and in Paul’s theological framework (ch. 2). The ensuing argument is divided into four stages, with the following questions taken up in turn in the four succeeding chapters: How did Paul treat the figure of Abraham, and why? To what extent does Paul separate the law and God? How is the law connected with sin? What is the positive function of the law in God’s plan? The final chapter draws preliminary conclusions on the basis of this letter to the Galatians. Kuula sets the stage for his analysis of Galatians by introducing E. P. Sanders’s thesis that the Palestinian Judaism of Paul’s time was characterized by covenantal nomism: “God has chosen Israel (covenant) and given it his law for guidance and for providing means of atonement (nomism)” (p. 10). Hence, it is divine grace that allows one to “get

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in” to the covenant and human effort that is required to “stay in.” Whether Paul maintains this paradigm or whether his axiom “extra Christus nulla salus” indicates a radical break with it, must be assessed by careful contextual analysis of his statements concerning the law in Galatians (and later, in Romans), especially through social-historical and rhetorical analyses. The language of participation in Christ and the Spirit is the cognitive domain for understanding Paul’s soteriology, including the question of the role of the law (p. 40). Apocalyptic thinking was the worldview that provided the frame of reference for Paul’s interpretation (p. 41). In Galatians, his initial use of “law” refers to the Mosaic Law per se, but then comes to denote a more universal force that imprisons not only Jews but Gentiles as well. Paul’s “stretching of the meaning of the term law betrays his abandonment of the salvation-historical interpretation of the law in favor of apocalyptic dualism, where the law is left to the forces opposite to the divine will” (p. 56). Paul distances himself from covenantal nomism by the dual assertion that (a) not only Gentiles but also Jews must have faith in Christ in order to be saved, and (b) “the works of the law” cannot justify anyone (p. 59). The only explicit reason Paul gives for the latter is essentially a restatement of the former: it is faith in Christ that justifies (p. 60). In short, “living for God is incompatible with living within the law” (p. 62). Kuula argues that, in his discussion of Abraham, Paul insists that the true children of Abraham are all those who have faith (in Christ) as Abraham himself did. Kuula states: In fact, the only children that Abraham has are the Christians, since belonging to his progeny can be realized only when faith in Christ has become a possibility. This means that Paul did not interpret the Christ-event as God’s way of bringing Gentiles into the children of Abraham, since before the “Christian faith there could be no people of faith and promise into which the Gentiles could be included.” (p. 65; original emphasis) This is not to be construed in contrast to meritorious works, however, since faith includes living out the moral and social obligations associated with it. The contrast is between persons: “those of faith” and “those of the works of the law.” The former are blessed while the latter are under a curse because of their transgressions (p. 66ff.). Kuula insists that Paul sees this curse applying to the people of the law as a whole (i.e., Jews) rather than one specific group among the “circumcised.” In this argument, Kuula contends, Paul misrepresents the Jewish view of the law because he omits the significant notion of forgiveness taught in the law (p. 69). Paul’s dogma that righteousness comes from faith means that, for him, it cannot come from anything else, the law included (p. 71). So, it is not faith or works that makes the crucial difference between covenantal nomism and Christian faith; it is the set of norms to which one complies: those of Moses or those of Christ (p. 73). In fact, the law itself is associated with transgressions (3:19b), for “the scripture confined everything under sin” (p. 170). In Romans, the law provides the scriptural witness to salvation in Christ. It is the law as Scripture—not as the covenantal law of Moses— that enables God’s plan to come to light (p. 173). The notion of the law as custodian should then be read as a negative evaluation of the law, which “prevents not sinning but escaping from the power of sin” (p. 175; original emphasis). The image of the law as pedagogue reinforces this idea of being confined and kept in custody for a time. Even those

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under the law need to be liberated from it in order to receive divine adoption. Kuula concludes that the purpose-clauses of 3:22 and 24b “are some kind of afterthoughts or artificial attempts to find at least something positive in the divine law. . . . It is as if the ultimate purpose of the law is to contribute to our justification simply by being terminated” (p. 181). In the parenetic section of Galatians, Kuula argues, Paul reduces the law to the love command (5:14). This must have entailed an intentional break with the covenantal nomistic understanding of the law (p. 183), given its apposition to “doing the whole law” (5:3). Paul substitutes “the law of Christ”—that is, Christian lifestyle—for the Mosaic law (p. 188). The Christian should be ruled by the experience of Christ/Spirit as power and norm (p. 189). Indeed, the law that is fulfilled in love is not the Mosaic law at all but “the law of Christ” (p. 189). The Mosaic law is not needed at all because “the Spirit is a sufficient norm and a power that keeps Christians within the lifestyle which finally inherits the kingdom of God” (p. 191). In short, in Paul’s discussion in Galatians there finally is no positive role for the law of Moses and the Sinaitic covenant in God’s plan of salvation (p. 193). The prerogative of the covenant with God is taken away from Jewish tradition and reserved for “the Israel of God,” that is, Christians who nullify the law (p. 199). By this polemic, Paul has ensured that Judaism and Christianity are fundamentally and irreconcilably separated: “Therefore, it is in place to speak of Paul’s conversion to a new religion rather than a call to a different mission within Judaism . . .” (p. 200). The three foundational principles of Paul’s theology—salvation is in Christ alone, the present evil age has been invaded by the power of Christ and the Spirit, the covenantal faithfulness of the God of the Scriptures—“simply do not make a harmonious combination” because only Christ saves; the covenant that God made with his people is not the way of life and salvation. The apostle did not express considerable hesitation in this conviction, even though the notion of God canceling his salvific promises amounts to the “greatest paradox one can imagine” (p. 209). Kuula’s book offers a coherent explanation of Paul’s understanding of the law in Galatians that will provide a stiff challenge to the growing “new perspective” on Paul, especially for those who wish to see Paul as a faithful Jew all his life. While many will take issue with the argument presented in this book, it certainly deserves close scrutiny. Kuula provides a clear alternative among current trends in Pauline research, and those who disagree with the conclusions presented here will do well to engage seriously Kuula’s analysis and demonstrate why their alternative is more persuasive. Whether as challenge or confirmation, this volume is a worthwhile contribution to current research on Galatians. Sheila E. McGinn John Carroll University, University Heights, OH 44118

John’s Use of the Old Testament in Revelation, by G. K. Beale. JSNTSup 166. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998. Pp. 443. £55.00/$85.00. This is a well-written and important work, the contents of which are in fact rather more wide-ranging than its title might at first suggest. For example, ch. 5 discusses the

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influence of OT grammar on the Greek of Revelation, while ch. 6 considers the importance of the OT for the interpretation of the concept (and timing) of the millennium in Rev 20:1–7. The survey of existing studies of the use of the OT in Revelation that Beale presents in ch. 1 is a particularly useful and up-to-date summary of the state of the question. Other chapters deal with the various ways that John uses the OT in Revelation, the influence of the OT on the eschatology of the book, and the influence of the OT on the symbolism of Revelation. There is an excellent bibliography. This is not, of course, uncharted territory. The general issue of the use of the OT in the book of Revelation has been the subject of other major studies including Steve Moyise’s The Old Testament in the Book of Revelation, also published in this series (vol. 115). In this contribution to the debate, however, Beale takes issue with Moyise (and others such as J.-P. Ruiz) by arguing that John does use the OT with sensitivity to its original context. Thus, according to Beale, for John the OT is not just the servant of the gospel, always ready to run to its aid (cf. B. Lindars), but rather both servant and guide (p. 127). Indeed, if there is a unity to Beale’s monograph it is this: that the author of Revelation sees the OT as the broad context in which the Christ-event is to be interpreted and that for him reflection upon the OT will lead the way to further comprehension of this event (p. 127). Beale is by no means the first to make such a contention, though few have sought to argue it quite so extensively or to apply the theory to the precise areas that are covered in this work. While the individual topics in this book have been treated before (and the context of Beale’s study is clearly seen in the extensive and informative footnotes he provides), in places this work does break some new ground. For example, in the chapter on the influence of OT grammar on the Greek of Revelation, Beale presents an interesting case. A significant number of the “solecisms” of Revelation, he argues, can be explained in terms of the author’s direct reliance upon the OT (usually LXX) text since they occur “in the midst of Old Testament allusions” where John “is carrying over the exact grammatical form of the Old Testament wording” (p. 320) without making the necessary contextual grammatical adjustment. This results in loss of grammatical concord. In other places where John alludes to the Old Testament, argues Beale, he does not retain the precise grammar of the OT text, but incorporates Semitisms or Septuagintalisms in order to signal to the readers/hearers the presence of an allusion and hence gain their specific attention to this point. As Beale acknowledges (p. 320 n. 11), this is not an entirely new suggestion, but it is worked out here to a far greater extent than before. This is a relatively simple suggestion and its simplicity is part of its appeal. Whether it will be able to withstand the full critical evaluation to which it deserves to be subjected remains to be seen, but at the very least it ought to enliven a discussion that has stagnated somewhat in recent years. The chapter on the millennium in Rev 20:1–7 is also informative, though Beale’s rather perfunctory introduction here fails to do justice to the complexity of the history of interpretation of this passage (and major elements of that which he labels as “novel” on p. 356 n. 1 are not really so when seen in the context of, say, eighteenth-century English interpretations of the Apocalypse). Beale’s basic suggestion is that the kaiv of Rev 20:1 should not be understood as leading into another section of the vision that follows in chronological sequence from what has gone before, but should be taken as indicating a

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vision synchronous with the preceding one (pp. 359–60). Thus Rev 20:1– 10 recapitulates Rev 19:17–21. The OT is again, for Beale, a central consideration in this debate, for, he argues, this section of Revelation is heavily influenced by Ezekiel, where the battle in ch. 39 is the same as that in ch. 38 (and he has the weight of scholarship in his favor on this point). Thus, for Beale, Rev 20:1–15 speaks of a millennium which is “inaugurated during the interadvent age by God’s limitation of Satan’s deceptive powers (vv. 1–3) and by deceased Christians being vindicated through reigning in heaven.” This period is “concluded by a resurgence of Satan’s deceptive assault against the Church (vv. 7–8) and the final judgement (vv. 9–15)” (p. 358). Beale has built his case carefully and again his work deserves full critical evaluation. Other chapters make similar arguments as Beale seeks to support his main hypothesis: that the author of Revelation uses the OT with sensitivity to its original context as he seeks to understand and communicate the significance and meaning of the Christ-event. This, then, is an important work which deals with a number of problematic areas. Not all will be convinced by Beale’s arguments, but those who wish to engage fully with them will need to reflect in their rejoinders the level of textual and linguistic detail evident in this work. Kenneth Newport Liverpool Hope University College, Liverpool L16 9JD, UK

Das Martyrium des Polykarp, translation and commentary by Gerd Buschmann. Kommentar zu den Apostolischen Vätern 6. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1998. Pp. 452. DM 168.00. In the foreword to this substantial and clearly formatted volume, the author states that it is “the first comprehensive, book-length commentary” on the Martyrdom of Polycarp. Few, if any, would argue (granted the possible exception of J. B. Lightfoot’s stillimportant work). Buschmann’s commentary is an important work for those interested in Polycarp, early Christian martyrdom, and various related subjects. Also in the foreword, Buschmann sets the task of trying “to do justice to the characteristic (prägenden) meaning of the text.” That “characteristic meaning,” as expounded in a discussion of “Authenticity and Integrity” within the introduction, is a “kerygmaticparenetic” one. The Martyrdom of Polycarp is from its inception and in its design Tendenz Literatur; any search for an Urform characterized by bruta facta is “not applicable” (p. 38). Among other items in the introduction are discussions of dating, text traditions, (modern) editions, “The Theology of the Martyrdom,” “MartPol and the New Testament: kata; to; eujaggevlion,” “Structure (Gliederung),” “Form, Gattung, und Sitz im Leben,” and a (complete) reprint of B. Dehandschutter’s Synopsis of the Ps.-Pionian and Eusebian text traditions. The body of the commentary moves deliberately through the (Ps.-Pionian) text. Each section bears a title given by Buschmann, followed by translation, bibliography, a summary or overview of the narrative and of the subsequent discussion, literary-critical

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remarks, form-critical remarks, and a full discussion organized into subsections (or smaller units) of the text. Interspersed within the commentary are four excursuses: “MartPol and its Letter Form,” “The Fixing of the Term mavrtu" as a Terminus Technicus . . . ,” “The Interrogation Dialogue and the Form Critical Question about the Origin of the Gattung Acts of the Martyr,” and “Transhistorical Analysis of the Prayer in MartPol 14. . . .” At the back of the book is a pull-out chart, “Topics and Formal Elements of a Martyr Text,” which plots the presence or absence of a number of items within a range of documents including MartPol and other Christian martyrdoms, biblical materials, and noncanonical acts. Not least of the commentary’s strengths is its fresh, sustained reading of the whole text in the context of mid-second-century Asia Minor. For Buschmann, the Martyrdom of Polycarp is an “epideictic” (p. 47), “genuine letter” with a well-defined Sitz: “the worship service is the place of reading” (p. 48). Further, the “intention of MartPol [is] catholic-normative and anti-enthusiastic” (p. 51). More pointedly, it is anti-Montanist: “MartPol probably contains the oldest literary witness to Montanism” (p. 371). There are, then, implications for dating the rise of New Prophecy: “Montanism must be interpreted from the source [MartPol] and not the source from an assumed date of the origin of Montanism” (p. 370). There are also implications for understanding the narrative of the Martyrdom of Polycarp. “The imitation-theme is (against the interpolationhypotheses) central in MartPol” (p. 83). Both those sympathetic with his tendencies and those not so inclined will be well advised to consider Buschmann’s overall approach and particular readings. It is no accident that a commentary that takes seriously the text-as-a-whole should appear at a time when (newer) literary criticisms and rhetorical methodologies are in the ascendancy. Buschmann makes the case for re-setting the scholarly task. For example, it is “the error of Campenhausen” to presume and posit that the Martyrdom of Polycarp was “originally a simple narrative about purely historical facts” (p. 91). Or better, “Authenticity constitutes no Textgattung; historicity does not dress itself in any one form” (p. 181). For Buschmann, “at the beginning of the martyr-tradition stands not historical representation, but theological interpretation” (p. 180). Not just obvious selections, such as section 4 on Quintus, but the whole of the Martyrdom of Polycarp bears an agenda forged in “confrontation with Montanism” (or, at the very least, “proto-Montanism” [p. 52]), and presents a martyrdom kata; to; eujaggevlion suitable for strengthening the community when/as it gathers. On virtually a (sub)section-by-(sub)section basis, this is what Buschmann means to show through a close reading in light of the alternate (Eusebian) text tradition, (more or less) contemporary literature such as the Ignatian epistles and items preserved by Eusebius, biblical (including Septuagintal) allusions, and consideration of (social-)historical context. The Martyrdom of Polycarp presents Polycarp as a “model”; the many characteristics and activities with which he is associated—and the manner in which such are described— support and strengthen that model and inform each other. Buschmann’s presentation is by and large fair to those scholarly works with which he is in dialogue. As for historical realia, to the (limited) degree to which he engages them, Buschmann is for the most part fair and dependable. Regarding methodology and approach, there will be those who question the absence of any (Foucauldian or other) cultural critique and of any consideration of contemporary pagan fiction.

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As for Buschmann’s own areas of concern, I will comment on two nagging (and not unrelated) matters. First, there is the issue of kata; to; eujaggevlion. W. Kühnert is quoted approvingly for considering to; eujaggevlion to be “the understood norm . . . the dogmatic common sense of the proto-Catholic Church” (p. 321). Such an understanding, notably, claims nothing about a(ny) written Gospel, yet Buschmann links “the intention of kata; to; eujaggevlion” directly to the canonical passion narratives’ portrayal of Jesus’ “obedience to divine will” and “fearless endurance” (p. 146). The latter is particularly problematic since nowhere in the canonical Gospels is Jesus portrayed as having or exhibiting “endurance” (uJpomonhv). Even one of the apostolic texts cited (on p. 96) as making a statement about Christ’s “endurance” does not; 1 Clem. 5.7 is actually about Paul. Add to the mix the phrase imitatio Christi and there is further room for misunderstanding—citing Matt 10:23 Buschmann writes that Polycarp’s flight stands as “an example of imitatio Christi [sic]” (p. 144); but, of course, that Matthean verse is not about Jesus or anything Jesus did. Second, there is Buschmann’s consistent (and uncritical) appeal to Irenaeus’s account of Polycarp’s relationship to John. Buschmann writes: “Polycarp as a disciple of John would have subscribed . . . to the anti-Judaism of Johannine theology” (p. 212). Both the premise and the conclusion may be wrong (see R. A. Culpepper, John, the Son of Zebedee [University of South Carolina Press, 1994] and F. W. Weidmann, Polycarp and John [University of Notre Dame Press, 1999]); regardless, the anti-Jewish sentiment in the Martyrdom of Polycarp is not based on any extant writings by or to Polycarp. Further, Buschmann writes: “ajpostolikov" means here . . . in a specific sense, the successor and contemporary of the apostle, in this case of John, and therewith the preservation of the tradition kata; to; eujaggevlion” (p. 316). Yet John is never mentioned or, arguably, even alluded to in the Martyrdom of Polycarp. Buschmann is reading through an Irenaean lens. The commentary includes sectional bibliographies as mentioned above as well as a final bibliography—all thorough and including significant works in English. The several indexes—modern authors, ancient sources, subjects and names—are helpful. I find few typos, none troublesome. This commentary makes a significant and unique contribution and will, I expect, assume a well-deserved place among those works commonly brought into scholarly discussion. Frederick W. Weidmann Union Theological Seminary, New York, NY 10027

1 Esdras: From Origin to Translation, by Zipora Talshir. SBLSCS 47. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 1999. Pp. xii + 305. $57.00. This book is a study of the formation of the book of 1 Esdras from three different angles represented by three distinct chapters. The first chapter examines the composition of the book, specifically the debate over whether the book is best understood as a fragment of an earlier edition of the “Chronicler’s History” in which Chronicles and Ezra were joined or a later compilation of mostly canonical materials. Talshir contends that neither of these options is entirely correct but that 1 Esdras represents a section

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deliberately lifted from Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah and adapted specifically for the purpose of accommodating the Story of the Three Youths (1 Esd 3:1–5:6), which is therefore the book’s raison d’être. The book likely began with Josiah’s Passover, but its ending has probably been broken off. The continuity of Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah predates 1 Esdras. But the author of 1 Esdras made changes in his Vorlage, not the least of which was the deletion of the Nehemiah memoir so as to substitute the Davidide Zerubbabel for Nehemiah in the Story of the Three Youths. The second chapter focuses on the relationship of the text of 1 Esdras to its Vorlage in 2 Chr 35–36, Ezra 1–10, and Neh 8. Three categories of textual differences are considered: variants, word order, and additions/omissions, with the last category occupying by far the largest portion of the chapter. Talshir challenges R. Klein’s well-known 1966 text-critical study (“Studies in the Greek Text of the Chronicler” [Ph.D. diss., Harvard University]). While she agrees with Klein that 1 Esdras is a faithful translation of a variant text from that of the MT, she contends that the two texts developed independently to such an extent that it is not possible to reconstruct a shorter Urtext by comparing them. They do not represent different stages in the chronological development of a single text but independent developments from a common ancestor that cannot be distinguished because the condition of each text when they took separate routes is unknown. She criticizes Klein for misconstruing the evidence because of an a priori assumption that the text of 1 Esdras is shorter and more original. Rather, both texts have experienced additions as well as omissions. The third chapter analyzes the translation of 1 Esdras in comparison with that of the LXX with respect to the canonical parallels. Talshir concludes that the translation of 1 Esdras is highly distinctive in this corpus in that it is a fluent, lucid Greek composition that is not bound by adherence to the conventions and syntax of the Hebrew/Aramaic original. The language of the translation, especially in regard to temple and government officials, suggests a milieu of the second century B.C.E. This is an important book and a welcome addition to the literature on 1 Esdras. Talshir’s conclusion about the centrality of the Story of the Three Youths for the book is convincing. This conclusion also has important implications for the composition of all of Chronicles-Ezra-Nehemiah. Oddly, Talshir does not discuss this matter in detail and does not even cite F. M. Cross’s article (“A Reconstruction of the Judean Restoration,” JBL 94 [1975] 4–18 = Interp 29 [1975] 187–203) proposing a redactional theory, which her treatment counters. Indeed, given her conclusion, there is little to support her contention that the continuity of Chronicles-Ezra preceded 1 Esdras. Talshir’s positions on other matters in her first chapter, especially the authorship of Chronicles and EzraNehemiah, will also likely find little support among her peers, but she is to be commended for her willingness to reexamine these issues and to keep the questions open. Much the same may also be said for Talshir’s second chapter. I am inclined initially to favor Klein’s view of the textual development of 1 Esdras and wonder whether Talshir’s view of the text is to some extent the victim of her success concerning the authorship and translation of the book. That is, has she mistaken some alterations introduced by the author and the translator for changes that would have arisen in the course of textual transmission? However, Talshir’s critique of Klein is healthy and calls for a careful reassessment of the two positions in light of the textual evidence. Thus, one may dis-

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agree occasionally with positions that Talshir has taken, but there is little about this book to criticize. Its argumentation is detailed, thorough, and well reasoned as well as clearly and lucidly presented. There is a consistent misuse of semicolons, but that is a minor annoyance. It is an impressive piece of work that demands careful reading and consideration. Steven L. McKenzie Rhodes College, Memphis, TN 38112

The Sage in Jewish Society of Late Antiquity, by Richard Kalmin. London/New York: Routledge, 1999. Pp. + 180. $27.99 (paper). In his most recent book, Richard Kalmin presents a series of case studies that provide strong support for two important claims. The first claim is methodological: ancient rabbinic literature, while often ahistorical in its purpose and presentation, is nonetheless susceptible to historical analysis. The second claim is substantive: the relationship between rabbis and non-rabbis differed in the two major rabbinic settlements of late antiquity (Palestine and Babylonia). The chapters in part 1 detail various aspects of this second claim. Chapter 1 demonstrates that ancient rabbinic sources attest to Palestinian involvement with, and Babylonian aloofness from, individual non-rabbis. Palestinian sources depict informal social relations between rabbis and non-rabbis, and frequently urge nonrabbinic Jews to provide food, money, shelter, and marriageable daughters to rabbis, an indication of the relatively weak position of Palestinian rabbis in society as compared to their Babylonian counterparts. By contrast, Babylonian rabbis interact with non-rabbis in primarily formal contexts, fearing more intimate relationships that could lead to marriage between the two groups and so compromise the highly prized genealogical purity of the former. The Babylonian rabbinic obsession with genealogical superiority is demonstrated in ch. 2. According to Kalmin, the sources depict Babylonian rabbis as publicly revealing the tainted genealogy of non-rabbis and using genealogy as a weapon against prominent nonrabbinic Jews, an indication of the secure position of the rabbi in Babylonian Jewish society. By contrast, Palestinians do not employ these tactics and are said to suppress evidence of the genealogical blemishes of non-rabbis. Chapter 3 documents the antagonism between Babylonian Amoraim and aristocratic non-rabbis claiming Hasmonean descent—further evidence that Babylonian rabbis were socially secure enough to challenge prominent opponents with little fear for their position. In ch. 4, Kalmin describes Palestinian rabbinic interaction with Bible-reading nonJews (e.g., Christians and Gnostics) and minim (heretics)—an interaction that is all but lacking in Babylonian sources. Kalmin argues that the strong Palestinian polemic against contact with heretics suggests that such contact was, in fact, routine and was perceived to pose a serious threat to rabbinic Judaism. In Babylonia such contact was rare, because of the insular nature of rabbinic society in Babylonia. Chapter 5 makes a similar point in connection with leadership in times of communal emergency. Palestinian sources assign prominent leadership roles to non-rabbis (who might, for example, successfully petition God for rain in times of drought) while Babylonian sources do not.

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These five chapters provide the evidence for Kalmin’s claim that Palestinian and Babylonian rabbis occupied different places in their respective societies and maintained different relationships with non-rabbis. Not content simply to note the difference between the two rabbinic centers, Kalmin seeks to account for that difference. He considers the influence of the larger historical and cultural contexts of the two rabbinic communities (Greco-Roman vs. Persian society) and concludes that the difference between them correlates to a difference between Greco-Roman and Persian society at large. Persian society was rigidly hierarchical, and class divisions were bolstered by an obsession with purity of lineage. By contrast, class distinctions in the Roman Empire were less pronounced. Kalmin’s case is quite persuasive and his citations of Persian sources highlight the chasm between Persian and Roman society on the one hand and the correlations between Persian and Babylonian rabbinic attitudes on the other. Kalmin’s portrait of Babylonian rabbinic society is an important corrective to the prevailing view, according to which Babylonian rabbis were not an elitist caste but constantly in touch with the masses. Caution is a hallmark of part 1. Kalmin does not exaggerate the differences he identifies and takes pains to note that these are tendencies and not strict dichotomies. Yet even anomalous sources can exhibit meaningful patterns, and here Kalmin adds depth and complexity to the portrait that emerges from his analyses. He notes, for example, that more typically “Palestinian” attitudes do occur in Babylonian sources, but only in sources featuring rabbis of the fourth generation or later, suggesting an increase in Palestinian influence in Babylonia from the mid-fourth century on. Part 2 builds on part 1 and argues that the conclusions reached in part 1 help to explain several distinctions between Palestinian and Babylonian rabbinic scriptural exegesis centering on certain biblical heroes. Chapter 6 argues that Palestinian sources tend to depict David as sinless and saintly (while Babylonian sources do not) because Palestinian rabbis, in keeping with their greater involvement with non-rabbis and weaker position in society, felt the need to defend David, and by extension themselves, from the scorn or criticism of nonrabbinic Jews. Chapter 7 considers Moses, whose role in the salvation of Israel is underscored even as his role in the introduction of Torah is deemphasized by Palestinian authorities because of its potentially heretical significance. Palestinian rabbinic involvement with nonrabbinic Jews explains this concern for a heretical point of view to which the latter might fall prey. Finally, ch. 8 explains positive Palestinian portrayals of Ahitofel as a function of the desire to present rabbinic prototypes favorably. Part 2 is, in general, more speculative and less persuasive, than part 1. The data assembled in these chapters can be explained by Kalmin’s theory but they do not have to be. Kalmin himself notes that some of the distinctions observed in these chapters admit of more than a single explanation, but he considers it a point in his favor that related phenomena be explained by means of a single principle rather than by diverse ad hoc explanations. This may be true, but does not in itself render the substance of the explanation more compelling. In short, Kalmin’s analysis of the material in part 2 is certainly interesting and may even suggest what he proposes it suggests—there is simply no strong reason either to accept or reject his interpretation. One particular example undermines confidence in Kalmin’s attempt to situate rabbinic scriptural exegesis in its historic context. In ch. 1, he argues that Palestinian criti-

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cism of Elijah attests to particular Palestinian concerns. Only Palestinian sources voice disapproval of Elijah’s use of drought as a weapon against the Israelites and criticize his public display of disrespect for God (in virtually bullying God into bringing rain). Pointing out that drought was a recurring problem in Palestine, Kalmin suggests that Elijah’s threat touched a raw nerve in Palestine, accounting for his poor treatment at the hand of Palestinian rabbis. Elijah’s prayer for drought met with far less criticism in Babylonia, which was situated between major rivers and was thus much less dependent on rainfall. It seems odd to suggest that one requires the experience of drought in order to fault the biblical Elijah. Babylonian rabbis were no doubt familiar with ruinous natural disasters of various sorts and could surely understand the gravity of the situation described in the biblical story without directly experiencing drought. Moreover, Elijah’s abuse of his authority in halting the rain, his callous endangerment of the community in his zeal for God, and his disrespectful demeanor in attempting to reverse the disaster that he himself initiated, are readily apparent regardless of a reader’s climatic conditions. Babylonian silence on this matter is probably not significant for the reasons Kalmin suggests. Such nit-picking aside, Kalmin’s book succeeds admirably in establishing its two central claims. Methodologically, it is clear that the diverse attitudes documented by rabbinic sources are not fictionalized, pseudepigraphic creations but reflections of some historical reality. Substantively, it is clear that we must revise our present understanding of the relation between Babylonian rabbis and non-rabbis. By paying close attention to the chronological and geographical provenance of rabbinic traditions, Kalmin provides us with a more variegated and complex portrait of rabbinic culture than is found in historical studies that read rabbinic documents as virtually seamless and homogenized redactional wholes. The great virtue of the complexity Kalmin uncovers is apparent in a critically important paragraph at the end of the book: The portrait of ancient rabbinic Judaism as a movement of scholarly judges, who were among the leaders of the Jewish people but were at the same time intimately connected to the people they led, has had a powerful hold on the scholarly imagination, but if we are correct it tells only one part of the story. What past generations have viewed as a fundamental distinction between Judaism and Christianity is true of rabbinic Judaism in one locality but not the other. It is culturally conditioned rather than built into the deep structure of the religion. (pp. 113–14) For the historian, this is the real payoff of Kalmin’s detailed source-critical approach to the study of rabbinic texts. Christine Hayes Yale University, New Haven, CT 06520-8287

Historical Handbook of Major Biblical Interpreters, edited by Donald K. McKim. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1998. Pp. xxiii + 643. $29.99. Seemingly similar editions and works of reference occasionally appear simultaneously, suggesting a perceived need or, at least, shrewd awareness in distinct editorial

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offices of Francis Cornford’s famous academic principle of “ripe versus unripe time.” To complement, therefore, Abingdon Press’s Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation, edited by John H. Hayes (1999), we have the present Handbook. I stress complementarity: the Abingdon dictionary is avowedly ecumenical in selection of topics and contributors, proudly eclectic in coverage of methods and personalities. This InterVarsity compendium focuses on a relatively brief list of great names, with their lives and works assessed (as expected from this publisher) from a conservative point of theological vision. The Handbook appears in a single volume of clear, double-column type, enhanced with genuinely useful indices to persons, subjects, and contents. More than a hundred biographical entries are organized into temporal blocks (“periods of church history”): “Early Church,” “Middle Ages,” “16th & 17th Centuries,” “18th & 19th Centuries,” “20th Century Europe,” “20th Century North America.” The biographical entries are arranged within these sections alphabetically. This editorial arrangement encourages selective consultation rather than studious reading: to follow (for example) Jonathan Edwards with J. G. Eichhorn, or Kierkegaard with Bishop Lightfoot, sheds little comparative light. Scholarly practitioners of different linguistic, religious, and methodological traditions cannot convincingly be compressed into vaguely similar chronological categories. This peculiar arrangement is somewhat ameliorated by summary (but extremely competent) bibliographic and methodological survey essays prefacing each chronological section. Readers (or those simply consulting) this encyclopedia might have better been served if these essays had been redacted into a comprehensive introduction keyed and cross-referenced to the biographical entries arranged in traditional alphabetical order. That comprehensive essay could be separately issued as a valuable alternative to handbooks such as Brevard S. Childs’s Introduction to the Old Testament as Scripture (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979). A singular strength of these biographical entries and the several introductory essays resides in the relatively full coverage of relevant traditional Anglophone and German scholarship. A notable weakness is the failure to incorporate more recent French (and, in general, Roman Catholic) scholarship. Many a biographical and exegetical article pertinent to this Handbook, for example, can be found in the Dictionnaire d’histoire et de géographie ecclésiastiques (Paris: Letouzey & Ané, 1912–). Readers will also have a different understanding of biblical hermeneutic traditions from perusing the eight volumes of the series La Bible de tous les temps (Paris: Beauchesne, 1984–89), edited by C. Mondéseret, A.-M. La Bonnardière et al., or the English version, with notable substitutions and additions, in publication by Notre Dame Press (1977–; ed. C. Kannengeiser, P. Bright, P. Blowers, et al.). Readers may also wish to consult another recent encyclopedic volume: Augustine through the Ages, ed. A. D. Fitzgerald et al. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), especially for additional information on biblical studies in late antiquity, the medieval era, and the Reformation and its Catholic response. Each of the several introductory essays will inform student and scholar. The criteria of selection for the biographical entries, however, are neither clear nor justified. In the first two sections (comprising the early church through the late medieval period), the biographical entries suggest inclusion because of recognizable names rather than profound importance for biblical study: Origen, of course, is there, but what of the Cappadocians—Basil, Gregory of Nyssa, and Gregory Nazianzus (cf. J. Pelikan, Christianity

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and Classical Culture [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993])? The entry on Justin Martyr points appositely to the significance of his allegorical method, but what then of the far greater influence of the Donatus Tyconius (see recently, Maureen A. Tilley, The Bible in Christian North Africa [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1997], and esp. Roger Gryson, RBén 107 [1997]: 189–226)? Puzzling, in turn, is the omission from part 1 (“Early Church”) of consideration of the first stage of biblical interpretation: the corpus of writings from the intertestamental period and the NT itself, as discussed by, for example, R. N. Longenecker, Biblical Exegesis in the Apostolic Period (2d ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999). In the section on eighteenth- and nineteenth-century interpreters, B. F. Westcott and F. J. A. Hort receive an informative joint entry much indebted to Bruce Metzger. But only in that entry do we meet K. Lachmann and C. von Tischendorf, without whose philological acumen and industry Westcott and Hort’s “overthrow[al] of the Textus Receptus” would not have been possible. The two sections on the twentieth-century “European” and “North American” interpreters (no convincing justification is given nor probably could be for that geographical distinction) suggest a criterion of selection based not on any clearly defined methodological principles and traditions, but on what (it is assumed) an evangelical reader will seek to know. The entry on E. J. Goodspeed thus has understandable difficulty in defining exactly what was the contribution to hermeneutics of that fine papyrologist and skilled translator of the apocrypha. Two conservative archaeologists (W. F. Albright and G. E. Wright) receive entries, and J. Gresham Machen, that prolific and vociferous opponent of liberalism on any front, enjoys full discussion. But solely in G. T. Sheppard and T. H. Olbricht’s swift, precise marches through the corridors of recent scholarship in their respective prefatory introductions will the reader encounter the names of those studying Qumran texts and some notice of recent Jewish textual and Israeli archaeological scholarship. In the final section on North American scholarship we finally encounter women. (The reader will search in vain in the parallel European section for any entry for Beryl Smalley, who did so much to advance our understanding of biblical scholarship in the medieval period.) The entry on Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza is simply a tract for “feminist biblical interpretation of literature,” and Phyllis Trible receives a sympathetic, but objective, review of her contributions to rhetorical criticism. Nonetheless, several of the entries in these final two sections are admirable. The fine assessment of the NT exegete Hans Conzelmann illuminates the scholar, his texts, and his contributions. The concise, detailed discussion of C. I. Scofield describes, illustrates, and analyzes, as well as any brief synopsis of his life and works can, the remarkable impact of Scofield’s Darbyite fundamentalist, premillenarian, dispensational cosmology on English readers of the Bible. Editor and publisher are to be congratulated for an economic, reliable reference work. But those who would seek a broader, more nuanced, and therefore more accurate gazetteer to map the contours of biblical interpretation over the past two millennia, must seek supplementary guides to the complex terrain of biblical hermeneutics, methodologies, and exegetes. Paul B. Harvey, Jr. The Pennsylvania State University, University Park, PA 16802-5500

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Is There a Meaning in This Text? The Bible, The Reader, and the Morality of Literary Knowledge, by Kevin J. Vanhoozer. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1998. Pp. 496. $29.99. Is there a meaning in this text? The answer is yes, but this simple answer belies the complicated trail that Vanhoozer follows to get there. This rich book generally falls into two parts. Part 1 deals with the major issues from literary criticism and philosophy— especially Derridean deconstruction and neo-pragmatism (R. Rorty and S. Fish)—that challenge the traditional claim that meaning is “in” the text. Part 2 presents Vanhoozer’s hermeneutical proposal for the postmodern challenges that are elucidated in Part 1. He defends “the possibility, in the vale of the shadow of Derrida, that readers can legitimately and responsibly attain literary knowledge of the Bible . . . that there is a meaning in the text, that it can be known, and that readers should strive to do so” (p. 24). Vanhoozer defines the current hermeneutical situation as a “crisis” that, at bottom, is theological. The postmodern emphasis upon the “death of the Author” is actually the death of authorial intentionality in the text, and it entails the impossibility of ever arriving at a discernible meaning. What does this have to do with theology? Just this: postmodern “literary atheism” and “hermeneutic agnosticism,” especially deconstruction, is, as Derrida himself says, “the death of God put into writing.” The death of the Author and the loss of belief in finding any kind of authorial meaning are theological issues because they cast doubt on any possibility of understanding the presence of God’s meaning in a sacred text. These ideas encourage a critic’s refusal to recognize the distinction between Creator and creature, text and commentary, author and reader. Against this, Vanhoozer argues that one can arrive at “presence,” at meaning, in a biblical text. He bills his project, therefore, as a theological hermeneutics that unabashedly takes the Augustinian approach of “I believe in order to understand.” If theology is the heart of the issue about meaning, then the kind of theology one holds when interpreting the Bible becomes a key issue. Vanhoozer argues for a hermeneutic based upon “interpretive Trinitarianism,” that is, a God who has communicated its being to humans in a trinitarian fashion. It is particularly in the Incarnation that Christians regard God as “the self-interpreting God” who communicates with the Other (humans). God’s primary communicative act, in turn, “grounds the possibility of human communication by demonstrating that it is indeed possible to enter into the life of another so as to achieve understanding” (p. 161). Thus, Augustine’s critical fideism opens the literary-critical door for understanding the biblical text as an intentional communicative act of an author that can be understood by readers. Interpretation of the Bible is ultimately a matter of interpersonal communication rather than of conflict and irretrievable meaning (différance). In place of deconstruction and neo-pragmatism, then, Vanhoozer places critical fideism and neo-Reformed theological hermeneutics (A. Plantinga, A. Thiselton, N. Wolstertorff), and he shows how the literary-critical bridge to neo-Reformed hermeneutics is a speech-act theory (J. L. Austin and J. R. Searle) that takes the communicative act seriously. By commenting on part 2 first, I could leave the erroneous impression that Vanhoozer’s book is the theological equivalent of “Wrestlemania,” whose only purpose is to cast postmodernists as the villains. This is not the case. Part 2 represents Vanhoozer’s response to the postmodern mandate of exposing the location of one’s own discourse in order to be as hermeneutically honest as possible. Indeed, if one takes the idea of inter-

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textuality seriously, as Vanhoozer does, then how can one who is within a certain kind of Christian discourse not respond to postmodernity from within that discourse? Two caveats that I would add, however, are that Vanhoozer does keep his discursive location within the realm of ideas; the reader does not know the kind of material situation (social, economic, and political) Vanhoozer speaks from and what difference it might make for his hermeneutical proposals. It would probably enhance his strong argument for an ethics of reading. Second, although Vanhoozer recognizes that he is speaking within a narrow confine of Christian discourse, he does not discuss other conservative Christians who are embracing some form of postmodernism (e.g., Stanley Grenz, A Primer on Postmodernism [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996]). It is unclear why Vanhoozer does not engage them, since they show that one does not have to follow either speech-act theory or an interpretive Trinitarianism in order to remain a Christian and deal with postmodernism. In spite of these observations, part 2 is a serious attempt to avoid both hermeneutical absolutism and (what he sees as) relativism by responding to postmodernism from within one’s own hermeneutical location. It will be of profound interest to other Christians who are looking for a Christian hermeneutical “solution” to postmodernism. Part 1 is almost a separate book. Vanhoozer’s analysis, particularly of Derrida, is impressive and fair. It is impressive not only because it is clear, but one senses that— unlike many who argue against him—Vanhoozer has actually read Derrida. He basically follows the trail that C. Norris has blazed through the Derridean forest. Norris’s view is an important place to situate one’s discourse about Derrida. It means that Vanhoozer can take Derrida seriously as a philosopher, and he can emphasize that Derrida’s work is both ethically serious and provides a foundation for other ethical and political readings. These two conclusions are extremely rare among traditional critics who criticize Derrida, even though Derrida has repeatedly emphasized that both of these emphases are important for him, and they keep civility and mutual respect in Vanhoozer’s discussion. I have some quibbles, of course. One is that the differences between Derrida and his (il)legitimate offspring, particularly the Yale deconstructors, are implicit but need to be more explicit. Most importantly, I remain unconvinced that either speech-act theory or Trinitarianism is the way to spiral out of the (postmodern) hermeneutical circle; indeed, for me they seem to confirm that there is no exit by any means. That said, this is an important and helpful book for both secular and Christian critics. Fred W. Burnett Anderson University, Anderson, IN 46012

CORRECTION In JBL 120, no. 2 (2001): 356, the title of the book by David Jobling is incorrect. The heading of this book review should read as follows: 1 Samuel, by David Jobling. Berit Olam: Studies in Hebrew Narrative and Poetry. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1998. Pp. x + 330. $34.95.